"beanstalk" poems
I must steal Harold’s purple crayon
And build myself a brand-new town
No king or paper bag princess
It will be me who wears the crown.
I shall draw myself a forest
And begin the stories anew
Word of the Fair Queen’s fame will spread
And chaos will ensue.
In order to reach my kingdom
You must first prove your worth
I cannot be reached by sea or sky
You must travel over the earth.
Through the forest is your only hope
To gain such fortune and fame
Marry the Queen and rule the kingdom
If you can survive the game.
You must follow Little Red Riding Hood
As far and as fast as you can
Steer clear of Jack and his beanstalk
Do not trust the Ginger Bread Man.
Snow White’s cabin is to the north
Goldilocks lives to the west
Hansel and Gretel will offer you food
Beware, this is a test.
The Three Little Pigs are plagued
By the Big Bad Wolf of lore
But even he is nothing compared
To the curse Sleeping Beauty bore
**** n Boots and Robin Hood
Will save you just one time
Dare to steal the Goose’s Golden eggs
And you will be punished for your crime.
If you manage to defy the odds
And make it through alive
I shall take your hand and under our rule
The kingdom will grow and thrive.
You must understand it isn’t personal, darling
When I slip the poison into your canteen
I miss my game, and nobody can be
More powerful than the crooked fair Queen.
Aug 30, 2022
Aug 30, 2022 at 10:57 AM UTC
Starvation.
First and foremost
The plot thickens and the atmosphere is beyond any thunderstorm.
The forecast was predicted before the growling began.
Bellies ****** in not by choice.
Now misconduct fills the void .
I'm starving
He's starving
She's starving
The people are ready to run a mock
Have you ever witness ***** in a bucket, they fight relentlessly to get out until they tire.
Have you ever witness a person eating mud patties to ease the hunger pains, I'm talking about the real hunger games.
Shortcomings is starvation
Starvation of:
Attention
Food
Education
Clothing
Electronics
Transportation
***
Hugs
Love
Fathers
Mothers
Family
Yet, politicians act like they don't know what I am talking about .
And beanstalk will never grow if beans were handed out.
Give the people jobs that match America's cost of living.
I can hear bankers & corporation whispering blasphemy .
What does it really mean to live among the living when you are the walking dead......
We want flesh.
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 6:58 AM UTC
Headline Story:
Sweet old lady found dead in oven;
Science and Medical:
Prince develops cure for narcolepsy;
Gardening and Leisure:
Giant beanstalk wins first prize;
Duckling takes honors in beauty pageant;
Entertainment:
Sorcerers apprentice: You're Fired!
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 7:32 PM UTC
Today I went on a treasure hunt.
Not in search of one-eyed *****
Or
A new life for myself,
But rather
The old one.
Not for the sake of nostalgia
Was my search,
But for a poem.
The words of someone else
That you thoroughly believed
Carried your heart
Into my own ears.
But I was deaf back then.
Before I developed my selective hearing,
Insisting on my revelation miracle.
Until I
Limited my ears
Only to hear
Your lamentations and tongue-lashings;
Before I chose to
Blind myself
To the
Kindness
Hidden behind your fear.
In our prehistory,
You sent me
A piece of your heart,
Still sopping with heartbreak
Beating with rejection.
You sent me
Someone else’s poem
And now I wonder,
If you knew
You were planting a seed
That when watered,
With months of silence and
Countless looks that passed right through,
Would grow into a beanstalk
That I would climb
To reach back into
Our
Brothers Grimm Love Affair.
With no happy ending in sight
I stepped higher,
Knowing what turmoil I had left
Above.
I awaited the curses we cast
And the wishes we wasted
And I was poised for war;
With my armor coated,
Repellent of
Sarcasm and aggression,
I marched back to look at our battlefield
Ready as any warrior.
I was not ready, though, for memories
That looked as appealing
As Prince Charming,
With the face of
A queen.
No, my love
We did not have a
Happily ever after
But, our
Once upon a time
Wasn't half so wretched.
We were the
Fairytale in reverse.
Meeting at the ball,
In all our glory.
Leaving breadcrumbs
Back to the life that was familiar;
The ones that we didn't realize
We were running away from.
