"comfortableness" poems
you fell in love with
late nights and soft kisses,
holding hands,
phone calls ending in
“i love you more.”
you fell in love with
someone knowing you
as well as you know yourself,
being seen when you
thought you were invisible,
comfortableness
you fell in love with
sparking short fights and
make up “i love you”s,
silent car rides and
quiet understandings
but you did not
fall in love
with me
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 6:32 PM UTC
Mary Moran can I see you
a minute please?
Sister Agnes said
Mary nodded and followed
the nun along the school corridor
walked past the statue
of the ****** Mary
(no relation)
and into a small office
where the nun
closed the door after them
sit down
the nun said
Mary sat down
crossed her legs
pulled the hem
of her school skirt
over her knees
and looked at the nun blankly
do you know why
you are here?
you asked me to come
Mary replied
*********
(she hoped secretly)
the rim of her school knickers
into a more comfortable place
unmoving face
the nun sighed
and sat at a desk
and put her hands
into a prayer mode
rudeness and disobedience
the nun said
that's why you're here
Mary looked past the nun
at the Crucified on the wall behind
dark brown wood
suntanned figure
dark nails holding
the hands and feet in place
and rumours of you
spreading rumours
about Sister Lucy
and Father Joseph
what rumour is that?
Mary said
leaving the Crucified
and gazing at the nun
you know
the nun said
how can I know
if you don't tell me
Mary said
the nun slapped the desk top
and said
dont try it on with me young lady
I'm not to be played with
(Mary hoped the nun wouldn't
contact her parents
her da was not in the mood
for bad news right now
and last time the nuns contacted
them about her
he tanned her behind
with his big hand
but that was years ago now
and well she was 14 now
and the hag seemed happy
just to moan so)
rudeness and disobedience?
Mary said
me being such?
the nun nodded her black
and white covered head
yes you Moran
and the spreading
of the rumours
Mary looked at the Crucified again
he hadn't moved
her fingers had sorted
the knickers rim out
to comfortableness
I'm sorry
Mary said
it's my menstrual mood swings
it gets to me and after
I feel so ashamed that I kneel down
in front of the statue
of St Therese and ask
for forgiveness so I do
the nun sat steely faced
her thin fingers joined
forming a kind of church structure
is that so?
the nun said
Mary nodded
then you will see Father Joseph
and confess to him
and see what he says about it
Sister Agnes said
eyeing Mary as she stood
and walked from the room
swaying her small behind
and muttered to herself
there's none so blind
as those that want to be blind
and the girl had gone
an odd smell of perfume
being left behind.
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 3:16 AM UTC
Sometime, I'll have a dream
A dream in which I'll be engaging in ***
With the loose folds of skin and cellulite
Around Maya Angelou's neck
I use the word engage b/c I don't think
It'll be my idea or if I would even want to be a completely willing
Participant
You know how dreams go:
You're able to detach
So anyway, all the while she'll be reciting her verse
In that overly inflected, pretentious and annoying grandmotherly Huxtable
Tone she uses and
Right as the nauseousness becomes unbearable
And I fear I won't be able to keep the contents of my
Stomach from forcing itself out and onto her face
She starts to devour the entirety of my lower abdomen
The sickness I was feeling quickly dissipating and the
Realization that she's no longer speaking and merely
Gnashing, ripping and eating my viscera
I return to an almost homeostasis
A comfortableness
Copyright © 2009-Present
May 14, 2011
May 14, 2011 at 8:39 PM UTC
A dream in which I'll be engaging in ***
With the loose folds of skin and cellulite
around Maya Angelou's neck
I use the word engage b/c I don't think
It'll be my idea or if I would even want to be a completely willing
Participant
You know how dreams go: you're able to detach
So anyway, all the while she'll be reciting her verse
In that overly inflected, pretentious and annoying grandmotherly Huxtable
Tone she uses and
Right as the nauseousness becomes unbearable
And I fear I won't be able to keep the contents of my
Stomach from forcing itself out and onto her face
She starts to devour the entirety of my lower abdomen
The sickness I was feeling quickly dissipating and the
Realization that she's no longer speaking and merely
Gnashing, ripping and eating my viscera
I return to an almost homeostasis
A comfortableness
Damon Michael Garrett
Copyright © 1972-Present
Mar 16, 2010
Mar 16, 2010 at 6:39 PM UTC
the world is screaming at me,
no, no, no!
it's screaming at me to die,
to leave because i should never have been here in the first place.
so i call myself names in my head
(over and over and over.)
the world is screaming at me,
why, why, why!
it doesn't understand why i'm here
it thinks i'm good for nothing
it thinks i'm a waste of time
(i am.)
so i hit myself and i punch myself right in the face.
