"boombox" poems
The all seeing iris imperial city
The swiftest of stylus this side of the ‘sippi
The trippiest spittin’ Promethean hippy
Conspiracy theorist of eeriest verse
The despotic hypnotic black flag bearin’ Hearst
Still immersing myself in a poverty trap
As I grapple with lack of fact check cashing crap
Cryogenically frozen emotion vibes flowin’
From out my funk bunker boombox
Overthrowin’
Your global dominion opinion with ease
Shootin’ breezes with Tirailleurs Senegalese
I’m the kid wicked picket sign paintin’ Tom Sawyer
The ill eagle Taino privilege enjoyer
Still swoopin’ in mean on each **** I make clean
Pick the bones dry of serpentine oil green dreams
Then I bury what’s left of your money machines
With the pharaohs of old’s latest pyramid schemes
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 12:10 PM UTC
Am I looking for love in Alderaan places?
Most of my SerenityXEnterprise ship jokes go over her head.
I feel like a John Cusack boombox blaring out nineties-age spaces.
Like a comedy no one's heard of, I'm Better Off Dead
without the love I'm not sure that I can find because then is it
really possible to find The One like Neo? (Haha. Get it?)
Like (p+l)(a+n)=pa+pn+la+ln, (Okay, Deep Breath) the universe is trying
so hard to foil my love PLAN. (That one was ****** but the best I can present)
I know you'll be saying "I told you so" when
I realize the narrow parameters of my search are a little naive,
but don't say I'm the Average because that's just Mean!
My love is like Ash Ketchum; I need it to be the very best.
My love is like Ariel; If I leave you I wanna know I'll be mist!
I just needed to pull a Sasha Grey and get it off (on) my chest,
I've already got my music, rhymes, and make-up. Give me the Kiss.
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 2:33 PM UTC
Reality hanging by a thread.
Coke cans and cannons by my bed.
Show girls shooting up to the head.
Solace for the strong, seizures for the dead.
Pac in the boombox
If the packs don't boom I hope the boom pops.
If the boom don't pop she got a new pops.
Red lips serving blows up on the new blocks.
Humble pie in my abode in a bid to abide.
But the coke on the stove says the law is a lie.
Caught slipping, no snitching so my name shall survive.
Out in 10, when I return
Throw some paper to the sky, let the wind and caution colide.
I'll need a long island on the rocks.
Escape the piles we turn to rocks.
We held their lives within our glocks.
The doors were locked so we turned to the knocks.
Boys in the hood with the little coke babies.
Girls in the hood holding little hope babies.
Daddy never came but we live in hope baby.
All I had were bricks, had to build a home baby.
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 3:47 AM UTC
When you think of love
you think of butterflies and flowers
Prince Charming and towers
happiness in abundance.
You think of kisses and hugs
Aladdin and rugs
a sort of sixth sense.
You think of daydreaming, hearts sinking
no, not sinking, skipping.
Red crayons and smiles
Long stares into each others eyes
Carnival rides
You think of it being written in the sky
and a sweet apple pie
We see it as sea side picnics
Holding hands
Watching cheesy chick flicks all night long.
Guys riding on lawn mowers
holding up a boombox, blaring phil collins.
We see walks on the beach
shoreline just reaching our feet.
When I think of love
I think of awkward moments.
I think of my father as he left my mother
See, I want someone more than just a lover.
When I think of love
I think of a stomachache
my last heartbreak
and band-aids to hide the pain.
I think of his hands in mine
our thoughts intertwined
I see the hurt in your eyes
as I told you goodbye
Our last kiss in the summer rain.
I think of love
as a societal excuse
A word said too much, too often
Just a word
Nothing more than caution.
When I think of love
I see a dog’s loyalty to his owner
and the owner showing him affection.
A sunset, a beautiful sky
The way the ocean shows its reflection
When I think of love
I think of the heart’s sight.
Love is light.
Love is Agape-
God’s grace and mercy poured on top of me
the day Jesus died on the cross.
I think of no hope lost.
When I think of love
I think of Him
I think of how.
Love is here
Love is now.
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 4:06 PM UTC
My house will be filled with the things that I love;
Goldfish, dandelions,
Green sofas, Greek mythology,
Books of psychology.
Books. Lots of books with lots of words.
Multiple copies of the really good books too.
All stacked to the ceiling
on bookshelves adequate to
The height of the house
All equivalent to
My love of the place I’ll call home.
