"delicateness" poems
I remember when the photos treated Sam kind,
and yet on the late nights (coffee, gin, cigarettes, the like) --
instead of relaying stories of interstate thighs,
instead of talking in fistfuls and mouthloads --
he spoke of internet ***********
Me, Greg, and Greg's cousin who was named after
an Eastwood western would sink the sofa.
Sam would go through the bottles, and he spoke of
internet *********** with complete delicateness.
"Their eyes always get me. The way they stare into the camera,
and every once in awhile, the veil comes down. You see they
don't want to be there. You see an eager, teenage **** reflected
in their black pupils. You see her quivering lips.
You see the ritual. It's heart-breaking."
Sam would rub his forehead -- carved by time.
Greg would ask how the real ladies were treating him.
Sam never answered.
Time made deeper creases in Sam each day,
behind a closed door,
in the secret hours,
all to the glow of a laptop screen.
He had given his love to the distance
in the **** actresses' eyes.
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 4:31 AM UTC
It seems that every time
I'm with you,
I feel inspired.
And of course,
with inspiration
comes the utmost desire
to do the one thing
I love greatest;
and that,
is to write.
But how do I write,
when words can't even
begin to describe
the way you play the piano?
Your gentle fingers
stroke each key with such
delicateness
and I want to cry because
your hands could never
cause harm the way
mine do.
How do I write,
when not even the
world's greatest camera
could capture the beauty of
the nighttime sky and
all the other outside wonders
that look so much more
radiant when I'm walking
right next to you?
A poem cannot justify
the fact that I used to
stay indoors when it
poured down rain
because I was scared
of getting wet.
But with you,
I'd walk through
a hailstorm
and that would be
completely fine
with me.
To be honest,
it should scare me
that a girl who
loves words could
be so speechless.
But I am fearless
because being with you
has taught me that
sometimes
I don't need to think
and I don't need to see.
I don't need anything
but my heart,
for every pulsing beat
will tell me what to do.
And now,
as I frantically search
for something to say;
an incredible form
of literature
that would take your
breath away,
I realize that
I don't need to.
Because
how do I write,
when not even
the smartest human
on earth
could explain how
when I'm with you,
my demons turn into
angels?
I need not say more
because sometimes
words just aren't
enough.
So hopefully one day
I can close my mouth,
open my heart,
and show you that
I do indeed
care about you,
too.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 12:19 PM UTC
I adore the crispness of an apple,
Thin, breakable skin
Encasing **** flesh,
Hiding danger in small doses.
Its dewy, red skin,
Could ****** anyone -
From Eve to Snow-White.
A bite and you're done for.
It's a dangerous fruit
To get from a stranger.
A witch in disguise,
An old lady,
Or God.
But you?
You didn't offer me apples.
You offered a single pomegranate,
Hard to crack open,
But hides dozens of nectar-filled seeds.
A single one won't do the trick,
So why not have some?
Just a little.
You?
You opened it,
Wide and inviting,
And watched me get
Addicted to the unsuspected,
To the soft and juicy insides.
You?
You watched me count the seeds,
Almost obsessing over
The delicateness of each one.
Blessing you,
Praising you,
Before biting into one seed,
Or two,
Or a dozen,
Or ten thousand.
And I?
I followed the pomegranate's many, many seeds
Feeding and feasting
Right from your hands.
Finding pleasure in the poison,
Innocently falling captive,
Taking the bait,
As you march me straight to hell.
It was too late when I realized,
Apples are for witches,
Pomegranates are for worse.
Sep 18, 2020
Sep 18, 2020 at 4:10 PM UTC
In the eyes of the girl who sat laughing in the corner of the room,
not worrying what the world thought about her,
captivating the world with her sincere personality,
unfolding her humbleness,
letting her guard down for all she could offer,
building no walls of defense..
letting the world watch her and clench their lustful desires on her ,
mesmerized by her inner beauty,
you quench for more of her delicateness,
sparing no innocence for her cries,
violently abusing her fragile soul,
Now what's left of her is an endless vulnerability to fear and hatred,
Traumatic nightmares, permanent scars,
The worst part is you live everyday of your life with no slight regret,
not a glimpse of guilt,
Now she's left only with bits of herself, drying her tears every night as she pick up her leftover faith she has to painfully move on in this cruel world, without a single justice of her suffering...
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 3:06 PM UTC
Let's make these fingers play,
Across eighty-eight keys of wood and ebony,
In perfect, scale, rhythm and harmony.
Decipher the dots and dashes,
And break all the rules,
once you know all the clashes.
You could learn,
From the masters of this game,
Probably Beethoven,
Who played it with honesty and power;
Or Chopin,
Who played it with delicateness,
And poetry;
Or even Liszt,
Who played without hesitation,
And to woo women;
Or Rachmaninoff,
Who used his sizely hands,
To the fullest,
Using clean moves and precision.
There are many masters of this game,
But I promise,
It's the only game which will keep you,
Entertained.
Till the very end.
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 11:56 PM UTC
A woman receives a blossom
of the one meant for her but once.
But I, like heroine of ages past
have not one love but two.
