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J Harris Jun 2015
With chisel and hammer
I carve the length of your legs
and the width of your waists
and the bend of your arms
and the ***** of your shoulders
until I arrive at your brain
where I reach with chisel and hammer
until I come across your spring
of wisdom and knowledge
your fountain of thought and belief.
r Feb 2021
Sometimes I feel like,
your mind could live a life of its own.
Few like yours are left now.
If only I could take your brain from your skull and
draw out the knowledge and the wonder,
squeeze it with mine,
our multi-faceted intelligence meshed together like a badly made clay sculpture.
Like a library of what is.
Then I could keep you forever.

It's just that I needed to know more before you left.
brain dead and feeling mean
no object is unbreakable no action is unforeseen

panic attack
panic attack
panic attack
panic attack

can i shake this craze
my tormentor is myself no exit exists in this maze

panic attack
panic attack
panic attack
panic attack

(repeat)
Don Akasha Jun 2016
What's with this world we're livin in?
Why's it constantly throwing hate our way
when the love is where we're givin in?
I'm never dismissive when
it's comes to letting my thoughts speak
plenty of replenishin when getting caught beneath
the neural pathways of my mind
I've let go of the bad days
that I used to be livin in for some time
used to be blind to the rat race
ended up being consumed by every inch of it
these minutes got me seeking higher consciousness
I'm just trying to build my dreams up into these monuments
that my brain has shown me
all these promises of potential that they always spoke of it seems to have changed the way I think and grown on me
I'm home only to feel like this place is no longer feeling *****
in my zone roaming
around feeling the vibrations in the sounds
and never understanding how
they could feel lonely when they're a piece of the galaxy like you and me now
and forever
I'm better off severing my thought
process with clever lines
feel the positive vibrations through my heart, mind
and soul
I piece together the truths as the time unfolds
try to keep the mind open but sometimes it can be more closed
than you think
that's why I grab the pen and let my brain sync with the ink
break the chains that hold together your mentality and think
about the possibility of radically
changing the way you truly view reality
that point where you begin to question
all the things you've ever learned
at that point in time the mind has turned
into a different leveling system
and although it may seem a little overwhelming
don't be concerned
embrace it and listen
open your mind and learn how society can seem to be so basic
I've been quietly patient for so long
it seemed my dreams started to look shapeless
that's when I made a makeshift bridge
in the paper spaces and realized I could be the creator
of any projection from inside
to discover myself as I uncover what was left on the shelf
many years ago
along with other things
other ideas and other dreams
traded for simple jobs that make me wanna close my eyelids and dream
a legend once said I wanna sing until freedom rings
a question once intercepted made me notice things when I couldn't see my dreams
clouded by mental perception and incidental mis-direction
why do we all seem to search for others acceptance before we look first at our own inner connections
I feel the need to write in order to further discover myself.
Audrey Bautz Mar 2013
I remember the frost that morning,
- painting the window in a satin-white.
How it burned my throat when I inhaled;
the distant scent of someone’s open-fire,
- curling through the atmosphere a thick fragrance of Maple.
The trees dressed in winter’s coat of freshly lain snow.
The sky was hanging low in the mountains as I looked ahead.
I even heard the soft landing of snowdrops
- From the surrounding branches.

My skin felt rough and tight
- as I walked further on,
My nose feeling of someone else’s.
I could feel the pangs of old age hit me
- like a time-bomb.
But it was no use returning,
I only had to march on. Crunch, crunch,
below my snow-boots,
When at last I realized I had reached a gravel road.

The dawn awoke behind the somber mists of clouds.
I could just catch a glimpse of sun-rays within a break.
Oh, how glorious
she bathed me in a pool of warmth
before dispersing at once,
alone again in my frozen world;
Though, I never faltered
and continued to walk down the snowy path.
Crunch, crunch, continued my boots,
my arms swinging right after the other,
Front-to-back, front-to-back.
I scaled the peak of the hill,
(the hill I’d spend all my days upon as a child)
covered in a thick layer of snow;
Its’ features all too familiar to hide.
It aged with me through a life of joy and pain
as though an old friend. And now I stood
- in the place no longer welcoming like it used to be.
My heart filled with a void that I could not process,
- could not or would not.
And the sad scene of my past
only plunged deeper into my consciousness
- pulling from its’ depth a Charles Dickens’s quote.
It is as follows:
“Happy, happy Christmas that can win us back to the delusions of our childhood days, recall to the old man the pleasures of his youth and transport the traveler back to his own fireside and quiet home.”
And deep within a melancholic-faze,
I departed from the distant view of my home.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The bag I carried seemed to grow with each step
and after what I only could have guessed was hours in,
I found myself stooped over a rock
- rummaging the contents of my pack.
I leaned back beneath a frozen Willow and munched on an apple.
Gazing out at the flourishing scene God had bestowed me; the trees mid-thought,
and I wondered what they must have been thinking
- when at that moment, winter’s angry hand
- broke the silent beauty of autumn and shook the trees bare;
their life strewn upon the ground
- and replaced by a thick layer of ice.
But what of the brushes or flowers?
Were they not too silenced, frozen in time?
A thousand questions buzzed through the hemispheres of my brain.

When the clouds would split
- the sunshine would pour in heaping rays of gold in my walk,
- just as she ripened through the morning hours.  
The snow had stopped falling and the stillness of the land comforted me;
Only my thoughts and the random flutter of birds broke the silence.
The snow surrendered beneath my feet,
crunch, crunch,
- gravel shooting high into the air.
My legs carried me aimlessly unbeknownst of the destination.
And overtime, the cold seemed to eat away through my suit, wrapping tightly around my joints;
the pain was more than my aged body would let me bear
- with my heart pumping bitterly through the frozen hemisphere.
The very thought of the beautiful landscape which beheld my gaze,
having ever play a part in bitter sorrow of those even most fortunate,
- boggled the very life of me. And Mother Nature seemed not quite finished,
as she whipped a brisk chill breeze through the bristly oaks.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Sun was my only comfort and I longed for its’ presence.
It danced around the complexities of my synapses with a cruelness,
- Its image just as vibrant in thought, as it would have been before me;
- As though, someone, had pulled the earth closer to the sun.
And the excruciating thought only made the ice colder,
- snow deeper, and wind harder.
I felt tiny needle-like ****** where my skin was bare
- and a cruel pressure as though a force was splitting my flesh in two.
Then, that blinding flash flooding my sight;
I couldn’t see my feet. So strong and powerful,
- I thought I had unknowingly fallen into the center of the earth.
Though my eyes adjusted before any real panic set in, becoming clear.
I looked up and marveled in the exposing warmth;
God smiled upon my weak, aging soul, one last time.
Colors in majestic tones and lifetimes apart
- overlapped the silk shimmer of afternoon sunlight.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Two o’clock and I trudged through the thick snow
- as adamant and determined as the moment I first set foot outside.
My moist hair protruded from beneath my hat,
- a result from the sporadic snowfall.
The trees echoed with the call of birds; their beautiful songs
- bellowed clear and shook the boughs in harmonious celebration.
I felt as though a surge of relentless joy lifted me from the heartache of the walk.
I, was a part of something bigger than I could ever imagine,
- the unity of blood and soul, the bond of humanity and their heritage.
I could see my Ancestors pillaging the forest floors for scraps of food
- walking this very path. Such dream was mine,
to walk hand-in-hand with my family again,
- to rejoice at the sight of snow rather than cringe.
To hear the floorboards creak from the mass of human pressure
- rather than the creeping age of the foundation;
- to hear the echo of my sweetheart down the hall.
There was nothing left to show for a lifetime of love
- but a broken heart and memories, all of which haunted me.
I became so distracted from my journey that I hadn’t realized
- how far off course I was. I gazed at the empty, bare trees,
- for the first time unfamiliar with their presence.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Hours passed and I could feel the wind grow heavy and frequent.
The sky showed no sign of improvement, but only seemed to increase in clouds.
I pulled my coat to me tighter and tucked my hands beneath my arms.
It was not long after, that I found a suitable place to rest.
I gathered all the sticks nearby and cleaned a shallow area of snow.
The wood burned slowly as the surrounding snow liquefied at light-speed.
Its’ immense heat covered my frozen-self in a blanket of warmth
- and I felt the bulk of the journey fall over me.
My eyelids became as heavy as cement blocks.
I decided to compromise this by giving in
- and falling deep into unconsciousness.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
It was not too clear at first
- the hazy grounds in which I found myself.
There wasn’t snow but that of soft spring grass
- and I was no longer aching from frostbite.
I smelled an overwhelming ample of spring blossoms
- accompanying the gentle breezes. The sunlight sat upon my cheek,
- no cloud in sight. Birds swarmed the open sky
- rejoicing the beautiful weather. What was this place? Where was I?  
There were the plumped-fields encircling the full oak trees,
- the wonderful sun showering the land in a ravishing golden light.
“There you are! I’ve been waiting for you.”
The voice startled me in its’ familiarity.
I opened my mouth to speak but no words came.  
“I’ve missed you so much!” It continued.      
Still not a single syllable could I form.
I looked all around,
- but no source could be found as to the whereabouts of the voice.
I forced myself up and stood at a loss.
Searching every corner, every shaded area but returned with no results.
Crunch, crunch, sounded the pitter patter of feet;
I looked around frantically but just as the voice, I remained alone in the field.
Only the crunch, increased, in speed and numbers;
I closed my eyes tightly and covered my ears
- until it was only the pounding of my heart that broke the silence.
A harsh, cold wind began to blow violently against my face
- and my hands stung with the feeling of my skin being pulled from my fingernails.
I strained to open my eyes and then
- found nothing but the thick suffocation of darkness.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Charred-wood remained beneath the remnants of smoke;
Its base still grasping a hint of light within the pile.
My face felt exposed and raw to the chill,
- burning with the intensity of a bonfire.
My fingers beyond that, to the point of numbness;
I couldn’t even feel my lips. I had lost control of my nerves;
I felt a madness possess my senses
and I struggled to contain as much rationality as possible.
I reached into my coat pocket for my matchbox
and with one strike of the flint,
- a tiny brilliant flame danced in direction with the wind.
And the light as though a disease,
- spread rapidly to the remaining wood. My environment became clear
- and I gazed up noticing the presence of the moon.
What time was it?
A sudden grumble arose from within the darkness
and I, continuing to fall in and out of unconsciousness.
But it wasn’t until I nearly dozed off
- that I recognized a most foreign presence; I was no longer alone.
A fierce set of eyes had been watching me; inching closer and closer.
They stared with the intensity of a 1000 hungry eyes
- coming closer until at last I caught a glimpse more of my visitor.
Her fur displayed sheen like that of the ocean at dawn;
Her eyes radiated a beautiful emerald hue.
She refrained from baring her teeth, though I knew why she was there.
I leaned up and between my chattering-teeth I spoke:
“I know why you’re here,”
The words did not come without consequence
for my lips split wide open from the sudden ****.
“. . . But it's not your job . . . not today!”
She studied my indigent-state, as grasped my coat to me tighter.
She sat down where she stood gazing with a longing.
her full-coat folding over her joints as she sunk further into the snow
- resting her head upon her paws, slowly closing her eyes.
And soon I followed suit, closing mine, and drifting off. ©
This is the first chapter in my poetry book called, "The Howl of the Wolf."
Raghu Menon Oct 2015
The air has a burnt smell
It is hot and dry
The streets are  empty
Even the dogs are missing
It is a hot and bright afternoon