A sock monkey here or there,
pillows and throw blankets.
Pictures of Lake Louise, and a souvenir
If I’m ever lucky enough to go there.
I will print poetry, frame it, put it on my walls.
My walls will be yellow gray and blue,
I will have a boombox with speakers that go BOOM
(but at night it will sing me to sleep
with many sweet lullabies).
And it’s music will fade to the sound of voices
Voices of people I love and admire
Who can walk through the door,
of the place I aspire
To make my own,
To share and not waste
With the precious presence of others
And their ideas
And hopes and dreams
So if you aren't a thing I love,
You have to leave.
I’ll probably have a lot of lamps too.
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 4:24 PM UTC
I’m thinking of the faded checkered pattern that has been
smoothed away by time on the dark cloth seats of a Nissan Pathfinder
driving down Ryan Road on a hot day in June.
My mother, in the front seat, singing along to a Spice Girls cassette.
I’m thinking: red, plastic, crab-shaped sandbox and
McDonald’s Happy Meal toys.
I’m thinking: light princess pink, seafoam green, and robin’s egg blue.
I’m thinking of a framed cheetah cross stitch, hanging on the wall of what
used to be our bedroom at my grandparent’s house.
I’m thinking: Barbie doll houses and Hot Wheels and a cul-de-sac at
the end of the street.
The sweet smell of cigar smoke. The ice cold splash of the garden hose. The pop of a bubble. The sting of soap in the eye. Dreams by The Cranberries. As Long as You Love Me by The Backstreet Boys. A HelloKitty boombox slowly spitting out vapor when the deck builders hit a power line while digging. The deer in the backyard looking for corn. The faded wood of a playset that was never really played on.
My father: sitting alone on a splintered bench by the firepit at the edge of the woods, empty beer cans at his feet, chain smoking cigarettes, and humming along to a song that is stuck—forever stuck—on the tip of my tongue.
I do not know if this happened. I cannot ask him.
(I’m not sure if I would want to ask him.)
But I can make an educated inference that that line of
fiction is really nonfiction.
A memory that feels like a phantom limb.
Sounds like the sharp crinkle of static.
Covered in a gossamer, dreamlike haze.
There is a distinct otherness to this memory, to who
I think I was before the trauma.
We are two different people. A yin and a yang. A day and a night.
The hermit crab is soft beneath its hard shell.
The asbestos is not apparent within the insulation.
You cannot see the lead in the paint.
The mold inside the fruit.
May 5, 2021
May 5, 2021 at 2:46 AM UTC
Somewhere on the moon last night, Neil Armstrong came back to life and was standing in the middle of the Sea of Tranquility in complete darkness. His frail, decaying hands that were no doubt filled with formaldehyde, held a rather large and sure-to-be extremely heavy boombox that loomed up and over his head, blasting “Total Eclipse of the Heart” on repeat. He said that it crossed his mind more than once to replace the six faded white American Flags with the stereo, but ultimately decided against it.
In mythology, bleeding is considered to be a feminine attribute:
“I bleed, therefore I am.”
(But this is also the downfall of a version of feminism that is not intersecular.) ((Your lunar cycle does not necessarily need to function in order to be considered a woman.)) (((I am not sure of which, if any, version of feminism Neil Armstrong subscribed to.)))
When a woman is bleeding, they say that she is at the height of her power; she is aligned with the tides and the cosmos. She is celestial. Blood is sacred,
eternal—the very essence of our beings—
but if the Blood Moon was
really just the moon on her period,
what could she do last night she could do at no other point in her life?
Where was her power? She was isolated,
forgotten by the sun,
hidden away inside the umbra of the earth.
(Which is the part where the masculine power of the sun rejected the most important feminine attribute of the moon.)
Michael Collins flew solo around the moon while Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin played with dust and rocks. For 48 minutes he was completely alone, radio silenced behind the shadow, and he thought about death and being the last man standing from Apollo 11.
Inside Neil Armstrong’s speakers, Bonnie Tyler was crooning that
“your love is like a shadow on me all of the time,”
and I have not yet decided if this is
good or bad.
Instead, I am wondering if Buzz Aldrin feels sore for
eternally being second best? Or if he still thinks that the view from the
moon is still one of “magnificent desolation?” And
does he feel this way about all three of his ex-wives?
Do they know that the moon was his first love?