Just as a mother loves both her children
but in differences and personality
so do my loves vary so
like the flower and the ****
The **** feisty and strong in nature
blooms from the cracks in broken roads
unwilling to die or burn from the Sun's heat
beautiful to no other eyes but mine.
It grows in the roughest of spots
and yet your appeal blinds me
the hardy soul who touches mine own
yet a flower be you still.
Daffodils, daisies, beautiful and stout
The other a flower of delicateness
thin little petals unfurling in a ***
nature at its most gentle
to be easily torn and ripped to shreds.
Beauty is obvious in truest form
much love is needed to keep you well
the water of the heart dribbling from the brook
to make you flourish.
Can I not keep you both to me
to keep your loves in my vase on the window
to display all those perfections to the earth
and to keep you both in my arms?
No, it will never be so simple, will it?
So I must choose to survive
I know not to choose rashly
but, conflicted of mind, I stare deeply into the garden...
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 4:16 PM UTC
Can we live without leap seconds?
{Leap Seconds are added to our clocks to compensate for the earth's
s l o w. I n g rotation.}
I'll hate to see black and blank dim excuses of memories- instead of a full dinner table, silverware ready for the hands and faces I like too much.
Your skin on my skin on sleepless autumn, winter, summer nights.
The very first time I saw your front teeth peeking from the very middle inside of your pale cherry-bitten lips.
The kind of hug where I feel the steady, brave heartbeat of dad, the delicateness only mothers can muster ; women who love us unconditionally even if there is nothing. She seeps this delicate ness between homemade sandwiches of jam and whatever you would lick off your fingertips.
If this is all the time we get, please don't ever take it away.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 7:04 AM UTC
*He is a delicateness
a tender beautiful mess
He is the softness of
the papers of an old book
He is that forgotten wetness
of shy kissed lips
He is that sudden leap in her heart
when she smells rain
He is all those tiny things
unseen and untouched
Believe me he is
all that I have touched and cherished.
He is the emptiness
of a broken summer's moon.
Believe me he is.*
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 11:45 AM UTC
What the seamstress held,
Was still lacy, yet.
It was that from inside
her small frayed chest:
A heart, being stitched
With delicateness.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 4:16 PM UTC
The first time I saw you, you we were 18 years old and you were in jean shorts
You said I had cool hair and we agreed to start a band.
I thought you were so hyper and that we could never have a sustaining friendship.
But life's funny like that
You told me of your dad
Your hyperness; My sombreness
Our delicateness; Our humaness
We are girls too big for this world
And the thing is:
we didn't start a band
but as we go through life we'll always have each other's hands
Because we're scared as hell
And you might have forgotten all the things you used to love
But I'll be there to remind you as we're growing up
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 9:50 AM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
Take A Walk with me on the Seaside,
with an Ouce of Delicateness and Such Divine Beauty,
The Place to truly Fall in love,
To Take hearts into the Heart Of brazil,
And Marry without thinking twice about your Brilliant Decision,
Cities where jesus is the most prized possession to Happy Lives,
True to their Lord and savior,
Pretty Women at Every turn,
Rio,
The city i love dearly,
And wish to Explore and gaze Apon the Glorious..
...Copacabana!!!
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 8:40 PM UTC
A month.
That's all it took.
To turn these once
delicate hands into
calloused, mangled,
limbs.
Overworked and exhausted.
But when you flew in to stay the night
these calloused, mangled, limbs couldn't help
but
want nothing more than to touch your
smooth,
scarred,
velvety
soft,
skin.
Like toffee, it is.
The color of mocha or lightly tanned leather.
They knew,
oh they knew...
That from every touch they took
They would slowly regain their delicateness again
That delicateness they so miss...
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 7:24 PM UTC
If I told you
My past
Would you run and hide?
People tell me to wait
But, now I think it's your time to decide
Will you understand my struggles?
Probably not, I fear,
Those piercing thoughts that ******* me
When I'm standing before a mirror
I also fear
My fragility
The delicateness of my mental state
For if this goes much further
And I reveal my true state,
It's better for you to run now
Than wade too deep, then escape.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 12:42 AM UTC
Beautiful days roll by
arms tangled warmly
heart beats dance together
white sheets veil peaks and valleys lightly
a sweet mingling of delicateness
a breath drawn, a breath shared
a beautiful animal contented and sated
rose buds fallen away
flushes of pink remain,
until the lull of resting seeps in
a breath drawn, a breath shared
as beautiful days roll by
arms tangled warmly
heart beats dance together,
white lies veil lightly,
a sweet mingling of delicateness
flushes of pink remain.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:35 AM UTC
true love's kiss a wishful thing
like the delicateness of a butterfly wing
you make me weak in my stupid knees
'cause you scare me as much as a horde of bees
my love for you is purest white
but when you draw near, I take flight
I timidly tried to give you my heart
but you sat and laughed as you tore it apart
the lesson I hope you all learn from my mess
Be brave! Have courage! True love is fearless!
