"creaks" poems
The lull of a restless night relieves my senses
It's monotone silence maintains my breath
The cold night breeze enters through an open window
It whispers soft tunes and attempts to put me to sleep
The humming of an exhausted laptop helps me decompress
It distracts me from overthinking and blocks out my stress
As the night goes on it starts to rain
It comforts my senses and cleanses my pain
This time-worn house cracks and creaks
It talks of troubled times and how it came to be
This place I call home proves i’m never alone
And it's always there to support me
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 9:25 AM UTC
The sweetest of words escape your lips and leave me breathless.
Butterflies flutter inside,
fill day dreams with your static covered voice,
So smooth and masculine.
Never have I been so drawn to the corners of another's mind,
wanting to fill myself into the creaks of your heartache.
I could heal you....
shower you in affection and adoration.
Your brilliance captivates me,
leaving me wanting more.
I'm to caught up in what ifs...
What lingers between that I can't confess,
is that I'm afraid,
I could get completely lost in you.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 1:56 AM UTC
Beneath the mango tree
death turns slowly -
creaks the branches/
untouchable - the tears
hanging low above the ground -
slowly swinging - no more singing/
beneath the mango tree.
r ~ 5/30/14
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 8:17 AM UTC
It arrives,
Unnoticed, unannounced.
Quiet,
At first.
Slow,
Seeping, dripping.
I put it down to a few stressful weeks.
I carry on.
It unpacks,
Worries, anxieties.
Gently,
For now,
Tiptoes,
Whispers, creaks.
‘It will leave soon’ I think ‘It always does.’
I keep going.
It settles in,
Getting comfortable.
Getting louder,
And louder.
Banging thoughts,
Insomnia.
‘Please don’t be happening again’.
I shuffle along my daily routine.
Claws in,
Insidious.
Screaming,
24/7.
Shame, worthlessness,
Hurt.
‘Please go away’.
I’m barely coping.
Growing roots,
Into my brain and heart.
Blossoming pain,
With every beat.
Emptiness, loneliness,
Abandonment.
Silence, Stillness,
‘I can’t move, I can’t cope.’
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 8:20 AM UTC
Hi there.
Sometimes it hurts to think.
I'm driving around in my hometown
I saw this old park that me and my friends would run and laugh and play at all the time.
We played cops and robbers
Lava Monster
Freeze tag
We acted like knights in strong armor and princesses with glittery dresses and we all slayed the dragons
Well now here I am staring at this old swing set that no one swings on anymore.
I used to think that I could touch the clouds with my feet if I swung high enough.
There is something so lively about a group of kids laughing and playing on a playground.
There is something so eerie about an old empty playground where no one goes.
That playground used to be so alive.
Now the swing creaks as it sways in the slight breeze.
You can almost hear faint whispers of the kids laughing from years before.
Now all those kids are adults with lives and responsibilities that are much more important than slaying a dragon.
The wood has splinters that get stuck in your fingers.
It is not shiny and fun anymore.
It used to be new
But I have found that everything changes eventually.
I wish people didn't leave so unexpectedly.
Anyways I am just rambling
but next time you see a playground
just try to look away.
it hurts to think too long
Bye.
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 7:10 PM UTC
When I was little my mother put me in several ballet classes in hopes to bring some grace to my stumbling gait.
I grew up walking on eggshells, wobbling to keep my balance on a tightrope that never really ended.
My instructor pinched my thighs and shook her bony finger at me every tuesday and thursday for three and a half years.
4 am, I'm still tiptoeing around the creaks in the stairs as if anyone would notice an empty bed.
This Christmas I came across the broken reminents of the ballerina ornaments my younger sister used to play with.
I never did master the delicate posture I was expected to adopt. My feet fell a bit too heavy, I suppose, on the ice tonight.
I'm not cold anymore, just exhausted from attempting to balance the wrong things for too long.
My life is flashing before my eyes, but all I see is a younger version of myself practicing Grand Battements on thin ice while everyone slept.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 3:18 PM UTC
I haven’t done this in a while
Is it silly to be nervous?
My door bell rings
My heart speeds
Mother calls “Daisy!”
And I realize she means me
I haven’t done this in a while
Is it foolish to be restless?
I take the steps one by one
Being sure not to topple down
The door creaks open and
I can see him standing there now.
I haven’t done this in a while
Is it odd to jump into his arms?
He smiles at me and my mother
He answers questions from my father
Everything is perfect
But I can’t help but fidget.
I haven’t done this in a while
Is it wrong to want to run?
We leave the house and walk down
A path of many flowers
I’m unsure what to think
But I find myself counting the hours.
