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Zac Carlson Jan 2015
In these times
Looking back at her in such great distress
Backing up sitting down breathing heavy now I rest
Walking through numb recollections
Impressions on the mind in every single action

Choreograph fake rain
Blood running from my swollen vein
Sweat running down my face
All because I’m thinking of her taste

Show number one is playing on the big screen
Reminiscing laughter together
And what I’m now missing
Tears dripping down no need to act out this pain
Good for them I’m thinking
Spare them from this place
Learning everyone can use a little amazing grace
This foundation I laid
Slipping on the mud in this heavy rain
Rain will come rain will go
But this bottom wasn’t meant to hold
I’m a soggy wash up
In need of a new resting place
One that shows number two on the big screen

Stuck in a daze just another phase
pushing through the maze just to get through the days
I won’t forget you only remember
Just moving on to find a new member
Mutual love will cease my shaky temper
jeffrey conyers Oct 2015
I have adapted.
I have planned it.
Cause I have created the activities carefully around my feelings.
When I choreograph my heart toward you.

Like the spins of the Temptations I had you amazed by my ways.
When you first heard me say, I love you.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2014
Prosecco cocktails, être pour la danse,
cassis pour moi avec limoncello,
madame, passion fruit, and blood oranges

très grownup, breakfast at Tiffany's,
she is all sunglasses and Audreyfied,
me and George P., struggling writers,
checking if i got enough cash
or have to exit smooth, just in case,
maybe we leave our
coats behind, as ransom?

lincoln center plaza cross-dressers,
past the opera,
the sun, a balmy thirty five degrees,
laughing at us teasingly,
cause tonight and tomorrow,
******* all the day,
winter kisses
in case we forgot,
early March
first belongs to the Ides of Winter

Afternoon of a Faun,
another ballet, origin,
a Mallarmé poem.
(you begin to comprehend)
yes quite so,
a perfect synopsis of the day,
Acheron imported from Scarlett Liam
who lives in the U.K.,
but comes to choreograph here,
for gloria Americana

sundown, soul cold back,
"lest we forget,"
but the dancers bid us adieu
with a rousing waltz, frenchified,
La Valse, une poème chorégraphique,
by Ravel, bien sûr!
aroused and heart gladdened,
return home for

for veal chop love

two hours of *** banging,
kitchen banishment, (Yay!)
chanterelles steeped in red wine,
coverlet for a non-vegan tasting,
English peas, red and purple potatoes,
and for desert,
a diet dream of verbal exchanged of detailed
I love you's

He: I love you,
She (happy), replies: I love you more.
(this repartee ballet, has been rehearsal danced before)
He: Why?
She: Because you are kind and generous, to street beggars, my single friends, good and smart, love art,
and never let me down, and love my cooking, leave space for others when you park, go thru life making waiters and ticket takers smile and laugh, sleep for hours your head on my hip, write me crazy love poems about veal chops
He: What's for desert tonight?
She: A ****
Just an afternoon in the city...whatever
Zack Nov 2012
My Sunglasses

I’ve got all of Tucson trapped behind my sunglasses
I’ve framed mountain ranges in the frames of my Raybands
I’ve got reflections of saguaro’s stranding still in front of my eyes
I have sunny days taking refuge underneath my shades
I’ve domesticated the giant star that rides blues skies into walking the edge of my brow
I use black plastic as onyx shields
So Tucson, I see you.
There’s an art revolution beating at your horizon
I’ve seen it skirting around these wastelands
They tell us we’re wasting our time
Telling the roadrunner to run back home
When its nest was here since the beginning of time
Tucson.
I’ve seen folklorico and mariachi pay tribute to your origins on the hottest of days
I’ve seen in the shadows in underground art forms
Graffetti. There’s a protest in there somewhere.
I’ve even witnessed it in pen to paper
In lips to mics. In cafés in your desert nights for your desert nighttime audiences.
Tucson, your culture and artistic value shines too bright for others to see.
Your artistic worth shines too bright for others to broadcast
They tend to only record your overdoses and murders
Seems like our televised story tellers prefer to paint us in immoral reds
The only time they pay the south side attention is when the south side is aching
It doesn’t help that schools force you to choose business
Give you chance to study law all the while cut out your art programs
Fine art is required by universities but they don’t always expect you to get that far.
Tucson’s fine art is too fine and infinite to be recognized by those undeserving
Society wants to capture our southern brethren as outlaws not poets
We’re called the misfit of the desert. As if every spray can, paint stroke, choreographed twist,
Slam poem wasn’t something to take pride in.
I’m sorry they only pay your schools attention when ambulances are parked in your driveways
And administrators get caught in doing ***** deeds.
I see your talent wasted. Your talent shown.
To remind myself of your artistic significance, I’ve framed you
On walks home I photograph your murals.
Listen to the poets in the hallways.
Observe the dancers compose and the musicians choreograph
I’ve caught your reflection in my corneas’.
I’ve dilated my pupils thoughts behind my sunglasses.
Framed your mountain ranges in my frames.
Took cover in your shades.
Trained the artistic freedom and right to walk on my brow
Tucson
I see you.
#sunglasses #tucson #SLAMPOETRY #beetchez.
Pallavi Goswami Nov 2016
Don’t leave me alone,

because every time you smile,
the dimples in your cheeks
come out like commas drawn in my life
reminding me – this is not the end.

