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Obadiah Grey Dec 2013
Sphincter factor nine approaches
food for the fish n roaches
methinks its time for me perhaps
to open up the rearward *****.


------------------------------------
AAChoo !!

Oh, liddle sister, Josephine,
you sure don't keep your
nose real clean.
got stalactites
o' pure pea green
my infectious sibling
snot machine.
----------------------------------------
I thought that I might shoot the breeze
with God or Mephistopheles
and ask them please to ease my wheeze
of my bad back and dodgy knees
---------------------------
Croak with the raven
bluff with the crow
the urchin
the field mouse
beneath the hedgerow
in a flurry they scurry
away away go.
Yelp with the *****
howl with the hound
and bay at the moon
till the sun comes around.
------------------------------------------
Gino's bar and grill.

Away, away afore Bacchus
doles out befuddlement
and Morpheus has his way,
lest I awake to find myself
in the company of
sodamistic bedfellows
with buggery in mind.
---------------------------------
Harry Potter has grown a beard
he lives alone and turned out weird.
Dumbledore, Albus, no more
turned his toes and 'ad a snore,
Voldemort, who's *** is taut
has no nose with which to snort.
====================

Ahem !!

Behind two Lilies- sits Rose,
then Daisies
for two and a bit rows.
with Poppy, and *****
Petunia, Primrose.
and Bryony - who gets up
- my nose.
----------------------------------------------
Amen.
God bless the Cows - for beef burgers.
God bless the Pig - for their bacon.
God bless the wife n her sharp knife
for the slice of their **** she's taken.

-------------------------------------------------
We can, no more fetter the sea to the shore
nor the clouds to the sky
or tether the glint
in a lovers eye,
As sure as the shore loves the sea
so shall I love thee, together,
together for eternity,

-----------------------------------

It bends for thee
sweet chevin,
the cane thats cleaved
by three,
wilt thou now
sweet chevin
yield, my friend ,
for me.
-------------------------------------------------
There's Marmalade then Marmite
and Jams thats jammed between
the buttered bread of bard-dom
a poets sweet cuisine.
---------------------------------------------
I took up campanology
and fired up my ****.
I rang that bell
to ******* hell
till the busies
came along.
--------------------------------------------
so, I've been whittling away
at a buoyant ****-
fashioned something approximating
a poo canoe-
in it, I intend to
surf the **** tsunami of old age
to-- death;
I have named it Public - Service - Pension.


----------------------------------------------

A surreptitious delightful tryst,
with my honey, my sebaceous cyst.
she's my pimple, my wart,
my gumboil consort.
she's the zip, in which
my *******, got caught.
--------------------------------------
Frayed at the bottoms
ripped at the knee.
baggy and saggy
big enough for three.
faded and jaded
and stained with ***
but I'm due for a new pair--
Yippeeeee!!

---------------------------------------

Ther­e's Cockerel in my ear
and he bills and coo's for you
whenever you are near
goes - **** a doodle doo !!!!!,,,,,,,,

---------------------------------------------

Oh,­ for the snap shut skin
in the blue twang of youth
and to un-crack the spine
on the book of love.
now the gulping years
have flown away
we take sips of the night
and are spoon fed the day.

-----------------------------

Zeus made the Moose to be somewhat obtuse,
a big deer- rather queer- I fear.
then God gave him the nod to look funny and odd
the spitting image of you - my dear !!!

---------------------------------------

Knobbly Nobby.

Nobby has a great big nose
a great big nose has he,
and nobby knows
that his big nose,
is big, as big can be,
nobby has two knobbly knees
two knobbly knees has he,
his knobbly knees,
are as knobely
as knobbly knees can be,
don’t pity dear old nobby
for soon it’s plain to see,
that nobby has a great big ****
as big, as big as three !
now nobbys **** is knobly,
as knobly as a **** can be,
so nose and knee and ****
make three,
and we - are ****- ely.

----------------------------------

The Woman that wouldn't eat meat,
had reeaally, reeaally big feet,
her **** was as big as an hermaphrodite brig
and her **** were as hard as concrete….


--------------------------------

Hearken the clarion call of the crows
afore the snow-
they caw,
hey, get your **** into gear lads-
we gotta feckin go !!!

-----------------------------

Gods pad

I took a peek within
your house
wherein on pew, I spied
a mouse,
and in his hand,
a Bible clasped,
and out his mouth,
a parable rasped,

---------------------

I'd say she had
a pigeon loft in
her eyes and
bluebells up
her nose.

But then again
I wear a flat cap

and stroll through meadows.

----------------------------

Would you care to buy our house?
It's minus Mouse n devoid o' Louse,!
Spiders, Roaches, Bugs or other,
have all been eaten by my brother,
snaffled up n swallowed down
then jus' crapped out a - yellowish brown.
so would you care to buy our house?
from an oddly pair -- devoid of nous

-------------------------

Though the Crows got her eyes
and the Worms got her gut.
comes as no surprise
death can't keep her mouth shut.

-------------------

Bevelled slick edges
and reeaal eeaasy slopes.
Chilli dip wedges
with fresh artichokes.
Wanton loose wenches
and swivel hipped ******
Daft dawgs and dentures
and granddad - who snores.

-------------------

Been whittling away at a buoyant ****
and fashioned something approximating a canoe,
in it, I intend to surf the **** tsunami of old age;
I named it, "Public service pension"

-------------------------------

.
Well,
     I could wax on the wings of a butterfly
but, I ain't that kind o' guy.
rather kick the nuts off ******* squirrels
pluck the wings off - blue assed fly.
I'm the stuff that flops off dog chops
when he's up for it and high.
an infection in your sphincter,
a well
that's jus' run dry.

----------------------------------------------

befeathered­ and bright scarlet
is my ladies bonnet,
jauntily askew and -
lilting on a paramours
grin.

