"consisted" poems
My voice is a wall of glass
On the both side of the wall it's all the same
The roof is consisted of umbrella-shaped beams
The world is an embroidered web
I'm a spider that don't spew silk
cling on to intertwining iron bars
Accidentally chocked my fly to death
Buried it in the oblivion sky
Fed on chitchat
I'm now becoming a skinny,
wind up bird.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
Perched quietly in the shadows of the night,
Observing completely, using all her might,
Untouched the landscape sat; she breathed a sigh,
She leapt and began to fly
She soared through the trees, dark and murky,
Weaving in and out, the ride a little jerky,
Until she reached the clearing, blooming and sprouting,
Where she landed and began scouting
She spotted a baby, small and alone,
Hungry and confused, wanting to be shown,
Flying over to the area in which it sat,
She pulled some wisdom from her hat
Unmoving and silent, she sat as an example,
Showing her apprentice just a little sample,
Teaching patience and perseverance was first on the list,
She didn’t quit until it got the gist
Next thing she knew, her student was growing,
In no time, it was the one doing all the showing,
She took a step back, gazing proudly at her work,
While the child continued doing all the groundwork
Rays peaked out across the horizon in all hues,
Most of which consisted of reds and blues,
She looked at the child, beckoning it to fly on home,
Although she longed to stay and roam
As the sun rose, slow and bright,
She decided to turn and take off in flight,
Twisting and turning through trees and brush,
She flew on quickly, as if in a rush
She spotted it then, modest and small,
The place she longed to go most of all,
Adventures are fun and she liked to roam,
But there’s definitely no place quite like home.
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 10:27 PM UTC
First came the false presumptions of luxury
The gaudy glamour
Bright dresses and dark suits
Awkward glances and ****** food
Eventually though
The evening settled down
And then, after the smoking and drinking
Came 1 o'clock, the worn-out end of a hazy day
Suddenly,
It was a smother of time,
a stifling landscape of clocks
a decaying of darkness
The night gave way to trembling cold delirium
And slow and slow down
A slide from reality
Everything fell
I remember barely a glimmer- a hand, an arm, red sheets somewhere
Eyes that whispered "what's wrong with her? what's her deal?"
Or worse yet, faces that didn't care
To see me, my wrists
Appalling in all their shivering shaken chill dust
In moments like this,
I am nothing but a fearful machine
Broken in its deepest workings,
All function altered.
Clamors and tremors of panic
Withered illusions gathered at my feet like kittens
I tossed the blanket from the makeshift bed
Lay upon my back and waited
Watched, frightened, the night revealing
The hundred ignoble, vile images
Of which my thoughts seems consisted of
They flickered at bit- against the burgundy hammock
And empty Baccardi bottles
2 o'clock shook the memory
A crowd of twisted things,
Torn and stained and coiling about my wrists
I move by the sway of these thoughts that are curled around me
-The notion of some infinitely suffering thing
Oh I only need a lighthouse
To guide my soon-to-be shipwreck home
I only need a compass, a crucifix, a presence
But never
never to be found
the way
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 1:13 AM UTC
he would sit in his room
and draw space ships
that could only be described
as something from star wars
or star trek
and he'd do geometry on the floor
his school books scattered
and punk music
would be playing on his
boom box
game informers stacked high
in tens and twenties
all over his bookcase
cozy against star wars
and hardy boys
the wood frame bed
simple and pure
until tainted by a name
of his first love
scratched in with passion
and heartbreak
he lied quite often
and was a sore loser
his mood usually consisted of
being short fused
and even more short fused
and then he moved
left for good
not visiting for another three years
and then three more after that
each time
he gets older
and less of the thirteen year old
i had known
when he lived
at home
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 6:53 PM UTC
How I adore your nerve
when you kissed me in your closet upon sheets made of legos
and all of your childhood dreams.
How easy I am for you to draw when you play on stage the song that you wrote me,
The one that feels like rock climbing by the river,
Like naps in the summer when I drool on your chest and you don't mind,
Like kissing you until the very last minute of my curfew,
only to break it for the miracle that is your lips.
How alluring is your breath on my neck,
Your voice in my ear when you told me that you loved me
and you didn't stop smiling,
even as the years went by and I did.
How I craved, longed, begged for time to be still
the time you took me to the highest hill you could drive to,
You called it my mountain.
"At first, you look at it and it's so small,
but once you notice it, it's all you can see," you said.
