"denting" poems
MELANIN BEAUTY
She was adorable in her coffee tinted skin
Her beauty as rare as the clustering of dragonflies
Amazing to look upon like the gathering of butterflies
Through her eyes stars felt closer than ever
Her lips was as beautiful as the opening of petals
My heart paused when our eyes came in contact
I felt like i have seen the queen of all that is beautiful
The envy of every woman there is to be
She was thin tall and adorned in elegance
Endowed with charisma of an Ethiopian princess
Her smile was first born
Her beauty always suffocated the crowd
All i could see was the wonder of her skin
I have fallen under the spell of this black queen
She was a fragile treasure, the elixir of beauty
She sparkled like she was kissed by the morning sun
She was never satisfied with her perfection
Trying to fix what GOD has personally certified
Denting you to wear a skin that isn’t yours
Like sharp sand i watched her beauty sink rapidly
She was deep rooted in self-doubt of her skin pigment
Not knowing the magnificence of her existence
She never knew she was a gush of glamour
Glorious to behold and graced with melanin
Gradually she became high on inferiority complex
She became lost in a world she was created to own
Your beautiful brown body is a work of art
Dipped in black gold and coated with brown sugar
You define an indestructible uniqueness
Your black skin is a badge of superiority
Black is magical and above comparison
Black complexion is the new religion .
Nov 1, 2017
Nov 1, 2017 at 10:18 PM UTC
Antara aku dan Beethoven
Tidak ada kamu
Aku tidak mendengarmu dalam
Sonata Terang Bulan
Kamu tidak meredam dan menelan
Kesedihan, pun kepedihan
Kamu tidak memantulkan
Wajah remang bulan
Kala gugurnya di
Hilir redup sungai
Kamu berteriak
Terlalu lantang
Di malam hari
Sedang antara aku dan Beethoven
Tidak ada kamu
Kami menjalin kesedihan
Berdua saja
Aku dalam kata
Beethoven,
Dalam denting
Kamu berteriak
Terlalu lantang.
Sayangnya
Kami tidak mendengar
Jeritanmu
Kami tidak mau mendengar
Amukmu
Piano Sonata nomor empat belas,
Kuhanyutkan surat tak berbalas.
Di C kres minor,
Aku takut ia terdampar,
Opus dua puluh tujuh nomor dua,
Karena kau jeritkan amuk tanpa duka.
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 8:18 AM UTC
I once knew a girl,
back when my posture was good,
we wore matching shirts,
jeans and shoes.
She kept her hair long,
to hide jealous shoulders.
All the loud voices
didn't have a thing to say.
They didn't resonate,
hammering on doors,
denting ear drums,
enunciating mispronunciations.
I played football in times square,
passing glances and stairs,
had rock climbing races
to higher elevations.
My badly tuned feet couldn't run,
ankle bones off key.
There's a saltwater film
frosting my eyelashes,
clinging to my tongue,
holding down my yells
to the quiet machines
that toss boiled eggs in the air.
Up to their knees
in the dark left behind by streetlights,
they rolled up their pants for wading.
They lingered in docking terminals,
standing still,
becoming dust collectors.
Somehow we're all just wanderers,
citing passages we herd
in front of us like mountain goats.
Ambling across empty intersections,
walking in handstand through cul de sacs,
picking up litter from busy streets.
Books for readers wear little letters,
use big words with four syllables.
They showed me how to fence with trains,
ride red wagons down hills,
win marmalade coated cricket matches.
I never judged the typos to be out of place
(I accepted the bits they forgot to erase)
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 3:47 AM UTC
It is September and my personal fruit fly has returned
From his long vacation,
And is happily perched on the rim of my wine glass
Polity hopping off whenever I reach for a sip,
Quietly resuming his place when I set down my glass.
