"carpal" poems
C is for carpal.
Sounds a bit like the word carpet.
T is for tunnel.
Those things that danger is usually in.
S is for syndrome.
Can also be used to describe a lot of things.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC
I was watching the
Nutcracker,
stage drinking blue
The violins
pizzicato,
pizzicato
the wood sprung floor
breathing with the knock
of ballet shoes
I was watching the
Nutcracker,
sitting in the
mezzanine,
Mezzanine
the red kiss of
cherry wood and
green,
I live in
the mezzanine
I was watching the
Nutcracker,
peering into the
pit,
a small gap in the
stage floor where
I could see your
wrist,
holding your bow,
swaying your
bow,
pushing back and forth making my
carpal tunnel
ache, oh your
bow
I was watching the
Nutcracker
and you were playing
the score
Tchaikovsky
Tchaikovsky
beneath the
stage floor
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 12:13 PM UTC
if jesus died for all our sins
he left one behind
the body i'm in
same hands that made
the moon and the stars
got carpal tunnel
and forgot some parts
Dec 1, 2021
Dec 1, 2021 at 9:28 AM UTC
Do you ever think about your bones?
The way the support everything we do.
They break and they age and they grow.
Bones hold every story you've ever told.
From the time you broke your toe dancing to ice ice baby
to the time you wrote a new chapter.
Bones are everything we are
and everything we ever will be
Our bones are what's left behind
after we move on to the next life
Our bones will tell our lives stories.
The carpal tunnel from writing, painting and playing an instrument
these are all left behind
to tell the archaeologists we
were here
and we tried to show the world
we cared
about its
Bones
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 10:18 PM UTC
Take my heart
Cardium carpal
Impossible to hold in both hands
In every glorious piece
Valve, ventricle, artery
Pulsing, pulsing — but no blood
Not pink, not red but grey,
Grey matter, but no matter
Take care not to lack a hole by
Ebon ivory of your skeletal hands,
Pulsing, pulsing — but no blood
Only bone grasping endocrine glands
Blood eagled atrium across your palms
Venae cavae hollowed hands.
Sep 29, 2021
Sep 29, 2021 at 6:10 PM UTC
Had I know that yesterday
Was the last time
I’d have the chance to hold your hand
I’d never let go
I’d squeeze your carpal bones
So close that they’d snap
Built pressure bursting blood from your fingertips
Seeping onto my own skin
A subtly violent fusion
That would still hurt less
Than you walking away.
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 10:02 AM UTC
sauntry and sultry,
a fraudulent check written
in a moment of disclarity.
if you've got a bridge to sell
I'm buying.
I've got stakes on this land,
broken with till,
seeded with pain,
nourished with blood,
razed, salted, travesty, and sown again.
a faulty playpen snaps shut on a toddler,
a man trips over his Pekingese
and puts his hand in his brand new
20% off buy two get one blendtec
brand blender,
showering his mother in law
with shards of wrist bone
and strips of lacerated flesh.
this is my foot.
these are my fingers, broken,
distal, intermediate, and proximal
phalanges.
these are the carpal and metacarpals.
I am a Spartan of a shitshack.
I was trained in the wicked art of
long arduous bowel movements.
squeeze one out for the ones you love.
in some small musty room
in new York city
there is a cocknballs paying $200
to get ****** on
by a wombwalker
and thinking about his ******
Pekingese.
you know its true.
don't try to think too hard about it
or you might lose an eye.
Apr 8, 2012
Apr 8, 2012 at 2:36 PM UTC
Gripping to you is the best workout I've ever tried
Because you're slippery, elusive, when I've got a hold
Returning to water when I thought I had ice.
I've developed an emotional carpal tunnel over the years
My hands are leather hard and my knuckles bleed
And it hurts so much it brings me to my knees; to tears.
I've never let go though; the day I saw you was the day I--
The moment I saw you was the moment I knew I--
The words that elude me now will be said when you're mine.
I've found pity in the eyes of every person I've confided to
Which I can't stand because you've never been anything short of,
Never been anything wrong, the best thing I've been through.
