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my mind is
a big hunk of irrevocable nothing which touch and
taste and smell and hearing and sight keep hitting and
chipping with sharp fatal tools
in an agony of sensual chisels i perform squirms of
chrome and execute strides of cobalt
nevertheless i
feel that i cleverly am being altered that i slightly am
becoming something a little different, in fact
myself
Hereupon helpless i utter lilac shrieks and scarlet
bellowings.
Chuck Feb 2014
Smashing the ice with a sledge hammer is exhausting
Pounding, sweating, blisters pulsating
Slowly chipping away at the vastness of frozen emotions
Yet, the ice is formidable from months of winter

Forced to recalculate, to innovate, to anticipate
Salt has the ability to melt ice into tears of joy
Unless the salt solvates in open wounds

Progress freezes until nature's spring decides
The sun is enlightened enough to slowly
Allow thawing in his Mother's time
ryn May 2015
Let me be captured by the night.
Engrossed in the conversation
between the stars.
Syncopated twinkling like...
thousands of fireflies
trapped within sealed jars.

Let me be enslaved by the moon.
As I drink her glow in
greedy insatiable gulps.
Crestfallen...
Her beam with an agenda...
As the landscape she sculpts.

Let me be ensnared by my solitude.
But I hear crickets...
Chirping and chipping away at my
bastion of dreamstate.
Persistent calls
I try to shun
that never abates.

Let me be trapped in my thoughts.
So I could harness...
And immortalise them in
indelible careless scribbles.
Erecting and...
Rebuilding them from the
rubble of conflicting squabbles.

Let me be overwhelmed
by the mess of my being...**
Let me wallow
Then emerge strong from this
decrepit state of mind.
Let me breathe heavy from my
punctured lungs.
So I could heal in time before
true solace
in this dark,
I would find.
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2018
~weary weighted~

flummoxed are the sea watchers;
the long rhythms of sea change reveal only minor modesties,
difficult discerned are the tidal subtleties

though repetitive thrashing extracts it toll,
only the weary-weighted see the true meaning of the beating,
knowing full well,
it beats for them

recalling their early day’d fascination with its endless chaining,
now knowing all are similar
detained-chained,
and  the ******* churning but a cover up masque,
they need not longer conceal,
an unrevealed confess:

water is heavy-weighted, you cannot forever float,
constancy is of a thing to be wary,
its sadder longevity,
a chipping away erosion of wearing,
‘tis is the knelling noise of  sad respite,
an unlight lighthouse



~for Victoria, a year later~
Alyssa Torres Mar 2016
Red toes peak out from peep-toe laced Sperries,
heels clicking the hard-tiled floor of the dance room.
The black swan stared back from its home within her mirror,
red toes peak out from peep-toe laced Sperries.
She twirled and twirled, the swan did the same.
Each day the swan came to play, chipping the polish with every dance,
until the red toes were chipped and nearly gone.
Adia Heart Sep 2014
I like my bare feet
right in front of the fan.
It tickles,
the wind;
blowing kisses on my toes.
My toenails are red.
I'd just noticed; I'd forgotten
how I painted them shiny
as I hummed nonsense words.
It's chipping off now,
I'd have to repaint them.
Blue?
Purple?
No, I'll stick to red.
Red has many meanings
but I do not care much for them.
Some things are better left simple -
My toenails are just one of those things.
I was wiggling my feet and just felt like writing about them. The wind feels amazing and I really do need to repaint my toenails.
Ovi-Odiete Feb 2015
he walks alone; faking a smile
deep within are pairs of agonies
grief, distraught; but still he smiles
walking down the pavement, he stops
turning around are unfriendly friends
they wave at him; camouflaging a smile
he looks away and continues

He has moved thus far, still no one
he hears the birds chipping; the cats crying and water falling
the queen of the night's flower arouse him; bringing him to a rush of impulse and pleasure, but still he wanders

they have stabbed him twice; his closest pals
they set him up; they slander him behind the scene and still rush to.him with cold hands
he has decided to stay firm; a man of his own- to walk through the valley alone; A Beautiful Loner.
"the calmness of the silent man, should not be toiled with"
    By Ovi-Enita
John Stevens Aug 2010
Hope arrived... limping severely.
The journey had been quite long,
Searching for Something to hold on to.
Hope was weak but would not give up,
There is always hope, no matter how small.
For: ”Hope springs eternal”.

Faith was greatly weakened and vulnerable,
Wounded by the words of discouragement.
Naysayers of the day were chipping away.
Faith needed help to overcome Doubt.
Lurking close by... and closing in....
Keep the Faith Baby!

Love felt lonely and threatened.
In need of some friends to lean on.
The days were long and dreary with
Hate knocking at everyone's door.
Love glimpsed Faith approaching and knew
Hope was not far behind.

Hope, Faith, Love;
Together, they formed a bond and
Began flourishing once again!
Together, they opened the door
of the heart in need of repair.
Together, they rescued a heart,
Filling it to overflowing.

Love began to grow and  blossom,
Bringing Light to the darkened heart.
Hope, walking tall and standing straight,
Began to breath  deep again.
Faith leaped forward with renewed vigor
to guard the Heart's door
The Three Musketeers... together...
Unstoppable...  Conquer the world.
(c) Aug. 16, 2010
John Stevens with much valuable input from my wife.
INFINITEabyss Aug 2015
My heart is an overflowing suitcase my red dress you liked so much the one with the horses is spilling out along with that jumper you wore once and the shirt i bought for 50p in bricklane
my insecurities have been buried deep but they are demanding to see the sun now
i sit on my suitcase in a crowded airport
i don't know where i'm going
all i have is this overflowing suitcase, no ticket, where am i going?
Many strangers have walked by, some had friendly faces so i whispered sometimes shouted:
'a little help'
mostly non have stopped
the few that have, leave me with old memories they no longer want to hold on to and i've become accustomed to carrying the burdens... i think they can see it on my face
so i pretend i have room in my suitcase
after all i'm not really going anywhere
and they seem to be
SC Kelley Oct 2018
My eyes bleed with exhaustion.

My thoughts are fuzzy like my brain is stuffed with styrofoam.

My body sinks into the ugly carpet floor of my basement.

My mouth tastes sour with the flavor of an unslept soul.

I lie here writing instead of sleeping because it feels like the only thing I can do well, consciously.

