"admissions" poems
An Open Letter to Really Important People
The Old Dime Box, Texas Statement
A Manifesto Made Manifest in Manifesting Manifestingness
We post this serious looking document
Bloated with long vocabulary words
Sodden with weak dependent clauses
Marshaled in numbered ranks, down, down they go
To the GossipNet all serious like
And everyone has to pay attention to us
Because it’s AN OPEN LETTER, y’know -
You may sign it if you’ve got letters behind your name
Signatories:
Apostle-Disciple Magic Dawn, DD., Non-Binary, Author of Green Polar Bears I Am, Co-Equal-Director of the Anti-Oppressionist Theatre Against the Occupation, Agent of the Revolution, Auteur, Guest on The Wheel of Fortune and Parent of Two AMAZING children of indeterminate Gender with Their AWESOME and AMAZING Life-Partner Sven-Marie.
Massive Ferguson, M.Ed., Poet, Rector of Admissions, The University of Where the Old Circuit City Use to Be
Poncy Tworbst, M.A., PUBLISHED Author, Seeker, Inspirational Singer-Songwriter, PUBLISHED
Heather-Mistee La’ Thwitte-Tworbst, Ph.D., Director of Library Resources at Saint Margaret ****** Homeschool Resource Authority Collective, Inc., Certified Ordained Consecrated Priest in The Worldwide Church of Me-ness and Pastor of the World-Famous Weddings ‘R’ Us Chapel of Rainbow Dreams in Magdalena, New Mexico
Lawrence Hall, HSG, Thinker of Thinky-Ness and, Like, Stuff, Endowed Chair he found at Goodwill, His Mark: X
(Sean Ian Johann Johnson, MBA, J.D., Chief Photocopier Operator at Donald Trump University and Fashion Editor at Gun, God, and Guts Magazine, was not able to sign today; he is sharing a cell with other White House staff and patiently awaiting The Day of Greatness.)
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 3:48 PM UTC
There once was a proper noun,
who started hanging with the wrong crowd.
With alluring adjectives who handed out compliments like candy
− gob smacking gossipers with an opinion on everything.
And with thrill-seeking adverbs,
who buddied up to the most dangerous of companions;
crash, dive, hurl, and gamble (to name a few).
Until the day the sentence came rambling into town,
planting punctuation in the form of kisses
on the noun’s eyelids, earlobes, and collarbone.
Provoking such admissions as, “My thighs stuck
to the black leather seats under the hot, cloudy skies
of that August afternoon, and my hair whipped
like willow branches in the wind,
when I rode on the back of his motorcycle.”
or, “He greets me every morning with a sun-drenched kiss”,
and, “The tulips were picked fresh from the ditch of
a curvy, country road, but now sit in a
vase by my bed, and are slowly wilting away.”
It would eventually be made clear
that the sentence had a nasty habit
of propositioning prepositions,
only to leave them hanging,
and to place things in parenthesis,
that simply did not belong.
And so, the sentence would wind up leaving town,
or “run-on”, as the noun liked to tell it.
Went chasing after some particularly provocative expletives,
eventually trailing off with a faint set of ellipsis...
And the kindest of adjectives
came cooing after the noun,
calling to her; lovely, lustrous, listless.
And the adverbs brought with them
their gentlest of friends; comfort and console,
to speak with the noun:
softly, tenderly, lovingly- all witnesses.
But it was of no use,
and the noun whispered quietly:
“I have been enchanted with a single kiss
which can never be undone,
until the destruction of language.”
*based off of the poem Permanently, by Kenneth Koch
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 4:24 PM UTC
She hopes, silently, that he will chase her,
catch her in his embrace and smother her
with feverish kisses.
He wants to glance back, towards the stinging
sun, towards the opposite direction she has stayed in
and beacon her with words of licorice.
She wishes to let her voice drown the antagonistic
opposition to their current disposition and listen
attentively to reciprocated admissions.
But they cannot, will not, because
this is not a fairy tale, this is not a fantasy, this
is the sad reality of both decisions.
