"complexions" poems
You loved her vividness.
She loved your darkness.
You admired her strength.
She embraced your weakness.
You wiped her tears of happiness.
She mourned your tears of sadness.
And when you saw her flaws,
You suddenly changed.
Dismissing the fact that she first loved your imperfections
Above all your lovable complexions.
Jun 12, 2019
Jun 12, 2019 at 10:39 AM UTC
we all have sorrows as deep as wells,
but i'm tossing them right out the door.
maybe this is where i shed my old skin like a cobra,
but i'm hardly as vicious.
i'm only as dangerous as you let me be,
with my bones as strong as glaciers and
my eyes could swim inside aquariums
or the Mediterranean sea,
like i have gills that could let me breathe.
i could make a home,
20,000 leagues under or i could
touch land with my sun shining shades
of affections
with the complexions of new worlds.
and did you know, that there are more stars
in our galaxies than there are particles of
sand on each coastal line -
i guess you can say we learn something valuable
when you least expect,
like how cats have one hundred vocal sounds and
we can relate because
our vocal sounds
are endless. we can use our voices.
kind of like our opportunities,
expanding like water turning to ice on our
puddles so we can walk on them without
rain boots or umbrellas that catch our tears.
instead, we wear our thickness overlapping
our feelings and
i just want to be naked.
if that leaves me vulnerable,
so be it as long as i can taste the glass half full
on my skin.
i just want to be happy.
Mar 17, 2011
Mar 17, 2011 at 2:01 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
There are more and more misfortunes in the world
Known to you dear people in your diverse conditions,
But my life and experience has taught me unique lessons
Of kindred to befit me Elizabeth, a daughter of Zinjathropus
Hailing in the savannah desert, Turkana County of Kenya,
I have graduated in to a single lady without test of marriage,
As desert men look at me in their irritating impotence,
**** clothes wrapped around their slender waists passing on me
Like a dog passing on American dollars; cursed be desert men,
I thought my beauty of dark African complexions will give them a ****** tease
But to my chagrin; desert men have a fear of beautiful ladies
My conscience tells me that my beauty is an eye sore to them,
I thought my bulging hips will entice them as is a promise of fertility
Leave alone not to mention my concupiscent ****** warmth, uhmmm!
Desert men have dared not to see and appreciate my **** bossom,
They often pass on me driving their donkeys and emaciated carmels,
I thought my ***** sharp pointed ******* assign of virginity
Will call them to me into a treat of love, affiliative love,
But sadly enough; these dudes are erotically blind,
They they nonchalantly pass on my **** *****
Wielding a begging bowl in their ***** long hands
Running like drunkard chimpanzees going to Oxfam stores to beg for food,
Cursed be Oxfam an imperialist agent, it has crashed flat
The testicles of our desert brothers into ****** insensitivity,
Oxfam has made African desert men to beg like Hebrew lepers
Other than standing up on their feet to feed their women,
Normally as men would do from the sweat of their brow,
I thought my education will attract them to me,
To love me with those romantic University kisses,
But desert men have crude cultures and slavish religion
They rebuke girl child education as if it is a devil,
Oh my dear God of the forsaken desert ladies
Of the forsaken African daughters,
Take me out of this ****** desert
Take me out of the city desert of Lodwar,
Take me to the equator line and give me a husband,
My eggs are pretty ready to conceive and sire children
Sons and daughters for your own glory O almighty God,
Take me out of this ****** desert,
Where no man treats a modern woman,
Take me out of here and give me a fresh man of my dream.
Because I have known from today;
It is accurse to be a woman in Africa
It is a curse to be a beautiful lady in African deserts
It is a curse to be a woman graduate in the African desert
It is a curse to have ***** ******* in the African desert,
O! Help me God.
