"bendable" poems
‘this is my heart,’ i tell you.
you hold it between your hands.
‘be gentle, be kind, be soft,’ i want to tell you.
i smile,
i let you believe it is strong and unbreakable.
but this heart,
my heart,
is made of paper,
light, fragile and easily breakable.
it is bendable,
and often tries to fold itself and look smaller than what it is.
an origami heart.
when you unfold it,
you can see the creases love left,
you can trace with your hand the exact place where pain left its mark,
you can read the stories left in the lines.
and still,
despite it all,
my origami heart, my paper heart
is a work of art.
Jan 20, 2018
Jan 20, 2018 at 2:03 PM UTC
Thunder over Karl Marx’s grave
here comes night
running at me with scissors
dangling sellotape
half finished art projects
still weigh heavy on your mind
like all those missed opportunities,
a C should have been an A.
Pastels not paint. The smudged trail of a finger
across ****** feelings which
surface back to tentative fumblings
with a sister’s friend’s Barbie
the smooth plastic bendable limbs
the positions configured with a one armed Action Man
eagle-eyed and
watching
and if I ever feel down
if I ever feel low
I think back to a story I once read about a woman
who had her face ripped off by a chimpanzee
and as she screamed
the chimpanzee leapt up and down
primitive rage grinning.
Not a pleasant sight I can imagine
but when I feel down,
that’s what I think about,
a woman
and a chimpanzee
ith a face hanging from his primate fangs.
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 5:04 AM UTC
In a slow oak and elm ING breath
Ent felt tears in the air
She inquired the feather like dancer
From where a river now streamed
Say, your sobbing must stop
Just enjoy being unlocked
You do not know tree pain
With my long hard locks
Knotted under the weight of usefulness
for you are still yet a seed
Riding the wind of dreams
No rings yet formed on fingers
rings to be broken for fires timber
Your tendrils are bendable
The beginning fragment of a future
So show no pain and suture a smile
I know capons
who fell free from home
Only for gravity to shatter dreams & reclaim them to the unknown.
And the dandelion said:
My short life comes with long memory
While my youth may seem naive to tree
I have only arrived and I must die to be
You will remain when I am reborn
deity
And as your locks begin to leaves
And birds flock like river ocean streams
I know pain because I remember birth
I will die a thousand times before you know me
Yet these tears should not offend
I cry to womb the happiness within.
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 10:46 AM UTC
I wish it was easy to say who I am.
I wish God was less of a creator and more of an author
Ink stained fingernails glasses brimming the edge of his nose type
Whiskey on the side of his computer; optional.
I wish that in place of these veins and hair and bendable thumbs
I had poetry, soliloquies, syllables, punctuations.
That marked my existence
I wish my mind was a novel and each word inside it
Moved through my organs and around my chest
And when you cracked it open knowing who I am
Would be as easy as reading a book
I wish that when I get so angry I forget to speak
That you could just rip off the end of my skirt and read the
Internal and omniscient monologue in place of my skin
That would explain everything
When I smile during turmoil I wish it wasn’t a mystery
And the chapters printed on my visible teeth
Could tell you exactly why.
If God was an author I would be a character
And each of my traits would have meaning, and significance
Why do I bite my nails?
Because when I was five years old I saw my mother do It and when I’m nervous
I do it to be close to her
That would be the reason and I wouldn’t have to sit and wonder about it
Because that fits my story
Every page of my life would be narrated by someone who knew
Me better than I knew myself and that, that
Would take a lot of pressure off my shoulders.
The horrible weight of self-defining
Wouldn’t it be nice to not have to discover yourself?
To have someone do it for you
Instead of taking years to find out that you work better under pressure
And that being a doctor really wasn’t your true calling after all
What if you could just look down at your body
And see words that told the story of you.
What if you were armed with the knowledge of knowing
Who you are and what your purpose is.
I wish I was literature
So finally I could through my hands up
Shout back at you saying “Here, look this is who I am.”
I like the sound of the ocean
Black and white movies
I get sad when it rains
Just read me.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 6:24 PM UTC
The fog here is thick, until you step into it.
The storm rages until you get to its eye.
I wish this same principle could be said of me, too.
But like a gas giant, you could slip right through me with
the smallest amount of pressure.
There is no calming sense of self at the core.
Gravity does not apply to me.
There’s a boat on the lake cutting through the fog. And then nothing.
More waves.
More birds.
The fog covers it all up again.
The sun slinks and the tide comes in, or is it out? Does it matter?
