"dabbled" poems
I bring ye wine from above,
From the vats of the storied sun;
For every one of yer love,
And life for every one.
Ye shall dance on hill and level;
Ye shall sing in hollow and height
In the festal mystical revel,
The rapurous Bacchanal rite!
The rocks and trees are yours,
And the waters under the hill,
By the might of that which endures,
The holy heaven of will!
I kindle a flame like a torrent
To rush from star to star;
Your hair as a comet’s horrent,
Ye shall see things as they are!
I lift the mask of matter;
I open the heart of man;
For I am of force to shatter
The cast that hideth -Pan!
Your loves shall lap up slaughter,
And dabbled with roses of blood
Each desperate darling daughter
Shall swim in the fervid flood.
I bring ye laughter and tears,
The kisses that foam and bleed,
The joys of a million years,
The flowers that bear no seed.
My life is bitter and sterile,
Its flame is a wandering star.
Ye shall pass in pleasure and peril
Across the mystic bar
That is set for wrath and weeping
Against the children of earth;
But ye in singing and sleeping
Shall pass in measure and mirth!
I lift my wand and wave you
Through hill to hill of delight :
My rosy rivers lave you
In innermost lustral light..
I lead you, lord of the maze,
In the darkness free of the sun;
In spite of the spite that is day’s
We are wed, we are wild, we are one.
7.1k
and as the wilderness song
turns (and loveliness)
we are gathered
we
by the spirit
we
we in the wilderness
........
dabbled sky song she
she
who remains
free
.....
remain free
.......
love!
......
love!
......
......
remaining
renamed
"seed"
we
remain in purity
in the wilderness
we sing
of
all possibilities
......
we are strong
.......
Aug 24, 2011
Aug 24, 2011 at 7:20 PM UTC
Maybe it was me, not you...
**** it.
I ain't one to
Sugar-coat the truth.
Or sacrifice my youth.
You were fun while it
Lasted.
Dabbled in my
Little thing of passion.
Became my main source of the
Madness.
What the **** you expect from me?
Better than them hoes
That just want a check from me.
But still, wasn't much that
You could get from me.
And **** it, if there was,
Still wouldn't get from me.
I'm deliberately harsh.
Say things from the heart.
Make you swear I've no
Heart.
But you was tearin us apart.
I would never feel remorse,
I could never shed a tear for you.
If you was dying from a fright,
I wouldn't **** a fear for you.
Dying here tonight?
Yeah, I'd like to hear from you...
If you wanna tonight,
I'll rush the new year for you.
Ungrateful little *****
Happy I don't have to deal with you
Could never feel for you.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 7:48 AM UTC
ROSE of all Roses, Rose of all the World!
The tall thought-woven sails, that flap unfurled
Above the tide of hours, trouble the air,
And God's bell buoyed to be the water's care;
While hushed from fear, or loud with hope, a band
With blown, spray-dabbled hair gather at hand,
Turn if you may from battles never done,
I call, as they go by me one by one,
Danger no refuge holds, and war no peace,
For him who hears love sing and never cease,
Beside her clean-swept hearth, her quiet shade:
But gather all for whom no love hath made
A woven silence, or but came to cast
A song into the air, and singing passed
To smile on the pale dawn; and gather you
Who have sougft more than is in rain or dew,
Or in the sun and moon, or on the earth,
Or sighs amid the wandering, starry mirth,
Or comes in laughter from the sea's sad lips,
And wage God's battles in the long grey ships.
The sad, the lonely, the insatiable,
To these Old Night shall all her mystery tell;
God's bell has claimed them by the little cry
Of their sad hearts, that may not live nor die.
Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World!
You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled
Upon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ring
The bell that calls us on; the sweet far thing.
Beauty grown sad with its eternity
Made you of us, and of the dim grey sea.
Our long ships loose thought-woven sails and wait,
For God has bid them share an equal fate;
And when at last, defeated in His wars,
They have gone down under the same white stars,
We shall no longer hear the little cry
Of our sad hearts, that may not live nor die.
5.5k
Ballerina stance leaner
porcelain poised demeanor
lined up for a chance at that old 500 gram repeater.