Don’t leave me alone

because your whispers add background music
to my otherwise quiet life,
Your fingers choreograph the perspective
of my eyes and make sure hope clings to each corner,
and I learn to hallucinate better than before- it is beautiful.

Don’t leave me alone

because I promise when next time you sit next to me,
my incessant words won’t transform into question marks,
only my eyes will look at you occasionally
in case you miss the talk.

Don’t leave me alone  

because I promise this too,
on the days when you heart is too full
to accommodate the memories of the past,
we will go to your favorite river side
and let them find their way out
into the endless stream.

Don’t leave me alone,

because staring at horizon alone is boring,
besides nobody talks about the expanse of these abbreviated colors
into our lives.

Don’t leave me alone

because I refuse to have a life without you,
may be I should have told you this in the beginning,
instead of writing a poem.
Rose Davis Jan 2016
Watch the trepidation in the swinging of a chandelier,
as its candles choreograph their own silhouettes
on the pallid walls
to the beat of the creaking ceiling.

When the roof caves in,
the walls will stop being a dance floor to ghostly shadows,
the chandelier will crash to the table,
and the song of a rusty, trepid chain will end.

You will have learn to let yourself waltz
to the music in your own head
and you will have to learn let others watch you
because you are a fire, not a ghost
and you do not belong in the shadows you create
when you’re secretly making your pain into art.
WickedHope Sep 2014
He thinks I'm crazy
When I stop while we're in the supermarket
Because I love this song
I choreograph
And he starts to laugh
At my spontaneity
Yes I might be crazy
Even more so lately
;P
Ameliorate Jul 2015
You raise that beer glass to your lips with such expert precision .
We exchange words out loud, yet we've been speaking with our eyes this whole time.
Yours looking softly through your glasses.
Lower, lower, lower.
However unintentionally, I notice when your eyes come to rest on my exposed cleavage.
Have I done this on purpose?
Worn a low-cut shirt to watch you squirm.
As little as I know you, oh I am wildly attracted .
You've snared me with your lips, dimples, eyes.
To know what you're thinking,
As we enjoy each-others company in a room filled with the chatter of many humans.
Each with their own agendas.
How long has it been since someone ****** softly on your bottom lip during the heat of a kiss?
Am I crazy for thinking that maybe you're just as attracted to me?
I fell very vulnerable, exposed as I sit here.
My hair is up and I can't hide behind dim lit campfire.
We just watch each other, with the frustrating inability to read the others mind.
Now we are just locked in another battle with time.
Your laugh is incredibly intoxicating
It has me more buzzed than these drinks
I crave to listen to your voice for hours
Away from this crowded environment.
What could happen if we were alone?
Would you kiss me, heated, like I've been dying to kiss you?
To taste your lips, choreograph a dance with your tongue
You have the strong hands of a man who's been working on vehicles his whole life
Dirt etched deeply within the fabrication of your flesh
What are those fingers capable of?
I shiver, drawn back out of my daydream
People laugh and cheer around us
There's a football game on the surrounding TVs.
The game doesn't interest me
But I need to pay extra attention to be able to hear you over the roar of people
Drown out the sound
It's only static
Watching your lips move
You're a piece of art
Perfectly canvassed for a poetic muse
Yet you're sitting here with me
The lost art of conversation, by now we must be experts
You must be able to see right through everything I am
My good intentions like driving at hyper speed
I wear my attraction so visibly I feel it must be noticeable
You don't give away if you know, though
I'll catch you off guard underneath the stars one day
When everything else becomes obsolete
And we lose ourselves until the sun breaks across the horizon
Yes, I intended to make you squirm
I've added an ending, since a lot of people told me my ending was too abrupt and I wasn't satisfied with how I left it halted.
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2013
The Process

There is the notion, the urging.
The first spilling, the self-congratulatory
Commencement ceremony for
The process.

Then there is the first short-pause,
a quick-freeze hibernation. Then,
The bubbling,
The querying, the special fear,
What have I started?
Where is it taking me,
Am I properly undressed for doing
T  he process?

A new vocabulary,
an arm extended, but distended,
Words are all angled puzzled,
Capable of unity, but first,
Unshaped but swollen,
By the process.

Hatching, head-aching,
words arrive rushed, but disordered,
Confused by the process.

{The exception has it own character.

One kingly, run-on sentence birthed,
After silent labor, a full poem, fully dilated,
A shocking head of hair, full developed,
So fast does "it" fall onto the paper
The obstetrician arrives too late
To process.}


The exception, exceptional.

The normal, normative.

Twenty four hours of labor,
False starts, much screaming,
Painful joys, hardly seamless,
This process.

Distractions the enemy,
Compulsion the master,
As you choreograph the work,
In loving servitude to
The process.

You the doctor, insert probes,
Looking for the tumors, the out of ordinary,
For normal flesh is not of interest as part of
The process.

