"afterwords" poems
I'm sure he'd approve,
but there is something endearing
about reading Bukowski on the toilet.
You even get to wash your hands afterwords.
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 2:02 PM UTC
imagine this.
you experience something
with another person
that typically involves
a great deal of
love and commitment.
but, you didnt want to.
this person didn't love you
nor were they commited to you.
this moment
is usually special
and meaningful.
but, you can't even tell me
if it was because
you dont know.
you dont remember.
welcome to my life.
i was the mere age
of fifteen.
i thought i loved him.
afterwords,
i didn't tell anybody.
instead,
i made excuses.
“i remember.”
“i wasn't drunk.”
“i wanted to.”
i spent six long months
suffering,
burying everything,
before i finally decided
it was time to tell my mom.
last month
my mom told me
i had a doctors appointment.
you see,
i have been consistently
losing weight and
i hadn't been sleeping at night.
when my doctor asked if
my mom could come in too,
i instantly knew something was wrong.
my mom looked into my eyes
and told me i needed to be honest.
i had no idea
what she was talking about.
“she was *****
my mom blurted.
you see,
after spending
six. ******* months.
alone,
burying everything
that i didn't want to think about,
just to have all that hard work
ripped apart
was heartbreaking.
no,
having someone i
loved and trusted
do something so awful,
so wrong,
that was heartbreaking.
but digging it all back up?
that was torture.
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 4:31 PM UTC
What does it mean to be real truly?
May be to get up elsewise each morning?
Or drink my coffee elsewise all the time?
To hush elsewise or sound for something?
To be real… What does it mean truly?
To meet rules, fashion or weather folly?
Or may be befit you? No love, no suffer, no joy,
No tenderness - all’s a waste as an ice-lolly.
Don’t think about the sea while watching the sunset?
Don’t dream about the forest while listening to birds?
Don’t walk in the rain and don’t drip with wet?
And don’t have any feelings? No afterwords.
No. I decided one day to be real truly.
But I didn’t break myself while making the same.
I continue to walk in the rain, to drink my coffee.
And I will never tell a lie to myself again.
Aug 14, 2025
Aug 14, 2025 at 6:14 AM UTC
While relaxing in an open field
Carving thoughts out of scenic jumble
I bore witness to a king of sights
And afterwords I lay there humbled.
For the briefest of moments
(Although relative, looking back it possessed no time)
I was not in a mere field anymore
And I was quite sure it wasn't my mind.
The clouds danced and swirled for display
Looping through an ever-blue sky.
And out of that beautiful, blasted way
Arrived something riding a north winds sigh.
It revealed itself, beautiful, splendid!
Towers of marble! Azure cascades!
Mountains tall, Emerald Halls,
Amber forests beside Evergreen glades!
And flying astride the floating island,
Were winged men holding spears of light!
They accompanied it, protecting the jewel,
Truly great protection for the Island of Flight!
Then while passing through a nearby mist,
The island seemed to disappear!
It caught itself in the clouds above
And the next instant the skies were clear.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 10:25 AM UTC
She, betrayed, in histrionic flow,
Heart akimbo, flailing at the sky,
Fired with voyeuristic need-to-know,
Rages at the outing of a lie.
He, defensive, understanding, sure,
Accommodates the outburst in his stride.
Lassoes her with a practiced sinecure;
Instinctive gesture, expertly applied.
She, bewildered, aimless and morose –
(He, distracted by the barmaid’s hips) –
Casts aside the guilt-effacing rose;
Repealed devotion scrawled upon her lips.
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 2:11 PM UTC
where's the meaningful tug
pulling each other from the waist
our palms resting on each other's side
the fast world of businessmen and
mothers, us, standing like a patched heart
saying our goodbyes
where's the moment of silence
the pause, the deep breath, the uncertain
exhale, where's the lip biting, the half smiling,
the word choking, the not knowing
standing like two dandelions in the open field
facing each other, with nothing to say except
for when the wind blows,
we give each other a hundred wishes
where's the promise to never forget each other
where's the clever comeback to hold back the tears
where's that one moment that sums up everything
the birthday card, the christmas present, the one last trip
where's the humbleness in our voice
like we were speaking in goodbye
you disappeared out of my life like a name I forgot
like a word on the top of my head
so sudden, yet so smooth
like tender rain
like a distant anthem
sometimes the significance is not in how it ends
but the parts of you that are left afterwords
sometimes is all the time
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 1:32 AM UTC
Our bodies ******* as we become one.
You trace the outline of my spine.
Subtle kisses.
Lost in endless time.
Take the last hit of no regrets.
As your morals run out.
Like the last drop of Jack.
Sweet scent of seduction.
Gentle becomes violent.
Afterwords you lay in that bed.
Nicotine regret fills the room.
Until you finally rest your head.
Accept your beautiful mistake.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 12:52 AM UTC
You could find someone better, trust me I'm someone who hides their feelings beneath their sweaters I'm a distanced person who spaces out even in the moments that are most important. My anxiety keeps me from saying the things that I want to blurt out so badly but cannot because of the words that others will slap down on me. Trust me I'm not someone to stand beside. Toxicity engulfs me often I'm barely pushing through this sticky path that was created out of hate my anxiety is always entertained do you not understand the pain that these people have caused me to feel!?
Insane.
I always thought I was, because my thoughts often turned from happy to horrific once something bad had been said, well what did you expect?! For me to be perfectly happy afterwords and forgive you as if you had never meant the words that twisted and slurred around in my mind, holy **** it's about time you learned your place bullying is not something that can be accepted so easily so stop doing it for ***** sake I cannot begin to describe the way I hated myself for so long! I'm damaged even now from back then and it's been so long! I know you don't give not one single **** It's depressing really, how empty I had and have felt because of you..
Let me try to define this kind of pain for you since I know you'd never be able to handle the things that went through my mind after what you had caused me to feel. You see I have always been trapped inside of a shell, even when I was very young I was shy but you made it a point to deny it's all in my mind you said to me a billion times but did you know that I was dreaming of dying, drowning, suffocating, nearly injuring myself as the tears would fall down. I was a suicidal case thanks to the things people had forced me to endure you thought it was funny but would you still if you knew how violent I had become towards myself?!
Just try to imagine now, you have a child and will probably have more what will you say to them when they come rushing in through the door, their angering tears slapping down against the floorboards as if they were raindrops will you let them know you were not a victim!? I bet you will lie and tell them something to confide in I hope for their sake you do because if I knew that my parents caused others to feel such ways well ******* I bet I'd have went insane knowing I was living in the same house as a perpetrator. How could you do that, mother!?
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 9:32 PM UTC
Nothing I do is perfect, and that's what terrifies me.
I stare and stare at the crooked lines and microscopic germs,
not able to be seen under the naked eye.
My room intimidates me to the extent in which I'm afraid to enter.
The mess is obscure, chipped paint off the walls and pencils thrown to the sides in utter frustration.
I can't focus when what I'm doing isn't exact.
Math causes me to panic.
Not because of the algebraic expressions, but because of the erase marks that always litter the paper afterwords that never seem to hide.
They're always there, showing off how horrid my handwriting looks.
The idea of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder makes me want to scurry.
I know I'm a living example of it, and I know how nerve-wracking it is being around me.
Because everything needs to reach my standards, and nothing ever does.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 7:14 PM UTC
I looked into your eyes and knew how easy it would be to **** you.
I plotted its path and then decided how I would end myself afterwords.
I felt nothing.
Sometimes I feel everything.
I cry and scream and curse, gasping for air. Blubbering in fits. Grabbing at my chest trying to feel for a heart.
Most days now I am normal.
My brain is functioning and my numbness is almost all but gone.
On those days I cry.
I looked into your eyes and thought it would be easy to **** you.
Surely then I would see the face of god.
He would come down, flesh out my pale limbs and introduce me to the sun I haven't seen in so long.
Take one look at me in that light, see my claws and teeth, maybe glance into my eyes.
See my fear, not for him, but for what I've become.
What I've transformed myself into.
Take note of the hours it took to shape my brain into this lackluster heap.
Maybe that crimson pool collected near you would drown me,
I would be consumed and swept away, only to emerge, my skin dyed by the parting sea.
Reborn like a Phoenix, not from its own death but from that of anothers.
Maybe my thoughts never did get better.
Maybe my skull is still screaming at the thought of housing my brain.
Something inside it doesn't sit right,
scratching at the edges of my recesses it demands attention.
It knocks and growls. Clacking its teeth until in one instant, it is released.
I looked into your bare soul, naked and clean next to mine.
Its polished exterior in contrast to the soot of my own.
How can you bear to be next to me?
Your clean gaze further sullied mine's black.
***** and bent, grime in its crevices.
The kind of grit I have been picking out by hand my entire life.
Now my fingernails are split, cracked past the quick and caked by filth.
What would you think if you read this?
Would you cry?
Would you back away?
You would probably kiss me,
take the knife out of my grasp,
bleach my hands white,
sew my frayed dress back together,
wash the dirt off my bare feet,
drop me down into the caverns of fitful sleep so that I may not glare at my reflection in silver.
It doesn't matter if it's rusted, it doesn't matter if its broken, it doesn't matter if its clean.
All that matters is your reaction to me, not fear, not disgust.
The simplicity of not wiping away a smudge on a mirror.