Yeah, a little firecracker,
a little fire eater.
Twiggy figure, ****** fire dome where her little wires teeter.
Excellent muse material
my ***** optics viewed ethereal
Beauty, and she knew it.
Arrogance.
Noted, duly.
Pittsburgh's resident fire ant, with a grace to match her face
And a whole crew of troglodytes racing to get a taste
So thanks Angela Chase;
I prefer the fantasy too.
And thanks to you my chickens won't be sleeping easy in their coup.
Loop Jabberwocky with Calligraphy
and dabbled in polygamy. purpose:
****** cyst bubbles to the surface.
Misinterpret the tongue touching and hand clutching,
you were baby girlie thumb-sucking
But thought more than twice about it when it came to dumb-fucking.
Pretty face: check
Depression: not yet
Appreciating phonemes, but still a nervous wreck
false carrot tops to bed, awkward with the ***** work.
Near waif redhead. Pittsburgh Boys. the city lurks
It's been a minute since the girl scouts got at me, I bought it.
Hop in the DeLorean tell Lauren that I'm off it.
Mar 16, 2010
Mar 16, 2010 at 2:47 PM UTC
My father was always one notch on his bedpost close to hypocrisy
and my mother was a couple notches shy of getting there-
she never dabbled in multiracial relationships like my father did.
You see when I was growing up
I had a crush on the little mixed boy down the street
and I was afraid of telling anybody
but it wasn't because of his skin-
but because ew, feelings. Right?
I never saw just black and white,
skin color was never a forefront
it was all just background noise-
to me it was all just gray.
There's no handbook about who you connect with
and there's no color scheme that's gonna show you who to trust.
I realized that because before I had a boyfriend
No black people where allowed at my house
not because they didn't want me hanging out with black people-
but because they were afraid I would end up with one.
Segregation was my father's second nature
and I would like to blame it on the era he was born-
even though I'm really not so sure.
And now that I have a boyfriend everything is fine...
It's like in their mind the more melanin the more sin
I'm sorry father and mother but there is no color coordination
to this thing we call life-
I never grew up afraid of colors because I loved rainbow-
I never grew up scared of the skin that wasn't like mine
just because of all the stories these white folks like to tell-
But the funny thing is
it was a white male, and a white female that molested me....
And my parents probably would've warned me
about the mixed boy down the street-
so really? who should we be afraid of?
Everyone. Equally.
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 7:50 AM UTC
But why did I **** him? Why? Why?
In the small, gilded room, near the stair?
My ears rack and throb with his cry,
And his eyes goggle under his hair,
As my fingers sink into the fair
White skin of his throat. It was I!
I killed him! My God! Don't you hear?
I shook him until his red tongue
Hung flapping out through the black, queer,
Swollen lines of his lips. And I clung
With my nails drawing blood, while I flung
The loose, heavy body in fear.
Fear lest he should still not be dead.
I was drunk with the lust of his life.
The blood-drops oozed slow from his head
And dabbled a chair. And our strife
Lasted one reeling second, his knife
Lay and winked in the lights overhead.
And the waltz from the ballroom I heard,
When I called him a low, sneaking cur.
And the wail of the violins stirred
My brute anger with visions of her.
As I throttled his windpipe, the purr
Of his breath with the waltz became blurred.
I have ridden ten miles through the dark,
With that music, an infernal din,
Pounding rhythmic inside me. Just Hark!
One! Two! Three! And my fingers sink in
To his flesh when the violins, thin
And straining with passion, grow stark.
One! Two! Three! Oh, the horror of sound!
While she danced I was crushing his throat.
He had tasted the joy of her, wound
Round her body, and I heard him gloat
On the favour. That instant I smote.
One! Two! Three! How the dancers swirl round!
He is here in the room, in my arm,
His limp body hangs on the spin
Of the waltz we are dancing, a swarm
Of blood-drops is hemming us in!
Round and round! One! Two! Three! And his sin
Is red like his tongue lolling warm.
One! Two! Three! And the drums are his knell.
