"cringes" poems
a sunshine fighter by nature
his shallow grave face
with its half buried flickers of fury
gives way to the lesser demon's like smiles
while he suffers the hopeless romance
of a cute girl who wants to lick
his carved biceps like a neo-glitter kitty kat
naughty naughty
he cringes all over with the
desperate grins that break out all over him
naughty naughty indeed
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 3:32 PM UTC
In childhood, your father’s name is DAD
Now grown, maybe with children of your own
But his name is still DAD
DAD, the teacher, the consoler, the advisor
Admonishes: “Drive safe” and “Save your Money”
Today he’s the bard
“This is like prison,” DAD laments while rolling his eyes
Tubes like thin plastic chains tether his deflated body
to blinking panels; paintings (factory printed ones)
pretend the hospital room is more than just a sterile space
Today, DAD’s eyes cast a faraway gaze, projecting
And I see the characters in his story
I see the 10 year old boy he describes, who snuck to stash a set
Of English Composition Texts in the boy’s bathroom
To escape Mrs. McElroy’s Fourth Grade course in Morose Poetry
I see the thin, sandy blond, 6 foot 2 high school rabblerouser
Who broke into the Vice Principal’s old Fiat
And buried Stilton cheese in the dashboard
All done on a sweltering May school day
The anecdote is punctuated with a smirk and a: “Who would do a thing like that?”
Stories of when he spotted a shy brunette at the dance and knew
Knew he was to marry her;
Stories of when his own DAD grasped his infant grandson’s dimpled hand
Before giving in to complications of a heart attack
The bard stops and exhales a sigh
He cringes in his crinkled skin
Sunken eyes squeeze close “I’m sorry”
the nausea interrupts his tale “These drugs are…”
“It’s okay. Take your time” I console, trying to comfort the pain in the room
Now I’m the consoler, taking on the job to ameliorate
Now this man, vulnerable in his suffering, is no longer DAD
Now mortal, a child, a brother, a lover, a patient
A man chained by the body’s sickness
He is distilled by chemo
reduced to a soul, who, through affliction,
Forgets
As his children remember
He is as helpless in this life as we are.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 12:38 AM UTC
heads turn
and minds churn
as the old white knuckle
brings life to the board
facilitation (and procreation!)
become heavenly fit
for the
paradigm day
jitter men
and podium seniors
sit cocked
in the back row
front runners
bust a brain box
(their lines frayed
and edges portrayed)
truth makers tread
the center stage
(with a new and improved
product portfolio)
an evolution
of human spirit
mobilized
in apparent
perfect form
sound bites
and titillating calls
echo from
the main hall
a wise man
cringes
on a poorly
timed exchange
mind sets moving
quid pro quo
intuitions
and convictions
viewpoints
and revelations
all fun
and fundamental
(or so they say)
depth charts
and zodiac principles
speak to the masses
abbreviations
refreshers
and timeless
lifelines
*we’d like a peak
inside of you*
a glimpse
of your point of view
the turks and talking heads
speak of
grand design
and inclusion
class complete
(interpreted at the 7th sneeze)
please check those thoughts
and insights
the final answers
are coming
(satiric)
Sep 16, 2017
Sep 16, 2017 at 1:54 PM UTC
She cringes at night, recalling the indelible days where she lie
curled in a ball, hiding from the scoundrel who
attacked her mind, her heart, and her soul, leaving her with nothing but
rancid memories of a living hell, but
even though she appeared live and well
dreary darkness loomed in the body of
Scared
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 7:59 PM UTC
I was gonna write about how I was writing standing up like Hemingway at some bar in Key West, but instead I ended up nearly lying down, like some Roman eating grapes, and I’m not scrawling with a pen. I’m typing.
Why the standing up, Ernest? Was it to gauge how difficult it was to keep good posture? Was it to better measure how drunk you were getting?
He would have boxed me for those asking those questions, or maybe he’d just slam a few shots.
All of us Northeasterners enjoy getting drunk somewhere tropical. I never have a choice in the matter. Whether it’s Florida, South Carolina, or the South Caribbean (I've never left the Western Hemisphere), all I really like down there is beaches and seawater. Everything else gives deep cringes. Those other tourists, so annoying just to look at. Flip flops, whole families, and the god awful shops they keep open. You go to a place good for a beach, green hills, seawater, and fruit, and you want to buy diamonds? C’mon. I wish you’d want these islands to be like national parks; nature over here and cities over there. But the tourists enjoy fake grass huts that try really hard to sell them junk.
