"collections" poems
Keep your eyes soft and your dreams
up on the highest shelf so you won't take them down too early;
keep everything that you spill in the dark locked
behind your teeth during the day, don't bring it out before dusk;
like secrets we drip over sidewalk cracks
from cotton-candy sticky fingers and leave our names
dissolved under each other's tongues, the warmth of you is keeping me company
as I try to crawl out of my blood again, they told you to leave
a bread-crumb trail in case your heart becomes too watered down by just visiting
to even remember the vacation at all; you carry
kisses on the knuckles of amputated arms,
driving through parking lots with your seatbelts on,
collections of constellations growing
in the bruises on the insides of your thighs, reminders
of salt & the whites of your eyes;
I'll always carry you around
like scuffed knees and the last time I told you "I'm okay",
I wanna press my fingers into you until your skin is melded
with fire and scraps of things that I could never be,
I hope steel rods grow out of your bones and I hope you gather
bruises before you gather dust,
we are all a little lost and lonely but that never stopped
the accumulation of well-spent nights
coughing up new ways to spell my name
(it sounded foreign before you)
leave this on repeat,
we're going in again.
Jul 1, 2018
Jul 1, 2018 at 11:59 PM UTC
Collections of my disorderly thoughts
gathered together with knots
of my ample desire
to make sense of my everyday life.
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 1:21 PM UTC
By now,the seed varieties of the world,
may have been attacked beyond recovery
by wars of pretense and relapses.
We are still learning
how to handle it properly.
We tend to say.
Some will talk and plan over dinner parties,
over TV or Radio. Most will leave
it behind like another corpse
of lessons thrown to the gutter,
like a dead *** on another Sunset Boulevard.
Iraq's seed banks
we blew up in the 2000s.
In various places in Asia
and the Middle East, places of life and cultured
varieties gone in an instant.
Echoing our imprisoned
ignorance and drives for more instant goods and services.
Indian farmers have committed mass suicides after
their god Hanuman was used by a chemical giant
to sell poison seeds and renewed
bondages of indebtedness.
One question a stranger asked a group of writers on tour
was not what their poetry or books were about,
nor why they wrote it, but how writing may and
may not be helping as we make decisions and solve problems now?
Once agricultural lands turn into new promises
of commercial buildings. Cities of inaccessible towers and
abandoned malls in America, Spain, China, and Russia
feeds us back our own echo.
Like converted uses of lands, our humanity
is converted into inanimate collections and status
symbols of some players or parties. As we face
our continuing struggle between
our oppressor-selves and our genuine roots.
Despite the perversions,
inside vicious habits of waste
where we glorify promises of war and efficiencies,
we continue to be entrusted with the ongoing lessons:
Rarely do surviving generations through famine, war and diseases,
throw away means to live, or destroy any kind of seed.
Every day we wake to the ruins and remains of
Our living poetry, word spaces, hours, exchanges,
gains and losses, stopping and going. This time,
not just for fires of anguish or unnecessary losses,
but for each other's midnight lamps.#
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 12:42 AM UTC
♡° ⊙ • ⊙ °♡
This place in my heart
There...
intimately aware
Deep tenderness
Imbued with
illuminessence
Moonflowers
opening in the fullness
of the Moon's light
Tonight
wrapped tight
threads of fear
Mama Pain
too great to fight
A ragged slice
overflowing
with hurt by
unkind words
thoughtlessly
thrown my way
Self inflicted pain
when I doubt my inherent
Knowledge and Strength
I know this part
of my heart
that holds
the wounded
collections of me
Keeping at bay
the ache that
lives within
The Blessing is
that Love
surrounds
Wraps around
with Healing light
Shining within
to Hold The Power
Allowing me respite
from the Sacred Locket
held in this place of
My Heart
♡° ⊙ • ⊙ °♡
Copyright © 2016. Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved
related poems...
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1483839/19/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1465555/knick-knacks/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1181941/it-hurts/
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 5:02 PM UTC
Hailstorms with big winds, trees writhing in breezes
Coyotes howling in moonlight, dogs when they sneezes
Alloys and carved toys, stone gargoyles with wings
These are a few of my favorite things.
Skunk smells carried gently on nocturnal breezes
Sly double entendres and tickley teases
Beautiful salmon colored sunsets that make my jaw drop
Smell of pine 'n cedar in my sauna and wood shop!
Dolphins and doggies and toddlers and mooses
Saunas and cold plunges and honking V-flying gooses
Small mutts and storytellers and Pixar cartoons
Crazy call of the Maine dark of night loons
These are some of my nurturing tunes!
