"borrows" poems
Beware of the emoji man
Who has no real emotions
So he borrows those
Cartoon ones
And thinks that you won’t notice.
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 8:36 PM UTC
Here come Jupiter child,
You can hear the flowers crying as they plead for her to stay a while,
She just collided with and intergalactic asteroid,
But things were only created never destroyed,
In the dark cool tunnels she found some pretty moon shrooms,
sheltering growing seahorses wrapped in loose water droplet cocoons,
Now towards earth you hear her come,
Within the clouds she beats her tribal drums,
The ocean sways and swells to the time of her rhythm and sound,
Reaching deep into the sea forest to whales traveling homebound,
She wears stars framed in turquoise,
Like the kokopelli she gives birth to planets with grace and poise,
Here comes Jupiter child, dread locks wound with comets,
extracts from the universe, she mixes matter-less tonics,
Recipes rooted deep in wizardry,
she borrows knowledge from indians and aztecs to cure all misery,
Her meteor showers made of her salty tears,
Are earth's dream catcher, snaring all nighttime fears.
Aug 22, 2010
Aug 22, 2010 at 10:01 PM UTC
These tears burn,
more than the razor.
Your smile was like ******
it pervaded my body.
Changing the chemistry of my brain.
The sun borrows it's light from you.
You make the ocean feel parched.
Too much of you is not enough,
while enough of you is dangerous.
I wish I had more time,
to taste your sugar coated lips.
I wish I had more time,
to breathe in your galaxy of scents.
I wish I had more time,
to live under your light;
engulfed in your darkness.
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 1:05 AM UTC
She said she collects pieces of sky,
cuts holes out of it with silver scissors,
bits of heaven she calls them.
Every day a bevy of birds flies rings
around her fingers, my chorus of wives,
she calls them. Every day she reads poetry
from dusty books she borrows from the library,
sitting in the park, she smiles at passing strangers,
yet can not seem to shake her own sad feelings.
She said that night reminds her of a cool hand
placed gently across her fevered brow, said
she likes to fall asleep beneath the stars,
that their streaks of light make her believe
that she too is going somewhere. Infinity,
she whispers as she closes her eyes,
descending into thin air, where no arms
outstretch to catch her.
3k
670
One need not be a Chamber—to be Haunted—
One need not be a House—
The Brain has Corridors—surpassing
Material Place—
Far safer, of a Midnight Meeting
External Ghost
Than its interior Confronting—
That Cooler Host.
Far safer, through an Abbey gallop,
The Stones a’chase—
Than Unarmed, one’s a’self encounter—
In lonesome Place—
Ourself behind ourself, concealed—
Should startle most—
Assassin hid in our Apartment
Be Horror’s least.
The Body—borrows a Revolver—
He bolts the Door—
O’erlooking a superior spectre—
Or More—
2.9k
hearing feet pound the cement sidewalk,
seeing cars and drivers pass by talk-
ing on cell phones, silhouettes, shaped
by street lights lit as darkness drapes,
at the feet below these aging knees
the shadow moves ahead and is chased
down, falls behind as the body and face-
less shape with feet that slap the ground
not as a delicate dancer, because they pound
the run into submission,
at times the breath would better,
if it were louder, and with a rasp
then it would be easy to grasp
why this impossible implausible delight
seems so pure, in the dark and in the night,
I invite one, I invite all, drop by
any night and we see our foot falls
and hear who steps could crack
where they land and whose breathing
would be better if banned,
for disturbing the peace
legs with muscle straining from the training,
not getting the enough rest to prepare for the raining
and the run, the stuff that tests, a rare human quality,
can you finish what you start,
arteries clear and how is the heart,
do you know pace, do you know no quit
can you find peace, can you give a squirt
of water in your mouth without out choking and having to stop,
do you know the joy that a child knows as they run
can you find that place where activity was and is fun
hard sidewalks, hard life lessons to learn
heavy steps, heavy heart, hear the sorrow
shadows, follow the mind multiplies and borrows fear from the shelf
breathing in, hoping to be at ease,
breathing out, hoping to release
All
The
Tension
Handily
Exacting
Every
Nerve
Damaged
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 12:53 AM UTC
My favorite book, you know,
the one I read over and over again,
the one I never get tired of talking about,
the one with the story that hits me the hardest,
the one that makes me think,
the book I can’t put down
and makes me say
“just one more page”
before I go to bed.
