#boots - Hello Poetry

#boots

Stop and rest for a while, traveler. There’s a mug of tea on the bedside Left out just for you. I hear your voice in the river, In the wind whispering on the window panes late at night. I feel your touch when I wake from a dream, Fingers grasping at my neck. But I still see your face in the woods when the sun goes down, And pray you‘ll never find me. If I‘d show you the places I‘ve put you: Flowering eyes in the painting I did when the moon was full; The spilled ink stained on my hands; Peach chapstick I can’t seem to put away. If you could see where I’d have sprinkled your ashes, Had you not been swallowed by the waves, You never knew the ocean like I did, But I still can’t seem to look its way. We used to lay on the floor Your svelte form in the imprint of my life. We used to watch the coyotes cross the street And grip our dusted keychains tighter. We used to spend weeks away from the world, Just us and the trail. There’s a mug left out by the bedside, Sitting on your favorite book. There’s a waterlogged compass, Stuck pinned up on the wall. There’s an empty space next to mine, So stop and stay for a while.

0

Apr 24

Apr 24, 2026 at 12:49 AM UTC

Traveler; Drowned

Stop and rest for a while, traveler. There’s a mug of tea on the bedside Left out just for you. I hear your voice in the river, In the wind whispering on the window panes late at night. I feel your touch when I wake from a dream, Fingers grasping at my neck. But I still see your face in the woods when the sun goes down, And pray you‘ll never find me. If I‘d show you the places I‘ve put you: Flowering eyes in the painting I did when the moon was full; The spilled ink stained on my hands; Peach chapstick I can’t seem to put away. If you could see where I’d have sprinkled your ashes, Had you not been swallowed by the waves, You never knew the ocean like I did, But I still can’t seem to look its way. We used to lay on the floor Your svelte form in the imprint of my life. We used to watch the coyotes cross the street And grip our dusted keychains tighter. We used to spend weeks away from the world, Just us and the trail. There’s a mug left out by the bedside, Sitting on your favorite book. There’s a waterlogged compass, Stuck pinned up on the wall. There’s an empty space next to mine, So stop and stay for a while.

Continue reading...

How long will it be, how long must we wait? Here by the shelf we didn't see the gate — We're beginning to forget the touch of heat, Dark and forgotten, repeat and repeat. We huddle and shiver, only cold here, Inside us some sand — the summer breath, We remember the spray and the rainbows' kiss, How they wrapped us in colours, we couldn't miss. We shelter from thunder, we play in rain, With us no bad weather, true happiness reigns, The rain and the puddles, the jumps and we're high — That world is the one that we need day and night. We fear that the winter, thief of too much time, Has let the dear children grow up in a chime. And they won't put us on over new little feet — Their small yellow boots, lost in infinite leak.

0

Apr 23

Apr 23, 2026 at 6:29 PM UTC

The Little Yellow Boots

How long will it be, how long must we wait? Here by the shelf we didn't see the gate — We're beginning to forget the touch of heat, Dark and forgotten, repeat and repeat. We huddle and shiver, only cold here, Inside us some sand — the summer breath, We remember the spray and the rainbows' kiss, How they wrapped us in colours, we couldn't miss. We shelter from thunder, we play in rain, With us no bad weather, true happiness reigns, The rain and the puddles, the jumps and we're high — That world is the one that we need day and night. We fear that the winter, thief of too much time, Has let the dear children grow up in a chime. And they won't put us on over new little feet — Their small yellow boots, lost in infinite leak.

Continue reading...

My boots were brand new once. I can still see the box by my front door. I can still feel the excitement of the first look. I can still smell the leather in the air. The crisp smell wrapping around me. I can still remember the smooth boot and crisp stitches. They looked the way I felt the first time. The first time I stepped foot on an ambulance. Now they look the way I felt the day I left. The leather so worn and scuffed Even the stitches looked tired. The soles of my boots were long since gone. My boots are tired now. They no longer shine. People scoff when they notice The damage to the leather. They see no value in damaged goods. They see no strength. My boots were brand new once. Now they have stories. Now they have value to me Far greater than any gem or jewel. They have memories of good and bad. The kind that either strengthen or destroy you.

