"colons" poems
Practicality is the reality
of ignominious totality
the devices of all sizes
and the grammatical mentality
of systematic duality.
Punctuation is the **********
the *********** of every generation
the permutation and saturation
of wordsmith temptation for re-calibration
the aberration and consternation
that leads to misinformation
and condemnation and annihilation
of the constellation colloquial conversation
the abomination of language urbanization
the fermentation and ionization
of linguistic complications
the desolation of commas and semi-colons
the affirmation of their vs they're
the augmentation of amalgamation
is just the lyrical ************
of a hooded basketball top nation
the culmination of devastation
the gestation and interpolation
that leads to appreciation isolation
and justification acceleration
the modification and assimilation
of poorly-worded implementation
and the contamination of myriad exploration
alienation in illumination
punctuation is the salvation of documentation
against the tides of violation
and the extermination of regurgitation
the classification of discrimination
and last but not least
the liberation of misrepresentation.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC
They tell me to lay down
and to please look at the fish.
Notice how they glide
in-and-out of the cool-blue
water; how they don't have
a care in the world -- they're
fish: one out of millions;
mindless; alone in packed
tanks; alone, jammed in
metal cans full of corpses
and low-quality mustard.
Putting the mask over my
perfect nostrils, my straight
teeth, they say Don't be afraid;
listen to my humming; how it
will blend with the high-pitch
screech you hear, now; becoming
an equilibrium of torture and
fantastical strangeness, unbound
by Gods, by Persons, by Loves.
Inside this perfect dark,
you cannot think beyond
the giant broad strokes that
is the world sweeping by --
and it is marvelous, the
buoyant miseries floating
above your head; my head
of ambivalent visions;
the Earth's core, a furiously
violent brilliance, ablaze
beneath my feet, under
layers of confounded
deathly masquerade; a
mask much like mine:
an egotistical reflection
brought out by one's
feeling of gigantic import-
-ance, despite hanging
from the vastest of ceilings;
a wannabe church in the sway
of jungle mind; primitive instinct.
*********
You know you can wake up
at this point, or so they say.
What does it all mean, to which
I murmur, I don't know. It's
hard to say what I know; if
anything, all I have is doubts.
All I can muster are regrets;
I wish I could return to that
perfect dark, confused and
semi-philosophical; all-
pretentious: a feeling of
being bound by brokenness.
They tell me to chill out;
you use semi-colons like
they're heartbeats. Focus
on whether your chest
holds validity.
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 3:00 PM UTC
I.
This is just another bad poem
Just vomited-thoughts-left-on-paper poem
This is a collection of grammatical errors
This would surely make my English teacher cringe
But no worries, I didn’t write this for her
II.
This bad poem is for you
May my subject and verb disagreement
remind you of all those misunderstandings that lead to raised voices
and nights where I cried myself to sleep
Sentence construction was never my strength, it still isn’t, maybe that’s why you never truly understood me—
called me difficult and bipolar
You said that I was too much
Did it ever occur to you that you might just misread me, like homonyms,
same words but with different meanings
misread my jealousy with accusations,
my concern for excessive affection
You said that I loved you too much
but darling, did you even love me at all?
Did I put too much meaning on your words,
turned them into similes and metaphors?
Turned your literal statements into figures of speech
You told me that you liked me,
so I blissfully interpreted it as a hyperbolic expression— called it love when obviously it wasn’t
III.
I was never good at using punctuations
I put too much commas,
unnecessary, misused, I kept trying to hold on
Afraid of the inevitable end,
Switched to semi-colons in an attempt to make it a few words longer
Because despite all our grammatical errors
no matter how shameful our piece of literature was to the English language
It was beautiful to the untrained eye,
To those who read poetry as it is
To those who don’t dig deep in search of true meaning behind the metaphors
It was beautiful to me
But I eventually learned that infinitives and infinities are different,
in spite of sharing infinite as the root word
Like our love,
started with something so promising
but unlike most novels,
there’s no happy ending
So I accepted defeat,
accepted the inevitable and bitter end
No more committing the same mistakes over and over again,
the same words over and over again,
Accepted the fact that synonyms existed,
words with the same meaning but also entirely different
new and unfamiliar, foreign and peculiar
IV.
