"bedhead" poems
Miss mother nature, goddess of earth
your grass masturbates my feet
and the clouds cushion my bedhead –
I am alive
as the plants breathe, I
can watch myself as they watch me.
I am mundane, plain, a concrete building
brutalist and manmade
but their real existence, live vines climb
and make me seem attractive…
Even as I want to be dead,
they kiss me as a husband would his
sleeping wife –
even loving when unaware, forgetting
acknowledgement
being beautiful all alone.
Miss mother nature, goddess of earth
I am alive
no longer manmade in your home.
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 3:31 PM UTC
sleep isn't for the weak.
sleep is for those who hear "I love you" on a regular basis. sleep is for those who can intertwine their fingers with their significant ones. sleep is for those who can feel the warmth of a hug. sleep is for those who have someone to stay up with them at night to talk about aliens, indie music and politics. sleep is for those who have someone to admire them, even at their bedhead. sleep is for those who feel content, comfort and worth.
sleep isn't for those who stay up at night waiting for a good night call. sleep isn't for those who wait for a reply to the message they sent 3 days ago. sleep isn't for those who write long-ass poetry to someone who won't even read them. sleep isn't for those who cry at night, wishing they were enough. sleep isn't for those who think they don't deserve it. sleep isn't for those who have loved and will never be loved.
go to bed, self.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 8:30 AM UTC
Your shirt is still under my bed
Right next to your sleepy bedhead
I file and store these memories
Inside my head, used as a directory
Your blanket is still in a pile on my couch
I never want it to leave my house
It’ll stay put until you come back
Or until your mother shows up for combat
Our secrets are still locked up in my closet
I kept them there, just as I promised
They tend to scratch up the door, sometimes
But what’s mine is yours, and what’s yours is mine
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 11:53 AM UTC
bedhead hair, white sheets
bloodstained t-shirts
all in the market
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 2:56 PM UTC
**** head
Sedilia smile
move inches
Talk for a mile
Wontcha walk for a while,
Wontcha walk for a while
I’m dead
silly I smile
bedhead
sun gimme a dial
wontcha recognize the time
I looked at you to long now I’m blind
oh but parliamentary wontcha drop a seed on me
I’m just dying to grow n you taught me to know I’m to smart to move for you
Oh and the time keeps passing me by n I slaughter seconds with questions asking why can’t I realize why this time keeps passing me by
Unfed lead
leading helmeted heads
of plague ridden pockets with their skin overfed
to the great meat grinder
will we topple the walls
or let our words get cleaned off of those bathroom stalls?
Sunset
You’re gonna go far
stars live in the dark
get stuck in the tar
I can’t see your face on a cloudy day
the clear nights tell me it’s all ok
oh but parliamentary wontcha drop a seed on me
I’m just dying to grow n you taught me to know I’m to smart to move for you
Oh and the time keeps passing me by n I slaughter seconds with questions asking why can’t I realize why this time keeps passing me by
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
He lived 150 miles away.
but there was something far greater
than a two and a half hour drive separating us.
You're 4,432 miles away
(I know. I googled it.)
yet you seem closer.
Though not close enough.
He made my bones feel dry.
brittle.
I was afraid I'd break from the slightest movement.
but then you.
with your bedhead
and smiles
and love of the sea.
He wants to be a doctor.
Admirable I suppose.
Excuse me if I don't wait in line to kiss his ***
He did more hurting
than he did healing.
bitter.
You'll be a marine biologist
and we'll live by the sea
and have a beautiful multiracial family.
Bliss.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 11:20 PM UTC
I woke this morning
Wrapped in Luck
Discovered in the bathroom mirror
My bedhead looked fabulous
Better than my actual haircut
Like finding a $50 bill on the sidewalk
Like getting a fortune cookie
That speaks your name
And says,
"Today is going to be a Good Day."
