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Cné Aug 2017
when i fall,
i don't just fall in love.
clumsily, i stumble
down and then i land

awkwardly and graceless,
stuttering utterly at the foot
of a handsome man,

blundering an apology
out of breath, ineptly
embarrassed about
my shaky hands,

to dust myself off,
all the while, i try,
desperately, to stand

wishing i could disappear,
i rise as quickly as i can
waving off any helping hand

so he doesn't see
how incredibly ******
i must be
Stumble clumsily
to that of which you think
is your sensei...
and ask
Why must I bow?
Take a break just take it down
a notch
Just watch me howl
at the moon
meditate let the sun
hit you in the face
Awaking you to a new
"better mean what you say
so you'll still be sitting when you
float away through hazy old
sayings displays testaments to progress
even frogs respect goggled honesty
from lilypad perspectives
directive flush and disconnect
from freshness"
Helen Raymond Aug 2014
You and I
A song that started clumsily, mid-stumble, then fell into a beautiful flurry of violins playing lithe.
It’s a Shakespearean epic draped in a cheap suit of modern conjectures that caught my eye.
You and I
It’s climbing up a mountain-side, daring & tempestuous -cherishing every moment, not just the peak, but the hike.
Even as you’re pushing so hard its hurts to breathe, the air so thin your gasps are overlapping fighting for air– you’ll die if you quit, having the time of your life.
You and I
Seeing sheet-music for your favorite tune, as an illiterate fool, but somehow feeling the rhythm and time.
It’s enticing & startling, it’s the smell of privet-hedge and pine –familiar, refreshing, & divine.
It’s you and I.
ryn Oct 2014
Perhaps I'm encased in a box
made out of two-way glass.
A biased one-way mirror...
Mutual vision doesn't meet nor pass.
When you look at me,
you only see,
yourself for all that you care...
Me? Just a faint suggestion that I'm even there.
   Maybe that's why...
      you ask about my life,
      about my strife.
      When I'm about to unload my
      I end up having to hear about yours

Perhaps at times I travel around
in a bubble of frosted glass.
Only a blurred version of me...
Clumsily ploughing through the mass.
Incoherent, misunderstood and unclear.
Unintelligible muffles of hopes and fear.
   Maybe that's why...
      My words are just perceived as
      playful rhymes.
      Never keeping up with the times.
      Words regurgitated but no one
      realises what's coming undone...

Perhaps what I need
is an armour of bulletproof glass.
One of unique quality...
One ahead of its class.
You can do and say what you want.
A shell that would bear most of the brunt.
     I'll be impervious.
          I'll be protected.
               I can be indifferent.
                    I can be jaded.

   Maybe that's all I need...
           A shocking stunt.
                 A fresh perspective.
                      A new plan.
                           Revised objectives.

   Maybe a different name to start all
      To tie the binds and thoughts that
      Hoping of holding everything

Come morning, all will be
Maybe I'd still be beaten.

   So for a chance that's,
     fat as ****
     thin just a sliver...
Truth is of the three, I have neither...

    *what I've said doesn't really matter.
Gillian May 2013
you insisted that i write my number down on the blank part of a mix used to slam down a beer like some kind of super hero...saw myself in your eyes and made sounds only you could'd press your lips into my forehead so fiercely it hurt; leading us deep into your distortions...

witnessed you spilling your soul into empty barrooms where last call came well before midnight...there wasn't any room in there for me...I made forfeit everything to stand in your arms; and how it lost me all I wanted...

I spread my palms wide across your ribs...curled my fingers tightly toward your spine and believed that you loved turned on me and my you left me...I wanted to clumsily strew myself on your pillows and press my hand on your thigh, kiss your neck and giggle at your convinced me that the flood of my insecurities drove you away, that i was the author of our demise...

we collide rarely...your eyes are always've built the Berlin wall around your have become a testament to the passage of time because I know I will not remember being the same...

you inappropriately love me but will never trust me...

you stand me in your arms, and it is like coming home after so many years abroad; we never will hold each other this way again...
our Rome became graffiti on my bedroom wall...
this undertow of wordshed always reminding me that I am not lost but I am not home...
ryn Sep 2014
Toting the mysterious bundle and sporting a sore back
I drag my feet up the last few steps, expended of vigour
I almost couldn't resist prematurely looking through the sack
Remembering the words from the wise old seer