My back aches with an elders pain at late seventeen.

I crave the warm embrace of my bed but am too stuck like sap to move.

I'm rambling here in my brain instead of resting my frigid existence.

My thoughts are slow and choppy now with the hesitation of drifty words.

My rusted, chipping ears hear nothing but silence and a distant coo-coo clock.

The chirps of a bird only found in my dark, dusty insanity.

The world weighs upon children such as these in a universe such as this.

I'm just, tired. Tired...

~S.C. Kelley
Take it as you will. This **** is crazy.
frankie crognale Dec 2013
there’s a girl i know.  she sits at the end of the table in the coffee shop all by herself.  i’ve never spoken to her, but she’s the most interesting person i’ve ever encountered.  she sits there with her music blasting her ear drums, unable to hear the regular coffee shop madness happening around her.  she’ll glance up and notice it, but she chooses not to actually see it.  she’s in her own little world, and she liked it that way.  she’ll sit in her chair at the end of the table in the coffee shop for as long as you’ll let her, flipping the pages of her favorite book or creating sparks with weapon of choice, the pen.  she’s in her place where she feels secure in her chair at the end of the table in the coffee shop.  every season she’ll be there.  the dead of winter brings black rimmed glasses, flannel shirts, ripped jeans, and combat boots. rugged, yet suitable.  her sweater weather drink is a medium hot peppermint mocha with an extra shot of espresso, normally with a wedge of cheesecake or a cinnamon pastry.  as winter comes to an end and spring begins to bloom, she emerges out of the tiny cocoon she’s put herself in for the winter and flies into the world like a beautiful butterfly. when the sun is out, she’s shedding her own light on all the regulars in the coffee shop.  she might not be talking to them, but she’s enchanting them in her own special way in her chair at the end of the table in the coffee shop.  she has the most mesmerizing eyes, from what i’ve seen of her.  her eyes can pierce you right through your flesh, creep into your bones, and go straight through your heart like an arrow at it’s terminal velocity.  with those eyes, without fatality, she scans the room, her favorite book, her chipping nail polish, her clothing, which has now become high waisted shorts she made out of a pair of her dad’s old jeans, a black t-shirt, and a pair of black converse sneakers.  simple, yet lovely.  her drink has gone from a medium hot peppermint mocha with an extra shot of espresso to a medium iced green tea with a squeeze of lemon and a drop of organic honey, nothing extra to go along with it. her skin is sun kissed, and her lips are cherry red.  her eyebrows are arched just high enough above her black framed glasses, and freckles spotting her tiny nose.  her hair is bouncy black curls, sometimes ******* in a messy bun or left down naturally. her music varied with the seasons, as well.  the sweater weather brought muse and two door cinema club.  bikini season brought the wombats or the arctic monkeys.  i knew what music she listens to because she blares it so loudly against the brick walls of the coffee shop.  she probably thinks she’s doing us a favor.  all of these attributes go into making this girl the most intricate girl i’ve ever come across in this small town coffee shop.  i don’t know much about this girl.  i wish i knew a little bit more.  i wonder what her name is, who her friends are and why they’re never there with her, if she has any cats, what dressing she puts on her salad, how many times a day she brushes her teeth, if she prefers pen or pencil, what kind of sushi she likes, or what kind of shampoo she uses. i wish i knew every single detail of this girl, but i do know a few things for certain.  she’s the seasons.  she changes her appearance and her mysterious attitude towards everything outside her little world. her drink and her music change, too.  the only thing that still remains the same through all of the changes is her spot in the chair at the end of the table in the coffee shop.
until the day i said hello.
Keith Faherty Dec 2012
the front door open.
the dogs not barking,
slapping some wet skinned faces in front of everyone,
wishing i was a broken bottle
or something.
there's want of a forest in my yard
-the whole world softing out:
action dust; to the girl that screams:
there's no such thing as sinners, there's no such thing as love, there's just people and what people do,
whole forests of paper feel your words.
           sincerely,
                            we're all just crazy.
sweet dharma dewdrops fell off the tongue of the clean-cut kid.
he had soapy teeth and no shame to speak of
and when he spoke to us, his fingers glowed
because.
did you think that words could do more than arms-
and that anything else alone could do more for you than a full bodied embrace.
and
i looked at the rose you had buttoned on your blouse and i tore it off and dashed it upon the ground
because of
the mist
and the yellow billboard
lit up softly like a wheatfield
and frost was setting onto the long blades of crisply dying vegetation.
and there is the matter of those ghosts in the parkinglot
unaware of the cars that skid by full of people, all with capacities to know and be known-
sometimes i wish i could tell them
that it's okay to reach out with soft red fingers, wet from running water, warm from hot running water rinsed
over our hands to bleed out the chill that leaches into our too-thin fingers on cold nights such as this.
meanwhile-whole forests of bright white paper
i think that if i ever found you,
it would be walking on a road next to blueberry blossoms-and close, dry
thicket branches that crunch swiftly sometimes-and slowly, others- behind our heels
and hands shaped like mantras gesturing towards us from trees- telling us to go this way, and that,
welcoming us with their imperfect notions of morality and telling us that everything was going to be.
light a match on the bathroom window,
take one step closer to breathe in the bad-handwriting of the graceless morning. put one foot forward on the floor-
one hand on your temple.
only time will tell
if this is hell or just a special hell for me and you
choke me in the white-noise drone
of the shower.
push against the vitalities of my neck-
offer your hands around my faltering voice.
tell me about the pharaoh.
and the legless learners of passion.
tell me that you need to fall forward onto your face just to remind yourself that you're alive.
drum against my chest imperfectly with your
fingertips.
the unskillfully applied paint on your nails already chipping off- (you do this thing with your thumb and
forefinger as a nervous habit and always ruin them.)

the sun come

i trace over my neck with cartridge-blade razors
-rip away the stubble like peeling off snakeskin shadows.
snow falls
dusting my eyes with the harpsichord sounds of porcelain.

there is no longer bitterness nor sorrow.
Echoes from within-
The constant ripples of these calming echoes have become my own kind of serenity.
I feel as if I am walking under water, the angel of death has struck me with his intoxicating arrow.
When these unknown echoes bounce off the invisible walls that surround me I am able to stop time.
I move to the rhythm of this darkness, sway to the tempo of the echoes that have invaded me for so long. Hell this isn’t a cold war no more. .  I reminisce over the day I made my choice. The day I was saved by these unknown echoes, the day I received this freedom that has me enslaved.

