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Tessellate Nov 2012
i had a thought.
i ran out of my room,
down the hallway,
and into the bathroom.

i wriggled out of my worn down, tie dye shirt.
hopping up and down as i pull off my
high-waisted jeans, pulling my pant leg with my foot as i
trample the dark denim to the ground.

i stand there naked, in front of the
harsh, full length mirror.
combing my fingers through my natural, wavy hair.
i contort my face in disgust, cocking
my head slightly to the side.

i close my eyes, and take one deep breath in.
when i open my eyes,
the reflection staring back at me is a thin, natural
beauty.

Her smooth ivory skin glows in the
silvery reflective glass.
Her stomach is flat and toned.
Her ******* lay on Her chest in perfect
proportion to the rest of her petite frame.

i run my fingers down the sides of my body.
my palms trailing along, dipping and
rising with the mounds beneath my skin.

i close my eyes and open them again,
this time taking my reflection for
what it really is.

i am fat.
my skin is pink and spotted with freckles the
colour of blood.

my stomach hangs low, covering the part
a man should see when i'm naked.

my ******* are big.
but not in the way you'd like them to be.
they lay there, sort of lop-sided.
hanging just above my ribs. Another place for
fat to take over.

the cuts on my thighs are hardly noticable
next to

all

that

fat

i can see tears in the eyes of the reflection staring back at me,
but i am numb.

i thought correctly. i am
fat. i am ugly.
Nobody in their right mind would want to
love me.
Jacob Jul 2014
You can contort my mind
You can destroy my feelings
You can bring me to the lowest
If you are that cold-hearted.

And in your world
things are full of
mediocrity and disgust
you lay in bed at night,
dissatisfied with yourself.

Contort my mind, you may
Destroy my feelings, go ahead
Bring me down if you see fit
But let's make one thing clear.

No one can mess with my pride
You will never borrow it
Because once you have it...
That's the moment I lose myself.
melina padron Nov 2014
maybe you didn’t feel it
when i licked myself
off of your lips.

maybe you didn’t feel it
when i traced the back of
your knees with my fingertips.

maybe you didn’t feel it
when you rolled over in the
morning and saw how well we fit.

i knew it when you
picked the eyelash off my  
cheek because it felt like a kiss.

i knew it when you
took the long way home so there’d
be a few less seconds to miss.

i knew it when you
would wake up and leave me because
my heart would contort into a fist-

all so i’d never have to let you go.
but you would never know.
Deferred thought my mind speaks
but unable to reach
Since, lacking proper fuel
words are no more than tools
Idly on the shelf
All alone by themselves
Whether each has the skill
Makes no difference still
Needs a user to wield
The brain must be unsealed
Else it's nothing but noise
And will only annoy
To communicate one
Has to pay attention
And your message think through
It is important to

Listen right back
Without barbs or attacks
Open-mind speaking freely
Add diplomacy
Must employ use of tact
Support statements with fact
Do not rush; take your time
Critical? Then be kind
Not a must to agree
Can't force someone to see
Each of us has his thoughts
Throughout life we are taught
There are social patterns
Easily to discern
So, wherever you fall
Do not build up a wall

Keeping out you will win
As you lock yourself in
Rigid form without flex
New ideas will perplex
Ignorance and denial
Grow into a pile
On island alone
Statue made of stone
In your mind you’re entombed
Happy life is now ruined
Feeling always against
With a paranoid sense
A refusal to see
An unwavering tree
But a tree can still bow
Give and take it will show

Rigid thoughts become firm
Close your mind; will not learn
Placing all of the weight
Just for you; here to take
And must always support
Forcibly will contort
Having flex we adjust
This in life is a must
Something we can not do
Like to uncook a stew
Won't exist very long
People just not that strong
Or should they try to be
A journey incomplete
Happiness lies within
On these words please don’t spin

A sole island you're not
Harmony should be sought
Infinite universe
You can’t always be first
Finding balance in life
Like to see without sight
Each of us wants respect
But to give is to get
Listen up before talking
Use foot and start walking
Will find in due time
Not to bother or mind
People are free to think
From each other we drink
How we grow and evolve
Complex problems we’ll solve

Not a perfect system
But we gather wisdom
Always strive to improve
It’s the best we can do
To communicate we
Open our minds to see
And try to understand
Flawed and kindred humans
Written: June 12, 2018

All rights reserved
Terry O'Leary Jul 2015
The dawn unfolds beyond my fractured windowpane
and breezes tease while drapes, like serpents, slip aside
exposing worlds that race and run aground, insane,
displaying scenes obscene that savants strive to mask and hide.

Outside, the streets are stark (last night they seemed so cruel
when demons danced as lanterns 'lumed the lynching tree -
its shadow shuddered, lurking in my vestibule -
within the night, I sense these things I sometimes cannot see).

Perdu in darkened doorways (those which watch the ones that weep)
men hide their shame in crevices in search of cloaked relief.
The ladies of the evening leave (their time to sleep!)
the alleyways, retaining bitter tastes of untold grief.

Soon drifters (distraught dregs that stray from street to street)
abandon benches, squat on curbstones some call home,
appeal to strangers for a coin or simple bite to eat -
refused… gaze down… left empty-handed in the morning gloam.

Observe with me, beyond my fractured windowpane,
the boy with crooked smile - the one who's seen the  beast -
with tears, he stoops and clasps the cross while wiping off the stain -
the abbey door along the lane conceals a pious priest.

While at the mall, Mike sees some cigs, and stealth'ly steals a pack;
the Man, observing, thinks ‘Hey Boy, this caper calls for blood’,
takes aim, then shoots the fated stripling eight times in the back.
Come, mourn for Mike and brother Justice, facedown in the mud.

Fatigued and bored, some kids harass the alley now -
to pass the time, Joe smokes a joint and Lizzy snorts a line;
computer games (which quake with doom) can help somehow,
so Eric plays with Dylan on the road to Columbine.

The shanty towns have hunkered down as if in mortal sport
while broken bodies' shattered bones repose supine,
and mamas (now bereft of child) in anguished pain contort,
their eyes drip drops of wrath which wither on a twisted vine.

Now Mr Baxter, private bankster (cruising down the road,
pursuing profit pushers, waving magic mushroom wands),
adores addiction to the bailout (coffers overflowed)
and jests with all the junkies, while he's dealing with the bonds.

Marauders man the marketplace (with billions guaranteed)  
while kids with swollen bellies beg neath hollow sunken eyes,
and (cut to naught) the down-and-out (like trodden beet roots) bleed.
Life's carousel invites us all, though few can ring the prize.

A washerwoman, timeworn, totters from the tram -
she shuffles to her hovel on a lonesome distant hill,
despondent, shuts the shutters, downs her final dram -
a magpie quickly picks at crumbs forsaken on the sill.

Jihadist and Crusader warders faithfully guard the gates,
behead impious infidels, else burn them at the stake
(yes, God incites each side for good, the other side He hates),
with saintly satisfaction gained provoking pagan ache.

The watchers pry behind our fractured windowpanes
inspect us all, tear down the walls of privacy
controlling every point of view opinion entertains,
forbidding thoughts one mustn't think, with which they don’t agree.

Come, cast a furtive glance… there's something in the far…
from towns to dunes in deserts dry, the welkin belches sudden death
by dint of soulless drones that stalk beneath a straying star
erasing life in random ways in freedom’s final breath.

But closer lies an island, where the keepers keep the wards.
No sense, no charges nor defense - a verdict? Yes! … grotesque -
the guiltless gush confessions, born and bred on waterboards.
Impartial trials? A travesty instead, indeed quite Kafkaesque.

Now dusk draws near beyond my fractured windowpane
while mankind drowns like burnt-out suns in fading lurid light;
and scarlet clots of grim deceit and ebon beads of bane
flow, deified, within the rotting corpse of human night.
Cunning Linguist Dec 2013
Why shan't thou answer to me?
Emburse yourself until wholly submerged in my unholy divergence
Poor form tormented soul
Roll your pain in a j dipped in chloroform
Embrace my urges to purge the remnants of sanity
Spilling and screaming profanities at humanity

Confuddling all posers with my bastardized prose
Please, continue badgering and nagging me
with your buttfucking menagerie of trivial drudgery
I'm in misery go ahead and bludgeon me
Square in the noggin
So I can jog it while juggling nails from my coffin

Cancer-ridden addler babbling mad adages
Scoffing jealous skeptics -
Contort your faces in ghastly panic
As I unleash these dastardly antics
of pandemic proportions
and ******* you

Candid, my penchance enchants
Heavy-handedly inanimate
in suspended animation
Supplant reality augmentation
Machinations of my imagination
Implicating **** ransacking  
and seafaring through crab infestations
Wreaking havoc and bequeathing vengeance
I'm a fire breathing grim reaper reaking of ******

- Off is the nearest direction in which to ****
Dissect my ******* with your tongue
Turnt up ******* plumpies in the ****
Just for the fun of it until I erupt
Remember i'm avid for dismembering appendages
I expect you're exceptional at accepting a barrage of septic bombardment
Chance of success: logistics analysis zero percentage
(Cos I done *******. On those *******.)

Superbly superlative and speculative
So fast on adderal I make Mad Hatter's head spin
Quicker than you can snap
Giving your family heart attacks
Smack you in the face
While fapping my fabulous lap rocket
Thunderously plundering under covers
Springloaded with faux pas' so hot
Make your mother's ***** pop out and say "hello"
like Jack-in-the-Box

& Those foxy grandmas be jaxing off my **** -
Bingo wings beckoning me
More *******; ******* head explodes
Slathered with double entendres
-Staggering!
My passages smooth as laxatives
Brain grinding like acid
Bombastic fat ******* making my **** go flaccid

Valuable, disparaging these **** butts malleable as putty
Barbarically barrel rolling into dat ***
rip it to shreds like confetti
Power Pole extend
Face pressed into your *******
Inhaling the wafting aromatic stenches
of distant French fish factories

Clearly getting dome from your dearly betrothed
Now she bridal and my seeds spiraling virally
Vital signs finalizing
Bounce that *** like jello
Swell; I'm in your hair like gel
Now swallow my jollies and don't bother
Unless you hollerin and giving me dollars
Zealots idol my harlotry

If nose goes go slow grow low
Throwing those yoloing hoes out windows
This ***** simply bonkers
I conquer fear me

***** DON'T HARSH MY MELLOW
SWEAR I'LL MARSH YOUR MALLOWS
RKM Mar 2012
leaning uncomfortably backwards
on the dentist chair
mouth gaping, strange
thick latex fingers
poke borrower weapons inside
and contort my lips into shapes

would it be easier
if we could excavate all the 
decay in a body
with a drill and replace it
with a shining pearl-cap?
The witches heart is made of straw,
witches' heart is no heart at all.


The witch ideal a nature's fend,
her heart desires the human end.


The vines contort limb,
Lycurgus' gape.
as a punishment for,
man's unholy ****.