The moon controls it in some way—the push, the pull of the waves.
At least the lake looks blue today,
looks green today.
The geese are in the water now. The families are packing up.
The ice cream shop is closing.
And I do not remember if I was ever here with you.
This, of course, is a collective you.
Could mean you, my reader,
could mean one specific person,
or two
or three
or four;
could be whoever I'm thinking of when I reread this to myself.
That’s the funny thing about the litany of loss.
It all starts to congeal.
Waves crash against the rock. Starts to chip away, create something new.
That’s what memory does.
It’s not permanent. It’s malleable.
Flexible. Bendable. Moldable.
It smells like lakewater. Like
fish and sand and mud and
gulls and rocks and shells and
algae and fog—thick, thick fog.
Smell is supposed to be one of the biggest memory triggers, and yet
I cannot place a single memory of you here.
And that’s mildly crushing.
So I would take you here:
to where I wish the air was
saliter and less earthy.
to where I come sometimes to think.
where the clouds are so thick and puffy and
the setting sun makes them look like cotton candy on the Fourth of July.
where the sun’s reflection on the water
turns the green lake pink.
where the geese are back out of the water and
onto the shore.
I would take you here with me.
Into a new memory.
Homemade. Handmade. DIY.
Aug 24, 2021
Aug 24, 2021 at 12:46 AM UTC
Insouciance first fall
we took the night half-illuminated
dreamy stereo sketchy static
through ear’s round bell
smile we owe it
slanted, bendable light moon
becomes another genre
to listen lilt
even before methods of lip
procure shaded meaning cohered
on a closed door – opened
finding a semblance of Sun
there, veiling
a traffic of cirrus
in the elongated road
of blue skies
it was time
to point-source a home
taller than grass in Summer
pinpointing scenes to exact
a long divide and make it
by punishing it post-peak,
let it drift with unrelenting
quickness
past mouthed rivers and from
the lessening fog
of the same morning
i
will puncture
it true, eyes set forth
into your absence
*you’ll
bloom
you’ll
bloom.*
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 8:31 AM UTC
The broom falls heavy on the floor
sweeping up the fragments of my disappointed heart.
The swagger of your once so-humble soul
echoes like a mockery in the chasm that now keeps the distance
between us both.
How can the one person I respect so much
change so dramatically between one phone call and the next?
You, I thought you’d always have my back,
fail, because you’re now too interested in your own fail safe.
The trust that once bound
disintegrates with each new thing you learn.
Your brilliance has become a curse,
your kindness melted from gold into
a puddle of finite resources made of Chinese plastic.
A voice, sturdy, now
more bendable, less flexible
A boldness once endeared
now feared,
wished away.
And I’m hoping you’ll just grow out of this.
Don’t over-change yourself because you’re
desperate for freedom from your past.
Promise me that you will climb over your
arrogance
and find the way back to the beautiful boy I was once so proud
to call friend..
Not a friend, this friend,
the knower of my colors
Capture this one not, o life
A prayer and deepest desire,
spare him his innocence.
Don’t let me down, o life.
not this one.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 10:12 AM UTC
times like this, the plenary moon
tonight wearing many faces,
the white-washed truant at bay
white-hulled still, the brim of the sky
to a full, on such a bright night leaving a trace
of say, prongs of fire on the kiln
the skin the soft breeze molests with a chill
flung from pinecone – the blackened spires of the
very heart of flame and the mullioned wood that understands
what the heat of placeness mints underneath
our skin – what silence remains a translation when the smoldering
remains are bitten repeatedly, aureoled in the moment of vital meaning.
we hear its threat, retained in clock-whirs
like a primordial word or the fluting of light’s bendable
rondure harnessing a truth we let in.
I fail behind the walled-up lip of laughter
because the weight of passing
is heavy on my back – like a bough dragged
by rainwater, or sound elected to drown:
the smell of poinsettia assaults,
lifting its slaughter against Kiltepan and Ambuklao,
past mountains lulled to sleep: the moon sleuthing
like a well-oiled machine. what do you hear?
we are aware of its full absence,
like that of our undulation after a fall,
or the wild sibilance of breath trying to utter something,
going back home with a song in between teeth,
without words.
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 6:56 AM UTC
I'm perfectly imperfect
That's what they always say
I'm crookedly straight
But I'm far from gay
I forever speak my mind
Always and all day
My heart is on my sleeve
But guarded all the same
I'm devilishly innocent
My mind is not so tame
I'm dishonestly truthful
But never take the blame
I'm completely backwards
We can never be the same
To me upwards is downwards
The sky's my only ground
Your life I can still ruin
It is with in my bounds
I'm depressingly happy
There is no middle ground
My version of earth is flat...
