"drilled" poems
We sit on the beach and smoke,
Secrets drizzling down our throats,
Drilling for oil on the ocean floor
Where the neon jellies live.
The words get caught up in our throats,
We slither like eels in the coral reef
Where the neon jellies live,
And mate by swimming in paint.
We slither like eels in the coral reef
And ignore how wet we are,
As we mate by swimming in paint,
Greens and blues melting together.
We never care how wet we are
Or how much sea we swallow,
Our bellies swell like open eyes,
Bursting and spraying our faces
Where we can't help but swallow
What we spit at our faces,
From the oil we drilled from the ocean floor
Where the neon jellies live
And die while washed up on the shore.
Aug 31, 2010
Aug 31, 2010 at 8:13 AM UTC
Kiss me, hold me, feel me, feel it...
This intense throbbing aching lust of love.
Am I too alluring?
Can you feel me inside of you?
******* you relentlessly.
How hard are you?
Is your mind awake?
Can you feel a hole being drilled through it?
Am I passionate?
Am I seducing you to these pleasures that you cannot resist?
Irresistible, faint to the touch.
To satisfy, you cannot resist the urge.
It's pushing through every promise and memory you've ever had.
I'm not like the others...
You've loved, you've ******
But have you had your earth shaken like a magnitude of an explosive volcano that boils to the top.
A flaming ridden peak of desire that never burns out.
It's aching.... you're about to explode.
Don't, feel it linger instead ......
Are you breathing heavy?
Are you shaking, I swear you have never met someone like me before.
Call me baby...
Papi...
Don't love me too hard, I might just leave.
Ssssshhh....
It's just a mind ****
Sep 7, 2021
Sep 7, 2021 at 11:01 AM UTC
**squinting up the leaves of the bountiful tree
i espied a mango ripe and soft with goodness
as the sun came gently filtering through
aloft the wings of a little fellow with a long beak
and a brisk song to celebrate dinner found
my feathered visitor hovered above the vintage prize
and as his thirsty proboscis drilled the succulent mango
the warm enticing juice, natural and healthy as ever,
drip-settled in the base of my hungry open eye
i thought i heard a flourish in the triumphant bird-song
such as one at the fall of a big wicket; and
in that slow-motion moment, i knew: the mango was his,
and it'd now be eat and let eat, till the last delectable mango**
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 10:19 AM UTC
The shells are singing
holy songs now—oceans whistle through
their concert holes. ‘Holes drilled by predators,’
the seashore sings to me.
And I’m reminded there’s
so much more ancient than man.
So much that can never be written down,
for words are the limitations of our knowledge
—not its end.
And there should be something more
but really, how does one write what happened
with the seashells whistling by the seashore?
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 12:50 PM UTC
I Send my words hurling into your airway like swords
I bite off your tongue with every sharp response my body conjures
I have every witty comeback on speed dial to drill into your spine
The way your gays drilled into mine Pull old pennies from my pockets and throw them into your eyes
So you may not look at me the way you have for so long
You're are barely worth my pennies anyways
Here's a donation to your sorry ***
How about I grasp your neck, at just the right spot, just hard enough, to crush your voice box
To dwindle your air pipe just a little
So you cannot throw those trash comments at anyone else
How about I crack each of your fingers
Push them deep into your pockets
So that you can't feel anything without remembering me
You look at me like a mannequin in the window of your favorite retail store
You try yo put a price on what I'm worth
Maybe you can try me on
Throw me on the floor
Grab another
How about I tattoo my name on your chest
So that you cannot take off another piece of clothing
Take off another girl
Throw them in the floor
And not remember me
You will never throw me on the floor again
For I am permanently burned into your chest
How about I burn off each hair on your body
One at a time let it Sizzle down and sear the skin
Let each tiny poor feel the pain one at a time over and over and over again
Until you are left, raw
This
Is the day I speak back when you catcall me from across the street
Jul 4, 2018
Jul 4, 2018 at 7:21 PM UTC
Your hummingbird heart keeps panicked time;
a quick-step march of hollow beats that bruise
the arching breadth of your ribs
(ribs caged by cellophane layers
of capillaries and fever hot skin-
don't you worry that those bones will
someday burst into fresh air, make their mark on
the rigid landscape?)
