"dramatizations" poems
We’re lost in translations
Swallowed by tidal waves
The seashore is dried out
No sense in paying retribution
When the ocean recedes
An avalanche of waterfalls fall
Off this desert land
Forced and digested
With diamond hearts
And sapphire eyes
We’re spent to the limit
With such exuberance
It’s calming to sway with the sands
Of a dried out tide
Collecting seashells
And making necklaces
Out of foreclosures for you
Reaching for the stars
Or Saturn’s rings
You leave me scrambling
For something that never existed
In the establishment of our existence
Expectations and dramatizations
Here we sleep on driftwood
Casting ourselves out
To the mercy of the sea
With just a bottle and a message
To get us by
We’re obscured in your sorrow
But ingesting in the dread of tomorrow
And dreaming of obedience denied
Sep 24, 2011
Sep 24, 2011 at 9:14 AM UTC
I am a teenage wasteland
a room packed to the brim with conflicting emotions
and mixed signals
Each of my thoughts contradict the next
and the last
and I own drawers in dressers
dedicated to broken hearts
The soles of my shoes are worn down
with running through past conversations
and visiting old promises
My clothes are strewn with angry bullet holes
left by words taken far too seriously
and my shoulders often ache
with the pressure to be perfect
I am a teenage wasteland
and my body is tired
with over dramatizations
and unspoken worries
the emotion of love comes far too easily for me
and leaves
all too quickly
-h.w.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 4:32 PM UTC
Growing up. No thank you.
My house was littered with red solo cups, empty potato chip bags, barbies and romance novels. My mother got my sisters hooked in 5th grade, a bandwagon I never jumped on. It rode past and I waved my no thank you's, mocking their simple minds and codependency.
Then he bought me a Kindle.
Oh has a fire ever been kindled in my life, a spark deep in my gut. Not the ****** pirate books filled with ***** bosoms and ***** flexing muscles. No, and not the cliche millionaire with mommy issues falling for the average, helpless, clumsy but persistent "Jane". No, I mean the normal pretty cute girl fallen for the best friend of 10 years who saved her everyday from the memories of her childhood loss. I mean the steamy love scenes and the dramatic losses only to found again in the end.
I'm a sucker.
A straight sucker for the 99 cent heart pounding dramatizations of a life that's a roller coaster revolving around a fiery misplaced love. Gosh, we're talking lunch break, city bus rides, leaned up against the computer at work in between guests. Bundled on the couch with Chai and my kindle diving head first into a tragic love affair.
It gets me through the annoying sound of her Boston accent Wednesday through Friday. It tears me away from the less desirable moments of a real love affair called marriage. It takes me up and down with the thundering pulse of the characters involved.
Then comes the guilt.
The looking over my shoulder while I ride the city bus in the middle of a hot and steamy love making session, slightly tucking my kindle into my body, not wanting to put it down. It's the guilt that my gut knows how to react to a book a little too well. It's the heat in my veins and the pounding in my chest.
Dear lord, I'm a sinner.
I find no true guilt in the pleasure.
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC
identical identities bashfully bash themselves together,
like lunatics dancing round stairs, straining forever
forward towards twinkling stars staring them down
and burning black holes in their souls.
Light lasts longer than life leaking through cracks
towards the cellar door, a door in the floor
leading below where stars turn their backs
and halos alone allow honesty its roar.
Gregariously bellowing delirious dramatizations
at weary walls erected erroneously in isolation
causes angels to tread towards stairs alone,
up to where light once shone.
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 3:54 AM UTC
A need for social interaction
Can be solved by a simple action
and a minor transaction.
The sun rises as friends and family
become more than a fantasization of the nightly dramatizations.
The sun’s rays begin to be covered by moons darkest shadow.
As I get closer to the people I hold so dear,
the eclipse grows stronger and the image of my reality grows dimmer
The small glimmer of a shooting star is all I need to progress my social endeavour,
but my stomach begins to simmer.
I feel as if today I might get thinner
In the shadow of the moon I am met with a lady, a pill, and a bill.
I follow the orders of the lady and I feel the warmth of the Son once more. The Moon’s shadow is casted away from a single digestion,
as if a sacrifice was made to a higher being to cast away the shadows on a Sunday
My social life is based off a refill
And if I spill,
all I can do is close my eyes
and shut the blinds.
For away from the light is where I find the most comfort.
My brightness dies around the brightest
ones in my sky. My constant fight is the one
against the darkness between the stars.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 4:44 PM UTC