Mar 24, 2019
Mar 24, 2019 at 11:36 PM UTC
If you can only pertain,
or retrieve your sincere delicateness,
my love, with you,
for the rest of time,
everything revolves around us,
swarms and adjoins together,
loose yet holding,
and there again a bright star,
is a sign of our existence,
under its lowly light,
our shadows touch,
and here like hope,
like a cordial bow of a blue mannequin,
I bring my love to you:
kind, persistent, naked like an alabaster jar.
Apr 20, 2021
Apr 20, 2021 at 7:48 PM UTC
You and I; we are both formidable
But then, like the thin line between its two definitions
We both live in each other's opposition
You.
You always had this grace—this delicateness and feebleness
That kind that would make anyone protect you with their lives
Not to mention the talent you were blessed at birth
The way notes would dance in accord with your fingers—how formidable
I.
My sight would always give people chills down their spines
That kind that would make you either fight or flight
With the cold demeanor I was cursed upon birth
Like how I would twist the words from my mouth.
You.
You were everything the world wanted—only more, nothing less
Can you see how their eyes would spark upon your descant?
You were a living, walking goddess upon mortals
And you were the kind of formidable one would stare in awe.
I.
I was nothing the world wanted—nothing more, only less
In how I would see the hatred in their lids at the mention of my name
I was the epitome of Lucifer incarnate, disrupting serendipity
And I was the kind of formidable everyone would want to be gone.
Us.
Yes, we are both formidable
You elegantly, I grotesquely
And the thought of us, meeting even just once
Will only be this pitiful mind's apparition.
Apr 17, 2020
Apr 17, 2020 at 12:35 PM UTC
I own every inch of myself,
my eyes, hands, and my two little feet.
I see what I want my eyes to see,
Be in broad daylight or in complete darkness.
My hands feed the angel and the demon in me,
And I go barefooted to towns and the wilderness.
I am their master, and they are my slaves.
My words give them life, and my voice, strength.
But my heart, my heart is different.
It has eyes that see what I fail to see;
It caresses the scarring skin with delicateness,
And leads me to a place where the sun never sets.
I have a heart which I do not own;
For my heart is yours and yours alone.
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 3:37 PM UTC
My Everything
I peer through
And over the ledge
To feel a world
That I cannot grasp
But I can feel just fine
I reach out
And extend my palm
To feel the delicateness
Of the atmosphere
And I greedily **** in
This new sweet air
I move over the ledge
Without exposing my covered eyes
Unmarred by my own delusions
Or apprehension
With a euphoria
Of an indescribable
Addicting feeling
That I am sure
Can only be known here
I feel weightless
And completely unbound
As I step off
The ledge to see a new
Existence below me
Enveloped in this sweetness
Somewhere between
This dimension
And the next
I welcome the foreign
Ticking? Tapping?
Feeling
On my pores
And savor the nectarous
Ringing sound of
Something not unlike bells
And only then do I
Know that it
Is safe to
Open my eyes and
Drink in my
True home
I do not know
Or care where
This world is
I only know
And care
That it is
My
Everything
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 9:22 PM UTC
My mother, you see, dresses in armor
as if war waged everyday
her mind is a catapult
her expression contours
and her teeth jeers
at the end of the day she'll say, mo wakata?
sorry mother, not today
her bones juts and creaks
her body worn from strains of life
her wobbly, crooked knees strike one another
with every feeble step in strife
her cheeks cascade like eery angular cliffs
and a crow's nest of hair, wiry and black
tumbles down her head
mother, what can I do for you?
Born in Japan
and now married to a foreign land
in hands of a backwards society
who merely acts like jesting skeptics
they treat her family as a minority
for what?
they whisper, look at her dark squinting eyes
tiny, wiry stature
and no-nonsense attitude
no, she's not cruel
she just knows better than most
but they'll never take time to look at her
or listen to her when she speaks
and at the end of the day she says , mo wakata?
I'm afraid I do not
okasan, gomennasai I say
yet grateful, I am, for the same angular eyes
wiry hair and handsome ethnicity
your iron will strives me to go farther, deeper
to explore ever crook, every
perk of what it is to be alive
I am starting to see life
with the same air of humility
yet on those diamond occasions
when your fingernails sting of dirt
and poignant flowers barricade
the cold mess beyond
a garden of delicateness embedded in every touch
and moving with Asian maternity
stone paths weaves through
fabric of nature's vanity
her love is etched within the soil
I see her stooped body
outside my window
as she tends her garden
and at the end of the day, when she says mo wakata?
hai, mo wakata, okasaan I say
life is not a battle
but the will not to wilt away
and as you care your garden relentlessly
you were, in fact, caring for me
every flower planted in soil
no matter rain or grey smoky skies
it spreads its lovely petals
and remembers to drink in the sun
even if there is not a sun
to drink in
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 5:00 PM UTC
final breaths of rain
as a barrage of sighs on concrete waves
the deadline for their journey unfinished
wails of the storm
it shrieks for children crushed
by their own momentum
wishing it could cling to its babies
until time ceased
and with it
they could stay
forever
taut delicateness
in rueful tears
vibrantly transparent
fragments rise to the ancient gestures
of golden fingers
tendrils of vaporous labor
assimilate to form a smoky embryo again
birthing another generation
destined to fall
Jun 4, 2018
Jun 4, 2018 at 9:33 PM UTC