There's a strain on my muscles from holding onto hope this way
My shoulders are ever-tense, my back bowed under the weight
And I'm vulnerable in this position, but come what may.
I'm not fool enough to pledge to emotions for you with a common phrase
But should you ever return everything I've yet to say, yet to accept
I would gladly accept a loss of commonsense, would gladly change my ways.
I hurt through the day, yet it is no matter, I hurt through the night too
But the pain may be worth it in a decade, or less, as I hope
For a day when I can without fear whisper, scream, say, "I- ."
Until then, my knuckles may bleed red until I'm dry and dead.
Until then, my hands may harden to rock until they fall off.
Until then, my body may hurt and ache but I will wait for the day.
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
My heart suffers from carpal tunnel
With all the typing it has done
About all of the love it holds for you
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 12:49 PM UTC
I feel like God hates me
Or stopped caring
Ceased to provide
Left for good
And now I'm left here to straighten myself out for better or for worse
I've met people who feel the same way
Who surprisingly have the pincushion audacity to put all the blame of their misfortunes in the absence of the omnipotent one
I just feel abandoned they feel betrayed
Maybe he makes a chump change commission on every life he guides to a certain point then leaves them stark naked at the haunting hour
I know all the preachers and secular teachers lie through their teeth
They win the merit-less hoax award by a landslide
They have no consideration of for the people they mislead or the ramifications their poisoned sermons causes
They use emotionally charged language to increase the parish's numbers
They're terrified of God, they live in fear
And see carpal tunnel as a punishment for ************ and wish blindness upon all those who partake
There is shared consensual hiraeth between those who have been through an invasion of privacy and the trespassing of private property
They want their rights and their guns back
They want their personal space
They retreat to their happy place
Let's go back to the Pantheon of lactose intolerant divine idols
Of epileptic godheads
Who's line of work is about incubated pie pans
Can you make a tutorial that summarizes the resounding reduction of options using nothing but euphemisms?
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC
I’m in a tunnel,
a carpal tunnel,
a tunnel of pain,
no purple rain,
you thought you looked smart,
in your designer heart ,
that Polystyrene look,
your pretentious Facebook,
but I'll watch you fall,
won’t answer your call,
I'll just hide in my tunnel,
my carpal tunnel.
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 10:59 AM UTC
born into a nature land full of catastrophes.
age addition every 365 days, eventually turned 8 years old.
hyperactivity and impulsivity crawled out like a tiger.
classroom confusion, youngins yelling for calling out.
lack of raising carpal bones equaled receiving the "detention disease".
homework not finished, studying not finished.
grades diminished, brain thought to be different.
Jun 11, 2010
Jun 11, 2010 at 4:13 AM UTC
Prehistoric rhetoric
Preserved in hydrochloric
Finally exhumed
It was always presumed dormant
The question wants no answer
And curiosity caused cancer
Ahh but fun IS taking chances,avoiding any rational advances
There's no reward without a risk
Impulsive entertainment on a disk
Carpal tunnel
Twitching wrists
Yeah,
Adolescents
Should have guessed
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 12:40 AM UTC
he imagines
he has carpal tunnel
from channel surfing;
reruns,
his greatest
weapon against
insomnia
the ficus, the
philodendron
she left
(with half
the wedding
china)
are taking
an eternity
to die
a fortnight
without a teaspoon
of water would
wilt the most
hardy specimens
of their kingdom
perhaps she
bequeathed him
cacti in
disguise
he asks
if they are
what they
appear to be:
leafy indoor
greenery
or prickly
survivors
that grow
only where
all things
are venomous
or have thorns
they swear
they are not
botanical
imposters
liars
he turns up
the volume
on his flat screen
to drown out
the mendacity
of flora
the fauna,
after all,
were not
to be trusted
either
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 11:29 PM UTC
there is no worse folly
a raconteur can make than
the forgotten pen
or utensil
acrylic or stick in dirt - so be it
the dwarf ignored
the arbitrary sidekick
the austere tool
the maker of magic (also known as,
history, as
recorded by big, bad meatsacks
and sometimes hungry sheep luxuriously garbed as
wolves)
who/what/when/where/why
never/stop/asking/questions
my deity, the earth said
no one is right in this world
we tells it hows we sees it
i reject your reality, you undo mine
with a simple twist of your mouth-muscle
who's to say who has a say
I say, no one not one none of us.