As I walked down the aisle, my shadow comforts me. I look back and smile. At least someone stayed behind.
I stood at the altar, my bare feet adorning the cold floor. Taking in all of what I deserved, nothing.
I stood at the cold altar, looking death in the face as I said my vows; I pledged my life, confessed my eternal love.  As I engraved death’s name across my chest, my empty hallow chest.

My long walk to freedom is an infinite road, a deadly labyrinth that has me going in circles.
These cold metals hold me in my right place, like gravity they hold me down, down where I belong.
As these chains cut deep into my skin, I feel a bit of relief. I still appreciate the pain that never left me.
I am filled with gratitude as this sharp razor blade embraces my flawless skin, as I receive the only love I’ve ever known.
This is the kind of love that fills me with uttermost joy, love that life could not give me.
As this sharp blade carves into my pale skin I drift into my happy place, my safe place.
The clinking sound of the cold metals sinking into my skin sends me on a rampage inside this comforting cage. If I don’t have these echoes I have nothing!

As the spotlight focuses on me, I can’t help but disappear into the background.
I am dead beat from chasing these shadows that deprecate me into nothing.
I see my pain bouncing off these walls like relentless echoes that end up in this empty space.
As this red liquid drips and dances to the rhythm of my empty beating chest I curse the darkness that gave birth to me.
This deep dark dripping liquid, matches the pulse of these echoes that surround me, these unknown echoes.
As I stand on top of this mountain that amounts to the sins against me: cases against my innocent tainted blood I can’t help but scream. I question the shadows that surround me I summon the death that gave birth to me, but what I hear are echoes of my own voice.

As this deep dark red liquid drips from my wrist I feel at ease. I feel as though I have paid the universe. I hope to lose myself in time, in space like the resonance that suffocates me.
I hope that this deep dark red pool that I lay in will help me float into the sunset. Award me the freedom I long begged for. I am tired of chipping bits of my dark soul in order to fit the picture, tired of the weight of the world on my shoulders, tired of chasing the fast spotlight. What I have, what I own, what I know are these echoes from within me, echoes unknown.
Ryan Gabrish Mar 2013
I want to plant foothills by the stairs. Broad basins on the chipping white paint. Flaking from the ceiling in droplets. Watering the drought of steps of vacated conversation, inner tongues flicking pleasured thoughts. Touches sprawled on black sand paper are compressed by our synced footsteps. Intertwined by laced fingers and hungry thrusts. Backpedaling to the peak, it causes cautious urches. The snowy ridges still chipping off, lips sealed together puzzled by whom will break first. Or if the sprouting seed inside is blooming in the other……….I still can’t figure out when you walk down the steps.
Muted Oct 2013
I've become used to chipped nail polish
Accustomed to tapping my feet and fingers
Never smiling
Biting my lip until I taste that
oh, so familiar,
morsel of blood

I'm used to being nervous
am I good enough?
I'm used to rejection
I'm not good enough

But, he never rejected me

I hide myself under an ugly sweater
an itchy, ugly sweater
And what lies beneath the sweater,
makes me nervous

Everything makes me nervous.

But, he accepted me
and my ugly sweater

I expect to hurt
I'm used to putting a bandage
wherever it stings
Hoping it heals
Only to pick at the scabs
When I'm nervous

But, he never hurt me

I've become used to being abandoned
I accepted the fact that
no one can love me
And I'm too nervous to love others

But,

When I met him,
I stopped chipping at my nail polish
I quit tapping my fingers and feet
I refrained from biting my lip
All of my scabs healed
I wasn't afraid to go outside
I was no longer afraid to take the elevator
He loved who I was
And I was able to love him in return
And
I smiled
Even under my ugly sweater
Harsh Aug 2015
Tim O'Brien had the right idea
about carrying people and ideas;
we all have experiences that live within us
like a stain on our grey matter.

I carry with me every insult hurled at me,
caught by my web of sensitivity;
I lift them onto my shoulders,
my back creaking as I trudge on.

My insecurities are shackles at my ankles,
the chains tangling themselves and chafing my legs;
my knees knock and pop and shake,
my back creaks and groans.

The ghosts and spirits of the self-departed
dance their ethereal ballet about my soul
and howl their eerie opera through the night,
begging for forgiveness and understanding.

The heaviness of the future rests
inside the caverns of my cranium,
latching on to my thoughts
and chipping at my hopes.

Past loves plague our emotions
and rest in the deepest corners of our hearts,
reminding us of who we once were
and asking us what could have been.

A cloud of sadness condenses in my body,
little drops of dejection slide down my lungs.
My chest constricts and grows heavy
and pointlessly hopes to see the sun.

Everyone together carries the weight of the world,
but I'm not sure what is heavier:
the mass of the planet,
or the things its people carry.
Inspired by Tim O'Brien's book entitled "The Things They Carried" and  http://everybookisaquotation.tumblr.com/post/107062246764/tell-me-atlas-what-is-heavier-the-world-or
Scarlet Niamh May 2016
So maybe we can hide,
all the others meet
over on the better side.
Maybe all these chips in me
are just because we're tired.

So maybe we're out of time,
all our love, it fleets
over to the other side.
Maybe all these chips in me
are caused by our desire.

So maybe we have younger hours,
where we broke one day
yet never gave up to the cowards.
Maybe all these chips in me
were made by who we are.
~~ Please keep chipping me away. ~~
Mel Harcum Feb 2015
She has a bruise on her left knee
reminiscent of science-book nebulas,
and the veins reaching into her palm
look like the ivy vines wrapped around
the old oak at the end of my grandmother’s

driveway. But as she presses contacts into each eye,
her pupils dilate and contract like a camera
lens shifting to accommodate for motion
blurry as her unaided vision, and her wrists
crack as if made of ill-fitted cogs chipping away--

