"carcrash" poems - Hello Poetry

Sanguine Choleric Melancholic Phlegmatic Phlegmatic Melancholic Choleric Sanguine Blood oranges And hibiscus tea White wine Carcrash memory Hypertensive He straps me down on the table This is for my own good. Too much blood they say, Too much red wine too much liquid Too much My hand is swollen My stomach distended The vein in my forehead is bulging Too much blood A needle A leech A pen Blood oranges White wine A needle is a leech is a pen Is what the doctor ordered He straps me to the desk This is for my own good A cure Too much blood Too much tea Too many memories Too many thoughts Hypertensive Sanguine They say They hand me the scalpel And show me the line Too much I’ve had too too much red wine To be doing this A pen a leech a needle A bucket of blood A novel Sanguine Melancholic Choleric Phlegmatic This is the cure This is for my own good Too much much blood They hand me the pen I’ve had too too many Blood oranges To be doing this A scalpel is a pen Is a leech is a needle A bucket of blood is a novel (Bleeding is the cure) I bleed.

0

Jul 19, 2015

Jul 19, 2015 at 2:58 PM UTC

ariel-evangeline-baptista

Dear Rilke, I must

Sanguine Choleric Melancholic Phlegmatic Phlegmatic Melancholic Choleric Sanguine Blood oranges And hibiscus tea White wine Carcrash memory Hypertensive He straps me down on the table This is for my own good. Too much blood they say, Too much red wine too much liquid Too much My hand is swollen My stomach distended The vein in my forehead is bulging Too much blood A needle A leech A pen Blood oranges White wine A needle is a leech is a pen Is what the doctor ordered He straps me to the desk This is for my own good A cure Too much blood Too much tea Too many memories Too many thoughts Hypertensive Sanguine They say They hand me the scalpel And show me the line Too much I’ve had too too much red wine To be doing this A pen a leech a needle A bucket of blood A novel Sanguine Melancholic Choleric Phlegmatic This is the cure This is for my own good Too much much blood They hand me the pen I’ve had too too many Blood oranges To be doing this A scalpel is a pen Is a leech is a needle A bucket of blood is a novel (Bleeding is the cure) I bleed.

63

I'm starting to think that maybe you were just born distant. Your mother held you from the furthest place that is in the hospital. And you move from place to place, but my place. Wellington and London so when you said “Baby, you feel like home to me.” it means 12,990 miles apart from each other. And sometimes you are just a dream away, though I often woke up crying. Or though most of the time i didn't wake up at all, still sleeping. We used to talk about how lucky humans are, that they have 12,990 plus ways of saying I owe you my eternity. And how I love you is at the very bottom of the list. A ***** disgrace, barely hanging with the hollowness it brings everytime it rings. So you can't really blame me that every single time you spit your ‘I love you’s the only way i ever wanted to reply was with an ‘I hate me too’s. Babe, you haven't been saying ‘drive savely’ lately so I've been causing trouble down the road. Drawing zigzags here and there, yelling “At least you don't burn like this” to a carcrash. Babe, ask me ‘are you home yet?’ because i was never once home since the day you stopped coming home, just 12,990 miles apart from each other. and ask me if i was ever safe and i'll be looking at you with my confused face and say “i'm in a war how can i be safe?”. And sometimes you are just a dream away, barely hanging with the hollowness it brings everytime you ring.