'
'
'
'
"Earth was once covered in water."
* *-Xenophanes* *

We are destroying nature radically from every angle.
Austin Sessoms Apr 2012
metaphors are
rubber bands
we may extend them
as much as we like
we may shoot them
at our classmates
we may impress
our professors
with the shapes
we can contort
them into
but the more
we extend them
the more we
wear them out
and its very possible
that with all of our
stretching and extending
we could render
our metaphors
useless
*snap
MalaiDaisies Jun 2014
Aching with melancholic memories,
The sea stands, Freedom carving her wings, Beholden to nobody.
Each wave destroying the remaining morsels of empathy that she still harbours.
One cannot imprint themselves on water,
But footprints are etched onto the sand.
Here's a little secret though- the sand is but swallowed by the sea.
The colours contort from one gruesome grey to another.
The days she is blue, the beast lies dormant,
Waiting for the black to raise its ugly head.
So free I think,
Water turning to fire, defined only by her existence.
Everything pales in comparison, the sun, the sky, the clouds.
But then I realise- what is the sea? Where are her colours from?
She is nothing but a reflection of the sky.
Her moods influenced by the clouds.
Free? I laugh.
She is captured.
The sea is, and always will be my biggest inspiration.
SES Jan 2014
beginnings
i see how we are.
We are cute.
We are "perfect" as everyone tells us.
But i see one problem.
i don't know how to love You.

i thought it would be easy:
after all my trials and tears,
i figured that i could love someone
if they loved me too.
Now i find that is not the case.
Now i find that even now i am still broken,
trying to keep from bleeding into Your own wounds.
Do i walk around on tiptoes trying to please You?
Do i hold my tongue while You hold me?
Maybe that is how i comfort You-
by forsaking my own.
Maybe i will grow to be this girl.
Maybe comfort is something that comes with the passing of time.
Time.
It always comes back to that.

After all,
i had my doubts.
God knows they were plentiful.
But now i look at You as if he stars aligned in Your eyes.
Your brown eyes.
How strange for me to like someone without eyes that remind me of water.
Water always brought me comfort as well as fear.
Maybe that is why i am always so drawn to them.
But now, as Your hands mesh with mine,
the world meshes with understanding.
Things seem...
okay.
That hasn't happened in oh so long.
i may have had spurts of happiness.
A period of contentment here and there.
Okay is a much different feeling.
But beyond this touch, how do i comfort You?
Do i touch the deepest parts of Your consciousness?
Will i ever touch Your unconsciousness?

i see our story.
i can picture it enveloping
days
or weeks
or months
of our lives.
And maybe that just makes me a silly schoolgirl.
But you know what?
This time,
i don't care.
Hurt me.
End up hating me.
Break me like i've been broken before.
But right now,
hold me like i am everything you have ever wanted
because i am starting to think
that you are everything i need.
i've given You more than anyone has ever had from me.
Do not make me regret it,
that is my one request.
i've never been happier.
Please don't ruin that for me.
Continue to treat me like a princess because as cliché as it is,
it's a worthwhile surprise.

The way i've fallen for You-
oh it's a mystery.
i lose all reminiscence of self-control with i’m with You.
i never expected the happiness that accompanies Your name.
i wasn't aware that i had the option
to be happy;
to heal;
to love.
But that's what i have now.
This is my life.
Who would have thought i could be this content?
This okay?
When i look at You i see someone i could fall in love with.
But that terrifies me.
Please don’t make me fall in love with you.
We're both broken,
but maybe we can temporarily heal each other.

i never thought i would mean
anything
to
anyone.
Why would i?
i am nothing special:
an average girl with impossible dreams.
i didn't expect You to treat me so wonderfully.
i didn't think i deserved that,
so i didn't expect it.
But You,
lovely You,
made me see that i deserve to be treated like the person You see me as.
You keep saying that You are worried that You could be treating me better,
well i am here to say that You have treated me better than i ever imagined
and i couldn't ask for more.
i never saw myself as being respectable
or deserving of love.
Yet somehow You saw me from afar
and decided You would be the one
to open my lifeless eyes.

update: I'm still learning to love
i am not used to these emotions and it scares the heart out of me.
i’m scared of happiness.
How ****** up is that?

But let’s go back to what i’ve said before:
“How do i make You happy?”
i was never going to be good enough for You.
How am i supposed to measure up now?

i know:
i’ll hide the scars
to protect You from worrying.
That’s my gift to You.
And i hope You never have the chance to say
“thank you.”
Could You really not see?
You are so easy to fool.
I could put scars anywhere on my body
and you would ask the same question
"did I do that?"
What a life it must be to not know
what the marks mean when they are right in front of You.
Think.
No, You didn’t do them.
And they aren’t cat scratches, darling.
Think.

i may scare You away
and i may not have the strength
to beg You to stay.
i’ll try to be better for You.
i’ll try to be the girl You see.
i’ll try to give You everything You need.
But I won’t let You in, let You know,
when doing so would just confirm
what i’ve been saying all along.
i. Am. Nothing. Good.

i will never be good enough for You
and i will always be crippled by the fear
of disappointing You.
Those are the fears i have never been able to
escape.
You don’t get it.
i am not someone that You want to love.
And as guilty as i feel about that,
i hope You always stay blind.

The melancholy’s dragging me down.
Please don’t let it drag you down as well.
i’d rather let you go that do that to You.
Today, i’m sorry that Your friends had to be the ones
to open Your eyes to how much of a mess i am.
But i think we are all kind of crazy,
not just myself.
And occasionally there is someone who matches Your unique flavor of crazy.
Oh and then things become magical.

i have found that people (me) are funny.
They crave love,
but reject it because they think they don’t deserve it.
What kind of strange sense does this make?
How odd to pick a person to give yourself to.
You.
i pick You to love me.
And You to hurt me.
You to heal me.
And You to break me.
i hate that You know me.
You know every inch of my skin,
but i’m still keeping the gates locked on my heart and soul
for as long as i can.

i am afraid that when this is all said and done,
i will despise all the little things i love about You.
i mean if we think in terms of reality,
this is going to end completely and utterly wrong.
There is no other outcome.
So is there really a point?
Why be happy now
only to be crippled by pain later on?
Can’t You see the pain in my eyes whenever i hear those words?
The way You romanticize death terrifies me.
So much of You is unknown,
so much of us is questionable.
But for now all i want is something of Yours
so that when i’m scared of losing You,
or ******* this up,
i can put it on
and fall in love with the comfort.

You told me one night in a low voice
(the one You use when You both remember or anticipate pain),
“i don’t want to be the mistake you made in high school.”
Oh love, i can assure You that i will be Yours.

Forelsekt (Norwegian): the euphoria you experience when you are first falling in love.
Words are strange and language is beautiful.
i think You have even described me in such a way…

at least i was Your first something
I had a panic attack yesterday
as I was driving you around.
I was stupid and don’t worry,
I know I deserved it.
I made a mistake
and we could have paid.
It was the first one I had had
in such a long time.
And the first one I had had
in front of you.
I think it may have been the first you had seen too.
I’m glad I could be your first something,
even something as broken and chaotic a panic attack.
But isn’t that what we are?
We’re both a whirlwind of broken chaos.

As the panic took over,
all I could think,
and what made it all the worse,
is that you must have thought I was insane.
“Did I make a mistake with this girl?
Everything’s okay now.
Why doesn’t she just calm down?”
Only crazy people panic for such a long time
(and it was; it was the longest attack I had ever succumbed to).
Only crazy people start shaking even once they’re safe
(although I am sure you didn’t feel all that safe).
Only crazy people so desperately grasp for air that is easily accessible
(even I can’t explain it).

Once,
I had a panic attack in front of a boy before.
And you know what?
All he said was,
“It’s no big deal.
Just calm down.
Why are you freaking out?”
But that’s paraphrased of course.
It happened months ago and after that,
I promised to save my broken moments for solitary
because I could not deal with someone whom I cared about
not caring about me.
But you didn’t do that.
You were kind and you were calm.
And yes a little confused,
but that’s to be expected.

You’ll always take care of me, won’t you?
You’ll always protect me, won’t you?
I’m beginning to see that now.
Who would have thought that anyone
would ever want to care someone
so **** broken to the very core?
Not me,
that’s for sure.

Thank you darling,
for you words
and your actions that prove to a hard heart
that maybe love is real.
And maybe someday,
I’ll feel it too.
I want it to be you I fall in love with.
But right now,
I’m still closed in my tiny, claustrophobic cell
that I constructed around myself for the past few years.
I built it up with every harsh word,
and every bad day,
and every painful moment.
But if anyone can push through it,
babe it might be you.
So again, thank you
for you.

for you**
Is it really 2014?
Wow.
I made it this far.
That may be my greatest accomplishment.
It hasn't been easy.
Nature is telling me no,
and well nurture has yet to be a kind, nurturing force.
How much farther do you think I'll make it?
I won't die of natural causes,
of that I am sure.
Someday I will become the murderer of my own soul.
I still have most of 2014 let to live,
but how will I life it?
I can only hope it brings better luck than 2013 showed me.
In 2015 I'll be dragging myself through senior year,
and then off the dorm rooms and lecture halls.
Do you think I can survive that too?
I barely know where I want to go.
I barely know if I want to be alive to choose.
So how am I expected to think about the future,
if I am unsure that a future is what I want?

They used to say I was so strong.
I am beginning to think that "strong" is a jinxed term,
like "best couple" or "most likely to succeed."
Strong.
More like "tired, lost, and uninterested."

I made a promise to a very nice boy,
and I intend to keep it.
Here is what I have to say to him-
I won't hurt myself anymore.
I'll do that for you.
Much of the time, I don't want to live.
I don't really see the point to it all.
I've never been good at life
and I don't enjoy doing things I am not good at.
But you I will live for.
When I am with you,
I can see why people appreciate this whole thing called life.
I'll live for the day to day things that make me laugh,
because we all know that it's the little things that matter most.
I'll live for hope and a future,
that may or may not involve you
but I kinda wish it does.
I think that would be fun, don't you?

I thought I was a lost cause
but then you swooped  in and changed that.
You changed me.
So thank you.
I don't think I tell you that enough.
I.
Am.
Grateful.
For.
You.
So yes.
I'll live for you
because you taught me an crucial thing.
While everything may not be great,
things can still be good.
Laying next to you,
I feel safe.
Life for me is mostly a torrent of hits and misses,
of cards that I wish could have been dealt further apart.
But my life with you is... good.

I will live for no loner seeing your face contort into a terrified expression formed around puppy dog eyes as you ask,
"no more, please?"
while you trace the cuts on my arm.
I will live for days spent in your room because somehow we never get bored
(and I get tired of people at an alarmingly fast rate).

