"centimeter" poems
If ever there was a time to stop breathing I chose a clearing at dawn.
A deer appeared right as the gleam of the sun touched the top of the forest line.
I heard a chipmunk scurrying across the oak roots rising from the ground.
A cardinal group begins to sing in the distance--as their sounds reaches me, I realized I have been distracted and turn my attention back to the fourteen point, white-tailed buck in the clearing.
I slowly lift my weapon.
I set my aim, positioning the cross (in the scope) at the shoulder of this magnificent creature, and I catch my breath.
The situation itself is far beyond a man simply taking the life of an animal--exceeds the thrill of a firing pin striking, creating an explosion that builds pressure, sending a six centimeter long, one and a half centimeter wide copper-coated bullet through the rifling pattern and into a target one hundred and fifty yards away.
I believe that Destiny brought us together based on the choices we both made.
I can only guess the animal's intentions (running away from a predator, looking for a mate, etc)
Myself? I am here because I argued with my wife of 25 years.
The deer drops to the ground.
We all make choices.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 9:53 AM UTC
Walking down the streets of Rome,
I saw a curious sight.
There, sitting at an expensive
street side cafe was a gentleman
distinguished in age,
surrounded by beautiful women,
but seated next to a tiny,
30 centimeter tall ******
who was obviously crazy,
or as you might say in Italian,
a pazzo.
My fascination overcame shyness,
and I approached the man
to introduce myself.
To my surprise, he invited me to sit,
and enjoy coffee with him.
He already knew my coy curiosity,
and when latte arrived
he began to tell me
his strange tale of wandering
on the sands of Arabia.
On a starry, Gethsemanean night,
after supper with friends,
he wandered into the acrid sands
and stumbled upon an ancient
lamp.
He picked it up beneath the moonlight sky,
and in a jestful mood rubbed it
hoping to find a miracle to ease
his troubles.
To his surprise, a green-hue jinn,
sprang forth from the ancient
lips of a forgotten lamp,
to grant him three wishes.
Gathering wit, and wonder
he pondered good fortunate
short and long, before asking
his wishes:
"Please, mighty jinn with the light
green hair, grant me
fortune, so I may live the rest of my life
in comfort."
In a swirl of misty memories
he was transported to ancient Rome
and watched as random events
were tilted in his favor until
he sat at this cafe a powerful and rich man.
Pleased with himself,
he stared into twinkling jade eyes,
and said:
"I lounge in carefree wealth, but
I cannot not buy true Beauty. Please, powerful jinn,
let beautiful women surround me and tend to my needs."
Once again, back to Christmas past
he watched all the beautiful women
of his desire being collected,
and bound to one single ring
of power, to serve, obey, and
grant all his carnal desires.
I envied him there sitting in
Armani suit, with twelve pairs of sensuous
legs longingly waiting upon his
every wish.
My fantasy of an exchanged life
ended quickly with cold champagne.
That crazy, diminutive pazzo,
had in lunacy decided to wet everyone's dreams
with real spurts of fizzy Prosecco.
I turned to my host to beg
a question, but he had the answer
already. In tired voice, he responded,
"you wonder why I keep a 30 centimeter Pazzo
with me at all times?"
"That was a misunderstanding he said,
but you can only wish upon a jinn once."
"Che cazzo!"
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 9:15 PM UTC
Give a Centimeter, taken is a Light-Year.
Ask for an Inch, you're lucky to get a Centimeter.
Buy an Ounce, get a Gram.
Sell a Gram, taken is an Ounce.
Corporations are the ****** dealers of modern society:
Subsidized and Multi-Faced
Financial fronts for the Military-Industrial-Propaganda Complex.
They seek our cognitive tranquilization.
They seek our placification.
They seek our pacification.
They seek our inurement.
They seek our inurnment.
They're in it for their own profit and that of their friends,
as well as the perpetuation of sociopolitical-economic stratification;
not the happiness of the customers, or anything so ******* quaint.