People have taken refuge
under the roofs of their homes or work places
Even the trees seem to be mute
So are the birds and the cattle

My throat is dry
My mind is blank
My brain is asleep
Am struggling to keep awake

The weather is strange
The climate is changing
The ponds are dry
The brooks are dusty
with no water to flow

The earth is moving lazy and slow
Time seem to crawling because of the heat
The noon seems to un-ending
The schools are noiseless and sleepy.

It is dusty and hazy
The only wind being because of the
fast moving buses and trucks
and some occasional cars

The windows are closed
so do the doors of the buildings
across the streets
The rich enjoying their siesta
in the air conditioned rooms

The poor, sweating it out
in their places of work
for their daily wages
so that they can have
some food to eat in the night.

so also that
the rich can continue to have
their peaceful siestas
..
Now when Morning, clad in her robe of saffron, had begun to suffuse
light over the earth, Jove called the gods in council on the topmost
crest of serrated Olympus. Then he spoke and all the other gods gave
ear. “Hear me,” said he, “gods and goddesses, that I may speak even as
I am minded. Let none of you neither goddess nor god try to cross
me, but obey me every one of you that I may bring this matter to an
end. If I see anyone acting apart and helping either Trojans or
Danaans, he shall be beaten inordinately ere he come back again to
Olympus; or I will hurl him down into dark Tartarus far into the
deepest pit under the earth, where the gates are iron and the floor
bronze, as far beneath Hades as heaven is high above the earth, that
you may learn how much the mightiest I am among you. Try me and find
out for yourselves. Hangs me a golden chain from heaven, and lay
hold of it all of you, gods and goddesses together—tug as you will,
you will not drag Jove the supreme counsellor from heaven to earth;
but were I to pull at it myself I should draw you up with earth and
sea into the bargain, then would I bind the chain about some
pinnacle of Olympus and leave you all dangling in the mid firmament.
So far am I above all others either of gods or men.”
  They were frightened and all of them of held their peace, for he had
spoken masterfully; but at last Minerva answered, “Father, son of
Saturn, king of kings, we all know that your might is not to be
gainsaid, but we are also sorry for the Danaan warriors, who are
perishing and coming to a bad end. We will, however, since you so
bid us, refrain from actual fighting, but we will make serviceable
suggestions to the Argives that they may not all of them perish in
your displeasure.”
  Jove smiled at her and answered, “Take heart, my child,
Trito-born; I am not really in earnest, and I wish to be kind to you.”
  With this he yoked his fleet horses, with hoofs of bronze and
manes of glittering gold. He girded himself also with gold about the
body, seized his gold whip and took his seat in his chariot. Thereon
he lashed his horses and they flew forward nothing loth midway twixt
earth and starry heaven. After a while he reached many-fountained Ida,
mother of wild beasts, and Gargarus, where are his grove and
fragrant altar. There the father of gods and men stayed his horses,
took them from the chariot, and hid them in a thick cloud; then he
took his seat all glorious upon the topmost crests, looking down
upon the city of Troy and the ships of the Achaeans.
  The Achaeans took their morning meal hastily at the ships, and
afterwards put on their armour. The Trojans on the other hand likewise
armed themselves throughout the city, fewer in numbers but
nevertheless eager perforce to do battle for their wives and children.
All the gates were flung wide open, and horse and foot sallied forth
with the ***** as of a great multitude.
  When they were got together in one place, shield clashed with
shield, and spear with spear, in the conflict of mail-clad men. Mighty
was the din as the bossed shields pressed ******* one another-
death—cry and shout of triumph of slain and slayers, and the earth
ran red with blood.
  Now so long as the day waxed and it was still morning their
weapons beat against one another, and the people fell, but when the
sun had reached mid-heaven, the sire of all balanced his golden
scales, and put two fates of death within them, one for the Trojans
and the other for the Achaeans. He took the balance by the middle, and
when he lifted it up the day of the Achaeans sank; the death-fraught
scale of the Achaeans settled down upon the ground, while that of
the Trojans rose heavenwards. Then he thundered aloud from Ida, and
sent the glare of his lightning upon the Achaeans; when they saw this,
pale fear fell upon them and they were sore afraid.
  Idomeneus dared not stay nor yet Agamemnon, nor did the two
Ajaxes, servants of Mars, hold their ground. Nestor knight of Gerene
alone stood firm, bulwark of the Achaeans, not of his own will, but
one of his horses was disabled. Alexandrus husband of lovely Helen had
hit it with an arrow just on the top of its head where the mane begins
to grow away from the skull, a very deadly place. The horse bounded in
his anguish as the arrow pierced his brain, and his struggles threw
others into confusion. The old man instantly began cutting the
traces with his sword, but Hector’s fleet horses bore down upon him
through the rout with their bold charioteer, even Hector himself,
and the old man would have perished there and then had not Diomed been
quick to mark, and with a loud cry called Ulysses to help him.
  “Ulysses,” he cried, “noble son of Laertes where are you flying
to, with your back turned like a coward? See that you are not struck
with a spear between the shoulders. Stay here and help me to defend
Nestor from this man’s furious onset.”
  Ulysses would not give ear, but sped onward to the ships of the
Achaeans, and the son of Tydeus flinging himself alone into the
thick of the fight took his stand before the horses of the son of
Neleus. “Sir,” said he, “these young warriors are pressing you hard,
your force is spent, and age is heavy upon you, your squire is naught,
and your horses are slow to move. Mount my chariot and see what the
horses of Tros can do—how cleverly they can scud hither and thither
over the plain either in flight or in pursuit. I took them from the
hero Aeneas. Let our squires attend to your own steeds, but let us
drive mine straight at the Trojans, that Hector may learn how
furiously I too can wield my spear.”
  Nestor knight of Gerene hearkened to his words. Thereon the
doughty squires, Sthenelus and kind-hearted Eurymedon, saw to Nestor’s
horses, while the two both mounted Diomed’s chariot. Nestor took the
reins in his hands and lashed the horses on; they were soon close up
with Hector, and the son of Tydeus aimed a spear at him as he was
charging full speed towards them. He missed him, but struck his
charioteer and squire Eniopeus son of noble Thebaeus in the breast
by the ****** while the reins were in his hands, so that he died there
and then, and the horses swerved as he fell headlong from the chariot.
Hector was greatly grieved at the loss of his charioteer, but let
him lie for all his sorrow, while he went in quest of another
driver; nor did his steeds have to go long without one, for he
presently found brave Archeptolemus the son of Iphitus, and made him
get up behind the horses, giving the reins into his hand.
  All had then been lost and no help for it, for they would have
been penned up in Ilius like sheep, had not the sire of gods and men
been quick to mark, and hurled a fiery flaming thunderbolt which
fell just in front of Diomed’s horses with a flare of burning
brimstone. The horses were frightened and tried to back beneath the
car, while the reins dropped from Nestor’s hands. Then he was afraid
and said to Diomed, “Son of Tydeus, turn your horses in flight; see
you not that the hand of Jove is against you? To-day he vouchsafes
victory to Hector; to-morrow, if it so please him, he will again grant
it to ourselves; no man, however brave, may thwart the purpose of
Jove, for he is far stronger than any.”
  Diomed answered, “All that you have said is true; there is a grief
however which pierces me to the very heart, for Hector will talk among
the Trojans and say, ‘The son of Tydeus fled before me to the
ships.’ This is the vaunt he will make, and may earth then swallow
me.”
  “Son of Tydeus,” replied Nestor, “what mean you? Though Hector say
that you are a coward the Trojans and Dardanians will not believe him,
nor yet the wives of the mighty warriors whom you have laid low.”
  So saying he turned the horses back through the thick of the battle,
and with a cry that rent the air the Trojans and Hector rained their
darts after them. Hector shouted to him and said, “Son of Tydeus,
the Danaans have done you honour hitherto as regards your place at
table, the meals they give you, and the filling of your cup with wine.
Henceforth they will despise you, for you are become no better than
