"bundled" poems - Hello Poetry

"bundled" poems

Bundled up in my big blue blanket, Holding my heavenly hot cocoa, Simmering as I'm sipping, Nibbling on my noodles, I gaze out the window, Rain, rain, rain, Grey clouds canvassing the sky, Water falling creating rivers in the street, The only thing I vow to accomplish today at all Is finish season seven of Supernatural.

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Oct 15, 2014

Oct 15, 2014 at 3:27 PM UTC

Bundled up in my big blue blanket, Holding my heavenly hot cocoa, Simmering as I'm sipping, Nibbling on my noodles, I gaze out the window, Rain, rain, rain, Grey clouds canvassing the sky, Water falling creating rivers in the street, The only thing I vow to accomplish today at all Is finish season seven of Supernatural.

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We wear this city on our feet Planting our roots with each step Our shadows cast shapes of ancient oak trees stretching out over old squares at daybreak We grow here with the spirit of buildings past, present and rising like a staircase to heaven in the distance, the plumes of white smoke from their rooftops as burnt offerings for incense, spires for steeples, the bundled masses of people moving beneath as the calloused soles of our feet pounding the pavement, Our congregation seated in reverant silence on the R-Line hissing to a stop Their hushed prayers filing out from within to bring the reclaimed sidewalks of Fayetville Street back to life to join this pilgramage They march downtown toward Capitol holding signs for disarmament They bar-hop through Glenwood toasting to deliverance They move in a blur of faces that become us, Rush at all hours through our veins Cross our hearts and keep us breathing, Moving wearing the city on our minds like the greyest pieces of their winter sky and the way it caps the peaks of Mount PNC, BB&T and Wells Fargo like hoodies over our heads We assume monk-like appearances in robes color-coded by season- from blue collar sweaters to cold hard sweat We'll wear their city until we're worn out and wet, We'll wear their dreams at night like streetlamps flickering on beneath wired telephone poles carrying conversations about each one as far south as Florida, fears unspoken, made visible on iron park benches too cold to sit on at this hour We'll keep walking and wear this city like backpacks over our shoulders under the watch of their heavens, the skyline a glowing testament of every step taken toward someplace higher.

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Apr 9, 2018

Apr 9, 2018 at 7:27 PM UTC

Becoming Raleigh

We wear this city on our feet Planting our roots with each step Our shadows cast shapes of ancient oak trees stretching out over old squares at daybreak We grow here with the spirit of buildings past, present and rising like a staircase to heaven in the distance, the plumes of white smoke from their rooftops as burnt offerings for incense, spires for steeples, the bundled masses of people moving beneath as the calloused soles of our feet pounding the pavement, Our congregation seated in reverant silence on the R-Line hissing to a stop Their hushed prayers filing out from within to bring the reclaimed sidewalks of Fayetville Street back to life to join this pilgramage They march downtown toward Capitol holding signs for disarmament They bar-hop through Glenwood toasting to deliverance They move in a blur of faces that become us, Rush at all hours through our veins Cross our hearts and keep us breathing, Moving wearing the city on our minds like the greyest pieces of their winter sky and the way it caps the peaks of Mount PNC, BB&T and Wells Fargo like hoodies over our heads We assume monk-like appearances in robes color-coded by season- from blue collar sweaters to cold hard sweat We'll wear their city until we're worn out and wet, We'll wear their dreams at night like streetlamps flickering on beneath wired telephone poles carrying conversations about each one as far south as Florida, fears unspoken, made visible on iron park benches too cold to sit on at this hour We'll keep walking and wear this city like backpacks over our shoulders under the watch of their heavens, the skyline a glowing testament of every step taken toward someplace higher.

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(tw; hypothermia, death) Having depression is like being caught out in a blizzard. At first, the cold seems like nothing. You're all bundled up in a fluffy coat, scarf wrapped around your face, hands slipped into gloves and tucked under your arms. But then the snow begins to fall, and the temperature drops, and it's like the chill is stripping you down, layer by layer, even though all your layers are still there. It gets colder, and you start to feel the effects of the chill, the fierce winter seeping into your bones, making it seem as though you only walked outside in a pair of shorts and a tee-shirt. Your body begins to numb as the cold starts, the weakest parts of you losing their feeling first. Your nose, your ears, your cheeks and your face and your fingers, all becoming completely numb, as if they aren't there anymore. And then your legs stiffen up, and you have trouble walking, even though you try so hard to keep moving, because you know if you stop, you're doomed. But you lose your ability to function, the cold causing almost complete ****** paralysis, and no matter how hard you try, it's impossible to keep moving. You fall to the ground, curling into a ball in the snow, trying to keep yourself warm, but the cold is too much. And as the hypothermia sets in, your brain tricks you into thinking you're actually warm, and you strip off the layers that were the only thing keeping you alive. And then it's over.

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Jul 9, 2015

Jul 9, 2015 at 11:56 PM UTC

(tw; hypothermia, death) Having depression is like being caught out in a blizzard. At first, the cold seems like nothing. You're all bundled up in a fluffy coat, scarf wrapped around your face, hands slipped into gloves and tucked under your arms. But then the snow begins to fall, and the temperature drops, and it's like the chill is stripping you down, layer by layer, even though all your layers are still there. It gets colder, and you start to feel the effects of the chill, the fierce winter seeping into your bones, making it seem as though you only walked outside in a pair of shorts and a tee-shirt. Your body begins to numb as the cold starts, the weakest parts of you losing their feeling first. Your nose, your ears, your cheeks and your face and your fingers, all becoming completely numb, as if they aren't there anymore. And then your legs stiffen up, and you have trouble walking, even though you try so hard to keep moving, because you know if you stop, you're doomed. But you lose your ability to function, the cold causing almost complete ****** paralysis, and no matter how hard you try, it's impossible to keep moving. You fall to the ground, curling into a ball in the snow, trying to keep yourself warm, but the cold is too much. And as the hypothermia sets in, your brain tricks you into thinking you're actually warm, and you strip off the layers that were the only thing keeping you alive. And then it's over.