Mar 19, 2012
Mar 19, 2012 at 2:29 AM UTC
A spontaneous creation unmatched,
to create a conversation is not a plan that can be hatched,
it happens without you know it had began,
and it ends and rebirths without knowing it can,
like a different show but all the actors the same,
it cant be loud nor tame,
but afterwords you feel proud,
because it happened,
and something inside of you was tapped in,
to be able to share something that is hard to do,
a spontaneous creation in lieu,
of you being human.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 2:55 AM UTC
Ha oh weee
swings
signs cries lovely voice you decide on that
shirt
yellow
my favorite
intricate
she wears
tank top
and she is well
filled out
to her
she
smiles at me
I uppity
ruppity
cafffeine
at a cafe
chocolate bars
paintings
nice hat
do you like it
I like that part
funny
hee hee
sunflower
for you!
for me:?}?????
yes!
ahh
smell!
okay
rolling in the blades of grass
ice cream afterwords
popsicle
itching your neck
Sunflower
SUNFLOWER SANG:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iM4gJiov5eo
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 8:25 PM UTC
I was told to write a poem you see,
A poem of Suessical proportions
I was told to write a poem, just me!
So here's my verbal contortion:
A cat on a mat
Is quite silly
But the cat
Chose to name the mat "Billy"
Billy the friend,
There till the end
Until the both
Left for Chop-Suey
Chop-Suey for Billy and Louie
(The cat, with the mat named Billy)
On a weekend in March
Both felt quite parched
And afterwords, felt rather "flue-y"
"This won't do," said Billy to Lou
As they sat inside the house
When all of a sudden
Cute as a button
Out from the wall, came a mouse
Zip-Zop-Zibbidy-Bop
The furniture came a crashin'
As Louie chased the mouse
To a shop in Manhattan
O me, O my!
Said Billy
Starting to cry
For he was all alone
"Do not fear,
O mat, my dear
For I can call by phone."
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 3:31 PM UTC
this song is for you
the one i wait for
i dont need you i know
thats what they all say
and logic reminds me
to push you away
but hearts have a funny way
of running amuck
once cherished and loved
it now lay untouched
i hope you enjoy it
this tune i derived
from chaos inside me
that once may subside;
three chords in progression
from major and flat
each one a reminder
for the weeks that have passed
three strings plucked in fashion
each one louder than last
a riff of goodbye notes
in minor key for effect
i sing all but once
so the silence reflects
the moment of quiet
i felt when you left
the life was drawn out of me
and silence began
my heart tore in pieces
like guitar strings when snapped
i finish each verse
with a simple refrain
a cry of the memories
that will always remain
the chorus is steady
it flows quick like champagne
that we poured one dark evening
we shared in the spring
the bridge is unending
it connects the past to the new
it starts with open chords
like the whole in my chest
and ends with a cadence
that drips with regret
the bass line is deep
like the sound of your voice
the beat is persistent
like the smell of your skin
the tune is repeated
like breathing out
breathing in
the song ends with hopefulness
despite all the grit
still the silence afterwords
will not comfortably sit
there will be no more teardrops
upon any fret
my guitar cannot weep
though i haven't stopped yet
Jun 29, 2018
Jun 29, 2018 at 12:26 AM UTC
Ill give you that I
never put to much
effort in trying
anything with you,
In fact I used work as an
excuse to not come
home at night, did
whatever I had
to do to avoid coming
home to you laying
on my bed and having
to lay next to you. I
felt obligated to have
*** with you, felt
cheap afterwords and
hated myself for not ending
it. I felt bad that you
had no one in your life
and no one to turn to
Received: Wed, September 30 8:22 am
Mar 14, 2010
Mar 14, 2010 at 5:03 PM UTC
Writing a good negatively charged poem is like taking a good **** for the Psyche;
it is toxic and you'll be diseased if you do nothing but wallow in it,
but it is great to detox and get it as far out of you as possible.
It even tells you what your habits have been like,
if you know what to look for.
And sometimes,
you feel like a new person afterwords;
lighter,
more nimble,
sort-of post-deficum bliss,
and your pants sometimes even seem to fit better.
Just remember not to force it;
just accommodate it when you feel it.
Hah; it's as I've always said:
"Always answer
when Mother Nature calls;
that ***** can leave some nasty messages."
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 3:37 PM UTC
In thought you can lift the poor cheated girl above your head,
The flower strains toward your grey iris and it implies a silhouette
Of blue wayward passion,
Of the luke warm pool of it in you,
Your reflection is broken as it has ever been,
But implies the existence of its once intact face
The feeling of your taught whimper gone limp
As the very blink of feeling out from last breath
Has no end, has no faith, as light is only a blanket
And shadow its shivering body,
In finding strength to hold you up
I find the talent to beat you down
And afterwords we will continue,
To tear our lungs apart.
Mar 31, 2010
Mar 31, 2010 at 5:36 PM UTC
Tonight are we loud
We are
Gone and again
Sure as your skin is stunning
Sure as it tightly wraps up both of us
Twisting and tying knots
Around us.
Coming back to being naked as light allows
And too young to not be naked
Getting away with everything
Not quite as children
But more a child’s pet dog
In the moment of slipping out of his collar
And running free
Away towards something he only knows about
Never coming back till its found
And once it is
Love for the first time stands still
From that point on and not a second longer
Afterwords we get lost running home
Till we find home.
Apr 27, 2012
Apr 27, 2012 at 8:00 PM UTC
I broke I let go Not like I could control it
it just happened my breathing quickened my heart sped up my mind was buzzing and tears came uncontrollably
I held them in too long, my feelings they're coming out
violently, destructively, and with out notice.
Im a prisoner of my own contentious now
Every cruel word becomes more true the more i say it.
but i dont care. its about time I lost it
it was bound to happen at some point
Im oddly thrilled, excited to destroy myself.
Its exhilarating the way my body goes fully numb afterwords
My daily Novocaine the calm after the storm
yes, i find my pain beautiful in a way i cant fully explain
dont feel its not really there. it wont ever go away.
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 11:15 PM UTC
broken never felt so good
standing so straight made me ache
all the time
crumpled loosely in piles
in this beautiful mess you've made me
feeling sublime
all that buildup of anxiety
its like getting on a plane
flying higher and higher
not knowing for sure if your chute is going to work
and then panicking
as every fiber of your being
SCREAMS NO
and out you go
you hold your breath and tumble for a moment
then dare to open your eyes
Realizing
it doesn't matter if the chute doesn't open
because right now
your flying
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 6:18 PM UTC
What if the biggest rush in life is taking your last breath
Having everything flow through you
And out
All your memories suddenly start to play a movie on fast forward with people dancing across the projector of your mind
It must be a lovely sight
But then afterwords come
People all the sudden pretending to know you
Said they talked to you
They will dress up in pretty black laced dresses and the men will be wearing nice button down shirts with suits
It's a nice costume
there will be hundreds at your funeral
But you will only know a few
Funny how people start listing when your dead for many will speak about your jokes as if they found them interesting
Study them for a underlying meaning
Missing the pun completely
Because once you have gone extinct
People start to see you as a specimen rather than a person
And sometimes I am convinced it'll be easier
To greet death when you see everyone in your life slowly turn green
Including yourself
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 10:17 PM UTC
Afterwords, I stuff
myself back
within myself--
pleated coils bending
like knees,
with ease,
like they've been on
tippy toes too long--
A too flexible and
overly sensitive
jack in a box:
One whose chest gets too
excited at the turn
of a handlefull of gears
until the lid
pops off
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 4:24 AM UTC
Nights of thinking alone,
gathering my proofs,
I’m still unsure you were real.
I loved the sweet caress of your voice,
the way your mouth shaped my name,
your eyes hovering lazily over mine.
I loved the soft touches and frenzied hands,
as you carried and explored me, explored together
in bed sheets and a summer night’s heat.
Balcony doors embraced the ocean with open arms
before us, the tingle of adventures together
left tickling my skin.
It was a night that brought so many gifts, so many
tender looks and sprawling affections
laying waste to the floor.
But it was a night left to my fantasy.
No videos, photographs, Facebook statuses
or afterwords of gratitude.
A night left as bundles of touches and
portions of tangled desire beautifully coiled like
ropes inside my head.
I need those proofs.
I need to know that love-nest even happened.
That it wasn’t some sickened dream I had,
whilst I cried in bed alone that it would soon
all end;
a frayed and ***** heap of pity left in place of you.
My heart would conjure anything to protect me from you.
My heart would drill holes in those fragments if it meant
lies from you, if it meant little pieces of love you could
hurt me with.
My heart is grateful for what you showed me,
the love you painted with me, for me, over me.
My heart is still in love with the times we shared,
the memories that glide around silkily in my sleep;
but my heart is also still frightened, of you.
And what power I gave you, over me, to make me
weep and search for evidence like this.
To finally know you loved me, or not.
Because that is what it needs doesn’t it?
Prove that it needs to, that it’s real.
Were you real beneath my fingers?
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 10:25 PM UTC
The only part
I like about
fighting with you
is loving you
afterwords...
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 7:55 PM UTC
So in moments of cello
and measures of
rendezvous,
Dvorak concertos &
adagios too...
in moments of breath
when reading the lines,
it's your hands holding
a set of strings,
and afterwards, then
mine
Jan 8, 2017
Jan 8, 2017 at 2:46 PM UTC