"dirtying" poems
Sometimes
when I'm lying awake at night
on an air mattress of a pull out couch
not sleeping because of the weight
of why i'm here in the first place.
I cry.
the tears stream directly onto the pillow
pulling off old remnants of eyeliner
and mascara
Dirtying the pillow
I cry because
I am alone
alone
alone fearing the darkness
what it brings
and if it will find me
the darkness
I spent so much of my life in...
The darkness I fought so hard
To get away from...
And I'm still fighting
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 3:57 PM UTC
Neglect
ing everything around me
and inside me
everything I am
Rotting slowly
unshaven legs
smelling of sweat and
lost love
*******
on top of the sheets
and my clean laundry
dirtying without care
Neglect
ing myself
and the giving
of a care
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 8:32 PM UTC
"Too many things are occurring for even a big heart to hold." - From an essay by W. B. Yeats
Big heart,
wide as a watermelon,
but wise as birth,
there is so much abundance
in the people I have:
Max, Lois, Joe, Louise,
Joan, Marie, Dawn,
Arlene, Father Dunne,
and all in their short lives
give to me repeatedly,
in the way the sea
places its many fingers on the shore,
again and again
and they know me,
they help me unravel,
they listen with ears made of conch shells,
they speak back with the wine of the best region.
They are my staff.
They comfort me.
They hear how
the artery of my soul has been severed
and soul is spurting out upon them,
bleeding on them,
messing up their clothes,
dirtying their shoes.
And God is filling me,
though there are times of doubt
as hollow as the Grand Canyon,
still God is filling me.
He is giving me the thoughts of dogs,
the spider in its intricate web,
the sun
in all its amazement,
and a slain ram
that is the glory,
the mystery of great cost,
and my heart,
which is very big,
I promise it is very large,
a monster of sorts,
takes it all in--
all in comes the fury of love.
5.6k
i walk with no head between my shoulders
setting fires with dead lighters
dirtying the lines and the condition carrying heavy in each step
and the steady ticking of my watch has become my heart
i can't recall much between coffee grounds and a pair of soft eyes and smile
things don't seep in and it has become a taught art
something tied to me; something i tied myself to
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 1:29 AM UTC
I am compelled
I do not even obliged to
In my mind I would keep the name as mıh
Eyes grow is growing
I do not know mecburum
You know me the heat.
Preparing trees to fall
Does this city is the old Istanbul
In the dark clouds are parts
One side of the street lamp is
The smell of rain on pavement
I am obliged not you.
Sometimes love is fearful dismally
People are tired all of a sudden one evening later
Prisoners to live in the razor's edge
Sometimes it will break your hands passion
How many lives are removed from a living
What if you knock the door sometimes
Humming in the back of the misery of loneliness
Fatih in a poor playing gramophone
From ancient times to play a Friday
I stop and listen to sound at the beginning of the corner
Should I bring unused gök
Week disaggregated data is available
How do I go What if I keep
I am obliged not you.
Maybe June or mottled blue boy
Ah, you do not know who does not know
Eyes hijack freighter is a desert
Maybe you get on the plane in Yesilkoy
Horripilation is all wet
Maybe you're blind, are in rural precipitancy
Wind will bring bad hair
What a time to live if you think
These wolves have perhaps mess
But without dirtying our hands Ayıpsız
What a time to live if you think
Susan would also start with the name
Order to move inside of the secret sea
No other kind will not be
I am obliged to you never know.
Attila İlhan
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 11:12 AM UTC
i thought that if i did everything i could,
you would no longer occupy a corner
in the garden of my heart,
but now i see that it’s not my decision.
love is a two-way highway,
and you keep emerging like forget-me-nots
in the spring.
i tried digging my fingers into the soil
and ripping you out by your roots,
but all i accomplished was
dirtying my hands
and making even more of a mess
of myself.
this love is programmed to be perennial,
but trust me when i say
that i don’t need you or any other flower
to make my life more beautiful.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 8:36 PM UTC
I want to tell you I could love you.
I could make you happy.
I could make you fall apart on the
bedroom floor,
helplessly and desperately proclaiming
that our love was more
than the nights of
raised arms and oceans of threatening depths.
But fifteen is an age when all of this
is just a dream,
a cliff where the jump is even more
dangerous than everyone says it to be.
Fifteen is the age when I believe,
that my hands have grown rough enough
to take yours
and maturity and age
have always been our similarity.
But fifteen is just another name for
"You're too young."
I cannot promise you that a wedding ring
would worth more than
the freedom to love the women
of taller heights and wider hips
for their lipstick is much darker
than the lip balm I use to
smoothen the dried skin.
For I do not know what it is like
to slide the glass between my fingers
and to taste the golden bubbles
freeze my teeth.
