"crowbar" poems
Perhaps I want everything:
the darkness that comes with every infinite fall
and the shimmering blaze of every step up.
So many live on and want nothing,
and are raised to the rank of prince
by the slippery ease of their light judgments.
But what you love to see are faces
that do work and feel thirst.
You love most of all those who need you
as they need a crowbar or a ***
You have not grown old, and it is not too late
to dive into your increasing depths
where life calmly gives out its own secret.
*Rainer Maria Rilke / The Book of the Hours
(translated by Robert Bly: German)*
S T, 20 July 2013
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 10:38 AM UTC
I did some stuff.
Yeah I regret it.
regrets are worse than apologies.
My head is a dark place,
a crowbar could not open me up,
the secrets stuck inside me.
I've destroyed all the things I love.
May 22, 2010
May 22, 2010 at 2:11 PM UTC
Lone star walking roads,
crowbar in hand
cowgirl I'll die for,
I died and I died again,
fluent in 6 country's,
passports; pardons
no cargo,
but luggage is a stainless steel flask,
half full,
half way,
to the moon
if you asked me?
Cadillacs in space,
expensive taste
that's masked with
— the cheap stuff,
inspired souls,
they walk,
and this forsaken path,
they'll never make hell a ***** deed or two from heaven,
counterparts
we're equals,
we're lost
they're my colleagues,
a scandal from remembrance,
remember we followed rules?
no response
****
there's a shift
in the rubix cube,
a memo from the warden,
no weapons in the visit room,
coordinating sin,
a taste of gin
before the see you soons,
world was much warm before stone replaced the sand dunes,
scoff at the elixir,
cordially
she casts stones,
******* of a demon crossing ponds is all the child knows,
tales of the fishermen,
who heard it through the corridors,
all and all departed,
with a fear of the other gods,
strictly prohibited,
a swig of the forbidden fruit,
who are you to judge me,
When Your Son Is Not Of Holy Proof!
wedded to a mortal said your honor,
absent i do's,
abstinence is bliss
and your crime ascends civilian law,
guilty -- you're filthy,
your son will never know your soul,
I know my role and play it well,
Your god never admits he's wrong,
so why would I?
— a baby cried,
I'm present for my son's birth,
and leave before an open eye the practice of a perfect curse.
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 8:13 AM UTC
In my graduation t-shirt,
and it fits right,
she finger-and-thumbs
the switch on my desk lamp.
Lights on.
And I'm getting too thin.
It shouldn't fit right.
"No, no. I want it dark," I say.
"Tell me what's off limits."
Her eyes, big and wet with bongwater,
wash over me. I'm pebble. I'm allowed.
"Why?"
"I want to know what's off limits
so I know where to set my goals."
I believe in love, even at first sight.
Just not the eternal kind. And I love
her when she says things like that
because I created her. And when
you create, and the creation reaches
perfection, all you want to do--
destroy. Hammer to head. Crowbar
to Parkinson thighs. *What's off limits?
What's off limits? What's off limits?*
I can't stop.
Before I respond,
with adolescent delight
she tears me open by the pearl snap.
She lifts her arms up.
Surrender? No. She's a sycamore.
I'm the wind.
Body bare and body scattered,
congregate at the inosculation
of her trunks. She's a sycamore.
I'm the wind.
Wavering.
Leafless.
Pot-addled.
And the breeze doesn't do it.
And the seasons don't affect it.
Gale force insanity.
I climb her branches.
Beard wet with her.
She wipes her off.
I climb her branches.
I can't stop.
Grows into me.
Trunks entrap.
Elevated, she.
And I, well, I
stumble.
Hit the wall.
Concrete, everything.
I press her against it
so hard, she turns to waste
and passes through.
I press her against it
so hard, I can't stop.
Autumn acorn fingertips,
a river emptying to ocean,
and she asks,"Is this off limits?"
as she turns me sharply
and my back collides with the wall.
"Is this off limits?" she asks as she
pounds her head into mine.
"Is this off limits?" she asks as she
claws my face.
"Is this off limits?" she asks as she
licks to heal.
My will says yes.
My flesh says no.
