"breathable" poems
the beauty of nature is lost on a piece of millennial **** like me
what's a tree?
who knew the air outside could be breathable.
I'm utterly lost without the artificial glow of my iPhone.
if I don't know who is eating Chipotle at any given moment
I will lose my mind.
what do you mean you "played outside" and "talked to each other" before the internet?
I call ********
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 10:54 PM UTC
city in the shadow of a mountain
like denver on vacation
shady and deep
flowing down like the river
seeking centre
houses cling to the crags like barnacles
inverted ship cavity
jutting out of the rainforest
paradise of truants and travellers
eternally in transit to islands and misfit fringes, cold floors and warm couches
and displaced ***** enthusiasts
sailors without floatation
treading land and bills and PTA meetings
cast off travellers on their way to golden gates or northern lights
rivers under troubled bridges
fish suffocating underwater
living on the refuse of the nuclear generation
transmuting the lead into sustainable energy
recycling the atmosphere into breathable air
apathetic anarchists return from extremity
living on the dole
or working for the man
we are building something greater than this
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 12:31 PM UTC
My abode was not built by my own two hands
It was erected by the noble hands of labs, in the 1920s
I make caffeined, bitter black water for the over worked businessman: who pushes arrogance
so that I may sleep
My time spent manifests itself into red norishment
from a white-light shuttle
free of breathable sunlight but abundant of it in edible from
There are stickers on my apples
trees tattooed with chemicals
that find themselves everywhere
plastic freckles on the trunks of their mothers
or returning into plastic fossils
Embraced by the place in which it came
Stickers on Apples:
so much effort for something
so
sweetly
simple
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 10:08 PM UTC
No use whistling for Lyonnesse!
Sea-cold, sea-cold it certainly is.
Take a look at the white, high berg on his forehead-
There's where it sunk.
The blue, green,
Gray, indeterminate gilt
Sea of his eyes washing over it
And a round bubble
Popping upward from the mouths of bells
People and cows.
The Lyonians had always thought
Heaven would be something else,
But with the same faces,
The same places...
It was not a shock-
The clear, green, quite breathable atmosphere,
Cold grits underfoot,
And the spidery water-dazzle on field and street.
It never occurred that they had been forgot,
That the big God
Had lazily closed one eye and let them slip
Over the English cliff and under so much history!
They did not see him smile,
Turn, like an animal,
In his cage of ether, his cage of stars.
He'd had so many wars!
The white gape of his mind was the real Tabula Rasa.
2.8k
Ushered into the breathable
Strung on undefinable threads,
Life's atmospheric interlacing;
A weaving, hidden to opaque sight
Subtle ties, loosen and relax,
Chest enmeshed entirely,
Titillating summations of Earth's enthusiasm
Entwine in activities of the lungs and heart
Pumping action, energy, growth,
Air feeds fire, and power, and blood,
Burning from the inside, animated,
Billions of cellular suns, throbbing
Light in the garden of the body,
Alive with murmurs, and hums
Of love, all of time, and space,
Moved to produce this oscillation
Ecstatic the body expands in swells,
Ecstatic the body contracts in swells,
Ecstatic are the waves exchanging,
Ecstatic is the surge of breath
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 3:19 PM UTC
Since our lives were complicated
By outside reason
Our house has been loud with voices
We pulled the bits out of our mouths
And now we will never put them back
And our house has never been quiet
And our house has never been neat
A scream has always followed a scream
Like the roll of waves and the sea is never still
But for the first time in years
I sit alone on the swept floor
Of a silent room
And the cold winter wind rushes through our house
Through windows flung open to let in more breathable air
But it makes me think only of my warm spot halfway up the stairs
That I was too afraid to go to when I heard the cold coming
Now a scream echoes without a scream
And my heat is lost to a room
With nothing to hold it
Apr 11, 2010
Apr 11, 2010 at 3:16 PM UTC
In the broken ages we thrive with words edgier than swords, over the bay window we hear seagulls taunting the waves for another storm.