-
"Satisfaction Guaranteed" doesn't mean ****
in this materialistic world.
A corporation saying 'Satisfaction Guaranteed' is like Monsanto saying it's milk is Organic;
A paper thin lie designed to get your money out of your hands and into their coffers forever.
Of course, their "Satisfaction" is "Guaranteed";
they have our money now,
and all we have useless, expensive toxic waste. (Literally and figuratively.)
The Swinepeople love that **** of theirs to roll around in.
The overwhelming nature of our Crapitiolism is underwhelmingly superficial.
-
"Time to bring it down again.
Don't just call me pessimist; try and read between the lines.
I can't imagine why you wouldn't welcome any change, my friend."
-Tool, Aenema
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 5:18 PM UTC
Tell me how,
One person can divide into
Three perfectly psychotic sentiments
While still appearing to be whole
Tell me how
Multiplying your kindness only
Creates a rift between myself and patience
And ends with nights of contemplation followed by tumultuous
Back-and-forths with imaginary numbers
For I am no mathematician
I cannot find a solution to every concrete problem
I do not bother with equations or substitutes
I only skim the symbol, rewrite questions and leave the answers hanging in the air
Tell me why,
Subtracting victims from my life
Only added a murderous sentiment
To every repeating decimal that couldn’t find its’ place
Tell me why,
The quadratic formula is emblazoned in my memory
But everyone keeps throwing opposites at me
So forgetting whether to add or to subtract becomes hazy
And the square root gets suspended until next class, so the
Four drops off the plane, two goes insane, and
Letters lose their fictitious meanings
For I am no mathematician
Archimedes is finding the constant of my triangular coffin
While Newton is rolling in his gravity
Carl Gauss is busy laughing his *** off with fundamentals in his eyes and
Descartes keeps whispering incoherent Latin, migraines sprinting towards me
As if in a race
So don’t ask me
Whether or not you should divide by zero
Or whether it requires sine, cosine, or a tangent
My logic will not tell you anything you want to hear
I am through trying to piece together this imaginary puzzle
And I’ve had enough of playing this never-ending game
Because I’ve been through two continents, and 4 different states
And I still don’t know the meaning of my name.
For I am no mathematician
The only pie charts I am fond of,
have to do with sugar and preheating an oven to 450 degrees
And with every cubic centimeter
I start thinking of cubes of cheddar cheese
For I am no mathematician
I can’t graph a simple line
I don’t understand the dimensions of the polygon shown above
And I’m tired of wasting precious time
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 6:15 PM UTC
"You're looking fit," she said, the words sliding off her tongue.
"Thanks. So are you."
It was a cold walk up to the oak door
and my nose was red from the wind.
Sun Meadow. That was her neighborhood.
A little optimistic for my taste.
Five, maybe six, people I graduated with lived on her street.
"Where are your parents?"
"Cayman Islands. They usually go somewhere tropical
after the holidays. I would've gone, but work... you know."
"Yup. No time for fun."
"You wanna smoke hookah?"
"Sure. What flavor?"
"Don't be silly; house mix, always."
She loved the "house mix."
It was a slightly overbearing concoction
of apple, banana, and melon flavored tobacco.
I ran my hand through my hair to dissolve the snow.
Her mom was an interior decorator, so I was surrounded
by obscure, obnoxious, and expensive trinkets from
God knows where.
I sat on a bar stool and watched her make the bowl.
Her moves had gone from graceful to inept
just as she had gone from goddess to **** in my mind.
She set the hookah on the bar and inhaled.
Then it was my turn.
It went on like that for five minutes or so
as she looked me up and down.
Every once in a while she would lick her lips
or lean forward to expose even just a centimeter more of her *******
"So who's the new ****
"Beg your pardon?"
"You heard me," she spat.
"My left or my right, depending on how many notes
I've taken that day."
"Ha ha, very funny. How long's that been the case?"
"A week or two. Maybe three," I quip.
"Restless yet?"
"That's all I've ever been."
Ashley was never tactful.
