"connotations" poems
running
deliquescing into nature
i am engulfed in stillness
i encounter a deer as i round a corner
its chestnut eyes intensely sense
something wild within me
transfixed
we meld palpably
whispering our essence
myopic views warp into acute focus
golden flowers stretch and arch
and yawning into the sun
swell with bursts of luster
whilst violets polka dot the path
with lilac luminescence
dead tree trunks
mutating into masterpieces
yearn for new life
drawing in the squirrels
yellow-bellied birds
hover
sensing my motions
whilst woodland winds undulate
pine scented waves of sea salt oceans
my ears enchantingly enhanced
by bristling leaves caressing trees
as scintillating amber butterflies
dance in synch
with the clock tower’s
ancient chiming
a gust of wind
catches a patch of sand
and sends it quivering
fusing high in summer air
then falling soft as feathers
hidden fairies prance about
answering unheard questions
problems dissolve in emerald meadows
without a hint of striving
essays write themselves
upon my mind
poetry flows through me
wings of meadowlarks
trace my face with nuances
interlaced with connotations
rushing home
i write it down
then bowing i take credit
for what was etched upon my soul
by a sunbeam in the forest
©2016janetaylor
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 10:09 PM UTC
his writing caught everyone’s attention
like an artist i once saw on the street in québec
he stood out amongst the crowd in montréal
i asked to take his picture
he obliged
this writer is also canadian
and paints masterpieces
with words
his colorful lines sometimes float on jagged edges
brushes of sticky sugar coating are exchanged
for starker strokes of reality
tinged with weathered wisdom
creating shadows in his work
accentuating the light
there’s not a write of his
that does not stir emotions
his words linger
rolling around in your head
bumping into each other
morphing into new connotations
his easel alive
you wonder if he did that on purpose?
could anyone have that kind of talent?
yes…..his brush continues flowing
even after the paint is dry
suddenly at midnight i awaken
and hear another morsel
a word, a phrase, a color
that only made itself known
in the dark of night
understanding he's a favorite
i imagined audibly hearing a collective sigh
when he contracted cancer
would he now leave his canvas dry?
no, this courageous artist
bravely took his palette
and continued painting
his words that us awaken
now e’vn more radiant
with tragedy astride
and ‘tho he talks of dying
i pray that he will stay
but should his spirit fly
we have seen a master show us
how to walk into the light
©2016janetaylor
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 11:48 AM UTC
I’m an apricot , ripe on the tree - ready for picking
I am a cherry , offering to be popped
3 tequila shots or the equivalent of a blurred memory inside me
my heart is bleeding a little at the acts my body is moving through
i am bleeding a little at the acts my body is moving through
i bleed for 4 days , 5 days.
i am amazed that he pulled out. i find that incredible -
as if a man is wild in the act of mergence and unable to control himself ,
ideas of male/female roles imprinted on me
from parents , **** and public school - where girls are made into women
at 13 ,
we discuss when we will “lose our virginity” i say 15 if i’m ready (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
i should expect him to *** inside me , because i am the subservient woman and he should do as he pleases
i think it magical his heightened awareness -
i see his majestic beauty on his well formed muscles
and the hotel room his family owns , or the kick *** motorbike he drives and the supply of beachfront joints.
and still it is now 1 year later that i am in pain.
a fire on my heart and a sick feeling in my stomach
i am sick because i swallowed the lies and hated myself , i truly believed i was worth that level of respect. the fire burns swiftly in my heart because i am enraged and sorrowful at my ignorance. I am partly ashamed at my lack of empathy
for myself and partly in awe at my magnificence.
We look at virginity as pure , unsoiled.
Pure. Unsoiled.
**** Subconsciously telling our mothers , sisters , aunties and grandma’s that they are ***** for exercising their basic ****** function. Shaming us for feeling pleasure.....the connotations are different for brothers , fathers , uncles and grandpas. A pat of well done on the back , you are now a “man”.............well .. i’ll be ****** it amazes me how these sly , low blows are hidden right in plain sight.
well fuckkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk that !
