boredom was the only monster underneath the bed at home
it creeps up so fast if you're not careful
it'll set so thick in the air
a knife can cut through it but it will not get rid of it
the **** was something she knew all along
it's the fabric in the boxes that give it an upper cut
the paint on a percaline figure that blinds its site
the recipes in a box that cut away at it slowly
the tomatoes to pick, to eventually throw at it
the colored pencils; the shank of creativity
the boredom will crawl away and bother another family
it preys on other houses
of the mom's that don't know how to get rid of it
and only flinch when they look the assassin in the eyes
couldn't afford Christmas gifts this year so I wrote poems for my family. this one is for my mom. Thought it was too violent but went with it, she thought it was funny.
somebody told him there was a silent drug dealer
who would get you hooked on the stars
that you didn't need a business suit to learn about the city lights
the ticket to the world may have been on a boat
or just a tab on your tongue
The trend setter before the trend
the punk before the tattoos
the one to say "The Ramones never made it big"
but they will always be blasting in his ears
he lived in the prime, 1980's Japan
with all neon lights that could melt your face
exploring is the temptation of Tokyo
agoraphobia being the only sin of the city
the man. the myth. the legend.
the sunglasses being the only thing catching shade
as he is the illumination
a light on a Harley that blinds the night time
and with more stories than confetti in the New York City sewers
there's no such thing of getting old
when you're only good at being young
couldn't afford Christmas gifts this year, so I wrote poems for my family instead. this one was for my dad. I think he almost teared up when he read it.
I could live off the evergreen on a weak bet
or a whisper in a library that wasn't for me
I'll take off in the dead of night if it needed to be
without shoes or a backpack if it was necessary
the euphoria of the soil beneath my feet
and the sun feeding me all that I need
a place where the fog will never clear
but is never the symbol of gloom
the trees speak to me in code during the day
and let me know if they do make a sound when they fall
if I stay still long enough I too will be the woodlands
and the woodlands will be me
let the mushrooms grow off my back
and the spiders web between my fingers
petrichor the only fragrance I know
as I spit blossoms on the ground
I'll sit in silence and think of it all
for one thing is certain though:
the biophilia will eat you alive
but the exception is just so
couldn't afford Christmas presents this year, so I wrote poems for my family. this is for my sister's boyfriend.
the stars have aligned within my bedroom ceiling
as every potential life of mine passes before dinner time
the luck I have to be so passionate of the paint on my canvas
and the way I flip my eggs in the morning
how to understand Fibonacci's sequence in the way of the art
but also in the way of where I place my keys
do you know what it is to feel so deeply?
about the light that strikes my porcelain heart so perfectly
but also the way my plant leaves shine in the window's glow
do you know what it feels like to have it all?
every single artisans gave me it all in one touch
I'm a wicked traveler of space and time
I would live a million lives if I could
it may be a blessing, but it may be a curse
because choosing one would be the saddest of it all
couldn't afford christmas gifts, so i wrote poems for my family. this one was for my sister. potential rough draft.
some say this building had issues with the temperature anyway
but most would agree
this heat was not brought on by the typical Houston air
he walks in to the beat of the trickling chips around him
heads turn for the new, the old already know how it goes down
some get up before he sits
only to make sure their pocket linings stay
the sweat on their forehead tells it all
who has the nerve to face the boy?
an hour in of back and forth
eyes only on him as he moves
their mouths ajar, he bets all in without a flinch
the atmosphere is flipped within a card
an uproar of "shocked but not surprised" flows through the room
as he leaves with money in one hand, and all the cheers in the other
the room falls silent faster than the door can close
just with one phrase that slips through the crack
"the boy is in rare form tonight"
was broke this year so I wrote poems for my family. this is for my brother. it was probably the hardest to write cause idk **** about poker. may go back and edit, so this is kind of a draft.
picking flower from your beard
only in my dreams.
daffodils from your eyes
intertwined around your glasses.
I make a bouquet
hoping maybe in your dreams
you're picking flowers off me too.
clutched in your hands
maybe just one.
Wrote this on acid last night. Of someone I think about too much.
not sure about the formatting yet but eh.
To a child,
The very definition
Is a loving mother.
I guess that explains
Why I've never been
A woman of faith.