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727 · Feb 2015
FM Frequencies
Kenna Feb 2015
FM Frequencies shocking
through my heart,
blurring colors with deep,
droning base.

Sitting in the car,
he looks at me and grins.
His thin chuckle chocking
me in its warm embrace.

'keep your eyes on the road'
'keep your eyes on the road'

Turning up the volume and turning down
our thoughts.

Laughing at the kids screeching by:
Naked and angry, with boiling flesh.

He taps the tone with timid tips
of his fingers.

Strumming on my
heart.

Drumming out my
FM frequencies.
very very rough draft
719 · Apr 2013
Saved by the Bell
Kenna Apr 2013
I hold the gaze of an ice-chilling glacier,
Twinkling and oozing falsehood.
They glitter and sparkle,
Hiding hatred from the world.

Answer my question please,
I've paid such good attention.
Answer my question please,
I've participated exquisitely.
Answer my question please,
Or just stare me down with your cold,  gripping eyes and wait for the bell to save your soul
and condemn mine
706 · Aug 2014
Crosswalk
Kenna Aug 2014
A girl goes traveling by.
Gray jacket                       and                       green hat.
A girl goes traveling by.
Hard heels                 on                soft snow.
A girl goes traveling by.
Pursed lips   under   big eyes.

A girl crosses the street
from one side,                                                                                  to the other.
704 · Jul 2012
Why Am I Crying?
Kenna Jul 2012
I sit at the table staring into the past.
Each memory warm as ice.
I wonder what you are thinking of.
Is it me?
Do you feel the same way that I do?
Does each moment we spend apart rip at you like a tornado?
Probably not...
Oh well

I hold onto each moment with an iron grip.
I remember the occasional twitch in your eye that accented the golden sparkle.
I remember the way your face would twist and turn as you made strange expressions.
I remember the slight slant of your eyebrows when you were surprised.
I remember the small moles on either side of your finger.
I remember each laugh we shared and each tear we shed together.

Where are you now?
What are you doing?
Are you thinking of me?
Probably not...
Oh well

I cannot stand being without you.
Each time I think of walking those halls without you,
of leaning on lockers without you,
going to classes without you,
getting in trouble without you,
I shudder.
Do you shudder?
Does the mere thought of life without me scare you?
Probably...
Probably...


I just hope that your sadness is not as great as mine.
I just wish that you are at least happy.

Yet I don't want to have to hope and wish...
I want to be with you.
Why Am I Crying? is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
684 · Sep 2015
Island Get-Away
Kenna Sep 2015
Her eyes looked like she'd cried, but her face was an island.

Her oceans were troubled-
tormented with waves and ripples
and the occasional
oil spill.

Her palm trees swayed
in the industrial-strength
night and folded down, absconding some
miraculous treasure.

Her sky was not everlasting and I could
draw the line
where the clouds would descend
over her
brilliant blue.  

They
were rumbling,
any stranger
could see. Her poolside vistas
trembled and down fell
the empire she called
her paradise.

Though it was never truly
hers.
683 · Nov 2012
Safety
Kenna Nov 2012
Be my life boat
Be my cussion.

Tell me I'm safe.
Whisper with your sweet molasses and soothe me.
Tell me you love me and you allways will.
Tell me I'm special.
Tell me I'm beautiful.

Say that you care.
Hold me close in your armour clad arms and rock me.
Say that you are lost without me .
Say that you need me.
Say that you will always be there.

Be my saftey.
Be my comfort.
Saftey by Kenna  is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
682 · Jul 2012
Forceful Thinking
Kenna Jul 2012
**** ****
THEY ORDER ME
THEY COMMAND
AND WHIP WITH WORDS OF MONSTROSITY
AND I YELL
I YELL AND SCREAM
I SHRIEK, I WRITHE
Forceful Thinking is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
681 · Jul 2012
OOps
Kenna Jul 2012
Here we go again.
another fatal hour interlocked with another binding vow.
OOps.
Guess I didn't see that one coming.