And so torn apart between letting go or
catching to,
they walk away towards opposite directions.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 12:18 AM UTC
Tensions high,
like broken kite strings,
reaching further away,
escaping the empty earth
in your arms.
Creeping chatter,
pouring inky letters,
in runny messes
all over my hands,
feeling bruised by you;
the sting, the slap
as leaking words
drip drip drip
from your mouth,
the broken tap.
I’m tired.
I’m so tired of hearing
soft
whispered yearnings
scratching the back of your throat.
Desperation, loneliness?
You beg with the croon in your tone,
you play along like the gentle little
sweetling,
a songful, humming love,
all warm in cupped hands.
In all this time,
this achingly long time
I’ve played as your neat little trick;
the showman’s trusty pet,
small dove flying
as soon and only when you release me.
String caught up around my waist,
I’ll never fly too far.
As I walked away,
that night with the moon trailing my form,
and pooling in pillows cradled in my soft footsteps,
you watched my back
stretch lean and tall and
stand
away from you.
You looked back,
it was the moon shifting through my hair,
when I turned to notice
a head shake,
a blink in the empty settling air you left behind.
….Drip….drip….drip,
you leak all those notions I wished you
would one day say,
those heart-melting flatteries,
desirable admissions,
I’m the only one you want,
to keep you satisfied,
keep you going and touching and loving
and exploring and breaking,
until your other girl comes home.
You ask and plead and return,
lapping and licking in my arms,
wanting my form so bad again;
you cry for all the fun in the world,
but this time, it just can’t.
You’re just my broken tap.
You’d need to stop dripping ***** water one day.
You’d need to stop echoing around me at night,
cradling myself to keep my strength enough
to say no to what I wanted and got for so long.
But you’re just my delicate and lovely broken tap.
I’ll always love you somehow, and feel so dangerous,
intoxicating and breathtaking
as you made me so.
You showed me so.
But I can’t wait for you to cease on your own.
Pull me round with you, wait for you,
tossed like an empty drink because of you.
Maybe
I just need to let you
let me go.
Like I cried to let you go first.
Oct 23, 2016
Oct 23, 2016 at 9:06 AM UTC
The world belongs to the nocturnal, the ever present reflexive vanguard whose presence elicits attention,
be it negative or positive.
The crawl to a standstill, the distractions, the regrets:
These are as naught to those whose focus supplants physical duress.
Success is the only road, the path to failure can only be trod by idle feet, hot coals to the promised kingdom of recognition and praise, this must be traversed at all lengths, at all levels, by all means:
Take it.
Hatred or envy does not compare to the rush of achievement, real effort brought to fruition.
Be not afraid to raise your expectations, be afraid that they never rise.
Most of all, love unashamedly and furiously as if no one could weigh in,
the universe bends to the warrior's perspective
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 6:07 AM UTC
With pen and pad in hand,
I’m finally ready to take a stand.
This is how I get my words out best,
it’s kind of like a written test.
It seems to be the only thing that works
when it comes to you, I get flustered by that smirk.
But something about written words is easier,
I bet you’re starting to wonder if it could get cheesier.
Maybe it’s because of your eyes,
and how they reflect the night skies.
Or how every inch of my body reminds me of you,
it’s like to me, this body is brand new.
My hands, they are now meant to hold yours
or how you’re the one my heart adores.
See my body is no longer my own,
my ownership fell apart with every moan.
Thoughts like this, admissions like this,
seem to get lost amidst each kiss.
That’s why pen and paper are best,
for my admission here can attest.
I get a bit lost when you’re close to me,
our bodies intermixed means you’re all I see.
With a pen in hand, my thoughts aren’t all over,
I don’t feel like so much of a rover.
This is where it’s thoughtless,
where I’m anything but cautious.
So, this is so you know that I love you,
and with pen and pad in hand, it's easy to construe.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 11:40 PM UTC
The Right situation reflects an ex
Still searching to find that true love
Nonchalant admissions become mental
Reality brings out imaginary bad grass
Mystery surrounds the new jealous ****
In and out sweet talk closes an agenda
What is not said often circles the streets
Thinking without feeling sees head games
Nov 30, 2009
Nov 30, 2009 at 8:10 PM UTC
I see you daily
and I've come to realize
that nothing of you is flawed.