I know i love myself now
with the respect i would rain down upon any other fellow being .
i wish : for them and me to be able to love without fear, disgust and shame.
i wish to allow my energy from that moment to feed others who need help along their path of self-love.
Now my cosmic womb is treated with respect and reverence
enjoying myself freely.
Oh but , i will say thank you , and a sensi bow , for the lesson learnt.
Never again will i put others on a pedestal they have not earnt.
Especially if it has anything to do with my *****
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 10:29 AM UTC
It's just one ****** up little circle
Full of hate and degradations,
Malicious meanings
and confused connotations
That keeps us chasing after
Futile fires.
It hurts more and more
And more and
more, but
feels
as if time is speeding by
without your doing.
Your complacency
is at fault.
You feel yourself burning.
You are the ashes
Of a dying flame,
Not the Phoenix.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 9:11 AM UTC
This greeting comes
Have a nice day
Easier said than done
Haven't had one in a while
Can name the reasons why
The list as long as the Nile
What to do or what not to do
The question I'm left to ponder solo
Feels familiar, always has, oh no!
What shall I do?
Rescue me!
Come to me on bended knee
It won't happen, we're not dating
I'd sabbatoge it if you did
I need pure raw emotions that you keep well hid
The sexes unstable in this world today
What connotations does it carry
When you say, "have a nice day"
February 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 10:00 AM UTC
*stepping back into the west
chills reverberate up and down my spine
chiseling open obsolescent padlocks
dangling with dust
on ancient treasure chests
pallid colors in the attic release
a blossoming familiarity
faint hints of retrospections float on faded paper
granting me access to roads
where no map is needed
as i peruse the streets
my heart flows coalescing with the vicinity
caressing each detail i transform to fluid
and fuse with the past
through fresh strokes of watercolored memories
recollections flash before my eyes
revealing antiquated stories
though thought forgotten
an etched history endeavors to define me
renewing itself as i turn each corner
i shudder at some remembrances while encompassing others
through synchronicity realization hits
that I am all of it
yet none of it
at the same time
familiar faces paint meaning onto me
no longer do they know me
yet they airbrush vestiges of yesteryear
and coat me with connotations
i allow them to think i am whatever they imagine
i morph into their canvas temporarily
then break free in multi-dimensionality
they don't hear me with a new listening
no longer invested in their projections
once sharp triggers now appear in soft focus
an auspicious mist lies around the edges
of my former life
it is as if i never left
yet traces of the east lie sandpapered in me
a maturation commingles with my former self
flushing out on my skin
tethering newfound emotions
a gentle gratitude for home territory
nestles softly
inward
i listen to the clicks
of my scuffed cowboy boots
on acquainted yet somehow distant sidewalks
the echoes layering multiple impressions
glimmering with the utter beauty of this terrain
as I wander through the majestic rocky mountains
drinking in the quaking aspen's crimson edges
interfacing the evergreens
hushed whispers of autumn loftily rest
juxtaposed neatly against futures waiting to unfurl in the wind
an amalgamation of intimate sights and scents
dance in open wounds
dazzling
homesickness cured
a wholeness returned
as winter's crystal dawn blooms
i realize the depth of my growth
for in leaving here and returning
i cherish the west
my home
©2016 janetaylor
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 3:50 AM UTC
The negative connotations implied to your name
Make me want to scream and run away
Hared, depression, silent rejection
Are attributes I'm not too keen to share
Oh, but the angels sing when you care
Apr 19, 2011
Apr 19, 2011 at 1:36 PM UTC
They asked us to think of the person we respected the most in our lives.
Once we had that person in our thoughts they continued,
"Now, write a letter to them coming out"
My throat hitched and I felt my chin start to quiver,
One kid called out, "But I'm not gay?"
That isn't the point of the exercise, Michael.
My mother always told me when I cried my chin looked like a walnut because of the way I scrunched it up in attempt to keep from sobbing.