Grimacing I walk a slow gait to get to the table
Set the bundle down and relieve my weight onto a chair
Parched throat but wait longer I am unable
Curiosity takes charge and into the gift I will tear

Blood is pumping along with an increasing heart rate
Fingers scrambling clumsily over the strings that bind
Nails digging frantically into this package bearing my fate
Gnawing thoughts of uncertainty flooding my mind

At last my fingers win the battle that lasted
The final string has fallen... Obstinate knots all undone
I pick the cloth by the edges to have it unfolded
The contents inside reach out like rays of the sun

Corners of the cloth open up like a fully bloomed blossom
Exposing the treasure that lay solemn and quiet inside
Common objects we'd normally perceive as random
Petty things now important as they attempt to guide

I pick up the first and notice an engraving on it's stem
Between my fingers - an unassuming feathered quill
Barely legible, such little space the words do cram
"Here is your sword... Draw blood and let spill"

More riddles, I sought to examine the next
A flat bottomed vial filled with jet black ink
On it is a label with scrawling of time worn text
"Here is your blood; let flow what you think"

Lastly, lay bound up sheets of yellow stained parchment
They reek of age-old herbs; intoxicating slightly
At the top of the first, a note scribbled not so recent
"Within these pages, you must bleed to find Sanctuary"

Staring down at the objects laid in front of me
In hopes of discovering something I should miss
Then finally it struck me, so plain to see
I'm using the instruments now, writing to find release...
See "Dear Mystic"
See "Dear Seeker"
See "Sanctuary"
ryn Jul 2014
It pulls me deep with a grip so relentless
It swirls me senseless with tendrils so sensuous
It overwhelms me so with determined fervour
I can't breathe, I can't fight, I get pulled under.

It renders me helpless but every bit I'm enjoying
These currents they push and carry, entranced I'm dancing
Try to swim and navigate but almost seem futile
Defy all logic, in this magical enchantment I smile.

I squeeze in an occasional breath that's deep
Reality streams in like water running in steep
But in a heartbeat I exhale to expel it all out
For I am addicted to the current and its strong-armed clout.

It's a whole new realm that has been so long hidden
Mystical and whimsical, this overgrown path that's hardly ridden
Fortunate it feels to have discovered such a find
So consumed, that it fills my body and my mind.

This tidal wave in my heart, with strength so unbelievable
Wearing away the uncertainty and everything else sensible
As it beats upon the shore of my guardedness
Revealed the tender core filled with love that's limitless.

Forever I wish to be submerged in this dream-like state
Floating and drifting, clumsily in a child-like gait
I have found myself in this love I'm drowning
Swim up and awaken is a thought I'm not longing.

Engulfed in a blanket of love's sweet loving
Feeble attempt to embrace back is all I'm trying
"Enjoy it, and receive what you can" said the voice in my head
My heart replies, "I think I'll love her forever instead".
Wk kortas Nov 2017
Three days, is what the HR rep said, somewhat sheepishly,
As if she was fully aware that boxing up one’s grief
In a span of a few dozen hours
Is a matter of wishful thinking
And certainly she sympathizes
(Indeed, as she speaks,
She spreads her hands in such a way
As you half expect doves to come forth in full flight)
Empathy being their stock in trade,
But the law and the handbook say three days,
And then you need to have your head
******* back on and looking forward.

Eventually, the mail brings fewer envelopes
Marked with embossed flowers
And subdued and tasteful stamps,
The usual flow of solicitous inquiries,
Pre-stamped and pre-sorted,
Inquiring as to your credit needs,
The condition of your windows and siding,
Resumes apace, and more than once,
In fits of inappropriate black humor and frustration,
You scribble, in bold thick strokes of a marker,
The addressee no longer resides at this location*.