Volcanoes with lava and magma all oozing
Cross country skiing just gliding and cruising
Receiving massages unwinding and unbruising
I love my collections of adhesives and strings
These are a few of my favorite things!
So when the wasps sting
When the bored people whine
Wen I'm feeling dispirited and sad
I just think of a few of my favorite things
And I don't feel…so…bad!
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 8:26 PM UTC
I wonder who we are,
who I am.
if I am we, then what is they?
Are we stardust collections? Are they?
Perhaps, perhaps not.
Maybe the better question is not what we are,
but what we do.
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 4:49 PM UTC
Sludge and blood. The smell of deep red iron
filtering through the rocks and bodies bruised to the touch.
Grotesque collections of pills and broken skin;
infections and secretions and violent affections -
Spit stained fingers and dilated pupils at thoughts thick with resin.
Waking up with sickness in your stomach and bite marks on your neck
The pull of clutching hands at strands of hair and bitten lips and sweat
Pulling deeper, sharp inhale of self-done stitches
Ripped open insides and the moment his breath hitches -
aches forever. Pulsing, swollen, bleeding on the brain
Sweet and sickly, gorgeous and gorged veins
Momentary singularity in pain.
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 6:20 PM UTC
I pick up my pen again
I want these words to be everything
love letters
apologizes
confessions, daydreams
plans? Or roadmaps, new
contracts, to-do lists, like
"stop falling down," or
"try harder this time". I turn
you over but you don't give me what I'm looking for, I'm looking
for a place to dissolve this poison
I'm searching in the dark for halos that don't exist
I'm counting up nights of lost sleep,
calculating the probability of
our intertwined fingers as
remedies melt
off your tongue and run over
cracks in the pavement, oozing
sticky shower thoughts into our heads, like how
did we end up here?,& how
does the world end every night but go
on spinning the next morning?
I want this to be everything, the cure
our futures, soft plans,
collections of stitched together questions like how long
does forever taste on your breath
in the aftermath of all the anxiety you tend
to consume?
I want to pull the drapes on this thing and leave it to breathe in the
dark, leave it under
covers so these ailments don't seep
around my doorframe and pull
what is half-born into the light, let it be
let it live
let it cave in on itself and slowly
rebuild.
Chances come in
handfuls,
let the sun forget to practice her
old game of never
letting anyone rest; my fingers are warm & numb now and they remind me a little of
how you look when you're half asleep
they remind me
why this is fragile, why this is broken
why this can never
last and I'm sitting
in the passenger seat wondering
how the soft things stretch out their wings in
my lungs without
killing me, but they're
leaving their marks now, clawing
up my throat;
I close my eyes and give
them to the open air.
You don't know all of this; your eyelids
are heavy and you're keeping track
of who I am in little
notepads & reminders,
keeping track
of the way we move and how likely
we are to remember this moment in 5 years,
because right now you want
to capture it and tame it like a living thing.
We are becoming dust
molecules, we are
burning, we are becoming
quiet we don't leave footprints
we don't leave traces
we are heading toward the end of the world with our hands
tucked into our pockets, we are headed
toward the end of the world dissolving each others names on our tongues like sugar, we are headed
toward the end of the world and when we get there,
it starts again.
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 5:34 PM UTC
Oh God!, How She Can Be That Good
For One Look, You Should Ask Time To Hold
To Find Yourself Traveling Along, I Stood
I Looked At Her So Long As Far As I Could
How Mad I Was, And She Changed My Mood
Just One Of The Kind, Stands On The Ladyhood
Then Took Another Look, As Just As Fair As It Would
To Fall In Such Amazing Chill, And Froze My Blood
Something I Can't Deny But I Really Understood
Such Perfection Is A Creation Of The Hands Of God
A Beautiful Rose More Sweetly Than Our Rhyme:
Words Won't Be Fair, They're Just That Lame
Even The Words Got Jealous, What A Shame
That Rose Is A Diffirent Level , Just A Sublime
She Leaves Her Footprints On The Field Of Time
As Great Goes The Heaven, She Does The Same
The One Second Of Staring Goes On Overtime
Goes Wild On The Clock, And Hard To Tame
She's That Much Of Love And Fire aflame
Such Green Blows Hope On The Eyes
A Beauty Perfume Cuddle The Skies
As Symmetry World, Keeps You Free
To Keep You Around And Never Flee
Hold It So Soft, If You Really Dare?