And in that moment I knew my chin was contorting into a nut and my eyes began to burn,
Because am I?
The constant names and ridicule, "You're a **** *you're a **** **you're a **** spit at me like venom after I donated my hair,
The family jokes of, "So you have a boyfriend yet?"
No.
"A girlfriend then?"
The countless times I have walked downstairs in the morning only to hear my mother say, "You look like a lesbian" and laugh because I didn't feel like putting on makeup that day.
I had spent my entire high school career terrified of the thought of being gay.
But so what?
What if I am?
Why does it feel like being gay is wrong?
The word "gay" is used as an insult time and time again.
If you're not straight then you're not normal.
Normal?
We have to crush this assumption that heterosexuality is a must, that it's the norm.
The LGBTQ community needs you.
We need acceptance.
Someone should not feel threatened due to their sexuality.
That exercise, of writing a letter to your idol coming out, shouldn't even need to exist.
Coming out shouldn't be so scary, so difficult.
We need to learn and to accept one another.
We can't place such negative connotations about being gay, or trans, or pan, or bi, or anything but straight and cis into the youths head,
because then they end up terrified and confused,
just as I was.
Please,
We need to save these kids.
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 10:38 AM UTC
Expatriots await the nights in Kuwait
where the dingoes and dominoes and salamanders bait
the ladies in purple to their eminent doom
of sleazies and stabbings and babies in womb.
Don't get me wrong,
I enjoy a good time, if friends are around and we got a dime
or two
and a fire for the masses and we're shaking our *****
as if we are actually aware of the outcomes of our actions.
I know we haven't the slightest clue
what a Jesus Christ is, or if it hides under our beds at night
or if it was a Jew.
What's written in books can be written by crooks,
because literacy and knowledge are ******* beautiful
but can give one more confidence than the world has to share,
and the whole theory of Relative Pride falls to pieces when one has more self-efficacy than ability
and the children with their sweet little ideas and purity are not humble but fall victim to humility.
So what's in a name?
Letters, vowels, consonants and connotations
traffic tickets, family vacations
****** and protests (though not necessarily related)
teenage boys and ***** minds and those who have masturbated.
But who hasn't?
Those without names, or faces
or honesty or hands
probably have their members tied up in steel-spiked rubber bands.
I'll see you again in retox dehibilitation
and we can converse and create
while under the crutch of sedation.
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 5:46 PM UTC
I was in the car with the mama of the girl I babysit,
her brown deep eyes like whittled wood flicked over mine,
and she asked me what I had learned at school today.
I don’t know, but I think it’s this spring fever
that seems to have burned a hole through my head
letting my brain bounce up into the blue abode
but the blame is not solely on the season
Everything I learn that keeps me living,
lives in the trains of thought,
thought by others.
The mothers I meet with the babies who greet the failure
at the first knock on their wobbly knees
compel me to contemplate further,
because with each waking breath
they are reminded that to live, you learn.
So I tell this fragile woman that today my teachers taught,
but the thought of their subjects
subjects negative connotations,
I want real lessons without plans to hand you wisdom, courage, and consideration
I get to learning in the jaw clinching, artery pinching, eyebrow flinching
awe of the way that woman can sing.
I’ve learned the color of my best friends teeth
because some days she smiles.
Learning to heal is hard enough, but to deal with a scab left raw
is something I will always need improvement on.
With, or without school I’m going to learn.
I’m going to learn cold beverage condensation rings,
percolating dreams,
my little sisters shy smiled wings
and societies racist, sexist, sizeist, ageist, ableist, tightly sewn seams.
Im rattling off my bare brisk list of ambitions,
of pleading for a voluminous scholarshipped tuition,
as I sit next to this woman waiting for a robust reply
I’m learning, that the whittled wood gap in her eyes
are round with sticky sap.
She will teach her daughter academically, never letting her size our common ground;
The skies.
