Save me the melodrama,
leave the act at the door.
With how much you try
to play out as the victim,
somebody should just go and
award you the Oscar already.
Keep your words to yourself,
the sign reads "do not disturb".
I need a break from your face,
nothing else seems to work.
I need some "me" time because
you always make it about you
so just save me the melodrama,
I'm already sick to my stomach.
You make silence seem like music.
My little friend is now gone
My tragic life must go on; despite that
His evil eyes and his cheeky smile still burn in my mind
He no longer exists except
For my memory of him
And I rejoiced
When I heard the news
Still I can recall how I sobbed
When he gave me his evil eye for the first time
When he hurled glass and other projectiles at me when he was hungry
When he spent hours upon hours pondering the fabric of society
I hated him
For his death
I was depressed
It was like paint peeling off a wall
It was like finding a dead leprechaun at the end of a rainbow
I was expecting some sort of remorse when he left
Funny how heartbreak works
Now read this in reverse
Because sometimes all you need
Is a little change of perspective
To truly understand someone
Dedicated to the goldfish I had when I was little who accidentally died. This is for you sweet fish <3.
an ailment of the mind,
incorporeal, a ghost that flits between
worlds, festers and grows —
a thumping tumour.
sick, but not really sick.
(does it hurt? paracetamol might help).
you are exaggerated and foolish.
count your blessings.
potent to change reality.
stronger than any mushrooms.
a single thought, the words and the images,
gunslingers to misery.
hook that reels in,
boding some ominous fate.
fish out of water —
flippity-flop; people sunbathe around.
plodding is what it is.
plodding through a tempest,
freezing, crackled skin,
watching everyone else walking in sun.
you want to scream but don’t.
you want to explain but don’t.
you let them form their own ideas
and agree. you feed on it.
depression? anxiety? what a ******* drama queen
He drives into the desert in a Toronado,
Dust in his eyes from the open window,
Sun on the burned skin and black mascara
That augments his vivid gaze.
Black orbs that stare at the burning sand,
His mouth is defiant and morose,
He turns off the path into the sage and saguaro.
The car is like a black beetle on a carpet of tan.
He lifts a shovel from the trunk, looking crazed.
Digs a shallow grave in the sand,
He rips a talisman from his neck
And declares he is looking for something
Unclear and he slurs a chant.
“Something is coming”, he seems to say.
He buries the necklace and drives away.
Will he come back for it or leave it
for the spirits of the desert?
No, he will come for it every day
Bury it again and again
Until the spell wears down,
The perfumed season is done,
Or perhaps the spring floods
Wash it all away.
Based on a silly advert for perfume, with Johnny as a superstitious rebel! I had to make a "story" of it, just for laughs.
Where is the inspiration that I once possessed?
Where is the love that once sprouted from my fingertips?
Where are all the flowers that once grew around my feet,
with each step I took?
It seems as though
lately I've abandoned my gardens,
and left all the flowers to wilt and turn to dust.
The lives that I once cared for,
are now all scattered around the ground.
My spring light is somewhere lost in this winter cold,
and this winter has been going on for too long.
My body is numb from the breeze the December nights send me.
I once rose with the early sun in the morning,
but now I find my self serenading the moon each night.
Hoping maybe she will understand all my pain and issues.
These nights are graceless.
These nights are long.
These nights have me lost,
walking and searching for the sun.
Always ending up in places
that are just too dark.
Where is the sun that once loved me like a child?
Will I ever end up in a perfect place?
Am I just crying them to the moon?
Will this all be over soon?
my 2017 summer mood
raise the lever
open eyes receive
signal time and space
je me reveille dans une chambre
qui ne me connait pas
j'attendais la vie me lève
mais il n'a jamais fait
en pensant à la vie, le corps que j'en habite
Remember how we met?
I stopped by to see thy smile,
Oblivious me, was trapped in Thy isle.
Stole my kingdom while innocent,
Thy scent on me are still reminiscent.
I found my prince in life's fairy tail,
Je t'aime mon Amour
My first and my last prince.
This is my last poem to you,
Last? Why last?what's wrong?
Well, not cuz I lack fair words,
Not cuz I'm being melodramatic but,
Perhaps this clock will stop ticking.
This is my last poem to you ,
Cuz I've told em the start,
And I don't wanna reveal the end..
Are they seeking conclusion ?
Well they must cry.. Cry??
tears are the body's way of restoring “emotional equilibrium”.
Why do we cry tears of joy?
Is it nostalgic ? Sigh in joy or sorrow?
I leave it upon them to interpret,
*As they feel so mote it be
echo through my head,
liquefy out my lips,
and pool at the curve of my palm.
sometimes the voices
get too much.
so i smear them unto paper
and call them art.
to the tune of "My Favorite Things"*
Poems in all caps and no punctuation,
Mixed metaphors and clichéd observation,
Roses and rainbows and angels with wings--
These are a few of my least favorite things.
Morbid obsessions and self flagellations,
Self involved rantings and dull ruminations,
Exhibitionists’ ****** preoccupations--
I’m just not dying to read these creations.
Statements of true love to those I don’t know,
Plodding prose poems that go way too slow,
Syllable stresses that aren’t found in English--
If only I’d see them no more is my true wish.
When the urge strikes,
When the words flow,
When you grab that pen--
Just take a moment and think…again.
A good Dictionary, and a Thesaurus,
Some time to read poets who wrote long before us,
Revising, rewriting and time to review--
It’s only these small things that I ask of you..
Revised slightly for HelloPoetry
I’ve climbed the wall
Been up high,
Basked in twinkling lights
Told the past goodbye
Trapped in a corner
For so long, a passive
Doormat for you to come
And stomp your shoes on
In hopes that one day
It’d be me who once more
Swept you off your feet but
I have risen, I have seen
That life goes on, that
I could grow and change
And yes, my darling, it’s true --
I no longer desire
To be married to you.
Go and turn around now:
The door is open --
I’m telling you goodbye.
Inspired by East Side, West Side (1949)