So who’s to blame for the sellers perpetuating petty sales and mediocre values? Is it the islanders that make a profit, or the buyers that want the wares? Or is there a third party guaranteeing that the buyers and sellers alike are propagandized to expect the less than fine things in life? Are the salespeople actually working the shops, the ones really getting rich from the sale?
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 10:04 PM UTC
Always there, Justin Tyme. He's a good friend of mine.
This morning I went into the kitchen and yelled "you're toast!" and then I ate it.
A lovely response to a question: "Does a bear **** in the woods?"
I reply, "What about polar bears???"
When people say, "Jesus is holy." Do you think he cringes?
My girlfriend told me that I had scruples. I suddenly became scared and made a doctor’s appointment for an STD check.
What did Ernie say when Bert asked to get ice cream? “Sure Bert.”
I find it interesting when people say,
"It's the quiet ones you have to "worry'' about.
I believe it's the ones who blend in you have to worry about.
"Awkward Silence" ??
What is so awkward about silence???
I believe people are awkward, not silence.
...................................................
I need some bliss so, I'm going to be ignorant.
Along with his three Peeps, Hershey Kisses the Tootsie Roll Midgets.
To display their different mediums of art, the sky is the Gods exhibit and we are the critics.
For the Nondreamers:
You may look down on me as If I appear to have my head in the clouds.
Note to self: When you look up at the sky, I'm looking down on you.
Some say I'm cheesy...may be that I'm just Krafty.
I saw a sign on the freeway that said 'Exercise daily and walk with Jesus.' So I did. Jesus and I walked together laughing and smiling all the way to the lake front, but he kept walking...Then it dawned on me, I forgot my aqua shoes.
"I tend to add a hint of lemon while preparing my sought after traditional Christmas goose." Here's a hint, don't ruin the hint.
Ask a person with a lisp to say thimble and symbol...it sounds the same.
We are all artists who never put ourselves out for display.
Empty thoughts filled with absence.
What's on my mind is nothing, but what's inside is pure bliss.
I'm existing in the nonexistent.
God needs glasses and hearing aids.
Last night she nailed me harder than Jesus! (too soon)??
"I would be more than happy to give you an external hard drive."
"Ah, give or take.'' I'm confused...what do I do??
Good Friday??? Good God! That's terrible. Put me on a cross and I'll tell you how "good" my day is...maybe we should consider revising the name of this holiday?
I'm a conductor who's lost his train of thought.
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 9:43 AM UTC
i have learned to breathe under holy water -
grew gills so strong they are
lined with celestial gold.
the ocean is a puddle to me now.
and i ***** pearls of pain,
lick them clean with my acetylene
tongue.
my acids will heal what the world cannot.
pills and love potions
can't take away
my virginity.
i am clean, so clean.
the devil watches me and
cringes at my radioactive light.
for i am dead and alive all at once.
poison, poison.
the radium drips from my lips like
babyspit and i am too pure
for god himself
so i offer my golden blood
to a higher power
that would take the pureness of it all
and make it an ounce
of what i could have been
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 7:45 PM UTC
Ego Eccentric, Collective hysteria
A mind of madness,Compassionately cruel
Do or die
Black or white
Comprised carefully of duality
We are presented a human life
The thinker thinks but will never know
Think as much as you can
As much as you'd like
Ahh a thinker,
For he is one far and few between
He cringes at the tabloids
Glamorized ****** flashes
upon the big screens
Fear mothered slave state
Is where he sighs home
A pattern to repeat
An average man's prison
One of which
He's carefully constructed himself
Barring his own windows
Processing his own food
And his own paperwork
Jail keeper sounds
The morning alarm
"Wake your body!"
Mind stays in slumber
"It's time to make money"
Yet no real wealth
Another day on repeat
Constructing his "self"
Identifying carefully
With devised roles.
The play begins
"Curtain call!"
"Places everyone!"
The lights dim
Going back to pretending again
-KaitValentine
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 2:33 AM UTC
Thoughts spinning, creating insanity, Twenty Four Seven.
God do I Wish I could be sweet old Eleven.
All wanting sanctuary, Want to be on Cloud Nine.
Instead we sit in our lullaby, stuck in Our Rhyme.
Black Crows fading in the grass field.
Turning fast , to defend, pulling out The Zelda Shield.
Whistling back and forth, calming nerves.