He is heavy, his feet beat the floor
As I drag him about in the swell
Of the waltz. With a menacing roar,
The trumpets crash in through the door.
One! Two! Three! clangs his funeral bell.
One! Two! Three! In the chaos of space
Rolls the earth to the hideous glee
Of death! And so cramped is this place,
I stifle and pant. One! Two! Three!
Round and round! God! 'Tis he throttles me!
He has covered my mouth with his face!
And his blood has dripped into my heart!
And my heart beats and labours. One! Two!
Three! His dead limbs have coiled every part
Of my body in tentacles. Through
My ears the waltz jangles. Like glue
His dead body holds me athwart.
One! Two! Three! Give me air! Oh! My God!
One! Two! Three! I am drowning in slime!
One! Two! Three! And his corpse, like a clod,
Beats me into a jelly! The chime,
One! Two! Three! And his dead legs keep time.
Air! Give me air! Air! My God!
4.6k
I WOULD that we were, my beloved, white birds on the
foam of the sea!
We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can fade
and flee;
And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung low
on the rim of the sky,
Has awaked in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness that
may not die.
A weariness comes from those dreamers, dew-dabbled,
the lily and rose;
Ah, dream not of them, my beloved, the flame of the
meteor that goes,
Or the flame of the blue star that lingers hung low in
the fall of the dew:
For I would we were changed to white birds on the
wandering foam: I and you!
I am haunted by numberless islands, and many a
Danaan shore,
Where Time would surely forget us, and Sorrow come
near us no more;
Soon far from the rose and the lily and fret of the
flames would we be,
Were we only white birds, my beloved, buoyed out on
the foam of the sea!
4.4k
I thought I might be a musician
Mom couldn’t afford my lessons
My eyesight wasn’t great
I couldn’t read notes fast enough
Practicing annoyed the family
I only managed last chair, 2nd violins
But still
I got to play in High School concerts
In shiny dresses with glitter in my hair
However
I haven’t held a violin in years
I loaned mine to a Bluegrass band
The leader died - and it was gone
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
I thought I might become a dancer
But my fingers can not touch the floor
I couldn’t kick much higher than my waist
Choreography was hard for me to learn
I had the stamina if not the skill
My partner wanted someone else
But still
I danced on stage in a college play
And Morris Danced at the Old Globe Theatre
However
I’ve forgotten how to keep the beat
And all the dance floor moves I made
I’m too self conscious now to try
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
I fancied I could be a singer
I knew the words to all the songs
And I could keep the melody in tune
But I had a voice with no vibrato
And the quality was thin
My range was very limited
But still
I sang Blueberry Hill at a talent show
In a black lame’ dress and surprised a few
However
I couldn’t get the hang of harmony
And found I fit best in a choir
My family wouldn’t hear my solos
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
I thought that I was born an actress
I practically got that one right
I had a lead in an Ibsen play
And toured the state with Macbeth
But Hollywood was one big casting couch
And I could see no way around it
But still
I got to be on TV shows
Winning games and merchandise
However
I sold the Firebird Convertible I won
I needed rent money more than a car
And rules allow you only three shows in a lifetime
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
I always thought I was a poet
I started young and never stopped
But family ignored and scoffed
Then I got trapped inside my mirror
And only wrote when all was beak
Somebody said my stuff was dreary
But still
I stumbled on the HP website
And found a group who like the words I write
However
When I read the others’ writes
I realize how limited my skills
And fight the need to run away and hide.
∞
It seems I dabbled in all the arts
Looking for the one that fit me
And finding they all needed alteration
And I never had the proper needle
∞
Still, a moment in the sun
Is better than a lifetime in the shade
I had a taste of everything
Though the banquet was not mine.