I can hardly resent his microscopic intrusion
Especially when I find that he and a partner have ended
Their wandering keratinous lives
And are now jointly denting the meniscus of my economy class Chardonnay.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC
; climb incidentally a towering flat
at struggling veneration's rawest berry so scarlet a holly droplet
in manifolds of sage
a sundered drooping door
i'm carefully falling porcelain sheeted hammers
languid health a protein remarkably nascent fronds spun
g,Ol
den denting vine
Dec 21, 2010
Dec 21, 2010 at 3:28 PM UTC
On the beach
waves collide with the shore,
coming from above
and slamming down
battering the sand.
As the ocean retreats back into itself
it claws the beach
and rips away its skin.
Clouds
huddle together and through sheer mass,
hue black.
Screams
bellows
and the pummeling sound of behemoths in disrest.
Tiny daggers drop from the riot,
denting the crust,
softening it.
And finally
the sand is pierced
by the feet of a hundred stampeding tourists,
failing to outrun the bullets
of a ****** in a rage.
Jan 31, 2010
Jan 31, 2010 at 7:52 PM UTC
A Familiar Wound
The doctors slit your belly
To get to your spine
And cushion the disks
That slipped from you
Like soapy plates
From frail worn hands.
I was ten when you asked me
To wipe the stitched opening
With swabs and gauze
and to make sure that
The staples would not pop
From their place, exposing you.
I bent down next to you,
My knees denting craters
Into the carpet, and cleaned off
The stapled wound running
Perpendicular to the scar
That opened up years before
To place me in your arms and hear you
Whisper my name into being.
The pills slurred your words,
Your tongue undulating lazily
Heavily weighted in your mouth,
Rolling out gracias mijo
And I blushed, realizing
What a small gesture this was
Nursing the same belly
That held me inside years ago.
Oct 9, 2011
Oct 9, 2011 at 1:20 PM UTC
Like I am treading lightly on snow wanting to leave no prints.
Like feeling my hand tense up holding a pen too tightly, and then wringing it out.
Like pouring water into a glass and seeing it drip down the pitcher’s outside.
Like the hum of a middle-letter against my teeth.
Like the words used explaining something to a stranger’s child.
Like feeling cloth on a body part that can’t feel.
Like touching my lips with a hand that’s asleep.
Like the compressed air noise before I shut the last bit of car window.
Like the hot metal radiator lines denting my skin.
Like fabric marking my cheek when I sleep.
Like the low of my back hot after a nap
Like trying to find a cozy way to lean in my coat.
Like the silence when an unnoticed heater shuts off.
Like the way dried wet-paper wrinkles and stands.
Like a tea bag set out from steeping, now cold.
Like ******* on a lemon slice, and swallowing a seed.
Like listening to filter noises underwater in the pool.
Like the screeching of a T car dulling to a rumble.
Like a sigh after a confession.
Like the sound a fly makes hitting a wall.
Like not remembering what day of the week it is out of school.
I like it.
Jan 28, 2011
Jan 28, 2011 at 8:23 PM UTC
Two rams are we, you and me.
My hooves were fresh, horns just new.
I sat on your hill, you taught me
everything, your disciple,
your Rip Van Winkle.
Your mouth was wide but
your legs were thin. You said
“I’ll leap across gorges”.
Dad, I believed you,
So sound asleep.
I watched, as you fell into
all the holes, horns chipped, denting.
Hoofs scratched, bending.
Tried, you did, to bound over me,
you broke my back; I even ducked.
Still asleep, barely.
What sort of ram are you?
Gorges don’t come small
enough for a mouth like that.
Found my own hill then, did I.
My broken back is healing now.
I am my own disciple now.
I haven't tried to leap over a gorge
yet, I'm training for the day.
Wide awake.
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 4:59 PM UTC
Where the light is almost navy,
we press our shoulders against the wall and I no longer
can differentiate between my hair and his
torso, his fingers and my cellulite.
One of us is a pin cushion
for the other fingernails, I writhe in the motion of
letters that may spell out I love you
(or just, I love your skin I love how your **** makes me
hiccup) his wall
bruises my back and gives me butterfly wings.
We adapt to whatever corner we’re touching
or have come close to denting,
confined to the bedroom not any broader than his heart.