Pavement taking over the woods
Treasuring breathable conversations between souls.
Then without even a slight sigh
the babbling brooks stops in their tracks leaving ****** steps of regret and nightmares of dinner dates.
We’ve been waiting and waiting for the rain, like a sigh of relief instead of wishful bliss
Whenever people come over, the silver is never shiny enough,
the windows not clean, chairs creaky, dust in corners and you’re never fully there.
How to please the people of yesterday, tomorrow or today.
To invite them into your own home, that may not be a castle or even a cozy cabin.
How to please, appeal to the upper crowd or even the town people.
The ones with similar shoes as you.
What to expect rather than regret, the crippling, snarling inner voice saying
“time for bed little you, tomorrow may be your last day of tjoho”
Sep 10, 2022
Sep 10, 2022 at 5:35 PM UTC
Arms stretched rapidly grabbing
Air too fill my airless
Lungs
I grab for what was plenty
But know like everything
"Now brought"
Breath now painful
Fresh air brought
Premium
Breathable
Black-market
Never pure, additives added
So tastes just right,
A mixture of many
That with first breath
Addictive
Substance,
Abuse,
Of what everyone needs,
Like liquid you swallow it
"Filling lungs"
Like the golden nectar of breath
Every breath could be there last,
But what can be done when we need
Each breath to continue life,
Bodies litter the floors though's not afforded
The luxury of breathing,
Breath air polluted by generations past,
Now for every breath taken,
Will a new born breath or will like those
Others, exhale their last breath when
So needing that need for life and breath .
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 10:34 AM UTC
dear twenty-year old me,
the storm in your head will settle and
the debris will remain down for a few minutes longer this time.
*(and then you'll learn to hold down fortresses in the
hurricanes, instead of being the ragdoll that
the torrents play tag with)*.
dear twenty-year old me,
there will be a moment when no amount of
poisonous smog clutching on the every molecule of breathable air
will be enough to block the clarity of the sun, the moon,
*even the little stars that seemingly do nothing but give you a carpet
of diamonds to cut your feet on.*
dear twenty-year old me,
this is a test. this is a phase. if life has taught me
anything, it is this -
it
always
goes
on.
so should you.
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 5:10 AM UTC
You can’t hurt me anymore,
For I am invincible;
Away from you I am capable,
Capable to succeed and become free.
You can’t hurt me anymore,
For I have done what
Some find hard to grasp;
I found the strength to say
“Enough!” at last.
I’ve put you so far behind me--
I’m too far gone to be reached.
Only concentrating in what will be
So that I can believe.
Living in the present to prepare
For my future.
I’ve left the past all up to you
Because you can’t touch me at last.
You can’t hurt me anymore,
No more tale-tell bruises
To explain or the unbearable pain,
No more purples and blues that used
To cover my face, only happiness
And breathable air upon which
I now embrace.
No, you can’t hurt me anymore,
You can’t touch me anymore,
Today I’m the conqueror because
I’ve left you back there
The day I walked out the door.
Creative Writings - Reina J. Morris
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
I laid on my bedroom floor and sunk my face into my elbow. There was nothing. No sound. No movement. There was Blackness. I was engulfed, I did not feel my heart and I did not feel my lungs. Time went on, unscathed, but I remained in the Black. I do not know anything. I do not know who came in my room. I do not know what they said. I do not know what I said. The jarring crash of a constant sound kept pulling me away. Every labored second time bore forth, I was unaware. I had gone somewhere so far that I was nowhere. The dust lined the back of my throat. Then I knew everything. I desperately wandered around looking for the Black. I had no provision but the Black. I had been unaware. Perfectly unaware. But I could not find the Black. So I was aware: no salt ever was so tasteless, no liquid was ever so dry. No pain was ever so miniscule, no mucus was ever so breathable. No, there was nothing. Not in the Black.This prejection of perfection, I could not emulate. I close my eyes and there was black. It had ears, a mout, eyes, a nose, and touch. There was a pit in the middle of my soul, somewhere between the bottom of my rib cage and my pants. I tried to find the Black there, but it was gone. Instead there was grinding and crashing. There was color. There was noise. I was refusing to really acknowledge it. There was aching and burning; there was pressure and banging. There was blue and there were barbells. There was a bed; a Bible and many books. There were bandaids and bottles and bows and bespeckled things. There was a blue monster and blue shirt. There was blue gatorade and black cords, and there was black shoes and black clothes. But there was no Black. There was brokeness and bruises; beige and bumps.There was a bunny and beauty products; a balustrade and a bathroom door. But there was nothing, and with it was no Black.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 11:48 AM UTC
He tells me he likes nachos while we sit in front of his living room TV,
lights dimmed. his dog has shed relentlessly on this couch.
