"curing" poems
Your eyes are dark
They have a sparkle
They can see something in me
Something that cqn help discover
Feelings
Feelings hidden
So no one gets hurt
Feeling so no one laughs
So no one throws them away
Feelings that are hidden
From everyone
So that you never know
A smile that can melt you away
It can change my day
One so pure and honest
That it can make a difference
One smile that can bring my heart to stop beating
A smile that is long lasting
And makes me fall deeper into
This hidden love
Hands
That are softer and as delicate
As a blowing wind
So gentle capable
Of curing my scars
Hands that can hold mine
As I fall
Grabing me so tight next to your heart
While i litsen to the beautiful melody
Of life
In this hidden love
A love so shy
It could almost die
With the fear of being caught
A love so timid
It rather stay with a low profile
A love that can't stand up
Alone
A love that is not strong enough
To get rejected
That it decides to stay hidden
Behind the air
And alone with its self
Hidden so that it does not hurt
When you see another
Or when your lips touch others
And even when you hands
Hold other hands tight
It is better not see
You dont win
But
You can loose either
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 11:08 PM UTC
99 cent wars, rooftops, Gibraltar Screaming "god bless the fabulous" Christs;
In the eyes of years
Man is king only over that which breathes,
So let's throw hugs in the air,
sit on flowers and vanish to Cook stones on the hips of Cleopatra
with all of December's left footed children
For through the cried ***** tears of furry German banana caskets,
Eternity awaits
In the failures of our greatest triumphs,
So let's dance
After all, Psychological Wednesday societies
Are only good for curing Xbox manifestos and Tuesday sanities
And if we died one day,
it sure won't be yesterday.
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 7:41 PM UTC
Bare feet on beach
nature's love to reach
Sands caress the feet
Life's curing street
Bare feet on beach
Peace in heart doth teach
Nature's lessons to preach
Yet to humans doth it reach
Plastic bags tangle thy feet
Stench of waste nature's defeat
Broken glass dangers seat
Oh Tis life's defeat
Useless thrown to waste
Let not be in haste
For waste doth not fade in haste
Let Tis not be nature's fate
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 11:09 AM UTC
Amnesia like leaky faucets swollen drain ventilates vapid powdered portrait
At least smiled.
Blood slightly warmed manicure and smiled in forgotten garden
Such lovely font. All wanted
Mini clouds surrounding shrines backlit green in ritual.
Smiles speak but of the wet smell of pollen and the sweat collecting in his hand behind the small of her uncrushed spine.
Curing chlamydia the straight—A fairytale. Conned alive, clumsily and bitter.
Nurtured cotton uprooted attempt. Scrubbed stains to shreds
Not even the green light merely aftermath so of course when shaking egg shells sheltering in “cold hands warm heart” chests receive the song I sing but never knew
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 4:40 PM UTC
I am not some street cowboy punk
i am a quiet sweet rampant drunk
i play the spoons with the air of a saint
i have a tongue that can swallow paint
sour and acrid, the tone of my voice
i have never left without a choice
punched back sideways
even more today than tomorrow
for your heart i will bed, steal or borrow
Superman don't have ***** on me
don't need no wings now i am free
saving the restless, curing the weak
you can laugh at me when i dance like a freak.
I will kiss you when i drink too much wine
when i am restless and hungry you will be mine
I will do nothing when you are nothing to me
i will drive you crazy with all you can be
no more talkin no more of that ****
i'll hold you apart, break you bit by bit
if you're too polite i'll bite my tongue
i'll whip you and shake you, then i'm done.
carefree to be careless, shareless boy talk
tell me to go and i will surely walk
don't ask me to be kissed or hold my hand
i am not that girl that you left unplanned
i am a midnight demon on ferocious terms
i grasp you and hold you tight and firm.
I am not lost, or fragile or broken bound
i am not looking for someone to make a sound
i am no paige boy scarlet harlot wild child thing
i am not yours, can't you hear your telephone ring?