I dye his collarbones with my hair
everything can be black but tongues, he says I should not
smoke because he would prefer if I breathed
but nobody makes me more breathless
by filling my lungs with nameless sort of things.
The shadows turn his sheets into mulch
my flesh into threads: I shift in such a figure it shall
creates twinkling stars out of everything.
He will pull me down in minutes,
when the needles stop injecting euphoria and I can use
my butterfly wings to fly up and down
onto his lap
where nobody can see that I am no longer pure.
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 7:42 PM UTC
Kenapa diam?
Matamu berisik ingin berbisik—perasaanku ini asing, mengusik—tapi kamu tahu, kan?
Kamu masih diam.
Kenapa menjauh?
Aku bukan rumah tak bertuan—aku ini sudah dirumah—tapi kamu salah rumah, kan?
Kamu diam lagi.
Kenapa mengelak?
Setiap kenangan ada di angan, kamu langsung meninggalkan ruangan—jangan, jangan kamu, tidak boleh kamu—dirapalkan terus menerus seperti denting jam dinding tua diujung jalan, kamu takut, kan?
Kamu diam lagi.
Kenapa menyerah?
Rautmu tidak terbaca, saat iris kita beradu lewat kaca.
Begitu pula dengan langkahmu, yang berhenti setelah ujung sepatu kita bertemu.
Inginku kita bertemu lagi besok pagi, nyatanya mulutmu hanya tahu elegi—karena aku maunya dia, makanya aku meninggalkan ruangan, cukup dia—rasa ini mati sebelum sempat mendapatkan hati.
Feb 6, 2021
Feb 6, 2021 at 1:48 PM UTC
Outlined in the shadows of dawn,
the vista of ocean softly reveals
a repletion of reflection across the faint musk of light.
I ask myself again if I were able to write a sonnet within
the acres of crystalline perfection,
yet all I can do
is form a mere line
denting the shimmer
of sand.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 3:14 PM UTC
**** depressed due doubts dance dutifuly
demented dawn deludes detriments
dinning during daunting dissidents
deemed disinterested daft dumb dreamer
don't **** demigods digesting disambiguations
digging down destroying discourses
dally daily doomed deranged
dragged damaged dusted
damp dark determined
dexedrine dagger
darts denting
dudes don't
do
D
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 2:25 PM UTC
I'd brake for squirrel, don't want death upon my tires
I'd brake for a raccoon, the wily bandit, not retired
I'd brake for cats, and dogs, a pet that made it home
I'd brake for buzzards too, not denting, bumper's chrome
I brake and avoid, all kinds of beasts, no blood upon my car
I broke and got rear ended friend, avoiding a grizzly bear
I guess there is some justice, the bear, took up my revenge
tearing apart the delivery truck, on a pizza eating, binge
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 12:03 PM UTC
Stare into the dark pool.
Just as you always have.
Don't forget to breathe.
Noose the air about.
And tighten the grip.
Such a taxing process.
One that leaves the mind penniless.
Charging for every emotion.
In motion.
A moving violation.
Of its own volition.
Rusted wounds ache.
A lasting impression.
Denting the psyche.
Reducing.
Inducing.
Conclusion.
Destination.
Wanting.
Jun 26, 2016
Jun 26, 2016 at 4:52 AM UTC
Sit on my stool,
Next to me in my head.
Don't ******* touch me,
Eat this quicksand.
Need to wash it down?
Have some water.
Funny feelings fight each other,
Mind can't up it's bed.
Thoughts like saliva drip from my tongue,
Words I know that can't be said.
Freaking out around my room,
Banging into walls for fun.
Begging for that wrapped feeling,
Arms, rope, I don't care,
I want the voices to agree.
But hey, it's someone to talk to.
Too many sides of a story,
Everyone lies.
You are all guilty,
If you know of this crime.
Eyes close shut dreams take me hostage,
Tortured with "what if?,
I never comply,
Let the past die,
If it's not a good dream it's a nightmare,
Go away.
"What about the prisoners sir?"
"Execute them all.