ljm
Jul 8, 2017
Jul 8, 2017 at 12:24 PM UTC
When in Bohemia, she screams about
Her pastures green, but not too loud
So never have I known, that the world listens too
As a comedian, I see she belongs
But never conforms, to the song of
This nomad world, I'm glad she found it too
So run! She wants to run again
You vagabond, you're well-spent
Bohemian tendencies says, “you can't stay long”
“These kinds of commons, you won't ever get along”
Armenian, it’s such a release
Materialistic animosity
The speed of life has no value, like dollar signs
I loved an alien, who dabbled in art
Of all visage, enema of the heart
Wanderer, she's spent so much but there's that bliss in the air
So smile! It's all sorts of worthwhile
To see a world and not fret so much
Bohemian tendencies says, “be spectacular
Before the nebula men steal your fur”
In the Caribbean, you dream a kite
As your taxi, you can't walk all the time
Travel hills of puce-mauve sands, the world in trance
A true deviant, the thinking of
All dreaming thoughts, and loves begot
Tinkerer, what will we do when our brains run dry?
Oh, no! Don't think about the end
To love a life in due pretence
Bohemian tendencies says, “think fair, live now”
“The world is watching with distaste of time in doubt”
As a chameleon, should she go alone?
The world is cold, except for times in colour
Her world in dance, she'll do without me
When in Bohemian, the first I've seen
Of pastel stencils through her happi-
Ness-tled in her loft home of the wind
There she goes! Ain’t she a lovely wing?
I hope she finds a world that sings
Bohemian tendencies says, “to love and to hold
But to let go, for treasures can mold”
There she goes
There she goes
There she goes
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 3:39 PM UTC
they talk down through
the centuries to us,
and this we need more and more,
the statues and paintings
in midnight age
as we go along
holding dead hands.
and we would say
rather than delude the knowing:
a **** good show,
but hardly enough for a horse to eat,
and out on the sunshine street where
eyes are dabbled in metazoan faces
i decide again
that in theses centuries
they have done very well
considering the nature of their
brothers:
it's more than good
that some of them,
(closer really to the field-mouse than
falcon)
have been bold enough to try.
4k
black bee
head first in a
hibiscus flower
waxy pollen beads
dabbled down
its gleaming back
foraging done
it shimmies out
to spy the next
allurement
darting and hovering
as it chooses its mark
close enough
to feel its pulsing whir
breeze the hair
on my arm
I hover too
allured
and unfurled
before turning to dart
through this
shimmering world
Tom Spencer © 2018
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 7:03 AM UTC
What the **** was that?
Did I go crazy for a second?
Did Joey B really take my soul or possess my heart?
Did he **** my mind or maybe did he take it apart?
I'll go with the later. He's an intellectual. He did what he could to steal it all. I don't know why I thought I could hold up against his manipulation. I'm strong-hearted, strong willed. I know now that it's not my love that could save his soul. At the same time it is, because my love is a part of all love. I should have known that if he could withstand it all, I stood no chance.
I know I care too much. I have no power to save. I can heal myself, maybe others too but I can't be their change. They have to choose for themselves. I've known that too. I guess to truly learn I had to face it head on.
But lessons learned, now I am living for me. I'm living for my destiny. What that is? Still learning. I know I am to serve. Serve me, myself, and others because that is what we deserve. Though now I know I must serve with protection. All love. Still open. My heart is saved for those like-minded. We must join together and that is how we save lives. I dabbled in lust and temptation for the last time. I will still make mistakes. Imperfection is our lives. Nothing ever again of such magnitude. Never again will I allow myself to be so tainted. Never again will I see others in such a situation. I know others I can't change but I will offer my lending hand.
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 4:11 PM UTC
Transmute from lead to gold this crooked soul.
Memories of times old create the whole.
I am unashamed to stand before God.
My spirit naked, covered with dirt and sod.
You did this to me yet I rolled the dice.
Forgot to check the trap - my fatal vice.
Dabbled with the darkened void in your heart.
Should have known it was rotten from the start.
Betrayal makes for a more grounded man.
Locking his emotions into a sealed can.
So I raise my head in bold defiance.
And slay that "God" with cynical science.
© Copyright Mr. James P Machen 26/08/2014 for viewing only. May not be replicated.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 6:58 AM UTC
On April 10th, 1846 on the ship Devonshire from Liverpool,
one Catherine McCarty, age 17 arrived in New York during times most cruel.
She made this long journey to escape the famine occurring in her native Ireland.