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 9:58 AM UTC
Pastel and watercolor works of art
Cover the walls
Makes her think of waterfalls
Peaceful thoughts and memories,
Withdrawals the devil from her mind
Throws her off from the Devils lies
Creating a chapter of freedom
for her to sit in find
Once that chapter is unlocked
Glowing angels,
With perfect complexions
Flying sky high
Silver lighting and the most expensive wine
Sitting on the most extraordinary
Making heaven a sit in and dine
She'll find
thumb prints of pain where erased from her mind...
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 1:07 PM UTC
Blue
a soothing hue
with varying complexions
like that of each open sky
bountiful clouds
an energetic sun
and
magnificent rainbows
complimenting it
Blue
a soothing hue
cascading its spectrum
of light
and coolness
onto the earth
drawing many
to its canopy
Blue
a soothing hue
like that of the Nile
serene sounds of historic waters
flowing a great distance
confirming its majesty
and embracing sanctuary
If the color blue is so
why are so many in Sudan blue
why are so many in Sudan dying
why are so many in Sudan *****
why are so many in Sudan weeping
If the color blue is so
why is Sudan blue
why is Sudan worried
why is Sudan being terrorized
why is Sudan fighting back
If the color blue is so
why is Sudan's peaceful protesters being attacked
why are courageous women speaking out
If the color blue is so
why are tears falling from
natives' eyes
filling up an iconic river
as they mourn the ******
of their mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, husbands, wives, brothers, sisters
remembering good times
dear ones' smiles, hearts, kisses,
words,
their love and mercy expressed
Blue
a soothing hue
yet we need know why
yet we're obligated to think why
yet we must talk why
Sudan is blue
Jun 19, 2019
Jun 19, 2019 at 12:14 PM UTC
Let us Rise and Rejoice for the Wise Controllers of the Streets
Please give praise for the Keepers of Asinine Righteousness
Who have the power to read our minds easy as giving sweets
Esteemed Professors who are World Experts with Greatness
In Neuro-linguistic programming and know all the upbeats
For example anybody with working eyes can see with no cheats
The woman's complexions is not Black even without clearness
Alas I make a joke and lightheartedly say its Black in mirths
Nobel NLP Programmers jump in glee and frenzied eagerness
That is Trigger to void progressive actions with that lady petite
So Professors et vacuous masses devoid of brains go on heats
Sprinkling Blacks all over in project as useless as their dumbness
Tell not dorks I do not see her as black in any way but a tease
Another deluded wasted efforts from the addicted mindlesses
The poor lass graced with honey-gold skin tone is not for meets
Crass semi-illiterates play mind games on levels of bog peats
Psychotic obsessed nonentities with deluded tendentiousness
As if there's a meeting of minds with piffling anodyne greats
Dumbos declaring we are playing with your mind in earness
Show me how a genius compares with Quixotic foolishness
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 2:27 PM UTC
There’s a picture perfect
moon in the sky and
all I can think about is
you
(which doesn’t make sense
because the moon in the heavens and
all the stars in the galaxy have
nothing to do with you and I).
I think it’s because it was you who I
told all my secrets to,
you who I confided in—I think it’s because
I trusted you.
Sometimes I look up at the cosmos and
wonder what type of angel she is
and then I wonder if I ever told you
my deep, dark thoughts about
what happened.
I can’t remember.
My mind is as thick and heavy
as my tongue feels—
fog
everywhere and I cannot see
where I am going, much less
where I have come from.
There’s something inside of me that,
like a caged dog, is awaiting to be
unlocked from its restraining bars and
I don’t know where to start talking without
sounding like an absolute madman.
I think that this poem has transformed from
a few lines about you to
a few lines about her and to be honest,
I don’t remember the last time
I wrote about her
(but I guess I should try).
I was a child when I first went to bed
and a teenager as I turned in my sleep—
we could be twins, she and I,
with our closed eyes, and
visions of stars at night and
pale complexions like
the sand on the beach basking
in the glow of the hanging moon.
I wonder if she met Samael.
I wonder if he was nice.
They told me how much I looked like her;
they gushed about how we had the
same personality, same sense of humor,
but I didn’t want to hear a word they said—
I don’t think I could stand to look
myself in the mirror if that were true
because it would be a constant reminder of
her
and I don’t want to be reminded.
