"bawling" poems
Today, the 11 days are over.
You packed up your bags,
Stepped foot out of your house,
And that was it.
Your life will never be the same again.
I've sent you multiple messages the past two days..
And had to get drunk just to do it.
I wish it wasn't this way..
Wish it was easier.
But its not, Bug.
We've never been easy.
But through it all,
I've love you,
And you me,
And I suppose that's most important.
Today was my favorite singers birthday,
And I planned to balls-to-the-wall celebrate.
but as everyone else was tAking shots in her honor,
I found I was taking them to numb the pain in my chest.
You see, I could feel you leaving..
I could feel the pull of the universe shift
From south to north.
I tried to drown you out with alcohol,
But when igot home,
I had to speak to you just once more.
I had to tell you how much I missed you already,
How much you had meant to me.
Even if it was futile..
Even if i swore to myself i could be strong,
It wouldnt hurt me to see you go..
Oh, but it did.
I know I'm not number one anymore,
And I can honestly say that I'm happy you've found
Someone who doesn't bring you down,
Someone so different from me.
I know its gonna be hard for you..
I mean Jesus Christ, Ive been bawling for
The better part of an hour.
But you can do it.
I believe in you.
I always will.
I will miss you so much.
And I don't care who thinks they know you better..
Former number one or not,
I know you,
And that may be the only thing that never changes.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 4:05 AM UTC
The mirrior is my adversary.
My eyes variance, what others don't see.
To the word I'm adequate, crowning , spotless, and skilled
Every morning I wake up, get ready and cover my lips in red majestic mac
Red lipstick seems to illuminate confidence in the eyes of many,
but to me it is merely a pigmented shield of secrets.
Humorous isn't it?
Every unmarred life, seeks to relive its pigments
Fears, self-doubt, imperfection.
Mirror, mirror, mirror on the wall..
Who's the thinnest of them all...
The sound of battle rumbles
Conscious at wrists ends
Bawling in me
Fat,
Fat,
Fat,
Yours tricks are foul, you tauntful mind
Vision is blurred from reality,
Oh mind how you love to frolic
Your sheer joys leave me unpieced,
The snickering of my mirror,
Damages my frame.
Sorrowing fades my red lipstick
Pigments revealed,
Vulnerable,
Unworthy,
Marred to the bone
Quickly I learned that the mind is the enemy, filled with con
Staring in my mirror and all I see is fat.
Red lipstick always seems to fade by the end of the night.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
Quaint
pink curtains and tablecloths.
White walls.
The sugary smell of almonds, pistachio
and butterscotch skip around the room,
playing hopscotch and Mary Mack.
The display is impressive,
I can smell each grain of sugar
in these petit cupcakes and dollops of icing.
And then a little girl wails!
Mommy won't buy
her anymore
sweet treats.
Bawling--
the girl does an angry-stomp-dance-
and then a woman, livid--
storms up to the counter.
I said half dozen almond biscotti.
I can't take these to my book club.
Isn't anyone here competent?
Her booming voice has no effect
on the lone,
tired African-American woman behind the counter.
She seems disassociated from the present chaos.
The dark circles under her eyes
and the surrounding pursed lip wrinkles say everything.
Excuse me, but I've been waiting
on a refill of the complimentary coffee
for over ten minutes now
an uptight gent in a business suit complains.
When the woman behind the counter
pulls out out a shotgun--
there is silence.
This ain't what I wanted
she whimpers just before
the weapon gracefully slides
under her chin--
--!BAM!--
As I walk out the door,
I wonder how long it will
take for someone to realize
that's not red icing or sprinkles
on the cupcakes.
Aug 13, 2011
Aug 13, 2011 at 10:32 AM UTC
When I hear the words “marching band”,
I think of 4 am’s eating donuts on the bus,
Piled in big heaps to conserve warmth,
Not caring who we were laying on.
