"crookedness" poems
Crooked frame on a white wall
with its squared edge on all four sides
sagging to its left, lifting it right up
exposing its crookedness for all to see
Crooked frame on a white wall
why wasn't you adjusted?
wasn't your crooked stand exposed to every foreign eye?
or was your content so beautiful
that it captured the stare of all who glanced?
If so, it must have been content of pure gold
to have kept hungry eyes blindfold
Jan 3, 2019
Jan 3, 2019 at 1:25 AM UTC
They have now thronged brimful, all the barazas
In their elderly gear, in a move to cut off my thing,
The Maasai chiefs and elders have their fangs now,
More glowing in the crudeness of despotic culture,
Their foul circumcisers’ tools sharply menacing,
All focused on my ****** ******** the only joy of my nature,
They want to maliciously cut it off in their selfish solace
Minus mine consent the right of a young girl,
Chided by evils done in the name of culture,
Kwani? a maasai and culture who creates the other?
Can’t we create culture that is so darlingly to rights of girl?
Other than receding back to crookedness of un-gendered past
Denying I your posterity the rights to self worthiness,
Kindly I beg that you don’t cut of my ********
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 4:58 AM UTC
Playing again
the playlist of memories
trying to feel
something
we used to have
but
nothing
the feeling we used to share
the warmness of your skin
the touch of your lips
the sweetness of your smile
the crookedness of your nose
they all are gone
I could not feel it
I could not dream it
I dont even remember
how your face is like
Time surely is unyielding
it makes my body
not to remember
any of those feelings
Its like you've never been in my life
But somehow
the pain is still there
its like
im still hurting
from a wound that
has totally been healed
its like
i've moved on yet stuck
im happy yet sad
or
does it mean
im just broken?
Nov 1, 2017
Nov 1, 2017 at 6:14 AM UTC
We,
the uninsured
being inured to this,
the will of gods.
Our lives doled out in tablet form
from birth to breath by those pharmacists
with death proscribed,
prescription wise.
My eyes have seen the crookedness that shake
foundations,
three times a day we pray again to all the gods
to open up and swallow pills and god just nods
his head,agrees that we need medications.
The ***** top bottle throttles me
but I am strangled happily by those 'dolls'
the greens and reds of fol de rols
a plague on gaudiness unless instructions say,
take the pills three times a day.
These games we play, I'll say,
are just a side event,a small diversion to prevent us
from ever having to face the facts,
but we're inured to that and so,
on and on and on we go until the end is reached.
I plead,
just one more pill,
it appears that this is not the will of god or any pharmacist,
I missed the last bus home,but home is hell and
so that's just as well.
I wait in the wings to see
what tomorrow brings.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 6:45 AM UTC
dark void diffuse out of my soul,
screaming,
internally-
dark void swallows me whole,
leaving, me
blind-
dark void consumes my mind,
heaving, up
dark thoughts
the darkness of the blue in our soceity
the grayness of our generation
the blackness of this world of what it is
the emptiness filling our minds
i void the thoughts
into the waste
i avoid the tears,
but they're bound to come
the void has been waiting
the insidious void
the void inside the insidious
thoughts of the void.
the lyrics thrum in my mind
and i connect the dots
from one reality to the other.
it makes a shape and i draw it out,
tearing at the dark thoughts.
and i
SCREEEAAAAAMMMMMMMMM
AT THE TWISTEDNESS OF IT ALL
THE CROOKEDNESS OF OURSELVES,
THE DARKNESS OF THE INEVITABLE VOID.
WHAT THE FUTURE HOLDS FOR US ALL.
THE GHOSTS, THEY COMFORT ME, WELCOME TO THE DARK VOID OF MY MIND.
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 4:20 AM UTC
There's a painting by Botticelli
I've always loved,
showing Venus being born naked
from the ocean and
not fearing the current.
Those around her renounce her body,
scrambling to clothe her,
turn her virginal,
contain the way her eyes cross galaxies,
shine all the way to Pluto.
But she is soft, unwavering,
not noticing the mortals' concern
about her *******
and bare collarbone that could catch water
at its base.
I found you halfway across the world on the steps of the Uffizi
and in the 3 hours it took you
to show me some of the best art on earth,
I was transfixed only
on the orbits of planets in your eyes.
Shortly before the sun set,
you took me through the secret corridor
Cosimo de' Medici built to walk across the
rooftops of the city
where you kissed me but
told me you didn't believe in love,
that all you needed was art,
and Michelangelo,
and in that moment
I saw Venus in your collarbone.