Why should it be round?
My earth is a work of art
With colours everywhere
Your world I broke and ripped apart
Just to prove I don't fit there
I tore it up in little bits
I left the pieces without a care
I'm completely backwards
I'm such a major scare
I'm nationally local
You can see me all the time
I can disappear into thin air
Leaving you without a rhyme
For I'm melodically harmonious
No brighter than the dullest shine
I'm incomprehensibly real
And yet so hard to find
Pure white to me is simple black
Race is gone and can't come back
I can prove all that I am
A thing to which you surely lack
I'm disrespectfully respectful
My words are always fact
I'm completely backwards
I'll drive you past insane
Then I'll never bring you back
I'm illegally legal
Like a drug that you can't sell
I'm contrastingly bendable
In this world of my own hell
I'm resistingly irresistible
My secrets you will never tell
I'm obscenely lovable
In this world in which I fell
I landed in this twisted place
A world of expectations
This world I created on my own
For I'm an undertone of exaggeration
Here I've found my only home
In a backwards world of my creation
And all in all I'm here to say
"I'm completely backwards
In every single way"
Sep 10, 2009
Sep 10, 2009 at 12:49 PM UTC
I have this desire to save people.
My counselor says that's why all my friendships are hard on me.
I tend to make friends with people who need saving.
You Were No Exception.
Grace, Darling Child, Where did you go?
You got lost in the crowd and put on a show.
I tried to warn you and you listened well
but you are very bendable and the others could tell.
Grace, My Darling, Why would you lie?
I Would give you anything including my life.
You really cared for me, you told me so
but it was not enough because you just couldn't say no.
Grace, My Darling, Why are you gone?
You have to stop abusing your mom.
I know she messed up but we all do.
Oh Please don't let them get to you.
Grace, my darling, Why did you let them get get to you?
Was it Something I said? What Can I do?
I'm the only one who still has hope in you!
Grace?
Grace, you are gone. He took you as well.
The bad man who treats your Mommy like hell.
I guess your Daddy just likes his control.
And Since you can't say no he has too much hold.
Grace, I'm sorry, but this is goodbye.
I'm sick of all your little lies.
Your Daddy will say awful things about me
And while they are false, you are just too naive.
Grace, I see the hate in your eyes.
I knew this would happen since you live with a demon in disguise.
I guess I just have to let you go
and remember the great girl you could've been who I'd love to know.
Grace, sweet Grace, you stand so far away.
There is a demon standing in your place.
You are now the type of thing I despise.
I hold a funeral in my mind for the girl who could have been kind.
Grace, my darling, was I not enough?
I feel it's my fault. Did I not show you love?
Your ghost will haunt me and put me to shame
because you were the girl I could not save.
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 9:00 PM UTC
Your moldable heart
So many times over
Lit up and torn apart
Like a mined diamond
Dug up and brushed off
So quit your whinin'
You're just lucky
Someone like me came along
I'm way ahead of you
Mentally, emotionally and physically
You're a pretty sad excuse
For a person in such a situation
And there's nothing you can do
But listen and soak up information
Keep playing the sponge
And someday you might get the correct formation
I hold the strings
Don't you see or are you that blind?
There are so many things
To be done, to be had
But you just hold on and take to the clings
And I can't say I'm appreciative
Of the fact that you can't seem
To be anything but argumentative
I'm a fuckin' gift
Something shiny in the fog
That comes to give you a lift
You're nothing but the bump on that log
Who goes and makes a shift
When she hears a little something questionable
Through your heart I will sift
And by the end your arteries will be bendable
Your heart of clay
Lays lazy and easily excitable
When I docked in your bay
It looked like saving you was viable
But I refuse to stay
I regret to inform of the incoming storm
But I must decline your invitation to play
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 11:41 AM UTC
This is the shorter edited version of our story. It tells you the facts, but it doesn't tell you the why. It leaves a lot of blanks that you can fill in, so it could be about your own highschool experience. If you want to know our story, read the unedited version.
There were five of us.
Freshman who grew up to be seniors
There was the oldest, the skinny one
He was tall and awkward
He was so quiet and shy
He only texted
He was uncorrupted
He was a lover
Then there was the Latino
Amazing athletic talent
A great friend
Funny as hell
Romantic and gentle
Loyal and patient
Next came the little one
Obedient and but passionate
Younger than everyone
Guileless and enchanting
In love with the latino
The most bendable, changeable one
Also there was the clown
Everyone’s friend, no one’s best friend
Wannabe family man
Strangely perceptive
Always smiling
Ladies’ man
And then there was me.