I haven’t done this in a while
Is it childish to hold his hand?
I get into his car
Smoothing my skirt and catching breaths
He pulls out something for me now
And my heart takes a rest.
I haven’t done this in a while
Is it alright to try to kiss him?
I smell the Daisies, white and lush
Loyally loving and so gentle
Does he know I cherish them such?
Not just for the name we share
Or the thorns they lack unlike roses
Not for the simplicity of their petals so fair
But for the meaning behind them
Loving, loyal; so gentle, so innocent
I haven’t done this in a while
But I think I can handle it now.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 7:37 PM UTC
in the silence
our thoughts are the loudest
they're the creaks of the floorboards
letting us know
we are not alone
whether the voices are good or bad
the silence really will never invade our minds
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 1:01 AM UTC
She calmly unlocks the front door
as the wind flings the screen
through wild tantrums. She droops down
into her dusted rocker, pushing
with her lavender heels to start the sway.
Her sole taps softly,
as the chair creaks onto fallen lacquer
and the porch plays in discord
through dancing lace.
Interwoven hands lie atop her lap
in a sea of navy with floral ships
at its surface. Silver strands
fall from her clouded bun
and a few locks float past her sunken shoulders.
With jaded eyes she looks at the corner
to a poor table, where a cold candle
peaks among a grassy field of melted wax
riddled with burnt fuses.
And near the candle, a dusted white hat
remains anchored to the wooden surface.
She can still smell the stale cigar smoke
lingering in the room. “He’ll be here soon,”
she thinks as her daze slowly sets in.
The world seems quiet
as she fills her eyes with sleep
and the chair continues its march.
Her hands unlock from their grasp
and the screen door gently knocks.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 6:19 PM UTC
Tim O'Brien had the right idea
about carrying people and ideas;
we all have experiences that live within us
like a stain on our grey matter.
I carry with me every insult hurled at me,
caught by my web of sensitivity;
I lift them onto my shoulders,
my back creaking as I trudge on.
My insecurities are shackles at my ankles,
the chains tangling themselves and chafing my legs;
my knees knock and pop and shake,
my back creaks and groans.
The ghosts and spirits of the self-departed
dance their ethereal ballet about my soul
and howl their eerie opera through the night,
begging for forgiveness and understanding.
The heaviness of the future rests
inside the caverns of my cranium,
latching on to my thoughts
and chipping at my hopes.
Past loves plague our emotions
and rest in the deepest corners of our hearts,
reminding us of who we once were
and asking us what could have been.
A cloud of sadness condenses in my body,
little drops of dejection slide down my lungs.
My chest constricts and grows heavy
and pointlessly hopes to see the sun.
Everyone together carries the weight of the world,
but I'm not sure what is heavier:
the mass of the planet,
or the things its people carry.
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 5:01 PM UTC
Her skin looks pale,
White shedding brown,
like a golden brown velvet
strewn across a skeleton
made from Cleopatra’s frame.
There is nothing to it,
her sway is flawless
in her stilettos,
O’ God those stilettos.
She pave the roads with
blossoms of Primrose
and Calla Lilies, as the tip
of her heels stab the earth.
Her body melts cotton candies
in winter,
her curve bakes pastries
in snowy mountains,
It was an unbelievable sight,
like a sunrise, she climbs the edges
of the highest of peaks,
like the wind, she enters a heart by
the creaks; like a creep.
Perhaps nothing shall stop her,
Her footsteps continue to pierce
the soil, making a sound close to the
cracking of my knuckles.
She made people snivel and weep
when she enters the room
with her slender black dress.
She makes heads turn almost
to their full circle,
it would be death to steal a
peek, or glance, a peep.
She is the sun on earth:
hot and highly radiated
but too tempting to be left alone.
She is like the still waters:
calm, clean and serene
but too quiet to know the depth;
and still willingly jump in.
It is like believing again.
She is like believing again.
She is tiny as is her name,
It shall rhyme as the bell shines,
Her hair, her coiled twisted hair,
is much like herself: curled, twisted
bended.
Yet she is, perhaps, the twist in life,
the curl of wind on her bosoms, or
the bend of spines when eyes turn
to gaze at her splendor.
It is uncertain what she is,
but I know, vaguely.
She, like a Zinnia, shall be the
decoration of this planet.
She shall be, though exaggerated,
the reason for our existence.
She, corrupted and dangerous,
shall reclaim her spot in divinity
and shall forever more be
my source of inspiration.
Like a stream of clear water,
gushing down the torrent
ovately,
ornately,
creatively,
purposefully…
She shall see herself,
breathe herself and know that
only she is the one she could
deliberately fall…
…or fail.