a woman. Be off, girl and coward that you are, you shall not scale our
walls through any Hinching upon my part; neither shall you carry off
our wives in your ships, for I shall **** you with my own hand.”
  The son of Tydeus was in two minds whether or no to turn his
horses round again and fight him. Thrice did he doubt, and thrice
did Jove thunder from the heights of. Ida in token to the Trojans that
he would turn the battle in their favour. Hector then shouted to
them and said, “Trojans, Lycians, and Dardanians, lovers of close
fighting, be men, my friends, and fight with might and with main; I
see that Jove is minded to vouchsafe victory and great glory to
myself, while he will deal destruction upon the Danaans. Fools, for
having thought of building this weak and worthless wall. It shall
not stay my fury; my horses will spring lightly over their trench, and
when I am BOOK at their ships forget not to bring me fire that I may
burn them, while I slaughter the Argives who will be all dazed and
bewildered by the smoke.”
  Then he cried to his horses, “Xanthus and Podargus, and you Aethon
and goodly Lampus, pay me for your keep now and for all the
honey-sweet corn with which Andromache daughter of great Eetion has
fed you, and for she has mixed wine and water for you to drink
whenever you would, before doing so even for me who am her own
husband. Haste in pursuit, that we may take the shield of Nestor,
the fame of which ascends to heaven, for it is of solid gold, arm-rods
and all, and that we may strip from the shoulders of Diomed. the
cuirass which Vulcan made him. Could we take these two things, the
Achaeans would set sail in their ships this self-same night.”
  Thus did he vaunt, but Queen Juno made high Olympus quake as she
shook with rage upon her throne. Then said she to the mighty god of
Neptune, “What now, wide ruling lord of the earthquake? Can you find
no compassion in your heart for the dying Danaans, who bring you
many a welcome offering to Helice and to Aegae? Wish them well then.
If all of us who are with the Danaans were to drive the Trojans back
and keep Jove from helping them, he would have to sit there sulking
alone on Ida.”
  King Neptune was greatly troubled and answered, “Juno, rash of
tongue, what are you talking about? We other gods must not set
ourselves against Jove, for he is far stronger than we are.”
  Thus did they converse; but the whole space enclosed by the ditch,
from the ships even to the wall, was filled with horses and
warriors, who were pent up there by Hector son of Priam, now that
the hand of Jove was with him. He would even have set fire to the
ships and burned them, had not Queen Juno put it into the mind of
Agamemnon, to bestir himself and to encourage the Achaeans. To this
end he went round the ships and tents carrying a great purple cloak,
and took his stand by the huge black hull of Ulysses’ ship, which
was middlemost of all; it was from this place that his voice would
carry farthest, on the one hand towards the tents of Ajax son of
Telamon, and on the other towards those of Achilles—for these two
heroes, well assured of their own strength, had valorously drawn up
their ships at the two ends of the line. From this spot then, with a
voice that could be heard afar, he shouted to the Danaans, saying,
“Argives, shame on you cowardly creatures, brave in semblance only;
where are now our vaunts that we should prove victorious—the vaunts
we made so vaingloriously in Lemnos, when we ate the flesh of horned
cattle and filled our mixing-bowls to the brim? You vowed that you
would each of you stand against a hundred or two hundred men, and
now you prove no match even for one—for Hector, who will be ere
long setting our ships in a blaze. Father Jove, did you ever so ruin a
great king and rob him so utterly of his greatness? yet, when to my
sorrow I was coming hither, I never let my ship pass your altars
without offering the fat and thigh-bones of heifers upon every one
of them, so eager was I to sack the city of Troy. Vouchsafe me then
this prayer—suffer us to escape at any rate with our lives, and let
not the Achaeans be so utterly vanquished by the Trojans.”
  Thus did he pray, and father Jove pitying his tears vouchsafed him
that his people should live, not die; forthwith he sent them an eagle,
most unfailingly portentous of all birds, with a young fawn in its
talons; the eagle dropped the fawn by the altar on which the
Achaeans sacrificed to Jove the lord of omens; When, therefore, the
people saw that the bird had come from Jove, they sprang more fiercely
upon the Trojans and fought more boldly.
  There was no man of all the many Danaans who could then boast that
he had driven his horses over the trench and gone forth to fight
sooner than the son of Tydeus; long before any one else could do so he
slew an armed warrior of the Trojans, Agelaus the son of Phradmon.
He had turned his horses in flight, but the spear struck him in the
back midway between his shoulders and went right through his chest,
and his armour rang rattling round him as he fell forward from his
chariot.
  After him came Agamemnon and Menelaus, sons of Atreus, the two
Ajaxes clothed in valour as with a garment, Idomeneus and his
companion in arms Meriones, peer of murderous Mars, and Eurypylus
the brave son of Euaemon. Ninth came Teucer with his bow, and took his
place under cover of the shield of Ajax son of Telamon. When Ajax
lifted his shield Teucer would peer round, and when he had hit any one
in the throng, the man would fall dead; then Teucer would hie back
to Ajax as a child to its mother, and again duck down under his
shield.
  Which of the Trojans did brave Teucer first ****? Orsilochus, and
then Ormenus and Ophelestes, Daetor, Chromius, and godlike
Lycophontes, Amopaon son of Polyaemon, and Melanippus. these in turn
did he lay low upon the earth, and King Agamemnon was glad when he saw
him making havoc of the Trojans with his mighty bow. He went up to him
and said, “Teucer, man after my own heart, son of Telamon, captain
among the host, shoot on, and be at once the saving of the Danaans and
the glory of your father Telamon, who brought you up and took care
of you in his own house when you were a child, ******* though you
were. Cover him with glory though he is far off; I will promise and
I will assuredly perform; if aegis-bearing Jove and Minerva grant me
to sack the city of Ilius, you shall have the next best meed of honour
after my own—a tripod, or two horses with their chariot, or a woman
who shall go up into your bed.”
  And Teucer answered, “Most noble son of Atreus, you need not urge
me; from the moment we began to drive them back to Ilius, I have never
ceased so far as in me lies to look out for men whom I can shoot and
****; I have shot eight barbed shafts, and all of them have been
buried in the flesh of warlike youths, but this mad dog I cannot hit.”
  As he spoke he aimed another arrow straight at Hector, for he was
bent on hitting him; nevertheless he missed him, and the arrow hit
Priam’s brave son Gorgythion in the breast. His mother, fair
Castianeira, lovely as a goddess, had been married from Aesyme, and
now he bowed his head as a garden poppy in full bloom when it is
weighed down by showers in spring—even thus heavy bowed his head
beneath the weight of his helmet.
  Again he aimed at Hector, for he was longing to hit him, and again
his arrow missed, for Apollo turned it aside; but he hit Hector’s
brave charioteer Archeptolemus in the breast, by the ******, as he was
driving furiously into the fight. The horses swerved aside as he
fell headlong from the chariot, and there was no life left in him.
Hector was greatly grieved at the loss of his charioteer, but for
all his sorrow he let him lie where he fell, and bade his brother
Cebriones, who was hard by, take the reins. Cebriones did as he had
said. Hector thereon with a loud cry sprang from his chariot to the
ground, and seizing a great stone made straigh
harmony crescent Nov 2018
if my brain was bigger
and i had more room up there
youd think id fill it with important stuff
facts and ideas to share
like maybe science, math, and tech
or art and lit instead
but no, for me, whats worth the most
is remembering every sweet thing youve said
Amanda Shelton Feb 2022
I heard the angles calling,
I drowned the voices in a
slurry of precaution and shame.

No more worries, the doctor's
got the cure just drink it
up there's no hurry.

I suffered for their treatments
and child abuse.

Still, the shadows danced
across the wall my mind was
drunk off anxiety and
depression.

My dreams were reality but my
waking hours were all a dream.

Delusions and fantasy all
the same, until the fog lifted
me from the dream.

A little birdie brought me
clear skies and a deep simulator
that opened my eyes.

Now I live in the light,
six wire's are planted inside
my brain sending signals so
I can control my twitching
and contorted frame.

I am a bionic woman, living
no dream just reality.

