"absentminded" poems
I only have this
Heart of mine.
Absentminded hands
Rip me part by part.
The pieces are the sand
Beneath my feet.
My tears are the waves
Kissing the shore
Putting them back together.
The thunder is rumbling
In the backyard.
The rain is pouring down
On my soul.
I grab the keys
And put this car in drive
To the water.
I set sail across the ocean.
Tearing these rough seas
On my own.
A sailor.
A compass.
A steerin wheel.
Destenation: home.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
Of serene eyes that follow gently
the illicit pill she could not let go
it was heavy as the waters pulling her inside
serenading her with an estranged voice
coming from within —
her minimizing the desire to let it out
as the sun quiets down
and the gibbous moon exhibiting itself at night,
resisting the waves occurring —
as if it loathed her whole being
of her justness and the absence of these causes
her grieving and the sirens waltzing,
talking through an absentminded eye
eyeing her soul
finding love that seizes it
but hers were two feet and one mouth to breathe in
even in all shades of blue,
she can get a glimpse of the dark hue
illuminating the downside of the ocean
pulling her, wrecking her soul.
Redemption does not lie —
humoring her with plainly just truth
craving for the applause of the moon
only observing the depth of the ocean
eating the once alive soul
of her saving her last breath,
chiming in with the conversation, she
once had with him.
It could have been nice the resistance
he once had — to throw himself out
to the beauty of his light that shed
her whole body
he once was able to have
and he stayed there, eyed her the whole time
being eaten on the lonesome of the night
for he himself, shading all the blueness
like a requiem for the dreams
she kept on having
like a composition giving life
to new generations, he was still on
a token and a curse, and he let her be —
in all shades of blue.
Jul 11, 2022
Jul 11, 2022 at 5:21 AM UTC
Blue eyes watching. Blushing at the sight at the very thought. Flushed with emotion. Hearts beating so fast and hard. Deafening rhythmic beating. Quivering at the thought of what may be next. Hoping it will be so, yet afraid of what is to come. Self-conscious and embarrassed, time stretches on. Not wanting the moment to pass. Holding on hard to the idea. A soft, almost accidental, brush of the lips. A light, absentminded gliding of the finger on the skin. Systems heightened, mind swimming, emotions running rampant, temperature rising. Taken by surprise the lips plant firmly yet gently. A breathy moan leaves no doubt.
Sighs tell a story
Opening the door to play
And so it begins
Tentatively, lips touch. So sweet and delicate the dance. Welcoming, beckoning to be entered. Warm and wet they go exploring, tasting, breathing in the essence of desire. Doubt gives way to fire, and passion wins out. Piece by piece the offering is made and accepted. The game continues. Silently daring to be outdone. First one button, then another. Heat rises. Smooth skin under rough hands. Electricity. Fingers trace a line that the tongue follows. Closer, closer, closer. Involuntary movement brings skin against skin, breath against breath, body against body.
Minds lost to passion
Floods come to drown the desert
Drink til thirst is quenched
The hand once afraid to touch, briefly runs the length of its desire. Like a volcano letting off steam. Embers turn into an inferno consuming all it comes near. Floodgates opened, beckoning. Waters tested. There is no denial, no second thoughts, no rewind. Short gasps of need, punctuated by the sounds of the flesh. Glistening in the moonlight, two outlines become one.
No more wondering
The question has been answered
Hearts have been traded
There are no thoughts left to ponder. In this moment there is only those eyes. Those blue eyes that pierce the soul, that see right through the words. Lips removed from lips. Watching the moment. Waiting for its impending arrival. Fingers grasp tightly as they pull against the skin. Trying to melt into each other. They dig in a little too hard, the sounds are a little too loud. Inhibitions lost on the wind. No longer able to hold back.
And in that moment
There is only perfection
Nothing else matters
Dec 23, 2010
Dec 23, 2010 at 11:51 PM UTC
Pro-nudity,
absolute identity.
Absentminded,
****** insanity.
Black on white,
white on black.
Coffee stained *****
my lips are far from pure.
I’ve come to see my morals have change,
and I would not want it any other way.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 8:30 PM UTC
Absentminded speech.
You had taken the scissors from the basket
in the darkroom, they were just
still in your hands, the ones
not covered in rust.
It was absentminded, that part
is important. Just absentminded,
like the way you'd play
with her hair or pretend not
to care,
like the way you'd talk with
your hands even when the
darkness spoke louder. The way
you'd nudge me, a "don't move"
elbow, to let me know you'd
dropped your film and I shouldn't
step for fear of stepping on it
like the shadows did.