Heart dropping, where tires are not stopping, she swerves.
Music helps along the way,
Helping figure out a reasonable comeback to say.
Waking up, you're my savior.
Finding the key to this rusty ****** door.
Living in the unknown,
Almost nothing is really shown.
Under the blankets is where She turns Alive.
With no Authority, all She does is Connive.
Each measly passing second,
She drowns slowly, hesitant to go in the deep end.
About to die, left with ourselves, are only true friend.
High hopes, the letter She wrote was for you,
Collecting thoughts of passion was all She could pass on through.
Through the trees, fast speeds show flashes of unconscious views.
Jumping off the rock sides, She misunderstands, How to find her Muse.
With my canoe, I'll trying my best to save you.
Every bone in my body needs to, cringes, fiends, breaks, as you petrified me to do.
She spoke out, in no means of worries.
Not listening, growing ignorant.
Unaware of Her affair,
Leaving Her, to jump, leaving Her indignant.
She becomes whole, in the Levant.
(est.j.r.e.)
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 12:21 PM UTC
we did what we could that night
and a supernal being is ashamed.
this is the drift of thought
in the vast ocean of gilded gold
frothing at the edge of rotund:
giving back a silenced enigma,
spewing the answer in an exhaust
of white rancid smoke
dharma burns plastered to cigarette.
burning and burning, afloat are the high-pouncing embers looking for fleeting shades and dagger-ambulations
of a shadow's swagger in tectonic soiree.
we did what we could that night.
like a flash of lightning at the back
of hoarded hills,
or say, something brutal and brash with
modern sensibilities we never jell —
we come not with softness or life
peering out of our eyes like little girls
serenaded by mad men in the eve of
forlorn nights. we did what we could
and some god cringes, winces away
like the erratic dance of candleflame.
the leviathan black spreads its parasol
and we are no strangers.
when our veraciousness starts to pierce
the veil, the populace should start
to worry of their trapped conditions.
we came here for something:
be it flesh, be it wisdom, be it plain inebriations — we will never flinch
at the squalor of tomorrow's sobering.
keep in mind, kaibigan.
it's all levitation and transcendence.
the darkness wept as the car
groans near the end of its immaterial life.
i flick the last cigarette into the grey-faced pavement.
all oceans drowned,
all shadows burgeoned,
all fires emerged plump,
this silent radio rivers
through the wave of this ephemerality,
the onomatopoeia of strangeness,
the thud
of the senseless head of metal
on the body
the clackety-clack
of hours thereafter!
ayeayeaye! the streets sing no mild
appendage. the solstice is lost
in the length and precision of all things.
bringing ourselves to the brink of absence,
our pallid selves set ablaze, emblazoning
the quick life of matchflame or rumble of
thunder — the steady phoenix of
that night! this is learning
to breathe again, o, what currents purloined in vicious swarth as we keep
this river flowing into our throats,
jamming our souls to compelling music.
remember kaibigan,
it's all levitation and transcendence.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 8:03 AM UTC
ARIES: please remember that you are not a graveyard for all those dead butterflies you once had
TAURUS: tell us how long have you been waiting for someone to say the words "the feeling is mutual"?
GEMINI: you've sunk so low. the only difference between you and the Titanic is that someone had the decency to shout "brace for impact!"
CANCER: your life is a continual series of "i should have kept my mouth shut" and "how did i **** that up?"
LEO: remember the night you died via that lump on your throat? how the taste of guilt buried itself under your tongue
VIRGO: you can't fix people who don't want to be fixed. and most importantly, you can't love someone who doesn't want to be loved
LIBRA: it's not self-harm anymore if you let someone else see the scars
SCORPIO: they told you to stay away from trouble but honestly, i think trouble should stay away from you
SAGITTARIUS: tell us how falling in love with her felt like lighting a cigarette & then seeing a sign that says "no smoking"
CAPRICORN: tell a starving kid on the street that god loves him. that the suffering he feels rn will come to pass. i dare you to lie
AQUARIUS: god cringes on memories of you praying. especially the ones that just beg for the ones you love to love you back
PISCES: tell us about that night you talked to god, how he said "i got tired of answering prayers because all i ever used to say was sorry."
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 4:24 AM UTC
The sun beams across the horizon.
Today is a new day.
My feet hit the ground, awakening the enemy.
I feel a pull on my legs
I fall to the ground
Crushed under the foot of the enemy
Today is a new day
I pick myself up, brushing the settled dust from yesterday’s battle.