I will life for you because simply put,
I am in love with you.
This is our story, ever evolving
sara May 2014
you** are the sovereign tide
i- the feeble yacht you consume
i contort and conform to abide
by the rules from which you are excused

i am the pathetic attempt
the sun makes to escape from the clouds
whilst you are its radiant rays
that no darkness could ever beat down

i am the dust of the earth
and you are the Northern Lights
whilst I dwell on my lack of worth
you climb to unprecedented heights
feelin' kinda ******
Ander Feb 2014
Walking through rivers in the middle of the street
The deepest of puddles to soak my feet
Pornographic windows with strange girls inside
Naked young women with nothing to hide

A trip to the zoo in the sun and the rain
Rolling up numbers again and again
With time on our side and nothing to lose
The wind in our sails adventure we choose

Psychotropic games to contort my mind
We can't understand them but they're still so kind
Stairs like a mountain so many to climb
We've been here so long for such a short time
A little poem about my trip to Amsterdam with a few friends.
Mymai Yuan Sep 2010
It all began when someone left the window open.
The love bird cocked its bright green head at the shut door of Woodren’s third floor bedroom, perched on her bedpost. Its bright black eyes glittered, listening for the sounds of Woodren’s footsteps. None came. It ruffled its feathers impatiently; waiting for Woodren to come back with some water for its thirsty beak.
The love bird’s first memory was of Woodren: her clear gray eyes expressing her great happiness through them and not through the tiny curve of a smile on her thin pale lips. Her small white fingers pressed on the syringe gently, and a hot, mushy substance that tasted of apples and bananas went down its throat. The tiny black beak clattered against the plastic syringe greedily. “Aw, you poor baby. You’re hungry aren’t you, my Hoopsie-girl?” she murmured.
She then later taught her baby lovebird to fly with the patience of a mother. As soon as its wings started flapping feebly, she lifted Hoopsie up on the palm of her hand above her head and drew her hand away quickly, teaching the lovebird to fly and landing on Woodren’s soft bed. On cold nights, Woodren would wrap her favorite emerald green scarf around Hoopsie and place her behind the television where it was always warm and sellotape the electric sockets and wires so that Hoopsie was safe.
Woodren never even considered snipping the feathers of Hoopsie’s wings; she would never hurt her darling creature, and snip of its greatest glory. She would comb the feathers with a miniature pink Barbie brush, noticing how blue feathers had started to appear on Hoopsie’s wings and red ones slowly layered beneath the blue as time went by.
Showering Hoopsie was the hardest of all. Aunt and Uncle Palmer had no idea that Hoopsie even existed and revealing her presence would leave both Hoopsie and Woodren with no home. Late at night, Woodren would have to sneak out to the bathroom on the first floor (not on the second floor because that one was right next to Aunt and Uncle Palmer’s bedroom), down the stairs (taking care to step over the thirteenth stair that groaned so loudly), turn on the taps quietly and wash a sleepy Hoopsie with warm water.
Her two youngest cousins often made fun of her for the funny smell that stuck on her clothes sometimes. Linda and Lucy, her bratty twin cousins, asked in their scornful sing-song voices, “Why do you lock your room Woodren? Scared we’ll find all your old ***** clothes under the bed that you wouldn’t let Ma throw away?”
“No, maybe she’s scared we’ll find naughty magazines? If we do, we’ll tell Pa and you’ll have nowhere to stay ‘cause Pa says that type of behavior is sinful and he won’t tolerate it in his house!”
Woodren found it in her heart to look upon her silly cousins as childish entertainment. What did they know of the love she had for Hoopsie? “No, I’m scared you’ll find the monster under my bed and start crying for your Ma”
Linda narrowed her blue eyes, “I’m telling Ma you mentioned Lucy’s fear of the monster under the bed to her face! Besides, you don’t have anywhere else to go. You live on Pa’s charity. Ma said so.”
It was the lowest of insults based on a harsh truth. Woodren’s mother had died of cancer when Woodren was very young and her father followed her mother not a year after with heart grief. Her mother had asked her younger sister to take in Woodren; they were her only relatives and had stopped being fond of her once their own two twin daughters arrived and Mr. Palmer started to have to work harder to feed the six bellies at his dinner table. She just became another mouth to feed.
The only person Woodren got along well with in the household was her eldest cousin, Max. Max rarely spoke in anything but grunts, thought of his two little sisters as annoying brats, refused to say more than two sentences at a time to his simpering mother and loudly obnoxious father and often came and sat in Woodren’s room with his large feet against the wall, stroking Hoopsie’s head in silence. She really was fond of Max sometimes. He could be so thoughtful. Just two weeks before, for her birthday, Max had bought her maroon silk curtains with white birds imprinted upon them. He had even gone further than that and stitched in white thread, “Happy birthday. I love you” a red wonky heart followed and then “From Hoopsie.” Simply imagining him sitting there with a huge, thick curtain holding a tiny needle in his bear-like paws, cursing as he stabbed his rough fingertips and fumbling clumsily made her shout with laughter.
It was Max’s idea to buy Hoopsie a big metal cage and attach it to a branch on the big tree in their garden with a piece of shoelace, hidden among all the green leaves. That way, when Hoopsie sang Woodren wouldn’t have to blast her music and radio at the same time or pinch Hoopsie’s beaks shut when her Aunt or Uncle come to  yell at her if she was deaf or crazy or both. And that way, Woodren’s room wouldn’t have its twangy smell of bird **** and Woodren wouldn’t have to be paranoid all day long at school, wondering if nosy Aunt Palmer had broken into her room and found Hoopsie. And that way, she could leave her window open during the day, trying to rid her room off the nutty, sugary smell.
Max’s room was on the same floor as Woodren, the third floor. Every morning, bright and early before school, Woodren would run with a small lump in her sweater and the keys to her locked room jingling on her wrists to Max’s room. Max would barely acknowledge her as she ran across his room, opened his window and climbed out like a monkey to the branch that pushed against his window sill. She crawled along it with speed and sat there, with her legs hanging down and the branch between her legs, fumbled for the cage door above her head, made sure there was enough water and food to last Hoopsie for the day, popped Hoopsie inside with a quick kiss, arranged the fan-like fresh morning-smell leaves to cover the cage completely and skate back towards Max’s window.
Hoopsie mourned with a few high whistling notes. She hated being away from Woodren during the day- waiting for the moment when the sun was getting hot, and Hoopsie was tired of chatting to the birds in the nearby trees, when Woodren’s sharp little white face with its explosion of frizzy black hair would appear in between the leaves with her happy grey eyes and let her fly around the tree before calling, “Hoopsie” followed by her signature tilting whistle. But for now, and for every morning till noon, Hoopsie would have to wait.
“You don’t think they’ll find her do you?” Woodren would ask Max as she clambered back into his window. It was their daily morning ritual.
“No. Pa told Ma that it’s all about privacy now that I’m a growing-up boy. I’ll lock my door; promise.” He would reply back, completing their ritual.
“Are you still eating lunch with that Ed kid?” he asked, completely breaking their ritual this morning.
“Yes.” She was completely surprised. Not only was Max breaking a routine, Max of all people, he was doing so by asking her a question about her personal life.
Woodren eyed Max strangely. To her, Max was her huge cousin that somehow managed to communicate with a variety of different grunts and hated cutting his hair because of his fear of sharp objects; but to the rest of the school and neighborhood, she knew Max was the “strong and silent” handsome tall boy, every girl’s dream, with his shaggy blonde hair.
“Why?” her gray eyes grew rounder when suspicious instead of narrowing.  
“You don’t have many friends at school.”
“You know I don’t get along with any of them but Ed. I don’t like being friends with people unless I actually like them… unlike all the other girls at school.”
“I don’t like you staying around the Ed kid too much.”
Woodren felt a little glow of affection for Max in her heart. She understood why Max was worried. Ed was unstable with the rest of the world. He did what he wanted to, he said exactly what he wanted to and he wasn’t afraid of anything because he didn’t care what anyone said. He was the kid that the no parents wanted their children to stay near. There wasn’t anything Ed hadn’t done before.
Despite what everyone else thought, Woodren knew that his morals and sense of good and justice were strong in his heart. And when it came to Woodren he was always there for her since he moved to the neighborhood more than half a year ago. No matter how many offending remarks he made, she felt he had become the only stable thing in her life in spite of him being so apt to change. She had learned to depend on him.  
At the breakfast table, Woodren’s gray eyes slid over from Linda to Lucy to Aunt Palmer to Uncle Palmer and rested on Max the longest. Until she had come to look at Max, all four of them were identical in their attractive features and identical in their pinched-up, suspicious and petty expressions glazed over with a courteous mask. Max’s blue eyes, though the same shape as Aunt Palmer’s and the same color as Uncle Palmer’s, expressed a good heart and sincerity.
Her first subject of the day was an art lesson. All she had to do was sit comfortably, a palette with swirls of colors, paintbrushes, charcoals and pencils, a *** of water, and a fresh-smelling page. Usually she drew herself as a monster, or Linda as the devil- disturbing pictures that made people believe she was “talented”. But today, it came to her all of a sudden she’d never done a good, worthwhile painting of Hoopsie. Sure, her tables and notebooks were filled with carvings she’d doodled in class but never something she would want to keep.
She started to sketch Hoopsie on her bed post, eyeing the nuts Woodren had stolen from Aunt Palmer’s snack cupboard. She drew Hoopsie in the big tree and painted a metal cage around her. Somehow, the silver cage ruined the picture completely, making Woodren grimace. When the paint dried, she erased Hoopsie from inside the cage and drew her beside it, her small black feet gripping a twig.
Woodren remembered how elegant birds looked when she looked up into the sky, and saw them with their wings spread out and imagined feeling the wind rush through her feathers and ripple down her head and spine, with a heaven of azure blue surrounding her, shooting through clouds cold and refreshing like a sprinkler in the garden. Maybe that’s what freedom tasted like. She tried drawing Hoopsie soaring in the sky before she realized she’d never seen Hoopsie soar like other birds do, because Hoopsie had never done so.
Broodingly, she packed up when class was dismissed, slowly and thoughtfully. Somehow, that small beginning of a painting had darkened her frame of mind completely. Still ruminating, she headed down the hall way to eat lunch.
“Woody!” Hearing the sound of that voice, she momentarily forget her unease and Woodren’s thin, pale lips spread in a smile even before she turned around to him. Ed was the only one who ever called her that. His oval head was covered in small black bristles and one of his black eyebrows rose as he smirked with his pink lips curving down. The diamond earring in his ear glinted like his teeth did. He caught her eyes with his hazel ones; his eyes were warm and lively.  His mouth formed words that were witty and charming and could always make Woodren laugh.
Woodren put a look of amazement on her face. “You came to school today.”
“What are you talking about? I’ve been coming to school nearly all month.”
“That’s why I’m surprised.”
He hit her arm lightly. A few girls nearby turned around and giggled when they caught Ed’s eyes. Woodren remembered when Ed had first come to school. All the prettiest girls at school kept sidling over to him and batting their eyelashes. Ed had taken one look at the curves on their bodies; his eyes flickered over their face, a little bored, and continued his conversation with Woodren as if there had been no interruption.
It was a mark of their friendship three weeks later when she told him about her family. His hazel eyes had burnt hotly. When he was angry, his voice was quieter, but strained as if the passionate anger behind the words were being controlled with the greatest effort, “People who ruin other people’s happiness on purpose and with joy are just plain evil.” He told her that he hated the monsters that kidnapped children, crippled them, not only in body but mind too, and forced them to beg, far away from those that loved them. Here followed a stream of facts, all said in the same tone that both scared and impressed Woodren.
“How do you know so much about it?” she had once asked him.
He looked at her with an odd gleam in his eyes, “Because I care.”
Now he was looking at her without breaking his gaze, the same odd gleam in his eyes, searching her face. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She had still been brooding over Hoopsie in a cage, and why the picture upset her so much.
“Woody, tell me what’s wrong.”
Every time Woodren mentioned Hoopsie, Ed would go silent or make an offending remark about the way that Woodren took care of Hoopsie. Over a very short time, Woodren had learned never to mention Hoopsie’s name and though it drove her crazy with frustration, she knew Ed would never tell her reason the why if she tried to pry it out of him. Knowing not to answer truthfully, “I told you, nothing”
“I can tell when you’re lying. Your eyes grow whopping and your mouth pouts to the right.”
“Shut up.”
He looked at her searchingly before giving up with an irritated sigh.
“Come with me.” The chair scraped as he pulled out and pushed the table away from him. His tall frame dwarfed her.
He brought her to the back of the school where teachers and students never went, leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette. “You want to try one?”
“I don’t smoke, Ed”
“Why won’t you even try it?” The tone he used when he was about to state something that began an argument leaked into his voice smoothly, like oil. Woodren opened her mouth to list the damaging things it did to your lungs and heart but his voice had begun in its rapid, silky tone:
“Because society has brain washed you so that if you smoke when you’re a child, you’re a horrible ungrateful creature that will never go far in life. But when an adult smokes, it’s okay. You don’t smoke because people and teachers tell you not to try it. Well I say, **** them. These are the best years of your life. Do what you want, try everything so you can make the choices of your life later with a rounded experience and knowledge. I’m not saying get addicted. You have to be strong if you’re gonna be a risk-taker…” he inhaled deeply and exhaled in a husky voice, “I just thought you always went on about how you were such a strong risk taker.” He blew a cloud of heavy smoke above her head. “Oh, and of course you won’t try it because Aunt and Uncle Palmer said it’d be sin, isn’t that right?” he asked with a tantalizing grin in a mocking tone. He watched her face contort with anger, his hazel eyes dancing with glee. He knew he had hit at the bull’s eyes. No one ever jeered at Woodren’s inner power and then put her on the same note as her Aunt and Uncle.
A sudden snarling sound flared from her. She didn’t have to listen to anything Aunt and Uncle Palmer said… they never did anything worthy intentionally. She knew that. He was just stupid. She swore at him and knocked the cigarette out of his hand with a smart slap before storming away. An amused laugh from behind her made her ears tingle pink.
As soon as school was over, she pushed pass Ed who was waiting for her and ran back home. Opening the front door of the house, she scurried up the stairs to the third-floor and knocked on Max’s door. When she opened it, Max was already holding Hoopsie in his big hands. Hoopsie sang with joy when she saw Woodren.
“Hoopsie-girl” Woodren whistled with a tilting note that Hoopsie identified instantly. Hoopsie flapped over and landed on her shoulder.
“By the way,” said Max, “she must have knocked over her water because it was wet on the bottom of the cage. She kept trying to drink it. She’s thirsty.”
“Oh you silly Hoopsie! Why did you knock over the water? You know I’m supposed to have 8 cups a day?” she pampered the lovebird with caresses and endearing words before hiding Hoopsie in her shirt and running back to her room.
Woodren placed Hoopsie gently down on the bed post
frankie crognale Jan 2014
our love was like a wire.