©️ 2022 By Amanda Shelton
Mateuš Conrad May 2024
the idea of tattooing my entire back
in the tube map of London
came to mind
only moments ago after dreaming up
a host of bodies
semi-naked with other sort of signatures
no inflicted upon
the left-hemisphere of the brain

as such, also pondering the idea of shifting
the view of the world
away from

                           N

            W                     E


                          s

and as such to not combat the asymmetry
but rather embrace it
two islands of water in my cranium
pushing away at
and exploding grey matter into vacuums

not unlike the carnivorous protein of
Alzheimer
                 Alz Heinz
or at least this is me rummaging in Martin's
head
looking for clues of me
and him in me
or rather nephew now reduced or inflcited
the raise of being simply "friend": kolega -

kolega Alz Heiz
                            kolega Alz Heinz

now i see the world like i see London
to the south of me the great whirl
of Thames - old water old father Thames
with son Charon
                      not admitting me to the Oval
to watch the cricket

punctuated with nervous breaths after a micro-dosage
of the forest
in newspaper talk of a celibate tree
found circa 130 years ago
cloned many times
but not having a mating partner
must **** for a tree... currently standing priestly
in Kew gardens i believe...

the spitfire pilot who dreamed of flying
aged 17
crashes after a stunt gone bad
the Reddit guy with the red lamp
who thought he was actually married to his highschool
sweetheart
who had two kids
and never missed a day of work
living the white picket fence dream O America
instead playing football
hit in the head so bad that the multiverse
manifested itself in his head

some cruel prank best not mention God
and if i do by god
from the age of 21 a bad bad
bad trip that lasted well over ten years
now everyone in the house
is writing

i am writing
my father is writing an invoice
for Knights Asphalt for the work currently
undergone at Victoria
mother is writing a pPełnomocnictwo

                  to ensure care is taken of Martin
that his hard earned money
will be spent on his own care
a cruel joke of early retirement plans
spent 2 years drinking and sitting with
grandmother listening to teenage music
i mean if the brain isn't fried
from inactivity
not even a personal diary or reading a book
where will the mind wander
and how will it recline when looking
at van Gogh's painting of the chair
not a chair but THE cHAIR

                 words so close yet far away
symmetric damage to both
hemispheres as if metaphor
for the growing of horns
and in this happy-state obscene
but certainly drank too much last night
and now have the shakes
oh jeez now the slight paranoia of the receeding
high like i thought it was a good idea
or are my eyes just simply glazed
and am i relaxed is writing appropriate
during the daytime if it's not required
formal

i.e. W. H. Auden wrote that only the Hitlers
of the world write at night
but i wonder whether this is not a tease
now my eyes are not red
but like wax and my mother's interruption
to avert my eyes from the screen

'control control to charlie 10'
'charlie 10 radio check'
'yes yes control, charlie 10 radio check'
'loud and clear charlie 10 over'

the idea being did my mother realise
or not the tear of writing the document
rather than: is her son hurting anyone
by smoking the Amsterdam way
the casual not London way of smoking
i.e. **** is smoked in London
in public and at large events with massive
crowds
me and a colleague of mine
agreed that **** is abused like this
and best enjoyed in private
behind closed doors
with music
some whiskey
and enough music to drive a camel bonkers

i mean: she did walk in and asked me
whether the spoke in my wheel was fixed
i went to the bicycle shop last saturday
indefinitely
one ******* spoke
apparently to be finished by thursday
today is monday
and?
a bicycle shop without spokes
plenty of wheels on display
a bicycle repair shop
is more a shop than a workshop
and that's the biggest problem
no supplies of spokes?
what are these, German car parts?
if you can have a supply of rubbers
then surely there aren't that many
wheel sizes which might make you oversupply
on spokes...

but she walks in with £100 and tells me:
you can have it
if you only go to the bicycle shop
now and buy yourself a new bicycle
how much money did dad
give you for your birthday?
£200...
   well then... off you go...

          (but i really did start writing this poem
trying to heal
and i'm going to finish it
mind you i still have 2 hours before the shop
closes)

obviously i spent £100 on two packets
of Sherbet and that's all the way from America
and i kind of like the idea
of **** coming in packets that resemble
sweets perhaps
this isn't drug abuse on grounds of legality
since bought
     but in terms of how it is used
and what benefits reaped then i imagine, yes:

when i first starting writing and had
the straitjacket of poetry on me
my heart was a mush of nonsense my brain
was a much of nonsense
only now can i see the need for prosaic more
than ever
and no indeed people stopped writing
in the straitjacket of poetry within the confines
of what came to pass in the 19th century
and dissolved by the 20th
and needs a reinvention in the 21st

now a call from Lyndon my company rep
and no i'm in no mood for
conversation that's why i believe my eyes
to be wax and *****
and glazed and not even a glass of whiskey
will make them look sober
this feeling of creativity must pass
as the left hemisphere switches off or rather
concentrates on something immediately
that i know poetry is not written like
one works to grease up and find oneself
a juicy duck
or rather hunt for a juicy duck
with no green overalls
not rifle and no hunting dog
like the ones used at stadiums as sniffers
and the sniffers are gentle dogs
because when the police come with their
German Shepherds then
boy do those dogs talk
less bark more talk
less bark more talk

                and my how restless those dogs
are even the sniffers
are restless dogs
after all these are: dogs at work...

hundebeiarbeiten...

            hundebeiarbeiten...

  ­     we have the Germans coming in next week
and i already have my all clear from
the UEFA that i can work the event
so here comes all the pomp and gravitas of
the Champions' League final
            Real Madrid and Borussia Dortmund

hmm... etymology of names:

       there-mouth and now i'm thinking it's
a good thing that i didn't go since
this is my day off
but i mean i didn't go to the bicycle shop
because however my mother thinks
it the fact that i started writing again
and i haven't been writing for what seems to be
donkeys' year
since meeting Edie
and in the current variation of me
i'm intellectualizing whatever it might be
in the rubric of relationships
and ***
                            and friendship
and i don't know what else but when i'm also
working on my day off rather
than relaxing with the family might tell you
a lot about me maybe i should have done
something like this tomorrow when
they weren't home
because i feel like i'm going to have to explain
myself

this is like a narrative of a child
or at least i am robbing myself of the biblical
saying in how
it is said of men:

         genesis 2:24

  a man shall leave his father and his mother
and hold fast to his wife, and they shall become one flesh

how is that not the case
are we in a shared abode could it be said
that i'm anything more than client at this point
someone who will subsequently cook
dinner
and is this not my own free time to enjoy
my own freedom at least my legs
returned to normal after lying in bed
for a little bit longer

and honestly that experience with the Yorkshire
lads yesterday was mind-boggling
and mind-opening and ego-closing
and ego-crashing ego-destruction
how you can just absorb the energy of the crowd
and work it to your favour
and jeez i was never the roaming cleaner
of my place of work
whereby there was no issue with litter
and how often does cordon 7 call in for cleaners
and ******* bags
and i worked that cordon before
and i took my own initiative and sorted out
the bags myself before
but others who worked that area
would waste control room's time by radioing
in this minor issue that could be resolved
with some personal initiative
jeez
       i never thought i could write about work
that was the antithesis of Bukowski's approach
to work that work is the drudgery
because honestly i think how the Nazis didn't
think because honestly
Jews were a fertile breed of workers
so making fun of that
  they were making fun of that
because there is no luxury time for the scholars
and i mean the jews are the scholastic
people of the world and some less serious
of them sure
they are not the eclectic sort i imagine in my
dreams of worms and books
and bookworms unlike those sandworms
of Dune and more the reality of the Metal Worms
of London
and me travelling in them like some Jonah
mind you
i always held the oceans with distrust
but even then diving i did see plenty of life...

Anahola Beach.
Cannons Beach.
Hanalei Bay / Pier - Black *** Beach.
Kahili Beach - Rock Quarry.
Kalihiwai Beach.
Lumahai Beach.
Makua Beach - Tunnels.
Secret Beach - Kauapea Beach.

    (yes, that was ctrl+c/p
   (some variation on style
(returned to listening to music
after interruption
(paranoia receded
(started raining
(if i was a child receiving money
i would have jumped
at the opportunity
to go get bicycle
but i went today
and the used road bike that
looked **** nice
was already gone
so buying a new bicycle
seems grotesque at this moment
(anything new for that matter
buying something new
rather than used)
seems like a horrible waste of money)
the idea that used goods)
were aplenty once)
and people fought for them)
and now no one is fighting over money)
each earning it

but at a time there was a time where
people had exclusive rights to money
and others had no access to money
but instead: WIKT I OPIERUNEK
(bed and board)
and would be the workers of the household
of a people who were workers
of the world
and these people did exist
and they had a history and architecture
and since architecture is the best
idea of what history is
and a people become
then yes the revival of the Coliseum
i have witness
and i am but a voice in the wilderness by now
maybe i should have been
getting married to my childhood sweetheart
but what is thinking
i don't know: she's with five children
and an older hubby
while i'm the rigid disciplinarian of grammar
because i didn't love her fully
because of her literacy skills or was that our
shared youth
or anything - just not a waste of this afternoon
given it's raining
and yes if i were a kid and received £200
and say i had my own savings in a jar
of pennies and pounds
i would have jumped at the opportunity to buy
that bicycle and cycle happy-mad in the rain
but i'm not a child anymore and
i can't imagine going back
to somewhere where the brain was
orientating itself having spent so much time
in the dark outside of the dark
of the womb
but not like some fetal narrative is even
possible or even supplanting an ego
into a fetus is
   like putting a scorpion into a shoe
and a sock on one's nose: the general gist of:
(i think jyst should be as relevant as gist
and it even looks better on paper
let alone the similarity of phonemes)

  i.3. jy-          gi-                       -st

not station of saint
although both are used as is also st for street

oh **** oh **** oh **** oh **** oh **** oh ****
KAMIKAZE YO
KAMIKAZE YO
カミカゼ ヨ!

                         カミカゼ ヨ!