We sit facing each-other from across the worn coffee table.
The silence is brutal.
My hand on my stomach your hand on your mouth.
We are frozen.
If a painter were here, he would be most pleased.
The only movement the drowsy breaths.
The painter would stroke our expressions with most pride.
We are transparent.
I see straight through you.
You see straight through me.
I wanna keep it.
I wanna nurture it.
I wanna hold it to my chest and croon and have all the world stoop over the miniature adult and coo.
You wanna **** it.
You wanna move on.
You wanna forget this ever happened and be rid of the 'monstrosity'.

Easy for you to say, you haven't felt the small kick from the inside, pushing you to love it.
You haven't sang it songs and felt it dance.
You hardly understand, you cowardly man.
You hardly understand.

The painter would show us his masterpiece and we would be shocked.
We used to be in love.
We used to be connected at the wrist, never letting go.
You promised me nothing could bring us apart, but you were wrong.
Again.
And this time I will not forgive and forget.
I would not ever forgive my self for not letting an innocent child breathe.
I would not ever forget that sweet baby depending on me.
I would always know, I let it down.

Its over.
It had to end sometime.
The painting is painted, the deed is done.
You picked your side and I picked mine.
Goodbye my love.
Goodbye my evil, cowardly love.
I suppose I was disposable anyway.
You got what you wanted, and now you don't care.
How typical.
I should have known better than to trust your sadistic grin.
Goodbye my evil, cowardly, typical, sadistic love.
Our time together was not well spent.
I am not actually pregnant or anything, just writing that perspective out.

OOps is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Kenna Mar 2017
Gritting my teeth to the chalk of a smile,
I ******* tongue-tied tipping
points of platitude and innocuous
glances. I’d like to take
a dip into the powerade
of an eye—poison
my electrolytes and throw
up the unconscious effort to keep it all
down. Bellow
the belly of this
bending in binary is the mending
of mind
body
and soul—the syrup to my cynicism.
I’ve been bundled
together tight enough to taste the tingle
of anticipation just before the
fall
into cool, quiet cotton
candy. I could scream if I cared
to. My madness mumbled and muttered
mulled through and muted—
passed from eye to mind—
mind to measure—
measure to mechanism.
The hum of
impetus. The creak
of rising action. The screech into
final release.I’d like to
plunge my plasticity in a pool of electricity—
singeing all but just the edges.
Rattling rails of self imposed righteousness.
Tattling tales of presupposed hypocrisy.
Only I can mold my moment
at the peaking of this pinnacle
to whatever my mind would
make it out to mean:
a death
a daredevil
a daydream.
678 · Oct 2012
Bird in a Cage
Kenna Oct 2012
Bird in a cage
Just a bird in a cage
Beautiful, lovely bird
Colours as bright as the sun
Beautiful, lovely bird

She sings the most bewitching song
She sings and sings
waiting for a reply waiting for a reply
she screams and screams and chirps and tweets and caws
searching for a voice searching for a voice

A bird in a cage
sings
through each day
dusk till dawn
dawn till dusk
she sings
and sings
and sings
once more
Bird in a Cage is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
657 · Jul 2016
The Bubble
Kenna Jul 2016
Her fingers were coated in rain
drops and candied whispers,
lacing the side
of her face, like a gas
mask or a prayer
shawl.

Woven into her cheeks were the clasped hands
she knew all
but too well, dripping honey and sea
salt across her brow- swollen and
heavy. She felt
its pressure, always,
like a sieve or a boiling point. The cool
90 degrees of a summer smoke.
Orbiting her fingertips.

She flicked the ashes
into a puddle and spat. Her gum
had lost it's flavor.
It was always a bit too sweet.
651 · Feb 2013
Faceless Poetry
Kenna Feb 2013
I dip my finger into boiling water
I feel no sensation.
The gurgling, surging, brimming water leaves no mark.

Maybe, I can't feel.
Maybe, the mechanism that allowed me to experience broke long ago
and I've been swimming in a pool of jello purgatory ever since.  
Maybe, I'm broken, with a huge **** down my body that all the thread in the world couldn't stitch up.