Each step is taken in agony.
He stalks me wherever I go.
Every turn, every step you are there.
Breathing on my neck
I turn and run to my Lord.
The chains stop me and I fall.
Grabbing my hand, you spin me around.
Catching me and lifting me.
We dance.
Left right, left right.
Heel, toe, heel toe,
Spin, spin, sway.
You pull me away.
The chains keep the beat.
For I am under his subjugation.
He pulls me back by the chains.
Straining my every move.
He is the puppeteer of my life, staggering every step.
My bones ache, my faith quakes.
Bruised, broken, weary and lost am I.
Being walked by chains.
Every turn, every step you are there.
Breathing on my neck
I turn and run to my Lord.
The chains stop me and I fall.
Grabbing my hand, you spin me around.
Catching me and lifting me.
We dance.
Left right, left right.
Heel, toe, heel toe,
Spin, spin, sway.
You pull me away.
I stand in God’s house, defined by my religion.
“It’s all a show you see? You are my marionette.
Hypocracy lies in you, you’re a fraud in Christ’s name.”
Escape I try escape I will.
For my help comes from the Lord.
The enemy cringes at The Name.
The ground shakes, and the chains shake.
For there is power in the name of my Lord!
He stands before me.
Taking the chains in his posession.
He said it is done, take up your cross and follow me.
Jesus breaks the chains.
Jesus set me free!
No more addiction.
No more pain.
No more shame.
No more guilt.
No more sorrow.
For He holds your tomorrow.
You are not defined by the rules of religion.
For my spirit has
set
you
free.
The motions bind you in chains.
For I have broken every chain.
You are free to dance in my name.
Never again will you waltz with Satan.
My child may I have this dance?
Dance with me wherever you go, and I will never leave you.
God takes me by the hand.
We dance.
I cling to his garment, never letting go.
Lifting me and catching me.
Left right, left right.
Heel, toe, heel toe,
Spin, spin, spin.
God your presence carries me away.
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 10:19 PM UTC
She walks the dark alley alone,
Tears in her eyes.
Touching the small bump on her belly,
Thankful she can still see her thighs.
Baby daddy gone missing
No more kissing
It's time to decide this decision she'd been dismissing.
69 Ruby Drive.
She knocks, slowly walks inside
Looks left, looks right
A rickety little table,
One not so bright hanging tiny light
A man with a face she can hardly see
Walks over, touching her belly
She cringes, but doesn't move
"It's not too late, but we gotta do this soon"
His voice is small for his large frame,
He pulls out his tools like he's playing a game,
Lines the metallic instruments in a neat little row
"Come on sugar, you ready to go?"
Removing her pants, she lays down,
The little table makes a loud creaking sound
He works his tools, like he does this everyday,
Ripping and tearing another life away.
Closing her eyes, she pictures something else
A happy place away from this hell,
She was given no choice it seems
Beautiful girl of only fifteen,
How long it seems to her, she was only a child
Carefree and innocent,
Boys, they came and went
Now she's here, killing a small life.
"All done!" he says with a smile and a final twist of his knife.
She knows there's pain, somewhere under there,
But she feels nothing as she quickly puts on her underwear.
"A hundred dollars please little girl"
He says as he washes away the smallest soul she'd ever seen
Handed him the *** of bills as if in a dream
"Thanks" he says as she quickly runs out the door
Thinking she's just another *****
More tears slowly release from her eyes,
Telling herself she cannot cry,
But the dam bursts for that little life she should have put first
A child all her own, she'll never come to know
With no where left to call home
She walks the dark alley alone.
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 5:21 PM UTC
She's a pattern and yet so complex--
An entity of incompleteness bound by the voices that tell her "she is nothing"--
A frame unstructured and yet paved by the scars life left on her--
Not an epitome of daintiness but the reflection of a clay that's been molded then chipped to bring forth all at once rugged, sharp, smooth and rough edges--
Multifaceted for she smiles in the light, laughs in the crowds, cries in the night and cringes at the slightest mention of the word "love"--
Self-conscious, never once hearing of a King who thought the world of her--
The irony of dodging people who care only to fall into the traps of the ones who would never care to figure her out--
Similar to a pressed rose--
Pressed into the lives of others, leaving behind residue to the point of self dehydration--
If tears are as perfume, heaven is filled with bottles marked with her name; Daisy--
Born delicate, pure, & soft to the touch--
But over time the petals have been dried , shriveled up into brown nothings that fall fearfully as another heart dares to come near--
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 2:26 AM UTC
She doesn't recognize it at first
The image on the DVD box with a DVD about boxing inside,
Reflecting the dim daylight whitely from its dim corner.
