"blackboard" poems
You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.
Daddy, I have had to **** you.
You died before I had time ----
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal
And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off the beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.
In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My ****** friend
Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.
It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene
An engine, an engine,
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.
The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gypsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.
I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You ----
Not God but a ********
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.
You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who
Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.
But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look
And a love of the rack and the *****
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.
If I've killed one man, I've killed two ----
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.
There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagersnever liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you ******* I'm through.
29.7k
Heard a beeping sound
Followed by A very old Frank Sinatra’s song
My classmates’ heads turned
Who’s phone? who’s phone?
Less chaotic when the teacher glared
Everybody put their heads down
And checked their sophisticated mobile phones
Once again...
When the teacher wasn’t looking..
Mobile phones roamed in a dull classroom
Updating facebook status,
Uploading candid photos of a snoring friend
Copy pasting assignment
Text messaging and gossiping about their stern looking teacher
In the name of advanced technology
Mobile smartphones create the impossibles...
Beyond the blackboard and the four walls of the classroom
O o Frank Sinatra’s song again...
And everybody started looking...
The teacher grabbed her mobile phone
Tried to switch it off....
When students could own smartphones..
Who needs NOKIA from the old time zone....?
~ Sharina~
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 4:26 AM UTC
I wanted to sneak into
a space down the star
I couldn’t sleep in a night
Huh I was yet to get an
answer to a quiz why!
Though I showed a mirror
The moon floats in the night
gently, the dark could
mingles into the light.
But one couldn’t relay
My sweetie toyed it away!
As if no matter what if one
wishes so is free to sway.
Huh my sweetie toyed it away!
Did the Moon score
tapping in on the starry
night’s blackboard,
how many *****
Who can tell, who can tell?
Though a cheering sun rises
In the end by the rose.
Myriads stars meltdown
in a stunner’s teardrop.
That stirs coming so close.
Yet is a dwarf over the ocean!
Touches the moon not
one that pulls the most.
The sea lives by the small earth
There is no law in love
My sweetie toyed it away!
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 5:40 PM UTC
and there i am in the midst of it all, conscious of what appears to be existent, yet knowing it is illusory. and if time is occurring synchronously then how can i look back with contrition? for if i have the capacity to move backwards and forwards in quantum leaps, i can erase the past like pastel chalk on an antique blackboard, then start anew. is not the sky my canvas and the arc of the rainbow my palette? and the stars in lustrous luminosity light my way so that ev’n at dusk I can paint. yet pain ne’er ceases to hollow me out. then through a barren vessel i catch more rain, and pour it out upon the parched terrain. just when i thought enlightenment was nigh, a sharp edge is discovered. must it necessitate additional sandpapering from the wind? when will the gemstone sparkle without further pressure? does it lie in its power to simply shimmer sans duress? perhaps it was dazzling at its inception, relinquishing its luster upon domestication. with this proviso, as it nears twilight i shall tarry and blend with the night. i’ll dance with a moonbeam knowing the jewel will glisten afresh upon the rise of the golden sun.
@2016janetaylor
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 11:37 AM UTC
Perseverance on my tongue,
a silken thought in silver ink
I scrawl strange patterns on the sun
and watch for daybreak to dismiss
the blackboard starlight drips and runs.
Now listless with my aching legs
I’m counting candles, chasing smoke
that filters yellow, drains the dregs
of coffee, cold and drowned of hope.
By tingling error I swallow words,
boredom pervades the bitter night
with a whistle, tuneless, that seems absurd
I empty out my troubled mind
to exhale sadness; curled, entwined -
quite futile, like staring when blind.
May 19, 2012
May 19, 2012 at 8:57 AM UTC
my intelligence is not defined by a number, nor a letter.
nor should I be graded on a curve
by people
who don’t know me.
What does knowing the pythagorean theorem
have to do with me being a good person?
what will memorizing words on a page
help me with my rage
raging about how education has become
this conveyor belt
chewing up and spitting out
society’s warped up idea
of intelligence.
Throw me in a classroom with twenty-something students
just to tell me I’m better than him
but not as smart as her
teachers saturating our brains
with force fed textbook equations
telling us this is what we have to know to make it
“make it on time”, they say
“Passing it in late is not okay”
but when I am eventually thrown out
of this conveyor belt of education
the realization will be that life does not have
a set schedule.
my life will not change on time, as you ask
I cannot cram my creativity onto a five-paragraph
piece of paper.