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candlesticks caught up in your wristwatch grip bundled up burning chopsticks not frostbitten yet, flashlight to toes happy it still shows your glowing red interior

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Nov 17, 2014

Nov 17, 2014 at 12:24 AM UTC

flashlight to toes

candlesticks caught up in your wristwatch grip bundled up burning chopsticks not frostbitten yet, flashlight to toes happy it still shows your glowing red interior

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I haven't stayed up this late since our restless early morning contests to see who would fall victim to heavy eyelids and tired thoughts. I won of course, you most of the time, but I won on the longest nights (or so I'd like to think) though my satisfaction was rooted from something entirely different. To be honest, I could have cared less about the victor; I was competitive but I liked when you won - the shine in your voice and the glimmer in your smile telling me how I snored through the night (I didn't) was much more rewarding. I haven't stayed up this long since our late night conversations turned into early morning slurred sentences of who could make the most sense whilst repeating I love you inaudibly through earphone speakers and bundled blankets. And as much as the tiredness enveloped me in its embrace, the thought of yours implied through the telephone waves proved to be worthwhile, nonetheless. You were miles beyond my reach, but you were simple words away. ***I haven't stayed up this late since we fell asleep falling in love*** in different beds but with the same desires, on the same line; on the same page. And I hate to admit it, but I still like to think of it that way. - g.d.

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Jan 2, 2014

Jan 2, 2014 at 3:58 AM UTC

I haven't stayed up this late since our restless early morning contests to see who would fall victim to heavy eyelids and tired thoughts. I won of course, you most of the time, but I won on the longest nights (or so I'd like to think) though my satisfaction was rooted from something entirely different. To be honest, I could have cared less about the victor; I was competitive but I liked when you won - the shine in your voice and the glimmer in your smile telling me how I snored through the night (I didn't) was much more rewarding. I haven't stayed up this long since our late night conversations turned into early morning slurred sentences of who could make the most sense whilst repeating I love you inaudibly through earphone speakers and bundled blankets. And as much as the tiredness enveloped me in its embrace, the thought of yours implied through the telephone waves proved to be worthwhile, nonetheless. You were miles beyond my reach, but you were simple words away. ***I haven't stayed up this late since we fell asleep falling in love*** in different beds but with the same desires, on the same line; on the same page. And I hate to admit it, but I still like to think of it that way. - g.d.

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School days in winter Were such fun Without a care, When we were young. At recess we'd slide On ice, Build our forts, Duck and fight. The firemen Beneath starlight, Would flood our schoolyard, Whet appetites For hockey games Between senior classes; We'd skate and shoot, Fall on our ***** Such joy and fun, And no one lost. The bell would sound, Then we'd toss Our wet socks On school room Rads. His and hers Like banners waving, Drying, hissing, Choking, aging. Impatiently we'd sit and wait, Do our math And conjugate; The clock's hands, Frozen, Watched from The wall, At last the lunchtime Bell would ring, And we'd get bundled Once again. Before heading home We're enticed To slide once more On hard, grey ice.

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Nov 26, 2014

Nov 26, 2014 at 3:01 PM UTC

Winter School Days

School days in winter Were such fun Without a care, When we were young. At recess we'd slide On ice, Build our forts, Duck and fight. The firemen Beneath starlight, Would flood our schoolyard, Whet appetites For hockey games Between senior classes; We'd skate and shoot, Fall on our ***** Such joy and fun, And no one lost. The bell would sound, Then we'd toss Our wet socks On school room Rads. His and hers Like banners waving, Drying, hissing, Choking, aging. Impatiently we'd sit and wait, Do our math And conjugate; The clock's hands, Frozen, Watched from The wall, At last the lunchtime Bell would ring, And we'd get bundled Once again. Before heading home We're enticed To slide once more On hard, grey ice.

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Dear life, you could say we don’t have the best relationship, You are dark, you are hard, you are unfair, and you are even suffocating at times. You make me feel small, you make me feel helpless and you make me feel broken. You throw things at me, you are mean to me and you give me heart ache. But you are also light, you are also beautiful and you are also extraordinary. Dear life, You are the reason that I laugh, You are the reason that I see light, You are the reason that I feel the warmth of hugs, and you are the reason I am here today. Dear life, I will survive you. I see darkness because I know light, I feel sadness because I’ve felt joy. I feel broken because I’ve felt whole. And anyway, some of the best cups of coffee are chipped. You throw things at me because you know Im good at catching. Dear life, You are not unfair, without all of the wicked seeming things that you toss my way I would not be able to recognise the good and the beautiful in you. Dear life, I love you. You are a journey, an adventure, you are excitement, mystery, joy and love all bundled up in one. You are a roller coaster, you are scary, you are fun, you make me scream with fear and with joy. Dear life, Thank you for giving me my lows so I can recognise my highs. Thank you for giving me late night car rides with the music blasting, for giving me stomach aching and breath taking laughs, for giving me 2nd chances. Thank you for creating babies and puppies and art and music and love and even pain. Thank you for giving me the chance to live you. Dear life, The most beautiful things always hurt, even roses have thorns Sometimes there seems to be more dark than light in you these days but there is light and I will heal and sometimes the healing is the aching. Dear life, you are worth living