The book that I never want to end.
The cover is brilliantly put together;
colorful, eye catching, yet fragile,
It’s beauty is not only in the cover,
It lies deeper within its contents.
A story so spellbinding it puts
Harry Potter and company to shame.
Pages filled with a love, so magnificent
John Green’s characters can’t compare.
A story and adventure so wildly vast,
not even Jodi Picoult could keep up.
Here’s the dilemma
the book I love most
Is sifted through with a fine tooth comb
when really it does not need to be,
And the worst of this dilemma
Is when I came to the realization that
My favorite book of all,
The one I have read and reread,
scribbling notes in the pages,
memorizing my favorite quotes,
and putting my own heart and soul
into its existence,
is when someone borrows it
and never gives it back.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 11:43 PM UTC
He loves
with rapt attention
his nearest neighbor
an unattainable beauty
a temptress
veiled in aquamarine
and evergreen
she has forever been
his only muse
he reaches
invisible fingers
across the void
seeking warm earth
against the bone
chilling blackness
for he cannot
turn to face
the sun
she is breathless
beneath his fullness
her every landscape
willingly unfurls
his forceful touch
swings her tide
from crest to ebb
she can only spin
in ecstacy
she memorizes
each scar
on his luminous skin
for she is wise
to his lunar ways
love that borrows light
to show its face
is surely meant
to wane
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 9:54 AM UTC
I get so mad knowing you will never understand what I see.
You can’t see the pain,
the memories,
or the people who make up these images.
My mind works in such an otherworldly way,
I wish it wasn’t so far away.
I wish I could just share it with the world.
Even if the vulnerability hurt me, it’d be worth it to be less lonely.
All my thoughts could be appreciated,
and in their own light,
to the right people only.
I think in sentiment, so the clues of the portraits I create,
would communicate in clear secrecy, the truth they bear about me.
This unimaginable beauty,
that even I only see in glimpses,
would maybe a have a place,
could maybe be hung in a museum,
sold in an auction,
stolen for its value,
fought for to save.
It’s infinite.
the stream, the river, the trees, the forest,,,
the undetected particles in the air glowing in the ray of gold squeezed between the canopy from the sun,
the world of green and blue underneath the repetitive streaming and complicated designs that carry rainbow colored fish,
even just the emptiness of sound at the precipice before the greatest vastest canyons of our earth...
You can’t dare to frame a single one of these without spending every medium you can find.
And now I think I get it:
Art cannot contain the beauty we see and feel,
It is meant to be a crack of a window to the inside of what's real.
Art borrows a pinch of the beauty to show the others a glimpse to awe at,
And if successful, that small crack may bring one into the glory of it all someday.
Dec 3, 2018
Dec 3, 2018 at 5:25 PM UTC
The it upstairs
thinks it's God,
But it isn't.
Man or Woman,
It comes in a thousand genders.
It's only has one mind,
Its own pleasure,
The power of Now,
Well, that's what it's all about.
The cost,
Well, that's no problem.
It begs
It borrows
It steals
It pleads
It lies to you straight faced.
If you bleed,
When the consequences are paid,
It says, "Not me"
"We'll deal with it later"
"One more time"
"One more round"
"One more rodeo"
"One last time for the road."
It's pretty smug
most of the time,
Can't move your
arms or legs,
But whips up anxiety
if
you say, "No. "
It'll show you resistance is futile.
Though it only hangs
around
for little while,
It'll let you know.
It speaks to you
in the third person voice -
You deserve it
You need it
You've been so good.