Maybe, maybe I never worked at all

and so I'm left floating in the bathtub of boiling, burning water and faceless poetry
Faceless Poetry by Kenna is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
650 · Jul 2012
Apocalypse
Kenna Jul 2012
The things that upset  today are simply appalling.
One click of a button can send the someone clawing.
One tap of a finger: a sentence to the abyss.
What happened so horribly that it came down to this?
There's one thing that happened that's true and clear.
The world found media, my loveliest dear.
It corrupted and changed or outlook on life.
It made simple problems as sharp as a knife.
It cut through our smiles with baroque fibs of hate.
Now we are in so deep that it's simply too late.
We sprawl on a wide couch and we barely fit.
We just sit and we watch and we watch and we sit.
We go out and we buy.
We come home and we cry.
As we sink deeper each day.
As our bodies decay.
The quicksand grows thicker.
We start sinking quicker.
All thats left is a head.
We are practically dead.
The sand seeps through our ears.
We don't acknowledge our fears.
The future goes blank.
All the champagne's been drank.
And so comes the end.
Its all over, my friend.
Society's turned the bend.
Life is just a dead end.
Not a wound left to tend.
We are lost in the trend.
It's either fight or defend.
But it doesn't really matter...
Line 24 is purposely grammatically incorrect.


Apocalypse is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
649 · Nov 2012
Structure
Kenna Nov 2012
Punctuation.
has no place in a; poem

I. believe"
We should? write
and NOt' worry...
about,where (we put) these trivial markings/

Who) cares about the corrections' when its" really about the words!!!
why. cant. we. make. our. sentences.like.this.short.and.snappy.
or why cant we let them live and grow and take on a life of their own and live and spread and continue for hours and hours and send the world into haywire and chaos erupts everwhere and change topics and confuse people and boggle minds and* make you think-

I}{have a secret? i Would like to ShArE
Nothing matters
~'!()_-}{|":?9[;'.],/...!!!?!?!?!?!{({})&"'|)}?/,."}~~~'!
Structure by Kenna McCafferty is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
625 · Nov 2016
Simplicities
Kenna Nov 2016
I think
about him
too much. I know
he doesn't think
about me.

And how simple
it was
for me
to fall. And how easy
it was
for him
to get up and get on.

I think,
when I see him,
I think more than I've ever thought
about him, or them,
or anyone.

I think
two people
alone
is better than one-- that two
scars can bleed as much as one-- that
words run hot from the sink to drown out the sun--I think.

How easy it is to say one
thousand words and, still, never quite
enough.
622 · Jan 2017
Relax
Kenna Jan 2017
I never heard
myself cry out
loud. It was always
silent. As if you
never heard me.
As if you weren’t
even bothered.

“Stop.” She pulled back.  
“It hurts.”She contorted
“No." She pushed and in her
head she heard a voice—soft and
sinister. Not powerful enough
to be her own.
Relax,
baby girl,
relax.

It couldn’t have been
aloud. It was gentle and
intrusive and she hadn’t known
it was there. It stroked her
cerebellum, tickling
her larynx and falling
just short of a scream. She fell
just short of the bed and collected
herself among the sheets
and their refuse.

I never heard
her actions nor the motion
of her language.
She was silent always
and always screaming.
619 · Apr 2013
What's Done is Done
Kenna Apr 2013
Take a deep breath
and let it all just dissapear
all your worries,
all your fears.
Let them peel off, shed your camelion skin.
And soar
High above the towering tree tops
and the drooping dry dams
and the cold crystal clouds
and the rushing, reeling rivers.
Watch the bubbles disperse
one
by
one
until there are none.
615 · Oct 2012
You don't need big words
Kenna Oct 2012
To express yourself
You don't need to be eloquent
You don't need to have long thoughtless sentences
and riddled paragraphs
all you need is
one pen
and
one paper
and
any words
You don't need big words by Kenna McCafferty is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
611 · Jan 2015
Wicked Games
Kenna Jan 2015
Her finger falls,
crashing like a wrecking ball,
through the desperate blue of Toronto,

pulling a single brown petal,
back splashed by the emerald of her eyes.  

She mutters something I pretend not to hear,
and pours the heavy water over the city.

Then she sits back in her chair, with a knowing smile,
and coughs
into her marigold
tissue.
Kenna Jan 2015
1
My face in the puddle on the street,
laying cast away
and gurgling with its last bursts of life
reminds me that nothing lives forever.