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Jan 9, 2018

Jan 9, 2018 at 3:29 PM UTC

Dear life, you could say we don’t have the best relationship, You are dark, you are hard, you are unfair, and you are even suffocating at times. You make me feel small, you make me feel helpless and you make me feel broken. You throw things at me, you are mean to me and you give me heart ache. But you are also light, you are also beautiful and you are also extraordinary. Dear life, You are the reason that I laugh, You are the reason that I see light, You are the reason that I feel the warmth of hugs, and you are the reason I am here today. Dear life, I will survive you. I see darkness because I know light, I feel sadness because I’ve felt joy. I feel broken because I’ve felt whole. And anyway, some of the best cups of coffee are chipped. You throw things at me because you know Im good at catching. Dear life, You are not unfair, without all of the wicked seeming things that you toss my way I would not be able to recognise the good and the beautiful in you. Dear life, I love you. You are a journey, an adventure, you are excitement, mystery, joy and love all bundled up in one. You are a roller coaster, you are scary, you are fun, you make me scream with fear and with joy. Dear life, Thank you for giving me my lows so I can recognise my highs. Thank you for giving me late night car rides with the music blasting, for giving me stomach aching and breath taking laughs, for giving me 2nd chances. Thank you for creating babies and puppies and art and music and love and even pain. Thank you for giving me the chance to live you. Dear life, The most beautiful things always hurt, even roses have thorns Sometimes there seems to be more dark than light in you these days but there is light and I will heal and sometimes the healing is the aching. Dear life, you are worth living

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What can you say about Pennsylvania in regard to New England except that it is slightly less cold, and less rocky, or rather that the rocks are different? Redder, and gritty, and piled up here and there, whether as glacial moraine or collapsed springhouse is not easy to tell, so quickly are human efforts bundled back into nature. In fall, the trees turn yellower- hard maple, hickory, and oak give way to tulip poplar, black walnut, and locust. The woods are overgrown with wild-grape vines, and with greenbrier spreading its low net of anxious small claws. In warm November, the mulching forest floor smells like a rotting animal. A genial pulpiness, in short: the sky is soft with haze and paper-gray even as the sun shines, and the rain falls soft on the shoulders of farmers while the children keep on playing, their heads of hair beaded like spider webs. A deep-dyed blur softens the bleak cities whose people palaver in prolonged vowels. There is a secret here, some death-defying joke the eyes, the knuckles, the bellies imply- a suet of consolation fetched straight from the slaughterhouse and hung out for chickadees to peck in the lee of the spruce, where the husks of sunflower seeds and the peace-signs of bird feet crowd the snow that barely masks the still-green grass. I knew that secret once, and have forgotten. The death-defying secret-it rises toward me like a dog's gaze, loving but bewildered. When winter sits cold and black slumped between its two polluted rivers, warmth's shadow leans close to the wall and gets the cement to deliver a kiss.

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5.4k

Returning Native

What can you say about Pennsylvania in regard to New England except that it is slightly less cold, and less rocky, or rather that the rocks are different? Redder, and gritty, and piled up here and there, whether as glacial moraine or collapsed springhouse is not easy to tell, so quickly are human efforts bundled back into nature. In fall, the trees turn yellower- hard maple, hickory, and oak give way to tulip poplar, black walnut, and locust. The woods are overgrown with wild-grape vines, and with greenbrier spreading its low net of anxious small claws. In warm November, the mulching forest floor smells like a rotting animal. A genial pulpiness, in short: the sky is soft with haze and paper-gray even as the sun shines, and the rain falls soft on the shoulders of farmers while the children keep on playing, their heads of hair beaded like spider webs. A deep-dyed blur softens the bleak cities whose people palaver in prolonged vowels. There is a secret here, some death-defying joke the eyes, the knuckles, the bellies imply- a suet of consolation fetched straight from the slaughterhouse and hung out for chickadees to peck in the lee of the spruce, where the husks of sunflower seeds and the peace-signs of bird feet crowd the snow that barely masks the still-green grass. I knew that secret once, and have forgotten. The death-defying secret-it rises toward me like a dog's gaze, loving but bewildered. When winter sits cold and black slumped between its two polluted rivers, warmth's shadow leans close to the wall and gets the cement to deliver a kiss.

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a future promise a hard on like bundled gym socks in stuffed blue jeans a future threat a shriveled phallus wrinkled obsolete she remembered fondly being beaten drum chatter and seized like slow roasted fall off the bone pulled pork ****** raggedy Ann catapulted beyond Euboean heavens ravaging scrotums Gordian ****** with her wild fiendish mouth drinking a river of haloed golden showers spit and **** in a runaway hot house of glistening pink buttery spires engorging her macerated orifices half eaten radish chocking on hordes of big do do ***** a ****** face; cross eyed Babylon abalone bashed Ashly mashed begging for a face full of swinging ***** like caped chandeliers trotting faint giggles in a constellation of ruptured arteries and thick sparked **** on her knees milk glitter faced scared with happiness she counted one smiling bruise at a time her badge of calamities black and blue silhouettes grinning invitations like party favors without a crease of shame her skin rapturous spackled patchworks bled like torrential fountains summer tide while every body had fizzy red ice phlebotomies and steamed through her drooling tumble pie lust ***** totem house of winding labyrinths honey pumped transfusion flush on blush opera of tangled limbs red pulse wedding flowers slick ***** palace blood tongued orchard caressing knotted mooned **** spill

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Jan 14, 2019

Jan 14, 2019 at 2:22 PM UTC

a future promise a hard on like bundled gym socks in stuffed blue jeans a future threat a shriveled phallus wrinkled obsolete she remembered fondly being beaten drum chatter and seized like slow roasted fall off the bone pulled pork ****** raggedy Ann catapulted beyond Euboean heavens ravaging scrotums Gordian ****** with her wild fiendish mouth drinking a river of haloed golden showers spit and **** in a runaway hot house of glistening pink buttery spires engorging her macerated orifices half eaten radish chocking on hordes of big do do ***** a ****** face; cross eyed Babylon abalone bashed Ashly mashed begging for a face full of swinging ***** like caped chandeliers trotting faint giggles in a constellation of ruptured arteries and thick sparked **** on her knees milk glitter faced scared with happiness she counted one smiling bruise at a time her badge of calamities black and blue silhouettes grinning invitations like party favors without a crease of shame her skin rapturous spackled patchworks bled like torrential fountains summer tide while every body had fizzy red ice phlebotomies and steamed through her drooling tumble pie lust ***** totem house of winding labyrinths honey pumped transfusion flush on blush opera of tangled limbs red pulse wedding flowers slick ***** palace blood tongued orchard caressing knotted mooned **** spill