How my stomach floods with waves of nostalgia and a taste
of everything I've ever had to live without,
With complete and utter spell-binded devotion at the simple familiarity
of your smell.
How addicted I am to your laugh when you're happy and
the mastered impression you do of your mom.
How weak I am to your intellect and your appreciation of literature
and real music,
Your enthusiasm for art and the "name that note" game you force upon me
as you stumble onto the classical radio station.
How in love I am with your romance that is as childish as my attachment
to my baby blankie and my mother's childhood walrus that you never ceased to insult.
Our pajama day that we decided over our prom,
When we turned on John Mayer and slow danced in your room.
Your idea of a date consisted of fake wine and me.
How incredibly warm are the coldest of nights,
On the side of your dirt road as we lie in the snow that is too cold for comfort,
yet holds us there with the fear that one day will not look the same as this one
and I would bear any amount of cold winter to keep one more moment of yours.
How I cherish the way you latch my pinky with yours when we walk
And the face you don't know you make when you play guitar.
The rooftop where you kissed me for the very first time and the string rings
we wore to remind each other we were still there.
How incredibly and unfortunately devout I am to all that I remember of you.
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 2:51 AM UTC
Every year it was brought down from the garage rafters. Green metal frame and
springs, green canvas with white fringe and a little green pillow. It was laid out, hosed
off and erected. Grandpa couldn't have done it without us grand kids. He said so. It
was placed in a spot of honor. Just a couple of feet from the picnic table and in a spot
that was always in the afternoon shade. A folding T.V. tray was placed next to it to
hold cold drinks and snacks. Within a few days, the grass under the frame would be
brown and dead. The grass at the sides of the hammock would just be plain gone.
Scuffed away by feet, as we kids sat on the edge and swayed side to side.
After mowing the lawn, washing the car, or doing any other chores needed, Grandpa
would go inside and put on his "Hammock clothes". This consisted of a pair of Bermuda
shorts and a ribbed tank style Tee. White socks and brown sandals completed the
outfit. Once dressed appropriately, he would head for the hammock. The first "sit" of
the summer season was always a bit touchy. One had to get use to the hang of it.
There he would stand, next to the hammock. Cold drink in his one hand, the T.V. tray
forgotten. His slightly bald head and stick thin legs already slightly sun burned. Slowly,
he would start to lower himself. Reaching back with his free hand to grab the edge of
the hammock.
Note** of course us kids, grandma and mom would all be spying out of the corner of
our eyes to watch this ritual.
Then came the "Grandpa Sit". Grandpa would rock slightly forward and back on his
feet. 1-2-3 and ....SIT! A few wobbles. A couple sloshes of his lemonade. All of us
yelling "Whooooaaaaaa". He would sit there on the edge of the hammock, holding
himself steady with one hand on the edge. His feet firmly planted on the grass and his
other hand holding his cold drink high aloft.
Now, the sandals needed to be taken off. One of us grand kids would run over and
help take them off. Tickling his feet as we did so.
So far, no damage to life or limb.
Ah, but he was not yet fully on the hammock yet.
Now came the "Swing and lie down" move.
Slowly, grandpa would reach behind himself and grasp the far edge of the canvas.
drink in his other hand still held aloft. O.K.....1-2-3...SWING the legs up and quickly lie
back. Let the hammock come to a stop.
Where's Grandpa?
On the ground on the other side of the hammock soaked in lemonade.
Summer was officially started!
Jun 27, 2010
Jun 27, 2010 at 11:02 AM UTC
C:\USERS\ISAAC > open C:\Impulse\Expulse.raw
The dust settles
On the fans and the plans.
Looking like a double "2",
You try to see like one.
See or look.
Or just a look-see.
Laughing at nothing is a common thing for you.
The strangest has come,
The strangest has left.
The strangeness is correct.
Every spring,
Every water,
Every drop has a secret.
They sing to him in the form of river.
He jumps to the bank
To get his money's worth.
It's an organized procedure to him.
He sinks his head in the ground,
In the rocks and in the sound.
A random pattern is heard.
Two, Three, Ten, Five, Twenty.
One Hundred, Thirty-One, Two.
A, G, I, S.
North, East, South, West.
His, My, Her, Them.
Great, Rough, Green, Tan.
Giant mispronounciations and hidden truths.
One more thing,
Don't get lost...
