#over-thinking - Hello Poetry

Heard a-knocking on my screen door, You screamed up "It's me", Funny how the flowers bloom in the back 40, Makes me wonder if the daisies know what lies beneath, Second guessing if the juice is worth the squeeze, Maybe I don't know. Last I caught wind you bought a gun and headed south, But a .38 can sure weigh someone down, The old fisherman said he'd weep for her no more, Spent the rest of his days safe on the shore, He didn't shed a tear. Two miles in the dark, Keep turning keys hoping for sparks, Nothing left tonight just look up at the stars, I don't remember much... Though I remember a-knocking on my screen door.

0

May 17, 2016

May 17, 2016 at 12:33 PM UTC

SkylarBouchard

Screen Door

Heard a-knocking on my screen door, You screamed up "It's me", Funny how the flowers bloom in the back 40, Makes me wonder if the daisies know what lies beneath, Second guessing if the juice is worth the squeeze, Maybe I don't know. Last I caught wind you bought a gun and headed south, But a .38 can sure weigh someone down, The old fisherman said he'd weep for her no more, Spent the rest of his days safe on the shore, He didn't shed a tear. Two miles in the dark, Keep turning keys hoping for sparks, Nothing left tonight just look up at the stars, I don't remember much... Though I remember a-knocking on my screen door.

16

You danced on the frail blade that she held to her plump skin. You swirled your hands around the sweaty trigger. You blended into the cold crashing waves. You hung onto the steep cliff knowing no one could stop you. You whispered tiny daggers into his ears that he would absent-mindedly repeat. You grabbed her hand away from his harsh punch. You lead him out of his misery but sparked new depression in her heart. You showed her the light as her wrinkled hand slipped into yours. You plucked at her food and changed the way her mirror would reflect herself. Yet you grabbed the cord out of her hands. I waited for you yet you never came, You knew I wasn’t ready for your world. Instead you handed me over to a boy. A boy who would make my days shine, But my nights cry at the absence of his words. You new the pain he would hand me wrapped in pink paper was better than the tears of my family and friends. You knew that I would much rather enjoy the cold breeze than the soft dirt. You asked me: “Why would you ever wish that upon yourself?” I merely replied: “We don’t all have a reason,” “Why do you offer the gift of confidence to some and wait for their time yet rip the future from others?” I asked you as I watched my grandmother be cremated. “Fate is my boss. I do not choose my clients,” Your suit crinkled as you held me in your arms, trying your best at comforting my broken soul. But after all, you are just death. You are merely a compartment in my closet of thoughts. Often times I pick you from that cabinet and dwell over you when the night falls. They call it overthinking.

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Apr 13, 2015

Apr 13, 2015 at 10:04 PM UTC

sasharr

Death

You danced on the frail blade that she held to her plump skin. You swirled your hands around the sweaty trigger. You blended into the cold crashing waves. You hung onto the steep cliff knowing no one could stop you. You whispered tiny daggers into his ears that he would absent-mindedly repeat. You grabbed her hand away from his harsh punch. You lead him out of his misery but sparked new depression in her heart. You showed her the light as her wrinkled hand slipped into yours. You plucked at her food and changed the way her mirror would reflect herself. Yet you grabbed the cord out of her hands. I waited for you yet you never came, You knew I wasn’t ready for your world. Instead you handed me over to a boy. A boy who would make my days shine, But my nights cry at the absence of his words. You new the pain he would hand me wrapped in pink paper was better than the tears of my family and friends. You knew that I would much rather enjoy the cold breeze than the soft dirt. You asked me: “Why would you ever wish that upon yourself?” I merely replied: “We don’t all have a reason,” “Why do you offer the gift of confidence to some and wait for their time yet rip the future from others?” I asked you as I watched my grandmother be cremated. “Fate is my boss. I do not choose my clients,” Your suit crinkled as you held me in your arms, trying your best at comforting my broken soul. But after all, you are just death. You are merely a compartment in my closet of thoughts. Often times I pick you from that cabinet and dwell over you when the night falls. They call it overthinking.

25

I sit on the wet grass after the rain watching the sun slowly rise the birds begin to chirp and the moon is already hidden if there is something I would want to catch it would be the moon but every night I watch it hide, doing nothing about it without the moon, there’s no night no time to be alone in a soundless room with loud thoughts no time to be alone, trapped within your own self you have to put on a show put on a happy face to show the world, that you are strong but its the moon its the night, which sees the true sadness that fills your soul and no matter how far you run you’re always a prisoner of your own mind

0

Jul 8, 2014

Jul 8, 2014 at 3:42 PM UTC

dayana

Moon

I sit on the wet grass after the rain watching the sun slowly rise the birds begin to chirp and the moon is already hidden if there is something I would want to catch it would be the moon but every night I watch it hide, doing nothing about it without the moon, there’s no night no time to be alone in a soundless room with loud thoughts no time to be alone, trapped within your own self you have to put on a show put on a happy face to show the world, that you are strong but its the moon its the night, which sees the true sadness that fills your soul and no matter how far you run you’re always a prisoner of your own mind

18

I've always been a lost soul, striving to find some piece of mind. Only caring for the things that inspire me; lighting up my fires and burning down in a flash. I live for the rush of the moment, I seek endless adventures and enjoy the sensations they give me. I don't know what's good for me, darling and the truth is I don't wanna know.

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Apr 29, 2014

Apr 29, 2014 at 6:31 PM UTC

cigarettedaydreams

the desires of the wanderer

I've always been a lost soul, striving to find some piece of mind. Only caring for the things that inspire me; lighting up my fires and burning down in a flash. I live for the rush of the moment, I seek endless adventures and enjoy the sensations they give me. I don't know what's good for me, darling and the truth is I don't wanna know.

8

Electricity is talking; we understand losing interest in conversations. creating land. droplets of ice define the day August ends in the middle of May intrepid peeling; scabs of the earth the hands fail; a dumbed feeling Eins, the seeing blind have never seen on screen, a shape of many faces in through the open windows outdoors smoke dries the unseen. air dry. so paragon goners repulse the cleaver the system has failed so much detail to attention when pink isn’t even a color time is wasted on time itself unfortunate cookie wires once made you. complete. ask for the answer to the question is nothing Zwei light birds on a wire the happenstance, the fire where hell listens, there sight is drawn selfishly we glare and mourn ******* ice cubes yelling “Jesus may…” cold as **** the cesspool lay. So, maybe I’m over thinking this.

0

Apr 14, 2014

Apr 14, 2014 at 4:38 AM UTC

13

Zwo, drei, vier

Electricity is talking; we understand losing interest in conversations. creating land. droplets of ice define the day August ends in the middle of May intrepid peeling; scabs of the earth the hands fail; a dumbed feeling Eins, the seeing blind have never seen on screen, a shape of many faces in through the open windows outdoors smoke dries the unseen. air dry. so paragon goners repulse the cleaver the system has failed so much detail to attention when pink isn’t even a color time is wasted on time itself unfortunate cookie wires once made you. complete. ask for the answer to the question is nothing Zwei light birds on a wire the happenstance, the fire where hell listens, there sight is drawn selfishly we glare and mourn ******* ice cubes yelling “Jesus may…” cold as **** the cesspool lay. So, maybe I’m over thinking this.

25