you bent it until it almost broke, but eventually when you got tired, you gave up and readjusted it back to how it started.  however, there were still minor dents in it.  the dents were overlooked, and things were normal again. you took the wire and put it in the back pocket of your black skinny jeans and walked around with it for a few days, only leaving it there for it to keep getting contorted, all under your control. you forgot about it, and didn't give it as much attention as you thought you did. when you were sick of the wire digging into your body, you got rid of it. you twisted it until it's weakness got the best of it.  you bent the wire until you broke it.  

what you don't know, is that i was on the other side of the wire. as you stretched and coiled every last bit of flexibility that now small and frail wire had, you did the same to me.
it's been lovely knowing you.
but you broke the wire.
Jess Bull Dec 2015
Vague and curiosity strike the audience
Of the author of such a cryptic message
The writer has everything to say but doesn't choose to say it
You will stop and consider the message's possible true meaning
Like one needing "to cut off her dead ends" when one posts a picture
Of a haircut
Or one saying "she now knows how it feels"
And her reading it, she does.
But these cryptic messages bring out the creativity in all our hearts
How can we contort or twist those messages to get its true meaning
We wonder and consider and wonder that one says something so poetic, so beautiful
Yet poetry and a cryptic messages share something
Poetry breaks a heart of the reader and leaves them wondering how
A cryptic message does the same
Except the reader wonders and considers if it really is meant for them...
Or someone else
A cryptic message holds so much power
And the truth that the author refuses to share
A poem takes an idea and allows its roots to grow in an infinite way that creates a stir in the readers mind

So really, a poem is just like a cryptic message.
melanie Feb 2015
breathe me in
swallow me like water you’ll never taste again,
like sap from a honeysuckle
keep me there, inside you
break me
contort your body so my bones shatter
and throw yourself to the ground so i cough up blood
make it hurt
but just remember the broken shards I leave behind will **** you
they will cut your insides and shorten your breath
and once this happens
when you’re doubled over in the bathroom
puking up the pills they gave you to make it go away,
i hope you regret it
i hope you wish you’d never breathed me in,
had never swallowed me
never let me trick you into thinking
i was actually something beautiful,
that i could actually save you again
you broke me once
and i wasn’t finished healing when you picked me back up again
i didn’t care if it would hurt
i wanted you to feel my pain
to feel all the pain,
and then nothing
to feel the pain and the agony and the hot tears streaming down your face like raindrops
to feel the aching in your chest that made it hard to breathe
and hear the monster in your head that made it hard to sleep
i wanted you to feel it all,
wishing it would go away
and then i wanted you to feel nothing
just as i had
i wanted you to feel the numbness spreading across your body like fog making a home in your bones
i wanted you to contemplate your existence
and wonder if any of it was real,
and wonder
why couldn’t you ******* feel anymore?
i wanted you to long for the pain again
i wanted you to hurt like i did
but most of all
i wanted you to regret it
Poetry by MAN Mar 2015
Wake you every day with kisses all over your body
As we lay..cuddle...Hmm we start to feel naughty
Play a game of footsies under the sheets
Probing bodies strobing generating heat
Tickle your treasure..show me where it feels good
As sure as Sun rises so does my morning wood
Juices flow..******* wet
Anticipating pounding you are about to get
Massaging thighs staring deep in eyes
Inhibitions fly nothing we don't try
Comfort between us there is no fear
Nibble whisper **** talk in your ear
Bodies connect perfect piece of a puzzle
Sip slow at first then take a big guzzle
Pleasure pulsates vibes run through body
Touch you in places where signal is spotty
Caressing scars hit maximum bars
Stroke for stroke till seeing stars
Passion strums like a song that's sung
Twisting..tasting..tangled tongues
Birds and Bees..Smoking trees
Slowly...Tantric..trigger..squeezed..
Buck with every shot push to last drop
Contort vibrate from ******* shock
****** rubbed right grant all your wishes
Mine to wake you everyday with Morning Kisses..
M.A.N 2-3-15 I wrote this one for my **** blog..Here is a bonus line I didn't use cause its cheesy.^_* Cook you food do the dishes as long as I can have your Morning kisses..♏️
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
i can be a sadomasochist with myself sometimes,
given the videos i watch on the internet -
but then i'm again bound to being perched on
a windowsill, married to a dialogue with
the moon... and to tide bound,
sometimes the graciouis words comes my way,
sometimes the ingratitude... but then clouds at night
are never so by day.... and i feel blessed...
for they contort in such a way that i see
all paths toward pandemonium
leading, how they contort without
Mickiewicz toward no hope of castles or swans
being conjured - but hollowed out eyes of death
with a jester's smile of awaiting Tripoli -
are thus bound and exhausted
in exceeding their time there...
once monotheism conquered
the gods of both norden bound
and classics... it should be faced with a new
barbarism, and bygone strides
       against the demigods...
with a demi-**** that's Muhammad
of semi-applause allowed the gratification
of being literate, but as all good myths
abide by: unable to write out
δ ι κ τ α, plus minus 1 + 1 be the = dicta...
clouds in the night...
breathing magnimonity -
         as merely: cloud in the night,
Ilsidore...
had i been given the confirmation name,
now i can think of a name, i'd would like...
izydor...
             this is this last precision of magic...
had i been confirmed by a church,
and the bishop of some obscure essex country,
only being aged 30 i'd like the name to
be Isidore...
                     a bit late, i know...
  but i am an apostate, and i want
to drink from the font of baptism...
but you give me no water for my scythed lips...
for death scythes no bones...
had my confirmation be, it would have been
Isidore... the 16 year old me would have taken
to the name Michael... give it time
and it would have matured into Isidore...
Izydor of Seville...
but i am an apostate... and i don't believe this
egypt crap of the nag hammadi library...
i can't argue with a muslim,
i am given the archeology of the library,
and given the death of the prophet Isaiah...
it's too real to have these two prophets burried...
and in script re-awoken...
           that the new testament and the koran
make no sense... archeology sort of dislodges their
heart's intent to kneel and make macabre at the mosque...
it's impossible to convert... because you just can't convert...
   Isaiah was cut in half and Jesus was crucified...
i can't believe in the son of god...
                           both were burried...
       but the catholic bureucracy remains,
and if my confirmation name goes as anything,
i would now be called Isidore...
                                and if i'm mad for doing so:
then i have prince purple as my sparring partner...
                       nag hammadi & the dead sea scrolls...
no wonder the koran is so agitated...
      it has lost its profound origin...
it has lost its profound cool because it was lost...
the current muslim affairs are due to the fact that
the nag hammadi library and the dead seal scrolls emerged...
there's no simpler explanation,
   it's hard to testify irrational emotional
                                    coagulations when something is spoken
in archeological testimony...
    thank god the new testament speaks of jo and ma
moving to egypt, where the nag hammadi library was found...
and we know the prophet isaiah was a courtesan,
which is why we find his book in israel...
but the koran brotherhood is *******...
   i think the new testament wrecked more havoc
on northern europeans than the koran ever could
on the Indonesians... to be honest.
but because the two archeological findings were found,
the koran crew is *******... they're simply saying:
we prayed five times a a day, and for what?!
you ask me, i was expecting falafel and baklava.
                i can't expect them not being angry
when the koran has been undermined...
and it has...
                       when they hid the gospel of thomas
in egypt and sold the truth: by jew for jews alone...
no one thought it would backfire...
     st. paul can sorta forget mass circumcision as benefit
with these women...
  it's a question of: you have to re-learn
the benefits, to see what you lost.
              and you have lost what you couldn't appreciate.
so in america: anti-religious circumcision,
or secular circumcision and ***** paved the way for
what we have: rather happy masturbators with foreskins
and women with circumcised male partners,
and neither masturbators nor secularists want to
start families... d'uh.
             the koran is ******* because of what emerged
in 1945 and was guarded by the logic of archeo...
                                    you can't stop
because they know they're simply wrong...
we know from those adhering to st. thomas' gospel
as promoting trans-gender bulletproofing
that poetry can only be stretched so far...
   you can't tell demons to be methapors
   and tell transgender bi-genital creatures that they're
figments of our imagination...
you tell me a demons doens't exist: i tell you a transgender
person doesn't exist... this is the glorious
anarchy of st. thomas' gospel implemented without
the authority of the church...
the mystery of lawlessness? archeology:
hide it long enough, even the koran will crumble...
and lo and behold! i'm drinking! why?
because i'm celebrating this glorious whirlwind of
insisting anarchy!
         and why do i not feel rebellious?
that might be a good question...
                 but it's not...
              i don't have a proto-koran to begin with...
i have the old and new testament,
  and the emergence of
                      a 2000 year old hidden
mingling of the two, beginning with the prophets
Jesus and Isaiah...
                               one was a Jew that lived as a courtesan
and was cut-in-half...
the other was a Jew that became militant and later
made sure that Muhammad was also a militant
prophet starting off from a non-militant position
of mere merchant... according to the historian Josephus...
the compendium of the profanity of
tetragrammaton came with the historian Josephus
at the rule of Nero... hence the quickened
book of revelation being written...
                       once "the" beast reigned...
       it's no wonder that the two books are so unknown
in christianity...
            the fact is that the simultaneousness of
the emergence of nag hammadi and the dead sea scrolls
being simultaneous meant that the two old devils
of christianity and judaism would firmly diverge,
make divorce... and make secularism married to islam's
antagonism as the last blind-man fondling the elephant...
   i can't be jew because i'm not circumcised,
but i can't be christian in my liberalism to accept
the anarachy steering away from church,
   and family... or nation and federalism...
and i know, that's obscure; i just can't see
trans-gender ******* as a priority for humanity...
i can understand wearing a mismatching pair of socks...
but genitelia? that can't be jewish...
that has to be egyptian...
that has to be egyptian in terms of undermining
a jewish psyche...
                worthy of a crucifix... meaning that jo and m
really did travel to egypt and escaped herod...
               but je suis was cought up in the egyptians
taking rule and i bet one ******* duck-quack
that je suis was robbed from being capable of
conjuring up a dream... i bet je suis
couldn't dream... all the icons point toward that
crusade analogy.
                 it's still no excuse for the koran plebs
getting so frustrated that they have no archeological
involvemnt in the matters of today,
which is why they turned to brute and bully...
because they have been excluded from the archeological
findings, they can only do the meanest thing imaginable
and stage a violent insurection into the dialogue...
but since they're not really welcome,
and because they're actually talking *******
they can only resort to terrorism...
   it's a harsh reality to be met against...
    i'm not surprised they resort to terrorism,
given that they have no archeological grounding to
introduce themselves...
               into a civilised conversation...
          i'll probably bemoan this fact for
about 10 seconds... and then laugh for the next 10 minutes.
Emma Johnson Oct 2013
Mountains’ majesty