At first glimpse, she cringes - emblazoned on the front is a wound
More scab than face,
Of course meant to titillate brutal boys
Who want to see the blood fresh.
Then she thinks of good taste - no one just buys blood -
That curve there, blocked by sunlight, must be the seam of a punching bag
A brown one,
A symbol of the adrenaline-and-sweat Cinderella story inside.
Yes. That's it.
She shifts just a little to the left, away from the window, to discover
The glass slipper she's imagined
Is a black man's ear.
Jun 19, 2012
Jun 19, 2012 at 4:05 PM UTC
I take my keys and put it in my pocket.
Put my black jacket on and raggedy shoes
Put on my music and head out the door to the spring night air
“Finally” I said.” I'm free”
But I'm not of course. I'm trap, tied down to the ground leading me to suffocation.
The reins of my dog pulls tightly on my hands.
It cracks and cringes, it erodes in time.
But I still held on to the blue cotton chain.
People stared. Stared with hatred, remorse, disgust, disruption.
Their eyes popping out of their eye socket.
STOP WATCHING ME!!!!!!
But it is not as worst as the other snarling dogs.
They grind their teeth showing their black gums
But then nothing is more worst then the police officers
Their cars patrolling the streets like gangsters part of a drug industry.
But then I cross that bridge, that safe haven full of joy. Full of space, until the sun doesn't take it at least.
But it's okay as moonlight drowns me, renewing my soul.
The whisperings of the trees swaying in the wind.
The salty waters of the island
and that wonderful moist air of freshness.
It only survives for a split second however.
Just a second of hyper real reality.
Until the dullness of life suffocates me again.
The dogs ,the chain, the people. Everything comes back to me.
But it is okay.
That addictive moist air.
O how I desire that taste of moist air again....
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 5:40 PM UTC
lie down embroidered in the cool darkness
startling signatures dotting infinite oblivion
capsizing a raging fiery glow transition
singing of great chorus daunting premonition
anticipate the halt of breath prior
the splinter in time where the trees
gander the melodious swell intimate
the slumber left behind to the well of day
that fraction of a moment
my bedroom window encompassed
upon softest pastel pallets, kissing the breeze
soothing the scars and ceaseless throb
amazed, drinking in the spilling of sunlight
clouds streaking the stains eradicating, pulsing over
nature chirping and sighing with that of sage
lucid bliss settling gently on defenses in my chest
and as the day swirls and falls, pulses and cringes
coming home, bustling with stings pinching
thoughts gone quite tired and violent
the sun descends, and night begins
shadows cast, swimming in direction
like a flood of acoustic strumming
and wink of yawning black cat
the world softens and slows
lives retreat and flowers sway in the breeze
aching hearts and bitter limbs rest in sheets
linen of softest cloth, woven by threads
a comfortable place to rest my head
and the day descends and night takes full
crickets crying and mystery lurking
fingers soothing the spasms in my brain
with every turn of page, the stroke of brush
resting with the sliver lurking
everywhere I go, ghosting in echoes
reaching out with eyes quite closed
mind swirling with undefined competence
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 11:21 PM UTC
The city is shut, sparing its prey until tomorrow. Night rules, dreams creep down the street, eyes dead
Her poised being is the center of universe, that girl
She is loath to beg yet for the twenty fourth time of the night she sings out, God?
It’s two in the morning and they are sitting at the balcony, God and her, both holding a cigarette
Mother and father are in screaming colors but she is, only, the darkest blue
Two of them are contradiction, a vexing rendezvous but they yearn for each other so once in a while they talk
People talk
A boy across the house is found dead
Parents roaring, raging, crashing the ground, he’s wearing a pair of new basketball shoes. Blue.