I cannot crunch my knowledge
down onto six pages
about who I am
Don’t give me guidelines
my future does not have guidelines
you think you’re teaching us information
but in reality, you’re teaching us around the system
of how to get a passing grade
but not the exceeding knowledge
knowledge about what?
Our history?
what about our future?
We can’t learn about our future by staring at a blackboard
in a dim-lit room
with twenty-something other people
wondering what the hell we’re doing here
but being too scared to stand up
and ask.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 1:47 PM UTC
there's ethical idealism:
where ethics is discussed...
there's ethical relativism:
where ethics is practised...
there's ethical realism...
where ethics is quantified
as an improbability;
and then there's ethical
absolutism,
where we supposedly
"progress" -
in this scenario are
the laws of physics actually
suspended:
whereby oculus qua oculus
is replaced -
a loss of an eye is "relative"
to 10 years in a cage...
really?!
ethics is
ideal, realistic, absolute or relative...
we're encouraged to live
in "realistic relativism"...
never in an absolute realism,
since realistic relativism
only compares itself
to ideal absolutism...
and nothing more...
ever watched that film
secrets in their eyes?
you ever wonder what
ethical idealism is to the ethnical
consequence that can absorb
a realistic libra?
i can only believe in
ethical absolutism,
ethical relativism is horrid to me...
relativism adorns idealism,
absolutism adorns realism...
a life sentence is worse than
a death sentence,
whether justified or not,
prison is sadism,
but at least ****** is simply ******
a space-time intact,
a ****** penalty is not
inhumane, nor a ouija board...
it's time for time,
space for space,
the actual punishment comes
with the missing adrenaline rush
of the unexpected reception of the wielded
weapon...
either send these jealous plonkers to
siberia, or sentence them to death,
for you are no more than they are,
nay, you are more...
you're akin to cats toying,
playing a sadistic games with half-mutilated
mice...
this is why i abhor
ethical relativism of the crucifix...
hence my belief in ethical
absolutism in the paragraph of realism,
which is perfected, by
being exacted, and never, ever,
being leisurely discussed,
on a farcical palette with a grimace
to boot: ******* a lemon;
compensating the horrors within
minutes, is never compensated
with ordeals that last years...
which is why i find the death penalty
an act of authentic humanity,
and not this quasi-humanitarian
act of pardon, ******* hypocrites -
i abhor the caged rat
more than the rat gladly nibbling
on a dead corpse...
at least there was passion
in the ******
waiting for death penalty is like killing
a vermin with poison,
disposing them with nonchalantly...
the wise maxim states:
ledo ferrum sicut id est calidi -
strike the iron while it's hot...
death is the dawn-broker -
a new tomorrow promise -
left intact, the fermenting process
of ethical dynamism takes over...
then again,
the supposedly "evolved"
preferred moral relativism to moral
absolutism,
because there was no
moral realism to speak of,
since morality could only
be talked about in ideal terms of
the supposedly so, supposedly
fashioned via: it ought to never happen to
me...
and then it might, and then:
oops... argument sinks like a wet fatty ****
into shambles of keeping up with
the presupposed pillar of argument
being "impenetrable";
hey, genius, back to the blackboard!
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 8:50 PM UTC
You bring me good news from the clinic,
Whipping off your silk scarf, exhibiting the tight white
Mummy-cloths, smiling: I'm all right.
When I was nine, a lime-green anesthetist
Fed me banana-gas through a frog mask. The nauseous vault
Boomed with bad dreams and the Jovian voices of surgeons.
Then mother swam up, holding a tin basin.
O I was sick.
They've changed all that. Traveling
**** as Cleopatra in my well-boiled hospital shift,
Fizzy with sedatives and unusually humorous,
I roll to an anteroom where a kind man
Fists my fingers for me. He makes me feel something precious
Is leaking from the finger-vents. At the count of two,
Darkness wipes me out like chalk on a blackboard. . .
I don't know a thing.
For five days I lie in secret,
Tapped like a cask, the years draining into my pillow.
Even my best friend thinks I'm in the country.
Skin doesn't have roots, it peels away easy as paper.
When I grin, the stitches tauten. I grow backward. I'm twenty,
Broody and in long skirts on my first husband's sofa, my fingers
Buried in the lambswool of the dead poodle;
I hadn't a cat yet.
