Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
neth jones Nov 2021
is it love
or the parasite ?

my pilot bulk                      
aims for relief
       it pursues this via                  
          your romantic correction

in public arena                  
a library stair                    
(i never prior encountered you)

one step as foreigner        
the approach
and upon a swift internal pendulum
i make witless incisions
hurried mended sentences
directed stuns
invasive
i demand the compromise
                  of your company
hastily push at boundaries and
you're not so accommodating

                                                 but
on a further occasion
same building
we exchange a battering of conversation
that
   then
       matures
           into barter-like use of language

despite my harassments
  a civil cultivation is unearthed
tongue within this intelligence effort i lessen
loosen my demanding appearance
disregard my dignity
     a skin suit about the ankles

you're open in a vein of similarity
   you flesh out your own controls
we've progressed quickly
there's an aped conduct
                 and flashing attitudes
this time we share table space
a nearby café

we have become quite unmanned
    repeated meet ups
upon humours we adjust small habits
    and shake on perceptions where we overlap
it becomes
   more an overlay of rationalities
        than resented promises

fast time passes and

i move into your living space                                  
i pick a wildflower                                                    
               and put it in the tiny vase on your dining table
we agree on its colour                                              
we agree on a book to make our bible material
we agree on the pitch of the tinnitus we share
the clothes i am to wear
i switch to your diet
and you cease taking medications
we sleep on your lawn like children
and bring down the night sky for comfort

during the day we wear our sleep
              like a lubrication for our chores
and go about our productivity
              in genuine partnership
yet
i feel we're just out of reach
            of some dark harm

we are an excellent sample pair
it is all vital
we grow stronger the more we quiz it
recycling our *******
refine our agreements
await further impulses
and come closer to plug

so..
do we please love
      or simply indulge a parasite ?
nick armbrister Nov 2021
Alien Eyes
I see you there
Watching me now
Even facing away
You eyes reverse
Back of your head
How do you do that?
Are you an alien?
from LIZARD SNAIL 124K
Nick Armbrister and other writers
Man Jun 2021
who the **** knows how an alien would view us

terrified, at the awe inducing power
we've wrestled from the world
and the lack of respect we have for it

mortified, at the sheer opulence
we've dug out from the earth
and that the many shall never see

inside, we all know
that anything makes more sense
than a perspective that rung
even neutral
Tichozpytec Apr 2021
Have you ever felt
Like an alien being
Planted amongst men?
SerenaDuru Apr 2021
Why is it that it is when I am most alone, I feel most present?
I feel like an alien on Earth. I do not understand how I was birthed here.

My home is beyond my physical state, my home is beyond my emotions, and even my desires. My home is where none of those things could dream to reach, in all their perversity and incapability. I will not hurry from Earth, but I do know that this does not even slightly resemble my home.

How blessed I am to know what I am not.
Sometimes I really do feel like an alien in my own skin,
Like I could twist and turn, transform and try,
All the years of my life and still not get it right.
I don't know who made it that way.
Couldn't tell you where the notion developed,
Or who proved to be truth before I did.
I don't know which artist created this outline,
Sketched it in ink, and entitled it a lifestyle -
One I once dared not color outside the lines of.

But I figure, if I cannot be a Mona Lisa of a painting,
I could be a more original, less world reknown piece
Because the regard of outside perspectives is less important
Than the quality of art produced in me.
Maybe I've been too focused on the colors already on the palette,
Instead of the mountains of shades I could imagine.
Maybe the skin I wear is black, like mourning, like darkness,
But these shadows make it possible to appreciate light.
Maybe the issue isn't me. Maybe I just need a new canvas,
One that resembles my possibilities and not my limitations.
One that allows room for breath, and exploration, and mistakes -
That isn't stifled with labels, or schemes, or systems.
And maybe I have to create that for myself.

Sometimes, I really do feel like an alien in my own skin,
But that doesn't make it any less mine,
Nor any less worthy of love.
And maybe I can love this martian without having all the answers,
Or even a planet or plane to belong to.
Maybe the person behind the pen, or pencil, or paintbrush, is me,
If I decide to be.
Next page