0

Sep 6, 2016

Sep 6, 2016 at 12:49 AM UTC

sweetrevoirs

Wellington to London

I'm starting to think that maybe you were just born distant. Your mother held you from the furthest place that is in the hospital. And you move from place to place, but my place. Wellington and London so when you said “Baby, you feel like home to me.” it means 12,990 miles apart from each other. And sometimes you are just a dream away, though I often woke up crying. Or though most of the time i didn't wake up at all, still sleeping. We used to talk about how lucky humans are, that they have 12,990 plus ways of saying I owe you my eternity. And how I love you is at the very bottom of the list. A ***** disgrace, barely hanging with the hollowness it brings everytime it rings. So you can't really blame me that every single time you spit your ‘I love you’s the only way i ever wanted to reply was with an ‘I hate me too’s. Babe, you haven't been saying ‘drive savely’ lately so I've been causing trouble down the road. Drawing zigzags here and there, yelling “At least you don't burn like this” to a carcrash. Babe, ask me ‘are you home yet?’ because i was never once home since the day you stopped coming home, just 12,990 miles apart from each other. and ask me if i was ever safe and i'll be looking at you with my confused face and say “i'm in a war how can i be safe?”. And sometimes you are just a dream away, barely hanging with the hollowness it brings everytime you ring.

6

One day you'll find yourself missing her in the worst way there is to miss a person. Bones in your body cracks in every searching steps. You can't differ between your sobs and a ticking clock. And your soul, it wrestles with the one in your head. Daily bloodshed of "This is not real, she is still here." and "This is. It is. She has found another home and she is now whole." One day you will find yourself missing her in the nastiest possible way there is to be an empty shell. To breakdown in every intersection you walk in, and to look at a carcrash and think 'at least I can survive that'. To feel every fiber every atom in your whole being burn and scream, they are begging, they are begging for you to ******* breathe. To inhale air on to your lungs and not her ever leaving scents, to put air on it and not chants of 'I miss her' because repeating those words won't take you anywhere but the graveyard. You'll start making god out of every thing. Your home, your mother, your socks, the ring you never get any chance to give her. You just need to hang on to those beliefs, that even if your god won't hear your cries, you can still beg the other ones to return her. Your knees touch the ground more often than your lip does the cigarette. (But now that she's still here she'll still be the one taking all the pills.)

0

Oct 12, 2016

Oct 12, 2016 at 9:05 AM UTC

sweetrevoirs

8.05 pm

One day you'll find yourself missing her in the worst way there is to miss a person. Bones in your body cracks in every searching steps. You can't differ between your sobs and a ticking clock. And your soul, it wrestles with the one in your head. Daily bloodshed of "This is not real, she is still here." and "This is. It is. She has found another home and she is now whole." One day you will find yourself missing her in the nastiest possible way there is to be an empty shell. To breakdown in every intersection you walk in, and to look at a carcrash and think 'at least I can survive that'. To feel every fiber every atom in your whole being burn and scream, they are begging, they are begging for you to ******* breathe. To inhale air on to your lungs and not her ever leaving scents, to put air on it and not chants of 'I miss her' because repeating those words won't take you anywhere but the graveyard. You'll start making god out of every thing. Your home, your mother, your socks, the ring you never get any chance to give her. You just need to hang on to those beliefs, that even if your god won't hear your cries, you can still beg the other ones to return her. Your knees touch the ground more often than your lip does the cigarette. (But now that she's still here she'll still be the one taking all the pills.)

17

i feel like a car crash like fiberglass dust ground into blood stains sticking to my tshirt there is nothing left but the way that i feel dizzy, like my bones have shifted an inch to the left and the rest of me forgot to follow i feel out of it, lost in a sea of burning rubber and smoking engine grease i feel like my weight has been lifted and i am floating into space, like the universe made room for me in her arms and i am ascending to the outer reaches of life and everything, everything is chaos this entropy settles into my skin and i am reaching outward, trying to find a tactile response to my existence, trying to figure out how i know this is reality and not a coma dream. i am endlessly screaming into this void, devoid of faith and lost to sensation i am learning. i am learning what it is like to be found not safe, not sound, but here. i am the embodiment of dark matter love and here i lay, awaiting the moment when you say that i can come home.