These past years
I have been privileged
to see you:
receive letters from division I athletics
blossom from the flower of puberty
and live in a gorgeous home.
But as I broke through your flawless facade,
I saw hurt and vulnerability,
I no longer saw perfection.
Your mother- lost to cancer,
your father- an angry man,
your siblings- hateful.
I have been puzzled
to see you:
deny admissions to division I schools
let your hair grow scraggly, your face become oily
and your house be foreclosed.
You are not what I thought you were.
You are like me
you are weak
hurt
abandoned.
You, like me, are not perfect.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 4:39 PM UTC
Hold on
Admissions...
The night and swelling sidewalks
Call to me.
Folding.
Submission.
Those blinking lights, a quickly
soothing need
Blue-white.
the walk signs,
I'm running past the end of
random chance
Do winners ever quit when
they're ahead?
Too many of these casino nights.
I never let them end, because I
swear that Lucky Lil has eyes for me.
So I'll take my chances.
One more dance with these snakebite
pints 'til I
can roll these X'd out lids
over these swollen snake eyes.
Deuces.
I'm losing.
These sights and sounds made fuzzy,
buzzing slack.
Jackpot.
They have me.
I'm out of moves and fading
quick to black.
Odds are
I'm ending
the night wand'ring the sidewalks
with old dreams.
Cuz losers never quit when
they're ahead.
Too many of these casino nights
I never let them end because I
swear that Lucky Lil has eyes for me.
But she's rolling shoulder,
rolling pupils and shooting
weighted dice.
So roll my body out, over
the curb, to midnight.
Because I can never quit
when I'm ahead.
Sep 2, 2024
Sep 2, 2024 at 2:56 PM UTC
Original origami
feng shui of the tai chi
Lao Tsi
tao becomes all becomes tao
but for now
all becomes crazy
so funny, circumstances of life
like a silly little jigsaw puzzle citcom
situational irony,
"Oh, let's invite him!"
Oh, let's re-visit a drunken nightmare
too incoherent to say "stop"
thoughts stuck at the back of a throat
let's choke our chakras for a bit
get our green juices and black juices good and mixed up
like a splatter painting
****
I wish
kept it in like a champ
my own personal fault
too bro to be ***
not bro enough to be respected
interjected with comments, admissions
such nice compliments from terrible mouths
I know I can handle my liquor
I handle a lot
with shrugs and smiles
more liquor
just hand over the bottle
show you sometihng real impressive
ever seen a girl go super saiyan?
Humble be thy game
shallow be thy name
gnoming around
oh please, get a grip
even in boarderline unconsciousness
I know you don't find me that intriguing,
that brilliant,
just another girl too nice to hit
too paralyzed to think.
Jul 1, 2012
Jul 1, 2012 at 12:39 AM UTC
for Eléa
<•
feel you my love, between my thumb and forefinger ,
beyond obsession, have rubbed them,
thumb and forefinger tips pebble smooth,
lying there, lying to myself, saying don't know why,
probably the standard ****** busybodies annoying,
no big deal, just the chocolate stuffing of day to day living,
but I know better, I'm home after 23:00, in bed alone,
you love are at a milonga ce soir,
and I, still rubbing them glossy shiny,
unconsciously, subconsciously, consciously, stubbornly
my light, shut off, grab the silky top sheet,
between the same thumb and forefinger,
pull it up, to under the neck,
comfort covering my chilled bare chested unheated heart,
and the rubbing yet, gets stronger, the sheet sensation,
an unforeseen, trigger warning
the sensation, at last, dulling and in the dark,
the fingers worn, body worn, and the worn cold admissions
easy slip out, worn by denial, a sash across the chest-ache,
the fingers instrumental, now more useless from imprecision
I know, I know,
fingers are memorizing touch, memorizing memories,
at the crossroads of two Burgundy country roads intersecting,
because when no one is seeing, no one you want,
that no one won't be joining you later, ya see,
just the normal nite dreams
with that self-same tireless thumb and forefinger,
pull a tissue from the box hid in the second drawer to blot the
wet spots on the pillow, can't be having that,
no one, no,
she wouldn't like that,
and you
nonetheless and all the more,
surprised
cause no one told you,
you didn't know that,
fingers could weep
Sep 21, 2017
Sep 21, 2017 at 2:14 AM UTC
I've helped you help me process my addiction
your conviction to your faith
or lack
my conviction with the law
the smack
the tall walls fall around
I have found myself on many grounds
your voice rang no sound
all the evil within
cut away without forsaking your skin
sin in complex ****** addiction
in addition additional additions conveyed
swept away
easy
not ******
saves my day
I speak with nothing in the way
convey my wish for more has been gone or delayed
relayed admissions of guilt
of the many tables I have tilted
still I have my bouts
doubts
God?