      I⁴                     and E⁴

since  in the following "magic square"

                             ya yu yo

     ヤユヨ

                  there is no Yadam and Yevie
the other story not told of the genesis of letters
and by Jove the resting place of so many
meanings deposited into Latin script...
unimaginable wonders
and overhearing my Nigeria neighbour
talking
jeez the music is on in my headphones
but this boombox of bellowing
conversations over the phone is unerving
and that time i smoked with him
in the night on the roof outside out
bedroom windows
i thought of Martin
   and his youth living in those communist
flats
    with greenery everywhere
nothing dystopian about it because of the foliage
and popped up ugly hen houses
never mind his youth of spent time
talking with his neighbor out of the window
in the warm summer evenings
sharing stories and smoking cigarettes
the one that lived above him
yes, him, forgot his name and sur
but him i saw him and a few others when
i visited last
and to think they are his peers
and they seemingly congregated to a Wake
but it wasn't a Wake but an Awakening
to see cruel or just fate
have her whims
however to put it fate a cruelty will the justice
or what is a gamble or something
or
           or

too many avenues it would seem...
gently massaging of the face
everyone at work is happy that my beard is visible
again
everyone at work is happy that my beard
is visible again
and i'm happy at work because finally my voice
is visible and can be used
without a loudspeaker
and i'm no longer embarrassed that i sometimes
get tongue tied
because maybe it's because i'm a Londoner
no joking
maybe my bilingualism is a phonetic retardation
from time to time
                   (then the music comes off
and there's the hum of conversation
and no t.v. in the background perhaps this too
the unread messages: i count at least 29)

but oh **** oh **** oh ****
what was actually going to see Kamikaze Yo!
(maybe
oh redemption mother calls and reminds
me to go back and buy the bicycle
and now sobered i will for sure

get some wind in my beard
and in my hair
glide with traffic
but
but but but

oh **** o help me "god":

confirmed work
wembley
7th june
13:30 - 23:15
sign in 12:30

confirmed work
wembley
8th june
07:30 - 20:30
sign in 6:30

confirmed work
9th june
london stadium
06:30 - 18:00
sign in 5:30 (or as close
to it as you can)

                   what did i book myself in for?
a 3 day sleeplessness extravaganza?!
   ha ha: Bukowski and work...
            Mathias Eschlert and: arbeit macht frei; haaaaaa.

p.s.  more like

                                   E


                    n                                        ­            S


                         W

my new compass...  i have to see the world
differently
not like presented on weather chanels
because no the north is not up
or the south down
after all what is n.e.w.s. in space
what is the Copernican n.e.w.s.?
                  
                   best to see the world sideways,
for now, at least.

p.p.s. or perhaps this is mother telling
me to show-off my money
if security staff get teased
and abused at events being called
minimum-wagers
minimum-wagies           etc
if we can get pushed and shoved etc

                        well... sooner rather than later
they'll nickname me: the Negotiator
3 ******* years in this job
and still no physical confrontation ....

              O Leeds O Leeds O Sweet Lords
and Lloyd.
Raj Arumugam Oct 2010
as it's commonly said,
an apple a day
keeps the doctor away…

a song a day
sung or heard
keeps boredom at bay

a poem a day
written or read
fires up the brain cells

an art a day
created or viewed
keeps brain numbness away

a view of trees each day
keeps the mind fresh
and steady

but love
not love of particulars
or specifics
but love of all
love unconditional
keeps the whole being radiant
every minute
every day
The pantoum is the poet's task.
It twists the mind, that rhyming test.
I'm left with a strong need to ask,
is there a method you'd suggest?

It twists the mind, that rhyming test.
Rewrites add wrinkles to my brain.
Is there a method you'd suggest
to keep me from going insane?

Rewrites add wrinkles to my brain
as I struggle to end my phrase.
to keep me from going insane,
could you offer a little praise?

As I struggle to end my phrase,
I'm left with a strong need to ask,
could you offer a little praise?
The pantoum is the poet's task!
A friend challenged me to write a pantoum. I found it difficult. Please let me know what you think.
onlylovepoetry Oct 2024
earbuds buzz,
indic of incoming friendly fire,
another love song,
hardly differing,
what’s the big deal?
uh oh, oh no,
only transformered into an ****** boy soon
to be out loud squealing

for that’s not the way a poet’s brain operates,
a surgical insertion of a poetic inquiry brings a repetitive inquisition's painful honesty
and a new commitment commission now inescapably upfront~facing

even for the
low priestly devotee of
only
love
poetry!

Has anyone ever said to you
I want to hold you forever?
Have you ever told anyone
I want to hold you forever?

oh my god!

the brain is racked, a fav torture of the self-
inquisitors, more awful than version physical,
my balance disturbed, my soul perturbed,
which the greater, my enabled loss or
my failure?


for a detailed search of history personnelle
(of course! it is a feminine noun)
registers no results, given or received,
the hurt of the how, can it be, OLP never
uttered this most greatest
declaration of love?


and then/there, by the River East, a most public place, old man is seen uncontrollably
weeping, a non-gendered English verb,
reported the New York Post
tabloid newspaper

small thanks, photo had my back bent,
my face remained hidden, but revealed agony
of the twisted prostrate figure leaning over
the railing as he rails like an exile
or a hostage

and there’s no answer forthcoming, no coverup, just an existential howling in
recognition that the opportunity has likely
disappeared, and the sky answers not
when begged



why me, why me, for the silence
is answer enough, never was I willing to
raise the gate protective, high enough to
stand before another, unclothed and
impurities revealed

surrender myself to accept or
give out or give in to
that most
wonderful risk


and the weeping
doesn’t cease,
it is doesn’t soothe
or ease,
for the division’s remainder
remains less than a
whole integer

how can I call myself,
only a love poet?

and I answer
my self
with a teary silence
of an unanswered
curse
October 2024
nyc
Nicole Potter Jul 2013
Sometimes when I think too much my
brain just turns to mush.
But it still works
The neurons still firing
The blood still pumping
Still searching for the logical
                                               Illogical.

This is my release
                             how it pours forth.
Feelings were never allowed...
At least the feelings I had
                                           Have.
Not the feelings I was 'supposed' to have.
They were and are irrelevant because they are
                                                             ­              Not Yours.
What felt by me never accepted,
                             Never even allowed to say.
So Now.
               When I want to communicate my feelings
                          My desires
                          My Love
                                                 I cannot.
There is just below
                              Zero self worth.
How could there be any?
When were there moments where this
           Was good enough
                                            When I was more than expected?

These words
                    and painful concentration
are all I've ever had.
                  Validation of these words my only worth,
Yet I always feel they could be better...

Maybe it takes a while to Trust,
                            Maybe I Trust too easily
I always seem to feel scorned
             Thought I had one solid Friend
                    With which that did not happen
Nothing was a competition,
                                             everything was fair
                                              everything could share
Except not,
                   because I know you don't share all
                         And won't bare forth
                   So why am I expected to melt?
My being cast down by this constant light
               Burning my flesh,
                                               my spirit to the ground.
4, 5 feet,
              How many left to travel?

Then there is You.
                            I think of you...
in the back of my mind and these words
                                            Find Breath.
Everything breathes easier with you.
So I cherish those moments,
                    Those moments where maybe
I actually felt like Me.
                                  or who I want to Be.
So those Tokens remain important
                      As do You.
And my wish,
                      that I cause Smiles...
                      Small moments of bliss
                      As easily as you do for me...
I try so hard, yet it remains
                                              A wish.

When I walk,
                      I constantly kick the gravel
The weight of my head
                                     too much for my neck...
This piling dirt too heavy to withstand.
                     Confidence gone,
                                                  if ever actually there.
I assume that there is nothing
                 No future reference
                                      of
              ­                            Me.
These words my actual thoughts,
                One place I'm allowed to be Real.

Things change after moments
                                       which we cannot take back.
All I want is to feel appreciated
   To feel like I Matter
Life I make an influence,
                                       That I can Impact
That my presence does make a difference.
        All I want is to go back to how it was,
                                      Before actions turned things around
       As I knew they would.
                                             Which is why things stay Hidden.

Just accepted that No one will feel.

       But I want us to grow.
            Become better than what was.
You don't have to change your actions,
                                    That would be changing You.
I already love You.
                                Wouldn't want to change.

How do I learn to communicate verbally?
                   Without this pen as my
                                                          Stri­king Weapon.
How can I feel comfortable
                                  Saying my inner emotions?
Always vulnerability
                                 Always fear.
But with You
                     somewhere I Know
           You're Listening.
                                      So this paper version of Me
is given Breath.
                         Forced off the page and is Real.
How I wish that Power was Known.
        So here again left with these thoughts,
                             Always Searching
Not always relevant.
                      But if I could just ask a question...

What does your brain prattle on about?
                  When no one is talking,
                   When things are quiet,
                   When walking, driving,
                                                        ­ Being Alone?
What happens inside,
                                  Where does the mind run?
Because if someone has a way
                  To turn this off,
                  To preoccupy with something else
                   To make this Stop.
I urge you to share.
          Then again,
                               it must be boring in your mind...
Sometimes it leads to an adventure,
                                   An incredible concept
                                   A beautiful Thought.
   How many have you had?
Why must I be the one to change?
              Learn who I Am.
                        Who I am becoming.
Do not force ideals down my throat.
                            My opinion is strong,
                                        This often obvious.
Do not feed me lines
                                 and hurtful phrases when I know
You've done the same,
                                   done worse
         And Smile and the memories.

Recognize that I am a Person
              With strong,
                                        cognitive Thoughts.
Feeding me these lies
                                   and Tantrums
will send me the opposite way.
                There is no instructing
                            Guidance.
               ­                       Act of Love.
Simply commands.
                                 Follow orders.
When told not to push the red button
            Do you not desire to
                                              Only push the button?
Stop giving me reasons
                   But also know that a lot of this is
                                  For Me.
Not to make you mad,
                                    Or go against you purposely.
I want these things,
                                    Desire for many years.
It's unfortunate you do not approve,
                                             That it will disappoint
                                                 But it will Happen.