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My blood is a toxin Toxic like wine The ink from this pen Is duly mine Your name is a drug My drug and my wine My body was your temple Now become a shrine The harlotry is my venom The venom is my wine And for all that I may account I know I've walked the line The whisky is my poison The poison is my wine And I find it warmer here Beneath the dying brine Now my thoughts lay bundled with twine And here I am, fresh out of wine

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Sep 5, 2018

Sep 5, 2018 at 2:26 AM UTC

Fresh Out of Poison

My blood is a toxin Toxic like wine The ink from this pen Is duly mine Your name is a drug My drug and my wine My body was your temple Now become a shrine The harlotry is my venom The venom is my wine And for all that I may account I know I've walked the line The whisky is my poison The poison is my wine And I find it warmer here Beneath the dying brine Now my thoughts lay bundled with twine And here I am, fresh out of wine

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buried behind a wall of complacency my contentment boils -- steams like pots of cleansing tea-- in the constant cold pass the peace pipe over the bones of my enemies. my rebellion is rooted deep within my veins {burried under tact and sweet smiles} but ready to return the blood of warrior women waiting to return runs within me- my abilities are their evolution from the color of my eyes to my tolerance for pain-- rooted into my skullspinesoul in a field of dinosaur bones- only the strong survive the cold this ever present frost follows me like the windigo; its return deep in the decemberjanuaryfebuary ache of my bones a disease malignant in the deep r u n n i n g tap-roots of elms- etched into time like skeletons in the ice tested {thawing} with every return of this ******* season, evolving from the lifeless bones of trees to the wings of birds brittle, but strong; bundled with love(hate) protecting me from the cold letting go, but wanting them to fall back like cigarette ashes in the wind this is no place or time in my life for slow acceptance but I find safety in the muscle bound bones aware, lying (insomniac), waiting for someone to breathe life into the marrow. my love- deep, engrained, rooted the pulse of human heat keeping me from the cold will I ever change? bundled against the cold, the cracking of my bones is like the creaking of the dead trees i stare up at with their songs of change and the end of fears never to thaw out again

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Nov 14, 2012

Nov 14, 2012 at 10:41 PM UTC

ashley-wade-parker

pass the peace pipe

buried behind a wall of complacency my contentment boils -- steams like pots of cleansing tea-- in the constant cold pass the peace pipe over the bones of my enemies. my rebellion is rooted deep within my veins {burried under tact and sweet smiles} but ready to return the blood of warrior women waiting to return runs within me- my abilities are their evolution from the color of my eyes to my tolerance for pain-- rooted into my skullspinesoul in a field of dinosaur bones- only the strong survive the cold this ever present frost follows me like the windigo; its return deep in the decemberjanuaryfebuary ache of my bones a disease malignant in the deep r u n n i n g tap-roots of elms- etched into time like skeletons in the ice tested {thawing} with every return of this ******* season, evolving from the lifeless bones of trees to the wings of birds brittle, but strong; bundled with love(hate) protecting me from the cold letting go, but wanting them to fall back like cigarette ashes in the wind this is no place or time in my life for slow acceptance but I find safety in the muscle bound bones aware, lying (insomniac), waiting for someone to breathe life into the marrow. my love- deep, engrained, rooted the pulse of human heat keeping me from the cold will I ever change? bundled against the cold, the cracking of my bones is like the creaking of the dead trees i stare up at with their songs of change and the end of fears never to thaw out again

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Now I'd like to tell you of a liquid And a beverage clearly divine It matches the holiest spirit And most blessed communion wine But it's not to be found at the altar Of the temple, the mosque or the church You'll see it in glasses lined up on the bar Wherever the pensioners perch Oh Gin, Gin, fabulous Gin Finest concoction there ever has bin A knee to the crotch and a kick in the shin To him that speaks ill of that heavenly Gin I had a great aunty called Floris Each morning she'd sternly arise With a fire in the pit of her stomach And a merciless scowl in her eyes But thanks to a magical fluid By the end she was quite the reverse And her face was serene and so tranquil As they bundled her into the hearse Oh Gin, Gin, glorious Gin Remover of troubles and varnish and skin There's many a baby that wouldn't have bin If not for a bottle of beautiful Gin Edith was crippled with cramp of the back And terrible gout of the thighs Her walk was askew and her bottom had swelled To a rather astonishing size But with Gin in the morning, the noon and night She was right as proverbial rain She still couldn't walk but now couldn't talk So no one could hear her complain Oh Gin, Gin, medicinal Gin Bracing your face with a permanent grin Cleans up the silver but tarnishes tin Joyous the juice of the juniper, Gin Tis a regular modern elixir And a kick in the liver to boot It's companion for many a mixer To the tonic or blending of fruit Instilling a mighty contentment And removing all traces of rage Though it's mainly imbibed by ladies Those of a particular age... Oh Gin, Gin, magnificent Gin Clean as a whistle and sharp as a pin Puts hairs on the ears, the chest and chin Of nannies and grannies all guzzling Gin

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Apr 5, 2013

Apr 5, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC

A Lovely Song About Gin ;)

