"diagonals" poems
I wish I could love my life and love myself
a little bit more,
fall on my hands and knees at every chance
and praise the life I lead.
I wish I didn't hate myself quite as much
and I wish I didn't recoil at the idea of my life,
the Grimm's fairy tale where Hansel and Gretel got eaten,
Rapunzel never threw down her hair
and Snow White was never kissed by Prince Charming.
The hatred burns hotter when I think of myself,
poor little rich girl,
sat in luxury in front of a warm fire,
belly full,
as thousands of kids in Africa bloat to death with paper thin limbs,
families in the Middle East are massacred and scattered across their countries barren landscapes,
innocent, too soon nearly corpses whither away in hospital beds,
sinking their teeth into whatever life they have left, clinging on.
I'm stable on the mountainside.
My family have never even seen a gun.
I haven't missed a meal in my entire nineteen years.
What the hell do I have to complain about?
My unhappiness disgusts me nearly as much as I disgust myself.
Sitting on a damp bus,
watching beads of rain rush down the dusty windows in diagonals,
like meteors crashing into Earth,
I curse.
I curse the vehicle,
I curse the safe home it's taking me back to,
the three course meal it's taking me from.
It's ******* sick.
I wish I could smile and mean it.
I wish I could love and not hate.
I wish I could love myself.
I'm so sorry for not being able to fully appreciate my life,
for taking it for granted,
for sounding like a spoiled brat.
You probably hate me as much as I hate myself.
I.
I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I
*******
I.
That's a vowel I'm going to try and use less of
(at least after this poem),
I promise.
Oh the irony.
I am not looking for sympathy.
I am not looking to be compared to a dying child on the street.
I am not asking for a single kind word.
I just ask for a bit of forgiveness.
I don't blame you if you can't seem to find any.
Just know I'm sorry
and I'm going to try.
Now.
*A
E
-
O*
U
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 4:25 PM UTC
3.14 is the value of pi
Semicircle is the shape of a smile
8 is the symbol for infinity
Welcome to quantumly formed poetry.
Expressing my thoughts through cryptic theory
End of reversed evolutionary
It might not be self-explanatory
JUST Keeping It Short and Simple, M, E.
C, L, O, U, D, plus the square of three
is all that I feel when you are with Mi
Fa, So, La, Ti, Do, Re... or I mean me
Like M, A, G, I see... my world on thee.
You are my earth that is a twisted heart
I dream to be the he beside that art
Giving his best to be a romantic
Intimating through the fields of physics.
My love for you is three-dimensional
Taller and longer than diagonals
As deep as abyss, like cosmos so wide
but unbound by space and unchanged by time.
A fire started by a Maxwell's demon
Burning and shining from here to the moon
A flame so lunar and so lunatic
breaking the laws of thermodynamics.
Faring the distance at the speed of light
Lining the night skies like a meteorite
Traversing the widths of the hyperspace
Or cross a black hole just to see your face.
Escape with luck from a magnetic flux
Be right thrice a day with a broken clock
Above all that, there's just one thing I want:
To spend my last breath by holding your hand.
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 10:40 PM UTC
One day, you'll awaken,
with blood shot eyes,
scratching at a five o'clock shadow,
even though it's seven o'clock
in the morning, and
wonder where it all went wrong. Where she all went wrong.
When the arches of her feet stopped
tiptoeing across the room
to kiss you good morning.
When the parallels of her calves
started making diagonals
when laying on the bed.
When the crook of her elbows
no longer wrapped around you
like the beautiful ribbon on the present you gave to her last Christmas.
Do you even know where that present is?
It's there,
up there on the shelf collecting dust
along with all the "I love yous"
and other promises that you stash away for cold winters nights,
when you crave her warmth,
and long to feel the chill of her sapphire-painted fingernails.
But somewhere between the cicadas of summer and the apples of autumn, you lost her along the way.
You lost the way her hair finds its way onto every surface of your house.
You can't find the way her nose wrinkles when she laughs,
even if you turn over all the couch cushions,
and look under the rug.
You check your file cabinets for the way her chest heaves when she sleeps,
and check in the pantry for the memories of her propped up on her elbows,
looking out the window sill at the rain,
But all that's left are phantoms of her amber scent,
and ghost-smiles that have all but gone stale.