In Such Open World, Hearts aspire
Such Soft Skin, Is Not To Share
She Threw Her Thorns If You Care
Looking At Different Shooting Stars
I Think The World Will Keep It Live
Her Pollen Falling On The Town
One Blink To Fall On It Now
I Should Hold On My Beats
Breaking Down Over My Knees
In Our World Submit The Mind
To Move Smoothly With The Wind
She Said She Will Tear Us Apart
To Change World And All The Fate
Just Go Straight With The Light
Through The Shadow And The Night
Is That A Dream Or Something Clear
It Feels Like Something Heavens Wear
On Our Shallow Fulminatory Souls
Swallow Us In Red Romantic Cords
To Drop Some Tiny Drops On The Sea
Something We Had To Pay As A Fee
Another Drop From The Blood
For Another Chance We Can't Hold
To Breath The Lungs As We Could
She Is That Pretty And That Good
She Spread Her Joy And So Much Of Love
WIth One Message Of Peace With A Dove
Author : Aladdin Aures Hamdi
Please click on + below and add the poem in your collections
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 5:58 PM UTC
I pile up twenty years worth of
Publisher-declined
Collections.
They reach me to my knees.
Little towers of Poetic
Injustice;
Mini-monuments to the years
Of mailbox disappointments
And cursing the arts.
Now I thank for every manuscript
Returned with their polite regrets.
Another volume of *"Unpublished
Works"* for the future.
They are my Twelve Monkeys.
My Poetry of Gold at the
Rainbow's End.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 2:36 PM UTC
I live a life collecting pieces.
Pieces of fantasies forever the
realm of
childhood;
Pieces of imaginations turned wild and wonderful.
Pieces of laughter, confusion, delight and tears.
Pieces of melancholy, shards of sorrow;
fragments of regret, portions of jealousy.
Sections of desire, passion, leading us on
blindly to others of
heartache and yearning.
The rough edges of frustration, yet the
smooth curves of contentment, peace.
I live a life collecting pieces;
this is what I’m told makes a life worthy.
Worthy of remembrance, joy; fulfilment.
But only I can see the struggles,
feel my bones bearing more weight;
the aching tiredness I fall into,
when I’m not at work,
collecting the pieces I speak of.
The fright I hastily pick up off the ground,
when I compare my clumsy, ***** array of
pieces to your perfect and bound ones;
when you aren’t looking.
The dread I reach for, because you leave it crushed
beneath your feet.
The nervous tension pulling strings beneath my skin;
leaving me a reckless, vulnerable puppet
collecting the pieces left in your wake.
Torn to scattered, dusty pieces;
Reborn a puzzle of simplicities,
bright and shining pieces woven into form.
No matter where we have been, where we
were taken,
where we were loved,
where we were betrayed,
where we fought bravely,
where we surrendered nobly,
where we were embittered,
where we learnt of strengths and weaknesses;
we are all made of pieces.
We are collections of pieces.
You and I.
Our collection is known as life;
each piece is our experience of something.
Someone.
Somewhere.
And the more we know each other, the more
often our hands can reach for two of the same,
available pieces left before us.
I pen them down, keep them special and fragrant.
I live a life collecting pieces
and often they are of you.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 9:16 PM UTC
Shema (“Listen”)
by Primo Levi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You who live secure
in your comfortable homes,
who return each evening to find
warm food and a hearty welcome ...
Consider: is this a “man”
who slogs through mud,
who has never known peace,
who fights for scraps of bread,
who lives at another man's whim,
who at his "yes" or "no" lies dead.
Consider: is this a “woman”
shorn bald and bereft of a name
because she lacks the strength to remember,
her eyes as void and her womb as frigid
as a winter frog's?
Consider that such horrors have indeed been!
I commend these words to you.
Engrave them in your hearts
when you lounge in your beds
and again when you rise,
when you venture outside.
Rehearse them to your children,
or may your houses softly crumble
and disease render you equally as humble
so that even your offspring avert their eyes.