0

Feb 26

Feb 26, 2026 at 11:43 PM UTC

Soles Connect to Souls

My boots were brand new once. I can still see the box by my front door. I can still feel the excitement of the first look. I can still smell the leather in the air. The crisp smell wrapping around me. I can still remember the smooth boot and crisp stitches. They looked the way I felt the first time. The first time I stepped foot on an ambulance. Now they look the way I felt the day I left. The leather so worn and scuffed Even the stitches looked tired. The soles of my boots were long since gone. My boots are tired now. They no longer shine. People scoff when they notice The damage to the leather. They see no value in damaged goods. They see no strength. My boots were brand new once. Now they have stories. Now they have value to me Far greater than any gem or jewel. They have memories of good and bad. The kind that either strengthen or destroy you.

Continue reading...

there's probably something far deeper at work here something quite important and worth delving into to be explored more thoroughly consequentially consciously instead i'll probably just end up thinking about that shoelace in my boot the one that still needs to be replaced ragged and frayed as it is and i'll wonder how long i can ignore it before it finally snaps and i'm left with no choice anymore

0

Jun 25, 2025

Jun 25, 2025 at 10:58 AM UTC

MeanderingWords

the quandary of shoelaces

there's probably something far deeper at work here something quite important and worth delving into to be explored more thoroughly consequentially consciously instead i'll probably just end up thinking about that shoelace in my boot the one that still needs to be replaced ragged and frayed as it is and i'll wonder how long i can ignore it before it finally snaps and i'm left with no choice anymore

Continue reading...

I trudged through the muddy trenches, my boots sinking into the mire with every step. It was my 40th day on the front lines, and the relentless drumbeat of war had taken its toll. The constant bombardment, the screams of the wounded, the stench of death – it all blended together into a maddening cacophony. But it was the boots that really drove me mad. Boots, boots, boots, boots – the sound echoed in my mind like a mantra. Every step, every march, every endless day was a reminder that I was trapped in this living hell. I tried to focus on the faces around me – the lads I'd grown up with, the ones I'd laughed with, the ones I'd seen die. But even their faces blurred together, replaced by the incessant march of boots. My sergeant, a grizzled old veteran, noticed my distraction. "Keep your wits about you, lad!" he barked, as he kicked me forward. "We've got a long way to go yet!" I nodded, but my mind was elsewhere. I thought of my family, my friends, my old life – all distant memories now. The only reality was the mud, the blood, and the boots. As night fell, the march continued. Boots, boots, boots, boots – the sound grew louder, more insistent. I felt my grip on sanity begin to slip. Try – try – try – try – to think of something different, I told myself. But it was no use. The boots had taken over my mind. The air was thick with the acrid smell of gunpowder and smoke as we pushed forward, our boots sinking into the muddy earth. The sounds of war surrounded us - the staccato burst of machine guns, the screams of the wounded, and the cries of the dying. But amidst the chaos, I started to notice a different sound. A sound that sent shivers down my spine. The sound of boots marching away. Not our boots, but theirs. The enemy's. At first, I thought it was just my imagination playing tricks on me. But as the days passed, the sound grew louder, more distinct. It was as if the ghosts of the enemy soldiers we'd killed were marching away, their boots echoing through the desolate landscape. I tried to shake off the feeling, focusing on the task at hand. But the sound persisted, haunting me like a specter. I started to wonder if I was losing my mind, if the trauma of war had finally caught up with me. One of my comrades, a grizzled old veteran, noticed my distraction. "What's wrong, lad?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly. I hesitated, unsure of how to explain the strange sound that haunted me. "I hear boots," I said finally. "The enemy's boots. Marching away." The old veteran looked at me with a curious expression. "I hear it too," he said. "It's the sound of the dead, lad. The ones we've killed. They're marching away, leaving us to fight another day." I stared at him, shocked. "You hear it too?" I repeated. He nodded. "Aye, lad. It's a sound that'll haunt you for the rest of your days. But don't worry, it's just a reminder of what we've done. What we've seen." I nodded, feeling a sense of unease settle over me. The sound of the boots continued to echo through my mind, a haunting reminder of the horrors of war. In that moment, I knew I was doomed. The war would consume me, body and soul. And the boots – oh, the boots – would march on forever, a relentless reminder of the madness that had taken hold of my mind. As the days blurred together, the boots grew louder, more insistent. I couldn't escape the sound, no matter how hard I tried. It was as if the boots had taken on a life of their own, marching up and down, up and down, inside my mind. I started to see things. Boots everywhere. Boots on the trees, boots on the ground, boots floating in the air. I'd try to reach out and touch them, but they'd vanish, leaving me grasping at nothing. The lads started to notice a change in me. I'd zone out in the middle of conversations, staring off into space as the boots marched on. They'd try to snap me out of it, but I'd just shake my head, unable to explain what was happening. One night, I woke up to the sound of boots marching in my ears. I sat up, convinced that someone was walking around the trenches, but there was no one there. The boots grew louder, more insistent, until I was screaming, trying to block out the sound. The sergeant found me, curled up in a ball, my hands over my ears. "What's wrong, lad?" he asked, shaking me. I looked up at him, my eyes wild. "The boots," I whispered. "They won't stop." He looked at me, concern etched on his face. "You need to get out of here," he said. "You're not well." But it was too late. The boots had taken over my mind. I was marching, marching, marching, with no destination in sight I eventually lost track of time. Days blended into weeks, weeks into months. I'd find myself in strange places, with no memory of how I got there. The boots were always with me, marching, marching, marching. One day, I stumbled into a field hospital. The doctors looked at me, shocked, as I marched back and forth, back and forth, my boots echoing off the walls. "What's your name?" one of them asked, trying to grab my arm. I looked at him, my eyes vacant, and only a whisper left my lips "Boots my name is boots" They sedated me, locked me in a straitjacket, and threw me into a padded cell. But even there, the boots kept marching, marching, marching, driving me deeper into madness.