All that is left is this hell bending effort
              to say how I feel
Regardless of the outcome
                 Because I cannot live life
Without acting upon my
                                            Desires.





**July­ 11, 2013
Q Apr 2014
Munch, crunch, munch,
Do humans really need lunch?
Or the breakfast and the dinner
That makes them munch, crunch, munch?

Smack, pop, smack,
There's really no need for all that
With their mouths open as they snack
Smack, pop, smack.

Yell, shout, yell
My ears are a portrait of hell
My own brain is my jail cell, and I
Yell, shout, yell

Cry, scream, cry
Repeat this mantra till I die:
They don't get it, don't know why, but I
Cry, scream, cry
mrs kite Apr 2016
flesh is nothing but a plastic cover
and if you s t r e t c h it far enough
the seams begin to rip, hovering
a guideline instead of a fence

a tongue is nothing but a stretchy strawberry
and if you cut it clean in half
the seeds disperse, swearing
to rearrange the words into normal speech

the brain is nothing but playdough
and if you let it mold
the pink uncoils, forgetting Plato
remembering nothing

the smile is nothing but a bunch of ugly mirrors
and if you rip them out by the roots
the spotlights reverse, it only gets worse
and you stare at your self-destruction for eternity.
There's nothing like running
your fingers through wheat
as you take a footpath
through the farmer's field
especially in the dead of night
when the silence speaks volumes

Though I wouldn't know
'*** I'm a city boy
I always say
a life better lived on
the road less travelled
clearly wasn't for me

Cloudy days and
cloudy apple cider
go hand in hand
with hand rolled cigarettes
and unread messages
and a qwerty keyboard

Things are gon' get better
things better get gone
have I neglected my writing
or has my writing neglected me

Thoughts are just electricity
surging through your brain
tiny little electrical impulses
molecules and whooshy stuff
I could do with some of that
Hayleigh Jan 2016
If i could, i would,
Disassemble your malfunctioning thought processes
And rewire them back together again,
With a spanner, in the manner,
That meant you were not
Classed as insane.
I'd unfold and rearrange,
The chemical imbalances
Within your brain
So that the years of disdain,
And self blame,
Where a thing of the past,
I'd put you back together,
In a way, that showed you,
You were meant to last.
And excerpt of one of my poems, for all those who are suffering or who know someone that is suffering. There is always hope.
Q Jul 2013
I used to know you like that
I used to know you better
I used to know the details of your smile
I used to know the workings of your brain

But we grew apart, miles apart
And now you're to far from my reach
And the distance hurts, it kills so sweetly
And I don't realize how far you are until you're gone

And I've missed you so badly lately
I miss you more than I miss myself
I miss you more than the old me who
Missed you better before you'd even left

I'm sure in some years, we'll have awkward chats
And I'm sure in some years I'll not be so bitter
And I know you think in some years we'll be friends
And have borderline domestic conversation about our kids

But I miss you now and I'll miss you after those years
I'll miss the easy camaraderie we've had from the start
I'll miss our borderline romantic relationship
I'll miss people asking if you were mine and vice versa

I miss the way you used to pull me flush against you
And I miss how I'd wind my arms round your neck
I miss how I felt your heartbeat beside mine
I miss how safe, how loved, how dependent I felt then

I miss how you'd calm me down with your presence
I miss how you'd take care of me, though I fought it tooth and nail
I miss feeling like I could try to overcome my fears to be with you
I miss how oblivious you were to how I felt, no matter what I did

I miss your irritating smile that always makes me do the same
I miss they way I used to feel when I wrote poetry about you
I miss the way you tried to hold me, though I was too scared to let you
I miss the way you looked when I mentioned other people purposefully

I miss the way we never said those three words; we weren't that far
I miss the way you broke me down and I let you, though it hurt
I miss the way I rebuilt myself to need you less and ended up needing you more
I miss the way you smiled when I couldn't do without you

And now we talk around the elephant in the room softly
And I hate averting my eyes like this, but I can't stop
I hate how we're just friends, even though it could be more
I hate how it should be more. It should be more, and you know it

I hate how I'm moving on, finding other people to fill the hole you left
I hate how I still feel empty, even though it's not been long enough to call it love
I hate how much it hurts to see you, though I mask the pain and smile
And I hate how I miss you even more than I miss myself
Jon Tobias Jun 2011
God done ****** up again

This time by lettin’ that halo slip from around your holy head

And because he’s full of excuses

he said

“You know

Her halo was so big it must’ve got caught in the birth canal”

Really

that halo was a birth control ring

one of the clear plastic ones

And really

you were a miracle that you came out so perfect

And God done ****** up again by lettin’ that halo slip

In my whole life there have only been 3 miracles I have ever seen

And God can take the credit

Only

Because he didn’t stop them from happening

1: My brother is the most perfect thing to happen on this earth since innocence found its voice and used it
to cry because people are mean sometimes.

2: In my almost 23 years of life, I have almost died 8 times. The miracle in that is, that no matter what my brain might tell me, my body is too dumb to give up on life that easily.

3: You were born into this world. I consider it a miracle that I met you.

I’d give you a halo if you’d let me

I’d become a priest just so I could get close enough to god to tell him

“Man

Quit this crap

We both know the world is ugly

We both know I lay awake most nights because I can’t turn off my brain

We both know that when we finally meet

we will sit at a table

Over a deck of cards

And some cigars

And my favorite beer

Just so we can spend the lifetime it will take

Discussing how I ****** things up over and over again

But Man

Just own up to this one mistake and give the Halo back”

I saw it once

Shaped like a battle field

Or the spilled milk you sometimes cry over

Or a childhood race track

One that in your memories you go to

Over and over again

In my whole life

I have only witnessed a few miracles

And the last one

Was you
Julie Oct 2012
Your presence disgusts me
Rusts me, rips me open and thrusts me
Forcing me to suffocate because you distrust me
No reason to hate, you force the lust in me
Pry open my eyes, tell me I must see
Your life meaning is a lie
Self-centered, heart cold as winter, numbly bitter but you still shine
The devils mentor, deep nail splinter, nauseous jitter but you’re still mine
Expect the worse, immerse yourself first, but your worlds reversed
Tilted, head to the ground, all your smiles turn to frowns
Your brain pounds from the sound of your scream
As your lungs fill with water, just drown and dream
You tell yourself it’s over but it’s not what it seems
The darkest hour of the never ending night sky
The brightest flower, the one that catches your eye
The most sin filled child hiding behind a disguise
It’s all just a lie, we’ll never understand
We live our hell here on earth and pray for heaven in the end
Slapped hard by
hands of anger.
Your so-called care
sent me spiraling.

Vision blurry from
shock. Arms bruised
from impacting walls.
You shake your head
at me with disgust.

Is this my fault?
Do I truly deserve this?
Am I the tease you say,
or am I the victim?

Yelled obscenities by
steep stairs, I grab for
anything steady. Fear of true
injury courses through my body.
My heart whispers depserately
he wouldn't. My brain screams
he would.

Clothes hide the evidence
of his wrath. Shame seals my
lips like super glue. Brain now
quieted, my heart whispers
sweet nothings to me. Repeating
every time he's forgiven my
supposed faults.

Is this my fault?
Am I so deserving
of pain, that you must
inflict it?
sean rozario May 2010
adjacent at my right,
your thoughts with you are,
strewed in opposition,
calling out my name,
i am the child,
you are the adult,
why wont i understand,
for i have no experience,
no life lived,
my intrigue provoked,
ideal foresight,
but that, all they are,
questions to actions,
tell me im wrong,
just an ignorant soul,
for i must see the world,
the way that you do,
and for the sake of the horse,
hope the legs can support,
the stead in which you ride,
for it must be cold,
one thousand jen high,
should i bow at your feet?
as my opinion indifferent,
blasphemer,
heathen,
tell me to seal my mouth,
say "I dont listen",
over again,
you never heard the words,
"your hurting my chest",
stepping on my lungs,
hearing one phrase of words,
"you dont listen",
but i heard every word,
whether i agree or not,
is another lore,
but ill admit im wrong,
will you do the same?,
now i'll hope you know,
i judge you not,
i love that you have opinion,
for you are only human,
even if the whip strikes my back,
ill never stop,
continue your attack,
for these are my thoughts,
you made me this way,
you cant change my brain.
copyright 2010 s.Rozario
Tamurray Mar 2014
I was born with a brain that takes hurtful words to heart which turned my world into a disordered mess
I cannot dig my way out of this chaos
I am trapped in my own skin
zebra Jul 2016
do you have a dark secret
my darling
a terrible brain
instead of nice ***** pink
girl things
you ache for ****** insertions
cutting edges
menstrual swab mouth plug selfies

while you pretend all is well
loving Mother Mary
at the church with mummy
knowing
deep down inside
your a ***** *****
god dam the boys look good

do you have the courage
to admit it
first to your self
and then another
or shall you live
muzzled
as you finger *****
obsessed with flying *****
and devils teeth
pigs nuzzling mud and ****
strewn at a *** trough


you love playing with fire
hot toes and ****
oh yeah
turn up the ****** heat
your craven desires
to be a **** toy
and then the pleasure
break me break me
twisted broken
little **** toy

if you could only find me
your
Lover
Linker
Licker
Sucker
Thinker
Maker
Shaker
Breaker
F­ucker
Burner
Cutter
Shooter
Impaler
the one who glorifies
your *******
insinuates kisses that tear
who adores your
midnight whimpers
howls of pleasure
cries for help
no safe words
bending bending
broken
mutilation gasms

you smiling
succubus
hobbling over
for another hard blow
your **** drenched
******* zinging
from razors play
blood red rivulets
falling on pretty feet
while good people
dream of angels
you dream of
big cocked men
and merciless gang bangs
a sweet ***** of Babylon
hard justice
cruelties ecstatic
being beaten to death
by 100 buttered *****
legs and arms piled high
and **** and **** and more ****
your holy trinity

no you say
there must be some mistake
thats not you
your on gods leash
burying yourself
in black rocks
crypt of normalcy
your goody goody goody
time to cinch up
veil of the nunnery
hinge on the death mask
no honey
theres no gorilla
in your cave
crushing girlie's soul
pride will out shine all
til last bloom is no more
then learn laments fury
EROS AND THANATOS