Primo Michele Levi (1919-1987) was an Italian Jewish chemist, writer and Holocaust survivor. He was the author of two novels and several collections of short stories, essays, and poems, but is best known for If This Is a Man, his account of the year he spent as a prisoner in the Auschwitz concentration camp in Nazi-occupied Poland. It has been described as one of the best books by one of the most important writers of the twentieth century. His unique work The Periodic Table was shortlisted as one of the greatest scientific books ever written, by the Royal Institution of Great Britain. Levi's autobiographical book about his liberation from Auschwitz, The Truce, became a movie with the same name in 1997. Keywords: Holocaust, poem, Italian, translation, man, mud, woman, bald, nameless, houses, homes, bread, eyes, womb, empty, void, frigid, lifeless, horror, horrors, hearts, write, etch, engrave, inscribe, children, offspring, disease, avert, reject
Mar 14, 2020
Mar 14, 2020 at 4:58 AM UTC
Plumped rouge with pigment
her lip fills to graze the ********
intent to disquiet the likes of de Sade
autografted with ocular detachment
should a Marquis wish to harness
the song of the morning
within a bandolier of Seine
to ensnare any bustled Persephone
gilted by discharge of ions
into a ménage of torment
through the Porte des Lions.
Hers is the tincture of doxy
caramelized and debrided of naivety,
empowered by the eve of invention,
swollen to curves and grounded in Paris.
Illumination defies pervasion
down to every gear and pulley
she has hushed through mechanization
and lulled by steam,
swaging a cacophony of flickers
encased in glass by the Lady’s watch,
where every rivet of her plate glisters silken
reverberation in cascade,
elegant, caged, and towering,
outspoken in silence,
ever challenging the Champ de Mars.
"Paris by Gaslight," written by Dionne Charlet, is the title poem to be featured in the upcoming steampunk anthology Paris by Gaslight, the third anthology in the By Gaslight Series from New Orleans small press Black Tome Books. Look for the first two collections of poems and short stories set in Victorian Times, New Orleans by Gaslight (ISBN 9780615801186) and Cairo by Gaslight (ISBN 9781516961528). Both collections feature poetry by Charlet, under the pseudonym Dionne Cherie.
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 2:44 PM UTC
Vague recollections,
Of curio collections,
Salt and pepper shakers, unused
crystal ashtrays, reflecting rainbows
of northern prairie light on days bright.
A prairie girl, did you miss the place near the Arctic Circle,
your home? Did Odin and Freya call you away from here to
there, or was Thor, or Loki the thunder in your angry voice
that I feared and may have hid under the steep basement
stairs, quietly in the dark hoping you were unaware.
Some of your children, and
your spouse, left before you did,
I know that was tough, and a shame.
You were tougher, though, you did
suffer in you aging frame.
I know you loved us all, I know you knew me too,
very early you said of me "he is a sensitive child", which
I have found to be all too true, many years after you have
gone I miss you, grandpa and dad, Audrey and Vic too.
Did you all find Valhalla at Heaven's Gate?
So I will not stir up the past, nor
will I hurry, through each day, for
I will remember, and smile at those
memories that brought me joy, prose
and rhyme not of a child, but a Viking man.
©DWE032013
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 3:02 AM UTC
Once upon a time
There were fairies called, V fairies
Fairies who were so beautiful and fine
It was magical, their existence
They lived inside maidens
Who were ought to protect them
In return, the fairies embodied them
With purity as shiny as a diamond emblem
These fairies were sought by every men
For they are the greatest gift that can be bestowed to them
That's why they seek for the perfect maiden
From whom this wish, they can attain
The maidens were set on a journey
To find warriors who are worthy
Warriors who love sincerely
And will vow to cherish them for eternity
The fairies those times were well-respected
They were treasures almost impossible to find
The fairies were boldly protected by their maidens
They are only given to those truly worthy ones
Fast forward to this generation however
Through time, the maidens eventually are weakened
They have let their guards down
And thought all men were worthy of the crown
The V fairies are not given anymore
They are forcefully taken, oftentimes with gore
They are taken due to curiosity, or worst
Taken because of lust, then perpetrators disappear like ghosts
Fairies became men's collections
More fairies, more rights to boast
More manly they are than before
More wins at the competition they build on their own
Maidens lost their credibility as the fairies' protectors
They didn't care about them, like they're not part of them anymore
Throwing them away when they're bored
Not caring if many men do hoard
V fairies were not gifts anymore
V fairies were taken away even without the promise of forevermore
V fairies were simply picked up like on a shopping galore
V fairies were disrespected, to adore no more
But there are beliefs that some of the fairies survived
Living within maidens who stood firm and with their best, tried
To find worthy ones and battle with the wicked
To let the fairies stainless and protected
There are beliefs also that worthy warriors are still there
Who still respects and cherish the value of the diamond emblem
Who knows how to wait until the fairies are given to them
And knows how to take care of their chosen maidens
With these beliefs there's still hope for the future
That the responsibility of a maiden to its fairies will be nurtured
A hope that this will be passed on to generations after
In a hope that V fairies will have a happily ever after
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 5:24 AM UTC
This is a terrible romantic
and sadomasochistic narrative.