I think of lips on fire,
Sectionals that drag on and on in
The scorching sun, and staying
At attention for longer than you can bear.
I think of impossibly quick changes into uniforms,
Asking your friends to zip you up,
Band moms wiping off bibbers and shoes,
And when you’re all ready, realizing you didn’t put on your mic.
I think of falling on turf during
25 mph wind gusts, hearing the hail smash your instrument,
Not being able to feel your face,
But knowing you have to play on just the same.
I think of eating at weird times,
Breakfast at 4 am, lunch at 10 am, and supper at 10 pm,
But knowing that when you get you get a chance to eat,
The band dads have got you covered.
I think of laughing so hard on the bus
You’re crying, sobbing even, sprawled across
Your best friends, and you think you’ll never calm down
Enough to ever play your instrument again.
I think of the drum majors’ voices yelling
LEFT LEFT LEFT
Over and over again until the freshmen finally understand.
There’s always that one that never does.
I think of the moment of utter agony
Before they announce the last place in your class,
And you’re squeezing your eyes shut, praying
That at the very least, you won’t be last.
I think of that moment of utter relief
After you hear the last place in your class,
And it’s not you, and your prayers have been answered
That at the very least, you were not last.
I think of the last competition of the season,
When the seniors are bawling and it seems like
Your entire world is crashing down,
And nothing will ever be right again.
This poem could go on forever,
But finally: finally.
When I hear the words “marching band”,
I think of that triumphant moment right
As your show ends for the last time,
That last horns down,
And you know you’ve given it your all,
And no matter what your score is,
You feel in your heart that you have put everything
You have out there,
All the music, the drill, the blood, sweat and tears,
Out there on that football field.
And that moment, you can get no where else, but
Marching band.
Oct 26, 2018
Oct 26, 2018 at 5:42 PM UTC
On Christmas Eve I was talking to my brother
It was 2:30 in the morning
We had both been drinking.
I read him one of my poems.
That one about surviving myself.
It sparked a conversation.
The tough kind.
About suicide.
I told him I truly believed most people
Dont WANT to die
They just want the pain to stop
I told him it was a cry for help.
He told me my first attempt was not.
He said with tears rolling down his cheeks
"You were done that night."
With tears now streaming down my cheeks I replied
"I can't talk about this. Not tonight."
"I know." He cried
"Did you ever get help after that night? After seeing me like that? Did you talk to someone?"
"I couldnt talk about it. It was too hard."
At this point we're both bawling.
I wrapped my arms around him.
I apologized.
See that's the thing about attempting suicide and surviving.
If you're lucky enough
To survive
You have to witness the pain everyone around you feels.
Because of you.
I never use to think it was selfish.
Not until Christmas Eve.
I broke my brother.
6 years ago.
And he's still haunted.
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 7:19 PM UTC
i am standing beside a hole where a soulless body lays
afraid to peep inside
of who it might be
staring back
into my hazel eyes
could my innocent youth be harsh-fully swept away
if it was my mother whose eyes id have to face?
i am standing beside a hole where a soulless body lays
where my ears start to ring with echoes of heavy sobs that soon shred into weeps
whose funeral might this be?
was it possible that my late night bawling to god, to place that husband of hers under the rug, had finally been done?
i am standing beside a hole where a soulless body lays
when my mind immediately hits the ***
might this be the ceremony
to sendoff ,the person with whom i shared my soul?
might the bag of deceased bones
belong to the person
death was too afraid to take,
because of the ecstasy we both did generate?
would this ceremony actually be, my worst nightmare to come true?
i am standing beside a hole where a soulless body lays
i am suddenly held hostage inside my own brain, forced to see all the nights id been swept away,
under the wings of insomnia
where id been dipped into a deception
making the sky seem like perfect company, in a romantic way
and the moon my dearest friend, in the best of ways
i am standing beside a hole where a soulless body lays
im fed up of being at this ceremony
i now want to leave
the place however
starts to fill with mobs
and never ending sobs
i see my parents greeting guests
and i see my best friend trying hardest to not break
for gods sake whose loss is being grieved in this hollow place
i stumble as i walk upon the open grave
filled with angry puzzles to piece
tears of all these eyes are by now enough, to create an ocean inside this place
an ocean however that i can not cleanse myself in to be saved
i am standing beside a hole where my soulless body lays
and soon i start to realize
ive been a tourist in my own grave
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 11:28 AM UTC
I be jammin down da beach
When I heard da pastor preach
"Baatiboys stay far from we!" he yell
"Baatiboys will burn in hell!"
