Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
What the fk is wrong with this site?
you writings,
extraordinary!

hint:
Write of moon and June and broken hearts, cutting, scars, cloying clouds, moons and suns, momma's and poppas,  throw in a couple of I love youse,
and I assure you fame will be 10000 reads long and weak,
but don't ever look in the mirror,
you might not like the ***** you see,
and that will be the end of our curiously lovely new
"Relationship"

for you I will stick around here.
For Harriet Tecumsah Watt  who uses language to whip frenzy, into lathers of love for all humankind.
I stepped out,
finally, a terrestrial in Istanbul.
My leveled shoulders carried
an empty satchel of undone buckles
To let every fresh sip of raw experience
tumble inside,
my adventures impatiently plucked
from the closest branch  
of a banyan tree bearing
a crisscross of endless tales.

I rescued my lungs with air,
thick with resentment while
swallowing astringent flavored symphonies
and ballads of orchestrated ruckus as
women deflated their lungs
blowing out antipathy, through high pitched whistles -
A forgotten kettle blowing off steam.

Adorned in scorn, sardonic welcoming mats lined the airport.
Women pushed at their car horns as if the dragging sound,
like a severing saw can cut through
the tenacity of the ones with innate ear plugs.

They have become obsolete traffic signals -
First, their green light diminishes - like their wages
Then, their red light is dimmed -
it stops too many people in their footsteps.
And thus the world just races past them,
And they are left only with yellow -
Telling them to slow down.

They said it was an act of love.
That their plumped crimson lips,
Glossily complimented with nails
that matched the tails,
of the so-called mile high club
was just too much to handle.

Priming for work meant neglecting their love
for the perfect shade of watermelon lipstick,
No more sweet ketchup fingertips
Showing you the emergency exits. No more,
lipstick stained glasses
of a self made woman.

These cumulating lip kissed glasses  
stack up like trophies,
that sway in the heavy panting
of the ones who can’t keep up with this generation.

So the women gracefully conducted the orchestra
and through lipstick stained whistles,
They tried to drown out the dogmatic policies
And with unrelenting strife,
they passed on some advide
stop shattering our liberties
And underminining our abilities for
Endless possibilities.
Because we are the ones
Who fly high and soar
And we will always
look fabulous
while doing it.
Inspired by my travels to Turkey and the ban on air hostesses telling them not to wear lipstick and nail polish to work.
1250

White as an Indian Pipe
Red as a Cardinal Flower
Fabulous as a Moon at Noon
February Hour—
Wonderfully Amazing
Outstanding Person
Lovely
FABULOUS!!!
Impossible to live without
Everything I've ever wanted in a friend
I just thought you should know what I think your name means <3
You've kissed these lips a thousand times
yet you cant recognize them when i say hello.
Let's go back to the start.
My teary eyes behind these happy reflections
can only be camouflaged for a moment more.
These thoughts burn in my mind like permanent engravings,
scratched on the surface. Etched into my brain.
Attempting to find the love that was once there.
That love, consuming every ounce of my body,
is even too great for this pain to use anymore, for happiness.
So my eyes continue to cry until I'm forced to forget about it all.
Until my eyes are no longer camouflaged, and my pain becomes a part of me.
I was just reflecting on one of my first poems.
My isolated life is
Full of formulated strife
I'm trying to reach a limit
But my mind is paralyzed
I'm drowning in an ocean
And I don't know how dive
Waves of sadness pushing me away
Into nothingness and emptiness

Never been held in anyone's arms
Never been loved so it's hard to move on
Falling asleep everyday
And waking up to see the world die
That's not why I switch on the tele
The only reason I still live
Is because I got lucky
So in a parallel universe
I'm the one behind the story

I'm feeling like a prisoner
With four walls, one ceiling and one floor
Remodeled as a dice.
Next page