I am not that face,
dying in the puddle
inside it, I am something entirely different.

It’s somebody’s mother.
It can’t be me.
Her face droops to the ground in a perpetual frown.
I don’t like it.
I don’t want it.
It can’t be me.
2
My memory fails me and…..
I forget.
What is
that word?  
3
How do you get from there to here—
crying in a delivery room
to crying in the nursing home
because your family left you and you are all
alone.
Faster than you’d ever imagined.

Like my father said at Nana’s funeral,
the casket falling through the ground,
“Too soon”
4
Life
a fly against the window,
then
a fly twitching on the floor.

A tightly grasping hand,
Then,
The  abrupt
Loosening of the grip.
608 · Mar 2013
Penny for a Wish
Kenna Mar 2013
Grey stone on Grey ground
Here had been a fire
Soot clung to the wet stone bricks
Ashes swirled
moving as one entity, pulsing with the breath of the wind

It gaped at me, this hole in the iced ground
A mouth condemned to a life of nothing but screams

The rough, jagged bricks bared
The thick ivy arched
The wind whisked past

I heard it
a tortured
consistant
screech

And I understood
Penny for a Wish by Kenna is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
607 · Dec 2016
Transparent
Kenna Dec 2016
It felt sinful to cry
in front of you: my agony.
the woman I had
wronged. So many times,
in so many ways,
with so many words. They were false
truths I hadn’t meant to mean. Yet
somehow, along the way,

I had picked
them up and whisked them away
in my bag, your baggage and everything

else that had marred me.
A scratch
across the glass of my
actions: your face. I hope you can see
past the fog of my deviance. I’ll draw
a smile in the condensation, blurring the
cadence of an attitude—the pure
and their righteous, the demented
and their sin—to make a clearer picture
from this polaroid dangling, overexposed,
from the edges
of our friendship—the soft curve of a lie.

It tastes so smooth, rolling
up through my tongue. It sounds so bitter
wafting out from your throat.
590 · Sep 2016
Dear Diary
Kenna Sep 2016
Today is tomorrow’s Tuesday
night and I’m drenched in what could have been
your breath or my carbon monoxide. A cocktail of the two,
of us- the gemini
we are. We were.

Your weight felt heavy and my body concave.
Rasping through the speakers of your state of the art
speaker system-my playlist. I made it
for moments like these. Named it blazing lips
and raptured fingers or maybe just:
'Revival'.  

I'll let you trace
my outline, if I can be
your vertex, pulling deeper and harder,
pushing pencil to paper—ink on velvet
and the emptiness of words.

I gave up to you. I give up
through you. What words could mean
more than you’re okay. We’re just
fine:

You could ignite me, or let me simmer
in the twisting of the sheets
or your dreadlocks. Built in
subtlety and
abandonment. The chronicles
of sobriety detailed in the hollow
of your tongue-- the stale space
between two thoughts--a presence
and my innocence: fruit
ripe for the tasting. You could sip
at my pretense and I’d swallow your malice
or we could delve into my irreplaceability. Wait
a week. We’re just fine.
588 · Nov 2016
Naturally
Kenna Nov 2016
Waiting for the next song
to come on or a pin
to drop, whatever it is that comes
naturally.

I can't seem to remember the words
to his face or the melody
of his hands.
But the beat
of his power is
there. That tune I recognize.
That I know and memorize and regurgitate
in rhythm--100 bpm
or something stronger.

My heart pounding
so fast I can't feel
it in my chest,
but rather my lungs, my stomach, my gut
instinct gone numb-- a spreading warmth,
not hot, but intrusive and bursting
--no it couldn't be--
with thirst. A cocktail of passion
and power. Ravenous and subsuming.

I fell in
submission--weary and weak.
The world had exhausted me and he
had reaped the rewards. A phoenix,
he rose
from my ashes.

Leaving me
to smolder, to piece
together my
body.
Mind.
Heart.
Or let them scatter across
ashtrays and Hennessy.
577 · Nov 2016
In My House
Kenna Nov 2016
I don’t need things
sanitary, I just need them
clean.

I need them blank
and malleable and empty—  
bare
and impenetrable and deterring:
the cold walls of a cloroxed surface
the wide base of a lysoled space.

