"bits" poems
My name is Sara, a transgender chick
Wanted a ***** was given a ****
I hide it in knickers of satin and lace
before sitting down to make-up my face,
Next the prosthetics, I'm using two bits.
Stuck to my chest, they'll do as my ****
Now for my legs I'll put on false tan,
I wouldn't do this if I were a man
Alternative nights, a t-girl delights
to sit on her bed and pull on new tights.
I'll put on a dress, a cute one no less.
Then for my shoes, high heels I choose
A sandal style shoe as every girl knows
not only looks cute, they'll show painted toes
A bit of eyeliner, eyebrow definer,
lipstick and blush, I'm now looking lush.
I stand in the mirror all ready to go,
there's only one question I just have to know.
"Does my *** look big in this?"
Poetry by Kaydee.
Dec 18, 2017
Dec 18, 2017 at 4:02 PM UTC
I'M MAKING nachos in your toaster oven. The chips fall in the pan without a problem. Beans, evenly distributed (if I do say so myself.) Salsa- good to go. Then the cheese. Generic brand shredded cheese blend. I dangle my (washed) fingers into the zip-lock bag, grab a generous pinch and rain mild cheddar down on my gourmet meal. And I feel the tears building. "No," my conscious scolds, "you will not cry over shredded cheese." I add another pinch for flavor, then another to assert dominance. I slide the pan into the tiny oven- triumphant! But the next task breaks me. I freeze when I try to adjust the heat setting. I hear your voice so clearly, like you're still calling from the next room: "you have to press the TOAST button, it cooks much faster." The tears start to roll. I think about how excited you were when cheese bubbled perfectly- "just a little brown, ever so slightly crispy." We would joke about your persnickety preferences, likely a product of your superior taste. Of course, you would have appreciated anything I made for you, but it was always better when the dish matched the idea in your head...when I made it like you would have made it (if you were only well enough to cook for yourself again.) In the present, I poke the TOAST button and flee the kitchen as to not cry in front of the smothered chips. I sit on the sofa and break down, gasping in childish sobs. "I miss her," I wail to an empty house. Warm tears coat my cheeks in the air-conditioned room. I feel so small. I feel so foolish for crying over stupid, little things. I feel so... so... A bell dings in the kitchen. I wipe my sleeve across my face and traipse back to the toaster. Hand into oven mitt, mitt onto pan, pan onto table. I grab the plastic tubs of sour cream and guacamole from the fridge and a spoon from the drawer that sticks a little when you try to open it. I pick the non-wilted bits off the head of lettuce and rinse them under the faucet. I finish the recipe. I pull out a chair. I sit down to nachos for one.
Jun 4, 2018
Jun 4, 2018 at 9:57 PM UTC
Give them to me.
All the pieces of your broken heart.
Give them to me.
I'll take them.
All the rough-hewn misshapen bits of your shattered dreams.
Give them to me.
I will take them.
Give them to me.
They are wanted here.
All the parts of your misspent childhood. All the regrets of ticking seconds behind you.
Give them to me.
And we will build a cathedral. A stained glass window of who we are as tall and as beautiful as it should be.
Let me have them.
And we will make a mosaic that stretches as wide as the sky. Showing every color your heart gained from the bits and pieces left on the ground.
I will take them.
And forge a sculpture of how beautiful the ideas are that we cast out in our failings and we will cast it in our failings.
Let me have them.
And we will ***** a monument of all the small things in the shape that you remember them.
Towering. Looming. Striking. Beautiful.
Let me have them so we might bind the words said and regretted, (or worse) left unsaid in leather and call it scripture.
Our Psalms. Our Proverbs:
*“The tip of my finger dangles like my tongue. Wanting to touch something beautiful.”
“If it were not for him, it would have been us.”
“You were all my brightest colors.”
“I wish I were more like you.”
“I wish I were less like me.”
“I am sped.”*
And we will read them at dawn like litany.
Stretching our voices to the corners of the universe. Asking for the wishes you make when you are scared. Or alone. Or both.
That we may take them.
And make a blanket.
A blanket to cover our childhood and let it rest at last.
I will take them.
All the parts you no longer want.
Give them to me.
Because they are what make us beautiful.
Give them to me.
That I may forge them into pitch and feathers and craft mighty wings.
That I may take flight from your worry. And soar on the updraft of your misconception.
Give them to me.
I will take them.
Because I would rather burn like Icarus than to have never dared to fly.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 4:02 PM UTC
When we're together
the world
Is spinning through jello
the leaves on trees
are hazy bits
of confetti in the wind.
The silence between us is thick.. and soothing
as we
glide along the summer pavement.
His scent fills my lungs like a sedative...