But at the ball,
Looking more beautiful
Than any princess in all of the land,
I met you
On your throne,
Refusing to Rise
In all your queen-like splendor,
Hearing from my
Little bird
That you would request
My presence.
I, your humble maiden,
Approached with
The caution of
A girl who only had
One shoe,
Breaking under the weight of memory.
And while you
Were offering me riches,
I was playing
Goldilocks,
Trying to find the home
That was just right
To rest my heart.
Little did I know
That I had bumped into Rumpelstiltskin,
Thinking he was gold
Luring me away
With me thinking
My heart was sold.
Only now
After I found
That gold weighs
Far too heavy
On someone
Who's only just grown wings
Is it that I find the moral of this story.
And so,
As I gaze at you,
With your now fair maiden
I say a solemn
“Thank you”,
For sending
Your love letter
In another's handwriting,
Because,
Although I never struck it rich,
I realize that the treasure was not in the
Happily ever after,
After all,
But all the magic
In Between.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 3:10 AM UTC
What a poet loves the most,
more than anything else,
Is how she completes her poems.
Entwining words with one another
hoping a creation will arise,
rather imperfect at first,
but moulding it over and over,
even as time cries.
The poet forgets herself,
and the world around her for she falls in love with the poem,
giving it everything she has,
hoping it may represent her most perfect dreams.
But there are often some poems,
taking a lifetime to complete,
for the poet is never satisfied,
even when her creation is ‘a lion in a fight’,
or ‘as smart as Einstein’,
as high and mighty as the bean tree from jack and the beanstalk,
or like a peach tree soft and tender.
And finally when her time comes near,
and she looks up from the bed,
caresses the soft skin of her creation,
which still smells to her the way a new book smells.
A small smile all too visible,
“Go and give love to others,
how you have given me the same”
she said.
How could I,
I whispered to myself,
When you, MAA, were the one who gave love and life to the poem,
and were more than a perfect poet.
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 12:39 PM UTC
it's not like a finger
it's more like an arm
i am not a mod *******
but i do have my charm
will take you by hand or
by foot if i hafta
but i'm going down south
and make you cry 'fasta'
what nobody sees,
nobody will repeat
we can do this quick
and must be discrete
darlin', your intelligent and
i love to hear you talk
but today my name is jack
and here's my beanstalk
the more you poke at it
the more it will grow
the more i poke with it
the more you will know
grab ahold tight
and don't let go
because this moby is wild
and ready to blow
sweetheart, i love you
and now that you know
thanks for the good times
but ***** you gotta go
Jun 19, 2010
Jun 19, 2010 at 6:19 PM UTC
The monsters don't hide in the closet, or under the bed, or in your head all full of juice. They roost. It's not their fault, following through with some innate longing they're called to.
It's a simple, impish existence, these monsters, who might prefer to be doctors or lawyers or sound designers for Alice Cooper or Rob Zombie or Blondie; alas they burrow and nest inside my ***** laundry.
A wise person might have said, "Take care, kiddo, and guard your head against the evil that so easily nestles there." I reflect on this through the cloudy density of my beer an wonder, could he have been right? Might I fallen intrigued, ensnared, by the casual taunt of an apple's dare?
We climb the beanstalk for the giant only; the goose is second hand. The giant's defeat is the glory. It doesn't matter what the stakes contain, live or die, princess or mother or cow or land, as long as a marching band greets us at the end of the ride.
The monsters don't hide in the closet, or under the bed or in you head full of juice. They roost, and they can't help us themselves in a world full of books gathering dust on shelves overlooked where their hardcovers guard against stray shells unloosed.