We name missions to the moon, to
Luna’s surface, to Diana’s territory, after a
Greek and Roman god of the sun, when
wolves howl to the goddess
instead.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 8:42 PM UTC
Where buses still elapse with Time
Down straight Dame Street
The Trees are satellites that allow Children to look up
and let the pavement breath.
Earthen Columns that gate the Boombox Clubhouse tint
Flanked by the Yeoman Guards of Hollister
but forget to pay the same compliment
outside of American Apparel
Where Teenagers dream out fantasies
of lamp-lit, flash-shot
worship-worthy objectification
in a converted loft in the real New York
Their headphones spring streams of bright optimism
as they cradle knitted knee-high socks.
Take the curve round Trinity College
and laugh past the rumours
that it may soon float on Dow Jones
and dodge past the charity advertisers
Strutting over campbags of sleeping homeless
to Lemon Cafe for an overpriced Mocha
Which regardless deflates the sheen-covered hollowness
of green-comfy Starbucks
and learn the subtleties of speaking lightly
to dark-jaceketed Blonde girls
Whose eyes seem to sparkle "Yes, we have sipped
on Veuve Clicquot at reserved tables on Graduation nights
at Cafe En Seine"
-"Where Oscar Wilde might have drank"
- "..Had he been alive."
Then speculate on the best Festivals and whose
Films and Books are over-hyped and under-appreciated
and the after-College Gossip on who broke-up or stayed together
or who hooked up even though they shouldn't have
or regretted it
and who's doing a paid internship and who's moving abroad
and afterwards charmingly tease their superficial attitudes
as meanwhile they secretly take photos
to upload on Instagram
and later you'll fake-admonish them
for how they did this behind your back
while you were staring into the lake
in St. Stephen's Green.
When the moon no longer glazed the water
and had receded its contrast to the farthest grass
and you decide to take the last bus home.
Throughout
Caution Glints The Vowels
and Brands them too.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 10:11 AM UTC
The crowd shouting
and the DJ yelling
to jump or put my hands up
the boombox blaring in my ears
—at least it’s stopping my tears
but I am feeling sleepy
I hate alcohol so I’m drinking Fiji
sitting down and awkwardly lonely
with my mind wondering
how lovely it will be to curled up
inside your warm bed only listening
to the night singing your melody
and fall asleep beside your body
but what a shame
you don’t give that option to me
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 9:53 PM UTC
All those little trinkets,
bracelets, rings and even a boombox,
that he had others bring to me,
They were all stolen goods that vexed people would come and claim back time after time.
I never had the heart to tell him to stop.
He reminded me too much of a stray cat who’d finally found a temporary home,
where he would bring tributes to
his mistress feet.
When I asked him what he was doing sleeping outside
my front door.
He blushed and mumbled,
that he would protect me from bad guys who could break in
and steal me away.
How crazy and scary of a notion was that?
And yet....
He made me think of a dancing bear who finally could scent freedom without chains.
The day
when they came to take him away.
...
I tried to tell them that he would never hurt me.
That he merely collected broken shards of scattered treasures
that deep inside him spoke about who he really was,
before the drugs castrated his future self.
Later...
When going through the rubble he left behind,
I found the glimmer of a hauberk
forged for an Avalonian knight.
Jun 26, 2022
Jun 26, 2022 at 10:56 AM UTC
We are young!
We are strong!
Lungs to the heavens
as our hearts sing along!
We run as thousands
but we stand as one!
Souls in the heavens
with eyes on the gun, fun!
Pound our feet in the ground,
rumblin' rhythmic footsteps
move mountains with its sound!
Our words heat the air
as the ice cracks loud!
Their shiver is shared;
Let them stare, we don't care
Melt into the crowd,
and we still stand out!
Individual
Indivisible
Indescribable
Indefensible
Yet still feasible to stay reasonable
No treason is seasonal
No wall is that pliable
Withstand hate with strength undeniable
Vicious, and still likable
Quick to bite; to heal a wound
Get hurt, get chewed
Get back up, Get out soon
And we stand up in rythum
And get back in tune
Singing a song, to sing along
Where we all belong,
Where none is wrong
Mass hysteria with a flex of a muscle
Show them all just how strong
Long in the tooth
or still young
You too can have youth
melt in the crowd, stand your ground
or get swallowed up by the swiftness of our sound
Feb 9, 2012
Feb 9, 2012 at 11:57 PM UTC
Turns out the King of the Projects
couldn’t even tie his shoes.