"- Gladlaughffi -"

I'm reliably informed that dear ol' Muma
sported a goatee around his **** sphincter,
now, whilst this is merely educated speculation
from my esteemed friend his "groom of the stool" ! 
who was in fact required to wear a mask,
ear muffs and a blindfold whilst he went about his business,
He did possess reeaaally sensitive fingertips
somewhat akin to a blind man reading brail,,
and, swore blind that said "**** sphincter' spoke him in Arabic
and asked him for a quick trim, (short back and sides)
I myself being a practising proctologist of some repute
am inclined to believe my friend the "groom of the stool"
as I've come recognise -- Arsolian when I hear it !!!!!!!!
-------------------------------------

In a Belfast sink by the plughole
where hair and gum gunk meet
'erman the germ-man  and toe jam
bop the bacillus beat.

________

Doctor this I know as fact
that I have a blocked digestive tract,
I'm all bunged up and cannot go
my trump and pump is - somewhat slow.
I need unction jollop for junction wallop
some sorta lotion to give me motion.
If you could please just ease my wheeze
then I needn't grunt and push and squeeze.

-----------------------------

They are breaking out the thwacking sticks
and sparking Godly clogs
pulling tongues through narrowed lips
at the infidel yankee dogs.

------------------------------------

As a paid up member of the
lumpen bourgeoisie poetry appreciation society
I can confirm without fear of contradiction
that poetry is indeed baggy underwear
with ample ball room, voluminous in the extreme
and takes into account
the need for the free flow of flatulent gassiness
that is the want of a ****** up poet.

-----------------------------------------------

She's a rough hewn Trapezoidal gal
a gongoozler o' the ol' canal.
She's copper bottomed n fly boat Sal.

I'll have thee know that
that there hat
is a magic hat,
it renders me invisible
to the arty intelligentsia
and roots me firmly
in the lumpen proletariat .
-------------------------------------------------------
Said the sneaky Scotsman, Jim Blaik.
if the pension, you wish to partake,
bend over my son, lets get this thing done
and cop for this thick trouser snake !!

I met my uncle Albert,
down at Asda, in aisle three;
he got there in a Mazda,
jus' a smidgen after me,
said he'd traversed Sainsburys,
Tesco Liddle n the Spar,
but not one o' them flogged Caviar
Truffles or Foie gras.


He sidled past the pork pies
streaky bacon turkey thighs
a headin for the french fries
n forsaken knock down buys,
shimmied 'round the ankle biters;
expectant mums to be,
popin pills for bloated ills
in the haberdashery.

Fandango'd o'er the cornflakes
and the spillage in isle four

-----------------

I'm linier and analogue,
a ribbon microphone man
mired in the dust of the monochromatic,
the basement, the attic.

------------------------------

Simple simon met miss Tymon going to the fair,
said simple simon to miss Tymon - "pfhwarr what a luverly pair"
of silken thighs and big brown eyes and scrumptious wobbly bits,
Said simple Simon to miss Tymon---------- shame about you **** !!!

So sad sweet Shirl thought she'd give a whirl to clubbercise n pound

Squat, slightly,
tilt head 45°
and squint.
See the shimmering blurry
dot in the distance?
That, timorous ****,
is ME !
Fast twitching my
narrow white ****
to the pub.

There was a young lady named Sue.
whose ***** and **** was askew,
whilst taking a ****
she'd aim it and miss
and she lifted 'er hat when she blew.


Oh Mon Dieu !!

Obi.
Shawn H Reeder Sep 2015
Peer deep within my eyes
and you'll see all I despise.
Inevitable pain between the highs.
Love is gone, said my last goodbyes.

All I ask is for some company please.
My soul is forever in a deep freeze.
From me, you took all but this disease.
All my dreams float away like a breeze.

Your face is forever printed in my mind
like brail that is provided for the blind.
Passion is everywhere, yet I still can't find
myself in this darkness, my soul unrefined.
t Jan 2015
I wondered if I was too soft, too pliable, to bendable, to breakable

I wondered if my sensitiveness would be better served on a censorship list

if it would be better to weather my own emotions until they eroded

a road not known to be so gentle

because when you're always spoken to like a mistake

it starts to be the only thing you can taste and you end up feeling less like great and more like pain

my mother swears that I am the air that she breathes

so when they diagnosed her, I hope the doctors didn't blame it on her environment

and when my friends would talk about that chick and wanna bone her

 bone would carry me back to the skeletons in my closet

while they were only concerned about getting in between that girls hips, when they ***** her

              I wanted to be that girls hips, the bones inside of her

                    because without me she couldn't move alone

                                   and without her heartbeat

                                           I'd just be bones

I can't tell you how many times my friend Maddy was battered up on   homeless plate

but we still dug out love

she was rocked quite often, but was one hell of a mountain climber

she payed a hefty price to wear his fists, and they were the most expensive eye makeup I've ever seen

when my friends would brag about how many lamp shades they would look under in their room, how many metaphorical lamps laid on the nightstand surrounding their bed

my mother always said if I let them shine in my mind, I wouldn't need not even one night stands

    I hold them high

                   spell a woman

                                a woman is a
                         man
                   on
            wo

and you can still be fly if you land on one

disrespect them, and we're kicking dirt on the land from which we all grow

while most guys are treating the inside like a candy store, I found that all the getting inside in the world don't matter until you feel like you've found your golden rapper

while most guys are wishing that girl is blind enough to see their ulterior motives

they've forgotten most women have super powers

all they see are invisible men, and I wanted to make her feel my words like brail to the unseen

