#inches
I know I'm not a saint -
I know I am not a "saint"
but if you'll lend me an ear
I'll be right to the point, and I'll be mighty clear
these are just some petty wishes, you don't have to really listen
-
I wish you had sent down a rope, at-another-length-
this floor lay uneven, with divots and dents
I'm diggen my heels in deep, I'm trying to do my best
I am in deep trouble
If I had a chance I would get down and
grovel
and-
I'd pray, each and every day. "OH God, why'd you go through-the-trouble" "Of making my path so winded-and-vague"
I'm stuck in a little bubble{feeling crazed} no other place to roam
I'm having a lot of trouble, trying to hear the phone, when will I ever-leave this safe zone?
Why, did you even send a rope
not even long enough to tie around my throat- but just enough to catch a **** goat
I've seen in my dreams
others with devilish schemes
yet it's so easy for them
when will my time come
for me to be
"Happy Again"
How
Can "I" climb to --------- "heaven"
with only -----------------------------}
---------------------------------------- seven
inches of --------------------}
---------------------------------- rope...
Feb 24
Feb 24, 2026 at 8:47 PM UTC
Sunday morning lie-in,
she, ny times newspaper reading,
contentedly dress perusing-shopping,
in the bed both, but separated
by the distance of the electronic void
i am raven tapping poe poems on my diminutive IPhone,
twenty four inches distant from her lips
no notice taken of the man so overcome
writing his Sunday morn poems that are
drawn so deep from places
that make him so so so glad
good quality weeping
can be best performed silently
noticing that
- he writes best when writing of others, mostly, you
- he writes when the rented invisibility cloak covers his face
and
the wellspring offers him a choice;
write weep and tear
or
write weep and bawl
or just quit everything
whimsy laughs at his slo 'mo nonsense
his choices
this tough guy supporting a mountain of others,
the inversion of his inverted triangle,
him holding up the world
the worrisome grief that wears him down
best released in tears when writing about
you, go figger
and you notice stupid stuff
like why we use 'and' when it just ain't necesssry
how the core of 'believe' is lie
that ** ** ** rhymes with woe woe woe
and
that 24 inches is quite the distance when you are
** ** ** weeping and she don't notice
and how hard writing
only love poetry can be
even twenty four inches
from your nose
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 10:19 AM UTC
my breath?
ragged
tainted
untamed
uneven
billowing gusts of air
how
can it
even escape my lungs
when my
heart
jackhammers so
mercilessly?
i’m filled with nothing but
curiosity
and
intrigue
i want to be filled with nothing but
you
i want
your lips
your hair
your hands
your arms
i want
time
to explore
the
inches of your ******
surface
i want to make you feel
a way
you have never
felt
before
Jan 5, 2020
Jan 5, 2020 at 11:17 AM UTC
salty air,
not by the sea.
inches like miles,
and choked back tears.
Jun 14, 2017
Jun 14, 2017 at 3:02 AM UTC
We're just 1 mole of inches away,
Just 9,501,262,626,262,624,256 miles away.
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 2:34 PM UTC
She likes mushrooms
I like red things
The smell of perfume
On the love vein
i like her colors
I like her smell
She like no other
With her I dwell
In a sultry place
Salt and taste
Every inch of skin
A deadly sin
Like the cobra
with the venom
She as deadly
I go flaccid and numb
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 1:45 PM UTC
It's not like you wake up one day
and you suddenly hate every inch.
It happens gradually
an inch at a time.
I remember where mine started
and how it grew like wild fire.
Until it consumed me
an inch at a time.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 9:24 PM UTC
Six inches
Between happiness and heartache
Reaching, stretching, every muscle aching
Every heartbeat sounds as a drum
Empty space
Never before has it had feeling
Now, it is cold
And heavy
So close
Yet the distance grows farther
With every passing second
Six inches
All that stood between my fingers
And your love
You took a step
Seven inches
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 11:51 PM UTC