both a tempest-tide and midnight snowfall,
yet the sum of neither.
Jenny Liu Zhang Sep 2018
For a baby, I am unkempt,
But for an adult, I am very unkempt.
People can tell me my age just by looking,
So when I bashfully admit I am 21,
I actually have no bash left,
Because I used all of it on my ***** sneakers and chipping nail polish,
and hangnails and tangled split ends in a scrunchie,
and leftover acne from the homecoming dance when I tried to erase it away with my mother’s makeup, two shades too light, two left feet as I had not grown fully into my limbs.
And they can see how aware I was of my pointy chin when I was thirteen years of self-conscious, repeating all the better responses to conversations, like my life was some laugh track sitcom,
just like I do right now,
many days, still,
in notebooks, to plants, to the bank machine, to the mirror at the optometrist, to the grocer when I run errands,
because even though now I run errands and have checks to cash,
I still have baby hair to bash,
and I laugh the same laugh,
with my eyes that turn into little moons,
thinking in the same cartoons,
under good eyebrows, though unkempt,
above the toil of braces and 21 years of chapped lips.
Not eating chocolate covered cherries and strawberries and lychees and onions and chillies and grapes and marshmallows and turtle meat and cake and shark bones and oysters and camel and beef and beef with dog food and rabbit fur and smarties and skittles and twine and rope and yak and buses and buffalo and authors and novels and chipping containers and bicylces and emus and penguins and polar bear slippers and darned socks and stewed lobster and Darwin Deez and get well cards and ibuprofen tablets is fine with me.
Shelby Young Oct 2012
As firetrucks pass
And crowds gather round
The smoke billows through
From the sky to the ground

The town just watches
And silently gapes
At the mansion that’s burning
Right past the big gate

It’s four houses wide
And three stories tall
With a narrow tin roof
It would be easy to fall

The paint was chipping,
There was rust everywhere
But that was all covered
By the smoke in the air

“Is the monster gone?”
A boy asks his mother
She caresses his ear
And whispers in the other

“I’m not sure, baby.”
“But I hope that it’s true…”
She doesn’t finish the sentence
‘…or he’ll come and take you’.

You see, in this town
They suffered quite a plight
Of a demon that takes children,
Steals them into the night

Also in this town,
On the hill past the gate
Lives a solemn old man
Er well, lived I should say

If you guessed he resided
In that rickety castle
Well your guess would be right,
Now was that such a hassle?

He moved in last summer
And that’s when it started
Parents waking to find,
Their children departed

Without much thought,
The town formed a mob
To track down their kids,
Revenge the lives that were robbed

The signs slowly pointed
To the top of the hill,
To the castle past the gate
And the mob grew shrill

“It’s that man!”
“It’s that creep!”
“Let’s take him down!”
“We’ll band together and drive him out of our town!”

But as you know,
Mobs can be hectic
Then there was fire,
That part wasn’t directed

No one pointed fingers,
No one placed blame
For, you see, their goal
Was ultimately the same

Dispose of the monster,
The man in the house,
And now they all watched
As the fire was doused

The body was covered,
All white with a sheet
He was gone, they did it!
Good job, what a treat!

That night, the children,
All safe in their beds,
Slept soundly and safely
Happy thoughts in their heads

Their parents were jubilant,
All worry-free
Their babies were safe,
So they sighed “Yipee!”

But then midnight came,
To that boy with the mother,
When she awoke.
She cried and she shuddered

Her son, he was gone
Not a trace of him left
But an etching that said,
“I’ll be back for the rest”
Jasmyn 'Ladi J' May 2013
I lay here open
Open to possibilities and opportunities that present themselves for me with you
But i Can't seem to break through this wall I have put up
A wall made jus for me to protect and keep me from harmful situations
Many contemplations about how am I gonna get through this again
So I kept building and building on my personal wall
Yeah see I built this wall with pain over and over and over  
A lil dab of betrayal
A pinch of some scorn
Oh and shovel full of layers of scar tissue covered with stitches for recovery
Yeah I built this wall meticulously
I would sometimes feel like I'm a guest
Sometimes like an outsider in my own skin
Moving along like a night rider
Nobody seeing me or believing me
So I carry some heavy footgear
Holding them in my rear stow away I use it to move along through life without any scars, or that's what I try to do
This footgear feels great because I can stomp, jump, and even do cartwheels over all my enemies
Ancient conviction
Shindy misleadings all leading up to my success
Leaving me blessed
Riding along this pack train saying hello mufasa and simba
Oh and rifiki is there
What's up....
See I admire their strength and agility
I even know who continues to keep me
A higher power and His name is Jesus
Love Him to pieces
But someone came outta nowhere
Out From left field Try to catch the Foul ball
Jumping over bases and even some left field men
Trying to Break through my wall
Shining some light on my night rider journey
Complicated feelings taking many meanings
My head is spinning
Fear rising...leaving me paralyzed even though I still feel your touch when I'm away from you
I'm scared...even some what terrified that I lie here and all I can think of is you
Wondering if my brain waves can send out a signal over to you so that you know how I feel
See night riders they don't open up
Staying closed
Sign on the door...
No more customers...the day is over
See We ride in the dark
Trying to keep feelings secret
A loner when it comes to sharing emotions
Commotion on the inside but calm on the outside
But maybe you can be my knight in shinning amour breaking down my walls
Chipping and chipping away through all the dust and the rumble
I may even stumble over you but at least I'll be in your arms
Feeling safe through your touch that even peels away some of the hurt
So right now I may be a night rider but I'm moving towards the horizon that is the beginning of some light
If I could I would cast a spell
With a vocabulary beyond my reach
I would stack it layer upon layer
Deeper and deeper or higher and higher
Depending on the perspective you took
Rounding corner after corner
Finding what was lost and again losing what was found

Chipping away at a crooked alphabet
Making you sleepy-eyed while still wide awake
Casting aside any aspersions asinine or not
Planting new symbols hidden carefully  between the A B C's
Making troubles for those needing order and for those ordering their needs
Lifting our senses so high  knowing depression must follow
After the low you again start the climb only to crash again