I am a sordid freak of gigantic endeavours
i will solder your heart regardless of your tremors
i am torturous and painful and weak to the bone
i am the mightiest fallen, can you not see my throne?
i have a **** me, buck me, tie-me-tight gaze
if i look at you slowly, be patient but don't wait
i want everything and all and i want it now
i am no gleaming bronze statue know-all-know-how
i am surely what you ever thought you knew
i am surely what you never thought when i met you
i am free to please anyone at night
i am free to sit and cry by candlelight
alright now, oh baby its all right now
**** me gently and i'll show you how
to be nothing more than anything is something i suppose
but i really can't tell for the state of your clothes
you dress me up slightly more than your vision
i've never met a person with such succint precision
and well here i go, superbly astute and blunt
never did i see such a spectacular *** ****
and well that is really the way that i go
i fly here, there, everywhere i flow
i am not some pretty naieve little thing
i am a mess of entirety with 2 engagement rings
i'm living with despondence and its ******* me off
holy **** batman i hear you cough
come see me, come stay a while
come see me, come see me, and i will **** you in style
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 1:41 PM UTC
London City is the name of the game,
Where no two lives are ever the same.
Every corner Every turn,
Every young person will cause concern.
Life of crime or life of hate,
Watch your back on every estate.
Busy buses and busy streets,
Liars, Thieves, Haters and Cheats!
London City aint no Paradise,
Your luck can change when you roll the dice.
Take a step wrong or right,
No matter if you’re black or white.
Life is life and death is death,
Right down until your very last breath.
Fights and gangs, Knives and guns,
Cursing on daughters and curing on sons.
Using weapons small or big,
Whether you’re drunk or had a swig.
No matter what path you choose to go down,
London City is always your Home town!
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 4:22 PM UTC
─illustrations on the ceiling
i love the way
the sunlight ripples along his skin
with no complaints
"messiah" the shadow talks
"of course he is" i reply
and i resume to orchestrating my love
─little phobias
i wander aimlessly along his windows,
his eyes;
they are gates to afterlives unloved;
they are oceanic shrapnel
sky imprisoned infinities
a lapis point of view-
that i treasure
his heart is drenched
in my soul-
in a sweeter sickness-
in the liquid measure of my steps-
he mentions i'm contagious
i tell him he is my favorite way
to bleed
"september prodigy" the shadow babbles
"why?" i rasp
**"sun at long last
kisses away
all the ghosts
harvesting from
the heart of the moon"**
and i broke out into stars
─my serendipity
i love the raw
music of our conversations,
and how his voice
undresses me
and my monsters
so delicately
in fabrics of the dark
i love how his laugh
makes all the other planets
look dull;
how his smile
is the first step
to curing the blind
so the blind may know
what i know
"the symphony of seams"
i love how he is the shocking
philosophy
of turning suicide notes
into paper cranes
of picking fights with death
so i may remain
i love the phoenix tucked in his soul
how it defines-
the altitudes-
the limits-
our existence he describes to me
"reincarnation?" the shadow asks
"every morning he wonders" i answer
and the fever invests it's time in me
"what is he to you?" the shadow murmurs
"*besides broken flowers,
and ink blots shaped like rain
he is my favorite stairway to heaven.*"
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 10:32 PM UTC
I stand with roots deep into my mother
With branches out stretching towards my father
And Light from the rising sun reflecting within my eyes.
Machi curing, Machi healing,
I sing your song. I feel your love.
Mi Pachamama
So full of love
Your flow of life, ever flowing
Your river of sound, ever singing
Your stream of light, forever shinning.
How can I ever cry when I am within your arms?
Arising with the warming sun
Flowing through the air on the breath of her winds
So softly the clouds release her love
As they are caressed by the tops of her mountains.
Her waters of love flowing…
Trickling down onto the forest
Gathering into the brooklets,
Streams, riverlets, and rivers
Satisfying the thirst of all her creations.
The sound of pan flutes filling my ears
The dance of chi coursing through
Even this body, this gift, this flesh.
Singing her lullaby
Embracing & soothing this tired soul.
Softly the winds bring the colors
Of her song into my beating heart.
Machi soothing
Machi healing. Machi Curing
Machi, singing me well with Her love
Mi Pacha Mama , so full of love
Your flow of life, ever flowing
Your river of sound, ever singing
Your stream of light, forever shinning.