It would escape if not for my weight
pressed down like stones;
my body locked between shivering limbs,
come in from January's cold to clutch at your fire.
You are only slow
When sleeping;
When your sugar water has run low.
I drilled a hole in your dish
And drained it away.
Jun 10, 2011
Jun 10, 2011 at 7:17 AM UTC
I need to try and stop saying discouraging words when I look in the mirror
I need to stop wincing at reflections in the buildings windows
I need to purposely not look at my reflections to spare the pain anymore
People can't believe I hate myself when it comes to physical appearance
But the small jokes I make are as serious as my outlook on myself
And walking down the hallways is an effort to mask my face and body
And I'm desperately trying to patch the holes in myself
The holes that allowed my self confidence to leak from me in the first place
The holes drilled over and over by the repeated words that weren't meant to hurt
But I knew the hidden meaning, I knew the real thoughts underneath
And as people constantly hammer in to me you are beautiful
It becomes a familiar sound, a phrase more cliché to me than yolo
And as the dark cloud of self hatred looms ominously overhead,
It is only visible to those who truly know me, those who see the thunderstorm
It's funny how the people who try and lift you up end up slamming you to the ground
And when you hit rock bottom you stop trying to disguise the rocks that are ugly
You stop trying to cover them with make up, you stop trying
Because a rock is a rock no matter the cover up, and it'll be ugly no matter what
And if I'm a rock someone hand me a chisel so I can carve myself down
And shape myself into the girl in the ******* magazine,
Because who could ever be a attracted to a girl who wouldn't date herself
Who would love someone trying to make up for their lack of love for themselves
By loving everyone else, and patching their holes leaving myself empty
It's funny how the people who say I'm beautiful would never date me
It's funny how my mother will not utter the words that would save her drowning child
Yes honey, you are beautiful
But instead I have sunk to the pit of the ocean, who cares about trying to hold my breath
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 11:11 AM UTC
Fine living . . . a la carte?
Come to the Waldorf-Astoria!
LISTEN HUNGRY ONES!
Look! See what Vanity Fair says about the
new Waldorf-Astoria:
"All the luxuries of private home. . . ."
Now, won't that be charming when the last flop-house
has turned you down this winter?
Furthermore:
"It is far beyond anything hitherto attempted in the hotel
world. . . ." It cost twenty-eight million dollars. The fa-
mous Oscar Tschirky is in charge of banqueting.
Alexandre Gastaud is chef. It will be a distinguished
background for society.
So when you've no place else to go, homeless and hungry
ones, choose the Waldorf as a background for your rags--
(Or do you still consider the subway after midnight good
enough?)
ROOMERS
Take a room at the new Waldorf, you down-and-outers--
sleepers in charity's flop-houses where God pulls a
long face, and you have to pray to get a bed.
They serve swell board at the Waldorf-Astoria. Look at the menu, will
you:
GUMBO CREOLE
CRABMEAT IN CASSOLETTE
BOILED BRISKET OF BEEF
SMALL ONIONS IN CREAM
WATERCRESS SALAD
PEACH MELBA
Have luncheon there this afternoon, all you jobless.
Why not?
Dine with some of the men and women who got rich off of
your labor, who clip coupons with clean white fingers
because your hands dug coal, drilled stone, sewed gar-
ments, poured steel to let other people draw dividends
and live easy.
(Or haven't you had enough yet of the soup-lines and the bit-
ter bread of charity?)
Walk through Peacock Alley tonight before dinner, and get
warm, anyway. You've got nothing else to do.