Now I'd like to tell you of a liquid And a beverage clearly divine It matches the holiest spirit And most blessed communion wine But it's not to be found at the altar Of the temple, the mosque or the church You'll see it in glasses lined up on the bar Wherever the pensioners perch Oh Gin, Gin, fabulous Gin Finest concoction there ever has bin A knee to the crotch and a kick in the shin To him that speaks ill of that heavenly Gin I had a great aunty called Floris Each morning she'd sternly arise With a fire in the pit of her stomach And a merciless scowl in her eyes But thanks to a magical fluid By the end she was quite the reverse And her face was serene and so tranquil As they bundled her into the hearse Oh Gin, Gin, glorious Gin Remover of troubles and varnish and skin There's many a baby that wouldn't have bin If not for a bottle of beautiful Gin Edith was crippled with cramp of the back And terrible gout of the thighs Her walk was askew and her bottom had swelled To a rather astonishing size But with Gin in the morning, the noon and night She was right as proverbial rain She still couldn't walk but now couldn't talk So no one could hear her complain Oh Gin, Gin, medicinal Gin Bracing your face with a permanent grin Cleans up the silver but tarnishes tin Joyous the juice of the juniper, Gin Tis a regular modern elixir And a kick in the liver to boot It's companion for many a mixer To the tonic or blending of fruit Instilling a mighty contentment And removing all traces of rage Though it's mainly imbibed by ladies Those of a particular age... Oh Gin, Gin, magnificent Gin Clean as a whistle and sharp as a pin Puts hairs on the ears, the chest and chin Of nannies and grannies all guzzling Gin

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catch me like a fish everlasting supplier of light rays- warming the soul like a cup of hot tea on a sleepy sunday afternoon - melancholic - swaying the universe the mermaids sing in the mornings mesmerizing the sailors and i am the singer and the mesmerized i am free. i am free from the ropes. free from the chains of a dreary existence. i can feel it i can feel it on the tip of my eyelashes with the swells of tears pouring out. - renewal - - relief - i am a good girl. listener of tall tales and fantasies. spur of the moment night crawler caller. i spin a beautiful web of fantastical clouds. from ropes to cakes. pick your poison. i am a bad girl. keeper of secrets. silent truths bundled under creative happiness and weakly disguised love affairs. - blink and it’s over - i’ll lie in your lap and watch you write- spinning fantastical tales of glorious awakenings. new beginnings.- pull my hair up to attention. i am here. i am wanted. want want grab me. want//need. clever disguises. silent truths. wispy truths. childhood pencil marks. pig tail sneakers. truth drops into heads. eyes drop onto the floor. teeth sink into lips. heart drops into stomach. limbs fold over limbs and the being falls slowly upon itself. when i wasn’t mine. she wanted me more than she could stand. stabbed me with a ************* pencil. made my heart drop into my ************* stomach.

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Dec 14, 2013

Dec 14, 2013 at 12:15 AM UTC

melancholic mermaid love affairs

catch me like a fish everlasting supplier of light rays- warming the soul like a cup of hot tea on a sleepy sunday afternoon - melancholic - swaying the universe the mermaids sing in the mornings mesmerizing the sailors and i am the singer and the mesmerized i am free. i am free from the ropes. free from the chains of a dreary existence. i can feel it i can feel it on the tip of my eyelashes with the swells of tears pouring out. - renewal - - relief - i am a good girl. listener of tall tales and fantasies. spur of the moment night crawler caller. i spin a beautiful web of fantastical clouds. from ropes to cakes. pick your poison. i am a bad girl. keeper of secrets. silent truths bundled under creative happiness and weakly disguised love affairs. - blink and it’s over - i’ll lie in your lap and watch you write- spinning fantastical tales of glorious awakenings. new beginnings.- pull my hair up to attention. i am here. i am wanted. want want grab me. want//need. clever disguises. silent truths. wispy truths. childhood pencil marks. pig tail sneakers. truth drops into heads. eyes drop onto the floor. teeth sink into lips. heart drops into stomach. limbs fold over limbs and the being falls slowly upon itself. when i wasn’t mine. she wanted me more than she could stand. stabbed me with a ************* pencil. made my heart drop into my ************* stomach.

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/ as i am pretty sure all americana feels about "us": oh 'ook, 'ere comes old man europe, no hemmingway, and no so: as the casual english expression solidifies exchanges: just across the atlantic: the, pond... haven't the foggiest... i'm "new" here, and even i find these english prims & pomps and idiosyncracies a bit debilitating... today i walked from my home with a knife in my pocket... why... why?! apparently it's worse than new york, a belt as a qusimodo boxing glove won't cut it, given that that: requires a formal introduction, prior to a fight... guns guns guns... over 'ere we 'ave knives knives knives... and politicians can't exactly ban them... no, not really... ban knives, soon you'll be banning forks, then spoons... and then... the whole ******* kitchen... we'll all be eating out, in public, cheap cheap cheap, cheap restaurants like the slovakians eat in... can you even imagine that while in st. petersburg i didn't see, not one mcdonalds... same so in moscow: not a single mcdonalds... it was like a: relief... a bit like only seeing africanos only, but not elsewhere other than warsaw; erm: afro-saxons? sure! we have them in england, plenty of afro-saxons... so now afro(x) is not pop-up frizzy hair, bundled into a french bun... type of... "thing"? **** yeah! hit the spot! oh old man europe... tired and yet, and yet tired of his riches, how craving the old trenches of Ypres... the belgian mud, the rain, the rats and crows... europe: lament over libya... or even pseudo-neo-rome lamenting over carthage being destroyed... in reverse - abbrv. into - orior carthago! was it cato the elder who persisted counter to this? as heidegger would have put it: that's not even question-worthy.