I wanted to bring life to those frozen in time words once told to her

because those 'I love yous' and 'I miss yous' from her exes were paralyzed from the neck down

they were just trying to get ahead, and once alive, need oxygen to live

and sooner or later she was only living to breathe life into those words, and I wanted to breathe life back into her

my mother taught me things

she said, just because someone before you  

                             spent time in her boiler room
    
                                 doesn't mean they turned

                                              the heat on

she said, no matter who smashed you make sure you love that girl to pieces

a girl's past is like cremated ash, it's been lived already

my mother said, kisses are like stitches, they heal all wounds as long as they don't remain hidden in a bottom right corner of special occasion birthday cards

       because every kiss does not begin with k, they begin with lips

                                         and so does every life

                       It's time for us guys to start

                 respecting where

         we came

    from.
Styles May 2014
Drawn blood,
From crossed lines.
It never fails,
The amount climbs.
The walls mark,
Targets; future sales,
Truth be told,
or it be written in brail.
The heart will always feel,
because tender, tend to fail.
Ousmane Iacavoni Jul 2016
I swear that I see god when I look you in the eyes
And when you smile at me a new universe is made from the Big Bang that is my heart beat
People say good things come in time but I think timing is irrelevant
because when you're in love time doesn't exists
Time is a child at two in the morning tiptoing around to try not to wake it's parents
But it doesn't matter because time could be a marching band walking over my body and I still wouldn't  notice it
Because my love will always be timeless  
If I could read your fingerprints like Brail, I would allow you to write a story on my body
And then I would read myself, from beginning to end learning to love every part of me the way you do
The same way I love you, relentlessly, uncontrollably and unapologetically
I don't believe in destiny but I **** sure believe in miracles
There are 7.12 billion people in the world and I got to meet you
You see when I'm with you I swear I could walk on water, and turn the water to wine as I pass
I know when we hug I've never been closer to God, and he speaks to me through your heartbeats
He tells me to remember to breath when I'm around you because I often forget
That's why there is no one in the world like you, people would drop dead while you take their breath away
And me? Well You can keep my breath, and every other part of me because now and forever I'm yours
Cyril Blythe Jun 2013
Grumble

Of pugs. Or old men. Correlates to the grouping
of wrinkles: smile lines (down) whiskers (up). Synonymous to a gaggle of geese. Or women.
A grumbleman steps on the Pug's tail
and a passing girl hears
a crack, yelp, ****. She turns to help
but the grumbleman is gone and the pug
with him. She wonders why her neighbor's car
is still at her Mom's house? Why her Mom
wants to be called Veronica not Mary. One night she dreamed Veronica dancing on their roof
in the rain holding tight to an old red picture whispering to a woman on the lawn dancing
dry in white. She tried to call out to Veronica
she saw her slipping, but when she touched her lips
She felt them sewn shut with coarse, wet thread. Veronica turned and flew to her, to the window, grabbing her hands forcing fingers to feel
the brail graven into her Mother's giggling teeth that read, Don't look, your father will be bleeding soon. She awoke and her window was bound
in greased black leather. The floor ashen. Her lips still sewn
shut.

Anne stood,
picked out her fathers bones
Veronica had sewn into her
pillowcase
and
she
danced.
saige Mar 2018
no count-downs for birthday parties
no arm wrestles, no jump shots
no go-cart donuts
not even a snowball

where did we go?

blond hair
up to my shoulders
surrounded by jewels
some empty-paned picture frame
couple sprouts beneath a pine
saying "monkeys" for Grammy's kodak
red clay on your feet
pink frosting in your teeth
me, sheathed in my favorite shirt
"I'm the big sister!"
with a butterfly depicting
what I've yet to become

how wrong have we gone?

well, I'll be twenty
once spring rolls around
and brother
you're not far behind
I can't tell time
to change its mind
but I promise you
it won't be changing mine
from the photographs, scrapbooks
I'll forever feel your laughter
just like goosebumps
the brail I'm reading into
let's gaze past glares
straight through white sunbeams
spiking your brown eyes
twice as deep as mine
the truest shades
on the face of the earth
to this very
foggy day
this mirror, this moment snagged
before shutters snap
and capture us, splatter us
on matte paper, or cell screens
with brown hair
up to your shoulders

way to go, little brother
but I'm still keeping that tee
because the only thing
I've always been proud to be
is your big sister
Em MacKenzie Jan 2019
I’m a written and published open book,
you just have to read past the first chapter.
You skimmed the pages and took a look
at the last line to see if there was a happily ever after.
But like most things it’s up to interpretation,
left open ended in way for a hopeful sequel,
‘cause like all things true it’s plagued with complication,
but our story has no end and it has no equal.

And you, you were my favourite memoir,
your depth lined the thesis of a never ending essay.
I became inspired so I held an impromptu seminar,
a whole panel to if your picture was sepia or artistically grey.
I memorized every single thing you said,
every cryptic metaphor, every perfect rhyme.
I’ve lost count of how often that I’ve fully read,
and I still don’t understand after all of this time.

You’re a novel and I’m a novelty,
but you need a title; what should it be?
I’ve been writing you so that the whole world can see,
the way you shine bright effortlessly.

You were my own personal thesaurus and dictionary,
providing different words to dress up each thought.
You’re a first and only edition; what a rarity,
laced with metaphors and satire that’s barely caught.
You’re what Shakespeare aspired to always write,
and you accomplished it simply by being born.
I’d translate you to brail so those without sight,
could hear about you and the beauty they now mourn.

You’re a novel and I’m a novelty,
no need to proofread, no cause for editing.
I’ve been writing you so that the whole world can see,
the way you shine bright, always illuminating.

I’m a prologue,
and we’re the conclusion.
My authors note; the words of a demagogue,
but the details still lack any illusion.

You’re a novel and I’m a novelty,
I’ve memorized every word and dissected them cautiously.
I’ve been writing you so the whole world can see,
and once they skim the synopsis; they’ll never stop reading.
JJ Hutton Dec 2012
I'm a bald man now. Ever read the Book of Job? I like how he copes. The change is not purely aesthetic. That bothers me. When people cut their hair, tan their bodies, or lose weight for the sole purpose of hearing blinking friends and distant cousins say you've changed.