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 12:58 AM UTC
my hopes were like
beanstalks towering over
the people below
the kind of beanstalk
that jack would climb
the doctors said that
your chance of surviving
were smaller than my
right pinky
the one i used
when we promised
to see the northern lights
the ruins of the civilizations
and your mother
but i still believed
that you would live
that you would talk
and you would walk
after all i got it from you
your hands were getting colder
but i still held it tightly
like how you held mine
after you lost me
in a circus crowd
you stopped eating
and the machines
were helping you
survive for another hour
your arteries
were blocked
and your brain
was bleeding
but i still believed
until the day your spirit
left your body at 3:42
you left me living
on earth with monsters
that loved me
when you left
i still believed
that you were alive
that you would talk
and you would walk
but you bought
a one way ticket
to paradise
and you are never
coming back
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 11:30 PM UTC
an apparition in our grade one classroom door
obscured save for the halo around your head
. . . must've been the sunlight
playing with the curves of your curls
you said I wrote sentences
that would've made your grade threes weep . . .
and I was someone I didn't know existed before
someone who could write more than curved lines and straight lines
someone who played with words at break
while the other children ate protein-packed sandwiches
between chalkboard dust-clouds and sweeping up pencil shavings
I stayed in for athletics, looked through the classroom window,
searched the oak tree outside for a vision of the painted elf
I un-tacked from a perpetual race on the circular classroom weather board
see, I couldn't run with only one healthy kidney
when I just came out of hospital
where doctors cleaned their instruments in kidney-shaped dishes
my friend, June, still slept in the next hospital bed --
I hoped she wouldn't die the way Maria did --
while I read Jack and the Beanstalk
Mrs Louw asked how I had learnt to read English
I couldn't tell her -- it was something that just happened
the same way I discovered I despised steak and kidney pies
because I couldn't eat my own sickness
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 5:09 PM UTC
You and I
You
And
I
- I
Could drown myself in melted polar ice caps, or illusions of Niagara Falls (or does it?)
Could join a nudist colony
Could dismember my body parts 'recreationally'
Could (or will) document my own downward spiral/lay eggs in vast and immeasurable labyrinths/where the paradox of my self-pity mingles with my bragging/swaggering teen angst and date!-mate!-procreate!- into a thousand descendants of my rotting fleshhhhhh
- You
Present yourself in -
Hallways rambling in front of me with asylums spilling into corridors of confusion
Rrrrrrriiipppp of either paper pulling from notebooks or flesh pulling from bone
Virtual college applications tabbed over with two different Buy Your Own Russian Wife! websites and ignored by your -loving parents-
An arrogant 18-year-old boy standing before the Committee of Elders (pleading insanity)
Twenty-four permanent markers with generic names
The pseudo-poetic lure of "Call ___ For a GOOD TIME" graffitis on the bathroom wall of a Whole Foods you spend six weeks jacking off in
- Look, that's great and all, but
I think you are a (beanstalk), no time to (talk), less of a (walk) and more of a climb - to reach your face, and when I lean to kiss it (fee fi fo fum) I smell the blood of a human one
(I'm tired of stooping and I'm tired of looking at old people)
You
And
I
Could have Been Anyone!
But no,
Just more of the same.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 12:43 AM UTC
The candy-cane stripes mingle freely among the
Saffron-clothed C moon and fourteen-handed star.
They swim navy-like in the blue.
The reds and whites alternate
Till the states are properly represented.
They ask of nothing more, nothing more.
What does it hold? What does it teach us?
The wild history of it roars and thunders
Like a hurricane that never stops.
But it did. How did we overthrow
Something so mighty, so white
As an unstoppable hurricane?
And the purpose of it all? Freedom.
Freedom and independence. Two righteous
Morals so hard to obtain.
At what cost did we attain them?
Bloodshed, shrieks, lies, torment and tears.
It was all worth it, love, all of it.
When Jack finally crawled down the beanstalk,
We never flew higher, braver or breezier
With such dignity and unfaltering spirit.
We have come so far to this place, this place
Where hatred shreds to little warm hearts and people
Are just people no matter how colourful they are.
We’re a rare hybrid of ethics: the sarong-laden man milking the rubber tree
Is no different than the blackened faces down in the tin mines
And the ones that hand-built the train tracks, woody and sturdy.
Seven chants of it that fateful afternoon
And we cried knowing, knowing we have made it.
Toiled sweat never tasted sweeter. Merdeka!
Most of us laughed and rejoiced.
Some were heard wailing and flying off to where
They rightfully belong. We don’t want you here. We never did.
The dove’s free now,
Free of thick metal bars
That caged it for centuries and
It flies now, wings spread into
A feathery horizon, windily flapping back and forth
Into a new world, a new promise called Malaysia.