She showed her hand too fast, but she
bet so little it made no difference.
She was also never virginal.
People often romanticize their first time with stories
of secret escapes or innocent awkwardness.
I was never like that and Ashley appreciated the monstrous
control and possessiveness I wrapped around my *****
I took what I wanted, she told me.
She liked that, I guess.
She knew a couople girls I had been with--
they'd shared their "stories" with her.
Stories of how I'd ripped the innocence from them,
the thrill,
the wall slamming,
screaming,
cursing,
the painful entrance,
strength,
weakness,
and finally
the out-of-breath finish
where I left them feeling like rag dolls.
Or so I'm told.
She liked that.
Craved it, even.
So, I let her have it.
May 14, 2012
May 14, 2012 at 7:36 PM UTC
She thinks of nobody but herself
But still her bedrooms filled with nails she falls
And always seems to land on her wrist
Gashes a centimeter wide she needs stitches she needs to call an ambulance
She'll bleed out! God ****** she'll bleed out!
But she's not ready to die yet so she stitches herself back up
Hoping she hasn't drained too much
Because she loves the sting the reason she lives is for the sting
And the DRUGS
PILLS: Oxy, Percocet, Vicodin, Demerol
She sniffs them she snorts them she even ******* chews them!
She'll do anything as long as she can float
She won't admit it but she loves life she loves the drugs
And pain and abuse that come with life
She loves the pain, oh god **** she loves the pain
So she stitches herself back up she doesn't want to die
Repeat repeat she does it again
Dripping on the kitchen tile but this time is different
This time she's forgotten about the drugs and the pain
She's focused on her wrist and her wrist and her wrist and her blade
Too deep, she's gone too deep again
But she doesn't care she's not stitching herself back up
She's ready to die with not enough drugs and
Too much pain
She's ready to leave this world behind
Ready to leave the pills
Don't leave me don't leave me
I love you I love you
Grab the needle, please get the thread
Please just stitch yourself back up stitch yourself back up
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 6:43 PM UTC
50 shades of ****** up,
I've ventured deep within you.
...scrutinized every centimeter,
every corner,
of that perplexing cavernous mind of yours.
*I
fell
in
love*
...but somewhere between "I" and "love"
I found myself stumbling into the spaces between them.
I knew you were too weak
to catch me but
those cogent promises,
that compelling voice,
how could I not succumb, baby?
I never doubted you and that was my downfall.
I stood in the gap for you,
defended you,
when anyone pestered me with pessimism.
There's this saying about....
...a log being in your eye
yet you're trying to take a speck out of someone else's;
Let's just subliminally throw the ***** laundry out.
Out of all the wrongs I've ever done,
I'm able to say,
**"I never cheated."
"I never gave up."
"I was always there for you."
"I kept my promises."**
kinda distasteful that you can't, huh?
tbc has been discontinued.
TheEnd.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 4:48 PM UTC
Fury running through all my veins.
Fire goes through every part and centimeter of my body.
Fury and fire sweep through my whole being, soul and spirit. They destroy everything in their path, as if they were a hurricane.
They consume me. They take over me. They take control over me because I can not control them, they are stronger than a thousand demons.
I feel like I become a beast while fire and fury grow inside me.
A beast thirsting for hatred, revenge, with a huge pleasure to destroy everything around her.
They can not break free and I lose control.
Because of that, fire and fury are trapped in my skin and in my bones
Jan 18, 2019
Jan 18, 2019 at 1:50 PM UTC
You are poetry.
Every square centimeter of your existence
Is it’s own iambic pentameter .
& I can’t help but notice
the way your smile never fails to rhyme with your cheekbones.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 7:16 PM UTC
I have never been in this situation before
trying to decide which of the two girls to go after
I am a lion with two gazelles in his cross hairs
Both looking graceful and delicately desirable
But I can't have both
I would like the one who whispers into people's ears
about how she feels like an unfinished automobile
helplessly being carried on the assembly line,
moving centimeter by centimeter, towards me.