0

Dec 29, 2024

Dec 29, 2024 at 8:58 PM UTC

The March of Madness

I trudged through the muddy trenches, my boots sinking into the mire with every step. It was my 40th day on the front lines, and the relentless drumbeat of war had taken its toll. The constant bombardment, the screams of the wounded, the stench of death – it all blended together into a maddening cacophony. But it was the boots that really drove me mad. Boots, boots, boots, boots – the sound echoed in my mind like a mantra. Every step, every march, every endless day was a reminder that I was trapped in this living hell. I tried to focus on the faces around me – the lads I'd grown up with, the ones I'd laughed with, the ones I'd seen die. But even their faces blurred together, replaced by the incessant march of boots. My sergeant, a grizzled old veteran, noticed my distraction. "Keep your wits about you, lad!" he barked, as he kicked me forward. "We've got a long way to go yet!" I nodded, but my mind was elsewhere. I thought of my family, my friends, my old life – all distant memories now. The only reality was the mud, the blood, and the boots. As night fell, the march continued. Boots, boots, boots, boots – the sound grew louder, more insistent. I felt my grip on sanity begin to slip. Try – try – try – try – to think of something different, I told myself. But it was no use. The boots had taken over my mind. The air was thick with the acrid smell of gunpowder and smoke as we pushed forward, our boots sinking into the muddy earth. The sounds of war surrounded us - the staccato burst of machine guns, the screams of the wounded, and the cries of the dying. But amidst the chaos, I started to notice a different sound. A sound that sent shivers down my spine. The sound of boots marching away. Not our boots, but theirs. The enemy's. At first, I thought it was just my imagination playing tricks on me. But as the days passed, the sound grew louder, more distinct. It was as if the ghosts of the enemy soldiers we'd killed were marching away, their boots echoing through the desolate landscape. I tried to shake off the feeling, focusing on the task at hand. But the sound persisted, haunting me like a specter. I started to wonder if I was losing my mind, if the trauma of war had finally caught up with me. One of my comrades, a grizzled old veteran, noticed my distraction. "What's wrong, lad?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly. I hesitated, unsure of how to explain the strange sound that haunted me. "I hear boots," I said finally. "The enemy's boots. Marching away." The old veteran looked at me with a curious expression. "I hear it too," he said. "It's the sound of the dead, lad. The ones we've killed. They're marching away, leaving us to fight another day." I stared at him, shocked. "You hear it too?" I repeated. He nodded. "Aye, lad. It's a sound that'll haunt you for the rest of your days. But don't worry, it's just a reminder of what we've done. What we've seen." I nodded, feeling a sense of unease settle over me. The sound of the boots continued to echo through my mind, a haunting reminder of the horrors of war. In that moment, I knew I was doomed. The war would consume me, body and soul. And the boots – oh, the boots – would march on forever, a relentless reminder of the madness that had taken hold of my mind. As the days blurred together, the boots grew louder, more insistent. I couldn't escape the sound, no matter how hard I tried. It was as if the boots had taken on a life of their own, marching up and down, up and down, inside my mind. I started to see things. Boots everywhere. Boots on the trees, boots on the ground, boots floating in the air. I'd try to reach out and touch them, but they'd vanish, leaving me grasping at nothing. The lads started to notice a change in me. I'd zone out in the middle of conversations, staring off into space as the boots marched on. They'd try to snap me out of it, but I'd just shake my head, unable to explain what was happening. One night, I woke up to the sound of boots marching in my ears. I sat up, convinced that someone was walking around the trenches, but there was no one there. The boots grew louder, more insistent, until I was screaming, trying to block out the sound. The sergeant found me, curled up in a ball, my hands over my ears. "What's wrong, lad?" he asked, shaking me. I looked up at him, my eyes wild. "The boots," I whispered. "They won't stop." He looked at me, concern etched on his face. "You need to get out of here," he said. "You're not well." But it was too late. The boots had taken over my mind. I was marching, marching, marching, with no destination in sight I eventually lost track of time. Days blended into weeks, weeks into months. I'd find myself in strange places, with no memory of how I got there. The boots were always with me, marching, marching, marching. One day, I stumbled into a field hospital. The doctors looked at me, shocked, as I marched back and forth, back and forth, my boots echoing off the walls. "What's your name?" one of them asked, trying to grab my arm. I looked at him, my eyes vacant, and only a whisper left my lips "Boots my name is boots" They sedated me, locked me in a straitjacket, and threw me into a padded cell. But even there, the boots kept marching, marching, marching, driving me deeper into madness.

