"attaches" poems
Poor dolphin
with no fin
finn the human
come to rescue him
attaches new fins
now he can swim
go back to africa
whoops wrong poem
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 8:25 PM UTC
A little boy
Neat white shirt ironed to perfection
A monster truck plastered on the front
Denim jeans, fitting his skinny waist just right
Innovative
Imaginative
He loves creating new things
Making plain old cardboard into the next best thing
He gets his crayons
Sharpies and all
And runs to his room
All excited on his new project, his new creation
One piece of cardboard after the other
Rectangles flying everywhere
Coloring what looks like door handles onto cardboard?
The vision isn’t clear, yet it will come together soon.
He works quickly
With a due date set in mind
Full of ambition
The vision isn’t clear, yet it will come together soon.
He finishes his new achievement
Smiling happily at his new jumble of handiwork
Glued together precisely
The vision isn’t clear, yet it will come together soon.
He attaches the different shapes to himself
Straps glued to the cardboard
It seems he’s wearing armor
With doorknobs and wood grain painted on it with pure artistry
He hears someone come in the front door
His smile turns to panic
He quickly cleans up the supplies
Throwing things around the room anywhere they fit
He runs to the corner of his room
He quickly pulls the “armor” close to him
As he sits in the fetal position
His armor becomes a small dresser that looks as if it was made for clothes
The father bursts into the room
With rage spelled out on his forehead
The boy hides brilliantly afraid of the wrath to come
The father looks around the room carefully
*Come out Come out
Wherever you are
The next time I see you
I’ll give you more bruises than last week altogether*
He closes the door with a loud slam
The boy unfolds his creation, a simple dresser
Who knew that a young boy’s imagination
Would protect him from all of the horror and pain usually unleashed on him
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 9:27 PM UTC
left brain, left brain
logical and literal
logarithms and lessons
long nights with little light
left brain sees the one
we love
and stays away
because it's the right thing to do
right brain, right brain
romantic and ridiculous
poetry and promises
dreams and darlings
yet to be killed
right brain sees the one
we love
and shrivels up dead
because being so close and so far
is too much for one to bear
when your heart is impaired
left brain, left brain
sees sights of soaring smiles
sees sights of somber sorrow
and squashes it with seas of cynicism
because left brain knows better
those people hurt us before-
why let them hurt us some more?
right brain, right brain
silly and sentimental
attaches arbitrary attributes
to objects of ominous obeisance
because right brain is impulsive
in this moment, they are everything
so they will always be everything-
right?
left brain, right brain
dynamic dichotomy
different and drastic
secure and stubborn
too strong-willed to back down
too lonely to break apart
disagree as we may
we know we might as well stay
for everyone in life needs a friend
and left brain and right brain
will be together until the end
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 8:08 PM UTC
Stuck.
You're stuck.
So that must mean I am too.
I don't want to be stuck.
My love for you grows
More and more each day.
But I can never stay stuck.
Stuck.
I was stuck.
Long before I met you.
I didn't want to be stuck then,
And I don't now.
Trapped within a
Disgustingly thick, slimy stuck
I worked my way deep in to find
Nothing but more unruly muck.
Stuck.
I'm only halfway stuck.
But you're all the way stuck.
I'm not going back in.
I'll suffocate again,
Lose myself and become
The demon that attaches to
My weakening soul like
The grotesque parasite it is.
You can stay stuck all you want
But you'll never find me down there
While you wallow around in your
Muddled conceptions of yourself.
Stuck.
Yeah, right.
But I'll be here
At the edge of the muck
Waiting to help you out
When you get unstuck.
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 11:22 PM UTC
In a crowd she stands alone,
her beauty creeps out.
Mysterious shades of color enchain her captivating allure,
every shade more beautiful than the last.
The efflorescence of a flower fails to image her,
flawless from head to toe.
The illusion of free will quickly fades,
I cannot deny my attraction to her,
She glows.
Warming the room by her graceful movements,
clocks slow, each second delights in her every twirl.
Tick. Toc.
Her look sets me at ease.