I strive to paint a picture so abstract it loses all meaning
Viewed over and over with eyes that look for answers
I lead the proverbial horse to water finally to have it drink
Meanwhile touching a shadow on a cloudless day poking holes in its silhouette
Do I plant seeds in dust hoping to yield a blossom where none can grow
Are my arms stretched outward to embrace a loveless world
That spins so fast that my fingertips are set ablaze.
robin Feb 2015
look me in the eyes oh my god please cut it all off,
my limbs have grown too long legs like ropes
anchoring me on a mortal plane.cut up careless fingertips, blood and sentience in a wineskin trap.
every day a dream in the way that makes you sick,christ is this real?
am i real?angles jutting in ways they shouldnt.everything bends the world bows to me
while i try to rip cataracts from my eyes.
this could be a hymn but its more of an envoi, a sacrament or a sacrifice -
honey i hurt all over please bury me at sea, the marsh is too full for me to fit NINETEEN YEARS OLD AND ON MY DEATHBED FOR THE PAST FIVE, KISSING CARNIVORES JUST TO TASTE THE BLOOD BURN OFF THE UVULA SO I DONT GAG PLEASE STICK YOUR TONGUE DOWN MY THROAT I WONT PUSH YOU AWAY THIS TIME, BLOOD
BLOOD
BLOOD & SWEAT & FIREWORKS, entoptic panoptic neurotic too heavy to move my hands,
shackled to a sense of dread, something is happening.something is coming.december salt,
drooling vitriol and vanity,
flooding the floor with apotheosis.suitheism soaking through my shoes.i am
unclenching, fingers uncurling like petals.feet deep in decomposing verses,
gospel of judas, gospel of mary.im blooming a sick flower: titan arum, corpse plant
GOD SPEAKS THROUGH THE FILM OF THE SKY TO DEEM ME UNWORTHY GOD PEERS THROUGH THE CRACKS IN MY HANDS THE FILTH BOILS AND I BLEED LIKE A BROKEN DAM ON THE BATHROOM FLOOR, THERE ARE HUNTERS IN THE WOODS AND YOU THINK OF THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN DEER AND HUMAN RIBS BREAKING YOUR WRISTS PROSTRATED BY SPEEDING CARS,OH, CHRIST! OH GOD! THESE TEETH ARE TOO SHARP FOR MY MOUTH AND MY LIPS ARE IN RIBBONS BURSTING LIKE MOLD FROM THE GAPS IN THE FLOOR, YOU THINK THERES HONOR IN BLOOD ON THE KNUCKLES YOU THINK THERES GLORY IN PUNCTURED LUNGS, shrapnel summers damp & hot like
cotton against your bleeding gums,
shivering in august sun.yellowed bruises like old bones, stained teeth,
varying stages of illness.dry throats begging for salt.your milksop mouth,
chipping your teeth on glaciers, apologizing to the arctic you never meant to grow so cold
you never meant to turn so sour, STICKING PINS THROUGH PHOTOGRAPHS I AM TRYING, I AM TRYING, I SWEAR TO GOD IM TRYING OH MY GOD GIVE ME THE RAPTURE LEAVE ME CONVULSIVE ON AN EMPTY EARTH SEE THESE RUPTURES THESE WOUNDS ARE STIGMATA I AM HOLY I AM HOLY I AM HOLY I AM CROWN-DEEP IN THE MARSH WITH AN OPENED MOUTH YOUR HANDS ON MY WAIST MY THUMBS IN YOUR EYES IS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED IS THIS HOW YOU THOUGHT ITD BE, YOU SUPINE ON THE RIVER FLOOR AND I THRASH IN THE DALLES I WEAPONIZED MYSELF,
i carved all my soft edges into things that ****, shocked when i became
alone. i made myself into a knife and now i dont know why everyone i touch
bleeds. is this how it feels to burn alive? is this how it feels to burn alive? is this how it feels to burn alive? is this how it feels to burn alive? is this how it feels to burn alive? is this how it feels to burn alive? is this how it feels to burn alive? is this how it feels to burn alive? is this how it feels to burn alive? is this how it feels to burn alive? is this how it feels to burn alive? is this how it feels to burn alive? is this how it feels to burn alive? is this how it feels to burn alive? is this how it feels to burn alive? is this how it feels to burn alive? is this how it feels to burn alive? is this how it feels to burn alive? is this how it feels to burn alive? is this how it feels to burn alive? is this how it feels to burn alive? is this how it feels to burn alive? is this how it feels to burn alive? is this how it feels to burn alive?
Kaitlyn Marie Aug 2014
I don't quite know how I'd describe the taste of your lips, but for now I'll go with the rim of an old porcelain teacup, or soft rain from a bruised sky, or kerosene, you're about to set my tongue on fire with the taste of your love. You're an uprooted tree from a ghost-town-like night, filled with screaming tornado sirens and broken windshields from gulf sized hail. You could carry me quite far, you were damp new leaves weathering from Fall's best storm, and I destroyed you just as completely. With you, I like to forget boundaries, I like to let you dance on my fingers, and let my mouth hang ajar when you punch my jugular, stealing the breath I breathe. You always reach for my hands like they need rescue, they are safe in my pockets, safe by being still, not black and blue knuckle shaking fighting fists. I find you in scalding water, as I wash the past off of my history book hands, my Father has an anger building up in his throat, he knows about our love, the love we never say out loud, the love we don't want anyone to mourn for, he wants to preach a different kind of sermon, a sermon mouthed with cracked sidewalk-like hands, a broken heart, grease stained jeans with worn knees, tired eyes, and an unshaved beard, and chapped lips and a tasteful tongue ready to throw swear words at me like rotten tomatoes, but I can only hear the time bomb in his voice-tone. My teeth are doors, but they only welcome certain types of people in, people like you. You're that abandoned building with a Danger sign hammered to a white chipped painted door, and I'm so happy I judged you for what's inside. Before you, I never experienced any touchy touchy feely feely crap, but you have the veiniest arms, like the roots of a tree cling to you. My hands get all clammy, my palms get soaked, as if I'm holding the ocean in my hands, this is what sweaty palms of nervous love is. I find you in muddy rain puddles, I feel like I'm splashing around in the color of your eyes. I find you on my fingertips, the scent of your favorite food, French fries, lingers in between my fingers. Do I burn your skin with my furnace-like touch? Are my finger tipped fingerprints really trails of left behind scars from a burning match? You make me want to scratch at walls, these walls around me don't feel like home, I'm chipping away wallpaper in hopes I'm chipping my way through your chest, I'm searching for your heart. I've done a lot of thinking, you taste like rusty spigot water, but I can't stop drinking you, it's like I'm living in a drought and you're my only source of water supply. All the words you speak have a certain echo, and echo that lacks reverberation. Your words taste like you learned the hard way. I'm going to hold your hand so long you start to question what's wrong with me, I'm going to stare into your eyes for a long period of time and you're going to nervously smile and say you have to use the restroom. I want to love you so hard the sky explodes into pink and orange jealousy. Autumn is beautiful, much like our love, (the leaves change color), like our cheeks when we blush pink, (then gathered into piles), like you and I picked up each other's broken shattered vase-like hearts, (and then burned), like our love burns more and more passionately day by day.
(k.m.m)
Nesma Oct 2018
Dear Sabah,
For the past forty-four days I have been waking up at dawn so I can reap sunlight the way an old peasant in a jasmine farm does.
My brother said he might have seen sunflowers but he never saw suns flowering; “the sunlight you reaped is useless” he said “why are you collecting it?"
My grandfather collects stamps, my mother collects china sets, my father collects rare books, my uncle collects money, and my grandmother collected hearts. “Because I want to be like Teta”, I answered him.