My poems remain explorations of the subconscious ******
If i where a film maker or a novelist  you  would see me telling a story, not judge me, although i admit to my paraphilias
These poems  are lunar anamorphic streams of consciousness from the deep chaotic subterranean glitz of transgressive  impulses we all share
Read them if you dare...You might find that part of yourself that you don't want you to know about and then again  you may feel more complete some how if you do....I always loved that dark thing that sleeps with in me
#death  #***  #adult  #explicit  © zebra    love poems • death poems • sadomasochism poems • ****** poems • explicit poems
#poems   #******   #explicit   #sadomasochism
Logan Smith Jun 2013
"No! I won't listen! I don't care anymore!"
Tell me you love me, make it all go away...
"Don't touch me!"
Please hold me
"I hate you!"
I love you
"Go. Away."
Don't ever leave my side.
"Who cares?!"
Me
"Who needs you?! Good riddance."
No! Please! Don't leave! She didn't mean it!
"Yes I did now shut up you little idiot.
Sit back relax and let me take care of this."
You're chasing him away...
"Who needs that lame!
All he ever brings us is pain!
He'll never love us!"
You're wrong...
"Would you listen to yourself?
Defending him.
Who  picked up the pieces of you left on the floor?
You know, the ones he left when he walked right out the door.
And oh how you cried!
Newsflash sweetheart!
He's the problem here not me.
And he doesn't give a ****!
You can cry. You can yell.
But will he listen? Of course not.
So he can go straight to hell!
Return from where he came.
So stop your whining and pining.
You're so pitiful sometimes."
**Silence falls upon my body finally.
Beck Heat May 2014
My mind just stopped and couldn't
Think of any other thought but you.
Harsh Apr 2016
To be perfectly honest this was one of the more difficult poems to string together for the sheer fear of possibly jinxing it,
as there appears to be a pattern to every story involving a boy and me lately,
which begins with the same overrated butterflies in the stomach sensation followed by a poem,
sleepless nights, cigarettes, ***** and a tragic ending.
So having reached the poem stage my instincts and the part of my brain receptive to pain are already bracing themselves,
I can feel them clenching in my gut.  
As this three nights stand situation burns the lines between a *******, friendship with benefits and something to the extent of a budding romance,
my expectations are protesting against being so fiercely oppressed,
frankly they are getting out of control,
as the dislike of not wanting to be clingy, chivalry of not wanting to subdue to any labels nor the fear of yet another heartbreak itself,
are no longer sufficient to keep these rising hopes in place.
Ironically, when I think of you I think more of who I become when I'm with you, than actually you,
even though I do sincerely adore you. Very much.
I'm bemused by how comfortable I feel in my own skin,
naked and burnished, next to your warm, ivory touch.
Each time you trail your fingers down my body and take in a quick breath as if you were seeing me for the very first time,
I treasure the look in your eyes for later in the week when the going gets tough.
I idolize your rough, blistered, bleeding palms with all its calluses for they mirror my own much subtle bruises,
representing our shared interest, commitment, strength and transformation.
Your new found superpower to completely eradicate my necessity to socially smoke when socializing with you, speaks for itself really,
and we haven't even got to the laughter, the banter, the top notch sarcasm, the conversation, the warmest embrace,
breakfast ending in a ridiculously serious spectacle of coffee making,
which I thoroughly enjoy from the best seat in the kitchen wearing your shirt which fits me far more perfectly,
and the skip in my step as I head home.
So when the day comes for the revolution, of my expectations, overthrowing this rather tiresome governance of fear,
I just might pop the question, will you be my forever one night stand? ,
in the hope that you might just say yes...
This poem is the sole property of me and cannot be copied or used without permission. [Copyright G.H. Rodrigo 10/04/2016]
Andres Martinez Jul 2018
Sometimes I sit and wonder why it doesn't work
Sometimes I sit and day dream of another life
And sometimes I sit and try to remember what we were like
the first time
The first line
The rush
from my brain to my throat
to my tongue
to my lips
The exact placement of my hands on your hips
the words I said to get me this far
I snap out of it and realize
this moment never happened
So how can I possibly remember our first kiss?
Leah Nov 2014
with the right touch of shyness
and kindness
that rushes through my brain
as well as your brain
we found each other

nothing seems to be impossible

every night
before i go to sleep
i ask myself
why the hesitation
what paused me to be loved?

that kind of synchronicity
if it exists
between two hearts
why "what-ifs" and tons of question marks?

if there's anything left
it's an uncanny complicity  
of ecstasy
in my bloodstream
cause i have two palpitating hearts
cause i took yours in me.
Desireé Clarke Mar 2013
What’s real and what’s not
I see through the mirror of my eyes reflecting my opinionated perspective
On the screen in front of me
The world
Black, White, Mexican, Asian, Mixed
In a melting *** flooded
With curry, and rice and beans, **** chicken, and goat
With hamburgers, and fries, macaroni and cheese, and granola bars
With queso fresco, crema, tortillas, and salsa verde
With Panda mother ******* Express and P.F. Changs
My mind is constantly swallowed by the odors of the foods that paint the cultures I’ve come to know
The past and the present hold each other

What’s real and what’s not
I see through the mirror of my eyes reflecting back my opinionated perspective
Was I swimming upstream against the current
In the concrete river
People
Shadows of people wandering by
Behind me and all around
Adjusting to the light
My eyes have been closed for three years
Destroying the things my brain once knew for certain
Twirling in and out of conscientiousness
Now in front
They were rude, or I was nice
The kind of nice that is tactful and seemingly honest
What is honesty
The propulsion of my perspective patronizing the populated and political landscape
Laid out before me
I’m ******
****** about the things I cannot change
The unknown

What’s real and what’s not
I see through the mirror of my eyes reflecting back my opinionated perspective
Jesus Christ
These bible thumping loath driven arrogant theists
All wrapped in the pages of a novel horribly written
By white guys
We never know if they existed
Using their paper to roll joints
The smoke is heavenly
The rapture of the earth
Jesus Christ plants that grow in the ground
Blooming with godlike odors affecting the mind
It runs slower or faster opens and closes
Slapping their wives when they return home from work
Cursing about how they’ve acted like children
Jesus Christ the congregation of family
The head of household
The hands planted in the ground
Gripping at gravel through tightened fists
Hair falling in face catching on tears
Jesus Christ

What’s right and what’s wrong
I see through the mirror of my eyes reflecting back my opinionated perspective
A blast through a door
Glass shattered on floor
Children’s wails running down halls
Walls chipped with pain
Revealing the stone
The foundation of violence
Guns don’t **** people
People **** people
Children silenced by the bang
Heavy breathing under teal blankets
Cotton and fabric torn to shreds at the sound
Blue turns red when it is exposed to air
Rivers running deep sinking through floor boards
Dripping on the faces of the family downstairs as they eat dinner
Chewing open mouthed
Licking lips in tenderness and gluttony
Painting their lips red with the blue that fell through
The ceiling

What’s right and what’s wrong
I see through the mirror of my eyes reflecting back my opinionated perspective
Hands touching lips, touching genitals, all drenched in fluid
Hearts beating
Bump bump, bump bump
And speeding with each ******
Bodies banging together
Eyes diverting, darting, dancing, anywhere but in the ones that gaze upon you
The thrusting, pumping, thumping and screaming
Putting on a show for the floor
For the walls that absorb the sound
“****, **** yeah, just like that”
The scrambling for clothes
Tripping over cans
Social lubricant        
That kept the eyes closed just enough
Or put on those goggles that somehow made you attractive

What’s right and what’s wrong
I see through the mirror of my eyes reflecting back my opinionated perspective
We only see through the eyes we own
And the eyes I own are bias
I hate parties and economic manipulation
Being a slave whipped by some man in a black or grey suit I can’t afford
Being pressed by advertisements that tell me I’m too fat to find love
Being strangled by the fiat that is determine to destroy artistic expression
Appling for education, and permits, and jobs that I may never get
Because the color of my skin is too dark
Because the sound of my voice is too light
Because I cannot stomach the lies that are perpetuated
And refuse to become part of a herd that screams
“Obama for president”
I am free
In the sense that my perspective is mangled
Changes each day
Eyes reflecting inward
Clawing at release and some small moment’s sense of comfort
Only to then breathe my last breath
To gasp one more time for air
Find enlightenment
And then die when truly
I will see through the mirror of my eyes
And it will reflect back my opinionated perspective
Alyssa Dec 2013
I can see it now, I was in 4th grade and we were all saying the pledge of allegiance with our hands over our hearts. "One nation, under God, indivisible with liberty and justice for all." I always thought it was "invisible". One nation, under God, invisible. It suddenly turned our nation into a superhero with the sickest super power ever, invisibility. Our nation was leaping over buildings and fighting crime in the moonlight with a bad *** sidekick named God.
One nation, under God, invisible. That's what i have become to this sidekick, invisible. I subsequently have fallen victim to the rare oddity that is my brain and finally realized that God doesn't even know who i am. Suddenly, this nation was not jumping over tall buildings, it was blocking the sunlight and causing an eclipse.
One nation, under God, invisible. I am invisible in this darkness of the night. But i searched for the moon relentlessly, knowing that it was my only chance of finding my way out of here. And once i found it, i held it in my arms, cradled it like a sleeping baby and careful not to wake it up because once it awakens it must escape to the sky and will no longer be mine. But to no avail, the moon was awake and whispered to me, "Dear child, did you really think you could escape God?"
I'm drunk and my god mother passed away and life is constantly consuming me
Chynell Janai Jul 2015
Give me a good mind ****