Saw a shell under your feet,
saw the universe in the way your freckles connected,
saw how you immortalize yourself
among the rest of the art in Florence
so no human can bring you down to earth,
can make your heart stop,
show you what it's like to cross timezones
with a single touch.
And here I am,
wanting to be your Botticelli,
to paint the uneven slope of your shoulders,
the crookedness of your right ankle,
your fear of exposing yourself to someone
who could love you.
It must be lonely out there, Venus,
on your little fishing boat by the sea.
Botticelli's painting was found
long after his death,
laid into the floor of
an abandoned villa in the south of Tuscany.
Venus looking lost and mortal
between cracked paint and chipping walls,
like the way you hide between
the dusty statues of the dead statesmen and fading portraits
long after the museum closes,
just you with only history to hold.
You want to believe in love
as past-tense,
like you've lost faith in present participles and the fact
that art is still being made,
and people are running barefoot into future conjugations
together.
Don't come back to land, Venus. Vanessa.
I won't be here waiting with a towel
or an art critic
or a spaceship.
But maybe,
just make a little room for me on your shell
under the sun,
atop steady waves or Florentine rooftops.
Throw the map overboard.
Let's forget the shore.
And Michelangelo and the rest of them
will smile as they see us off.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 5:18 PM UTC
There is a couch and it is where I fall.
My seventeen year-old legs,
bandaged with bumblebee knee socks,
arch like ****** pink lawn-flamingo joints.
Crookedness meets at
cigarette skin thighs: grape-kiss fingerprints,
like mental leprosy, projected.
My eyes meet at where fingers told me to stay
and where the knuckles followed.
Acorn ***** hair sleeps in a tuft,
woken by the brush of a thirty-three year-old soccer coach.
-
My Vans grip sandpaper tape,
preceding clicks: sliding up and down,
like graduation day maternal comfort,
like dirt-under-the-fingernails ************
Clicking wheels, sound waves
smacking across asphalt jungle.
Sounds escaping and reminding me
of how I'll never.
I'm not in love -- not sure if I can,
be affectionate towards the things
I don't understand.
I'm not in love -- even if I could,
I don't think I'd care like I should.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 7:56 PM UTC
Open as a glass, vulnerable as clear water,
this is the place hot with birth. I’ve risked more
for less. Much, much less:
I ordered a nightstand from a catalogue,
the wood from Brazil probably,
pressed in Mexico, packaged in China,
traveling to my doorstep in pieces
seeing more than I’ll ever see.
Electric eyes of nocturnal forests,
the habits of the ocean
when the land’s not watching.
Connect bracket 3 with bolt C,
drop of blood, cross my heart
and fingers. It has four legs
but the drawer won’t open,
its crookedness leans against the wall
for support. There’s no money back
guarantee but there’s value in knowing
one cannot build furniture.
Now I take pictures and send them
with my Christmas cards.
I pull it out at parties and point to
the scratches and empty nail holes,
the unused brackets and each joint
where the wood has split so bravely.
Apr 22, 2012
Apr 22, 2012 at 3:58 PM UTC
the quietness of content
between two people
walking down the sidewalk
after splitting a pint and a crepe
is something new to me
the quietness of unsettled
emptiness in the dregs
of heaving lungs in a public toilet
is familiarly foreign
and suddenly unwanted
i occupy booth seats
instead of the space between
two metal dividers
and a toilet paper dispenser
i study the dimples of your cheeks
and the scent of your hair
i've become a student
learning the feeling of having
instead of a teacher of wanting
i do not see any crookedness
to your teeth or my own
i taste lager and nutella
strawberries on your breath
and don't ask
what else?
no sign of do not disturb
in my eyes
only, please continue
speaking
when i sway to the counter
and ask for the check
i am surprised by our obvious pleasure
when the waitress giggles
"oh i'm sorry,
i didn't want to disturb you"
i didn't realize we looked so happy
so together in a moment
shared over candles and two forks
on a coffee shop table
i admit it was
effortless
i see now that
food, love, humans
the things i made complicated
were
effortless
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 3:02 AM UTC
all this time, you were just a phantom I assigned
to your face...
to your hard shape and soft eyes.
a phantasm
a love imprinted on your soma by my soul
so desperately wanting to see yours.
and here I am, calling you to me again
with no right after a thousand revelations
and every suffered revocation
youd think I'd learn why you disappeared?
but you will never be gone from me
I can sense these things.
my eidolon's soul fits you perfectly
Youre my perfect idea of beauty
all your crookedness and pain
every hunger in your eyes
every burn in your touch
the redemption you belive you will find in my destruction
to hell with the truth.
Im in love with your lovely brand of pain
the phantom of your ***
the soul of your love lies too well with you for me
I am convinced.