We don't know if she arrived alone or with family
or whether she was married or accompanied with a boyfriend.
The passenger arrival manifest has her listed a servant as the occupation she did.
Based only on her age and her name, many historians have speculated and proclaimed
that she's the mother of BILLY the Kid.
Billy's mother died on September 16th in the year of 1874.
She was 45 years old according to her obituary.
Combine the above information and we know one thing for sure.
Immigrant Catherine shared the same age and name as did the true mother of Billy.
It seems that due to health reasons, Catherine McCarty's life had gone onto
searching for dryer climate out west as a single mother of two.
One of her sons would live a full life and then fade into obscurity.
Her other son would die very young and become one of the greatest legends to ever be.
No one knows anything about the boys' father or whether they shared the same one.
Did he/they die or abandon the family? Your guess is as good as anyone's.
Catherine was a strong, independent, gregarious lass
whom everyone seemed to like and enjoy very dearly.
She earned a living selling baked goods to customers she had amassed
and by also doing much of the neighborhood's ***** laundry.
She also dabbled in real estate, purchasing what little property she could afford,
and to earn extra income she'd often open the door to her home and welcome
all those willing to pay room and board.
It was clearly shown that she could take on the responsibility alone,
as far as providing and caring for her boys.
When she wasn't earning employment, she'd occasionally indulge in the enjoyment
that every good, loving mother enjoys.
After schooling her children, she'd take them to local dances
where she was known to be one of the grandest dancers on the dance floor,
but of all the dance partners she'd dance with
there was always one she could never resist
and he'd want to dance with her more and more.
"Of all my dance partners," she told him one night, "you are my favorite one."
To see her lovingly gaze into his eyes, it certainly would come as no surprise
to learn that William Henry was Catherine McCarty's favored son.
To Be Continued
Jul 7, 2010
Jul 7, 2010 at 4:47 PM UTC
As a child I dabbled in ******
No barbie was safe from the hands of their god
Ran hills caked to the toe
Roughed terrain with neighborhood boys
They called me girl
But I felt boy
Upon later years I learned:
Dress
Skirt
Bra
Flower
Amenities accustomed to this body;
A bustling street of hormones without a
red light
Next were *******
Wild & rambling, I soon
Mastered the art of shrinking
I kissed my first boy & felt it rattle through my bones
His hair an ocean in my hands as I rose up
to the surface
Later I discovered the shared experience of Woman,
Shifting about the world as a silly metaphor
Carved fingers into mace & metal
Ankles clinking busily on a subway platform
In learning to fight
The young boy dwindled into memory and
I couldn’t sense shape anymore
Fell in and out of love with woman and man alike,
Sinking deep into salt & sand
These days I can’t help but wonder if
attraction is a mode of defense
Or that of love
These days I run hills in heels
Caked to the toe in color
--
c
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 1:11 AM UTC
the dark is mysterious
I fell fast
the way the depth of his soul
danced in his eyes
like firelight
I was drawn to the shadows
doing tango on the walls
around my desperate, desolate heart
He was daring
I dabbled in the presence of
darkness
I liked being daunted
which was honestly, surprising
at first.
© A. Leigh
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 5:31 PM UTC
Do not tie my wings,
Says the honey-bee;
Do not bind my wings,
Leave them glad and free.
If I fly abroad,
If I keep afar,
Humming all the day,
Where wild blossoms are,
'Tis to bring you sweets,
Rich as summer joy,
Clear--as gold and glass;
The divinest toy
That the god's have left,
Is the pretty hive,
Where a maiden reigns,
And the busy thrive.
If you bar my way,
Your delight is gone,
No more honey-gems;
From the heather borne;
No more tiny thefts,
From your neighbor's rose,
Who were glad to guess
Where its sweetness goes.
Let the man of arts
Ply his plane and glass;
Let the vapors rise,
Let the liquor pass;
Let the dusky slave
Till the southern fields;
Not the task of both
Such a treasure yields;
Honey, Pan ordained,
Food for gods and men,
Only in my way
Shall you store again.
Leave me to my will
While the bright days glow,
While the sleepy flowers
Quicken as I go.
