"atrium" poems
Deoxygenated blood flows from the body to the right side of the heart through the Vena Cava.
From the Vena Cava to the Right Atrium.
From the Right Atrium through the Tricuspid valves.
Through the Tricuspid valves to the Right Ventricle.
Up the Pulmonary Artery.
Through the semi-luner valves.
Out the pulmonary artery.
To the lungs.
Blood becomes Oxygenated
Oxygenated blood flows from the lungs to the left side of the heart through the Pulmonary Vein.
From the Pulmonary Vein to the Left Atrium.
From the Left Atrium through the Bicuspid valves.
Through the Bicuspid valves to the Left Ventricle.
Up the Aorta.
Through the semi-luner valves.
Out the Aorta.
Oxygenated blood is sent around the body.
Blood becomes Deoxygenated
Deoxygenated blood flows from the body to the right side of the heart through the Vena Cava........
SO If you tell me your heart is "literally broken" just don't.
It isn't broken.
It just hurts.
It's just feels horrible.
Painful.
A feeling that hurts you and feels like your heart hurts so much that it's actually broken.
But your heart doesn't actually hurt.
It's just a feeling.
The cycle stills goes on.
It is still functioning.
So, next time you feel your "heart breaking" and literally being "torn apart",
Remember...
Deoxygenated blood flows from the body to the right side of the heart through the Vena Cava.
From the Vena Cava to the Right Atrium.
From the Right Atrium through the Tricuspid valves.
Through the Tricuspid valves to the Right Ventricle.
Up the Pulmonary Artery.
Through the semi-luner valves.
Out the pulmonary artery.
To the lungs.
Blood becomes Oxygenated
Oxygenated blood flows from the lungs to the left side of the heart through the Pulmonary Vein.
From the Pulmonary Vein to the Left Atrium.
From the Left Atrium through the Bicuspid valves.
Through the Bicuspid valves to the Left Ventricle.
Up the Aorta.
Through the semi-luner valves.
Out the Aorta.
Oxygenated blood is sent around the body.
Blood becomes Deoxygenated
Deoxygenated blood flows from the body to the right side of the heart through the Vena Cava.............
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 5:39 PM UTC
I'm looking deep into her eyes
*Looking into her eyes...
is like opening a door that leads...
to another door*
Wait..really? OK...I open the door.
*This door leads to a long, winding path,
like the winding path of your love.
The path leads to a third door*
O...K. I open the door.
*This door leads to a spiral staircase
descending down, down, down, deep
into her soul.
At the bottom of the staircase is--*
A door?
A door.
I open the door
The door is locked. The key might be under the mat
Seriously? I check under the mat
Nope, not there. Maybe try under the small rock next to the door
Oh for the love of...I check the rock
There is a key
Wonderful...I unlock and open the door
*Inside this door is a large atrium
the glass ceiling giving way to a
beautiful summer night, the stars
twinkling in the distance. At the
far end of the Atrium, there is a curtain*
Sigh I pull aside the curtain
There is a door
Come on! I open the ruddy door.
*You find yourself in a long hallway,
with fine art hanging along the walls.
Crimson carpet lines the floor.
At the end of the hall is a door locked
with a combination biometric
fingerprint scanner/retinal scanner*
What.
*You have 10 seconds to unlock the door
before the hunter-bots de-atomize you*
What!? Ok! I try my fingerprints and eye!
*The door unlocks and the hunter-bots stand down.
In the next room are three vials. Two of them contain
terrible neuro-toxins that will lead to an excruciatingly
painful death. The third will allow you to continue on
to the next room. You have 30 seconds to choose before
you are terminated*
What the hell is this!?
This is the path to true love hidden deep in her eyes
No, this is insanity!
15 seconds
OK! Geez! Umm..Vial Number 2!
You're totally dead
Oh god!
Just kidding. None of them had poison...was just messing with you
THAT'S IT! I'M DONE WITH THIS
Really? There's only one more door. I swear
...Fine. What ridiculous thing do I need to do to open it.
*It's already open. You find yourself in a circular room
with a pedestal in the center. On the pedestal is a hand
written note. On that note is the key to everlasting happiness*
I pick up the note
*You smell sweet hints of your beloved's perfume and
notice the care that each word of the note was written.*
What does the note say?
*My love:
Next Tuesday Only -- Buy One-Get One Free at J.J's Pizza. Cannot be combined with any other offers/coupons. Must present coupon upon purchase. Expires 1/14/14*
...An expired coupon for Pizza?