His scent..it makes me feel like
I'm in love again...
Like I could love again.
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 4:29 PM UTC
Late night car rides,
Empty pints of *****
A one-night ecstacy,
With a heartbreak dawn:
She shows her shallows,
As if they're great depths;
A cry of sorrow? Honey,
You ain't seen nothing yet.
She's not an open book,
She's just a bookmark type of personality.
Stuck between the pages of something more interesting,
Like a catalog or a Cosmo magazine.
Oh, she's always just caught between someone's pages,
With bits and pieces of their's stories rubbing off on her,
But them words don't look the same tattooed on her, oh no.
So stop pretending you're the deepest sea,
Your pretentious crap never fooled me.
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 12:45 PM UTC
Casualty: my interest fading
Once waxing moon now seen waning
And I did concede your irksome warning
And watched as the rest played out
So let bygones be gone, fallen out by the side
Of this road, worn down, still restless, keeping straight
Eyes glinting off token little bits of hospitality
Mother nature being so inclined at times
The stress so unnerving, I hardly doubt it
But tension is eased once it comes to acceptance
And I accept in full, finding time to unwind
Winding stretch of lonely road, dotted here and there by
An occasional landmark
Or a lonely tractor pulling behind it
Iron bars, old and rusted
Found in their hold
Bales of hay or
A small little pond
With a bench beside it
Holding initials carved against the grain
With a heart surrounding
As mine beats slower
At last, the sun begins going down
And the moon grows brighter
Even in its state
And my feet move faster
Though my body is withering
I feel this separation growing
As my mind takes flight and leaves me
Behind, in the twisting twilight
And alone, I walk along
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 6:31 AM UTC
I rip myself apart,
piece by piece.
I place bits of my heart,
into your hands.
you step on me.
burying my body,
beneath soil.
no mercy,
in your eyes.
you were never aware,
of all that manifested,
beneath my shell,
deep within my heart.
so why would you mind,
tearing it apart?
Jul 6, 2018
Jul 6, 2018 at 11:27 PM UTC
A vessel for water
hardened soil
ceramic broken
forever spoiled.
But gather with care,
these grounded bits,
and paint upon them
as a soul canvas
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 10:36 AM UTC
Papers, Papers, Papers
Whiter than aching teeth,
Whiter than whites of tilted eyes,
Whiter than funeral wreaths.
My hands shake as I write this,
Filed away myths; Stolen lined sheets
My index finger chained by red tapes,
words mix and ground breaks,
I'm the one the world forsakes
Yellow maize, littered leaves,
all twisted into
black ink and clean sharp white paper blades.
-------"I am in a bit of daze," I tell myself, "look at those flaccid bits;
there lay the logs who use to be the jungle of my childhood dreams."
------"Don't be amazed," I replied, "these leafless branches and twigs are for
your Papier-Mâché degrees."
So I listen to my second self once,
the more logical cynical satirical one,
Treading on the plot of their paper works,
playing crosswords as anxiety uncork
my thoughts turn to the bankable orcs,
just as my career forks
Maybe I should be like my mother,
Marking numbers on a deck of cards-- waltzing with Chance.
Maybe I should be like my father,
Toiling for some rich men's grandson-- seething in Trance.
Maybe I should be like the Other,
Going along with the system-- thanking myself
beneath a cap, a diploma, a piece of paper.
I wore these books like bank notes tuxedoes,
I was promised the world by the credits I borrowed.
Must I go along with the mechanism of their game,
or should I rise up against all odds
Opposing, debating, rebelling against
this bundle, this trouble, funneling me into no-tomorrows
Or must I write it all down,
in my prayers against their lawyers, who need no reminds
Or must I shred, smear, and tear the papers with my own bare hands
But what will I ever be to them, friends?
A papercut, perhaps.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 9:33 PM UTC
1. We are critical.
We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.
2. We are never satisfied.
We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to
express.
3. We never forget.
We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
stopped
being relevant.
4. We are fickle.
Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.
5. We are exposed.
We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find
'accidentally'.
6. We are vulnerable.
We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.
7. We will never stop.
We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
hurting,
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
loving
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.
We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 11:20 PM UTC
Who
threw the silver dollar up into the tree?
I didn’t said the little
lady who sews and grows every day paler-paler she sits sewing and grow-
ing and that’s the truth,
who threw
the ripe melon into the tree?you
got me said the smoke who
runs the elevator but I bet two bits come seven come eleven mm make
the world safe for democracy it never fails and that’s a fact;
who threw the
bunch of violets
into the tree?I dunno said the silver dog, with ripe
eyes and wagged his tail that’s the god’s own
and the moon kissed the little lady on her paler-paler face and said
never mind,you’ll find
But the moon creeped into the pink hand of the
smoke that shook the ivories
and she said said She Win and you won’t be
sorry And The Moon camelalong-along to the waggy silver dog
and the moon came
and the Moon said into his Ripe Eyes
and the moon
Smiled
,so
19.3k
I want to take the bits of you I love
and press them like flowers
between the pages of my favourite book
because I know these will never fade.