When the pretty ones
Look to me no more,
Dead, beneath your feet,
Crushed and dabbled o'er;
In my narrow cell
I will fold my wing;
Sink in dark and chill,
A forgotten thing.
Can you read the song
Of the suppliant bee?
'Tis a poet's soul,
Asking liberty.
2k
She came to me at Calvados,
A single night, without repeat.
The woman of my soul’s love longing,
to consummate with kisses sweet.
She entered in my midnight room
a simple pastel shift she wore
Smiling as she bared her shoulders,
the garment dropping to the floor.
So beautiful, this child of Gonne,
to this poet’s bleary eyes.
How often I had praised, in print,
her auburn hair and hazel eyes.
I was silent, she as well,
neither keen to break the spell.
She kissed me deeply on the lips
just as the stroke of midnight fell.
Her fingers deeply in my hair
she brought me to her freckled chest.
I licked and nibbled at one ******
like a baby at her breast.
She mounted me, her Rocinante,
and slowly, we began our quest.
My Willie in warm velvet wetness
wrapped as I returned her thrusts.
In spirit, we belonged together.
In truth,she’d wed another man.
A brute who’d tried to **** her sister.
She, too, had suffered at his hand.
As we played, she bent to kiss me
sweet Celtic sweat was in her hair
In another life she’d been my sister.
In this life’s love war all was fair.
She gave out with a little cry
as she took my Willie deep.
we came in unison so sweetly
but quietly, her child was asleep.
I remember, one time, Maud had asked
what type of bird I’d like to be?
Back upon the hills at Howth
when we were young and both still free.
“I think”, I said,” I’d be a gull,
playing at the shore for free.
Soaring high above the water
taking my living from the sea.”
Now we lay here in Calvados
near the town Colleville sur Mer
Her villa was named “Les Mouettes”
For one night only, we coupled there.
It is rumored that, in the Summer of 1907, William Butler Yeats and Maud Gonne shared physical intimacy for the one and only time in their lives. He the famous Poet and Playwright, she the famous Irish nationalist.
At the time she was separated from John MacBride, but they had not divorced, being Catholic. Yeats had a belief in reincarnation and both had, at times, dabbled in the occult. See also my poem
" Making Iseult"
The child asleep in the adjoining room would be Sean MacBride, later in life a Nobel peace prize winner.
Les Mouettes is French for "the (Sea)gulls."
I have read that Yeats wrote a love poem about this night, but that it has been lost. This is my attempt to replicate that lost love poem.
I thank Patrick McFarland for helping me revise the original version of the poem. His suggestions improved the flow of the piece.
.
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 8:39 AM UTC
Lucid dreaming whilst sleeping in zero gravity
Encapsulated in the realm of Nirvana
Majestic tranquility of a pilular nature
Pilular because you have "class"
Constellation of implications,
Etched on skin
We all have dabbled in tragedy.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 4:30 PM UTC
Perched high upon this jutting cliff
The flint stood hard upon my feet
I lay with lizards and basked in warmth
As beneath the waves rose & swirled
-
Across the bay the castle walls
That stand in time & in a time
Many have been and dabbled in myths
To take the steps and do the climb.