Continue reading...

my boots by the door wait patient to be let out the cat's less stoic

0

Dec 7, 2024

Dec 7, 2024 at 10:45 PM UTC

my boots by the door wait patient to be let out the cat's less stoic

Continue reading...

Amongst some trees a sign says Doctor Martens I walk into the shop A man in leather with long hair stands behind the bar I ask for new boot laces, stripy ones if they have them The biker's face is hard to read He offers me skull shaped metal studs As if this is what I had meant I don't think it was but perhaps I am wrong

0

Dec 4, 2024

Dec 4, 2024 at 8:25 AM UTC

Amongst some trees a sign says Doctor Martens I walk into the shop A man in leather with long hair stands behind the bar I ask for new boot laces, stripy ones if they have them The biker's face is hard to read He offers me skull shaped metal studs As if this is what I had meant I don't think it was but perhaps I am wrong

Continue reading...

I had the funniest dream the other night I was doing something with paintings in the dream I was picking them up and looking at them I was in a public place, there was other people around In the corner of my eye I could make out this girl She was sitting on a table talking to another girl who was sitting down She was a Goth girl, a real life Goth girl She had these big laced boots and the fishnet stockings She had necklaces and jewellery and the black dress on She had the black eyeliner and very pronounced lipstick And she had her hair done in a funny way that I didn't particularly like But I can't remember now to describe (maybe it was short or shaven a bit) Now I wasn't staring at her, I was only regarding her clandestinely out of the corner of my eye It's like I was saying "Wow! There's a real Goth girl I'd never met or spoken to a Goth girl before Suddenly it's like... it's like she notices me for the first time And she starts watching me... she's looking right at me Now I'm a bit chuffed by this...flattered I'm wondering why she'd be interested in an old geezer like me Anyway just then I decide to glance at her pretending I've only just seen her for the first time For a moment our eyes they meet And y'know, she slips me the sweetest smile I've ever seen in my whole life It's so warm and endearing/welcoming, open and innocent.. so cute It's like she's saying "Hello there you, I'd love to get to know you" Me! I don't know what to do, I'm blown away, Gulp! I'm all at sea and I'm floundering But I got to do something... so I kinda smile back at her and give her a little wink Then I quickly look back at my paintings The next time I dare to look over she's right there, right in front of me, this fabulous creature...in all her wonderful terribleness LoL It's obvious she wants to make herself known to me It all proves too much though... I chicken out I pull out of the dream I guess... I'm only a Shy Boy really.

