"cramp" poems
You are my wind
You are my sun
The blood in my veins
The bones to make me stand
I've been drowning
And i thought you were my life raft
I thought you were my island
My safe place to escape
But turning away from the water
Won't make it go away
Running from the sea
Won't make it less deep
I've grown so used to finding my boat
So used to hiding from the tide
I panicked when it wasn't there
Has my boat sailed away?
The panic gave me a cramp
Tied weights to me
And I began to sink faster
How could my boat do this?
How could it sail away?
But the more I missed my boat
The more I needed it to stay
But not as safety
Not as refuge
But a love to share
And laugh and grow
I still need my boat
But not like I did before
No more hiding
No more dry land
I need to swim
Because boats are fun
And great for days
But the sea is a beast
That no boat can match
No she doesn't care that I'm a mermaid
Who fell in love with a fisherman
She doesn't care I've spent too much time on dry land
I forgot how to use my fins
A mermaid that can't swim
What a pathetic life it is
But she's cruel
She wont keep the boats around
So don't forget how to swim
Don't forget how to use your fins
We are strong us mermaids
Making deals with sea witches
Seducing men to their death
All fine folk tales
But you have to believe the myth
Always been strong
Because regardless of what Disney said
I can't grow legs
I'll always be a mermaid
But what use is it if I can't swim
When I learn how to swim again
I hope my fisherman will come back
I hope he hasn't sailed too far away
When I'm on deck of our boat again
We will dance and sing
Maybe have dogs
And flowers to remind us of land
A piano in the dining room
And guitars lining the walls
Music will echo
They can hear us from land
The happy fisher and his happy mermaid
Living together again
But storms always come
Because that's how nature works
It rains
It snows
It storms
Than the sun returns
This time when the storm comes
And makes waves that could touch the moon
And I get thrown overboard
I won't forget how to swim
I'll play with the fish
Make friends with sharks
And await the return of my beautiful fisherman
But you will always be my wind
My sun
The air in my lungs
But soon I will have gills
So I can breath when the water comes
You can't be my fins anymore
You can't be my dry land
You can't save me from drowning
Because mermaids are free
But if you want
You can be free with me
So please return my beautiful sailor
And we can live on our happy boat
And I'll be one with the sea
Because this sea is a part of me
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC
I don't seek your permission...
To write about the what, why and how.
It could be a haiku or come in the shape of a cow.
I don't need your approval...
When I don't sound the least bit poetic...
In my mismatched metaphors or ill-rhymed acrostic.
I'm not asking for your blessing...
When I pen down and put up what I think...
Be it in cloying cliches or in tear drenched ink.
I don't crave for your understanding...
When my 10 word poems weren't filtered through your poetic lens,
Or if my contributions in collaborations lack in sense.
I don't hope for your likes...
If my content does not tickle your fancy,
Or if my words just rubs you silly.
I mean no disrespect...
But don't be too quick to click on the 'comment' button.
Private messaging has been put there for a reason.
I don't mean to cramp your style...
You're entitled to your own opinions of course...
But if you've got nothing good to say, please save it and shove it up yours.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 10:43 AM UTC
Have a little slice of key lime pie; get down on your knees and get real high,
'cause mamma’s gone and cut you a slice of key lime pie!
Spank step, toe hop, cramp-shuffle, paddle and roll;
Mamma’s gone and cut you a slice of key lime pie.
Dig deep, riff-walk, clunk-click, scuff those feet;
Mamma’s gone and cut you a slice of key lime pie!
Soft shoe or metal tap on the heel or toe, get your shoes on honey here we go!
Tastes so good, tastes so neat,
it’s a sweet and salty treat!
'cause mamma’s gone and cut you a slice of key lime pie!
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 8:02 AM UTC
Inside my brain
There is a tornado
Spinning to infinity and beyond.
God only knows how fast.
My shoulders ache and my feet cramp.
My wrists click
And my eyes go damp.
Inside my brain instead is a monsoon:
A tumultuous storm that rages on.
Waves froth and smash,
Beating against the backs of my eyeballs.
Sometimes they find their way
Down my soft spotted cheeks.
My lashes float to the earth
One by one by one by one.
Would you collect them for me
Like discarded flower petals
Down the aisle of my soul's chapel
And press them into a scrapbook
Full of twisted memories?
Inside my brain is an H2O tornado
Like reckless rainstorm pirouettes.