-
Below the sea strikes on the rocks
And hides the cave where magic lies
As people wait for tides to drift
And venture down in search of quartz
-
The rolling slopes and ragged crags
Engulf the isle that now lays calm
Where once was death and battles fought
And magic brought the golden one
-
Behind my back stands Barras Nose
Who’s clash is vain with battling seas
As heat comes down and warms my soul
I lowered my head in prayer for thee
-
Whilst lost in thought of fallen foe
And knights that fought upon this spot
Of myths & legends within my heart
What was the power that turned the key
-
And waves that flow forever on
Like time can drift and so can life
Today I laid upon this cliff
And breathed the air absorbed as one
-
My eyes look out across this place
The colours that fester upon the land
From grass & rock & sand & sea
And birds that swoop in endless song
-
And those before and yet to come
Like beating rhythms within my mind
To find a place that brings you peace
As reality calls and beckons you home
Feb 7, 2010
Feb 7, 2010 at 8:56 AM UTC
My thoughts are dabbled
across the floor
My memory lies beneath the sink
with the must and the Brillo pads
I flushed my attitude down the john
I think the dog is chewing on my heart
Or buried it someplace
My understanding is somewhere behind the couch
And God, who knows where my self-confidence is
I left my laugh in the hamper
along with my shriveled grin
I think ended up lending out my pride
to the neighbor who never returns things
Oh, the cat must have hacked up on my dreams
I think that's my intelligence somewhere
between the stale Bologna and brandy
And I know that my tolerance
is strewn from the staircase
That must be my willingness
that's collecting mold
I'm pretty sure that's my perseverance
behind the broken lamp post
And is that my trust
underneath that piece of toast
Wait, I think that's my voice
crashing dishes
Or is that my happiness
that's tearing up floorboards
It could be my tranquility
that's tracking dirt in
Are those my wishes
that's tipping over furniture
I can't quiet tell if that's my dignity
or individuality under one of those shoes
Well, whatever it is, I think it's moving
There's a bunch more clutter lying around
and quite a bit more positivity that needs re-homing
I oughta think about cleaning up
but for now
I'll sweep it under the
carpet
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 12:21 AM UTC
At his face it got harder to stare
But in his truth he would glower
Into this looking glass
That looks right back
At the years of age
That washed his face
Over that disgraced fortnight
and it’s dragging scrape
What was his counted,
that ruffling came natural
In a sentiment of the innate
and the inner mechanics of his climate
Co-Walkers, he thought viewed him a cynics ornate
From then on, became perpetually discounted
Though his face got harder to look at
by its contents,
Optics inflamed
and wrinkles elongated
to his whiskers growing skyward
a striking true spruce in essence to become
Nevertheless a bedraggled authentic
Just before a flooding pooled his lids
or the dawning of his tears
Until this vanish to enhance
These characters took on relevance
Apropos of what he saw looking back
The girl, his love, the spirit inside his drive
She could see all directions, like hands on a clock,
Every hour the dialed sun would tower
Giving her all his angles,
She could anticipate all of this,
including all opposites
She could see all that
To her,
His face was not hard to stare
Still chiseled but shaved,
like polished marble glare
Her love was true for years
Opposing claims would be intercepted when asked if during she dabbled in deception
Then immediately accepted their quiz, taking near comfort as she’s done for years placing her lips closer to his eyes,
she kissed his cheek and licked his tears
Nov 23, 2018
Nov 23, 2018 at 11:08 PM UTC
**** you, and **** off. **** me? ohhh you wanna say **** you to me? Well here's a middle finger for you found this **** in my pocket, got it half price at target that is why I bought it. Who knew it would come in handy.
Our relationship is like a deviated septum because one side is always getting more than the other and if you didn't realize, you're the deviated side because no matter how hard I ******* try to give you the oxygen your heart desires, you can't open up to it. You sit and block almost all of yourself off to the world and even off to me and I've only known parts of you. A small wind casting through an open field, this is how I feel. I am the tumbleweed in every boring movie scene, gliding by just so someone will notice me, but essential to essence nonetheless. So **** me right? Well frankly, I'm tired of all this ******* because none of it consists of love making, because I don't actually know how to make love but I sure know how to **** And I find myself writing the same lyrics as Wale, I think this is what rock bottom feels like.. Because :p I :P find :p myself :p more :p content :p with :p being alone than I ever ******* have with someone else. Always stepping on toes or picking up the pieces and it's cool if you're parents are still together and you've seen love like that your whole entire life, but me? I haven't, **** I wish my parents weren't together maybe then I would be able to leave my prison cell of a room. I have seen love ripped from the hinges and thrown to the wind- like ******* Owen Wilson's nose type love. I grew up with that **** but I still love harder than I ever have but you can't tell me that you do the same because this fuckery has been my whole entire life, so I have adjusted.
I have dabbled in alcoholism, and maybe a little drug abuse, but see these apples don't fall far from the tree and misery seems to be the best currency.
So who the **** am I?
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 9:37 AM UTC