(over and over and over.)
the world is screaming at me,
you, you, you!
it thinks i am bad
it thinks i am responsible for the terribleness,
and i am.
so i hate myself
hate, hate, hate myself
until i can hate no more
until i fall asleep and dream of more terriblenes.
the world is screaming at me,
die, die, die!
and it doesn't stop
so i hide in my bed and shrink instead of growing
and in that darkness,
that dark comfortableness,
i quitely go to sleep.
Dec 31, 2011
Dec 31, 2011 at 9:12 PM UTC
trying bad knew day think fight feeling know annoying lying time months tell like sure observe afternoon participant folds pass iron ask realization neck conversation pain poetaster tuesdays busy night lung sake sickness movies gets body reason turns incessantly awakens doesnt ones lifes gnashing try despondency
way pretentious idea cellulite strewn years fallen finally given stomach qualify spectacle necessary watching christ harbinger unconsciously thing girl loose walls unbearable start reach smile needing violent mean slowly engage engaging cell face sung struggle tone shes song cheaply correct contents normally quickly asleep close plea dark personality overly devour actions viscera completely eating list attractive liar power does figured use morning suffer
saving shadowscasting abdomen leave verse sun comfort screaming stay lift forcing worthwhile sleep reciting sets written broken semismiled dysthmically movingriding supp uses help pieces poorly lied reading blunt fine returned groups refractory fiber eyes read word puts say absorb force detach message unnoticed died block clock wish possibly late aghast fear return chum caused daily involve thanks grandmotherly hope unheeded twice starve maya enthusiasm heard hunger comfortableness homeostasis
nauseousness huxtable inflected angelous angelou itll dissipating impress giving lower relent articulate poetry doldrums wise left alot hate cheeks entirety perceived result willing mild speaking concedepretend skin alive shell death tantamount everytime ripping afloat worth adamisdronicus succession press hang jeanpaul speak dysthmic means dinner dreams sobriety bones repeatedly *** pang bc painted reallythat
May 16, 2010
May 16, 2010 at 10:28 PM UTC
Hollowness
of the mornings
and evenings
of sleep and dreams
and waking up
to another morning
and the radio
blaring out
hollow music
by hollow people
and they talk
in between songs
hollowness
in their voices
and the place
seemingly hollow
and hollow people
walk the supermarkets
filling trolleys
with hollowness
and Muzak pushed out
as they shop
and the comfortableness
and the pretend
contentment
but really just hollowness
there in their eyes
and the light
of their eyes
and that smiling
they have
which is as hollow
as their lives
and the morality
and rules of hollowness
rule and the pretence
it is not hollow
although deep down
they know it is
hollowness of nights
and dreams on dreams
of forgetfulness
and the waking up
of grief and knowing
it will always be there
like a ghost of what once was
and is not
and they lay down
to sleep and one day
it will be the final sleep
and the last kiss
of hollowness to bless.
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 3:25 AM UTC
In our world of innocence and light,
We live amongst demons and sinners,
In our world of silence and comfortableness',
We have lost, and they become winners,
But we are the beautiful creatures,
The timeless souls of verse,
We can nourish and feed ourselves,
In our script we self immerse,
We can make all the bad disappear,
And write of a life surreal,
But alas our open hearts fail us,
For every word, we feel,
But we are the beautiful creatures,
We bring life where there is none,
We can word away from the demons,
And the sinners? Well there is only one.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 9:14 PM UTC
Over the years I've noticed that I feel differently about life than most people.
I've noticed the way I look at the stars just before midnight when they seem to shine the brightest, with a desire in my heart to know what it's like to be up there.
My entire perception of the world is shaped completely around curiosity, a curiosity to know the completeness of things that exist within a vast emptiness.
Like space; I desire to know what it is like to flow through space, live in space, be a part of space. Maybe like being the moon, living calmly alone in the darkness, lonely and unbothered.
Or perhaps maybe a star, surrounded by nothing. There is a certain beauty in nothing. I find there is a peace in nothing. I desire to know what it is like to live within nothing, to be nothing.
Most people, I'd believe, look up at the sky in an amazement, almost an awe, for what they can see only as a beauty to the eye, and nothing more.
I look up at the sky, however, with a longing in my heart, feeling separated from where I truly belong.