Dear Sabah,
I have been waking up at dawn, and I can assure you that they lied about dew being playful.
Dew doesn’t slide on a rose petal the way a child does in the park.
Dew sits still in an ungenuine grace the way an aristocratic woman does in a third cousin wedding; Dew is my aunt Fatima in her brother’s wedding.
However, they didn’t lie about how early birds get the worm..
This morning, I saw a bird eating two worms, and the eldest of my cousins cutting off his brothers’ allowances right after taking over his father’s company.

Dear Sabah,
I read in The Little Prince that people like watching sunsets when they are sad; that he watched the sunset forty-four times in one day when he had a fight with his rose.
So for the past forty-four days I have been waking up at dawn and morphing my notebook into a camera lens.
I now have 44 synonyms for your name, and each evening, I read the scribbles of morning I managed to pluck: fresh, fragile, blue and pink hues, childlike, clean grass, birds chipping, family…

Dear Sabah,
This morning, when my uncle told us how his son is now running his company, my 11 year old brother asked me if our family is a monarchy. “No, Hady” I said, “our family is an Arctic morning; for six months straight it is a cold dark environment, and for the other six, the sun doesn’t set.”
Sabah means morning in Arabic
NitaAnn Dec 2014
You keep chipping away
At the walls I  have built around me
I long to let you in
I long to let you see the real me.
But instead I am busy repairing the cracks
And keeping the wall fortified.

I long to be touched
And not recoil instantly
I long to be able to  share  emotions
To let you see my tears
To hold me as I cry.

I long for these things
I do not want to be alone  
here behind the walls.

Please keep chipping away
Do not give up on me
I long for the day
you break through to me.
Sydney Victoria Nov 2012
A Door's Rusty Hinges Screeched As It Is Opened,
Though The Outside Of This Hall Is Ugly,
Paint Chipping,
The Scars Of Screams Entwined In Eggshell Trim,
The Room Which Lays On The Other Side,
Is Full Of Beauty,
Is Full Of Tubes Of Paint,
Some Which Lay On The Floor,
Which Kisses Oak Furnishings,
Some Lay On An Abandon Easel,
Next To A Canvas,
Half Completed,
Created By Shaky Hands

Empty Vases Sit On A Window Pane,
Which Await,
For The Return Of Freshly Picked Wild Flowers,
Awaiting The Return,
Of The Soft Glow Of A Candle,
A Lanturn Perches On A Bookshelf,
Full Of Stained Pages And Ripped Covers,
The Stale Scent Of Memories Cling To Each Chapter,
A Small Handcrafted Stool,
Sits In This Ancient Home,
In The Artist's Heart

The Ancient Smell Of Paint,
Is No More,
Though The Stains Of Blues And Greens,
Are Now Grey As Clay Upon The Floor,
Yet Paintings Dwell On The Off-White Walls,
Some Brilliant,
Others A Hot Mess,
Self Portraits,
Redish Hair Cascading Like A Waterfall,
Down A Slim Collarbone,
Some Of Them The Women Smiles,
Others She Frowns,
Landscapes Of Rolling Hills,
And The Moonlight Leaking Through Coniffer Forests,
Are Stacked Ontop Of Eachother,
And A Mirror Which Stared At The Artist's Face,
And Who Saw Her Take Her Last Breath,
Climbs Motionlessly On The Wall

If You Looked Close Enough,
You Could See Perfectly Preserved Fingerprints,
On The Cracked Glass Of The Window,
As If She Were Longing To Be Free,
As If She Were A Prisoner,
In A Colorful Cell,
A Prisoner In Lockless Cage,
A Prisoner With Flushed Cheeks,
Yet A Face Still Pale,
One Who Longed To Express Herself,
To The Monarchy,
Imprisoned For Creativity,
She Lay In This Room,
Breathed This Air,
Painted These Pictures,
Yet Where Is She Now?
If You Walked Into A Room In My Soul, This Is What It Would Look Like, The Spawning Of Creativity, Hidden Under A "Clueless" Shell... I Love To Paint But I'm Not Very Good.. I Should Probably Work More On My Art:)
Kiernan Norman Jul 2014
I try to live Here. Here is humid-sticky-underground-dance-hall hot. I’m caught tight in a mess of limbs- bodies stretch and sway from this to Eden. I have never been more lonely. Together we inhale metallic Old Spice. Together we exhale stale tap water hymns. I am breathing all alone.

My tired tongue kicks awake to cheap nail poison as I tap each fingernail against bottom teeth and lightly push three times.
(Four times or eight times. Ten times in one quick, heart-drop minute but who’s counting?
Me. Of course I’m counting. There’s not a beat, rhyme or giggle that hasn’t busy-bee buzzed around my foggy brain. Each thought its own color, each touching down on a different set of crumb-glazed quilts or a different tower of gutted magazines. Each bee is long and thin, pointy in a terrifying way. Each bloated and dripping with a grand idea- which they leave like droppings and are so specifically intense they will never make any sense a breath apart from this moment and this context which crumpled and blew away while I dully, dutifully checked my pulse. I'm alive but my thoughts took off. I can see their exhaust but they fled fast, like they knew I could only begin to gnaw on them. They were born to quickly, maniacally live and die- in and out and there then off and gone.)

Here. Here the walls are chipping off one hundred years, one hundred lives of lead-based paint and are dripping onto the frayed denim of my ****** cut-offs. Impossibly long hair, absurd to call it mine, hangs heavy and wet. The strands shed drops of atmosphere on my (and their and your and-) bare feet. I’m my own sumi brush- my calligraphy is not words, but a footprint-marked path to treasure. Braided bits cling heavy and soaked to the curve of my neck and then billow like sheets hung out in the wind. My sharp, slick scapula must be the laundry line. It’s one of the good bones. Good bones only exist while jutting. The scapula is the beautiful ******* of my skeleton and we finally have made nice.