I'm sorry to hear about Tim's dad. I'm sure he'll get better. I'd say, I'm glad you two are getting back to normal, but I don't feel optimistic enough to lie. Tonight, I'm tending to a toothache. Covering one end of a cocktail stirrer, dipping it in scotch, and using it as a medicinal dropper. After typing that sentence, I realized the absurdity of this situation. Trading surgical for savage pulls from the bottle.

Heather came over on Halloween. I ran a bath for her. She nursed a fading cigarette while sitting on the edge of the sink and with a wet paper towel wiped off her stage makeup. She told me she had twelve piercings. Then she said people usually ask her where they're at. Some information reveals itself.

I could hear hummed melodies through the wall as she bathed, as I made my bed. Lit three candles. Sprayed some Febreze to cover the stench of my existence. She came in wearing my robe. Without makeup, she looked boyish. Lost, angry.

Her breathing didn't comfort me. She drifted to sleep quickly. As bizarre as it sounds, I could feel Karen in the room. She was the moving shadows. She was the branches scraping against the house. She was the light I left on in the closet. To spite her, I woke Heather up.

I traced her piercings like a holy diary pressed in brail. I sank teeth into hipbone. Sharpened. The *** was short. To be expected, I suppose. Three years of celibacy. She told me it surprised her that it took me this long to sleep with her.

Why did you let me? I asked.

Heather smiled a waving tightrope. Confident. Off-balance. She said I was warm. I was predictable. Like a country music song. I gave her my back. Turned on the television.

I haven't talked to her since. The thing about being born again is, sometimes when you've think you've died, you've only had a bad dream. A more final death lurks. Let's hope she killed me. Now, bald like an idiot babe, I'll try to start. No vanity. You were right. The adventure kicks off when I learn to love myself. Looking at the uneven bumps on my shaved head, I've already developed a crush. I'll apologize in my next letter.
Joseph Childress Sep 2010
The music
Somehow
Managed to be
Manifested
By the duo
A deaf girl
And a blind boy
Worked
To create this work
Of art
One reads
The notes allowed
While the other strokes
The keysIn synch
They play together

Brail fails
To satisfy the imagination
And the
The hand signs
Signal
Your handicapped
Incapabilities
In case instability
Isn’t enough
To remind her

Reminders forgotten
By forging talents
Forming
As a Shaper of souls

The
Lost and found
They create a presence
Presented
As a musical performance

The conformants
Go with the flow
And accept their fate
Society tells
This peculiar pair’s
Tale
Is unlike any other

Fate begs for a chance
To show her powers
While the duo denies
Kurt Carman Apr 2016
As the blue moon climbs over the Potomac River,
I lay my tired body down next to the planted field.
Momma tells me that I’ll turn 13 tomorrow; my birthday wish….to be free
Like brail, the scars on my back speak to the humility in my life.
My dog Jip lays beside me and with a warm tongue conveys everything will be fine.

It’s the early fall here at Georgetown University
My name is Cornelius, Cornelius Hawkins and I write these words so you know my plight.
Here with me are my father, mother and 2 yr old sister.
We toil the field from dawn to dusk…the salt herring and cornmeal give us strength.
And my hands are forever clinging to this rosary and I pray God will hear my prayers.

I can’t begin to tell how afraid I am each and every day.
I try not to dwell on our strife and struggles, but day dream of downright happiness.
My family and our ancestors before us have been confined to slavery for 200 years.
Momma always says “There is no slavery, just ignorance”.
I hold her words near and dear to my heart and I never give up hope for a better life.
Unfortunately, Cornelius Hawkins never got the life he prayed for. Cornelius was one of the 272 slaves at Georgetown University and all were sold off to keep the school running. I read a recent article in the NY Times about GU272 and felt compelled to try and convey some of Cornelius Hawkins thoughts. I labored over this for days. Spent a fair amount time researching as much information about GU272 that I could find. Although I know I'll never come close to knowing the entire story, what I do know is that Cornelius is in a better place today and I can't wait to meet him in the by and by. RIP Mr. Hawkins!
Nova Flames Apr 2013
sip on this game direct from the tree of knowledge
im trapping in the forest; nocturnal like that owl,
im that black panther, ninja on the prowl
highly melenated, ALL BLACK, no darth vader
highly medicated, NO SNACKs, or now and laters...
never chasing paper nor running for the mayor, haters looking for a savior
its clear they don't love their self
I'M riches in my health, stash crystals in my wealth
if your calcified then you don't feel me like felt
you buckle under pressure why purchase cheap belts?
call me Mr wizard as i place you beneath my spell
unlimited vigor feather light on the scale!
even if i were brail, still no one could touch me.
if life WERE a ***** i bet she'd bee UGLY
non the less that phrase stands uncorrect
13 LOVE 13 Raspect.....
Emily K Fisk Jan 2017
Read more.
Words are the map fragments of wisdom you need to navigate your way in a world constantly sending you searching for that which you don’t yet have a name.

Write more.
And don’t keep it to yourself.  Your voice deserves to be heard too so scream in cursive and whisper in all CAPS, bleed through paper and heal through the spines of notebooks
you’re spiraling onto something, breathe in commas and step over periods because you’re not over
you’re the most beautiful run-on sentence

paint more.
You’re an artist whose perspective warrants an audience,
so leave cerulean fingerprint traces in your titanium touches,
mix gesso with mars and be alizarin against charcoal

stand out. And stand up.

Find adventure in the every day.  Skydive through small talk, zip line through steps up stairs without an end,
life is the ellipses in silences your eyes seek to make stories,

explore.
This world. People. This city you’ve landed yourself and take calculated risks.

Tiptoe through moshpits and stomp through meadows.
Cartwheel into concrete conversations headfirst eyes wide open,

be vulnerable, to those who deserve to see the rawest parts of you.
And leave the ones who’d rather exploit them behind

leave others’ opinions behind.  Let them be the ones collecting dust.
You are stronger than you’ll ever know and ten-fold what they’d ever expect.

So let them guess.
Be the question mark in the corner they can’t place.