Finally, you do exhale,
With unique the pleasure, of the longest sweetest
Female ******.
The breathing less labored,
Tho whole, sensing a diminish-meant to convey
That completion is the end of part of you,
The near-end of the continuum, lessened but continuing
The process.
Inspired by the Gallim Dance Company, performing at the Guggenheim's Works and Process series.
FYI, the ob-gyn missed delivering both my children, cause they emerged in under 1 hour, and she lived about 3 blocks away from the hospital
beth winters Dec 2010
stars are dying, not becoming supernovas, or hurricane eyes, just collapsing to sleep, shh, tiny bodies flickering over the outstretched palms of children with wide eyes and feet that won't stop moving, even when holding hands as nets to catch the quiet light of sprinkles, little cake sprinkles that fall from the sky.

the flowers are bending their heads to the ground, trying to hear the singing of the fauns as they dance around pre-formed groves in the forest to your left, the vibrations are travelling and amplified, if you listen carefully, so carefully, a wondering song of delight without words could reach you, stand so very still.

the rain-drops are soft, caressing the ground hesitantly, asking its permission to tread on the springy moss and look for bubbles to choreograph marches for, complete with full brass band, and pixies combing hairs into a fountain of wheat coloured spoken word.
Hannah Marr May 2018
Just. Eat a bowl of cereal.
Sit on the kitchen floor carefully so the milk doesn't spill, scoop the flakes into your mouth by the streetlights filtering in through the window.

Or climb out onto the roof.
Slip out your window, hip braced on the edge, and use your arms to pull yourself up, crossing your legs on the shingles and breathing in the stardust swirling around your head.

Create a masterpiece.
Dip a brush in some paint, use your hands to shape clay, choreograph a dance, script a play, write a poem, draw a spring day.

Make a blanket fort.
Tuck the blankets over the couch, pad the floor with cushions, and flick on the TV, so you can watch cartoons while wrapped in warmth like when you were a child.

Stargaze in the backyard.
Tiptoe out the back door, quilt tugged tight around your shoulders, spread it out over the dewy grass and stretch out, facing the clouds and counting the stars.

Learn Morse Code.
-.-. --- -. ...- . .-. ... .     .-- .. - ....     -.-- --- ..- .-. ... . .-.. ..-.     .. -.     - .... .     -.. .- .-. -.- --..--     -.- . . .--. .. -. --.     -.-- --- ..- .-.     ... . -.-. .-. . - ...     -... . - .-- . . -.     -.-- --- ..-     .- -. -..     - .... .     ... .. .-.. ...- . .-.     -- --- --- -. .-.-.-

Have a shower.
Run the water hot so it'll burn when it hits your back, shed your clothes and step into the steam, breathing in the vapors and imagining that you stand in the heart of a geyser.

Go back to sleep...?
No, this elusive peace is distinctly one with the night, and it would be foolish indeed to throw away such a gift merely to function during the bland sunlight hours.

h.f.m.
Linnea Wilson Nov 2013
And for your love
and the romance
of our lives
I've decided to
attempt dancing
and all the glories
that come along.
For, this romance isn't
the aroma of accordion music
filling the Paris streets at nighttime,
while a couple dances
under the streetlights,
as rain begins to fall.
It's a romance about humanity
and desire and its heartache
that tries to tango in the suburbs
and tap in the slums,
whose clumsy movements cause
embarrassment for any party involved.
This love has a rhythm unlike
a big band hit or a bluegrass hand-clapper.
It has a rhythm all of its own.
Closest to, maybe, jazz.
The real jazz. The Harlem jazz.
Sparatic and unpredictable.
Upbeat, swinging cymbals and trumpets.
Then a slow sax,
with bluesy vocals crying out in pain.
Because you can't two step
or foxtrot
or tango
to that.
You must step carefully.
For this romance is fragile.
You cannot choreograph in advance
or synchronize moves
with your lovers'.
You simply must listen, feel, and move.
This dance of love
must cause you to cry
and smile
and melt
and ache
and desire to make love
all in the same motion.
Or it's not love.
It's an imitation
aimed at the beautiful and elegant.
And we aren't that.
We're humans with souls and flaws
who desire these false
motions and harmonies
of love,
but who need to still understand
love's true tender
and heartbreaking steps
that have no
recognizable rhythm,
but that promise
a lifetime of love.
So, I will not learn
love's romantic moves
for they are unteachable,
but I will attempt,
for your love
and romance,
my dear,
to sway to the music
and stay beside you
and follow your lead
as we wait for the
drums and the horns-
and the music to begin.
November 19, 2013
Mary Jul 2013
This is what it is to fall
for a boy with blurry edges.
He will be unfinished but you will trust
him anyway. This is how you learn
how tenderness can be the texture
of a hand in the darkness, the chill
kiss of wind on your cheek, something
you never saw coming.

This is how not to write a sad
story. Say something a little
sweeter. Smile like that night he locked
his keys in his car and you spent
four hours learning how to break
into something
you had no right to be in.

Forgive him for being one more door
your hands shook too hard
to open.