How can I ever cry when I am within your arms?
Healing, Soothing, Curing, Love
I sing your song. I sing your love
Mi Pacha Mama…
Jan 17, 2019
Jan 17, 2019 at 2:26 AM UTC
I am the **** in your pristine garden,
Hidden between the Hollyhocks and Petunias,
Unwanted, I lift my head high,
Invasive, pervasive, you hate me.
You spray me with emotional roundup.
You wish I would simply go away
Crushed under your foot yesterday,
I wilted under your hate.
Resurrected by the creators love,
In joy I dance to his music,
That floats on the wind.
I am a rose of Sharon,
Planted firmly in the dirt.
Hated by you for just being,
The one who made me loves me,
He loves me unconditionally.
Planted in the wilderness,
Where he walks in search
Of those who seek his name.
If you see me know that, he is near.
Yet you hate me for being the ****
Invasive that shows up in the cracks,
Of your frequent well-beaten paths of hatred.
You stomp on me, mangled I lie still.
Revived by my God who loves me.
Someday he will do justice,
Someday he will show them mercy,
Them that failed to love his creation.
He animates me an earthen vessel,
With emotions triggered by fluid actions,
His loving smile, His tender touch,
In his love and goodness, I find joy.
The joy that effuses and rises to my brain,
Like a flooding sea of contentment,
Knowing that in him I have rest, I am secure and calm.
From your bitterness, that floods my feet,
He produces exquisite flowers and sweetest fruits.
Freely I give the love I receive,
As fragrance it wafts on the breeze,
Used to the smell of death and dying,
The Tanner smelling the fragrance of Love and Life faints.
They revive him with curing leather from the tannery.
Someday the tanner will appreciate fragrance,
Someday the night shift miner appreciate the light,
Someday those that cry for war will love peace,
Someday those that hate others learn to love.
Someday those that clang pots and pans in raucous cacophony,
Will find peace and quiet in his sweet rhapsodies and quiet melodies.
And the promoters of the ugliest of ugliness,
Love the beauty of God's creation.
Some day will this enslaved and captive soul fly free?
Forever free in the plains of Eternity.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 2:37 PM UTC
With our passion all spent they would have us repent our consent
with blind zealotry they refuse to relent opposing our mergence
so when curing prurience leave one percent of passion unspent.
As we share these moments and begin our physical ascent
be aware that they will not capitulate in calling for our penance
with our passion all spent they would have us repent our consent.
Remember this simple covenant in order to circumvent
the condemnation of our actions as unforgivable flagrance
so when curing prurience leave one percent of passion unspent.
In these sheets we have long forgotten the virgin's lament
because the silent weeping is drowned out by our cadence
with our passion all spent they would have us repent our consent.
By our mutual pleasure we have earned their unrelenting resent
and we are endlessly castigated for our lack of temperance
so when curing prurience leave one percent of passion unspent.
The cries of fanatics prove their opposition to be hellbent
they would prefer that we endure the torment of abstinence
with our passion all spent they would have us repent our consent
so when curing prurience leave one percent of passion unspent.
