"compressing" poems
To the thunderstorm I used to love,
you pounded me, beat the windows with your fists,
brought the rain down with your thunderous roar.
rarely, it would hail, and the melting ice would
gleam down the streets, still soiled from the
summer day before you came and took over all daylight.
A severe thunderstorm warning went into effect around
2 a.m. - estimating to begin at 4 and
end at 9.
You came at 5, and it never ended.
While the rain once glistened, it now stings my skin,
crushes my thighs, squeezes my hip, compressing
pressing presser tightening twisting the calf, stabbing
the spine.
I am not in control.
The purple crush of your swirling eyes is
a rush of wind - a cold front in the summer
mist - the shattering of a two-hundred-year-old tree.
I saved butterflies from you only for them to suffocate in their cages. The rags indoors, the frames, they never stopped you - only the rain
prevented your fire.
You are right when you are gone.
The road is a blurry mirror, aging eyesight in the wet darkness.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 2:04 AM UTC
i want my poems to have teeth.
i want my words to cut,
to maim, to bleed.
with verses, i will raze
empires. with stanzas,
i will turn thrones to dust.
with nothing but a bit
of silver on my tongue,
i will take the life of god.
i’ll ply that same *****
like honey, taste the sweet
nothings dripping
between knocking knees.
quake and quiver for me,
let me slip, furtive
as nightshade
to sate your curiosity.
feel the weight of veracity
in these fingers patiently
transcribing forgotten melodies,
compressing ivory keys
to sing of all that was lost
and what was gained
from the process.
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 9:48 PM UTC
It's not okay
to pull me aside
and tell me whose
wrong and right.
You ask questions
about when I realized
who I was
and what I want
to become,
when you shouldn't.
There's never really a time
you realize,
there's a time you stop
compressing
all of those thoughts and feelings.
You should feel
content
with me even telling you
who I am.
I don't need to explain
anything further,
but you claim I do.
I'm sick of every
GSA meeting being filled
with questions of my
gender and sexuality.
There's more to me.
You claim you know me,
but you don't.
You have no clue what
my favorite color is
or my favorite movie
or even know what I
love to read.
There's more to me
than a couple of titles.
You say that all you have
is your sexuality and gender,
that has to be a sad life.
I'm sorry that that's all you have.
But I have more.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 3:04 PM UTC
The taste of bitter toxicity
The feel of obsidian
The sound of inhalation
The excitement of exhalation
Heart racing and it begins
Butterflies start to dance
Rushing flow of ecstasy
giddiness embracing
Flying higher and higher
Freedom and happiness
awareness with every touch
bliss
Heart compressing
Stampede of hysteria
Slow crawl into desolation
Loosing grip
Falling faster and faster
servitude and disorientation
Restlessness with every thought
desperation
The taste of bitter toxicity
The feel of obsidian
The sound of inhalation
The excitement of exhalation
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 12:08 AM UTC
Turn off the light,
Force my eyes to adjust
So for a brief point in time
I don’t have to deal with the world.
The roués of an instance
Pressing and compressing
Ideas once held so dearly,
So close to the chest,
Fundamental morals that are nurtured and grown to define who I am, to determine what defines me,
to know what best explains who, what, when, where and why I become ‘I’;
...Has warped.
We are all required
To develop an acquired
Taste of territoriality
Over who we are, and what we have
Or,
Who we have and why we are.
“She is mine. From the second I laid eyes on her I knew.”- The Landlord
That determinism,
That ‘I am who I am, and the only thing that changes is time’
Is flawed.
Time does not change!
Who we are changes!
Change only comes from within.
The unfathomable amount of people I can and will be,
Stems from me and myself alone.
However poignant this is,
The matter arises that,
No question how much responsibility I have for why I am, who I am, and who I need to be;
These people will never meet.
We are told to dream,
That we can be whoever we want to be,
Though we never want to be who we are.
The closer we get to the carrot,
The more we realise
It is dangling from the pole taped to our heads.
Never live for the dream
Just be existent in the present,
For the vision does not exist.
And never will.
It just changes.
*And I am sick of dreaming… But I lack sleep.
…Oh god, what have I done?*
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 7:50 AM UTC
It was so vivid I could
feel my chest compressing
as I ran, crippled with sobs.