I accepted defeat
No more commas or semi-colons
We have reached the couplet of our free formed sonnet—
I was never good with endings, I don’t think I’ll ever be,
So darling I hand you the pen, set us both free.
Dec 5, 2016
Dec 5, 2016 at 7:31 AM UTC
Wake up vibrations,
stroke us kindly,
we’ll all be one someday,
singularity is just a timepiece.
Gotta sell the diamonds
to calibrate the cogs,
we’re digits livin in
clogged colons.
We cure MONOtony,
with medicinal MONOgamy,
mourning the cut cord of civility.
Oh, how I miss the vibrations
of those tribal jam sessions.
Maybe cause I didn’t record them
with voice memo boxes.
We’re living in boxes.
Driving in boxes.
Working in boxes.
Staring at boxes.
But beauty is roundness.
So help me measure the circumference of your face,
because I can’t tell where it begins and ends.
I will knit you a beenie come winter.
And we’ll skate upon this lake,
willing the ice to break.
Cause we are done being fake.
We are done telling people
where they should skate.
We are holding her hand
and his hand
and our own hand
when we hold hands.
Black Red White Yellow
they are all hands
with the power
to give and to take,
not just orate.
So give the politicians
the middle finger
and then join hands
break down rectangular gates.
Then, meditate.
We will wait for utopia,
but we won’t stand for things being the same.
And come spring when we re-awake,
we'll draw up a new constitution for
a consciousness revolution.
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
2019
was
the
year
I was
to do
more
only
to
find
I
should
do
less
One month in
I sent January flowers on the third day
without even telling him.
He needed it after that last week.
White roses.
To creep out the dead
and question the living stuck inches deep under water.
Thursdays were mine.
Everyone of them,
forever.
Fridays,
I fried colons in grease and became an adult
when I was thrilled to be greeted by the polished grill
adjacent to its elder and a former twin.
I became closer to gambling and God.
Or Mammon?
I am all of theirs at this time
and boy,
does it literally say I am not to love both.
Or all.
Also; January you child.
I know you were angry when you had to leave.
Three days cooped wasn't going to pluck a Buffalo.
All of those times you got away with building walls for fists.
Just target practice and misses every time.
Cut yourself shaving and cry for a month.
I don't shame you,
this is your voice,
only you spoke this long while
I let you ignore the roads of the west side for generations
and complain from the heated indoors of mine.
Staring at a bus stop
I'm singing already with her, February.
I given you addictions both grand and small.
One month of January,
thirty-one says and three now, February.
I Stand still; in frame of a calendar,
Reflecting deadlines on my face.
Dark circles around my eyes and dates.
It is due to be the fourth before I know it.
Twenty-five opportunities reside in secret paths.
I can't find possibility knowing her name other than, February.
Soon March.
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 4:05 PM UTC
I punctuate with close precision,
aware of where
I'm placing my semi-colons and
dashes,
using Oxford commas
like a grammar geek.
Your punctuation always bothers me
but you, with your misplaced apostrophes
and oddly abbreviated words
that you cradle in speech marks,
never care.
You were constantly callous in your conduct,
your handling of punctuation marks.
I assumed you never understood
the significance I attached to your words.
I could feel the excitement
and anxiety and apprehension
build in my belly every time
with your exclamation points!
I could feel my brows furrow together
deep in confusion,
every time you sent me just
one little question mark?
I suppose I never did tell you this
but when last month you ended your sentence
(accidentally, of course) with a dash,
well, I knew then that we’d be for ever.
and when last week you sent me
a comma to end your speech
I knew for certain that
more was to come.
but I see now it was silly
to attach such hope to a hyphen
because yesterday you concluded
with the biggest full stop I've ever seen
and let me know that that was all.
I felt that period’s punch
deep inside my gut
like you were trying to make me
throw up my jam and toast.
I had never before known
one small,
simple
dot
to be so powerful
and hurt so much.
It did though,
and you couldn't even tell-
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 3:56 AM UTC
The expectation,
Of you to accept the inhalation,
Of the evaporation,
Of someone else’s waste.