"Sadness for a screen,
Sadness for a screen."
He sells his money for a screen,
To get his money's worth.
Lost files and hidden documents
Not worth the oxide their printed on.
Old memories of times still here
Hidden in words of the past.
One more thing,
It's all on impulse.
Next day he found a .raw.
He walked towards it.
It said,
"Why do you live with frantic?"
He said,
"I live to take the time."
It said,
"Why do you do the things you do?"
He said,
"To me, it's not impulse, it's expulse."
It said,
"Why do you need to get rid of?"
He said,
"The questions people seek."
It said,
"Take me to the sky.{?}"
He said,
"Gladly."
To the sky he went.
And the time he spent
He used to solve the problem.
He saw a new opportunity
To make a new sanitation.
It consisted of three notes.
Two for show and one to go.
The go note did the work
Of tasting the ground for dirt
To get it's money's worth.
It cleaned like Ben one.
And when sanitation was complete,
He went to .raw.
He said,
"The last words are gone."
It said,
"So that means we've won."
He said,
"What should we do?"
It said,
"Wait for the next."
Mar 23, 2011
Mar 23, 2011 at 12:37 AM UTC
He was tripping space *****
whilst receiving some strange alien calls,
up on planet Acidon,
From where he sat he could see Uranus,
he was so out of his mind,
he thought he could fly,
boy was that crazy spaceman high,
The journey took him really far,
way out to a distant star,
His food supplies consisted of turtle soup,
but his bowels couldn't handle it,
so he often pooped,
after consuming turtle soup,
The journey had been long and laborious,
and his co-pilot was a drug dealing walrus,
that could not handle his drink,
it made his eyes go pink,
to the point that he could not blink,
They were so out of their box,
they could no longer think.
By Christos Andreas Kourtis and Larna Kira Kourtis
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 5:42 PM UTC
Women are often inspiration for beautiful things
For they are
Compared to stars, summer days and flowers even bird sings
This is par
For all these were made to entertain them
Created so alone would not be men
Not as servants but as equals
Better than the original, a rare sequel
Maybe we had it wrong
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Or shall I compare the day to thee?
In the end we find ourselves on our knees
Saying “take my hand please”
Ladies know your worth
“I’ll give you the world”
No you’re worth more than this earth
Find a soul it is forever
Here is mine, it is my pleasure
But do not take what is yours for granted
Knowing your own beauty you can become enchanted
Narcissistic
The forgotten poems of gorgeous destruction
Compared to cold, dark and other disasters the planet consisted
But without you there is dysfunction
So thank you for your contribution
It makes life beautiful when the world is blurred
When we lose sight you are our restitution
Our lives together in this institution of love
This beautiful constitution signed in blood
We can make forever our home
So no longer do we roam
For I don’t condone giving away what you own
But I would give away my throne to avoid sitting alone
With a look at how a man feels
Change your perspective
Take the chance to know him
Now that you’ve heard tHis stupid little poem
-My Words
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 9:17 PM UTC
My weekend consisted of
Stained and pained smiles
And fists and hits
It was smoking
And it was clowns
And im a beautiful girl
But I am filled with regret
And soft hands left marks
On my body
That I can't even remember
Until I find out later
And I see their stares
And I am guilty within
My parents trust.
My weekends consist of
Sneaking out
And having a *********
Can't tell anybody
Or else I'll be branded as a *****
When I don't even
Remember half of it!
Flashing lights
And falling falling
Sweaty skin
And bitter lips
This is what
My weekend consisted of.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
This is no summer of love, life, or living
no stargazing, butterbeer-soaked movie nights at the library,
or calls from my private school friends
yet
just hours spent on the computer and worrying, simultaneously.
Putting on makeup blindly,
my glasses clipped onto my tank top
that's too tight to wear outside the house,
while songs play that take me back to the previous year,
when all I had was math corrections on the breakfast table at 7:00
while it snowed,
and the days we would just reel around, looking forward to class trips
and lock-ins
that consisted of running around
first on sunlit streets, and then
around the pitch-black halls of the empty school,
wary shrieks and giggles chasing each other in the air.
But now
I'm just leaning here on my bed, eyes tired and feet covered in blisters,
thinking that the next three sweat-and-sunscreen-filled months
are going to be anything but a vacation.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 2:07 PM UTC
Snoozing the alarm clocks hit the highest record today, congratulations.