He take a drag from the spliff
He jam out a reggae riff
"Excuse I" I say
"You should be on your way"
The spliff be shaped like a ****
He light it with tha bic
Baatiboy wink at me
His last wink that'll be
I rise up like Jah
I smack him in da jaw
Da spliff be fallin'
Da baatiboy be bawling'
He runnin' away cryin'
But this baatiboy gonna be dyin'
Pull out tha chopper
BAWH BRAP BRAP POW drop er'
Pastor be cheering
At the baatiboys I'm sneering
Stay off me beach
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 10:45 PM UTC
isn't it ironic
how everything
that has saved you
has left you
bawling on the floor
of your bedroom
with the door
barricaded shut,
thinking nothing but
horrible thoughts.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 12:12 AM UTC
You stripped my soul,
Ripped me from my shoes
Where I stood
in innocence.
You extracted my childlike traits,
Treated my body
As your ********* paycheck.
My whole future
Was laid out in front me.
Now you fabricated a dent in it,
One that has shattered me
Forever.
I used to smile,
Be full of life,
Slept at night,
My body never reeked the incessant scent
of the lifeless souls you sold me to.
My heart ached everyday,
I longed for home, where safety was waiting for me.
Everyday I was a raindrop,
Trying to cling onto the window of hope,
But always slipped away.
You don’t understand the pain,
You’re only in it for the hunnits
Please understand,
That my dehumanization is not worthy
For what you gain.
My body became an abstract canvas,
For your ugly pleasures.
Bruised, bloodied, beaten, and battered.
Cuts and aches line my delicate skin,
But to you all my pain is fake.
You slapped my delicate face,
every time I asked for my precious prize of my childhood,
every time clear oceans surged out of my eyes.
“Shut the hell up!” You yelled
As I let out wails of agony.
You stepped all over me
Like I was a used cigarette.
You ignored my shrieking screams,
Actually,
You loved it.
You forced me
To comply with their beastly gratifications,
Only in return for your abundant riches.
You stepped on me,
like I was a ***** grimy, muddy puddle,
over and over
Even so,
I was still considered desirable.
I am NOT your canvas.
I am NOT your paycheck.
I am NOT your plaything.
I am worthy of honor,
worthy of respectful awe and delicacy.
I did not feel the worth of a human being anymore.
I felt ill treated, broken, bent, demeaned.
You stripped my soul, and,
Deprived me of my self respect.
And I will never
Ever
Be the same.
The only thought
That seeps into my mind
At sunrise and the brink of midnight,
Is that
I
Was someone’s *****
Listen to the pleas of
Children,
their ribbons shriveling up.
Spouses,
their vows rupturing.
Siblings,
their hearts torn apart.
Parents,
Bawling for their sanities,
Waiting to rejoice
With their miraculous bundles of joy—
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 11:13 AM UTC
i hear your outcry
false love
needy little child
bawling crocodile tears
you want her to
love you, correction:
bow to you. she is
FREEDOM
we aren't children
don't spoonfeed
your hilarious attempts
self-harm for her benefit
no. selfish creep.
stop forcing
heartbeat measured
tastes bland as stale rice
cold: as rain washes
through my entrails.
I feel no pity.
she is not your toy
get a dog
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 10:06 PM UTC
I can see in your eyes that you are hurting, but you won't let me help.