The betrayal was a knife
It was a furnace and my
feet hurt as I flew across the
city. When I punched out my
bedroom window I could feel
the glass separating my knuckles
and I contemplated the destiny
of the larger shards. I awoke as one
resuscitated from drowning
resuscitated from death
gasping, shaking, reeling
d e m a t e r i a l i z e d
and began to cry as I
performed yogic breathing
exercises and went limply through
the worn out motions to
assuage heart attack symptoms.
They know they know
even follow me
follow me when I'm asleep.
My God.
Jul 23, 2012
Jul 23, 2012 at 8:09 AM UTC
Read me outloud
It doesn't hit the same without it
Empty room yet mind is crowded
How to sit and stare up at night sky
Without thinking about
All the ground and concrete and skyscrapers compressing chest
So heavy I'm convinced we'll all sink down into the earth soon enough
Not that it really seems to matter anymore
I can still feel doom tugging at the corners of being
Still see dead faces of everyone flashing through mind
"Hello nice to meet you, I can see you rotting in my head"
A brisk break room conversation
Not that it really seems to matter anymore
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 5:31 PM UTC
Stretched across me.
Tight against my chest and settled at my lap.
I t t a k e s m e a w a y.
Surrounds me, over my shoulders,
Pushing me back,
against your chest.
I take a d-e-e-p breath........
1,2,3,
Hold me tight,
Help me feel free.
Compressing my heart, it beats, against, yours.
And i want to collapse,
crash hard,
so i can feel you pull me to safety,
I want bruises to remind me I am yours.
Arms across my chest, and around my lap,
You can't see my tears, as they fall in exhalation,
Of feeling your skin, against mine.
Tightly we bond, meshed together,
I push harder, you hold me closer,
I push faster, you hold me tighter,
I stop hard, you encompass me.
And,
If i should have ever, ever, ever,
crash and burn,
I know that you would be, there.
My safety net.
My synchronised heartbeat.
My safety belt.
My seatbelt.
My, You.
Hold me closer, never let me go.
Hold me tighter, and i will feel free.
Hold me, just hold me,
and never let me,
go.
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 6:23 PM UTC
**** these violent black holes
Compressing each and every passing soul
****** through these eternities
By vacuums of unknowns
On the other side where entropy awaits
There at the eventful horizon
Another big bang
At heaven's new gate
Hope is but a hypothesis
From an obsolete science book
Outdated in spirituality
Humanity is always
On the hook!
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 10:45 AM UTC
by 6
I witness the slow spin
of her tilted axis
compressing all that's left
into cryptic silhouettes
she tenderly sets her son to rest
attentive not to wake
her first born, Dawn yet
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 11:04 PM UTC
You’re basic,
a lengthy silhouette
miming the human experience.
Staying up late
to blind yourself,
blinking to the sounds of sleepiness
heart beating to Skinny Love.
What ifs,
pre-recorded scenarios
imagining that first hug.
Contemplate that bottle of pills by the sink
that new film that you want to see,
condensation in the lid of the teapot.
You’re candid,
unsure if all scabs heal
trying to remember when you didn't have a writing callus,
when you slept through the night,
when purple was the only colour you didn't use.
Purify infectious matter,
***** green-blue wine glasses overflowing.
Tinfoil vases and orchid flowers,
melting boxes of 64 assorted crayons.
You’re laconic,
often dying to create,
like the verbose and the wordy
sighing simply to translate.
Missouri gift exchanges,
loose blue jeans ******
stacks of classics.
Tales of the Jazz Age wrinkling
to a slow 50s song.
You’re a try hard
dying to knit,
only true fear is disappointment
burning in the lime light.
6000 voluntary hours
linking syllables to daisy chains,
dropping pesos to foreigners,
hands sandwiched inside
the front cover and the first page
of The Count of Monte Cristo.
You’re basic,
down for maintenance,
compressing the weight of the atmosphere.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 11:35 PM UTC
only a princess
of blood born royalty
could gain such proper poise
in such a form
that will forever
leave us broken and imperfect
you wave your magic
and arch your back
compressing the nerve
of oppression
as the hurt debilitates
your ability to reason
to see the Queen could be you
yet here you be child
here you be
just settling for poverty
in the king's castle
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 9:22 PM UTC
Outside, the sun shines brightly
The sky is blue and life moves on.