I think that we all start off as angels and
that somehow we end up here,
bound down to a life full of interactions
and paths to cross and plans to make;
I think that we all finish as angels and
that somehow we end up there,
no longer a single form and single being,
we become infinite once more.
But then I remember that even Lucifer,
himself, once wore white wings and I think
that sometimes we’re no better than him—
that I’m no better than him.
I hope Raphael can fix us and
I pray that Uriel can set us straight
because in this aphotic world, I want
to be able to see straight down into
into the abyss.
I want to see you through unbiased eyes and
hear you through impartial ears the way
that I used to be able to until that night
outside your house.
I want to tell you all of these things I think
about the two of us—
all these things I think about my
mother
and that night and those days
in which it happened.
Just please don’t clip my wings.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC
It is said there is life out of Earth,
Not just moss or some germ livin’ in filth;
There are beasts very smart in Syluthaarme,
A big rock with a vast digital farm,
Where they work not at all or too hard,
Have one ear, but three legs, walk backward,
Got one eye gazing far far away,
And complexions of more shades of gray
Than is seen here on Earth. Among the mass
Live a few who belong to no class,
But pretend that they share illusions
The less smart breeding mass envisions.
An asylum it is for the sane
In the insane’s needed stead feel the chain.
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 5:01 PM UTC
Complexion of free-flowing colors; multitudes one moment; shining formations the next.
Bright the sunlight of high-noon.
Water, how universally eclectic.
And it was thus,
on this laden breeze,
I was brought to the lightest of ease.
What need is there to seek,
When it is all prevalent, here, under the blue of this waterfall.
Streaming pristine mosaics of iridescent green.
Right here, I wish to lay in mirror-glass cure complexions.
Mingling fingers among the pebbles, I marvel.
This quarry of my mind.
Nature at best and mostly green, I guess.
Of this I wish to bring to you,
Or you to it.
Whomever it is that you might be.
A land, however far away.
Happiness, the ultimate goal.
I surely need no intervention, for
The pathless trail lies clear, suitably
Ahead of me.
Bringing power to those obscure;
The life of this beauty –
What isn’t there to love?
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 10:37 PM UTC
The yonder above is forever bruised and opaque
Reigning over glum faces
Complexions washed with a bloodless shade of dispassion
Robotic, disengaged.
Material desires are quenched with vast shopping centres
Credit Cards hold on for dear live
As every last drop of sweet money is rinsed from that plastic rectangle.
Living beyond our means
Whilst simultaneously refusing to give up on Sky TV box sets and liquid lunches.
Hooked to our phones, but not for telephone communication
Rather, for self validation
Defined by the click of a heart or pathetic thumb.
The once friendly communities
With blood coursing through their veins
Are husks of their previous life form, gentrified beyond recognition.
Filtered faces with protruding spines and modified features
Infiltrate mass media
Corrupting the definitions of success and beauty.
Plastic personalities reign supreme
Vacuous minded socialites profess women’s empowerment begins with the flaunting of skin
Rather than the possession of a strong mind.
Many bury their heads in the sand
Residing in ignorance
As mass genocides and civil wars manifest every second.
Or worse, they read the TORYgraph and THE ****
Believing immigrants spawn white genocide
And white conservatives suffer oppression.
Pffft!
I have deep contempt for those behind these ***** tabloids
Murdoch and his monsters
Orchestrating lies and bile
Destroying lives or scaremongering the impressionable
Committing the most savage, sycophantic crimes
In order to extract Monday’s headline.
I do not suffer fools
Especially those who make up the tapestry of dystopia
A failing age of doom.
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 12:00 PM UTC
The person sat by me,
Is calling somebody,
He's saying 'I love you'
Is that so unusual,
To feel so alone in that moment?
The lovers at the front,
Have had more than enough
Of their parents' scrutiny
So they commit mutiny,
And consequences are left unspoken.