5.7k
He's broken, he's in pieces, he's trapped, in a black hole
He's crying, he's heartbroken, he's dying of loneliness
He's confused, his mind is overloaded, his todger is dropping off
He's this and that and that and this
projecting your ******* fears and insecurities on him
Hahaha...hahaha...hahaha...hahaha...hahaha
You know what....He's NOT....he's laughing at you
He's happy that you now realize there are still men out there
who transcend your ******* stereotyping and imbecilic assumptions .
He's still laughing because he now sees for ******* real
how immature and mentally underdeveloped a lot of you are
and how so petty, mediocre and easy to manipulate you are
Not to mention how weak, spineless and unable to handle pressure
so many of you are.
He laughing because you just act without fully thinking
You are a shallow lot, cowardly, infantile and narrow minded
You lack sound reasoning capacity and a lot of you are neurotic
He's laughing because most believe anything they are told
Unquestioning drones like a Labrador thrown a stick
Go fetch, off he runs, retrieve stick, pat on the head, good boy
Just simple minded followers.
He laughing because he's attained all he wanted
Got a good education, good self understanding, good morality
sensitivity, compassion, empathy, confidence and honesty
A well drilled man, adaptable, flexible, courageous and brave
A MODERN DAY SPARTAN.
He's laughing because you can't ******* take that away
He's laughing because he's shown you how a proper man is
He's laughing because he's invalidated your stereotypical
assumptions, your prejudices, your bigotry and your ignorance
He's laughing because you have confirmed your inferiority
exposed your fears and inadequacies and make others see how
damaged and vindictive you are
He's laughing because out of all only one woman has shown
magnanimity and she didn't belong to the class of the mediocres
Which proves the point that mediocrity goes hand in hand
with ignorance, fear and lack of Dignity and Integrity.
And he's laughing because he's got chutzpah
a big package
and a hell of "tener cojones"
hahaha...hahaha...hahaha...hahaha
[email protected] Sept 2018,Allrightsreserved.
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 9:54 AM UTC
A little waiting
Some vigorous pushing
A quick look around
On a shaky ground
Grabbed the nearby seat
Some rest to the feet
In minutes squeezed inside
By a woman on the same ride
Awkward journey
The CON for cheap money.
Ticket punched
Some snacks quietly munched
Feel tall from the rest
I am in a red BEST
The driver is in a hurry
I smell some fish curry
Over a bridge
Some dogs cringe
Music for my ears
No more travelling fears
Nothing gone wrong
Now I feel strong
My stop is next
Replying to a text
Trip a little but its okay
I think it’s a good day
The red bus brakes
My balance shakes
I fly right on the drivers grill
With my face drilled
All eyes on me
I can barely see
I shiver as I walk the stairs
No one even cares
People just want to get to their destination
And I stand numb at the bus station.
-Zainab Attari
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 8:04 AM UTC
On a New Year's Day in Reykjavik
I stood at the very top of that old city,
intending to visit the Cathedral there.
All at once, there it was. And it was in charge.
A gust of wind so strong that it grabbed and
slid me, speeding across several metres of ice,
only to slam, face first, into the broad chest
of a resident British Embassy staffer.
Genially, he smiled down and introduced
himself with gentlemanly aplomb.
No wonder they had an empire. At least for a while.
Oh, that wind! Ever seen snow moving horizontally?
Or felt a hole being drilled, in one ear, almost out the other?
Deep in the ancient countryside, on the way to the sea,
is a lonely valley, held captive by the power of a brutal
Gigantic troll. There, this wind has its greatest rival.
Even if you can't see them, just tell me you don't feel them...
In Reykholt now, that bullying wind buffets a cozy house,
but to no avail, for angels watch over a newborn baby girl.
Her mother, just a girl when we first met,
now sings tenderly to her own new daughter.
Both are princesses of this beautiful island country.
Finding kindness, that tough old wind has sent
Halldora's lullaby across the open ocean,
over wide blue skies, and onto this snowy prairie
where I hear it and cradle it softly, and so gently, to my heart.