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 11:32 AM UTC
it is light
it is how i write and write but that's the only word worthy of describing
it is waking up in the middle of summer on your own time
it is closing your eyes with the sun on your face
comfort in blankets when safety is thousands of miles away
free thinking and blushing and taking day-naps
one thousand questions with repeated answers
it is smiling so hard your face hurts
clean sheets and sitting in empty fields
it is car rides with the windows down
the way the moon reflects across water when the sky is deep purple
it is dancing in the refrigerator light
with no socks on
at three am
to a quiet song we hum the next day
it is coffee in the morning
alcohol that stains your brain and makes you feel like you're underwater
it is the first time we touch
with enough electricity to power a city for a week
it is the weightlessness of your laugh
and messy bedhead
it is the way distance disintegrates like poetry
and your promises in prose
always on my mind
in my words
it is that thing people are writing about when they say,
"when you break my heart, it will hurt like hell"
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 6:59 PM UTC
When I see her
All the street lights fade a little
And Her clarity is the only thing i notice
She has this way about her
Like
When she wakes up with bedhead
Grumpy and Confined
I think she is an angel
No a goddess, but not aphrodite
Rather, She is the Athena
Strong willed with temperament
When we are out together
Nothing else matters
Okay well maybe getting there on time and paying attention to the road
But i digress
Her words sing to me as if a siren on a lost beach
And I want to be enveloped in her waves
We go together
Like two awkward and odd looking puzzle pieces,
seemingly different yet when they find each other,
they interlock with the strength of armies
If she was a song
Id play her on repeat for the rest of my life
No matter how annoying it would end up getting
If she was an outfit
She would be my favorite pair of shorts I wear 3 days in a row and wash once a week
Never leaving the Laundry room as i have no pants on
If She was anything
She could be barbed wire and i'd stail want to hold her
A fire and i'd let her burn me out into the ashes, kindling me like our love for eachother
If only
If only she was mine
Aug 12, 2016
Aug 12, 2016 at 8:26 PM UTC
i'm so head over heels in love,
i've forgotten about myself-
about my grades,
about my work ethic,
about my friends.
my grades have definitely slipped massively.
i call in sick for work when i feel like being in bed with him is better than paying the bills,
and i feel like i only talk to my friends when he has done something cute.
who am i
anymore? the only person i have,
i forget about you each time i am
caught up in something good, i
love you so much but for some reason,
i am in love with others before you.
you are single-handedly, the most
beautiful, and more important person
ever. i am sorry, i must take better, better care of you -
*"if you don't ******* take care of yourself," he had said as he was scratching his messy bedhead, "i'm going to have to." and although that was the most loveliest of thoughts, the me from a year ago cried out in anguish: "no! don't you dare put your own well-being in the hands of someone else ever again. we both know how that could end."*
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 4:37 PM UTC
I don't have a clue what to write in this song
the chorus is fine but the words are all wrong
although it's been said that these lines should be read
thought it best if you sung them instead, dear Ed,
drag a comb through your darling bedhead
Well I came home to find you asleep on the couch
and tiptoed around you my big hungry slouch
if I knew you were home I'd a planned something nice
but this chicken's still frozen on ice, anyway
let us pray that you'll take my advice.
Don't say you do when you don't
Ed I'm talking to you honey
Don't say you will when you won't
you know it really isn't funny
Don't say you'll come when you know that you can't
and I won't say a word when you rant
no I shan't, not a whisper from me when you rant!
Last month I told you my car's rather beat
the muffler that's hanging? it dropped in the street
the cops heard me coming and followed me home
on the back of my ticket, your poem- it's a tome
on the lips of my lover is foam
Paint me a picture, I'll pay for your time
Inspire one stanza, I'll write the last line
if you'd bring me some hope for I'm failing to cope
we could spice up our rhythm with rhyme, one more time
give me something worth more than a dime
Don't say you do when you don't
Ed, I'm talking to you honey
Don't say you will when you won't
you know it really isn't funny
Don't say you'll come when you know that you can't
and I won't say a word when you rant
no I shan't, not a whisper from me when you rant
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 11:28 AM UTC
When I came up from my sister’s basement, I might have been a ghost. Expired and void, curious and confused. Her baby’s, my niece’s toys, were rivaled on the floor, but nobody was around. The sliding glass door was open, screen still at attention interceding bugs from our living quarters, but everything was unlocked. It looked as though people had been there just seconds before and suddenly dispersed leaving it in ruin. Maybe I had died in my sleep, and can no longer see people, just the things they manipulate. Could people see me? In this strange quiet stillness?