Inside, my world is dark, my outlook grim,
No hope, no spark.
I am so tired of this dreadful pall
This darkness which takes over my mind.
“Cheer up, smile, It will get better.”
Empty, well meant words fall on my last nerve.
The pain that is physical causes pain that is mental,
It does not get better than this.
Of course there are good days and then days like the dark ones
Days just like this one today.
I only want sleep, I don’t want to be.
Just hide under covers so no one can see,
The pain that is squeezing my mind.
Compressing it, depressing it,
Making tears for no reason.
Making me ache for relief from the phantoms that be.
Dark, dreadful days like the one I’m caught in,
Searching for the light in the darkness,
Looking for relief,
Eluded.
Oct 5, 2010
Oct 5, 2010 at 9:14 AM UTC
A school bag against a wall,
paint peeling at the edges, grass growing
upwards, clinging to life
between the cracks of the pavement.
A hand on the school bag
clenched around the handle,
fingers pressed together,
curled, and the nails press into the heel of the palm.
They leave dark little crescents.
A boy;
he curls tighter against the wall,
a shadow throws itself over the bruise on his chin.
The boy pulls his school bag towards him,
rests his bruise on it. His fingers grasp
at the worn weave of it.
Eyes close, wrinkle shut.
Obscure all other senses,
so hearing is the sharpest.
Not yet, not yet. No footsteps yet.
Breath shudders, suppressed
from flaring nostrils.
Barely escapes from his lungs,
that are squished against all his other organs,
in that winding space of a box
compressing all of his organs.
No footsteps, no footsteps yet.
Breathe, breathe.
Footsteps.
Laughter, slinking around the corner,
ahead of the approaching group.
It plunges into the taught space of his ears.
Echoes there.
Thumps against his skull.
Footsteps.
A school bag, pressed tight against a boy,
who wraps his person around it,
begs it to be a shield.
A hand, curling into a fist.
Footsteps.
A boy,
and three others.
Three grin,
one does not.
He can't see their teeth, his eyes are stuck tight.
"Look at this pathetic ****
A slap of sole on pavement.
A boy stepping forward,
body harsh.
A flinch.
A laugh.
******* hell, I can't even be bothered."
Footsteps.
A high, quiet sob.
Fingers on a schoolbag, loosen.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 7:39 PM UTC
i've had a
good day
remembered
to water my
plants
drank two cups
of coffee
didn't feel the
irrepressible need to
scream at my family
drowned in a
stranger's spaghetti
*(okay so maybe
i could have lived
without the whole
swimming through pasta
it starts to wrap around
and choke you after awhile)*
found out that
apparently i'm
the nicest person
at work because
i'm the only one who
doesn't want to
throw karen out
the picture window
*(i mean i do
i just don't admit it
because that
would be mean.)*
i kept looking up
to the bells on the door
remembering yesterday
when i saw the face
of one of the dearest
ladies i've ever known
*(i don't know if
she saw me)*
and then for some
reason she turned
directly around and
rushed down the
front steps and
didn't come back in
maybe it wasn't her
maybe an emergency
but the question's
eating at me.
slipping back and forth
here and there
into the mindset that maybe
i owe it to them
*(i don't want to go
anywhere on monday
nights but i don't
want to tell you that)*
then hitting myself
in the head because
what have i been
saying so long?
**i don't owe
anybody anything.**
i've had a
good day
or a day
that wasn't bad
*(just tied my
spine into knots
and i tried the
downward dog
but the dog
knocked me down)*
so i'm not sure
why the veins in
my arms are aching
and the muscles
in my elbows
compressing
as if
even
like i'm not
brutally aware
that my wrists are
not currently
available for
extended slitting
so i don't
know why
they're so
upset
then again
i don't
know why
i'm so
upset
either
i mean
i've had
a good day
******
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 8:31 AM UTC
Forgotten notes lie at the bottom of bags
along with broken pencils
bits of dirt
forgotten words, prayers
continually trampled
deeper and deeper they sink
as work is piled higher and higher
compressing into one
uncrumple them
unscramble the faded letters
before
at the end of the year they are swept up
into the trash
recycled to pulp and reborn
They still linger there
with the gum wrappers
and discarded things
you cannot throw out
until you have forgot them
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 1:26 PM UTC
His bar stool creaks,
quaking ice rattles
as he examines his glass .