The artist's mind is clothed in fabrics.
Fashion is his vocabulary.
Grim-tales are often told with foreboding,
exacted further through sharp, perceiving lenses.
Collections of sharp silhouettes speak of
a masterful and sensitive touch.
A turbulence of emotions exploded in
delicate and mesmerising theatricals.
Taking delight in challenging popular notions,
Alexander left audience continually in a
lingering aftertaste of shock mixed with wonder.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 11:41 AM UTC
*As a designer,
I have always been fascinated by the interplay
between people and objects of design.
The responses change over the years,
and with this in mind, my collections
become tangible reflections
of my own journey,
as a woman to this day.*
/ Alexandra Mor
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 1:20 PM UTC
oh god!, how she drives me crazy
The Sublime Meaning Of The Beauty
To like The Sky, But Feels Dizzy
something very strange the most likely
A Coup Of Death You'll Take Wisly
like A sacrifice for forgiveness maybe
A killer armed with the beauty look on her eyes
The More Dark Falls, She's going bright
Walks Smoothly Between The starry Skies
And A Jealous Sun From Her Tinder Light
A Perfect Look, For Heavens Cries
While All Women, A Shadow In Bitter Night
Glow romance better than the sunrise
A Beautiful Shape Delights Butterflies
Walks elegantly while astonished eyes
She Did It Innocently, Without Any Try
very lovely personality reflected on her soul
And The Whole World Around Her Look Like fools
Such Frozen Time In A Silent Hall
Made By The Walk Of An Angel On The Perfect Moon
She Is Fresh And Soft, Very Eloquent
Such Rains For Earth In Goodness Spent
Too Calm For Our Souls, To Be Innocent
While Hearts Decide To Begin Their Haunt
Wild Goes The Beats, To Change Their Tint
Sinking In her world, they Don't Know Where They Went
Dreaming About A Pure Dwelling-Place
Author / Aladdin Aures HAMDI
Please click on + below and add the poem in your collections
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 10:19 AM UTC
'Kabali' and 'Badlapur' actor Radhika Apte will be the show-stopper in the upcoming Lakme Fashion Week in the ‘Gulzar’ collections of a prominent Kolkata-based fashion designer.
“We have been working with Radhika since 'Majhi the Mountain Man' days (2015) and she will be flaunting our fabrics as show-stopper in India’s premier fashion show which is keenly followed by Bollywood," the well-known city-based woman fashion designer told media after a fashion show in a city hotel last Friday night.
The Lakme Fashion Week is a bi-annual fashion event with the summer-resort show taking place in April while the winter-festive show is held in August.
This year the winter-festive show will be held from August 24 to 28.
Radhika will be wearing bright-colored lehenga since the show will be focused on beautiful India, it’s colours and contours, choreographed with the poetry of nature by Amir Khusro, the designer said.
“It can also be termed our tribute to a great name like Gulzar saab who has brought our lyrics and poems to a new level,” the designer Saroj Jalan said.
The signature style of the designer, whose works adorn Bollywood actors like Radhika beside well known models Lisa Sharma and former Miss Universe India winner Ushoshi Sengupta, is delicate floral patterns along with the use of Zardozi and array of hand-woven tusser silk and velvet enhancing the experience of the garments and “we will project the same in the Lakme week where the accent is on ethnicity,” designer Saroj Jalan said.
Supermodel Ushoshi, having recently debuted in the Bengali film 'Egoler Chokh', said “Lakme show reflects the different tastes of all leading Indian fashion designers who are still rooted to Indian heritage.”Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 12:29 AM UTC
Agnes McDuff collected strange stuff,
Or so the story goes:
There were old pots and pans,
String, rubber bands,
Boxes and boxes of clothes,
Newspapers, plates,
Books stored in crates,
And candlesticks lined up in rows.
Some mason jars,
Toy trucks and cars,
A model train with a whistle that blows,
Needles and spools,
All kinds of tools,
And shoes with holes in the toes.
There were tables and chairs,
Bookends in pairs,
A grandfather clock that was broke,
An old brass spittoon,
Some Sunday cartoons,
And a bicycle mssing a spoke.
Four or five hundred old wooden blocks,
Twenty-three pair of grey woolen socks,
A Christmas Edition bottle of Coke,
A board game missing directions,
A bat, a ball, a catcher’s mitt, two baseball card collections,
And a great big rusty tuba. What a joke!