You return to nine-to-five,
Though your ghosts keep their own hours,
Stopping by to visit on their own schedule alone,
Prompted by the tiniest of things:
The dog scampering to its feet in a hurry,
As if someone was at the door,
The discovery of a long-unused pitching wedge
Standing expectantly in the back of the closet,
A song from long ago which was beloved
When you lived in the pairing mandated by Noah
Before you entered the shadow world of ones and nones.
Sometimes you give into the giddy madness,
And rise to waltz around the room,
Careening about unsteadily, clumsily
As you have yet to completely master
The difference in weight shift and distribution
That is required of a solo act.
The timing of these visitations
Often disrupts your schedule and sleep patterns,
And you think that perhaps tomorrow you’ll call in.
Aya Sofea Sep 2017
As the sun shown its last brightness,
And the sea's sparkles began to fade,
There I saw an angel watching the sunset,
Then she turned as we gazed.

Her eyes shines brighter than stars,
And when the cold breeze blows,
Her long hair brushes her cheeks,
And thus made my heart skipped.

We stared at each other long enough,
To make my cheeks blushy red,
As I clumsily tripped over a rock,
Then I saw her vanished away.

(Guy's P.O.V.)
Darla Bean Jun 2018
hello reader, i'm trying too hard
as if you could grade me
for every thought I discard

here - please dissect my ramblings
into coherent readings
clumsily crafting my feelings, i’m scrambling

mending my thoughts digestible for you
i just wanted a good poem,
but i guess this pathetic afterthought will do

similar to the class toad
sprawling my consciousness out
a beating heart exposed
MuEmpire Oct 2018
The cross-eyed bear
a snowy feather
in Minnesota weather
forever and ever
a dance to see
on mine shoulder
CP Sep 2018
Near you

My books and poems don’t excite me
Neither does the soft gushing of the Aegean sea
but the presence of you-

My brushes and paints are now lost on me
Neither does the inspiration from the sky
but when you’re nearby-

My words fall out all at once clumsily
but when you’re near me
my thoughts flutter around your mind
my words build an eloquent house around your sentences
art grows from my tips and all I want to do is paint your lips

My palette is static as my mind
but when you’re near me
the colours change their hue

Like the flying chaos of the world I am soothed by the presence of you
I can’t get him off my mind.
And We Danced Our Way Through The Night.
Clumsily Finding Our Way Into Each Other's Hearts.

We Were Like The Sun Still Learning To Swim
The Skies On The Second Day Of Creation.
We Traded Stories Of Love And Loss
Over 2am Coffee Sessions On Cold Winter Skies

We've Always Been Particularly
Romantic About The Winter
Because It Reminded Us That
Our  Hearts Were Not The Only Cold Place
We Were Trapped In.

And In The Silences Between Our Thoughts,
I Could Pause Just Long Enough To See
The Sparkle In Your Eyes
Every Time We Talked About The Things You Love

Books, Poetry, ***** And  [me]

These Are The Things That
Kindled A Fire In Your Eyes.
Becca Nelson Jan 31
It hits like a brick wall while running from cops
It’s hard to see a way around it
So turn back
Retrace your steps
Try it again from a different angle
There’s never just one way to approach a problem

Try writing about the area
About the thoughts someone has
Or take a step back from it all
And work on something else for a moment
Not everything has to be done here and now
Enjoy the little moments to yourself
Drinking tea on the porch while the sun rises
Laughing and dancing clumsily with your brother

Short moments don’t last long
And when all is said and all is done
You will find yourself back
At your writings
With a clear head
Zeyea Jul 2018
sometimes she daydreams about life the way i do about death. it's ironic, i know: black and white aren't meant to be grey and the rumbling hum of expletives digging into mauve lips pass through like desaturated light to translucent statures. it makes everything seem sweeter than it looks. she thinks the ache feels lukewarm, just like those half-hearted smiles she gives out like presents on a holiday, and she may be right. pain is not cold, it covers your entire heart with microwaved fingers, leaving burn marks that leave chars and ashes. snaps the purple heartstrings and clumsily tries to mend it.