I can't stop.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 10:16 PM UTC
The dead-bolts on the interior doors
Against the nephews most securely locked
(One is destructive; the other explores)
Ignored by their mother (usually crocked)
The brother-in-law babbles about his bowels
And surgeries over the festive spread
Ignoring his wife’s disapproving scowls
Detailing each grim therapy and med
The puppies are safely penned inside
Because of an incident with a crowbar
And a nephew who kicked and screamed and cried -
He wasn’t allowed to **** the dogs or bash the car
His mother comforted him in his tears
And glowered at me for telling him no
And comforted herself with a few more beers
Her special child is sensitive, you know
The brother-in-law’s colonoscopy
With lurid adjectives of graphic doom
Comes with the pie and more iced tea
His miseries circulate around the room
Then from the living room an expensive crash
“Not me!” “Not me!” More screams and denials and cries
An old family vase – it’s now just trash
“You shouldn’t have glass around,” their mother sighs
The brother-in-law offers to show his scars
He finds his shirt buttons, makes his move
We other men escape outside for cigars
Cigars!? The women uniformly disapprove
One nephew leaps upon a garden seat
And jumps and yells until it falls apart
Their mother says her boy is cute and sweet
“Are you all right, my dear little heart?”
The brother-in-law holds his tummy and groans
And tells us all about his flatulence
And just which foods lead to what moans
(Perhaps he should practice some abstinence)
The women come outside to cough and choke
With practiced puritan disapproval and sneers
About the satanic scent of tobacco smoke
The world’s best mother chugs a few more beers
The brother-in-law explains why he can’t drink
It’s about his digestion (be surprised)
And we shouldn’t smoke; if only we’d think
And we (got a match?) are properly chastised
Then at the end of this mandatory day
Of mandatory Hallmark merriment
All of them finally go the (space) away
And how did the mailbox get broken and bent?
But the brother-in-law pauses at the garden gate
“Say, did I tell you about my new pills…?”
And so dear solitude again must wait
While darkness slowly falls upon the hills
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 4:51 PM UTC
My fingers bleed
as I scratch the inside of my skull.
Like cleaning out a pumpkin to carve,
removing pulp and fingernails,
and scattering seeds to be planted.
Vacant minded, a candle
placed and centered in my head,
illuminating my eyes
and putting color to my cheeks.
Tape measure stretched,
razor sharp snap back.
Graphite on pine.
Rusted teeth cut deep.
Being boxed in, yet waiting,
anticipating the metal nails to sing
as wood meets wood.
Plumes of smoke escape
the pine structure.
My candlelight depletes along
with oxygen. This containment
only serves to obfuscate while
holding a crowbar.
And the seeds planted above
linger in soil
marinated by wood chips.
All the while the vegetable
shrivels up and cries.
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 6:51 PM UTC
LAY me on an anvil, O God.
Beat me and hammer me into a crowbar.
Let me pry loose old walls.
Let me lift and loosen old foundations.
Lay me on an anvil, O God.
Beat me and hammer me into a steel spike.
Drive me into the girders that hold a skyscraper together.
Take red-hot rivets and fasten me into the central girders.
Let me be the great nail holding a skyscraper through blue nights into white stars.
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talent --
that double edged sword or
sleepless dove with derringer wings
the ability to break yourself open
let others look inside your chest
and find the notorious self-doubt
pimpled succulent you keep fertilizing
because old habits never actually die
and the huge romantic idealism
of the old farmhouse heart
with crooked creaking screendoor
white paint chipped windowsill
the enduring softness of eyelashes left there
flies gorging themselves growing fat
from the dishes in the sink and
prickly leg hair still clutching the drain
sentimental tractor asleep in the barn
next to the weak ego rusted crowbar
the ivy-moss growing thick out there
perfect nostalgia really misplaced for
sepia tone memories i was never part of
a heart full of tongues and cute thighs
and backs of knees that i've never seen
lungs under clavicles filled with patient
lovers breaths never breathed
digging deeper with small fingers
for smooth freckled scapula flesh
that has never found warm pink rest
inside my cheap cotton sheets
-- i know that i have some
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC
Harvey sees the sun for the first time
without history--
the worn leather, unshined shoes in closet,
the ex-girls off the telephone--
the beams blow kisses, taunt, and beckon.
Harvey folds a paper with half a sentence
and puts it in his pocket--
"I'm too callused to love, too empty to be, a void..."
he knows the end but doesn't write it.
Harvey dreams of calm waters,
salt, sundresses, and eager toenails hammered into sand.
A waitress's reflection in the coffee shop glass shakes Harvey from trance.
"Another cup?" she asks with a crowbar forehead.
Harvey stares at her wrinkles, prying for exposition--
while her voice melts over innocent questions.
Harvey thinks about taking her home.