Such a wonderful expression of love!
How do I get out of here...
You see a door
.
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 4:00 PM UTC
Violating a placid spirit
Memories transgress
desecrating the sacred.
Memories are
the dark side
of a full moon.
Memories are unsatiated desires
couched on sorrow
entangled in time
a perennial wrinkle on the soul.
Memories are trespassers
possessing neural atrium
wading saline sockets
slithering in to throbbing veins
tiptoeing to hollow spaces
burying all under their eerie weight,
Memories are an inescapable affliction.
In fragmented mindscape
Memories are violent winds
littering the past.
Lurking behind aches
in ethereal garbs,
Memories are assassins.
Or sema
of a swirling dervish.
Hurtling within, Memories
is an avalanche
pounding the abyss
choking the void
one gasp at a time.
Memories are
nameless apparitions
fused as shadows
to the very being.
Memories are an assault
on identity and belonging.
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 6:23 AM UTC
Today from the atrium the oleanders crept.
It has been coming, I have foreseen it
in the dark where soil is kept,
in spider cracking windows
and the pale greenery's lost steps.
though I had once thought the escape
to be inept.
I used to worry their fragile buds, when
seeking freedom from prism light,
would not survive the harsh transition
would not survive the come-on night.
Now I see the morning to come
after the midnight run would be
the first light born, negative the shield,
through which the oleanders used
to see:
the dawn,
the triumph,
oh the sight,
The harmony of the dew
with daylight's furious might
and the sun breaking the way - it makes
the gloom so bright
while I, in my room with my pill candy and my
sheets: the white is just too white and the
walls are Mary clean.
I watch them from my window and I hunger at the sight.
I envy them their beauty, their strength,
and their flight.
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 12:18 AM UTC
In my dreams there are smoke
detectors and crashes and lies.
There is a kiss in an atrium right
before it catches fire. There is placate,
stay straight, evacuate.
Neodymium nitrate always smells
a certain way and always looks
a certain blue. Why does an alarm
go off after I dream I've kissed you,
but never if you kiss me?
What doesn't my brain want me to see?
As Orion slinks into view
I stand mixing solvents at the centrifuge.
There is always a healthy dose
of things I don't know. Always something
for Orion to pin with her next arrow.
If I am not here, asking questions of the world,
demanding answers from what I put
into test tubes,
the next thing could be you.
Mar 8, 2019
Mar 8, 2019 at 10:55 PM UTC
I'm ruptured whole and am considered
inadequate
as my
amygdala slides through the trachea drops to my ventricles falls through the aorta plunges to my diaphragm hits the esophagus crashes to my phalanges. There is no hope.
May I hold something over your cranium?
May I remind you of your neuron imbalance? And yet
you sit and
watch as
my septum separates from the left atrium from the right ventricle from the bicuspid from the tricuspid from the pulmonary semi-lunar valve.
I love you. (Stupid cerebral cortex.)
I love you. (Imprudent Broca's area.)
I love you. (Hopeless frontal lobe.)
I love your nonfunctional mind and functional soul and
Well
this is all a metaphor for unrequited love.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 9:41 AM UTC
Take my heart
Cardium carpal
Impossible to hold in both hands
In every glorious piece
Valve, ventricle, artery
Pulsing, pulsing — but no blood
Not pink, not red but grey,
Grey matter, but no matter
Take care not to lack a hole by
Ebon ivory of your skeletal hands,
Pulsing, pulsing — but no blood
Only bone grasping endocrine glands
Blood eagled atrium across your palms
Venae cavae hollowed hands.
Sep 29, 2021
Sep 29, 2021 at 6:10 PM UTC
This is the cardiac line.
Your first stop is the
left atrium.
Passengers alight here for warmth and passion.
Please have your tickets ready worn on your sleeve.
We apologise for any delays. This was due to mixed signals.
You are in coach one of four.
Mind the gap between the heart and common sense.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 1:47 PM UTC
Tears.
Salt water
mixed with fire
from my core ,this molten
center; Where viscosity erupts into
the cavernous third chamber, sufussive.
