#fingernails
Life to a worldly egg?
Sakes and the image of a music
In your mind, too **** to beg?
Liberate a shrewdness with a smile altruistic?
Verse of a voice, that has no vogue
Scent of a wish in the breeze, to add a road
Light of the witness, we meant to a boat
Where we wait on water, to gage a blind soul
Smile and ponder, prosperity
Your money on the line, is a true friend
That has a loud question, for a wink of yours
Rue the sight of a glass, in a frustrated glares lend
Bare with me, your smile
Antiquity is no hint of said hello's, except to create
A crasser visit from the wish of a salty shyness
Speak little me, and the tin of another, will begin to fate
Tastey isn't it?
A craving of lips and tongue, to sing the body electric
With me as the angel of boding, that has a certain wit
Smiles with no imagination, typically ask of a tomorrow, it
May 15
May 15, 2026 at 3:00 PM UTC
my fingernails are growing so long, I can feel myself changing
my v line is bulging out, my chest is getting fuzzy
my beard is filling out, my sideburns connecting
stretch marks cover my body like a painting
I am a legend in the making
sculpting my body like clay, greek god coming your way
is it Zeus, Poseidon, whichever way
I am aligning myself to the path, to the way
tuning the frequency I'm on
to have me booming through the stereos
Mar 22, 2022
Mar 22, 2022 at 9:51 AM UTC
come here. i’ll wrap myself around you
most of the time i’m sure i’m a sliding glass door
obvious like a schoolgirl crush
never able to hide the pink in my cheeks
or bury the truth behind enough broken parables
i’m about as vigilant as a chihuahua
perched on top of a sofa barking at the mailman
forgetting for a moment that you could pick me up
and put me down on the floor but
i promise i’ll just jump back up again
never fully accepting the plainness of my bluff
the winters crack my knuckles but
i don’t want to buy another pair of gloves
i’ve got ripped fingernails turned ******
and a kitchen sink full of unwashed mugs
and you’re pulling my hands away from my face
trying to show me how much we look the same
Mar 27, 2021
Mar 27, 2021 at 9:05 AM UTC
i have scars
not self-harm scars though
on the palms of my hands
i have scars
from digging my fingernails into my skin
when i get scared or angry
on my knees
i have scars
from when I'd fall
and no one would be there to catch me
in my heart
i have scars
from being torn at and broken
over and over again
these are the scars
that no one sees
Nov 13, 2020
Nov 13, 2020 at 8:20 AM UTC
There's dirt under my fingernails
There's pen marks on my hand
I don't know how they got there
I just don't understand
I'm curled up in a corner
My stomach is tied in knots
There's something crawling in my throat
I can't connect the dots
I've lost the feeling in my arm
From clutching it to my head
Crying up the distance
That they should have made instead
Faintly in the backdrop
They simmer in something mean
I wash my hand with soapy water
But the marks can still be seen
All I hear are glasses
They smash towords the floor
All I smell is putrid gas
From the night out just before
I'm getting kind of sleepy
And we're past the midnight mark
But it's difficult to dream
When the dreams you made are dark
But nontheless I'm sleeping
I move but make no sound
And I wake up in the morning
There's empty bottles all around
I don't know what happened to you
Because the laughter falls like sand
But there's dirt under my fingernails
And pen marks on my hands.
- Anisah Mariah
Mar 16, 2020
Mar 16, 2020 at 1:11 PM UTC
black lighters
chipped fingernails
i got rid of the old me
and i miss her like hell.
short hair
no cares
no trace
of what used to be there.
i turned into everything you hated
thinking somehow
that that would erase you from me.
transform into someone you never touched.
someone you never loved.
but now i’m just that
someone you never loved
someone you never could have.
and i’m sorry to say
that it didn’t work.
now there is no turning back
this is who i am now
and i have to live with that.
Mar 24, 2019
Mar 24, 2019 at 10:36 AM UTC
Years ago,
I had built
walls around me,
made of loneliness, anger-
and agony.
