"airtight" poems
All this kush we smoke
With a Gatorade makeshift ****
Ja know that its no joke,
Ja know it won't be long!
I can hear the bowl piece roll
This **** is not airtight
For when I try to light my bowl
It jingles through the night, OH!
Jingle **** Jingle **** Jingle all the way!
It's no fun
To simply bun
With a loose fitting **** all day, HEY!
Jingle **** Jingle **** Jingle all the way!
The whole squad sings
Our bowl piece rings
And everyone feels ok!
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 11:12 AM UTC
I am spent, and I am quiet
with suspended longing.
My river runs low
into cold-cold valleys.
My waiting is a bird in the sky,
turning, turning. Turning
my head from side to side
with searching eyes.
A scream wells up in me,
first fills my head
and then my room,
airtight ready-to-burst balloon.
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 1:38 PM UTC
You began as a dream
Dreamt by leaders with vision
Evolving to surpass
All of man's wildest ambition...
With adventurous men
Like Shepherd and Glenn
You stubbornly strove
To prove, once again
Beyond any doubt
That bounderies could be broken...
Despite mishap and fire
Alas, you did inspire
A generation to dream...
From Mercury to Apollo
The world, it did follow
Your steady pace
To Tranquility Base...
Via Viking and Voyager
Your efforts did prove
That exploration of the universe
Was well on the move...
To Mars, Jupiter, Saturn and Neptune...
You tenaciously endeavored
To, your accomplishments, festoon...
Your progress was sure
As you strove to endure
The incessent chatter
Of the grossly short-sighted
Their nonsense did clatter
Proving they were poorly enlightened...
With untold discoveries
Like non-stick surfaces and airtight seals
Through your numerous breakthroughs
You've shown us how it feels
To live better...
From Columbia to Hubbel
You've saved us great trouble
In our daily lives...
With your Space Station mission
You've shown the same vision
And, continue to lead in gaining cognition
Of our universe...
Lead on, great adventurers
Lead on.
Nov 1, 2010
Nov 1, 2010 at 6:35 PM UTC
Romance, for he is the one who seemed to be trapped
A sea of melancholy
Oh, the beauty
Quite unbearable
How he hides what is deep inside
Having no patience nor the time for idle cares
Little by little he loses his way
This is what I call an unhidden heart
You can see it
But the thought isn't really there
Appearances at first glance
With any pair of human eyes
Are what seems to be love
Little by little he loses his way
A deeper dig you find that what you thought
Was a heart
Is an empty abyss
Little by little he loses his way
Without knowing
His personality is switching
Little by little he loses his way
Meek and darkness overpowers
This was fact
Till the day he met
Emotion
She was stirring, dancing
Throughout the clouds
Feelings bursting without warning
She was everything
That Romance was not
Automatically,
Almost robotically,
Semi-impossibly
They fell in love
Without a care
Emotion was unafraid
Unafraid to unveil her heart
Slowly but surely
Romance learned
His shell was wrapped airtight
Unfolding, slow
Layer by layer.
This took time, no rush
He became free
Time and patience
Letting go of the past
Automatically
Almost robotically
Semi-impossibly
They fell in love
Without a care
Ready to move on
Letting Emotion show him, her ways
To live
Not only to live,
But to thrive in happiness
Carefree
Their love
A melody
Priceless, a gold you could never purchase
A light, blazing rays, a golden star
Who could not hear the beating of their hearts?
Rich and pure
Together they were a spirit, complete
Hidden in each and every one of us
We are all individual
Yet we share their story
Fate takes its course
Little by little you lose your way
Yet automatically,
Almost robotically,
Semi-impossibly,
They fell in love without a care
Fate once again brought two strangers in love
No questions
No ponders
Unexplainable
Love does not need an explanation
Self explanatory
This is your story
Find your Romance and Emotion
But first
Little by little you will lose your way
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 1:00 AM UTC
How much of what we use, is really what we need
and how much do we buy, to feed someone elses greed
We used to open windows and now we buy febreeze
then wonder why the allergies make everybody sneeze
Our homes are airtight boxes, like live-in tupperware
And yet most of us are ignorant to what poisons linger there.
We've been told that if we buy this stuff and do things in this way
Our lives will be much better, than they were just yesterday.
But yesterday the air was clear and you could hear when Robins sang
How did we ever get this far, without ylang ylang?
May 22, 2010
May 22, 2010 at 1:12 PM UTC
What do you believe in?
Do you believe in the sky?
Do you believe in the things that pass you by?
Do you believe the answers they tell you, when you ask 'why'?
Do you believe in truths or in lies?
Are you able to see when someone isn't fine?
