"bedsheet" poems
Steam rises from the blocks of industry
beyond the immediate trees;
a thin white veil
cloaking the city like a bedsheet.
And you waking, displacing
your head about apathetically
trying to light a smoke
with sunlight -
this linear love on a tangent,
golden, some ornament.
Everything up then falling
each morning, with light
tethered to the ceiling
while you lay still
dazed from dreaming,
the day breaks unassuming.
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 10:46 AM UTC
In her hands
We're magnesium
White--
As-she-tries-to
Touch pale
Pastels,
--We lie-
For ant-eater
Fires and croaking
-Frogs; I say nothing.
But she breathes in
Clicks-
Bedsheet maladies--
Her crab apple
-Transparency.
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 11:03 PM UTC
flying juniper arrows
fell asleep by the meadows
struck my body with vengeance
that night you screamed at me sweetly
made me tear at my covers
blackbelt in bedsheet karate
i was the kid in rehab who
my counselors let
watch movies
past my bedtime
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 8:10 AM UTC
there's a sense of loneliness that creeps up my heart at 2 in the morning. it is the loneliness that i have felt since you left without any goodbyes.
i look up and see nothing but the emptiness of a dimly lit and cold room - shivering, not because of the cold breeze the air conditioning blows but because of the lost of the warmth from your words and presence. maybe, you can drop a message or a note? something that can remind me of you, oh God, who am i kidding? everything reminds me of you.
it is the stuffed toy that still lies on a spot beside my pillow, hoping that somewhat it can give me comfort.
the glow in the dark stars on my cabinet; because you've always loved science, the stars and space.
my brother's bedsheet; just because coincidentally, he had to have it in your favorite character.
some poem that i've scrolled through; just because the words fit you like a puzzle.
just like that, everything is all about you.
you always seem to find a way to make it back into my life without knowing it, nor wanting it. because in reality, all these are just my excuses to remember you, even if you don't remember me at all.
Jun 11, 2017
Jun 11, 2017 at 1:13 PM UTC
It's unseasonably warm
for a January morning.
I was dreaming of a girl
and blue western skies
...a faded bedsheet
sideways in the breeze
on an old clothes line.
I was dreaming
she was mine.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 7:45 AM UTC
I want a nobody.
A faceless commuter swearing as the machine ignores his credit card. Or the guy two tables to the left who isn’t checking his watch because he isn’t waiting on someone. Any hoodie-wearing, adidas-laced, prospective english major rambling along the sidewalk.
I want a nobody.
‘Cause there’s never a somebody that won’t say “I love you” because it’s numbed by too many mouths that don’t form their lips the right way. The somebodies slide it off their careless tongues—
because little words are pennies in tip jars.
But Nobody, he’ll say
I love the way you put on a jacket
like some kind of whip-snap in the lapels and collar
tipping your chin up and
hooking your silver-ringed thumbs in the pockets
and I love how you flip through books
eager to break the spine but not fold the pages
holding your breath to hold the focus
propping open a paperback between long tapered fingers
and how the barista at the coffeeshop knows your face!
and blush rises like foam on your cheeks
because it’s so ******* incredible how
when you drum your fingers
you don’t drum you press
into a phantom piano
the treble clef of Linus and Lucy
or The Entertainer
or, if your eyes have already gotten deeper
—in a mossy well of thought—
it’ll be Augustana’s Boston
dancing C-E-C-E-G-E-C-E
in the jumping tendons of your right hand.
*
oh darling, I’m in love with
your clumsy movements when you fall into bed
wrapping a thick comforter over your bare shoulders
curling your legs as you settle on your side
hair fanned out on the bedsheet because
the pillow’s too close to the wall
but lovely, I don’t love you
because I’m not real at all
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 10:23 PM UTC
Words are made of thoughts.
I wish they'd intrude. I am lonely,
unemployed with a nine to seven routine
of various activities.
A malignant trend courses through the head.
Broadcasting it outside in the realm of trust
where I am blank but set to go, it would have
the appearance of a finely ambient glass of chocolate milk.
Sometimes I'm asked why the relevance hinges on me.
If I had to say, it's because I keep getting vignettes, like something
out of a beggar's bowl, a wooden saltiness
that becomes increasingly less involved. And, like, everytime
I think about it, it's something similar to trying to walk
on John Carter's Mars; and all of this trivial, like, asinine
things can never match up to the draw, the pull of
whatever has been dropped, whatever has been shorn
unevenly like a badly eaten candy-bar. Or something.
I don't know why it has to be about me.
I don't, pull my weight, and recently I feel cold in the summer;
I have slept under a bedsheet since June.
That's not what this is about, or what I, want to project.
