"concentrates" poems
when she was eight years old
she
asked her mother
have you seen the girl with
lashes like butterflies against sharp cheekbone branches?
a dandelion sprouting from sludge covered gutters and streets
streets, where you feel that bitter bland nothingness in your stomach
it feels buttery to stare at her:
see how snow outstretches arms and twirls tippy toes, envies her grace
see how balloon sized raindrops pop, target the freckles on her arm
see how her forehead crinkles when she concentrates, nothing more than a beacon
proclaiming she trickles with stars
when she was eight years old
her parent's violent protests slipped bruises under her skin like pennies in a coin slot
but they could not contain the celestial girl tucked under her ribcage.
she would still look at her like she was the breakfast sun on a saturday
whistling by the creak, catching glimpses of dresses from behind the legs of trees.
see how this is special love, sweet as strawberry fields under soft sun
they would never feel on their forked, sour tongues
Oct 15, 2017
Oct 15, 2017 at 2:35 AM UTC
*~
**Him
sits in an arm chair
slouched and relaxed,
watching her
with a glass of whiskey
in his hand**
~
Her
lays on the bed
naked, long legs spread
watching him
watching her.
~
**Him
asks her to do
what he had
been dreaming of
even before seeing her naked.
Beautiful scenery**
~
Her
strokes light and feathery, at first
delicate fingers tracing
up and down
while the other hand
on her breast
tipping her nip
~
**Him
mesmerized by the show
he takes a sip of whiskey
the burn does not compare to
the burn growing in his pants**
~
Her
dips a finger inside,
spreading the glistening liquid
found across her inner lips
increasing the pressure
and moving from side to side
~
**Him
doesn’t know where to look
as she concentrates
on her ******
pulling at the tip
she gnaws her bottom lip
he settles on her eyes**
~
Her
picks up speed,
the circles of her fingers
smaller and smaller,
focusing on her pearl
shallow breaths growing rapid
as she nears her peak
~
**Him
slips out of his shirt
he starts to sweat
unbuckling his pants
to release
the growing pressure**
~
Her
tilts her hips
finding the optimal position
to intensify her pleasure
~
**Him
holds his breath
to hear the
gasping of her breath**
~
Her
eyes on him, longingly,
back arches,
head falls back
and lips part
“Oh God”
in heavy breath
~
**Him
“Amazing”
whispers unsure he said it aloud**
~*
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 8:05 AM UTC
~the heart of (the) matter~
~~~~~~
an essential phrase,
that concentrates the
instincts not to sway
away,
be focused
on, by the always present
algorithm of the
essences
but my version preferred
is that
"the heart of matter"
with skill and effort,
one can learn, to shoot
arrows honed to be near
an-almost-bullseye every time
but to understand that
the heart
is matter,
the mother
of our body parts,
the little engine that could,
can and does,
and asks only
refresh it with
fresh blue blood,
every second
(not to much to ask for)
what are/is the sinews of the heart?
what are its secreted corpuscular (1)
composed of?
why words, you silly!
each beat, a letter,
the heart doth register
its creativity incessant,
never ceasing to rest
for composition is its goal,
to sing to write, to weep
from pleasured thoughts
and deepest fright,
and you say you need inspiration?
then listen to your writing vibrations that from thy center
emanate, you who toil laboriously
when all that matters is the matter,
the wonderful matter of
who when where and why
that chatterbox in your body
never ever pauses
***and that is why in the matter of god,
have no doubts
only a god could have conceived
of a world of billions of composers
where each one of us
matters***…
5:19am Wed Sep 10
Sep 12, 2025
Sep 12, 2025 at 5:59 AM UTC
Apeneck Sweeney spreads his knees
Letting his arms hang down to laugh,
The zebra stripes along his jaw
Swelling to maculate giraffe.
The circles of the stormy moon
Slide westward toward the River Plate,
Death and the Raven drift above
And Sweeney guards the hornèd gate.
Gloomy Orion and the Dog
Are veiled; and hushed the shrunken seas;
The person in the Spanish cape
Tries to sit on Sweeney’s knees
Slips and pulls the table cloth
Overturns a coffee-cup,
Reorganised upon the floor
She yawns and draws a stocking up;
The silent man in mocha brown
Sprawls at the window-sill and gapes;
The waiter brings in oranges
Bananas figs and hothouse grapes;
The silent vertebrate in brown
Contracts and concentrates, withdraws;
Rachel née Rabinovitch
Tears at the grapes with murderous paws;
She and the lady in the cape
Are suspect, thought to be in league;
Therefore the man with heavy eyes
Declines the gambit, shows fatigue,
Leaves the room and reappears
Outside the window, leaning in,
Branches of wistaria
Circumscribe a golden grin;
The host with someone indistinct
Converses at the door apart,
The nightingales are singing near
The Convent of the Sacred Heart,
And sang within the ****** wood
When Agamemnon cried aloud,
And let their liquid siftings fall
To stain the stiff dishonoured shroud.