Make it make sense,
How the walls of stalls,
Fail to reach its maximum highs and lows,
For all of us to share what we release.
We listen to the air,
That flubs between *** cheeks,
Just as the **** projects deuces,
Into the bowl that cups the sound of wind.
We hear the moans and sighs,
Of relief, constipation and strain,
As we urinate nearby,
Adjacent to the incomplete **** shack.
Make it make sense,
How tasting the gases,
Of Joe Blow, blowing out his insides,
Is a customary to our community.
A sociological experiment,
Deemed to generate sociopathy,
As we laugh at the flatulence,
And giggle at one’s vulnerability.
Merely a forgotten fact,
That we have been there too,
We go there every day,
And pretend that others don’t do the same.
And without a mere act of courtesy,
The space is left filthier than the last,
Because why be considerate for the next?
Someone’s job is to cleanse my waste.
Furthermore is the neglect,
Of faucets, soap and towels,
Aimed to **** bacteria,
That exits biological passageways.
Why oh why,
Must I be forced to study,
Why this is simply unacceptable,
This concept of oversharing?
Recurring stage fright,
Readily apparent,
When forced to **** beside men,
More than double my size.
I’ll simply never understand,
How by design,
What we wouldn’t do in front of house guests,
Is something we are urged to do in front of strangers.
Bonding,
With a bunch of hairy, overweight men,
Who clear their throats, bladders and colons,
In my personal space.
Nov 13, 2023
Nov 13, 2023 at 9:41 PM UTC
when words turn into worlds
strange things happen
paragraphs bend into globes
continents grow out of sentences
cultures start talking to each other
clinging to colons and dashes
when words become worlds
these worlds create grammar
and modestly submit to its rules
whereas the real world of worlds
grows ungrammatically
and is more colorful
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 5:48 PM UTC
Oh, I see—you liked it when I used that big word, huh?
You want me to use some more?
Mm, let me just grab my pocket Thesaurus.
Yeah, that's right baby, I take it everywhere with me—
I find it quite useful in these… situations.
Right now, I could give you seven variations
of the word ****
Seductive
Arousing
Provocative
Sensuous
Mmhm, you liked that one, didn't you?
Libidinous
Suggestive
Titillating…
You'd like more, I can tell,
but I need you to want it.
Let's go somewhere quiet
and thumb through
my college style manuals for a few hours.
We could talk about sentence variety,
the Oxford comma, some syntax,
and mm, if you're feeling real good,
maybe even discuss the proper usage of a semi-colon.
Just know, I've been saving semi-colons
for, you know, that special someone.
If things get a little steamy, we can go down to the basement
and I'll show you my Scrabble board.
I'll set you up for a triple-word score,
and you can put together some of those high-scoring,
two-letter words that really get me going.
Oh yeah, I think I'd be into your strategy.
When the game is over, I'll lean you back,
come in real close, and whisper some Neruda,
some Cummings,
some Dickinson
softly into your ear.
Afterward, I’ll trace lines of Hughes and Whitman
down your naked spine with my fingers.
I'm sure you know it's only polite
to return the favor.
It's just an idea.
I know it sounds good.
Trust me, I'll be gentle—
But baby, believe me—
I could punctuate you in all the right places.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 12:58 PM UTC
You spoke to me with your
voice like Mia Farrow’s and
your eyes not at all like
trampolines. A tar twig
bobbed between your lips;
you spoke of self-destruction
and smoked your commas
and semi-colons. You asked me
questions with the least amount
of answers and the most amount
of space, like a widow’s home
adorned in compromise. The six
o’clock sun sprawled through.
You said I reminded you of how
we’re always treating people like
fractions, simplifying where we
should be unfurling equations.
I saw the dawn illuminate your
hiccups and your hesitations. I
took a kiss; I thought there’s
nothing more fleeting than
moments like this, but at least
you can’t run quickly with a
heart so full.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 6:58 PM UTC
Flashing numbers; this isn't a binary
sequence but the universe has got me
wondering. 01001011010101011
combinations of 2 create infinitesimally
complicated creatures, craters, croutons,
castrations, cancers, colons, concretes,
convulsions, corn-cobs. 'Where is my
mind' by the Pixies; wish I'd never heard
it before. No simile metaphor for what's
next, swooping ultraviolent. Almost like
skin being ripped off so I'm nothing but
bone and muscle. 'With your feet in the
air and your head on the ground,' the
dam snaps and floods my Amsterdam
cheeks like New Orleans; scrambling for
roof I drown. Scrambling for roof I drown.