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 7:10 PM UTC
After having been raised and drilled into the ingrained wood
with the politeness of
"pardon?"
"excuse me?"
"come again?"
his calloused and critical "What!?"
brought out my cancerian nature
and shelled away my voice,
I breathed out a muddled/clumsy rendition
of my witty/quirky comment
and I instantly became aware that
my timid nature wasn't cute but cumbersome.
Apr 22, 2011
Apr 22, 2011 at 5:36 PM UTC
Frozen Pond
Buried deep under a frozen pond,
lies a brunette, red head and a blonde.
The brunette lived a simple life,
her name was Mary and my first wife.
Got married young, at age nineteen,
I was a king, she was my queen.
Caught her sleeping with my brother,
so naturally, I slept with her mother.
In the winter we went ice skating,
drilled out a hole, while I was awaiting.
As she got close, I pushed her in,
if only the ***** had a fin.
Two years later met a red headed beauty,
she was a little nuts and a lot fruity.
Ginger was this psychos name,
once again my brother was to blame.
Caught them in his back seat,
he played tricks, she gave him treats.
On the frozen pond we took a walk,
smashed a hole with a giant rock.
Pushed her in till she was under,
she screamed louder than Florida thunder.
My brother the blonde, his name Jake,
loved to go to that frozen lake.
Playing hockey with his friends,
him and his fancy Mercedes Benz.
One day we were passing the puck,
a hole in the ice and he got stuck.
I said, sorry brother but you deserve,
to fall in while I stand and observe.
Now my life is complete,
girls now know better than to cheat.
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 2:56 AM UTC
complexity
is your beauty
simplicity
your mystery
interdependence
sustains you
once upon a time
we dipped bowls
into your waters
and brought up
draughts of life
now
Skipjacks go
fathoms deep
into endless
depletion
charting
entangled
dead zones
broadening
into a sea of
inertness
your delicate
eco-essence tips
toward oblivion
effluvia farmers
layer mechanized
blankets of
nitrates on your
sunset shores
weaving
green tendrils
of algae blooms
strangling the
entanglements
of all links in
your miraculous
food chain
the EPA
proscribes
a Jenny Craig
pollution diet
to halt the
slaughter in
oxygen
challenged
dead zones
where rockfish
are garroted,
oysters get drilled
by screwworms
and azure tinted
soft shell *****
dance soft
shoe taps
lifting a tinny
chorus of sad
Piedmont Blues
the flat-lining
watersheds
voiceless
warnings
tremble
rocking the
purged nests of
screaming ospreys
in vocal protest
of a sinking
Tangier Isle
anointing it’s
tombstones
of unvisited
cemeteries with
multicolored
guano
fitting
alkaline
tributes
to the lost
inhabitants
and forgotten
languages
sinking into the
brine of gray
brackish tides
Delmarva’s fine
intra-continental
balance skewed
by the oozing
industrial swill
of Frank Perdue
chicken farms
ruling the roost of
sanctioned sustainability
tinging clear watersheds
of finger lakes
set in splints to
repair dislocations
and complex
compound fractures
that may never heal
again
Music Selection:
Taj Mahal: Fishin Blues
jbm
Oakland
6/7/12
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 8:36 AM UTC
Walking walkers
that soon vanish
around corners
Crazy
cracks
catch
crumbs crumbling in crevices.
And some man-made drilled drains
drum drum drops dripping droplets
down
drowning
drowning
drains for rats
Roaches run rampant
randomly.
Running rats reach
reeking rotten
radishes
as walking walkers
crush roaches
running rampant
randomly for crazy cracks
that catch crumbs crumbling in
crevices.
And running rats
reach
down
drains that
drip
droplets...
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 5:54 AM UTC
You have had me in every way
Rising mountains and flooded hollers
Gifted with everything, and I have nothing left to offer but this
This treasure of depravity
As you clean the crevices and ***** my mind
Worship, slather, repeat
You delve in fiending for the taste
and with each pass of that silver tongue my thoughts get more tarnished
And you get...all of me
Taken in heat engulfed in passion
Drilled to the core
Filled with rapasciousness
I offered a gift and I was chewed up and swallowed
Consumed fully
Wanton abandon in caveman style of take what is yours
And that...I am
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
You said you're innocent
and that all was just coincidence
I sneered "Oh, such confidence.."
I feigned my courage
but how could I manage
to taste this cold spoilt porridge?
Why does it hurt more when you say this?
Why does your tears feel like acid on my skin?
Do you see these wounds?
They never healed
You scratched my scars
All those times you pleaded
You twisted the knife you once stabbed
You drilled your nails as I watch it jarred to my flesh
And what else? Drenched them with brine of memories
But where were you all those years?
When this girl cried buckets
Drowned with her own tears?
How I wish
You can put her arms back to their sockets
Maybe then
She will forget how you made her feel
And once again
Hold you like everything was just a dream.
-Twist The Knife, Margaret Austin Go
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 5:18 AM UTC
I was terrified of water more than I feared death,
From the youngest age,
Looking back I guess this makes since,
I was the first to climb a tall ladder,
I was the first to climb over fences,
Talk to strangers,
I had no fear of death,
It had no bound on me,
Still I was afraid of water,
One day I woke up in my little green bed,
And decided I wanted to swim,
Before my fear would make me watch as the other children did,
So what's a toddler that can barely walk to do?
Give up? no no!
I had my mind set on it,
So I stumbled right down to the end of the dock,
One little leg lifted,
Followed by another,
I was in the water,
I almost drown that day,
But death did not prevail then,
I was not allowed on the deep end for years and years after other kids,
I grew up watching,
Dreaming,
Hoping,
That one day I would swim,
My father was too busy to teach me,
My mother was too sick to swim herself,
Relatives were far away,
So I grew up in kiddie pools,
It was boring,
So very boring,
Still years later,
Even the sight of a kiddie pool bores me,
I did not give up,
Although it was drilled into my head that the deep end is dangerous,
And so is swimming alone,
And so is not wearing a life vest,
And so is walking alone by water,
And that drowning was bad,
Very very bad,
It was drilled into my head that it should be my biggest fear,
And so it did,
But still,
Me being me I did not give up,
I would grab onto the edge of the sides of my little kiddie pool,
And paddle paddle my little feet,
I could stay afloat for a few seconds,
It took me years,
Years,
To learn how to swim,
No one taught me how,
I just tried and tried,
It still took me years to not be afraid of drowning,
That still haunts me,
But I'm still not afraid of tall ladders,
Or climbing over fences,
Or talking to strangers,
I love to swim,
I loved to swim even before I could swim,
I realized something recently,
The criticism from my family,
The jabs from my friends,
All about how I couldn't swim,
Made me want to swim even more,
And I did!
They never admitted that they were wrong,
My grandma thought I was slow I'm sure,
Now I've proved her wrong and all the others,
Yet still,
They expect me to fail,
I'll just keep remembering,
How they meant to tear me down,
But instead build me up,
That is the story of how I learned to swim.
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 11:08 AM UTC
In a locked up abandoned room, stands dead people,
all worn and torn, all helpless and scarcely unknown.
They weep trickles of tears from their eyes, soaking down to their cheeks,
innocent faces and scarred bodies,
invisible to the world and their minds dreadfully drilled, with thoughts of insanity, as they rot inhumanely.
Open wounds and jars of acid, the key lays in one of them, torturous and hardly discredited
It's deadly, and extremely rapid.
Trapped and held back, suppressed and feelings of soul lack,
where the crows die at 3:00am, it's satanic, dark, dull and dim.
Hands burn and screams cry, the jar is black, so they hadn't know in which the key lie.
The secrets within, dark, deadly and too hard to ****** swim.
Weak and demolished, some people collapse in pain and satanic craze, the haze, the daze, thoust peculiar trickles of red rain drops from the ceiling above, rose wine red, depth is dark and foul like jin
It's ****** up...
