"drilling" poems
#*O darkest night, what are you for?
Sometimes to wrestle, sometimes to rest
But always to cling to Jesus more
Though senses are dulled, desires awaken
Aching grows stronger, inhibitions are taken
Less seeing, less hearing, more hunger, more longing
Answers are dimming while questions are thronging
More drilling, more filling
The canyons of my soul
More boring, more pouring
Himself into the hole
More stretching, more catching
Away my gasping breath
More tearing, more sharing
In the union of His death*#
Jun 18, 2016
Jun 18, 2016 at 5:33 PM UTC
You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?
and the poppy-petalled metaphysics?
and the rain repeatedly spattering
its words and drilling them full
of apertures and birds?
I'll tell you all the news.
I lived in a suburb,
a suburb of Madrid, with bells,
and clocks, and trees.
From there you could look out
over Castille's dry face:
a leather ocean.
My house was called
the house of flowers, because in every cranny
geraniums burst: it was
a good-looking house
with its dogs and children.
Remember, Raul?
Eh, Rafel? Federico, do you remember
from under the ground
my balconies on which
the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth?
Brother, my brother!
Everything
loud with big voices, the salt of merchandises,
pile-ups of palpitating bread,
the stalls of my suburb of Arguelles with its statue
like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:
oil flowed into spoons,
a deep baying
of feet and hands swelled in the streets,
metres, litres, the sharp
measure of life,
stacked-up fish,
the texture of roofs with a cold sun in which
the weather vane falters,
the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes,
wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea.
And one morning all that was burning,
one morning the bonfires
leapt out of the earth
devouring human beings --
and from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood.
Bandits with planes and Moors,
bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,
bandits with black friars spattering blessings
came through the sky to **** children
and the blood of children ran through the streets
without fuss, like children's blood.
Jackals that the jackals would despise,
stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,
vipers that the vipers would abominate!
Face to face with you I have seen the blood
of Spain tower like a tide
to drown you in one wave
of pride and knives!
Treacherous
generals:
see my dead house,
look at broken Spain :
from every house burning metal flows
instead of flowers,
from every socket of Spain
Spain emerges
and from every dead child a rifle with eyes,
and from every crime bullets are born
which will one day find
the bull's eye of your hearts.
And you'll ask: why doesn't his poetry
speak of dreams and leaves
and the great volcanoes of his native land?
Come and see the blood in the streets.
Come and see
The blood in the streets.
Come and see the blood
In the streets!
23.3k
#
Each body part
sizzled in pure pleasure
in the blissed wake
of your oral efforts
brought forth the waves
of rapturous delight...
Spurs poetic inspiration
in equal liberation
of desires to please.
Bodies transpose
in fluid motion
as brazen eyes meet.
Savor the voluptuous image before you.
Indulge your eyes in my carnal halo
before they roll to the back of your head.
On all fours
knees between your thighs
tips of swollen breast
caress your chest
tasting fresh honey
upon lips in a kiss.
Ripples of ardor
hover
by wet trails
of sensual kisses
suckling towards
the apex.
Breathe in
the slow motion pace
that pulsates eagerness
to the fore tumescing bulge
leaking with anticipation
of viscous lava.
Tickles of silken hair
against flesh edges closer.
Emerging subtle grumbles
in deep resonance
betray your impatience .
Hands tightly twine
in tangled hair
to maneuver
the treasure hunt.
Licked lips pause
at the sight of fire
burning in
glazed gazes
before engulfing
the throbbing member.
Plump ruby lips
greet velvety texture
in a slow deep dive.
Tongue curls around
the flavor
in a dulcet embrace.
Moans release
as grip tightens
in my hair
settles the
rhythmic pace
to taste in an
oscillating dance.
The masculine aroma of heady musk
lingering there, arouses my appetite.
With my enthusiasm
attuned to
your preferred rhythm
suckling, slurping
surface and dive
in measured unison.
Break of breath
allows tongue
freedom to roam below,
licking, soft kissing
the tender hammock
of testicles.
Tongue and lips escalate higher
to mount another assaulting dive
deeper in the depths
of the cusp in cavity.
Wetted fingers
probe even lower
circling superficially
as gasp escapes
your heavy breath;
flaming eyes lock.
Finger dips in
with expert finesse
gorging hardened growth
within a wrapped hand.
Thighs tighten
with rocking grip.
Head thrusts onward,
drilling forward
in each dive.
Salvia slips
fingers grip
lips dip
Engorged swell, flesh tightens in an intensity
of volcanic eruption ...