Freeing me from my uncertainty, I now clench belief close to my heart,
summoned by a dream with every beat.
I am left in a daydream,
As, she is gone…
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 10:02 PM UTC
--With antlers
Breaking; broken
We're all-
Wonder; wandering
Through the glass
Forest where trunks
Reflect regret--
And leaves cut mistakes
Into scars.
We are deer,
Eating barb-tailing
Grass.
But I'm sorry
Antibiotic acorns
Aren't working anymore.
My pupil's seep,
Mercury in return.
When that feeling--
Attaches bed-linen
To stapling sharks,
They begin birthing
'Acknowledgement'
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 3:28 AM UTC
I’ve had this problem
since I was twelve
I never thought
that much of myself
you may not understand
a thing such as this
but life’s hard for a boy
when he thinks he’s got ****
he don’t sleep well at night
he dreads going to school
he stays out of the heat
and stays out of the pool
and it’s hard to find love
when he’s full of self-hate
and he can’t even tell
when he’s lost all that weight
when years later, he’s healthy
his memory sees
when he looks in the mirror
how he used to be
still he counts out the portions
he’s wasting away
though he’s 80 pounds lighter,
he still feels the same
I went down from 240
to 158
but i’m still that fat kid
that’s filled with self-hate
but I deal with it different
than I used to do
now i’m building lean muscle
at 172
I still have the same problem
I’m sick of this ****
when I look in the mirror
I’m still seeing ****
but I guess there’s not really
that much I can do
‘cos that kind of self-image
attaches to you
Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 9:30 PM UTC
Cigarette hits the water,
and the fire is quenched.
I exhale quickly, to
banish the remaining tendrils
that curl inside my lungs.
But I’ve missed one
and it slithers, sneaks,
attaches to my pulse.
A shadow, it whispers
promises of oxygen
to my gasping blood.
I drip dry, and stare at my nakedness.
This shell, this cavern
knows not what she does.
If there were a solution-
she would live it by now.
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 1:40 AM UTC
Listen closely and hear our collective vernacular in a state of constant mitosis.
Live and see our language begin to rival our own complexity.
A myriad of inter-connecting word highways with more twists,
turns and travelers than that of any physical road.
A body of thought massing in our collective conscious,
an infinite man-made addition to our finite physical reality.
Every addition is another color, another taste,
relative to the user in enunciation,
becoming ever less limited by geography.
Emotion attaches and tints the tone of individual words as we grow with age.
Without it enabling us to define ourselves, we are left ignorant and insular.
Memory accumulates casting a shadow and adds depth,
communication cultivating perception to leverage change in corporeality.
Pulsating slang spreading locally with fresh life to be globally colloquial.
A wordsmith may use this power to celebrate
or condemn their perception of reality,
more still- will wield words like plowshares
and escapism flourishes with such an expansive field
where all of humanity is brought out to play.
And sometimes-
for me,
it is just barely enough to grip a word with impunity.
Jan 10, 2011
Jan 10, 2011 at 9:11 AM UTC
you,
you are poison ivy.
growing in my heart, sprouting first as a little bud at the base and then wrapping your tendrils and vines around tighter and tighter until I can barely breathe.
you are poison ivy
itching at the disassembled strands of my affections and i want to tear my chest open, pluck off the petals of my heart, hands coated in pollen and
tell you
there are no more petals
left to give.
you are poison ivy
you still spread your arms around me, reaching for more that i can give, lathering my pollen into every crevice of your poison skin.
you are a silver bulb and I am the moth that attaches to it, shadowing your every move,
the way your fork always grazes your plate before
you
set it down.
The way you run your fingers over the delicate arch of your ear or how you draw the sides of your books close together when you read,
as if trying to pull the
literature close to your body, letting it seep into your naked eyelids.
I wish i was that literature.
There was a whole new garden of emotions, of loss and sorrow sprouting delicately at my fingertips and
you
were not aware and
now all i want is to uproot my garden and start again.
you are poison ivy
and i can't stand you, that itching that feels like screaming and ripping and scarring
You were an itch that i scratched over and over until i bled
and once the bleeding had stopped and the cuts had scabbed over
I itched it again
and
again
and
again.
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 3:28 PM UTC
439
Undue Significance a starving man attaches
To Food—
Far off—He sighs—and therefore—Hopeless—
And therefore—Good—
Partaken—it relieves—indeed—
But proves us
That Spices fly
In the Receipt—It was the Distance—
Was Savory—
2.1k
There once was a place
There once was a boy
There once was a soul
Altogether creating heavenly evil
The soul was cursed from the start
The intelligent thoughts
The mental superiority
The guilty conscience
All cursed to perfection
The boy was cursed from the womb
The tall stature
The blessed looks
The forgiving health
All cursed to perfection
The place was cursed from the stone
The malicious sins
The deceiving repents
The false forgiveness
All cursed to perfection
The soul attaches to the boy
The boy attaches to the place
The heavenly evil called Purgatory
Where the superior but guilty visit
Where the strong but heartless visit
Where the regretful but lying visit
And clean their slate
To nothing more
And ascend upwards
As Purgatory is not the halfway point
But more the pre-cursor to evil paradise
That will one day be lost
A repent doesn't take you most of the way
A sins doesn't disappear after repent
The soul doesn't change if it sees reward
Purgatory is a lie
From a wicked boy with a wicked soul
A heavenly evil
All blessed to damnation
Up or down is the way
But not in the sky
But in the boy himself
As I am dust
And to dust I shall never return
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 11:58 PM UTC
Learning and unlearning
Goes in full circle
Learning is the pathway anybody is supposed to take
Nowadays information is packaged in the way to us
That unlearning has also been one of the essentials
Learning neither has a start
Learning nor has an end
The learning to unlearn
Is a most nowadays
Unlearning
A kind of learning too
Learning is a process
A never ending process
But one supposes it to be an effect
Hence we aim learning
Supposedly has some destined milestone
So we take a step to learn
A scenario
Not perceiving that learning is a process
But a destiny to achieve
Leads to a controlled way of knowing
Only limited things
That we already planned to know
Here we know things
But only that are predestined
But don't learn about what is going around
And not learn what really learning process is
The controlled way of such learning
Leads to limited perspective
And limited ways of thinking
A scenario
What was to be learned
Was gathered previously
Hence the accomplishments such ways
Brings about the sense of pride
And oneself attaches to it
The attachment now leads the learning to stop
Gradually within oneself
As the long awaited accomplishment is achieved
There may not be room for further learning
As hard work has been done already
Creativity tends to vanish
Ego sets to feel in and within.
The time passes on
Some years go by
Time's they are changing
Oneself is in the same state of knowledge as before
No creativity endures
There resides the gap of the learning and knowledge
Brings about the gap in understanding
Now it demands to having the before learned unlearn
This only sets the room for learning
In the present and the time to come
Hence, a full circle
Of learning and unlearning
A fresh start
Trying to learn
Now the learning goes on and on
And on and on
It does not have a destiny to accomplish
It goes on to eternity
The true learning begins
The oneself now feels no pride
But humility and kindness in learning
Is the sole path of learning
A sole path to awakening.
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 11:10 AM UTC
Pushes and pulls.
Isolates and attaches.
Separates and unites.
A drug problem it is not.
A substance issue never cured.
A relationship that destructs.
A heart problem.
A relationship problem.
A self-esteem problem.
Heal the heart.
Repair the wound.
Build your self-esteem.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 12:33 PM UTC
Funny. I have a similar problem. When a waitress drops in to take a drink order, I can never look her in the eye. Guilt, I suppose. There’s nothing she’s doing for me I can’t do for myself. Legs work. Hands work. Let me walk to the water dispenser and press the glass into it. Let me pick up my food. Let me carry it to my table. You take it easy, sweetheart. So, instead of meeting her pupils, I find myself reading and re-reading her nametag. A silent mantra. Tara. Tara. Tara.
Thank you for saying I should be “held by my edges.” That’s a candy-coated take on the truth. A more accurate description would have been ******* Oh, the toxic mix of shame, alcohol, and letter writing. I’m a new man, though. Cologne and everything. I’m even done drinking. Well, after I finish this beer. Still had one in the fridge. Anyway, I’m sorry.
No, women like Heather don’t disappear cleanly. Or with grace. In the silent moments, she always looked at me like I might hit her. She’ll probably tell friends I did. Everyone enjoys a good story. She called Friday. Said she’d taken some X. Dancing on her couch. I could join her or just watch. I just hung up. Did I tell you she’s really into Anime? And she attaches faux foxtails to her belt. I’m not sure if one of those traits is responsible for the other. Wish she didn’t know where I lived.
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 10:55 PM UTC
It's curious to think
our individual body parts
do very little
to tell our stories
or reveal our identities.
But when added
together and contextualized,
we comprehend more
than words can bear.
I wonder how many
pieces it takes
to recognize
a puzzle as such
and for fragments to
heed deeper meaning.
I wonder at what point
the soul enters and attaches
itself -- and at what point
we dignify ourselves
as more than
mobile jigsaws.
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 3:36 AM UTC
She misses those around her when she is alone,
slowly, her mind drifts and attaches to something inside of her that wants desperately to leave.
Can she travel the distance to see those who notices her absence?
Probably.
There is a jet plane leaving soon, about in a month or less.
2,352 miles away from me, she will land and enjoy the rest of her life with other people.
Enjoyment will come for her. Rest assure she will live a life full of excitement and company.
I on the other hand will live, barely but I will live. I will never see her and will wash the sheet where we used to sleep together. The smell will leave. As everything in this life does.
Will I notice her absence?
Absolutely.
Will I miss her drool on the cool side of the pillow?
Absolutely.
The water will never drip from the faucet anymore because I will remember that no one will be home when I get here.
It will be tightly shut.
No noise at night, no deep breathes when we awake, just the other side of the bed.
I will miss her bras hanging from the office chair in the room. I will miss her work schedule on the cork note thing, I will miss the one side of the slipper because that is the only one we could find.
But life will prevail, the honesty of this poem is unprecedented to my nature.
I am a liar; I am someone who cannot hold her here.
I am sorry, guapa.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
i'm tied
i've tried to cut this string
that attaches me to you
but the knotted rope is too thick
and my scissors too dull
Apr 28, 2021
Apr 28, 2021 at 9:10 AM UTC
I wonder ivy, ever green
embracing faces no longer seen
were better tribute to love immortal
than fragrant blossoms strewn on soil;
too soon they loose their hues, perfumes,
becoming dust like those they'd honor,
when life's the thing we thought was cherished -
then remind us only flesh will perish
but love attaches to the stars
and lives forever in our hearts
so never work to mark my path
with stones nor earth, for they will pass,
erode of tears and sighs of heaven
that earth should suffer my disruption,
her milk I’d stolen might sequester
locked in darkness forever from her
rather, vest me in some far off light
that twinkles in the dark of night,
thy wistful eyes to visit there
and meet my love’s returning stare
Oct 16, 2010
Oct 16, 2010 at 7:29 PM UTC
what is something insignificant
that attaches itself easily to whatever
it picks up in the passing wind
maybe a mosquito
i know people like to say their
blood is sweet
they like to think of themselves
as beloved but the truth is
you were only nearby
with a bit of leg to bite down on
they'll fill themselves up with anyone
who gets close enough
i think i'm the same way or at least
i used to be
i could tell you why i tend to feel
so desperate for wholeness
dressed up every morning in my black gown and veil
a hand-me-down rosary wrapped around my knuckles
but the story gets old
the older i get
when i was little i told myself
i'd never be the dad in the sports car
who only listens to oldies
but i've been practicing with the sound of rain
held by the way it always comes down the same
i think i'll stare out the window forever
i think i'll never grow tired of the echo
Nov 2, 2020
Nov 2, 2020 at 11:53 AM UTC
We didn't last forever;
the word attaches shackles
and chains that restrain,
and is better left unspoken--
never uttered, always locked
in the bars of my ribcage
where it restlessly remains
in utmost agony.
Then,
it stops.
The silence haunts me,
and my ribcage is imbalanced.
With laughter filled with tears,
and nonchalance juxtapose passion,
I whisper:
"Nothing lasts forever.
We fell apart like rose petals
amongst heavy storms."
The mask slips;
I avert my
red-rimmed eyes.
"But we could have--
oh darling,
we could have."
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 2:14 AM UTC
It looks inviting.
Clean. Fresh. Sweet.
I carefully touch it's cold and tight skin,
Lifting it slightly with a few fingers.
Feeling out, all over its ripe flesh;
Feeling out the soft and moist spots,
As gently as possible with a knowing finger.
Even just by looking, I can tell that the flesh behind the skin will be juicy.
After the briefest pause to appreciate the appetizing view,
I bring my mouth down onto it
Feeling the cold skin become
very warm against my mouth.
My mouth attaches to its skin and takes it apart with skilled suction,
(I'd hate to needlessly tear the skin to shreds with my teeth)
Immediately, my mouth is suddenly sweetly flooded with those sticky juices;
That savory flavor flowing down my face, mixed in with the taste of my own saliva.
...
I taste and drink it in. All of it.
The taste, the smell, the flavor.
I nibble away, emphatically and eagerly;
Excited by the rich and strong taste of it,
Pouring itself out to me from underneath it's skin.
I am enraptured by the entirety of it.
I wish I could eat Pears, everyday.
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 1:32 PM UTC
When pain escalates, your mind excavates
It entertains and agitates the best of your worst thoughts
Thinking while you sink
Sinking while your mind attaches links to other links which create memories
Vile memories that participate in your habit to erase them
To remove them
By ripping them from your mind with force
Using the high of that blatant eight ball as your source
When pain escalates, your mind begins to deteriorate
As you ligate your mind frame with a plateau of mistakes
A gust of emptiness floats uninvited through derailed spaces
Generating issues on top of issues
Imminently transforming you
Fabricating you as two addicts in one body
Two addicts in one mind
Two addicts in one soul
The mind excavates on the level of your thoughts
It digs deep
By means of unique technique
It leaves your heart weak
Like a fading light in the middle of the dark
It'll pull out your distress with raised instructions of defeat
Then attaches a link that involves a ghost that sets your mind a bit free
A bit free, a little empty
The voices go quiet for a time
Your heart can now slow down as your mind continues to unwind
The high of it all makes your body want more
Reaching into your subconscious
Making you believe you need more to be cured
Sinking while you think, your mind provides solutions
Excavating while you sleep, your heart decaying from contortions
Contortions happening in your mind and soul
Contortions that have the ability to leave you body a bit sore
Masking the fears of this uneventful detour
Cause when pain escalates, the mind excavates
It entertains and agitates the best of your worst thoughts
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 1:14 PM UTC
Dickinson said that "hope is the thing with feathers."
Well I say hope is the thing with claws
it attaches itself to my heart and will not let go
it refuses to leave me.
"Tenacious" people say about me.
"Dreamer" is what I whisper to myself.
It is that hope. Unrelenting, stubborn, confounding hope.
It tells me there is more.
That sad days end.
Frustrations can be beaten.
Dead ends become detours.
Failures are just lessons.
And endings are merely the next chapter beginning.
Hope is the thing with claws,
it has attached itself to my heart,
and refuses to let me go.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 4:39 PM UTC
Daily,
Anna Tole
rides by me.
sitting up straight;
pedaling awkwardly.
she looks down:
maybe at the dirt
or a stone,
but it’s most probably
something i cant see
with glass eyes
alone.
she sees things…
like a seed taking root
or a nest where foxes
chew rocks
in constant costly pursuit
of that elusive sharper tooth
clouded. constant. clarity.
she looks closer
to see grains of sand
much darker
than her pre-disposed
pre-dawn
darkness
the kind
that attaches itself
tangled up behind her
she might as well be
tying soda cans
to tap out a
telegraph message
s.o.s…s.o.s…s.o.s…
Jan 15, 2011
Jan 15, 2011 at 9:48 PM UTC