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Jul 19, 2018

Jul 19, 2018 at 7:26 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

old man europe and carthage

/ as i am pretty sure all americana feels about "us": oh 'ook, 'ere comes old man europe, no hemmingway, and no so: as the casual english expression solidifies exchanges: just across the atlantic: the, pond... haven't the foggiest... i'm "new" here, and even i find these english prims & pomps and idiosyncracies a bit debilitating... today i walked from my home with a knife in my pocket... why... why?! apparently it's worse than new york, a belt as a qusimodo boxing glove won't cut it, given that that: requires a formal introduction, prior to a fight... guns guns guns... over 'ere we 'ave knives knives knives... and politicians can't exactly ban them... no, not really... ban knives, soon you'll be banning forks, then spoons... and then... the whole ******* kitchen... we'll all be eating out, in public, cheap cheap cheap, cheap restaurants like the slovakians eat in... can you even imagine that while in st. petersburg i didn't see, not one mcdonalds... same so in moscow: not a single mcdonalds... it was like a: relief... a bit like only seeing africanos only, but not elsewhere other than warsaw; erm: afro-saxons? sure! we have them in england, plenty of afro-saxons... so now afro(x) is not pop-up frizzy hair, bundled into a french bun... type of... "thing"? **** yeah! hit the spot! oh old man europe... tired and yet, and yet tired of his riches, how craving the old trenches of Ypres... the belgian mud, the rain, the rats and crows... europe: lament over libya... or even pseudo-neo-rome lamenting over carthage being destroyed... in reverse - abbrv. into - orior carthago! was it cato the elder who persisted counter to this? as heidegger would have put it: that's not even question-worthy.

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In the middle of the night, we were cold rolling stones in an empty street. Our souls bundled up with some sense of permanence as you walked me home for the last time; It was home, for the last time. The darkness of night trespassed my secret shelter, at the lingering of our embrace. The first and last warmth I had felt, was yours. Morning would be colder, I might not feel the same acquaintance with autumn as I had with you. I walked with you under trees, spots of sunlight rested on our skin and clothes; orange-gold leaves falling around our bodies, softening the ground, beneath our feet. In our innocent nature, we stood in defeat.

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Feb 8, 2015

Feb 8, 2015 at 11:19 AM UTC

In the middle of the night, we were cold rolling stones in an empty street. Our souls bundled up with some sense of permanence as you walked me home for the last time; It was home, for the last time. The darkness of night trespassed my secret shelter, at the lingering of our embrace. The first and last warmth I had felt, was yours. Morning would be colder, I might not feel the same acquaintance with autumn as I had with you. I walked with you under trees, spots of sunlight rested on our skin and clothes; orange-gold leaves falling around our bodies, softening the ground, beneath our feet. In our innocent nature, we stood in defeat.

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take sips sip sips tumble down the flowers bundled in white towels at my rose hips from raised graves velvet hearse sandstone paves push away stones along way soothe change patterns surprise break the consonance act-like defiance it's harder than we thought hurry get back to the tower don't choke on the pink powder before I get there complex lush doesn't need any soldiers off horse, of course only I reside in these gardens part my own lawns to my great gates a dosed beast waits and I must return

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Aug 18, 2020

Aug 18, 2020 at 2:14 AM UTC

take sips sip sips tumble down the flowers bundled in white towels at my rose hips from raised graves velvet hearse sandstone paves push away stones along way soothe change patterns surprise break the consonance act-like defiance it's harder than we thought hurry get back to the tower don't choke on the pink powder before I get there complex lush doesn't need any soldiers off horse, of course only I reside in these gardens part my own lawns to my great gates a dosed beast waits and I must return

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Something’s stirring - hey honey, sweetie, sugar- Something’s ******* up and in, like their stomachs, (why don’t I look that flat, mummy?) Something’s furious and seething, something strong And stuck and breathing My bones in. It’s the *** you see, yeah you bet, All they are is *** sweaty, oily, wet With some such suffocating, suffering, surrendering Desire to please. Please the man, the thick man, with your eyes. Please him with your deadened stare – glare - Please him with your chest, your hair, Feel the way that wind rustles and tousles, as you dance, As you feel the liberation of a thrusty, ***** pleasing stance, As they slip money between your legs. As they wrap you up, up, Up in its crinkles, up in its arms, Swept from your feet and in love, swept up from harm, Just as you desired. Love is the one – but what? Love comes from beauty, right? Full lips, bright eyes, as dead as the night, The best thing a girl can be is pretty. (well that’s what they are on screens) And that’s why I cried when they drew a picture, Fourteen and they took all our ‘best features’ Ripped them from our bodies, Bundled them up into one jigsaw creature -where’s mine? They forgot me, But it’s fine – she’s got your per-son-a-lit-y. And I cried. It’s easy to say, I know, and I see That things are better now, I am almost free. But oh she’s been in the wars: She’s hit; she’s ripped; she’s cut; she’s lost; That pleasing object onscreen – she’s yours. But passion’s no good, gotta be pure, sweet and true Well she’s gotta be new, and a girl's gotta do What a girl only can do, ‘Til she’s through, ‘Til she’s cold cold and blue, So hey lady, lady, lay-dee, Who are you? Sorry for the passion, words disordered in a heap. Didn’t mean to make it bleak. Didn’t mean to make her speak. But you see this is how she might. Flocked in furious, in flight, The little bird - the beast - is heard: Each word, each word, each bite.