I’m feeling dizzy, because I’m pretty sure that cheese was growing mold and I remind myself that
this is the 4th boy this summer (it’s only July), and he’s holding my hand.
it’s not so comfortable. in fact I realize I really don’t want to watch this movie about chemotherapy and space aliens (willing to bet he’s run the same one for every girl) at all. for a moment I forget where I am,
and I ask him if his name is Mitchell.
It’s Rafe, he says, ¼ laughing, ¼ wondering why he invited me over, half imagining what he could do to me.
*what a ****** name*, I think to myself, and I throw the scratchy blanket off me in his too air-conditioned apartment,
much more breathable.
I open the door. sorry Mitch, my mom told me to be home by... (squint at my watch in the darkness)
he stands up and knocks over my untouched Pepsi, probably spiked, saying it’s pretty early, are you sure? and the name’s –
(door shuts). bye, Mitch.
Aug 23, 2010
Aug 23, 2010 at 3:38 PM UTC
I know that I’ve been tempting fate and playing with fire.
But I don’t know what I am doing.
What am I doing?
I am so lost without you.
Like sailors without their Northern Star.
Forgive me.
Forgive me.
Without you, everything is up in the air.
And what am I supposed to do with air?
This air isn’t breathable.
It doesn’t fill up the hot air balloon.
I don’t know how to.
Forgive me.
Forgive me.
And I am keeping them a secret.
I don’t know if you’ll ever know.
But it always has a way of getting out.
Just like a magnetic pull,
I can’t seem to stop.
Forgive me.
Forgive me.
There’s a hole in our ice heart.
And I am digging it deeper.
It will never look the same nor heal.
How will you look at me?
Like a piece of tarnished treasure?
Forgive me.
Forgive me.
As I play with fire and tempt with fate,
I realize it will be the end of me.
Upon seeing you, I won’t live.
Like a fatal and trespassing guilt.
I’m begging you.
Please.
Dear God, please.
Forgive me.
Forgive me.
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 10:24 PM UTC
a teeny tiny
whited-out blank space,
the tenuous boundary that separates,
higher man from untamed beast,
so powerful when respected,
the crowning hallmark of human acclamation
we all do wear by right of birth and breathe
you see it right?
that invisible peaceful white
spatial, tiny yet palatial dot that separates
us from rack and ruin,
the mighty differential pause between
in civility and incivility
come not to preach or harangue,
my counsel kept within the
between beats of a mournful drum,
respectfully and slowly banged
each silent separation a prayerful plea,
the inserted peacekeepers of our spoken words,
employ well those powerful pauses that refresh
the speaker and the listener so well
leave behind your
self-righteous disbelief in others' beliefs,
that morphs into no toleration,
an arrogant surety,
that surely the anal-ytical results of
your thoughtful processes,
inevitability correct and brook no resistance
the shrill strumpets
of either side
confidently worship at no church
but to the false gods
of their own mirrored reflection,
who smiles back approvingly
at those who scream the loudest...