But whenever the two of us are together,
she would pretend to be miles away
Then again, I would like the other one
whose subtle glances, though transient,
are like the worms you put at the end of a fish hook
or the aromatic meat left in an animal trap
that makes you brush off caution
from the end of your sleeves
or put on the helmet and jump
It's going to be one way or the other
I tell myself as I lay all alone in the room,
one foot already over the threshold of sleep,
strange faces beginning to appear in the air
and very soon I would be pulled below the surface,
sinking slowly, towards the dark bottom of the other world
Before then there's a decision to make:
I can either go left or right
but I can't have both.
Especially when they're room mates
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 2:08 PM UTC
jeg husker ikke meget fra den nat
jeg husker blot
at s-toget
tog mig til et sted
mellem himmel og jord
hvor stjernerne vendte sig
og tiden stod stille
din station
der hvor alting gjorde
ondt men hvor solen
altid skinnede på februar morgner
selvom det regnede mod ruden
og håbet stod højt
med solen
det der gemmer sig
jeg sad på din sengekant
og kiggede på dine øjenlåg
jeg ved godt
hvor meget der foregår inde bag
de øjenlåg
en helt ny verden
som ingen ser
fordi du aldrig
holder dine øjne
åbne længe nok
følelsesløsheden
og jeg stryger din
kind og dine
skægstubbe
kradser mine fingre
du vågner og spørger
om jeg ikke
ligger mig ned til dig
hvor har du været
jeg smiler bare og svarer at
jeg har været der hvor stjernerne
vender
hvorfor er du kommet
spurgte du
fordi jeg fryser
du vidste altid
hvad jeg tænkte
og holdte mig tæt
i et milisekund
du er så smuk,
ved du godt det
dine øjne
de lyste altid en
lille smule op
og jeg kunne mærke
varmen sprede sig
til mine fingerspidser
og duften af dit
nyvaskede hår
mindede mig om
tusinde somre
jeg beundrede
dig længe
du var verdens partikler
samlet i en
hvorfor havde jeg aldrig set det før
hvorfor lukker du øjnene
hviskede jeg
det er stadig koldt
fordi det er meningsløst at tænde
for varmen
du bliver her jo alligevel kun til i morgen
svarede du
der var en verden imellem os
og dog alligevel var der ikke
mere end en centimeter og
et forgyldent spinkelt håb
... da du vendte dig om
og lukkede dine øjne igen
glastårer ramte din
pude
den pude du havde lånt
mig i et kærligt
øjeblik
der var koldt i værelset
igen
og i natten kyssede jeg dig farvel
og strøg din kind og
undrede mig for sidste gang
over hvad der sker bag dine lukkede
øjenlåg
da jeg gik ud
i februar natten var der varmt
og der vidste jeg
at det var bag dine øjenlåg det frøs
for varmen kom indefra
men altid kun når
du mistede kontrol
og når jeg tager s-toget
nu, idag
mellem himmel og jord
der hvor stjernerne vender
og tiden står stille
så undrer jeg mig
men det af dig
der svæver om mig
det får mig stadig til at fryse
fordi jeg aldrig fandt ud af hvad der
skete bag dine øjenlåg
... fordi du altid lod
mig fryse
men det varmer stadig lidt
helt inde bagerst
når toget stopper
på din station
måske fordi jeg aldrig
fik lov at mærke rigtigt efter
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 6:00 PM UTC
Sleep with me, my love
between the still life that with redundant art
and more of this love,
a rag of civilization.
In your hands miraculously becomes
the best of night costume.
Each centimeter theme of hurtful heart,
double embroidered wound closed ..
of your finger, our light removed
Two white moons for your children
lighting the last time, revelations of the world.
Sleeping with the fairies, fairytales
The magic was solved, the dream was better,
Daughter of spring, Son of summer!
In the morning, knee time
Will burn every key and key
and my old face.
The prison of my mirror smashed.
Feb 11, 2019
Feb 11, 2019 at 2:09 AM UTC
The sun sets and the moon rises,
the moon sets and the sun rises.
