#burningman - Hello Poetry

i sit next to you and we are silent and i am scared but you are more scared than i am and when i look at your eyes i see a burning man being stabbed from the inside out and i do not know what to say because some things are just not built for poems and this is one of them.

0

Jul 20, 2023

Jul 20, 2023 at 1:32 PM UTC

mjsayshey

how can I say this poetically

i sit next to you and we are silent and i am scared but you are more scared than i am and when i look at your eyes i see a burning man being stabbed from the inside out and i do not know what to say because some things are just not built for poems and this is one of them.

13

We walk out the black back door With the broken glass window At the warrant of a smoke I let you lead me into the dark outside Through the yard of twisting, Tall sculptures made of tires, Bottles, barbed wire, and foam You grab my hand and fit me Beside you in the circle consisting Only of artists, some of whom Stand, some of whom sit on old Couch cushions, or lawn chairs Which have been decaying Underneath the wet, ***** snow We, the huddled mass of jean Jackets, knitted scarves, and nihilism, Pass around a legal joint and cigarettes Whose smoke rises into the fog Of a mid-November midnight As we freeze, and add laughter To the hum of cars whizzing past On the one-way side of 2nd Street You and I find our place among The artists, on a chair not once Built with the intention of sustaining The weight of two, but you ask If I’ll sit on your lap anyway And more than willingly, I oblige We are now a part of this crowd— The Burning Man drop-outs, Too cool for our own selves We shiver and vibrate in time To the neon, changing streetlights And not-too-far-off police sirens And it is here, in your lap, surrounded By the rubble of an artist’s junkyard I look up and mouth /I love you/ And you mouth it silently back -E (c) 2018

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Apr 16, 2018

Apr 16, 2018 at 1:26 PM UTC

brielagif

The "Junkyard" Behind the Potentialist Workshop

We walk out the black back door With the broken glass window At the warrant of a smoke I let you lead me into the dark outside Through the yard of twisting, Tall sculptures made of tires, Bottles, barbed wire, and foam You grab my hand and fit me Beside you in the circle consisting Only of artists, some of whom Stand, some of whom sit on old Couch cushions, or lawn chairs Which have been decaying Underneath the wet, ***** snow We, the huddled mass of jean Jackets, knitted scarves, and nihilism, Pass around a legal joint and cigarettes Whose smoke rises into the fog Of a mid-November midnight As we freeze, and add laughter To the hum of cars whizzing past On the one-way side of 2nd Street You and I find our place among The artists, on a chair not once Built with the intention of sustaining The weight of two, but you ask If I’ll sit on your lap anyway And more than willingly, I oblige We are now a part of this crowd— The Burning Man drop-outs, Too cool for our own selves We shiver and vibrate in time To the neon, changing streetlights And not-too-far-off police sirens And it is here, in your lap, surrounded By the rubble of an artist’s junkyard I look up and mouth /I love you/ And you mouth it silently back -E (c) 2018

39

...and I'll give you half an ear. [L9: Robert. And sent a pic when returned. And yes, I loved him, shame to say.] (sonnet #MMMMMCMXCI) Where gloaming filters out in greyish thence And fading halflight, children's voices trail Some barking canine as no birds detail Calm whispers whose soft breath tugs at me hence Likeas to stay my footfalls with that sense Tis now, and here. Ne stars yet in blue's veil Except the evening star alone oer pale Dead houses, and how sunset burns low. Whence? Indeed. He's gone to Burning Man as twere Or some take off that, romance forfeit too, Else I'll wish for a date with each in poor Excuse, how's that? The problem is...that you Are not here. What are cool winds' murmurs? You're Who gives dusk romance. Tell me that you knew. 23Oct16c

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Oct 23, 2016

Oct 23, 2016 at 11:33 PM UTC

JennyGordon

You Can Lecture Me...Later, How's That?

...and I'll give you half an ear. [L9: Robert. And sent a pic when returned. And yes, I loved him, shame to say.] (sonnet #MMMMMCMXCI) Where gloaming filters out in greyish thence And fading halflight, children's voices trail Some barking canine as no birds detail Calm whispers whose soft breath tugs at me hence Likeas to stay my footfalls with that sense Tis now, and here. Ne stars yet in blue's veil Except the evening star alone oer pale Dead houses, and how sunset burns low. Whence? Indeed. He's gone to Burning Man as twere Or some take off that, romance forfeit too, Else I'll wish for a date with each in poor Excuse, how's that? The problem is...that you Are not here. What are cool winds' murmurs? You're Who gives dusk romance. Tell me that you knew. 23Oct16c

18

He left her with two of his favorite sweaters one t shirt ,a pair of jeans and new Adidas Yet he had no intention on returning. In the first week of waiting she would fold the clothes in a corner smiling foolishly to herself thinking of how he would have something to wear when he returns. In the second week of waiting her smile started to fade Shed sit in the corner of her bed with one of his favorite sweaters on and wait. She found a little reason to smile again, for the clothes still carried his scent. she would crawl in her the corner of her bed and draw the hoodie strings and suffocate herself in soaked sweater sleeves till she drifted off to sleep. In the third week of waiting she washed his clothes for the scent was overwhelmingly repugnant. now they belonged to no one She laid the clothes out on the floor placed a cigarette in her lips and lit a match threw the flame to the floor and watched the burning man

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Nov 10, 2014

Nov 10, 2014 at 3:18 PM UTC

cihannahf

The Burning Man

He left her with two of his favorite sweaters one t shirt ,a pair of jeans and new Adidas Yet he had no intention on returning. In the first week of waiting she would fold the clothes in a corner smiling foolishly to herself thinking of how he would have something to wear when he returns. In the second week of waiting her smile started to fade Shed sit in the corner of her bed with one of his favorite sweaters on and wait. She found a little reason to smile again, for the clothes still carried his scent. she would crawl in her the corner of her bed and draw the hoodie strings and suffocate herself in soaked sweater sleeves till she drifted off to sleep. In the third week of waiting she washed his clothes for the scent was overwhelmingly repugnant. now they belonged to no one She laid the clothes out on the floor placed a cigarette in her lips and lit a match threw the flame to the floor and watched the burning man

26

Midnight on my mind, midnight on my mind. I followed my foot as it slipped into the dust leaving a haunted pirate ship that was going way too fast for casual conversation. The wind was relentless and yelled in my ears as I wondered why I don't own any wigs, and also, why would anyone own any wigs? I feel for my pulse and find it happily nestled behind barely there skin and a few shaky bones. My hunger never asked to be acknowledged, it just whimpered and begged behind my heels like a stray dog I've never met before. The dawn was coming, the ghosts scattered down the cat walk like spiders with flies on their mind. Spiders covered their eyes as a bruised purple sky made love to an orange blossom.

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May 22, 2014

May 22, 2014 at 4:01 PM UTC

quinn-ja

Drape Like the East

Midnight on my mind, midnight on my mind. I followed my foot as it slipped into the dust leaving a haunted pirate ship that was going way too fast for casual conversation. The wind was relentless and yelled in my ears as I wondered why I don't own any wigs, and also, why would anyone own any wigs? I feel for my pulse and find it happily nestled behind barely there skin and a few shaky bones. My hunger never asked to be acknowledged, it just whimpered and begged behind my heels like a stray dog I've never met before. The dawn was coming, the ghosts scattered down the cat walk like spiders with flies on their mind. Spiders covered their eyes as a bruised purple sky made love to an orange blossom.

1