This is how your song goes.
You bring the lyrics and he brings
the tempo, you choreograph the dance
and he forgets the steps but you
forgive him.

You had a dream once where you got
married, you never told him that,
the wedding was in your study
and he showed up half
an hour late. You cried. You hugged him.
You were in love.
Even your dreams
taste like disappointment.

This is how melancholy marks you,
hopeful and hurting,  
how you make stained glass
windows out of the shards inside your chest.
This is how you bleed and make
it something beautiful.

You went to his party and you swam
in the pool. You ate his ice cream and you
took his love. His refrigerator looks
like a love letter to your face but he won’t
speak to you in person, you wonder
when you stopped
being two people in the same picture
and started smelling like
wet paint.

Your life like a song you sing to yourself,
an old one, the kind where
the words come easy.
His name like a tattoo you shouldn’t
have gotten, a memory you can’t give back.
How did you end up here.

This is where the music stops,
the band packs up, your family kisses
you and walks out the door.
This is when the party’s over
and no one wants your sadness
anymore. Vibrating
and waiting. You have lived all
your life to hit this note.

Heart like a washing machine. Heart like
a peanut butter sandwich. Heart cracked open
on the surgery table, hopeful and broken.
Haggard and raw. They tell you when
you use a muscle too much
you can hurt it.

It is beautiful to be the architect of your
own injuries, to choose who will
do you harm. To understand that healing
is just another way of getting stronger.

This is how you look out the window
every night and forgive him.

His face like a mistake you could
have made and always did,
like there could still be something more
than this.

This is what it is to love
in a world where people can be broken.
To believe they can be fixed.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2015
I watch your face
as you write

in the furrows of the brow,
see you and the
word-seeds being seized,
harvested,
prepared, ready-roasted
for sumptuous consumption

grimace and smile,
alternating currents,
grimace and smile,
ponderous pondering
chew each word,
flavor extracting,
does its taste fit,
is it only,
but,
perfect?

you get up, you sit,
you move about,
pretending, misleading,
purposed to be aimless

yet eyes squinting
betray
a fearsome full
concentration rapture,
a mind computing
the numerical quality of
words,
summing, subtracting,
solving for X

you employ technique,
formats, tools and aids,
thesaurus, dinosaurus, dictionary,
even pictionary
when
the guppy letters
swim spring river current fast,
little boy catch me fast run past,
cannot be caught and easy captured

why
do I watch
your face
as you write?

for there visaged,
is your truest work,
you, your best poem

what words you select
matters little to me,
t'is the struggles,
the blush of satisfactory,
the distempered white of
disillusionment,
of inspiration sought
but not found

all these dancers,
you choreograph
a word-ballet in three acts,
scheme a midsummer nights dream
upon the stage of your face

return the favor poet?

watch mine,
watch my face,

as I read your poem
and see thine own best
reflection
in teary eyes caught inside crows-feet,
pencil thin smile lines of fine wine whimsy,
in feet that airlift,
the contour of
who you are
and
think

*You, Poet,
you are your best poem
Inspired by a talk from Edward Villela, a dancer and choreographer,
and a performance of the ballet,
A Midsummers Night Dream
Charley Apr 2019
Ballet Dancer

Broken expensive ballet shoes which have been abused by her heavyweight strides. Swollen bones in her toes isn’t what she thought of.  She’s always wanted to be a ballerina.

Bruised knees she feels the  pain every time she walks and feels it more when dancing.

******* hair into a perfect small bun sits on top of her head with modern pins. Princess looking tutu balances nicely around her waist.

Ghost white face, dark eyes appearance is key swan beauty while gliding on the stage lake.
She’s on a high.

Fluttering like birds ready to take flight. Fluttering arms like wings greeting the crowds.

Enchanting music scares the lights to become brighter. Glittered outfits see-through tights what fits nicely. Ready to set the stage.

The romance between female and male dancers has to be strong and they have to synchronise  with eachother. The male dancers take control over the female's body as she moves delicately around him.

En-pointe while stretching her fragile legs, wobbly limbs and weak touches while massaging her sore feet. Signs of giving up can never come to mind. This is her passion.
She’s sacrificing everything.

Painful satin ribbons tightening her blood circulation there’s no escaping a ballerina’s life.

Naked toes touch the floor before sliding them into her new shoes.

While dancing she feels free alone in her mind nothing can go wrong.
She's light like a feather, petite bodied shape she's perfect.
Rosie looking cheeks she's nervous. She's mirrored every arched pirouette so it has to be the best.

From a hard pirouette into a plié, she knows that's the most important part of the performance.
She can't fail.
Can she?

Her strong poses, while he lifts her leg in a perfectly straight line, pointed toes has to show off her feet. The attitude between her and her partner is occupying the crowd.

Every ballet dancer cries out to be the best that's why they compete with each other. Achieving success is what every dancer feed off.

She's risking her health for this moment, she's damaging every inch of the body in ways she couldn't of imagined.
Every morning she tells herself she was born for this.

Tired eyes, early mornings with late night yawns.
Difficult choreograph's to learn.
But she's flying towards her dreams.