Don't need any refugees,
Denting parked cars."
Jul 23, 2012
Jul 23, 2012 at 12:30 AM UTC
I can't sleep, she said, tell me something.
"What do you want me to tell you," he asked.
Something that doesn't feel like knives, something that makes me believe that a burn can be soothed, something that doesn't sound like the way brakes screech right before the worst accident you've ever seen, followed by the gut-wrenching collision of metal on metal, like two hardened hearts trying to soften each other, but only further denting one another and spilling gasoline that ignites a fire, consuming the cars and their prisoners, something that feels like sunlight on skin that is tickled by a breeze, something that grabs my mind by the hand to slow it down, something that doesn't remind me of what will never be. I just want you to tell me something that softens the moonlight and keeps the dark parts of this room hidden. Something that will keep the sun from coming up. Something that shows me that my world hasn't stopped spinning and fallen off its axle. What do you tell yourself when you need that? Will you tell me the truth, or just something beautiful?
"I can tell you that both exist in one word I whisper to myself every night."
Then he said her name, barely audible, and her eyes closed.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 10:10 PM UTC
An old friend turning toxic,
I dream of ejecting her from this blissful vessel.
The black muck when she speaks
now splattered stains on your newly ironed dress shirt.
Moss melting the creases in her teeth:
the decorated corridor for her thoughts now a putrid swamp that once made you smile.
Brittle lashes, cracking and crumbling from icky cosmetics I always despised.
A crust forming on the electric blue eyeshadow
congealing her psychotic stare that leaves me optimistic for her slumber.
But even when in seemingly peaceful sleep, she is screaming in my dreams.
Indigo veins as floss plucking at her gums, crimson dripping down her lips and off her chin.
Her freckles denting her cheeks: sickly chicken pox amidst the blackheads.
A scraggly witches broom pressed into her scalp where her hair would be. It fits her well.
Her hands hot with hatred, concealing a secret only she could know.
She is irreversible.
Her toxicity taking ahold of me: an irrepressible poison to my past, fogging my future.
But she is not what you know.
You are blinded by this auto-pilot, and she steers me into the earth.
Every day, each minute, always breathing, in my dreams, she is the me that you will never see.
And as horrid as she is, and as fearful as I am, I pray she will return to me someday.
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC
The monster in my ribcage
Is trying to claw her way out
again
Carelessly crashing against my heart
Denting it, scratching it, breaking it
again
I didn't ask for a demon
But it's not like she wants me
alive
How does the darkness in my mind
Make its way to my chest to
abuse
In a room full of people
She always makes me feel
alone
Gripping my heart and haunting my mind
Images of dying
alone
And I guess it's no wonder
I always find drugs to
abuse
Please never ask me
If I really want to be
alive
She controls me
Shaking my bones
again
Call her a disease, call her a monster
She owns me
again
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC
waking up cold
in the middle of the summer
back aching
sheets denting every inch of skin
sitting up stiff
smothered under thin blankets
head throbbing
as the sun crawls through the blinds
it's hard to feel you now
it's hard to feel anything soft
(I miss you)
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 4:32 PM UTC
-
Strolling down the naked street,
I follow brick facades and paint chipped doorways,
listening to music from open windows above,
static to the sleeping trios
with silenced violins in cases of quarters
Whiskey bottle wind chimes
****** on the curb in high pitched sonatas
floating on waters from washed dogs and cars,
denting front lawns in tread mark stupidity
as the city pulls out the stops
Sirens join in the festivities,
out of tune with hopes for happiness,
but running red lights just the same
as envious teenagers fall from death metal
logo’d skateboards, tearing already torn jeans
While wondering why no one smiles anymore,
a yellow cab stops, the window rolls down
“Need a lift buddy?” and before I can answer,
the back window rolls down and I see her,
she pats the seat and motions me in
As the car pulls away I ask, “Where we headed?”
“To the sunset, I hear it’s beautiful this time of day” she giggles
then leaning over, she kisses me
“How was your day handsome?” she asks like a song
“Perfect now, I just love happy endings”
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 7:05 PM UTC
Forced smiles denting the slippery cheeks
Drape the unsettling naked truth.
