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Abbie Crawford Jan 2015
I pull my blanket close to me, as if all hope is gone.
My lungs ache as I try not to cry.
My blanket doesn't quite cover my feet and the frustration overwhelms me.
It reminds me of trust. No matter how much we stretch it or pull it, it won't cover my feet.
It leaves us with cold feet.
Just like how you might trust someone and you think all is okay, but then something doesn't feel quite right and your feet are left cold.
About how you got the blanket to keep you warm and it doesn't really serve its purpose.
Nothing Much Jan 2015
I thought a quilt would make a good gift
Something to keep you warm on these frigid wintry days
Something to keep you warm since I could not

So I unfolded scraps and remnants of our past
And laid them out on the floor
Piecing together parts of you and I

I found a needle and thread
And carefully stitched together the patchwork story of us
Until I had a blanket big enough for us both
I deleted this by mistake. I didn't have my saved anywhere so I had to try to rewrite it from memory.
You make a tent of
blanket
to cover my face
from the morning sun
and watch me breathe

When I move or growl
you kiss me with a smile
All this time
while I am still dreaming
you already know
what you are making
for breakfast

You gently stroke my body
With the feeling of a new touch
You don’t wake me up
but arouse me from my sleep
Caressing gently all over
you hug me close to your
heart
We make love
Even before we wake up
for the day
#tent #blanket #morning #sun #watch #breathe #growl #breakfast stroke #wake #arouse #hug #day
The Terry Tree Dec 2014
You are the echo
On the other side
Of the room
In my heart
You are the beat
That drums within
Every brand new
Day I start

You are the rise
You are the fall
Of every sun
And every moon

Every moment
That I turn around in
If I want to give up
You tell me,
"Not yet,
It's too soon..."

You are the hope
In which I live and dream
The silver clouds and
Colored schemes

I am grateful for my arms
To embrace the love
I've found
In you

I am grateful for my words
To speak the truth
Of how you make
Me feel

I am grateful for my nerves
That send the signals
To let me know
You are here

I am healed

I am grateful for my eyes
For without them
I would have
No sight

Hold me now
In this moment I have found
I am on a journey
To your house of
Living light

I am empowering
My deepest nature
You are the word that
Enlightens my
Destiny
You are the echo
That resonates
Within me

Unearth this infinite
Measure from within
That I can sense
You are the ultimate
Eternal presence

Wake me up
No, let me sleep
You are the holy place
Inside that I never
Want to leave

There are two wolves
Deep within my heart
A wolf of love
And a wolf of hate
I feed the wolf
That resonates
With your love
For your love
Is my love
And my love
Is your
Love

Brilliant, shining
Gorgeous love
Penetrating
From above

I allow this place
To hold me at
All times
I allow your
Breath of love
To rise
Inside
Me like
A dove

My lungs are filled
With truth
My lungs are filled
With you
A breath of wings
Fly like prayers
That say thank you
To your incredible
Warmth as you
Swarm around me
You are there
With a vibration
I can't see
But I can recognize
As your fire
Melts away all pain
Before my
Eyes

You are the echo
On the other side
Of the room
In my heart
You are the beat
That drums within
Every brand new
Day I start

My echo
My sacred journey
My love-connection
The ultimate direction
My favorite footprint
Unsurpassable
Presence of
Protection

I am open to your love
And the boundaries that
Separate me from
The rest of the world
Fall away as I
Evolve

You enlighten
You revolve
You are
A bright blue
Reflection
A sun-filled
Soft Blanket
Of affection

I journey to
Your life house
You are my
Dreamcatcher
My new way of being
You are
The beautiful echo
I'm living and
Breathing

© tHE tERRY tREE
Beck Dec 2014
I don’t need to start from the beginning, just where i am at currently
the feelings of undesired draw my attention
the lack of attention catalyzes my cravings
for love, and joy
for happiness, simplicity
why are people afraid of the cold
when i warm myself every day
and every night
all my life
i have been my own blanket

i hate the feeling of being less than
what happens to the equation that is always less than?
i bet negative infinity has a ****** life,
maybe we are the same, though.
Who is the greatest less than in this universe?

What i want is not what wants me, in fact,
who, or what, even wants me enough to get me?
none. no one. not a single soul has requested my company.
I hate it. I'm done with it.