He is one of million, a delicate kind, very comely, a subtle presence. Neighbors murmur maybe God
fell in love, maybe God enraptured by the boy. But God is peeking behind the closed door with the girl
Between their fingers still a burning cigarette
Maybe it’s the taste of Marlboro Red, the girl
wishing an epiphany, a revelation, for its been too long, the girl and God
writing each other’s eulogy. The girl has been dead for God and God has been dead
for the girl, ruptured for a very long time, there’s no way back. No long talk
can fix the burn of cigarette,
the eternal crippling affliction taped up in every cavity inside the holy temple of their body
A lady in the house with doors and windows painted blue
is murdered. She was having a dalliance and neighbors talk
behind their open bible. God cringes, God recoils, her god is a beige-tied, cigarette
scented with hair slicked back. She was in his thrall, calls her name in a mesmerizingly fetching way making her girl
again, an ingénue with a pair of chatoyant eyes. Bodies clashing, her muse, they fuse, he choose to ruse, dead,
God is amused, time is lapsed, but perhaps she was not divine. A lady in someone’s car trunk, murdered, dear God!
Inhaling. Conflating. Cigarette
smoke all over the veins. A bright blue
car parked across the street. A week since the boy died. A week since the lady went missing. People talk
about somewhere this week another dead
body is going to be found. Maybe in the park under the slide or on a high school bleacher, like the girl found God
under her bed. The first encounter of God and the girl.
God
and the girl run out of cigarette
counting the days God and the girl
Next time won’t be cigarette and balcony. God and the girl next time at a bar with blue
sign where sinners and saints sipping absinthe because God won’t talk
to anyone but the girl. God and the girl sipping absinthe because the city is shut. Eyes dead.
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 2:23 AM UTC
Sometimes when my mind drifts
it goes back to endless hallways
and that all too familiar scent
overtakes my senses
My spine actually cringes
at the thought of the needles
piercing the central nervous system
they forgot to numb
my thoughts swim in the pools
that formed in my mother's eyes
as she quoted the neurologist
"your son is dying."
I can still taste the confusion
that drowned my confidence
and left me wondering
if it'll ever resurface
my dreams never stopped crying,
if they even have the chance to exist
they're nothing short of terrifying,
nightmares replaced the rest
it's odd that I can remember
the sickness that consumed me
but completely and utterly forget
the happiness that prequeled it
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 1:48 AM UTC
Rain comes
the flood
from her eyes
and she tries
to resist desire
Torment
disguised
as a love
as a friend
as her lover
Rain drops
falling down
touch the ground
cold as ice
extinguished her fire
He touched her face
and she bites
and she screams
and she cries
but it doesn't matter
And she tries
to hit him hard
to make it stop
as the clothes
are ripped apart
She does not like
the taste of ***
his dead eyes
how he cringes her hand
doesn't matter
Doesn't matter
she screams
she cries
she's passed out
but he keeps making "love"
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 3:18 PM UTC
Girl waits anxiously,
Foot bouncing
Hands tapping
Mind in overdrive.
The woman in charge
Has her hair shaved on both sides
And tattoos covering her torso.
She takes two smoke breaks
And decides she might as well get paid.
Science? On your body? Whatever. Get in.
The girl holds out her foot
Pink and white and black
Ready and willing
To be punctured
Like the god's coloring book.
She talks to drown out the nerves.
Her friend follows
Awkwardly? Quietly?
Holds out fingers
To be used in case of emergency.
The first gets a vise grip on them
She starts singing pop-culture
From decades past to distract.
It just seems out-of-place.
The woman pays no attention.
bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Refills her ink
As an artist must have supplies.
bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
She loves these needles
That penetrate and alter.
Allow the body to be a canvas
Both practical and beautiful.
bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
The girl's hand sweats
Death grips do that, I hear.
She has to wipe it off more than once.
Her friend is being little help.
She cringes!
Needle got close to bone
To nerves.
bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
She finishes
Puts away her needles
And her ink
Cleans her canvas
Though this was not her favorite artwork.
She sends them out.
She hobbles
Foot newly changed.
Human symbols now visible,
She is no longer just earth.
Her friend follows.
She now has the mark of humanity
Of science
Of society
Forever on her skin.
She now belongs to the world.
Jun 18, 2010
Jun 18, 2010 at 8:40 AM UTC
Oh what a corroding flavor this is.
A concoction of disregard and lethal words.
The wake of such leaves the mind baron.
The seeds have been sewn.
And with the coming harvest does each pew wreak destruction.
One of many in fact.
Sprouting new yet familiar cringes.
The root is that of hell fire.
And the forge is aflame once more.
A conundrum of gleeful dissonance.
The sear is almost as unbearable as the creation of its last creature.
The howls echo throughout the night.
Branding malicious means deep within the void it had become.
The scent of blood is in the air.
As the lust grows
So does its wretched grin.