My remorse, my grief failed
to traverse these walls.
I might have knocked them down
as i run madly after clouds,
or do they run after me?
In this autumn evening,
my fingernails still can trace
walls built by you, invisible,
invincible.
Dec 25, 2018
Dec 25, 2018 at 12:51 AM UTC
I don't think there are road maps
for these things;
I think the naivety of childhood has taken this long to uncover
blank stares and clenched fists, I think the nights
weren't so long when you got more than 6 hours
to rest your eyes.
I am slowly just molding
myself into different versions of who I want to be,
but my hands fumble and put the pieces in all
the wrong places before they get it right.
I softly take the thought of forever out of its box, wondering
if it will ever ring true or if it is simply another
of those lies that are spoon-fed to you until you can't
base your own experiences on fiction or reality anymore.
Do you want to know what we do in the dark?
This is different; the way secrets spill
from open mouths and the way our eyes are hazy from
drugs or tiredness /lowered inhibitions/,
in these moments we tell each other everything and forget about
spiked armor and the sound of death chasing
at our heels. We scrape our fingernails against
half-truths and discover the way honesty melts on our tongues,
warm, like we've forgotten what it feels like and are only just
welcoming it back into our bodies.
I want our dreams to realize the timing that clouds
our psyches with shared bliss, can you take a moment
and spell that out for me? What do your eyes see when we strip
the dusty fabric away,
are you closer to knowing
who I am? Are you closer to knowing
why we could never bee what we thought we should, because
reality is not born out of story-books, and picket fences don't
distill the truth enough to make it palatable?
We've had to learn ourselves to covet
all the places we've found to pour our hearts into, we've had to shield
any possible innocence and sharpen our teeth to guard it.
But now that these things are done and
there's dirt under our nails from burying those dreams,
take a shovel and tear them out of the ground, because it is never going to get easier, and you have to learn
this before it gets much worse.
Tear those half-hopes from the womb and force
them to breathe, they must choke on this polluted air before they are able
to claw their way into the light.
Stop burying what is meant to fly and don't turn your demons too soft, they have to go
through hell before this passes. But it will.
And when the sun comes up again and the ache sinks so deep through your bones
that your body collapses,
you will learn that these pains are a part of teaching you
how to exist, and your words
won't sink like stones anymore, you will learn
to deepen roots within yourself and to take these realities
with you, twisted through with your own hopeful fictions -
each in turn, will come to fruition and each in turn will both ruin
and create you - at once the struggle
and the passion
of becoming
human.
Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 2:24 PM UTC
have i
to
be
flown
eyes through seas
salt through sands sees
trying me through this
through
through
through
fabricated trees
my finger tips
brushing
tips
her hips watching me
wanting
me
in between
circle ing over canyons
here
we
breathe
from the cave
she calms
to me
listen
to
her
sing
what wings
?
...
..
.
Feb 20, 2018
Feb 20, 2018 at 7:30 PM UTC
I will be a window
and the secrets you tell with your lips.
The sighs you blanket with the softest care
and the breaths you unknowingly count.
I will be the reminder of every second spent
and every moment felt.
A contradiction of your judgement
and a compliment of your beliefs.
I will be the ink of each unwritten imitation
of every mediocre song.
The scent of orange peel that trails on the
extravagant curves of your fingernails.
(3.19.09)
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 11:57 PM UTC
The breath of the wind raises hairs on her neck.
She breathes out a clouded breath of whiskey fire.
Outside the venue, she kicks her shoes, waiting.
Where's the loser on the drum kit?
She knows she blows the set with her absence, but she can't
Stop tapping her heel at the wall, measuring splits in bricks
With her nicotine fingernails.
Where's She? She's such a *****
The whole day closes in, in an instant, night descends.
Her twentieth cigarette dances in a rush to end it,
But her eyes catch sight of the mauve and indigo sky through
Buildings over bridges. Twilight ignites her quarter candlestick.
