"bitingly" poems
the relationship held sacrosanct
form an identity's disjecta membra
a confluence of fallacies made anthropomorphic
body diminshed by nervous exhaustion
mind abandoned to melancholy obsession
scattered hapharzadly in front of those
whom had once offered solicitude
filled by yearning to be stoic, saturnine, sangfroid
passsing glances, chance encounters
aren't caustic to the indifferent
incondite hopes nurtured by solitude
clinging to the idea that all is bitingly internicine
misplaced in the droors of time
Sep 16, 2010
Sep 16, 2010 at 4:17 AM UTC
Bad poetry makes me ugly:
Look, each line, a cliche
Each blemish, a simile;
My smile grows more bitingly smug
With each overzealous superlative.
My raccoon eyes are ringed
By metaphorical self delusions,
Badly performing alliteration-
All improvisations of incompetence;
And then the clash of symbol, deranges all thought.
Choose only the wound that is in your heart
That you would earnestly enlarge upon,
Steadfastly ignoring all the others.
Jul 8, 2010
Jul 8, 2010 at 10:52 AM UTC
If I remade a man
From bone and blood
It would be Gene Kelly,
Whose shoes slap atop slippery
Concrete, crude and course yet
Bitingly bittersweet, blended both
With wet waterfalls from rickety
Gutters, and his great gift for gazing
Starry-eyed and serious, silly and sweet,
Laughing at those he meets on the street.
If I created a dream
It would be a scene
From a kicking and singing musical meme
And everything the above implies, applies
To me:
I’d sing in the rain
And dance through the pain.
Nov 22, 2010
Nov 22, 2010 at 9:10 PM UTC
woman – it is when your hairbreadth laughter
spreads into the world, pressed low against the breast
of grass and skirts of flowers,
like a well-oiled lamp, you proceed with your
terse splendors, your sharp wingtips curved with gropes
of steel with what notion of a senseless blow but a smile
scrunched deep within the water?
rammed into the dry throat of the afternoon,
a hot flesh half-bitingly rippling, fondling into my throbbing
water – from the abrupt, sweet-smelling rise of tide
arrives what I am in pursuit as a man, smoothly writhing
the languor of tired believing the always, do you still cling
to me like harsh wind in Spring?
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 8:46 AM UTC
When the tempest has passed
I will wait for you
In the calm after the storm,
After the wind has died down
Leaving behind a bitingly cold stillness
A memory of lightning in the air.
Then, you will come to me
Speaking of broken trees
And newly green hillsides
Like the wispy stubble of a young man,
Inviting me to breathe in the icy-clean air,
Begging me to follow the weak winter sun.
The calm is all I had prayed for
In the dark, wild hours
As I cowered in my shelter
While the thunder pounded me underfoot,
The lightning burned its way through me
And my back was broken by the gale.
You will find your solace in its ending
And I will not have the heart to tell you
That I am not an adolescent hillside
Emerging renewed, having soaked up all the rain,
I am the broken tree
that could not weather the wind.
No wonder lies beside my fallen trunk
Only splinters and twisted bark
Mold and moss begin to claim me
And I shall let them tie me down
There is nothing left for me
Now even my roots are gone.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 2:40 PM UTC
When she was younger,
She’d been completely enticed
By the rimy landscape
Of a lake frozen solid
With February’s frigid winds
And the winter’s harrowing temperature.
She often wondered about how the sun would’ve looked,
Shattered into a million minute particles
As it peeked through the ice in mesmerizing fractions,
And glowed quietly underneath the surface
Before finally disintegrating into the lonely darkness below.
She was helplessly infatuated,
And with every short breath
Made visible by the wintry air,
She longed to lie at the bottom
And be inspired
By the murky glow of the icy sunlight above her.
So one day,
She set herself free from her longing.
And she tiptoed carefully over the bitingly cold floor
As she pursued a suitable entry.
The wind,
Catching snowflakes within its frozen rhythm
And casting them onto her rosy cheeks
As it howled across the barren lake
Was acutely distressing,
But she would be underneath it soon.
And without warning,
The doorway appeared beneath her feet
And she slipped through it without having to knock.
And she began to sink-
The bitter harshness of the water enough to **** her,
And her lungs seared as they screamed for air,
As her limbs thrashed frantically,
But she let herself fall,
looking up to the eerie radiance of the lake’s surface
And smiling gently,
Before finally disintegrating into the lonely darkness below.
j.s.
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 4:43 AM UTC
Tonight the wind's so bitingly cold
and you hear the water
eroding the rocks
gently with time and patience
like the taming of a pet
You feel your body add
to the sound of it all
your heart beats
your blood pumps
like a drum circle that's in full swing and can't be stopped
A constant reminder;
despite it all
you're still surviving
despite all the pain, all the scars
you are here and you are thriving
You see the beautiful moon
this giant night light in the center of the sky
and you stand and can't help but think:
Thank these stars shimmering so brightly
like millions of brand new light bulbs
that I'm alive to see this night
Mar 22, 2018
Mar 22, 2018 at 2:50 PM UTC
There was once a time,
Bleak, desolate, and bitingly chill.
The thought of the following events
Brought upon me a voracious thrill.
As of now, my worthless life shall unfold.
I shall die in the lethal and merciless cold.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 10:01 AM UTC
when i look up at night
begging the stars to take me to them,
you tell me not yet,
hang on a little longer
but what to?
the ice is starting to crack,
the bitingly cold water below me
makes the blood in my veins stop coursing
soon i will be submerged.
any remaining heat left in me
will be stolen from my body,
the way dusk steals the daylight from the sky
you tell me to hang on,
but what if there’s nothing to hang on to?
Mar 14, 2021
Mar 14, 2021 at 8:19 PM UTC
are apologies required for the way
my veins pulse and burn for you?
for how your lips gracing my forehead
creates rivers of happiness and safety
within my skin, tentative drops of warmth
cascading down my skin?
it's some kind of shame that the only
way my words spill out is for your
hand in mine but
i know in the hallows of my heart
and the marrow of my bones that this
love is true.
the ache is so bitter after the
sun has kissed the horizon
sometimes it feels so bitingly hard
to breathe without your
body next to mine
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 12:34 PM UTC
She immortalises me in
pictures of
poetry
I live forever in
her times.
It was bitingly cold at the
fold of the day,
the sun was tucked up
for the night.
Shadows escaped from the
candle lit room and wandered
through corridors to find me,
locked in by the words of her
poetry.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 1:23 AM UTC