She'd talk of her ex-husband.
They didn't have kids, but she wanted them.
Harvey couldn't give her kids,
but he could give her him--
a favor.
She wouldn't die alone.
"Did you hear me? Coffee?"
He'd make her feel tall.
She'd find new, fast-talking, book-n-tabloid-munching friends.
Harvey would nod and "oooh" and "ahhh".
Harvey would itch for wrecking ball.
The waitress pours the cup despite his silence.
"If you need anything, let me know."
Harvey nods.
The coffee shop contains the hustle of a mad race track.
Elderlies at the bar, youngsters on the tile floor,
moms and dads hoping to choke with each bite of doughnut.
Harvey doesn't pay much attention to the other patrons.
They are reds, yellows, blues, and noise to him.
He unfolds the piece of a paper and writes,
"I'm too callused to love, too empty to be,
a void in search of a void to sink and share
the blackness."
He leaves a tip on the table.
He pays the cashier.
He leaves the colors and the noise.
He crumples the paper, and gives
it to the wind outside.
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 12:43 AM UTC
I hauled clay
for days
to fill the deep
washout of our love
and all your old loves
who bled to death
too, I even searched
the cold evenings
of your eyes
and ran my fingers
through your moonlight
while tasting the blood
of strangers on your lips
but I would have
to have a backhoe
and a crowbar
to finally get down
to the heart
of the matter at night
and in the rain
though I'm afraid
I would only find
a deep dark cave
with blind starfish
like those I see
swimming in
the cold sky tonight.
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 11:07 PM UTC
1) Your heart is so entwined into mine that I'm not sure if it hurts you or me when I pry it out with a crowbar and leave it on your windshield.
2) You're letting boys ****** you sweaty in your backseat and I just want anyone to write about me the way all my blank pages scream about you.
3) I've always been one to root for the underdog and baby we're a million to one shot.
4) You're the Dragon and the Damsel and I'm not sure what to do.
5) You're the draft I've been writing on for months. Art is never finished.
6) I'm wicked and I'm proud, just like every fallen angel.
7) That's not a light at the end of the tunnel. It's your eyes and I think I always knew it was.
8) There is no salvation. There is no damnation. There's only you.
9) And I'm sitting outside the Pearly Gates, cigarette perched in my lips like a crow.
10) Or maybe I'm sitting on the bank of the river Styx, I'm not much of a cartographer and Dante doesn't have time for fools like me.
11) My poetry is a lip-synched prayer and my goddess has turned a deaf ear to them.
12) I was replaced by we and me by us and you wonder why I don't know who I am when you're gone.
12b) You wonder why we don't know who we are when you're gone.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 2:15 AM UTC
Every era that has ever been
Has engaged in the auto-dissection
Of their yellowing underbellys.
Yes, every generation has predicted
that the end is nigh,
That god is on their side;
But the devil has a crowbar
And is busting out of the basement.
Each decade is a mimicry of the last.
Different fashions, same trends
And always, with a fool on the hill.
A lonely steel harmonica can pierce the airwaves
Across space and time,
Through the grooves and crackles
To enthral an audience,
And to beguile that every generation
Into believing in their autonomy,
Their solitude,
With a fate independent of all those centuries past.
Through every disembodied spew of Dylan lyrics,
Or the corporeal and common alienation
Sympathised in every Wilde reference,
Comes the same fury at the chaos of a world
That is no more than indifferent at the plight of the people it houses.
Indeed,
Every generation has sought to either
Cure the ills of the Earth;
Or else set lighter fluid to the lot.
This stretches back to the first blood-spattered edition of the Bible,
And further, much further.
To all of the captains,
The heroes,
The anti-heroes,
The road gritter,
The malevolent dictator,
The schoolteacher,
The emancipated woman
And the borderline feminist.
To every young child who is reluctant to take the spotlight,
Or look you in the eye,
Ask questions, or speak out.
For every one of those who at some point were labelled
‘maladjusted’.
And so the Pharaohs and Caesars are all but gone now,
Replaced by the big-wigs,
The fat-cats,
The purple hearted,
The playboys -
The men in suits.
But they are all the same.
The same behind the decadence of
A solid gold sarcophagus
Or an Armani pair of shades.
They all built their empire on shifting sands.
And so we will all kick and scream
To our own tone and our own time
At the indignity of the world.
At our bespoke knowledge
To deal with all inconvenience
But that which privates the preclusion
Of any and all major slaughters of justice.