'Try to trick and spin it, yeah,' polka-dots
and floaters; bacteria in my eye dives into
the ocean and makes me wonder which
flew bottom and rounded-dust to eat *****
on sea-floor. 'Your head will collapse, but
there's nothing in it, and you'll ask yourself,'
mashing cellphone numbers now; mashing
cellphone needed now dad pick up please pick
up worlds end pick up mom pick up I need
to know I'm real I need to know there's truth,
'where is my mind? Where is my mind? Whee
erre is my mind?' the world fades into itself and
what crosses mind is death but no, why? No,
need. Dad picks up to my heaving sobs. Rational,
collected. Collect call. World freezes.
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 9:13 PM UTC
Living in a different time zone, still reeling from past decisions.
Fighting venemous events to no avail,
not letting go of lasting mass incisions.
Excision of life's excitements.
Removal of my livers, kidneys, colons,
but still, I shiver in the coldness
of the living.
Admitting to the voices in my head,
that the Lord's mercy still extends,
into heaven for the choices of the dead,
who did the devil's bidding.
A foolish folly for a younger self,
to fall afoot amongst a rotten hell,
hellish landscape brought into the realm,
of mortals and the bedroom shelves.
All my dreams upon a table,
and in the dusty drawers there lies the pain.
Honestly I'm never able,
to entrust another lover with my reigns.
To fly I must begin to build momentum,
but something's caught up on me and instead preventing.
And slowing my ascension,
Also did I mention,
that every other moment that I spend here in atonement
is a ticking to a redder deathly sentence.
Repentance, with a mix of learned and unearned lessons, accuses those who lied.
Impresses extra stress especially when the ghostly men attend and lean up on my bedside.
I use to shy away but now I stare them in the eyes.
Fear's been long gone since childhood,
when crazy layovers in hazy places
played a part of strongly breaking bonds with those I thought were good.
I've felt my death a million times and dreamed it millions more.
And yet I never let myself fall victim to the final tricks of it's afflictions.
Meaning it's a situation still remaining unexplored.
I know what I lived for, and I know exists a future still in store.
But god ******* ****** life is such a chore.
Lord,
Give me strength and give me more.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 10:48 AM UTC
Intangible computer guy
The one you trick yourself into feeling closest to,
When in reality he is the farthest away.
Hell, an entire ocean separates the two of you.
But none the less,
He has gained importance.
Your life has become so lack luster
That more and more you find anticipation rising
As you near your PC.
It practically singes your fingertips
As you reach for the keyboard
And paw at the mouse.
Your body is
Taken over by an infestation of cyber butterflies;
Flapping their steel bolted wings
So hard,
That they thin your breath in anticipation of his next paragraph
Of small talk words;
Adorned with innocent courtesies
And make-shift smiley faces of semi-colons and parentheses.
Perhaps you’re eager because of the complement he threw in near the end of his last message?
As you scroll slowly down the page,
You see that he has not replied
Even though it has been two days.
In that instant
you realize that “intangible computer guy”
Is only so intangible to you;
For on the other side of the Atlantic,
He lives a life that is real.
Maybe it is you who is intangible?
Your shell of a life has been a bit depressing as of late.
For you,
A 20 year old
Who should be having flings and going to parties,
Has only been kissed once and never been touched;
Stuck living a life not your own.
Maybe “intangible computer guy” is so real
That your pathetic life can’t fathom the fact that he has one too.
You realize this as the mild depression
That has been like an infestation of maggots,
Gnaws at your senses;
Causing your eyes to burn, redden and cry.
Yes.
You realize that with Mr. Computer Guy
You get the chance to be charming
And talk about yourself,
When in reality you can barely get a word in edgewise;
Too busy living for others
That you,
In a sense,
Have begun to fade.