She's an artist at heart
A performer by night
It's worth being a ballet dancer.
Hasina Imza Apr 2016
If only my heart had words to speak
It would tell you I am here, I am here
I give you a piece of myself
Do with it what you please

And if these hands could challenge my resistance,
They would have found their way into yours
Clumsy and nervous
Waiting for your fingers to vine into mine

If my feet led me,
They would sprint towards you
and choreograph our steps
They would not let me leave your side

But they will not, and love will not leave us
And my lips may not press onto yours,
but these dreams will suffice

For now, words are all that holds us,
and the hope of what is fate
The dancing stars in an upside down sky
and the exchange of a morning grin

And my heart cannot speak,
so heat blooms inside of my chest
but one day it will,
when we are both ready
We were dust and dirt, free falling to nowhere.
Gravity got the better of us and started to draw us together,
Weaving and gluing and mumbling “I think I’ll stay here”,
We began to choreograph a ballet around unheard of gods.
We began to form something larger, pieces of a portrait, short circuited.
Don’t call me out on it. Hold your tongue, lend an ear.
There really was light in the beginning, a glorious king called the sun, and noble planets obeyed him and bowed to his pull.
We began to get dizzy, so we slowed our circle, some lazily tilting on their axis, and lined ourselves up, ready to serve.
We grew from one of the soldiers named Earth.
Mere cells, but that was enough; We were alive!
We had succeeded, so we grew exceedingly selfish.
Confidence blossomed. Ignorance flourished.
And with that defiance, building blocks were formed,
Frames raised.
Years passed, and cells began to join, like the dust had Out There.
And shedding layers over centuries ’til evolution propped us up,
On our shaking legs we stood and ventured from the darkness.
There was a whole world laid out before us;
A buffet. Appetizing offerings for our starved eyes now made tender by light.
We had feasted on forests and oceans for too long,
There was land out there, with no hiding place, forcing us to lay fears on the table.
When the wind blew, the Earth breathed, and could sallow us whole.
We would have been certain if it weren’t for the grass,
reminiscent of poetry. Waiting for nightfall when we built fires, burning beacons.
Mimicking the pools of light in the sky overhead- stars made foolish by hope.
They burned on, an ego outstanding space and time, to reach us long after they had fallen to rest.
They were brazen things, those stars. But from them we drew maps, reaching out to years to come.
The maps proved useful. They guided our ships, lead us to conquer.
Helped us claim territory. They were spread on rough wooden tables in ill-lit compartments,
As drunken men stood around, plotting destinations, while ignoring the increasing illness in their mind.
The greed kept growing as they used their ships and maps and power to claim the Earth for themselves.
Everyone wanted to own a portion, and each wanted theirs to be bigger, richer.
Wars broke out and they too evolved.
From sticks and stones, to swords and arrows, guns, knives, bombs.
Right until we were here, in our modern day, which was the ‘new’ age.
No. We are the last age.
As we stand around watching people say goodbye in their native tongue, to generations before us and to their own families, we must understand that Earth is growing sicker.
It is sad, polluted, rabid with bitter hearts, cutting words spit over the surface.
And from our foundation of time, that counts away the seconds in the core, we have had a light to guide us.
From our king and establisher, to our flames and foolish stars, and now our light we took control over and called electricity, we have never been left in the dark.
But if we keep boasting our authority and all that we conquered, slowly crushing the earth and leaving her inhabitants in despair,
We will find ourselves crawling back to the forest we so powerfully left behind.
When we denounced its darkness and declared us better.
We will seek shelter, transfer our cells back to the surroundings, and be converted into one with our land again.
Until we have nothing but the memories of a planet we left in despair,
Credited to our illness, our need to control.
Those being the only words left in our hearts, madly beating as we divide,
And become nothing, except dust and dirt, free falling to nowhere.
Yasmine Jun 2015
Words dance around in my head
And I choreograph sentences
But when I present them to an audience,
Nobody gives a standing ovation
Joshua Vincens Sep 2012
I lay on my back Serenely on the morning grass,
The bright sun, shines its glory into my closed eyes.

Keenly shimmering through, as if they be formed of natural glass,
Plush clouds choreograph alongside a composed medley with the skies

Absorbing tranquility from the pure and fresh valley breeze,
I breath deeply and c
onceive, today has been of unimaginable ease.

--END--

"Peaceful Plains"--1-1-10- Original

Lying on my back in the grass,
The sun is shining in my eyes.

Through my eyelids as if they're glass,
The clouds dancing in a medley of disguise.

Feeling the fresh valley breeze,
This day, it has been of some ease.

