"bedstand" poems
It was dark and day
the day I read the words came straight
from [redacted]'s brain placed upon
this coded page
Oh my delightful
bedstand book took the rope and pulled
from the poetry a noose
with which to cull
its zombie
body
infused
with life
only as
love peace
& pros
per
ity
[redacted],
imbue
me be
fore I
leave
O,
please
Jul 8, 2018
Jul 8, 2018 at 9:46 PM UTC
Hello ceiling
caving in
worldwind heart
Internally
Eternally
falling
the bad boys r whistling through my door "phooo"
the bankers screaming through the phone
pictures of naked girls on the screen
dancing
old coffee spilt on my bedstand
strangers
strangers that live in me
peeling the paint
reminding me there is a big break
around the corner
coming to rescue me with giant winged teeth
swirling around my head
around the corner
& the piles of unpaid envelopes
don't mean a thing
don't let those whistlers in
my view from the window
Brick walls
Plastic flowers
Mar 31, 2011
Mar 31, 2011 at 8:18 PM UTC
**** off
Go away
No one ever liked you
No, not even me
I don't know why I put up with you for so long.
Don't pretend you didn't see this coming
I never mattered to you, either
Just a safe place to hide
From the cold
You didn't even ask to be let in.
I should have listened to my friends
When they said you were no good
But I was too proud
And too dumb
And too trusting.
So I let things slide
And I hoped that you'd get better
That if I was patient
And kind
Things would resolve themselves.
I was only a kid.
I remember that night,
The light by my bedstand
When I finally had enough
And tried to make you leave
And found it hurt too much.
I was ashamed
Of myself
Of you
Of the pain
So I hid it, pretended it didn't matter.
And you dug your ******* heels in
******* that you are
Wheedling your way into my life
And my body
Like it's a thing you already own
No more of this ********
I will boil you in acid
And I will drag you out by force
I'll cut you down
And throw you out
With the rest of the morning garbage
And it will hurt,
I know it hurts
And this hole you leave in me
May never, ever heal
I just have to hope it will.
Because I'd rather spend my life
Walking around
With a ******* hole in my foot
Than spend one more minute
With you.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 1:06 PM UTC
.
1. It's time to retreat
To call off the war, to turn in the trumpets,
To shut off our hearing aids to those who are bullet-riddled with Ritalin.
2. Leave passion at the door
The coat rack is missing, but that's what people are for,
Push them back into the closets with your woolen wares and see.
3. Check in your soul with the desk clerk
The bellhop promises to bring it up soon, but the elevator is out of order.
His trolly's wheels were stolen and the stairs are still on fire.
Sorry.
No refunds.
4. Lock all the doors and tip your cows
You're too tipsy for another round of room service anyways and the
police are planning a raid.
Tell the too young girls with the too old eyes the time has come to go and
stitch your innocence back on.
5. Check your bedstand for a bible and a razor
Ignore the ***** stains; the key to salvation was paid in sin.
Put yourself on a pension plan because I hear the devil's running a good
racket.
Sorry.
No refunds.
6. Trash this place on Yelp. Trash this place in person.
The devil is hiding in the woodwork and there's a people zoo of women
dancing on the yellowed wallpaper.
The carpet smells like Daddy's cigarettes and Mommy's drunken spit-up.
7. w̶r̶i̶t̶e̶ ̶a̶ ̶m̶e̶s̶s̶a̶g̶e̶ ̶o̶n̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶m̶i̶r̶r̶o̶r̶
What a proud song:
Here's to the the nihilists, here's to the named,
Here's a vague attempt to mark the world in meaning.
8. Break the mirror instead
***Sorry.
No refunds.***
But they offer complimentary mints.
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 1:13 PM UTC
there's a lot of notebooks
full with words I still need to write.
Sep 11, 2021
Sep 11, 2021 at 4:33 PM UTC
i.
He dreameth of her
In her extrasolar land;
He pen's for her gracefully
She waiteth for him,
By her foreign bedstand.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedication
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 10:11 AM UTC
He dreameth of her
In her extrasolar land;
He pen's for her gracefully
She waiteth for him,
By her foreign bedstand.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 9:42 AM UTC
She said writers are soft
I told her that ain’t quite the whole truth
Emotional invulnerability can be a soul-noose
And when you do explore into the corridors and floors
of your expression
you’ve accepted that you’ll turn a couple stones loose
“It’s old news. I don’t wanna hear about your feelings,
or what you didn’t feel back, it’s really too revealing.”
I guess that all depends what you expect from what you’re reading
I mean artistry’s a part of our impression that’s appealing
No really – the world’s a crazy place and if you let it
it will crash into your spirit and rattle you apoplectic
I get it
she said and
grabbed her earrings from the bedstand
I watched her check her phone
she called me Romeo
and left then
May 22, 2017
May 22, 2017 at 10:02 PM UTC
you never told me the truth you never told me that i was toxic to the touch you never said that every time you ran your hand through my hair it tangled your mind up until all you could think was static
the kind of static that hums,
you could call it beautiful,
but only if you're ******* crazy
--
i think i'd like plants on my bedstand because then when i'm sleeping, maybe my mind will travel into the flowers maybe my thoughts will grow into something worth writing down
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 3:22 AM UTC