The cold condensation
Hides all condescension,
From every pedestrian
With bitter complexions
Who braved the cold and are frozen.
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 12:25 PM UTC
Where were we when you quit the sound?
Caught in distance while you hung around
Encased inside of our own menial pursuit
Flaunting desperation as a constant survival
As you battled death in your combat boots
There is no glory with fate as your rival
What were you seeing in your distorted mind?
As you ate your last words and ecstaticly dined
At the chemical festival of illusions' absorbtion
How far did your gaze stroll onto the other side?
did you meet with an end or the start of damnation?
In which lonely drawer do your dreams now reside?
Where have the remnants of life made their grave?
Are they in the lingering regret that you've paved?
Through each flash of your face and casket sight
The delusional rebirth of your presence revealing;
Fragments of ended realities giving spark to night
Burning sigils into visions of a broken feeling
Flame lit sketches etched across a charred eulogy
Only a name remains lying in the wake of a memory
Pieces scattered amongst an unfitting resting place
Conflicting beauties molding a divine contrast
A devil laid to rest in the midst of holy space
One shade of diversity on a bland earthly cast
Echoes of descension from this dimming black sky
Adorning each reflection with your hollow eyes
Complexions left searching for an answer to hold
As to how lifes' vigor can so swiftly fall to decay
And,The aging of dignity resembling every tale told
Seems to shine a reality check on this tragic play
A nulling backdrop for this cemetary playground
Where the kings and queens become tediously crowned
With a sickly ailment that reaks of dalipidation
The stench of the end atop an eternal retrospect
Glaring back with the most sincere of validations
That the fallen live on as our recollections resurect
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
I see their brown complexions
With even brighter faces
That drive all day, stand guard all night,
and clean in between.
I am shattered glass,
scattered in the wind,
and thus torn up;
A Million Pieces.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 8:17 AM UTC
I got soul and I am a soldier.
I got soul, and I AM a soldier.
The world, is full of soldiers, some no older;
than ten, learning to use the pen.
Others, grow colder, killing with their swords again.
In the end, regardless of your reasons or weapons,
it would be treason for me to treat these soldiers like peasants.
The feudal lords send us to die on distant shores as though we were ****** bought and sent to supply their wars and satisfy their demands for more,
blood lust.
Human being does not mean mindless killing machine.
The next time a war scene, plays out in the news,
and you hear the same rhapsody about third world violence and blues;
take a moment of silence, to question,
if it was you,
would you take a different direction or stand up to fight for you and your section?
Soldiers come in all ages, shapes, and complexions.
Some use words for weapons, trading carnage for college;
that's why I don't drop bombs, I drop knowledge, and I don't quote psalms, I pay homage,
to the earthly soldiers of humanity fighting the insanity of a planet where they die in wars fueled by greed, fear, and vanity.
Men, women, and children around the globe rally to the banners of Love, Happiness, and Hope,
trying to cope, with the ropes tightening around their throats.
So they turn to the Pope, or the Shah, or the President, or the King,
all draped in their righteous bling,
blissfully ignoring, the mystery,
as to why history's greatest soldiers were common folks who just kept pushing forward.
Jesus, Muhammad, and anyone who survived a nuclear bombing.
Gandhi, King, and the few whites that stood against African-American lynching.
Galileo, Newton, and those that researched in secret to avoid persecution.
Wellington, Eisenhower, and those that died fighting tyranny in the darkest hours.
The true power, of the soldiers of Man, comes when we take a stand fighting for something we demand. Our grand,
struggles and revolutions are led by those fighting for solutions,
by those that may become political executions.
So to those that question me,
I state emphatically,
yes indeed,
no matter race, gender, or creed,
I stand with all the other souls that are soldiers of humanity,
fighting to save our sanity.