I always think the worst when I can’t find people. Like they’re being held at gunpoint by some ski-masked kidnapper. Or that I’ll find them drowned in the bathtub after I am forced to break the door down following a few seconds of no response. Would this be reality today? I decided to wait around before abandoning the scene and going home. Swooning the mesh of the screen door aside, I squinted my eyes severely from the extraneous glint of the sun after I had been asleep for elven hours. My untidy bedhead flanged out behind me like a peacock’s feathers. I noticed this while rubbing my eyes, catching my reflection in the glass part of the door. The deck my sister’s husband built was a sunlit Mayan orange; you could smell how the wood had dried after the thunderstorm preceding my sleep in their basement. Still, not a peep of human interaction.
I trudged back down the stairs in the desolation of the lonesome and languid house. The pit of my stomach enjoyed the idea of being a ghost, feeling like I had just gone over the edge of the first obligatory drop of a rollercoaster. Wanting to gather my things, I turned the handle to the spare bedroom in which I spent last night. My body was still in bed, comatose in what I could only imagine as being Death.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 6:16 PM UTC
i am,
the spoon left in
the icecream bowl.
i am,
the towel on the
bathroom floor.
i am,
the toys in the cupboard
and more.
i am,
the vase with bright flowers.
i am,
the left over lasange
in the fridge.
i am,
the dinosaur doona
that snuggles your boy.
i am,
the bedhead that
watches you sleep.
i am,
the old clock
on the mantle,
wonky time i do keep.
i am,
cotton and lace knickers,
jocks and striped socks,
jumbled up in a cedar drawer.
i am,
toothbrushes and bathplugs.
i am,
the tattered, striped hall rug.
i am,
pictures of two, then three.
i am,
the couch, the oversized tv.
i am
the desk and the books.
i am
the mirror that looks
old and faded.
i am,
art projects, created
and afixed on the wall.
i am,
coffee table
and
featherstone chair,
none too stable.
i am,
walls of teak
and roof of
colourbond steel.
i am
house and home
and if i could speak,
well, it would be
downright surreal.
i am,
comfort and warmth.
i am,
refuge and rest.
i am,
old and creaking.
i am,
heaven blest.
i am,
haven,
from lifes storms.
and i am more,
you made me
this way,
with love,
you and yours.
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 8:13 PM UTC
*i looked up
and placed
my fingertips to the top
of my bedroom ceiling
and i looked at the fluorescent stars
and moons
and constellations
and planets
stuck to the white paint,
and i ran my fingers over each
one and i thought that this was the
closest i would get to touching heaven.
i have learned that we are more than our scars
and more than we give ourselves credit for.
we are so much more than the galaxies running through our veins
and we are so much more than the sum of our bodies put together
with the lover's sharing our beds at three in the morning
because we shouldn't have to rely on other people for us
to be happy and feel complete.
we don't need other people to tell us we are beautiful because
you were beautiful even before he said you were.
you were more lovely than she said you were before she left you in the dust.
you don't need someone to tell you the things that are already true
and if you can't see that you are hauntingly fantastic then you need
to get a better nirror
look a little closer
because there is something in you that is keeping you alive even
when you want nothing more than to be dead.
you need to look closer at yourself and place your hands
on your face;
feel the skin that keeps you together even when you want to tear it open;
look at the arms that have scars engraved on the surface but also
are capable of holding other people up when they are upset.
look at those arms- your arms;
look at the way they sway and the way they hold people together when they
are falling apart at the seams.
look at your legs;
look at how they hold you up each morning,
look at how they chase the moon
and the way they continue to let you get to the places you need to be.
look at your hands;
look at how they curve and how they fold into each other.
look at how they hold people's hands and look at how they grasp the strands of
your hair as you messily finger-brush the knots out of your bedhead.
look at your eyes;
look at those **** eyes and notice how the color captures the world,
look at how much they have seen,
how much they have yet to see.
look at the beauty in you, little one.