My swirling view is blurred,
But every so often
I catch a clear picture
Of the glowing whites of your eyes
And I remember to fill my lungs,
Head above the water,
And breathe.
Twirl, twist.
Wind, mist.
But don't panic,
Because every so often
I catch a clear picture
Of you.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 4:40 PM UTC
Albert had an ARTHRITIC knee
which gave him curry
The core of a BOIL is oft hard
to extract
Yesterday June experienced
a server stomach CRAMP
Too much dry weather
can cause the outer DERMAL layer to peel
Never read in a poorly lit room
for you'll have EYE strain
After eating spicy pickles
dad had bad FLATULENCE
Some twenty eight years ago
my friend Helen had her GALLBLADDER removed
They say that a glass of water
will stop HICCUPS
From end to end
our INTESTINAL tract is thirty foot long
On Sunday afternoon John
broke his JAW playing football
Some people have
very boney KNUCKLES
One of my work colleagues
is prone to getting LARYNGITIS
Colin suffers terribly
with MIGRAINE headaches
Sometimes people tend
to endlessly NAVAL gaze
A woman's OVARIES need to be checked
on a regular basis for any abnormalities
The PANCREAS secrets a hormone
known as insulin
QUININE once was extensively used
in the treatment of Malaria
Since my sister has put on weight
she cannot find her RIBS
The STIRRUP bone lies
within one's ear
Dan Aykroyd the famous comic star
has webbed TOES
Should you bump your ULNA bone
it may give you reason to groan
The VARICOSE VEINS is great aunt Ruby's legs
were very pronounced
Does anyone know of a good remedy
for unsightly WARTS
At our local hospital
we have an antiquated X-RAY machine
As tiredness and weariness sets in
one YAWNS quite a lot
****** ZOSTER can make
a person constantly itch
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 1:31 AM UTC
Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
5.9k
I watch my reflection in the mirror
with my pale blue eyes
watching my lifeless stature in the dark
bones made out of gelatin
and my heart out of fragile glass
that breaks everytime i see myself
My fingertops softly touch my face
Tears keep coming faster
till my waterlines are overflowing
My nails grow sharper
and my fingers cramp
digging holes under my eyes
I want to shatter my bones
And burn my skin to ashes
I want to rip the hair from my scalp
as well as all the pages
filled with frustration
scratching and screaming
I have to be pretty
but the need for it grows
as well as the demons inside my soul
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 8:14 PM UTC
The story I've been telling is becoming less close to the chest.
Curious nature is that of a private man openly speaking tragedy.
Delivered with an uncomfortable smirk, because humility is foreign.
At this time, respectively.
It began with short sentences. Small worked because it was never enough to give insight into
the whole picture. Of course there was source material. Coincidences occasionally, but my sources were
always kept hidden. My skeletons, some would say.
Then the sentences became longer, if not, the paragraphs would.
Every now and then a hand cramp would delay the process, but
the mind kept going. What else did it have to do, but think?
But back to misplacing a humble way.
As soon as you state that you are,
you have become a contradiction,
a liar,
a cheat,
a thief,
the **** of the Earth.
But what do I know?
I'm only trying to be humble.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 5:42 PM UTC
She woke up early
To see what the Easter Bunny brought her
And she fed her dog jellybeans
And she put on her new baby blue dress
With the matching hat
And couldn't sit still in Church.
She woke up early
To find that the Easter Bunny only brought Dad’s favorite candy
And her mom sat her down
And said, “The Easter Bunny is a fantasy”
And her dog got stomach cancer and couldn't eat the jellybeans.
Her baby blue dress was too small
But she wore it anyways
With pants underneath
And the matching hat,
And she got a cramp in her neck
From counting the ceiling tiles in church.
She woke up early
To the sound of her parents fighting
And she climbed into the bed of the pickup truck
And told her brother about Easters he was too young to remember
Of baby blue dresses
With matching hats
And how they used to have a dog that ate the jellybeans.
She wore her pajamas to church
And refused to get out of the car.
Not even when her mother cried.
She woke up late
To the sound of DVR’d episodes of Pawn Stars
And her dad told her that taking the SATs once was not good enough
And her boyfriend needs to take driver’s ed.
And they didn't go to church
Because her mom didn't live there anymore.
So she put on a different dress,
Dark blue with no matching hat,
And drove that pickup truck off the bridge.
Laughing as the cab filled up
With death’s cold fingers.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 1:20 AM UTC
I hadn't cried in years.