And I want to take all the scraps
that you dislike about yourself
and display them on my refrigerator
to show you I'm still proud
of the person you are
and of the person you are becoming.
But most of all, I want to spin you like a globe
and drag my fingers accross until it stops
to discover the pieces of you
that you've yet to reveal to anyone else.
I want to wrap them up in linen
and place them in an old cigar box,
I'd tuck it away safely
in the top drawer of my bedside table,
so you know I will never let
those pieces of you go
Because when you share
hidden parts of yourself
with someone else,
you're trusting that person
to hold the secret sections
of your heart,
and to love the bits you thought were unlovable.
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 11:59 AM UTC
When gentle breezes turn into gale,
remember that you will prevail.
You may tear at these pages daily,
in search of peace and tranquillity.
Planting hope and scattering wishes,
Spilling blood in smears and blemishes...
Flying out of the dark on
wings of birds.
Bridging the rippling void through
severed words.
***Seeking...
Reaching...
Imploring...
Writing...***
Be not wary of eyes that speak.
Be not afraid of mouths that leak.
Know that our scribbles are only
sacred to us.
Emotions and thoughts we
bind and truss.
What we put forth, we owe it to ourselves...
Bits of us we've kept hidden in the
darkest rooms; atop the highest shelves.
You...
are wielder of your mighty pen.
You...
determine how far or long your
words would span.
Your words... They're precious gold.
Many or little; be them new or old.
So let drip your ink with little reservation...
Let us grow from strength to strength
as life teaches its lessons.
Rise up and live on in these here pages,
For here exist only
freedom;
not cages.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 6:53 AM UTC
A labyrinth expands before me,
Its only prize, the truth; reality
Awaits the shrewd of mind.
At every turn lie misdirections,
One wrong choice and I am
Lost, for perils lie ahead;
Webs of lies lie waiting for their prey.
I pray for wisdom that I may not fall,
Misguided by a ghost I thought I saw;
My own illusions turn me from the light.
The path ahead is cobbled from the shadows,
Bits of truth among them shining gold,
The only light to guide my weary feet
As Darkness beckons me with gentle hands.
Temptation offers respite from my search:
“Sit down and rest, poor ragged
traveler, you search in vain
For worthless lies. I tell the truth;
One as beautiful as I is honest, sure.”
I pay no heed. The truth is rarely beautiful or pure.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 12:37 AM UTC
to all my lovers,
please indemnify
the bits of myocardium
you borrowed from me.
you may return them to this address:
150 Mediastinum Lane
Thoracic Cavity, DNR
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 9:53 AM UTC
*what forests are those we pass,
blazing along the railway tracks,
a tree bloom of still cranes,
stream black of ******* bane,
stench of dead city rubble,
factories of rusted cast metal,
distant cotton twilight skies,
sun slide across a bunch of wires,
passing tunnels echo
lonely platforms, frantic gecko,
looming hillside,
crackle dry wood fire,
a god barred in lock&key,
blink glimpse of the sea
one rush of vision,
pebble fling at frisson,
metal-crunch rhythm,
grind music sublime,
spark, grunt, grate,
we arrive, we dissipate...*
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 11:42 AM UTC
i don’t want to be someone who writes in pencil
and eats too slowly and walks with eyes that
are glued to the sidewalk and tops of strangers’ feet
i’ve been underwater for so long that
i’ve forgotten lungs are meant
to be filled with air; exhaling seems
more like something found
on the second star to the right, rather
than a process that is meant to be
done twenty-three thousand times a day
i feel like an old woman who
looks in the mirror and all she can see
are wrinkles and white hair and tired eyes and
the absence of who she used to be
but i am not someone who turns away
from sunsets and pretends
that darkness is all i’ve ever known;
someone who thinks
the sun will never rise again
because the sun will rise again—
the words hiding inside of me will
find their way out, because
i cannot hold my breath forever
i am not someone who writes in pencil
and erases the bits that are too
honest and too imperfect and too real
to claim as thoughts of my own
i cannot keep my lips pursed and
hands tied behind my back,
i cannot keep pretending i am
a shadow of who i used to be
my tomorrows hold suns much
brighter than ones that have risen
over horizons of my past;
i have not reached the summit yet
there is so much more me
for me to become
each day, i am new.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 1:09 AM UTC
Sandwiched in layers of liquid crystal display,
Encased in vats of plastic,
we
Voyaging in data-spheres, plumes of digital play.