I promise you I’m easy to please

I’m craving that dictation

And you seem like you’re willing to tease


Don’t be afraid to use your mouth

Get me wet with that wordplay

Bless me with that brain

It’s the best form of foreplay


I like how the language just roll off your tongue

You know how to make it nasty

So you must be the one


And I’m not one to stroke an ego

you gave my logic a good lick

Just let me bend into a position

To perform them mind tricks


Before you lay it down  

I need mental stimulation, good conversation

Lets share intellect

I know you got that good education


I’m due for a good mind ****

You know I’m easy to please

So Stroke me with that diction

I’m ready to be teased
Johnny Noiπ Oct 2018
To love a woman, a girl runs, a woman moves in a bright light in the city, City streets, Black in the night and day in the city of Children: naked in the clouds, Brazil's "windless" girl known as Brazilian children; Young fish, blood, astronomical stars, beauty in the United States lacking material beauty. The important ones of your friends writing a true drawing of a god. The Christian ***** Trinity has worked with the Christian philosophical philosophy. Gabby is rich in history, the statue is Alkalatek al-Jarkatal. The number of birds cannot be seen. Talking about the rich history of a long story, based on a mirror mirror, is based on the dream: The messages of the Prophet, the mountains are floating. Interesting girls in robots move girls to higher levels. Robot's Robot and Bob says. Flowers, flowers for Bettie in Brazil, Southern Food, You are calling. Original pages published. Recently, colored pink, good advice, and adultery, source Pixel: Death in a garden can lead women to dancing people from drowning. One of the pillars, the eye, the other, the marriages of some mothers and one of the police mistakes, is that the color of God's sun is fastened and buried. And the dentist, in this way, the result of the antioxidant sea, the silent messenger, the Kenyan people Ivan light, the life of the city, the people of the city, the victory of the plastic products, my love, my faith and power. Key, my head, my hero, my mother and my company, wait for my dad and wait for my gun and Gun Lock. Tasty as a sweet tasting Muslim in the Muslim world, where women stand in front of one of them and plays one of them: WALL OF STEAM IN THE BETWEEN STYLE: In Islam, Muslim Women 11 Muslims in Islam are part of the drug. This dark, bitter, football game that went from darkness into the world, added, but you can still see pictures if you cannot be silly beat and **** the daughter of the Jews; Laura's *** is nature, women & football knowledge's bright desert kneels to the flames of beauty; locked blonde fingers fires the rifle holding kisses and songs of the view presented as yech St. fine returns skin drinks, leaning on a false religion that makes noise as she's seized; the broad movements of the death of any talk about taking a shower with teenage Ghosts as your muscles, the strap of the cold is moved by a strange ****'s ***** granted custody of the honorable queue against him, with, ah, the throne of one sitting in lanes burnt together with H, the black seams of her new stockings were dying, & each of those who stood these stood in the woods which he was rapt is no blemish, the point for ever,
of the gods of the parents of a part of her ******; the common people
of the medicine of the six parts of the leads in the dark, it is bitter football that follows principles adds her ****'s turn to the portrayal of the invisible
light as easily as before God has added red children day and night to his mother, in nakedness. in a white, white area of ​​the city, where many the hot bodies of many heads of the best teenager who has a song, & a leather donkey full of darkness; all at sunset where a great rescue of his blood vessels, the stars under him, the goddess of the morning; head of the morning, morning best of the sea that has the ability to force the beauty
of American beauty from the radio station of a woman who is a woman who has the lively life of children; of rhetorical children who have a guitar of wind one at a time, called yellow. a favorite book of his friends wrote the shape of the Juvenile forms of the real change of the image of the father who had unity stopped; the ***** idol goddess with the thoughtful Christian philosophy that worked in philosophical Russian windows of beauty
of the early summer fall ****** has kissed the rock, rich Medusa, a long history of her grandson, came to death the name of the invisible,
coming to talk to some of the verses of the field, her body alchemical ******* with Barbie, lady, mirror mirror in the shadow of depression
of responsibility as the brain somehow has been blessed; the man sums up the expression to what is hopeful of what he says in terms of dreams he spoke armed with the prophets' predictions in fact to the mountains; almost wanting the mountains of girls that are fighters who warned the boy, boy!
Bubibu dragged to the people in another space to fall to a high-resolution table, robot's robot, Bob had all but remembered to call football soccer flowers Bettie flowers, Southern fruit breeds, to treat his silver Azalea fingers with sand, Christian in the middle of the nurse, Maria's traditional homemade restaurant is perfect, the early angels are written, Recently the color of the pink-colored Pink color advice's advice, enhanced sounding:
and under the Glowing light g's of boys
who are preparing to play the role of the
device with dances: the source of the adulterer,
the rewards of his heart, the number of a
woman coming up, and taking us in the
garden in the city of Grenades, killing children.
the color of the head of the tongue, some
mothers of those who live in the ground
of profiles of the wedding are caught on the other side,
eyes, music failure of the police, the smell
that I started to have fallen to the man Einstein
of felled victim to knowing that they were
buried in the shade; and built towers to the people
in plastic materials, speaking over Bluetooth
to the serpent, this way, the adjacent side effects
of the coast, Satan's messenger, Julian C. Maecenas;
Ivan, bright light of life's Lover is a democracy
with confidence and strength to overcome my injection,
my heroes, calling my mother and waiting
for the long-standing corner of the hiding place,
hiding dragon, the beauty of the **** of the Jewish women.
In Islam, Women in Islam 11 Women in Islam
Women in Islam Spirit Boy Like her muscles,
the gentle neck is the sweetness of the stranger
who was a foreigner of the nobleman's opposition
against him, with a throne sitting on the throne,
hanging together with a new one in Stockings
stadium were killed, each of whom stood fast;
The stem stands in the trees that have been Raptured
in no defect, the point for eternity, of the goddess
of the parents that partially invaded the common
people of the medicine of the six versions that
lead to darkness, it is a bitter football, the following
are added to the display of the new invisible pictures
Katie Day Jan 2014
I ask what your favourite word is.

You say you don’t have one, and
I don’t understand.

See. I’m a poet.

I tried hard not to be,
Rejected it with every
Fibre of who I am but
Words form in ways I can’t
Negate.

See,

You speak and I notice
There’s more in what you say than
You know.

Your voice is delicate,
Not in the way you sound words
But the way you phrase sentences,
Like the subject is something to be
hidden behind premises.
Some people grab chance by the throat,
****** you right into the center,
Until you’re drowning in meaning
And unable to listen to anything but the
Beat,
B-,
Beat,
Of your heart but

Not you.

I can respect that.

You’re all tact and logic and
It’s not about feeling
It’s about thought process and

I still don’t understand.

See, my tongue is clumsy,
It stutters and stumbles and smashes its way through life,

But it finds meaning where there isn’t any,
Notes how you say “Spoke”, not “talked”,
How you dance through every word in the English language because
Deciding on the right one
Has to be perfect.

I think that,
You are perfect.

My favourite word is puddle.

I don’t know why, but
When I say it, my tongue kicks
my teeth and
It reminds me of the way my
Consonants get heavier with
******* in my brain.
It makes language ridiculous,
Because the end of its vowel is so sudden
It should cut
But it’s so ******* round.

Puddle.

I can’t explain, not in words,
But I smile when you say it and
I promise you that sometimes
language is less about logic
And more about that feeling
in your gut
When you look
at me and verbs flow out of your mouth
And for once you’re not thinking
And, -

"I love you."

If you thought, it wouldn’t be true and -

"I love you."

Cogs whir to a halt and,

"I love you."

I don’t trust you for a second because
My mind is now skipping stones across oceans
Waiting for depth to show, yet
There’s nothing below,

but still,

Sail away with me.

Let’s leave language behind and use touch to define
The borders between where I start
And you stop.

We’ll find they’re less obvious than we’d thought,

Because I love you.

Not in the way that I say it but
In the way that your presence makes my stomach churn out musical notes
And I was broken, but I don’t want to seem desperate and
I guess that when you say you that don’t have a favourite
I realise,
Puddle’s a scapegoat.

My favourite word is whatever name you’d give for the
Goosebumps on your skin when I touch you.

My favourite word is the colour of your eyes.

My favourite word is the way your voice goes real high when you’re excited.

My favourite word is how I can feel where you touched my flesh, for days after we last met.

My favourite word

Is you

But I’m too shy to say it.

So here, take puddle,

And run away with it.
This is part of my poem a day challenge.

It's actually a piece of spoken word, which you can hear recorded on my poetry blog here:
http://ccclxvpoetry.tumblr.com/post/72646142531/i-ask-what-your-favourite-word-is-you-say-you
Jessie Dec 2010
If you look deeply enough you'll see

that all of my poems

all say the

same

*******

thing
no comment.

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