(i love you because you're corporeal, she murmurs, you keep me sane)

she's spider-webbed, sung gossamer and silk while her bar lines drip with ink. and she seems moonstruck—because of me she says and blooms throughout my epiphanies. fancies herself a ghost, a wisp, something ethereal that lingers on my lips like a kiss. and she lingers, oh she does. toppling from the skies and collapsing into my rib-cage, she stays, blushing rose-like and thriving. velvet and constellations of blood clots patter against her skin. it blooms like she blooms, a paint splattered canvas meant for all to see.
Late one nice warm evening
Came a very loud knock upon my door
It was a complete stranger
Tired bewildered and lost
Now imprisoned in my dark magical woods

A gracious host of course
I bowed and extended my hand and stated
Please come in, dear friend take a seat and let’s discuss pressing matters
Such as the ghost to my left or the ghoul to the right dressed in tatters

As you can plainly see I am playing poker with the 3 eyed demons of the 4th night
Who infamous cheaters like the mummies rarely ever get a second invite
The vampires are sitting in the shadows where they think no one may see
Putting visine in their red eyes
White roses in black lapels and sharpening their pointed teeth

The werewolves yellow dripping fangs
Are climbing the curtains growling
Come the rising of the round moon
The goblins little monsters stroll in nosily
Angrily demanding recognition which is rightly their due

The witches spitting and cursing their hats
Hopped clumsily off their brooms
While the strongest warlocks were locked in battle
Throwing spells across the amber walled room

They have arrived for my banquet
As all have received the coveted invitations before
When some foolish stranger like you
Unaware knocks upon my door,

All Rights Reserved @ Tammy M Darby March 2, 2019.
All Material Stored in Author Base
Humorous Dark Poetry
all the while I will love you because I’ve never been good at stringing the little locket heart into my chest. It’s always just dangled in my hand clumsily. People always tell me “kid you gotta hide that. Don’t you know where you are.”and i want to laugh. And say “ I’m in the jungle baby”, proceed to sing the rest of that song, and not let them get me down. Cause **** the *******.

It is what it is, the sadness, but with it
also the love
why suffer.

little locket in hand and the nearness of the you, jazz standards floating through my head,
are enough.

It is what it is.
I’m in Love with you. Thousands of Motown songs and R&B 2019 top charting singles running, forming hills in my mind
so ever slowly, but continuously that everytime I walk past one of those hills, I fail to recognize it.
They’re becoming mountains

They are what they are,
as this is what it is.
Mote Feb 13

my lowness dressed  
as something inexcusable

clumsily executed

pale yellow against the plum of night
India Apr 2018
She wrote words on her skin with the hope they would seep into her blood stream,
and flow, freely, through her until they came to rest in her brain;
safe, protected, nestled, tucked away and waiting for the day they might slip,
tumbling onto her tongue.

Sometimes, she would trip over the words
clumsily crushed under teeth as they were flung around,
desperately seeking the chance to be expelled and yell;
“listen to me.”
But the words were confined to the bounds of her mind,
and she swallowed down the scrambled mush.

Perhaps, one day, she’d be able to push the words through her lips.
Perhaps, when they fell, she’d allow then to nurture, to nourish, to thrive and flourish.
They’d survived her endless grinding, her nervousness.
They’d blossom, bloom into sentenced to fragrant the scents would speak for themselves,
her words merely complementing the intent.

She wrote words on her skin,
tattooing her thoughts in plain sight
because despite the fact she’s never have the confidence to voice them, she longed to be heard,
so, when sound failed her,
she worried not but wrote the words.

Jeff S Dec 2018
skirting the rusty rose of a brooch
dangling on canvas bodice as she leans
tightly over me; the waves of wrinkles
on her be-bangled red hands pointing to the
wrong punctuation; this is dream-building
in the fifth grade; don't end the dream
too soon, she gruffs sing-song like
a prize-winning racoon; and still applauds
the bricklaying we so clumsily feign
for our castles in the sky; tho she, too,
dies of cancer in the last year; the tubes at the
very last weaving through the canvas;
something of a final stitch to the making
of a dream; and so i think all dreams in me
they die in darkness and still i wonder
what happens to the crenellated castle
walls i abandoned scores of years and
many As ago; and still we pat our doeeyes
on their infinitile heads and **** our
cynical shacks-by-the-forest-fires back
into our heads, begging beneath the
damp light of early-onset reverie: save
us, won't you, from the stiff stillborn of
dreams our generation lost to the fantasy
of getting what the saddest, dreamless
dollared dupes decree; oh be better yet for me,
my naive sums, and take your brick-laying;
your canvas sheen; your impossible, doubtless
dreams with broach and gnarl; with gruff and
soundless trill; your soulful self metastasized  
with every beat
to the happy grave.
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