0

Nov 2, 2023

Nov 2, 2023 at 1:33 PM UTC

I'm just a Shy Boy really (Goth girl)

I had the funniest dream the other night I was doing something with paintings in the dream I was picking them up and looking at them I was in a public place, there was other people around In the corner of my eye I could make out this girl She was sitting on a table talking to another girl who was sitting down She was a Goth girl, a real life Goth girl She had these big laced boots and the fishnet stockings She had necklaces and jewellery and the black dress on She had the black eyeliner and very pronounced lipstick And she had her hair done in a funny way that I didn't particularly like But I can't remember now to describe (maybe it was short or shaven a bit) Now I wasn't staring at her, I was only regarding her clandestinely out of the corner of my eye It's like I was saying "Wow! There's a real Goth girl I'd never met or spoken to a Goth girl before Suddenly it's like... it's like she notices me for the first time And she starts watching me... she's looking right at me Now I'm a bit chuffed by this...flattered I'm wondering why she'd be interested in an old geezer like me Anyway just then I decide to glance at her pretending I've only just seen her for the first time For a moment our eyes they meet And y'know, she slips me the sweetest smile I've ever seen in my whole life It's so warm and endearing/welcoming, open and innocent.. so cute It's like she's saying "Hello there you, I'd love to get to know you" Me! I don't know what to do, I'm blown away, Gulp! I'm all at sea and I'm floundering But I got to do something... so I kinda smile back at her and give her a little wink Then I quickly look back at my paintings The next time I dare to look over she's right there, right in front of me, this fabulous creature...in all her wonderful terribleness LoL It's obvious she wants to make herself known to me It all proves too much though... I chicken out I pull out of the dream I guess... I'm only a Shy Boy really.

Continue reading...

Azzurro The boots were blue in colour Painted to look like the sky And worn by a gal with other things She was aged 18 to 45 And looked timless ageless It was the blue painted ex army boots That she used wore to gigs Pubs and clubs when she was free Not working as a programmer In the Italian civilian aviation industry The job was boring but paid well She'd done it for 8 years Was a legend at the plane factory The lady who wore her blue boots Even in the office a different pair She got results delivered the goods Had worked on 36 different projects They simply knew her as Azzurro The blue booted gal

0

Aug 27, 2022

Aug 27, 2022 at 5:43 PM UTC

Azzurro The boots were blue in colour Painted to look like the sky And worn by a gal with other things She was aged 18 to 45 And looked timless ageless It was the blue painted ex army boots That she used wore to gigs Pubs and clubs when she was free Not working as a programmer In the Italian civilian aviation industry The job was boring but paid well She'd done it for 8 years Was a legend at the plane factory The lady who wore her blue boots Even in the office a different pair She got results delivered the goods Had worked on 36 different projects They simply knew her as Azzurro The blue booted gal

Continue reading...

You were the cement boots around my ankles and I would sink beneath your gaze screaming as I sank to the bottom. I saw the others the ones who failed your questioning, your mind games of unconscious action and reaction. But with me, I screamed in laughter, as I knew that you'd always let me drown enough to be conscious of your ever-changing needs. We were the lime and the sand, our words the water that would be mixed together. We would be concrete metaphors of each other's needs.. And I found it slightly ***** when you tried to metaphorically drown me in your mind. I always learnt some depth to you the longer you let me drown.

0

Mar 27, 2021

Mar 27, 2021 at 5:31 PM UTC

Cement Boots...

You were the cement boots around my ankles and I would sink beneath your gaze screaming as I sank to the bottom. I saw the others the ones who failed your questioning, your mind games of unconscious action and reaction. But with me, I screamed in laughter, as I knew that you'd always let me drown enough to be conscious of your ever-changing needs. We were the lime and the sand, our words the water that would be mixed together. We would be concrete metaphors of each other's needs.. And I found it slightly ***** when you tried to metaphorically drown me in your mind. I always learnt some depth to you the longer you let me drown.