Your story is complicated.  But that makes you interesting.
What doesn’t challenge you doesn’t change you and you’ve been challenged each and every day

you get out of bed and speak when so easily you could’ve lost your voice the night you lost your body.
It took you some time and a few nameless faces to claim it again and you’re still working out what that means,
you’ve always had your own way
but all the ****** assault pamphlets name this normal.

[For once it’s a label you don’t detest.]

So this year be normal if you so choose, but also be weird.
Be loud, not small, be confident, and not sorry.
Take up space.
You deserve to.

You are Woman and you are Strong.

Push, but don’t ever shove.
Love unapologetically and fiercely.
But don’t force what a boy is not willing to give.

Find someone who will pay your heart the same attention he does your body.
Scratch that,
find yourself.

Read your body’s brail, your chapters of goosebumps, and play chess with checkers across your skin.
Unlearn and relearn and unlearn and learn to remember you are enough and it is your turn.

Look in the mirror and accept the pieces looking back are in progress.

Keep writing.

Watch the moon make way for the sun. Be brighter than both.
Let your irises draw constellations across galaxies unwritten.
Move so far forward, you stop having a reason to look back.

Forgive that which you cannot change.
You’ll make more mistakes, scrape more knees and trip on chainlink chokers, your jewelry limbs you haven’t yet untangled.
But forgive yourself.

Kiss the boy. Kiss the girl. Kiss no one.
Live in the present tense and with future declaratives.
Appreciate the thousands of little moments still looking to be made yours. Make them yours.

You are worth all the struggle.  Don’t forget.

Be kind but don’t rewind.  
Stay authentic even when you don’t make sense and your words aren’t oil enough to separate

paddle through the waves eyes closed if you have to,
the salt may burn your scars and you may lose your bearings, but keep going.
Maybe this is the year you’re going to learn to swim.
in progress because aren't we all unfinished
m daly Jan 2019
my hand writing isn’t flowing
curving cursive
like a finger teasing down your spine
it’s rough
like the goosebumps
i wish i gave you
i want to decipher the brail on your arms
but i am not bold enough to touch you
Хейли Jan 2014
What if the walls of your rosebud,
can read the bumps of my tastebuds,
as if they were brail,
and you discover all the lies
that it once formed into sound?
How truthful would my tastebuds feel,
if it headliner in the paper always read,
"I am changed" in the daily news?
steel tulips Nov 2013
Hazel Eyes
with liquid gold,
once flickered glances,
now reckless ghosts,
etched in brail on my skin and bones.

Grey Eyes
  freckled with icy blue,
gazes at me tender,
stares at me hungry,
trying to absorb the sight of me.
Afraid he might lose the likes of me.
STIO Dec 2012
I said i’ll laugh in a minute when your jokes gets funny,
Don’t act surprised, your not made of money,
Iv’e seen pain in heaps of bare blood junkies,
Don’t push me around, Audrye.


My heart is covered in charcoal black,
You mark your steps in spots exact,
And slowly make your cashed attack,
You’ve got your eyes set, Audrye.


I’m pined and scared in paisley shade,
These foreign motels have set ashamed,
The torn wallpaper drips like raid,
These cuts are new, Audrye.


Mind over matter, and brains over brawn,
You act sympathetic, but sympathy is far gone,
Explosions of flesh, Odes and Psalms,
You know when i can’t breath, Audrye.


Pure lovers we were, white crested in brow,
Neither pure lovers or lovers are we now,
We once had blankets of untouched snow,
Im ashamed but with no regret, Audrye


The doors to the room have all been locked,
and all airways and stairways have all blocked,
Let the heat build and all carbon stocked,
I’m taking you with me, Audrye.


All my attempts futile, of death and suffocation,
We will both die surely in horrid frustration,
‘This time is sad when so beautiful and amazing’,
-Two men watched her pass, Audrye


The one was new to the room and rose
He had slipped through the barriers, set to appose
her eyes did see him in red roman robes,
He lifted the brail frame of Audrye.


With the lady secure in his tangled grasp,
he took time to notice the two lovers past,
not a single piece of solidity left tact,
He left in silence, holding Audrye.



Days did go, and health too strive,
She found peace in the home she did arrive,
He nursed her wounds, but wished nothing to bride,
She had found piece at last, Audrye.


Body first and mind the second,
Her flesh was healed but time revealed the present,
What the man found was scarred, now free but pregnant.
Was there no escape for Audrye?


She laid crying in her sickness new,
Her tongue was cut, in pure silence she grew,
She pleaded to leave past lovers adieu,
But bore the child of a dead man, Audrye.


Now months time past, and not a single word said,
The man tended her breast, and never left her bed,
Her pure white that blackened, now turned red,
She saw his compassion, Audrye.


One word came with one more week,
And a sentence saw darling aprils peak,
The haunting shadows had little to reap,
Who is this man? said Audrye.


He new her price and new her shame,
He truly loved with out knowing her name,
How could he care without expecting the same,
Love is funny, Audrye


As the child reached morning, his home still open,
As she sat and cried, a widows hoping,
It had been a night of a pain, the man watched her broken,
He stood from the window, Audrye.


The night of the expected came and she wept,
Ashamed of the burden, holding love and regret,
Silently she passed his door, and slowly down the step,
This was her mistake only, Audrye


The gravel pushed the souls of her feet,
Crying in pain she screamed at the streets,
A contraction, compassion, she woke him from sleep,
She searched away for help, Audrye.



He cursed himself for closing his eyes,
He knew why she ran, and knew why she cries,
He had to tell her this, his love uncompromised,
He went for her, Audrye


Her body was still, and leaned on an oak,
As he made his way on foot down the road,
The country air was thick, and low,
But she saw him through the fog, Audrye.


Tucked in the thicket to hide from his aide,
Hoping he’d pass, she couldn’t bare such shame,
Across her lap, the new born laid,
Wrapped in her coat, Audrye.