Hands. Feel across the valleyed surface, touching
the unhealed; A perfectly clean circle sitting upon solar plexus;
Cupid’s sharpest hit. Unseen. The fissure runs deep into a chamber
nestling betwixt red pulsing atrium. Only I sense the tremors here.No beats sing
out in this vast ethereal emptiness. Silent. Vaulted edifices shining bright with colourful
minerals. Molten. Lovers leaving stains upon the walls, as pure deposits cool. Crystallizing
in the aftermath of each eruption, my volcanic heartrock shines like a diamond in the rough.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 6:24 PM UTC
The nettle stings, scrapes, scratches, and scuffed shoes were
far removed from us; the last worry as we cut,
crisscrossing to create a crawl space
through a wall of flesh-hungry growth -
at first - to gain access to more flesh-hungry growth
The discipline - for me - was an exhorted departure but the
product was worth every scab; an open space where we
could be: undisturbed, unfettered, unchained, and with
a live canopy we were free to create more, build more,
care more and leave a sliver of our growth
Perhaps more than a sliver. Perhaps it has become my
definition of what it meant to be young and to find a fit;
connect with the other forgers - akin to a close-knit
military unit - collecting driftwood, desks, drawers, drapes,
and designated seats to burn or to use as decor
And decorated it was. Spectacularly so! Swings hanging
from the sturdiest branches, discarded rugs coated
with muck, leaves, and filth dragged in to line our atrium,
a place for every member and a code:
"Nobody but us"
Simple society solidified with barbaric politics.
A system preaching tribal nonsense can't last long.
Mostly the damage was done when things got less simple;
when we grew and outgrew and the fences were put up.
The homes and the simple society were moved in shortly after
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 6:09 PM UTC
I have a memory that kills me
Like shards of glass sliding through my atrium,
Undetectable until it has ripped an
Irreparable hole in my heart.
His arm is tightened around my neck,
Pressure behind,
Pulling me to him,
My fear thicker than the air I could not breathe.
And then it was over,
Over like the red and sweat of my face
As the oxygen rushed back in.
Therapist says it was not an accident.
In 30 seconds he had tested me.
I was controllable.
Pass or fail
Depends on who you ask.
Dec 6, 2019
Dec 6, 2019 at 2:50 AM UTC
It was not in the road
that took me there
but the way my heart
always remained the same
rushing through college corridors,
open dissection tables,
woodwork poetry breathren.
Indestructible construction
of these cerebral plates
left me the mind of a surgeon
and the heart of a poet.
In the cold operating room
they cut open his chest-
blood gushing out and I could
see why sometimes a little hurt
could cause a lot of noise.
Ventricle, atrium.
A nick that ricocheted,
a word that spelled
goodbye.
There was a rhythm in his heart
and for once I could feel
synchronicity was never so beautiful;
almost teary-eyed
I could find those verses
lost between the veins,
quietude pumping out slowly.
Lost in the mistranslation
of his chest
till the nurse said
"Doctor, your patient's dying"
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 1:00 AM UTC
Prerogative presumptive judicature, cantankerous cantilever capacity. Paradoxical dichotomy greaves, gauntlets gamut catalyst abstracts, asymmetrical symmetry. Objectified manifest's dimensional delineation, intrinsic endemic innate opaque opulence. Protractive analyses accidence ambience acoustics. Spatiotemporal telemetry tactician's trajectory extant.
Prophylaxis protocol annex annul. Kinesiology kleptomaniac extraversion embezzlement euthanasia extortion, embark embargo extradition. Aura roan's rainbow mare's nimbus nimiety exorcism. Corporeally preternatural's existential exigence exodus. Cerebral cortex's ****** matrix's carousel ceaselessly ceremony chaos character charisma, apex axis crux, exponentially extemporaneous manumission. Categorical imperative hubris, hectic duty deontological probity.
Astral projection's clairaudience clairvoyance. Tenets and principles, maxims and axioms, and doctrinal mandates. Exserted protuberance's edifice ******** Exotically ****** ethereally sublime xylem Xanadu sails. Erotica erectile errantry.
Fulham nuance ***** Formidable foundry of a foyer fracas. Harpy harsh hast, atrium attrition seditious. Oak tree ****** nails swarthy ******** swath swizzles and unicorn railway sails. Anchor pin tachometer troll wood harlotry's root clod rudiments, lightning bow hat pick. Transcendent nimbus nimiety exorcist. Transpicuous translucence alluvium aloof impunity.
Feb 21, 2021
Feb 21, 2021 at 10:07 PM UTC
A sunny serenade of Cyan Skies
On a Strangely soothing Sunday afternoon
In the south wing
The White Rabbit tells me about
Beautiful Butterflies batting their wings
To the beat of a bohemian movement
and I blush at the gesture
And
The Mad Hatter tells me about
The Kevorkian crawdads clawing at each other
Under the crystal clear stream
Bent like a Candy Cane
And I cry for the dead.