I have began to realize the meaning behind my admiration and utter jealousy of the universe comes from the truth that I feel I am meant to be above the secluding, limiting, unbearableness we call the world. That living within it I feel subject to only a small portion of everything, everything but nothing.
I feel living upon this world minimizes my true worth, my true meaning in the universe. Where life upon nothing, within nothing, is impossible. But a life of nothing, is truly the life for me.
Not only do I see hundreds of stars with just one glance upon the night sky, I see a home, somewhere where I can just be, my home.
A home that has been formed from the comfortableness I find within myself. Each star and each comet, the beauty marks upon my face, my imperfections- they are symbolic of the bright dullness I find in being alone, completely alone.
I have come to know the reason why I am so attached to the vast, empty universe composed of nothing, surrounded by nothing, filled with nothing, and only nothing. The universe is the sole recluse of who I am, what I am.
When I see it, I see myself; a clear mirror exists between the universe and I, along with all of the vast emptiness and nothing, surrounded by nothing, filled with nothing, and only nothing that's been used to create me.
That mirror a wall, with no real barrier, yet preventing me from surpassing the life I live- one yearning to touch my other face, my true face, made entirely of the beauty I find true peace within, the beauty of nothing, and only nothing, the nothing that's been used to create me.
Dec 31, 2016
Dec 31, 2016 at 2:14 PM UTC
Writing for me is more than a hobby, it's an escape from reality
a sedative, freeing way to escape from everything
when the mental gravity of things starts to pull me down I escape through unprecedented thought
no matter what I'm feeling or how upset I am
when I put my pen to paper, I feel a sense of euphoria, comfortableness, wit and freedom within the words I write; the ideas that come to thought
there's nothing I cannot do
in a way, you could say, writing is my safe haven, my superpower
Sep 6, 2017
Sep 6, 2017 at 8:52 PM UTC
looking around this square room
silently observing
end to end
corner to corner
measuring the width
the depth
with my eyes
of what i call
'my peaceful place'
it looks like me
smells like me
but there is still something missing
i can't put my finger on it
but i can feel it
in how the room echos slightly
when i cough or sneeze
it brings a coldness to it
it doesn't feel exactly right
what can i bring to this place of solitude
that will warm it
give it that womb-like feeling
i want to feel hugged when i enter
wrapped in the cozy warmth of comfortableness
i've got some thinking to do...
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 3:58 PM UTC
Are you anxious, my dear evening? Are you not my closest friend? (Where is your cousin, my memory?) Can you not wait until that one afternoon, when we will pounce upon the horizon, like cats in heat, and tear the sun apart limb from limb? We will leave its sensitive shine to sweat upon pathetic days no more! Yes, the evening is a villain I’m proud to call my friend. Her ways allow much more room in the playground for mischievous lovers, than those dull afternoons spent thinking about breathing. Where is your cousin, my memory? She has served a type of convulsively appreciative use for my feelings and continues to parade around my daydream swing set. Nonetheless, she has always remained a spectral participant in my life, pregnant with regret, and punctures my comfortableness with the sweetest of stings, leaving a taste with me she knows I’ll never forget.
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 1:30 PM UTC
The only time I fall asleep in your arms are the nights we sit by our empty glasses. The bottles lay askew on the floor, they are cold and dripping with the last drop of our day. They were filled with the fruits of our labor and the sour bubbling laughs. We filled each other in as we filled each other's glasses. The comfortableness, the ease that we feel are not because we are comfortable with each other. It is because our drinks push us out. You might as well say that we are introverts by day and extroverts by night. One bottle is empty and one hour of our day is complete. We move on continuing to fill the silence that we both cannot bear to see. To us being in the clear is seeing our glasses empty. It does not provide us with any relief, just anxiety to why our glass is still empty. I fill up the glasses as we fill up the room with our conversation. Two bottles down, then three, then four, and now we are on the floor. Laying there finger to finger, head to head, leg to leg we discuss our future plans and our ***** secrets because we know by morning we will forget we ever spoke. As sad as it may be, when we wake up in the morning feeling the pain of last night. We will just sit and stare. Not say a word. Our glasses that lay beside us this morning are as empty as our conversations. I just want to be able sleep with you after a night of not drinking. Because maybe I can actually speak.