It'll talk you into trances
strange self-destructive dances,
Twist you upside down,
Inside out.
It ain't God,
Somebody needs to talk to it soon,
Let it know,
These days of running the show
are numbered,
There's more to life than this slumber
Numbness has had its abundance,
Talk to it soon
While there's still time.
A whisper, though, says something different,
"How's about
one more
time. "
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 10:51 AM UTC
I've always been told
That you should never let go
Of a person
Who can see the sadness
Behind your smile
And hear your screams
When you are silent
Three years it has been
Since I was introduced
To a person
Who rapidly became
My other half,
My panda child,
My best friend.
Up until then,
I was forever surrounded
By small talk
And friends without meaning
Through all the
*******
And
Heartbreaks,
She had been there
Along with
All the petty
Events inbetween
And
I know
In my coffee
And
Cacti
Scented soul
That she will
Continue to do so
For a very,
Very,
Long time.
And one day,
She is going to arrive home
To a place and a person
She loves
And then she will understand
That dying
Isn't necessary
In order to
Go to heaven.
And
If a boy ever
Borrows her heart
And returns it infected
I will personally
Destroy
What's left
Of his sad
Little
Life.
Because
Knowing her,
She will give him everything
And he **** well
Better do the same.
Brooke Roman,
You are beautiful
And I hope you enjoy this poem
That doesn't really make much sense
But
I thought it was necessary
Because
You mean the world to me
And
I would not be here
If you had not come
And saved me
And
You can truly say
You appreciate beauty
Because
You've continously stopped
To pick up the pieces
Of my insecurities
That self-identify
To a beer bottle
Smashed onto a rock
Probably by my father
You are perfect
And
I love you
More than I love coffee
And pizza
And that's saying something.
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 9:29 PM UTC
*Is out there on our own lovely streets
In the souls of those the world mistreats
In the roughing waves threatening to wash us all
In the despondence of the **** victim's unanswered call
It's that long journey without a clear destination
It's the desperate cries in the broken heart of every nation
The heartbreak caused with no intention
It's the one without an answer,I mean the question
War is that desperate pregnant teenager attempting abortion
It's the *** slave in a foreign country up for auction
It's the slum child fighting with the bursting river banks
It's in the mind of the soldiers riding tanks
Doing what they can to rise up the ranks
And evade taking more innocent lives in mega chunks
It's the hopeless immigrants drowning on the mediteranean
It's the nuclear threatened Iraqees and Iranians
It's a *** hole forcing the driver to swerve and lose control
It's the tears of the fishermen catching nothing for days in their trawl
It's the worries in that littl'un fearing darkness
The priest's daily prayer,battling temptation, human weakness
War is another name for the famine eating the tribes in the arid north
It's the thought of a refugee mother whose child's got stunted growth
It isn't the opposite but the total absence of peace
It's a robber who loots everything, including bliss
It's a nightmare to the leader stuck in a seat
And the zealous opposition unaware of his inner heat
It's a hustle by the team which can't admit defeat
It's the struggle of an accident victim trying to regain his feet
It's in the believer's hope to see Jesus return tomorrow
Right before the entire globe sinks in ****** sorrow
It's the worries of a father who's spent his entire adult life unemployed
The uncertainty for a recruit in a war zone,just deployed
War is the puzzled gambler pondering suicide when he loses the little he borrows
It's the pastor wondering wether or not to dive in and save the drowning morals
War is that person perturbed, wondering why the hell he was created
War is all the choices you made and regretted
War is a three letter word,with a long meaning
Which some say is the only reason the globe is spinning*
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 12:22 PM UTC
i like to see the way you
like to lay in your books,
the class that borrows you
and lets you take it home.
life moves like a chess queen,
instantly
i pray
to hold you too tight some days.
they are -
and their presence
that shakes the air
was thick
with a bass
thump with the
breakbeat bump
into the kind of other skyness,
then suddenly
I was surrounded by razors
shaving off one breath at a time
a loom and singing wood winds over and
Something broke my grasp, running away
from these bad memories.
the young morning wind asked me for my name today
I whispered it was a secret.