--END--
Lakin Nov 2015
when your cold
fingers get the
chance, let their
haunting abilities
of ink dance
across the fine
white of paper
and choreograph
what it's like
to dance in
the vast nothingness
of an inevitability
you were too
curious to prolong.
I hope you'll still love me in the afterlife.
Riot Jul 2014
every day i go into my mirror, **** in my stomach and pretend i'm a professional dancer, then i realize i'm too overweight.

i care too much about everything

i wish i could commit suicide, then i get sad when i find something to live for

there's something deep behind everything i say

i can't stand complements

i don't ever say i have bulimia, because it sounds like a disease, i am bulimic i didn't catch bulimia

the reason i don't like compliments is because i don't think i deserve them

another thing is i don't see the point in praising a being on not being human (long story)

i don't trust people just because they're human
most people think there is a deep reason
i just don't

i don't like when people think there is something deep to something that is just simple

i hate when everybody believes a lie i told and thinks too much of the truth (they don't even know the lie was a lie, they just do it)

i might be the only person in the world who never has deep moments while it rains

i choreograph better than i dance

everybody loves my singing voice yet i hate it

i wish nobody existed but animals so they could live in peace

i wish i lived in an abusive home so i could stop being in between.
Danielle Vanness Jun 2013
You swing dance with me, you sidestep my questions, you throw out answers to things I haven't asked yet, you jump to conclusions.

You slow dance with me, you hold me just close enough, you spin me to keep distance, you keep your footing.

You tap with me, you choreograph intricate routines, you make me want to watch you.

You tango with me, you drip passion, you keep me up at night in a sweat.

You Charleston with other girls, you keep me on my toes, you never let them see you fall.

*Now stay still.
Brent Kincaid Mar 2016
Memory movies
Little flickers of thought
Of what happened before
About the fish we caught
When Dad and I, together
Went by ourselves to a stream.
We spent the day together
It feels rather like a dream.

Memory moments
Of wonders I have seen
And what they have become
And what they came to mean.
Suddenly recalling back then
Someone I had totally forgot.
Some people stay friends
But sometimes others do not.

Memory music
Seemed to choreograph time.
There were songs playing then
And in a way, they kept time;
The drumbeat to life’s march,
We kept right up with the beat.
It went with us everywhere, then
In our school, home and the street.

Memory maybe
But it’s part of who I’ve become
Today compared to yesterday
Some things are better, and some
Are never going to top them
Those days of bright discovery.
So, I let those memory movies,
When they show up, come cover me.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
she can never wear ****** white, she can never wear
that moral pregnancy - and i don't see why this
hasn't been established as a fetish
awaiting the nearest mongol...
            i don't know why it exists
in the first place...
     i skipped through R. Brautigan
and left him drinking and desperate,
ig  desperate when i see a bottle
of whiskey's shrinking girth
in the bottle... don't get me wrong,
i adore the poetry, but autobiographies
always led me to skim-read some
examples... i own a need for such
excuses because i feel i'll be one of them.
it's not a case of sadness being written down...
the sad part is writing an autobiography
as your life takes shape...
                     the sad part is
   an autobiography that's written parallel
to a "life", you wear a necktie and a
pair of moccasins and a silk robe...
                     fo' da' sho' -
    and never the shove or shovel to be the first
in line... because that matters: let the idiots
through, i don't mind lighthearted
entertainment before i board the bus...
             when you apply diacritical indicators
you get to worry about orthography...
when you don't apply them?
   you get quickstep spelling...
                   you get incorporating the digital
Amazon rainforest shrunk to a toothpick
or an A4 sized paper, later rolled into a cigar
by Castro.
                           but you know what really bothers me?
listening to bob marley and reading pashtun
poetry... it's Afghan and an antidote to Rumi...
no (so-called) "feminists" cite pashtun...
              don't get prickly proud on me having
     the ability to cite obscure cultural ref. points...
bob's bob, the end.
    what? damian or stephen or ziggy too?
                        well, the more the merrier.
                 but these so-called feminists are never overheard
citing pashtun women...
            women not citing women... tragic...
      i guess the two can't relate...
if you forgot what an Afghani woman looks like...
kinda like a Pakistani woman, before
the Mongol fiddled about with a ******* violin...
       pretty? sure... maybe John Smith Sargent Mj.
knew about
        it, when he ****** W into Afghanistan,
   protective of the truth about the "burning bush's"
original message aimed at Abraham:
circumcise him!
           Abraham... you what? **** him?
burning bush: circumcise him!
        well, **** me, what a desirable revision!
now we'll forever crave the need for ******* cushions!
  who said kangaroo pouch isn't soft enough?
      kangaroo in a boxing ring: bucktooth combo
punched out... and everyone huh?!.
               but feminists never cite these women...
i'm a quasi-exile, or at least my parents are,
i didn't exactly wish to live on these isles...
but then again jean-paul zee deux ******
everything before i even got the cameo role in
the film: history of the world.
               that's basically me ******* down
an alley named after him, every time i rekindle
originating in that ol' stockpile of garbage...
   but at least the e.u. will improve the roads...
               we might finally get an artery's worth
of autobahn concrete connecting Cracow
and Katowice... you never know... might be a case
of walking on water...
               but to be honest i don't mind
that she can't wear ****** white...
i don't mind she had 20 ****** partners before
she decided to milk me... it's the lying...
lying becomes much worse than the act itself...
     i'd prefer to know she was a ***** *****...
what i don't like is this faking of childhood,
this innocence-sprechen antics....
     it's like reacting to a flu - you get all
dizzy and juggernaut-sinking obnoxious...
    because the story goes: the truth liberates
you from being an enforced thespian...
                 no one wants to be an actor
forcefully... no one...
                         esp. if they're not getting paid
for pretence...
      the truth is at least a mobilising enforcement,
you know you've been given a faulty
refrigerator, but that means you're utilising
an awareness of possessing a faulty refrigerator...
     being lied to... you get utopic inhibitions
  thinking it's not half-of-the-story,
when it actually is.
             that's what's inherent in *** with prostitutes...
        no inhibitions... we're square,
proofread countless times, no secrets, just two naked bodies.
it's when people take to enforcing wearing
Gucci on their psyche... that **** is worse
than donning a strap-on in a lycra gimp-suit.
           but such is the force of the pashtun landlays...
you react to them like so...
            i choreograph them above the haiku,
even though they're twinned,
like some village in Lichenstein (liochestein,
a googlewhack) - Liechtenstein -
twinned to a village in scotland -
               obviously the there's no innuendo
because both originated in deemed obscurity...
       they did much injustice to Kafka given the small
print, and overdid the justice done with
    printing oversized Bukowski...
but then there's a Sunday newspaper to look forward to,
which will evidently make the Monday print
a bit... slim.
                     never mind... a great phrase from
the landays is little horror, or being a woman in her
20s being betrothed to a man-child aged prior to
kicking things off with puberty...
  and dear ol' me, why don't feminists even take a second
to look at the women talking in Afghanistan?
    sure, the veil puts them off immediately...
       women talk with their genitals and men talk ******...
as was always the case...
    i am, currently talking as if i were an ******...
and Alice over here has no tongue,
                except the one that replicates oyster salivation...
as some might crudely put it.
         and then there's Mallarmé.... ugh...
                     pisshead compatriot Poe... and Baudelaire...
honestly... we have just begun writing
       the most pristine of poker sessions...
i tell you and fake how literate i am, or illiterate,
or with an adequate or with an inadequate diet of literature,
and you poker me, and vice versa,
       because by the time a Tuesday newspaper comes along,
we'll both be brooding with angst, wishing we
could only possibly be bored.
"I was the same, but I was waiting for myself on the shore to return."  -   Murakami