My vision of who I insist you are is all I need.
a breath on the wind and that look in your eyes,
still; all this time, a phantom i assigned.
a blueprint so well laid, in my heart and soul
I still believe you should be mine.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 10:05 AM UTC
Ideas are bulletproof that is why they are harder to win over,
Especially when affirming instances come one after the other.
The body succumbs while the mind knows better,
Hopping from one stone to the other hoping we get to a constant somewhere.
Throbbing wind whispers a beep,
Rushing cars swooshing their trip,
Her voice looking at me knowingly,
“You know it but here’s the story.”
The high improbability and the comparisons,
The stretch that echoes unfounded sounds,
The conversation that could’ve been,
Shall and must remain as a romanticized fiction,
Started, peaked, jumped, risked, failed, hoped, failed, and left for the conclusion.
As you have absolutely no choices,
To raise your eyes and ears is something to give your best.
Everyone’s kinda moving,
It’s not a race but for everyone the road is ending.
I would still have that grin, whisper, and crookedness,
Inasmuch as nothing of those are even close to any semblance of realness.
I must remain the best parts of what I have to offer,
A refined, mature, swaying, itching, panacea of everything you wish I wish I could cater.
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 1:14 PM UTC
#1: I made love,
you ****** me.
#2: I believed in the word ‘you’
; There were ‘us’
between you and I.
#3: You never said back
“I love you”, why?
#4: You meant ‘us’
without ‘in love’, oh.
; Okay, I understand.
You burned me.
#5: You could've stopped me from crookedness.
; Tortuousness never stopped me
from believing in you, though.
#6: I shot myself
with broken minds.
#7: Nothing is more heart-wrenching
than me-without-you.
; Everything was nothing,
now nothing is everything.
#8: My-heart-without-chains started gradually burning my insides.
; It’s like,
driving a car with no brakes, isn't it?
#9: My destination has changed, to neverwhere.
; My path to happiness has been interrupted
because of my endless unconditional love to you.
#10: Your spoken words are still lingering.
#11: I started muttering words
after you.
#12: The perks of being alone is none.
(26/06/2014)
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 1:55 PM UTC
There was once a boy
A boy that resembled a toy.
A boy who wore oversized shoes,
Baggy pants and unusual spectacles.
A short stub,
That lazed clumsily around the room,
A boy whose appearance was hardly noticeable,
And presence engulfed.
The poor boy was constantly annoyed,
Teased and bothered.
Thrown around the room
Like the rag he seemed to be.
There seemed no escape,
From terrifying bullies,
That roamed around the school,
Waiting patiently to crush him.
The helpless boy waited,
For the Bully to take him,
Grab him by the shoulders,
And smother his dreams in pain.
One day, however, the boy waited.
He waited patiently
For the bullies to take command,
But they never did, they just walked past.
The lonely boy discovered,
That he pertained an unknown power,
One that left him nameless,
And devoid of appearance.
He knew he was not vitreous,
See-through or transparent.
But he could roam through a room,
Unnoticed, overlooked.
He could run through a clear field,
And go unperceived.
He was able to devour a thousand meals,
And never be blamed.
Such abilities brought wonderful joys,
And grand pleasures,
However such leisure brought
Terrible solitude in return.
The assurance of his safety warmed him,
Knowing he’d be free of harm.
But the gawky boy was lonely,
Devoid of company or charm.
He roamed the halls alone,
He sat absently in his desk.
And slowly his loneliness
Began to consume him.
He was overcome
by the colorlessness of his pale skin,
The crookedness of his misshapen brow.
He slowly fainted, into a mirrored glass.
The boy had become,
That he had always been;
Another shadow,
Another gust of wind.
His pale skin disintegrated.
The oversized shoes sank.
His spectacles shattered.
The smirk evanesced.
The boy became,
That which cannot be named.
A light breeze,
A faint whisper.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 11:16 PM UTC
Once you've sat at Wisdom's feet
and heard her teach the Truth
Light's unbearable and dark
and Teachers most grievously painful
For there is no error in the plumb line
Any tilt and crookedness is exposed
Every hearts' wickedness and deceitfulness
cries out and stinks as dead men's sores
Aug 8, 2020
Aug 8, 2020 at 11:48 PM UTC
In a long Victorian styled dress little Connie waltzes from person to person hugging their waists. She gives me a lingering squeeze with her porcelain colored arms. The crookedness of her teeth does not stop her from flashing a smile with every embrace. She is such a loving spirit for a third grade homeschooler. A fountain of youth is in her blue eyes and I hope for the sake of the world that growing up will never remove her wild joy.