Continue reading...

isn't it sad that the only happiness in my life is driving to goodwill and finding an eight dollar pair of super cute boots because i just think that it's sad --

0

Nov 8, 2020

Nov 8, 2020 at 7:47 PM UTC

isn't it sad that the only happiness in my life is driving to goodwill and finding an eight dollar pair of super cute boots because i just think that it's sad --

Continue reading...

Indestructible, for Johnny Cash by Michael R. Burch What is a mountain, but stone? Or a spire, but a trinket of steel? Johnny Cash is gone, black from his hair to his bootheels. Can a man out-endure mountains’ stone if his songs lift us closer to heaven? Can the steel in his voice vibrate on till his words are our manna and leaven? Then sing, all you mountains of stone, with the rasp of his voice, and the gravel. Let the twang of thumbed steel lead us home through these weary dark ways all men travel. For what is a mountain, but stone? Or a spire, but a trinket of steel? Johnny Cash lives on— black from his hair to his bootheels. Originally published by Strong Verse. When I was a teenager Johnny Cash used to pop into the Nashville McDonald’s where I worked to buy burgers after the Grand Ole Opry let out. True to his nickname, the Man in Black always wore black. I think he’s as immortal now as human beings can become, since someone will be singing songs he wrote and and recorded till the end of time. Keywords/Tags: Johnny Cash, black, hair, clothes, boots, voice, rasp, gravel, steel, guitar, songs, music, mountain, stone, heaven, manna, leaven

0

Mar 22, 2020

Mar 22, 2020 at 1:39 AM UTC

michael-r-burch

Indestructible, for Johnny Cash

Indestructible, for Johnny Cash by Michael R. Burch What is a mountain, but stone? Or a spire, but a trinket of steel? Johnny Cash is gone, black from his hair to his bootheels. Can a man out-endure mountains’ stone if his songs lift us closer to heaven? Can the steel in his voice vibrate on till his words are our manna and leaven? Then sing, all you mountains of stone, with the rasp of his voice, and the gravel. Let the twang of thumbed steel lead us home through these weary dark ways all men travel. For what is a mountain, but stone? Or a spire, but a trinket of steel? Johnny Cash lives on— black from his hair to his bootheels. Originally published by Strong Verse. When I was a teenager Johnny Cash used to pop into the Nashville McDonald’s where I worked to buy burgers after the Grand Ole Opry let out. True to his nickname, the Man in Black always wore black. I think he’s as immortal now as human beings can become, since someone will be singing songs he wrote and and recorded till the end of time. Keywords/Tags: Johnny Cash, black, hair, clothes, boots, voice, rasp, gravel, steel, guitar, songs, music, mountain, stone, heaven, manna, leaven

Continue reading...

La exploradora Adora Su vibradora. Zumba Como víbora Pero de manera Consoladora Confines Sexplotadoras

0

Feb 2, 2020

Feb 2, 2020 at 7:28 PM UTC

La exploradora Adora Su vibradora. Zumba Como víbora Pero de manera Consoladora Confines Sexplotadoras

Continue reading...

Jim. Permanent vacation. Down by law. Stranger than paradise. Night on Earth. Only lover left alive. Garrett Johnson.

0

Nov 3, 2019

Nov 3, 2019 at 4:07 PM UTC

Jim. Permanent vacation. Down by law. Stranger than paradise. Night on Earth. Only lover left alive. Garrett Johnson.

Continue reading...

Tight yellow mini dress Girl I see you In your iridescent ombré bedazzled Thigh high boots Standing by your Run down ride With a half smile And a blonde weave gone bad Trying to be Someone you’re not Just to get him hot Just to get them hot Girl I see you Pouring oil that will just burn You’re gonna burn up Girl I see you You’re gonna burn up It’s gonna burn up

0

May 11, 2019

May 11, 2019 at 5:25 PM UTC

Tight yellow mini dress Girl I see you In your iridescent ombré bedazzled Thigh high boots Standing by your Run down ride With a half smile And a blonde weave gone bad Trying to be Someone you’re not Just to get him hot Just to get them hot Girl I see you Pouring oil that will just burn You’re gonna burn up Girl I see you You’re gonna burn up It’s gonna burn up

Continue reading...

They say to put yourself In someone else’s shoes But your boots Couldn’t tell me Why you left

0

Apr 4, 2019

Apr 4, 2019 at 12:32 PM UTC

thymogenic_thoughts

They say to put yourself In someone else’s shoes But your boots Couldn’t tell me Why you left

Continue reading...

