"coattail" poems
from time to time
there is a romance of being alone
the imaginations she powdered
generously upon the colorless reality.
metaphors that she sews upon the sleeves
of melancholy.
her girlfriends and she roamed
the ups and downs of the earth,
while their mothers screamed
for them to be ladylike.
saturday afternoons,
they procrastinated upon pastries and honey
crystallized fairy tales
courteous animals
riding on the coattail of dreams
a lighthearted feeling others tried to snooze.
they observe things through glitters of their vapor.
they dote on the humor of ice creams
and sunlight of scarlet pink.
as we laugh with charm,
what a way with words,
a lopsided smile,
a head of curls,
a flock of girls.
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 1:47 PM UTC
The time numbs. I want it raw like it was.
Like ************ and ******
Something powerful and honest.
I let lies continue.
Fantasies I tease myself with.
I never follow these potential trails.
I’m terrified of not having blissful reverie.
Closure haunts me. I’m scared of definition.
I live in a time that never ends.
I breath the exhaust we know but cannot see.
The world spins upon my shoulders, I pass it on without using my hands.
People die, it’s distant.
Life doesn’t mean much.
I live here in a puddle.
I love all the potential I have to waste.
I don’t know what I would slobber on without it.
I want something raw.
Something abrasive, without some sort of superficial veil.
If I brush back another thin facade just to uncover a clearer image of ********
I’ll slump the world with my bear hands, and whatever blunt object is abreast.
The ensuing postlude or coattail if you will, is gruesome and redefines the word genocide.
Life passes by because it’s not cut with iron anymore. It’s chiseled away with fantastic stone and underlying hopeful chimes of music. A method to which leaves reality unclear, and insipid. Quite literally dull and un-vitriolic.
The time jingoes tore babies from teats, bounced sore bosoms, and buried John Doe’s in mass graves beside schools. Is long gone.
I live in a butterfly massacre.
Nov 6, 2021
Nov 6, 2021 at 2:51 PM UTC
You’re an adult but miss being a kid , tired of a life requiring responsibility to get far
You decide to hide from it all and commit to just being a big kid but how with no toys
When you were younger your toys were your friends , stuffed animals and action figures
Before meeting you they all were nameless and hostage to a lonely retailers shelf
You felt connected as a mother giving birth to a childhood as you gave them purpose
Naming each and everyone, allowing them to tag along in all of your adventures
But that was then and this is now, how ridiculous you would appear with made up pals
Voiceless and choice-less, it’s just not the same kind of fun it was in your childhood
So now you contemplate and sit and ponder, it suddenly hits you like a bag of bricks: LEGOS
Toys with hearts is what you desire, with brains, with voices and real life emotions
So quickly you get excited realizing the possibilities of a completely filled toy-box
Is it fair to them to use them for your satisfaction as you toy with their emotions for fun
Nicer to some than others but the ultimate mission is to get them to ride your coattail
Never out for their benefit but rather yours as you see them as your childhood toys
At your dispersement as you see fit for your emotions and personal self benefits
And when they realize it and get fed up, they move on but your not bothered by this at all
Because just as a child it was only a matter of time before you outgrew them one by one
Then on to the next big hit, the next big trend and the old toys left to take the hit, ALONE
Well these real life toys have hearts and it’s just not the same as they are being tore apart
But you could careless as you witness the pain and agony you force them to face
As they lay in pieces astray, your mind has already moved on , gone without a trace
Well in time this may seem to work as you get your socks off to others hurt
But the reality is the play dates will come and go but before you know it’ll be to late
You’re a narcissist, not a kid and the real victims aren’t your friends but rather you
They tried to help and tried to get you to see but your to into yourself to ever care
A lifetime of new acquaintances is your life sentence as you are always losing loved ones
All the misfits you have offended all pray for the day you can finally grow up
Because regardless the pain you have caused them they are toys with hearts
They bleed, they cry, they can relate, they can hate but they choose not too
Because your not worth any of their emotions and that’s why you don’t deserve
Toys with hearts because there’s no such thing, it just doesn’t exist
They are people and you’re a
F❤️CKING NARCISSIST, with an empty toy box
May 14, 2021
May 14, 2021 at 8:01 AM UTC
I feel a tug on my sweater.
The air grows dark as I,
Full of despair,
Turn my head to find what
Being is at my coattail.
I feel a tug on my sweater,
I turn as the space ahead of me
Is occupied by essence of loving magnificent person.
I turn and see the beautiful world, as a
Being, is at my coattail.
I feel a tug on my sweater
And I question her as to what she came to
ask, and she speaks to me in song.
So lovely are the words uttered from
She who is at my coattail.
So lovely are the words uttered for
Me, a desperate shrew. A hollow shroud falls over
Vacant eyes dripping empty tears onto
A careless walkway. Her serenade sing a sort of
Happy suicide into the icy veins pumping
Soft slush into my heart.
Then suddenly
A chorus arises and I am renewed,
Invigorated.
"Sing goodbye to sorrow,
Save pain for a time when you need smile.
For that pain, in it's essence,
Is only a memoir of hardship that will
Remind the hollowest of souls that
There is happiness."
That there is love.
That there is hope.
That there is wonder,
and wanderlust.
That there is reason.
Mar 23, 2012
Mar 23, 2012 at 11:58 PM UTC
i went to your grave today
and my ankles touched the grass
6 feet above you
i placed my palms on brown stems
crackling beneath the weight of my painted smile.
the wind kicks up my hair
like your coattail
hitting the back of a leather seat
facing ivory notes
that mimic the lullaby i sing to you now.
the white flowers stem from
my fingernails after all this time
they are beautiful weeds
that i pluck and loop around each other
placing this crown on my head
that is anything but regal.
the buds are the last snow
and their misty color matches that
of the clouds escaping my chapped lips.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 9:20 AM UTC
When days I wish not to say
or write a word fall upon me
I sleep within and greet the touch
of music’s hand over my eyes.
If you are, as Alan Watts believes,
“the fabric of existence itself,” well
you must be a patch, then, wind-shredded
off the coattail end.
And that’s what the music is for.
Which to keep me, also attached, I’d play
myself if I could and so would you. But you are
off in the wind flailing, remember?
Would anybody hear?
Threads flapping even more
the goodbye to an old man’s coat. But listen.
I’ve heard in it a rhythmic sound. Like the beating
of wings, lifting. Listen to us. It’s like letting
a flag fly.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 5:43 PM UTC
I don’t think that you wanted to make me,
But if you did, would you tell?
A silent note is a deafening coattail
To follow the cries and the yells-
For the roadside seems as no one else has tread here
And the wind from a breeze is never felt.
The blood on my feet indicates that I’m walking
But I think I never walked, I only fell-
If I’m the only one that is meant to endure this
Then rid me of the scenery and smell-
Let me feel alone on a world you created
A world that continually feels like hell.
Nov 21, 2023
Nov 21, 2023 at 5:30 AM UTC
A hermit crab in a soda can
Evicted from a bubble gum dungeon
Fireworks on the tongue
Licking undertow of heavy sod
Swaddled in laminate pressure
Breathing sea foam
In a featherless sinking slant
An elastic anchored pendulum
Falling zagged
A jelly-hocked comet
With coattail streamers
Fertilizing liquid nickel
May 17, 2019
May 17, 2019 at 12:44 PM UTC