I do not know how to light a cigarette
or how to inhale the scent and death of rebellion.
I do not know how to let the ashes fall
unto the tray without burning my skin
and dirtying my nails.
I do not know how to make you want me,
how to dress and turn my curves
into mountains you wish to explore.
I do not know how to turn my tongue
into a weapon much deadlier
than the wind.
I do not know how to make you
feel beautiful.
So with all of the worlds streets, corners and
dimly lit bars,
I am nothing but a little pigtailed girl
with a lollipop in one hand and a poorly written
love note in the other.
And there you are,
as tall and as handsome as I've always seen
you as
with no time to look down,
only straight ahead.
But I guess, thats okay.
The heels would never have fit me anyway.
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 11:19 AM UTC
i'm walking down the street
bare feet, without a care
**** uber, metro, I hate public transportation,
i'm dirtying up this sidewalk, for a few years already
i'm writing down a will, in my mind, close to my eyelids,
because i'm on the wrong side of my mind
i feel sick, tasting the bitterness of humanity
when I wipe mankind on the side of the pavement,
at the very deep, there's masculinity mixed with *****
i'm walking down a bridge full of empty shells
i pass hordes of girls who are smiling insincerely
and again, i feel a boost in my veins
and again, i'm louder than mirrors
and as in the mirrors, voidness space,
and it is me, who takes the best from it
i absorb this poisoned air.
In the ears of mine, i can hear electro heat,
i feel like one man one Jean-Michel Jarre,
rain is pouring through me, sticks to me like fog,
i wrap myself in the warmth of two MDMA's,
someone glances surreptitiously and steals my soul,
you have a backpack full of cash, i have a suitcase full of emotions,
i'm going on a journey through the cursed city
like a hermaphrodite with a broken rod,
streets, like stigmas, cry with hollow screams,
in front of clubs content abortions on the sidewalk,
let's leave this lie, like the walking dead
assertiveness and pride to the gutter washed away.
And again, this booster is kindling my veins
i'm dirtier than a new jerusalem
and similar to it, i'm sticking to everything
and so I'm taking the most out of my heart
and I absorb this poisoned air once again.
and so the booster flows through the aorta
it is flooding my tarred heart,
destination reached.
and my wallet is shimmering with bitter crystal
nothing will change the course of this chemistry,
betrayed. betrayed by their own bodies
vidi, no vici, veni on its own,
and i'm catching a laugh, standing still in the subway
i am still absorbing poisoned air.
hatred.
jealousy.
i've seen enough.
today, in my city, sun rises in the morning.
you will remember this day forever or forget it for eternity.
Jan 4, 2019
Jan 4, 2019 at 4:43 PM UTC
I miss the feeling of pure happiness I got when I was able to run around in the rain and not get in trouble for dirtying my clothes.
I miss staying outside on warm summer nights with my brothers catching fireflies until we were forced inside.
I miss jamming out to "heart and soul" on the piano with my dad, thinking it was the coolest thing in the world.
I miss my grandma telling me not to roll down the hill with no shirt on because I would be itchy. (But I did of course anyway. Several times.)
I miss waiting for the heaviest snowfall, and going outside for hours to build a snowfort. (Even though we got cold and kicked it down anyway.)
I miss being carefree. Only worrying about what mom was cooking for dinner.
Most of all, I miss how much more the little things meant to me.
I long for those feelings again.
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 12:05 AM UTC
Not many tensions,
nor any excitement
Life has ever been
a placidly flowing river!
Single and free!
Over differences,
never been any disputes
never had to consult,
nor seek consent
Single and free!
but doesn’t his house
with its cold, mildewed air
reflect his heart?
A house so full of things:
a hoard of well stacked books,
exquisitely carved Victorian furniture,
antique collection of curios,
ornate drapery
Yet so full of nothing!
The prim order of the house
never disturbed by naughty hands
nor shuffled by dusty feet
dirtying the Persian carpets
or smudging the glistening floor
The well laid bed covers
never get creased
by the body’s desire
and Love’s tight embrace
and never, they bear
the fragrance of female scent!
Sometimes he would shake
from foot to crown
at a question hurled by
an unknown voice;
“Did you squander away your life?”
Then he recognizes….
he has been a lone traveler
ever walking through
a one way lane
that will wind off
with a few more steps!
If, by chance somewhere
a new track
branches out
he would no more be
a solitary *****
There would be a companion
to hold hands!
Now it is too late!
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 12:09 PM UTC
What is it, that you could want from me,
my friend?
We walk along as shape-shifters;
Flickering, ephemeral forms.
Starting a labyrinth from opposite ends,
we hope to meet at the heart.
The strategy you follow and the actions I take
will never agree though.
I know you will keep left,
and I will circle endless maps,
waiting for you to find me.
Because that is what you do;
you find me.