I say, keep writing bards.
the world's a desolate & treacherous stage
the world's a blank & ***** canvas
the world's not so much an open book,
as it is an open cave with mysteries deeper
than ocean depths.
I say, keep writing bards.
swim through the carpal tunnels,
the holy grail lies somewhere down there,
it looks and acts like an ink well.
Aug 22, 2012
Aug 22, 2012 at 2:36 AM UTC
my ***** throb this morning
the way they do when a girl
demands to sleep in my bed
but refuses to cup them with
her hand or mouth or a com-
bination or rotation of both.
they hold pent-up anger or
cruelty, energy or love and
destruction that will be wa-
sted into the toilet bowl, or
a bed's sheet, or kleenex or
all three of these before 12.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 3:11 PM UTC
carpal tunnel
born of first-serve lets
and second-serve ace
comebacks --
from
sloughing off
winter coats
to share between
twelve --
my wrists are
less than echoes
and may have
been little more
to begin --
suspended
by gossamer,
brass-covered
lichen
and ticking fungi,
like man, (with his
whirling gears
and mad metals)
replaced
nature's course
with an automated
system --
i would rust
just to crack
but they keep
me too clean --
my sunspots
have fled to
warmer pastures,
i am milk-buckets
on overcast farm
dawnings, but surely
even they have seen
the light of day --
splashed my face
with wine
and rooibos
to see if i
would stain
like the canvas
metaphor
my generation
ascribes to --
maroon dispersion
in terra cotta wash,
twining around
a spiral course --
the folly of it
went ignored
'til my lost and
floating freckles
gathered at the
drain and clogged
the sink to overflow.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 2:03 PM UTC
Dogs chained to a fence gather blood-lust to rip out your throat
Foaming at the mouth saliva dripping down the jowls of slit-wrist tension
Quaking carpal tunnel to quivering finger bones
slipknots cut off air the deeper we dig
But!
Our overpowering righteousness sinks the shovel down
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 4:41 AM UTC
If she stands,
legs wide apart,
holding your broken soul in her hands.
Maybe she wants to grasp something greater than herself.
But what holding does is little,
and your fates are not suddenly transferred to those bones.
And if carpal tunnel should cause her to drop it,
or if her hands should simply grow tired of the weight and relax after some time,
where is the blame rested?
Whose hand do we place that in?
and in this ever exchange of weights and balancing acts,
when does anyone get to waive goodbye;
hands heavy with guilt and promise.
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 9:03 PM UTC
Who’s everyone talking to?
I thought by now true consciousness would transcend the me generation
The zero’s have already passed and we hide our minds behind our darting eyes
Each of us unto ourselves as creativity has been substituted for sampled reality boredom
Plastic sheets of electronic thought arrangement made to order
Recycled hero’s priced beyond the dreams of street urchins
Imagination unplugged as shock is delivered to your carpal tunnel fingers
Glancing at reality to measure the distance between metal before returning to civilizations ruins
Did you hear a word I said?
I told you that I love you
I told you about a problem that I had
But the scroll widened to the edges of attention deficit view
It's just as well that you didn't know what happened while you drank yourself into oblivion
Your addictions were planned in past decades by people who now buy islands
They laugh at how they made robots out of beating hearts
And you continue to let another ten years pass because the gun was taken from their hands
I wish my face to be in your hands
To see the excitement in your eyes as flesh and nerves are rediscovered
Maybe you can call me and I will answer as our fears are sheltered by a touch screen
And if our feet happen to collide we will see how the human touch is not to be wired
Jun 27, 2012
Jun 27, 2012 at 11:56 PM UTC
The world is writhing within me.
Every pump of my heart begs for
A new beginning.