Jan 26, 2012
Jan 26, 2012 at 9:01 PM UTC
subtle and solemn undertones
she’s becoming a no-vac mom
stars and pyramids have fates
designed for each of us,
schemes and snake oil posing
as natural herbs and curing
the werewolf of decaying intellect
the true nature of blissful ignorance
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 6:17 AM UTC
Another prophet who got his top knocked off,
this system’s toxic thought we’d found hope but lost it,
Nipsey Hussle shot down outside his clothing store Marathon,
live and die in LA grow up only to get shot down on Slauson in Compton,
and the irony is that he was taken out,
in the same neighborhood he had invested in,
from Proud2Pay to AfroTech Nip was a Community Activist,
in a system of force fed poisons he was medicine,
and maybe that’s why he was martyred,
just like MLK Tupac and Marley,
this is all real life in living color,
life’s not a Game but this is The Documentary,
every word true,
I mean do you,
think it’s just a coincidence,
that Nip was murdered when,
it was announced he was about to come out with a film,
about Dr. Sebi,
the herbalist,
who was also possibly murdered when,
he went public with claims of curing AIDS and other illnesses,
nothing random about this act of violence,
it makes so much sense when you think about it,
nothing senseless in the message,
I mean seriously think about it,
MLK shot on 4/4 at 39,
NIP shot on 3/31 at age 33,
why do the most violent things happen,
to the brothers that preach the most peace,
it all makes sense everything adds up,
but most will probably dismiss this just as another conspiracy,
I mean I guess it doesn’t matter ‘cause nothing will bring Cuz back,
RIP NIP Rest in Peace Nipsey another brother gone to young at 33,
and it’s all so eery it’s creepy,
all the above evidence plus,
“Having enemies is a blessing.”,
was his last tweet,
as the words of his last sound sit in my ears as they ring,
**** I wish my n!gga Fats was here,
how’d you die at 30 somethin’ after bangin’ all them years,
Grammy nominated in the sauna shedding tears,
all this money power fame and I can’t make you reappear.”…
RIP NIP
∆ LaLux ∆
LA 2019
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 7:27 PM UTC
There is no end to this madness
A world without a heart
This place that we're called humans
Yet humane we are
We're not
How can we let it happen
Our rulers play us games
A risk
A lie
A maybe if
To let our children blame
So stop the bombs and scrap the bullet
It's us that make them all
Instead lets work on feeding life
And curing all the poor
It's us that turn our backs away
Yet yearn for news in frenzy
See breaking news and nod our heads
I am a prole
It's crazy
They fly around and tell us
To work and love the rules
When war is near upon us
We follow
Who's the fools
Why can we not talk peace again
Unite the world as one
Religion forms
Yet money rules
Where has the love all gone
I only want a peaceful life
I only get one chance
Denounce the rich and share this love
It's time we took control
Let Syria
Have a chance
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 1:15 AM UTC
The death angel
The death angel makes her rounds through the rooms of the dying, She lays her hands on them and prays for them, tells them Satan is only lying.
She feels so good inside like she did some good deed. She feels like she curing the dying, curing a need.
She goes home to her family believing that she did something good for God. Husband, children at the table, smile at her, and nod.
She cannot feel true love for she is a narcissist. She buys, she lies, she prays, what she does best.
As she makes her way through each and every ward, making beds, sweeping away dirt, telling the dying to pray to the Lord.
She tells them they can be given a new breast, a new lung, a new leg. Little does she know or care that that their graves others will soon dig.
It's been said that people that don't know they are fools are rather sad, but this death angel is truly bad.
She tells people that have a year to live or less, that they can be made whole again if only to the Lord they confess.
She visited me one year ago and lay her hands on me, she said I would be healed that day and spend my future in eternity.
As time went on, I got worse, to the point of my last breath. That is when she finally came back around, that sweet Angel of Death.
The Angel of Death gets ready to make her rounds for tomorrow. Never in her heart feeling an ounce of pain or sorrow.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 8:56 AM UTC