I absentmindedly twirled a pen,
and you absentmindedly looked
down again and again,
scissors open, scissors closed,
running your fingers over
the little ***** between the blades
as I ran my fingers
over a little ink drawing I'd made.
You absentmindedly followed
my eyes with your own, and then
threw absentminded to the smoke,
up and out the window and gone,
and the smooth blade up and down
your arm.
It wasn't sharp. It couldn't even
cut the film. That's how you'd
dropped it in the first place.
Still watching my eyes, my dawning worry.
Oh, you. Ignorance reduced me
to child and pity before your
knowing eyes, but what do.
You know me, I know you.
A deliberate story now (absentminded
can't be filtered out of the smoke anymore),
of a girl you used to know.
Something to do with little screws
in every pocket of every
long-sleeved shirt she owned.
They had to be from something cheaper,
you mused. Mindedly.
Scissors don't come in bulk.
Little screws. Not razors, not knives.
Little screws.
You thought out loud, but it wasn't
thought. It was speech. It was
words you already knew.
Where'd they all come from?
You asked questions to give me
the answers.
I reached out for those ****
bright green plastic scissors
that wouldn't cut a piece
of film in a darkroom, because
fear gives light great powers.
You smiled at the anxiety in my
eyes. You chose then to stumble
upon the answer. (It wasn't scissors.)
To relieve me, you meant.You
meant to share without telling,
to lighten my head and dissipate
the ignorance like your
absentminded smoke.
You knew a girl...
But when you put knowledge
in this mind it gets picked up
and circled around and around,
centripetal acceleration, exponentially
flying, so fast, so high, what do I
do with it there. I build it up.
It tears me down.
I scanned your wrists for months.
I watched you pull your wallet out
of your pocket, checking the floor for
little screws.
You knew, ****** You knew
your wrists would stay smooth
as a scissor blade, smooth as
darkness. You gave me the story
deliberately, but you gave me the
answer absentmindedly.
You didn't mean to.
You gave me the worry,
you gave me the thought.
You didn't tell me where to find
a ******* screwdriver.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 11:22 PM UTC
I know not.
Reasons why, long since forgot.
Let myself fester: rot.
Self-medicate.
I am full to the brim.
Hate.
When shall I draw my last breath? That's the debate.
My chances of receiving an answer? Very slim.
Too cowardly to end it at a time of my own choosing; on a whim.
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 10:36 AM UTC
The feeling that you get when your about to lose control, has to be the scariest feeling of all. When too many absentminded people come in and break everything apart- without realizing it- electrify the band that's about to snap. And that's the worst of all. When you have to sit there watch how these people that live around you make countless mistakes. They sit in a pit of oblivion, but you see it all. And when you go off to make one silly mistake, all the walls come crashing down and suddenly your the one who is the burden. These exact people tell you how to live. They tell you that you don't understand time. That your feelings to have no logical sense to them. That your heart is in the wrong place.
Who are they to say that? Who are they to suddenly become you?
Who are they to act like they care?
You can see disappointment in their faces and you have the guts to believe it. Their hosts have become clay sculptures- unmendable. Made to dry up and become nothing but a piece on a shelf.
It takes everything within you to not become that.
But it's okay.
Because at least your the only one out of all of them that knows what it takes to live.
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 2:33 PM UTC
The grey coated ashy sky screams that we should in fact be inside.
But instead I’m rushing across a lawn in black, breaking flats.
With my heart in my chest, and my hands shaking from the rest.
I’m not prepared for what’s to come, for the repentance,
That will be taken, as we lie here hidden away from the sun.
The fluorescent lights are stinging away the outer layers of my eyes.
I can feel my confidence drastically shrinking in size.
All that are in favor stand up, a man in a blue button up calls out
I don’t stand. I’m scared, I don’t want to be the first one to lose
You’re unaware of the magnitude
Of your actions, as you rise.
Thereby sparing me and cursing those that I despise.
I fell in love with your appearance almost instantly.
With the softly curled hair that so gracefully
Rested above your eyes.
I had known you for a matter of minutes
And there it was I was in love.
It was a strange moment in time,
Where your eyes turned around to look into mine.
I felt a connection, immediately, without even a second thought.
Who was this impulsive romantic?
And what had she done with the particularly critical
Normal version of myself? Where had she gone?