Shalini Nayar
© 2002
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 9:30 AM UTC
1
I don’t know
about you
but my fingernails
they keep growing
like Pinnochio’s nose;
I pare them
and keep them neat and short
and when I look again a week later
they’ve grown and seem to say:
So what you’re going to do about it?
It’d be alright if you were a woman,
but as a man
everyone expects you to keep us short and neat.
Oh, I just can’t bear
these decades of nail-taunting
and my computer calculations show
a quarter of my life is wasted trimming my fingernails
and with a quarter in sleep
half my life is gone between nails and snores
Well now -
I’m never again cutting my fingernails
I’ll just let them grow
and grow;
and as far as I care
they can grow like Jack’s beanstalk
2
Sure, the concerned
amongst you might say:
Oh, that’s not a good idea
to let your fingernails grow
But to you, I say:
Have you even considered
the advantages if I had long fingernails?
I could literally reach out to you
wherever you are
and not just through the internet
but with the help of GPS technology
and google maps
I could locate you precisely
and give you a tickle!
Now, wouldn’t you love that!
3
And when I’m famous
a fingernail celebrity
and people come to meet me
and want to shake my hands
I’d say: Hey, shake my nails instead!
And if I’m walking in the streets
and anyone wants my help, I’d say:
Yeah – you scratch my back
and I scratch yours!
4
And of course you might say
(Oh how so concerned you are):
But how will you use your keyboard
to type your awful nail-biting poems?
And so I say to you:
Hey, where do you live?
In a cave in Siberia or what?
Haven’t you heard of speech to voice technology?
And so, dear friends,
I don’t know about you
but it’s long nails for me
and if somewhere in the world
as you are driving or reading a book
or while at a picnic
if you see nails reaching out to you
from across the oceans and skies
and giving you a tickle,
you know it’s me, your nail-some friend….
Oct 1, 2010
Oct 1, 2010 at 6:55 PM UTC
I try to write when I am tired
but tiny spiders descend around my desk.
Newly-hatched eight limbed-things
parasail
the silk lids over my eyes.
If only I could ride out the exhale and
go at once adrift, self-rappel
I would climb the silk suspension line
swing from thought to thought
thread the eye of the needle
pull-ey up the beanstalk.
but instead I'm left to watch these aerial yoginis
swim on a draft from the ceiling.
These spinsters with their poetic acrobatics
for whom rhythm is spun on silent trapeze--
make a play-swing
out of gravity.
The tiny spiders that descend around my desk
make me--an oaf.
a self-honoring monument
for climbing, a botched landmark to ---human ingenuity
me, a moving pedestal for dancing
me, a knotted up windsock
hunched over a heated screen,
trying to blow down metaphor, alliteration
from these tiny kites that ascend the earth.
Tiny spider, tiny spider
let down your silk tresses
draw up my mind
swing the high rafters
I want to hang upside down--
make a play-swing
out of gravity.
Yet when I pulled on the thread
to net the silken-mouthed beast,
words did not come down
like mana from heaven.
Rather, my tongue grew heavy with cotton
metaphor, alliteration,
the fabric of suspended poetry
unraveled.
Lucid improvisation fell like Icarus
to quips.
because thinking to write
and writing to think is like
pulling dead hair
from spaghetti.
Meanwhile, tiny spiders descend around my desk
parasail
and make a play-swing out of gravity.
Jun 28, 2012
Jun 28, 2012 at 4:13 AM UTC
The understandings of your very nature
that you despise
so you lock them away
forever.
Dreamer of fanstastical stories to tell the neighbours
and girls and boys in who's arms you rest at night
And the love you have is boundless
but you're empty all the same
And the arms you have harmless
but you have no-one to hold
And your morals and standards are above the beanstalk
yet there is no 'Jack' to reach them.....
And my mind is wondrous goldfish bowl
of a kaleidoscopic fancy and dreams
And there is love and princesses and avengers of hurt
and there are brave superheroes and friends, and happiness....
Yet in my home, it is empty
In my home, nothing is mine
Yet in my home, I am alone
By choice i tell myself, it is this way
I am strong, yet i fall
I am spiritual, yet i am lost
I am lost
I tell myself i am not meant for this world
too much of a rebel
too flighty
too much of a dreamer
too much of 'i don't care'
too much of 'what is the point'
too much of 'why?'