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 3:06 AM UTC
My tears are--
Narcoleptic diagonals
Collapsing forward-
Motion into neurons-
Bound-by-arteries
Instead of gravity.
They find construct,
By fluorine cyclamen
And wildebeest chantries.
But to understand
Is-bygone-remorse
Made of much more
Than clovers stitches.
Needling skin into bone.
Thoughts from flesh.
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 2:47 PM UTC
On a spring day, Emelia soared through the field, like a baby robin learning to fly, running in diagonals with her hands brushing against every shrub and leaf she saw.
Mud drenched pink overalls
and a bright blonde bowl cut.
She ran like a bumble bee on a mission
to pick the freshest, prettiest flower.
Stepping over bugs and playing tag with chipmunks,
she giggled uncontrollably and was a friend to all that walked nature's green carpet, tripping over wild, wispy grasses.
She looks up with innocent eyes, beaming like two sunflowers,
"We have to share," she announced to the big tree
that resembled Grandmother Willow.
She had just seen Pocahontas for the first time
and wanted nothing more than to become a color of the wind.
The wind blew the leaves in a nodding fashion,
showing agreeance to the young sprites statement.
She whipped and whirled her arms toward the sun
as it danced on her skin through the branches of her friends.
"I want to do this forever," she squealed.
So, she did.
20 years later, the girl grew
But with a dimmer light
Weaker legs
And a hole in her chest.
On a cold night, Emelia staggered through the barren field, fueled by a magic dust that made her feel like a crashing plane
Running in diagonals with her hands
Brushing against her watery eyes, keeping them from flooding.
Mud drenched ripped jeans
and a long, shaggy haircut mirroring the bark on the trees.
She ran like she was being chased by a vicious monster
trying to find the safest space for her to vent after feeling her brain bleed from her nose and heart deflate in its cage.
Stumbling over broken bottles and playing tag with her inner demons, she was a slave to all that walked nature's casket, tripping over roots and graves, smashing against a tree.
She looks up with innocent eyes, welling with painful tears,
"We have to share," she whispered to the big tree
that resembled Grandmother Willow.
She felt an unbearable pain that no one should live with and wanted nothing more than to be numb.
The wind stopped in it tracks, the leaves stagnant on their branches, showing heart wrenching dismay to the old skeleton's statement.
She sobbed and heaved with her arms wrapped tight to her torso
as her skin danced with her shuttering bones and tightening muscles.
"I don't want to do this forever," she helplessly breathed.
But, she did.
Jan 2, 2019
Jan 2, 2019 at 12:39 PM UTC
I loved watching
your body light up
the first time
you felt me up
The medal
against my *******
sit in diagonals
painted silver
they've found the perfect home
against my soft skin
and your perfect lips
I want you
to feel them,
admire my art
and know this is not
what everyone sees
They are
lessons I have learned
in ***
and love
the more your fingertips
explore
you will learn my mistakes
and heartbreak
When your tongue travels,
you are tasting everything
I pour
into my art
and feeling
all of my humanness
you are seducing
all of my dreams
and living
in my fantasy
Give me
the touch
I crave
tie me up
in your arms
and wrap me
in your skin
kiss me
with all the colors
of fire
let me feel
your kinda love
and allow me
to give you mine.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 9:22 PM UTC
The raindrops felt refreshing
As they splattered gently
Down my arms
That loosely gripped
My half-busted umbrella.
My shoes splished and
Splashed,
Not even bothering to
Avoid
The puddles,
Ruby red of my moccasins
Dyeing the skin on my feet
As the liquid
Soaked in.
The rainwater felt cool,
But my flannel hugged me tightly,
Breaking up the
Onset of goosebumps.
The trees and grassy lawns
Illuminated a bright green,
Lapping up the raindrops
Thirstily into their wide mouths.
With no guide,
My dampened feet lead their
Own way
Down streets and roads,
Diagonals, bobbing and
Weaving
Through the city limits.
No fear, stomach dropping,
For I knew
I would find my way.
Peaceful afternoon,
Rain dancing down from
The cloud-filled sky;
I wandered deep into a
Blissful promenade.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 2:00 PM UTC
burned into the paths we tread
are these dots, big and black
drag your feet, and they are
connected but your continuous tracks
you never really cared for change
unless you made it happen
the zig zags, the diagonals, the dips and plunges
the robotic transformations
it's all lines and points
a graphic view of these phases
take it back to the origin, trace the way to the present
and pray you don't get lost in the nostalgic vines that encumber you on the way
-cj
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 8:48 PM UTC
Forgotten forests old and dark,
Diagonals of light
Ancient as the days that were
Forsaken by the night.
