"biweekly" poems
I once sold a hair straightener to a woman going through keemo
I once sold a a weight loss supplement to a girl struggling with anoerexia.
I once sold female libido enhancers to a forty year old man.
Sold a car to a Parapalegic
Sold a telephone to a deff woman.
I once sold a child an imaginary friend.
And a Vaccuum for their sandbox.
I once sold a soul to a telemarketing company.
They paid me in biweekly installments.
And they got a hell of a deal.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 1:05 AM UTC
She would always compare love
to a habit,
something one eventually gets
used to. I don’t plan on giving away
pieces of myself for the sake of
feeding my habit,
whatever that may be. But I can also see
how she could be right.
Dripping walls speak out – guarding a
possibility.
They may not be bothered until feeble
smokescreens arrive, unattended.
Skin won’t crawl and lanterns will not quake.
The stickiness of rain settles into all that has been
made at
biweekly intervals. Oh science! dearly fleeing
from my good luck, you left a compensation
for the deadbeat tattered robe. (An applied luxury.)
Backwards lashes of dancers in the sea.
Their grandparents' history to be taken with a grain of salt.
Some spinning in the misty moss growth
ignites the yellow from the evergreen’s pollen
seed.
It stops every other season when we take
and rub it on our clothes.
It’s not that sad, there’s no offense.
It’s something we've gotten used to.
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 2:37 AM UTC
I saw you the first time at my minimum wage job.
Vibrant and curly.
Every moment started slowing down
and as I counted the minutes you faded away.
With a big beautiful smile of course.
But no longer there.
Then after you left my sight
another image persisted.
One of you walking back into my store.
Nothing more.
But this image was long out of reach.
The second time I saw you I forgot to get your number.
I consider myself a fool for this,
but you were still standing
and looking at me.
Absolutely straight into my eyes.
I could hardly make your sandwich.
The eyes of my throbbing soul.
Without the hustly bustle of my own mentality,
I would have taken you to Mars right then and there.
With all your curly hair.
And all your ******* smiles.
My earnings for the biweekly pay
couldnt surmount the glory
that is your absolute stunningness.
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 8:13 PM UTC
If there is one thing that couldn’t
Be further from the truth,
Nothing in this life is free.
To do better in chase of sanity.
One of the greatest forms of currency,
In a world of chaos everything
Has a cost.
No matter the need or want,
Yet I am ever so appreciative.
To be housed, clothed & fed with working
Lights and water.
Stability, an antidepressant in a world
You wake up & do the same thing over
& over.
If there is one thing that couldn’t
Be further from the truth.
Nothing in this life is free, & I
Ever so appreciative.
I’d gladly pay weekly, biweekly,
even monthly.
I feel that much closer to liberation
Under the roof of your smile,
A sense of privacy unlike any other.
Your lips the doorbell to inner peace.
Your hands a meal to feed thousands
At a time.
Although nothing is free,
I am ever so appreciative that a smile
Doesn’t cost a thing.
I couldn’t think of a better representation,
A better place to be
Jul 12, 2021
Jul 12, 2021 at 11:29 AM UTC
See you more frequently
Speaking in person
In total immersion
Within our best
Version
Is all I desire
But patiently wait
To biweekly
Engage you
And impulses sate
It’s so crazy
My lust for you
Can’t be expressed,
Or repressed,
Just addressed
Keep my hands to myself
Is impossible
Not optional
In the slightest
Unless it’s too much
Or my touch
Was of Midas
Jan 27, 2023
Jan 27, 2023 at 12:56 AM UTC
i touch yer skin;
you touch my face;
we broke our hearts
in ev'ry place.
my ev'ry dream:
you felt them too.
my ev'ry bone
feels underused.
technicolour dream,
black 'n white scream.
it used to be naught
but primary.
I touch yer skin;
you touch my face.
you break my awe
in ev'ry place.
my limbo love:
i carry thee
as to Valhalla
you carry me.
i touch yer skin;
you touch my face
you tie my heart
in filigree lace.
we used them past
biweekly grace
my sleepless love
yr shattered heart
my shattered face.
round'n'round we doth embrace.
maybe this time
we keep the pace.
mybe you won't break
my filigree lace.
Apr 30, 2019
Apr 30, 2019 at 2:25 PM UTC
days become weeks become months become years
time measured by rejection
biweekly fears
face to face no compassion
pride mirrored in the eyes of a stranger
appears deflated
the reflection is harsh
your humanity barely tolerated.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 2:27 PM UTC