As for that young child,
With the lack of eye contact -
And all that he will become:
He will sit. And he will type.
He will type until his words fall beyond that
Of the spiralling noises inside his mind
And blossom into something pure and ugly and beautiful.
He will sit and he will write
To forget.
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 8:21 PM UTC
I am torn in two
but I will conquer myself.
I will dig up the pride.
I will take scissors
and cut out the beggar.
I will take a crowbar
and pry out the broken
pieces of God in me.
Just like a jigsaw puzzle,
I will put Him together again
with the patience of a chess player.
How many pieces?
It feels like thousands,
God dressed up like a *****
in a slime of green algae.
God dressed up like an old man
staggering out of His shoes.
God dressed up like a child,
all naked,
even without skin,
soft as an avocado when you peel it.
And others, others, others.
But I will conquer them all
and build a whole nation of God
in me - but united,
build a new soul,
dress it with skin
and then put on my shirt
and sing an anthem,
a song of myself.
1.8k
My knuckles look like coke and roses
The winter bit them hard; they cracked
I **** on them; they bleed their noses
I fear they are forever chapped
My knuckles look like milk and lipstick
Dressed in cream and Vaseline
I'm oiled up so says the dipstick
With pink supreme silk gasoline
My knuckles look like wine and diamonds
I deck them out most everyday
They never mind the crime and violence
I keep them moist with Tanqueray
My knuckles look like snow and crowbar
They finally just had enough
I tried to run; I didn't go far
My knuckles, unlike me, are rough
Aug 25, 2017
Aug 25, 2017 at 11:36 AM UTC
A square, squat room (a cellar on promotion),
Drab to the soul, drab to the very daylight;
Plasters astray in unnatural-looking tinware;
Scissors and lint and apothecary's jars.
Here, on a bench a skeleton would writhe from,
Angry and sore, I wait to be admitted:
Wait till my heart is lead upon my stomach,
While at their ease two dressers do their chores.
One has a probe--it feels to me a crowbar.
A small boy sniffs and shudders after bluestone.
A poor old ***** explains his poor old ulcers.
Life is (I think) a blunder and a shame.
1.7k
Tried to visit Petrified Forest but my stomach said no
Didn't really mind it cause it didn't have much to show
We drove on route 40 and a hot guy kept following us
When he had waved 20 times we were like "Okay, enough!"
In Flagstaff I got to check in at my very first motel
It was way cooler than the Dallas hotel!
We wanted to get wasted so we went out to find a bar
Some Germans were playing pool, they couldn't speak English at all
Shots! Shots! Shots!
Two of them were actually quite hot.
After some drinks we lost each other in the dark
Thankfully both remembered were the car was parked
Hungover as **** we left for Grand Canyon
I was so excited to see it with my favorite companion
The size of it was greater than I had imagined it to be
and squirrels were practically climbing up my knee
An idiot lady had her dogs locked in the car
***** was lucky that I didn't have a crowbar
Still missed our turkey but deers were walking free
When the heat almost killed us it was time to leave
It was one of the most amazing things I've ever experienced
But for Vegas we left to see something completely different!
Dec 10, 2016
Dec 10, 2016 at 8:03 AM UTC
The dust has been lifted
Wise words from the man in the red truck
As he eluded provocative ants dancing ‘round cigarette ash
Pokemon never behaved like jackals
Or any other eighties hair metal bands for that matter
At least Pantera shredded their way out of that shtick
It allowed me to quench my thirst with neon Gatorade
And stomaching peninsulas
This is why starch as a way to mend secular viral videos
Was never a serious consideration
That right belongs to the intergalactic Prince Albert
Of the Ziggy Stardust federation
It’s what made me feel secure with crack and root beer
Can I get a signal out here,
Or did the waffle train miss me by a nano robot?
God save this illustrious choir of cephalopods and naval lint
Before they find their way into the haphazard way
I chop chicken under drunken stars
A wizard once led me to this concussion
But I cannot remember the first door he smashed with a crowbar
I know it had only been six years since Julia Roberts was in Erin Brockovich
The movie about the alien cyborg, who birthed Africanized
Native American bumble bees
Or was that merely a fan fiction continuation?
That’s when the itch in my head stopped….
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 4:38 PM UTC
"Hey ya, I'm gonna **** you up!"
I hear as I pass in the hallway.
"Yeah, you! Come back so I can teach you a lesson!"
As if I need to learn.