The black sand shall be her dress,
the grey rocks shall be her stilettos,
that clear water be her conscience
as she takes on the world.
With her cursive eye shadows
she will see the funny side of
life; she will see it thoroughly.
She, regardless, will persist
and resist the failure
of herself, with the moist
creek on her seductive lips.
She is seduction.
She is temptation.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC
Here I am again in my place of solitude.
Here I am confined within four walls and a ceiling.
I look around and it's just me again,
Just me and a room full of white tiles.
Here I am in my tiny space,
Here I am thinking it's a massive room.
My breathing echoes and the shower **** creaks;
As I turn it on letting the water drip.
Here I am turning on the heater at number three,
Here I am with the heat burning through my skin.
Yet my heart is still ice cold and frozen,
And I wait to feel the pain again.
Here I am with the water at full pressure,
Here I am feeling nothing at all.
All it takes is a few minutes,
Until the pressure breaks what feels like glass.
Here I am again with my knees so weak,
Here I am with my wounded feet.
Here I am bleeding from the shards of glass,
The glass that encloses my pained heart.
Here I am again with my head leaned on the tiled wall.
Here I am sitting on the wet bathroom floor.
And while I sit here bare naked,
Tears continually flow down my cheeks.
Here I am staring through empty space,
Here I am thinking about everything.
Hot water sprinkles from the running shower;
And I watch as it forms circles like tiny raindrops on the floor.
Here I am feeling everything too much.
With the sound of water silencing my cry,
I let myself release all the pain once more.
The pain and sadness I keep underneath my joyful facade.
Here I am again catching my breath,
Here I am suffocating from the steam.
I focus on my breathing and turn the heater off,
I let myself forget the pain to try and save myself.
Here I am turning the cold shower off,
Here I am again fresh with my frozen heart.
I put a smile on my face as i walk out of the room,
To face the world again until it's time to change the glass.
Jul 30, 2017
Jul 30, 2017 at 7:36 AM UTC
bluebells
.
bluebells tower
over
the ants
.
drip tiny
drops
drop
s
of water
.
the swingset creaks
the bluebells sway
sky so cloudy
perfect day
.
my face
smacks the dirt
.
my knees start to bleed
.
the bluebells sway
and
observe
.
my tears
.
Jul 25, 2015
Jul 25, 2015 at 12:39 PM UTC
*"To the East, to the East"
Cry the Ibis and the Locust Beast
"To the East and the Sycamore Feast!"*
The call of the Firebird
crackles in mid-air,
The Ash of the Sycamore
blowing in the wind
echoes of tomorrow
As silent slave bells bear
creaks at the gateway
Sing:
"Catch-ink; catch-ink!"
*"To the East, to the East"
Cry the Ibis and the Locust Beast
"To the East and the Sycamore Feast!"*
Aug 29, 2012
Aug 29, 2012 at 6:46 AM UTC
I thought I could do it.
You picked me up in the same car we made so many memories in this summer.
The same car that creaks when you shut the door.
The same car that seats are too low and I have to strain my neck to see over the dashboard.
The same car I decided I was in love with you in.
It was bittersweet.
I thought i'd be okay.
I thought it'd be easy.
We were supposed to sit in awkward silence
and turn up the radio until we got to her house and I could break from the tension.
But instead you were charming and you made cackle.
And you got behind the wheel and drove like you owned the road.
The wind howled through the open windows and I was in the most blissful state of mind.
I never told you how much I loved to just watch you drive.
I could sit for hours in that very passenger seat and just watch the road disappear under the tires.
You got out of the car and walked into the gas station and the first thing I thought to myself was
**** **** **** **** **** ****
That familiar feeling in my heart began to sweep over my soul and course through my veins.
I breathed in the scent of gasoline and cinnamon.
I glided my fingers across the soft leather of the steering wheel and sat back and thought of how
I fit so perfectly in that seat.
Like it was made for me.
Like you were made for me.
You glided effortlessly into the car and cranked the engine.
It roared to life
and chills danced up my spine.
I couldn't face you.
I couldn't look in your eyes.
Because I knew if I did I would be hooked again.
I knew your deep brown eyes would seep into me and cause me to shiver.
So I stared out the window and watched the world pass me by.
Mindless small talk kept me busy from thinking about how incredibly not over you I was.
I'm incredibly not over you.
I miss you.
And that car.
And the sweat spots on our backs from the sun and the leather.
It was bitter sweet.
And as soon as you dropped me off my breathing returned to normal
and the feeling in my finger tips came back.
As I watched your taillights fade into the distance I ****** in the cold night air,
and turned to the sky, hoping to fill the void in my stomach with the stars.