Jul 10, 2016
Jul 10, 2016 at 10:22 PM UTC
Are you anxious, my dear evening? Are you not my closest friend? (Where is your cousin, my memory?) Can you not wait until that one afternoon, when we will pounce upon the horizon, like cats in heat, and tear the sun apart limb from limb? We will leave its sensitive shine to sweat upon pathetic days no more! Yes, the evening is a villain I’m proud to call my friend. Her ways allow much more room in the playground for mischievous lovers, than those dull afternoons spent thinking about breathing. Where is your cousin, my memory? She has served a type of convulsively appreciative use for my feelings and continues to parade around my daydream swing set. Nonetheless, she has always remained a spectral participant in my life, pregnant with regret, and punctures my comfortableness with the sweetest of stings, leaving a taste with me she knows I’ll never forget.
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 12:07 PM UTC
Are you anxious, my dear evening? Are you not my closest friend? (Where is your cousin, my memory?) Can you not wait until that one afternoon, when we will pounce upon the horizon, like cats in heat, and tear the sun apart limb from limb? We will leave its sensitive shine to sweat upon pathetic days no more! Yes, the evening is a villain I’m proud to call my friend. Her ways allow much more room in the playground for mischievous lovers, than those dull afternoons spent thinking about breathing. Where is your cousin, my memory? She has served a type of convulsively appreciative use for my feelings and continues to parade around my daydream swing set. Nonetheless, she has always remained a spectral participant in my life, pregnant with regret, and punctures my comfortableness with the sweetest of stings, leaving a taste with me she knows I’ll never forget.
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 2:34 PM UTC
Are you anxious, my dear evening? Are you not my closest friend? (Where is your cousin, my memory?) Can you not wait until that one afternoon, when we will pounce upon the horizon, like cats in heat, and tear the sun apart limb from limb? We will leave its sensitive shine to sweat upon pathetic days no more! Yes, the evening is a villain I’m proud to call my friend. Her ways allow much more room in the playground for mischievous lovers, than those dull afternoons spent thinking about breathing. Where is your cousin, my memory? She has served a type of convulsively appreciative use for my feelings and continues to parade around my daydream swing set. Nonetheless, she has always remained a spectral participant in my life, pregnant with regret, and punctures my comfortableness with the sweetest of stings, leaving a taste with me she knows I’ll never forget.
© Matthew Goff
Jun 21, 2017
Jun 21, 2017 at 12:06 PM UTC
I'm at my highest with you
feeling so unbalanced without you..
but for you its a wall of chemically made malice for you
It's because of you
Why I feel like I cry most with you
You're the person who could make me die with you
But you're hiding too
You make me confide in you
And I feel as if I am one with you
But you
Are you only alive when your inside of me?
When we're laughing.. do I make you feel that comfortableness to reside with me?
When you hold me do you feel like we're one in two?
Or am I just here for you?
What am I to you?
You have the darkest sides to me
The sides no one is ever allowed to see
You have all of my secrets I trust you to keep
But is my vulnerability
Too much of a responsibility
That makes your passion into passivity?
What can I do..
To make you not alone..
To be more than just your play zone..
What can I do?
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 11:44 PM UTC
Are you anxious, my dear evening? Are you not my closest friend? (Where is your cousin, my memory?) Can you not wait until that one afternoon, when we will pounce upon the horizon, like cats in heat, and tear the sun apart limb from limb? We will leave its sensitive shine to sweat upon pathetic days no more! Yes, the evening is a villain I’m proud to call my friend. Her ways allow much more room in the playground for mischievous lovers, than those dull afternoons spent thinking about breathing. Where is your cousin, my memory? She has served a type of convulsively appreciative use for my feelings and continues to parade around my daydream swing set. Nonetheless, she has always remained a spectral participant in my life, pregnant with regret, and punctures my comfortableness with the sweetest of stings, leaving a taste with me she knows I’ll never forget.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 12:20 PM UTC
Are you anxious, my dear evening? Are you not my closest friend? (Where is your cousin, my memory?) Can you not wait until that one afternoon, when we will pounce upon the horizon, like cats in heat, and tear the sun apart limb from limb? We will leave its sensitive shine to sweat upon pathetic days no more! Yes, the evening is a villain I’m proud to call my friend. Her ways allow much more room in the playground for mischievous lovers, than those dull afternoons spent thinking about breathing. Where is your cousin, my memory? She has served a type of convulsively appreciative use for my feelings and continues to parade around my daydream swing set. Nonetheless, she has always remained a spectral participant in my life, pregnant with regret, and punctures my comfortableness with the sweetest of stings, leaving a taste with me she knows I’ll never forget.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 2:14 PM UTC
Are you anxious, my dear evening? Are you not my closest friend? (Where is your cousin, my memory?) Can you not wait until that one afternoon, when we will pounce upon the horizon, like cats in heat, and tear the sun apart limb from limb? We will leave its sensitive shine to sweat upon pathetic days no more! Yes, the evening is a villain I’m proud to call my friend. Her ways allow much more room in the playground for mischievous lovers, than those dull afternoons spent thinking about breathing. Where is your cousin, my memory? She has served a type of convulsively appreciative use for my feelings and continues to parade around my daydream swing set. Nonetheless, she has always remained a spectral participant in my life, pregnant with regret, and punctures my comfortableness with the sweetest of stings, leaving a taste with me she knows I’ll never forget.