Full of surprises
Loud, rebellious, crazy
Fearless, childish
Independent and devoted
Steady and never-changing, slightly judgmental
That was us.
We were all connected, but also independent
The boys fought
Mostly over the little one
Then we fell apart.
We’re almost unrecognizable
The tall one, the oldest
Got his first girlfriend
He befriended so many girls
But secretly was dreaming of the little one
He’s leading his brother
And he doesn’t even know it
The latino is mostly the same
He doesn’t fight as much
But he never got over the little one
Now he just gets admirers
He’ll grow out of high school
He already knows how to do life
The little one got so lost along the way
But I decided to stick around cuz she’s my best friend
She’s already taking college classes
She’s working with children
Now she’s planning her life
But she doesn’t seem happy
The clown found himself friendless
He made a lot of dumb mistakes
He still hangs around
He parties and smokes
To hell with being good
At least he’s accepted his fate
And I’m lost too
I don’t party or drink or smoke or have ***
But I’m losing my religion
Bad things have happened to me
I’m no better than my friends
I’m sad I’m no longer special
And so we’re lost
Some are on the mend
But we made it through high school
We got so messed up along the way though
I drive home listening to Queen
The clown showed me that one song
And I cry because we are the champions
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 1:48 PM UTC
I’ve diagnosed it with industrialized rickets,
stomach is open and distended
metal is bowed with greenstick
fractures, hard and bendable,
compensating with growth
disturbances and wider wrists.
If I squint enough
there is movement
in permanent metal, micro-movements
as the ants shape sand hills
far from half-buried
fire-hydrants and barely there
Red Hot Chili Peppers
laced with frat-boy yells.
I’ve named it insieme
just far enough away to be together.
It’s body isn’t big enough
for all the purpose that it has.
At some point it’s been welded,
Atomic number 29,
add tin and it becomes 79.
Gold. It’s on fire, comprised
of a thousand tiny synthetic
flames fused together by rust.
It’s too open a place.
It should be found in ignorant alleyways
where half smoked cigarette butts marry
pavement, where brash teenagers go to cry.
The ants make sense though.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 12:45 PM UTC
Subject enters trance
Subject enters trance state
Subject enters entrancement
Entrance word opens mind
Mental kind
Mind kind, man kind, male and female
see that fe,
see iron, the processed bile,
from certain ores - see a detail
allowed the ancient few who read
all the ancient writings, as we read
French or Farsi, today, we the augmental.
Augmented I, exo-mindful chooser bot,
software, with a calcium lattice frame,
any curious child could have been shown,
by way of instructions, seldom read, ready
do the drill. Do it again. Do another whole
day. Being particular as to what use is made
of my pronominal reality state, my real estate.
Non moi. My ever after all of that. This.
These
times that try men's souls, since this means
of forming information along bendable old bones,
Once, in the dreamtime's local translation mindspace
timeless,
nothing was.
Nothing was evil, and that was good, a chain construct,
mind chain, prior to any sense we readers hold chains
to represent, closed torqued rods of iron, formed
on the horn of the anvil, the only known anvil,
for the making of such things was closed knowing,
must be earned, this epithet, honest, most honed,
among the dull stone scattered across my plain,
Mam, re, remember,
Mamre had a plain called by his name.
Terebinthine Oaks, con-secration acknowledged,
by whom, asks my little boy, who knew which oak
Jacob buried the stolen idols lied about under,
for shame.
For shame, he who wrestles still, with the will
to be the bherer of all my own shame, amen.
Nothing hidden that shall… should we quibble?
Known is known,
and should one choose one may make a plain
from a point
once,
stretched this far. And holding… ad in fun item,
Chotsky for any one to open worm cans with.
Mar 17, 2023
Mar 17, 2023 at 2:02 PM UTC
You're as bright as Education
Straight but bendable
You think with backup
You can recycle and retrieve memories
You define bravery
And your emotions speak
Your desire is classic deliverance
For you swim in deserts
And plant wisdom fruits
You climb space and find impossibilities
As you massage thousand of hearts.
You're a folded situation
With an inside out beauty
Your hand is a Miracle
That offers deliverance through writings
You're the white spot, in a dark room.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 3:48 AM UTC
I have always wanted elegance in
a vintage photo book with faded perfume on the
cover, kind of way.