HALTS
assault
Pace retracts.
Loosened lips kiss tip.
*“Soon sweetheart, your time will ***
inside me as we surrender to synergy."*
#
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 7:51 AM UTC
I remember
when you were young and wide eyed
excited at the possibility of the world
and afraid because it was all so big and you,
you were the smallest creature in a forest full of monsters
still, you had big dreams and wanted
so badly to write something
so unique and profound
something to make people understand you
understand themselves
see that we are all one
know that we all bleed the same
slippery shades of water color
even if the canvas is is different
Fear is an ugly thing and overshadows
and overwhelms, *******
the life out of life
and the colors out of the rainbow that
is supposed to shine overhead and keep
the bad the things at bay
it crawls into bed with you at night and
keeps you awake, drilling
everything that is wrong
straight through your skull and
into your soul like a
woodpecker, never ceasing
never letting you rest
there is so much that is so hard
to comprehend and make sense of
and it is so much easier to let the fear
take hold of you, wrap it's fingers
tightly around your neck
a noose growing ever tighter, strangling
while you struggle until
you have no voice left to speak
It left you choking
out fragments
and run-on sentences into a journal
that no one would ever see
that still makes me burn when
I flip through those pages reliving
the story of my life that you wrote
all those years ago
I remember
when you thought that no one could see you,
so you lived your life like a child
jumping up to see over the counter,
making make-shift ladders out of whatever
you could find so that you could grasp
everything that always seemed so far above your reach,
losing yourself so easily
in a sea of people
because they were so big
and you were
nothing
You words are a time capsule
that bring me back to a place when
when we stared at each other in the mirror
and curled our tiny fingers into a fist
wanting to smash the glass
because
we were ugly
But my words are a time machine,
my gift to you from the future
You are small still,
but the world is not as big as it used to be
and nothing ever comes easy
but your dreams are coming true,
you did not give up despite
believing so often that you would fail and
you are making a difference
I am afraid
because
everyone is afraid, but
I stand in front of the mirror
young and wide-eyed,
excited about the possibility of the world
and when I look at you now, I know
that we are learning to love each other
finally.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 10:03 PM UTC
up early to water
the garden
the cicadas are
already drilling holes
into the
leaden stillness
everywhere
leaves are drooping
I spray the shrubs
to wash off the dust
birds fly in to sit
on the dripping branches
begging for a shower
a cardinal flutters
its wings and sings
and I oblige
jewel-like droplets splash
through the slanting light
everywhere
the world is ablaze
heat waves wild fires
everywhere anger
everywhere distraction
suspicion
leaders are faint-hearted
the wicked fan the flames
still my garden needs water
still the cardinal
flutters its wet wings
and sings
here here water here
here here water here
Tom Spencer © 2018
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 1:41 PM UTC
*O darkest night, what are you for?
Sometimes to wrestle, sometimes to rest
But always to cling to Jesus more
Though senses are dulled, desires awaken
Aching grows stronger, inhibitions are taken
Less seeing, less hearing, more hunger, more longing
Answers are dimming while questions are thronging
More drilling, more filling
The canyons of my soul
More boring, more pouring
Himself into the hole
More stretching, more catching
Away my gasping breath
More tearing, more sharing
In the union of His death*
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 2:49 PM UTC
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
What?
well don't be shocked,
it's genetic coded,
drilling for dimples
my parents did it
to me,
down the food chain,
for a millennium,
Baby Boomers, Millennials,
Gen X, Gen Y, Gen Z
it will be done forever,
auto-naturally
place the pointer finger
gently upon each cheek,
commence so soft
digging, twisting for
the oil of human smiles,
the reward, astonishing!
a shocking discovery
made this morn!
*you can do it too
"going up the stairs,"
to Grandmas, Nana's,
if you catch them,
and with extra care spent,
soft so soft when
they are
just waking up,
when their inner kid
is sleepy showing*
drill a dimple,
drill, baby, drill,
if your baby/is
six or sixty,
at any age,
kissing an
unexpected smile,
most worthwhile!
