solar 14h
You say that you do not possess a beauty that leaves mouths agape in astonishment, but darling the wondrous births of our universe can't all be seen with a single eye.

You're indeed gorgeous, but you're a tad too gorgeous for you to comprehend it.
It hurts when an ethereal being cannot see what causes my heart to flutter.

Framos stands for beautiful in romaninan.
You are a magnifying glass
Amplifying all the little things
I do not like about myself
And I have asked you
To refrain from pointing out
But it is your favorite pastime
You are a bully
You can call me dramatic
But do you understand
What it is like to be inside my head
To overthink to the point of crying
And doubt every single step
For the dark to bring comfort
Because misery is so beautiful
Dressed up in moonshine
You are a set of matches
And each word I speak
Each move I make
Gasoline waiting for you
To take me alive
To break me
In half
Michele 6d
I'm blunt and outspoken,
But easily heartbroken.
So truthfully, it’s best to lie.
Or perhaps I  should say, “hide.”
It’s best to hide hesitance than to let it reside
In every day conversational tides—
Pushing and pulling erratically, yet expectedly
Like my tug-of-war thoughts
The ones that route me to rot
Like my wrought iron that rusts
Until the build up coerces me to combust
At the worst possible times.  
It’s best to delude that I’m fine,
Or should I allude it’s easier to whine
Online to anonymous shrines
Like this one?
It’s easier to remind myself
What’s “for the best.” “Each obstacle is a test.”
What I should do. What I shouldn’t.
What I’d give and what you wouldn’t, couldn’t and that I needn’t care.
“It’s best now to carry on,”
To claim I don’t want what I want and
That what I do want is wrong.

Is it wrong to pursue our desires?
Wasn't a forward girl required?
Or are we simply left reticent liars?
It's always the stagnancy of which I tire.
Infinite invalidation of myself leads to these cycles.  More cryptic gibberish, but at least I feel better after writing. Word choice.
Arms flexed.
Shoulders tense.
His eyebrows furrowed,
as I watch him through the lens.

Ding ding ding
as his hammer makes contact with an unrecognizable part,
as if he's drumming,
drumming a hypnotizing melody on my heart.

His calloused hands grip the handles of the blade,
as it cuts off the undesirables.
He admires what he's made
but his hunger to mould is unsatiable.

I loved how he handled the cars.
Until he handled me

But everything he laid his hands on became beautiful.
Maybe one day, I too will become beautiful.
Mom would say, “Your dad has friends,
Black friends on the police force, of course
We don’t set down to eat with them.
It wasn’t safe to say to her, “Ahem.
Did you hear what you just said?”
She’d swing one upside my head
And it would be like a garden gate
But with the weight of her stout arm
And the harm she could do with that
Sat me back down on my bony butt.

I wrote “black friends” but that is because
That was not the word she used, applause,
Applause. Clean it up for the publishment,
Don’t cause a resentment for the wrong reason.
It is never the season because I am white
And it’s never right for me to say the N word,
Haven’t you heard? They can, and I can’t
Even in a rant that describes the horror
Of living in a half right, all white world.

My fingers permanently curled into fists
So hard to resist saying to my parents
“You daren’t speak like that to the preacher
Or half of my teachers because they’d see
Just how deeply grained racism can be."
And both sides would take it out on me,
Just a kid, so I agree to hide what you did.
I agree to pretend you aren’t part of the problem;
Another prejudiced person, training me
Explaining to me how life really is right now.

You saying to me “Don’t put your lips there
On that fountain. Some N person might have, too!
And that made sense to you. Perfect sense.
You were that dense, that unquestioning, too.
Ready to do what your white society dictates
And making me into a swinging garden gate
If I don’t toe the line, and hold my confusion
While I pray for no contusion from the slap.
I hold hands in my lap and act submissive.
And I act like I accept all this as right
Because I am white. But, even though I won’t
Say a word at ten years of age, I don’t.
rob kistner May 30

this "she" was birthed
in his fractured dreams
helpless as a forest fawn
frail as a snowflake
falling on a May predawn

a captive
to his fearful heart
caught in his twisted fantasy
conjured by his crippled soul
his power is his fallacy

he needs her weak
for at his core
he's filled with sour doubt
knows his time of tyranny
is quickly running out

he seeks to dominate
silences her rising voice
to keep her mute and under thumb
tries to deny her right of choice

with strengthened will
she finds her voice
speaks direct to what she sees
startled by her forthright way
he wants her back upon her knees

once a hollow woman-husk
with sorrow dark as growing dusk
whose spirit withered
in the dimming light
as nightmares swelled
in the coming night
whose tears
once parch the barren land

now denies
his outstretched hand
and walks away
from the startled man


rob kistner © 2012
(revised 2018)
Contemplation on extreme, essentially perverse insecurity in love.
I just yearn
To sleep
And forget
All that belittled
And degraded me
All that hated
And all that was lost
I just yearn
To forget
What I could lose
And all of
My lost possibilities
And potentialities
The helpless love
And loved ones
Who I knew
Deserved better
From me
If only I were capable
Of giving them
As much

I yearn to
From my self sabotage
And subconscious
Diluted beliefs
Restraining me from
Allowing others
Into a place of trust
And only creating
Relationships that
Stagnate and
Into toxicity
And resentment
Due to constraints
And disbelief in self

I yearn to sleep
Only then
It won’t repeat.
A knot forms in my stomach, creating strings of anxious.
I try so hard to vomit up this feeling, but the only thing I manage to puke up is my dignity and pride.
So I'm on my knees before my toilet
a shallow husk of someone who has departed with all confidence, and replaced it with tangled up dread.
Replaced it with a passion for never leaving my house.
Dread, locking me in place.
Get it? Dreadlocks?
I center almost all of my poems
in hopes, they will all be
more perfect and more beautiful
than me.
Mari Jun 22
"The love of my life" is myself
holding a yoga mat

hot and wet myself just dripping
off my face between my breasts

Ashtanga, I've never tried yoga
but tangy, like the sound of that

like me after a hard day's work
in mind and in body

bouncy like sure you can touch
me but ultimately order is

hardly ever restored. She told me
she has shoes floor to ceiling

an aura is built from the soul
up, I reach for the salt

and I get told to ask. I see
this is a sign so I turn around

Imagine a dinner party. Imagine
the people snaking

the table. Imagine you're one
of them. Imagine you say

something funny. Funny,
not strange funny like dog

nicks flip flop leaves it flapping
up the street slight breeze

sometimes upturned as fish
fish bowl/lost souls Pink Floyd

I'm some smart guy's father
no I don't speak Italian

and mostly I'm just a little
confused about what to tell

people when they ask
where my name's from. I

hop up the street until I find
the flip flop. Marooned

and missed. But if I left you you
could show me what you're really

made of. How long would you
last out here baking

in the midnight heat?
I saw a girl wearing a t-shirt saying "the love of my life is myself", holding a yoga mat, chatting away to perhaps her mother and this happened.

Lost souls/fish bowls I lifted from Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here.

People frequently tell me I have the music taste of a dad. My father's Italian but I don't speak Italian, which sometimes disappoints people. A minor insecurity.
Next page