Can you help this mother ****** out?
hurdling hurdles under me feet
can He feel this beat?
Stumbling upon piles and lost at the four way
...street...
un-ended
my God is not offended.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 3:44 PM UTC
I imagine there is something I could've done
Something I could have said
Something I could've broken
To make you stay a little bit longer
Even if it were just to yell at me
Maybe then it would've taken an extra ten minutes
To forget your cologne
Maybe it would've taken ten extra minutes
To forget your cheek bones
Maybe if what I had done had been so bad
Maybe that would've giving me an extra hour
To remember you
But my mom tells me there is nothing I could've have done
That would've made you stay for good
I got myself suspended hoping
The school would call you instead of mom
But they only had our house number
And your postcards didn't have return addresses
So there was nothing they could've done to find you
My mom misses your income I miss your arms
I miss your baseball glove under my pillow
I miss your left hand on my cheek
I miss my black eyes
The school was so concerned about my home life
Back when I had a home
Now I just have hallways with doors that lead to rooms
We don't go in anymore
My mattress is on the living room floor
And I don't do my chores
Because you aren't there to make me
And for all the things I can't remember about you
I still can't make myself forget
The color of your taillights
And no matter what I snort I can't seem to burn the smell of exhaust fumes
Out of my nasal cavity
I will forever be eight years old
Forever have a tear stain on my right cheek
Forever know where to put my mom's head when she cries
I've had too much practice at being a man
To ever call you one
There is not a faucet or pipe
That hasn't leaked since you've left
Which is either how long you've been gone
Or how little you did while you were here
She says it's been for the best
Your post cards stopped coming
My cheeks stopped swelling
Your anger stopped echoing in my ears
And now I can't even remember the tone of your voice
But my mom says it's a lot like mine
So I try to change it when I'm at home
I didn't write about you in my college admissions essay
Under the challenges I've faced section
Not under the regrets section
Not in the areas to improve section
I put your story under my proudest achievements
Because if there is something that I never intend to do
It's grow up just like you
No matter how many girls I've ******
There isn't a single one that could pack a punch like you
Your postcards never had return addresses
But that doesn't mean I won't find you
And when I do you better hit me back
It's the least you could do
Feb 26, 2010
Feb 26, 2010 at 1:28 PM UTC
Animals of the arcade, Farthing Wood we ain’t
Admissions must be made, not one of us is a saint
A motley crew are we, I suppose it takes allsorts
We share coffee, we share tea and we always share our thoughts
Such different species we all are yet side by side we stand
For even when we’re below par, we are a merry band
The chicken in her chilly room, she feels she’s lost her way
But we all know sunshine or gloom, she delivers every day
The pony keeps us all amused, trotting through the mob
But actually we are quite confused, what exactly is her job?
The wise owl often reads a book to pass the endless hours
She sits and shivers in her nook despite her selling powers
The elegantly pretty deer makes everything seem easy
No matter how she feels when here, she’s always bright and breezy
The deer has an assistant, a sleepy little mouse
Who can be quite persistent as she sells things for the house
And then there is the blackbird feeding everybody’s chicks
Variation is her key word as a future spouse she picks
Last and certainly not the most, the weasley little man
Who acts like he’s the perfect host but cons you if he can
And so each day we all display this animal behaviour
Six happy souls and one convinced he’s our sodding saviour!