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 8:03 AM UTC
writing songs sans artifice,
that grow better different,
different better,
the lyrics of a man growing older,
insides out, featuring his slips, all showing,
eyes squinting from hard lifestyle experience,
taking on wearied shades of beige yellowing,
a tanned blackness, time edits them, so now,
they sound the same but holier,
from the hazing of hazards
one builds for and by himself,
drilling & extracting the spit-shine of
all that all is fine,
but liquor & cat's paw black shoe polish
just can't quite cover 'em up (2),
the stabbing itch each of the every time
one quests and questions
his ego,
always another test…
why would I ever want that?
his fingers create tinkling at rapido pace,
tinkling an arrhythmia of rhymes
previously perviously (1) unseen,
self exploration, that we all realize
is an unforgiving, never ending,
source of melodic crying out loud;
and when the sensual, arrayed pleasures,
begin to bore
holes of no important consequence,
the querys~to~self get even harder
to explicate what they intimate,
who they implicate,
which parts of you,
failed to answer satisfactorily…
why would I want want that
forever?
Aug 2, 2025
Aug 2, 2025 at 2:11 PM UTC
across the Liverpool plains
the gas exploration
goes on without
being contained
drilling is never ending
holes sunk
which invariable
cause in the farming community
a disquieting funk
Santos
cares little
for the environment's
well being
its pipeline
must garner
all the gas
in the stream
landholders and those in the green party
have banded together
to protect the agricultural lands
from the rabid abuse
which the company
will wrought on
the water table
flora
and
fauna
they cry ****
as the company
exploits
the countryside
making of it
a harlot to be pillaged
and misused
the state government
is at sixes and sevens
so many competing
interests
must be listened to
should it give
Santos
permits
to
**** and plunder
or
will
it
allow
the
broad acres
to
continue
without sunder
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 7:35 AM UTC
Grumbling engine underground
Again
Rotates and repeats.
The echo
The steamy yawn
Mellow fiend unseen
Creeps
Bearing teeth in metallic joints.
A fat snake's yawn
Blows and bellows quietly.
Uncoloured ornament at ten feet
Floats through that crawling wind
Full from everything it could eat.
***** sand in the far east
Rustic in the sense of dripping spit.
The blue walls painted over the white plain
Are scratched
White walls slain.
Drilling ripple
In the black pool
Ink
Coloured the lonely riddle.
A cold under the sun
Blinds our noses
Disguising away our senses.
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 5:29 AM UTC
The narcissistic urge flips eggs now.
Our ex-veteran father-figure gets a hamster, calls it Snuffles.
The thing you don’t know until the end of the script of the Tarantino-twist is that our protagonist sits
rocking back and forth in
a barren room inside a strait-jacket.
Meanwhile, our enemy shouts
something along the lines of:
"grab a spoon
I hope they don’t wash their hands"
The stones fallen off their strings,
gunshots hotwire themselves away from
a dubstep kind of drilling, the pipe dream
of an intimate email relationship.
Shout again,
"I hope you never feel those clammy hands.
Blaarghh"
Your diner eggs stink
I chucked up
In the kitchen bin.
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 12:43 PM UTC
dealer looks at me
he makes time stand still
drilling through the barren sea I call my face
and I can tell he knows, just how much like jelly
my bones become with him standing there and how melty
the wasteland I call my heart gets: a phenomenon Id call unsafe and self betraying.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 11:15 PM UTC
In my dream,
drilling into the marrow
of my entire bone,
my real dream,
I'm walking up and down Beacon Hill
searching for a street sign --
namely MERCY STREET.
Not there.
I try the Back Bay.
Not there.
Not there.
And yet I know the number.
45 Mercy Street.
I know the stained-glass window
of the foyer,
the three flights of the house
with its parquet floors.
I know the furniture and
mother, grandmother, great-grandmother,
the servants.
I know the cupboard of Spode
the boat of ice, solid silver,
where the butter sits in neat squares
like strange giant's teeth
on the big mahogany table.
I know it well.
Not there.
Where did you go?
45 Mercy Street,
with great-grandmother
kneeling in her whale-bone corset
and praying gently but fiercely
to the wash basin,
at five A.M.
at noon
dozing in her wiggy rocker,
grandfather taking a nap in the pantry,
grandmother pushing the bell for the downstairs maid,
and Nana rocking Mother with an oversized flower
on her forehead to cover the curl
of when she was good and when she was...
And where she was begat
and in a generation
the third she will beget,
me,
with the stranger's seed blooming
into the flower called Horrid.
I walk in a yellow dress
and a white pocketbook stuffed with cigarettes,
enough pills, my wallet, my keys,
and being twenty-eight, or is it forty-five?
I walk. I walk.
I hold matches at street signs
for it is dark,
as dark as the leathery dead
and I have lost my green Ford,
my house in the suburbs,
two little kids
****** up like pollen by the bee in me
and a husband
who has wiped off his eyes
in order not to see my inside out
and I am walking and looking
and this is no dream
just my oily life
where the people are alibis
and the street is unfindable for an
entire lifetime.