outlaw the outrage of your rage,
come to my white clothed table,
put aside the wrath of overbearing,
represent your disparate conclusions
with harmonious, breathable pauses
to reflect and respect
our distinctive and distinguished differences
no one ever lost a reasoned argument
that began with a considered, well tempered
good morning
*what has this to do with
only love poetry?*
***well, everything...for you must love thy neighbor
as you love yourself***
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 9:38 AM UTC
awas amidst
the bits and bobs of my pseudo-sleep,
check my watch oft habitually,
understand
that the precisive time is not
what I seek,
no,
what I desire is reassurance of
some sort, that time is present,
that it is
a measurable actuality in,
my about,
a breathable actuality
woven into my
Body’s Constructional
Constitutional Cconsciousness
that time is there, here,
for it is rhe
wondrous of all wonder,
it is a
present of, from,
and,
is love itself,
love is time…
(think on it)
it is all and only
butpossibility,
the future in
slow mo
is both
realizable & visible ,
even some part knowable;
its somes & sums,
as we daily
practice realizing it,
as if
time is a
smuggler of snuggles,
comforting but not
for too long
like
a new lover’s
exploratory
beginning beguiling explanations
reforming our ardor
into
viability
or
a glove
asking us each:
slow s l i d e
your hand inside,
then,
newly commence
waving yours,
airy all about
conducting a new self
into your
precious moment of precarious
existence,
that we dare not waste!
so:
write and right
are no accident,
but purposed
equals,
friends,
brothers and sisters,
one and both
coexisting
at
in
the same time…
Sep 17, 2024
Sep 17, 2024 at 7:36 AM UTC
How high was a nose meant to go?
Was it meant to reach Mars?
Was it meant to be a ladder to both near and far,
To the way far beyond and the far beyond stars?
How high was a nose meant to go?
Was it meant to be raised up to the sun on a pole?
Was it meant to sniff clouds and those lovely bows,
And breathe comet dust in a breathable boast?
How high was a nose meant to go?
Was it meant as an ornament for onlooking eyes,
Combing and surveying air instead of people passing by,
So the friendliest friends can breathe lovelorn sighs?
Those friendliest friends are the first despised.
How high was a nose meant to go?
The one pointed down will be the one pointed out,
The one smelling the floor will be rejected and fought,
The nose pointed down, broken with blood on the ground.
How high was a nose meant to go?
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 2:35 PM UTC
People came and went all night, welcomed by the warm evening, the 12-piece jazz band, rich restaurant aromas and the boundless night sky. I hear their enthusiasm as they’re escorted to their tables. These Geneva people seem more Germanic and reserved than the French, although they’ve stolen our language. Maybe they license French or subscribe to it, like Spotify.
Peter (my bf) and I danced, unburdened by tomorrows, on a terrace of frozen-ice like, pale-blue tiles. The spilled star-field glittered like fireworks on a dark canvas of a new-moon, black sky.
The distant, snow-covered Alps seemed to reach for the glistening cosmos, like spilled water rushing across a floor or children grasping at toys. Compared to this celestial gallery, the Geneva skyline looked as sad as an old stage prop.
The air was scented with blooming jasmine, baking bread and coffees. A breeze, in turns warm and cool, wrapped around us, sharing the dance by pressing my dress to me one moment and throwing it away the next.
The dress I picked it up in Paris earlier in the week - a svelte, Chiuri Dior, ‘New Look Silhouette’ in Prussian blue Chiffon and cobalt crepe - felt as lightweight, breathable and cool as workout-mesh.
Peter’s a good dancer. He’s firm yet gentle, guiding me effortlessly, in a lazy, jazz way, from the waist. When we’re in the flow, our choreography’s guided more by the unseen music than a set dance.
Our evening - I think it’s fair to say we owned it - turned into an unhurried night, before easing, unnoticed, into morning - as summer evenings tend to do.
Our words, in hushed tones, were washed away on the breeze and the music, lost to anyone but ourselves. Time never seemed more of an abstract and irrelevant construct - and if there was a world beyond those moments - it went unnoticed.