Now she's done for, the dewlapped lady
I watched settle, line by line, in my mirror—
Old sock-face, sagged on a darning egg.
They've trapped her in some laboratory jar.
Let her die there, or wither incessantly for the next fifty years,
Nodding and rocking and ********* her thin hair.
Mother to myself, I wake swaddled in gauze,
Pink and smooth as a baby.
5.3k
Songs abound in Time as running due paid
We of Merry Emotion dance a Jig
And see you Happy toss-coins on the Said,
Mark farthings for pounds won on Cocktail's Lip
And whilst we Celebrate, what is that Chest,
Eating Sweets beneath the Lottery's Lot?
That's a nice hobby; Dried lollie's possessed
And Playful Numbers tucked beneath forgot
Taking Remembrance when he was Alive
With Chances simply Fun and Truly told
That the Greatest Theme; Not for Profit's Bide
But Storied Values hungry tongues retold.
What such Lesson this, a Blackboard can learn
Gems studded aside; That same Chest you earn.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 8:29 PM UTC
DRIVING A FERRARI INTO THE FUTURE
the house floated out of the darkness
as if it had been flying about in the fog
before perching on the mountain's side
the house was embarrassed
to be seen
in its ruin
this was the somewhere
she had come from
it now no longer existed
she felt that she too
no longer existed
an equation erased on a blackboard
she became naked
wearing only the lake
and moonlight
water flowed over her
like a silken garment
she the empress of this nowhere
only when she stood dripping
on the edge of this nothingness
did she feel the cold and shiver
the stars were like an atlas
of themselves...the Milky Way
reaching over a hedge...lapping the lake
time fell all about her
like a sudden rain
the seen and un-seen together
she drove her Ferrari into the future
leaving behind forever
the girl she once had been
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 10:53 PM UTC
Watching him write on the blackboard
More green than black
I was struck by the deep blue of his shirt
And how crisp the lines were
Folded and ironed
More effort than I care to put into a shirt
And even though I was shivering
In the dark, hopeless blue of
My bulky winter jacket
Sitting in that empty chair
I slid out of the room in my mind
Recalling summer
The windows, now with canvas
Blinds half lowered
Would, instead of frost and condensation
Allow thick, all-encompassing heat
To slither into the room
Our shirts sticking to us
Sweat stains would mark up our
Clothes, like chalk on the blackboard
And our legs would
Stick to our plastic chairs as we
Stood at the end of class, reinvigorated
Voices raised in shared triumph of the overcome
Backpacks would be thrown over our
Shoulders wet and tan and flush with
Heat of the summer season, synonymous with
Hope. Our shorts and bright shirts made the
Room a deafening testament to our
Readiness
For the day.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC
*the state or quality of being elastic.
flexibility; resilience; adaptability: a statement with a great elasticity of meaning.
buoyancy; ability to resist or overcome depression.
Physics. the property of a substance that enables it to change its length, volume, or shape in direct response to a force effecting such a change and to recover its original form upon the removal of the force.*
are you ready?
here it comes!
Slap!
having slapped you
with, to kind attention,
you may now recover
your original form,
when there was
no grief, no distress,
the great clarity
of eying the day's birth,
sweetly and innocently.
once again, you are
buoyant,
molecules of polluted memories,
erased.
wind scattered, gone,
blackboard erased,
whiteboard replaced.
you have been reminded,
even reprimanded,
for forgetting your
elasticity.
life, what ever that be,
is constant motion,
a reshaping of the heart,
for the heart has
no unique shape.
it's adaptation,
it's elasticity,
it's genetic forgive and forget ability,
is legend, is you,
you are legend,
You are elastic.
the human hallmark impressed
in the palms of your hands,
that cannot be erased
by time, fatigue, failure, or anger,
the hands that mold,
re-form for every need,
for every handhold,
for different are:
The hands that open closed fists
The hands that wave hi
The hands that are first to touch
and the last to leave,
waving goodbye,
elastic - tender when tender needed,
strong when strength essences.
so be elastic,
remember to be
ecstatic
remember
when you do,
you need show proofs.
Prove it to me.
Prove it to yourself.
shake, kiss, dare hug,
the one who needs reminding
that life is elastic,
even more than you.