This isn't a prerogative, a jarring hiss of due-dates
incoming inevitably. I just **** Which is not a surprise,
like organic web shooters is a surprise, or, thinking up
something like a dead polemic of a sewer draining
the sordid leftovers of a consciousness.
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 2:00 PM UTC
Dead stains, blood and wine.
Soil, ancient roots. Nights songbird.
Savage tendencies.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 1:56 AM UTC
The wave that crashed
my soul
The seashells bedecked in gold
The mess I couldn't erase
with every trace of constellations
pulsated a face
And the day gone black
under a bedsheet
Wine spilled on a cuffling
The longing for drizzle
and rain
The levitation from the
Earth like tripping windowpane
A watchtower showing you home
You are the well I'm crawling
down
( To float in the clearlight )
The alchemy and sigils in stone
A voice that mumbles
in my sound ears when I'm alone.
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 2:12 PM UTC
Crumpled bedsheet.
Solitary pillow.
Brown blanket.
Empty bottles.
Unwashed clothes.
Vacant bed.
The light on the window.
The lighter on the sill.
Disorganized desk.
Weary picture frame.
Capured memory.
Your secret door.
Guitar on the wall.
Take-home souveniers.
Half-opened closet.
Broken shell.
Treasured letters.
Apprehensive footfalls.
Envious looking glass.
Scattered reflections.
Strange languages.
Disoriented voices.
Dissolving names.
Falling promises.
Disappearing bodies.
Reunited hearts.
Interminable glances.
Sheer infinity.
**Because your room is a world where everything,
even pain,
is beautiful.**
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 3:15 PM UTC
Do your parents wonder, why you take time to open your door?
How you cannot wash their dead daughter's blood off your bedsheet
Go tell them how she bled to death for someone who would not even look her way or do anything to prevent it lest his hands get bloodied
Do they ever wonder why there is no mirror in your room,
or notice how you cringe at the sight of your reflection as if you've seen a ghost And how that is the case exactly?
Go tell them how your own shadow scares the wit out of you,
as if it is mocking you and soon will reveal your dark secrets to them.
Do they ever wonder why you have so little photographs of you?
Go tell them your face reminds you how you turned into everything you said, You would not when you were a kid; how you are just a pile of unsaid goodbyes, abandoned building, shattered dreams stitched up together by skin you dont feel comfortable in.
Do they wonder, why your hands are often on your ears as if you are trying to block some loud music only you can hear
Go tell them how his words keep replaying in your mind.. how he told you so many "truths" that you no longer know which version to believe in
Do they ever wonder why you have no friend or why you keep staring at the wall and yet your eyes appear to be seeing right through everything?
Go tell them you are looking at his eyes turning colder by minute, till you don't recognise who he is; that he has seared goodbye in a place inside you so deep that you send your friends in love, packing bags long before they plan to leave.
Do they ever notice how you cringe when they attempt to hold your hand or hug you?
go tell them how all the times you were let go still echo through your skin,
how you always acted like a filler? how every one you loved had their eyes set on their destiny and you were always traffic
do they ever wonder, why you always seem more restless at night? Or, how they never find you asleep?
Go tell them how the future that you could have had but did not haunts you every night, How you think you have enough time but then you blink and suddenly you are all out of it and you ask Him for 5 more minutes but he just shakes his head.
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 4:47 AM UTC
I know I'll miss these times once they're sung
The days are busy when they're so young
Little ones that pull on skirts,
Teeny ones held in your shirt
Selflessness we must meet, in order to be built
Recline in the sun's heat, spring flowers bloom and wilt
Everything in its time, these moments will pass
Change another bedsheet, sacrifice and submit
Slow and let your eyes meet, let these sweet moments sit
Everything in its time, these moments will pass
A love so natural, it will not be ignored
It flurries us to higher places and with the air it swings
A love so natural, it demands to be poured
So deep it actually aches, singing sweetly while it stings
Offenses laughable, their silly peccadillos I secretly smile at
Yet they are teachable, I'll raise them to face the world and evil to combat
Innocent little transgressions
My dearest little possessions
I rebuke, I correct, the love goes on, I'll cherish our time while here
Time feels ensconced, but with the dawn, our time will have disappeared
Jun 7, 2024
Jun 7, 2024 at 2:12 AM UTC
as i skate my fingers over your
pale abdomen
deliberately, so as not to break you
i feel the quiet and the still that has
settled over us, like the makeshift
bedsheet picnic blanket in spring
we move slowly, as if we were a
flashback or a dream
and i think that our bodies
were made for this--
just this
for this languor and
the unending of it
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 4:50 PM UTC
One early morning,
Let me have you
By my side,
Get me a pen & paper
Ask me a poem to write
About our first
May be our forever
May be you can drive me a little
Or harder
Or faster
We can talk about colors
May be color from last night
"Red" thats fallen
On our bedsheet
Where,
we have been turn on
You look blessed
There's no reason for you to not
Everything has its cover
We dont have any
Nudeness is no problem
When soul is shared already
May be you could tease me a little
About last night
then, i would hide my face
With the paper
Where poem, i'm supposed to write
i blushed
There you could talk about my beauty
Girls love appriciation
She expects them
Even if she dont have any...