....Because there is a child locked inside my body
that is scared of growing up.
She lives inside a closet that she binds with strings
there she hides when she hears shouts and words
closing her eyes and covering her ears
there she runs from and pays avid impatient attention
when she hears wanting and 'i need you'
there she jumps and dives head first and strains
when she wants and sees love and affection
love!
love....
love?
there she hides from the notion of love
wetting herself in fear when she feels it at the door
there she hides when she is in reproach and failed
covering her naked body with a invisible cloth, her face turned straight
there she hides from being found out
face languidly ashamed and swollen from crying.
And i sought her out...I sought her out
and we hold hold hands,
because we are petrified
we are scared
because we lived in fear our entire lives
and hid from this world
This is our beginnings....
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 3:20 PM UTC
Floating on restless waters, tonight,
broken moons breathe in waving clouds;
Time is a colander, through which
life escapes, never to return; Yet tonight
the beanstalk remains tangled;
I sat watching swans in the moonlight
where the canal and stream met;
Rock the boat! Peace is a botheration.
Could the road that diverged loop
back to the fork? Walking backwards,
tonight, leaves and assorted bits of paper
fly forward; After the off-licenses close,
someone's dashing for the last bus
before dawn, running in reverse; three
hooded figures lost in the cemetery,
walking backwards; The moon
weeps tears of mist, that
ripple spreading inward in the puddles
after the rain; There's a weeping firefly
crawling in the sink; Or the kitchen-lamp?
Bubbles die to the siren-song of crickets.
Is there is an Ithaca fabled?
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 3:17 PM UTC
Church Lady Dearest
Says she’s grown old
“Silver’s not so foxy”
Says she is quite practical
Serious with her moonlight moxy
Now no use
For Face-off make-up or
Delusions of grand magic
Says she
Don’t worry—with age comes
Pragmatism, Sister Agnus Wisdom
Sure bound to
Have fractures / cracks
With such antique
Foundation…
Old lady Golden Goose
Giant wisdom, beanstalk limbs
Sullen dreary sunken
Lost princess whims
Thoughts like her hair frosted,
Thinning…
Says she has nothing to whisper,
Sweetly cannot hide
A great old oak’s age rings
Inside
There’s no use for abusive rouge
Mirage of glossy lips kissy
Thing in headlights
Make up with oneself, forgive, and confide
Besides
because
Your hands tell your aches & true age
Church Lady just smiles…
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 6:43 PM UTC
Alas my friend,
we meet again
as seemingly meaningful
butterfly kisses and dangerous pillow talk
turn to candle lit confessions
of past regrets and future sins.
Words whispered in the wind
float past my eardrums to beat upon my brain.
Like I'm insane I strain to strain
them out as scribbles, scrawled and sprawled,
over pages telling stories of painful ages
and chain filled cages.
Once upon a time's and used to be's
are not here's and now's.
But if ups have downs,
and smiles have frowns.
Then fortunately for my dark past behind me
I have blank paper in front of me
and I don't so much write, as
quite literally induce lucid memory with literature
only your mind can see,
in the deepest of its own depths.
More towards the chest.
Where shadows dance
like jesters, dressed to impressed her
with moves so fluent they flow like fluid, I can do it.
Plant a seed the size of a grain of sand and
watch it grow like a Beanstalk, talk
about power. Watch your watch
as the second hand moves like the hour.
Now you're in my time.
So entwined is my mind body and soul
every word I let roll off my tongue
is like foreplay to a *********
And when I hit the rhyme at the end of the line,
its like freedom.
You sit here and bare witness to my words
climbing your defenses with the swiftness
of the worlds most ******** parcor.
So are your
thoughts that pure?
And are you sure you know how to endure
if they never find a cure?
With a view so obscured,
let me make these words clear.
I stand right here as all of your love as well as your fear.
Beyond the dark or the light.
I am the link between tranquil black and blinding white.
Even having no sight my words grip you tight.
And when my body is dead decaying and rotten,
like our children, they will not be forgotten.
Because words are the most immortal thing we've ever taught them.