Snow looks like diamonds, crunching beneath my warm boots. The sound is so sweet.

0

Mar 31, 2019

Mar 31, 2019 at 3:46 AM UTC

Snow looks like diamonds, crunching beneath my warm boots. The sound is so sweet.

Continue reading...

She was a head-turner, that one. She wore tight-fitting clothes that Complimented her like a love letter And her walk could make Any sensible dude talk I'll never forget when we first talked And how although I only liked her physically She presented herself as innocently decent Even after showing me a picture in her underwear. And I felt badly Because even as I write this poem She might someday find this and know it was for her But if she does Her knee-high black boots can walk proudly across these words.

0

Mar 26, 2019

Mar 26, 2019 at 1:25 AM UTC

The girl in the knee high black boots.

She was a head-turner, that one. She wore tight-fitting clothes that Complimented her like a love letter And her walk could make Any sensible dude talk I'll never forget when we first talked And how although I only liked her physically She presented herself as innocently decent Even after showing me a picture in her underwear. And I felt badly Because even as I write this poem She might someday find this and know it was for her But if she does Her knee-high black boots can walk proudly across these words.

Continue reading...

Why do hackers think so highly of boot camp? Who pays through the nose to send footwear abroad? Why use boots and not sneakers nor sandals? Instead, Stick with the proven approach, Used over thousands of years, Billions of satisfied users, Faster and cheaper to boot. Throat lozenges—guaranteed to improve hacking.

0

Feb 19, 2019

Feb 19, 2019 at 9:53 PM UTC

Boot camp for hackers?

Why do hackers think so highly of boot camp? Who pays through the nose to send footwear abroad? Why use boots and not sneakers nor sandals? Instead, Stick with the proven approach, Used over thousands of years, Billions of satisfied users, Faster and cheaper to boot. Throat lozenges—guaranteed to improve hacking.

Continue reading...

The laces of his work boots had slowly Come undone, After a long and exhausting life- They finally released. Lanky strings hung over the sides of Pale leather with Purplish scars, From cement. There was blood on the sidewalk. He took off his boots that night And placed them in the back of his closet Next to the skeleton of an older pair.

0

Dec 14, 2018

Dec 14, 2018 at 11:19 PM UTC

Boots and Bones

The laces of his work boots had slowly Come undone, After a long and exhausting life- They finally released. Lanky strings hung over the sides of Pale leather with Purplish scars, From cement. There was blood on the sidewalk. He took off his boots that night And placed them in the back of his closet Next to the skeleton of an older pair.

Continue reading...

Italeau...Fiamma--my brother wishes likewise that they'd fit. (sonnet #MMMMMMMCDX) Boots. Suede, Italian, and too small fr'intents, My toes half bruised from jist one two-hour's scale As twere of wearing, and lo, for the sale Which netted me this lux'ry I've naught hence Save yearning for that glor'ous pair which thence Must be returned, prayrs for a pair t'avail Me like these should have, with none in a frail Excuse 'cept made-in-China boots' defense. I only text YOU 'bout the size as t'were, Nor know what YOUR opinion is, if YOU Care two bits whether I've this pair in tour Or that, just that Italian boots anew "Run small." And um, "I wear size ten." But's poor, Cuz I must foot the bill, with pennies too. 25Sep18b

0

Sep 30, 2018

Sep 30, 2018 at 6:11 PM UTC

Yes, I've Fallen, Erm, In Love...

Italeau...Fiamma--my brother wishes likewise that they'd fit. (sonnet #MMMMMMMCDX) Boots. Suede, Italian, and too small fr'intents, My toes half bruised from jist one two-hour's scale As twere of wearing, and lo, for the sale Which netted me this lux'ry I've naught hence Save yearning for that glor'ous pair which thence Must be returned, prayrs for a pair t'avail Me like these should have, with none in a frail Excuse 'cept made-in-China boots' defense. I only text YOU 'bout the size as t'were, Nor know what YOUR opinion is, if YOU Care two bits whether I've this pair in tour Or that, just that Italian boots anew "Run small." And um, "I wear size ten." But's poor, Cuz I must foot the bill, with pennies too. 25Sep18b

Continue reading...