I need your shelter, when I’m drowning in thorns,
spiny hedges, out of shape;
twisting and curling their brambles around me.
What is it, that you could want from me,
sweet lover?
Moth to flame;
shadows to the light;
a starving creature to the scent of fresh blood;
you gaze and crave and advance,
lost in heat.
I simply lean and wait to find you wanting.
Wanting the same crazed thing every other
man wants from me.
You are of the same mould;
burn the same;
hurt me the same;
excite me the same. But that is not an invitation.
I welcome the thrill;
but I also shiver at the chill you let in as you enter;
leaving the door open to a blizzard.
What is it, that you could want from me,
lovely admirer?
I struggle to cover up my holes and gaping wounds before
you eye me.
You like my insecurity;
you feed off my uncertainty.
You can sway me like no other.
Because you have seen those weak spots under
my skin and feathers.
And you show me you like them.
You warm the air around me,
everything shimmers and is soft to the touch.
I’m safe moving into your arms until
you show me truly what you are.
Scaly, coiled as a spring, rough,
grazing and cutting my skin.
You’re a snake that charmed me into
harm.
Stop admiring me, It’s worth so little
I could be better without it.
What is it, that you could yearn for in my presence,
my love?
Long, slow days wrapped in each other.
Excitement buries itself into expectation. Into routine.
I know you’re there when I call.
I know you sense my tears building,
before I do.
I know you already understand the words yet
to tumble from my mouth;
dirtying the floor and reeking of loss.
Why yearn, when you already have been given what
you need?
Why moan and cry at my feet, hurting, when you’ve already taken
what you need?
It’s only need. It’s not desire, or dreams.
It’s physical, real, and I’m the lost one thinking it was different.
Maybe, one day my love, I’ll be the one to yearn instead.
Loud enough that it will shudder and surge through your skin.
Enough that you can give back to me.
What is it, truly, that you want?
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 7:03 AM UTC
The throbbing, consuming see
Filling and emptying, bear.
Rushing-- riptide -- ravaging, flea!
It does not dry,
It does not sate,
It serves not to berate
The pushing, pressuring sea
Cleaning and dirtying, bare.
Calming. Candor. Caressing, Be.
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 11:59 PM UTC
The last stake
Isn’t,
Then is,
Suddenly
Heavy
Rusty
Gilded in mud
Dirtying her fingers
That bend
To grip
One
By
One.
And in the moment
Her grasp
Is complete
She knows
It had
Always been
This little detail
At the end.
It’s not hard
To pierce the belly
(Right below the button)
But it’s two hands
That force it through.
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 9:27 AM UTC
What be a hero, whether men or women, cometh loud or silently?
Will to right wrongs, bring justice, suffer worldly injustice willingly?
Peace time ****** are rewarded with death, absolute law,
In war and times of flux, killing be viewed with praise and awe.
Righteous paladin challenge evil kings when others yield to tyranny...
Enlightening masses of reason, entrenched bigotry through poetry.
Father searching through garbage for his child's teddy bear,
While uncles and aunts view dirtying hands with fear.
The die is cast...beyond all, cast away to die or prevail,
***** a monument to our testament, beyond the ****** veil.
Aug 28, 2010
Aug 28, 2010 at 5:14 AM UTC
I'll pretend that the rain isn't already
falling in my chest
when you ask me to drown with you.
Didn't you know?
Or did you choose to look away?
Because when I read about the way
Virginia Woolf wrote her own
ending,
filled her pockets and waded right in,
I didn't feel pity
like everybody else.
I understood.
I'll pretend it's not really so
knife-edged
when you say that
I'm only a lie on your page.
And that that diffusion
of red and
blue,
dirtying your thoughts
is just a mirage,
the work of some crayons and pen
only you
hold in your hand.
I'll pretend my spine isn't caving in,
trying to prop me up
against the onslaught of
myself.
And you.
And him.
And whoever he is.
And all your eyes, blurring
into one green light that only seems to
fade.
I'll pretend somebody loves me.
And he isn't afraid.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 4:21 AM UTC
Mining
**************
Unsafe, Hazardous
Polluting, Contaminating, Fouling
Waste, Blight, Damage, Liability
Spoiling, Dirtying, Poisoning
Tainted, Unclean
*****************
Desecration
Jun 12, 2018
Jun 12, 2018 at 9:25 AM UTC
The world is calm and still.
Everywhere the people take advantage
Of what they already have.
Then, a virus hits the planet.
Supposedly wiping out a whole city.
Because no one dared to visit.
The residents had become
Dead and yet alive.
Deceased and yet surviving.
But only on what?
The stench, the smell,
the horrid, putrid scent.
Of rotting flesh.
Pieces of body do lay on the ground.
Dirtying the ground.
the blood has turned to dust.