I hear all kinds of **** in this world and I swing
The line outside the mainstream.
I don't give a **** what you think you need,
I'm not gonna play your game.
You're another whiner wanting to be heard, a jack
Without the crowbar.
You lost your mind sometime in the past
And think everybody owes you something.
Well I don't owe you **** so get off my path
I have bigger fish to fry at home.
Back off and find your own lost means and cry
Into your cheerios.
I said back the **** off and leave me be 'fore
I turn around to 'listen'.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 7:29 AM UTC
Dear Elizabeth (Part III.)
I know he did you wrong all those years
As you shed over thirty million tears
All he did was wanting to ****
Taking when and whatever he wanted for the chaotic thrill
His mind living in a fantasy violent filled dreamworld
Killing over thirty-eight plus girls
As he beguiled, with a stealthy smile
The jury should’ve decided to send him to exile
Hurting so many women, children and others on the head
With his velvet crowbar, when police were searching for a unknown man named ‘Ted’
The girls he hurt, never got a chance to be mothers
With Molly never wanting to leave your side
Your perpetual love for Ted had eventually died
Lying, constantly stealing and cheating you never once deserved that
Dealing with the perpetual negative crap
You were his Miss Americana
As he was your Heartbreak Prince
Theodore unknowingly beat and broke a lot of limbs
Right under your nose
Going back and fourth with bodies to Taylor Mountain to dispose
He could be quiet but at times act arrogant
Wishing he could be a governor, senator or president
Unexpectedly turning into a brutal madman
He always had a secret love for Diane
In the back of his mind
With other women on the side
Never once broke his ego or pride
You accurately decided to turn him in
Then regretfully went straight for the gin
Turning your life into a three-sixty tailspin
Theodore got what he deserved
With death row he served
It’s been thirty-two years since he’s vanished
Finally feeling loved and cherished
You’re no longer alone and withdrawn
There are no other men like him, thank God
That Theodore finally deserved what he got, getting caught
Over forty years those events are apart of American history
Your life with him is no longer in misery, but a victory
Theodore’s atrocious actions, taught us women to watch out for our loved ones and surroundings
As we go out on fun outings
With new people we just meet
Out in the city street
I’m so sorry went through all of this
He’s now gone into a dark abyss
But you did what you had to do
If I were you, I’d do the exact same thing too
Enjoy life’s greatest pleasures
Getting all the happiness that life gives you,adventures
Jan 7, 2022
Jan 7, 2022 at 11:04 PM UTC
Upon a hilltop deep in the woods, there lies an iron box. Red and rough. They say that all the worlds secrets lay in this iron box. But no one knows for sure. Many have tried to open this box, all have failed. Men and woman. Boy and girls. All have tried to open this box. There is nothing to show for it though. Not even the tiniest of scratches have been left on the box by all the tools that have been used to try to open it. Today there is yet another crowd surrounding the red rough box that lays on the hilltop deep within the woods. People with axes and crowbars try their luck. Still, the box remains whole. A young boy makes his way through the crowd and stands before the box. An older man chuckles at him and holds out his crowbar. "Want to try?" asks the man.
The boy shakes his head and steps closer to the box. Gently he lowers his hand on to the top of the box, his eyes flutter closed. The box glows under his hand. The soft yellow light flows over the box until the whole thing is glowing that soft yellow. A click sounds and the boy pushes the top of the box off. The whole crowd is silent as they watch the boy. How he opened the box with a gentle touch.
"How did you do that?" the man with the crowbar exclaims to the boy.
"I just asked the box to open." the boy responds before he slips his way back through the crowd away from the box.
Quickly the crowd pushes and shoves, trying to get closer to the box to see what is inside the box. What the world's secrets are. But when they get to the box all they see is a single white feather.
Apr 26, 2019
Apr 26, 2019 at 9:39 AM UTC
When I was a child, I was the riverbed's bend. The silhouette of a person from far away smoking a cigarette. I was the blushing sunset and the barred teeth of nightfall, moon's jutted chin and all.
But as I grew up, people became less tree-house, more crawlspace.
In his drunken days, my father once went out with a crowbar shouting at god for giving me clinical depression instead of a man or a hobby.
When I was a child, I would hold hands the way you hold a loaded gun. No one told me that some people are bullet teeth, trigger wounds, and pistol shot screams. That I would become one of these statistics. Those analogies. My grandfather once told me that the bravest people of all sometimes go a little mad. But you have to find the darkest recess of your mind and tell it that you know what it looks like with the lights on. I no longer need a flashlight.