Mindless,
In the soup of silicone,
all
Myth-makers,
Pouring over electro-spawned
networks,
fall
Workers,
In the buzz of bits and bytes, of
megabytes and terabytes,
down
Everyone
Far from the wood, the brine, the
mud that caked us,
In tighter and tighter
digitised projections,
click!
‘Like me’,
‘Share me’,
‘Leave your comments.’
Messages smoothed out in polymers,
Beyond reproductions of ourselves,
enter:
Deeper, delving in the mire of dream-conscious,
Now a waking voice,
Hardened, digitised, recorded in
bubbles, in drives, in clouds:
Numb numbers of numbers numb,
mirror.
A platform slotted home:
The motherboard!
To record the echo in the hollow
of our Being.
Sep 30, 2017
Sep 30, 2017 at 10:44 AM UTC
An old soul,
Curled up on the street.
Marks of burn,
Peeling skin,
Silent cry from the parched throat,
Agony on every turn,
Howl for food,
A sob in between,
Or was it the muscles' twist and turn?
Why did the burn,
Take just the skin,
Why didn't the heat,
Make some food,
Or give some heat,
On this cold street?!
And just then,
A passing gentleman,
In a black suit,
But without a boot,
Dropped me a drop of food,
And said, 'Look at that tree,
Burned in fire, jealousy and heat,
Soaked in rain, vain and pain,
Gnarled beyond the shadow's recognition,
Death has found him no definition,
So, you just rest in peace,
I will drop you daily,
Life in bits and pieces.'
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 4:18 AM UTC
Little pieces of you flow through my veins among the plasma and blood cells. Bits of you bump into molecules of oxygen and they smile. My heart loves you. It pumps you through my ventricles and asks my body not to filter any of you out. My brain sends out constant oxytocin in your presence and my hippocampus keeps memories of your touch within easy reach. My body loves you just as much as I do.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 10:33 PM UTC
And that night I was a mechanical doll
and I turned right and left, to all sides
and I fell on my face and broke to bits,
and they tried to put me together with skillful hands
And then I went back to being a correct doll
and all my manners were studied and compliant.
But by then I was a different kind of doll
like a wounded twig hanging by a tendril.
And then I went to dance at a ball,
but they left me in the company of cats and dogs
even though all my steps were measured and patterned.
And I had golden hair and I had blue eyes
and I had a dress the color of the flowers in the garden
and I had a straw hat decorated with a cherry.
Translated from the original Hebrew by Karen Alkalay-Gut.
14.2k
it hurt her;
every single bits
and pieces of
flowers she vomits;
they tasted like
sandpaper,
they hurt like
the feeling of
being stabbed in
the back by the
person you love
the most (both
physically and
emotionally),
but what hurt her the
most is that
he wasn't really
worth dying for—
but she was afraid
of losing him;
of forgetting the
feeling of loving him.
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 5:55 AM UTC
Since you've been away
I've trailed the wake of the clouds
Just crumbling clay...
That lay in the shade that enshrouds
Depending on the ifs and mays.
Wake up, my love...
Since you haven't been here
The sky did nothing but only sang
Ambient translations of mocks and jeers
As the green blades of earth bared their fangs
Mischievous songs that I've held dear.
Wake up, my love...
Since you've been gone
I've realised that I'm not moving
And you too, haven't moved since last dawn
A reality all too disheartening
Bits of me all cut up and sawn.
Wake up my love...
Since you've been missing
I am never whole, and never will
A lifetime of endless chasing
Bottomless jar without a seal
Void clustered emptiness in need of filling.
Wake up, my love...
Since you've been absent
I could only hope for this lungful
To lead me to subsequent
Ones that taste like bitter pills encapsuled.
Mind full of drugs running rampant.
Wake up, my love...
Since you wouldn't have known
What these days are like...
Time induced tumours have grown
The hours impale with temporal spikes...
Inseminating malignant thoughts soon to be sown.
Wake up, my love...
Since you've been away
I'm a player hoping for a fair game
Nonetheless still crumbling clay...
That lay in the dark just the same
Choking on the what ifs and what mays.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 12:16 PM UTC
a series of notes, prose-poems
stories, bits of play & dialog
Aphorisms, epigrams, essays
Poems? Sure
13.2k
A designer ******
A nip and a tuck
A trim of the curtains
A tightening up
A complementary adjustment
A tidying of bits
Matches the uplift
You had on your ****
So 6 months it took
To create the perfect ******
Only to find he's left you tonight
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 7:35 PM UTC