I was always taught that strength
was not having the courage to let yourself feel but
******* it up, holding it in.
I am sick of "You're going soft on us, honey"
Today I came to understand that
you are completely okay with writing the same poem
over and over again.
This is a metaphor for the way you ****** her in my bed.
This is a metaphor for the night you copy and pasted love letters.
This is a metaphor for what really happened-
I never fall in the same place twice.
Except when I do.
I think the critical difference between the two of us,
critical because there are many differences
but- I think our hamartia, our fatal flaw,
our end scene is this:
if people didn't like my poetry, if nobody listened,
if I walked out on stage and nobody snapped their
fingers, I would still write for just your eyes.
I would still cramp my crooked, birth defect,
quadruple jointed fingers writing to you about the nights
you loved me back,
for a minute there you loved me back.
And you loved 20,000 other people back.
And you loved small towns back and big cities back and the entire west coast
back when you drove through, making temporary homes out of people
who should have been permanent
and I loved you.
And I hadn't cried in years.
Not because I wasn't sad, but because I was taught that showing emotion
was weakness.
So if my father made me memorize the How To's of strength,
if I were going by the book, today I'd be so fragile
you could say hello and I'd shatter so suddenly you'd
forget you were the one that let go.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 9:56 PM UTC
Now I'd like to tell you of a liquid
And a beverage clearly divine
It matches the holiest spirit
And most blessed communion wine
But it's not to be found at the altar
Of the temple, the mosque or the church
You'll see it in glasses lined up on the bar
Wherever the pensioners perch
Oh Gin, Gin, fabulous Gin
Finest concoction there ever has bin
A knee to the crotch and a kick in the shin
To him that speaks ill of that heavenly Gin
I had a great aunty called Floris
Each morning she'd sternly arise
With a fire in the pit of her stomach
And a merciless scowl in her eyes
But thanks to a magical fluid
By the end she was quite the reverse
And her face was serene and so tranquil
As they bundled her into the hearse
Oh Gin, Gin, glorious Gin
Remover of troubles and varnish and skin
There's many a baby that wouldn't have bin
If not for a bottle of beautiful Gin
Edith was crippled with cramp of the back
And terrible gout of the thighs
Her walk was askew and her bottom had swelled
To a rather astonishing size
But with Gin in the morning, the noon and night
She was right as proverbial rain
She still couldn't walk but now couldn't talk
So no one could hear her complain
Oh Gin, Gin, medicinal Gin
Bracing your face with a permanent grin
Cleans up the silver but tarnishes tin
Joyous the juice of the juniper, Gin
Tis a regular modern elixir
And a kick in the liver to boot
It's companion for many a mixer
To the tonic or blending of fruit
Instilling a mighty contentment
And removing all traces of rage
Though it's mainly imbibed by ladies
Those of a particular age...
Oh Gin, Gin, magnificent Gin
Clean as a whistle and sharp as a pin
Puts hairs on the ears, the chest and chin
Of nannies and grannies all guzzling Gin
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
*Dust on the ledge, before me, magnified
Smell of gun oil in my nostrils and cramp in the calves
The boredom of the wait intensifies,
Stale air in my loft is full of must
With the failing light I’m grateful it is almost time to stand down.
Through the cross hair sprints a target
An ordinary, everyday, running target,
I know not who this target is,
I know not why it runs across my sights,
But because it is, where it is,
It becomes my enemy.
In a microcosm of time
the loud bang alters things forever.
The buck of the rifle’s recoil,
The immediate sour stench of the shot washes back across my face.
The intoxication felt, in being the one who caresses the trigger.
The satisfaction earned in deservedly making the ****
My target spirals in mid stride,
Contorts in agony
And collapses to the rough tarmac
To lie dishevelled, an insignificant, dishevelled item.
Checking the **** through the telescopic sight
I see the rough stubble of the chin,
The nicotine stain on the fingers,
I see the colour of the eyes are pale blue.
…I know well, it will breathe no more.
With descending twilight
I trudge from my tower perch
With the long ****** rifle slung across my weary shoulders
The crones in the street glare as I walk by
There is a loathing in their aged eyes, It is a tangible thing.
I know they have no knowledge of the target,
But they know, however, that there has been a killing made for the cause.
A cold beer would be nice.