Oct 29, 2010
Oct 29, 2010 at 3:14 PM UTC
Doodle me your funny strokes of frog looking just like hidden Mickey
Or your princess that wears a tiara made of a plane triangle
Go ahead!
Indulge yourself!
Fill my sheet with your vertical lines
Top them up with diagonals and curves
Sketch your favorite part of her body if you wish
You can even ask Mr. Crayon to join in
Don’t stop scribbling.
Keep leaving a mark ‘cause I find your lead ****
Just don’t rub me with your rubber.
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 4:42 AM UTC
I know what it was before
it became what it is
I’m at a disadvantage perhaps
and must forget its ****** state
its absolute condition of whiteness
the purity of snow untrodden
unmarked except for the lines
woven in warp and weft
I don’t know how to look at this piece
if I had it in my hands I’d turn it about
this way that way upside down
even to lie on its diagonals perhaps
otherwise it appears like newsprint
smudged but I think for me its best
on its side so there are columns
not stories floors horizontal separators
There - now it has something of that
Annie Albers City Skyline
a tapestry seen together
on a January day you
blue-skirted with winter boots
grey-cloaked with stripy tights
a sketching bag on the shoulder
a camera in hand and I entranced
by every move you made
As though seeking an image
in a cloudscape I view a quintet
of panels on a painted screen
a Chinese landscape Han dynasty
stark trees slow fields low hills
rising to a darkening horizon then
a river flows a valley forms and I am
smitten by the accident of invention
as always my love as always
gathering myself into the pleasure
of it all dear artist of weave and print
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 3:36 AM UTC
This nearly autumn time
and a field set aside,
grassed green and partly shadowed.
Late afternoon, evening almost:
a confluence, a convergence
there of nature’s diagonals.
A house and home
hide under a darkened wood,
in the light trees stand *****
with leaves for a while yet
before those September storms
and wet October’s mists arrive.
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 12:30 PM UTC
There will be
no scheme, no rhyme, and no reason.
There will be
no rules to abide by
during the production of the artwork
intended to be presented
on the Calling Day,
when all and every
who are to proceed with the ceremony
have guns pointed at their backs
and saber-long thorns dropped,
point-first,
on the tips of their toes.
There will be
no way to tell the difference
between the lines stenciled on the walls,
which wrap from corner-to-ceiling
in spiraled diagonals,
and the blood on the carpet
sprayed out from bullet holes in the flora
that knelt below the windowsill.
There will be
no murmurs of triumph on the Calling Day,
just thoughts escaping the stratosphere
from those who will witness
the living unconsciousness.
Prayers will be
seen scattered
upon the surfaces of stars.
Our lives burnt outward
though our overcast skies,
projected up and up and up,
imprinted as shades
on that day,
the Calling Day.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 4:47 PM UTC
I remember the day we left Southern California,
Dad hurried as fast as he could
While he loaded the moving truck.
Seven hours later
We arrived in a town I couldn't pronounce
To this day I'm not sure if either of us can say it right...
I remember our new house
It arrived several hours after we did on the back of a flatbed truck
I remember the front door swinging open and slamming shut
As the truck rolled over the curb and across the yard
The house was long like a shotgun
And left us bruised
I can remember the time I ran away.
Do you remember what Dad said to me?
"If you don't want to be a part of this family,
You can sleep in the garage!"
That night I wet the bed [sleeping bag]
I remember waking up feeling cold and
Hiding myself so he couldn't see
Can you remember the days when Uncle Al rolled his tobacco
And Aunt Beulah snipped roses in diagonals?
You loved being in their flower boutique
More than I did; You hated the smoke though
But now you can't quit
Do you remember when Chris came home
Covered in blood and tried not to cry?
I do; you were to young
He said they did it because he was 'different'
I remember feeling scared.
If he could bleed like that
Anyone could, especially you
I remember that time we rode our bikes
To go fishing in the pond but never found it
We swam in the river instead and hid in the reeds
I can still smell the lilac flowers that peppered the bank.
I remember thinking how water always runs downhill
But never understood how close we were
I remember when the house burnt down.