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Apr 9, 2014

Apr 9, 2014 at 2:35 PM UTC

Something’s stirring - hey honey, sweetie, sugar- Something’s ******* up and in, like their stomachs, (why don’t I look that flat, mummy?) Something’s furious and seething, something strong And stuck and breathing My bones in. It’s the *** you see, yeah you bet, All they are is *** sweaty, oily, wet With some such suffocating, suffering, surrendering Desire to please. Please the man, the thick man, with your eyes. Please him with your deadened stare – glare - Please him with your chest, your hair, Feel the way that wind rustles and tousles, as you dance, As you feel the liberation of a thrusty, ***** pleasing stance, As they slip money between your legs. As they wrap you up, up, Up in its crinkles, up in its arms, Swept from your feet and in love, swept up from harm, Just as you desired. Love is the one – but what? Love comes from beauty, right? Full lips, bright eyes, as dead as the night, The best thing a girl can be is pretty. (well that’s what they are on screens) And that’s why I cried when they drew a picture, Fourteen and they took all our ‘best features’ Ripped them from our bodies, Bundled them up into one jigsaw creature -where’s mine? They forgot me, But it’s fine – she’s got your per-son-a-lit-y. And I cried. It’s easy to say, I know, and I see That things are better now, I am almost free. But oh she’s been in the wars: She’s hit; she’s ripped; she’s cut; she’s lost; That pleasing object onscreen – she’s yours. But passion’s no good, gotta be pure, sweet and true Well she’s gotta be new, and a girl's gotta do What a girl only can do, ‘Til she’s through, ‘Til she’s cold cold and blue, So hey lady, lady, lay-dee, Who are you? Sorry for the passion, words disordered in a heap. Didn’t mean to make it bleak. Didn’t mean to make her speak. But you see this is how she might. Flocked in furious, in flight, The little bird - the beast - is heard: Each word, each word, each bite.

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Quickly flashes by like a cheetah sprinting through the forest Hazardous electrical storm which causes damage Strikes through with it's force Bundled in the cloud's wrath and fury It leaves with the satisfaction of the sight's ruin.

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Jan 28, 2010

Jan 28, 2010 at 3:24 PM UTC

lindsey-mccarty

Quickly flashes by like a cheetah sprinting through the forest Hazardous electrical storm which causes damage Strikes through with it's force Bundled in the cloud's wrath and fury It leaves with the satisfaction of the sight's ruin.

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Dear boy on the bus You had to sit beside me, today of all days My hair a mess Bundled up in a black winter jacket Acne and tired eyes It had to be today of all days, didn't it Dear boy on the bus, From my peripheral vision I saw a golden mop of hair, which I find to be attractive on the male species I’d call you an angel, but I don’t even know if you were attractive I’d glance over at you from time to time, only because I was afraid you’d notice Dear boy on the bus, I don’t know whether or not to call you a boy or a man, Because at this age, we’re younger than we look but older than we feel Dear boy on the bus, they say age is just a number, but it’s also just a word, But I’d feel weird if you were younger than me all the same Dear boy on the bus, Do you realize how loud your music was playing? Apparently not, since it lulled you to sleep Even if it was a few decibels lower, heavy metal isn't what comes to mind when I think of ‘lullabies’ I stole glances at you and your sleeping face, praying slightly that the bus would do a wide enough turn so that your head would sort of rest against my shoulder, even though I’m a lot shorter than you Dear boy on the bus, You could sit anywhere else after a few stops. I might have been a little hurt if you moved, but it’s normal. So why didn't you? Dear boy on the bus, With bags on my lap, I felt closed in: I was too afraid to move, too afraid to touch you—I felt my arm brush against your sweater through my jacket and my stomach did somersaults It’s not that I didn't want to touch you, but I didn't want sparks to be sent through my body—my mind was already going wild with the many scenarios playing in my head as we sat there. Dear boy on the bus, My heart was shivering as my stop got closer I didn't want to leave before you did I imagined you didn't want me to leave either Dear boy on the bus, I was thinking of pulling out my phone to text a friend about you, but I was afraid you’d notice. I was thinking of pulling out my phone to write about you—would you think me a poet? Or a creep? Dear boy on the bus, I wish you said something Dear boy on the bus, I wish I said something Dear boy on the bus, When my stop came and we awkwardly got up, I wonder if you thought my sheepish smile meant something, or anything at all.

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Nov 20, 2013

Nov 20, 2013 at 10:57 AM UTC

Dear boy on the bus

Dear boy on the bus You had to sit beside me, today of all days My hair a mess Bundled up in a black winter jacket Acne and tired eyes It had to be today of all days, didn't it Dear boy on the bus, From my peripheral vision I saw a golden mop of hair, which I find to be attractive on the male species I’d call you an angel, but I don’t even know if you were attractive I’d glance over at you from time to time, only because I was afraid you’d notice Dear boy on the bus, I don’t know whether or not to call you a boy or a man, Because at this age, we’re younger than we look but older than we feel Dear boy on the bus, they say age is just a number, but it’s also just a word, But I’d feel weird if you were younger than me all the same Dear boy on the bus, Do you realize how loud your music was playing? Apparently not, since it lulled you to sleep Even if it was a few decibels lower, heavy metal isn't what comes to mind when I think of ‘lullabies’ I stole glances at you and your sleeping face, praying slightly that the bus would do a wide enough turn so that your head would sort of rest against my shoulder, even though I’m a lot shorter than you Dear boy on the bus, You could sit anywhere else after a few stops. I might have been a little hurt if you moved, but it’s normal. So why didn't you? Dear boy on the bus, With bags on my lap, I felt closed in: I was too afraid to move, too afraid to touch you—I felt my arm brush against your sweater through my jacket and my stomach did somersaults It’s not that I didn't want to touch you, but I didn't want sparks to be sent through my body—my mind was already going wild with the many scenarios playing in my head as we sat there. Dear boy on the bus, My heart was shivering as my stop got closer I didn't want to leave before you did I imagined you didn't want me to leave either Dear boy on the bus, I was thinking of pulling out my phone to text a friend about you, but I was afraid you’d notice. I was thinking of pulling out my phone to write about you—would you think me a poet? Or a creep? Dear boy on the bus, I wish you said something Dear boy on the bus, I wish I said something Dear boy on the bus, When my stop came and we awkwardly got up, I wonder if you thought my sheepish smile meant something, or anything at all.