As he rushed onward, forward in search,
He nearly passed her sunken perch,
But a cry of wisdom from the blessed birth,
Stopped him in his tracks, Audrye.


Nimble and weak, he lifted her once more,
With a child makes two is what a family makes for,
That night they lay together, all three on the floor
Culmination of bliss,
On her brow a gentle kiss,
Audrye.
kego Aug 2014
I really missed you

If you were here i would first start at the roots, making my way through the strands of your hair, just to remind my hands where it all started.

Then i would make my way down to your ears, but my mouth would be mute because im up to my ears in unwritten words!! Rather i would let my heart speak andhopefully you could decipher its truest ache.

On your neck i would leave the kind of kisses only known by those who have lost their soulmates in war, yet still write that message in a bottle hoping by some miracle, the letter find its way to their lost love! the magic used to seal such a letter is true loves most sincere kiss!!

On your body my hands would explore like one blinded for the first time eager to learn brail, just to be able to cmmunicate with the help of my fingers, i would re-discover the contours of your body!! & With the excitement of one who is about to have their first kiss, my lips would explore the texture's of your skin.

My fingers again like an eager brail student would cool the soles of your feet, like one who's journey has been long yet only begun.

After all that i would embrace you! & like past african tribes who commmunicated with the universe through the beating of a drum and chanting! my breath would silently chant audible wordsto your ears, while my heart like the drum beat reaches out to yours!

But after all that i wouldnt DARE embrace your lips! That would be for you to choose to do as a response to me sharing my entire BEING with you~(@^_^@)~
Just really missed someone
taylor roff Mar 2013
I like to read ***** poems
In a clean pair of slacks
Dead sober
On my hands and knees

I like to read ***** poems
In brail
Fingers like travelers
Searching for mounds of filth

I like to read ***** poems
In church
Battling old women
In there Sunday war garments

But most of all
I love reading ***** poems naked
With hands  raised high
Screaming loudly
In hopes that some filth rubs off on my life
Curt A Rivard Sr Sep 2013
Subliminal messages they all give to thee
Telling me to reveal to their family
All the things they said to me.
Out there mouths the tales are told
After the casketing the letter X
With their arms I do fold.
Penning these words a gift I have been given
I write for the dead and I write for the still living.
Many a story, many a tale
Before it is to late there’s a special one
That I need to write that is in brail.
It’s time to lock your music box now
Locking you in forever your helping me on my quest
I hope to see you again someday soon
Till then have a good rest.
(SirCARSr. 9-04-13)
Nicole Feb 2020
These scars lay on my skin
Delicately placed by surgical blades
Carefully crafted into my skin
They are art
They are a part of me
As always
I love these residual lacerations
This brail across my body
Telling my story for me
To those primed to receive it
The soft pink tissue raises slightly on my right
Agitated and stretched
Red from my inability to afford
Additional healing time away from work
Imperfect
Uneven
Visible
Beautiful
I love these pieces of myself
I love watching their journey
Through recovery and lifting
Feeling the changes tingle across my skin
As my body begins to trust me again
A piece about the scars I have across my chest from top surgery. It was the most life changing moment for me and one of the best decisions I've made for myself
Mary Apr 2012
In the dark velvet lining of a humid gilded box
is a little china doll:
a delicate charm for her grandmother's gold bracelet.
She lies languid. Her sinews are chains and her bones glass.
Light swarms through her: a mess of wispy snakes.
At noon
it bounces wildly like the pinball game
she's heard so enthusiastically described
in a wildly raucous rock and roll song.
Tentatively she reaches for the stars painted through her hair
raised a bit like brail and hot to the touch.
They're made of fire billions of miles away.
They have halos radiant at midnight.
At midnight
the humid gilded box
is damp and muggy and she twists and wakes
sullen with panic and covered in stardust.
The grime of the moon coats her gingham dress,
collected as she skidded to home plate.
Precious Darling,
Bless her heart,
for unbeknownst to her the humid gilded box
is within a teapot,
upon a shelf,
within a cupboard,
beside a grandfather clock
that chimes at each curly hour and rattles the gilding
so that as the hours pass - as the days disappear:
her darling little precious box
dims like the tapestry her grandmother hung
to mourn the grandfather clock.
Deigh Walker Nov 2012
Where do I begin?

Should it be at the height of fog hours,
doping up infallible images of affection,
among sifting smugness,
end over end in my sun-stroke mind?

Should it be it all tore down from closed doors,
every imperfection, every cyst, reworked by
some sort of Mortician,
consumed by grandeur for his practice?

Or should it be at the exact
moment
that all was realized– astuteness to
how fragile every meter of my unused offal really is?

Second to sick second, and day to well day,
all woven itself into a tapestry thats harder and harder to recall

Sew the squares, and caress the texture with tips of printless fingers
Each inch calls– no, howls –out into the basin where I sit

Howls of pain
                                 howls of stone
howls of criticism
                               howls of analysis
ripping through the brail that's sung to the bone

Tell to beg, where do I begin?
Adam B Feb 2010
idiosyncratic motions define circular thoughts and notions
grasped ideals let go in the oceans of confusion
scrambled morse code messages spelled out in brail
depict battlefields and hospital wards
sanctuaries for chaos, chapels for the wicked.
devils hidden beneath PR departments and counsels.
Put into place to distort and misplace,
the bane of clarity, cancer to the soul.

More should and could be made of this
Alas aesthetics argue and compel us to believe
lost in external endeavors, spiraling into catatonic outbursts.
Has this become the norm? We've been conditioned to accept.