Outside the venue she kicks her shoes, waiting.
Outside her lonely lungs drink carcinogen
to an eager death with smokers. Cough.
Cough cough cough
Cool as ice.
Jun 12, 2017
Jun 12, 2017 at 6:54 PM UTC
EyeGaddaKu'upMiBosch
EyeGaddaKu'upMiBosch?
KuppingMyBoschMaegMyFeldSafF...
The nur-see tain't weetchin'
Shh, don't look around
they don't see if you don't look around...
SCRATCH EARS!
That one,
is okay, he's mowin' the lawN with his hands,
and smiling...
NO PILLS! NO PILLS!
wait a, no, wait, no, wait, no, wait...
EyeGaddaKu'upMiBosch
EyeGaddaKu'upMiBosch?
KuppingMyBoschMaegMyFeldSafF...
*I've got to cup my ***** cupping my ***** makes me feel safe.*
wait, no, wait, no, wait, no wait...
iF i bITe MY FINGeRNaILS THEe TaStE LIKE WAx
wax
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 11:43 PM UTC
You can learn a lot about a person just by looking at their hands.
Is the skin picked off, do scabs and blood surround the nails?
Are their fingernails bitten down so much that small slivers of blood show atop each one, where nail should be?
These small indicators can point toward anxiety, and troubling lives. You should always remain respectful, because you don't know what a person is going through.
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 11:02 AM UTC
A white poem
A pure poem
A poem that reaches the dirt
underneath your fingernails.
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 6:19 AM UTC
She’s drilled holes into her temples
And tried to pull out memories with her bitten fingernails
She’s recited everything she’s said and heard
Into a ***** toilet bowl every night on the hour
She’s weeped a million times over
From her eyes and from her wrists,
But the thing about remembering is that you don’t forget--
And now the scars left over can’t scab
The phrases are written in morse code on her body
Her will has been evicted along with her soul
And she’s become zombified, a living piece of parchment
From which she’s tried so hard to erase the words
But the thing about remembering is that you don’t forget--
The sound of a voice tears hers apart every day
And the words they form she’s come to despise
So she’s taken up book burning,
Making every letter ever aimed at her head run for their lives
She’s even made her own name take off, and now she’s
Desperately pleading for eternal silence to be her savior
But the thing about remembering is that you don’t forget--
So when you see her in the hallways, she pretends she’s invisible,
Pretending that her presence won’t have any meaning to it,
Pretending that she’s not important enough to be noticed,
Because her motto is fake it
Until you make it.
But the thing about remembering is that you don’t forget--
And the ones that have told her she’s not good enough,
That she’s better off dead and no one will care,
They laugh at her and then they forget.
They come back around the next day to laugh at the same joke.
She looks in the mirror and tries to laugh like them,
Laughing so much, she begins to cry,
But the thing about remembering is that you don’t forget--
So when you hug her and tell her it’s alright,
That you love her and tell her she’s worth more than life itself,
Sing it to her, so she won’t forget.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 1:50 PM UTC
Nothing broke my heart quite like that time I read what you wrote to her.
It was from two years ago, but it still managed to strike quick like a bullet, even though the barrel was dusty.
If history repeats itself, then I'm the same lips you craved on different person.
You said so yourself. You can't breath new life into old love. Your lungs will collapse before hers start.
You've never been good with words, but I didn't know you weren't good with laundry.
Your words were still wet with her tears before you gave them to me.
You should have left them on the line a bit longer. Maybe the lye of their syllables wouldn't burn my face when I try to bury it in your shirt.
Do you realize what you say when you scream *I ******* love you* from your rooftop?
Who's ears will they reach first, hers or mine? Because where I hear a promise, she hears and echo as bitter as the wind on that rooftop.
That's why my hips curve in all the question marks I could never ask you.
In two years, will you mail someone else the screams from your piece of sky?
Will your heart still beat in time to that ******* song that you always play when we're in your car?
