Your contradictions lead me to think,
That I'm the only contributor plugging the sink.
It's overflowing, somethinge's stuck,
I peer down the drain, it's filled with muck.
What you don't understand is I'm not the whole cause,
You're not either, but we both carry flaws.
I like to watch the water drip down the drain,
So I don't have to go out and get wet from the rain.
You like the thought of where it goes,
As you hear the sweet symphony the drops compose.
But these faults alone don't hold the drops hostile,
It's a compilation of things that put them in exile.
Please don't blame just you or me,
One day it'll clear and the drops will drip free.
But until then, we have to stay sane,
As we listen to the water drip down the plugged drain.
when i talk to you
i sound crazy
my words don't add up to what i wanna say
so i sit back
i watch you slowly slip away
you fall through my grasp
you drip through the gaps
and now i really miss you more than i did before
maybe because i realize how far away you are
maybe because i realize you'll never hold me
here you feel so close
when i see your face on my screen
and when you type out easy words
and when you leave me helpless in the middle of the night
I tilt my aching head back
I close my weary eyes
I feel tension drift from my body
I can finally relax
The tension floods back into my body
My tired eyes open, searching for relief.
My throbbing head straightens with difficulty
Where did my beloved rain go?
NOTE: this is the 1st poem I wrote and posted on HePo. I've managed to finish the first 2 parts and have been struggling with the 3rd; however much of last night was spent refining this initial section so I figured I'd post it in the hopes of receiving some constructive feedback. Thanks.
Dripdripdripdrip drip as it slips all it’s secrets, secrets slipped from the lip of the rusty metal moldy faucet, water whispers water whimpers water wishes of a time long gone; dripping water ever swirling round the beaten bolted sink; bolted to a wooden floor, chipped and nicked and cracked but grips, it grips the sink and won’t let go.
Secrets swirling round the sink into the void and through the pipes beneath the wooden boards of floor which would let loose their life-long grip of one worn weathered tired tethered reddish tinted rusty sink if only it - the wood! - if it could leave the floor it; the wood would stand and stretch and scratch and then would walk right out the door; wooden boards held hostage by a layered web of iron nails nailed years ago.
Creaking boards tell tales to pipes which snake throughout the secret house; Drip they drip they speak they slip through lips of sinks the secrets silent lip they drip and slip andio they rip and drip andrip they drip they dripdrip they ripipip i i…
Hush the whisper of the wind through broken windows rattles timber breaks the slumber of the man whose face is etched and leathered ever marked by hands of time; time played games the game of life the old man thought and thinks he still can stand and stretch and scratch then walk straight through the door and out the house, like secrets lost in rusty pipes he thinks he’ll walk into the dark and be whisked off on wings of wind which carries whispers rattles windows speaks in drips through rusty lips of bolted sinks gripped by the floors forever more and so the man will sit he sits and thinks and thinks he drips and drips drips dripdripipip i i i...
End Part 1
I know that I have killed myself a thousand times in my head,
Never fully grasping the concept of leaving.
I do not know when the thoughts started,
I guess they've always been there,
Whispering and taking turns rotting my brain into the landfill of decay and broken thoughts.
No longer the pink fleshy muscle that sat presently in my head.
It had turned to tar,
Black and thick,
Suffocating the light away from the open cracks where creativity once flowed through.
Unfathomable, the thought of dying, ceasing to exist.
What have I become?
walking in flames
- this is out of line but
I must write it
I feel it right now
I just can. not. stand blandness
I want the fire every second
but I only feel it some times -
walking in flames
but it belongs
to no shepard
a walk of ice
a walk of ice
with fire inside
to feel alive
a leaky faucet that someone didn't quite finish closing off
a cry for help when the ties of the rope aren't tight enough to hold your weight in lies and sadness.
so a slow drip will suffice
but you'll wish to expedite this pain by drowning yourself
but someone didn't quite finish closing you off
so you'll die
drop by drop.
and you used to love the water
the way it was refreshing and cleansing
and reminded you of the feelings we had
I left you on edge
I left you unhinged
I left you not quite closed off
I left you loose and you still poured out for me
I left you with hope and you drip on...