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 12:42 PM UTC
One becomes acquainted to a certain way of life if lived in long enough
The most tragic of these circumstances being a found comfortableness in misery
When tears become routine and shaky hands are a custom
This is where home resides.
Light and love turn into foreign enemies against our comfort as we push away the people and things that mean to help
Ending in our personal isolated hell.
We find ourselves having rather cried ourselves to sleep than feel an ounce of joy rip through our walls
Happiness is so stiff and awkward it becomes an unwanted dinner guest and we are forced to realize that if we choose to get better we must feel quite a bit worse
And this is far more difficult than finding content in our cold misery.
The sum of the former is surely greater in value
Though it comes at the cost of our comfort.
We must trade goosebumps for smiles and tell ourselves it’s worth it
Even though it very well may not be.
Jul 8, 2018
Jul 8, 2018 at 12:27 AM UTC
Are you anxious, my dear evening? Are you not my closest friend? (Where is your cousin, my memory?) Can you not wait until that one afternoon, when we will pounce upon the horizon, like cats in heat, and tear the sun apart limb from limb? We will leave its sensitive shine to sweat upon pathetic days no more! Yes, the evening is a villain I’m proud to call my friend. Her ways allow much more room in the playground for mischievous lovers, than those dull afternoons spent thinking about breathing. Where is your cousin, my memory? She has served a type of convulsively appreciative use for my feelings and continues to parade around my daydream swing set. Nonetheless, she has always remained a spectral participant in my life, pregnant with regret, and punctures my comfortableness with the sweetest of stings, leaving a taste with me she knows I’ll never forget.
© Matthew Goff
Oct 25, 2016
Oct 25, 2016 at 11:42 AM UTC
Are you anxious, my dear evening? Are you not my closest friend? (Where is your cousin, my memory?) Can you not wait until that one afternoon, when we will pounce upon the horizon, like cats in heat, and tear the sun apart limb from limb? We will leave its sensitive shine to sweat upon pathetic days no more! Yes, the evening is a villain I’m proud to call my friend. Her ways allow much more room in the playground for mischievous lovers, than those dull afternoons spent thinking about breathing. Where is your cousin, my memory? She has served a type of convulsively appreciative use for my feelings and continues to parade around my daydream swing set. Nonetheless, she has always remained a spectral participant in my life, pregnant with regret, and punctures my comfortableness with the sweetest of stings, leaving a taste with me she knows I’ll never forget.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 12:43 PM UTC
Are you anxious, my dear evening? Are you not my closest friend? (Where is your cousin, my memory?) Can you not wait until that one afternoon, when we will pounce upon the horizon, like cats in heat, and tear the sun apart limb from limb? We will leave its sensitive shine to sweat upon pathetic days no more! Yes, the evening is a villain I’m proud to call my friend. Her ways allow much more room in the playground for mischievous lovers, than those dull afternoons spent thinking about breathing. Where is your cousin, my memory? She has served a type of convulsively appreciative use for my feelings and continues to parade around my daydream swing set. Nonetheless, she has always remained a spectral participant in my life, pregnant with regret, and punctures my comfortableness with the sweetest of stings, leaving a taste with me she knows I’ll never forget.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 1:39 PM UTC
Are you anxious, my dear evening? Are you not my closest friend? (Where is your cousin, my memory?) Can you not wait until that one afternoon, when we will pounce upon the horizon, like cats in heat, and tear the sun apart limb from limb? We will leave its sensitive shine to sweat upon pathetic days no more! Yes, the evening is a villain I’m proud to call my friend. Her ways allow much more room in the playground for mischievous lovers, than those dull afternoons spent thinking about breathing. Where is your cousin, my memory? She has served a type of convulsively appreciative use for my feelings and continues to parade around my daydream swing set. Nonetheless, she has always remained a spectral participant in my life, pregnant with regret, and punctures my comfortableness with the sweetest of stings, leaving a taste with me she knows I’ll never forget.
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 1:10 PM UTC