Do you believe in always being right?
Never giving up when you've started a fight?
Do you believe in an all holy light?
Or rather do you believe in an never-ending night?
Do you look at the world and whisper
"Hey, this is right."
Or instead do you wish you had another life?
Do you wish you were 'nice'?
Or do you warp your sight,
And believe that everything will just be alright?
Do you work day and night
To keep your money airtight?
Or do you give and you work
For what you think is right?
Do you hate yourself because
someone with a small mind
went up and told you
the way you are wasn't fine?
Do you look in the mirror
And regret what you see?
Or do you look in the mirror
And shout
THIS IS ME!
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 3:55 PM UTC
1301
My 1300th poem,
was ‘Diamond Triangles’,
didn’t even plan that,
now I see why they say I’m Illuminati,
33 triangles tattooed to my body,
in room #1301 now,
13th floor of the hotel,
13th floor room #1,
it’s always on for real,
no off switch,
so no we don’t switch,
on the offense we don’t snitch,
our defense airtight got the game sewed & stitched,
tight as our lips are because loose lips still sink cruise ships,
all in no pretend all real for real 100% legit,
I’m ready if you’re ready come on let’s get it,
let’s go now,
the time has never been better,
let’s pow wow & wow how,
this weather as in this reign has never been wetter,
or greater,
compliments to the Haters,
because you haven’t made it till they hate it,
so I’m grateful for the confirmation from the Haters,
we’re here to Rock The Nation,
shout out to RocNation,
shout out to Jay Z see we’re all Gods,
all it took was a combination of carpe diem & patience,
a combination between futuristic technologies & wisdom from The Ancients,
know the difference,
between patience & hesitation,
I thank my Dad for teaching me that,
see he taught me a lot of those “what not to do” lessons,
learned what not to do through his actions,
so I could prevent them & not grow up like him,
& that’s not to say I don’t love him because I do,
& that's mentioned to clarify that I didn’t write this just to spite him,
kinda like,
why I wear these diamonds,
which isn’t to show off no nah,
I wear them because diamonds are enlightening,
just look at the way they catch the light,
see real diamonds are a sure thing,
just like these words I write,
on the luckiest floor in this whole building floor #13,
writing my 1300th poem,
was ‘Diamond Triangles’,
didn’t even plan that,
now I see why they say I’m Illuminati,
33 triangles tattooed to my body,
in room #1301 now,
13th floor of the hotel,
13th floor room #1,
it’s always on for real,
especially when it’s Strange :30,
& it’s Strange :30 again,
so I guess it’s time to sign off,
with a goodnight & a Thee End...
from '777' available worldwide on Amazon
www.amazon.com/dp/1548700746
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
Jul 19, 2017
Jul 19, 2017 at 1:32 AM UTC
This wall you build around angelic things
to keep their halos shiny-bright, instead
you'll never hear the sound of downy wings.
These Precious Moments smiles and wedding-rings
(for mixed-sex couples only), when they wed,
this airtight wall around angelic things,
a thousand miles from where a seraph sings
God's love for hated folk and underfed;
you'll never hear the sound of downy wings
unless you break the prejudice that brings
the boundary where angels fear to tread,
this airtight wall around angelic things
that shutters out angelic visitings,
or when you too are dying on your bed
you'll never hear the sound of downy wings.
you never know with whom they'll break their bread,
or so the writer to the Hebrews said;
This wall you build around angelic things
Will never hear the sound of downy wings.
May 23, 2010
May 23, 2010 at 6:36 AM UTC
I
At night, I search for the wrench
I lift it off my nightstand
I lie down on the workbench
the cool weight held in my hand
what I must loosen first is my knee
lull myself to a state of repose
leg is a swollen trunk of a tree
placidity the pain soon outgrows
ache that is green
ache that is ivy,
ache that is wrapping
around me
entirely.
being disarming,
the way that a friend will--
in no way harming,
I pry up one tendril,
My ache and I have just locked eyes
I turn my bolt counter-clockwise
just one half turn.
making way t’ward release,
pain is adjourned
to finally find peace
II
And in the factory,
It seems I was wound too tightly
Deemed satisfactory
Now, I relieve pressure nightly
The bolt pushes in such a way
it leaves the metal bent
Relief is not given away
but instead it is lent
pain that is sharp
pain that goes squish,
pain that is swimming
around me
like fish.
