"acutely" poems
Oh! There it is!
The blood of my Mothers’
Sins
Blossoming on
My white sheets
Like a bouquet of English roses.
A shame -
Laundry day had
Been yesterday.
My thighs have been painted
Rouge -
They blush
Like my cheeks
When my gaze
Lingers on my body
Too long in the mirror
As I put on my Sunday dress.
The needles in my
Lower back fill my
****** with blood -
I am a woman now -
And as such I must
Wake before the sun
And wash my sheets
And my body
Before anyone has a chance
To smell the iron and the shame
Between my legs.
I have never been so
Acutely aware of my body:
My sore ******* feel like
Overripe tomatoes ready to burst,
My stomach bloated and taking up
Space I’m told is not ladylike -
My head throbs, my limbs ache, and
I continue to shed my insides.
How is it I never noticed
The cry of my body before?
A week of blood
Before I have served my sentence
For a woman
Who dared to disobey -
I clean the stains
And wash myself
Away.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 2:32 AM UTC
I am hungry
and it is reflected
in the contours
of every inch
of skin
every cell a-flutter
tiny wings and heartbeats
activated within
right down to
the ribosomes and
kidney-shaped
mitochondria
right up through epidermis
woven as threads
of softness penetrating
your inner hard, dark parts
causing them
to melt into
my light
I am craving
to feel your
absolute heart's
raging core
my aching flesh burning,
my heart, wrapped in
a love
so pure
My need to be
devoured surfaces
in smoothness,
at a glance
You feel it acutely,
no room for doubt
or subtle chance
I am ravenous
for muscle-worked arms
(arms that could easily
try to break)
to be supremely
gentle as you part
my thighs like the ocean
and sacredly partake
the slickness of your tongue
in my feminine grace
the stains of my love
drenching
your noble face
your eyes on mine
as I sharply breathe
need to hold your
head stroke your
hair know that for me
the king takes off that
garland of gold
breaking free of
all symbols of status
the only real treasure
the queen who
gives to him,
and who he now pleasures
and I let myself be consumed
with the reverence
of a psalm
my love pouring into you
healing your hurts,
like a balm
in this private landscape
we are the most
ferocious of tender
estuaries
in an eternal vista
in this hour of somewhere,
the sea hauls us in
like ancient creatures,
bringing the fossils
back to life
in lustrous foam
as they
inch their way
into the spirals
that we
feel we could
call
home
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 12:57 PM UTC
There is a snack size container of peanut butter sitting in the pantry
And I'm sitting across the room but I can feel it's weight as acutely as my own
I checked the package three times, hoping the numbers would change when i returned
282
282
282 calories
I'm having a panic attack over a snack because the one thing I crave more than anything else in the world is the sticky, nutty taste of JIF brand peanut butter of which I am undeserving
My grandmother loved peanut butter
So much that they had to hide it from her if they wanted any hope of a satisfactory sandwich
My mom hid food too
Stole it like kiss after kiss
Sneaking cookies from the houses where she babysat
Getting crumbs on her swelling chest in the dark embrace of her teenage bedroom
A buffet for one
And now I'm in my grandmothers house
Hoping that there's peanut butter in heaven
Because here there's just photographs and the lingering scent of her Chanel number 5 perfume
Like mother, like daughter, like granddaughter they say
You can trace my family line as easily as the stretch marks that litter our bodies
But I am breaking the cycle by falling into my own
I have learned that hunger pangs are better than the climbing figures on the scale
So I lift a glass of water to my lips
And I leave the peanut butter in the pantry so no one will ever have to hide food from me
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 11:29 AM UTC
(from a song)
Perhaps I was born kneeling,
born coughing on the long winter,
born expecting the kiss of mercy,
born with a passion for quickness
and yet, as things progressed,
I learned early about the stockade
or taken out, the fume of the enema.
By two or three I learned not to kneel,
not to expect, to plant my fires underground
where none but the dolls, perfect and awful,
could be whispered to or laid down to die.
Now that I have written many words,
and let out so many loves, for so many,
and been altogether what I always was?
a woman of excess, of zeal and greed,
I find the effort useless.
Do I not look in the mirror,
these days,
and see a drunken rat avert her eyes?
Do I not feel the hunger so acutely
that I would rather die than look
into its face?
