"creaseless" poems
write as if you have something to say
because you do
write as if the sky wasn't blue and every day is as upside down as the next
write in colors then write in black and white
write to me
write to those who need it the most, even if they won't admit it
write about your dreams and hopes for the future
and watch them come alive before your very eyes
as you write whatever thought comes out of your head
though it may sound like gibberish
write because you can
it is your freedom
write novels that span pages upon pages bound together by leather or
some short words
write as if he didn't break your heart
and then write as if he did to piece it back together
write to unlock doors and open minds
write to make others and, more importantly, yourself aware
write because you will see
you will see your ideas trickle down into your fingertips and out your pen
onto a tangible and real medium that you may look back on one day
and remember why you started writing in the first place
write to make sense of what doesn't
in hopes that, one day, it'll be more than just in writing
write and fold it into a creaseless paper plane
let it fly and, boy, enjoy seeing where it takes you
then write to: home on one of those rectangular postcards
document every day and its little details
write it all down
and then live it all out
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 11:28 AM UTC
There is a new roof fitting itself to the sky,
sea-roughened and grey as the vast paving
I dropped teeth on as a child, lightheaded
and living faster. Outside, a steep hill drops sweet
like the dip of a spoon, and in this life I see
my own reflection. It may come from narcissism.
It may come from gut. But its momentum is trapped,
a statue on one foot, it asks to be uprooted. How can I
carve this future into something soft and creaseless?
If I was an artist, I could catch its outstretch—
I would pull the army by the hand, out from the dark
intrusive damp, and ask it to stay.
On the line, a white sheet takes hard gulps of air.
I'm quick to learn its rhythm.
But in the morning it has lost its breath;
in the morning there is a small damp circle
under my cheek.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 5:32 PM UTC
Creaseless warm bed
Soft pillow under head
Sleep tightening noose
Just then hell broke loose.
Breaking through that spell
A remote warning bell
Prised open the eyes
In streaming rhymes’ disguise!
Day’s stress though immense
Mind strained in patience
To find from maze a clue
For images one or two!
In that poetic trance
Sleep lost all its chance
In an agonizing dingdong
Clock said night was long.
The bed became one of thorn
Sleep died poems were born
Some trapped some were gone
Like night lost at dawn.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 2:39 AM UTC
Three prongs, darkened wrinkled skin:
a weather beaten talon
perched firmly on a sticky background.
Tightened grip loosening,
the freeze and thaw of daily chore.
To catch a wind and stretch
then shrink; grabbing hold of extra hide.
Even the swan: pure, glossy
friend tires of morning, afternoon
evening end. What chance do these creaseless eyes
have against the hardened feet of
crow, stampeding, marched in footprint.
Disguise is all she can hope for on a rainy day
tears may dance and cause dismay
yet vanity lies and she is fascinating
premature crowing dances
should never slow a man’s advances.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 12:00 PM UTC
when nights collide with me i am
completely stars innumerable
and crisp creaseless lines
ceaseless lips colluding with
your lips(nakedly small and pink
they are intimately open against
)in evening i, perhaps almost
,but then, surely when darkness is,
am your skin aligned
with gently
tugging you loose
to foil about my suddenly body
your body
and climb each other
into heaven mostly
Sep 1, 2011
Sep 1, 2011 at 6:09 AM UTC
you look at nice at body baby not mind dear but you look like fast in lacey nothing baby you have eyes like you've seen ******* you but and baby i like might also to see in you me dear your straight short creaseless hips skinny broken are whole angels of nouns where i'd like to put a comma
Jul 25, 2012
Jul 25, 2012 at 1:14 AM UTC
My legacy was
To be laved twice a day,
To disport myself around the garden.
Enveloped in my crisp creaseless clothes,
Encircled by the aroma of blossoms.
My gladsome day was rounded
Off with a dinner fit for a King.
My education taught me
To read, write and a lot more.
I was conditioned to expect nothing less.
Her legacy was
To toil the soil on the farm
In threadbare clothes.
Steeped in baked clay,
Engulfed by the stench of the fields.
Her meed was to eat
Whatever there was.
Her education was to do
More than her fair share.
She was privileged to expect nothing more.
We walked the earth,
We breath the same air,
Yet,
Like the two oceans,
Our lives never transgress.
Our challenge is to reconcile our inheritances with what should be.
Apr 5, 2019
Apr 5, 2019 at 4:38 PM UTC