Becoming almost…
Intangible.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 9:25 PM UTC
Imaginary adversaries are emanating from the alcohol to facebook walls, in temporary solutions for the vibes polluting my constitution, in the willful regrets atop my onset of contempt itching my temples cleft in my futures vision of itself.
I am myself and to no-one else do i answer unto hallow cancers ******* my bones away, and my mind astray in the straight laced fates of the other players who played their cards right, the same.
I go all in with the pocket deuces, atop intrusive verbal abuses, serving useless satire to the tired faces of try hards, bleeding of inadequacy.
Im a runon and on sentence of rambling weaponous vapors from the fragrant flatulence breaking from deflating colons, swollen like Noland's ego, when hes drunk and grumbling about life, lolling as he whines of the wines flavor, savoring the bitter for betterment of the sweet, neatly wrapped in sheets of plastic for later.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 11:20 PM UTC
imagine
you are walking in the cool night
and you turn round the corner
and Behold! before you is the open sky
full of glowing punctuation marks
the commas and semi-colons
and the full-stops and exclamation marks
O all so brilliant, so brilliant
O the question marks
and the dashes and the hyphens and the ellipsis
and the dots and the quotation marks double and single
and all marks floating and brilliant in the night sky
Imagine!
O Imagine!
And then what would you do -
O what would you do
when you see these brilliant marks?
these quirky marks...
Would you be astounded
and shout:
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
or would you feel confounded and go:
????????????????????????????
or be silent and say:
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
or be philosophical and muse:
, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
O what would you do
when you are before the Punctuation Sky
Vincent van Gogh never thought to draw?
Oct 9, 2010
Oct 9, 2010 at 11:39 AM UTC
To write a brilliant poem:
Use a concoction of ridiculous words.
Non-sensical message conveyed.
Show off your manipulation to language.
Stop. And pause. And start again,
your repeated point no longer in tandem.
Then for some unknown reason ignore all logical structure and ask a question?
Darken your mood.
Randomly: use colons.
Where do; you use; semi-colons¿
Only poets admire your work.
The rests are ignorant gits,
who cannot see how your use of a thesaurus can bring upon untold bliss.
Reflect. Unreflect.
One or two words don’t quite make sense.
Finally summarise, your all-knowing point takes flight
Filled with silent anger; you’ve written utter sh**e.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 1:53 PM UTC
I saw you.
Squeezed between sentences,
In semi colons and calibre comas,
On page twenty six.
Smudging word after word
With vagueness,
And I lost track of the story.
Couldn't find a full stop,
Couldn't find you.
Help me.
Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 6:15 AM UTC
Gargling on the film of rain smatter
For what?
Into that blue, carve a square nest
That I can pour bar its clutter
Into my wrist
All but
Ruby blessed
Harrowed koi speckled and spatter
The semi colons
My indecisive pause or full stop
Leaves my head underwater
And the pop
Stolen
To offward hop
Glassy bottles, tubes of black
Know me well
A who that breathes this ending call
Can look and reaching back
From the fall
See fell
The absent bawl
Vanity violet and lied
Face me
The name of bunching petals different
As irises inside their wet ink hide
Back reflect
Come free
What I not expect
Matted layers compact swung panels
Either way
Open, to their cast of prisoned souls
Closed, to continue what may well
Unfold
A lily bay
Or ferric shoal
Jeweller for tonight has set
I am a bearer
Through murky depths resend no fact
And airless suspend the single bracelet
A pact
Sealed to wear
When I am lost in their black
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC
Qu'est-ce pour nous, mon coeur, que les nappes de sang
Et de braise, et mille meurtres, et les longs cris
De rage, sanglots de tout enfer renversant
Tout ordre ; et l'Aquilon encor sur les débris ;
Et toute vengeance ? Rien !... - Mais si, toute encor,
Nous la voulons ! Industriels, princes, sénats :
Périssez ! puissance, justice, histoire : à bas !
Ça nous est dû. Le sang ! le sang ! la flamme d'or !
Tout à la guerre, à la vengeance, à la terreur,
Mon esprit ! Tournons dans la morsure : Ah ! passez,
Républiques de ce monde ! Des empereurs,
Des régiments, des colons, des peuples, assez !
Qui remuerait les tourbillons de feu furieux,
Que nous et ceux que nous nous imaginons frères ?
