"boredly" poems
in the backs of cabs that reek of stale *****
blue salt specks are dragged against their will to rest in the ridges of the floor mats.
fluorescent confused cubicles of light flashing by-
your mind fighting to make shapes out of the blur.
it’s january, this is everyone’s mood.
fingers folded into fists, stuffed into nylon pockets,
catching your breath and watching the scenery swirl past
like the entire horizon is made of melting wax.
you’re replaying day old conversations, analyzing cryptic eye movements
and body language of those people that strike you so suddenly.
those strangers that have pushed and shoved every defense and nestled themselves
into every fiber of your being. you sicken yourself with these sappy adolescent romantic bouts
but they’re the only thing keeping you alive.
you don’t know these people.
you don’t even know yourself.
the cab driver mumbles something over the radio and your attention is brought back to the present.
he’s on the phone-
that’s illegal.
you’re a little concerned-
your life does lie in the shivering hands of a stranger who boredly grasps and curves a wheel, after all.
but you play it cool, you turn to nihilism- it’s easier this way.
death is fine.
the cab driver is passing your house while you’re swatting at questions.
you uncomfortably raise your quiet voice for a few hesitant notes.
“Here is fine!”
you urge to the driver while a fumbling hand shakes down your pockets for a twenty.
there’s your house- standing just as you left it
through the white mystery patches on the back window.
chock full of memories and problems and decay and warmth.
everything seems to rest so calmly in the palms of the bittersweet.
tell the stranger to have a goodnight.
he returns the favor.
everyone needs to hear these things-
it’s january, after all.
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 4:48 PM UTC
People say, "You're too big, why you into poetry?"
Seriously?
Honestly
This body's always to big for me
Completely
Utterly
Trapped, trying to break free
Society can't see
Beyond my skin, see the real me
Outsides hard, insides sapply
Hard to live happily
Every second scream out madly
Sometimes it hurts so badly
Times they see me for me is hardly
I wake up sorely
Yawn throughout the day boredly
Still making fun of me? I messed you up accordingly
Now wonder you were always so scareda me
I wonder why
I can't deny
Why I was given this body that lives a lie
A new appearance I might buy
Given the chance I might try
The gods I would defy
But I feel I may cry
Feel like they pushed me off the rye
Thoughts end with a sigh
They always think that I'm not the type of guy
But here I am now, my oh my
Brains begin to fry
Tongues begin to tie
All in favor of me? Aye
I'm staying this way until the day I die
Until then I continue to fly, high in the sky
This is who I am
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 9:58 AM UTC
A picture hangs squank up on the wall.
It's contents is of a stereotypical family...
A mother and father, and three children;
All smiling but one, the eldest son stares boredly and sadly into the camera and doesn't lift a lip to the photographer's insistent "Say Cheese"'s.
Maybe he knew, maybe he was old enough to understand what was to come.
The picture changes -
The mother grows old and grey haired, her smile fades like a candle out of wick.
The baby in her arms grows into a young man, with a sorrowful face and darkness in his eyes.
The girl's hair from it's shimmering lightlight turns black and raven-like...her face screws up into a frown.
The son, no longer a boy, but a man, stronger, and even more defiant than before...he stands, arms-crossed, like a protector over his family.
His face still stares boredly into the lens, but, this time he looks at least like he wants to be there, wants to watch over them.
The father, sitting, grinning;
grows sour and wretched...
his eyes begin to wander to other pictures on the wall, ones that he may find more interesting -
And in an instant he stands up and leaves, not a backward glance, not one...and he never returns.
His seat grows dusty and old and is never filled again.
Pictures are the stuff of memories, whether they be good or bad, they serve as a constant reminder of the past...which helps us handle the future.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 4:39 AM UTC
It’s monsoon season here in New Haven,
gone, are the banked, fluorescent colors of sunset.
This feeling hit me, like a rogue wave.
“We have to go out tonight,” I announced, to no one in particular.
I think I’d hit my capacity for monotony.