Just dirt in the earth.
After time it spreads.
One person to another.
When your last you'll say
It's a rotting pandemic.
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 7:33 PM UTC
Eyes of anthracite, ignite-
Fuel for my waning spirit
Food for my hungry soul.
Her rays mirrored sunlight,
And I, a humble acolyte:
Happily dirtying myself to worship coal.
The decades of pressure
Stifling in leisure, tiny slivers of pleasure.
Harsh force of demand.
Idle gem, form of a diamond:
Unaware of her own worth.
How often, is ignorance our ruin
And ourselves, our own undoing.
To eat our own words:
How it hurts
Oct 22, 2023
Oct 22, 2023 at 4:36 PM UTC
Between the monotony of vegetable peels and
Ever dirtying water
The glint of an old friend I once held
At arm's length calls to me
The metal that once tempted me now
Whispers for my fingers again
And as my bare toes squirm
In the water that slips to the floor
I find myself unable to resist the thrill
Of thievery
That urges me to steal
My life
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 3:42 PM UTC
Sins sit on my shoulders.
At first, I think they are just dust;
I try to sweep them off with a light brush.
Then I realize they are freckles,
blankly staring at me,
dirtying my clear, alabaster skin.
As I run my fingertips over them,
I find them feeling rough
like sandpaper or cement bricks.
I try to dig my nails underneath,
attempting to prop them up
the same way I would with
an easel and a picture
or an ottoman and my feet.
They are difficult to peel, though,
and I find that it takes a great struggle.
When I finally rip the sins off,
I toss them up in the air,
allowing them to float around
as I breathe in heavily,
sighing and relaxing,
thanking God's speed.
I forget, though,
that those freckles
float and sail like nomads,
wishing to come down a couple inches
and find themselves again on me.
I flinch and sway,
trying to keep most of them away.
But I become careless after a time,
and welcome one or two over to lay.
Back again on my shoulders,
back again come my fears,
once again I must pick and pull,
once again I look like a fool.
I acknowledge the distrust
that I lay in God's lap.
I see how my promises
highlight my acts of disobey.
These sins on my shoulders
restlessly play
as my fingers are scratching,
scratching away.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 9:34 PM UTC
*Because you cannot use borrowed breath,
and move lips of another
that are pasted on your face.*
These words swam through
my mind
behind my eyes
and never visited your mind
or saw green swamp irises.
My words wear shackles;
the chain attaches stubbornly
against a cloud of nothingness,
the cloak you wear and the plume that spreads
behind you, where I am--
trailing the ground, dirtying, muddying.
Decomposing.
How nimble the fingers that point at the WomanChild,
the creature who does not learn to grow
because she wants to keep living and borrowing time,
not breaths, not skin cells and DNA and memories
that do not erase without ripping up the cassette and the VCR.
My words were meant to meet yours and touch pinkies.
Your thoughts made your words and body and smile lines
Run, run as fast as you could
from a Monster, a Curse, a King.
I am the sword of tongue and the fist that crumbles
when a beetle passes by.
You are scared of me.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 10:35 PM UTC
They dropped me by the side of the road
When I still had more to give
So I trudge on, dirtying the hearts
Of anyone willing to let me in
Had I served my own purpose, maybe
Life would be more kind
But instead, I simply became yours
Left for someone else to find
Oct 11, 2021
Oct 11, 2021 at 5:51 PM UTC
I have been unaware of these walls I've built
that surround my vocal chords,
restricting the vibrations meant to be heard
These dirtying stones that make up my ribs
and cage in my heart
Pluck out the colored feathers of my opinions,
and gag my long winded but silent stories
I cannot explain
why,
or how,
the words just won't come
I want to be heard
but my Silence is comfortable,
like the sadness that cradled me
for so many starless nights
I need to let you in
like I let him in
and her in
and them in
but I don't know where to begin
Anxiety comes in waves
and Silence bottles it up, stifles and swallows it.
Because it's easier that way.
These loud yells and thunderstorms
ease me backward into the Silence --
My safe haven.
where the only sound is the air ****** in and pushed out
from these two boarded up lungs.
My words are unheard and I allow them to be
Here, there are no locks,
no bolted doors, no filter for my thoughts
Here, I break down those walls
and place them around me.
Here, the Silence surrounds,
and I listen.
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 7:24 PM UTC
wonder at the innocence of the year before
feel tired of complaining about it
feel nothing when the anniversaries of your eventual demise begin to unfold
ungently
ripping the lace and dirtying the satin
feel like this is just the way the world turns
and that you turned with it
turned from everything you learned
turned to all the horrible
disgusting **** that you knew was in you from the beginning.
just let it happen
just let it let loose
stop trying to stop it
stop crying after ***
don't you want it by now?
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 11:37 PM UTC