We got out of bed after the sixth one went off, then continued to lay in bed until the seventh one blared through.
We opened the blinds at two in the afternoon.
We went downstairs and didn't eat until 4pm, congratulations it's practically dinner time.
Our anxious hands spilt the coffee we carried into the living room because we only got five hours of sleep.
We spent the whole evening completing six chores because we had no energy to get up from the floor.
Our night consisted of us hiding away in our bedroom until insomnia washed over us and rocked us harshly to sleep yet another night.
Congratulations.
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 7:15 PM UTC
I went to this meeting
(when I was a kid)
of hyenas;
and the ritual
consisted mainly of laughing
and they laughed and they laughed -
you know, and I just didn't get it
I demanded an explanation -
but no fellow-hyena could explain it
everybody laughs
nobody knows why;
and now I am an adult hyena
and I just laugh - *it's something to do
with survival, I think*
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 1:40 AM UTC
C:\USERS\ISAAC > open C:\Impulse\Expulse.raw
The dust settles
On the fans and the plans.
Looking like a double "2",
You try to see like one.
See or look.
Or just a look-see.
Laughing at nothing is a common thing for you.
The strangest has come,
The strangest has left.
The strangeness is correct.
Every spring,
Every water,
Every drop has a secret.
They sing to him in the form of river.
He jumps to the bank
To get his money's worth.
It's an organized procedure to him.
He sinks his head in the ground,
In the rocks and in the sound.
A random pattern is heard.
Two, Three, Ten, Five, Twenty.
One Hundred, Thirty-One, Two.
A, G, I, S.
North, East, South, West.
His, My, Her, Them.
Great, Rough, Green, Tan.
Giant mispronounciations and hidden truths.
One more thing,
Don't get lost...
"Sadness for a screen,
Sadness for a screen."
He sells his money for a screen,
To get his money's worth.
Lost files and hidden documents
Not worth the oxide their printed on.
Old memories of times still here
Hidden in words of the past.
One more thing,
It's all on impulse.
Next day he found a .raw.
He walked towards it.
It said,
"Why do you live with frantic?"
He said,
"I live to take the time."
It said,
"Why do you do the things you do?"
He said,
"To me, it's not impulse, it's expulse."
It said,
"Why do you need to get rid of?"
He said,
"The questions people seek."
It said,
"Take me to the sky.{?}"
He said,
"Gladly."
To the sky he went.
And the time he spent
He used to solve the problem.
He saw a new opportunity
To make a new sanitation.
It consisted of three notes.
Two for show and one to go.
The go note did the work
Of tasting the ground for dirt
To get it's money's worth.
It cleaned like Ben one.
And when sanitation was complete,
He went to .raw.
He said,
"The last words are gone."
It said,
"So that means we've won."
He said,
"What should we do?"
It said,
"Wait for the next."
Feb 15, 2011
Feb 15, 2011 at 5:55 PM UTC
I am your side chick
Our love was burning like a candle wick
You were so unavailable
Your heart was unobtainable
I am your side chick
So just go take your pick
You make me feel so good
But you'd choose her if you could
I am your side chick
But I realized you're a ****
I thought you were the love of my life
But our love only consisted of strife
Jun 12, 2017
Jun 12, 2017 at 3:33 PM UTC
Twenty million years you have existed
Ancient are your ways, carried out for days
Even in birth sixteen to eighteen months consisted
You stand alone in bravery of age
Predators won't cross, footing would be lost
Your power is of one to be amazed
Teaching us that solitary timing
Benefits us too, reminding how you
Spend your days so patiently on dining
The earth is your bed and has been always
Suiting you well, this your story to tell
Free from what man has made building hallways
We learn from you to push through and go on
Leading us through, what is infinite truth
Your soul abounding to bestow upon
Grunting and bellowing your presence known
Boundary protected, patrolled, directed
No one will be found threatening your home
Stand up in for what you truly believe
Too many to fight, find rest day and night
Pull those close to you who will not deceive
We are timeworn and primal like fossils
Daring to care and completely aware
Protection of our love is colossal
Be with us when we must move in a way
That makes us feel scared, feelings should be spared
No panic, no anxiety dismay
Wisdom to move past life's ever obstacles
Our size matters not, for with you we've brought
A strength that to beat is impossible
Remind us to pray to all good things endowed
Spirit gives blessing, heart is confessing
Creating what our free will has allowed
Be with us mighty one when mistaking
May we never forget, we too have yet
A legacy like yours in the making
Though we may not understand why we're here
Holy Spirit's hand, reaches and expands
Guidance walks us on the path to adhere
Brilliant light shines, helping us to get past
The hurt and the pain, learning we sustain
Achieving a great wing span long at last
tHE tERRY tREE
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 5:41 PM UTC
Last night I had a dream.
