vamika - Hello Poetry

i cut all the strings so why am i still your marionette?

0

Nov 5, 2016

Nov 5, 2016 at 9:40 AM UTC

i cut all the strings so why am i still your marionette?

their spines are straight - two different trees in two different woods. people like them are not meant to come face to face. is this the first time the distance between them is silent? emptied of political din, hoarse shouts of protest in market squares, flags unfurled not in love for a country but in hate for the other. are enemies still enemies when they are of the same space? the two girls recognize that their hair curls in the same way. they don't reach out to touch but a curiosity forms a thread between them. a thread. their fingers tingle, flutter spooling and unspooling this new connection, this new thread. their eyes swing like pendulums. how new, how strange to breathe in air that is clean of artificial hate. they are curious, spooling and unspooling. what will happen to this thread? for threads are too easy to break. and each knows the power of governments, their ability to dangle them then break and break and break. the two girls wonder. the two girls stare. they look. they look and look. but their spines are straight - two different trees in two different woods.

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Sep 26, 2016

Sep 26, 2016 at 2:59 PM UTC

the politics of friendship

their spines are straight - two different trees in two different woods. people like them are not meant to come face to face. is this the first time the distance between them is silent? emptied of political din, hoarse shouts of protest in market squares, flags unfurled not in love for a country but in hate for the other. are enemies still enemies when they are of the same space? the two girls recognize that their hair curls in the same way. they don't reach out to touch but a curiosity forms a thread between them. a thread. their fingers tingle, flutter spooling and unspooling this new connection, this new thread. their eyes swing like pendulums. how new, how strange to breathe in air that is clean of artificial hate. they are curious, spooling and unspooling. what will happen to this thread? for threads are too easy to break. and each knows the power of governments, their ability to dangle them then break and break and break. the two girls wonder. the two girls stare. they look. they look and look. but their spines are straight - two different trees in two different woods.

31

the smell of a hospital disinfecting hands and identities placed on the counter. a passport-size ambition a fingerprint of luck. you have arrived. you are here. you came in a bus full of languages funnelled into the room 'welcome to - ' lost and found in translation. you cannot understand you will try to understand. your newness. new you. you are new. you do not understand you are here.

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Aug 31, 2016

Aug 31, 2016 at 3:43 AM UTC

immigration office

the smell of a hospital disinfecting hands and identities placed on the counter. a passport-size ambition a fingerprint of luck. you have arrived. you are here. you came in a bus full of languages funnelled into the room 'welcome to - ' lost and found in translation. you cannot understand you will try to understand. your newness. new you. you are new. you do not understand you are here.

22

the girl with the blue hair bled outside of the lines like the overdose of colour in the comics that she read. big eyes and big lips - the girls on the pages had hearts for eyes and tears of fat diamonds. their sadness so precious. their affection spans shaped like rainbows in the big big blue. she liked all the colours. the girl with the blue hair painted her lips in the new york cold for life should be livid, life should be vivid. and she wanted the colours inside of her blue. like inking a sketch she filled herself up. i was silent when this meant she threw herself at countless walls to call the carnage 'art' - see how the girl with the blue hair became an artist.

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May 2, 2016

May 2, 2016 at 12:58 PM UTC

colour blue

the girl with the blue hair bled outside of the lines like the overdose of colour in the comics that she read. big eyes and big lips - the girls on the pages had hearts for eyes and tears of fat diamonds. their sadness so precious. their affection spans shaped like rainbows in the big big blue. she liked all the colours. the girl with the blue hair painted her lips in the new york cold for life should be livid, life should be vivid. and she wanted the colours inside of her blue. like inking a sketch she filled herself up. i was silent when this meant she threw herself at countless walls to call the carnage 'art' - see how the girl with the blue hair became an artist.

30

the tenderest thing. the tenderest thing. is stumbling in the hollow between life's collarbones. it feels just like velvet. innocent. a moment. crushed-soft, caught you unaware. as vulnerable as hot breath alighting on your neck. his fingers lacing round your ribs. a moment. innocent. placing lunch plates in the sink getting washed by sunlight instead. a glow on metal so bright, so clean you think of a baby's skin. warm. like love. like love exists in everything. the tenderest thing. the tenderest thing.

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Apr 27, 2016

Apr 27, 2016 at 1:25 PM UTC

a moment

the tenderest thing. the tenderest thing. is stumbling in the hollow between life's collarbones. it feels just like velvet. innocent. a moment. crushed-soft, caught you unaware. as vulnerable as hot breath alighting on your neck. his fingers lacing round your ribs. a moment. innocent. placing lunch plates in the sink getting washed by sunlight instead. a glow on metal so bright, so clean you think of a baby's skin. warm. like love. like love exists in everything. the tenderest thing. the tenderest thing.

23

sometimes love is not relentless but like the soft smiles we keep safe for goodbyes it sleeps. a playful child gathering breath. don't you see that i love you? but you will know it in the ceilings of uncertain places in the fingerprints on your beer in that shirt you forgot about but you'll wear it today. now. our hearts will look onwards. we are only at rest.

0

Apr 26, 2016

Apr 26, 2016 at 12:59 PM UTC

onwards

sometimes love is not relentless but like the soft smiles we keep safe for goodbyes it sleeps. a playful child gathering breath. don't you see that i love you? but you will know it in the ceilings of uncertain places in the fingerprints on your beer in that shirt you forgot about but you'll wear it today. now. our hearts will look onwards. we are only at rest.

13

five minutes can fit a magnum opus of sound between them so believe me when i say this five minutes can make a shotgun out of our two glances like the thickness of honey squirted into a glass five minutes are viscous slowing time into drips that entrench sweet shrapnel of this miracle bullet in our hearts and our heads. five minutes between us we're in love and we're dead.

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Apr 22, 2016

Apr 22, 2016 at 1:14 PM UTC

five minutes

five minutes can fit a magnum opus of sound between them so believe me when i say this five minutes can make a shotgun out of our two glances like the thickness of honey squirted into a glass five minutes are viscous slowing time into drips that entrench sweet shrapnel of this miracle bullet in our hearts and our heads. five minutes between us we're in love and we're dead.

20

home was grandiose in the poems so it didn't exist. it had to be fantasy where there weren't tears on your tuxedo but the alcohol stains of acceptance. and love? love couldn't fly away on an aeroplane; love stayed. and clouds didn't swell into empty promises; they gathered their things and rained. yes, you don't believe in home anymore but god, you miss it. so you'll drink beer at the ballet and pretend that home is in the poems you've written today.

0

Apr 19, 2016

Apr 19, 2016 at 8:52 AM UTC

homeless

home was grandiose in the poems so it didn't exist. it had to be fantasy where there weren't tears on your tuxedo but the alcohol stains of acceptance. and love? love couldn't fly away on an aeroplane; love stayed. and clouds didn't swell into empty promises; they gathered their things and rained. yes, you don't believe in home anymore but god, you miss it. so you'll drink beer at the ballet and pretend that home is in the poems you've written today.

14

i thought i was more his than my mother's as he shouted at me as i shouted to him lost behind angry.

0

Apr 6, 2016

Apr 6, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC

genes