When you're a child, you're the billow of a skirt. The hum of a refrigerator door in July. You could be the sun's glare or the sky's mouthpiece. But as you grow up, you start blowing out candles for other people's birthdays. You begin looking at the cracks of pavement rather than moths clinging to streetlamps. your house slumps its shoulders whenever you open the door. and why?
if none of this makes sense, regard it as a poem.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 1:25 AM UTC
The first thing to do is forget everything you've lost
Second, zip up your jacket, just to ward off all the frost
Best case scenario, you're alone, but sometimes you are not
Find anything to make you smile, bring a song, or bring some ***
Sing along with the monotony, to get closer in the cold
Third step is to try to remember every part of your soul that you sold
Sketch out a poem, lose a friend, give the bitter pill a try,
Put the sweet one on a shelf, keep it there until you die
The fourth step is to take a crowbar directly to the glass
Leave it burning, phase existences, break choruses en masse,
Fifth step in the protocol is to never speak its name,
Check back on it in forty years to find it still the same
Then photograph it, crop it to a flattering degree,
Frame it like a work of art but hope they never see
And sixth in line, if you are bold, and still have a bone to pick
Then -- then you can finally break into the '84 Buick.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 11:01 PM UTC
i want to taste the salt in your heart :
but you are a fictional fantasy
a fallacy
a prank pulled on me by Fate
you have been pried with a rusty crowbar
from the inside of my skull where you were hiding &
hibernating
now you’re fulfilled only by polluting and petting my brain with
day & night dreams of cigarettes & screeching feedback
& boys with ***** calloused hands & heavy eyebrows ;
you are a figment of my fractured imagination
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 6:46 AM UTC
My dad always told us things would be alright
He kept us in the dark for our childhood
Assuming his societal role as the protector
Covering things up with the blanket of his knowledge.
That is until
My grandpa went into open season, hunting down two consecutive strokes
Loaded gun ready to fire, cocked courageously on his collarbone
But not quickly enough to beat the savage beasts to the ****
The condition destroyed chunks of his brain
Leaving him unable to breathe or talk
Which is the first time I've seen him speechless.
As I stood next to your urn
Imagining the dust of all your accomplishments, quirks, dreams
Tucked away in a perfectly carved mahogany box
Realizing for the first time that death was imminent
But still seeing how many metaphors I could come up with for this situation
That's deflection.
When I tell you I was molested for the first time
Breaking my teeth and nails
On each and every word that cuts bone like it is bread
And explaining to you that I help other people
But sparing you the details that make my body look crumpled and sickly
That's deflection.
As I discuss situations that have my knees ****** and scraped
That turn my hazel eyes to deep grays and black
That cause my systematic jaw to clench at the thought of my eating disorder
And others must pry it open with a crowbar
Yet, I still tell them that I am over it
So I do not have to explain her constant chokehold on me
That's deflection.
Now that my Pop Pop is ill
And Daddy, I try to be direct with you
"Is he going to be okay?"
Your response is always
"Well, he's not on his deathbed."
That does not mean okay to me
My grandpa was not on his deathbed until 20 hours after his stroke
But my grandma considered him dead at that moment
6:21 PM, Monday, March 24th, 2014
That's deflection.
I use the unknown element to distract people and myself
From the crippling fear that welds my heart with fire and metal
This anxiety is hellish
And panic attacks are called attacks for a reason
Because you can never win while in the midst of one.
But still I tell myself
And my father tells me as well
"You don't know for sure yet."
"Don't make problems out of nothing."
So I discount the pain that is a cavity within my chest
Rotting my body away with every passing second.
That's decomposition
That's a parasite
That's deflection.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 11:08 PM UTC
every day, he looked out the window,
his inhibitions toppling over like dominos;
he gawked at the blackbirds, all the same:
he could not tell a friend from a foe.
he never thought he’d go so far -
as to slay ‘the raven’ with a crooked crowbar;
his conscience dripped with sins, and rose -
a thorny heap of fallacies, charred.
he blamed the world for all he was;
convinced in his soul that he had a good cause:
it wasn’t enough to redeem his faux pas, so -
he bore the tag of an ill-fated outlaw.
of all the names, by which he was called,
who knew - one day - he’d cease to show up?
a child dead of his innocence, who
never learned how to -
as they say -
‘grow up!’
Jan 3, 2025
Jan 3, 2025 at 9:25 AM UTC