#stinging
indeed it lingers,
after its first stinging,
compact and perfect,
not a word extra,
the slow and measured
pace of self realization
the accidental poet
arrived in March,
and lingers into April,
causeway of my tears,
envious of the bravery
of one so daring young
you bump into strangers,
apologize after being stung
and stunned, before the slow
realization that you, the one,
she alters, the first poem read,
this day, lingers still and into on
the fleeting ephemeral of spring,
born in rain, blooming in May,
and written, this note to self,
hid in the forest of shade loving
short lived beauty blooming,
it feeds the forest, feeds me
and unsurprisingly
I print it, and like a sticky note
attach it to my refrigerator door
an act of poetic justice,
a reminder
to do it better, even perfect?
4:08am
Apr 9 2026. <nml>
Apr 9
Apr 9, 2026 at 3:56 AM UTC
the stinging settles and my heart becomes heavier,
with new lines on my soul that were probably ******* inevitable.
~when did i develop an affinity for odd numbers
Dec 3, 2020
Dec 3, 2020 at 7:06 PM UTC
If I told you about the fifty mile trek I took,
with ice accumulating on my beard,
and shivering to sleep in the tiny hollow,
would you believe me?
What about the time they thought I was a terrorist
trying to assassinate the queen?
Or the time they took everything away from me;
my clothes, my hair, even my name?
Would you read it as fiction?
"That kind of thing doesn't really happen" you might say,
and I no longer care to argue my case anymore.
as you explain to me how, in a modern day society,
these kind of things things really work.
I wonder whether I should care,
as I nod dumbly to your every point,
telling me why you know, definitively,
that I am lying.
This is why my poetry shall refer only to emotions.
Nobody reads emotion as fiction;
you can feel it as they tug at your own-
A broken heart, a smile, a stray giggle.
Whether I made that journey is no business but my own,
but the cold I can describe perfectly;
Not biting, but stinging, and numb in every other sense.
The fear giving way to tears, which froze on my cheeks.
Besides, if this really is fiction, if I had really
made all of it up inside of my head,
would I still lie to you?
Of course I would.
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 11:24 PM UTC
at the urgings of the needle's keen tip
she'd respond with such a caustic delight
corrosive was its thorniness of quip
on the pointy end being put to conic flight
an outpouring of stinging did rain free
she'd respond with such a caustic delight
never not thinking of the spurring's tee
compelled by a so driven tong's tine
an outpouring of stinging did rain free
*yet the rejoinder was not very **** fine*
applying her barbing tool time after time
compelled by a so driven tong's tine
browsers saw the regularity of crime
sticking in too much abrasive acid
applying her barbing tool time after time
the mordant seasoning far from placid
sticking in too much abrasive acid
at the urgings of the needle's keen tip
corrosive was its thorniness of quip
Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 10:11 PM UTC
I know it stings,
But don't let it poison you.
I know it hurts,
But don't let it destroy you.
I know it burns,
But don't let it consume you.
Jan 2, 2017
Jan 2, 2017 at 6:50 AM UTC
Inside, a shrinking breathing
With heaves and sighs.
Outside, nothing
Except the slight sting of the eyes.
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 8:14 PM UTC
Those three words feel like a swarm of bees buzzing in my mouth and making it hard to think, I'm scared you can hear them stinging my lips and tongue, I'm afraid to open my mouth and say those three words to you because I don't want you to get stung, so I will swallow them down and let them sting my insides all the way to my bones where they can make a home inside my skin.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 2:01 AM UTC