You could hold me
While i write
Around my waist
Or may be a little up,tight
I am all yours
And you are my only guy
I might scribble on your arm
The victory of love we had
I might write poem
On your whole body
Cause paper is not enough
To put on a act
I gasp !
Fantasies are such a beautiful thing to have.
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 10:28 AM UTC
I am,
I am,
I am
what lies between the folds of the bedsheet
that my mother washes every week.
I am a bundle, lost in between each and every
crevice of the sheet.
I grasp onto the loose folds
becoming one with the fresh, lemony scent of the
crisp white sheet.
I cling onto what's left of me.
Crumpled;
but your mother
straightens you out.
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 10:50 AM UTC
You were a shadow to me,
You would follow me without question
Around every corner and on the fold of a bedsheet.
You would leave the house
Explore a tree
But you always left a trail of pinecones
To find your way back home.
The graceful thud of your paws
On my sleeping body,
Black fur darned with white socks
And I loved you,
I always loved you.
Life had dealt us a silent friendship,
Language was our deficiency
But we made it our own
Speaking through pupils
And reading the curve of our bodies.
And you were small,
You were always so small.
The runt of the litter
But you had the personality
To **** all the demons
That had scattered in my head through the day
And lull me back to sleep.
This knot in my stomach,
And the tears I concede
Are all for you and I don’t want to stop.
I will atone for every summer as a child
Lost in a dizzy haze of fun,
As you sat in the window
And waited for me.
Just waited.
Now it is my turn.
I saw you break into a shadow of yourself,
Even smaller every day
As you faded away by degrees.
I saw you fall limp into a dreamless sleep
And now as you are buried beneath the snow
I hope the first thing you see is me sat at the window.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 5:36 AM UTC
how bad can a good girl get?
that really is the question.
; it always starts with the apathy. it quietly slips itself in, the same way that you don’t really notice the sun setting until suddenly you look up and the sky is almost black.
it sets into everything it touches like smoke to damp clothes or blood to a white bedsheet.
eyelids get heavier and exhales get deeper.
fingers and toes turning into sticks of chalk on a pavement; messy, incoherent patterns left in their wake; every little thing; the small talk, the feigned interest,
the reproachful gaze of worried friends and the number of hours taken to muster up the will required to go for a shower.
all of it, all of the time
wearing away at her chalk hands and feet; gradual erosion followed by the sharp snap as the pavement encounters a wall. dusty white remnants tell the stories of her efforts on the concrete.
like breakable stick of chalk in the hands of a child, it wore her down and down and away and away.
broken chalk; baring a striking resemblance to what may be incurred if a heap of bones were to be finely ground into a delicate powder.
and that is what the apathy feels like. like the process of gradual grinding and erosion until nothing is left.
; then comes the disassociation.
as in,
if my head starts to feel anymore spaced out will nasa try and recruit me for their next mission? as in,
did i just spend three hours making intense eye contact with the ceiling or did i imagine all of that?
it’s the hours spent wondering if they would love you more if your ribs and hip bones were threatening to burst their way through the skin, or, if really, you are as inherently unlovable as rain clouds in july.
vacant eyes and hollow words, almost doll-like. but at the same time not at all.
dolls are beautiful, adored;
useful.
it’s addictive,
feeling lost and empty i mean; if everything feels like it doesn’t really exist, and you haven’t showered in three days then do your obligations to the world still exist?
if my head isn’t here then what else actually remains?
but this is how you learned to survive, you learned to hold your own mind and dress your own wounds.
she’ll treat you the way she wants someone else to treat her; that’s why she always wants to make sure that you’re alright. because no one ever asked her.
and that, is how you know that it is getting bad again. but really none of it happens in that order or in steps; actually, it happens all at once, but isn’t that a lot harder to fit into a blank word document?
Apr 6, 2018
Apr 6, 2018 at 1:55 PM UTC
This is a list of the times I allowed myself to collapse.
These are the reasons I tried to drown myself in a bathtub filled with thick crimson and cheap liquor.
This is my final suicide note.
1. Today in science class my teacher brought out the human skeleton and I wished it was me.
2. I've never drank whiskey, but when my blood turns to Bourbon, I need to open the bottle.
3. I cannot count the times I've created spines on the mirror. I need to kiss the white lines.
4. The cats are meowing, they're hungry. I am so focused on not feeding myself that I have forgotten to feed them.
5. I'm a lot like cigarettes. I light easily. Burn out quickly. Focused on destroying you-always destroying myself.
6. I've got poison in my veins-I unzip myself daily. When I kissed you- I infected you. We have poison in our veins. Addicted to destroying ourselves. The Devil will watch and be envious.