My failures have never been so prominent as I’m sitting there
Wasting away in that old uncomfortable creaky plastic chair
I spent the time awaiting my fate,
Dangerously lost in the loose linens of your being
But I assume it’s now about eight
I don’t know exactly what my heart is feeling
I’m absentminded, free. Finally free from the
Troubles and worries of my everyday life.
As my overactive imagination overwhelms the logical side
In a landslide majority vote, I’m lost without a sense of maturity.
And so, I allow myself fall into your eyes, and slightly imperfect smile.
You were almost obnoxiously beautiful, but
With your snide offensive comments, and your homophobic sentiments,
And worse of all your willingness to sacrifice
The shortcomings of others to build yourself up
Was more than a little off-putting, and your arrogance
Was more than a little disgusting
For the image in my mind of us, to ever exist.
Darling, I wanted you to know
That is a future, I will never miss
And I truly hope to never have to see you again after this.
May 10, 2018
May 10, 2018 at 4:42 AM UTC
the absentminded
water slides
into the empty
spaces of my skin
i can feel your
mossy fingertips
playing with
the forces of nature
(the way you do)
there's a past inside me
that i cannot reach
and i do not run
from it
the mist from the water
seeps into my pores
and i am filled to the
brink with viridescent
potential
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 9:02 PM UTC
Little hands explore the world with fresh eyes.
They don't know language or how to count, but these hands are utterly fascinated.
Little hands are wrapped around her fathers pinky,
being directed around the world.
They don't know what pain or suffering is, but these hands want to feel everything.
Little hands trace the path of a raindrop down the car window.
Webs of the tears from above cry against her absentminded fingers.
They don't know a broken heart or the meaning of forever, but these hands are determined to believe.
Little hands are now veined and strong.
Little hands have been through hell and back.
Little hands pushed the monsters away.
Little hands have a mind of its own.
These little hands aren't so little anymore.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 2:33 PM UTC
I don't like the way this feels most days.
Can you believe I don't like such complexity?
Why is my affection never simple?
Never just one-sided; instead,
It's a moon with phases, with changes
Too unpredictable to pencil down.
It used to be spring tides or none at all
But I've been getting tamer ones lately.
If it does crash, it does so politely, lightly
Carressing my shore with waves of affection.
Sometimes I forget to worry.
Sometimes I forget how heavy-handed I can be,
How easily I can hurt, despite
The dulling of my edges;
And I do this for some people
My affection wants to keep.
I admit it's not the wisest thing I do.
The shackles hurt a lot more
When you jump too far,
Thinking you can make it.
Still, I wonder if that might be better.
I do not like my anxiety, but
I don't like being absentminded in this either.
I do not like not knowing, not holding
The reins of my affection, my hurricane affliction
I do not like the way this feels most days.
I do not like the thought of hurting you.
I do not like it when this moon is new
but I must say, I do like the way you want this, too.
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 5:27 AM UTC
We came, we saw, we kicked its ***
We left the room, went to my full bed,
And within minutes, your head,
Found the spot on my chest, right above the heart,
The spot, you know the spot,
And your eyes closed, blue eyes shut on blue sheets,
As my eyes concentrated on the flickering screen,
During the time in between Rosanne and the Morning Show,
You slowly succumbed to the sand man,
It started in your hands, the little phalange,
Twitched, with an itch, no,
It was something biological,
Happening in all women,
The shake, the rattle, the roll,
Which no one can explain,
Right before the REM cycle,
In the proverbial washing machine of dreams,
Your hand, just one, flicked and squirmed,
Then a leg, taut like a timber hitch,
Your hips shot upward, a nocturnal cannon,
The bedtime for bonzos twitch,
Your hair, everywhere but nowhere comfortable,
Like that rogue strand aimed at my eye,
A smile playing coyly on my face,
Because I imagine you, attempting a pole dance,
Your little lips sputter with nighttime stutter,
And your head fills with true romance,
Those five to ten minutes, when your breathing slows
You’re skipping through the meadows in your mind,
I’m lying close enough to your side, to feel your breast,
The wiring across your pink bra,
The t-shirt you borrowed months ago,
The bobby pin you just found on my floor,
These keep me up, these keep me thinking,
When all I need is a few hours of sleeping,
After your fireworks display of flailing,
You must have hit me in the face, the ***** the arm,
A few times, a laugh plagues me deep down,
I can’t let it eep out, can’t make a sound,
Something subtle enough to stir you like soup,
So I do my best pondering, do my best like cub scouts,
To find some rest for my absentminded head,
Just a word to the wise, advice from an idiot,
You may be asleep, for a few seconds, and when I am
Wide awake waiting for my forty winks,
Know that your body is involuntarily dancing,
And I soon drift off, on a sailboat of sleep myself,
Only to begin my own shaking,
How silly we must look,
Dancing to dreams.