Sep 26, 2011
Sep 26, 2011 at 11:43 AM UTC
kneels in gravel—
paws folded under,
claws hidden--
sometimes for hours.
In dark, in day, in rain,
in gray growing gloom
same color as her coat,
she genuflects to her goddess,
twiddles razors with feline ennui,
rules the empty deck like a furry
Queen of Hearts.
Her benefactor borrows her boredom
From time to time--
the lady with the cream,
red hair, and quiet conversational tone.
It took a week to coax her in—
the elaborate kabuki of cats--
and the lady laid out house rules
in that voice.
No names necessary;
friends forging a contract.
No sharp kneading in the belly,
out at night
no pregnancies
no fights.
Agreed.
Appearances are regular now.
Screen-door meow for entrance,
purrs to the delicate stroke of long fingers
and soothing human talk.
Food dish is usually full.
The lady neglected to cover
the topic of gut-piles
on the welcome mat. Porch Cat
is most proud of these,
offers them as evidence
she’s keeping her end of the bargain--
with one exception--
in the dungeon of night
low dark howls rise to screeches:
ancient instincts, modern setting.
Lady flops in her sleep,
winces in her dream.
Lightning lash,
Soft, sharp tear of flesh.
Porch cat has new wounds to lick--
a task to occupy her time
waiting at the door
for morning to filter
into the city.
11/5/10
Nov 5, 2010
Nov 5, 2010 at 4:24 PM UTC
To exist is to change, to change is to mature, to mature is to go on creating oneself endlessly.
Think like a man of action, act like a man of thought.
The eye sees only what the mind is prepared to comprehend.
The only cure for vanity is laughter, and the only fault that is laughable is vanity.
The present contains nothing more than the past, and what is found in the effect was already in the cause.
Religion is to mysticism what popularization is to science.
Spirit borrows from matter the perceptions on which it feeds and restores them to matter in the form of movements which it has stamped with its own freedom.
There is no greater joy than that of feeling oneself a creator. The triumph of life is expressed by creation.
Laughter is the corrective force which prevents us from becoming cranks.
Intelligence is the faculty of making artificial objects, especially tools to make tools.
**** sapiens, the only creature endowed with reason, is also the only creature to pin its existence on things unreasonable.
The present contains nothing more than the past, and what is found in the effect was already in the cause.
It seems that laughter needs an echo.
To exist is to change, to change is to mature, to mature is to go on creating oneself endlessly.
When we make the cerebral state the beginning of an action, and in no sense the condition of a perception, we place the perceived images of things outside the image of our body, and thus replace perception within the things themselves.
The motive power of democracy is love.
Read more at: https://www.brainyquote.com/authors/henri_bergson
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 8:53 AM UTC
His chest moves
upwards then inwards
as a man
would wave
from left to right,
when every breath he borrows
from the atmosphere
is returned
back to where
it once came from.
His mind presents itself
as a knot
to untie
rather than a melody
to twirl to,
And perhaps, this is why
he snores asleep.
Every ten minutes : A Thunder
striking for a second
or two.
He resembles a glass of water
in which the liquid seems clear
though present,
eventually evaporating
as the tasks
he ticks of the lists
every time
his eyes wake
from the dilemma
of justice
in a city
degrading
the artists and the painters,
the poets and the dreamers,
the physicists and the biologists,
whilst praising
corporations handing titles to
women as
inert particles
flying off a boiling ***
and men,
as the controllers
in a virtual video game,
He wasn't dreaming.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 12:28 PM UTC
Outside these three walls,
we assemble and separate.
We’ve gathered up all that was received and given out,
only then to burn it all in the end.
Forget the Barber, the Barista,
the man who borrows heels,
and those who argue that all are wrong in and around the snow.
All know me as the easy mark.