I want her baby to experience,
and as if on cue,
her yawn brings in the tides of the oceans in her eyes,
something she’s learning to cope with,
she’s grasping my soft word’s
“This too, shall pass,
make sure you look to learn with your eyes not your brain,
dear baby girl, choose water over wood,
and when your mama tells you to pack that school bag,
make sure its zipper barely closes over
tightly stuffed open mindedness, and a few colored pencils.”
Jun 21, 2012
Jun 21, 2012 at 10:38 PM UTC
My little blue dress hangs in my closet now, and my black ribbon is around my wrist and not my hair. I've cut my long blonde hair shorter, and my childhood fantasies are a mere haunting that reach to me at night, reminding me of who I am.
I once dreamt of you as a wonderland, a place of fear and magic and horror that I would suffer a thousand lives to feel a moment of.
Then I grew older, and recognized that this wasn't a wonderland; or perhaps, it was, but not quite the wonderland I was thinking of. This wonderland had a name, a name that came with frightening connotations.
Bipolar.
Those fantastical moments in which I was flying, in which nothing but the flowers could sing with me as I danced in a purple field of wonder. Where the bluebells kissed my hands and the crochet was with hedgehogs and the pond behind my house was much more than it seemed.
Bipolar.
Each corner I turned in which a shadow hid behind, shadows I could only see and that chased me through the darkness unto the stairs and into my bed, holding me tight and strangling me until I woke up and realized everything was ok.
Bipolar.
Each friend I made as a child at night that wasn't tangible, though we shook hands and danced and read books together as if we were real. As if anything was real.
Bipolar.
It was a game I was playing that I didn't know was hardwired into my brain, that this wasn't just Grace and her wonderland, it was something darker, deeper. But alas, that's how it is as you age, isn't it?
Wonderland gets darker with each visit, and with each day it grows closer to me. Its terrifying how it may begin to affect others, others i love, but there's not much I can do, is there?
My one wish is that there will not be another blonde little girl, with my green eyes and my blue dress, finding herself stumbling into a wonderland that she cannot handle.
If it means I can never have the one thing I want more than anything, then I am willing to sacrifice everything to protect that little girl.
I will never lead another little girl into wonderland.
Never.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC
Over the holidays, I was watching Lisa’s sister little Leeza, she’s 14.
She has a rebellious fashion sense and a joyful innocence.
She’s still fearless too, and on-God, I hope she never loses that.
Too soon though—the disco’s coming to town—the world’s coming for her. It’s the same for all of us, I suppose, but in Lisa and my cases, covid shut it all down.
It’s a rite of passage—the shoes, the bodycon dresses and the makeup. Those carry negative connotations, I get it, but there’s an excitement too, about finally getting to dress like an adult—a woman—in one of those bodycon, cut-out dresses.
I know the pressures on women and their bodies, but at her age, it's not all stress, cattiness and comparisons—it’s just innocent teen fun. She and her posse can take hours just dressing and doing their make-up—together. It’s probably the best part of their night.
Leeza’s dad (Michael) saw the little group of teens, all dolled-up and launched, like a SpaceX Starship. Pacing the living room, he quietly opined to Karen (her mom), “I don’t want her going out dressed like that.”
Karen was right there with him to cool things down, “No, *** at her age, it’s about self-expression, learning and girl bonding—these connections are really important in the girl-world.”
I’m not worried about Leeza’s physical safety. These girls are watched over and gently curated. Their every movement is orchestrated and security escorted—hell, Hamas couldn’t get to them—much less some gropey boy.
There’s just this new awareness these days of how unhappy some people are—and a lot of them are teen girls. I wouldn’t want to see Leeza mired in the sad, brain-draining social media pressure and self-esteem traps.
Teenhood is scary—I was feelin’ positively parental.
Then I looked at Lisa, and I was reminded that they’ve done all this before, and she has a big-sister, role-model too.
.
.
Songs for this:
Good Time Girl (feat. Charlie Barker) by Sofi Tukker
Dance To This (feat. Ariana Grande) by Troye Sivan
Jan 23, 2025
Jan 23, 2025 at 11:12 AM UTC
Your face explodes into sidewalks and alleyways,
streets and paths, hiking trails, and glittering linoleum floors
It hits waves and wind and the faces of harsh mountains,
melts snow and burns sun.