My computer erased all of my poetry, and yet i still write it. I still continue to write.

a teacher once told me that poetry with darkness was ugly. ugly and undesired.
She said that she
could be dark all on her own
yet i still have yet to see someone who shares my darkness.
I am alone,
on my own
I am my own blanket in the
dark.
Sylvie Barton Nov 2014
the sunlight slaps you
so you retreat
and you cover up
the blood gets caught in
your white security blanket

and everything is okay

until you step back outside
the light draws attention to
the withered pale skin
and the watery pale wound
it doesn't stop stinging all day
i cut my finger peeling apples and i put a band-aid on it and uk when you take a band-aid off and your skin is all gross and watery???
matt Nov 2014
The solo road takes hold. I don't know where it goes, but where it goes I go.
A midnight’s drive under a sky full of clouds, blocking the moonlight.
Only the glimpse of a shimmering star guides my way, but to what I do not know.
A night of indifference, just going where this winding road takes me, but
I can barely see that shining star through clouds of hesitation.
The road is a one lane highway to a destination unknown
the fog is so dense it is like a layer of blankets used to hide the fears of a child in the dark.
At this point I wonder if it can hide my fears as well.
Do I even want to hide from these fears at all or should I stand up to the inevitable?
My engine’s sputtering, stalling, my car’s running out of gas and I feel like I just might crash.
I put my foot to the gas and hope that I wont fly through the glass and end up with my car smashed, because this car is my only way off this **** road in the first place.
I see no headlights coming my way even though I pray that one day I will see a light at the end of this godforsaken road but the day isn't today.
Some days I pray that I will lay on the road face down
with a trail of my essence turning the road red with release
but other days I carry on like it was my job to mindlessly keep both of my hands on the steering wheel and hope that at the end of this road, there’s an exit sign,
and that all I need’s a little more time.
Because night after night, my hands grip the wheel so hard my knuckles turn white as the fog that clouds my vision day after day.
My sighs echo down this ever growing street, every twist and turn feels like another reason
to unbuckle my seatbelt and open the door because
I’m going 85 in a 50 and I can’t even see my own headlights on the road
my vision is blurred and my mind is as foggy as the road I drive on.
Every now and again I wonder what the point is
I can barely remember the day I started driving, it was so long ago
and I pray for the day when I can wash this fog away in rain,
that I’ll find an exit and take it.
Asa D Bruss Oct 2014
Oh to say it so dearly, It was a great show.
I stayed out and watched it for a good hour.
The wind had come out of some hidden pocket. Like a thief in the night,
it scurried out excitedly through the screen door flying shut behind it,
and looking at the stark line drawn across the horizon;
a wall of cloud with so distinct an edge of gray, and at the same time
so thin
as to see the shadow
blue sky on the other side.

It was just a sheet.
The wind like a blanket,
energy surged, and the blood pumped a little faster at it's touch.
Then leaves began swirling,
as if fleeing for cover around the legs.
sweeping over to the porch,
while the canvas of clouds pitched its ever looming tent.
On over to get a plain view of my street lamp,
watching the tree's now twisting like spaghetti;
branches twisting in ways you would expect to break them,
all with a humdrum pitter-patter of rogue raindrops,
accompanied by that shrill electric thickness...
that makes your skin simmer, your mind hum, and your eyes glow.

The light of the streetlamp showing all the rain more clearly,
and all at once coming like a horde en masse down a hill.
Someone had given the signal,
and so it began.
The floodgates were released.
The opera had begun in earnest, with it's effects and sounds, lights, action!
The foreplay had given way to the full force of wetness.

In the pith of the light it looked as though the lamp was now a fountain.
The lightning being so evenly dispersed, the sky like a screen to see a stroboscopic chaos, so serene.
The wind and rain so perfectly mixed,
so perfectly so to syphon off a single breath of mist upon the face.
I stood like a boy of six in a parade.
Enthralled by the power, the nonchalance, and the purity of might.
Humans and animals, cars and bicycles, birds and branches, all pulling a hasty retreat.

I watched and watched, and watched more, and never got bored, only a little damp.
I came in and went up to the bedroom above the porch and lay on my window cloud
and drowsily watched the show in a bubble, til the end.

Nothing lets me see so clearly like a good rain.
People who wish for sunshine everyday are idiots.
Just sat and watched it... so glad I did.
Harly Coward Oct 2014
Bundled up in my big blue blanket,
Holding my heavenly hot cocoa,
Simmering as I'm sipping,
Nibbling on my noodles,

I gaze out the window,
Rain, rain, rain,
Grey clouds canvassing the sky,
Water falling creating rivers in the street,

The only thing I vow to accomplish today at all
Is finish season seven of Supernatural.
Gideon McCarthur Oct 2014
Thread. Pierce. Weave.
Her leathered fingers pulling it though from one single taut line, until it forms a flowing tapestry of a quilt.
She forgets. The mail. The laundry. The casserole that burned her house down.
The threads are her memories that have been lost. Each one a moment, a place, a person.
She forgets. Their names.
These threads are the last she will weave.
Family acts as thread. The quilt that catches her as she falls farther from herself into an image as faded as the last photo of her husband.
Thread. Pierce. Weave. Thread Pierce Weave.
She forgets. The quilt.
The daughter finds it, and sees a half spelled out name.
She forgets. Her name.
The daughter brings her mother her memories.
The daughter helps guiding her mother’s hand.
Thread. Pierce. Weave. Thread. Pierce. Weave. Thread. Pierce. Weave.
Threads become patches, patches from the cloth.
Thread. Pierce. Weave. Thread. Pierce. Weave.
Mother and daughter weave together an inheritance.
The quilt is finished, a single name. She utters the name she has been trying to find.
She remembers. Her Grandson.
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