insane+im+deranged+it+is+kinda+strange+i+need+the+money+like+every+day+oh+cleshay+got+the+9+now+yippie+yi+yay+in+her+dam+mouth+stop+it+bitch+save+it+for+the+nose+expose+your+skull+to+the+purest+form+just+say+mc+cay+need+the+cain+like+my+ears+need+Yay+Yeezy+got+the+beat+in+repeat+my+awareness+of+life+is+phenomenal+taking+out+Empires+like+a+beast%2C+Holy+One+Son+of+Sons+walking+with+the+Father+then+we+start+to+run%2C+runnin+game+on+the+world+dominating+taking+wills.+Feel+the+pain+and+pleasure+at+the+same+time%2C+spittin+mad+lines+rolling+in+at+right+times%2C+with+the+blunt+smoiking+aces+mind+i+am+curing+like+the+herb+everyday+im+high+what+a+celebration%2C+speaking+to+the+Lord+I+adore+more+than+any+inpiration%2C+be+aware+that+I+know+what+I+speak%2C+how+can+man+fall+so+far%2C+but+still+be+brought+up+like+a+Holy+Beast%2C+Lord+of+Armies+yes+he+guides+me+mind+is+Divine+among+all+others+they+will+mind+me%2C+as+im+mining%2C+minning%2C+tah%2C+da%2C+mining%2C+mining%2C+tah+dah.&oq;=m+insane+im+deranged+it+is+kinda+strange+i+need+the+money+like+every+day+oh+cleshay+got+the+9+now+yippie+yi+yay+in+her+dam+mouth+stop+it+bitch+save+it+for+the+nose+expose+your+skull+to+the+purest+form+just+says+mc+cay+need+the+cain+like+my+ears+need+Yay+Yeezy+got+the+beat+in+repeat+my+awareness+of+life+is+phenomenal+taking+out+Empires+like+a+beast%2C+Holy+One+Son+of+Sons+walking+with+the+Father+then+we+start+to+run%2C+runnin+game+on+the+world+dominating+taking+wills.+Feel+the+pain+and+pleasure+at+the+same+time%2C+spittin+mad+lines+rolling+in+at+tirght+times%2C+with+the+blunt+smoiking+aces+mind+i+am+curing+like+the+herb+everyday+im+high+what+a+celebration%2C+speaking+to+the+Lord+I+adore+more+than+any+inpiration%2C+be+aware+that+I+know+what+I+speak%2C+how+can+man+fall+so+far%2C+but+still+be+brought+up+like+a+Holy+Beast%2C+Lord+of+Armies+yes+he+guides+me+mind+is+Divine+among+all+others+they+will+mind+me%2C+as+im+mining%2C+minning%2C+tah%2C+da%2C+mining%2C+mining%2C+tah+dah.&gs;_l=s
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 6:26 AM UTC
A bill becomes a law through a process not unlike wet clay curing in the sun, seasonal labor filling the fields in springtime, a drop of sweat absorbed thirstily into a towel, a stain spreading across a tablecloth.
A bill becomes a law eventually, but often, not in time. A bill often fails on the floor, as do some people, as does, just as often,
the attempt to revive them. The attempt looks an awful lot
like a senator's face, energetic and gray and doomed and
looking for any advantage
when the needed advantage is in the ether
and still immaterial until the tenth of February.
I notice the bumper stickers, and I've deputized a Google Alert
to tell me that the popular mass is wakening.
I can also tell when it yawns,
or prods a rib for a pain that wasn't there yesterday.
I can tell when the popular mass has slept funny.
I can tell when it would rather not wake up at all
but the light is streaming in through the window
and the house is full of the sound of the dishwasher.
Pain on both sides, in both ribs, ignored
because sometimes it just happens - pain,
that is - and is a part of getting older,
like how you can't put peppers in your chili anymore
now that they don't grow on this side of the planet,
and there's nobody left to tend them.
I would like somebody to tend me, too,
but the law that sanctions that workforce
is still in committee, and mired in a dispute
about who deserves love.
This one goes out to all of those lying on their kitchen floor
once everyone is out of the house, lifting their legs and placing them on the countertop, listening to their heart ticking
and trying to discover if it reaches everywhere, if they can hear it
in their ankles.
This one goes out to their savings accounts and their kneecaps.
Here's hoping they make it.
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 4:08 PM UTC
My thoughts are running wild
but they cannot go anywhere
because those fishermen have spread their nets
all over my mind
catching them
roasting them on fire
and curing them in salt
for their long winters
and it's too late when they discover
they are feasting on poisonous thoughts
Mar 11, 2012
Mar 11, 2012 at 12:02 AM UTC
Balm for Your Soul
Every feeling is real
It is new but effectively true
Now track my every wreck
This vital virtue could not control by any rescue.
Feel my ultimate jealousy
for your standing by others end
whether he is your friend
I just want a walk, hand in hand with you.