I hear her, I hear her
But I also hear the
Marsh Hare
And
The Marsh Hare tells me about
The analytical anarchists armed with arms
Marching around the inner atrium screaming
"All hail Anarchy!", "All hail Anti-Society!"
Aiming for the heart
And I amaze myself
I hear her, I hear her
And because of her I hear
The chains and restraints
The Queen of Hearts tells me about
My fantasies of White Rabbits
My dreams of Mad Hatters
My imaginings of Marsh Hares
And how only she is real
The straps are too tight
The clothes too thin
The walls too thick
And she stabs me
With a Red Rose
All in white, The Queen of Hearts Says
Wake Up Alice
And now I can see
My sunny afternoon is shady
And
I am barred from my butterflies.
Jun 27, 2011
Jun 27, 2011 at 12:07 PM UTC
Another night like so
many others.
A night made up
of the dope laced hours
that slowly made up a life.
A black cat laid curled in
a tight ball on a worn wine stained carpet.
The fluorescent light of the Atrium softly
lit the otherwise darkened room.
Quiet except for
the hum of the refrigerator and the tiny waterfall
that trickled away inside the Atrium.
There was music playing,so low it was as if it was
something that came from a dream.
Two lost souls took their places at either side
of the counter top and dove deep into
their demons.
Both quietly concentrated on their potions.
The tiled counter top was littered with
paraphernalia,empty beer bottles,ashtrays
that needed to be emptied,
lighters, burnt spoons,tin foil and empty plastic baggies.
One chased the dragon,
while the other desperately searched the crook
of his arm for a vessel.
There wasn't too much conversation.
There was only one goal here.
And it didn't involve
words.
The silence was broken when one lost soul
said to the other,
"I don't dream anymore".
The one with the harpoon in hand said.
"You have to sleep"
The dragon slayer replied as he exhaled yet another
slayed beast.
"When I sleep its like I die".
The Archer said as he pressed the point
up against a blue black dying vein.
The black cat stood and stretched as a siren passed outside.
Another dragon was slain as the siren faded
into the night.
The one with the point drew blood and smiled.
The slayer chased another dragon,then looked
over as the black cat climbed to the open window
and out into the welcoming night.
"Then that's the dream"
the dragon slayer said then smiled a smile
that only a poppies blood can produce.
The harpoon handler looked up and grinned,
then found his target and continued on with
his quest for the warmth.
He smiled to himself as he pushed on
the stopper and once again
played with death.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 7:36 AM UTC
The house, when empty,
feels like a moseleum.
Everything is dark.
It is strange, how literally I can feel the heart tear.
Pericardium and myocardium,
ripping with the slow, tough **** of time and waiting,
atrium and ventricle split.
Far away my brain turns in on itself
as I stare at the candy on the road,
left from a Christmas parade,
Defined by the things its left behind,
though they lie unwanted.
My soul has fled to the wilderness
birth pangs of grief beginning,
prepared to deliver a stillborn heart,
As another star falls out of my sky.
It will go dark, I know.
One by one fall, without wishes to bring them back.
I stare at my sister's golden hair
and dread the day when she will be the one lying white,
bloodless
in a hospital bed.
Oh my mother, Oh my father,
are you to fall away, too?
Light. I scream, I need light.
But I will not throw bits of glass at the sky
to pretend I have re-lit the stars.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 12:53 PM UTC
Intertwine our pulmonaries
Pull tight, tie together our coronaries
My superior vena cava resting near yours
Hear that, the sound of opening ventricle doors
Beautiful looking aortas fixed
Winding together as a double helix
This heart of mine will skip a beat
Just so my arrhythmia and yours might meet
This ticker will only continue to tick
If next to yours it may stick
Not a murmur because of bad health
A murmuring of loves bountiful wealth
Atrium to atrium, heart to heart:
Blood's continual pumping, so long as our valves never part.
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 6:44 PM UTC
I promised you i’d plant those **** pink roses but
that Sunday morning that you broke me in ways
even my best friend didn’t think was possible
and i realized it was probably a good thing
that the whole thing was a production of strictly pretend;
a play, a script, an authors first mistake-
that day, i clipped every last flower
off and set the remains in a little drawer
with shards of glass i broke in my sleep
because i loved you every single day
despite my
i’m over you i’m over you i’m over you
that i repeated with the foolish hope of
convincing somebody that air still funnels through my lungs
and it’s come to my attention that
i’d pick my head over my heart but that is only
because i am a toy car abandoned by every single
pair of hands to wind it up and let it go
And yes, I will reduce my emotions to dust or
enlarge them in full zoom but
I cannot get over that fact that the clementines rotted in front
of us and
you devoured the part of me that let my heart reign over
my head and snapped the key to my rib cage;
you promised you would keep it safe and
you lied
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 12:34 AM UTC
I'd like to paint
you in an atrium of colorful
echoes zinging past your
face like hummingbirds
add in a touch of forest green, the
murky-gray lake water, white triangles
sketched for carefree sails
burnished by unusually honest conversation,
only sky blue and gold for the looks thrown
in each direction and inexplicable smiles
a rainbow,
a myriad for the future,
but you stand alongside me
as breathtaking landscape
and no art could do that justice
Feb 21, 2012
Feb 21, 2012 at 9:25 PM UTC
Under the clouds of hope
I married your kind eyes with the faith
of a million flowers bringing
back the spring
to the wild gardens
of my left atrium. I swear
I did not know that you were born
of rain and alcohol, because every one
of your touch could douse the flames
your kisses light on my skin.
I tried to write more about how every
time you said the word “halo”, your mouth
would curl like a serpent waiting to attack;
how your hands always were a warm
reminder of thoughtless touching;
how your feet are tired from all the walking
down flights of a paradox of stairs
and still wanting to run
away with me.
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 6:51 PM UTC
My sweater is torn.
And its January. She can sew.
She taught herself on a Sunday afternoon last July.
My sleeve caught on the door handle as I left.
It was trying to stop me,
Hold me back, teach me a lesson.
The handle took my button.
I didn’t care. I could go back and get it.
But not today. I’ll fix it.
Stars, toggles, squares,
Pink, blue, white, navy.
I find a grey circle.
The thread finds its way
Through the four chambers
Of the button.
Atrium to ventricle.
Ventricle to atrium.
I double knot it.
She can sew.
I didn’t care.
And now I wear my button on my sleeve.
Sep 21, 2011
Sep 21, 2011 at 3:57 AM UTC
From the beginning I trusted you, but in end I rejected you
Because the demons inside shined bright in the night
Sadly, we only hung out at night...
When your world was already dizzy
Mine was too busy to understand the reasons why
So my mind decided that a marathon was stunning
I only thought of you but it managaed to keep running
In this case 28 k but seemed like 28 days
Becuase as you know you just dont run the race
Theres many days of planning and exercise just in case
Now, my heart beats out of rythem
Becuase of the precision of your desicion
Your words seemed kind but in my mind I knew that they hurt
Like you grabbed my heart, played with it, put it back and left it in parts
Since then my left atrium doesnt work
Its like a inncoent whale that was left to die in the beach dirt
And i was simply that... innocent dirt
What had I done previous to this that made you act outrageous?
But now I know your contagious
A disease that brings you one step closer death
But now im just once step closer to home I guess
Home. A intanglment of feeling like the fibers in my sheets
I thought it was a place of love but then relized its just a place to meet
My mother was a weird one. Often pressing burdens on her son
A seperated family with nothing in commom is definatly more common then Nostradomeous
To say I love quotes would be close but theres some that make me simply choke
Remember when "like father like son" was an inpiration quote but for me its what kept me a float
On the sea of hatred with the destination of dope
Becuase of the words my mother chose, addiction would be my affliction
A state of pain my mother, father, sister and brother could not feel
Yes, this is the shittest deal, but look at me now
A person ontop with the world as my partner,
Ambition like a morning light because I had the will to fight
Only you can make a change your life, not your mother, drugs and neither your wife.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 4:04 PM UTC
Bo, I’ve just been Playing Pretend.
Putting on make-up and brushing my hair. Putting on dresses and smiling. Faking.
Dear, I wish I could say you’ve replaced the past, but all I can say is I hate me.
I’m dragging you about. Breaking your heart one atrium at a time. I’m putting you in his place, taking you to our old haunts.
Truthfully, I hate the product in your hair. I despise the nick-name “boo.” I could care less about champagne and “fine dining.” I wish you read more than non-fiction. I want you to laugh at my cheesy jokes. I wish you’d gotten upset when I told you about the boy. You claim to be free, but you’re more caged than me. Worry worry worry. About one word answers, about slow responses, about me, about the non-existent us.