look- just look at how far you have come.
look at your progress-
you may not feel like you have gotten any better but yes you have;
it is another day you are alive and i could not be any more
proud of you than i am right now.
you are not a temple;
you are a ********* forest.
people may have chopped you down and you may have
imprints on your surface,
but you are enchanting.
you are not monochromatic,
you are flourishing with colors of the rainbow
and you change each day.
you are unknown,
yet so many wish to venture into your soul,
but you close up at the chance of something new.
my love,
you must open your eyes if you wish to start over.
i know you see the pieces of yourself missing
but look at how the light will fill up the cracks if you just let it in.
your soul will not disappear if you simply let the light in.
open your eyes and let the colors fill your black and white world.
you are a forest,
and you are the most beautiful forest i have ever
endeavored.
people will not love you more
if there is less of
you.*
//
{m.j}
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 2:37 PM UTC
You made your bed
I won't sleep in it with you
Of course he says he loves me now
Everyone just calm down
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 2:02 AM UTC
"paint images with your words"
Rusted, bunked beds
empty takeout boxes,
blankets too small to contain both bodies
so hands and feet were always cold.
mascara on bags under eyes,
beard still has bedhead at 1pm
it smells like latex and rough *** and pineapple soda
when is the last time we showered?
your hair is matted, that's hard for short hair to do unless it's been days
you might have pork fried rice in your teeth
and that is kind of disgusting to me
but you are still smiling
I tried to mask the beer farts
with georgia peach perfume
but all we got was tired, half coughs,
from the spongebob themed room we resided it.
We kind of claimed it, didn't we?
The owner of that bed left on Friday afternoons,
soon before we would arrive and plant ourselves deep
in blue and yellow sheets
that still smelled like cheetos and action figures
I think those were your old ones (the dolls, not the cheetos of course)
The tv always had that low, mumbling buzz
we always turned it up and watched forensic files
in boxers and bikinis
until 3am or whenever we fell asleep
and we never complained
we never asked for anything more
than for someone to shut the door
so we could make forts together on the floor
with the same blue and yellow sheets
that I really miss right now
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 10:36 PM UTC
You know, the better I get overall the worse my relationship with sleep gets.
I keep on trying. I know its healthier. I know its good for me. But no matter how hard I try, its so easy to forget. So easy to just keep going.
I'm not good at stopping. I don't like to stop.
I'm like a telegram with run-on sentences. Sometimes, innovative and brilliant. other times, incomprehensible.
I'm on the precipice of so much excitement and joy that, per usual, sleep takes a back seat. I'm bad at not letting it take a back seat. Its just so good at taking the back seat.
To be honest, I'm better with sleep with him around. And its less because he's some magic cure-all, and more he makes me calmer and I can't stay on my phone haphazardly or turn on the lights and write with another person in the bed.
More to be honest, this has less of a point and more a myriad of ramblings in hope to get myself sleepy and able to fall asleep. Because despite my rebellious mindset, I do wish to sleep eventually.
I even tried waking up early yesterday. Didn't work.
I dunno what to do. I'm pretty bad at this. If my insides aren't screaming I tend to question it less. But, perhaps, as an adult, I should question it a little more.
Maybe sleep's just heading in my bedhead.
Jun 8, 2017
Jun 8, 2017 at 2:05 AM UTC
I'll be the first to admit I was terrified.
I wasn't ready, I couldn't be a mother.
Then it hit me, this is really happening.
I was in the party stage of my life,
Always on the go and looking for fun.
I wasn't ready to throw that away.
Then there was you, Lyla Elaine.
You saved me from myself.
You pushed me back in the right direction.
I NEEDED you; just as much as you
Needed me. I was ready for this.
Now I wake up with a reason.
I wake up and I look at your sleeping face.
I smell your Johnson&Johnson; hair,
I hold your little hands, you're my reason.
All those times when I asked why I was alive?
You, you are why I am here.
I was created to create you.
You are my reason for living,
My motivation for loving,
My get up and go.