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 11:04 AM UTC
In a blanket of breath now pleasantly swathed
Our bodies made broken; prostrate in the fog
Exhumed from the boughs of tree-tops so balmy
On alabaster bones that tremble quite calmly
With thoughts of tomorrow, our miasmic today
That in wistful contemplation is thoroughly dismayed
Like the sullen, windy chimes of a church bell that rings
In the hardened heart of winter, on frost-bitten strings
Which frail, arboreal appendages, with nimble purposes pluck
To indulge the dulcet beds, in which our thoughts are tucked
In a licentious yawn that drifts, from scentless, sleepy shrouds
Like azure ships now sailing, through lofty, lilting clouds
Our pendulous hands still pawning these passionate decrees
With fervent fears to consummate your swiftly slumbered vestige
Atop my flesh, all slick with sweat, and in shadows sorely rapt
The mellifluous hum of reverent sight, through keyholes quickened pass
My heart is estranged from the banal constraint of this stagnant mortal coil
Held aloft in the piercing plea of love’s unbidden toil
All visions captive to the subtle sway of your chest now undulating
Like waves that crash, in rhythms vast; my thoughts, they are invading
Urgency deemed, from unconscious form, in sharp pangs of desire
The crease between your lips, the hand heavy on my hip: the nuances in which I am mired
The idiosyncrasies of you like a poem that is repeatedly folded
And jettisoned into my open mind, where these precious admissions molded
Taking form in tangible caress, to envelop with silken shivers
On the sill of windows wide where lonesome flowers withered
Thus proffered throat, in porcelain quiver, where stilted lungs concealed
In tear-wrought arrows, tempered and true, fly with errant zeal
To pin my ruminant heart upon this ragged, beggar’s sleeve
And chain my weightless body, from where it floats among the eaves
Oct 28, 2011
Oct 28, 2011 at 8:29 PM UTC
Anything can sound silly
death threats from the weak
and admissions of love
from sociopaths
the height of hilarity
a squeaky voice
will do a good job
at stealing the strength
of any sentence.
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 11:10 AM UTC
Privilege
I have it,
supposedly,
unannounced
to me.
I was born,
brown hair,
green eyes,
fair skin,
poor
and hungry.
But oh so privileged.
To speak up in whatever company I choose,
To walk late at night with a hoodie pulled down, just over my eyes
To strive
achieve
succeed
without others being surprised
I know no threat
from cops,
employers,
or admissions advisors.
I see no intimidation
from statistics,
labels,
or slurs.
I have the privilege
of being completely unaware
of my own
privilege
I'll use it,
hopefully,
for everyone
you'll see.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 9:52 PM UTC
poetic fractured retractions
gnashing night prayers,
scribbling braille,
written sideways
dipped amid holy water's retention,
compromising statements
of disbelief's proclamation
spinning music the color
of nakedly sick ****** yet
burnished souls keep on ticking
half past total trade-offs
in a spoonful of smoky reflections
sans sugar's acid trip,
anointed of rose red
****** false pretenses
dancing off center
in disillusioned
pirouettes of pseudo redemption,
whirling out of control on
staged tapestry's loftiness
surrendered ballet slippers
in blistered half promises,
as twisted metaphors sprightly
tuned out spun anomalies
below birds on a rusty wire tweeting
admissions of blue's cobalt execution,
rendered inky alterations' inquisitions
'pon pedaled pink fluff profundity,
exhaling paroxysms of engaged poetry
in vehemently enraged deliverance,
naught one is ever as they seem
through pigmented film 'neath
figment's imagined looking glass
of ingratiated grand delusions
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 11:17 AM UTC
The oncoming night
shall witness the gods
agonising over the destinies
of doubting souls -
bequeathed with numerous
apprehensions painted over
by theatrical lies
not revealing
admissions and guilt.
Jul 27, 2010
Jul 27, 2010 at 8:55 AM UTC
My average means I don’t have to take final exams.