The body of a man, running on the fumes of better days.
Left with nothing but ideals looking forth to better ways.
We've succumb to society and its rule.
The leader points his fingers, declares them wrong
and we play the fool, drinking from the puddles of congressional drool.
Wrapped around their fingers, yarn to their spool, we've let them mold
and take rule. Sold our souls, made way to power tools and flashy jewels.
It's the gift of "freedom", buy and consume. Don't worry about this,
they'll handle the rest.
I felt the hair on your cheek like brail standing and screaming, as your breath whispered into my ear.
Down the canal like a Venetian rower it flowed until it rested rhythmically on the pulse of my heart.
Passion fills the moments between the repositioning of our pupils, and in staring
I paint a moon in the dark spot of your eyes.
That moon, poised against the friction of blinks, glows brightly causing vibrations like wind blown grass through face.
Your neck extends and your head shift-tilts, a perpetually still teetotum. My lips grip upon an extension, and we are pulled away.
Pulled, and pushed we collide and the atoms of our souls explode, melding and twisting and engulfing the void separating painted moons and brail.
Eliot Greene Jun 2011
I.
Upon entering into this new life
One must remember to forget
So many things

So that we can come into this natural again
The osmosis of skin within the carefull
Language of rain
Motorcycles grunting to the welcome of the wind

The treadfast of shoes among the open breath of sidewalk
The old pages of a lover
Opened and left upon night
Till the ink and the darkness have become
The same shifting shadow

II.
So many of us enter into this
Silently
Without warning

This skyline and street signs whisper a symphony
A song that is etching its genesis of notes
Upon my bones
A pale brail story that wanders
So close to the lips of this city that one might think
The very buildings are leaning down
To steal them a kiss

This is a festival
For teeth and fingernail
For wrist and hip
And the ever elongating spine

III.
Let us come to claim these trespassers
Just as this city has come to claim us
The same way we claim
Our shadow when we
Turn away from the sun

Such things we leave upon arriving
The endless dust shimmering
In the rising dawn
Kalena Leone Feb 2013
come and kiss me
leave your fingerprints on my chest
imprinted
like brail
because i am blind to how you could
possibly
see me in any other way
than that reflection in the mirror
staring back
glaring back
swearing back
each morning.
tattoos of your every touch
black ink borrowed from the pen i wish
could inspire you
move you
grace your back
let me draw all over you
my doodles of 9/11
and how the people fell
my doodles of animals
and how they fall in love like the people
who fell.
let me make constellations
from your scars and moles
name them after the names I'd name my children
because i wish you had come from me
simply because i have always dreamed
of creating something so beautiful
it took my breath away
*just by blinking.
Jack Piatt Jan 2012
There is no denying it
Love has us
It won’t let go
Two things stand guard at the gate
Preventing this entwinement from blossoming

      You
&
    Me

You can’t give up your security
I can’t give up my freedom
      It is that simple
No need for Dr. Phil
Oprah can’t intervene
This one was already written
We are a storybook
Unfolding
      Page after page
      Line upon line
   Each chapter takes us further
Into uncharted lands
We are a mystery to one another
Like Japanese brail to an English blind man
We fumble through each other
Foolishly – carelessly
Intent on discovering the ending
Never minding the here and now
Wanting a relationship insurance policy
Full coverage
With an anti-heart breakage warranty
And a heart breaking liability
It’s a win win
Yet no one really wins
No grand prize
No parting gifts
Just good byes
    And watering eyes
A sharp pain in the chest
Followed by nights without rest
These are the symptoms of un-groomed love
When tender love and care
Turns into a nightmare
And two adults find themselves
Taking a night course
In third grade flirting
No means yes
And being mean
Is the synonym for
“I really like you”

Confusing **** ...

I know
But it sure beats settling
   For just any
           John or Jane Doe
Alyssa Jun 2015
it was the library
down by the corner
where Oak
and Pleasant Street
crossed every night
that I first saw you.
rugged hands
shifted the pages
of a worn-out Catcher in the Rye
when two spent faces
met one another
like gasoline
sparking up a dimmed campfire.
I took you home;
the sun rose;
and somewhere in between,
when the sheets were dancing
and my fingertips
read your skin
as if it were tattooed in brail
was the moment
I became a writer.




Copyright ©  2015 Alyssa Packard
All Rights Reserved
it was you
Becca Calvillo Oct 2010
I read you like a novel
Finishing you in one sitting.
I browse you like a webpage.
Clicking every single link.
I study you like a text book.
Preparing for my final exam.
I feel you like brail.
Comprehending each and every ridge.
I know the tale you have to tell.
It’s written in your face.
R King Mar 2013
Starlight, Starbright, first star I see tonight...
We have all heard the rhymes,
But sometimes the rhymes are a distraction
Limiting ones vision to a single infinitesimal celestial speck
That we perceived to look upon first
When the whole sky has been opened as if to greet us
And show unto us the mysteries of the universe
If only we know how to read the scrambled brail that are the stars
To listen to the Morse code that the twinkling lights use to signal us all
He who cannot look at the night sky and smile to himself
Cannot be said to enjoy life
For all that is life is contained in the celestial, ethereal bodies
Not foreordained paths but freedom of will,
Life is just the playing field for free will
To determine our eternal resting place
Whether it be Chaos or something a bit more orderly
Me?...I’ve got money on Chaos
Chris Mabaso Apr 2014
I want you to bite my lip until I can no longer speak. And then **** my ex girlfriend’s name out of my mouth just to make sure she never comes up in our conversations. I’m going to be honest, I’m not really a love poet. In fact, every time I try to write about love my hands cramp… just to show me how painful love can be. And sometimes my pencils break, just to prove to me that every now and then love takes a little more work than you planned.

See I heard that love is blind so, I write all my poems in brail. And my poems are never actually finished because true love is endless. I always believed that real love is kind of like a super model before she’s air brushed; it’s pure and imperfect, just the way that God intended. See I’m going to be honest, I’m not a love poet. But if I was to wake up tomorrow morning and decide that I really wanted to write about love I swear that my first poem… it would be about you.

About how I loved you the same way that I learned how to ride a bike: Scared… but reckless with no training wheels or elbow pads so my scars can tell the story of how I fell for you. You see, I’m not really a love poet. But if I was I’d write about how I see your face in every cloud and your reflection in every window, you see I’ve written like a few poems hoping that somehow maybe someway you’ll jump out of the page and be closer to me because if you were here, right now, I would massage your back until your skin sings songs that your lips don’t even know the words to.