I love you from your messy little bedhead;
To your tiny little toes.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 1:28 PM UTC
kids, kids, kids. they're running, screaming. in a car, windows down, they're running, running. it's so far and they know, they know the distance. there's a boy, tall, lanky, and has short bedhead of black. there's a girl, tall, slender, her eyes are blind. her hair is purple, a pastel of insanity. after all she couldn't even see the **** color, or the length. but she could feel.
her hair hit her hips, long curls of proud progress, and her hair was lilac because she could feel the pigment. now he could see and he would tell her of the sky and the stars every morning and night. she wanted to see the mountains, and he was taking her. they both knew she'd never see them, but she'd feel them.
hard rock, stubby brush, the uncomfortable and unknown terrain that comes along with a mountain. they know the distance, they know the risks, they know the irony of it all.
they were done, school's over. that hell was history. college was new, probably still hell, but new. "It's cloudy tonight, there's a fog this morning," he'd say, holding her hand to his chest so she could feel the truth of it all and the she would write it all down in a notebook she couldn't see. he led her to the massive drop, warning not to step past him. he was her barrier between heaven and hell and so much more. she wanted love, wanted it all. she could feel her own love, though never see and he wanted kids, kids he could see and she could feel.
they were happy, sitting on the roof of that car. he told her scorpio was out, her favorite of them all, though scorpio was hidden behind clouds. that is love he thought, holding her hand to his chest. she knew it was a lie, for she could feel, but this was love she thought. this was their arrangement.
this was love, they knew.
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 2:33 PM UTC
I like the days when
I wake up at noon
and crawl slowly
from messy sheets
to greet with blurry eyes
the lazy afternoon sun
and eat breakfast
over the sink
at two PM
I make my tea
lemon ginger
with honey to calm the steam
and carry it upstairs
I sit at my desk
in my pajamas
half my face covered
by my frizzy bedhead hair
and
squinting out my window
into the pink and periwinkle sunset
I pick up my pen
with soft cold fingers
and scrawl onto a napkin
from yesterday's dinner
my poetry
in ink
the color of
anxious afternoon sun
steam from lemon ginger tea
brown of unkempt hair
and the
pink
and periwinkle
sunset.
Dec 20, 2017
Dec 20, 2017 at 4:44 PM UTC
You'll be fighting your monsters
til you're six feet in your grave.
I know you, you're strong
still it's hard not to cave.
Sometimes in summer
it's easy to forget
that the war is still going
when the battle resets.
Inside, in the dark,
where the flowers can't reach
They see it's their time
to attach and leech.
Lay low, wait til morning
and remember you're loved
when fuzzy little monsters
Return with boxing gloves.
May 6, 2019
May 6, 2019 at 10:28 PM UTC
If only we lived in a movie
In a cute little flat
That our lives and love revolved around
I think I'd like that
I'd walk through the door
And kiss your smiling face
You'd hold me tight
In a warm embrace
In the living room
There'd always be calm Beatles music playing
And to those songs
We'd be romantically swaying
In the bedroom we'd lie
Intetwined beneath white sheets so thin
Sunlight streaming through the window
Warming our bare skin
In that bed
We could make sweet, tender love
Or maybe cuddle, or just kiss
Or all of the above
In the kitchen I'd stand
Making pancakes on a sunny sunday morn
You'd stand behind me with your arms around my waist
Messy bedhead your face will adorn
You'd strum your guitar
And sing me my favourite songs
And you'd know I can't sing
So I'd just hum along
Maybe we'd have a cat
And we could name her Nyx
And we can make vows to love eachother
Upon the River Styx
This place could be a safe haven
For just me and you
No one would bother us
For it was just built for two
We could have all of this
And maybe even more,
If only you didn't see me
As just a silly little girl
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 2:04 AM UTC
Bedhead hair is the best look,
an inferno of dreaded curls
knotted and frazzled on high.
Shuffling into the kitchen
she finds her way to the coffee ***
before any kind of greeting
dares escape her sleepy smile.
With freckles resembling
a ******* masterpiece
my eyes grow green(er) with envy;
that gene never dominated with me.
"So what time did you get in last night?"
she asks with a wide grin.
And so the Interrogation begins...
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 11:33 PM UTC