Some bursting through molecules and broken vessels now sunken, through aromatic sleeplessness, shower heads,
through Mondays and poster board and blue paper mate pens.
It breaks definitions
and connotations
and my fingernails
It breaks and it explodes
and it hits, and it
bursts
It wakes me up
It encourages me
It breathes to me
Dec 8, 2018
Dec 8, 2018 at 6:30 PM UTC
"I would say I care about women's rights, but I wouldn't call myself a feminist"
"I think men and women should be equal, yeah, but I don't want to be called a feminist."
"Does that mean I can hit you?"
The word feminism rattles like a cracking cymbal crashing
just hard enough on pavement to scratch it
but not hard enough to break.
The word feminism manifests itself in our culture
in poisonous ways,
like the food dye in our candy'r
parabens we cover our faces in,
we don't say this word cos' it's scary
we don't want to make too much commotion
while white men in black robes orchestrate the court system
and have police by the neck, inserting money like a candy machine
we fear the word that gives us a step to bring equality
while white men in suits ask us "how we doin'"
and we don't admit that we're angry,
women don't show anger, it isn't polite
when the men in the subway puts his hand up our skirt
and says "hey baby you like that"
no, he doesn't ask if we do, he tells us out flat,
insinuating our satisfaction is a product of theirs
reminding us with a hand on public transportation
that anyone who has a **** can be one and we can't do ****
because we aren't supposed to be angry, it isn't polite
The word feminism manifests itself in delicate ways
we can't ask for too much, they won't take us seriously
****** intergrity? girl, try again
the right to not wear a bra?
Where do you think you are? this is america
An opinion
one that they hear
that isn't facilitated
out a white man's mouth
into a white man's ear
we aren't a filter
won't you raise your voice?
**** being polite,
please, make some noise
The word feminism manifests itself in ways you can't see
if you fear what it might make you lose
you haven't much yet by the hands of the man
so why are you choosing not to grab your sister's hands?
Stop saying sorry when someone interrupts you
stop moving out of the way for men who don't move
put your female foot down, don't say excuse me
you're a woman, angry with every right to be
stop fearing the word feminism
for the connotations are flurries
the word denotes storms we're starting
join us
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 9:30 PM UTC
They wrote
girl
in the centre of the page.
Word connotations tranfusing into veins of ink.
Pretty synonyms { eyelashes, flowers, cherries, collarbones} lilting with virtue.
A marriage between dainty and fragility.
A wink of buttery pastries & flushed cheeks.
Why the hell did it take so long to put
strong
brilliant { sun & stars }
w-o-m-a-n
{equals}
?
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 7:29 AM UTC
Of course it makes sense, now,
but it disappears; passes between your fingers
like sand, like water, like salt, like blood.
Stains and makes religious connotations,
although I'm a non-believer
and so are you
and so are they;
The ephemeral heroes.
Absent or cloudy minded?
The impossible riddle.
We went searching for gods, devils, angels,etc.,
and instead found an embarrassing truth;
the blunder in centuries of slaughter.
Q: "When is a door not a door?"
A: "Usually you'll hear sirens.
An unusual amount of broken glass,
or a crater, or a statue of a maniac,
or a portal to someplace in time, space,
maybe it was late November,
when you took cash from a woman coughing blood,
12 hours ago the man walking down the street,
screaming, **** MY MIND. I'M SO ******* STUPID.",
ghosts aren't real, but people are, and we treat them
like they are invisible don't we?
Treat them like windows."