Every thought scribbled across
Wall after wall. Jotted on scraps
Of paper, only to be tossed into the trash bin.
Regret immediately sets in.
I rip through the contents for a single sentence.
Once thought inadequate,
Now these words become
The dominating factors of my thoughts.
They shock my being like 1,000 watts
Swelling in my head like the venomous stings
From a colony of fire ants.
Yet with every word I mumble and chant
In a singsong way to the walls they're
Already portrayed upon,
There is no relief. Words become more furious;
Rhythm becomes more curious.
My fingers twitch and ache
For the pain of carpal tunnel.
They desire the shape of a funnel
Where only words an escape
Their grasp.
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 1:15 PM UTC
creep, creep up along the carpal
brush, sweep, like a chinook in passing
tempt, taunt, the heart begs for more
collapse, give in, finally at home
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 11:33 AM UTC
To the strangers
* You wouldn't touch me if i wasn't pregnant
* if you see me everyday try to remember what my due date is
* If you see me once a week don't take it upon yourself to tell me how fat im getting
* don't tell me what not to do. i already know
*unless you have MD behind your name leave me alone
Conversation with my 7 year old brother
"You sure are getting fat mom"
"Im not getting fat the baby is growing"
"the baby sure is getting big mom"
Comments from my daughter, you look like freddy kruger
*don't tell me what could happen to my baby
*if theres a best case scenario and a worst case scenario and you feel the need to inform me please tell me the better one
* I like that people like to feed me more
* The bus stops for me
* "It was the baby" always works
* Hard to find clothes
- only six outfits that me right now
*carpal tunnel, diabetes, swollen feet Justiational
* "That won't be good for the baby"
* "not to eat too much, dear"
*
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 10:58 PM UTC
Solemnity.
Can you feel the nothing?
Dignified castle silhouette.
All the bullets are gone with the stale wind.
Their wings are broken in the magnetic field.
Curse this inhibition.
Are you getting enough sleep these days?
Have you felt the symptoms of loneliness?
Carpal tunnels.
All our lives we've been snapped in halves and fourths.
Our brains are memory movements, twitching and hollowed.
The medieval depiction left you two years older and a box of prismacolors poorer.
Buzzing in your tendons.
We were fighting a hormone war, wet and *****
And now we're too old for the stomach flu.
Your skin tone still slides into my color palette, and your image through my wrists.
Now we both suffer, like always.
Strange enough that we never see each other anymore.
And I wouldn't call this love, it's more like an echo.
Can I ask you a question?
Photos, paintings, boys, girls, lying, telling the truth: it's all art.
But words, they're just soul and slices of mind, pure torture.
When do you cry nowadays?
It's all been solar flares.
And we are emerging from our illnesses.
Artists.
Dec 25, 2010
Dec 25, 2010 at 7:24 PM UTC
This ******* writers block has me claustrophobic.
The pressure of the air around me has me struggling to breath.
My hand is sore from an imminent future of carpal tunnel syndrome,
And my mind is wandering from a sad past that I won’t remember.
Age has taken its toll on me and this youth of mine is wasted.
The only things I have left to admire are the women that remain unmoved by my lack of maturity, and remain despite my ignorance.
I’ve written quite a bit throughout my years, but I have never created anything that has fully filled the void left by a presence that was never there.
I’ve never written anything that will satisfy my need of a perfectly paradoxical phrase that will always be embedded within your soul, or mine, and yet i continue to write.
Even now as the keys on the keyboard quickly click and clack together.
I search through the vast and endless realms of the universe for a glimpse of a spark that will ignite the fuse of the core of my imagination, and have all the thoughts that i have ever thought blown out from an explosion so vast and powerful that those thoughts would become desperate.
Hopefully, through their desperation they will come together.
One can only wish that those thoughts will rearrange themselves, and create a logical structure that will one day come back to me.
The thought of death does not scare me.
The thought of being forgotten in my times when the world seems new breaks my very existence.
The pressures of the world don’t way heavy on my shoulders,
But if I could come up with something to write it would be awesome.
-J.Cruz Hernandez
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 3:51 PM UTC