Clumsy remarks from those long muted lips
Confirm a heart full of voids.
These holes in my curtain fall shy of sunlight,
My dreams dreaming stars on the inside,
These strings scar my fingers every night,
Driving me to sing out the pain one might
And I do not need to stand before you,
When you can just use my sight.
Jun 26, 2016
Jun 26, 2016 at 2:56 PM UTC
The situation doesn't seem to be
pleasant,
for we are both caught in crossroads
of unexpected events,
and I'll be the first to say so.
I admit that I've always dreamed
of the stars being in favor with me,
that I've always gazed at you
as if you are one of them,
and every dusk, until now,
I still stare at the sky and wish.
I wish to feel your presence---
your warm and reassuring presence
---that keeps the life in me
holding on,
that keeps the fire in me
going on,
but as I am limited by the shackles
of my own insecurities,
I will have met you at crossroads
and say, "It's fine, don't worry,"
while the fire inside
becomes not of passion
but of pain that leaves scars,
and I feel myself burning,
turning into ashes
one by one by my own
destructive tendencies.
I am burning,
dying,
but I think ignorance is bliss,
and I think you don't have
to know anything
other than these feelings
of romantic fantasies.
You could know,
but I guess you don't
have to feel the same,
because we could be friends,
still.
We could be...friends,
I guess?
I think, in hindsight,
what is left is nothing else
but bursts of awkwardness
brought upon my own
loneliness
because I am lonely...right?
I guess,
in hindsight,
what I'm left with is nothing else
but a state of precariousness,
crumbling from the vagueness
not of us
but of me, for I am unable
to make sense of this
uneasiness I feel every time
I think of you as a star
among the bright, night skies
thinking that you are actually
a star among the burning sky
that's gone long ago.
I guess,
by confessing,
I lose everything,
and that makes me lonely, right?
I think I am
feeling more than just a heavy heart
from the silence that ripped me
apart
among the lines of poetry
I expressed every single day
that will never seem to be part
of your memory.
I think I am
fearing for the day that all those lines
and desperate attempts
to feel romance are nothing
but time wasted on groundless fantasies
not even denting a fragment
of your memory.
I fear the day
where both of us wouldn't recognize
who I am
---the day where both of us
will meet on crossroads
and an inquiry will proceed
asking, "who are you,"
and the only words that will be
crawling out and reaching out
for logic and realization
among the troubled mind
with nothing else coming out
but optimistic hallucinations
are the uncertain words of,
"I can't remember."
It's not that I don't want to apologize
to you,
but I can't seem to apologize
to me
because all I ever thought about
is you,
and I thought that's enough
for me.
Dec 28, 2019
Dec 28, 2019 at 12:48 PM UTC
Volumes of uncountable notions are lurking within my brain.
Ousting like scorching flames that can evaporate the pouring rain.
Needing to let them go like prisoners breaking out of their chains.
Senseless words that comes out of nowhere like bandits raiding a train.
Hailing from far beyond my head are immeasurable yet merky words.
Incapacitating my rationality yet it brings me to a place of thinking that is about to unfold.
Restless times that exhaust me withers my mind and my wandering soul.
Entirely escaping a niche that I came to call my sanity being burried in a shallow hole.
Laughing on my own while the rest of the world laughs at me.
Only to lose more of my mentality while I hid from them this epic side of my humanity.
A portion of me is on a leash since its mostly out of control.
Denting a hardened spirit that has almost took its toll.
Burning into ashes like trees caught up in the fire.
Only to rise up once more like a **** that never gets tired.
Over this life time I have accumulated more than I could actually handle.
An exobite of entries still not enough to have me dismantled.
These are the things that runs through my head on every rising day.
Breaking this habit is like an addictive vice that shall never be out of play.
Admiring my own sense of reality while I stay in color when the world is in grey.
Yearning to make more pieces of poetry in acronyms served on a silver tray.
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 2:34 AM UTC