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 5:07 AM UTC
She fabricates variance in the same picturesque sky
Mauling two birds with one stone-cold, self-sustaining lie
If happiness blots itself upon perspective,
then I was merely one musing of a momentarily hung canvas
dangling dull under the noose of your
cautiously composed independence
-
"Independence"
she doth protest
While in dependence,
she doth ingest
She flees towards East evermore, infatuated under the intoxication of dissimilar skies, ceasing to remember that all worlds eventually become spherical.
We, abreast, left the nest;
I, digress, detest the West.
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 2:52 AM UTC
When you’ve asked yourself, “what the hell am I doing with my life?”
Five times before you’ve even had your morning coffee
Which isn’t enough, so you grab a second coffee
Because you stayed up until sunrise writing a lab report on the psychological effects of coffee
They call that an education.
When you stare at screens and sheets of paper
Until Shakespeare’s sonnets and Sir John A. Macdonald
Are scratched into the blackboard on the inside of your brain
Only to have the slate wiped clean
The second your Scantron card spells “success” in Braille,
They call that an education.
When you’re swimming in, shall we call it, the Academian Sea
And tentacles reach out and start to pull you under one by one
And the lifeguards on the shore simply tell you to swim harder,
They call that an education.
I remember walking onto campus feeling so inspired
Ready to be re-wired
Until they said my arts degree would never get me hired
Now the time keeps passing by and I always feel so tired
And for what reason?
I’ve read countless books on history and Hamlet and how to speak Italian yet it seems as though the most I’ve learned is all the different ways I can doubt myself
I am creative, I am well-read, I am kind, I am caring, but I am a history major
And in a place where 3.0s and 4.0s and future capital value is practically etched into our skin for the world to read like a bad tattoo
Apparently that means I’m not going anywhere.
There are so many days when I want my tattoo removed
So people will stop staring at the decimal points and prerequisites that distract from the rest of me and look me in the eyes for a change and see in my smile that this is who I really am
But instead I’ll probably stay up late again
Learn names and dates again
Forget them after the test again
Because when you stare at that sheet of paper if you’re dedicated (or crazy) enough to make it that far
And you cover up your tattoo with your graduation gown only for them to draw your degree wherever enough skin shows to prove to the world that they’ve churned out another one
They call that an education.
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC
When words are not enough,
and the world won’t get off her back,
she dances the Devils way,
She’s a princess,
wait she’s a queen,
wait she’s an angel,
wait she’s everything,
a Goddess,
the hottest performing artist I’ve ever seen,
and she’s dancing,
dancing is her therapy,
I mean,
I’m not James Brown,
but it’s a man’s world,
even if Rihanna runs this town,
See,
she’s been suppressed all her life,
and I’m not just talking about Rihanna,
I’m talking about every girl that was ever forced to be a wife,
just to survive in this life,
she was touched by her father,
or brother or cousin,
when she was just a little girl,
I know we all wish it wasn’t,
but it is true,
so what’s a girl to do,
when she’s a clean 13 messing with The ***** Dozen,
this isn’t battle of the sexes,
this is war of the worlds,
wants to be a woman but she’s just a girl,
no No Doubt just burnt out nerves taken turns,
she never asked to be born,
with the burden of being beautiful,
but she refuses to conform,
she is attractable irrational and radical,
so when it’s all too much,
the stares and the catcalls,
the aggressive forceful touch,
the nails across her back like a blackboard,
and the moans become just white noise,
she takes it all in,
she forgives the man because he’s just a boy,
he is an angel even if he has fallen,
she takes it all in,
and she uses all of those abuses,
as the fuel with the tools which induces,
an allusive state of truth which,
allows her to move with intuitive smoothness,
and lose herself in the music morphing into what a centrifuge is,
separating fluids transforming what was otherwise useless abuses,
into a truth that cruises and confuses the stupid stooges,
she dances,
in a statement of glorious refusal to submit to their ideals,
she is more than a princess queen angel goddess,
she is fire burning up all preconceived notions of *** appeal,
the real deal,
dancing sweating cleansing her soul and her pores,
moving faster in progression refuting repression,
overcoming an obsession of oppression and knocking down all doors,
she is not a possession,
though she is possessed when,
she’s a dancing expression of how we all feel and more,
no words are enough,
she shows what we all feel,
she reveals what,
was before thinly concealed,
she is the perfect expression,
of imperfect circumstances,
she is poetic stanzas,
she is the paint on the canvas,
there is no question that she is the answer,
and all of this is made clear when she takes it all in,
let’s go of everything and dances…
∆aron L∆ Lux ∆
#strength #metoo #dancer #ballet #blackswan
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 1:48 PM UTC
*The time honored
brainstorming
collective planning
a filling blackboard
is now denounced..
storming is thought
thought on thought
wrinkle on wrinkle..
what goes begging
is quantum's leap
a leap waiting
for solitude and
an empty slate...*
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 11:19 AM UTC
I want to draw a picture on life's blackboard.
I want the colors to be brilliant, and vibrant, and full of love!
But as I pick up the chalk to draw...
it squeaks...
so loud...
it scares me.
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 11:12 PM UTC
I wear white
I wear white
I wear white and stare right back at
the other end of the world
The hems of the loosely fitting traditions
Barely touch the ground anymore
I wear white
I wear white
White like the chalk on the blackboard switched from
right to left.
Aimless and bereft of the desert I once called mine,
I walk alone
I wear white, I wear white
As I have done for 14 hours
and 14 years
7000 miles on the screen and 2 more up there
to be precise. It faded for every mile
Just as it has been doing since the day Darwish died
I wear white, I wear white
A different breed of Semite than they're used to
Not walking but flowing almost
as contradictory as "poutine Arabesque"
The routine wears my jaw out
as the vowels twist from right to left
I wear white, I wear white
Not just quite there yet
Not even close
Not even halfway to the surface but then again
I suppose we've always been at ease at the depths of the sea
Pearls and black gold abound
I forget that sometimes in between
intermittent bouts and doubts of "3arabiyun ana"
As if that's what makes up the anatomy of an Arab
As if that's enough for you, Khaled
I wear white
I wear white
Or at least I tell myself I do
Leave myself open to the prospect
of life starting anew
Forcing myself to see it through
See life through your eyes
Or are they my own **** you ?
Tell me for the love of Christ
Call me by name and don't
bury me under the empty discarded photo frames
that you stockpile
I'm calling to you, Walid
And will keep on calling
And trying and burning and aching and failing and dreaming and irritating
like a bad itch
I sink under it all and push it all off step 3 repeat as necessary
I scream in the tongue that you deafen your ears to and pull at the beard you've tried to shave off
I pluck at the horizontal heartstrings you've tried to mute
Above all, I wear white...
And I fight.... I fight.....
I FIGHT
Apr 4, 2010
Apr 4, 2010 at 8:10 AM UTC
Alice sits
in the room
with blackboard
and easel
and small desk
and small chair
with Nanny
stern and strict
pointing at
the blackboard
with her stick
teaching her
her letters
the grammar
paragraphs
sentences
by long rote
and command
and Alice
knows now that
any cause
of Nanny's
discontent
will bring her
punishment
her father's
hard hand smacks
whack and whack
she sits still
taking note
but bored she
stares out high
windows at
tall tree tops
and blue skies
thinking of
her mother
locked away
(ill in her
head Nanny
coldly said)
then she thinks
of her new
adoptive
mother who
works below
stairs(low stairs
her father
often says)
the one with
the red raw
fingers thin
and young who
secretly
said she would
be her new
adopted
mother but
to strive to
learn to do
her best and
so she does
but thinks of
the time when
lessons are
over she
can sneak down
below stairs
and along
passageways
to where her
adoptive new
mother works
and feel her
embrace her
earthy smell
her soft cheek
against that
rough cloth of
apron the
red fingers
caressing
her long hair
whispering
words but still
the nanny
drones on the
lesson now
taking its
toll boredom
sinking in
wishing her
adoptive
mother would
come and take
her away
for a walk
to the horse
stables or
into town
holding her
hand the red
hand holding
her pink one
or dreams of
snuggling
up to her
in her bed
feeling her
motherly
tender warmth
but Nanny
still drones on
the long lesson
word on word
keeping her
from the arms
and caress
and earthy
smell of cloth
of her new
adoptive
young mother
below stairs
Alice yawns
secretly
her small hand
over mouth
knowing this
blowing soft
from her palm
to her young
adoptive
mother a
secret kiss.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 1:53 AM UTC
Dear "Teacher"
Imagine yourself
being permanently judged
because they think of you as dust
Use the blackboard duster
and take your bestest shot.
Oct 9, 2025
Oct 9, 2025 at 7:13 PM UTC
Pinstriped suit
Black briefcase
clink of heels
On marble floors
imposing glass walls
Emails coming in
Emails coming in
Slacks and a tshirt
Powderblue backpack
Red hightops
on gravel
lockers on walls
Students coming in
Students coming in
Oak desk
Open door
Client comes in
Check the emails
"I want a divorce"
turn to the client
turn to the client
Blackboard
Open door
Students stream through
Smile in greeting
"Recess 'aint long enough"
Open up textbooks
Open up textbooks
Client cries
Keep professional poise
nod in understanding
Show no weakness
"He won't sign the papers"
Just nod
Just nod
Students protest
explain over the noise
try to make them love it
show no weakness
"who cares abour 1945?!"
I care
I care
Go home
Collapse onto the
Black leather sofa
in front of
the plasma screen TV
Instant noodles for dinner
Instant noodles for dinner
Go home
Collapse onto the
stained, worn-out fouton
the kids badger
for some television time
Put the roast in the oven
Put the roast in the oven
The neighbors open
their doors
turn to watch yours
remian tight shut
Noone to expect
Noone to come home to
Noone to come home to
The key turns
in the lock
turn to see
him walk in
bag of groceries in hand
Dinner's almost ready
Dinner's almost ready
TV programs over
Noodles devoured
papers signed
emails replied to
slip into bed
In bed alone
In bed alone
Children fed and bathed
television switched off
homework assistance provided
papers graded
husband made love to
Someone to hold on to
Someone to hold on to
Bathtub full of
Cranberry scented foam
Water's cold now
Body's cold now
Cold blade on Cold marble floor
So much blood
So much blood
Alarm goes off
Wake the children
Pack the lunches
Make the breakfast
Read the paper
Such a sad sad suicide
Such a sad sad suicide
Bathtub full of
Cranberry scented foam
Water's cold now
Body's cold now
Cold blade on cold marble floor
So much blood
So much blood
Hold him close
So much warmth
Hold the kids tight
Transfer body heat
Why did she die?
She had it all
She had it all
Nobody to inheret
The condo with a view
The money in the bank
The diamond earrings
the workload
Nobody to miss
Nobody to miss
Hold him close
So much warmth
Hold the kids tight
Tarnsfer body heat
Why did she die?
She had nothing
She had nothing
May 17, 2012
May 17, 2012 at 8:40 PM UTC
With miles to go before I sleep
and sounds around risen from the deep;
If I heard them, should I keep
the memories from haunting?
And as the grey rolls into black,
can you see the white hiding in the back?
The foundation that let’s us hold fast
and gives the hope to make it last.
I see faces in the pages
jumbled between line spaces.
Hallucinations become engrained in
my vision while I listen
to the clack of chalk
scribbled
spat from fingers
and thoughts
dribbled.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 9:28 PM UTC
i forgot how to write
but there's revelry in spite of me
sounds and words inside of me
semantics trapping happily
sentiments tapping rapidly
on the inside of my skull
slowly i am lulled
inevitably pulled
suffocated slow
by lies as cold as snow
piled up in banks
as high as memories
of sour smokes
and trusted snakes
of shattered hopes
and forlorn aches
wounds i forced forgotten for ages
creaking out of their cast iron cages
locked no more, instead released
from tired hopes for truth
and worn out wakes for peace
over the candles,
across the white cloth'd table
I sip coffee as i stare them in the face
with a soft glance,
i slip into a subtle trance-
empty space on which to paint
the blackboard of my brain.
And there
maybe chalk will wash away in rain.
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 10:44 PM UTC
Given
That
You're
Living,
Why
Not
Make
It
Count?
'Cause
Once
You're
Gone,
You're
All
Out.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 11:45 PM UTC
Falling stars make chandeliers and I wish upon each piece
To hope among a million dreams that my chances may increase
Within the creases and cracks of time as future becomes present becomes past
That you won't count me out even if you count me last
My hand, it reaches out for you like many a lover before
Closing my fragile, feeble eyes and opening my hearts door
In all and all in with the wager for a hint of you
No promise to be found in the stars or in the cosmic hue
Love is written on the blackboard of the universe
While passion's written on bed's backboard, gifting touch like verse
And as I lay in roofless rooms I look towards starlit skies
I wish for you and only you to stay eternally
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 9:08 AM UTC