His finger swirling liquor,
compressing flavors
with ease and contentment.
He sits
He waits with great patience
and a whiskey drink.
Classy choice, I must say.
I wonder if his blind date
Will feel the same...
Jul 8, 2010
Jul 8, 2010 at 8:20 AM UTC
I dipped a cup of water,
From the edge of endless sea.
Such ocean I will know as God,
While the cup resembles me.
Within the cup are particles,
Of substance undefined;
Yet sole in their uniqueness,
And clearly unrefined.
I’ll view such things as trials,
Or memories distilled;
That oft obscure such clarity,
In practice of my will.
The sand I’ll place this cup upon,
Shall be of life, surround;
Ever-changing with the wind,
Forms ripples on this ground.
Compressing cup into the soft,
Creates stability;
But grounded to such fickle sand,
Defers my destiny.
So lightly I will plant this cup,
On this shore and unafraid;
And welcome curious tidal reach,
With Spirit’s hand in wave.
The sun that rises, east to west,
Is incessant pass of time.
Intense or distant is its charm,
And never will be mine.
As it speeds its warmth and bright,
Across my vessel, waits;
Such heat will pare my still design,
And I’ll evaporate.
Yet, choice in my possession,
To choose a time, that when,
I’m left with only particles,
I may dip my cup again.
There’s comfort in the knowledge,
Of life upon this shore;
Where time may find me self-contained,
And needing nothing more.
Some winds deposit challenges,
For some I’m unprepared;
Appending my complexity,
To those I choose to share.
One day the sands will surely shift,
And toppled I will be;
Spilling freely, I’ll reach out,
Returning to the sea.
Apr 30, 2010
Apr 30, 2010 at 9:44 AM UTC
candle essences portraying the room
as a waxed out sort of gloom -
flickering inconstancies shadowing the
wall with silhouettes as inconstant seas
swaying the milky wall with an undertow
that invites the paint in my mind
to drip leaving a revelation to rewind
to every broken dream, every time you
reached out and felt fingertips slip
with a handle so tight yet no reflecting grip -
thoughts to paper leave the
keyboard clicks echoing a room
compressing notions in a waxed out
sort of gloom.
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 4:05 PM UTC
O! for this dark terrestrial ball
Forsakes his azure-paved hall
A prince of heav’nly birth!
Divine Humanity behold,
What wonders rise, what charms unfold
At his descent to earth!
II.
The bosoms of the great and good
With wonder and delight he view’d,
And fix’d his empire there:
Him, close compressing to his breast,
The sire of gods and men address’d,
“My son, my heav’nly fair!
III.
“Descend to earth, there place thy throne;
“To succour man’s afflicted son
“Each human heart inspire:
“To act in bounties unconfin’d
“Enlarge the close contracted mind,
“And fill it with thy fire.”
IV.
Quick as the word, with swift career
He wings his course from star to star,
And leaves the bright abode.
The Virtue did his charms impart;
Their G——! then thy raptur’d heart
Perceiv’d the rushing God:
V.
For when thy pitying eye did see
The languid muse in low degree,
Then, then at thy desire
Descended the celestial nine;
O’er me methought they deign’d to shine,
And deign’d to string my lyre.
VI.
Can Afric’s muse forgetful prove?
Or can such friendship fail to move
A tender human heart?
Immortal Friendship laurel-crown’d
The smiling Graces all surround
With ev’ry heav’nly Art.
1.7k
Seeing faded memories of faded nights
Lying on faded baby blue sheets
The inoxication of two styrofoam cups
Feeling heavy in hands made of feathers
Eyelids the weight of the world compressing onto cheeksbones dried on tongues of new sneakers
Float away
Away
Away
To a world unknown
The cartographer of your own mind
Pick up the next sip
Let it be your map
The thickness sliding to your stomach
The river to bring you home
Ferryman collects no fair from pain filled travelers
Close your eyes
Let the purple jungles captivate you
Your baby blue eyes are the way home
Call me a runaway
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC
i could feel time compressing.