Dec 25, 2011
Dec 25, 2011 at 12:45 AM UTC
daydream dances
sideward glances
sipping from his mug
pensive eyes
muted sighs
absentminded shrugs
heavy drinker
over thinker
bizarre state of mind
across the table
sitting, staring
wishing he was mine
Mar 4, 2018
Mar 4, 2018 at 9:38 AM UTC
It was doomed from the start.
Deadlines don't make for happy endings
or happy beginnings, but we made do,
the trickling sands tickling sans cesse
and the seasons passing by and waving
(good practice for tonight, I guess).
You'll be gone tomorrow.
What season would you be, then?
Midwinter spring, as Eliot said
or a Fall chill fighting summer?
One that makes us stay in bed
with the rain at our doorstep.
But seasons come back-
You'll be gone tomorrow.
I'll pray to the god of small moments
for the silences and your hands
for the absentminded kisses
-like that time we floated in a pool
under a cave, surrounded by oranges
and i thought: this is it-
You'll be gone tomorrow.
I did know what was coming
and I've tried to prepare
even though I'd have to stifle tears
when I made my way back home
skirting glances from strangers,
I did try. Will it be enough, I wonder.
You'll be gone tomorrow,
and yet.
Jun 25, 2017
Jun 25, 2017 at 7:11 AM UTC
His arms failed to reach around her wide lopsided smile.
Her mind played silly word games with her lisps
His feet tapped in no choreographed motion; ambiguity
Her tongue tastes wine with no knowledge
His fingers circled in absentminded anticipation
Her warmed hands circled in rubbing
His first dinner date
Her blind date
His date
Her
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 4:43 AM UTC
Did she caress my head
Did she smile
Was I drunk and wrong instead
Did I imagine what was said?
Did she touch my hand
Did she look with some desire
Was there longing in her eyes
I am uncertain with goodbyes
As she left I question
Was it kindness was it care
was it gentle friendship
That was there?
Was it *** was it lust
Was it baseless short desire
That plays me to the fire?
Was it movement without meaning
Was it apathetic leaning
Absentminded action that was lacking in all feeling?
I don't know
I don't know
But I wonder while I wander
Through my memories and ponder
Did she? Was she? Will she?
Be someone I should pursue?
I don't know,
Do you?
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 3:51 PM UTC
"I'm yours now. You can do whatever you want to me."
I didn't even know what to say,
I never did,
I was still shocked you could want anything to do with me
You said you had hopes for us,
But what hope was there?
We had no direction, no plans,
We just plodded forward hoping this foundation we built could brave the trials of winter
I've read that soulmates can come together and apart just as easily,
A tragic scenario to be certain,
And if that's the case,
What is a soulmate but a reminder that love is eternal agony?
I do still love you,
Love is,
It's become like breathing,
Autonomic
I can't even remember life before this,
What it was like to be absentminded,
The loveliness of ignorance,
Oh how I would gorge on its sweetbreads
But this is simply life now,
I live in flashbacks and moments,
I love ghosts and candied words,
And I drink the liquor of empty hopes
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 1:32 PM UTC
You gave me your heart in a poetical way.
I figuratively hold this anatomically incorrect symbol in my hands…where do I put it?
For though it terrifies me, I know it is precious. I am worried of it…but I can still feel its warmth and I want to keep it close.
I cannot carry it. Absentminded as I am, I will place it somewhere and it will be gone forever.
I cannot keep it in my pocket. It will go through the wash and I will get it back shrunk and shriveled.
Maybe I will open a door in my breast and place it with my own heart…
But that is grotesque.
This perfectly symmetrical, immaculately red symbol cannot sit next to my own, lopsided, beating flesh!
The juxtaposition would unravel the facade and leave me with…what?
Nothing?
A puff of smoke?
A second heart, beating opposite my own, wearing me down?
Or would the disappeared symbol instead free its meaning throughout my body, disintegrating into tingles that run along my spine and down my arms and legs, that make me shiver imperceptibly as my motion is suddenly guarded, and yet pull up at the corners of my mouth, causing me wary warmth, this oxymoronic push-pull
- -
this feeling that makes me want to fight-or-flight to attack or recede inside myself that starts my adrenaline rushing from unwarranted panic yet also makes me want to freeze time as I close my eyes and smile slightly to bask in the redolent warmth to pull my extremities close in order to let them experience what starts in my chest and then stretch into a star for this feeling to extend its reach to my edges and further
- -
Then this symbol, this encasement of hard metaphor, becomes unwanted.