You are irrestrictive elusive
you are not here yet luring
Fast stimulation for your curing
Violent-nascent, hollow-shadow, hard to spend moments few.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 6:14 AM UTC
oh how we worship the pretty people
despite them being the source of so much evil
and lust to be just like them
we find so much ******** believable and think each of them a gem
the glamorous, the beautiful, the ****
"did you see the new tweet? after the show I hope they text me!"
we follow them through the movies into their church steeples
hollywood and all it's heights of it's anointed peoples
the magazines are their bibles and we hold none of them liable
for the lies they've told or the lives they ruin being unreliable
with every story they're spinning
they want us to believe they're "winning"
marriage, divorce, wife number three
new baby carriage, move to the golf course, life under palm trees
remain calm and know things are always ok if you can sing and be pretty
I pity the soulless with hot faces, no social graces but lots of *** in the city
and we love their scandals we can't get enough
every news stand proving america has more than a crush
on the movie stars, on the models, on their cars, on the rush
of thinking we could be them if we just got a new nose and a tuck
who put Brangelina's kids' new brother on every magazine cover
but never the military heroes who live to protect you while they duck for cover?
**** the sheep who keep the weakness in our families
who want the news filled with the new runways fashion and grammys
instead of the problems that need solutions and what real life should mean
we need action and my reaction is to lift the small faction of thinkers up to be seen
we need a cause to cut loose the famous like weights and hate their **********
ignore the models, shun the actors, pay the teachers, appreciate the surgeons
being pretty is a gift not a skill
being hot isn't exactly curing cancer or healing the ill
but we still want what we can't have, much worse than reality
another prada handbag under the disposable christmas tree
them or us, I don't know what's a worse diversion
I guess I'm just not pretty enough to be a "real" person
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 1:03 AM UTC
If dark is so bright and so pure and so naive,
Then dark is what I want,
What I want and desire,
and suffice in me,
What I want to cure my crave,
Through the curves of innocence and words unspoken,
Through the politeness of the laugh,
The words and works of the purely courageous,
The big hearted and lovely person you are,
And where to start and what to say of the love you share with the doomed in ways,
The curing and healing by your starring eyes,
The glare of that wondrous smile,
A wanderer in the race of players,
The guide I wish I could steal,
That perfect eveything that you carry,
In the treasure box inside your peels,
Inside your peels, Inside your skin,
Is an angel poured from Lord’s brim,
A pretty soul, A stupid chum,
The thing I have fallen for is the cherubin’s grim.
What beauty I speak I wish I could show,
Coz every time I see you,
I see a world of Jovial.
Jan 9, 2019
Jan 9, 2019 at 1:12 AM UTC
I imagine your DNA replicating hundreds of times
per second. Imagine mitosis exponentially repeating
itself and a billion trillion of you dividing
and multiplying inside of your own body
logarithmically jumping by extremes and simultaneously
dying as fast as you're made. There is not one cell
in your body that was there seven years ago
there is not one cell in your body that is not
resisting DNA mutations caused by your smoking,
you could have had cancer by now, but I watched a documentary
the other day and they are curing cancer with ***
There are doctors out there saving lives and I
spend my time trying to figure out if I am capable
of love. I don't know the truth and can't lie.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 5:40 PM UTC
I thought this was natural
Born within us
As children our minds are read
Instructions printed on a page, we figured;
Someone was there, with the medicine
Curing each desire, and whim
Leaving that realm
We realize,
To love one another, such a difficult task
To treat each other with respect
Easier to hide behind a plastic mask
To work hard in difficult times
Simpler to deceive and take another bite
Looking too hard
& Waiting too long
Grows tiresome
We ignore the red flags popping up left and right
We want it to be so right and so true
Blinding ourselves and blaming each other
We're never going to get what we want under such weather.
There's emptiness in our minds and vacancy in our hearts
The voids are parasites grasping for more and more nutrients
Neither are fulfilled and death is approaching
The heart is beating slow, the lungs are quivering in smoke and the mind is in a fog
Never to reach solace, lost in a universal smog.
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 2:16 AM UTC
I could have come Goose stepping through that door on eggshells
With an anchor in the old ways, and the wind of change in my sails.
the crux is; decide what you want foul demon,
I can shield you from the fire or burn bright to show you the way,
but I will never burn out and I will never blow away.
So go snare some other paradox boxer
or lay in the brier patch of tangle choice
you once forced into my sides.