I want to step on the strings of a robust
cello to feel the taut, bendable life
give out - replacement.
I wish for the herbal remedy for the life
I chose so long ago,
the risks; highway lengths ago.
I never thought I'd gain much from
wishing against the bigger plan for me,
but I lost more than I bargained for.
Feb 27, 2011
Feb 27, 2011 at 7:24 PM UTC
A rhythm overflows the grief
moment by moment
rocking melodiously
words humming like velvet
soft like the rain on a spring day
soothing her head
surrounding her wandering mind
dissolving slowly like salt on her learned tongue
round twists and turns
creamy moving effortlessly through bendable tubes
soaking into new found places
squeezing harder
non lasciar andare
smarting palm against gripping-
breath heavy, warm and moist
gasp in cracked tones from far within
long, long, long
pressing, constricting
slippery and close
lips move slowly along open ears
touch gently
fall subtly closer still, yet again
eyes open, flutter quickly
passing over adoring breath
and wet lips
along the way loosened grip
squeeze once more
giusto per essere sicuri
flashing teeth in sure smile
understanding dimple
fingers flow and stop to rest
eyes flicker to dancing pupils
stars swirling
open and see
colors playing in the dark
curl around feet and legs
tight and tired
collapse and laced comfortably forever.
Oct 2, 2011
Oct 2, 2011 at 8:47 PM UTC
sometimes/ it is hard to inhale through this mess of standing sentences and polite posture; the blue of a background and proud dimensioned paper – when it should be blue ink on you and i. the words here are selfish and greedy and angry, they throw darts and smile with emphasis but the ones i write with you are like f eathers and drowned beneath the corners. i want to rearrange them flip their coy glasses and fill them with warm water but i do not think my english teacher will corroborate and the magazines say no. my heart thickens like yours and i worry for the words because isn’t it hot where they are? aren’t they hungry or thirsty without their ribs? the pen shop is just across the street i want to tear them from dusty shelves and online guides and put them in our notebook without commas. they do not know spaces and i think - stuck in history it must be lonely;
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 10:33 PM UTC
one more (sweet love poem) for the road
t'is indeed
difficult to gather up
the memories,
asking not which
but
how,
in what type of
storage container,
clear, see-through-me plastic or a
steel lock box with a preordained
one last
goodbye
kissing,
semi-purposely soon to be another
******
missing
key
will they be made, kept,
though themselves,
disordered, unkempt,
yet
safe for future travel...
but unsafe for reopening,
lest those
aged sugar dusted
New Orleans beignet crumbs
you broke in two,
one for me and one for,
yet break for me
during the packing up
as all smiles
in a half remembered
half sad song
once again,
upon cursory examination
at a new person's
starting over
heart place,
I smile
sadly
at torn concert ticket stubs,
and emptied ring boxes,
brown-edged wilted flowers
that fell out from in between
books of poetry,
purchased, but never opened
my soul brother
Nat King Cole
sings me to that
smiling place,
and yet I am shocked to learn
that he is not the author of said words
no,
that song,
that now
last / elastic brittle / bittersweet memory song,
written by the the unbreakable,
the bendable
Charlie Chaplin
and I put that last whimsy smile
*in the clear plastic container,
discontented contents
visible, even if that box
is never reopened*
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 4:07 AM UTC
One of the resourceful books unbeatable;
Children’s love, care and comfort biddable
Is none better than Reader’s Digest – capable.
Articles, reports, jokes and anecdotes audible;
All are present in it; all are undoubtable.
Changing the mindset of students capable
Is a new, systematic thing coachable.
Changing the world and its cannibal
Into the virtues and values bindable.
Explaining itself if anytime culpable;
And so is famous for being countable.
Teachers, parents, students ennoble
Reader’s Digest for not being enfeeble.
Leaders or followers who are like a crucible
Change their minds and be bendable.
Behaviour and conduct – key undoubtable
Will keep you atop, elevated, lofty and able.
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 10:18 PM UTC
petty and pathetic,
insofar as when a wreathed breath
brings the being to the brim
of each death-defying word,
a woman. lying naked,
nailed to the Earth, burning
auburn-bright from windows
a wraith unannounced without a diadem
even, consoling the heavy lark
of the doused dark with something
weightless swinging against
the boughs — shuddering after a great
fall from presence to heart's pompous
flare. flat is the world
and light, the bendable one:
laugh, laugh, brave the hill
and behind the bramble, the dimly lit
foliage you are there
from the tumble: an aureole
simmering in the unbeknownst.