 
It is a difficult time. So
You wait for yourself to come back.
You wait on the
Pier. Watch pelicans
Pirouette in the air; weightless

For a moment and then diving.
The sound of their splash reminding
You of something you just can’t quite
Remember. You sit there eating
Fish after fish, wash them

Down with beer. You have started
Counting seagulls and giving them
Long Spanish names. You choreograph
Ballets, make architectural
Drawings of dreams and have started

To build a home of sea shells. On
The weekends people come just to
See you waiting for yourself. “Where
Did you go?” they ask, you just shrug
Your shoulders. You make new friends.

You take up painting and paint self
Portraits, your image repeated
Like the latitude and longitude
Lines on a map. Early every
Morning you lean against the railing.

The seagulls have joined you. You’ve made
Them tiny red scarves that they
All wear. All of you stare, being
Still as glass as if any movement
Might blur vision. All of you are

Staring out to sea, straining to
See you coming back, straining to

See the prow of the boat cutting
The silver morning water.
A poem about finding oneself.  Previously published  2  Rivers Review 2015
Sherri Harder Oct 2014
We poets write what's on our mind
and in our heart.
To us it comes naturally, never questioning
it. To us its art.
To every curve we feel the pen stroking
on the paper wall,
like a dancer swaying in rhythm and to
dare not fall.
From one poet to another, we have a common
courtesy for most.
We either love it or we don't or can share it
playing host.
We appreciate each others differences and
poetic style.
Even when we disagree, we never argue,
as we smile.
From one poet to another, we can feel ones
pain and joy.
Though we never knock each other down
or do no harm employ.
From one poet to another, its a way of
sharing what's in our soul.
Whether it be good or bad, we respect each other
for simply sharing and letting go.
We can write about most anything like nature, love,
pain, art, or rock.
The worst thing from one poet to another, is a thing
called "writer's block."
So when we take the time to very publically; to
from our depths do share.
Its a way of sharing a piece of our minds like a
a window to our soul declare.
Even though we may hide away from
time to time.
It's because we're always thinking and
reflect on past experiences to rhyme.
Most of us are pretty social and can
be artistic in other ways.
Like music, dancing, singing or
acting and directing  plays.
We choreograph our feelings out
and lay them out as words of art.
Sharing to others to enjoy a piece
of our life that taketh part.
We don't always say things out loud
properly and publically.
We are sometimes better writing in what we
do best- in written poetry.
From one poet to another, we know some get it
or they don't.
Most poets will because they can disect it
or they won't.
From one poet to another, we know we
don't always have to rhyme our word.
I prefer to write in rhyme, but when I don't-
other poets don't think its absurd.
From one poet to another, we write our
feelings, thoughts and beliefs with ease.
From one poet to another, for some its
a masterpiece.

Sherri Harder
devante moore Nov 2015
This is what I want to go out to
With a pen
In my palm
As I choreograph each line
For the last time
Hoping what I write fills you of me
One last poem one final time
Powerful enough you can hear the rhyme
As the words project from the screen
So you can visualize what I mean
And as I take my last breath
I'll leave it unfinished for the next
Shofi Ahmed Apr 17
Knows the secret of the universe
but doesn't know the heart
it doesn't tally up!

Hop onto the spacecraft
fly off to the star
technically that can be done
mathematically can be numbered.

But that deep dive deep down
the sea of the soul
only an interpreter of the heart can play this role.
What AI can mimic that or an art can choreograph
or a computer can emulate this part?
simone jewell Feb 2016
there is not an organized method  of channeling my emotions I cannot  choreograph my thoughts in such a way that is beautiful and efficient on paper I can simply ramble on and on and before you know it I am lost within the parameters of my own written word,
but I don't want to be pitied I just want to be heard there are no expectations to fill for these ponders are not fluid
they are still
RatQueen Mar 2018
Self destructive, the way I always lived
can't take care of myself
I need somebody else
I'm not proud of the things I've done
I get drunk and I get stuck on having fun
its a curse and I'm sure I do it all
to avoid all the noise and how much I fall

but you believe in me
and its not at all hard to see
you are something else
you help me build a better version of myself
baby you made me, baby you saved me
I appreciate you, and all the little things you make sure I do
have no idea what you saw in me
you help me see who I'm meant to be
so I'll roll the dice, put my drink on ice
pretend I'm not a wreck
I get myself together, I'm not out of the game yet

Here we are it's pouring rain
I wait with baited breath
And fight the urge to choreograph
my delightful dance of death
hesitant to play again
because I always lose
but I cannot say no to you
so tell me, what's the use?

but you believe in me
and its not at all hard to see
you are something else
you help me build a better version of myself
baby you made me, baby you saved me
I appreciate you, and all the little things you make sure I do
have no idea what you saw in me
you help me see who I'm meant to be
so I'll roll the dice, put my drink on ice
pretend I'm not a wreck
I get myself together, I'm not out of the game yet

tell me, are you a gamblin' man?
or prudent with your bets
do you crown the middle ground
repay all your debts
maybe we could take the risk
50/50 go all in
because all I've ever wanted
is to someday, finally win

but you believe in me
and its not at all hard to see
you are something else
you help me build a better version of myself
baby you made me, baby you saved me
I appreciate you, and all the little things you make sure I do
have no idea what you saw in me
you help me see who I'm meant to be
so I'll roll the dice, put my drink on ice
pretend I'm not a wreck
I get myself together, I'm not out of the game yet
victoria Dec 2017
She was beginning her annual  journey; full of hope and excitement, back to what had become her saviour, her second home.
Years she'd spent within Italy's familiar arms, flooding her senses with summers past.

Could it really have been over a year since she last bathed in its beauty?
An entire year since her heart had been snatched away, and hidden behind her walls?

How that time had been good to her, and how strong she had grown.

Someone once told her that self knowledge was only ever accompanied by heartache and pain.
How wrong they had been.
Self knowledge had saved her life.
Self love had brought her back from loneliness.
How can that have been wrong?

Now she'd returned to the welcoming warm breeze, and the streets laced with a beauty that could release the most shackled of hearts.

A country where lovers are found wrapped tightly around one another.
Bound together with love.
Draped over statues from ancient Gods; their limbs intertwined revealing no beginning and no end. Just one heart made whole from two separate souls.

A country where street buses and cars, choreograph their way through the melody that the sunshine orchestrates.

A humidity that brings with it a yearning she hasn't felt in a million kisses. Her Senses re-awakened, a longing to be touched.
Finally freed from her self made cage.

She finds interest and delight in every withered portrait, and in the faces of every chess game, within the laziness its players boastfully adopt.

She soaks up the sticky sweet aroma like a honey bee to the morning dew.
And she is at home.

As night falls, the crickets gently rock her to sleep as she drifts away, into tomorrow's dreams of the awaiting breath taking sights and cuisines.

She falls deep into her bed.
Italy has her in its trusting arms.

She is at peace once again.
After a recent holiday following a break up that I’m still struggling with
pable Feb 2019
Did you know that elephants can fly?
And fairies never die?
What about, that cows don't cry?
Or even that pigs can fry...
mushrooms?

Have you ever seen a snail walk?
A t-rex draw with chalk?
A goose soar like a hawk?
Or a unicorn talk...
about politics?

You haven't heard a penguin laugh?
Or seen a gorilla fold in half?
Found a beanstalk taller than a giraffe?
Not even seen a duck choreograph...
a music video?

Did you see that buffalo fly that kite?
Watched the peacock dive from height?
Met a llama thats actually polite?
You didn't hear the goldfish recite...
Shakespeare?

Well I must say
you are quite absurd,
for I
have experienced them all.
Our life
Is a dance
Spinning into Winter
Breaking into Summer
Running through Autumn
Rolling towards Spring
It is all about us
Our stories
How we choreograph
Our dance
Our life
trf Nov 2021
design your body next to me,
close the blinds let’s sleep till three.

choreograph heartbeats
and rendezvous in our dreams.

rewinding roads above box springs,
your toes curl tight around my feet.

when we esplanade under sheets,
high thread counts don't mean a thing.

— The End —