The wind will catch my hair and drift me away from this world
and the clouds will sway to the drum of my heart.
When the tides of the sea have calmed down,
the sand will grip to each and every centimeter of me.
The Earth tilts and the seasons change,
the Earth tilts again and the seasons change again.
And my mind will wander into the deep abyss while the rest of the Earth's memories of each day will become a distant chimera.
The trees grow and their roots go deeper,
the roots are ripped out and the tree dies.
The tailwinds cry and the silence is broken,
and warm winds carry me into the vacuum of space;
a sea of stars and I'm drowning;
whatever happens, happens.
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC
In a perfect world...they met.
He loved computers, she loved books.
The kitchen was their favourite place though now they eat more of junk.
He said the first "hello", she really didn't say "hi".
Tall, handsome and some more
White teeth, curvy and "very intelligent."
Somewhere in the future they became friends
Intelligent conversations, you'd think they had knowledge.
Cat fights and playful jibes
Unseen glances and pregnant silences
A little bit of sarcasm to spice up the talk
An invite to dinner sealed it up.
A pause, a sigh...uncertain glances
and some hiccups in their once flawless discuss.
An inch to reduce the centimeter long distance between them
"I like you...I more than like you," he said.
She called his bluff off but she didn't sleep well that night.
All the sermons forgotten, she only could remember
The gospel her "liker" preached.
A handful of MTN extracool calls still didn't quench the fire
Something kept fanning the flames.
Finally he gave up on her or did he?
Some serious talk and several quarrels
She decided to "try" him out.
So many things happened, God was watching this "Titanic"
The ship set sail but not before they christened her "relationship".
Oblivious to the massive ice cold danger, they climbed aboard and became passengers.
The voyage was disturbing, turbulent waters and serious storms
Two captains in one closet, they hit their heads too many times.
No destination in mind, they just kep moving like a waving flag.
This titanic crashed and heaven had a field day.
What was left of the movie was take-home memories.
But unlike that Titanic, no casualties were recorded
Only a mind fullof regrets and pain indescribable
Because they forgot the One whose mind is full of them.
But He told you to ask first
He said to you, you'll never lack a mate
So why did you jump ship? His ship.
Why was a relationship more important to you than fellowship?
He loves you still and that's why you have a bleeding heart and not a broken home..
Start all over, this time with Him in the equation.
Bring that man before your Maker
and ask God to put you to sleep
So your "Eve" can be brought out.
The lady, her man and their Maker
The eternal principle for a lasting relationship.
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 7:38 PM UTC
In the mornings I stayed in the blue, carpeted room.
My Cello played the best friend, while I played upon its bare back.
The halls sat silent there.
The walls, bear aside from the occasional music note half sticky-tacked to the white cement, only emphasized my isolation.
They hung yellowed from UV light, and their own forgotten presence.
After the day slipped by,
Through Stephen King book pages
And colored comics,
Through love notes scraped into wooden tables,
And the ring of my own repose draped upon me by scrambled, and passing conversation
I would make my way to the baseball field.
5’4” and nearing 200 pounds
My ardor was never withheld even in the face of exclusion.
I tried for the team
But when the roster ruffled in the fading sun behind the bleachers
I made myself a part of where I was not welcome.
I loved the team
Even as snide comments slithered
Through the teeth of passing players,
Even as the coach spat not a centimeter above the toe of my white, worn tennis shoes
I came day in and day out
If not to catch the practice ***** then the occasional smile of young girl—a pitying young girl, but a smile nonetheless.
The life bodes loneliness,
But to me it presents possibility.
Never doubt the adequacy of introversion.