7. I am 17. I have attempted suicide too many times to count. Every time in a different way.
a. cliche; slit my wrist open and let flowers spill.
b. drowned myself in a handful of pills and a bottle of *****
c. hung myself with my bedsheet.
d. decayed my stomach lining with bleach
e. starved the ugly out of me-let my bony knuckles callus.
This time I am going to fling myself from a building, call my friends, and hope they'll catch me.
Because I never truly wanted to die.
I want to be saved from myself. I want someone to zip me back up. I want to look at the sun and not think about burning. I want to be able to sit in a bathtub with clear water. I want to eat a candy bar, and not taste it twice. I want someone to look at me and see flowers-not blades.
I wish I had green thread to sew my veins back together. I wish I had a syringe, i'd **** the poison from my blood. I wish I knew what love felt like, maybe I could perfect the practice.
This is not a poem.
This is not written with the intent to explain myself because I don't know myself well enough to explain.
This is a suicide note.
This is my last suicide note.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 3:24 PM UTC
sleep
is just a metaphor for
deep dream seeking.
chasing dragons & demons
through a seamless sequence
of events which
defy all weakness
with tongue in cheek
& grinding teeth
toward bedsheet beacons
bright light beams
that scream through
bleak dreamscapes.
but better your head
than these streets & freeways..
Feb 7, 2010
Feb 7, 2010 at 6:49 PM UTC
The smell of ink and abandonment lingered in the air as I stepped inside the room we had scarred. Dust has found a home at last - a place where all your faults were accepted and my hope was never questioned. This is where we hold our entire world. This is where each second lasts everlastingly. This is where forever lives.
Tissues slept on the floor like confetti for my return mixed with crippled promises you have dropped and forgotten.The bedsheet lay awake, exhausted, weary, heaving the sigh you exhaled in a lock room - the smell of your desire, of my frustration, of our longing, of my name. I wonder if they had kept your heartbeat. I wonder if I could have it back.
I wonder if I could have you back.
The silence had preserved every single thing you have uttered - every word a bar, each sentence another lock. Your voice hanged themselves on the cobwebs, the cobwebs had consumed the space and you had filled me with wishes, longing and regrets. I have never expected you to say hello again. I certainly never shall. You never did. You never will.
We slept in our mask and redressed in denial.
Forever is still etched on the atmosphere. I can feel you touching the small of my back, paving your way through my spine, reaching your way to where the burnt maps, love letters, crumpled clothes and drawn out nights were. I can feel you possessing my nape. I can hear you whispering my name. I can see you piercing the night. Why do always you have to be so wonderful?
The scars you have etched on my skin breathe like stars on the pillows you have wounded. They glowed longingly for that smell of yours they’re acquianted with. They stood beyond eternity. The inteminable look in your eyes before you sleep had tampered the wallpapers - the audience of those nights we own, when everything was forgotten, including the world. The story of what if and what could have been filled the space between us - never allowing my arms to cling around your neck, never wanting you to kiss my ear, shielding you to find us on the swell between my *******
The clock had stopped working.
At least it won’t steal my time.
Maybe I can sleep tonight.
Maybe we can be infinite.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 4:41 PM UTC
not
tucking in
your bedsheet
every morning.
intentionally.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 8:29 PM UTC
Hands and legs clenched tight
You and me sit uptight
The bedsheet becomes a safety tent
Enclosing turmerics powerful scent
Circled in a misty atmosphere
Giving you the first time fear
Sweating off the cold
Undergoing a remedy thats centuries old
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 1:25 PM UTC
Wrapped by just her flesh and skin with nothing on, half-awake on her silky fabric bedsheet
She watched him walk slowly towards the door in his torn jeans and tight shirt
With a quiet gaze and a tender smile, he gently waved goodbye
In and out of her vision, his retreating figure shimmered
She must have trembled because he stopped
He smiled, walked back and passionately whispered while caressing her curves
“Please forgive me!
Please forgive...
my hands for always wanting to touch you
my lips that are burning to kiss you
my arms that are dying to embrace you!”
Her guardian angels clapped in awe as he asked again for gentle kisses
Then they swam together in furious waves, merging into the vast glimmering ocean
They were beautiful whales dancing in their own song
Then they found calmness as they reached close to the seashore
As they began to drown themselves again in melodies of the ripple waves
She forgot and suddenly realized
Waking up in a middle of a poem, she was fooled by her own metaphor
Jun 8, 2019
Jun 8, 2019 at 6:39 AM UTC