A nous, romanesques amis : ça va nous plaire.
Jamais nous ne travaillerons, ô flots de feux !
Europe, Asie, Amérique, disparaissez.
Notre marche vengeresse a tout occupé,
Cités et campagnes ! - Nous serons écrasés !
Les volcans sauteront ! Et l'Océan frappé...
Oh ! mes amis ! - Mon coeur, c'est sûr, ils sont des frères :
Noirs inconnus, si nous allions ! Allons ! allons !
Ô malheur ! je me sens frémir, la vieille terre,
Sur moi de plus en plus à vous ! la terre fond,
Ce n'est rien ! j'y suis ! j'y suis toujours.
1k
I tell him that three of his freckles disappeared today and that I can’t help but notice that his eye twitches twice before he falls asleep.
He sometimes wakes up to an empty bed at 2 in the morning. It is not because I can’t feel comfortable with his legs tangled in mine but, because I found the sight of not knowing where my body ended and his began so poetic.
Some days, I feel as if I’m living life in the shadows. Always noticing but never seen, are words supposed to scream this loud?
He says that when we kiss, he has to dust the commas and colons off of my eyelid and that he repeats his sentences four times because he knows that during the first I was catching a thought, preventing it from flying away and that when he speaks for the second I’m trying to take notice of the exact degree he tilts his head and that by the third I’ve already crafted a stanza about the way he licks his lips in the cold.
I tell myself that I will not carry a pen wherever I go, but it doesn’t matter because on certain days, even my bone marrow writes poetry about the cells dying and being born in my blood – supernovae of molecule scale.
My brother tells me that my quadratic equations are written in limerick form and that he does not know why I’m taking Calculus and Statistics if I already know a formula for the perfect novel.
The truth is, I don’t know why I notice the way my love wrings his hands twice when I ask him where he’s been – is that lavender I smell?
I know that he tells me the truth, but the other voice in my head can’t help but make me ask him why he drank his coffee with milk instead of creamer today.
He tells me that he loves me by holding me far too tight when I’m sad, so that he can crush the blue out of me and by barely touching me when I’m happy, afraid that he’ll break my spirits, he knows that my pink is a Porcelain Doll – fragile.
He doesn’t use any words, and for once, this is enough for me.
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 5:13 AM UTC
Nonchalant swipes, a branding spark.
Colons, dashes and asterisks - carefully arranged.
Soft whispers, quiet water, steamy breaths seen.
Smooth bellies, tender lips, musky smells imagined.
Alike paths cross, then twist away.
I miss what I've never had.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 4:44 PM UTC
theres something so final about a period
which is as it should be
commas always get in the way
coming and going like anxious insects
trying to make themselves important
as they scatter over a page
already overrun with too many words
question marks have a slightly
swooping profile curve just above
a period
theyre kind of elegant
they remind me of a swan
with a regal attitude
i saw once on a pretty pond
parentheses embrace words like **** curves
and brackets are like steel gray bookends
fencing words in
exclamation points are so abrupt
and rude and angry
like an outburst
in a classroom
like fireworks
in a funeral parlor
dont mess with them
they mean business
hyphens dashes colons semicolons
apostrophes
and quotation marks
that surround what we say
and dont forget the ellipses that
take the place of
words we omit
sometimes i like to write stories and poems
with no punctuation no capitalization
no grammatical rationale whatsoever
dare i ask
how did i do
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 3:23 PM UTC
Here I draw semi colons on my wrist
Over scars that once were bleeding
To show I could have died,
But kept living despite my wishes,
And despite my best efforts.
Here I listen to people laugh
I tell them I’m scared of the pope,
Eating, the rapture, opening doors, and the apocalypse.
I don’t think my anxiety is funny.
Did I miss the joke,
Or is my life the punch line?
Here I fit into a mold of an artist.
While I laugh at the irony.
And I create my own mold of a person
With mental illness and poor drawing skills.
Here it all goes.
Life and love and my anxiety.
Seamlessly blurring around the lines on my wrist,
The lines of her body,
And the lines on this paper.
Here I am.
And here
I think I’ll stay.
Despite my wishes.
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC