"clamming" poems
.
••••
**•i hold nothing but
secrets inside•i shan't disclose, i shan't
be vulnerable•into my humble recluse, i quiver and
hide•the world isn't ready to receive my bits and mor-
sels•come such time, i'd be willing to share•i'd bare
myself for all to see•if you say that you truly do
care•then it's best if you leave me be•for now,
don't pick on my sores•being eaten slowly
from within my gut•please don't...
don't pry anymore•save your
breath, my shells are
sealed**
shut•
.
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 10:42 AM UTC
Be silent, retrain yourself,
Never usher out a word,
Perhaps it would be best if you were mute?
You do not want a violet reaction.
Don't need to be vibrant,
So let's just be silent, as quiet as can be.
You don't need to be as loud as a lions roar,
Its best to stay silent and hide in the back.
I am trying to keeping everything shut,
I have no talent to show,
So I shall be silent.
Not shy, but not wishing to be rude,
But is having trouble speaking up and not clamming up.
Smile and never spit out any bile,
Everything must be kept hush, hush.
No one needs to hear pointless chatter.
Its for the best,
To be the best at being silent.
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 9:14 PM UTC
And when i saw your name there
I no longer felt the oh so familiar
Butterflies in my stomach
Tugging at my heartstrings
Chaining me down
Clamming me up everytime i glnaced at you
Sneaking glances
Doing everything to get your attention
Saying hi when you never really gave a ****
And then I learned more about you,
About differences that we could never overcome
I heard a few negative things about you
And i
Convinced myself that they were all wrong
You were perfect, velvety and smooth
You were you
You could do no wrong
But then i witnessed it
Something so trivial and yet
It shook me out of this trance i was in,
Opened up my eyes to all your flaws
We all have flaws
But some of yours were inexcusable to me.
And then i came across your name again
And i
Felt nothing
And then,
I smiled.
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 12:56 AM UTC
The depths of the sea will never know me
My mysteries are as good as hers
But I was there once
An oyster at best
Making pearls
Drowned
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 9:48 PM UTC
In the deathly silence of the calm, I feel the clamming of my palms
As I lay awake in the dead of night, so often as I’ve done before
One thought echoes out, as I begin to be filled with doubt
How these feeling come about, about someone lingering past my door
But, I know I’m all alone and no one stands outside my door
Just my imagination, and nothing more
From the dead of night, a sound pierces ever slight
My ears perk up and my mind begins to explore
Where the faint noise comes from, while my body lays numb
In the darkness of the slum, this hum I can’t ignore
A heed or warning, resonating past my enclosed door
The sound rings out “Falling For”
Who is this trickster, trader, inside my home, a dangerous invader?
Calling out to me from beyond my hardwood floor
In the dead of night, amidst four walls void of light
If I scream, will foreign ears here my plight? Or will I be no more?
Has my time come to pass for all the wrongs I must answer for?
As the whisper calls out “Falling For”
My thoughts begin to carry, how I should be more wary
Am I being tricked? True meaning behind this “Falling For”
This devilish trickster, whether Ma’am or a Mister
Swindled me in a twister, my wealth and name I can’t restore
Unaware of this chaos looming, the loosing of the war
Is this what I’m “Falling For”
Or maybe love, my damsel calling, perhaps my heart is what’s falling
To the one that I so eagerly adore
Thoughts of grandeur fill my head, for a prospect to join my bed
Where stars and sky, the mind has read, finally the weary sailor arrives ashore
Greeted by his enduring spouse to whom long ago he swore.
That she, and only her was the one he’d Fallen For
In the dead of night my mind still racing, for the sound my ears still chasing
The whisper ever so slight of “Falling For”
Kept me up all night and going crazy, my thoughts once clear now are hazy
In the deafening silence, my body lazy, to venture out past my enclosed door
I struggled battling for the meaning my mind telling me folks of lore
Of this destined fate of “Falling For”
In the dead of night, rang out a murmur, ever so slight, the noise got firmer
Beyond the walls outside the enclosed door
Down the hall in another room, a forgotten token within a tomb
Where the noise began to resume, a music box within a drawer
Broken saying the same two words kept replaying, “Falling For”
For it was this, and nothing more
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 1:54 PM UTC
My relationship with mirrors is strained.
When I look I usually see what's probably
myself. I look better, probably, than before
when I slept no more than
3 hours every night
and spluttered through life
choking on words and stumbling over
misconceptions.
Now all of that is merely a buzz
trampled by a maximum dosage of meds
that let me function in life
but make everything a bit numb.
I much prefer numbness to personal nihilism.
Other times when I look in the mirror I
don't see much of anything.
When I'm in public and
the innocent looming presence of others
threatens my mind's fragile ego,
I see them abstracted in my periphery,
their glinting knives of eyes
sparing me a passing glance
(She's just smiling politely,
but my skewed eyes glimpse
faux teeth and behind them gargled, ****** judgements. I don't judge the digust.)
and I skim over a transparency
of myself in the mirror.
Too bad I can't actually disappear.
(Or maybe I can.
But I try to stray a little farther from those thoughts.)
Sometimes I feel heartbreakingly
ugly in that mirror. Lonely. Unwanted.
Even with all those doting eyes on me.
I feel relied upon for something. To be
the one who makes them laugh. The one
who fills the silence. The one
who works hard even with setbacks.
(Do they even expect that of me? Or do I?)
When
in reality
I'm none of those things.
Not truly. Not really.
Theres always that tug of opposition in me,
that feeling of ingenuity, a touch of facade.
But I don't want them to see an ugly side.
The side that mistrusts violently,
that lies stagnant with thoughts screaming.
Clamming up in the face of oppressing quiet.
The side
that rears its head when
they look a little too close.
Maybe it's my truest self, that broken side.
I wouldn't know. There
are too many walls. I can't even break them
myself.
Or maybe I've broken them all,
but I'm blindfolded,
feeling around an abyss with my eyes
wide open,
vision obscured by skin-tight fabric.
I could just,
untie that knot behind my head,
spiral further and further down--
just to feel something else--
But it's safer in this uneasy emotion.
I dont know if I'll ever find myself in
the mirror again.
Jan 21, 2019
Jan 21, 2019 at 12:12 AM UTC
today
it was 70 degrees in the afternoon
i closed my eyes and pretended that there was a foot of snow on the ground
wrapped my arms around myself for warmth and shivered
i had attempted to remember how the year has taken and split me
into two
the one that was lying on that hospital bed
begging god for mercy
and the other that was drunk in the waiting room
laughter echoing down the halls
smelling like clorox
pouring whiskey down people's shirts
the one that had felt stung and with aching bones
let it go into a river of tears
or the other that took off her apron
told you to **** off
and stormed outside
hoping the mascara was waterproof
the one terrified to drive
into the desert alone
the other pouring gasoline
down the highway
taking the wrong trail
talking to strangers at cafes
panic attacks in a wal-mart parking lot
knowing the importance of goodbyes
and deodorant
loving your touch but hating your voice
yet falling for the way
her bones shift beneath her collar
hands clamming up at the sight of him
letting calves burn and peel
breaking corks for expensive chardonnay
striking the match
letting it fall
feeling the drops on her shoulder
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 1:33 AM UTC
I have been writing songs of escape whilst staying inside.
I have become sexless; young bones but an old soul
Painting in caves, and shielding eyes from the sunlight.
There is no *** in self-pity. The new Casanova on pills;
Hands clamming over a glass of whiskey and ice,
And eyes plastered to the sports news for the next tragedy.
I remember the chestnut hair of my childhood.
Rubbing potatoes over tree bark to show nature’s artistry;
We need not create, when creation does it itself.
Now, there are just photographs of corpses in the clouds.
I walk the same route each day, expecting a different outcome,
Going over old ground, yet striving to feel new again.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 3:11 PM UTC
How I envision weekends
Never go as planned
I wish to lay beside you
Rolling in the sand
You wade into the water
While I watch from the marsh
Diving down with your basket
I hold my breath with yours
You're waist high in the water
I'm smiling from land
The current breaks around you
There you are, my merman
When you've collected 20 quahogs
We head down the street
You feed your family
I feel complete
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 2:43 PM UTC
I once believed that the knots you feel in the depth of your belly was a sign that you were falling hard
I read about hearts skipping beats and breaths stopping as he or she walks into a room
And I've seen sweat coming down temples and hands clamming up, knees buckling and feet too clumsy or numb to move
I've heard that these all equate to love
But when we argue and my hands are tightened into fists and my temples are pulsing with suppressed anger, is love gone?
When my breathing becomes heavy and I am now annoyed at the sight of you, is love gone?
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 6:31 PM UTC
After about fifty years as married wife
the last three fraught with strife
obvious telltale signs of terminal illness rife
hysterectomy irrevocably didst jackknife
at the least severely incapacitated
think pitted, riddled,
and rounced her tortured life.
Ovarian cancer affliction
on par with megadeath
bald pate (color of bleached skull),
and crossbones characterized mortal death
oxygen tank to sustain each measured breath.
Nonetheless her angry spirited accursed
ferocity, ejaculatory, denunciatory burst
expletive and epithet
peppered preponderant rant,
(no kidney you) laced
and dull livered worst
fulmination, exasperation,
(albeit feebly faint)
damnation well versed
lips mouthing implacable thirst
to defy grim reaper uber
lyft driver analogous hearst
jubilation immune to
interrogation and/or humiliation
diatribes interpreted glorification,
remained scythe lent bore
scathing rebukes hurled regarding
her sole son (courtesy
miraculous biological reproduction)
dogged with financial perdition
eased series of unfortunate events narration
blessed nonagenarian widower husband
generous father gave male progeny
eased (his/mine) absolution
availed immense monetary boost,
she (envision banshee)
voiced abhorrent objection
regarding liberal outpouring
triggered her vitriolic remenstration.
Similar with pointed gesticulation,
excoriation, cannibalization, abomination...
against reducing his albatross
yoking penurious defeat
her livid hostility displayed, decried,
****** how Matthew Scott,
(I shoal mussel metaphor
without clamming up, how
said offspring coasts) along easy street,
while she sorely protested (thankfully in vain)
even after succumbing to painful demise,
she vehemently, obstreperously and helplessly
loathes handsome handout
to yours truly forsakes Pete.
Jan 16, 2020
Jan 16, 2020 at 5:55 PM UTC