Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Asha Nicole Jul 2012
It must be the music talking,
but i think I'm falling in love with you
I think its the way the falsettos got me swinging
the way the altos got me singing
I cant help but fall in love with you

The soprano told me about you
With it's sweet scandalous tune
Then the bass caught wind
hummed a few bars ,and told me your name

And I guess the band heard too,
Must've whispered to you
Because the harmonies playing my head
trying to convince me, your falling in love with me too.
Asha Nicole Jun 2012
Never trust trigger happy love birds. There’s nothing worse then those quick bullet, one shot lovers.
They never shoot straight, always tilted slightly to the left, and each shot is fired with just as little precaution as the next. These wayward birds take to every successful hit with big star-ward eyes. Eyes so wide it breaks your heart. Eyes filled with such pride, they’re as sinful as innocence herself.

    These birds fly rather high in the silver-lined sky, letting romance blur their vision. Undisturbed by whispered warnings and signs that follow them so close. They’ll twitter and tweet that their love knows no such repose. Then those very same star-lit eyes watch the ground comes crashing, knocking them from the clouds. Leaving bullet holes where wings should be and shards of stars in once bright eyes.

    Then they’ll look at you in such a way that you can’t help but clean their wounds. These poor birds will tell you, like they mean it every time, they really thought that was their last shot. They really thought they had found their bird of a feather, their one in a million in where millions fly. However all is well, you’ll soon see. As soon as their healed, they’ll fly straight back to where they’ll always be. Eyes wayward, star-ward and set on that sky. With the trigger and bullet, perfectly aligned.

                                 You just have to hope that this time, they won’t hit you.
Asha Nicole Jun 2012
What shame Goliath's family must have felt.
Imagine the honor that shame chased away.
Just that morning, a kiss was left on his mother's cheek
Sealed with his promise, of an easy victory

"So small," He thought, as he looked down to David's face
"I will defeat him!" he boasted while bloated with a wide grin
But little man, with little rocks fostered no doubt.
And with that little chance, and one shot, he released his rocks

And down came the prideful giant, befallen to death on impact
Down came his power, his stature, and his fight
His corpse, marked forever, with the bruising of David's hands
It was said it will glow defiantly even in the darkness of hell

The news would soon return to his Mother's table
She will hear that her son, Powerful and feared
Her beloved, once so mighty and superior
Had been defeated by a child with little rocks, and too much faith.
Asha Nicole Jun 2012
Ginger twine wrapped tightly round his finger.
A slight smile across his even tighter lips.
Wound around his liquid thoughts
His twiney figers grasp the drinking glass
filled to the brim with sweet, sweet ice tea
Its rich brown shade mocking the color of the sky

It is here, in this place, where lemon lovers meet
You easily pinpoint the kind of souls they carry,
Simply by the shade of their sweet iced tea
And they carry that ginger twine, tightly wound
They carry that coil everywhere they go

Many ask if it is a symbol, or subliminally literal?
A invitation, or a silent and quiet warning?
But its just that ginger twine and sweet ice tea
I too, carry them everywhere with me
Golden in the sun, red in the mid-light
Circular and quite rough with deep rouge ridges
they're placebos of purpose simply right, simply true

If you wish to comprehend,shutdown all distraction
Then you will be here now and here you will stay
Humbly accept your ginger twine and ice tea
for that, my friend, is exactly happened to be me
and the way every sip slides down my thought
It tastes of determination, solitude, and hope
Oh how I love that ginger twine and sweet ice tea

Ginger twine wrapped tightly round her finger.
A slight smile across her even tighter lips.
Wound around her liquid thoughts
Her twiney figers grasp the drinking glass
filled to the brim with sweet, sweet ice tea
her rich brown shade mocking the color of the sky

Ginger Twine and Sweet Ice Tea
Wrapped tightly around me
Asha Nicole Jun 2012
Some like their poetry with ten percent less

Into small, easy to swallow portions

Into short, sweet sugar-coated contents

Into watered down soups for those emotionally constipated

Into thoughtless juice for the self-conflicted

To the mind of the starving poet, cosmetically redesigned

Continuously Confined
I was looking up spoken-word poetry at 2am, unable to sleep. My eyes were blurry, causing me to mistake the title "Def poetry" for "Diet poetry". I laughed at myself in my delirium then the rest happened from there.
Asha Nicole Jun 2012
I hear many emotions disguised as words
These spoken feeling are dried then stuffed
all their glorious masculinity, now compacted
and their complexity is now rather compressed
emotions grinded into flat and blank thoughts

Sometimes i don't believe in words,
The way force themselves in and out .
For they falter when trying to explain colors,
Shades and tones always lack proper description.
Rarely do words capture that exact bend in light.

Nor that exact bend of your long neck,
foreign sensations my fingers once knew.
Words lack terms for the roughness of your face,
lack measurements for the smoothness of your lips.
And paragraphs won’t explain the feeling in my chest.

Nor can they explain the hollowness within my heart
When I could tell no one the secrets of my grief.
Only so many words can be used in a dying breath,
And Last words are usually much later said.
what did she wish to tell us on her death bed?

Nor can words covey those underlying emotions,
who tend to not speak too well for themselves
See, feelings tend to simply mumble and stumble
By sending mixed signals and double meaning
They ramble until the phrase is finally complete

But it is said that words are like a dusty window
They are like a man’s beloved yet cracked spyglass
Although words appear to be not quite clear,
And often find themselves fumbling desperately to be heard
They offer a outlet for our souls, otherwise left unspoken.
Asha Nicole May 2012
Imagine my surprise, when I learned you were deeply in love with your own brown eyes,
Watching your reflection as they gleamed in mine

You are beautiful truly, even a wayward fool could see. If not a soul could resist your beauty,
How is the mirror to disagree?

Kept busy by your radiant reflection, you had little affection to spare.
So ensnared, you often mistook your vanity for angelity .

So I sit back, once again invisible to your selfish eyes I mournfully realize,
A narcissist is to never to love me.
I have developed a obsession with the concept of narcissism. I have observed it myself and others, and finally was able to capture it in a poem.
Next page