Its protection, previously so needed, becomes unbearable.
How can I hold it in my hands, in my pocket, coolly perfect, frozen in shape, knowing what it holds inside?
How can I not grit my teeth through the disquiet, the sweaty palms and surge in my gut, knowing the halcyon happiness that lays beyond?
I will not suffer this symbol to stay intact!
I will scratch lines in its colour!
I will peel its icy layers off one by one!
I will ****** it to the ground, and **** its sweet juices from the cracks!
I will descend upon it until it bursts, its shards transforming sweetly into its message.
Connotation broken into denotation, truth unobscured by this superfluous poetry.
This sensation, this meaning, this feeling, this actuality, this state, this phrase
- -
this i love you playing across my body running through my hair
- -
It simultaneously freezes and thaws me.
Jun 22, 2010
Jun 22, 2010 at 1:28 PM UTC
When young and dreaming minds are set to wander
Into distant and dancing planes
A rhythmic cadence does beckon
While the Earth yields to watch
As barefooted children play.
The tire swings again
Curious shadows linger
Never too close
Never too far
A fulfilled existence to an unfulfilled world
A silent presence to an absentminded crowd
Accompanied by the laughter of barefooted children
As they play.
When innocent children grow old
And Innocence becomes Ignorance
Unburdened smiles are replaced with
Darkened spirits and carefully crafted words.
The past still remains present.
A mindful shield
Guiding a hollowed crowd
Absent imprints of the soles
Of barefooted children
Far too old to play.
Seconds begin to weather
Tender breaths are met with woeful groans
Hardened by the world
Agonized by joyful memories
Rotting from inside to out.
Alone.
Left to fall
Without any one to hear a sound.
Here lies a calm remembrance,
That while your melodies may become buried
Entombed by Concrete and Machine
When barefooted children turn
To heels and dress shoes and speech
The earth and roots will remain
Tattooed to the souls of our feet.
Mar 12, 2019
Mar 12, 2019 at 3:02 PM UTC
old man I see you
blue suit and bow tie
and hat placed neatly aside
cradling your coffee
an absentminded gaze
through the tall windows
and beyond
to the young passersby
in a hurry
as you once were
busily home to love
to soothe the withering day
love that you once had
but has passed
old man I see you
your eyes a fluid blue
still
wistful
locked in memory
bittersweet
vivid
that plays before you
to touch
taste
breathe
a pas de deux of passion
eclipsed by time
old man I see you
and you are not alone
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 5:06 PM UTC
yesterday, my body vanished
and found itself in somewhere new.
and when it awoke
a bed of grass lay beneath it;
a lawn of wildflowers
tossed among the green
like cherry tomatoes in a salad bowl.
the sun reached out behind
faint wisps of white, marshmallow clouds
and its light swathed my body
in dazzling streams of melted, glittering gold--
warming and kissing and seeping.
as my body watched the small birds flit
from branch to branch
throughout the meadow,
I think it knew
that I was absent--
****** into the real world
as if by a tornado.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC
pearls
powder
and lipstick with the perfect shade of pink
"It's important to look your best when you feel your worst," I recite as I get ready for another day without him.
skirt
scarf
and chanel number five
"Just for a minute," I whisper as I slip the ring on before heading out the door.
coffee
coat
and black pumps
"Goodbye, my love," I accidentally yell through the screen door.
terror
tears
and falling to the ground
****** I scream because I actually forgot he's gone
{bcg}
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 2:51 AM UTC
Every feel like you're stuck but it doesn't seem like you're in a rut
like you're comfortable but your head constantly zones out
it's weird trying to describe what occurs in my mind
I can be absentminded but I tend to find it's where my favorite writings come from, when my head is in that liquid void so stock up on daydreams like a loaded gun
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 3:01 AM UTC
Out the back window, I stared.
I never used to be so absentminded.
You could almost hear the music
struggling to exit the broken speakers.
With every note, so imperfect,
creating its own melody.
You'd never really notice.
And I shouldn't have either.
Hand prints became visible in the day light.
***** swirls covered the glass around me.
This is how I spent my time.
Watching the back window, wasting time
and falling into a trance.
Often, I drifted somewhere.
I was moving when no one else was.
The sun fell on my skin
as it broke through the clouds and tiny
swirls in the glass.
That was my remedy.
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 6:42 AM UTC