The pain in my head
a pain bright white
Will surely spread
If not done right
My head and I sob, throb, and cry together
And then I finally sever the tether
spin one full revolution,
Though I know it's unwise,
Lets in nightmare pollution
Maybe last night’s reprise
III
At night, I will always search for the reasons
Why is it that bad things happen to good people
I lie down and lament each of the seasons
If it’s about church, I’m skewered on the steeple
Now plaguing me is my dear heart
O! Please don't think me frigid
It’s how to be, if you are smart
Walls that throbbed become rigid
want that is lace
want that is divine,
want that dissipates
completely
in time
Wincing at every twinge
Heart so hollow it awards me pain
Lace is fraying at the fringe
Meteor in my orbital plane
said it flutters and feels flighty
prescribed one spin righty tighty
Then, compact are the loves I hold,
Locked in my heart airtight
No space empty or left cold
I wish you all goodnight
Dec 3, 2020
Dec 3, 2020 at 5:06 PM UTC
And here in this windless hole, I sit and wonder where I had left that which mattered most to me under the starlit fields of Montreal. I crave it and yet wish to God that I had never been the man who held you close to me. Everything I had in my arms in the parking lot outside of that hotel dash turned dash residence. A messy room and a crowded cafeteria. A hotel dash turned dash residence dash turning dash memory. And here in this wonderless ******** in this airtight cabin of past fantasy’s design, the rent keeps piling up and oh the dishes are due. Half-finished paperback classics flapjacked on top of each other in this white shirt no sweat world with the sleeves rolled up. This pill form city with all the charm and magic of an after dinner mint. Take a walk with me, let me tell you about this dream I had.
It had wine
and white sheets and tables.
Paintings that I knew
but did not recognise,
gasping under the grip
of yellowing wallpaper with pink flowers.
It was hell,
hell I tell you.
waking up with fever thinking I was portuguese and that there were three of me
Remembering when you sat me down,
and told me who I was in all of
two paragraphs- underline this underline that.
Black and red LEDs in full contrast of the room turning real again.
All I remember is you.
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 10:23 PM UTC
orange smoke fills the air, like mist
goons and traitors occupy all tables
a small bar, downtown, silent quarter
whole ones and racks, bagged, airtight
the zippers of the bottega shine golden
24 k, 24/7, creatures of the night who
are made of struggle, gore and greed
deception and loyalty: the brotherhood
hour of the thieves, year of white marble
350 million a year, a neeeedy enterprise
sick profit, blank sheets floating loosely
shark collar and tattoos, loaded ********
sounds of the past in an air breeze, secretly
old butch is swallowing a paper message
leave no traces, mind dem ears and eyes
wild roses and escalades, the night glows
Oct 12, 2020
Oct 12, 2020 at 2:40 AM UTC
Lost in the scansion of a cool iron box
I struggle for air from the confines of metal that blocks all fresh of life from the cage
Bound in gagged suffocated reflexes
I utter muffled screams of my nights spent in lost days
Held in suspended motion, mid-flight to a descent
I train myself, my senses already know what comes next
meanwhile the art of stillness, in vivid stasis I contemplate.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 10:18 AM UTC
the art of war has been written
in our skin since the first day
we tasted air.
our bodies knew what to do
without instruction, the manual
was ingrained in our systems
before history was even a term.
we knew what struggling was and
the viciousness we'd follow to
feel satisfied within this
paper-hungry, corrupt involving,
power revolving circle of
soil and H2O.
green paper values beyond
human experience, holding its
own wealth above the truths
and acts of kindness.
we are lost now.
our journey to create solutions
and deflate violence, pollution,
and terrorism is counterproductive
when we are only trying to gain
access to fossil fuels,
advanced technology and
easy living.
the art of war is unavoidable with
its nuclear power reaching new
heights and alarming increases
in neighboring countries with
alternative motives.
people are not perfect, but yet
it is hard to use intelligence
towards innovated, structured
education and trying to revitalize
our dying environment or restoring
it to the way our ancestors knew it.
we are too curious now.
the devices we use daily are
hand held miniature and superficial
to honest thoughts even if you may
have the universe at your fingertips.
the art of war is within ourselves, with
the growing population of overweight
eight year olds - instead of gaining
knowledge about life by learning how
to use the imagination, creative
engineers are mass producing game
consoles and virtual worlds for the young
to push past the reality.
we want to be lost now.
society takes tragedies and sensationalizes
so there is just another portal to dig up
the fresh and uncover something bigger
than ourselves.
the art of war has been finalized with
456,495 troops estimated stationed overseas,
leaving at home their families.
our state of mind is grasping, like the hardworking
fathers in search for american made products,
yet can only find poor industry made objects
for $5.00 on the shelf of the local monopolized
superstore.
the art of war was born in us
with airtight top secret plans to defeat
another continent, but we all
swallow the voice to bring back
compassion for starving children and
focusing on the here and now.
the art of war is all around us,
the art we will never escape.
