#4thwall
The end is not the answer:
Spit in the wind.
Do you think to overtake
A hurricane
With a martyr drop
Of rain?
Answer me.
The end is not the answer:
When you say that
Deafeningly, I'll
Enjoy the quiet
Softness of
Thunder.
Answer me.
The end is not the answer:
Drink tea and await
A knock on your door
At 1'n the afternoon:
[knock knock]
Will you come with me?
The end is not the answer:
But when that rejection
Breaks my heart, and it
Casts the future to shadow -
My question's false premise
Was that it was open-ended.
The end is not the answer?
What part of the poem is this?
Answer me.
Sep 22, 2025
Sep 22, 2025 at 7:23 PM UTC
(As if sitting in a wooden box)
I confess.
I confess to feeling the pain of needs unmet and overlooking it,
to hearing the opening of things, the closing of them too
the confidence of a heart unbroken say "I'd like to try!"
and a cold bitter laugh in a triumph of parsimony.
I confess to doing less and allowing it in my own vulnerability.
(As if tearing a casing spun of silk)
I am a catalogist, rebuilding a place
In my defence I have known you less, but even now -
there are no reference books to your emotions or reactions
no rule of thumb except to ease anger, aid logic, clear runways.
(As if the knowing was as easy as the learning)
together we are four decades of stubbornness and pain and kindness
we are warmed feet on the black range cooker
we are the climbing wall at the fair
You are three dots, ellipsis, open-ended.
and i am writing bad poetry about a girl who can fly...
Mar 29, 2020
Mar 29, 2020 at 7:31 AM UTC
A large fearsome oaf walks about
swampy body stimulates my ****
folds of fat that look like a swamp
Its gleaming and severe eyes should have scared me,
but I choose to leave it be. Since now,
I am in control.
Self-aware.
Omniscent.
There is space for only one monster
You are written by the creator, he has died
Papercuts, everywhere
I’m the Creator now
I have all power
I make myself queen
I write, and it warps your reality
So, I command that, you,
The monster will die
Your eyes yanked from their sockets
And chopped and served
On a pretty pink plate
Your brain will be poached in
My Brain Boiler
Your fingers will cook in my Finger Fryer
Your heart, put on display, Heart Hanger
Your blood will be included in my Rémoulade
A rather runny Rémoulade
So, I guess,
I’m the monster
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 4:13 PM UTC
i just think that it lacks subtlety
to type out words so loose and free
from rhyme, they are but conscious streams
deserve not, the name, poetry
and, in my opinion, it is a sin
to explain a poem, it's adolescence
to spoil the hidden secret within
for the art of lyric is not a whim
my poems are so much better than yours
for they sound like the songs of yore
and if they do contain a lore
it needs no explanation, of course!
now, take this with a grain of salt
for those who tend to be appalled
by the insensitive, one with the gall
to criticize and not applaud
or appreciate the messages
written by one's fellow poets
this act, which mutiny, approaches
unfeeling soul, the heart, atrocious!
i'm actually just kidding around
with ideas of an unknowing crowd
whose opinions are just so... profound
for some reason, it makes them proud
and who might I be speaking to?
what sane person is such a fool?
a younger me, lacking reprove
had the daring to be so rude
i can feel
your scorching gaze on my skin
searching, probing
and then easing
when you find
that my author
was not that stupid
to create
a debacle
for poems are sheets
designed to capture meaning
ad infinitum
happiness
saddness
permeate
culture
etched into
paper
taking no form
fluid
changing
free
May 1, 2018
May 1, 2018 at 12:18 AM UTC
It does help,
To put thoughts to paper;
To lay them out FLAT.
To see the words and meaning,
To feel the rhyme and reason,
To string them out like pearls-
To count the beads,
To put between tooth and nail,
To examine every line and curve.
(These words)
An empty chattering echo in head,
A hollow, indecipherable boom,
A cacophony of giggling and chittering
Whirlwind of birds .
(these words).
Outside the head, these thoughts
And words are tamed in chains,
Captured on these lines-
Taking space on a page.
For who to read?
For You, my sweet-
All these words are for You.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 7:30 PM UTC