Couldn’t draw or make love.
Hell could barely even read
and definitely didn’t know how to sing the blues.
Turns out the King got his crown
after two and half games of basketball
on the weedy court at sundown
the day before his tenth birthday.
Turns out the King was the roughest,
toughest, scabbiest fourth grader
in the whole **** grade, raised
from good Somalian stock and
willing to sucker punch kids
darker than he.
Turns out the 4 ft 5 King of the Projects
stood mighty tall over the
class pet ferret, ephemeral
creature of habit,
watched the
rodent with eyes peeled as if the two
shared the same beating
heart boombox.
As it turns out,
every day at noon we had music
but the drums were always
taken by the King who
pounded a steady beat to the
shake shake shake of
the music teacher's 'script
of benzos, eyes still glued
to the ferret, seeking a ritualized dance.
Turns out the class pet escaped last week.
Turns out the King stopped coming too.
Shame really. As the teacher, I felt I had
to have something to say to him.
Turns out I was just as scared as he.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 11:23 PM UTC
turn up the boombox,
maybe it will drain
your desperation.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 3:05 PM UTC
you sent me a love letter, a message in a bottle
but when i cracked it open i cut up my hands.
i guess i’m the same way;
i wrote you a love song
but i forgot i didn’t know how to sing,
so i yelled the words at your window like
i was flinging pebbles and you told me to put down
my boombox because i was going to wake up
the whole **** neighborhood
with my teenage angst,
my painfully naive i love you-s.
i think my heart is too loud for suburb lawns
and white picket fences.
and i guess that’s the trouble with us;
we were always
controlled chaos, a dormant volcano
and all the kids counted down to the eruption
like they were waiting for the other shoe to drop
and numbered their calendars for a date
that should’ve been on a unmarked grave.
and we’ve just got short fuses,
kisses and bruises
because when someone is the pin to your grenade
when someone is the oil spill to your wildfire
you’ve always got to be wary of explosions.
and we were always going to ***** each other over,
we were always going to
burn too bright, burn out too fast.
because i was just a pretty girl in a sundress,
and this is just a memory you’ve been trying to repress
hand clenched in the fabric of us,
so determined to not let the inevitable happen on schedule.
and i love you so i’ll ruin you, it’s inevitable
and i love you so you’ll leave, it’s inevitable
and i love you so it’s not going to work out like i want it to.
it’s just... inevitable.
there’s no avoiding it the future unless
you take your own away.
sometimes i have to remind myself five times a day
that destruction, that implosion,
that falling apart isn’t as poetic as i think it is.
and now, i’m biting my tongue to keep from saying
baby, bring home the wreckage
maybe there’s still something there for us to salvage
and if we're a sinking ship, i'll go down with you
and if we’re doomed, i’ll be ****** with you.
because i’m still thinking there’s an off chance,
because i’m still thinking that maybe if you still...
i’m still thinking that all this time
i was just wishing on the wrong star and there’s still a chance,
there’s still wishes to waste
and coins to throw in the fountain
and eyelashes to count on.
but you know somebody once told me
that the stars aren’t really there, we’re just seeing
footprints of where they used to be.
we’re always looking a galactic graveyard, a sky littered
with the star-studded remains of supernovas.
always thought you were more of a black hole than a star,
but maybe there’s some truth to every cliche;
i see everywhere you used to be clearly,
i can see your presence in every absence.
because i miss you terribly
and i know i’m not supposed to.
but i still wonder what you’re thinking about sometimes.
i still wonder about the stars
you’re looking at sometimes.
i still wonder if we see
the same constellations
anymore.
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 11:56 PM UTC
If I could I would write letters to the wind and ask for lessons on how to blow you away
If I could I would take a star out of the sky and put it in a ring and ask you to be it’s replacement in my life
If I could I would keep you between my second and my fourth rib, so they will tell you they’ve missed you.
The first time I saw you, I smiled with my mouth open to let go of the crickets I buried in my voice box so I could say hello
How else can I explain to you that our stories are God written guitar solos to the keys of our DNA, and I’m more electric and you’re more acoustic.
On some days you look like there are lingering pieces of a boombox etched in the framework of your spine. In simple terms your body speaks volumes.