May 11, 2010
May 11, 2010 at 1:34 PM UTC
and this is a place i’ve been before
and this is a place i’ve seen before
watching his chocolate eyes search within the reflection of anything and everything…
he touched the surface of my conscience, waiting for the ripples to begin within
my heart, to begin
within
the heap of dreams inside my soul
piled there like clean laundry waiting for a
fresh pair of hands to fold
but his ripples came with distortion, contortion, it all became dsymorphic
my dreams converged with memories, my desires converged with melodies
sung in familiar tenor tones,
yet a voice i knew not to be my own
my own soprano theme subdued beneath the means
of self-discovery
that weren’t really meant for me, fettered to your contrary schemes,
playing out unwary scenes and losing myself in our routines,
seemed i didn’t mind losing me to find your dreams.
and so the heap of dreams inside my soul
growing moss and growing mold,
sprouting negligence for negligees,
thread bare, left there, lying in disarray
passed by for the chosen right of way…
chocolate eyes and hands on my surface skin, ripples, quakes, tremors, shakes;
my hazel eyes opening to your mistakes.
people are imperfect reflections, with our opaque complexions,
i was not your means, your queen, your pedestal, your play-ground.
i was not the place for you to **** around.
left skeptical by your lechery, your ability to capture me,
self-identity came much more dearly…
what i’m trying to figure out is who to be
and this is a place i’ve been before
and this is a place i’ve seen before
and it’s 'cause i washed up from the other shore, that i’m. ready. to. break. free.
Apr 11, 2012
Apr 11, 2012 at 2:35 PM UTC
I hate being a woman
Some may ask why and others shake their head because they know.
I hate being a woman.
People look at me,
I talk about the big things in life because I want to be somebody.
I want to help people I want to save lives I want to matter in the world.
I have thoughts I have hopes and dreams.
I have big ideas.
But everybody is more concerned with what I'm wearing, or what size bra I wear, or what my favorite *** position is.
I hate being a woman.
We stand on a pedestal miles high, and high heels much higher,
for everyone to gaze at our complexions and so called "temples" of a body.
We are taught to shut our mouths and do what others tell us to do.
It's wrong to say no.
It's okay for our men to ****** and be ****** to release and express,
But women are delicate and pure.
We are not ****** beings.
We aren't allowed to speak our minds freely because we are wrong.
I hate being a woman.
Because in a world of free men,
We stand, still chained to the past.
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 3:32 PM UTC
Verse One
A simple complication
Shapes the way we see ourselves,
A fatal disconnection,
To be just like everyone else,
Find the spark in your heart
And let out the flames,
Kiss the scars on your arms,
You were never to blame,
Turn on the lights in your mind
And throw out the dark,
You were never made to break this way,
Trauma never fades to grey
Chorus
Paint with watercolours from your tears,
A prism you made from your fear,
Chase the spectrum and touch the light,
Crystal clear and it shines through the glass
Of your heavy soul,
You want to be whole,
Fill the cracks in the flaws only you can see,
Perfection isn't what it seems to be.
Verse Two
A desperate resignation,
Starve your body from the hate,
A fatal designation,
Purging pain until it's too late,
Put the nightmares to bed,
And lock up the door,
The voices will cease to exist any more,
Kiss the scars on your thighs,
And fall in love with your skin,
You will never break again,
You are stronger than the strongest of them
Chorus
Paint with watercolours from your tears,
A prism you made from your fear,
Chase the spectrum and touch the light,
Crystal clear and it shines through the glass
Of your heavy soul,
You want to be whole,
Fill the cracks in the flaws only you can see,
Perfection isn't what it seems to be.
Bridge
Rainbow refractions of years to come,
Mirrors that show the person you've become,
Crystal reflections
Will show unique complexions
Of yourself,
Perfect the way you are,
You've put up a fight and you've come so far
Chorus (x2)
Paint with watercolours from your tears,
A prism you made from your fear,
Chase the spectrum and touch the light,
Crystal clear and it shines through the glass,
Of your heavy soul,
You want to be whole,
Fill the cracks in the flaws only you can see,
Perfection isn't what it seems to be.
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 3:40 PM UTC
With a split of a second
A million thoughts travel our mind
Few are the ones captured
And framed on the wall of our memory
It all just comes down to a game of sensations
Some thoughts please us with their parody
Others scare us with their complexions.