The quiet mouth begets the much more boisterous mind.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 3:16 AM UTC
he calls you
paperclip
not because you hold everyone together
when the wind tries so hard
to scatter souls
or because your eyes flash hints of silver
when you talk about your favorite song
or because your lip ring taints your kisses
metallic.
paperclip
because he can downsize you in an instant
replacing you with a version of yourself
that doesn’t weigh his pockets down
your body now too small to hold your essence
and a mouth that will only open wide enough
to swallow.
you are easily forgotten
but somehow always end up
attached to his keychain.
paperclip
because he can bend you to his will
and you don’t even notice
until everything else
begins falling out of your grasp.
every time he snaps you back into place
the world has only changed
but a fraction of a centimeter
and you’re used to measuring your life in kilometers.
paperclip
because he is a staple
leaving puncture wounds in everything he touches
a few drops of blood in every corner of your mind
and when you learn how to extract him from your heart
no goodbye is successful enough to patch
permanent holes you fold yourself in upon
and pretend not to notice.
to this day,
that chapter of your life remains dog-eared
and you wonder
why you still have trouble
picking locks.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 4:04 PM UTC
My mother cleans floor
She goes down to her knees and cleans every centimeter
She gets out of work leaving everything shining bright
My father left before I was born the I met him when I turned five
He left again two years later
I met my stepfather and he picked up heavy train floors
All for me
I used to be ashamed to say that my mother cleaned toilets and my stepfather cleaned offices.
Each have two jobs, their first starts at 6:30 and they get out at 3:00 the next starts at 5:30 then get out at 10:00.
Yet they expect me tO wake up at 7 and go to sleep at 9 so that I get enough sleep.
My mom finished the third grade and that's as far as she went
My stepfather was lucky enough to make it to the 6th grade
My family moved to the United States when I was nearly six
We all belong in Mexico? Yea
But we are still here thanks to God's mercy...
I was never afraid of washing the dishes or cleaning the house because I only cleaned my home, my parents cleaned the offices, homes, hospitals, hotels, of other people for just 7.50 and hour. My hands aren't soft from not working
They are rough but with lotion I cover that
By seeing me you have no idea who I am
I have committed many mistakes and I'm not proud
But I do know that time can cure all scars
Now I know what I wished I would have known since before
That people will judge you for being and for not being
I wish I had known that people aren't trust worthy until they know the complete truth about you and still stay by your side
It was my destiny to continue and their destiny to judge me but now
I'm proud to say that
My parents clean bathrooms and floor and carry heavy train floor to gve me a life worth living and I'm proud to be their daughter because unlicke the rest I know they love menin the worst of situations...
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 8:20 PM UTC
Let not today, be the day you are hoaxed by metal amalgam coated glass.
Let not today, be the day your inner sleeping beauty,
Oblivious to her own existence, continues her slumber.
Allow my lips to kiss your soul and render your demons dead.
Let today, be the day you dispose of all those shattered glass pieces of stained fallacious images.
Let today, be the day you permit me to be your mirror,
Scrutinizing every centimeter of your body,
Showing you all the things your eyes and mirror feared to.
Let today, be the day we conquer those fears.
Let today, be everyday.
- d.b.d.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 12:04 PM UTC
Little stars
Burning bright
How much helium
Did you make tonight?
From hydrogen to helium
A cubic centimeter
Will power an average city for a year.
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 12:14 PM UTC
Fighting for mirrored memories fast while fornicating fools swear in deep swear they've never fallen in love?
When will the world remember that love is no diamond, no word, no expensive dinner or pair shiny shoes!
What has happened to the smell of a rose, it has been dipped in stinking ****
The voices that echo in eternity do not recall themselves serenading nakedly with Hallmark cards or memorable dunches!
There was blood in the streets, soldiers blister punching the backs of heads, and happy church goer's clutching their burning crosses in blasphemy!
Generations of the hip divine rebelling for hope on the TV sets, internet in love and met, forgetting that the moments in nature are the only true ones
Hilarity at the thought of many that think it is easy to live again!