On other days you feel like there are too many fault lines on the rail track of your spine
Those are the days I want to tell you I’m a pretty good conductor
Your voice sounds like an unfinished love song stuck in the throat of an ’80s jazz musician and I’m more of a hip-hop kind of guy, but I would make kissing you the perfect symphony.
I’m more like the odd boulder on a sandy beach and you're the entire ocean but I've drawn coastlines on the chambers of my heart
With you I could build sand castles in hourglasses, cos I wouldn’t feel time pass.
If I could I would write this poem on the wings of a butterfly and say to you “Here I think this belongs to you, I found it in my belly”
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 1:43 PM UTC
they ride along
the mountain road:
kashgar and
the heron girl
crane their necks
to the shaman's haze,
ploughing out
the humpback’s trail.
with a slow hup-hup, up
down powder trot,
a boombox laugh
and a slapstrum knot;
walking the lake,
talking of the bay,
savor the night:
hear what they say!
bronze battalions
beat the prince,
hide the sambas
inside of their hats;
a summer tent,
a sterling pearl:
kashgar and
the heron girl.
they rode along
the mountain road,
past water cranes
and lily haze;
roaming slow
the worldshell snail,
ploughing out
the humpback trail.
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 10:19 PM UTC
Jay-Z sounds like he's underwater. And the showerhoses tilt shut and the bathroom door opens to reveal - well, what I thought was a sealing wound thankfully turned out to be headphone covers and my brother's obscured big toe. Trembling.
He walks as if he was the rapper himself - chest hunched, back lurching forward like that of a street cat who doesn't know he's made it. Shaky feet, wet hair, darkened eyes that hadn't been shut for days.
''For my father was black, and beautiful, and beautiful, therefore, black. There was a blackness to him that was beautiful. A blackness entirely clear and his own.'' -James Baldwin, Notes on a Native Son (paraphrased).
His legs if you roll up the pajama bottoms are filled with quilt patched mosquito bites and blacks and blues. Self-inflicted. Eyebag patches punched back into his face resurfacing in the hidden contours of his thigh. Trembling. Allow me to reintroduce myself. Trembling.
He is and he isn't. No native son of ours black but yellow covered, yellow but eyes tinged with red, and awash in shadows black and blue - he is beautiful - puffy eyed, brickfaced boombox carrying screamer of profanity and tongue tied silence all and still - he is black, and he is beautiful.
An underwater mixtape taking shape to be a broken record anthem.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 12:36 PM UTC
A garden trowel in a patch of irradiated weeds
An odometer in an endless maze of MickeyD's
An encyclopedia in a pawn shop full of tweakers
A love song on a boombox with broken speakers
May I present several examples of useless things with nothing to do
Now if you think those're bad, you should see what I'm like...
*
Apr 9, 2021
Apr 9, 2021 at 10:10 PM UTC
til the air jumps into your lungs
the trees of gold and crimson
are a blur and swims in your dreadlocks
your heart’s a blaring boombox
Run! Girl Run!
past the corner store
til sweat seeps from your pores
don’t look back
run wild as the wind
Run! Girl Run!
with the steam of a locomotive
the fire in your feet explosive
cut yourself from him
he's just a broken limb
Run! Girl Run!
over his lies
leaving skid marks
on his oversized ego
he's only a placebo you're taking
he's moss
shake him off
Oct 18, 2021
Oct 18, 2021 at 7:12 AM UTC
Another gone, gone again.
I thought he liked me for me.
I thought i felt safe with me.
I thought it would last longer than four days.
The good guys always get away,
but, as i always say its just one more off the list.
Maybe the next one waiting for me will last.
Two guys are there for me and seem like it.
I want someone to be there and be able to tell me if they are good.
Another gone, gone again.
As i lay with my phone calling and texting two.
I've never felt that comfored by someone.
When will the hurting stop?
when will they stop turning off the lights and keep them on?
When will the heart be one?
When will someone fill the pain of the hole in the heart?
The girl trapped in the room.
She can never get out, cause the door is locked.
Though i know someone will come along with the key and let her out.
Maybe he will save her for once.
Another gone, gone again.
Can't my life be like a movie?
I want John Cusack holding a boombox outside my window.
I wanna ride off on a lawnmower with Patrick Dempsey.
I want Jake from Sixteen Candles waiting outside the church for me.
I want Judd Nelson thrusting his fist into the air because he knows he got me.
But none of that happens.
Because they just want us to get hurt and do anything for them.
Another gone, gone again.
And i can't do anything but wait and cry.
