#etched
You say I'm childish
For freely professing
All the words that are
Etched on my heart
As if I had any
Other choice but to
Be buried by them
Sep 10, 2025
Sep 10, 2025 at 3:40 PM UTC
known to all that he had lost,
all that is valuable within him.
kneeling down in pure exhaust.
and now, cutting emotions in his world so dim.
shush the wind for its noise,
hear his heart wince in pain.
imagining their voice,
hear the cry of the rain.
at last, he showed the emotions.
turning his back on the facade he shows.
arguably the man showed no motions,
keeping the tears that continually flows.
etched in his heart is the still of mourning and grieving.
Apr 14, 2020
Apr 14, 2020 at 10:32 PM UTC
your hands are etched
with tiny dry lines
that cut
each one-way road to nowhere.
Nov 16, 2019
Nov 16, 2019 at 9:05 AM UTC
My favorite gift
is tied tightly around my wrist.
A simple word etched that reminds me
of how my daughter perceives me to be.
This word will forever be my battle-cry.
My 'strength' I can't deny.
Jul 15, 2019
Jul 15, 2019 at 10:12 PM UTC
Come closer honey,
Listen to my heartbeats
yearning for you,
Like the sound of the ocean in a conch shell.
Come closer sweetheart,
Read our love story,
Etched in lines and shading,
Along the seashore of my body skin.
Come closer baby,
Feel how my breaths gasp and fall,
As ocean waves,
I, a windsurfer trying my best to hold on.
As much as you have made me burn in the raging fire of my love for you,
I wish you to roast with me in the inferno.
If it had been a stranger I would have desired the same,
But, you are my love,
How can I?
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 7:25 AM UTC
My work day woke to Monk,
the click of typing keys,
clock watched, Spotify playing,
random thoughts rose like bees
to freeze in these jagged lines,
then swarm in threatening flight.
Hours of data entry later,
on a stool, in a bar, a clock's
hands tock, I flick a wrist,
and slur my words concluding
an anguished monologue,
“They call it work, you know.”
Awash at home, in the strobe of
pixelated panel light,
visions surge and dissipate
with the pulse of the night. Osip,
were you tempered to embrace
attention’s fugitive caress?
You etched memory’s texture
with candle soot for ink,
and the gulag’s blackened gaze -
I type lines by hunt and peck
humming Monk’s WELL YOU NEEDN’T,
hoping for an adequate phrase.
Copyright © 2004 Gary Brocks
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 10:38 PM UTC
There are words etched into my skin
but they weren't placed there by others.
If I am in control of my thoughts,
then I am in control of my words
and only I can place words upon myself.
So call me names,
I already have my loquacious armor
and I'm not afraid to speak.
Chances are you won't tell me something about myself
that I don't already know.
Only I can truly define myself
and my skin is home to words such as:
honest, liar, loyal, manipulator, friend, and monster.
Try to make me feel bad.
I dare you.
Aug 29, 2017
Aug 29, 2017 at 3:28 AM UTC
I feel two lines etched on my face.
One longer than the other.
Feeling a little more colder
each time I step out.
They will lie there,
and dry there,
but never erased.
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 5:38 AM UTC
Give me approximately
Seven seconds
To sit on
The universe.
It may take
A lifetime of walks
In green gardens.
Or perhaps ten years
Of white front
Porches.
But I will stand
Upon the red
Roof of this
Convertible.
Against the blue sky
And yellow tulips
These primary colors
Will be etched.
Etched
Not upon
May
But purely upon
The defeated
Twilight sky.
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 4:42 PM UTC
He looks like messy eyebrows and endless lashes and his smile stops my heart every time. He looks disheveled, like his hands never stop running through his hair. His eyes are sweet and muddy and his hands are rough. He feels like work and strength. His arms are hard and his chest is solid and it's the only place I feel at peace. His breath on the back of my neck. He always smells like Copenhagen and swagger, it lingers on me after he's gone. Sometimes he smells like he's had a few cigarettes, and sometimes he smells like he's been laying in the grass, like dirt and raw nature. Or sweat and lust and he feels so hot. He's never cold and he melts the ice on my skin. His laughter is loud and infecting and his voice is deep and rough and forever etched in my mind. He is everything.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 4:08 AM UTC
Time aged in millenniums breath, eternities
Upon it did the juncture's of a breach offer
A glimpse in others minds of reality's thoughts.
Whirlpools of confused visons, then calm.
To walk on the moments of each surge that
Washed upon realties exhalation. I talked to
Younger versions and like a paradox, repeated
Reflections I saw ourselves in memory and word.
There is an etched pathway of conscious thought
With each decision does a new pool open its
Moment creating fresh essence now as the other
But diverged time is a ripple that always falls.
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 6:11 PM UTC
Mine oriental darling
Is mine Asian repunzel;
She was created by God's finger's,
Etched by heavenly pencil's.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane dedication
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 3:57 PM UTC
You're a memory etched between my thighs,
You're the tender caresses athwart my shape,
You're held captive, situated permanently under my eyelids,
You're the inspiration inside my lungs,
You're wholeheartedly a piece of me,
Tethered to yours truly,
Eternally.
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 12:23 AM UTC
I have written about you on napkins in coffee shops and restaurants that traverse continents. I've written your name on foreign pages in cities you'll never be, at least not with me. I've etched your name onto trees but your initials always feel out of place alongside my own, or at least that's how it seems. You have always traded a taste of ink for words you'll never let me read. You're darkened melancholy that you think tastes too sweet. You had me, oh you had me and I've written down the verse. But the tape is skipping, the record is broken, a melody and a curse
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 10:43 PM UTC
It was written on the wall
It was plain to see,
The things that were said
Where not looked upon,
Scribed,
Chiselled,
Etched,
But not seen by all,
It was plain to see, before the eyes
But we were
Blind
Sightless
Visionless
On what we needed to observe, but couldn't
Read, decipher
The writing is there, so preserve it
Or all that will be left is what was written
But we never looked upon, what was always there.
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 5:47 PM UTC
His body is covered in words.
From head to toe.
Etched into his palms.
Blanketed his chest.
Down his thighs and
around his rib cage.
They are everywhere.
His body is the canvas for
Every word and phrase he has ever spoken.
Rain.
It.
Big.
Blanket.
Her.
Finger.
Like.
Leaf.
****
Said.
Cat.
I.
Millions upon millions of words
Carved in 2 point font.
They just appeared.
Every word he has ever uttered.
There is no shying away, no hiding.
They are there.
Forever.
Some make him proud.
"I'm glad I said that at that moment at that time at that place to that person."
Some make him sad.
"I regret that I said that at that moment at that time at the place to that person."
Words make up his body.
They shape it.
They define it.
They build it.
and together,
they form his story.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 1:10 AM UTC
Nothing will break the stone
even if you and I aren't alone
your legs are toothpicks yet
your ribs remain the same
you'll live forever i bet
at least in the love game.
With your hair down to your hips
and my eyes on your lips
you can say we are both blind
but at any time you can just leave me behind
because while you have somebody to fall upon
my support is gone.
I would rather have no eyes and know the truth
than have them to see the lies.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 12:59 AM UTC