Sad pouring mountains with rubble stained back packs lick their centimeter gashes as perplexed cooks spill oil on their $2 shoes and smile
Shame on the masters of war that pour themselves in books getting their vote, with white smiles, waving hands and blue shiny suits that Elvis wore all the better, at least the Mississippi could move and groove like a human being with a crying blues soul
Not a thing to be proud about when the sales are shot, the days are run about, and friends fiend for the next big thing
Make more, make this, make a squeal in the middle of the night and see if a soul outside hears a thing
Smile at the postman and he'll **** in your mailbox
Make an effort in a line of millions and see if the mirror smiles back in the night or the early morning
So sad and soft are the eyes that I see in my dreams unborn
First that goes, a glow glimmering in a the shine before World War II
Teach these manic's the meaning of absence of soul to see how far the world can fall
Won't be here to hear, in the back, listening to the sounds of yesteryear
Forgive no one, remember nothing, look to the stars for guidance and in due haste, due haste, DUE HASTE, for soon they may be a fog of forlorn memory
Mar 30, 2011
Mar 30, 2011 at 4:15 PM UTC
I wish we named every rainstorm.
Hurricanes get everything, but
It's easy to have everything when
All you do is take.
I used to think that falling
Asleep was the same feeling as
Earthquakes shaking the grounds.
Don't get stuck in the chasm.
Washed up memories, shoe box
Chachkis, left untouched through the
Eye of the storm. Who knew these
Relics would follow you here.
Crying as the pouring rain stops
Is impossible.
All of the tears have been taken.
But rippling water is overrated.
Have you ever seen sand slide through
The Sahara Desert.
I've been there. I've seen it.
I watched as each minuscule grain slid
Down the valley ridges built from years
Of wind storms making piles.
Piles idiosyncratically stretched across its reddened face,
Maybe modeled by the smoldering surface of mars.
Lay down and let it wash across your leathered skin.
Sensations spreading, each nerve on every centimeter of you
Lighting up, marquee, competing with the hot desert suns.
A million dandelion spores dancing ballet.
Tip top, tip toes to a tarantella timing.
Buried under dunes, only too soon to
Uncover you once again.
You wouldn't believe how something
Solid can so namelessly float across the land.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 3:21 AM UTC
There was always at least five feet between us. It was actually a good thing in the preliminary stage. We could lock eyes without the urgent need to look away too soon. The intensity was containable in those five feet.
(speaks very fast) And then my stupid self went around and quickly covered four of those five feet. It is the laws of mitotic cell division god ****** You do not grow four feet in a day. You grow inch by inch, centimeter by centimeter. Ask him about that literature assignment. Shakespeare is responsible for excess glutton in today’s pick up lines. Wait for your friends to dare him to kiss you on a Truth and Dare. Wait for him to want to. Then, tell him, maybe, I like you.
That, in that one foot perimeter, I could see golden flakes in the circles of his eyes when clearly they are brown should have been the first sign that it was a bad idea. Five feet was our perimeter. Five feet was where we stopped. (points to own body) Five feet is where I stop.
For, I will never be anyone else but me. I will never experience, firsthand at least, what it is like to be a lanky six footer who hunches because she doesn't know what to do with her body. Or her exhilaration when she finds the basketball court. I will never experience being the Egyptian boy who has a chemistry counter in his kitchen, who asks his maid to buy him potassium nitrate. I won't know what it is like to be his maid who almost got arrested for asking to buy potassium nitrate (a component of explosives) in Egypt. I shall never experience courting like the characters in a Jane Austen novel. And how nice it must feel, feeling beautiful.
And I will never ever experience, what it is like to be his girlfriend.
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 9:03 AM UTC
i know a secret,
as small as a lump of cancer and pale
as oessin cartilage, insignificant
as the number thirty one
until the end of december.
i know a secret,
locked beneath the tongue of the demon
inside the piano,
-
spitting out keys, oxidised,
corroded, foul, cut for bone marrows
and cheap hotels and umbrage and
odium and pathological experimentations.
i know a secret,
decolourised in the shade of red and
no matter how raw you scratch me,
it will never bleed out, not even
for you.
--
they are coming, the surgeons, you say.
they are here to anatomise, to dissect, to ****
to clean, to find, to **** to dichotomise, to
divide, to sever, to **** to **** to stitch,
to seperate, to hide, to fix, to ****
to make me sick.