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 8:14 AM UTC
I trusted crookedness
Others stopped trusting me
I dealt in lies
Others never believed my words
I hurt others feelings
I fell into a gutter of sufferings
I touched others respect
I found no place in society
I kept to evil
My soul caught in flames
I did whatever God forbade
I have never been happy
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 10:40 AM UTC
The rain comes as a disappointing
flourish to the night.
I would go out in it.
I'd be away from my cave
at least. Nothing
is unusual these days. A time of
crookedness and dirt.
My events bleed through the present.
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 6:55 PM UTC
You killed my innocence with
the crookedness in your blood,
And evil, the language you speak.
Your delinquent confession made me
dive into the pool of agony.
Chained me up with devilish whispers.
Captured by your corrupted soul
kissed those wicked lips painted with sins
Drenched me with your heinous love.
To sum up your sins,
equals the stars of the dark universe
Count me in too, as one of your crooked desires.
Jul 14, 2019
Jul 14, 2019 at 1:50 PM UTC
"The trees have already begun to senesce"
my professor says, as she indicates
the oak whose leaves have been colored to dirt.
And a chord is struck in me,
for without her definition
I know what it is to senesce.
This is what it is to shed my leaves,
to watch their fingers wither and release
my autumn comes crisp
and crunches under rubber soles,
it feels like a barren womb.
All I give birth to is empty spaces
between fingers of dusk and
silhouettes of dark against light.
Crookedness is my legacy, and exposure is my blight.
And yet if I am like those dying branches
then I too must come awake again.
To senesce is to die, yet only for a time
spring is ahead, and she is waiting.
And I will follow,
follow that thought like deer prints in the snow,
like the sparrow's straining song,
like green blades lifting their arms,
like the smell of the earth swallowing the rain,
like there is a time when death will not call my name so sweetly
that I choose the dream over waking.
That I too will shed my ice
and become heavy with the weight
of fragrant flowers.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 7:32 PM UTC
Look at me.
Look at the zits on my back,
and at the jaundice of my ***
Do you see?
Do you see the fungus on my toes
and the crookedness of my teeth?
I choose to be.
I chose to not to be desirable.
We're all ugly underneath.
Watch my behaviour.
Watch my attitude alternate
between damnation and savior.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 9:03 PM UTC
Today I met a stranger,
She seemed to know my name.
Her face was so familiar,
But something wasn't the same.
Her voice touched on memories,
Part of me began to ache.
Her eyes so like mine,
I felt my fragile heart might break.
Then a darkness fell over her,
And the light faded fast.
A crookedness in her smile,
Her laughter didn't last.
Now I'm standing all alone,
In a state somewhat beguiled.
That's when I realize this beautiful stranger,
Is none other than my child.
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 4:21 PM UTC
I spend my time on nothing
I am searching for something
Something that could help me understand where genuine worth and value are derived from
But this journey is leaving me as dried out as this land
This search has me circling and feeling as empty as a drum
There are too many axioms to choose from
Leaving me overwhelmed and numb
Maybe I'd be happier if I had a limited access to knowledge
Maybe I'd be happier if I carried along with the masses
Tuned into pop culture and became a bit more faddish
I implore
Why can't their be ONE universal truth?
Their seems to be so many layers of complexity
Regarding a belief system's origins and evolution
I want to commit to a religion but every religion has their ties to paganism and blood
Religion's appeal for me is it's security
Keeping me safe from all depravity.
But just because you belong to a particular faith
doesn't mean you follow strictly what your God says
In the privacy of your own home
Where we reveal to all we keep so near
The crookedness of our heart.
If I were shallow I'd be happy
If I were nescient I'd be carefree
I used to be
I used to be
Until I got curious
And now I've grown furious
With this conundrum I've imposed on myself
The New Agers are too "out there", I think the skeptics should lighten up, The Christians are confused, so are the Muslims and the Jews
Then there's the radicals, and I've had it up to here with them
The conspiracy theorists make me go insane
I just need more time to forage
For the truth
But I think my brain will need a bit more storage...
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 10:40 PM UTC
a crookedness within a white cat. a naked boy on crutches. a girl in a pink jumpsuit jogging in place beside a man rolling a tire. all of this says I’ve witnessed my father by himself on a child’s swing ******* two unlit cigarettes. we don’t exist until god begins to worry. our neighbor is an old woman with a gun. she is afraid her color will suddenly change. when she chases my father home I understand the riddle of his cigarettes. around him I pretend to be asleep. I hear him watering a rag and wait for him to press it to my nose and tell me my dreams are bleeding. when a kitten, the head of our white cat would stick to the refrigerator door.
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 12:09 PM UTC