I can smell the smoke and feel the heat
You warned me, but I didn't believe you
I just wanted to finish watching TV
I believed you when we stood on the street and watched as
Our long white house burned at one end
Like one of Al's cigarettes
I remember when Dad rebuilt the house
We never saw him
It looked the same on the outside
But the inside was different
Then he got sick
He looked the same on the outside
But his insides were deficient
I remember the back porch
Do you remember when we walked all the way
From the back porch to the highway?
It seemed so far away
We watched the cars as they passed us
I remember wishing so badly that I could go with them
Even if that meant
Leaving you behind*
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 7:48 PM UTC
At a young age they teach us that lightning looks like a geometrical line.
It's shape is a perfect kind of disaster with diagonals defined.
but when we grow up
and we're stuck in the storm
we find it impossible
To measure
A light so worn.
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 1:10 PM UTC
The soldiers stand in straight, straight lines,
ranks straight, files straight,
diagonals perfect;
white and black and every tone between,
dressed in olive green,
they are young,
they are ready.
* * *
The stones stand in straight , straight lines,
ranks straight, files straight,
diagonals perfect on the rolling hills,
every one as white as new paper,
standing in spring's greenest grass
on a Monday in May in the rain.
The people stand in huddled clumps,
spring dresses and rumpled suits
beneath black umbrellas,
the little flags red, white and blue,
the mason jars filled with fresh-cut lilacs.
The rain sifts down, and a few tears,
soft talk and memories;
then, the closing doors of cars
and going home,
winding roads and tangled thoughts
a little sad,
a little proud,
a little free.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 5:32 PM UTC
face down
back of her head
before me
the part in her hair
almost
oracular
jagged line of white scalp
a lexicon i alone will never know
i palm it and push down
activating some strange fate
and with much trembling
i carve up into her
unknown rune
lit
spell of ruin
flushed
consumes our us
the crush begun
quickened flesh fiends the bone
and wipes the faces
we wear
inside the creases of us
lies bending curses that will purge
diagonals crisscross
ivy writhing
growing bolder
a swarm of form
shape-shifting tor
torn and torn and will
no more
And we
both become
transfigured
spent
two loosed beings again
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 6:37 AM UTC
all that you are;
is all that you?
this is all that,
and that is all.
Jul 11, 2021
Jul 11, 2021 at 1:06 PM UTC
my elbows are all tangled up and jagged
and i am not gentle,
but sandpaper, rough and coarse
eroding your skin until there is nothing left
i am sharp edges and serrated knives,
cutting myself open bone to bone
i am not pleasant or a summer's eve
but frigidity and mocking stares
whenever you walk
i am the concrete beneath your feet
with holes and cracks that break your mother's back
with no colors, just grey and monotonous black and white
i am a harsh line on soft paper
all diagonals and wrong turns
right angles and cut in two
(a.m.c.)
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 7:36 PM UTC
It is trivial to question matters
Of the big and small
For within geometric progression
We find that every size has an origin
Or starting point from wence it grows
Like the spinning fractal that fractures
And divides itself into slightly altered
Versions of its original self
Yet somehow still maintaining the intricacy
That would make Pythagoras blush
As he contemplates the diagonals
That separates the stars on the grandest scales
Whereas each individual twinkle
Seemingly comprises the same amount of space
To the eye untrained to experience
A universe larger than the mind can comprehend
No,
These ruminations are trivial
Because at the heart of every idea
Lay the very precept upon which life itself is founded
Where the import of every single inquiry
Will always be
The question itself
Not just its complexity
Mar 13, 2017
Mar 13, 2017 at 9:53 AM UTC
You are too distracting.
I’ll stop to take a look. Then turn back for a second look.
I’ll stop to smile and soak in the feels.
You are too correct.
The lines. The curves. The diagonals.
The colours. The smells. The timing and pace.
Simply nothing I want changed.
There you are and then you’re gone.
I thought I saw you, but I did not.
At least I saw you in my mind even if I did not.
Why are you so seldom.
Never around enough.
Yet appearing when I’ve no time for you.
Just a little beyond reach.
Beauty my vice.
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 9:15 PM UTC
When everything goes sideways,
it's the diagonals that make the most sense,
But whether they're rising or falling -
well hey, what's the difference?
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 2:32 AM UTC