---
i may as well be sick.
----
i think i may as well gut out your stomach
and tie your pretty ileum into a pretty
ribbon, to a pretty street lamp,
and make you walk in a straight line
until you die, to show me
how much you love her.
silly boy, getting to her heart
was an easy as a six point
four centimeter incision.
-----
i was the faire semblant and
you were the toothless protagonist
of some drunk playwright's
filthy dream, they gave you
gloucester eyes.
euthanise me, i want
your ugly face
------
to be the last ugly face i see.
Nov 8, 2010
Nov 8, 2010 at 5:56 AM UTC
Broken hearts
need a jump start
Broken hearts,
so ripped and torn apart
Broken hearts,
immortalized in art
as the martyr of mankind
All around the world
Those cardboard people,
they exist everywhere
Slaughtered souls
seen upon the streets
Like paper, they are 2 dimensional
People who walk about
just like sticks
People a centimeter thick
go about their way but
Who knows where they’re headed
Can’t go very far,
ripped and shredded
All around the world
Whether they are mentally battered,
physically battered,
spiritually battered,
battered by poverty and disease
or battered by oppression
they have lost their way
because by a throw away society
that exists today
they are now tossed aside
and on the inside
they feel nothing
All around the world
I think you get the picture
of what I'm trying to say
Cardboard people
have caught the paper disease,
a little gust of wind
and they go blowing in the breeze
Little weight to hold them down,
They are descending sidewalks
with their tattooed frowns
All around the world
They pass us on by
but few of us
really look anymore
at the souls who
are torn and tattered
their hearts bleeding
and quite shattered
Often we wish not to
be bothered with
their sight
Consumed with our problems
and not with their plight
All around the world
I have to remind myself
to not look away,
not wanting to be reminded
that I was also there
A card carrying member
of the Broken Heart's Club
and still at risk
must I say
But God sought me out
a scared, lonely girl
as I felt no place
in this cruel world
Judge them not He commands
It does not matter
how they met their despair
Broken hearts
need to mended,
and can be repaired
All around the world
I imagine the human race
as refined paper cut outs,
delicately designed,
exquisite and fragile
in their intricate beauty
Once linked togther,
hand in hand in unity
were we
But we are not puppets
but are free
to choose whether to love
So the world was torn apart
by those who have
hardened their hearts
and the broken pieces
are now scattered everywhere
All around the world
So I wonder when
we will ever learn
that people are not paper products
of this thoughtless world
A world in a hurry to look out
for its own interests
as it continues to go about
And I wonder when
we will ever learn
that people aren't like dollar bills,
Something that crumbles and burns
Spent away like paper currency,
Used up like old money,
Flimsy, worn and past the urgency
All around the world
Broken hearts
need a jump start
Broken hearts,
so ripped and torn apart
Broken hearts,
immortalized in art
as the martyr of mankind
Aug 15, 2010
Aug 15, 2010 at 1:02 PM UTC
She sits with her legs folded to the right,
head covered in red satin bordered with gold brocade.
Strands of dark brown hair sneak out from under the satin.
Gold earrings dangle from her small honey colored ears.
She has the plainest lips I’ve ever seen.
They’re just a centimeter apart with no hint of a smile.
Her dark brown eyes are laden with thick black mascara.
I keep trying to look away.
I wonder what she’s thinking as she sits there,
clueless like a young bride.
I think about how many have lusted for her scent before me.
The silk curtain in front of her window closes,
solidifying the boundaries of our two worlds.
Her voluptuous shadow visible behind the curtain pulls me away from my world
and ***** me into hers’.
It’s gone now, and I sit back in my chair and look around.
I hear people discussing the stock market plunge but all I can think about is the dark figure behind the silk curtain.
She will never know I had been so close,
and the woman with the plainest lips will forever remain my secret.
Dec 12, 2011
Dec 12, 2011 at 6:16 AM UTC