Lisa looked up from her book.
“The moment has to happen,” I continued,
with an animal-like awareness of the immediate,
“For the ****** ****** imaginary
and as something to cherish in backward gaze.”
“I’m for that.” Lisa shrugged, almost indifferently - she was used to my purple prose.
“I’m buying,” I announced, to no one in particular.
“Then let’s DO this thing!” Sunny called-out from her room.
“Where are we going?” Leong asked, poking her head out of her room.
—-
I took an m-cat practice test earlier today.
In the dorm, before breakfast and the test, I was staring in the mirror.
“Hey you, where ya been—how ya been?” I asked myself.
I followed up with, “Are you ready for this—are you up for this?”
Lisa stuck her head in the bathroom, “Psyching yourself up?” she asked.
She’d be taking the test later too.
—-----
The tests took about 6 hours. I’ve taken the downloadable ‘practice tests’ but not strictly on-the-clock. There’s just something about sitting at that official, green terminal - on an uncomfortable plastic chair, being timed by officiously grim and callously indifferent bureaucrats. (#chefskiss)
I felt like the young, haunted governess in ‘The Turn of the ***** by Henry James. Except my ghosts were my entire, immediate family - who’ve taken this test before me and done really well.
My mom’s apparition hovered over my shoulders - making a snarky noise when I picked certain answers.
My spectral brother sat by a window, feet-up on the desk in front of him, boredly checking his watch.
My intangible sister sat at an empty terminal, as if she too, were taking the tests, and finally Step (my stepfather’s doppelgänger) ghosted in, like a Spielberg effect, through the closed classroom door, periodically, to voice his support.
The place seemed positively crowded.
I got a 507 (out of a possible 528), in the 76th percentile (they said). Not good enough (yet).
I’ll take the real test in July (sigh).
Apr 4, 2024
Apr 4, 2024 at 12:00 PM UTC
You sit boredly in your seat, scrolling your phone and taking notes when the texts start rolling in
Your name
Three dots
Worry sets in, your friend is downtown, she's probably safe with others
So why the sad texts
"I just threw up"
More worry
"I'm sobbing"
Slight panic
It must be something about her family
It has to be
He has to be fine
"You're scaring me"
You send, tears brimming in your eyes
He has to be okay
Everything is okay
"We need to hang out after school, promise"
But you can't promise
Not until you know what's happened
Not until you know he's okay
"He's gone"
Your body goes numb as a shock wave shoots through you
The tears start falling
You raise your hand to leave, the other covering your mouth
"I'm sorry"
You call out the teacher's name, everyone looks as you ask to go to the office
Everyone looks as you leave the room crying
You meet a teacher half way
The voice coming out of the walkie talkie is saying your name
The voice says they're looking for more of your friends next
You walk into the office and see them all there
None of them know what's about to happen
None of them know how much they're about to break down
You're led in to a room in the back as you ignore the violent buzzing of your phone
And as you see his family
The reality of this hell begins to set in
They tell you all he's gone
And everything inside everyone snaps
Everyone's sobbing
Everyone's shaking
His closest friend sits next to you
You two are crying the hardest
You begin to check your phone
And you're practically just a vessel as you respond
Tears streaming down your face
Emptiness in your heart
You can't stop sobbing
The memories all flash before your eyes
And you remember how happy he was when you last spoke
You remember the last few conversations you had with him while others begin writing their last messages
You remember the last thing you said to him was in a snapchat days ago
And the final thing you told him as he lay in the hospital, lung infection slowly destroying his body
You sob again at what it read, your last parting words
"Hey kiddo...get not sick..."
Opened: Friday, October 8
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 7:50 PM UTC
My glasses are *****
The clock says six thirty.
My brain is real flirty.
I'm missing my man.
With scribbles so wordy,
I sit here so boredly.
I miss him so sorely.
We'll meet when we can.
Aug 6, 2022
Aug 6, 2022 at 10:29 PM UTC