Oct 17, 2011
Oct 17, 2011 at 10:46 PM UTC
I fell in love with you too easily.
Too easily, I hoped and prayed
and placed too much faith in something I knew,
in the back of my mind, was not there.
I placed you on a pedestal
so high and above the clouds
it was unreachable, and I loved you
from the ground on which I stood
to the stars that hung above your head.
You never looked down, you never noticed.
And I planted beanstalk upon beanstalk
to try and get to you, but they all withered and died.
I tried and tried, and still you never glanced at me.
But I loved you all the same.
I loved from a distance, the same way I loved before.
It was easy to love you, it was easy to try.
And it was easy to get hurt, and have my selfish hopes ruined.
It was also easy to stop caring,
To stop sitting at the base of the pedestal that I built.
Oh it was so easy to dismantle that pedestal.
Too easy.
It was hard, though,
seeing you on the same plane as I.
Seeing you for who you were and not what I wanted you to be.
It was hard to walk away, because I did love you,
I just didn't love you enough to stay and hope anymore.
So I did.
I walked away, and left you there,
bewildered at my antics, and still not seeing
the ruins of the pedestal, the dimming of the stars,
or the withered beanstalks that littered the ground around you.
I walked away.
But I left a piece of me with you,
and you still haven't noticed.
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 10:28 PM UTC
Gave of salacious self, your just due
My one and only dream I wanted to come true
Earthbound after a meteorite crash
Healing properties within this castaway shall come to pass
Wings has been tenderly clipped
The aftermath of a silent emotional eclipse
Walking, running, and soaring, keep flapping but slowly slipping
Heartbeat dipping, ripping
Slowly suffocating as I’m contemplating
Feelings keep overruling, dominating
Restless from stagnation
Mental searching for relocation
Suspended, spent, recessed from the relent
In the hunt for a pleasurable escape to soar to the sky
No questions no earthly whys
A Galactic Dream Weaver
Da Vinci Code, I’m picking up my telephone receiver
The Holy Grail secrets for my mind to set sail
The marooned answers found in life’s details
Standing in vain, waiting for a starship from a cosmic believer
No expressive deceivers
My Mazda 5, an Uber, or a Lyft driver can’t get me up there
Without restraints, I need to inhale celestial air
Showered by a beautiful spiritual given rainbow
Sentiments offered from a treasured chest as they stream when they softly flow
A Gordian knot devoid of hope, a beanstalk, for me, too slow
Something one must know
As your presence comes to offer me a sweet riding tow
Spirit is now on the run
Trying to astral plane beyond the sun
I need to glance down from the stars
Up and beyond, emotions, mistakes seem so miniscule and far
The beginning, the ending, where I descended
The integrity of a tattered angel, a cocoon of self, until my cerebral cortex is Heavenly mended
As my earthly presence blends within
Keeping a rein on life’s sins
I do not know if my salsa dance has come to an end
The absence of loss as emotions reflect to bend
Does time ever remain the same
Please don’t forget my name
On the contrary
For the love given from a twinkling star, and a kiss from an earthbound fairy
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 11:15 AM UTC
I'm a little stuck right now.
I got some beans,
but lost my cow.
I was robbed,
but they dropped these here.
Thought it'd be something
I could persevere.
Mom's going to **** me
when she finds out.
I'm going to be cooked instead
there's no doubt!
Jack-o burger,
or Jack smoked-steak.
I can't go back home yet,
or I'll be begging to be baked.
:time passed:
Rain got on my seed
and it almost grew through me
it grew so high and loud
it goes right passed the clouds
It got too much attention
they think this is a plant convention.
I lost the other two seed
Well, I wonder where this leads
:time passed...again:
I..can..hardly....breathe..
this....climb was..too high..for me.
On my way up....my hand was run across by a rat!
And I almost jumped..but I didn't quite feel like..going "splat!"
Now I feel a little better.
But it's so freezing cold up here
now I need a sweater!
Where am I anyway?
It looks brighter than snow.
"Where are you?"
I WOULDN'T HAVE ASKED IF I DID ALREADY KNOW!!
"Where are you little creature?"
Oh wait a minute..wait.