God! how I hate these young punks with purple hair.*
Marshalg
Gaza, Palestine/Mogadishu, Somalia/Kabul, Afghanistan/Tehran, Iran/Cairo, Egypt/Islamabad, Pakistan/Soweto, South Africa/Dier El Zour Province, Syria/Beirut, Lebanon/Baghdad, Iraq/Tripoli, Libya/Pristina, Kosovo/Grozny,Chechen Republic/Veracruz, Mexico/Guatemala City, Guatemala/Sao Paulo, Brazil/Moscow, Russia.
27 November 2012
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 8:17 PM UTC
My hands are numb to all they touch
But I feel their inner workings better than ever.
I notice the strain while I'm writing,
The cramp when I'm wanking,
And the lack of a third line in my triplet.
Their blood runs cool like ethanol.
My eyes sting but they had the whole day,
Let my lungs have their moment.
Smoke soothes only second to air
But my carnal desires placed it higher in demand.
Warn all your kids
And take coughing fits.
The danger is real
That's just how I feel.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC
I
I see the boys of summer in their ruin
Lay the gold tithings barren,
Setting no store by harvest, freeze the soils;
There in their heat the winter floods
Of frozen loves they fetch their girls,
And drown the cargoed apples in their tides.
These boys of light are curdlers in their folly,
Sour the boiling honey;
The jacks of frost they finger in the hives;
There in the sun the frigid threads
Of doubt and dark they feed their nerves;
The signal moon is zero in their voids.
I see the summer children in their mothers
Split up the brawned womb's weathers,
Divide the night and day with fairy thumbs;
There in the deep with quartered shades
Of sun and moon they paint their dams
As sunlight paints the shelling of their heads.
I see that from these boys shall men of nothing
Stature by seedy shifting,
Or lame the air with leaping from its hearts;
There from their hearts the dogdayed pulse
Of love and light bursts in their throats.
O see the pulse of summer in the ice.
II
But seasons must be challenged or they totter
Into a chiming quarter
Where, punctual as death, we ring the stars;
There, in his night, the black-tongued bells
The sleepy man of winter pulls,
Nor blows back moon-and-midnight as she blows.
We are the dark derniers let us summon
Death from a summer woman,
A muscling life from lovers in their cramp
From the fair dead who flush the sea
The bright-eyed worm on Davy's lamp
And from the planted womb the man of straw.
We summer boys in this four-winded spinning,
Green of the seaweeds' iron
Hold up the noisy sea and drop her birds,
Pick the world's ball of wave and froth
To choke the deserts with her tides,
And comb the county gardens for a wreath.
In spring we cross our foreheads with the holly,
Heigh ** the blood and berry,
And nail the merry squires to the trees;
Here love's damp muscle dries and dies
Here break a kiss in no love's quarry,
O see the poles of promise in the boys.
III
I see you boys of summer in your ruin.
Man in his maggots barren.
And boys are full and foreign to the pouch.
I am the man your father was.
We are the sons of flint and pitch.
O see the poles are kissing as they cross.
3.4k
My favorite sun is the one during sunrise because it looks like it's on fire.
it reminds me of the viciousness of the world,
the power of space,
the power of space
My favorite sun is the one during sunrise because it doesn't burn
as much to look at
and it doesn't burn as much when I step outside
and I can drive without sunglasses on and breathe in the air and hold my coffee and look at that rising sun and I can feel
as small and insignificant as I need to
It feels good
I feel better
I burn my tongue on my coffee and spill some on my sleeve
it gets on my fingers but I don't rush to the sink's cold water
I stand and stare at the sun and feel it's heat
and it's like we're holding hands
My favorite sun used to be the one during sunset
but that one is death and the end and sunrise is
beginning and reincarnation and the comfort that
there is always a second chance
and I know of course that that is not the case, that is not true
but I let myself feel it anyway because it's warm
Warm like my bathtub, which I turn too hot and burrow in
and sunrise makes me want to curl under the bubbles and never come out
I do that sometimes
Shut my eyes
cover my ears so everything's quiet and dry there
and drop until my lips and nose are the only things above the water
I lay there for minutes and they feel like hours
and I hear the quiet drum of my heartbeat and breathe with it
and just like watching the sunrise I feel small
and it's good
Sometimes it's different and dark
and I cling to the sides of the tub and push and pin myself as far down as I can
I curl my toes until they cramp
and squeeze my eyes so tight bright lights flicker behind the lids
And try to escape the cold between my shoulder blades, knurled and knotted at the base of my neck
and just like watching the sunset I feel like I'm dying
and it's good
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 1:00 PM UTC
Rhyme, the rack of finest wits,
That expresseth but by fits
True conceit,
Spoiling senses of their treasure,
Cozening judgment with a measure,
But false weight;
Wresting words from their true calling,
Propping verse for fear of falling
To the ground;
Jointing syllabes, drowning letters,
Fast'ning vowels as with fetters
They were bound!