I kneel once more,
in case mercy should come
in the nick of time.
4.8k
She sunk slowly southward, skimming my soul with sweet sighs,
Acutely aware of my amorous... appeal, I ached for her acquiescence,
Daring- Her; I- dazed: Delicately devouring my disheveled desire,
Leisurely lingering, her lips leaving lipstick licks and languor,
Yet it ended, and I yearned for you.
Aug 18, 2020
Aug 18, 2020 at 5:56 PM UTC
I am acutely aware that I
changed tenses in that story.
It is better for me in past tense;
his face was beautiful.
I know that he will not
talk to me. Not until
his time frame has come out.
I don't know what that frame is.
But I know him,
and that there is one.
I still love him.
It defies what I know
about the love mechanism.
It defies my past experience.
It is not unlikely that we
will not speak again
until I am over him,
and it is possible that
that will be never.
Mar 30, 2012
Mar 30, 2012 at 11:58 AM UTC
Never have I felt so acutely
a l o n e.
How can such an empty, empty feeling swallow every little bit of me?
As I stare at the ceiling, darkness blurs and dips into the spaces of my vision.
I can barely make out the corners of where each wall connects to each other.
Inevitably, I wander how something so seemingly vast and big can come to an end; closure.
A limit.
I feel so very small.
How about me?
I feel very lost indeed.
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 1:54 AM UTC
My eyes were hooked on to the West
Feasting on the riot of colors the sun had cast
I stood dazed at an experience blest
That any poet would treasure with zest
By chance I glanced at the river below
It moved like an overloaded carriage slow
With floating weeds and ***** *******
Reminding one of an ugly heap of trash
I saw partially submerged bottles bobbing on the surface
Gradually filling with ***** water perforce
And slowly sinking down to rest in peace
With their sunken brethren at the river base
Spill of oil glistened iridescent
On the face of the river florescent
Its water was far from clean
But had turned murky green
On the still surface was a layer of ****
Like rancid butter annoying anyone’s calm
Reeking smell of rotten fish and mulch
Entered my nostrils with an obnoxious stench
I closed my eyes and turned my head
And looked away from the river bed
I thought of man’s callous audacity
In assaulting Nature’s pristine vitality
I heard the river’s rising lament
And me it did acutely torment
Any sensitive soul would be left grieving
Seeing the river in such agony heaving
In the far horizon, the sky had grown into flames
I wondered if Nature was mad at man’s tall claims
Suddenly I saw with the eyes of a seer
That Dooms day is drawing near!
Oct 30, 2016
Oct 30, 2016 at 8:58 AM UTC
I am often told that love will leave me breathless,
But I hope I never know a love so greedy as to steal the air from my chest,
For I have memories of a time when my body was oxygen starved
And my lungs unable to draw in breath,
Bogged down under soupy pneumonia that clung to my innards
With vice-like, snotty grips.
My mind is sometimes lost in the sensation of frantically
Drawing air inward,
******* it into my chest with great gasps that never alleviated the burning of my lungs
Or the way pins and needles tingled down my limbs.
My brain cells were consumed with desire to force O2 to bind with the red blood cells churning in my veins.
The air surrounding me was dense with particles that refused to aid my survival,
No matter how much effort I exerted to the contrary.
Sweat dripped off my too thin form and pallid skin
As I drowned slowly from the inside out in a room full of doctors
Until they finally placed the tube back into my throat to breathe for me.
The pain receded as oxygen raced back into my cells,
And I marveled for a moment at the fact that I could not feel myself breathing,
Couldn't feel the rise or fall of my chest.
The mark of my vitality was absent,
And yet,
I was very much alive.
I remember what it was to be truly breathless,
The blind panic that seized me before finally giving way to a wish for death.
It's because of this I hope love never empties my lungs.
I want a love that makes breathing feel safe and exciting,
A love that feels so gloriously alive that I am acutely aware of my chest rising.
Love should always make breathing feel like both a right and a privilege.
It is a privilege to love her and be in her presence.
But I hope she never leaves me breathless.
Apr 25, 2021
Apr 25, 2021 at 6:25 PM UTC
The sensations take over for a time
Not quite enjoyment but a need
Flesh calling out for release
I give in eventually
Begging for this one to be different
Hoping that maybe I can just pretend for a while
Its always in the back of my mind
Exhausted I finally achieve
****** duly owed to instinct
Before the end is reached
Shame washes over me
Disappointment seeps through my entire being
I will never have the parts I desire
Acutely aware of the flesh pushing down on my chest
Accentuating every movement
The tiny nub between my fingers
Will never be big enough for my desire
The twitching hole that will never be closed
That will never supply pleasure
The tears begin to track down the sides of my face
Filled with anger, shame, disappointment and disgust
Brokenness from being entirely the wrong thing
How can I ask anyone to accept my body
When I can't even accept it myself?
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 11:37 AM UTC
Are we capable of making sensible choices?
when our own logic is generated from organic matter; a brain heavily influenced; fueled on random flashes, hormones, pheromones, testosterone, diet, desire, the air we breath, the need to *** or a simple cup of tea; all of which alters our body ~ ((Our chemical bag)); a fragile echo system constantly at odds with other elements.
Our fuel, our input influences the way we think, Yet our ego tells us that we are in control; and that we makes our own choices.
Put your hands on your hearts people! and tell me how many sensible choices have we acutely made!
I'm personally content that some seemingly bad choices have turned out quite nice!
Mar 7, 2018
Mar 7, 2018 at 7:39 AM UTC
Somethin' about an empty room, depending on how the light asks to be let in on its edges.
An empty room don’t expect you to do nothin' whatever. And its floor responds in this kinda lilting relief when you tap-dance barefoot upon it.
If you sit in all its corners, with your eyeballs (try it!) you can trace the refractions and suggestions on the wall, 'specially the places where paint and odd plaster stick up like little men and cast shadows all their own.
You can spend hours doing this.
You, the impressionable film upon which the world's projected herself—you turn the world upside down and make sense of the image in this empty box.
You
Make art here.
Shout here! Run and kick and punch through the walls and
Love them as you do so, kid.
Something about emptiness itself, gets a lot of flack, you think,
cast as grave.
Hell!
Emptiness: potential,
Emptiness: casting being in sharp distinction.
Emptiness: sensual, like breath before the
action of the human magnetic.
You: the one alive in this your empty room and therefore acutely aware of
what you chose to project in such vibrant relief.
Today, it is newspapers and magazine clippings and a notebook and a blue pen and a book by Susan Sontag.
Today you lie on the woody floor, supine, eyes wide
and become part of it
your lungs breathe life into this ancient emptiness. And the air between its walls vibrates, and sighs, nascent, ‘thank you.’
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 3:01 PM UTC
Crush:
An intense but usually short-lived infatuation.
Fantasizing about the relationship that could happen.
Shy:
Timid, easily frightened away.
Although the wanting to just say hey.
Wonderwall:
Someone you find yourself thinking about all the time, the person you are completely infatuated with.
But the wish for all the shyness to disappear is still here.
Nervous:
Highly excitable; unnaturally or acutely uneasy or apprehensive.
The wanting to meet but still playing defensive. Accommodated by umm, uhh, ummm.
Hello:
Used to express a greeting, answer a telephone, or attract attention.
Hi, umm. Don't blow it, don't blow it.
Hi! I think you're cute, pretty, adorable, beautiful, lovely, gorgeous. Would you like to go on a date?
Date:
A social appointment, engagement, or occasion arranged beforehand with another person.
She said yes.
Happy:
Delighted, pleased, or glad, as over a particular thing.
She is not just a thing, she is my everything. She makes me very happy.
Love:
A profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person.
It's a four letter word that can have a million meanings and yet only one.
Marry:
To take as an intimate life partner by a formal exchange of promises in the manner of a traditional marriage ceremony.
I take you to be my wife to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us apart, and this is my solemn vow. I love you.
You:
You mean so much,
Yet I do not have a definition.
Because you always seem to surprise me.
No words in this dictionary can describe your overall beauty.
Amazingly, I'm at a lost of words.
Beautiful:
The dictionary's crush;
A person who is reading this.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 9:09 PM UTC
As their son,
I'm acutely aware that my parents
fear me.
They're afraid because I'm everything they raised me to be.
They're afraid because I'm everything they raised me not to be.
I'm the product of a failed attempt at suburban life,
a mixture of the 80s punk-rock *****
and a scrappy ******** *******
almost perfectly blended
like chunky peanut butter.
They're afraid
because I have my mother's "Devil-May-Care" attitude
and my dad's endless charm.
I made a Pick and Mix candy bag
of their traits
until I created a boy who is everything they fear.
The fear what I stand for,
and the reactions I invoke in other people,
and the looks I get in public.
They fear my body,
surgically altered
until it's not the child they created,
but the creature I did.
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 9:48 PM UTC
the dark ice cream man
floats up and down the empty streets
his truck weakly cranking out a warped sounding song
that leaves a trail of dogs objecting
the truck has the word pestilence painted on it
instead of ice cream
his dark form hunched over the steering wheel
his cheshire grin has aspects of his delirium
imprinted on its clean toothy shine
he only comes out at three am
and glides the cool pavement in search
of Delilah's phone number
she promised him that she would be his one true
and he meant to hold her to it
he would do anything to have her all to himself
Delilah walks barefoot along the train track
with one ear nailed acutely to the train whistle approaching
the other ear in her pocket
where she hums a **** version of
the battle hymn of the republic
all good girls love horses and shotgun weddings
she wants her shotgun wedding on the saddle
with the ice cream mans brother
who she thinks is just too nifty to be anything but heavenly
she always pictured him with angel wings
carrying a sword and riding a pale horse named death
there are echoes in the concrete parkland
the neatly trimmed grass glistens wetly in the darkness
a dew touched tree stands on a narrow hill
its leaves thrashed slowly by a whisper of wind
the sound of running feet
laughter
its an illusion
she is an illusion
i make matchstick men
watch them march in precision lines
i am a matchstick man
watch me scribble in precision lines
the ice cream man now sleeping
away the humid hot afternoon
stashed away in the back of his pestilence truck
while Delilah learns how to knit and make candles
that ice cream mans brother sells at flea markets
we all settle for what we think we want
and in the end we all get what we deserve
Delilah marries the brother and they live happily
while ice cream man spends his mid-life crisis as a
politician who leads a double life
making ice cream sandwichs out of his basement
and i am discovered 'neith the truck making
matchstick men out of twigs
from the tree of life
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 12:09 AM UTC
She is All.
She's all that I think about.
I am consumed by thoughts of her
every hour,
every minute,
every second.
I remember the night.
The night where the clouds and the sky enveloped us like a quilt as I laid down next to her.
In this one moment, my entire body was acutely aware of one thing and one thing only - her lying right beside me.
The touch of her arm next to mine raised goosebumps on my flesh,
the scent of her hair intoxicated me,
the melody of her laughter washed over me like the surf of a beach.
She was lying there, right next to me.
We made fun of the clouds and laughed at the shapes they mimicked, we watched the sky as lightning put on a show for us.
It was a dream, it must have been. Nothing this wondrous and beautiful could exist in this reality.
I should wake, but I feared this euphoric dream would end.
But under our quilt of sky and clouds, and between our bodies,
I found the one thing that proved to me it wasn't a dream.
It was real, and it is beautiful.
Her hand in mine.
Delicate yet tight in embrace,
I held onto her hands.
It was a link,
a connection,
a bond
that will forever bind us across moments
that will surely be as resplendent as this.
My body next to hers, her hand in mine.
Everything is complete.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 8:17 AM UTC
Dripping *** she stood there, completely unaware
That every man about her had turned around to stare.
For in her nubile innocence and when her red lips smiled
She was causing utter mayhem as distracted drivers piled.
The Postmen stopped delivering, Policemen stood agape,
Conductors missed their trolleybus and Superman his cape!
…And as she sashayed down the street leaving bedlam in her wake
And all the while her red high heels were causing earth to shake,
Perambulating gracefully, impossibly demure,
She sauntered down the causeway, with a loveliness so pure.
Whilst just behind and following, a ravenous hot mob
Of nature’s gift to manhood, all slavering at the gob.
Quite suddenly with a swish of skirt she swirled about and laughed
At the frozen apparition there immobile and aghast.
Acutely frozen with embarrassment at having looked so ****** absurd
They all dispersed their different ways without a single word.
“Bye boys” she chortled, with a devilment in play
With flick of skirt and toss of hair she turned and walked away.
Ha!
Marshalg
Laughing to myself at the silly old mating game we play.
Pukehana Paradise
14 April 2013
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 5:18 PM UTC
There is something
in your presence
that makes me feel
like I am returning home,
as though I've
traced the outline of that sparkling smile,
anticipated your kiss,
and recognized the whisper of your voice,
long before now.
Instances,
in which we have known each other
in some other
existence.
Times,
when I am acutely aware
and can sense
your disposition, cravings and
aversions
simply by looking into your eyes, hearing your voice,
or contemplating your touch.
Our paths in this life,
of course,
have simply not allowed this to be
imaginable.
But its in those moments,
serendipitous moments,
when I feel like
I am rediscovering you,
instead of becoming acquainted with the essence of you.
And it makes me wonder.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 7:30 PM UTC
Wherein without a mouthful of air,
He spoke of materialism with
a judge’s
Merciless verdict.
His eyes so glazed yet passionate,
He threw his thoughts to the ceiling,
Like rocks in a plastic bag,
To see if it could make a bang
And his speeches are so angelic
Amongst the ignorant giggles
And the frayed songs of yawns,
You really had to give him credit. For, you
See, he stares out at a whole different cosmic
Sect in a wanton orchestra
Filled with red wallows of
Flags and pride.
Scared jumbles strewn like flowers across this dying opinion-land,
He’s seen it all despite his accent.
He’s strummed cold and excited to be here.
His life is a rusting metal scrap
Tossed to the side of the masterpiece from whence it came.
He thinks that everybody must have been a spy…
No, wait, two quirks tossed in to
Hear the Man talk. It’s all a
Meandering walk from where
The toads squat.
He describes it as a war for the value of academic standards,
Which are now expiring before his eyes, and how we’re all
A bunch of rotting worms dying as we speak. The hope is
That the people from your life will be defeated by you,
Right? That’s how it goes in the war of everybody
Against everybody. He desires to make all of life
Into a dream… but that would result in economic
Impediments.
Give him the $1 million, also known as “the cool mill.”
Everybody must have been a spy.
You couldn’t look for this logic
Beneath a rock
Or stuck in your lover’s hair.
He’s depressed because he is not asleep – he’s acutely aware.
He speaks like rapturous nuns,
throwing themselves on to the cross
And begging me to ready the nails.
Sep 23, 2011
Sep 23, 2011 at 11:42 PM UTC
Our cries for hope and peace and stability were usually the signposts for an innate and cultivated bitterness. From birth we had planted ourselves in the middle of a struggle for both hope and a good hold on realism. We chose pessimism as the avenue to realism. Once we began to hope and hope only, we couldn’t look at ourselves fully in the mirror. We’d start smiling and thinking that goodness was as easy as smiling at the other person, whoever that was, who was on the other side of the mirror, bus, or classroom. But as we got older, we saw this hope as stupid. It contaminated our bodies. Hope is a wound that festers. Hope not only festers, but it grows even in the worst conditions. This is why we grasped for realism and pessimism. Because hope could so easily grow and wrap around us and make us stupid with its poison. We had been hurt too many times by this stupidity. No, our philosophical doctrine was to **** or be killed, to feel hurt constantly so that we could despise the poison of hope more acutely. We still cry for hope and peace and stability, but we hate ourselves for doing it.
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 7:10 PM UTC
*the phone turns yellowy orange,
low power mode,
have fallen below
the 10% threshold,
we both drowsy,
yet competitively locked-into
separate screen servitude
she notices,
I don't,
she says,
"you need a charge"
god, she's so correct,
our mutualizing power is
fastly slow draining
this we both
know~notice,
and neither
says nada~nothing
we,
both poets in our way,
acutely aware
of the power of metaphor,
and she knows
that I know,
I noticed
what just went unspoken*
>an untitled poem<
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 1:50 PM UTC
At 7 years old, I told my mother,
"You're not my real mom.
You're my Earth mom,
And at night when I'm asleep,
I go back to my home planet."
As the years sped onwards,
I conceptualized myself as a three headed alien,
A Poet From Another Planet,
Acutely aware of my innate differences.
No explanation had I other than being extraterrestrial.
Those around me, too, seemed to sense I was "other."