a cave of amethyst brews

confidence in its own perfection

near the peak peeking into the

crayon colored clouds.


Desire for a moment free from earth

where right above our heads

the world is colorfully candid

through a foggy wine-stained film.


Glossy sun through glossy eyes

entices the mind enough

to lift legs one thousand and two

steps up the mountain

coiling through indigo trees

on turquoise trails until

we pass the purple threshold

where it’s best to pass the time.


Pomegranate lips smile

stretching pomegranate skin

yours tastes like otter pops and ***,

mine I imagine is similar

with a hint of bad decisions.


This reality is unrealistically appetizing

contorting trails contort minds

peaking at the sunset so close

I swear we’re almost there.
Devon Baker Aug 2011
The insane live forever,
lust lawlessly over all things conceived fascinating
to the validity and gluttony of the mind.
Brain feasters we live to strive,
exist to be,
all things so mundane to our gluttony,
we hunger for something on border lines,
the limits of human mumbling over morality.

Cease your everest squirming,
your infantile homage bearing,
you find so viscous an evil,
so vile a fiend in us the broken chains.
Godless we sing the marching banter of forlorn free will,
we have no conscience to bear,
no after thought found alive anywhere.
The psychopath lurches out about child like smiles,
lives a second agenda basis before any infant experiments sin upon innocence.
Born divine this mutant knows free will without restriction,
closer to a limitless ever enveloping power than any mortal.

Breed me a man slewing monster,
a shape shifting skeleton reaper,
those that fear this untouchable being,
this godless singularity,
fear the very will we wish to contort,
constrain,
control,
but a demon answers only to that of it’s own greed,
no man may quiet its roaring,
its heartless contortioning.
It’s an angel without a heart beat,
a cadaver with a taste for its own flesh,
make me a monster manufactured under every roof,
we’ve got too much human to feel.
Beth Taylor Aug 2016
i can move furniture around as much as i’d like, and you will still bounce off the cushions;
you’re down the hall, i’m waiting for you to come home, you’re in the holes from thumb tacks, you’re calling my name from the other room
do you still feel the weight of the wall/door/body on your knuckles? does it still sting from contact?
you’re in every song, you’re the space between here and there, your fingerprints on DVD's, your mark on my bedroom door.
how is it that i am stuck holding your rearview mirror in all of this rubble, how you went from always watching your back to checking mine for exit wounds to becoming one?
months later, and you’re in bills and documents, your shorts in the old closet, your tie from prom under the dresser
your ocean eyes cracked into old photographs ripped from frames, your chicken-scratch left handed writing across paper in green marker, i should’ve read the signs.
how is it that somebody can take every bit of you with them, but leave pieces behind so you can remember the crash?
even the stars spelt out your name, the moon held us together, i handed you all of me on a silver platter and you spat it back in my face
remember when the world felt so small, so effortless, when love was always returned? I didn’t know what I was getting myself into that day in March, I didn’t know how it would feel to rest my head on my pillow, swallowing back tears. somedays I wish I had been less reckless, but most days I think about the way your tongue wandered my mouth and I remember that love isn’t meant to be held carefully.
why is it that i cannot get your ghost out of these walls, why is it that i cannot get your voice out of my head, everything moves in clockwork, if only these clocks worked.
maybe things would be different, maybe everything wouldn’t feel like deja vu, maybe i wouldn’t be checking my back for you to re-enter,
im gaping.
you made me feel like something more than a few broken plates and then you broke one over my spine and the world shifted on it’s side, what happened to us, baby?
your hands suddenly on my throat over you ******* another girl behind my back, i caught you but you snatched my breath right from my body
and i was blue like your eyes and i forgave you
and here i am, clinging onto pain because that’s all that’s left of you
when will you stop poisoning my thoughts? when will i be at peace?
you prey on the weak, but i am not a weak thing. it takes the strongest kind of person to hold another up when they’re already falling, my hands never shook when being your brace, maybe you just needed something to reduce the swelling of your mundane childhood, maybe it was the absence of your father and the anger you had built up for him, maybe you could contort my face into the one of your father, i can tell you now that painting my skin black and blue gave him no consequence for his leaving.
you cannot hurt me anymore. i no longer fear you. you cannot hurt me anymore. i no longer fear you.
i am so much stronger than before




repost because i accidentally deleted it
Timothy Oct 2012
There was no sleep for me last night at all,
     Insomnia has taken hold on me;
Leaving me weak and stumbling I fall,
     For the fifth day I leave it, let it be.

Just like a bullet shot into my skull,
     Headaches come rushing in to dim my sight;
Yet I go on so empty and so dull,
     And all I see is foggy—void of light.


Just like a thief who tries to pilfer gold,
     I am the victim stalked by your firm grip;
Sleepless and weak I feel so very old,
     Your hand upon me causes me to slip.

Thus are my dim and darkened eyes so red,
     Your murd'rous hands are choking all my breath!
Can I but rest my bones upon my bed?
     Are you the reaper come to leave me dead?

So help me, God, through this long dreary day,
     Though all my ashes fall into a heap;
I dread this wretched creature's here to stay,
     Some Day in Death shall be my final sleep.

O cease these musings of a painful sort,
     Take, Lord, my body—comfort me tonight;
Aid my poor fainting mind to ne'er contort,
     And let me bask again in morning's Light.

Lord, I am feeble, but Thou art so Strong,
     Lend me Thy aid to get me through the day;
Pray, let me not think there is something wrong,
     O save me lest I should rot and decay!



**~Timothy~
Still suffering a week of this creature's grasp!
© Timothy 27 October, 2012
Poetic T Apr 2018
He loved the texture beneath his fingers, contorting folding
it into intricate forms. What was singular undefined,
now had purpose other than what it was before.
He would tear it clean, not displaying its violation that
its purity had been contaminated.
Weaving imagery into a form from what was a newly
developing formation. His thoughts were now as seen
before the eyes, yet when he was finished the beauty before
his eyes lingered for minuscule moments.

Then with the lighter fluid he would caress its form subtly
with this liquid, where once ridged edges they now wept in
collapsing embodiment of the features that defined its complexity.
And with but a finger and thumb, what could have been,
what was before him. But now struck igniting like
a momentary sun, a match lingered as if he was teasing this
inanimate object that feared neither its creation nor its demise.

He waited till it descended like a coffin knowing it was
about to be snuffed out from existence feeding on the
nourishment of this splinter until he felt it crave the flesh
which held upon it. Casting it on his creation,
it was dominated instantly in a flame that gorged
on its new found nourishment. Within moments his creation
and light were expended from this moment and all that
lingered in its place was a pile of grimy ash.

Where beauty had stemmed into creation, now there was
nothing but scarring of what was once adorned in this place.
He looked upon the world as unconditioned edges that
needed smoothing out in his own ideological view of the world.
To his eyes all was rough thoughts, and even more evading
unsymmetrical reflections of what needed straightening out.
Utilising his passion for formation he delved into the creation
of humanity, and with his still hand he decided to appreciate the
human form.

How with subtle tweaks it could be contorted in too a formation
of intricate beauty, not the stale silhouettes that graded his
sight, every motion like drones of imperfection.
He had to see what a rough endeavour would bear.
Either fruit, or a piece of artistic endeavour that would lie
crumpled disowned on the floor below.
It wasn't as easy as he had anticipated the cuts sublime but
flesh tethered to oblivion is nothing, and with each laceration
it became more of a farce than of creation.

He In frustration even though they had whimpered out there
last plea hours before he lunched at this vacant tapestry
ripping into it with the frustration, expelled source material
all over his being. He knew that this was collateral damage,
and for beauty to be formed there were going to be some
cuts that were to deep to mend. So with a sullen heart,
he cradled this fallen realization,that he needed to heed his own thoughts.

He put it in an old shopping trolley and ignited this fallen work, 
standing there feeding the congregation of two opposites.
What once was, now soot on charred grass below.
And to grade himself in books on contorting flesh and anatomy.

Needing ways that he could numb and silence flesh,without losing
the spark that wielded such beauty as it still breathed,
helping him with his creational form.
Time was evident on his further attributions, he had learnt as
one should in future accomplishments. One should learn from
past errors (mistakes) and the first was an abortion of realization.
He needed to find the inclination point where it would be how
his vision needed to be climaxed into form.

With this he had constructed a square metal frame with
segmented stages. Where he could divert this form from
humanity to his desired form.
He could not have just anyone, types or stereotypes.
One may ponder where his persuasion. Not overly skinny
or bigger proportions. For they would either tear from
the strain, or unable to contort to the desired and needed
formation of his vision that needed form.