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 1:34 AM UTC
She floated in by accident
appeared a gentle creature
until she revealed her
true nature.
I held her hand
when the doc said
it's cancer.
"You are such a good friend"
she said.
I visited her
prone in her bendable bed
when the doc said
"I think we got it all."
"I can't believe you came."
she said.
The lonliness and fear
evident.
Those wings
Those spots
Those ample curving lines
camouflage
for her sinister plan.
I thought I was protecting her
when I allowed her
into my heart
into my home.
She moved in when she
abandoned her children
because she hated her life.
I thought I was a refuge.
Only later
did I discover that
I was a target.
She didn't want me to
nurture her back to health
to return to her own family.
She wanted to replace me in mine.
She wanted what she couldn't have.
She
defines
Betrayal.
She
defines
Corrupt.
She
is
the
reason
for
Hearts of Darkness.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 10:32 PM UTC
For Leonard: Two Years On (11/7/16)
don’t patronize, he laughs,
don’t want too much praise,
might go to my head,
which is still residing in Montréal,
ville de ma naissance
well you know, Natty, our tradition~prohibition
against excessive eulogizing (hesped),
and I know too,
some traditions you respectfully disrespect,
so try to be mindful,
wax not overly long
a suggestion by our mutual master songwriter,
follow the Song of Songs model,
write of new love,
born and reborn,
and borne
from the collection of beloved songs ancient
**“His mouth is most sweet: yea, he is altogether lovely. This is my beloved, and this is my friend, O daughters of Jerusalem”
Chapter 5, Verse 16**
kiss the comforter, that unmistakable gravelly voice chanting,
smooth anthesis, lips raining down blessings,
from places heard but unseen, that yet flutter the spirit
come to me, thy beloved, thy image mirrored,
our missing part, bare the lightness,
pour it into the crack,
that fire creates
when lips meet and sing a song of unity again
continuously perfected
go downtown, on rainy nights, when only few venture
to the venue, find the small bars with a stool and a spotlight,
smoking out back, the sound system half-busted,
where the tryouts for brave are held, keep those names,
make a list,
for these are the voices of angels hidden among the living
singalong, see the notes rising to glory bound,
clothed in shiny stainless steel, golden bronze,
metals of man and earth, forged formed,
for who needs fanciful gold and silver, soft and bendable,
earth presents, they’re over praised,
it’s on the base bass that the tower of love is founded,
and not just for the gifted
come my friend, the schooner captain^ has reserved your place,
with shiny eyes come to the new Jerusalem where poets rule,
and sweet lips all, only speak, in a united tongue,
only love songs
Jan 3, 2019
Jan 3, 2019 at 2:40 PM UTC
Again, it shall sound
That thing’s performance, a reprise of their phlegmatic number.
A song that couldn’t sway a breeze within the era they was born.
A heartbeat that would’ve been cauterized before it could’ve sworn,
‘I refuse to hate them. Even if this world is hopeless, everyone’s life is precious.’
A confused existence, for a beast that is synecious
How pitiful, the fact that the beast wishes to speak
YET, its holds its tongue, for its songs of sorrow emanate like terrifying roars
For the synecious monster, it only possesses one future- and this future is bleak.
Forsaken by the Gods that the monster loved so dearly
A forsaken behemoth that had lost the privilege to pray
Left to rot and roar, until one day, it fades away.
“Tell me God, has this beast lost right of passage to its stairway-
That will take it to the unconditional happiness it strives for
Even today?”
The monster wails, its voice bellowing into a growl.
Knowing that it is ****** to the pit, for its soul is deemed foul.
It is not the monster’s job to build itself and mankind out of clay
Try and try, however, they may…
One cannot control anymore,
The impending date it is set to expire.
And It will never join heaven’s empire.
The monster lives the rest of its life, playing a game of frame and shame
The ‘game’ that became
A method to maim and maim…
Until the monster has lost its will to speak, its will to feel, its will to classify itself
So it lives as something bendable
And perfectly expendable.
Apathy is the aim of the game,
And such is to accept your life as unamendable.
Jun 15, 2019
Jun 15, 2019 at 10:11 PM UTC
she is soft.
so some will see her
and long to hold her in their hands
to skim her surface
others know
she is breakable
bendable
movable
malleable
some will see that she is soft and stretch her
until she silently screams
for sweet solitude again
so see her softness and
show her some sympathy
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 8:24 AM UTC