"may i escort you mad'am?" he whispered.
the sound of voices, blue eyed clean ***** voices, fading.
silence.
eyes watching me. I, a startled deer.
where else but in his house on the hills and in the caves?
no hanging antlers or portraits of ancestors.
i'd often told,
"that would be nice" I said.
Jun 16, 2010
Jun 16, 2010 at 7:01 PM UTC
(This is a true story)
Working in the ICU, on the graveyard shift,
Paul here's your admission, into bed we must lift.
I had overlooked the name while taking report,
The past was calling, she was an old cohort.
My beautiful Linda, five years together,
We'd still be a couple except for her daughter Heather.
I couldn't win over the child, tried though I might,
She wanted her father, always an uphill fight.
So my friend, my love, my perfect mate,
Parted company, feelings of pain and sorrow, never of hate.
Time marches on and the years rolled by,
Less were Linda tears shed that I needed to dry.
Back in the ICU, esophageal varicies was her fate.
Alcoholism eroded her neck veins, death couldn't wait.
She looked up at me, smiled and said,
I never stopped loving you, always in my head.
The ***** helped dull the pain and regret,
Without it your recollection did constantly beset,
And into my life left a gargantuan hole,
Not just in my body, into my eternal soul.
I have to go now God's calling my name,
As she grabbed my hand her strength did wane.
Great efforts were taken, for life we do strive,
Compressing her chest didn't keep her alive.
Prepared her body I did clean and did wrap,
Placed her into a shroud, my strength this did sap.
I finished my shift and went on my way,
Her sweet warm memories caressed me that day.
Dearest Linda I hope you found peace,
My love for you never will cease.
Please visit poemsbypaul.com
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 12:24 PM UTC
how the **** can i be angry when
you help yourself to what's left
after all love is
always the closest thing
to death
bethlehem is restless
terrorist holograms of mary teary unblessed when
death is living every day of your life forever breathless
breathing is all that is left in your chest when the stress hits
regresses to compressing aggressive obsessiveness
********** in pages to confess unspoken messages
the lightening and quiet screams promise me
they'll light my step through this
green grass in it's morning dress
uncaressed by pestilence
beth/rest
you're possessed by this
and the ghosts flitting between the trees
direct me to the places i must have seen in dreams
before i lost the connection to the earth long since
to the directionlessness of adolescence
every vibration left a crack
enough tremor to slide a pin in
and erzebet would visit my skin every night with rumplestilstkin
and they'd spin another needle through the muscle soft as linen,
they promised it would turn to gold, so long
as i stayed hidden at the loom in this prison
shoulders tightening as they thread it away
i look at the money in my minnie wallet and pray
everything safe always seems to go away in a flash
so perhaps it was just that nothing was ever safe
maybe they will leave if i say that i don't
believe in any of these ******* fairies anymore
but maybe i am older than the world is different
and they were just never fairies at all
it seemed to be such a small small place back then
when you could always cheat at LIFE
and run away and play pretend
in your imagination
didn't have to listen to anyone
now cops and parents hate you
and everyone wants to know
what college you've been in cause
surviving is neither irony nor blessing today
just simple catastrophe and endless dissarray
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 1:33 AM UTC
My mother works as florist, she cuts and arranges flowers in order to make it pretty. Even though my mother works at home she never has time to sit down. She is always in a hurry and never has time to worry. My mother has a mentally sick family, it runs in the blood but skipped her generation and found its way to her children's brains. The sickness came as a lightning from a thunderstorm - totally expected. Yet, my mother never saw it coming because she never had time to sit down and listen to the thunder roaring, she just turn up the volume on the radio, which only played happy songs about love and flowers. Inside the house the flowers wither from all the depressed children compressing the air till there is nothing left. Everyone sits at the dinner table gasping for air while fighting for the attention of an uncaring florist. She never sees the pain in her children's eyes or how their always wear long sleeves even when the flowers are blooming outside. My mothers children never felt pretty nor good enough so they started cutting their own skin.
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 10:26 AM UTC