I'm tired of seeing blood under my fingernails because metaphors and ethers and ink marks can't stitch you up fast enough.
You need patience, but all I can give you are poems about winter, and the spring grasses that follow, no matter what.
You need guidance, but I give you comparisons of how the moon moves the sea, but gets jealous when she kisses the shore.
You need love, but I offer you poems that flow like water and taste like someone else's mouth.
My river songs can't fill the canyons she's left in you.
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 4:50 AM UTC
Finger nails gnaw
Bare flesh rips
Blood spills
Over sorrowed hands
Now ribs crack
Then give way
Fingers tunnel
through flesh
Past bone
Then curl
Triumphantly
My hand pulls back
Raising up
Towards the heavens,
I hold my beating heart
Dying breath
Grasps it firm
Piercing it with
Thorny spike
And sets alight
My wretched body
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 9:47 PM UTC
Fingernails cry against my skin
and pinch
and pull
and drag
a desperate attempt at some kind of self induced rescue
and a melodramatic autobiography
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC
Read to me about things i'll never see
Imagine I'm sitting up in a hospital bed
Cradled by white cotton pillows infused with bleach
Empty clear bendy plastic cups sit neglected
My usual lipstick stains stayed in the handbag today
Your fingertip bruises decorate me instead
I once thought:
There is no better colour than the colour that they put into your eyes
That is the colour of the liquid that they have put in the drip bag
I might not be able to picture that colour, but I recognise the feeling of it entering my body
Rusty clots and mascara dust barricade it from leaving
Maybe not immediately
Or in a weeks time
But the cells of my heart muscles are becoming saturated with the juices
Becoming preserved in syrup
Seized and breathless
I knew that from the very first time I have been a can of something
Its label torn off
Unsealed and bleeding
And we both knew Duct tape couldn't keep that together
Still my hands were cupped trying to clasp
But now Its embedded under my fingernails.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 1:20 PM UTC
angry men who do not know I do not have a dollar or a cig to spare. Ugly irrefutable contagion-handed howlers. Angry mischievous heathens that pantomime on 6:00a.m. sidewalk, Wicker Park gallow stop-sign, choreographed gutter-punk drunk walk. And of all he wants and could ever want splits down his gooey membrane brain in the outline of a noun shaped fragment of a clause, "Couldja spare 80¢ for the train," but of course I don't spare on the ellipsis or the period. Semi-colons I won't! My rubber-bottomed leather boots lash out, heavy scraping sounds trail this mirrored shadow half an angle behind me.
***** Blonde framed sunglasses from American Apparel, a gift from my sister in a folded Ray-Ban case is scattered on last nights bedroom floor, my girlfriend has certainly not noticed, the gloom-coated morning sun spray has not noticed; but I have unzipped a fissure in the ocular lens. My heart skips a beat. Her bedroom might as well have swallowed them whole. Now the house can halt and have the shade, swaying in Spring air in 10:22a.m. shadows. The aviator himself Howard Hughes would strike me with his 488 aircraft. Edwin Starr in his invincible sinister calypso of War would turn me round. I was sturdy as a rock until I began to forget my forgottens. These unknown unknowns I knew I needed. I'm over a quarter-century on to noon going nowhere- and quite blindly.
But then, still she could stand upright and find me. Her neck crooked, looking onward through the East, the gristly roots of rhubarb buried in her searching fingernails. She's threaded worse, and of course if I could just tell her- this is the kind of nursing which requires acute temperament and flexibility. I am thus on a journey to strike nonsense and fear from the idiotic vocabulary that put this nonsense in my head. Split through me like a butter knife into my apotropaic. Perhaps tar water could cure my ails. If not, certainly a sliver of vanilla would set me straight. Or if could just rain rain rain all day, then I'd make do without, but she is at school. My pistons are racked and nervous, and I'm not going anywhere but my rucksack stoop. I am camped in midwestern Spring soup. Fog, rain, and shade. The nightmare of day.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 5:54 PM UTC