Jul 8, 2011
Jul 8, 2011 at 4:07 PM UTC
There's a frenzy around ID cards
when you're fifteen
an excitement like trapping bees in an airtight jar
which cannot be replicated as an adult
although the behavior is the same:
Criticize the picture
Berate oneself for being
A human with height and width and coloration
Then there's the barber shop mirror replication of self
the meta-selfie of taking a picture of one's ID
and posting to
everything . . . ever
so you have a sounding board for your self-aggrandizement
enrobed in self-deprecation like
a chocolate-dipped madeleine
which will inherently lead to a
knitted afghan of praise and adoration
which was entirely the point
Then there's the dismissal
the abandonment into a wallet
from which it will never escape
living out lifetimes ad infinitum in vain
never recognizing the worth of
Your student ID
113809
which identifies you
but is not you because
You could never be so two-dimensional
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 1:31 PM UTC
I am stuck in this place of begging for someone to listen to me and denying my own desires to talk
It is still here – the longing to cry with someone – but it is impossible now. It’s been impossible for so long I don’t know why I even bother with any of it. I don’t know to help her…no one knows how to help her.
It doesn’t matter if you feel like a victim or a survivor, or at times, both…it still happened. It was me. It was me lying there – it was my body. I am no longer that little girl but it was undeniably me. I was hurt, I cried, I yielded all of my power to him. Me. It was me. No one helped me. I can’t make that any different. I can’t change that….not through my writing, not by speaking, not inside my mind. I can’t undo it.
I want to bury this hurt in an airtight coffin until it suffocates and can no longer damage me. I want to smash the pain with a boulder until it is crushed and no longer alive in me. I am stuck in this place of begging for someone to listen to me and denying my own desires to talk. It all comes back to the forbidden words of trust and need and I’m having a difficult time trying to shift and re-position myself in a positive, healing way.
It’s difficult to get the words out without the tears and emotions. And I won’t cry in front of anyone. There are times when I am aching with the desire to talk about difficult things and I hold back. Why? Multifaceted…complicated question and an equally complicated answer. First, there is a part of me that does not trust anyone, or even want to trust anyone. A part of me is embarrassed at the Nita that will be seen when the tears start. It is not the me that everyone knows…it’s the miserable, self-indulgent, childish, hopeless me. And I cannot risk being seen like that. And there’s a third reason…it feels incredibly undignified to cry in front of someone when they just sit there…silent and unmoving. Late at night, when it is overwhelming and relentless, I ache for someone to talk to about this pain, someone who loves me, not someone who is paid to listen.
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 12:10 AM UTC
pushing for love is scary. people like to say that it's worth it. but love is a bitter boomerang; you push too hard and it comes back swinging, comes back pushing you, comes back beating you to the ground until you can't breathe. true love leaves you gasping for air, but not in the poetic sense. love leaves you tied to the bottom of the ocean with rocks in your pockets. trapped in a plane with your head out the window. inside of a plastic bag. love is suffocation. pushing for suffocation is scary.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 2:36 PM UTC
we are the essence of zero gravity.
you are the weightlessness in the marrow of my bones.
i can fly.
you are car rides with too many CDs and not enough miles.
you are lunar eclipses, ripped up jeans, and too-bright smiles.
pick me apart at my airtight seams to see yourself in the mirrors i set up inside of me.
i am a black hole and you are the answer to string theory,
smudged ink on fingertips while signing away the Earth for worlds our eyes can’t see.
you’re a mutant, baby,
evolved from the best of everything.
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 10:53 AM UTC
We've been together for four years.
After a lovely vacation on the beautiful island of Maui, Hawaii, I present to her a small, felt box, small enough to fit in my hand.
I open it.
A hamster the size of a thumb lays there, gasping for air as the oxygen comes rushing back to the tiny creature. His little lungs were straining with effort.
She gasped at the sight.
One would think that my decision to keep a hamster in an airtight box for no other reason than to entertain her would be an alarm bell of sorts.
It wasn't. Not to her.
She called me honey and named it powdered sugar, right before it scampered away, searching for freedom anywhere on this big sandy place, only to drown when a crashing wave swallowed it whole, mercilessly washing away its tiny footprints.
A better name for the hamster would be...
Our relationship?
Anyway. She tends to only call me monster, now.
If only she had heard the alarm instead of the wedding.