I do not permit you to handcuff your heart to my wrists,
and the baggage? Can stay at indoors.
The persistent demand of my presence pushes me into the love affair with the lies I tell myself that make you bearable.
I make no apologies for my vacant smile,
you bought my body not my soul.
And the clocks and deadlines made me to fix a do not disturb sign on my mind.
With the ultimatums delivered to me ear-trumpeting the feelings that already echo in my diminishing proud walk,
The spine slump didn't take long to take hold.
These are not poses.
This is who I am,
or at least who I used to be,
Or at least who I should have been,
But for the game of Chinese whispers Played with champions of the rumour mill and the ghosts they've created.
Removed from the hiding places are the scars and the tumours, I've been curing them in the sun.
If you came to me looking for a hero stance and a place to live at the foot of a mountain called meekness, then I will let you down.
I was bowled over by the crud slides long ago,
And now like all great insects,
I've wriggled free of the muck,
Striving out from under
more like Frankenstein's Monster
thriving in the thunder.
And making an exit,
whether you like it or not.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 4:58 PM UTC
We are the people we are
Far from the people we should be
Humor makes up the difference
In every uncomfortable instance
Humor I must know
To soften the blow
And make life enjoyable
Humor is always employable
Negativity carelessly creeps
From somewhere deep
I feel tragedy
Grabbing me
I must rhetorically escape
These problems will deflate
Once I receive a joke
After taking a ****
With familiar folks
We're all somewhat stand-up comedians
In front of our friends
The pros have no way of seeing them
So specificity we lend
It can be trite and true
Or bright and new
Curing the blues
To help get you through
To keep from constantly imagining
The endless amount of tragedy
I must have a sense of humor
To ignore the hectic rumors
Or the life ending tumors
Or the treacherous suitors
My only tools are words
And all my words are tools
Turning sages into fools
If they want to bring me down
My words can steal their crown
The albatross around my naked neck
Is my greatest source of comedy
Adding perspective to a stacked deck
Turning drama into Dramamine
Putting on a mask like Halloween
When the darkness follows me
Humor keeps me from wallowing
In my own self pity
I'd rather feel giddy
I hate myself so much sometimes
Humor can help remove that grime
Not getting rid of it completely
But not letting it cut so deeply
It's the only thing that can treat me
When life decides to beat me
I respond by feasting
On pain
And ******** out harmless humor
Which drains
The sensation of being a loser
That feeling you get when your friends laugh
That feeling you get when your friends clap
Like violent gunshots in the distance
Humor alleviates the agony of existence
Mar 17, 2018
Mar 17, 2018 at 2:39 AM UTC
Walls were pressed and hammered
Therapy for workers, curing pangs of comforts
They sat between fleshy webs of knuckles
On lunch break they would pluck pouts of moldy fruit
If only she could hear summer of 98’
Glimmering puddles and sinkable reasons
She could test her strength with Goldfish and a drippy, chocolate cupcake
Matching deserts of skin covering joints young enough to bend
They spat against another, sweating. Tapping
Smoother than honeymooners in a convention center
Frigid or uncontrollable, no one could tell
The breezeway connected teeth, the left chipped in the corner from
A muddy softball game. Their team won 7-2.
Wide enough to squeeze uncooked macaroni shells between
Became the dusky neighborhood game.
Transitioning humans, males most likely, whispered fears between that gap.
He was different. He waited in outside the doors, near the trash bins
With grumpy janitors, muttering, “fuggin’ kids” and things like that.
She loved how ugly they were then.
Her thoughts trailed him, what was left of him, as he paced
Searching for the mug he left there, no
There, holding wet tissue, no
Soggy cupcake liner
Cupcake, shortcake, cake, cake liner
Rainbow or musty brown from 346 degrees Fahrenheit
Baking Therapy Class held in her kitchen
Maybe because she could pound at the dough and it would never fight back
She neglects the finale of rumbling coffee exhale since she knows
He’d never come back. Not here or any party she threw.
But on another hard drive she saved photos of September 20th.
She’ll flip mindlessly through a Cosmopolitan, until she can forget his name
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 2:01 PM UTC