.
.
Songs for this:
Good Luck, Babe! by Chappell Roan
Lose My Breath (Feat. Charlie Puth) by Stay Kids, Charlie Puth
Stumblin’ In by CRYIL
**** to someone by Clairo
Jun 5, 2024
Jun 5, 2024 at 1:19 PM UTC
awas amidst
the bits and bobs of my pseudo-sleep,
check my watch oft and habitually,
understand
that the actual time is not what I seek,
no, what I desire is reassurance of
some sort,
that time is present,
that it is yet measured,
in my about, breathable,
that time is there,
for it is the wonderous of wonder,
it’s a
present of and is love itself,
love is time…
(think on it)
it is all possibility,
the future in
slow motion is both
realizable & visible even
as we daily practice realizing it,
as if
time is
snuggling us
as a glove,
asking us each,
place your hand inside,
and waving yours
airy about
into your
new existence,
that we dare not waste,
so
write and right
are no accident, but
equals, friends,
brothers and sisters,
one is both
Sep 17, 2024
Sep 17, 2024 at 8:34 AM UTC
Anguished and agitated
Being barely bred breathable
Clearly crushing childhood
Desperate,dilapidated,dejected, DONE.
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 4:29 PM UTC
Staple the mess to my dissappointment after so much went to hell.This will make sure potassium infects the soul, And that DNA matches the horror.
Hoods with a ninety degree cemetery and a broken sun, shall cast. Let me show you the screaming inside me that hope can't hear.
Breathable Walls and worthless fabric are background to my cocktails and clouds.
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 10:42 PM UTC
Come to me when the night is deep,
when the darkness surrounds you,
when the spiders creep.
Spin a web with fingers sleek
and catch your prey when the world
around sleeps.
Haunted secrets we keep
when the air is not breathable
and all around the sound seems
unkeepable,
when love is weak,
tangled,
despicable...
Know I hold you,
unfold you
in a world that's predictable;
I'll lift you, unshift you
when the night feels so crippled,
uncage you, reclaim you
when your world falls unfixable.
Tonight under moonlight
when the wolves hunt alone,
we'll tune out the drone
with love's resounding home--
We'll delight in the known,
knowing we're never alone
and howl at the moonlight
too soon midnight gone.
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 11:44 AM UTC
Sky climbing is the optimum reason
I’m still reaching for the chances with you my dear
Deep cleaning the air with my lies
Diving back down towards the water zone
Casually faking what I truly meant to say
Boiling down the points to the upcoming ******
Moments lingering behind this setup
Ideas melting sliding closing shattering
Behind this glowing sunrise sets upon another sunset
Winds twisting me into an oblivious maze
Universes collide forming new breathable air
Kiss upon your forehead, is the end
Feb 1, 2010
Feb 1, 2010 at 7:42 AM UTC
There is a lesson
among the others
that I have failed to learn.
A mother's wail,
a child's cry,
the tortured sighs
and lonely eyes-
these signs,
these misgivings,
these misguided reasons
become lost on me.
It's the pain,
the uncultured beginnings
of a slowly spreading weight
that I fail to see
in full colour.
I look to the sky
at the words;
tell me it's raining
and I will believe you,
but the water will not touch me.
I look up,
searching
for the tears among raindrops,
the carbon
among the breathable air,
looking for the cats-
looking for the dogs-
but finding only a beautiful rain.
And ashamed
for not understanding
the pain that it takes
to be like the people I see,
sitting at the window
just like me,
but whose blank stares
and sighs
mirror nothing
inside my own soul.
I have wished to feel that pain,
if only for a day,
just to understand
the way it takes hold.
I have searched
for that sincerity,
and found only the clarity
of somebody who skips through life
making eye contact easily.
But sometimes,
instead,
I look down at the ground,
trying to find what they search so hard for;
trying to pick it up again
and lift it towards the sky.
I don't need a reason why
I just do.
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 12:47 PM UTC