I was standing on a planet named ALONE. It was just a lonely planet widout any sun and moons. It consisted of kingdoms. And I was on a tower of one of such kingdoms. The day was perfectly imperfect as always. And the night came succeeding to boil all the intricate frivolous thoughts running through my mind. Wind was cooler than usual. And its blowrate was gradually increasing. Suddenly I saw a white dot far ahead in the sky. It was getting brighter and was protruding lines of white. Wind ravished the people all around the planet. There faar ahead something had happened and the white dot was now like ripped off into small white dots and was kept intact in a spherical manner by some force. It was a scene depicting many planets coming into existence.
Then something clicked my mind. Maybe there a world had arised like ours but very very far from this planet. But there, is not just a planet, but many of them with luminous bodies succumbed into it.
One day I will travel there.
I got up from sleep. Now I knew that goals are always far. You just have to try and be determined..
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 5:13 AM UTC
Daydreams about my future
consumed my fifteen year old mind,
if only I was informed that eight years later,
I'd still be daydreaming about my future.
Daydreams about my future
consisted of joy and freedom
if only I was informed that eight years later,
I'd still be restrained and joyless.
Daydreams about my future
so misleading to think I would be successful
eight years later and I still question if this
pain will ever cease to exist.
Daydreams about my future,
a world full of fairness that celebrates brightness
not this mess of confused individuality where
anonymity is the new frontier.
Daydreams about my future,
gave me hope that one day I would find the acceptance
I so desperately craved
Eight years later and I'm still hungry.
Daydreams about my future,
reprieve from the torment from my peers.
who would have known, that eight years later
my peers would still misunderstand me.
Daydreams about my future,
the place I withdraw and hide in.
Eight years later and I'm still stuck
in daydreams about my future.
Daydreams about my future,
a hopeless concept my young mind created
to pretend that reality is nonexistent
Eight years later and my reality is still choking the life from me.
Daydreams about my future,
the only thing that keeps me going,
eight years later and I'm still relying on a lie
to get me through this life until it's time to die
Daydreams about my future,
who would have known that I would be so naive to stay here
Eight years later, my twenty-three year old mind has
disappointed my fifteen year old self.
Daydreams about my future,
are all I have left.
Eight years later and I'm still here,
daydreaming about my future.
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 2:58 AM UTC
I cannot say I don't miss you
in hushed tones of violet
I cannot say I don't miss your
rapid hands that wrapped
around my fragile neck
I cannot say I don't miss
Your yellow mark bruises
That washed against my skin
I cannot say I don't miss the
violence that escaped your mouth
and found your way to your fists
that brushed against my skin
on my legs, on my arms
on my face it found its place
Everywhere on my fragile body
that consisted of the words
“she belongs to me”
I do not miss the hits that
found their way to my once
Unscratched face
but somehow, I let you into
my fragile life and you made
a bruise out of me
Jan 28, 2018
Jan 28, 2018 at 3:06 PM UTC
Little did I know that I've forgotten a lot how ardently melancholic the scorching afternoons were.
those afternoons, where it consisted of sweet reeks of cotton candy and lollipop, those afternoons that I don't have to beg just to rest, not to measure the time approximately and counting how proximate the distances are, like how I trace my digits on things to know if they're adjacent;
this afternoon, it's like I'm coming home to you.
Sep 6, 2023
Sep 6, 2023 at 11:06 PM UTC
I watched the light of childhood and innocence
Of playgrounds and friends and recess
Fade in his eyes and give way
To the light of experience.
But they never took the time
To see how much that light faded
Because they were each too concerned with
Trying to prove who was the better parent.
His father took him on road trips
To see the trains from TV
And his mother bought him everything
From bats to pads for his knees
But his love of trains dwindled
As he boarded one each week
As the only bridge between
His "family"
At his baseball games,
They sat on opposite ends of the bleachers
While his teammate's and their parents
Whispered behind their hands about
The boy stuck between them.
Their conversations dwindled
Until they consisted of nothing but
I'll pick him up from school at 3
And you better have him home by 9
And whose weekend is it, yours or mine?
He became nothing more than
A piece of clothing to be borrowed weekly
To be stretched and worn, ripped and torn
To be returned in an even worse condition
Than when they received it.
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 7:28 PM UTC
there you were, lying right next to me. our bodies entangled with each other, fingers intertwined, legs wrapped around each other - it was almost as if our souls were about to become one. i lie awake, staring right next to me where you were - perfection, yes perfection, perfection is all i see right now. your tired eyes gently shut, eyelashes that looked like a butterfly's fragile wing, the bridge of your nose constructed so perfectly, your cheeks that were tinted pink, i wanted to run my fingers through all the edges of your faces, just to make sure that you were real and this is not another one of those daydreams i've been having for so long now, that this is really happening, that you, my dreams, yes, you are my dreams, that this is reality. "what did i do to get myself so lucky?" i wondered. there you were, such a divine creation of god, accompanied by a wonderful melody that consisted of the rise and sighs of your breath, a melody that made me feel blessed for you, my love, existed. before this, i was in love with the idea of you. the thought of you that kept running through my mind whether i was alone or not, i was so in love and infatuated by you, just by you existing in my mind. it was hard to believe that something as simple as your existence can make me so happy. i had no control over how you were multiplying the butterflies that were now flying viciously inside of me, how you make my veins pump with adrenaline, how you make my heart play a mean bass drum whenever you're around. home was now your arms, and my heart was now yours, but the best part was that you were mine, now and what feels like forever. there you were, lying right next to me, gently inhaling and exhaling. i can't help but plant a kiss on your pink tinted cheeks and bury my face in your chest, and under my breath i say, "oh god, i'm so in love with you."
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 6:03 AM UTC
this is the city
that my daddy built
inside of me
between my guts
where my heart should be.
what isn’t rusted
or burnt out
or tired
is barbed-wire and wary.
this is the city
that my daddy built
with his anger.
it’s set up high
on a hill of scissors and blood oranges
and blood oranges with scissors
inside of them,
red juice stains
in sticky pools and dirt.
this is the city that my daddy built
in our house.
in our home.
where the people are shadows,
speaking in whispers
tiptoeing behind closed doors
so as not to rouse the beast.
this is the city
that my daddy built
here we pay tithes in blood oranges
to humor his desires
warding off uncalled for bloodshed
like the time that I
finally stood up for myself
and he broke the kitchen table
with his fists.
it was an antique
that traveled with my great-grandmother
from Sweden,
now just another broken thing
in the landslide
of scissors
and blood oranges
and dirt.
this is the city
that my daddy built,
scarring my skeleton,
following me everywhere
like a spilled bottle of India ink
blacking out the finely drawn sun,
like past transgressions
follow the guilty,
like the golden touch of Midas,
turning everything into
a mountain of scissors and
blood oranges and dirt.
this is the city that
my daddy built,
making my concept of home
a depiction of ruins;
the vestiges of what
could have been
if we hadn’t lived
too close to his minefield,
before causing my mother
to take my sisters and leave
like a snowbird at the arrival of spring,
at last realizing that her spine
consisted of wings.
this is the city
that my daddy built.
this is the city that
scarred and weary,
shadows of skeletons of birds, we
will move on, leaving behind
brick by ***** brick
until it’s nothing but a memory
of a pile
of blood oranges
and scissors
and dirt.
Jul 26, 2010
Jul 26, 2010 at 10:58 AM UTC
Count every calorie
1,2…Too many
Try each quick trick,
power shake,
weight loss,
fat *******
muscle building,
fiberlicious,
piece of ******** I can get my hands on
Take the stairs, not the elevator
Walk to work, then walk home
Jog in place,
Do 10 push-ups,
Jumping jacks,
Tuck jumps,
Sit-ups,
Scissor kicks,
You name it I’ve done it
I’ve stuck to my diet for so long
My menu has consisted of a million and one ways to say bland
I have looked into low-fat,
No fat,
Fat free,
Sugar free,
Sodium free,
‘Feel free, to leave me on the shelf because I taste like dog ****
versions of every name brand in the produce section
and now…now I would **** for some cheese fries,
Or a giant cake just for me,
An entire package of Oreos dipped in Nutella,
Or simply a candy bar
Dieting takes will power,
But vending machines take mere pocket change.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC