"drawstrings" poems
My body is the training ground for
All of the reject demons
My inner demons failed to qualify as the right sort of fight
To match with any worthwhile struggles so
My inner demons are over dramatic children
They do not wage wars
They throw tantrums
They stand inside my temples and pound the walls
When they do not get what they want
And shriek ringing into my ears until they turn blue
Then fall asleep when they get tired
Forgetting that they were supposed to be upset
My inner demons are pretentious
They call themselves demons
When they are more like imps
They tickle at anxiety with the nerve to call it an attack
And separate velcro and seams with the audacity to say that
They broke something
Then press on my heart
Daring to call it an ache
My inner demons are clumsy
They walk with their toes curling around my eyelashes
And slip and spill their handfuls of tears
At inopportune moments
As I tremble due to the ones
That have tripped and tangled themselves
In my heartstrings and vocal cords
Causing me to grasp my rib cage in desperate attempts to reach them
And tear apart the inconveniences
My inner demons are shy
They sway in my veins to the rhythmic pulse
With clawed hands outstretched to the blue walled sky
Cautious to never leave a scratch through my skin
They dance on nerve endings and muscle tissue
With footwork just gentle enough to not summon bruises
And hold themselves still against my capillaries
As if their presence might distract my blood from
Its daily circulation
My inner demons are hoarders
They over-stuff the filing cabinets in my brain
With reports and analysis of too many situations
And pick up old emotions and hide them in the recesses
Of each ventricle and aorta
Creating pseudo-space for newer, stranger, replicas
Then pack extra breaths into my lungs
Storing "just in case" inhalations and overused sighs
They insulate their homes with extra calories and extra clothes
Hiding until they can forget themselves
My inner demons are moody
They like to stitch up new wounds with the thorns of roses
And pry open old ones with feathers
They tie my tongue with pages of foreign textbooks
They tie my tongue in gauze and cotton
They tie my tongue with other tongues
And pins and needles and teeth and drawstrings
They are self depreciating and they know that they
Are not worthy of their title
My inner demons are pathetic
I suppose they're right where they belong
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 12:53 AM UTC
I think of You and I see the yellow
Of a raincoat, keeping me dry and warm
You’re good at that, wrapping around me tightly
Your arms like the weathered belt
Hands knotted across my stomach
And the rain-soaked hood
Lightly lapping at my cheek
Not unlike your kiss
The drawstrings tumble down
Like Your hair across my chest
But unlike the raincoat
Which will inevitably, ironically
Soak me when I go to take it off
You will always be my shelter
I could never hang You up.
May 10, 2010
May 10, 2010 at 7:36 PM UTC
I once found a unicorn horn
But my peers only met me with scorn
I made such a wish
Turned into a fish
And swan for the sea until morn
I took the horn and held it up high
Said a prayer to the lord of the sky
Thunder did clap
And I fell into a trap
That cost me my left arm and one eye
I cast the horn off a cliff
Into a vast cavernous rift
It bounced right back up
Broke my best cup
Which was going to cause me a tiff
See, my wife had just bought me that glass
And now she would kick my whole ***
First with a boot
Just like in Beirut
Where they stomp you for not wearing a sash
I have fallen right off of the point
Probably from smoking that joint
This was about a fine horn
From a unicorn born
By the oil which was once used to anoint
a religious twist enters the plot
some of you like that a lot
but it was just a trick
like a bordered **** pic
as I turn the piece back to green ***
see I grow for the boys and girls
in a field on top of the world
vast fields of ****
are all that I need
to keep all my drawstrings unfurled
but a unicorn has no need of strings
or any such silly ole things
with a magical neigh
he just sauntered away
so I’ll end this song just as it sings
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 5:46 PM UTC
Icy tangs are all the early morning, budding its flower
The young mother born into the sonata of her own being
That seems so foreign to thick sheltered blood,
My adult notch in this Exquisite Rotation.
Humid skies are as spy glasses to the truth
So says the colossus with our sun for an eye;
She steps out of the illusion beautifully blue
Robed in silks of celestial gold;
The skin hangs taught over the most beautiful
Pair of collarbones you’ve ever seen
The pass of your previous life comes in sublime waves
Of crashing aether and all the souls flee with irreclaimable mirth
Before popping in the atmosphere like spit and wishes
And everyday is the day of rest, a pondering
Of avant-gardens where a savior once walked.
He and his church left the path of the geese
For, he hears not, the pass of prayer on their lips.
But, I do not blame them: their mouths are full
With the sky’s drawstrings, reinvigorated from their disuse,
They’ve no time for the good word.
My family of geese fly for the astral bodies’ abode above
Where the casual speak of poets, philosophers can be hears
Talking about their *** lives, talking about themselves
No longer galvanized by their own recreations.
And as I go to place this thing in the place of pain
Warm rushes in the shifting life-force, the green of
Exuberant joy hits our hydrophobic throats
And we exhale, watching it roll back as the geese fly overhead
With no mind or reason why.
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 8:58 PM UTC
in my mother's basement
once upon a time she tied up a clothes line
though most of the time
the line
was used to hang up
hangers
precariously hooked to a rope becoming less taut
as the years go on
the paradox of garage sale hand-me-downs of broken homes
as bodies for clothes become subtracted they make room for memories
we grow heavier by
as the hangers continue to multiply unused
clothes hangers are sacred
they are ghost as zygotes
back then there were days
I would wear my woven leather belt for an inverted neck tie
on those days
tie the other end to the wooden cross supports in the basement ceiling
then tip-toeing up
on a beat-up old stool
play chicken
a game of chicken with nobody
a side of extra mc chicken sauce for the soul
I wonder now
how if anyone would've wondered
if I had died never really learning how to wear a belt
or how to properly tie a neck-tie
kids today wear their pants too low
and parents back then were way too given to involuntary penance
to up the ante
I would write a list on the wooden beams in the ceiling
each time I got up there
for all the reasons I got up there
in attempt to embellish the exit sign
singing ugly duckling swan song echo
sedated by the attempt
training wheels for Icarus syndrome
it wasn't that my youth was in disillusion
I just never really learned how to measure distance properly
a pair of breaking parents
an unwanted pregnancy
"What's with in arms' reach?"
a game of catch
a game of release
a flight of stairs in one step
"it's not your fault kid
but you're gonna have to get hurt anyway"
funny how when you are teetering on stoic infinity
balanced like an idle pendulum
a noose becomes a life-support system
dance like no one is watching
I don't play those games anymore
my bones have gotten too heavy to bet against
memories I still wish to change
knees too weighted to two-step the precipice
on weekends
and since practicing how to use my legs again
and again
I now prefer walking this earth
wearing my belt around my equator
over drawstrings around my neck
the basement has since been renovated
no more wooden crosses
exposed in the ceiling
I don't play childish games anymore
I just do my laundry there
Aug 4, 2015
Aug 4, 2015 at 3:32 PM UTC
Curtains closed,
drawstrings tightened
an obtuse mask
the exoskeleton to the soft, vulnerable viscera
crack it off
bit by bit
a fresh truth pours
like a waterfall of secrecy
deep in the jungles
toil & strain
to unveil the little flower
trapped in the onyx-tomb
Oct 1, 2010
Oct 1, 2010 at 7:59 AM UTC
Do you know what happens to the teeth of children salvaged by the tooth fairy.
They are carried away in a velvet purse.
A vermilion scarlet purse with golden drawstrings.
And so the story begins.
~~x~~
The tooth fairy is a tiny soul, but she flies incredibly fast.
She wears a dress of silver and a tiny little diadem.
She sports the wings of a dragonfly.
Diminutive.
Dainty, she's much too small.
Much to small to be seen, by the unsuspecting naked eye.
Too big to be snatched by passing birds, so now you you know.
~~x~~
She carries her precious cargo, to the ice floes near the fjords.
And there she is greeted by the ice queen.
Whose name is Matilda.
She has been building a new ice castle, in which her family dwell.
~~x~~
It isn't finished yet you know.
She cares not what colour your teeth are.
As long, as they're not holey.
Holey teeth let the cold in.
~~x~~
Chilled wind whistles around her old arthritic neck.
Her kids took over the construction.
The buildings nearly finished.
~~x~~
The tooth fairy, whose name is Christina.
Dropped of yet another batch.
Sadly the naughty children have not brushed as the should have done.
A batch of broken teeth delivered.
My goodness how Christina shivered.
~~x~~
She thought she'd ask me to drop you a line.
To remind your children to brush well every time.
Matilda smiled at Christina.
She said" thank you my dear"
"For this winter I may freeze."
So please, please brush your teeth.
You really really should.
She said she'd find it really swell.
Hole less teeth will keep Matilda warm and well.
(c)Livvi
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 4:43 PM UTC
Her ebony hair fell down across shoulders like a thick storm curtain
Tied knots around fingers like drawstrings
And I have not ever seen such a beautiful display of heartache
In ebony locks a tragedy is written
A paragraph in each strand
And in hands she cradles pieces of what is left of her intertwined emotions
Her ebony heart cracked open wide
Toppled over
Empty of love
Apr 28, 2020
Apr 28, 2020 at 11:39 AM UTC
" Lovestance abuse"
Loving someone who's in love elsewhere is a drug that can leave us strung with out healthcare or no welfare
I'm addicted
I'm a hype for her body as cheese is to a mouse, but I didn't read the words that's scripted
Them very small words which list the effects that occur on the side
If I would have skimmed through it I would have been warned to only use her when I'm in need, major side effect is greed
Momentarily I can gain the impression that I'm where she want to be
Soon as my high come down she's no longer around
As my heart cracks from the disappearance of her sweet partnership; scientific term *******
In reality she's with him and no substance can fix that pain
But the reality and severity never stop me from using
And it never stopped her from choosing the option to provide me with her toxins
When my veins bulge she's in control
When my eyes are red I'm being mislead
When she dissolves on my tongue everything goes numb
I try to wing myself off, but I'm withdrawn by the loosening of her drawstrings
It's hard to rehabilitate
I need her in bulk
Grams and ounces is arousing
But now I need to be astounded by her pounds
Her motion and her potion keeps me overdosing
But would I use her all up if I could?
If her loved one became sick of her ***
Would I be alarmed and continue to inject her in my arm?
With witnessing how awful she treat us all in the long-run
Becoming a *** in the marathon
Her truth holds a secret within 400 meters
The truth is if she look, taste, and feel like a drug
She's a drug
Use her, but don't fall in love
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 9:20 PM UTC
Tickling each bed of moss, the underground, where human ignorance barely touches us; the sheds of light battling us in our soft, black, velvetine bag. Pull the drawstrings tighter, seal off the mouth of the outside monster to almost a whisper. We can plug our ears with stray buttons, orphan belongings to find voyage in our love.
Let me swim in your mouth, make a home on your teeth where I can admire each fleeing word from your gold lined throats. I can wave goodbye to thrown up anger and set you free, light thick fires on the bead of your tongue (set up camp and warm my hands.) I am here for every part of you.
Feb 5, 2011
Feb 5, 2011 at 9:50 AM UTC
I am so tired, I need to get wasted
but I am pretty sure
any alcohol would curdle in my stomach —
the trashbag I keep under my
clothes, use my intestines as the
drawstrings. I get
anxious, my body is hot and heavy and
moist, everything slides off
my skin and never stops coming back.
I need to get wasted
but sometimes it feels as if everyone I
know is an alcoholic — mother,
sister, uncle, dad. It could happen
to me
and maybe I would finally be happy if
I always had something to
use to drown my body.
Having blood is not enough,
it won’t even stay under my skin. I
am so awake, I could drink
a river
and then another and another
and all my nerves would still feel open.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 8:07 PM UTC
eye am out on a rainy weekend day, feeling the compulsion to escape the imprisonment of one's living quarters reflecting off of the rain puddles slicks on black city streets, that shine bright like an addiction's craving. For Single people in a city that values personal beauty and anonymity simultaneous means entering the outside world of a drizzling, more like misting, gloom and be outside dressed as if going to, and indeed, perhaps some were actually going, to the gym though for most, off for a Starbucks moment of community.
all dressed to code. The code says all black, hooded yoga clothes, exercise uniforms of various sort, special string chain mini-pocketbooks to hold phone of just in case, always all black always, all of no color, except, by code, by some global understanding of a legislated law, somewhere on the body must be a splash of pink or a luminescent pastel.
Usually it's the sneakers, but not necessarily. Some pinks streaks were observed in the drawstrings that pulled the hoodies tight around the face or just the laces of the black sneakers...there are rules in the world that must be obeyed though they are never legislated or indeed, never spoken...this is one...the coda of black and pink splash.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 4:19 AM UTC
It was dark and you were doing summersaults
As the church bells rang out in the park
And your dress was tangled under your feet
The circuitry of your emotional shadow was lurking in the backdrop
Like a less important family member in a customary photo
The dark was a haze covering us like coffins
With your hopes and aspirations buried in them like ground water
I hope you will remember someday this happened
And it will come back like a prodigal at his wits end
Embedded in your drawstrings
Like sound waves in a pitch bend
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 8:21 PM UTC
wounds winding the
drawstrings of my heart
closed shut. sharp tongued
words twisted right into my
tight lipped barnacled edge
trying to pry me open.
cracked ajar salt water flushes
flooding nicked skin bled red
into soft pink flesh tip me
over slid out of shell and
swallow me whole. tell me the
last time someone left a sweet taste in your mouth
and i will eat the clock.
Sep 17, 2023
Sep 17, 2023 at 11:32 AM UTC
i. you were made of heat,
chewing the sun in your breath mints,
spitting its seeds in the dirt.
a fog clung around your head, the air
entranced by the warmth
coming from your fingertips.
ii. the river ran by a meadow
of crushed glass and pavement,
black and dusty, and blooming everywhere
were broken necklaces and aluminum
flecks of dew.
iii. footsteps and drawstrings,
when you lost one you’d inevitably
take the other. a soft thread of wind
to cut your throat, a dragging adventure
to nowhere.
iv. if you went home and wrote a poem
about your eyes, you’d forget all about
the wax weighing down your eyelids
and taking away your sleep. it was never
a part of your ideal appearance,
lying on a tile floor and looking for a
one-way mirror to take you back.
Feb 10, 2011
Feb 10, 2011 at 6:53 AM UTC
we donned our aprons
I scraped back my hair
you tightened the drawstrings
we stood together, to stare
the glossy oak block
of what could be
and you and I, with our chisels
an aim to complete
at first we did trace, hand holding hand
pencil strokes start small, then sweeping
and you took my waist to steady my stand
and we shared our first scratch, both weeping
after this first mark
had struck the smooth wood
can this be? we thought
we knew, it could
and we stood apart and looked
and readied our stance
lips smiling, hearts reaching
and we flew into dance
scribbled did the wood become
its grain chiselled beyond belief
not yet finished, much more to come
and with each stroke we felt relief
this ballet shall continue
your body on my frame
your mind sharing mine
the other's heart we both claim
our masterpiece gets drawn
slowly across the years
but it feels fast, like seconds
and we hammer without fears
we slip into one from the dance
you the concrete, I the brace
our aim for artwork has set a trance
but I break to see your face
let's not whirlwind through our masterpiece
lets take this time to contemplate
the whirlwind may take time to come again
but with you I will wait
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 9:16 AM UTC
A(r)mor I wear
With drawstrings that dangle
Another layer to cover
A beating heart
Pulling sleeves
Covering wrists
Vulnerable but protected
Blood flowing, life
I see her, fair
Beauty and depth
Yet a frail and fragile heart
Not armed, not guarded
Like a piece of art
"Please be careful...
Sensitive to touch...
Handle with care"
She will wear my a(r)mor
And cover her wrists
Hood pulled over
Guarding from killing whispers
She will wear my a(r)mor
I will be without
Naked, defenseless, exposed
But she will have a(r)mor
My Armor, My Amor
Apr 6, 2018
Apr 6, 2018 at 7:06 PM UTC
Is my greatest nemesis
He or she or they
Or someone
Known all too well
As only me
Me not taking
Dreams to true
As easily could
If not for me
Holding them trapped
Dreams carried
As creatures
In a little sack
Glowing bright
With drawstrings
Pulled tight
Dreams given
only to me
By the one above
Hung round the neck
Carried year after year
Heavy as millstones
Pulling one down
To the depths in despair
If only thrown far and free
Would take flight to reality
Dreams brought to being
Formed to true
In the time left
Minute by minute
From raindrops of do
Tear open the sack
Throw the dreams far
Taking me with them
To those places of happy
Waiting patiently for me
© 2016 Jim Davis
Jun 8, 2017
Jun 8, 2017 at 1:36 PM UTC
Queen
"Are not lashes, lashes still, the blood spill,
One in single tyrant's name, other more?
Those ten thousand's tyrants still, men or not."
Madman
"No," said madman, "one's justice, other's whim,
Either all are free or none really is,
In People's name, We all are Free By Laws."
Queen
"That's just another name of all hope lost."
Madman
"Still as People decreed, by People's Will"
Queen
"If ten thousand rule, you are despots all."
Madman
"No, If each one have say, then We're Slaves Not."
Queen
"Will you raise gallows till all are headless"
Madman
"Only till all of their hearts are spotless"
Queen
"To me that rings like howls of a mad crowd"
Madman
"They're sounds of chains ripped, crowns melted, bones ground"
Queen
"If ruled that way, city will surely rot.
You'll leave only graveyards" queen marked.
Madman
"Then, Rot shall be Tried under People's Laws,
What wonderful graveyards those will be"
Queen
"You are a pack of wet cats" Queen sighed.
Madman
"Watered by you, drawstrings drawn" he agreed.
Queen
"Your truth's so exact, they're means of unjust.
Yours sure are not laws, they are merely dust."
Madman
"If so They are For Us, By Us, To Us."
Queen
"Gods, you will devour us, till the last one."
Madman
"Like the oncoming storm, we'll quarter them.
Give me the right, you say, the laws and swords.
I will keep you safe till the storm has passed.
Then service becomes rule, rule tyranny,
Till lovingly yoke's fastened to our necks"
Queen
"What is this I hear, what's this horrid song?"
Madman
"A song of revolt, of rebellion!
Harsh, unforgiving, oh so glorious.
Just like the warm wine running through my veins.
You think us outnumbered? How many there,
of us and how many yours? Oh tyrants!
And for the lashes struck at our back,
Every last one will be called to account
if gallows must be raised for cobblers
and kings and devils and angels alike,"
With voice like flint, madman said "so be it."
Feb 6, 2025
Feb 6, 2025 at 7:01 AM UTC
i disappear
into drawstring pants
with the drawstrings cut out
and the tee shirt i wore
for two days
before i was brought more clothes
paper shirt paper pants
see through when tight
and bright yellow non-slip socks
if i try
i can easily return to that place
the white lights
the pills in dixie cups
the isolation room with chalkboard walls
i can return
anytime
to that post-attempt numbness
just shuffling along
destination a to destination b
"okay everyone,
it's time for group"
watch the yellow socks move along
forget you're controlling them
forget your feet are within
forget you exist
it's almost peaceful
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 12:00 AM UTC