There was other stuff, but you’ve heard enough;
About what was stored in
The Attic of Agnes McDuff.
Part 2
Agnes’ attic was quite special
But not for the things it contained
But for how she had to get there
Please let me explain!
Agnes had a one-story house
A flight of stairs led to the attic.
When she opened up the door,
The light came on automatic.
It opened to a hallway
Where there was another door
Another light, another hall, and more stairs, which
Led back down to the first floor!
Where an elevator waited
To take her up again?
But it had just one button
And it was numbered “10”.
When she pushed it, it was crazy
The elevator turned upon its side,
Grew wheels and drove out on the street
For an amazing ride!
Across a long suspension bridge,
Then underneath a tunnel,
And then it went around and round
Like circling down a funnel!
It dropped upon a railroad track
Hooked onto the caboose
And followed to the roundhouse
Where it finally broke loose.
It turned around a couple times
And ran out toward the street
The elevator ran, of course
Because it had grown two feet!
It ran across an avenue,
Around a lake, and through a park
And then through another tunnel
Where it was very dark.
A mile later it emerged,
At Agnes’ house, by her front door!
The elevator walked inside,
And was on the second floor!!
So that’s how Agnes reached her attic,
Perhaps someday you’ll go there too,
Push the elevator button,
And you’ll find my story’s true!
Part 3
Agnes stood there in her attic
And smiled at all her stuff
That almost ends the story of
The Attic of Agnes McDuff.
But Agnes’ story can never end
Her smile turned to a frown,
Because you see poor Agnes
Forgot how to get back down!!
PwL May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 8:17 AM UTC
we were driving home
taking side roads in a roundabout way.
and you spotted something on the side of the road.
bloodied, broken and (i assumed to be) dead.
you pulled over and we inspected it.
i was rather disgusted, but you picked it up and coddled it 'cause it had fur.
you kept coo'ing at it and asked it what it's name was (expecting no answer)
but it struggled to utter "Love".
we begrudgingly decided to take it home
and made a bed for it and nourished it back to health.
a week later we were drinking Earl Grey by the fireplace,
heard a rumbling
and looked around to see it standing there looking at us.
it was 7' tall and had an expression of awe, wonder, and terror
as if it thought we would ****** it at any second.
each night it had a different face, resembling one of your former playthings.
you never called it the same name twice.
a week later, it couldn't fit through any of the doorways.
we always came home to plaster, paint and drywall scattered everywhere.
i complained.
"Love has broad shoulders", you quipped.
it had grown too much for us.
a week later, i spent the afternoon at the bar and you were shopping.
we rendezvoused back home at 3PM.
only to find a gaping hole where the front door used to be.
everything inside totaled.
precious collections, expensive technology, jewelry...
all gone (or destroyed beyond recognition).
i railed, "Love ruined EVERYTHING!!!"
you seemed to take no note, kept your composure and muttered, "It always does" and just began sweeping.
the next day we got a kitten from the animal shelter,
and were laying in bed with it at night.
i asked, "Do you think Love will ever come back?"
you answered coldly, "It never does".
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 1:17 AM UTC
When I look into my bedroom
I see a shelf of various book
genres that I read over and over
again, when I look into my bedroom
and look beyond the rest I see a
window which I have seen many, many
different things through, when I look
into my bedroom and door ahead I
see a dresser with many clothing items
I will cherish for life. Above I see some
of my most valuable collections, when
I look into my bedroom and look down
I see a box of various types of *****
which I have kicked and thrown all over
the house When I look inside my closet
and look down I see board games that
I have played over and over again.
When I look inside my closet and look
straight ahead I see sweatshirts that
have kept me warm in the winter months.
When I look inside my closet and look
up I see enormous puzzles that I have
spent days and days and days to complete,
when I look into my bedroom and look
right I see my bed where I have had
good dreams and bad dreams and dreams
in between. When I look into my bedroom
and look right I see soccer cards which
I have spent hours organizing and putting
in their holders. When I look into my
bedroom and look beyond my bed I see
a shelf with fidget spinners, nerf guns,
athlete cards, travel games, and remote
control cars everywhere, when I look
into my bedroom and look beyond my
dresser I see a big box of athletes cards
which I have studied over and over again,
when I look in my bedroom and look at
the walls I see posters of athletes who
inspire mes like no other,
when I look into my bedroom and look
above my closet I see my mini basketball
hoop which I have attempted many shots
on. when I look into my bedroom I see
my very own personality.
Dec 30, 2019
Dec 30, 2019 at 7:52 PM UTC