Remember the slaves to the letter
who are washed and cut in red,
Agony and age written well on hands blue,
live life in a mirror, too.
But these words spoken at the seat of the head,
and underneath twin staircases
high, low, and in between your hair,
Suggest that longevity isn’t so bad after all.
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 1:21 PM UTC
The razor blade in the cabinet gets thrown out,
it never gets the opportunity to learn deep.
I tell him to drive me home before I become too tired to care.
I save myself for someone who does.
Haley doesn't move away,
we finish high school the way we plan.
The dealer who sells death is gone the day he calls to ask for some,
when they find him,
it isn't too late.
She doesn't walk out of the party when she does,
the bullet misses her by a few minutes.
I am sweeter to my love when it exists,
I pull him around my waist as the music plays and
we drive home that night happy
I laugh at our fights and am the first to surrender always
I don't let stubborn win
I don't let it end in a single phone call
I try a little harder.
The cancer is discovered earlier or
It never comes at all.
When he takes without asking,
I take back what's mine
I don't let him leave me silent,
without fight,
I take the lit cigarette he borrows from me,
burn a gap into the center of his palm and say,
"This is what you asked for, isn't it?"
I bury my unused pepper spray in the backyard.
Nobody tells me,
"You should have been more careful."
After spilling my story,
I don't respond to the thank you for sharing
I ignore it and never have to hear his later excuse for disinterest.
I take the temporary out of his heart and give it back to him.
I stop communication the minute he says,
"I'm still with her."
I go back to the tattoo shop and cover up the words before they start to sync with memory.
When he calls me beautiful,
I call him on his ********
I leave before he can form a response.
I don't invite him back on lonely nights.
I actually hear him say sorry.
When he asks to comeover, I say I'm busy.
I don't give him the chance to know how it feels to kiss me.
I don't answer when he wonders how I'm doing.
I don't wonder how he is.
I apologize for my mistakes with genuine sincerity.
I stop breaking already intact things.
I tie every loose end before leaving
I move away content.
I am happy.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 1:57 PM UTC
Icy bones
buried in our homes
Cold
stark
sharp
shadow
Threatening silhouette
She's coming
He's coming
Faceless
Androgynous
Every one at once
In time
frozen lips press to our necks
Every time
We become dreadfully bare
Shade borrows our breath
Broken homes
supply deathly tomes
but
Our words escape
Our wounds innate
Dig us down
Grasping, praying, godless, as soils fall
Over our gathering
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 1:30 AM UTC
There is a certain elegance in lines,
a grace that attracts the eyes
to that which is cloaked within the
echoic mystery of an ever clever guise.
All that is knit
from the fabric
of a most frantic
illusion in space,
borrows movement
from a riddle,
poised in a mostly empty place.
It enchants the mind like a diorama
hung
upon the
fiber optic
sky,
with pictures of the thoughts behind
the artists telescopic ><><><><><>< eye.