Soon as lazy thou wert known,
All good poetry hence was flown,
And art banish'd.
For a thousand years together
All Parnassus' green did wither,
And wit vanish'd.
Pegasus did fly away,
At the wells no Muse did stay,
But bewail'd
So to see the fountain dry,
And Apollo's music die,
All light failed!
Starveling rhymes did fill the stage;
Not a poet in an age
Worth crowning;
Not a work deserving bays,
Not a line deserving praise,
Pallas frowning;
Greek was free from rhyme's infection,
Happy Greek by this protection
Was not spoiled.
Whilst the Latin, queen of tongues,
Is not yet free from rhyme's wrongs,
But rests foiled.
Scarce the hill again doth flourish,
Scarce the world a wit doth nourish
To restore
Phœbus to his crown again,
And the Muses to their brain,
As before.
****** languages that want
Words and sweetness, and be scant
Of true measure,
Tyrant rhyme hath so abused,
That they long since have refused
Other cæsure.
He that first invented thee,
May his joints tormented be,
Cramp'd forever.
Still may syllabes jar with time,
Still may reason war with rhyme,
Resting never.
May his sense when it would meet
The cold tumor in his feet,
Grow unsounder;
And his title be long fool,
That in rearing such a school
Was the founder.
3k
whenever i hear your voice
or that name of yours
my insides cramp,
and i find myself lighting another menthol cigarette,
once again realizing that it’s much sweeter than you ever were
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 9:01 AM UTC
Only the stars endome the lonely camp,
Only the desert leagues encompass it;
Waterless wastes, a wilderness of wit,
Embattled Cold, Imagination's Cramp.
Now were the Desolation fain to stamp
The congealed Spirit of man into the pit,
Save that, unquenchable because unlit,
The Love of God burns steady, like a Lamp.
It burns ! beyond the sands, beyond the stars.
It burns ! beyond the bands, beyond the bars.
And so the Expanse of Mystery, veil by veil,
Burns inward, plume on plume still folding over
The dissolved heart of the amazéd lover-
The angel wings upon the Holy Grail!
2.7k
It could Satan's cohorts cause, what portly
Political figures earn, to forsake his camp
And anon join the fray to the fat fiscal treasury
Of the country squander; and that to a cramp.
The pay plus pecks in a year they receive
Will most citizens in their lifetime never sniff.
So some who covet crazily such a mega-cheque
Also seek the same office for the easy favours.
Since our paunchy purse will at their own beck
And call be, they thus make elections endeavours
A dagger thing;--that if they cannot God's gross
Gold get, they must anyhow have the devil's dross.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 5:43 AM UTC
a stabbing shiver corrodes my limbs
goosebumps lick my heart
a fat cramp strokes my lips
and terror waves my mind
freezingly hot blood
flushes twisted nerves
sweet foul shudder makes
all memories awake
blurry visions of happiness
worm into cutting blade
hissing a haunting realization:
that it is too late.
naivety suggests
a joyful brand new start
but the naked present screams
that you grew apart
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 3:05 AM UTC
She bleeds ‘all tragic steam work blasted mists
‘All hobbled clamped free fall for ‘all seasonal depression slump
She’s ‘all death knell cramp urgency and held back suffering kneeling
on kitchen floors ‘all like boarding school broomsticks lessons
with ‘all that theoretical **** the ***** save the man type
schlock shock rhetoric shtick
so ‘all I’ll be is her savage heretic wagon burner page-turner
on the hot coal back burner ‘all boarded up sealed shut in the walls
until she calls
Expecting me to be 'all combat ready
‘all back with a vengeance
while her thrift store hazard suit groups and droops
‘all over my haphazard dream sliced hang nailed hangover hands
hiding ‘all derelict style while between the sheets confessional
gets voided by social media air raid sirens
bringing me ‘all too close to rocks and crystals
and who ‘all needs another pathetic apathetic
junk punk when
‘all and ‘all
I'd rather die for you
because
I just can't live with myself
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 3:08 PM UTC
IN THE POOL OF THE LOST MAIDEN SONG
1
Down in the shrouded wood a wanderer walks
And dreams the dreamers story he has lived.