"Where are you? You smell real bad."
What did he just say?!
"Thumpity thump
dumbity dumb
I smell something gross
and almost taste it on my tongue."
I looked around for a sharp weapon,
only finding some gold duck.
So I was going to grab it
when it woke and screamed
"Clack clack!"
I quickly thought to grab it
and swung it over my shoulder by the neck
then I realized mom would love this
and gave the giant a rain check.
I tried to just slide down the the vines
but it didn't go out well.
So I pulled the ducks feathers,
and rode down
until it fell. I hurdled to the ground
still holding tightly on the duck.
then I quickly grabbed a leaf,
and the duck yelled
"Clack clack clack!"
I brought it too my mommy
and she almost cooked it well
but she noticed a patch of feathers missing
and wasn't that just swell.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 5:25 AM UTC
I'm a frightened little boy who's scared, lost, and confused
Wanting desperately to feel protected from
Nightmares haunting when awake; Unable to stop the abuse
Wish my savior would descend down from above
Mommy please why won't you save me; Anything you want I'll do
Fiercely needing, almost bleeding, to be loved
Didn't mean to misbehave and promise I'll be better too
Daddy please don't scream, get mad and start to shove
"Good times" merely cover up; Create a shadow for the truth
******** stories lull the mind, becoming numb
Ticking time bomb, no surprise when like a powder keg you blew
Striking blows just like a boxer with no gloves
Planted problems rising up are stemming from and grow into
Epic beanstalks much like Jack thought he wished of
Same result from fabled tale except there is no golden goose
Just the giant who refuses to give up
Trembling fear I have inside can't overcome; I lack the tools
Chains me down; These shackles I'm forever cuffed
In a war against myself where it is destined that I loose
Broke and battered, insides shattered into dust
Banished from the realm of life to Fortress of my Solitude
Daily robot the appearances keep up
A magician misdirecting and forever hide from you
All the pain and shame within me that I clutch
Needed partner, what I'm lacking; Information is not news
Someone that I could be close to is enough
Life is empty, without feeling; Like a poet with no muse
Left here rotting; Man of Steel has turned to rust
Feb 19, 2019
Feb 19, 2019 at 3:33 AM UTC
All these people,
These friends of mine,
They know everything you see.
They can tell the future, its easy to belive.
They tell me,
"Oh, it will get better soon,
Just wait you will be set free"
Funny how, every time,
I'm almost away,
I just get pulled farther,
Deeper under...
The happier I am,
Its like the giant falling,
From that tall beanstalk,
My smiles setting me for,
The sequential falls,
A rollercoaster ride...
A cosmic joke, I suppose.
How many ways can my life be tarnished?
How many times can I fall,
Before I just stay down?
In how many ways can I be imperfect?
And just not care?
Heck I don't know,
Ask my friends,
They can see everything.
Dontcha know?
Mar 31, 2010
Mar 31, 2010 at 7:57 PM UTC
I wonder
How to plan trees.
Sow and plant seeds.
How we could listen
Instead of talk.
How i could show
A bean, a beanstalk.
How we might one day grow
From raindrops to mighty oaks.
Is it always you and me?
Asks an acorn of a tree.
Is it just you and I
Going someplace
Side by side?
It takes roots to rise,
And courage to thrive.
So let the wind,
A breath, a sigh,
Sweep you up.
The world is much brighter
If you fall far from my side.
Sep 29, 2019
Sep 29, 2019 at 2:10 PM UTC
The tracks
in my veins
are violets,
lavender scars
pushing up
from underneath
porcelain skin
These angled bones
are fists, I'm
brushing the dirt
from my palms
after I've spent a night
buried in the garden
that grows
in your bed
Red blood kisses
burn against
my snowflake mouth,
each one different
never the same --
Hips blades of grass
darting through my thighs,
beanstalk limbs
shooting up from
the ground,
no one can tell me
when they'll stop
If it doesn't rain
soon, they'll stop
sprouting for good,
a stunted twelve-year-old's body
hanging in the balance
of years left unmarked
in the crater of my belly
Child's fingers
pause
against
the window,
waiting
for the sun
to fade
Apr 9, 2012
Apr 9, 2012 at 2:45 PM UTC