Here the music is so loud. The bass ignites my dental cavities. They sting and pierce as a reminder of how terribly I’m taking care. Lights blink, the room quakes and I need water.  I’m throbbing and flickering and faces attached to bones slither between each other and grind up into my own perfect focus. They’re smirking.

One at a time they appear with a warm, grainy hand on the small of my cold-sweat back. Each face of bones lean in close, dry and cracked lips that graze my own fever-hot ears. Goose bumps sling up and down limbs and the lips, all smudgy red lipstick and cigarette breath, whisper something to me that is absolutely crucial. It’s something beautiful or something hilarious or something crude but I can’t hear it. I’ll never hear it. They throw their bones back and cackle-laughing so hard it must be painful. All I can hear is my eardrums cracking and breaking, laying the bass for a high pitched dial tone.

One by one they do this and then, with a huge play-dough smile and eyes as deep as I feel, they slowly back away from my flimsy, electric body. I know they’re relieved they didn’t get stung. This goes on for forty straight hours. I feel like the Queen bored and still as they file through to kiss my ring. I feel like I’m at my own wake. I am beginning to erupt. I am lightly vibrating with the burden of militant creativity. I think I'm melting from the inside out. The bones still laugh and the bees, diving like war missiles, are screaming that it’s time to flesh out that novel, string precise words together in a huge, monumental way down golden strings that will change the world for the better and forever hang on God's graceful neck. It's time to record that beloved lullaby and sculpt that masterpiece or put on black clothes, sneak out and vandalize monuments. It is all absolutely crucial and so very urgent. Everything is wailing and I’m nodding slowly because if I do not do it, ALL OF IT, now- right this instant and quickly- I will die having said nothing. I will have wasted my opportunity to matter.

Here. Here the bone-bodies continue to mock me. The room stays dim and damp and I don’t think I’ll ever get clean. After twenty minutes or seventy years the crowd thins out, lights switch on illuminating exit signs and the room slowly, sadly, empties. I am sticky and aching and have never felt dumber. The bone-bodies left their blurry sweat, their empty bottles and their void inspirations like blank fortunes trailing across the bar top. There’s a real, fur, calf-length coat and a fake Birkin bag in the corner. My feet are filthy.

Here. But I’m not really Here. Here is bougy and exclusive. There’s no list but you probably can’t get in because actually Here is utter *******. Here is the moldy bricks and pre-war ceilings inside my head.
Leaving Here is too easy. You blink and you’re gone. Then I try to remember what party I even went to but I’m sitting Indian style and cramped on rough carpet and my back is in knots and everything I’m thinking is slow, melting taffy lose and inconsistent.

The sun starts to rise up pink through broken bedroom blinds and I know that I went way down deep and danced and gripped tight to flurrying ideas and made a big mess and now I’m stuck ripping papier-mâché, three inches thick, off coat-check walls and trying to read the graffiti-ed bathroom stalls but the Sharpie is dripping and I might be illiterate.

The Somethings I came to flirt with are hiding and won’t answer ‘POLO’ no matter how loudly I scream ‘Marco! ******* Marco!’ I’m reeling and under-breath begging ‘and please come find me and let’s make stuff and we can’t waste this and I can’t be a waste.’ But below all the pacing and knuckle-cracking I know that there are no Somethings listening to my panicky prayers. They sneaked out while I was braiding my hair for the sixth time, humming something old and Johnny Cash-y that I remembered and liked and had to Google and perform eight times for a mirror. I sneeze and I want to cry. I don’t think I know how to read. Edges start to blur and the alphabets a mess.

In defeat I’ll wash my face and slide under one light blanket and quickly sweat through it. I’ll lower my heavy, thick-thought and dizzy head onto a stack of three pillows. My vision will fall away from me and stars will explode in a chatty whisper that has be immobile and straining and sore. I will treat them like a sky full of fireworks blazing just for me. I'll ooh and ahh and my heart will palpitate under the weight of them. (Really I do know they're just amphetamine snowflakes falling slowly and burying my wasted night.  I swear next time I won’t waste it.) But at that moment I'll watch the show and feel safe and small and inconsequential, at last.
Mary McCray Apr 2013
My married life
has a new ghost fix du jour—
a show called Haunted Collector
where John Zaffis pulls *****
historical do-dads out of haunted
domiciles, lines them up in bell jars
every harrowing episode.
His basement must be bursting
under the floorboards with EVP
chatter, ephemeral dead men
making residual trips down the hall
for midnight tuna-fish.

Last night we went down to Louisiana
in Deep South Paranormal
where a cast of drawling ghost hunters
cat-called the departed with backwater
truisms about cats and frissons.
Two bearded ZZ Top-types rattle
and shout through the Longleaf sawmill,
suffocated, chipped and abandoned.

But interestingly, our typecast yokels
take a new tactic beyond respect,
sympathy and confrontation. They play
their guitar for the undead, unleash
a melody, tempting the cryptic spirits
to step over the trimmers and chippers
and into the laser grids of square
lights, K2 meters, thermal camera frames,
the obelisk.

The peepings of ghosts have ceased
to ***** me. The proliferation
of paranormal pollsters
are crotchety and terrified,
modeling and grandstanding
the character American,
heirs of TV Kings and monsters,
castle builders, suffocating,
chipping away and abandoning
our very real screaming human
American creature.
Last night saw the premiere episode of Deep South Paranormal.
Tallulah May 2014
I thought,
“her nail polish is chipping”
that one I bought her
when we got lost in rite aid
and she stole a bottle of wine
and offered me my first line
in the back of Robby’s Volvo.
Her nail polish is chipping
and she’s digging the polish into my chest
I hear her breathing moisten
and I close my eyes to her light
as if it hurts to look at her straight.
No one has ever accused me
of being a man
so I sit back and let her lips
make me feel like one.
Danielle Shorr Jul 2015
Maya Angelou once said,

"I've learned that people will forget what you said,
people will forget what you did,
but people will never forget how you made them feel"

although the thing is,
I wont forget
any of it.
the open ears,
the listening,
the understanding that was so easily given
I will always remember
the way he congratulated me
the day I pulled poetry from my teeth