Used to choose the easy way around,
Tossing and turning till we fall apart
Because the mystery of imagination got us under its spell
Thus control over our silly life is hard
Imagination gives us the power of creation
Coloring each and every corner of this world
Wishfully writing scenarios to be heard
While the fight against temptation
Turns into an overwhelming war
With the worst and strongest enemy of them all
Just look in the mirror and you'll see
The fire in his eyes burning you to the core
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 4:53 PM UTC
fifty years later
you girls wear their old dresses
over sky
blue leggings
lace
and fabric that smells
of lost time
you found them
in stores
with high ceilings
and a sloppily simulated
rustic vibe
you love your
waists tastefully
cinched
and collar bones
concealed
you twirl before
the full length
mirrors and
wish oh how
you wish
you could
have been born
then instead of now
everything
was so much classier!
the women
were a different
kind of beautiful
women
who smoked
in their bathtubs
cardboard hairdos
unraveling
women
elbow deep in
baking
soda and dishsoap
soft secretive
smiles overtaking
their
faces
as they rattled
through the
medicine
cabinet
for a snack
(twice a day)
pregnant again
for
the fourth
time
yet
thin as a rail
somehow
ghosts
in their own
skin
silent but
deadly
crying manically
because of
the smoke
in their eyes
choking gently
on the powder
all over their tight
lovely complexions
dinner ready
at six
sharp as a rusty nail
fantasizing
about what it would be like
to fall in love
with another woman
scuffing their knees
and showing the raw
skin off to all
the young men
with sunlight left over
from childhood still
swimming in their
eyes
or walking home
in the rain
without an umbrella
and having that be ok
slapping their
own faces
at such trecherous
thoughts
obsessing
over how
their mothers did
it with
so much **** grace...
but yes
girls
their clothes
were simply
divine
Feb 2, 2010
Feb 2, 2010 at 11:33 AM UTC
Anybody literate can read and write.
But do they understand?
Can they see and feel the deeper meaning?
Do they hear the poets words?
Emote along with the writer?
Find a chord striking them within?
Gasp at the beauty in the imagery?
Hold their breath as the poet weaves magic?
Inhale the scent of sweat the poet gave?
Jump at the twists and turns?
Keen to learn the ending?
Laugh and cry along with the poet's words?
Mope at the end?
Not wanting to let the words go?
Opining their views, not the poet's.
Positing assumptions not the poet's.
Querying imagery, syntax, metaphors and similes.
Robbing the joy from the poet by making grand assumptions.
Seeking to emulate the greats, and join the canon.
Taking what they need from the words written down.
Utilising the poem as a learning tool.
Venerating the poet and their work.
Words speaking to them from afar.
Xanthic coloured complexions, as they read into the night.
Yanking at the pages of the book.
Zealously impassioned by the poet's conclusion.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 7:00 PM UTC
I see all the pale faced hipsters
Staring through windows losing hours
And days
And evenings
And memories
In this unlived time of ****** incarnate.
Suffering cotton mendacity of the soul
Cursing the wind coiled clouds
Rushing past
Missing their own minds
Losing their own souls
Inch by torrid inch
And gracing us all with their plastic complexions
And soft minded delusions
Mincing words with fashion
On paper from a burnt out Bible
I see all the pale faced hipsters;
They see the mirror reflecting hollow.
Chosen by the inky hands of
Moses
Allah
Elvis
God.
But not Jesus.
He's too real for these cats.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 10:52 PM UTC
The wine-drinkers sit on the porte cochère in the sun.
Their lack of success in love has made them torpid.
They move their fans with a motion that stirs no feather,
the glare of the sun has darkened their complexions.
Let us commend them on their conversations.
One says “oh” and the other says “indeed.”
The afternoon must be prolonged forever, because the night
will be impossible for them.
They know that the bright and very delicate needles
inserted beneath the surfaces of their skins
will work after dark--at present are drugged, are dormant.