I’m offering apologies, because I never told you. I’m sorry, dear, but the way you offer me your cheek offends me. The way you put my hand on your leg repulses me. Your damp fist in mine, makes me reach for hand sanitizer. Your love for eighties fashion causes me to worry for your sanity. Your style drives me crazy. I want band shirts, and thrift stores, but you want quality over quantity. I want fifty-seven fifty cent skirts that I’ll wear once.
I’m tired of playing happy for you. I’m sick of being sweet.
I was in it because you were interesting, now I’m in it for the drugs.
I’m avoiding your gaze more. Hoping you don’t see the things I do, because dear, I’m afraid to be alone.
Honestly, sweetheart, your hands get me nowhere. Every touch is just that. I’m sorry dear, but your kiss stops at my lips. I apologize love, but you’re not in my head. Or my heart. You’re just a placeholder.
You’re me trying to find solution.
Try, try, trying to find the answers. Trying to find the cure.
And failing.
Miserably.
All I’ve figured out, is I can’t stop looking left, when you’re sitting to my right. All I know is kissing you feels like cheating. All I know is I can’t get him out of my brain. All I wish is that I would have fought harder. All I see is how us ending has pulled him further from the surface. All I can worry about is his masochism.
Darling, I’m sorry, but I’m dead weight. I have nothing left to give you.
Sep 15, 2010
Sep 15, 2010 at 12:22 PM UTC
Can you settle for more or less if today was your last day
And what would be your retort if you were denied another chance?
How life introduces sobriety and the impending inevitability
The interstice and it’s ingress that encloses before your eyes
The demanding pouring of importune time
That soothing allaying sighs that evoke incalculable alleviation
If someone were to impart as they closed their eyes
As they died with a commital of happenings with not enough time
As to burden you with the impression of only one chance
It would seem and with the impending inevitability
Of your death which would subito compromise the day
A bearding contrivance plight of obligations engagement and commital no alleviation
An abecedarian dossier concealed for a long time
All this time the inevitable coinciding incident only for your eyes
The emotional habituation was of quotidian rendition each day
Of how trivial things take us on a dance with only one life one chance
With your attention and awareness on the answer the inevitability
Of what you are becoming with each passing second for each
Thought which transpires and no alleviation
Is there an epoch a replicating limn a depiction of our linear time
As we perpetrate and pursue progressively for our alleviation
Engaged to staying the course the day
Stirring closing in on our deliberate objective determined chance
Which remained for a terse duration from the inevitability
In which at the atrium of this erstwhile portage of a duvet to belabor
To stifle firsthand with your eyes
The variant from this domicile from this residence on a day
Is the vagabond to perish in yonder with no alleviation
Once man was a brute dullard or a curmudgeon spinster at a time
Which offers a mute disconnection ragged miscreant the inevi
Naivety or absent mindedness to somnambulist and its silhouette
Notwithstanding change
The quagmire and it’s nightmare the ingrate delighted with coined
Shunned eyes
Reputation with a flagrant obscene defilement galvanizing
The alleviation
At the heart of this lies another chance
A precocious inevitability
A man who lies to die another day
The annihilation in desperate want for from those argent eyes
To the starving newfangled optimism which in its sheen
Shines sunshine dulling the ocular orbs of time
Forwithal in befuddlement remain here
The time if infringement to comprehend the volatile vertigo
And the inevitability
The harrowing of hell
Glance at the shinning suns in her eyes intention considers change
After you heal and left are the cicatrix
Will you plunge further for alleviation
Or on the intent of regression once again
From long ago to another distant day.
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 9:20 PM UTC
How long did it take her to be free?
How long did it take
For the wingless dragonfly to finally open her heart to the world
How long did it take for her to overcome Devil’s workshop
Slowly caressing her retinas
With silky daffodils and two-faced tulips
Where
Now
She dives into a glistening pool of complicated risk
Opening her atrium to the masses
Shedding incumbent teardrops
Just for that one standing ovation
That sets her free
It was then
Where pieces of plastic chains fell from demure stratosphere
Dented taps, similar to a shoeless dancer,
Setting off bass tones and low-key monotony
For she was
One cholesterol filled syllable short
To be genuine
One tearful, hyphenated lyric
Too blunt
To be embraced by their “god”
One dilapidated vowel shy
Of being honest
Her diary didn’t have enough pages torn
From emerald sanity
There were too many “Wows”,
Diluting into disingenuous shoulder pats
Her stanza pushed aside
A glorified ***** call with no call back number
Leaving messages towards empty dial tones
…
How long will it take her to be free?
Until she looks up
Knowing she already holds the key
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 12:06 AM UTC