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC
My head spins, twirling in colors of essential essanance
the barrries fall onto
floors non existant ground
and simple pleasures
of conversational munch
are triply seductive
the nature that has been robbed will be returned
the love that has been lost will be found
the trees that are cut will grow
and the souls that are condemened will be freed
but it must freeze
what lies at the core of fools
tell me ,
if you could be so kind?
kindred spirits of the philosophical type
who have seen the darkness and fight the flowers fall ,
the tree of universes shakes
and breathes a sigh
all the wind orginated from this spot
eminating out of the simple
simple stop ,
cat calls - forest walls
honest bums
sit
no place like home they say
i say no place called home
no place other than home
as it walks with me
side by side
unto the power places
chakras glow and merger
connotations
******
but the defenition is flexiable
determine the point ,
touch the joints
heat the fall
and ***** it all
you only have this time around its all we've ever had.
who is it
that defines the love in our lives
but parent hood figures made out of wood frozn in time and we watch at the spirals unwind
and the lemons
are zingy and the mint is fresh
and i sleep on a bears bed
baby bear , mother too - wolves out alone standiing o howl at the mooon
and awoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
we've come so far
on the riptide of loves handslide
handshake
discovering for oursleves what we deem humanities race
and what we deem fools and tounges
and what we deem to be the runner out run
who comes first in a race
who comes fist before the fired gun
who sits and the hollow has come.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 6:26 PM UTC
Buddha taught
about "mere words"
since words
in one sense
are like numbers
without any real meaning
like they're all Greek to me
but I think
being something
like a poet
that words
can be powerful
with the capability
of transforming lives
by the process
of the links
that occur
in the mind,
connecting a myriad
of connotations
and denotation
that set off
a potent brain chemistry
that can make the difference
between a kind of sanity
and a kind of madness.
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 10:38 PM UTC
‘Are you a boy or a girl?’
They shout down the corridor in a chorus behind me
Like the cries of “Good morning, Miss” in assembly
The patronising tone
in sleep deprived confusion
Droning throughout the halls
ringing around ‘she’.
Going to lessons is the scariest thing
Head down, walking fast hoping
they’ll never say anything
Hoping no one will question you
Glance around and notice you
not daring to look up
in case you make a wrong move.
You can’t know what it’s like to be
in a room all alone,
in a house that is not your own;
'Your body is a temple’ they said.
But they don’t tell you how to treat it
if it’s right in your head
but wrong in your skin,
and that feeling
of being and existing
is like dealing
with a thousand anxieties
suffocating within;
Chest too obvious
voice too loud and feminine
not enough to be ‘gentleman’.
'Why does this bother you?'
I hear you enquire,
it's because society’s construct
of gender is too based on attire,
an old fashioned concept-
Telling your children
that 'blue's for boys'
'pink's for girls'.
'Is it really?' I say.
Gender is not just binary
it fluxes and changes,
just like any scientific theory;
Einstein for instance,
didn’t come up with special relativity
in a night!
It took years of work
until he was right
Let this apply for gender too:
not just black
and white it's not as
clear cut as that
this is black and this is white
Evolve the theory
from system to spectrum
of freedom and pride
to reside in one's body happily:
Humanity allied.
This is what I dream about,
but it is not what
I've been living throughout,
in our world of shame;
where we are reduced to words and themes.
Driving my community,
those who love and support me,
to thoughts of suicide.
Being known
only when they're reduced
to rags and bones,
dead bodies
hanging
from their hashtags
thrown in the corner
another into the pile of disorder...
But people think it’s okay
to come up to you
abuse you in the street.
Knocked to your knees
to cries of 'queer'-
you end up living in fear-
'well, what do you expect given
who's watching Wall Street?'
Yet I stand here
talking to you
a queer boy-
with all connotations of the word-
a queer boy with a voice.
Look at me!
My chest,
My unbroken voice,
My broken mind.
I am not proud of what I am,
what I’ve become and
how much it hurts
is indescribable to you.
I am not what you want me to be.
I am a man.
Not trans.
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 12:24 PM UTC
Despite my proficiency at chopping carrots with pinpoint precision,
I can’t pinpoint the moment when food stopped just being there and started being
THERE.