Playground insults supported by adults who floated labels like
"Lazy," "Difficult," "Rude," "Deliberately Obtuse"
Over my head as if they were a crown,
Signifying I was queen of kingdom "Unlike Us."
No one looked deeper at the poor social skills ,
The rigidity, sensory difficulties, challenges with executive dysfunction.
It was easier to pretend I was in control,
Choosing the route of difficulty and belittlement.
It was only after I nearly succeeded in killing myself
That someone assembled the whole picture.
My story is not unique among women
Born into bodies and brains whose operating system is Autism.
We are the forgotten, the alienated, and plastered with assumptions,
Lost under the blind eye of those who spin tall tales of
"Only straight, white little boys can possibly be autistic!"
Generations of autistic women have known not a name for their difference,
Bogged down under self-loathing, eating disorders, and suicides,
Anything to cope with a world designed to break them
For the differences everyone noticed but no one could see.
Now that women are finally coming onto the scene,
A subtle shift in the awareness that the clinicians, teachers, doctors
Were missing a whole population of autistic people,
Answers are gate kept behind assessments that are thousands of dollars
And diagnosticians who've yet to see the error of their ways.
Peace of mind seems to be a right only of white autistic men
Who are lucky enough to have the "profile" of autism modeled after them.
It took 19 years, two suicide attempts, including 10 days in a coma
For someone to finally "see me,"
And I'm one of the lucky ones.
Answers were finally mine,
But understanding one's own brain should be a human right.
I think we can all agree:
The price of a diagnosis should not be your life.
Mar 17, 2021
Mar 17, 2021 at 2:39 PM UTC
Not the smile the way you pose for in front of the camera no the real you the one that God made when you were born. The completed developed one the one when you fall short of your true self you feel the disappointment acutely you can’t rush perfection you can’t avoid the struggles the test that draw you into introspection you must sculpt this living being go the wrong way take a short cut you bring on the tell tale signs of disfigurement to the untrained eye it can pass unnoticed sorry the soul has a mirror that bears little resemblance to the outer man you learned in school how environment social order can effect outer growth.
This is the hidden man of the heart why are you plagued with self doubt or self loathing or you feel like a world class phony you picked up the hammer and chisel but distraction or higher self interest caused you to rush away now you feel dismay friend the artist in you will not be satisfied with half measures shoddy work are you forgetting you will go to the still bathing light his royal personage will speak nothing you alone will pass the vote to condemn such failure I took the material that possessed endless possibilities of perfection and I through disrespect to my own higher good over a life time I measured and weighed values that cannot be trifled with would I give unreliable information to family and friends knowing it could harm or lead them to ruination no but to yourself you foolishly barter indescribable beauty for rot and waste even in song they have spoken He gave me beauty for ashes. Will you conquer bad habits and the lair in the natural mirror? Turn to the unblemished the true and only master who gives direction in the most dangerous and beguiling circumstances never wavering only the true picture does he draw from these unquestionable lines provide inspiration and heady waves of joy from satisfaction in knowing the progress is real it will stand the acid test you can be duplicated in others they will reverence your integrity as they see it growing in themselves. Finally unbound they secure the heights of rare and noble discovery pressing toward the high calling of resplendent glory. Take these golden reins they lead to streets of purist gold and to the heart to that only one who knows what you can truly be.
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 12:24 AM UTC
like a seesaw, there is a nonexistant stable foundation, only yes and no answers
you are a rhetorical question and an untested hypothesis, but this is all wrong
this army wasn't meant to stir in it's wake, and this was a natural homecoming
that could only end in some complex disaster, and my roots were torn from home,
swiftly kidnapped, finding eagerness in the idea of you and the solace you bring
i am acutely aware that you could bend me into whatever you wished, a bow on your tree
something proud that you can show everyone, but i'm scared of being treated less than deserved
like a crumpled up idea on paper that was never meant to be shown with the answer, solution, counterclaim written in permanent black marker, forevermore never changed in my eyes, i merely forgotten about the acid reflex i'd get after i was given a finalized ultimatum, forgotten how to see in color because my brain can only remember you in monochrome, but you're so vivid in my head, there's no way someone like you could be just smoke and mirrors, i've read and folded every page of your autobiography to save for later whenever i needed some peace of mind.
- kra
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 9:38 PM UTC