You don’t know me
Not really. You just might see
someone smiling bright
you might hear a laugh
skipping off my dark surface
inside I am rough
I am scrubbing on
interior surfaces in a
do we REALLY know what's going on, with others, internally?
My name is Julie Chatterbox,
I do waste thoughts a lot,
I can perform my monologue,
My brain does a yap a lot,
All I have to say,
Is raise your coffee this way,
To stinking thinking, okay?
If you want an opinion, ask me,
I can indulge in repartee!
Feeback welcome, know thyself.
No one knows the interiors of our lives
all of the tragedies we survive on a daily basis
with the monsters in our homes
days disappeared by ghosts
our love lost
something so unworthy
Misery pit on a Friday
when you step into my space,
I hope these walls tell you about the animals that have clawed at my skin
I hope these walls tell you the stories of how i've earned each nicked mark; each jagged scar; each criss cross stitch
honesty is a language I am still trying to learn
I feel a heavy lodge in my throat whenever I speak it,
and that is enough to bring my truth to a record scratch stop.
but these walls
these walls, you see
vulnerability is their mother tongue
their verity bears no sharp edges
and as you journey across the wooden floors and listen to the creak of the stairs
you might hear ripples of laughter or wallowing cries
echoing through with reckless abandon
but do not scatter away
these walls are always in flux -
Shifting and Morphing and Evolving.
there are days when they will splinter and they will crack
there are days when they will stand high and they will stand firm
but one thing is for sure:
they will always be here
and so will I
we had to write a poem about interior design for our theory class HERE IT IS
As I wait
In the night's cold
The echoes of rain long gone
I fall back
And sweet smiles
Evoked by the idiosyncrasies of life,
Whilst my heart
Congeals the idiosyncratic nature of
With my interior.
A concept irrevocable.
In it's amalgamation,
The force of its flux
And in my unsettled ease
Where does that leave me?
on the walls
Her mind lives in a quiet room,
A narrow room, and tall,
With pretty lamps to quench the gloom
And mottoes on the wall.
There all the things are waxen neat
And set in decorous lines;
And there are posies, round and sweet,
And little, straightened vines.
Her mind lives tidily, apart
From cold and noise and pain,
And bolts the door against her heart,
Out wailing in the rain.
Great poem by a great poetess Dorothy Parker
i do not wish
for you to remember me
solely based upon
i pray that
when you hear my name
you don't just recall
i wish for you to see
behind my eyes;
heard by my ears;
that pass through my lips
that when you
remember the sight
it's the inside
you truly see
I met with the devil, several
Times I thought I was developing in revel
Even though i was caught in the same level
Of misery and miss behaves, gravel
In my lungs, gravel
Over me, and I see
Nothing else to live for in me
First poem in an awful long time.
i see my sock covered feet
that mean so much more than's shown
moving along to the beat
as if they have a mind of their own
or bouncing to the beat
without so much as a sound
when the rest of me is still
my feet give away my restless interior
the small part of me no one can ever ****
my feet are it's portal to the exterior