I break inside seeing you crumble.
That I can't hold your hand to help you keep going.
That you will not rest.
You laugh every time I'm with you, but It's fake.
And you are awake, but still closing your eyes so people won't see your blood stain eyes.
Do you think suffering by yourself makes you tougher?
Dear love,
If you think hiding what's going on well make it better, just to wait till you die inside.
It's not.
Set upon some of your problems on me.
And if you stumble, and start to crumble yet again,
I will be right beside you.
Falling right beside you.
Bawling with you, crying with you, baring your struggles on our backs with you darling.
I love you.
Can't you see I'm not leaving you?
You won't hurt me.
It's love with knowledge.
Knowing that I will love you till the day I close my eyes for the last time, even in the happy and romantic times to the sad and angry times when we yell and want to run away.
I will hold your hand now...
even if you pull away from me.
I can't let you keep walking down this path.
I can't.
And I will keep trying to help you my love, until my heart beats slower and then not at all.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 8:12 AM UTC
When my mom was dying
We put a bed in the living room
Fresh from the hospital
In front of the piano
Behind the rocking chair
We still called it the "living room"
I didn't mention the cruel irony in that
And the living people
Who knew my mother
All came and sat around her
And we weren't allowed to touch her
Cause the morphine lost its memory
And every bit of her was falling down
Dozing in a straw house
When the weather man called for hurricanes
She was right there
But miles away from rescue efforts
And hand-holding daughters
Marilyn Monroe went the same way
In bed, I mean
Facedown
Her pill supply run out
And I imagine her room was a beautiful mess
Full of roses and tokens from insincere men
An icon deserves better than that
A pin up with no one
But ex-lovers and sheets to hold her
And a pillow stained with last lipstick kisses
All those little white beads of forgetfulness
Crawling on the floor
And happy birthday Mr. President
Billy woke up bawling the other night
In bed with a girl
Who was not my sister
And he called and told her he loved her still
She hugged my dog and cried into her fur
She finished the roll
Of toilet paper blowing her nose
There were three of us in bed that night
And two somewhere else
Continents, nations, states apart
The air in my room was like asphalt
And allergies weighing us down
Lulu barked at our crestfallen hearts
Under the supermoon
I turned into a twentysomethingwolf
Keen senses acute defenses
And all I could smell on my sheets
Was the kitchen I work in
I wanted to be human
Taste the fear and perfection
Of being a ******
In bed with a boy who is not family
A teenager whispering under sheets again
I stayed at home alone
Soothing, sighing, and howling sweet nothings
To my lonely bed
Telling mom and Marilyn Monroe
The fever dreams in my lone wolf head
Praying "please God, send us someone"
"Please God, let love burn us quick and strong"
"Please God, don't draw the blues out. We all buckle."
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 12:08 AM UTC
Unknown, conceived, and unaware
His first breath, his first words
His first steps, his first girl
He screams from hunger
Teary eyed and bawling for his mother
The world seems too big for his tiny hands
But in his lifetime, the world would be in his grasp
First day in class
Alone
Learning the basics
The path walked by legends, scholars, and warriors
Shapes colors and words
A long time in no time
First kiss the prom night
Life long friends then grad night
His first love, his first wife
His first child, his first highlight
First loan for his first home
Stock market on the rise
He takes full advantage
Market crashes
And they manage
Business man with business plan
Older brother, caring friend
Loving father, devoted husband
There for his child's first breath
His first words, his first steps
The day would come when he would pass
Now the chance
His first born from his first home
Raised to be the man he was and so much more
He followed in his fathers first footsteps.
Once follower now leading
Repeat these example for words are fleeting
From next to next
as is man
-Alexis J Meighan-
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 11:35 PM UTC
Plenty of poems from broken hearts who got loved then dumped.
Women writing poems about wanting a man back after he ***** dogged her.
Don't take rocket scientist to know something wrong with that picture.
Clue to men who ain't going to stay put even if he put a ring on it.