But patience is a virtue and though it took time, he was able
to attain the needed instruments of creation.
Time was the essence he pondered, and it worked.
The frame was adjustable to expand or decrease the needed
distance and form. Now ready, so much time had passed,
but perfection isn't a clock that stays still, perfection is a movement
of time gradually showing us the motion of before now and after.

His untorn pieces, needing those of no tattoos, of no piercings.
As this would blemish his art, and either contort of split in a
time utter most delicate movements. His fingers were static
his mind as sharp as his tools to motivate this intricate
melody. He wore a ceremonial mask, as this wasn't something
to be taken lightly respect for the form and that of who
was being given this opportunity. In the background soft
instrumental music to expand his muse.

Knowing now where cuts would not induce the death of
this piece. Realizing a wrong furrow could just subjugate
this to a crumbled mess, no longer useful to him or life.
Bones were bent over time so not to break, but to contort
to his new form. Drips hung like tears, feeding the will
to live, even though they wanted to die. He furthered this
creative moment, finding himself smiling underneath
his mask.

Feeling alive again, this was his moment of creative mastery.
He started to peel flesh, this had to be in one sitting due to
the delicate time frame. What was pliable would become brittle
in form. ruining what had taken months to achieve.
The system he had set for this moment, a fine spray of
antibacterial moisturizing seeds of mist. Tt just the right level
so not to make the flesh tear or dry out and break.

It was finished, his art was realized. Now he had to display it.
But as with all creations an audience was needed.
So he cradled it gently, knowing this location would be vacant.
Calling the press on a throw away phone.
He called it, "Human Evolution" even thought it was
anything of the sort. And as cameras flashed, the world saw
his creation. And the horror of his mind contorted from reality.
On what fulfilment was contorted from perfection to this
origami muse of humankind.

Tears of Joy littered his hands, his fingers now shaking with
the anticipation that what was now done, could be done again.
When the news faded and where skin was folded,now there
was just a person. A contorted remembrance of what
humanity can achieve. Tears flow like floating paper boat
on a stream, this one hasn't sunk yet. But this was one of
many creations to come, for what is the body if not art
to be gazed upon.
what is my promised pain?
from conception
to my first deception
i wondered what my promised pain was

is it as sweet and seductive
as a lovers first touch?
or is it as ****** and dull
as entangled flesh in a bush full of thorny rose crowns?
will my pain be promised from myself,
or someone else who takes my ground?

will our promised pain tell us who we are?
"mirror mirror on the wall, show me, define me"
we all yelled until our breath gave out,
our voices piercing the infinite heaven,
wishing for the mirror on the wall to show us as
the perfect chain
but the only thing that shows us who we are,
is the reality of pain,
our promised pain?

how will i know when i feel my promised pain?
emotional, physical, will i even know it hit me?
will i be on the ground, bawling, unable to be in touch with what is pain?
will i bleed, contort, and bruise?
how do i know when the promised pain that was gifted from me from conception,
will turn it's age old gears unto me?

who promised us this pain?
this pain, whether we deserve or don't
this pain, without a messiah in cloth to save us from
this pain, this pain, this promised pain
this pain, we can't describe
this pain, we were all bound to from birth
this pain, that only your touch may heal
but then again, our promised pain
is god or the devil's deal.

this pain, this vowed pain,
the pain of a demon's pitchfork,
an angel's sword of justice,
this promised pain, this pain of no mercy,
does it last forever, or just a second?
does it return, or leave forever?
what is this promised pain,
we were gifted with from birth?

my memory of your promised pain,
a pain i could not feel,
a pain as slow as the minutes ticking away on the clock,
for i've been watching your for a while,
since you walked into my life,
a monday morning, able to heal a pain.

a monday morning, filled with pain,
a stab of happiness,
a cut of despair,
i was much too shy,
to let my feelings show,
but you let them free,
and that was the beginning of possible promised pain.

at last, we can talk,
maybe in another way,
and at last, i love you,
it became too hard to say,
due to our promised pain,
if only i could say the words i feel.

tell me if you've had promised pain,
tell me what your feelings are,
tell me if you love me not
i have so much, i need to ask you,
but now that chance has gone, flee in the run of a rabbit,
when you reach your fading *****,
in my heart,
those promised memories stay,
glowing pride, your only smiling
through that promised pain.
i havent written poetry in 50000000000 yrs sorry
ERR Jul 2013
He liked to travel after the
War, he said
His father had explored Japan
With a friend and two local lady guides
Happily snapping culture shock
Soaking in the landscape
Partaking in practices exotic and strange
They went to a sushi restaurant, and
This is before they had that stuff in the cafeteria
Calamari alarmed the two
Polite tasters but face contort and twister
His father a dab, his friend: a bite
The girls laughed and finished the squid, raw alright
And they left, owner eyeing as they go
New tourist destinations but
Their stomachs start to plummet
The girls drop sick and writhe and twitch
And kick
As he gets all three to the
Hospital, where he is suspected

Manages to get authorities
To the restaurant, where owner
Sees two ghosts walk before his
Face, and random ****** cyanide
Lies waiting

The girls went violently
His friend had a piece removed
His father, still going strong
Though he’d always been
A little gassy
Chris D Aechtner Aug 2013
(it's cliché to admonish clichés in their entirety)

I. (love)

We are meant to live the clichés;
we are meant to resuscitate the words,
and rehabilitate their wounds
into a fertile viewpoint
where we build respirators from clichés
to filter the virulent dust kicked up
by the marching pigs.

(re-invented clichés offer back breath
in an exchange of circular breathing)

The swine contort love
into armaments of antipathy;
they push buttons,
squeeze triggers,
pull pins,
and aim where it causes the most damage.

Even though we are natural born hypocrites,
we don't have to let that knowledge corner us
into using love as a weapon.

The pen is mightier than the sword,
and I wield both;
I sharpen the quill on the blade's edge.

If need be, use the pen for a counter-strike,
but only channel love in defence.


II. (poetry)

The pigs march to a beat
of nuclear blasts
that bring poetry's flag
nearer to half-mast.


Poetry should stand on its own merit,
instead of leaning on shanks that hide behind smiles
constructed with aspirations of popularity
that churn out lazy, aspartame-laced lines
devoid of accountability and integrity,

or lean upon smiles filled with slivers
from far too much fence-sitting,
too worried about the trending majority,
to see the complexity within simplicity

and clarity,

or

propped-up against degrees
while writing poems that are drier than the Sahara:
husks of lines tumbling across dunes,
only to be imploded
by atomic-pork mushroom clouds,
their fallout marring parchment
into a poisonous terrain.
.

III. (dreams)

(revive, twist, and switch the clichés )

We must not fear saying "never".
Surrender to love, but never surrender
to the jealous captains who attempt
to hook and net the defenders of Neverland.

With compasses of conscience
beating in hearts kept young,
navigate through the smoke and mirror-smog
emitted by the marching pigs.

(we must never give up on our dreams)

Dream about the courage needed
to love everyone and everything,
including our enemies
who conduct genocide
on the language of a purer intent.

Dream about word-seedlings
pushing through the arid rind
of dying poetry,

in hope for a more organic fruition
to grow in our hearts and minds,

so that poetry gains back its strength and vitality
to once again stand on its own merit.



+/-
07.30.2013
Nemo Dec 2013
I've recently fallen into an elite group of individuals: youth diagnosed with depression by their mothers.

I can't argue with her; she is licensed.

But I can't help but feel that my case is different, minor in comparison. I'd like to call it loneliness but it's more developed than that.

It's like a cancer that started in my fingertips when they realized there was nothing to hold on to, and has since spread to my heart or my brain, whichever is responsible for the distribution of numbness to my bones and vital organs.. I'll call it 3rd stage loneliness. I'm saving calling it the 4th stage for when it starts to feel terminal.

"Lonely" is kind of a **** of a word, like "love," or "beautiful." I think people like to use "lonely" like teens use cigarettes. It taste good when it falls off the tongue. And by my observation, they both cause cancer.

Everyone wants to be "lonely" but no one wants to be alone.
So I've put it upon myself to separate loneliness into subcategories, based on mortality rate.

If you're wondering why I'm lonely, don't bother. I'm wondering the same. I have friends a family that loves me, and the rest of the chemo-esque **** that's suppose to nurture you back to health. But
I've still got that tumor buried under my skin where no one cares to look.

I ain't got many friends I can talk to.

I've concocted a list of side effects of 3rd stage loneliness, if you're interested:
1.) Insomnia - the inability to completely shut the third eye on your skull because it persists on looking to the future.
2.) Selective Hearing - the inability to listen to supposedly happy music and instead sulk with the sounds of Bon Iver or Bright Eyes ricocheting through the canals of your brain. Music your friends "probably haven't heard of"
3.) Loss of Appetite - Don't worry, you still crave food and other survival necessities. You simply lose the appetite to expand through the universe. Loss of Ambition, as the form would say.
4.) Improved Acting Skills - You'll eventually learn to manipulate the stringy muscles in your face to pull up the corners of your lips when you feel you are expected to. Not all side effects are bad.


I am not one of those darkly dressing teenagers that complains with visible angst about being misunderstood. But I do have the hair for it.

I am not suicidal. Maybe I would be, but I seem to have been struck particularly hard by Side Effect #3.

But at first mention of depression you can see their faces squirm and contort to resemble a clumsy soldier tap-dancing through a minefield, while simultaneously conducting open-heart surgery on himself.

5.) Exaggeration.

This poem is not meant to sadden, to depress. It is simply for the public awareness of 3rd stage loneliness. If you know someone suffering from this disease, please call this hotline:

1-800-462-5663
(1-800-IMA-LONE)


The more you know...
Cheyenne Apr 2016
I’ve gone insane.
It's nothing new.
Been down this road a time or two.
But this time I've made a decision
About the health of my cognition:
I'm staying here!
No round trip!
For why would I when there is this?
A world exactly as I need it.
Everything just as I see it.

Reality made me contort
To rules and norms and other sorts.
I've bruised my limbs,
Threw out my back,
My everything is out of whack.
I'm done I tell you!
Through with it!
That box, that there, I cannot fit!

And in the past you have always
Coaxed me back to your mores.
And I would whine and ***** and moan.
Throw a tantrum. You would groan,
And you would say I must behave:
"Proper people don't act this way!"
I don't doubt this:
Your forced fed fodder,
But I have no interest in being "proper."