Until your heartbeat sounds like my last name and you smile like the pacific ocean, I want to drink the sunlight in your skin.

If I was a love poet, I’d write about how you have the audacity to be beautiful, even on days when everything around you is ugly you see I’d write about your eyelashes and how they are like violin strings that play symphonies every time you blink. If I was a love poet I’d write about how I melt in front of you like an ice sculpture, every time I hear the vibration in your voice so whenever I see your name on the caller ID my heart, it plays hop scotch inside of my chest. Yo it climbs on to my ribs like monkey bars and I feel like a child all over again. I know this sounds strange but every now and then I pray that God somehow turns you back in to one of my ribs just so that I would never have to spend an entire day without you.

I swear, I’m not a love poet. But if I was to wake up tomorrow morning and decide that I really wanted to write about love, my first poem it would be about you. And after all of that she was like, so how do you feel about me? And I said, put it like this: I want to be your ex boyfriend’s stunt man. I want to do everything that he never had the courage to do like… trust you.

I swear that when our lips touch I can taste the next sixty years of my life. And some days I want to swallow stacks of your pictures just so you can be a part of me for a little bit longer. If I could I would sample your smile and then I would let my heart beat, do the bass line, we would create the greatest love song of all time. Whenever, we stand next to each other, love I was the only one made for you and you can be at last my Etta James. I’ll be oh child when you’re in pain or you could be candy coated drops of rain . And together, we could be music.

And when my friends ask if you’re my girlfriend, I’ll say no. She is my musician. And me… I’m her favorite song
Notes (optional)
Grace Pickard Sep 2015
No
You say "you don't know her
She's brilliant
she's understanding
She's the best person I've ever met
she's my hopes
my dreams
(gone)"
A fantastic character

I hate to always be the bearer of truth,
But, I've read her cover to cover
She's shallow and superficial
She puts up a facade of a unique individual and yet she's just within the boundary of normalcy.

I've examined all of her (superfluous) pages of work
And they only skim the surface of humanities skin
Circling around the moles and scars that pucker truth-
Brail for the the blind

I've dug deep within her words and read between each space bar
And there lies no feeling- no emotion...
Sheer unintended apathy

Still-With many attempts:
She doesn't capture the essence of regret or sorrow
She merely spits at its feet
And it shows
Because the pain she displays vanishes
From her readers
From the pages
From the words
From the letters
From the simple spaces
From the idea itself

And yet this somehow captivates you
Yet unbeknownst to you- you are not regret, nor are you sorrow,
You are simply embodying what she barely grasps in hopes to find what lies beneath for yourself

But you're burrowing into someone who hasn't yet lived or loved-
Who can't describe the burning bubbles that pop in your eyes from the tears of contempt
Who can't fathom deflation of breath in your shallowing lungs, nor the dam constricting your veins' blood at loss

She can't break down completely with you dangling along
So
She
Keeps you just within reach to describe something she encounters
Something she caused
Something she can never embody  because  her "emotions" are a half lie:A secure defense
For power over others
Jumbly mumbly not humbly
JustChloe Feb 2017
I use to tell myself I liked celery
That I loved the tasteless crunch
And how it always got stuck in my teeth
I told myself I loved eating it
And it was all I ate
"Celery helps you lose calories I said"
Not that that's why I was eating it
Not that think I need to lose weight
I mean have you seen me
Even though deep. Down I wish y haven't
I use to cut them up into small pieces
And eat them each slowly because
"It's takes your body 20 minuets to realize its full"
As if 3 cut up pieces of celery would fill me
You never finish your plate
One of the lesser rules of the Ana commandments
And yes I followed the Ana commandments
But i didn't have a problem
You see al I wanted to be as light as a feather
So light that when trouble came the wind would take me away
So light that I will float higher than their expectations
So far up and I can't see how I let them down
It wasn't an addiction
I wasn't mentally Ill
I just wanted to be thin
I wanted to be so tiny that I became translucent
People can look through me and see all the things I was to scared to say out loud
I was never a good liar
So when asked if I eat I just laughed and changed the subject
You see people don't look to hard at you
If you learn how to smile and nod
I could see my ribs piercing at the edge of my skin
My shoulder blades looked like wings so maybe one day I could know how it felt to truly fly
And truly be free
My spine riddled my back as if it spelled out help me in Brail
My collar bone perturded  out so I could follow it to my shoulder
I had no muscle
All the widget I had came from my burden of trying to be perfect
Held on my back as my knees buckled under the weight of my own requirements
I was 5'6
And I weighed 105 pounds
Oh how I wanted to get under 3 digits
The numbers were important to me
The number of calories in my lunch and how I could lower them
How many days I would starve
Until my hip bones looked like hers
I was so skinny I started to see the girl in magazines as fat
And every time I stood up the room would go black
But I knew how to hid he dizziness
And he bruises I would get from little things
Baggy clothes
And jokes about high metabolism
Kept people from looking to hard
No one looked close enough
I wanted to be porcelain
As rare as a diamond
And as fragile as my self esteem
So I taught myself to love celery
But never how to love myself
Idk why I wrote this in the past tense
Alyssa Starnes Oct 2010
things break
at the point
of least resistance
that's why
we're *******
shattered
thanks to you
glasses can't
break
walls can't shake
because nothing
is even
here
anymore
i have my words
but they're not heard
they're just cryptic
incisions on paper
like you made on my heart
i can't read them
but i can feel them
brail for my soul
a tale never told
and my love for you
grows old
i'm weary
and i'm shaken
waiting
but i'm taken
by the ghosts of
should have
would have
could have
and maybe a mix of did
but you didn't care
the past is the past
those stones have been cast
and we
didn't last
but who's fault it that
My own thoughts.

— The End —