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 2:50 AM UTC
there is a moment
between the decision to make a mistake
and actually making it,
when you think about
how the power lines
make lace spiderweb shadows on
the sidewalk
and how the the sunlight and
the moonlight have the same
sparkle
and you wonder if your choice really
matters,
because daisies will still have
candied orange centers and
it will still take fourteen hours to drive to
Bangor to an airport with
one bathroom and airtight security
so they can take your toe nail clippers
before you board your flight home
and realize you
left an hour before sunset
and somehow it's underwhelming
to be so far above the
sun.
there is a moment
between the realization that you've gone too far
and taking the step over the line
when you see the cracking
of the pavement
and go to buy a roll of duct tape
because there's nothing duct tape can't fix
so you spread a thin layer of
love and adhesive
on the concrete
to keep the edges of your heart from
splitting open,
but you trip and fall into the hole
you were trying to bridge
and you're right back where you started
trying not to break your momma's back
but the gap is too wide to jump
like those kids on the playground
tracing cloud colored circles
in sidewalk chalk around your head
just trying to make you understand.
so before you decide
to make that mistake
trace the lace shadows on the
roadways and
tape your
heart together
so you can draw a
staircase to understanding
and
follow a trail
of innocent eyes
to a place where you
don't feel so lost.
because there are no mistakes
only choices to make
and now is the
only moment
to make them.
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 3:21 AM UTC
I may mistake the modern day for Salem.
We seem to be mirroring the crazy then verbatim.
Back then, the hysterical banter was of witchcraft and bewitchment.
Now it’s plotless allegations with no plausible way to prove it.
Someone accuses another of a devious deed,
No trial, no proof, I guess that’s no longer a need.
Just escort them, with haste, to the center of the stage,
Light the fire and burn them alive,
Leaving the liar to tell another lie.
The only witchcraft that I see,
Is how people, so thoughtlessly,
Get so passionate about events so petty,
That they become a mob, a stormy sea.
It has nothing to do with their lives,
But they see a cause and sharpen their knives.
A primitive desire to antagonize,
What we believe to be bad, but based on lies.
Truth has become subjective,
Despite its definition, objective.
I can spur a web of lies,
Witchcraft in disguise.
No need for evidence, it doesn’t have to be airtight,
Just enough to incite the urge to fight.
Isn’t that a sorry sight?
“Burn the witches!” They’d scream in Salem.
“Cancel them!” Is the modern verbatim.
They don’t deserve to tell their side,
Just shut them down and ostracize.
Guilty until proven innocent,
Dripping with bitterness and discontentment.
It’s a lose-lose for the accused,
At least they don’t meet their end at the end of a noose.
Perhaps the witches we need to burn,
Are the ones who accuse without evidence to confirm.
Why is the burden of proof on the accused,
And not the ones who defame and misuse,
Justice for a few moments in the news?
Burn naivety, which says that people always tell the truth,
And understand that, sometimes, people are just cruel.
Send the liars out into the center of the stage,
State their case, their proof, and who’s to blame.
Due process, not this foolish nonsense,
Based on feelings used against us.
Before we’re all bewitched by passion,
Which overcomes our reason.
Sep 3, 2025
Sep 3, 2025 at 8:13 PM UTC
this plane will dive.
we are less alive with no stroke. with no bleed in the cerebellum.
you could laugh through the apocalypse and not tell 'em. you could leave but stay put
in vellum.
in airtight jive. we are less alive with no joke.
with no need in the antebellum
of the one good war
i loved you
with.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 2:55 PM UTC
Sweat inside me
dry
to the core
Memories
fading to horizon blur
Pores gasping
airtight
turning in on my skin
that once burned
alight with you
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 2:58 AM UTC
An anxious amortal
archnemesis
affectionately
allowing an amoral
animosity
achieve an attitudal
agressive and aversion against
any and all
annoying,
aggravating,
afflicting,
and almost annihilating
alliterations,
although all
aforementioned actions
are absolutely
artificial.
An amiable
abomination
and architectural abuse
at an alphabet achieved
after aesthetically
arranging ample
arbitrary
alternatives alone,
amounting an acclamation.
An affinity at
awkward avante-garde arts
arising at
an astronomical acceleration,
aside an archaic
argumentum ad
antiquitatem argument
awfully appraising
an atheistic and agnostic
apparition,
anthrophomorphically
alive and apparently
alright after asphyxiation,
alluding an astral authority
absolving accusations
and all allegations.
An advantageously
astute and adroit assassin
always actively
acting and assaulting
alone, ain't assisted
anyhow,
already
antiquating auxillaries
altogether.
An alliteratious afterfocus:
Aborting all anticipations.
Anticipating affirmative antagonizations.
All are alright.
Already airtight.
Adios, amigos.
Author: anonymous,
an acorn-afflicted,
assassinatrix affiliate.
attributed as Agent Argent.
Aug 16, 2017
Aug 16, 2017 at 11:54 AM UTC