Pull the shades down --
I don't care!
Bolt the door, mercy,
erase the number,
rip down the street sign,
what can it matter,
what can it matter to this cheapskate
who wants to own the past
that went out on a dead ship
and left me only with paper?
Not there.
I open my pocketbook,
as women do,
and fish swim back and forth
between the dollars and the lipstick.
I pick them out,
one by one
and throw them at the street signs,
and shoot my pocketbook
into the Charles River.
Next I pull the dream off
and slam into the cement wall
of the clumsy calendar
I live in,
my life,
and its hauled up
notebooks.
3.6k
one who basks in the soft heat of grandiose moonliness
growing fatter on honeyed imaginations
their sicklysweetness soaking through the pores
of countless generations
their minds invade a collective consciousness
burning arcs of inspiration – torches of the collective vision
in drilling through mutual experience
great gaping black holes of creation
effigies of super-egos, lynched on altars of desire
neon flames and disco lights, emotions on a massive pyre
maiden voyagers on never-ending cruise
sinking in foreign oceans – their endurance dupes
minor gods of destiny and fate they await
dionysian ****** of wine and food for thought
and hearts that beat in unison
a schizoid muttering that enlarges and deafens
manic pleasure that spins and spins
in eternal circles of pleasure and pain, loss and gain
opioid mists that dream a dream of everlasting name
an addiction an obsession that sumbits
to some masochistic drive
to empathize.
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
06.09.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Sep 6, 2012
Sep 6, 2012 at 4:55 AM UTC
Crawl crawl
Burning through
Obsessions
Rotten stew
Crawl crawl
Through the pain
Remission
Is a joke
And life was a game
But is a remainder
of screwups and screwdowns
Crawl Crawl
Burning through
Possessions
Deadbeat crew
Crawl crawl
Forgotten stains
Permission
Is always denied
And rebuttals dumped
In trash cans full
of screwups and screwdowns
Drilling a hole
Finding geodes where a core was
Cold and dark and empty
Drilling a hole
Finding loneliness inside
It is who you are
Extinguished supernovae
Could have contained
And still the darkness would have stayed
Crawl crawl
burning through
your house of cards
melting all definitions
You're a screwup
Still alive
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 12:54 PM UTC
she screams "SILENCE DOES NOT EXIST" at the top of her lungs but there's no one around to hear her
her brain pounds against her skull and she can hear the sound of drilling through bone she can smell the sweet stench of human bone meal she can taste the oozing sawdust textured drips of her own blood and she can see the back of her eyelids, tinged with red from the florescent lights of the hospital room as her fingers twist in the thin coarse blankets she tugs at so desperately writhing in the cot they've graciously provided her with if only to remove her stillbeating organs with the promise of a cure
she screams "SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME" at the top of her lungs but there's no one around to hear her
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 6:39 PM UTC
Midnight approaches
Tick tick tock
Won't someone stop
The Doomsday Clock
From striking oil
Drilling rock
Thirsting soil
Aftershock
Deserted hourglass of sand
Shifts to resource hungry hand
Tyrants of time assume command
Greed consumes
This wasted land
First come the roaches
Tick tick tock
The bugs can't stop
The Doomsday Clock
With beehive brains
No voice to talk
And droning minds
Comprise the flock
As lone wolves feast
On sheep they stalk
Then fear encroaches
Tick tick tock
Too scared to stop
The Doomsday Clock
As violence claims
Each city block
Blood drawn on streets
Like sidewalk chalk
When Hatred's loaded
Gun is cocked
Beyond reproaches
Tick tick tock
How could they stop
The Doomsday Clock
When despots trade
In human stock
Waging war
Upon this rock
As profits slaughter
More livestock
The end approaches
Tick tick tock
No hope to stop
The Doomsday Clock
As poisoned skies
Corrode this rock
With toxic lies
Controlling hourglass of sand
Clenched by Atlas choking hand
Titans of industry command
Still Chronos rules
This dying land
Sep 4, 2016
Sep 4, 2016 at 2:09 PM UTC
I sat on the dentist’s chair
With an aching tooth, feeling hell
The dentist seemed quite pleased
As he opened my mouth and surveyed
‘There are holes to be filled
And the plaque to be removed
It needs a few sittings
At the end, you’ll have a set of fine teeth’!
His gentle assurance was so comforting
And I thought my jaws no more have to suffer
The pangs and torments of an aching tooth!
He then, in a narrow syringe
Injected something into my gum
I knew a numbness creeping in
Until at last I felt a hard rock within
Now, like an expert work man
He began his rigorous craft
Loud machines began to boom
The chair got flattened
From 'verticality'
I got changed into 'horizontality'
And the overhead apparatus came down
Like an eagle swooping down on its prey.
With blaring lights blinding my vision,
I lay torpid as if my body was strapped
The doctor took out his steel and hammer
And started tapping and chipping
Drilling and boring
Though numb, I could still feel the pull and tug
The crooked forceps and pliers
Made all the nerves in my head irk
My mouth was filled with saliva
And I felt a sprout of blood inside
He stuffed some gauze and resumed his work
I wanted to yell, ask him to stop
But being gagged, I couldn’t utter a word
My pupils dilated
My lips quivered
My tongue got parched
I gasped for breath
With a mix of cement and sand (?)
He began filling and plastering
Scrubbing and polishing
Helplessly lying on the dentist’s chair,
I wondered
What whips and stings one has to endure
To end the pain and give the teeth a shine!
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 7:53 AM UTC
You may think Halloween's great
But it's the one holiday that I really hate
All the little sweet-toothed children
Always forget to brush their teeth
Even the one's that normally floss
When it's me vs. the candy, I've traditionally lost
Oh Halloween, I despise you
And all the cavities you bring
The SweetTarts and the lollipos
Caramel apples with nuts on top
Hershey's and Reese's
Skittles and all their sugary pieces
M&M;'s and Snickers
Why don't we just give out stickers?!
Jolly Ranchers and Gummi Bears
Instant cavities, everywhere!
So when October comes to an end
I wait for the patients they're sure to send
Filling after filling after filling
Children crying while I'm drilling
I don't like it, despite the business it provides
On the night of October 31st, I always hide
Not wanting to fuel the tragedy that always ensues
I hate Halloween, I really, really do.
Jan 21, 2011
Jan 21, 2011 at 2:56 PM UTC
*i saw you
i saw your fiery eyes
it was like looking into a cup
unstoppably filling up to its brim
yours, abundantly filled with vehement grim
so uneasy it was conjecturing your mind
gave me a reason to unwind for a little while
tell my why
all the pretends and quiet sighs, enshrouding whats from behind
what it is there inside
why do you need to hide
thy precious heart with no choice
but to turn itself into an agitated smoldered iron
strengthened heart, furnished like art
you are a burning metal amenably hammered by many foes
far more drowned with the empty souls
where are you, where is the real you
how did your soul turn so blue
let me condole
drilling poles amidst the cold
rendering you a hand and something to hold
I will find yours
along with all the lost
long hoarfrost
waiting to be accost
along with the alley of souls
growling down the holes
in line, next to mine
unleash a shine, your spirit so divine
let your caliginosity be replaced
all be thy grace shall be embraced
this time, fearlessly
without minds controlling slavery
cutting the negativity and
ignoring life's declivity
see yourself walking through the flame
no more lames
without the shame and doubt getting burnt
stepping on with something learnt
now you are changed, well-transformed,
someone born to aspire, died meant to inspire,
honey you are retrofire, firing in the night sky
but not as heaping as an empty pyre
but as fierce as an enraging forest fire*
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 9:39 AM UTC
it's inherent ontology, it's not even necessary to process inherited ontology; inherited ontology can be riddled and lost to abstraction like the invention of crosswords as antidote to the drilling-in of the Bible... but inherent ontology? inherent is a tautological invitation to italicise the word ontology - tautology anti synonym - the doubly stressed, point origin secured, but from two adjacent / adjective angles - well, might as well be a compound, the adjacent-adjective, when language meets math and math meets.... d'uh... or simply arithmetic, because that's how it's easily translated, arithmetic is grey people and math the rich... language the poets and grammar the farts.
a shortened critique of pure reason -
a) based on phenomena
(things most likely talked about)
and
b) based of noumenna
(things least likely talked about)....
i.e. a) and the ego implant,
and b) the god implant -
likewise the zealots on either side,
bleep bleep beep r r e r s.... and muslims...
i forgot to mention that Kant forgot
to mention the trigonometric foundations
as justifying owning a villa or whatnot,
the same foundations of having
the implant ego secured and willed
are the same parameters of the
implant god secured and thought
the point being dynamic parallelism,
mid-way between cosine and sine
rigid fluctuation tangents occur,
the ridiculous abbreviations, the p.s., and ibis.;
you're basically born with ego
or you're born with god -
there's no woof woof Pavlov chime chime in between -
ring-a-ding-ding-surprise?
there's no side-winding to create cinema -
being born with ego is explained clearly, coerced
with monetary affairs;
being born with god is explained "clearly", coerced
with murderers, lastly -
no psychological theory will box-me-in
given the lost tribalism and the usage of
the trans-valuation of the synonym of thing -
with money came slang - and all thorough evils,
with slang, synonyms, antonyms, critique of vocab.,
Arizona in the ******* Amazon -
i'm basically saying what Kant said:
god isn't uncool or whatever atheism tends to forget,
it's an implant of functioning, we can't rid it
by argument, and we certainly can't accept it
by prayer - unless we're dumb enough to do either
for worth of understanding tornadoes;
because that's were Seymour Hoffman started for me,
filming Twister.
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 7:29 PM UTC
a malignant cancer spreads
in prime agricultural land
the Santos Company
gas wells ever expand
the waterways and aquifers
sullied with material not healthy
the corporate entity
aspiring to be more wealthy
campaigners outside fences
at drilling locations
wanting to stop the company's
sick infiltration
the fight to preserve the family farm
has been unheeded
company profitability
must be well seeded
a state government not listening
to scientist's info
seemingly it is more interested
in the gas field's revenue flow
as time goes by the waterways
and land will become sicker
all in the name of the Santos brands
noxious sticker
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 8:15 AM UTC
a twenty-six year old woman sits alone outside a coffee shop, waiting
she plays Snake on an old Nokia that was discontinued long ago
her red dread locks are tucked neatly under a worn beanie
that she stole from the boy that she gave her virginity away to
in a skate park when she was nineteen
a twenty-six year old woman sits alone at her desk, writing
she has a one night stand whose name she doesn't remember sleeping in her bed
her mascara is running and her lips are dyed black from henna
that she stole from the girl who offered her shelter when she ran away to live
in her car and dingy motel rooms after college
a twenty-six year old woman sits outside a Stop and Shop, drinking Shasta
she recently tried to publish her book of poems , but it was rejected so:
her shorts barely covered her backside and she wore the bralette
that she stole from her brother's girlfriend while she was visiting
in the false hopes that he would register how badly she needed him (or anyone)
a twenty-six year old woman sits in a little blue rowboat, drilling holes into the bottom
she skims Red Kayak before she leaves home and ties rocks around her ankles
her thoughts are set on mentally regressing the pain of her teenage years
that she wishes she could steal back to at least put some emotion back
into her heart
it'd been better than feeling nothing at all
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 6:24 PM UTC
My Strongest, My Weakest
My strength where it be my weakness
My weakness, it seems to be my strength
Alone on a bench of thoughts
Pulling out memories as straws
******* out the moments so I don't feel numb again
Waiting for the sun to shine
At night I look for the brighest star
At home I wait for the hour of glory
I write futuristic promising romantic stories
Searching and digging into the pit of opportunity
Grinding and drilling so I can find what the world has for me
Is the rock a diamond uncovered?
Is the diamond a rock long discovered?
What good am I in a hopeless world?
How strong am I to be still standing?
I have been blinded by pride and reputation
The chances flew right past me
This was my weakness
An illusion which seemed to appear as my power
Only to allude me and send me to the depths of hunger
How do I survive in this incessant famine
My strongest, my weakest
Is my prowess both a strength and a weakness
Is my power a fist that concentrates my potential,
filters all doubts and confusion,
then send me back to a writer's rhythm?
For the muscle of me, what is love?
For the scars on my back, do tears set a heart free?
On my back are scars which smymbolize the pain
The pain caused by those who have turned their backs on me
The muscle of me a solidified lump of heated chemistry
Chemistry broke for the vision was divided
For one side a poetic love affair
Another a fling of **** and ego boost
Lies lie hidden in a black book of truce
The tears shower and the pain overshadows,
and the lies fly out and the book burns
Nothing left but hurt, resentment, hunger and thirst
A chance of love comes again and again I am underrated
Shots that succeed lack poise and weight
I levitate onto the pillars of loneliness
The trial gives me cold but also clarity
A fool never unless my heart learns to jump again and I,
I will set it free.
Is this a mere cry due to weakness?
Is it a last strike so I can find my strength again?
All is revealed and I slip into a stream
I am on the prowl once more and I will never be the same.
But soon I will find, the lines that divide
Strength and Weakness
And the balance therein
I am in it and I search for the limit... The limit within the dimensions of existence's summit.
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 3:23 AM UTC