I wont forget how he made us feel-
we.
we    wont forget how he made
us feel

the many conversations that lived in his office are
now stuck in between the cracks of the walls
I imagine the dark of the theatre in mourning,
the curtains heavier,
more blue than they are usually
the black of the paint floor chipping backwards to
share the memories saying,
"Look,
It is all here underneath
your feet."

if you have ever wondered what magic feels like
I can tell you with certainty that
it is a bear grasp from a tower of a man and
a laugh that can be defined more correctly as a chuckle
or most importantly, a smile that
knew comfort when
it was most needed

what is hardest about it all is
this reality, the growing up that comes with losing
I am trying to comprehend the fact
that there are going to be students,
new ones,
who
will never know the magic that
is a Conway hug

I know
we will all be reminiscing, telling stories and
his name will be a past tense we
didn't want to have to use
this is a poem I
never wanted to have to
write.
one about a man who carried so many hearts
inside his own
the same one who
reminded me of my worth on
more than one occasion
this is about the man who was like a father when
my own was sick
this is about the man
who directed my first kiss
on the same stage where I learned how to be vulnerable
and how to trust

it is so easy to say,
this isn't fair.
but then I picture him,
arms crossed, replying
"Life isn't fair"
and he would be correct in
saying it isn't, no,
life isn't fair.
but what a privilege it is
to have had him
in mine
what a privilege it is
to have known him
at all

Maya was wrong,
we wont forget what he said,
sitting in the center of the studio referencing someone's house
"Treat it like your grandmother's"

I wont forget what he did,
what he taught me,
us.
we wont forget any of it,
I promise.
For Mr. Conway, my high school acting teacher.
Iago Prytherch his name, though, be it allowed,
Just an ordinary man of the bald Welsh hills,
Who pens a few sheep in a gap of cloud.
Docking mangels, chipping the green skin
From the yellow bones with a half-witted grin
Of satisfaction, or churning the crude earth
To a stiff sea of clods that glint in the wind—
So are his days spent, his spittled mirth
Rarer than the sun that cracks the cheeks
Of the gaunt sky perhaps once in a week.
And then at night see him fixed in his chair
Motionless, except when he leans to gob in the fire.
There is something frightening in the vacancy of his mind.
His clothes, sour with years of sweat
And animal contact, shock the refined,
But affected, sense with their stark naturalness.
Yet this is your prototype, who, season by season
Against siege of rain and the wind's attrition,
Preserves his stock, an impregnable fortress
Not to be stormed, even in death's confusion.
Remember him, then, for he, too, is a winner of wars,
Enduring like a tree under the curious stars.
The windows are dark
Paint is chipping and faded
Life has left its mark
On this old abandoned house

There are whispers in the air
Ghosts of the past
From the people who lived here
In this old abandoned house

The roof is caving in
Allowing rain to sodden the interior
Creaky floors squealing in distress
In this old abandoned house

Shadows wander room to room
Some crying, others silent
Life for them wasn't fair
In this old abandoned house

Ignored within the neighborhood
Weeds overgrowing
Hiding the path
To this old abandoned house

Always in the dark
Shaded by trees of willow
Drooping down to hide
This old abandoned house
J May 2014
When you did what you did,
I tied my hair back and rolled cuffs into my jeans.
I put on my work boots and started to pick up the pieces of myself that you spent all that time chipping away at.
I let myself look at each one, giving myself time.
It's hard to remember where everything went, but I tried my best.

There were days that I'd sit in the middle of it all and let it overwhelm me. There were days I would pretend you were still here, chipping comfortably away.

I didn't know it'd take so long. I didn't know it'd hurt so much.

But with my sleeves pushed back, I worked and I learned. I learned how to take care of my broken pieces. How to treat them gently and lovingly, even when I felt I had no more love left in me.

I don't know exactly when it happened, but it did.

You did what you did, and I did what I had to.

And suddenly I am whole again.
On finally feeling ready to love.
Minuscule Ego Jun 2018
A low moan escapes her lips as the ****** hits
She lay basking with a sated feeling
The coverings all wet from perspiration
Believe me, this isn't an infantile conversation
He placed light kisses on her bare shoulders
She felt how intense he was against her thighs
And heard the testosterone's fueled manly claims
That came as a whisper for a magical scene
She’d realize he was not solely hers
So she just cleaved to enjoy the moment
Leaning crabwise, he slide within her fountain
They both cried with anticipation
The highest form of their admiration
Heavens’ gates unfurl
Times seems to halt for a second
There could have been an explosion
But he paused, new position.

He has never been interested in a single relationship
At least not anymore- promiscuity suits him just fine
With her curvy body, pumped breast and his small statue
They tangle together- entrapped within their own tier
Some call him a ****, although they be circus jokes
He be content and blue ***** free- shining bright for all to see
Letting em live their judging lives
And make those mistakes they thought he would make
He has never seen himself going without the white packet scenario
It’s all about self-importance
One that leads easily to pandemonium
But being promiscuous was assuring
The less you give- the less hurt you receive
Life is short, but there’s much to achieve
One cannot be caught slacking
Those hands are clocking
Day and night without cessation
He’s no expert
But I’m sure you admire his aversion
And believe it or not
The better our efforts- the wetter our treasures
A promise that our goals will exceed the ****** pleasures
Seeing that our thoughts recreates the Today
Let me redefine the topic.

He thinks of her as a pineapple
Chipping off her cries to reach the fountain
Till she openly veto yes! in all excitement
As he plunged in the deep of her mountain
Screaming twas some lustful announcement
That mimic a sedative smile, and a softer groaning
Activating him to go wild again tearing her lotus
She cries! He moans: “I’m just teaching a lesson”
His manly locus was indeed a blessing
Its thrusting brought out the louder racing
Making em both bobbed like a drum set
Nobbling feelings begun shaping within his breast
His noble ****** was moving towards the heavens
They were climbing the unobtainable heights
That could make their explosion vast
And leave her screaming his name
Like forever admiring his fame
He’d hoped to have done enough
But will hate to get deeply involved
For promiscuity was the affliction
That diseased him ages ago
And it met him just fine.



For an icon- Wale
“We are not perfect beings; we all evolved from our mistakes to make a better one.”

— The End —