Our ghosts keep all kinds of secrets, with their hands behind their back and face hidden and covered in black, suppression creates a place of torturous days and weeping eyes of display...
Isolation makes it worse, it creates a lonesome curse...
Treat your ghost well, then the dark won't take over, and make it dreaded and unwell...
Tell...
All your secrets within
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 3:31 AM UTC
I used to keep my baby teeth in a butterscotch tin.
I guess I was making an investment
in tooth-fairy stock; trying to diversify my easter bunny portfolio.
Quarters: Like chocolate I could feed into a Coinstar and turn to dollar bills
which I could then use to buy more chocolate.
I just, hey, I just remembered that I have a butterscotch tin filled with quarters
sitting in the back of my closet right now. Funny,
when things move in circles like that--I can’t even remember
the last time I ate a butterscotch. Or even how my final tooth
came out, which I’d think would be a milestone.
I was eating an egg-salad sandwich when I lost one of the last ones--
I just took a bite and one tooth stayed behind.
For weeks I couldn’t even look at a sandwich,
I just kept thinking about the disturbing look of blood on mayonnaise.
I wonder if there’s much business for the tooth fairy these days--
my dad, winding blue ribbons around small stacks of quarters so they’d look nice;
my dad, stepping on LEGOs in the dark and stifling swears;
my dad, navigating bedroom geography to make a swift exchange
while I slept and turned a tidy profit, trading old small parts
for riches and a grown-up mouth.
Now I wonder what they did with my wisdom teeth,
after they pulled them out last year.
Were they drilled out, finally, into dust? Or did
a dental surgeon slip some pilfered teeth
beneath his pillow on the sly,
turning one last profit out of my face,
the summer someone noticed
I needed a grown-up mouth?
All I know is that for days
I stayed at home moaning into my pillow,
strung out on percocet and eating anything
that could be sipped through a straw.
(It was only then I discovered the Sonic had stopped
serving butterscotch shakes--years ago, apparently.
You’d think I’d have noticed. But then, you’d think
I’d notice lots of things.)
I wonder how much my teeth would be worth now.
I wonder if the tooth-fairy has adjusted for inflation.
I still get excited over stray quarters,
but now I guess I just have to find them on the street
like everyone else does.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 4:19 PM UTC
I seek greatness,
Not perfection but
Something more.
I want jagged edges,
And symmetry long broken.
I want rhythm and beat,
rhyming galore, but flowing,
so fleet, off the tongue of my keyboard,
into your minds, drilled bore
never to be filled but left void,
never to be lit up or explored
save by my depravity, the
wanton insanity that is my quest
for eternality, for remembrance
for the suddenness by which
a heart attack do prance
tip toeing around your soul,
twisting it in, and lithely
make you beg for the encore,
even still won't be satisfied,
I'll become who I am,
The best version of myself,
Ravenous, more, than any lion,
Tiger, or engorged man,
Nay, even if I look down upon highest perch,
like The Raven itself,
Even if Poe himself, were to raise up again,
Weeping, claiming oh, John, your poetry,
Nay, your beating, has me breathing,
Still will I deny that drum,
Even then will I be empty,
and so this emotion that I am releasing,
Will self servedly do nothing,
You can not destroy that which is not living,
Only close your eyes, and forget quickly,
For if you let my greatness roam,
Oh upon your shoulders I will loan,
my delicious insanity upon the world,
And the toll my greatness,
shall collect,
will be worth more than all the gold.
And I'll simply just,
waste it away,
In search of some greatness,
greater still!
Some vision, some sign,
that is meaningless except,
like happiness,
In the pursuit, never to be found.
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 3:42 AM UTC
Weaknesses
My weakness is sweets, but don’t get it twisted, no food is found to weaken me. But a sweet personality can, so can a sweet smile, or a sweet touch. Basically sweet people are like sweet candies of different cultures, and I shall be a proud cultural culinary taste-tester, moving races like NASCAR in motion.