So I’ve gone insane.
And I’m staying!
Not because it's easy.
Not because I’m lazy.
But because, going back?
Well, that would just be crazy!
Ezra Mar 2016
Her feet bring her up the stage
Buds burst, willows weep
Lumbar muscles contort the rest into a chair
Bloomingdales bags crumple
Wrists soar and whistle her up
Balloons fly,
And pop
Fingers hammer down like swans on black keys
Nails scratch staccato notes
And tears
Lord and lady I beg thee,
Bless my dear traveler,
for the road has not been kind to him.
His spine- gnarled by careless hands,
Does binds him to a body of misery and torment.
A scourge of his own bones!
Like roots for the blades that protrude from & contort
his vertebrae.
Oh! If I were able I would curse the catalyst of his tribulations.
The devastation that derelict did force upon my love, breaks my heart Every time I look upon that beautiful crooked back.
But, instead for the agony of the man I love.
For, his recovery would be a greater reward than any retribution.
touka Jan 2018
cold,

I will my eyes to focus
reprimand my dark surroundings
and the many failing lights that sit
just a few yards away
blurry, blue dots
no real purpose but still jut out from the soil
of my neighbors yard
some decoration, I suppose

wet,

I hear the past, present and future collide with a crash
with a few strong voices
who bargain for nothing more than an insight
into each others inevitability

cold,

light flickers back on behind me
and I could kiss it hello
potent and poignant,
I'm so glad you are breathing
maybe that's a little forward, but it's more than power
I still struggle to focus my sight
maybe my ears, however
quiet still could not fall if it had untied shoes

wet, and so cold it's become dull

the ground is malleable, mud and muck sloshing around my pathway
my feet toss the puddles of winter water up and around my ankles
it soaks into my socks
sends a chill that stalks the length of my spine

wet and cold

I meander through the murk, biding it away
I jump onto the sleek black surface, staving off the frigid pains
and lay my head down to hide from sight

my vision is full of black holes

it's lovely, the rain
but not when its best accompaniment is the long silhouette of the house you'd escaped
who would I tell
a few foggy figures latch onto my regard

cells collapse in on their own

my face grows warm and I feel my features contort
a sad scowl appropriate for the situation at hand
tears roar past the dam I'd crafted
but it was dark, no one would see
I was hiding under nightfall
which might sound cool if I didn't mean I was laying on top of an old car crying at 5 in the morning

reborn starving and unconsoled

I still hear a few voices, then a few footsteps that quicken
a pace, a parse, a prying for more
and then a collective quiet
I stiffen, stifle my woes

the bite and the cry as it corrodes the hull

numb creeps in around my skin
especially my feet, the extent of the cold finally settling in
but I wasn't ready

the bigger the bang, the brighter the star

I have a conversation with myself in my head
and not to come off loony
but there are a few things that shouldn't have been said by either parties involved
if you catch my drift

theory tugs at the strings in my heart

a soft gust of January wind strokes the bare skin of my legs
I wonder
I wonder if I could stop if I were to start
and so I wonder and wonder
but it seems the answer isn't quite so mysterious

paradigms practice their weight in the void

I bet an imaginary amount of some imaginary currency
to myself, of course
that if I wasn't able to before, I definitely won't be able to sleep now

the dance of matter and its taunting toy

I hear my name called, footsteps shuffling, offering their warn
a somewhat concerned voice from beyond the beyond
the front door, I mean
out of sight, I freeze, my mouth stuffed full of cotton
half hoping they'll forget I exist for a few
so I can try to compose myself

with the space around it as it threatens tall

however well I could compose myself at this point, anyway
I know I'll be found
I don't want to speak, I'm not sure if I could
when these things happened, my mouth tended to malfunction as much as my spine
so I'd bite my tongue and stand shrinking
my muscles curling into a shaken stir

saturn sleeps, its uninhabitable crawl

a warm blanket, I don't remember the color
I'm brought inside and laid down
and I avoid the hot remnants of some loud, leering summer
the air is thick with it

its air stings my skin, and I hear a song
  ‍    ‍
so this is the weirdest, longest and most intimate poem I've ever done. It also kind of deviates from my usual style
(the italics are a bit glitched out BC of hellopoetry so sorry for that)
Timothy Brown Nov 2012
I awoke alone,
after a horrid dream.
I turned to your face
to feel something comforting.
In the spot that graced your silhouette
were sheets weighted with regret.
My misdirected inflection
coupled with the misconception,
that 1+1=1 not 2 you see,
when the correct formula
is 1+1≥3


Fact is I lied.
When I pronounced "love"
with greater strength than "as long"
Fact is I lied.
When i said unconditional.
It is the beauty in song.

My regret lies in lack of earlier cognition.
This is not the first time this has happened.
Which means I never learned a lesson
inferring  to my lack of a mission
or understanding,
in a man's mind muddled.
I took the position
of sitting down in the struggle.
My body fatigued, eyes bloodshot and wary
I refused to see your definition
of affection realized in the lines of the abstract.

Fact is I lied.
When I said forever;
Knowing I am temporary.
Fact is I lied.
I never finished my sentence.
A more complete thought is "one of many"


The complete truth is my love was uniform.
Designed to let any woman fill the mold.
I lacked passion.
Which gives direction in a sandstorm.
I gave up my attempts to understand why water is wet.
Returned to my dreadful fantasy
wherein my heart would contort and deform.
As I told the truth to you
in a Scarlett and Rhett fashion;
We caressed in a snowstorm.
The message cut deeper than I could ever myself.

Fact is I lied.
When I said I would be fine,smiled
and drank in the last light you would reflect.
Fact is I lied.
When I said it was me
It was the both of us I wished to confect.
Part 2 of the Kutisha series "mwongo
© November 18th, 2012, by Timothy R Brown. All rights reserved.
Leah Rae Nov 2012
I Guess She Must Have Been Starving.**
Wasn't Well Fed Enough To Keep Her Skin And Bones, Her Silk And Gold, More Than Just Skin And Bones.

Momma Said She Was Hungry For Heart Ache.
It Was The Echo Of Her Own Voice, The Empty Callouses On Her Palms And The Way She Had Written Hell Bent Across Her Knuckles, Loved By So Many She Was Worn Out, Worn Down, Like On Old Pair Of Shoes.

She Cleaned Her Plate Every Night, Her Mouth Full Of More Teeth Than Her Jaw Could Hold.
She Told Me, After Supper, She'd Find Palm Prints That Match Her Own, But She Was Always Too Tired To Go Out Looking

There Were Street Corners, And Fish Nets, She Told Me That Were Meant For Catching Men, She Always Wore Her Skin Too Tightly, Like It Didn't Fit Her Right, Like It Had Been Handed Down To Her, From An Older Sister With Broader Shoulders, And A Thousand Watt Smile, That Her Teeth Could Never Generate.


She Told Me She Had Tasted So Many Flavors.

Said That Her Tongue Could Contort, To The Taste Of Memory. The Lavender Eyelashes Who Kept Saying Sorry, The Butterscotch Fingertips That Wouldn't Look Her In The Eyes, The Honeycomb Heart Break Whose Lips Felt Like Regret, The Cherry **** Knuckles Who Painted Her Flesh Purple Under His Palms, The Cotton Candy Wrists Who Wouldn't Stop Swearing, The Elderberry Shoulder Blades That Were Always Shaking.

I Think They Called Her Man Eater.

Capable Of Unhinging Her Jaw Like A Python, Swallowing Her Subjects Whole, It Wasn't That She Was So Hungry, It Was That She Had To.

I Think Someone Printed Prey Across Her Hip Bones, Made Her Feel Like Where Ever She Was Going, She Had To Run To, Eyes Too Big, Too Bright, Too Empty For The Planes Of Her Face, She Was Use To Being Hollow, Her Stomach, Wound Tight Around What Was Left Of Her Insides.

She Had Regurgitated Every Ounce Of Herself Back Up To Them, Stripped Down, Every Layer Of Her Skin, Until She Was Naked. Bare Like The Back She Had Carried Me On.

Her Bedroom Didn't Have A Lock On The Door. I Could Find Her Bent Over Porcelain Coffins, Emptying Out The Fill She Had Eaten That Night.

Said It Never Tasted As Good The Second Time Around.

I'd Hold Her Hair, With Small Hands That We're Always Grabbing Things They Shouldn’t, And Listen To Her Body Betray Her.

She Was Cellophane And Cheap Lip Gloss, Born Screaming, Ravenous For Rejected Remembrance, I Was Always Trying To Be Enough For Her, Shoving Home Cooked Meals Under The Bathroom Door, Said Soul Food Could Save Her, Said Sunlight Could Unshackle Her, But The Lines Of Her Body, The Road Maps Behind Her Eyelids, Said She Needed More Then Empty Calories, More Than The Taste Of Her Own Sweat.

Love Wasn't A Flavor Anyone Had Ever Fed Her.

All She Knew Was An Appetizer Of Angry Words, A Dessert Of Bad Goodbyes.

In The Morning, She'd Hold The Small Hands That Were Always Grabbing Things They Shouldn't, And Tell Me “Baby Doll.”

“A Girl Has To Eat.”
seville marina Aug 2013
i walk up
cigarettes in hand
you already have a conversation going
and i'm out of the loop
something about john's motorcycle
i don't know anything about motorcycles
i can't chime in on this one
i stand and take a long drag
i feel the haze fill up my lungs
let it out slow
watch it swirl and tumble away
i'm nervous
so anxious
i've been off my meds for days
the cigarettes are keeping me calm
-ish
you look at me
eye's bright with intelligence
piercing and i feel like you see through me
but, i know you don't
"right, seville?"
you are being sarcastic
you are always sarcastic
sarcastic and a bit woeful and i like it
"oh, yeah totally." i offer up
matching your mockingly inquisitive tone
i'm in on it now
you invited me in
the same way you always do
the conversation rambles on
i throw in a comment
take some drags
and then another one
we're on car engins now
that's some thing i know
all the while i couldn't care less
because i'm watching your eyes flash while you form thoughts
your lips contort while you make words
your hands fly while you explain
i finish my cigarette
i walk away
KG Feb 2015
When I was a little girl, I loved to play with dolls.
On Christmas morning, I would wake up
And a beautiful, pristine little doll sat beneath the tree.
Encased within those shiny plastic walls,
Displayed like a piece of fine art at a museum.
                            — Except, I could never stay behind the red velvet rope.

I snipped, and slashed, and cut away,
Until her plastic fortress was breached.
She was mine.
I stroked her soft, fine hair,
Feeling the silky strands upon my fingertips
And I whispered in her ear
“I will love you forever”.
She looked upon me
With bright blues eyes,
Rose painted lips,
And a compliant smile.
I knew she was mine.

And then I would play…

Yank the blue polka dot dress off her slender figure
And contort her delicate frame into any position I pleased.
She was mine to love.
Mine to control.
Shoved her into my backpack and brought her to school
Grubby little fingers reached out to play with her:
The girls playing dress up,
The boys playing dress down.

And now, her once silky hair,
brittle strands of straw,
So wild and tangled no comb could soothe.
Raced to the kitchen, grabbed the scissors
And hacked away furiously,
Somehow believing I could fix her
With the very scissors I used to break her protective walls.

Now found myself staring wistfully at the dolls with long shinny hair
When my mother took me to the department store.

Then one day, as I played with her in the backyard,
A leg popped off and would not go back on.
So I threw her disfigured body in the trash
Atop the rotting carrot peels and broken egg shells.
That compliant smile shone through,
Begging me to take her back…
                     — But I had a new doll now.

Years later, when my childish things were packed away in the attic,
I sat upon the park bench in my blue polka dot dress,
With shimmering locks cascading softly upon my collarbones.
And you told me I was your Mona Lisa.
You told me, “I will love you forever”.
I smiled
And promised I would do anything to make you happy.

But then you started coming home
With alcohol on your breath and wrath in your eyes.
And struck me for all the things I did wrong.
I said I was sorry,
Promised to do anything to make you happy.