3k
My snowball-like puppy barks like a bird,
Whenever that sparrow enters my window
Like a sudden sunray of winter.
She perches on a luminous spot
To sing him the sweetness of nature, that
She composed when dawn kissed her feathers.
He rhythmically stirs air with his thin white tail,
And concentrates hard on imitating
The morning song of little sparrow.
Days walk like this on my room
Resonating with their twittering symphony.
Now I think, maybe it's not only a music lesson
But a chapter of learning the secrecy of flying.
'Cause yesterday afternoon I dreamt,
My puppy flew out of the open window
With his two new glittering wings of sparrow,
Singing the brightest song of freedom.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 3:03 PM UTC
My Strongest, My Weakest
My strength where it be my weakness
My weakness, it seems to be my strength
Alone on a bench of thoughts
Pulling out memories as straws
******* out the moments so I don't feel numb again
Waiting for the sun to shine
At night I look for the brighest star
At home I wait for the hour of glory
I write futuristic promising romantic stories
Searching and digging into the pit of opportunity
Grinding and drilling so I can find what the world has for me
Is the rock a diamond uncovered?
Is the diamond a rock long discovered?
What good am I in a hopeless world?
How strong am I to be still standing?
I have been blinded by pride and reputation
The chances flew right past me
This was my weakness
An illusion which seemed to appear as my power
Only to allude me and send me to the depths of hunger
How do I survive in this incessant famine
My strongest, my weakest
Is my prowess both a strength and a weakness
Is my power a fist that concentrates my potential,
filters all doubts and confusion,
then send me back to a writer's rhythm?
For the muscle of me, what is love?
For the scars on my back, do tears set a heart free?
On my back are scars which smymbolize the pain
The pain caused by those who have turned their backs on me
The muscle of me a solidified lump of heated chemistry
Chemistry broke for the vision was divided
For one side a poetic love affair
Another a fling of **** and ego boost
Lies lie hidden in a black book of truce
The tears shower and the pain overshadows,
and the lies fly out and the book burns
Nothing left but hurt, resentment, hunger and thirst
A chance of love comes again and again I am underrated
Shots that succeed lack poise and weight
I levitate onto the pillars of loneliness
The trial gives me cold but also clarity
A fool never unless my heart learns to jump again and I,
I will set it free.
Is this a mere cry due to weakness?
Is it a last strike so I can find my strength again?
All is revealed and I slip into a stream
I am on the prowl once more and I will never be the same.
But soon I will find, the lines that divide
Strength and Weakness
And the balance therein
I am in it and I search for the limit... The limit within the dimensions of existence's summit.
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 3:23 AM UTC
I’ve been squeezing moose all over my body in an attempt
To give it more volume
Which is to say I was trying to give my life more depth
When you’re finished reading astronomy you’ll end up
Throwing oranges at pedestrians because **** it, Earth is
Meaningless and everyone needs to cheer up
**** it because being content is the hardest
Thing you can possibly do
Which is to say throwing oranges at people is the hardest
Thing to do without getting your *** kicked
**** it because when an orange concentrates hard enough it becomes juice
And if I concentrate hard enough I **** myself
Which is to say I need to have a seat and calm down—
Enjoy this cigarette while it lasts
I am no longer able to print Handle-With-Care labeling
And tape it to my body like someone who actually believes that works
While the sun laughs and harasses me with oranges all day
**** it, there’s too much moose and I’m wearing a white shirt.
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 11:56 PM UTC
Doctor O doctor.
Can you treat me?
This aweful mind refuses to greet me!
I'v been having trouble controling my thoughts.
Outbursts of creativity and crazy wandering thoughts.
I have work to do and need to concentrate!
But these wandering thoughts have me on stalemate.
The thoughts go here and the mind goes there,
They do not seem to coincide anywhere.
Doctor O doctor can you help me?
Bring these thoughts into order,
and let this mind be.
It concentrates of war,
it concentrates on pain.
None of which have any prospect of gain.
It concentrates on hate,
and the ever growing weight,
Of the population that refuses to wait.
No tollerance or patience,
No thoughts on moulding this nation.
Just fights on rights,
And pointing fingers with might!
No one looks at their duties,
Or the subtle beauties.
Beauty of diversity, and the numerous entities.
That form our great nation.
All it need is unadulterated devotion.
I have work to do and need to concentrate!
But these wandering thoughts have me on stalemate.
The thoughts go here and the mind goes there,
They do not seem to coincide anywhere.
Doctor O doctor can you help me?
Bring these thoughts into order,
and let this mind be.
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 10:21 AM UTC
Rock step, trip-le, trip-le
Rock step, trip-le, trip-le
Judah bids us "Good morning!" at nine at night,
He's like Fred Astaire,
Big moves and big ears.
Dylan is late coming in,
Sliding out of his leather jacket with a sour expression -
He's too cool for this game.
Lindsey drags in the speaker system,
All goofy grins and ugly sweaters,
And she's so happy to see us.
Rock step, trip-le, trip-le
Andy with his slick moves
and slicker hair.
Matt who always smelled strange
but lost to Kevin.
Susan with her tight, swinging hips
and constant critiques.
Pete thinks he can do this,
and then breaks your arm.
Caleb concentrates too hard,
and tries not to look you in the eyes.
Josh gets bored with the basics,
deciding to breakdance instead.
Rock step, trip-le, trip-le
Rock step, trip-le, trip-le
And after an hour of being passed from one lead to the next
Like a hot potato,
And then standing with your back against the basement wall
During the free-for-all,
You decide you rather be studying algebra
and leave.
Lindsey waves goodbye.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 2:05 AM UTC
In nights of rest,
rest assured I will see you in all sunny tomorrows
So much solar power
feeds the earth,
feeds the soul,
incumbent in its given place,
We sail-pirouette around it
on a spherical hoop-dance
So volatile, a combustion hydrogen-cosmic-lantern
and a coalescing helium brew
Lash out your heated tongues
push flare waves to lick our living sphere,
concentrates on heated brows and scatters atoms and molecules
The upper push for earth-life and this mater Sun
is but a conservador wearing its blinding cosmic-girth
Made homage to, anthropomorphized in past primordial granduer, spot your ancient rays on earth's gyrating seasons,
from dawn to dusk so much the sun...
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 7:39 PM UTC
*I find a story in the veins
Of spaces; Relative
To nature. Authors scar --
Rhythm concentrates the mind.
Plot. ****** Literary art.
The character who passes
Unconventionality -- A snail with conscience?
What is a story without substance?*
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 12:43 PM UTC
fools, ,you see ted bunny and ronnie biggs are saying the fools have been trapped in my snowstorm
and in the category 3 cyclone marcia in queensland, nobody listens to the ploy of cronus and barry allan
even if they are trying to keep them safe, and ted bundy who flew around aistralia trying too make
marcia and lam, really ruin australia, and keep these americans trapped in snowy weather, keep kids from
learning, by closing the schools, and cronus with barry allan’s help, was trying to get people to rally together
to make everyone happy, and safe, we can’t save everyone, but we could ****** well try
and then ted bundy said heh heh the fools, thinking these waters are safe to swim in, but ted isn’t shy
he is evil enough to make people lose their lives, we must listen to authorities as opposed for doing the
right thing, you see they call this nature, i call it cosmic attack, a really fierce cosmic attack, nobody can
see the clear sky ahead, in order for people not dying from this sort of thing, and that is, don’t do stupid things
ronnie biggs also is making the category 3 cyclones marcia and lam and a terrible snowstorm in the states
you see these vicious killers are doing more harm here, than they did on earth, they are ruining families
from all over the place, and elvis presley cancelled his neptune concert, to make the jewish messiah daniel
who is his earth body, to think that he needs to start thinking of trying to save people from these terrible
snowstorms and category 3 cyclones, you see, he thinks he is forcing the cyclone probably, but we all know
that ronnie biggs and ted bundy are forcing them, i think this country concentrates too much in celebrating
the jewish messiah’s previous life, and making him sleep like a pack of rich arrogant ***** but even if he
wants to work anywhere, he wanted to get into library studies but instead of that, he is playing all over
the planets, singing elvis is a schizophrenic and everyone seems fine with that, but, instead of looking
at relief web. int, you should help us finish off ted bundy and ronnie biggs evil and cunning plan, to
force the dreadful end of the world, you know what i think, if people listen to lifeguards and not going
out to these fierce seas, the end of the world wouldn’t come, we must pray to buddha, that these people
are safe, so when marcia hits, they are not out there battling the cyclone caused by ronnie biggs and
ted bundy, please, buddha help, cronus ands barry allan battle these dreadful spirits, ,and make the
storm ease, there are a lot of snow trapping innocent americans and all ted bundy and ronnie biggs
can say is heh heh heh, these fools are falling right into my trap
PLEASE BUDDHA SAVE THESE PLACES, MAKE PEOPLE SAFE BUDDHA
MAKE THE SURF LIFESAVERS, WORK HARDER TO PREVENT PEOPLE GOING OUT
MAKE PEOPLE IN THE USA, JUST SIT IT OUT
UMMMMMMMMMM UMMMMMMMMMMM UMMMMMMMMMM UMMMMMMMMMMM
ronnie biggs and ted bundy are sitting in saturn club rings saying foolish earthlings
they are falling right into my little trap
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 1:05 AM UTC
by: T.S. Eliot (1888-1965)
PENECK Sweeney spreads his knees
Letting his arms hang down to laugh,
The zebra stripes along his jaw
Swelling to maculate giraffe.
The circles of the stormy moon
Slide westward toward the River Plate,
Death and the Raven drift above
And Sweeney guards the horned gate.
Gloomy Orion and the Dog
Are veiled; and hushed the shrunken seas;
The person in the Spanish cape
Tries to sit on Sweeney's knees
Slips and pulls the table cloth
Overturns a coffee-cup,
Reorganized upon the floor
She yawns and draws a stocking up;
The silent man in mocha brown
Sprawls at the window-sill and gapes;
The waiter brings in oranges
Bananas figs and hothouse grapes;
The silent vertebrate in brown
Contracts and concentrates, withdraws;
Rachel née Rabinovitch
Tears at the grapes with murderous paws;
She and the lady in the cape
Are suspect, thought to be in league;
Therefore the man with heavy eyes
Declines the gambit, shows fatigue,
Leaves the room and reappears
Outside the window, leaning in,
Branches of wistaria
Circumscribe a golden grin;
The host with someone indistinct
Converses at the door apart,
The nightingales are singing near
The Convent of the Sacred Heart,
And sang within the ****** wood
When Agamemnon cried aloud,
And let their liquid droppings fall
To stain the stiff dishonoured shroud
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 3:25 PM UTC
Eyes dry he concentrates every mark a testimony
A work of art to each who call but not seen
Its personal, cat or raven
To who takes his ink
Ink is ink but only those who live ink know ink
His time he spends making amends for those who tried before
Fools with no grasp of artwork or hygiene he abhores
Inky simply does his work and ignores the fool's and ******
What you see is what you get and if it's him it's perfection
Others ink like children no skill, no direction
So dont ask a master does it hurt or does he give a dizzy
If cheap you want and Hep c, and many an infection
Then go and find a amateur to ink and go in another direction
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 6:13 PM UTC
Our preconceived notions
can’t seem to be left at the door
as we all seem to meet each other
for the first time, hand shake in check
psychiatrist inspecting psychologist
who to take, what to take, can we partake
in this guessing game of assumptions;
all because we are deeply insecure.
Yes, perhaps the writer even the reader
can take heed even implore the words
from abstracts, to ideas set forth to type
font, confront abound the reflective recollections,
as I form sentences and you figure the syntax.
Seeping through the membranes that we have solely
constructed from the libations and gluttony from opposite
heads to tails; phobic forming channels flipping
ratios of eyes on you, and yourself so to be social
concentrates every weekend, only to dissipate.
What has been lacking is simple genuine
conversation of good morning, how are you ?
exchanging information so to know
one another - that is being social.
The microcosms we place ourselves into are nothing more
than are fathom facades we trace as perimeters so to measure
how much we can let people into our already egocentric lives.
Don’t contest that statement, to some level we all have absolved
in our own thoughts everyday, that we lose sight perhaps
what we see with our eyes should be understood logically
with conscious from the back of our minds.
Tip this scale for which we wait, taking to memory
that we heal as we initiate, and take ourselves
into each others weight, so we can carry on.
Nov 10, 2010
Nov 10, 2010 at 9:09 AM UTC
by: T.S. Eliot (1888-1965)
PENECK Sweeney spreads his knees
Letting his arms hang down to laugh,
The zebra stripes along his jaw
Swelling to maculate giraffe.
The circles of the stormy moon
Slide westward toward the River Plate,
Death and the Raven drift above
And Sweeney guards the horned gate.
Gloomy Orion and the Dog
Are veiled; and hushed the shrunken seas;
The person in the Spanish cape
Tries to sit on Sweeney's knees
Slips and pulls the table cloth
Overturns a coffee-cup,
Reorganized upon the floor
She yawns and draws a stocking up;
The silent man in mocha brown
Sprawls at the window-sill and gapes;
The waiter brings in oranges
Bananas figs and hothouse grapes;
The silent vertebrate in brown
Contracts and concentrates, withdraws;
Rachel née Rabinovitch
Tears at the grapes with murderous paws;
She and the lady in the cape
Are suspect, thought to be in league;
Therefore the man with heavy eyes
Declines the gambit, shows fatigue,
Leaves the room and reappears
Outside the window, leaning in,
Branches of wistaria
Circumscribe a golden grin;
The host with someone indistinct
Converses at the door apart,
The nightingales are singing near
The Convent of the Sacred Heart,
And sang within the ****** wood
When Agamemnon cried aloud,
And let their liquid droppings fall
To stain the stiff dishonoured shroud
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 3:25 PM UTC
Every last highway narrowed to road diminished to ruts reduced to trail
eroded to footsteps and ended, choked by weeds, in all directions. Every last one.
Status Quo has led to dire starvation, protected behind walls.
With no options the city is dumbfounded in famine.
But Nature concentrates disconnected genius and ungrounded creativity in a few souls,
So unique they don't fit in, isolated by their own perceptions.
Society cruelly throws them out to suffer alone the cold wilds,
into the throng of ravenous wolves. Just as Nature intended.
Few of the outcasts survive, and fewer of those resourceful souls live to tell, or care to return.
The town warily welcomes them home, but celebrate the path that was forged to a new harvest.
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 3:20 PM UTC
the end
looks a lot like me;
b i l l o w e d,
(( s h r o u d e d )),
rain c l o u d eyes.
twįstęd tongues
which speak in lies.
mælstrøm mind
manipulates,
-&-
measured malice
concentrates.
dosing mostly those
that mean the most to me.
and though it be the me
that I try not to be,
t h e e n d
looks a lot like me.
-@gonegonegoner-
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 3:07 AM UTC
The poet stands, bending over a piece of his writing, next to his wife
musing, not writing any longer.
His wife, in both appearance and mind much stronger than him,
shares his glance and dares
to let her eyes dance right across his naked lines.
He feels her breath next to his shoulder, on his skin,
remembers how, when growing older, you start to be
content with less.
So now, she finally adresses him:
Are you writing about me?
He frowns, something he rarely does, takes a deep breath
and, quietly bereft of his most personal emotion, starts to smile.
You know, he anwers, with a slight shiver in his voice,
I'd rather you asked something else. I'd rather-
but he has no choice, is forced to speak, at last.
His wife, slightly intrigued, demands: elaborate!
Two hands are raised to shape the air, create a space
and place an invisible heart
inside its core.
Look here, he speaks, this is my work,
and indicating this he gestures wildly
while his wife remains disquiet, though now
she sees, thus smiling mildly, what he is getting at.
*And in the middle, this is you
as if* -
now he does not allow his voice to drift
as if my poetry evolves -
But he stops dead and sees
a clear image inside his spinning head:
He concentrates, takes a step back -
and reaches for his woman's face,
places his palms on her red cheeks, one side each,
and begins to speak anew:
*If I had ever written just a single line about you, dear,
I shall be ******
I won't let false words touch you!
Let me explain:
It is the other way around!
All pieces and all lines and words have once
belonged to you, and now emerge
from your sweet face!
I am now well prepared just to erase
all of my poetry,
for all of it I will find then again,
anew,
in your kind heart,
in you.*
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 11:23 AM UTC
The end of another instalment of this little battle of teasing dad
I am trying to tell everyone I am cool and dad says you see still getting teased, even if you if you say that
You can handle people ditching me, but the natural fact I ditched him in a way, you see I wanted to make new friends and the friend I came in with just nicked off home leaving me to party all night at the firehouse, cause I thought doing that was cool, I realise that when you drink alcohol you sometimes feel a little shy as you listen to the music that sounds a bit sad but you bounce back up when they play a fast song like La Bamba gets played you start getting down and party down really hard and even if you down real hard, and I also think they treat me like a real cool dude and some men said I was a great ugly snout and I decided to say it too dad, but that was just the start of the little instalment of teasing dad, because he sort of concentrates on trying to keep his family safe, which is cool, and I love him for it, but I want him to realise that I did it to be closer with people my own age so I could avoid being treated like real old fogie when they pass away, cause I want my brother to have a good life and I want him to sort of not be shy to be a man., even if or goes against everything he believes in because we aren't invincible and I don't want him to be treated like me really, or try and do what he wanted to mainly because you can't change the past but I want his daughters to love him for the person he is, and I know that they are saying I am not a young dude for the way I used to act but I don't want the family to say to Chris that they finally got rid of hue yeah mate yeah kid, cause sometimes in life you have to do things you don't wanna do to gain respect, I got teased but I still enjoyed myself
But this another instalment of teasing dad, I want Chris to leave the old fogies on their own big, but I am doing that anyway, but that is another chapter in the saga, I don't want to be like dad to a tease but I ain't shy because I was really cool when I was young
Sent from my iPhone
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 1:46 PM UTC
He stands in the washroom of
Restaurants smelling people's ****
When he hears a wet bowel movement
he concentrates and inhales to sniffs
He doesn't explain why he embraces
these different smells and succumbs
To a brain that keeps many smells on file
like a world trade show of dumps
Cause everybody poops
So he wants to find a way
To manipulate smells so one day
everyone's **** will smell great
And hell go down in history 4 making
**** smell like lotion 4 baby's
THEN Hell be called brilliant!! for hangin
around restrooms and not crazy
like some thought So maybe.....
who u think or call crazy should stop
cuz they could be a genius who's times
to precious to explain his planned plot
And the main message in this
poem is the judging just needs to stop
So....Stop calling me CrAZy CuZ
I'm BrIlLIAnT ........BuT CrAzY I aM not
...cause I'm brilliant!
Like a **** smeller..... You...
know what I mean... lol
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 8:03 PM UTC
she's slowly starting to forget things
but she preps her mind in stride
she constantly worries about this
i can tell when she tries to hide
and i know that it's absolutely frightening for her.
to lose her mind. to lose herself. to let worry win her over.
she focuses more out of fear and concentrates fiercely.
she practices her sounds and her faces. she memorizes scriptures and places.
"remember when we did this" - "it feels so long ago that we did that"
and i don't have the heart to tell her that i wasn't there.
and my soul hurts for this dear woman of mine...who is slowly losing her mind.
as she tries to grasp the sanity that was never meant to stay long.
my mama is getting older. so i'll continue to use that excuse and comment lightly
that it is only stress that's getting to her. that she needs a holiday.
she'll take those reasons for now...but i know she still hides.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 8:04 PM UTC
Is it possible to be too beautiful, she wondered
After the effect she had on men?
Did they love her for who she was
Or her looks which took them aback?
A dilemma real
She was born that way
One with a true heart
Beauty is a flickering candle
An evanescent light
Occasionally a hindrance
But usually it turns out right
Yes, she’s a high paid model
But graduated with honors
Her degree in business
She’s paid fashionably
With covers on Elle and Vogue
Deserved, you’ll agree
She concentrates now on finding her man
To having kids, a must be
Some very fine candidates are pursuing her
She plays wait and see
For one will rise above the rest
She will then commit
To a love so beautiful
Never to quit
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 11:39 AM UTC
Raw
egg whites cling
to your hands,
you won’t wash them away,
the smell of dish soap
still tastes like flinching
away from your mother
the first time you cursed
and she tried
to clean you.
The back of the bottle
says Dawn is just a base,
with a mild pH,
if swallowed, simply
dilute
by downing water.
You won’t wash your
hands by drowning.
They are still soft
from rolling dough
in sugar,
the whites retaining
everything you touch,
cinnamon and nutmeg,
cardamom and clove,
everything warm
you learned from her,
the command of the kitchen,
the heat of your skin
under her quick palm,
the heat that concentrates
in the steam
of the boiling water,
black tea,
and you burn your lip
and your mother kisses it
and you gasp in the smoke
with your chai-stained lungs
and you hug her
with your nutmeg hands
to which every spice has clung.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 11:05 AM UTC
Fractured it
thinking just words
so need help plastering it up
so tell me now
communicate with me
just how shall i wrap it
do I need a nurse
who take a strange apple off a tree
already think her mind has gone
how she concentrates
on the job to be done
but it dose not help
hurt like hell
nurse sally
please let me wrap it myself
for you are falling
out off the apple tree
tomorrow will find the ground
then find yourself
and will be gone.
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 3:05 PM UTC