So my bachelor's degree is a finished product.
I cranked it out, all that’s left now is the walk (May 18th).
Let’s call it my nearly forgotten masterpiece.
My schedule says that I start a 1-year ‘master of public health’ degree in 38 days.
It was my mom’s idea. She said, “You need to keep active” (pre- med-school).
It sounds crazier to me now than it did last year, when I was accepted and agreed.
Now, I feel like some chary, aging showgirl who’s about to be hustled back on-stage.
But what’s life without massive compromise?
Anyway, don’t cry for me. I’m still sizing it all up, I’ll figure it out.
I suppose we’re all out there hustling.
It’s our response to slowing med-school admissions,
those glitches in the medical, industrial education complex
or that’s how the narrative’s shaped, anyway.
It’s not the additional work that bothers me, I’m regular worker bee,
It’s the perma-threat of loneliness.
I’m already packing. Leaving feels real
and I'm surfing this maudlin wave tonight—shading deep blue.
The simple march of time will take away friends I’ve grown to love.
We’ve allegorised and transformed one another by proximity.
I’ve really loved it here.
.
.
Songs for this:
Graduation (Friends Forever) by Vitamin C
Graduation Day by Tony Rivers & The Castaways
Apr 21, 2025
Apr 21, 2025 at 8:01 AM UTC
I killed you
I know that now
And I'm ready to take responsibility for my actions
I saw you hit the floor
Through the veil of pistol smoke
And the haze of awkward admissions of guilt
Dead or dying brain cells
Grasping breaths
And silence
I killed you
Because you had become a monster
Not like Frankenstein
But like the arrogant son of a ***** who brought him to life
I killed you
Because it seemed like the most reasonable course of action at the time
I watched your insides boil and burst
With every creaking door hinge
And empty, hollow, cob-webbed emotion
I saw your eyes go dim
As youth blossomed into ungainly structure
And loss
I listened to your blood-caked final words
"Tell them...
I said something prophetic"
I buried you
Wore black and dropped flowers
Sang songs of remembrance
And moved on
I killed you
I know that now
And while I'm not apologizing
I am asking forgiveness
Not from you
Your dead
From myself
May 14, 2012
May 14, 2012 at 8:07 PM UTC
When I was just a little kid
Uncle Jeff talked to me
About the things people said
As opposed to what I could see.
He cautioned me to listen
And watch people carefully
He promised me an education,
Just made for little me.
Do they walk their talk
When no one is around?
Do they mean the words they say, or
Is it just a lot of sound?
Do you feel you can trust them
With what you put away
Or do you think they will cheat you
And take it for their rainy day?
There are those who even as children
Prefer what other kids get
They grow up to be criminals
So you must not forget.
Another word for criminals
Is a word called ‘politicians’.
They’re very strong with cheating
But not good at admissions.
Money in their bank account
Is all that’s driving them.
Look for their integrity?
The pickings will be slim.
They look for what they can get
From you in many ways.
The cards are marked, you can depend
And they know all the plays.
Do they walk their talk
When no one is around?
Do they mean the words they say, or
Is it just a lot of sound?
Do you feel you can trust them
With what you put away
Or do you think they will cheat you
And take it for their rainy day?
You and they don’t think alike;
You can’t guess what they think.
But you can bet when they suggest
The idea will highly stink.
Your best protection is to hide
When these creeps are around.
If you have to pack your things
And move to a different town.
I have learned my Uncle Jeff
Was wise beyond his years.
He had a lot of wisdom stored
Securely between his ears.
He shared them with a little child
And I listened to what he said.
I heard his words as clean pure truth
And kept them in my head.
Do they walk their talk
When no one is around?
Do they mean the words they say, or
Is it just a lot of sound?
Do you feel you can trust them
With what you put away?
Or do you think they will cheat you
And take it for their rainy day?
Jun 14, 2017
Jun 14, 2017 at 11:07 PM UTC
One sentence
set the course
for the next six months
to two years
of my life
.
I got
denied
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 12:54 PM UTC