My weakness is money. The all mighty dollar isn’t so almighty to me, but what it can do is. I long for the materialistics of life that money can bring, and the attention it can get you from supermodel brides or low-key bed warmers. I like the feeling of being wanted and tolerated regardless of what I’d do and how I’d do it.
My weakness is power, for, if I held the power of a man’s life and spared him, he’d be loyal indefinitely, and that would be enough to satisfy my needs to feel loved. I’d have a friend who felt indebt to me, and that feeling of needing to accommodate would change my view on what was real and what wasn’t.
My weakness is attire, for you see, when I walk into a room, I want to draw the eyes of those watching, hateration rising in their veins and jealousy shown on there face. I want the Black haired beauty with the short red skirt and open-toed stilettoes with the dark purple toe nails and thick hips to come my way and think lustfully of me, is it a crime to desire such reactions?
My weakness is body, for I love a girl who can take care of herself. Long hair, manicured nails, teeth that aren’t begging to be drilled, it’s a weakness I have and can’t seem to fix. But then again, why would I desire to fix it? I’m not asking for perfect like a conceited rejectionist, or wanting more than what I can give like I was lying to myself, I want someone who can keep up with themselves before even attempting to keep up with someone else.
My weakness is *** appeal, because whenever she bites her lip and looks in my eyes, I can see rockets shooting through her glass lenses and aiming at me. But once I smile back, determined face, cute features and as much appeal as I can muster, explosions happen in her body that causes goosebumps to pepper her flesh like shrapnel in a war-zone.
My weakness is skin to skin, after all, it’s my right to want to be loved, why not demonstrate it by holding hands? Why not live past the edge and on the tip of existence like birds on a powerline? I am careful enough and she’d be loving enough that no vibes of failing would even cross our way.
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 9:37 AM UTC
Barking along the seething sea
Tethys sparkling
Sans Pellagrino
Bubbled up with volcanic
Albido
And it exposed the cragged shores
Of a incessantly compiling
Or
Completely snuffed
Mountain
Bored and drilled by time
Sharper than a dying dimond
Cooked and left to rest
A Dinar plate
To which an all you can eat
Buffet
Played out pleasently
From antiquity
To present
A gift to an aging child
To be which pure joy can behold.
Today it is home of the Croats
The ancient Frontier of a meiotic Rome
And over small-grain time
Made coats
Of arms and animal manes
To give a name
To the nameless
To give a place
To the missed
That old Tethys barks like a fish
Beyond the Odoacerean boot, Scylla and Charybdis
Where the whales float
And great souls
Stolen deep within
wishing to find god
Fumbling in the dark
Searching for Alexandria
The flame of life
Become great stories to be told
And nothing more.
Odysseus
Hug the shore
Follow the land of the mysterious Croats
Do not venture beyond the threshold
Or you will be consumed by time
And lost to her Circedean jealous pines
Do not anger the constant love of
Helios
No,
These Croats have never croaked
They know not of amphibiotes
And the sharpened clades of life
Made and tailored bespoke
Sowed
In the fractals
Of the quiet word of
Eloah.
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 2:41 PM UTC
Did you die inside?
Did you cry?
When she spit in your face,
And told to never come to her place,
Did it hurt to watch her flirt with all those guys.
They say she turned wicked,
When she heard you cheated.
Everything you put her through,
She didn't even have a clue.
But what was worse,
You made her curse.
All those things you said,
The thoughts you drilled in her head.
She went mad,
Dated this guy I think his name is chad.
He thinks he's a ****
Because he sells drugs.
And she's ill from,
From all the ******* pills.
You saying it was her fault,
Was a ******* insult.
Anymore me and her don't talk much,
but the other day we had lunch.
Now she's working the streets,
Just to make ends meat.
Has a cute little baby,
His name is davie.
Chad left,
Cause davie is actually deaf.
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 1:12 AM UTC