0

May 5, 2015

May 5, 2015 at 2:47 PM UTC

faunlette

home // carcrash

i feel like a car crash like fiberglass dust ground into blood stains sticking to my tshirt there is nothing left but the way that i feel dizzy, like my bones have shifted an inch to the left and the rest of me forgot to follow i feel out of it, lost in a sea of burning rubber and smoking engine grease i feel like my weight has been lifted and i am floating into space, like the universe made room for me in her arms and i am ascending to the outer reaches of life and everything, everything is chaos this entropy settles into my skin and i am reaching outward, trying to find a tactile response to my existence, trying to figure out how i know this is reality and not a coma dream. i am endlessly screaming into this void, devoid of faith and lost to sensation i am learning. i am learning what it is like to be found not safe, not sound, but here. i am the embodiment of dark matter love and here i lay, awaiting the moment when you say that i can come home.

31

sugar-soaked in sepia our expressions embellished like squashed liquorice a sticky tattoo on tattered sleeves an exhibition of adolescence smiles that split our faces sore gnawed lips cracking to reveal chattered gnashers stained from library coffee and polished with bargainbin toothpaste our salted skin doused in ***** and coke – making the memory oh-so sweeter surrounded by a band of bar-time brothers lost in an array of technicolour strobes oblivious to the incoming traffic and the carcrash they call adulthood I remember the melody being played the regular Wednesday swansong NOW DON'T LOOK BACK IN ANGER I rarely do

0

Nov 29, 2019

Nov 29, 2019 at 2:11 PM UTC

wordsbadlywoven

Photo After Finals

sugar-soaked in sepia our expressions embellished like squashed liquorice a sticky tattoo on tattered sleeves an exhibition of adolescence smiles that split our faces sore gnawed lips cracking to reveal chattered gnashers stained from library coffee and polished with bargainbin toothpaste our salted skin doused in ***** and coke – making the memory oh-so sweeter surrounded by a band of bar-time brothers lost in an array of technicolour strobes oblivious to the incoming traffic and the carcrash they call adulthood I remember the melody being played the regular Wednesday swansong NOW DON'T LOOK BACK IN ANGER I rarely do

19

the nape of her neck smells of soda and leather she rubs her eyes. my hands are raspy hanging around your breastbone as if it were a trashcan from which i seek vantage, looking out across the grass for a familiar face. bangs tumble over her brow like rain on a tin roof- a soldering joint that comes undone after years of dissatisfaction, a broken arm.i am left humming an asymmetrical tune. no longer familiar with the haptic feedback of my palm against your jawline- i find you the way i find the tone of a bell shaking in my belly. inside there, you are a chorus of drips from the faucet a room away. filling the basin. around the circumference of her wrists are thin red indentations where elastic bands have been removed. i can trace like-marks around her waist. there are pink shadows between her shoulderblades that show me where to apply pressure. i do so and crack our spines downwards the hairs on the back of my forearm are taken between her lips and tongue so as to moisten them at the breach of her mouth we modernize and carcrash into eachother we are there dangling on the ground Like severed limbs as Uru as Uuuuuu

0

Mar 30, 2017

Mar 30, 2017 at 6:28 PM UTC

k_faye

Under..since canibalized

the nape of her neck smells of soda and leather she rubs her eyes. my hands are raspy hanging around your breastbone as if it were a trashcan from which i seek vantage, looking out across the grass for a familiar face. bangs tumble over her brow like rain on a tin roof- a soldering joint that comes undone after years of dissatisfaction, a broken arm.i am left humming an asymmetrical tune. no longer familiar with the haptic feedback of my palm against your jawline- i find you the way i find the tone of a bell shaking in my belly. inside there, you are a chorus of drips from the faucet a room away. filling the basin. around the circumference of her wrists are thin red indentations where elastic bands have been removed. i can trace like-marks around her waist. there are pink shadows between her shoulderblades that show me where to apply pressure. i do so and crack our spines downwards the hairs on the back of my forearm are taken between her lips and tongue so as to moisten them at the breach of her mouth we modernize and carcrash into eachother we are there dangling on the ground Like severed limbs as Uru as Uuuuuu

35