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 8:16 PM UTC
nothing bothers me more than people who say they have found god.
no one has found god.
life is not about finding god.
"GOD" is intangible and not something we can grasp,
but we pretend to.
people put quotes around his words
and then put those words in his mouth
they string ideas of her into beads and crosses -
what exactly are you clinging to?
people don't know.
we are too small
and we are not wise enough.
god is the whole universe.
god is nothing.
god is a tree, a bird, a thought.
god is a little boy with a piece of candy stuck in his hair,
an artist in a garret,
a dog on a cushion,
a girl in an alley.
i don't believe that god has abandoned the church.
i believe that the church has abandoned god.
i don't believe in my catholic roots.
i don't believe in christianity.
i don't believe in buddhism.
i don't believe in islam.
i don't believe the bible.
i don't believe the priests, the shamans, the medicine men.
i don't believe the trappings we place around god
(our weak ideas of her,
our sorry attempts to define him).
i believe that god is people
god is rain, god is the sun
god is the night air
god is the words on paper
god is the paint on canvas
god is creating, god is being, god is gone.
god is here, now, and everywhere
and i only call her god because i lack another name for him.
it has no name.
i understand this
or i think i do.
god knows me intrinsically
or not at all.
god loves infinitely and sees to the depths of humanity
or else god is old, decrepit, and alone
curled in a corner of the world
trying to shut out the mayhem of his earth
(what have i done?).
god cringes at our killings
rejoices in our births,
or is vengeful, red, and full of war and death.
god is spring, summer, and fall.
he is the snow in winter, she is the birdsong
at my window.
she is multitudes and she is one
wildly insignificant
and all-knowing being.
she is the creator, the destroyer, the lover.
she is nature, she is earth,
she is people,
she is the industry, the tapestry, the travesty.
she is love, she is me.
she is loss, she is you.
she is life, she is them.
and i love her,
as anyone loves her -
if you can love an energy,
an idea,
the ungraspable concept that a grain of sand
is the same as the greatest mountain in the world.
but i don't presume
to know her.
Dec 22, 2011
Dec 22, 2011 at 10:21 AM UTC
Skipping rocks on quicksand
covering my empire of dominos
that only fell for girls
with a general knowledge of obscure trivia:
an empire where Latin is a phoenix
rising from Ash Wednesday
for a fourth-quarter comeback
reunion Tour de France,
where the truth costs less than
**** jokes in bulk at Costco.
All this while I wait for christ
who cringes through crazy eights
with cards collected by Captain Crunch
from birthdays past.
I'd stop skipping rocks and appointments
if being swallowed
scared me like shoehorns
being anyone's weapon of choice
or the doctor's orders
including an extra fork for sharing dessert
but mainly the obsolete
laser for fixing Everything
hidden somewhere in a lab
coat worn by a wicked *****
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 12:14 AM UTC
my tallest towers so proud and most needed bridges
are just sandcastles too close to the shore
all of my kingdom carved all the valleys and ridges
can't weather my storms and wash away once more
being bi-polar kills you slowly but you never forget that you're dying
as each new attack comes even more fierce than before
family can forgive doctors can try but there's no denying
there's more pain in store and it's going to end just like before
with me trying to remember the cruel things I said in a rage
painfully recalling the monster I become without knowing
tearing at loved ones and shrinking the size of my cage
trying to recognize the face in the mirror with so many scars showing
and knowing that all of the days I feel great are only mania, not inspired
my accomplishments just the bi-product of a sickness infused
and they will all be burned down to ash in my fires
and a tattered soul so sick will continue to be abused
I ache so painfully in ways that make me insane
on my knees even without faith praying for anything I might regain
sick with wishing for answers to the behaviors I can't explain
spitting up, in cringes, bleeding out tears I can't contain
this beautiful life is so cruel through my eyes
in sunsets I see only the cold of the coming night
adoring a heart like mine isn't wise
and that truth leaves me to be alone in this fight
love the good in me because it's here if only fleeting
love my warm spirit as it loves you deeply too
love me for my depth and keep my heart beating
know that I cherish the peace I find with arms around you
then fear me for my outbursts and hateful tantrums askew
learn my love comes at a terrible price never paid
grow to hate me for words said and things I do
it's the unbearable cost of an unsurvivable trade
I might have days that I shine like gold
all they are
is my story half told
I am a monster
I am a monster
Aug 7, 2012
Aug 7, 2012 at 11:27 PM UTC