Jan 31, 2011
Jan 31, 2011 at 6:42 AM UTC
Sugar cutie
The divine color of the skin, the color of white sugar, is the color of uncontrollable pleasure, you are definitely sweeter than any sugar and pleasure, sugar cutie. You are a reflection of a deep shock from admiration, excitement, makes ***** and fall in love, Every second is overflowing with love and intensifies every day. You are more beautiful than love itself, *** life, reality, and even paradise. You are my hot temptation, **** so hot.
You are talking about HQ the highest quality to the smallest particle and pixel, atom, molecule, geometric perfection of the image of the body and face - it looks so chic in slow motion, stretches the pleasure of excitement, when I touch your skin I have amazing feelings of love and excitement and these feelings are amplified a hundred times when you touch me, your kisses are diving immersion in the depths of love, the infinite beauty of your body. I sincerely love and want only you alone, your body shape like a mega boom boom **** boombox explosive brain detox, powerful rap beat bass, you sound cool and **** your beauty and personality are multifaceted and unique as a gemstone of love and *** You are my highest eternal ideal.
Your body is the best **** in the world, a seductive pin-up, a very picturesque eroticism of feelings and passions, how your sweet moans of pleasure excite me beyond, you are so beautiful that even an impotent woman, men's ***** will stand up, the lady of male hearts and makes ***** members. Your appearance moves me to the dimension of eternal love, you are above love and *** for me you are above everything else. You are more beautiful than the most beautiful galaxies of the universes, no form of life can be more beautiful than you, you are my queen of the universe. You are the same ideal, that very highest value, a dream in my life that I can’t give up in any way.
Author: Musin Almat Zhumabekovich
Aug 16, 2019
Aug 16, 2019 at 1:25 PM UTC
These airwaves keep speaking, enveloping my consciousness, stripping all fears and uncertainties. These are the days I strive for. The calming rhythm of life exposing itself without a care. The castaways all run to find freedom, and I run to find truth. Each and every ticking of the clock brings me closer to realization that there really is no clock. The clock is just an object, the ticking is just a sound, and time only exists because I think about it. I give the clock this amazing power to control what I do. But the clock doesn’t know that I’m conspiring against him. He watches and ticks away his seconds expecting me to act cordially towards his numerical speeches about the future. 3:45 PM and soon to change. We face this monster everyday. We watch and watch and watch, just expecting him to slow down or speed up or even stop. He has no feeling for human integrity, he just ticks and ticks until the batteries run down. Or I take the batteries out, he no longer ticks. His hands are stuck in the grime of my human intellect. And he just watches. Keystroke after keystroke, not saying a word. Good, I smile. I’ve stopped you.
"We sit and ponder on future events, not knowing, just theorizing everything. Hoping we get it right. Universal ideas become stretched into a cup of string. And lights undo themselves backwards into eternity."
-W.M. Mills
Feb 28, 2012
Feb 28, 2012 at 1:46 AM UTC
Where do rappers hibernate?
out comes the sun so do they
summer is their time to play
boombox blasting as they pass
bass so loud it could shatter glass
in my garden birds have fled
my tamper high I'm seeing red
they go so fast to match the beat
daren't cross the road with my slow feet
one by one like a plague of ants
to this kind of music I can't dance
closing my ears to block them out
keeping my calm or I would shout
but English summers ore so short
let them have their fun
like a holiday resort.
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 10:51 AM UTC
She's one of a kind. She's royal and common.
She's electric with boombox loud laughs
that shake me from my very foundation.
I'm struck dumb in her company like a boy.
I fear what I feel. It resembles lust but I
am a prisoner of the life that I've created.
Jan 31, 2023
Jan 31, 2023 at 9:28 PM UTC
There's a paint smear on my arm,
And it means a little more to me,
Than it does to everyone else.
It makes me smile to see my labours,
Are written all over me,
And covering me in love.
There's a boombox on my window,
A stereo on top of my cassette player,
A radio that's 30 years old.
Everyone throws these away for a minimum price,
But I adore them,
My children.
A smell rubbed into a page
Because words just **** me,
It means everything.
I open my book and inhale the scent,
Remembering when I thought,
That brand of perfume wasn't that strong.
I hold certain things very dear,
As silly as they may be,
They mean a lot to me.
Just dont return my heart,
Because it means more to you,
Than it ever would to me.
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 1:24 AM UTC