He's flirting with everything in a skirt, He ain't attentive after he hit it,
You gotta be the one always calling, He don't call unless he wants to hit,
He gets defensive when you want to know why he wasn't where he said he'd be.
Those are signs he's c-h-e-a-t-i-n-g and so are the ones coming up.
You catch him in lies and he makes you think your losing it.
He closes window of his computer when you enter the room.
All his is password protected and he wont tell you his passwords.
He's getting and receiving text messages he wont let you read.
He leaves the room when he gets a call.
If you answer his phone you get hang ups, phone rings until he answers.
He wont let you meet his friends or his family.
He starts arguments so you wont go with him when he leaves.
Men don't get ****** cause I'm ratting you out. Read one too many
heart break poems to be sorry for truth telling on my gender.
Men think about *** when they not having it.
If he don't want to hit it he's hitting it else where.
Coming up is ones to skip and avoid.
You can skip the ones who look at your cleavage and not your eyes.
You can skip the ones who live with mamma.
If he wants you to hurry up and quit talking or makes you feel like you
can't do nothing right, skip him too ladies or you gonna be bawling your eyes out over him.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 5:44 PM UTC
Wailing walls, howling fences
Encaged and blocked by barriers
All smashed, sorted in security fence
Miles of humanity and flesh torn apart
Why is it that we can’t live together?
We bleed the same coagulating blood
Lined up and humiliated in alleyways
Paths of iron bars and imprisonment
My veins wringed, intensive torment
Mentally distracted, strained by grief
Settlement, conflicts and border struggles
Governance, religious trickles of disunion
The biblical birthright verses human rights
The unsighted straining peace settlement
Shadows of the peace blueprint screams
Ongoing reconciliation, milked in small doses
Whose home is whose? Subdivided in areas
Controls of disillusionment undisclosed
Unmanned checkpoints evokes fears
Revolving cameras tossed and turned
Bansky slogan “make hummus not war”
Smashes freedom to uproot and merge
Constitute and construct peaceful resorts
All horns blowing to collapse duality
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 2:08 PM UTC
what is my promised pain?
from conception
to my first deception
i wondered what my promised pain was
is it as sweet and seductive
as a lovers first touch?
or is it as ****** and dull
as entangled flesh in a bush full of thorny rose crowns?
will my pain be promised from myself,
or someone else who takes my ground?
will our promised pain tell us who we are?
"mirror mirror on the wall, show me, define me"
we all yelled until our breath gave out,
our voices piercing the infinite heaven,
wishing for the mirror on the wall to show us as
the perfect chain
but the only thing that shows us who we are,
is the reality of pain,
our promised pain?
how will i know when i feel my promised pain?
emotional, physical, will i even know it hit me?
will i be on the ground, bawling, unable to be in touch with what is pain?
will i bleed, contort, and bruise?
how do i know when the promised pain that was gifted from me from conception,
will turn it's age old gears unto me?
who promised us this pain?
this pain, whether we deserve or don't
this pain, without a messiah in cloth to save us from
this pain, this pain, this promised pain
this pain, we can't describe
this pain, we were all bound to from birth
this pain, that only your touch may heal
but then again, our promised pain
is god or the devil's deal.
this pain, this vowed pain,
the pain of a demon's pitchfork,
an angel's sword of justice,
this promised pain, this pain of no mercy,
does it last forever, or just a second?
does it return, or leave forever?
what is this promised pain,
we were gifted with from birth?
my memory of your promised pain,
a pain i could not feel,
a pain as slow as the minutes ticking away on the clock,
for i've been watching your for a while,
since you walked into my life,
a monday morning, able to heal a pain.
a monday morning, filled with pain,
a stab of happiness,
a cut of despair,
i was much too shy,
to let my feelings show,
but you let them free,
and that was the beginning of possible promised pain.