(Who remembers what it was like to hold a knife without a load of ****** connotations?*)
I don’t know
why or
what or
when or
how
but
suddenly food became scary and strange, and so much more than hot chocolate to melt the snowflakes from eyelashes or ice cream when eyelashes are melting, and suddenly the snowflakes started growing inside, icy icy cold in a way that the hot chocolate (with whipped cream à la polite refusal) could never have melted.
I don’t know many things.
I know a lot less than I claim to know but I know that food is life and I would say
Life is A Good Thing.
I know that people say you are what you eat. I never knew what it meant.
Never knew what it meant, that is, until I thought about you and all the things you could be.
You could be what you eat.
o Who cares if you cry when your tears are lemonade?
o I don’t mind if you style your hair in fusilli ringlets or tagliatelle straight. Both are equally delicious.
o Without trying to peanut butter-you-up, you’re exactly my cup of tea.
o I know that the only time to cry over spilled milk is when you were about to dip your biscuits in it.
o Life’s not always a piece of cake…which is why I urge you to have your cake and eat it too, whenever possible.
o You know what else I know? You’re iced to perfection with a cherry on top.
o If you’d rather, you could always be a sweetie pie.
o And let me spill the beans: the only way to tie up your shoes is with strawberry laces.
o I’d even love you for your artichoke heart, as long as it’s still beating.
o You’re the apple of my eye nonetheless.
o Everyone knows the best way to maintain good dental hygiene is to candy-floss your tic-tac teeth.
o And you can show them off when you grin and your mouth becomes a banana split on strawberry lips.
So tell me this:
Why have stars when you could have champagne shooters in your eyes?
Look, I may not know many things,
But something I’m sure of:
In order to be a truly tough cookie, you have to eat a lot of them first.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
The probability of life itself is unpredictable
For I can’t extract your mind or heart to decode
Likelihood of possibilities in measurable quotient
For I can’t retract a past gone by to encode
Continuums of even chances and certainty
The toss of the toasted dime, the weigh of sides
Slashed slide all smashed and thrown in mines
Fallibilism of my indefinable opinionated delicacies
Attenuations of what life is attacks and strangles my neck
Global troubles of war, bombs, hunger, anger
Illogical connotations of overlapping determinism
I burrow like a termite in a convex rising molehill
Terminated in contrasted stations as we convene
Gripping hands to grasp our existence in life
I wonder about the whole of it, I think of it somedays
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 10:50 AM UTC
About 4 years into the friendship, or whatever it had by that stage become, during a chat on our Internet **** preferences
over badly-filtered Americanos
in the UCD student cafe, I said to her
" I think I enjoyed our friendship more when we used to get coffee and just laugh for twenty minutes. "
And after a half second of unusual silence from her, those pools
of ever-renewing blue eyes of hers almost incisions
into my consciousness, I added" That was pretty unique."
And then I laughed unbound, and she almost shrugged
and definitely smirked as if to say "this is where I am now, it took some time for me to realise but it's where I've always been."
Unapologetic, as only she could seem to be.
And it was, like any tryst, fling or abandoned half-romance is, utterly unique. Half on the way
to becoming something we were going to hang on to and definitely regret
and half-stopped, sulking out of a puddle,
dead damp weight created by the differences we made ourselves
for the other to behold and dismantle.
The immediate was meant for us, first the attraction, then the disgust, then the despair, then the cursing off, then round to the intrigue all over again.
She remained the great question mark of my undergraduate years. Heartaches after her were equally demeaning, but far more easily explained.
You know you've found someone irreplaceable when they tell things you really shouldn't know,
things shoved up in boxes for years, things too unformed to be really caught sounding out, in the moments after your first kiss.
And every clever undergraduate will tell you how negative all connotations of "irreplaceable" are.
And yet these are the backhanded good graces,
the immeasurable gifts that memory serves
I wear this like a wound I can find wry mirth at the very sight of,
I have learned all this from her without her ever intending
These memories are indented in a music box with an imitation sacred heart all mine
distempered by the candid lines of a girl who never wanted religion, divulged somewhere in our seat of learning.
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 7:32 PM UTC