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1. Inhaling poison like it’s a sweet spring breeze, an antidote to the pounding heart and aching stomach empty of comfort or substance Meeting with pavement in a tiger’s crouch fingers float toward parted lips awaiting the taste of relief in the form of smouldering leaves. 2. One tentative epidermis approaches another tendons and ligaments straining, aching for contact attempting nonchalance in the lamplight privacy of early morning, cocking ears to detect voyeuristic insomniacs who would disturb the disorderly expressions of early experimentation. 3. White lady dusting the concrete path, sterile and unconfined laid new before careful feet making their way to shiny metal boxes bundled in seasonal expectations they trudge through stardust on their way to blood borne obligations, leaving behind careless tracks in ****** flesh 4. Blazing sun presses down on shoulders hunched behind compact table tops peddling penny prologues to unabashed strangers bartering unwanted pocket change for rejected trinkets haggling over half-dried finger paints and unfinished chess sets rescuing garish afghans from dusty closeted life.

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Oct 17, 2012

Oct 17, 2012 at 7:33 PM UTC

Concrete Drawbridge

1. Inhaling poison like it’s a sweet spring breeze, an antidote to the pounding heart and aching stomach empty of comfort or substance Meeting with pavement in a tiger’s crouch fingers float toward parted lips awaiting the taste of relief in the form of smouldering leaves. 2. One tentative epidermis approaches another tendons and ligaments straining, aching for contact attempting nonchalance in the lamplight privacy of early morning, cocking ears to detect voyeuristic insomniacs who would disturb the disorderly expressions of early experimentation. 3. White lady dusting the concrete path, sterile and unconfined laid new before careful feet making their way to shiny metal boxes bundled in seasonal expectations they trudge through stardust on their way to blood borne obligations, leaving behind careless tracks in ****** flesh 4. Blazing sun presses down on shoulders hunched behind compact table tops peddling penny prologues to unabashed strangers bartering unwanted pocket change for rejected trinkets haggling over half-dried finger paints and unfinished chess sets rescuing garish afghans from dusty closeted life.

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Bundled up and toasted Stare to the exorbitant heavens A dimmed electrifying spirit world Leaving only one trifling light on A slight single frozen tear Rides the broad frigid air To the glaring reality below The silky cotton takes time Flowing through a lingering life Of chilled floating bliss It taps the up turned nose Tiny frozen feet make a stand An intense tickle flows through the pumping veins Leaving a feeling of pricking cherub kisses Nervous life lungs squeeze Releasing a single reclined breath Concrete relaxed steam Rubs the tufted sapped lips Dissolving into the hazed sky She has arrived Mother Winter

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Nov 30, 2010

Nov 30, 2010 at 5:09 AM UTC

First Snowflake

Bundled up and toasted Stare to the exorbitant heavens A dimmed electrifying spirit world Leaving only one trifling light on A slight single frozen tear Rides the broad frigid air To the glaring reality below The silky cotton takes time Flowing through a lingering life Of chilled floating bliss It taps the up turned nose Tiny frozen feet make a stand An intense tickle flows through the pumping veins Leaving a feeling of pricking cherub kisses Nervous life lungs squeeze Releasing a single reclined breath Concrete relaxed steam Rubs the tufted sapped lips Dissolving into the hazed sky She has arrived Mother Winter

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Where is death today? Busily hiding the bodies, Or hunched beside a car loosening wheel bolts, Placing a dark hand over a traffic light, Squeezing the shotgun trigger, Or strapped in a wheelchair Disguised as a patient and wheeling rapidly around the hospital wards, Removing the soap. Or maybe cycling down the motorway The large black cloak neatly bundled into the waistband Right trouser leg tucked into a black sock A bone poking out the toe The Reaper strapped to the bicycle crossbar Blade hanging to the rear But not obscuring the red reflector Wearing Kevlar gloves when handling the scythe And Vis a Vest neatly tied with a bow At the very least a reflective armband. Or possibly fixing a puncture on his way to my home...Bad form then On arrival should I greet with “Come in, you look perished! ” Discuss the weather as a distraction I could offer new socks Like every interview this might not go well.

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Jun 4, 2017

Jun 4, 2017 at 7:50 PM UTC

Where is death today? Busily hiding the bodies, Or hunched beside a car loosening wheel bolts, Placing a dark hand over a traffic light, Squeezing the shotgun trigger, Or strapped in a wheelchair Disguised as a patient and wheeling rapidly around the hospital wards, Removing the soap. Or maybe cycling down the motorway The large black cloak neatly bundled into the waistband Right trouser leg tucked into a black sock A bone poking out the toe The Reaper strapped to the bicycle crossbar Blade hanging to the rear But not obscuring the red reflector Wearing Kevlar gloves when handling the scythe And Vis a Vest neatly tied with a bow At the very least a reflective armband. Or possibly fixing a puncture on his way to my home...Bad form then On arrival should I greet with “Come in, you look perished! ” Discuss the weather as a distraction I could offer new socks Like every interview this might not go well.

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When I saw the morning sunlight gleaming, I thought about all the darkness that it veiled, Behind its bold beams it had bowed down. While I looked at the rays they were sifting, I realized that in the evening the sun must set, Bundle will open & then will again be night. Where I wondered was the permanent day, I answered myself that it was ever impossible, But worrying was docile as I too will perish. Who could complete this jigsaw of my life, In here you come smiling as the permanence, Bringing completeness to my life you are.. Why I must try to make the best of my life, Imbibing positives and happiness throughout, Because life is too small to waste in vain...

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Mar 28, 2015

Mar 28, 2015 at 3:51 AM UTC

Bundled Sunlight

When I saw the morning sunlight gleaming, I thought about all the darkness that it veiled, Behind its bold beams it had bowed down. While I looked at the rays they were sifting, I realized that in the evening the sun must set, Bundle will open & then will again be night. Where I wondered was the permanent day, I answered myself that it was ever impossible, But worrying was docile as I too will perish. Who could complete this jigsaw of my life, In here you come smiling as the permanence, Bringing completeness to my life you are.. Why I must try to make the best of my life, Imbibing positives and happiness throughout, Because life is too small to waste in vain...

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