Nobody dares to make any sudden disturbance.
One says “no," the other one murmurs “why?”
The cousins pause: tumescent.
What do they dream of? ******
They dream of lust and they long for violent action
but none occurs.
Their quarrels perpetually die from a lack of momentum
The light is empty: the sun forestalls reflection.
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 7:01 PM UTC
we think that angels are such wonderful and whole creatures
and as humans it is only in our nature to look up to them; to be as they are and achieve such perfection that we are mistaken for something
ethereal and otherworldly
with pale complexions and flowing golden hair, wings fluttering in the wind makeing us forget every single worry we have had,
every single sin we committed,
and every heart that we broke,
because we'd be perfect,
and when you obtain such beauty people overlook all your evils and
wrongs
as their pupils dilate and their hearts race
at the mere glimpse of you
but little do we know that in truth, angels don't have it easy,
they too, view their reflections as unclean and wrong
and spend all eternity, which they hold in between their feeble fingertips, scrubbing away at invisible dirt
until their wings are broken,
silk robes torn at the seams and covered in blood,
and the once-enchanting figures collapsed on the concrete,
drunk on rose-water and
half-hearted apologies
I guess in that aspect, you are just like an angel.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 3:08 PM UTC
Multiple beautiful faces,
immaculate complexions,
and precise, practiced grins.
It's easy to understand
why it makes me thirsty;
they invented bottled bliss,
eagerly and professionally selling:
beauty, happiness, companionship---
all for the price of $1.50 with tax
at the cost of only my dignity.
Affordability and availability,
it's no wonder it's high in demand.
The American success story:
to sell simple desires
to the lazy, naïve man,
who believes he can't
obtain them otherwise.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 12:31 AM UTC
sauntering down the hall
rubbing the sleep from my eyes,
it's mid morning, and I'm not really awake yet
why am I not at school?
something is weird I think to myself,
as I hear my mom talk from the kitchen
I know this isn't a regular day.
I remember, the sun, shining
through the blinds
and her closest friend at the time
I remember her talking,
sobbing,
but I can't hear her words.
Something about an accident
and him being gone,
something about family, how they'll be
here before too long.
I still don't get what's really going on.
Sitting on the swings,
talking to the dog
waiting for it all to end
to blink, and wake up in my bed,
groggy, running late
like always.
Then more than the family
all started to arrive,
people,
lots of people,
all with their hands full,
flowers, and cards
and boxes and bags,
food,
more food-
offerings of condolences, from the guiltiest of hands
like feeding the dead was a possibility?
I don't remember any faces,
just smeared complexions of those who took you away-
nor any comments specific,
I just remember feeling lost,
confused, drowning in it!
don't speak unless spoken to,
out of sight out of mind
you're just too young to understand,
it's not your problem to worry about,
your mother just can't talk right now
just go sit down and be quiet!
I'm sitting in a car now,
with a friends family,
and my dearest other half,
driving right on by.
I see the marks on the road,
I see the pole hanging there,
I see the carnage, and the subtlety of it all
I try not to think about you,
there, not even a full day ago
here.
I remember that phone call last night
after the siren, false alarm!
Your assurance that you were fine
less than three hours before we'd have to say
goodbye.
I remember the words
I'm sorry,
sorry about your loss,
sorry to hear he's gone,
sorry
sorry
sorry, burned into my vocabulary,
branding me, like it or not,
nothing like irony to heat that iron white hot,
Funny,
how the sorry's never came from the right mouths
and the greatest friend of all time
had such the opposite for himself.
All this I remember, some so vivid,
it's too raw to recall.
Yet I try so hard and
comb through my mind,
but like a sieve, some things fall through
the sound of your voice, or just how you walked,
I have trouble recalling the little things
that would have made you
you.
I know that none of us will live forever
but I never thought you'd be completely taken away
I never thought I'd lose my memories too
I thought I had those till my final day!
Nov 21, 2010
Nov 21, 2010 at 8:58 PM UTC