at last, we can talk,
maybe in another way,
and at last, i love you,
it became too hard to say,
due to our promised pain,
if only i could say the words i feel.
tell me if you've had promised pain,
tell me what your feelings are,
tell me if you love me not
i have so much, i need to ask you,
but now that chance has gone, flee in the run of a rabbit,
when you reach your fading *****
in my heart,
those promised memories stay,
glowing pride, your only smiling
through that promised pain.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 10:21 PM UTC
The day he died
The sun rose just the way
It always did on cold December mornings:
Frost crystals on his back,
Breath steaming in the winter air,
A few sparrows chattering,
Molly at the barn mooing news:
Milking time!
Frozen water tank!
Hunger pains!
And where was Farmer now?
So he yawned and stretched himself,
Looked at the house whose walls
Allowed his master's voice to filter through thin, cold air:
Heard an oven door squeak wide,
The telephone ring,
Morning voices and the creak of floors,
And then the door cracked open.
Full scents emerged:
Fresh baking from the oven,
The farmer's coat and boots,
Laundry soap in fresh washed jeans,
And a bowl of food with milk
Steaming for him.
The diesel tractor coughed and roared,
Semi-warm from its head-bolt heater sleep,
and sent thick cloud plumes to winter sky
Before the engine warmed enough to move
The wheels' crunching pressure, packing snow.
Breakfast down, and morning chores to follow,
The St. Bernard stretched himself,
Pushed through the old iron gate
And followed in the tractor's track
To see the morning feeding in the snow.
No one could tell him he was getting old,
And maybe was a little stiff and slow
To follow tractors as they plowed their way
Through newly fallen snow.
An hour later, the man, the tractor and the dog
Had made their way below the farmstead hill
To feed a sheltered herd just out of wind's cold way.
What happened next is painful still to say.
The tires sank through crusted snow and spun
But forward movement failed it in its rounds;
Reversed, a chain came loose and outward flung
to pull the faithful follower down.
So what is there to say about a friend whose harm
And death came accidentally at my hand?
I knelt there in the snow and held him in my arms,
Sobbing sorrows... begging him to try to stand.
But he only looked up at me with brown, sad eyes,
Hard broken from the crushing of the wheel,
And moved his tail a little bit to show he was content
To lie there in my arms, and shuddered once and then was still.
The cows looked on impatiently,
Steam rising from their hides,
And saw me bawling on my knees
and begging mercy from my silent God.
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 9:50 PM UTC
ARMOUR AVENUE was the name of this street and door signs on empty houses read "The Silver Dollar," "Swede Annie" and the Christian names of madams such as "Myrtle" and "Jenny."
Scrap iron, rags and bottles fill the front rooms hither and yon and signs in Yiddish say Abe Kaplan & Co. are running junk shops in ***** houses of former times.
The segregated district, the Tenderloin, is here no more; the red-lights are gone; the ring of shovels handling scrap iron replaces the banging of pianos and the bawling songs of pimps.Chicago, 1915.
1.9k
His old mare cantered into to town
The covered wagon followed
A boy's first trip to town alone
He took it in, and swallowed
Penny candy dreams last night
And sarsparilla floats
The ladies' parasol fineries
The men in pinstriped coats
Perhaps a whiskey, what the hell
Today he was a man!
But first the livery stable for Brownie
For oats and a water can.
The .30-30 saddle gun would come with him, of course.
He also grabbed the belted Colt from the pommel of his horse.
The warped board sidewalks led past stores
His worn boots clopped along
He strapped on the .36 Navy Colt revolver
And fastened down the thong
He clopped down to the first saloon
Laid his rifle on the bar
A sporting girl sat next to him
With the unlikely name of "Star"
"A milk for the lady.
Myself as well,
Barkeep, if you please!"
A cowhand howled out raucous laughter,
Flipping up Ms. Star's dress, to well above her knees
"That little pup, he wants some milk
So Star, give him yer ****
I'll bend him over, spank his ***
And then give YOU a treat!"
The young man's vision doubled, trebled,
The shame clear on his face
As tears welled up in big blue eyes
A witness in every soul in the place
"Aw, the little ***** is bawling! WAH!"
The cowhand bellowed out
And all false mirth left his expression
And he gave the boy a clout
The boy just sat and sobbed and watched
As Ms. Star joined in the joke
But cowhand was already 3 bottles in,
In a flash, her nose was broke
Cowhand reached across the boy
To grab that sweet, sleeved rifle
The boy grabbed cowhand's wrist just then
And twisted it just a trifle
A yelp and howl from cowhand's mouth,
"YOU BROKE MY ****** WRIST!
NOW you're ****** you little sprat"
He took a swing, and missed.
Red faced, clumsy, humiliated
He drew leather on the boy
Dead to rights, he had the kid,
He realized, with grim joy
An explosion, a thump, on warped pine floor
Blue smoke curling in the air
Utter, vapid, vacuum silence
Patrons cemented to their chair
The tears were gone from those blue eyes
Blue steel as his gaze fixed
A hole had grown in cowhand's head
The size was .36
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 1:18 AM UTC
Besotted bones blanketed by a burning semblance of abandonment;
Barren bodies, buried in bankruptcy. Blood birthing blurry abhorrence,
Blatantly boring bowels with trembling butterflies; brittle, gun-shy bullets.
Beastly bugs scrambling between blackness, buzzing behind blind eyeballs.
Bend my vertebrae, bowed like a blossoming babe. Bound embryo
Breathing- bawling, cries reverberating invisibly in the womb.
Abort my breath in its bland, bottomless tomb.
-SLuR
Aug 20, 2017
Aug 20, 2017 at 7:14 PM UTC
In the garden in Corniche
In the playground bound by a metal fence,
While the Arab teenage kicks the ball,
The feet of the Sudanese, sitting on the stone bench nearby
Start prickling;
Cries out that
For one who knows how to score goals,
The hunger to kick a ball
Is the ultimate one!
Me? I shall remain nameless!
The fisherman
Whose whole body tingles
As he espies a shiver of gigantic sharks
Even while swimming for life,
Having lost his boat and fishing net in the deluge,
The nun, whose ******* start secreting
As she watches a bawling baby,
Standing amidst toddlers of the nursery
The swimmer,
Who crawls through the desert
On camel-back
I do not ask for anything else
Just the ball and the opposition
Let a thousand, or tens of thousands come,
Let the goal-mouth
Be miles distant,
I do not ask for anything else
Once, while carrying a load of cement
On the tenth floor,
For a moment,
A moment,
The sun tempted, as a huge ball.
The scar of the beating received
While dribbling the sun on the sky meadow
Remains on the back..
There are ***** anyone can play with.
No, all surges ahead
Do not end in goals.
There are no games that do not have ‘foul’ -
Even in dreams.
There are no Arab children
In the playground now.
Jut the ball, ball, ball alone.
It scurries hither and thither
By itself,
Races outside,
Speeds towards the goal-mouth,
Sometimes ducks out of sight.
Very privately,
And even more secretly,
Ball smiled at me.
A shudder of incarnations
In my toes.
As soon as the ball and feet
Left the playground,
Two legs
Started dancing,
Betwixt twilight and night.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 12:57 AM UTC
To pick my brain
I'll just lay here
Have some pins and needles
It's so fun walking on them
Reeling
Like a kick right to the feels
In my heart
In my soul
Or, maybe my nuts
As I grow old
I've grown more cold, to the terror
It whittles away
and I simply admire it, vacantly
It happens on the daily
Change the ******* channel
Every morning I look in the mirror
And tell myself, "Life's a **** **** it."
You **** that **** duderocketship.
Filthy *****
Bawling my eyes out
With a coat of smeared lipstick
streaking my face
It's my birthday.
What a beautiful day for nuclear holocaust
Good a day as any, I reckon
To wine and dine on a feast of destruction
While the world spontaneously combusts
Somebody hand me a beer
And we'll scale my collapsing cognitive function
With a middle finger to The Man!
I got a whole fist I'd fancy to ****** inside him
This end of the world clock is broken
and keeps ticking
And I just listen
Tick tick tock
Waiting for the bomb
Losing hope
Idly twiddling my thumbs
To go out with a bang is my lone desire
It rattles my bones
Set the world on fire
Light up the night
I just want to watch it burn
There's a pretty nice view
from my back porch
Replacing the stars with torches
Scorching a ravaged sky
It's a party
****** Gandhi, & The Pope are coming
Bring your friends
I'm cringing yet effervescent
In supple prepubesence
His dead eyes ****** me
Jesus wept
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 5:06 PM UTC
One day I sat alone drinking a pint,
My a mhuirnin arriving this mornin'
I said I'd greet her and then spend the day
Stroll'an' watch all the ships come to harbor
Her ship was due in from Dublin today,
She'd gone home for to bury her father,
And though she loved him she weren't feelin' grey,
He'd left her mom alone at the alter,
So there I sat, her ship taking its time,
A little red lark sung above me,
And then it landed, much to my surprise,
On my shoulder just ever so gently
I didn't move I just marveled in place,
The small clever lark sung on my shoulder,
And then from tweets to words slowly I heard
My dear love's voice come out of the small bird
My dear I don't have time
To ask how you are
God gave me but only a moment
To say I love you and don't waste your time
My ship won't ever make it to harbor.
I didnt know just quite what I should say
I was feeling a mix of emotions
I had no reason to doubt this small bird
But if so then my heart surely'd be broke,
My dear I can see you
Can't quite understand
I've died and I've gone on to heaven
In time you'll see
I've done all that I can
And have found yourself a new a mhuirnin
Then back to songs that bird's beak did return,
I couldn't help but shaking and bawling,
But as it flew off It left me a plume,
And I still keep that feather right on me.
In time I found love again,
Calling my name,
And boy did he say it so sweetly,
But every morning I still hear her song
My little red lark singing above me.
Aug 1, 2021
Aug 1, 2021 at 10:21 PM UTC
There once lived a girl
Barely even three
Who wore childish, innocent smiles
And ran around freely.
She spent summer with her sister
Picking lilac flowers,
Rolling down grassy hills
Endless fun for hours.
There once lived a girl
Finally thirteen
Who wore gloss on her lips
And said things she didn’t mean.
She spent summer all alone
Never picking any flowers
Claiming she had better things to do
With her endless summer hours.
There once lived a girl
Sixteen, impossibly thin
Who painted scarlet on her wrists
Because she could never ever win.
She spent summer locked away
Bawling in her room for hours
And there was nothing in the world she wanted
More than lilac flowers.
There once was a girl
Who tried so hard in life
But she couldn’t bear to live
With her sugarcoated strife
And one day she just vanished
So her sister cried for hours
And upon her solemn grave
She laid withering lilac flowers.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 12:35 PM UTC
How does the rancher learn to dance
The annual rhythms of the land?
When do we bring the cows, bawling,
From open summer to sheltered winter pastures?
When is it time to bring the stubborn bulls
To the empty, urgent cows,
Or to remove them from contented cows,
Grown placid in the heaviness of calves?
How do we know the time
To round up the sweltering herds,
Bringing the bellering calves to brand?
Or when do we cull the frightened heifers,
Lucky in their selection, but uncertain?
When should we pare the weanlings,
And when call we the buyers?
And, when is the time for hiking forty miles
Of rusting fence,
Replacing posts,
Mending broken wire
Before the changing of pastures?
And when is the time to come to ease,
To sense the satisfaction
In seeing grazing cattle,
Tails swishing away the black flies of June,
Moving through gray-green prairie grass
On their way to cool creek water?
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 8:29 AM UTC