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stranger Sep 2018
I painted you with my pain as well.
The 100th one marked.
Now stand my army of utter destructions.
Painted by my pain and many others.
Stand my army of mind ruination
Failed by the care of our mothers and fathers.
Stand my army of decapitation
Our broken minds are too much so let's cut the whole head off.
Stand my love and pride
You're the only drops of pain I left behind.
Stand my artwork
Stand my never-ending guilt
You're the only nerve that's sore
My beautiful home orbited by my filth.
Just Jess Aug 2017
The stars are always pinpointed
Against their dark blanket of sky -
As constant as the pool of patience
She always finds herself drowning in. Waiting.
The days seem to linger like a long spiraling staircase you thought would end
Fifteen flights ago - But you're sure that when you reach the top and step onto the balcony, you'll be greeted with a stunning vista - and you'll know the strenuous trek was worth it.
But it won't be discernible until every blister is calloused, until every muscle has ached, until every labored breath has been released into the uncaring sky.
Until every second lurches - towards an unforeseen time that seems completely off the watch.
She isn't a patron of time because time is wind-
Wind erodes, disintegrates, deteriorates, and plunders.

There is a photograph of him and her pinned
To a plaster wall that was painted dark blue -
The photo flutters against the pressure of time,
but it is not threatened.
He is constant - a tangible, absolute gravity
That pulled her into his orbit.
In that safe harbor, the wind cannot lash at their hearts
Despite the geographical distance between them.
The infinite Universe pays no homage to time,
But it does respect gravity, orbits, inertia, and
Love.
The forces that keep the stars
from falling
out of the sky.
Liam C Calhoun May 2016
The moon behind palm
Smiles, now,
Like the first time I’d met my
Second wife;

My second life,
My second shot at something,
And in seconds, like lightning,
Lost to dawn.

Ushered came the day that’d drag
When – The sun could burn,
The sun would burn;
The thirst, always there to remind.

So I’d wait on the lawn,
Under that same palm,
Smile; later,
To wed come dimpled stars.
In remembrance of nights under palm trees.
Liam C Calhoun Aug 2015
She had the moon atop palm,
and “righty” in her pocket,
leaving me to wonder which
heavenly body she’d present
next.

This goddess, “gravity,” if
she’d a name, played physics
with my parts, and persuaded
thrice an orbit, circles wherein
the same hopes quantized –

“We’re we born of the same
star? Please? And when again,
can we burn brightly?  Soon?”
She’d reply, and echo come
frigid a comet’s tail, leaving.

So you’d know tonight as
you’d twice before; I’d sip my
beer before you. I’d cry before
you. And a’parallel, tease your
moon atop my very own palm.
I never knew that my one of my best friends from high school was in love with me; all apologies, my dear Karelia.
Meteo May 2015
No. 1

there is a pane of glass
which now occupies the air between us

an indifferent arrow has flown through it
leaving a web of cracks

for which I am trapped
reaching for you

No. 2

the light you bend reaches across room
the same distance travels your voice

it makes me a ghost not to touch you with all that I am
exhaling wanting in your direction

as stars are brought down over head
by the weight of unfulfilled wishes

No. 3

victim to a whisper
pious to an echo

tomorrow I'll be swallowed
I didn't even need a name

lost and unwanted things are entitled
to each other so long as they don't hide

no. 4

it's an open hand
it's a broken window

it's a perpetually naive sky
it's off beat but we're out of line

and I'm waiting for you
one hundred percent of the time

no. 5

out of context
misshapened in parallax

past my expiration date
but you looked at me in a way that dared both of us to exist

when all this is dust
the loudest we'll ever get to be is a secret
"It was not my intention to make such a production of the emptiness between us." - Buddy Wakefield, Hurling Crowbirds at Mockingbars
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
If apples could speak,
they'd learn as buds
that all fruit are doomed.

A crisp history
would tell of countless
apples fallen,
their seeds sowed
in doubt and ****.

The sob story
of falling down
would rain existence
fruitless
for branch hangers
waiting to be picked.

If apples could speak,
one might finally
look up and ask,

"Why doesn't the moon fall?"

sowing the need for
fruit to orbit trees,
like fleshy moons,
tiny but immune.
they would bend gravity.

— The End —