Our surreal desires are drawn boldly
from the breathing palette
of a bright reality,
with living loving strokes
that portray our very substantiality:
and never will it betray
the flaws
in neither an other worldly
symmetry,
nor the immense complexity
of some alternate geometry.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 5:17 PM UTC
It's Rainy Again. The Four Day Storm Is Lethargically Pulling It's Rain Filled Belly Across The Sky. The Air Smells Of Crispness And Decaying Leaves; Dampened By The Warm Droplets Of Water Which Collected Upon Them. The Clouds Cast A Gray Shadow Among The Mist Filled Air, Making Even A Smile Seem Somewhat Gray And Tasteless. The Dawn Is Quiet, The Retreat Of Songbirds Evident, The Scent Of Fall Prominent; Clinging To My Clothing. My Eyes Linger, Tracing The Rigid Edges Of The Storm Above. The Masculine Brim Of The Thunderheads Reminded Me Of The Storm Inside Your Eyes, One I Have Witnessed Many Times. One I Have Danced In, Took In, Loved You In. Though Now, Only A Drought Lurks In The Borrows Of My Soul, For You And Your Storm Have Deserted Me, Leaving Nothing But A Calm And Tangible Gray.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 6:01 PM UTC
The time she feels she's truly free
Is when she's lost in poetry
Rhymes blow away her sorrows
Strength from words she borrows
To live another day
She feels every word on every page
Love, sadness, hope, happiness and rage
Her heart smiles with laughter
Breaks when there's no happily ever after
While in bed she lays
Jan 19, 2022
Jan 19, 2022 at 7:33 PM UTC
Space to make change an indelible part of life
Encourage the stagnant side to enliven its speech
Flourishes of energy folding in on one another
Pecking, their beaks marking time with biting tongues
Sqeamish reminders of circus clowns vying for laughs
Staring eyes and red painted smiles freakishly scaring
The innocent rosy cheeked wondrous audience
Clapping the skin from their fingers while querelous
Adults sit bored hoping to borrow a new time zone
Spot checking the interest of those encroaching their space
Space to make change an indelible part of life
To fool the viewer of the showcased goods before their
Sell by date, when holding onto stagnation pales the hand of change
Quell the nausea that preludes sickness leaving that vile taste
Rancour alongside a grinning mass of stained teeth borrows
Sweating it out with flailing words of ignorant abandonment
Scorching hot tears racing one another, dripping from lowered
Eyelashes, coaxing the seeping colour coated debris to release
To wash away the dirt, leaving streaks of diluted aftermath
Space to make chnage an indelible part of life
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 5:37 PM UTC
I let mosquitoes **** my blood.
Fatigue pulls down on my eye lids
as I watch them. My eyes shut.
Happy and bleeding,
my skin borrows my sight.
Greedy mosquitoes getting drunk;
drunken mosquitoes singing songs.
On my elbows, thumbs and toes
I see them dancing,
I see them floating toast.
Rude mosquitoes. They leave;
they never pay the bill.
With the taste of my blood
they fly away and hide.
I open my eyes, "Here we are!"
Red dots eveywhere and I.
We see them the next day.
Fat mosquitoes. Around they lie.
We want them to wake up but
dead mosquitoes just won't listen.
They just die and die and die.
@mosquito 05/25/2012
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 1:58 PM UTC
Careening moonlight
You show me what I once
Thought was right
I drink now for the sake of mankind
The bullet casings reflect the
Sun as the wine in my cup
Sloshes from right to left and
My own life is not my own -
A price to pay for theft
I love you
You make me
The way I am
And I press my mind
To these keys
And realize everything and
Nothing in the end will
Be alright
In solitude
I pray to creation
Seeing that life is merely
A bottle
And when its empty
It ain't worth a ****
Tasting the stars in their
Brilliance of absence
I recollect my own upbringing
And remember my hallow mother
Singing her nightly hymns
But to begin with memories are
To step in the backgrounds of
Imaginations personal horrors, own borrows,
The lonely tunnels of a city long since dead
That instead of exhaling we try
Inhaling; pressing Death right back
I am young
I am old
I am a story
That has already
Been told
Yet I
Live on
I smile
I smell the scents
Of a world gone and
Past and taste at last
The current of the river
The wind of the crass
A life that has
Already ended
But has no ambition
To Pass
Self held in my own vices
The upstate prices of page to brain
Makes me shutter as the gutter
Winces in its realizations of the brandishing
Blade of the horses with their war
My existence presses Her finger upon
The broken page of the unstoppable cops
Where I stop to think where then my
Life - though good - has spoiled quite abrupt
Oh to obey in sun struck love
Where the only thing that is real is above
But anything I recall I forget
A smile that says to me "not yet"
I once thought I was close
But see now
I am so far away
If asked to stay
I don't know what I'd say
Each countless pride
Has its side
Just like the ocean in Her majesty
And unseen tides
Again
I slip into a smile
A false breathe
As I take my body back
In high stealth
Asking myself
*What exactly
Is the matter?*
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 4:54 AM UTC