As much as I hate to admit,
I'm yours.
I'm still yours.
I'm still incredibly yours.
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 12:27 AM UTC
In the morning her eyes paint the cities horizon.
Stretching and yawning.
Getting dressed; Her blue tapestry.
Opening the door to her apartment
She climbs down broken stairs.
It's payday Friday.
The mail man is late again.
Opening her box closing it right back.
She considers direct deposit,
Climbing back up those old creaks in the stairs.
To a notice on the door.
Excessive noise complaint
Rent past due
May 4, 2018
May 4, 2018 at 1:16 PM UTC
I’m in love with a ghost,
a suitor of my shadow.
I ache in search of him,
yet the floorboard creaks
In the dark of night
are merely my soul
wandering down my a mum hallway
My sorrows coo my exhausted mind,
casting a spell of sleep
upon my glistening eyes.
My shadow creeps out from under
the crack of my door-
the door that keeps my demons
within four walls.
My shadow, the phantom of my desires
chases them into eternity.
Even when these old bones break,
this skin turns blue,
these eyes roll back into
the depths of my mind…
My shadow will roam
until The End
Oct 24, 2017
Oct 24, 2017 at 6:24 PM UTC
Did Lovecraft have it right
no heaven but hell
cold and wet and dark
Wandering insane
not right in the brain
hell having left
it's mark
The slip and the slide
unheard and unseen
creeping just beyond ken
Plausible creaks
and blood that will streak
every now
and then
How do we gauge it's existence
comprehension
just out of reach
Letting our own imaginations
wander and stumble the peaks
Our hair standing up
high on the napes of our neck
Superstitions of myth and of legend
no facts, just fictions
too check
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 6:15 PM UTC
whispers of mauve shadows concealed by a tinted haze of amber colored macaroni.
sometimes I glance towards the east and my rocking chair creaks and until my ambitions and dreams have evolved into an Ameoba of intelligence, the table is still set for ambitioned dance
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 4:06 PM UTC
i wonder if the curtains talk about what we do behind their backs..
i wonder if the pillow covers complain about the tear stains we leave on them..
i wonder if the bed feels the emptiness like i do..
i wonder if our closets are strong enough to hold our skeletons..
i wonder if the door creaks our darkest secrets out..
or do the paintings gossip about our fights..
is the dust which remains.. is all thats left of us..
is our bedroom the aftermath of what we once were...
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 4:54 AM UTC
After giving up the fight to feel
laying down all weapons
and allowing the numbness
to creep over me slowly
like ice freezing,
from the edges inward,
until my soul was fully numb.
So you will have to excuse me
if I am a little clumsy when we touch.
You will have to excuse the zombie fingers
when you try to hold my hands,
you see, they are out of practice,
as if back from the dead.
You will have to pardon
the creaks and cracks in my heart
when you try to warm it,
you see, it has not been used in a long time.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 7:11 PM UTC
Leather creaks, quietly
in the dark
thick and musky
wild hides sit in opposition
to progress?
latex stretches shiny
conforming to every curve
needing not sweat to glisten
taut and cheap
industrialized
still isn't civilized
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 8:55 PM UTC
A breeze of non-belonging
guiding her sails
to a destination
which has no map
The wood creaks
as the ship ages
middle of the ocean
a broken compass
no hint of salvation
with each new storm
her hope fades
with the worn sail
a hit of rejection
a taste of loss
a continuous reminder
of that old familiar pain
now all she does is watch
trusting that the ocean’s currents
will carry the ship to an island
where life will be waiting
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 1:46 AM UTC
.
**•atop the mast billows
my wind-tossed rag•grinning skull embla-
zoned proud•the starkness of black upon my flag
•piercing the encroaching sea mist and shroud•her-
ald the sight of the jolly roger • instilling trepidation
in all who sail through my turf • fuelled by the thirst
to pillage and plunder•others before, have sunk into
graves beneath the surf•my salt encrusted timber
creaks a frightening low growl•
my hull would pum- mel thro-
ugh the opposing waves• my sails bloat full trapping
winds that howl•my deck bears the screams
of a thousan- d slaves•know
me, seafarers... i am no legend but
truth•avast! seafarers, i am the tale
that looms•believe me, seafarers for i
am ca- pable of all things**
••• •••
**uncouth •fear me,
seafarers for i am your
doom•you could sail the seas with
the world's most skillful of crew•
you cannot deny the
inevitable
heavy hand of fate•be-
cause once my vessel comes
within view •you would
know for certain that it's already
••••••• •••••••
••••• •••••**
too late•
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 11:39 AM UTC