But it was never enough.
You threw me upon the bed with fury glittering in your crimson orbs.
Took me with carnal lust
That never seemed to ease the hate.
And left me broken,
With blue fingerprints imprinted upon my porcelain skin.
— And never came back

Now, when people ask me why I never let my daughter play with dolls,
I reply:
Some things are better left in the box.
Elioinai Sep 2015
My hands are red against my ribs
the skin is marked with purple paint
and I rainbow in the gaps

though I lie motionless
my imagined lips contort
across the destinies of other's
craving shallow touch

each partner a slightly different waist
a different flavor

can these fantastic kisses
**** stars out from my soulfire?
or do they keep alive
my darling sweet desire?

My secret silent practice
my dancing under moon
may turn out to be witches work
and come to haunt me soon

I don't degrade by *******
I do not stoop to ****
But are these moments hights indeed?
Or bleeding cosmos,
love forlorn?
I'm afraid I'll lose my *** drive before I get married because I'm a ****** and 22 years old. I know the Apostle Paul said that it's easier sometimes to be single, but I really want to get married. I don't want to ignore my *** drive, or treat it poorly, or stick it in some prison cell. I'm confused about what to do with it.
Firefly Mar 2015
It shatters,
Into tiny green shards.
Peaceful garden turned rubble.
He is like dirt, he likes the ruin.
When he felt the pain of seeing,
He knew,
He saw it all happen.
Lithe form merging with rough hands,
He sighs now, remembering,
All that happened before,
All he had seen,
It didn't happen twice, thrice, nor six times,
Times are more, his mind has grown more,
His heart pumps rage more.
Rue, crumble, contort, free!
All he felt before,
And all that came now, he let them be.
The rage, blue-flames, wrath,
His unbecoming and rebirth,
Then ashes and flames,
Now sin and woe,
Next tears and rubble,
And finally silence,
Terrible silince, terribly wrong.
He is effluence
Effluence is wrath.
                                    -MoonFirefly
The third poem in my still unnamed series about specific seasons in my life that changed me forever. Thank you for reading.
Jesse Belcher Jul 2013
His days are filled with books and a beautiful view.
He reads all day, then watches the sunset, every day from his room.
All kinds of books that penetrates him to another world,
for as kind as he is; at school he tries to go unnoticed. Find a corner and curl.

Nobody knows this boy who has so much to offer.
He doesn't get a chance, 'cause the cool kids like to see him suffer.
He slowly peeks around the corner, to see if they're around.
He has to get to English, the bell just rang the final sound.

Almost there he see's the door,
picking up the pace he trips to the floor.
He hears laughing and see's them pointing at his falling body.
It's the same everyday. Is there someone real he thinks. anybody?

Late that evening just finishing his latest book,
he goes to his view just to take his evening look.
Something was different, there was beauty he couldn't see.
Definitely something different, there was odd colors' behind his red oak tree.

Adjusting his view to perhaps get a better peek,
he saw a beauty he couldn't explain. He tried to holler down, but couldn't speak.
She came out from behind the tree,
Who was she he thought, for he could not see.

Cautiously he walked outside,
usually reserved he didn't know why.
He saw her just staring like a woman with so much on her mind.
He wanted to speak to her: what would he say? Just be kind.

"Hello", he said, as he took a step closer.
She turned around, and it was over.
The boy never knew something so beautiful could be so close.
For after a romance novel, from his dreams they arose.

After her initial shock she said "Hi, you must be my new neighbor."
"I just moved here from Florida, I'm not use to the chill."
The boy mesmerized thought he took one too many pills.
He tried to talk, but it just wouldn't flow, and as she stared at him
he saw her face contort, and she started to go.

He said "wait don't leave. I'm just not use to people talking to me."
He was actually a handsome boy if they would take the time to see.
He said, "my name is Cole and I live in the white house just there."
He pointed to it and noticed she didn't look. Instead at him she stared.

Her gaze made him uncomfortable, for he thought it a prank,
but the more he looked the deeper he sank.
She said, "Cole, I like that name,
mine is Lila." Lila Verame."

He saw her shiver and recalled her comment about the chill,
so he took off his jacket, and placed in around her hoping the warmth she would feel.
"Thank you" she said as she looked in his eyes.
Cole said "your welcome, this should keep you dry."

Lila giggled and said, "what do you mean?"
"There is a storm coming. I can smell it. After awhile you sense things that don't have to be seen.
She never heard a boy talk like this,
she said "so after awhile living here, there'll be things I can sense?"

Cole puzzled, said "sorry if I talk a little strange."
Lila smiled and said "no I like it, from where I'm from it's a nice change."
In Florida it's all about how good one looks in bikini's.
It's nice down here to have you talk about the scenery.

Her green eyes sparkled as he talked like never before.
Lila laughed, smiled, and even seemed interesting all the more.
So many thoughts were exchanged before the first rain drop fell,
and as Cole walked Lila home, she knew there was more to him than anyone could tell.

Back in his room he pondered the day and thought; just wait til school.
I'll be a ghost; just made a made up fool.

Cole didn't sleep as he thought what would transpire.
It was a small school and she surely would burn like a candlelit fire.
Being new and so beautiful,
It was going to be interesting for sure. Very eventful.

Anxiously and nervous he looked in the mirror,
no matter what he did, he knew he would be inferior.

The steps leading inside came faster than he ever could remember,
God why couldn't we have had a huge snow storm like it does in December?

He stepped inside and sure enough,
there stood Lila with the boys who thought they were so tough.
He avoided contact hoping not to be seen.
especially from Lila. Lila Varame.

The day went on and not one class did he have with her.
Although sad, at least she wouldn't see all the trouble the cool guys stirred.

Finally at lunch, walking outside,
He found his spot. His spot to hide.
Today seemed different for more guys sat at the cool spot.
Then he saw why. Lila, they swarmed to her like flies do to the rot.

She seemed confused and not liking all the racket,
and then his eyes lit up, as he saw her with his jacket.
No it couldn't be. If only she knew how Cole got treated.
He wouldn't fight, for everyday he went home defeated.

Finding courage he never knew within,
he strolled the cool kids way confident and with a grin.
Lila saw him for the first time that day,
and the smile on her face couldn't be contained.

He stopped as he noticed her smile,
their eyes never leaving each other all the while.
No, no, no, this can't be.
I'm just Cole. Why would she be looking at me.

But she was looking at him and walking all the same,
and then he heard the cool kids laughing saying his name.
It's over he thought, now she will see,
here they come to humiliate me.

A fire started to burn deep inside,
no more he thought not this time.
As they made their way,
he stared in her eyes feeling something. No matter what he was going to stay.

They teased and goofed trying to make him feel alone,
but with Lila looking he stood like a marble stone.

Through all the jokes he stood staring at her.
"I've been looking for you," she said. "Please get me away from them nerds."

For the first time in his life Cole didn't go home and read a book,
he spent it with Lila, and in her hands his she took.

The boy, the nerd, got the most beautiful girl in school,
and deep down she was so kind too.
Days turned to weeks, weeks turned to months.
Cole was the new man in school. He was even blunt.

What if I told you that Cole and Lila found what some don't believe.
What if I told you they were soul mates. Is that something you could conceive?
Well in this book Cole found love and not through they eyes of a character in a book.
In the moment of opportunity. The opportunity he took.

He could have kept to his novels and his evening sunsets,
but he saw beauty and he took that chance.
Who would have know their love would have reacted.
who would have known, he'd find love by sharing his jacket.

Some people never get the chance,
to show their is more to them than what you think.
Just take the time open your ears,
or you could miss out on something special....faster than a blink...
I wanted to go so much further with this, but my back is killing me and I need to try and sleep.
lowercasemmmmmm Jul 2014
your moods make me feel not unlike
I'm riding the arc of a rope swing,
my ****** muscles twitch and contort
as it starts to fray I cling,
you're pushing manically behind me
spinning so in circles I go,
your verbal abuse is my rope swing
it hurts but I'll never let you know,
Kara Rose Trojan Aug 2012
And we all shine on.
            The thorn of love that is invisible to strangers.
            Here comes the husband’s attitude again. Pass with Care.
            Here comes the husband’s paycheck again. Pass with Care.
And here we have the husband’s mistress again. And she passed with care.
Now, we have this baby girl. One more piece for the puzzle-family:
“And you know I ain’t never want no half nothing in my family.
My whole family is half. Everybody got different fathers and mothers.”

Sacrifice, Mama. Ain’t that what it’s all about?
Rose. Rose. The one who is already risen.            

When you banished him from your bed, did he contort his frame
and slug his way toward the door,
continued down the hallway
and down the stairs
to leech away the ghost of that emotion that Tallahassee-big-hipped-girl gave him?

Give your daughter, now, the hungry fatigue that you had to acquire. Pass with care.
And now you stand with this goblet in your arms.
Goblet of light. Golden flower in your heart and in your brain. This baby girl --
            Breather of the goodness in the world.
DISCLAIMER: The character Rose is from August Wilson's play Fences. Rose is a wife who learns that her husband Troy has a child with another woman. Rose reacts by banishing Troy from her bed but taking in the child after the mother dies during childbirth. I quote Rose as well because her voice should be heard just as much as my voice in order to develop her identity.
Blue zoo hue true through due stew brew flue crew boo to you grew jew new ooh poo rue sue shoe

Pain stain bane rain cain feign sane train brain lane main inane grain

Gold bold sold mold scold cold doled fold foaled hold rolled

Feel seal real deal meal keel heal heel kneel wheel zeal steel steal peal peel

Melt felt belt dealt knelt pelt welt

Pent mint sent rent lent vent bent went dent gent glint spent tent rent

House louse blouse

Curt shirt

Bridge ridge

Pocket rocket socket walk it

Crank dank frank hank rank stank bank tank yank blank sank

Tout pout rout route lout bout clout doubt shout scout

Knoll shoal foal bowl coal dole mole whole hole roll soul toll pole

Bust rust dust crust lust fussed just must combust trust

Lewd dude sued rude crude booed aptitude mood food *******

Fort sort court report tort port quart consort contort retort cohort cavort snort

Maid raid jade laid paid ***** obeyed aid made weighed evade parade afraid glade

Ounce pounce trounce bounce

Porch torch scorch

Flounder rounder

Trace face race lace ace brace case pace waist waste

****** haunch paunch launch

Long song gong **** wrong strong tong belong

Fast mast past vast crass glass brass last aghast hast

Gulch mulch

Survive alive hive rive jive live strive

Twirl whorl curl hurl furl burl girl pearl rural whirl

Flaunt taunt haunt daunt vaunt

Hoot moot loot boot toot shoot cute jute root suit newt

Weep seep steep keep heap deep creep leap beep jeep reap

Hide side abide bride died guide lied glide bide vied wide ride tide slide

Serene ravine green gene careen obscene demean

Fin pin sin men tin wren Zen

Bought naught fought caught ought distraught drought

Meld weld held gelled knelled quelled emerald withheld

Left heft deft

Verve swerve curve

String thing bring sing king ping ring wing sting ding

Boon soon moon tune loon **** noon rune croon

Knave grave brave rave save wave crave pave
Combating poetic writers block

— The End —