Spattered crumbs across a kitchen counter can be
brushed off. Calcified toothpaste around the bathroom sink can be
scrubbed away. Spilled decisions and the inability to make them—
a cocktail of Hennessy and incidental encounters— can be.

Can be
ignored, and covered up, and forgotten.
Can be
pushed aside and shoved away and misremembered.
Can be
obscured and omitted and lied about
—sanitary, but never clean.

I cannot wash my hands of his sweat.
I cannot gargle away his taste.
I cannot comb out his fingernails.

I may be sanitary, but I will never feel clean.
something i've been struggling with
569 · May 2012
Paper Dance
Kenna May 2012
I love the way papers flit in the wind,
The way a strong force possesses them and suddenly they live,
The way they dance the jig of simple reality.

And when they fall they are happier
Their violent foray finally finished
And for all but a second the wind mourns them and wishes them once again to take flight

But their time is over
gravity holds them down
as the wind
with a sigh
begins to lead another paper into
Another Dance
Paper Dance is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
565 · Feb 2016
Genesis
Kenna Feb 2016
I watched you always
through layers of sea
salted satin and holy oil.

The face of a churning
stomach, the incense of your fingers
and the hailed
embrace of the cathedral. Kneeling on
the floor of the ocean or a prayer bench.

You lead me, always,
through the tunneled,
or the flicker of rounded
sounds and  whispered pews.

Through clouded words  
and anointed promises.
It's cold enough to taste you
in this storm of twenty something verses, hailed
and poured from mouth to mouth.

A shaking hand
and the crumbling of bread:
something outstretched and sinful.
Perversions of a theme.  

You were my
mask and I wore you
out, with time and mercury
poisoning.

In the drenching warmth I see you now:
A song and a purpose.
A verse and a lie.
needs work. needs a title.
553 · May 2012
Soft Tides
Kenna May 2012
The withering corpse slips away
to where? I am not sure but it is gone
It is better that way
She tells me.

How can she know what is better?
How can I know?
How can anyone know?
How?

I suppose one must believe what they hear most.
The more you hear it, the more true it must be
But what if the world is lying

Where does that leave me?
Where does that leave him?
Where does that leave us all?

I guess we are just the summer's day laughs fading into the soft tides
awaiting the dark maiden with her eyes glazed and heart afire.

But what does she bring?
or
What does she take?
What does she cause?
And who does she break?

The questions swirl as the fog thickens and eventually her hand reaches out and pulls us into
the Soft Tides.
For my grandpa who died March 2012




Soft Tides is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
553 · Feb 2017
Food Chain
Kenna Feb 2017
what if the lion made love
to the sheep?
or was the sheep too weak
to love and let love and let wear and let hold—
or just strong enough? I can’t
remember.
542 · Oct 2012
Mixed Emotions
Kenna Oct 2012
When you lose a doll
you buy a new one
and maybe, you like the new one more
and maybe you forget about the old one
entirely
Mixed Emotions by Kenna McCafferty is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
516 · Jan 2015
Introspective
Kenna Jan 2015
Trying to start a poem
with the letter I
is an ordeal
in and of
itself.
510 · Oct 2013
The Fall
Kenna Oct 2013
A tree, standing barren, naked, lost.
A branch, weighed down by nothing but itself.
A leaf, drifting into the neck-breaking frost.

A group of people gathers with a hushed tone.
A black clad group, silently vexed,
Around a weeping rock, a crying stone.

A young voice breaks through,
"Mommy, will He ever take you?"

She turns away and so falls a tear

into a rising pile of lamentable fear.
The Fall by Kenna McCafferty is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
508 · May 2015
Humus
Kenna May 2015
I liked when you sang me salty
lullabies, and kissed  
the leaves on my forehead.

When you bundled me
up in sand and soil,
carting me off the county fair,
winning an honorable
mention.

How I miss the parting
of your lips, the lurking
smile: always
there, always
hidden.

Make me a dandelion
crown, and shepherd me
through your shoulders.  

You can see the whole
world from up here--propped
up on the tombstone.
508 · Dec 2016
2; To; Too; Two
Kenna Dec 2016
It's a loneliness
of passion that makes me
want you tonight, at twoAM --
or the breaking
of dawn-- cracking
the proverbial egg
of the morning with you over
tea, toast, and your temperament.

It's funny how my legs don't work
like they used to,
and their smile is all
but a glimmer of some instant trapped
in the backseat of your car.
With just enough legroom
for 2.

I've never done this
before. I've never
done this
before.
503 · Apr 2014
Bottle Cap Blues
Kenna Apr 2014
What would you do,

If my heart had gone blue,
If all the lies we told became true,
If the grass had turned red,
the floor was our bed,
and everything we love, we never knew?

What would you say,

If your tongue became gray,
If dreams had started to fray,
If your voice found its place
in outer space
and the memories we had were washed away?

Would you sing me a song,
something saucy and long?

Would you play me a chord,
one that fluttered and soared?

or would you put on your shoes,
go where you choose
and sing along to your bottle-cap-blues?
490 · Oct 2015
Asylum
Kenna Oct 2015
The stirring fossils
         The thirsting sentence
Under the ruckus of Monday night hooligans
          Three o’clock
The letter falters
           in the frozen arms of a shaken breath
Water stems up the legs of a boundless monster
          *I am going away- you won’t hear from me
After Secret by Pierre Reverdy
488 · May 2013
Lead Me to the Earth
Kenna May 2013
When your heart bleeds tears
and your eyes cry blood,

When your head grows nails
and you fingers spout hair,

When your lungs breath acid
and your stomach churns air,
486 · Jul 2016
Shorelines
Kenna Jul 2016
There where times when we
laughed: your mouth parted
small oceans across its landscape,
etching caves into your molars,
if I'd seen them through that rocky grin.

I'd long to hear the crashing of your waves
again. Against a rocky bay.
To taste the dried-up seaweed of near morning
and low tide.
To be matted hair against
a rough wind, shallow
under fading storms.

I'll send smoke
signals and await contact-departing
lost words from frothy beaches

and still I'll cling to remember
the sinking tide,
the swelling dawn
and the indented shoreline,

like a scar across
charred lips or the smile
of a stranger.
having crazy writers block these days
471 · May 2012
Waiting for...
Kenna May 2012
Waiting for...

...Waiting for... if only I could remember...
...the mild, misty memory....
...It is important....
...I think...
...It had to do with ice...
...Clean, crisp, cool ice...
...and a voice...
...distant and shrill...
...like the wind...
...calling to me...
...asking for something...
...desperate for...
...for...
...a question...
...if only I could remember...
...it's vital...
...fatal...
...waiting for...
...the signal...
...the cue...
...waiting for...
...if only I could remember...
...waiting for..............................................................­.................................................................­.................................................................­.................................................................­.............................................
Sweet Honey Lipped Fire is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
467 · Nov 2012
Empty
Kenna Nov 2012
It's been a while
Since I've put a pen in my hand
It's been a while since I've let it out
Since I've screamed and listened for the echo
Since I've smiled and waited for the frown.

Sometimes words just don't fit.
No matter how hard you try you never say what you mean
and in the end
you feel sad...
at least I do.

Some people can't smile
and no matter how hard they try it's never real
in the end
you can't help them
and you feel sad....
and empty.....
at least I do
Empty by Kenna McCafferty is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
459 · May 2014
If your face were a star
Kenna May 2014
If your face were a star
It would fall
Light years away;
Shunned by the atmosphere.

Dodging comets,
And rockets,
And heart break.

Wading through the shadows of an eternal blue,
for no one to see you.
444 · Apr 2017
Forbidden
Kenna Apr 2017
your body tastes like the warm
fruit left on the windowsill by the bed
where you held
me by the wrists
and let me rot
among red
sheets and potted
plants.

wandering hands
feel wonderful when you’re wanted—
when you want to be
wanted and warped by watched
wrists against red
sheets and warm
fruit.

forget it
and let it
rot

and drip from the edges
of my mind or this cot.
I wish I could call
it a mattress. but it’s
too thin and
too cold to keep me
warm, like the fruits
of your labor.

You’ve been working
too hard to get
me here to hold,
by the wrists,
and wrench
from myself.

let me
write these words
for me— hammered together—

nailing myself,
by the wrists,
to the tips
of these bedposts
in the bed framed
by the broken
plants and the rotting
fruit and the red
blood on the red
sheets.

You can’t see
the red in
the beds of my eyes
through the sheets of your
eyelids, pressed closed,
like the door is
to keep the demons

fresh as fruit
could be,
if it wasn’t left
on the windowsill
by the bed
in my head
that never leaves.
443 · Mar 2017
Teleology
Kenna Mar 2017
I am my
self and your
self and her
self and his
off-rhyme of a frayed encyclopedia—
the crippling arch of a fingertip and the kink of its self-
awareness.  

I’d like to keep me trapped
in the amber of this moment
but I find myself,
in chemical waste—
and fumigation of my miscommunication—
tasting the smoke,
ripe and ripping up
soil and self .

I am my
self if the self you are
is you and her self,
is her and his self is
the afterthought of a decomposed anthology—
made mechanically—
the wrapping of roots.
The dipping of leaves
into steamed puddles on
cement streets, evaporating,
*******—
mechanically.

I’d like to be
a rock,
excellently.
The telos of my terrain trembles
beneath the benign boredom of being
myself,
excellently.
442 · Jan 2016
Pleasure over Matter
Kenna Jan 2016
All I want is a plump upper
lip and the stain
of coffee on your breath.

I can taste that paradise and exhale
in rhythm. To the drums somewhere. They could be
pounding. In those bloated silences
when I can taste our heartbeat, offset
by smooth jazz and the bubbling snare. Overflown,
suffocating champagne smiles.

Your teeth are crooked,
but I don't mind.
They all fall
someday.

        What's the matter?
With a toothy grin
reflected off molten
puddles in the sun
of a clouded morning,
flashed
through the dreamscape
of a lover's quarrel and echoed off
the lips of a lie.  

I could be sipping
tea and watching the clouds
fall into the haven of your words.
But I might pour
myself a glass
of wine.
still thinking of a title. a major work in proggress
404 · Feb 2013
Something about Glass
Kenna Feb 2013
There's something about glass
so finite
so certain.

Crystals, polished and proud,
cut with malice.
      Heavenly gleaming
      Heavily streaming
It feels so good to me.
Something about Glass by Kenna is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
403 · Feb 2013
Report Card
Kenna Feb 2013
To be great.
To be good.
To be average.
To be bad.
To be horrible.
To be me.
Report Card by Kenna is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
402 · Feb 2015
Success
Kenna Feb 2015
Success is measured
in years, in wisdom, in happiness.

In the amount of people who pause
as you walk,

the number of strangers
who stare at your screen and are moved
to pressing a button.

Success is measured in clicks,
in slow, thoughtful clicks: hammers
pounding through keys with accidental madness.
"I like it," they scream.
I like it.

Success is measured
by happiness. By
snaking smiles stretching far,
too far.

In my peripheral vision, I see it.
A knight battling
a monkey.
A butterfly fighting
a queen.
An old man sitting on the park bench
and laughing at the woes
of the children.

"I like it," he thinks.
I like it
400 · Jan 2015
Something Small
Kenna Jan 2015
She traces the subtle lines and strong
edges, steadying
her finger on the medicine cabinet.

She hesitates and
feels the oceans
recede.

A small dog on its haunches, waiting
to pounce. She  can taste
the cotton blood seeping
from her wounds in small,
sustained trickles.

Her eyes fall
and she pierces something
big with something
small.
351 · Feb 2013
_______________
Kenna Feb 2013
Not here
Nor there
Nor anywhere.

Alone
Alone
Alone

No one cares here
Nor there
Nor anywhere

Numb
Numb
Numb

No voice to scream
No body to find






                                                                                                                                                                  Absence
_______________ by Kenna is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
340 · Feb 2017
Highlights
Kenna Feb 2017
In the thick
of an evening I let myself
curl around the edges
of your finger, laid
unkempt across the luster
of oncoming night.

This untangling of fingers
and re-braiding of words feels
effortless and blunt, like the cut
of your lips against
matted hearts;
tousled eyes;
layered hands.
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