Sidled by the stream that sheds blue waters
By the beds, trailing the rail of loves unknown
Kiss and a voice that conjures truest bliss,
Down in the drink where sweet Ophelia sleeps;
In the pool of the lost maiden song.
And the dreamer, he is dreaming . . .
Hair, that ropes the stoic man upon his mount.
Hair, making souls’ lost ending breath a shout,
And hair that weighs the wind, teaches it to sing;
Hair, wending whirlpools waving fools to dive in.
2
Lost at land’s end the sea lions, washed-up, wail
And buzzards coast where eagles flail, rip tides
Assail and chop the collected bones they drop;
It is a chalky bone-yard break, golden escarpments
Wake and a seamen’s salty sermons shake;
Where gathering ghosts glom and chide steeping,
In the pool of the lost maiden song.
And the seeker, he is seeking . . .
Eyes that turn the sands and are mirrors,
Eyes that taught the books of Alexandria,
Eyes that shook the flesh and are seers,
Eyes that lit the pyres, burned true believers.
3
Deep in the dark wood the waters rush, hush,
Cramp, crew and creep, melodiously tread,
Trammel, and burn as furies in keeping true
The melting moon, the onerous owl, fluttering
Things, muttering wings, cones in darkness
Flings and filmy time flicks by the wayside;
In the pool of the lost maiden song.
And the lover, he is longing . . .
Love, lithe and lyric, he sees your sweeping shapes.
Peace, parsed and pained he hears the voicing gape.
Blind, bliss’d and shamed he wears the votive drapes.
Hungered, thirsted and gone; seeks your pearly gate.
4
Out in the forest maze the jarring sun seeps
And swirls, only to roust the traveler onward
Where soon he must meet the faces in the grotto
Down in destroyed lands by the seas’ unreasoning
Chime, deep in the dark whine of the shining mermaids,
Where the doomed cry, round the navel of the world,
In the pool of the lost maiden song.
And the doomed, they are crying . . .
****** beauty bade us, in a star crossed chrysalis,
Made us, choose a desert’s winter of loneliness.
Heed our fate and leave this valley torn of bliss;
The many millions of locust fall in ripest fields.”
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 1:26 PM UTC
As school comes to an end, I decide to
spend the summertime with my instrument.
I read music theory for two hours,
but my hands yearn for the touch of six strings.
Fingers position themselves to stroke bliss.
But my phone’s troubled with recurring rings.
**** it was mom telling me I have class!
I raced for my backpack, and I told her:
I will not slack. Papers grew so lonely
without their folder to cuddle them close.
I couldn’t care to organize them cause
usually, I’d lay in my seat repose.
Ionic bonds? What do they even mean?
And what the heck is “double replacement”?
Okay, I should start paying attention.
I grasp the pen. I notice the tension.
As soon as I write, my hands start to shake.
I start over. Now hands begin to ache.
What in the world is happening to me?
Two words: I scream. Head jerks, and my legs shake.
It has to be a dream. It has to be!
Don’t want to move, but I have to take notes.
Why are random words bursting out my throat?
I’ma be real. I need my mommy!
Class is over. I exclaim to mother:
my fingers refuse to stop tremoring.
And I’m getting these tics. What set it off?
First thing I do is reach for my guitar.
I can’t hold it. I can’t ******* grab it.
Eyes of terror stay written on my face.
The next day I was in a wheelchair.
I cannot look straight- straight up to the sky
or look in front and into people’s eyes.
My right-hand curves to the left. A tendon
sinks into my flesh, and my left fingers
cramp up from being intertwined like vines.
They are stiff. Hideous. These are not mine.
But it does get much better with some time.
I can walk again, talk again, and write.
But all good things come with downfalls, don’t they?
My brain disease will come at me with might.
And I refuse to give up on this fight.
There will be a time when I reach stage five.
And I know it won’t be a pretty sight.
I’m ready for what will happen to me.
Dearest guitar, please know you’re my heaven.
Why bother to fret? Cause’ when the time comes
I’ll see you again in a few seconds.
Jan 8, 2022
Jan 8, 2022 at 4:46 PM UTC
Knife brandished and dusted
on dirt rubber grout grown
stuck between concrete
slabs in parking lot, stabs
the oak bark and climbing
with hand hold knots and
claw bent cramp
of forearm strain
What if the lake came to life
revealed secrets from the last
era, before manmade channels
and bridges truss and bending
On approach grip loosens
uncovered, looks echo in time
loud, unsure when muffled voices
make it past headphones
while walking through clouds
of regrettable memory
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC