"drippy" poems
Pit-pat goes the rain
Falling all around.
From under my umbrella
I watch it hit the ground.
Splish-splash go the puddles
As I come stomping through.
My boots keep me nice and dry,
And my umbrella too.
Outside it's wet and drippy
As rain falls from the sky,
But underneath my umbrella
I stay cozy and dry.
And though the sky is cloudy
And the sun has hidden her face,
Under my own little umbrella
I have a happy, pleasant place.
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 11:09 AM UTC
kiss my sorry *** and imagine
a differential. divide it by two,
see? this will give you the
circumference of existential
convulsion; you will see past
the freaky book you can't read
for lack of knowing and how
absurdism scares you if you
believe it. that's why you dropped
The Myth of Sisyphus part-way
through cuz what came to mind
with all the drippy Dali-mentalscape
spa of shread-dread WHATSyness!
was Camus coming to so many a pessimists
ending he had to turn it last second to say
'but in the end, we must assume that
Sisyphus is happy' and all you see in your
minds-eye is pursuit of this absurdist
paradise for nervous thought-drawn chain
-smokers is a gun to your head with one
last glance at the ocean.
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 2:21 AM UTC
~ one more for patty m. ~
slept late after dancing with my devils, from,
from the wee, until a pealing pearl from the Earl of Dawn,
recovering from an intrusion~invasion~brain~regurgitation,
and it’s nearly 9am, sipping my first cuppa Hawaiian,
& woke to a repost of a ten year old wondering plea(1)
makes me think “This old thing,” poem, like a fav
frock/suit that still drapes perfectly, and yet draws the
***** admiration and drippy drawling yummy compliments,
gracefully, gratefully demurred with them three words,
& it’s 8:39am, Bruce pitching in with “Born in the USA”
recipe for a new thank u Gawd poem to make room for
a fast~break diet for an old man with a rebuilt ticker, this
very emission~transmission of a verbal politesse writ going
some where, cooked on a medium slow burner fueling dressed up seeds of heartfelt appreciation made of ancient oat grasses
birthing a poem~child of thanks to the Lawd for one more day,
opportunity, the five sense’s delivery gratitude and gratifications, and the desire to intertwine the sights, music, a crisp blue November Sky, the need to bleed brew these words into a fulfilling,
second moment mug, for the pearls and Earls
of poetic humans
10:01am
Thu Nov 2 2023
Nov 2, 2023
Nov 2, 2023 at 10:16 AM UTC
We scream
for ice-cream,
crunchy cones crisp,
cream and sauce drips down your wrists,
those sweet calories latching to your hips,
but, 'who cares?' you state, licking your lips,
we scream
for ice-cream,
drip,
drippy,
d
r
i
p
s.
_________
Drools:
http://beautyineverything.com/5065478350
Oct 10, 2010
Oct 10, 2010 at 5:58 AM UTC
I sit on a droopy windowsill and gaze out
at the stars above me in the stately sky of coal.
I let the smoke fill me, pollute my corrupted lungs,
‘til it plugs me, completely consumes my sticky soul,
and midnight sorrow blanket hugs the heart in my hole.
I sit and I consider the sky
with its million-and-one jewels
that adorn the vast carpet of night
and its one, lone cloud that slowly drools
fat, drippy drops of deep fed'ral blues.
The ashy, burnt taste is still in my throat;
it lingers- a dull, cloying candy cane.
The muted flavour chokes and jabs and pecks
persistently, in the back of my brain
and leaves a steel blue/gray trailing stain.
Vague memories of fourth-grade English lessons
take me with a deep sigh to forgotten thoughts
of Roger McGough and unrequited love-
dazed recollections of school poetry taught
in obscure slate-blue classrooms, littered with blots.
It seems feeling unreturned affection
isn't quite as great as I’d thought after all.
I must've been wrong, all those hazed years ago,
when I yearned to feel unrequited love’s fall,
convinced it would be a wondrous, dazzling ball
Instead, I'm just ******* in the pale-ing sky
that seems to be growing into lighter hues-
the navy’s turned to electric, to powder,
matching the sapphire in my soul of glue.
I'm suppose I'm feeling somewhat, slightly blue.
.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 11:21 AM UTC
If you could see the inside of a person
they would look rather congealed and drippy
but.....
metaphorically much different than who they are on the outside.
You know,
the skin part throws us all off to inner beauty
and their desires and needs and vulnerabilities.
However, personally....
I'll take the heads with teeth in their mouths and skin on
their faces.
Hopefully they have enough brains in their skulls
(and not falling all over the ground)
to spill their own guts over a drink (several, if they insist)
without me having to see them instead.
Fairly certain
the epic distraction of their viscera
would sincerely disparage what they were attempting to convey anyhow.
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 1:34 AM UTC
There is a girl
on a bench in the park
at the edge of the town.
She is young.
Little ringlets of copper brown
frame her delicate face.
Wide eyes of the purest sky blue
scan the trees.
She is looking for something.
She stands up
and straightens her skirt.
Her legs shiver,
and her socks grow heavy with water.
Nobody is around to question her,
about why she's out in the snowstorm.
She wouldn't answer anyway;
she's too focused.
She is looking for something.
Cautious steps now.
The ground is slippery with ice.
Her boots do not hold
because they are too worn from walking.
Finally she reaches it,
the edge of the sidewalk.
She peers intently into the grove.
Her blue eyes narrow.
She is looking for something.
All is silent,
except for the flurries of snow.
Before long there is a blanket on the ground.
It is thick powdery snow.
It collects in her boots and on her scarf,
and she shudders as the ice
presses against her porcelain skin.
But she is silent, focused.
She is looking for something.
After a moment,
she steps back and sighs.
There is a slight smile on her lips.
Her nose is red and drippy with cold.
Still, she is silent,
though not by choice.
She has no one to talk with.
It's barren.
She has found what she was looking for.
What it was I can't say.
Either I don't know,
or it's not my place,
or you could ask her yourself.
But there is a girl
on a bench in the park
at the edge of town,
and she is happy.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 3:48 AM UTC
Josteen Yazzi said the Critic should ask his thought
on the matter of great art and literature
What do you know of art and literature, Uncle?
Nothing, he said, I think about what I do not know.
I do not know why people don't like Norman Rockwell.
Norman Rockwell painted the American Dream,
with Indians in it, some times.
I like Norman Rockwell because I know how he felt.
I saw my people live in a good world that vanished.
Magic or other wise, I remember mine,
the way
when I see
Mr. Rockwell's America as he imagined
he had seen it.
Or maybe he painted
what you should have been able to see,
but for wars and Spanish Flu and cattle barons
and reaping machines and steam and electricity.
Olaf Wieghorst coulda painted America ugly, too.
But he didn't.
Literature. I have nothing left to say, Norman Rockwell, maybe he needed a mentioning for some
reader anchored reason.
We have to deal with that more these days.
People with big old dish antennae out there,
rusting after Direct TV got a satellite to see the res,
Some o'the kids build a radio telescope, outa them three meter models,
so we are connected.
Norman Rockwell painted the Peaceful Kingdom,
just like Mr. Hicks and Mr. Kincaid,
not mr klee or mr picaso, they could image hell.
My ma liked That drippy guy, said she could see the swing of things in he's paintings, What's-isname,
Jackson, damshame, Jackson Pollak right?
but the message is in the medium, that's what my Shicheii yoosto say. Art must sing.
So I can play my drum. And she can dance.
When we think nothing about it.
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 8:45 PM UTC
Let's traverse the universe together.
I'll navigate the hot air balloon
And you'll mark a trail,
dotted with echoing wonder and laughter
and cookie crumbs and popcorn kernels.
Let's traverse the universe together.
We can fly paper airplanes to all our friends
and only communicate through bottled messages
and shooting stars with wishes attached.
Let's traverse the universe together.
you can lean on me when you need to, and
you'll carry me when i trip on my laces
People will point and whisper that we're time travelers,
or just gone loony.
But we're just the good amount of sane-
80% crazy, 10% sense, and
10% who cares?- As long as we're together.
We'll eat drippy summer popsicles together-
the kind that're 50 cents and you need a friend to eat with.
We'll surf rooftops to look like we're badass- and we'll trip and add to the
piles of scrapes and memories.
We'll build a secret bunker-
password and secret-code included
with more canned food than we need, just in case zombies come after us.
We'll catch frogs and try to make then fight-
but they'll just hop away, back into the pond
And we'll follow suit and go experience the world with them.
It's too short to ask why,
let's just do, instead.
Let's traverse the universe
and write odes to each other, and get drunk
off of our own poetic justice.
Just you and me.
Cherry pits and broken fragments
of sticks that once served as swords
will litter the roads we once trod.
People will say:
the world is too much for us to handle.
Well they're wrong,
we're too much for the world to handle.
Let's traverse the universe together.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 12:03 PM UTC
Your eyes are the sea at a boardwalk on a sunny day,
with the sea foam splashing small children holding onto their drippy ice cream cones,
begging their mothers for "one last ride".
Your eyes are the sparkle in a sapphire stone,
Precious, something to be coveted and treasured.
And when you smile...your eyes, they glitter and dance,
like sparks flying off of a sparkler on the Fourth of July.
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 1:01 AM UTC
Walls were pressed and hammered
Therapy for workers, curing pangs of comforts
They sat between fleshy webs of knuckles
On lunch break they would pluck pouts of moldy fruit
If only she could hear summer of 98’
Glimmering puddles and sinkable reasons
She could test her strength with Goldfish and a drippy, chocolate cupcake
Matching deserts of skin covering joints young enough to bend
They spat against another, sweating. Tapping
Smoother than honeymooners in a convention center
Frigid or uncontrollable, no one could tell
The breezeway connected teeth, the left chipped in the corner from
A muddy softball game. Their team won 7-2.
Wide enough to squeeze uncooked macaroni shells between
Became the dusky neighborhood game.
Transitioning humans, males most likely, whispered fears between that gap.
He was different. He waited in outside the doors, near the trash bins
With grumpy janitors, muttering, “fuggin’ kids” and things like that.
She loved how ugly they were then.
Her thoughts trailed him, what was left of him, as he paced
Searching for the mug he left there, no
There, holding wet tissue, no
Soggy cupcake liner
Cupcake, shortcake, cake, cake liner
Rainbow or musty brown from 346 degrees Fahrenheit
Baking Therapy Class held in her kitchen
Maybe because she could pound at the dough and it would never fight back
She neglects the finale of rumbling coffee exhale since she knows
He’d never come back. Not here or any party she threw.
But on another hard drive she saved photos of September 20th.
She’ll flip mindlessly through a Cosmopolitan, until she can forget his name
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 2:01 PM UTC
take three hours of low-quality sleep,
and sprinkle lovingly with the midnight threats
of the racist and schizophrenic Madam Crazypants who lives on the next floor up.
for milder taste use the glowing red profanities that she hollers through the vents at the Mexicans who aren’t there.
for more spice use the white hot suicidal screams that saturate the night sky like streams of lava that shoot from Kilauea.
call the cops when she threatens to jump.
their lights and sirens will render waves of space
into solid panes of ice that smash into your head in surges.
go to school and simmer in silence until it’s execution time.
while the blood is still flowing from the bullet holes that you gave yourself,
pour on half an hour of "constructive" criticism from your professor
which will burn like lye or battery acid depending on the day of the week.
wash down with caffeine. simmer for three hours in a soulsucking class.
go home.
drink beer.
play Halo.
bury your anguished cries beneath your vice
and that secret codeine
and the bottle of wine you sequestered
and the cough syrup
which makes the world warm and salty and drippy and noodly
like a good bowl of pho.
let it sit in the oven
but don’t turn it on
and then pull it out on Monday
wrapped in a cotton blanket of cold *****
bleeding from the brain and fingers
empty of meaning.
and when the sun blows a fuse
well I guess then you can eat it.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 4:46 PM UTC
spinach has blown
down my neck
and drifted gently
under my ribs
*(i'm the salad fork carefully
rolling coffee beans
in drippy melted
warm dark chocolate)*
i'm hungry but
not in the way where
my stomach growls
in the way where
i want to cry
but i've got to keep my
$20 teeth fresh and
minty at all times
the mirror
is broken
cracked in so many places
i'm more jagged lines than person
a mosaic of pieces that don't match
and parts i don't like
the truth is i
am flawed
and i will always
be flawed
and i may never
stop looking in
a broken mirror
wishing to smash
my body on its
sharpest edges
but i'm slipping
into a comatose
state of control
and loathing
*(the more dead i get
the more alive i look)*
when will i snap
out of this
when will i snap
out of this
*(I DON'T WANT TO
SNAP OUT OF THIS
I DON'T WANT TO
SNAP OUT OF THIS)*
stir the greens
rip the chicken
orange stings
the minty sores
chew chew chew
chew chew chew
chew chew chew
chew chew chew
chew chew chew
chew chew chew
chew chew chew
chew chew chew
chew chew chew
chew chew chew
swallow
take a bite
leave a bite
too much
too little
still hungry
always hungry
but it will all feel better
another ten pounds down
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 9:57 PM UTC
A prophesied alarm ticks away,
As sobering faces make their way.
Welcome oh stranger, to the land of the learned,
A trip from a ticket handsomely earned.
Watch your crooked tongue,
Forked and twisted in a manner wrong.
For here there be beasts and creatures,
In the midst of dreams and futures.
Through the air drifts the scent of a fanciful tonic,
Quelling instinct, and suppressing the panic.
Walk past the snappy ladies and lads,
Peering at screens for the latest fads.
Watch their suits emanate regality,
Killing the scene with sheer brutality.
See through the pores of that fine fabric,
And you'll find the remnants of a familiar trick.
Not unlike the wisdom of the wizened,
The words of the victorious, the echoes of the poisoned.
Underneath it all, see the truth,
Strip away the puffed, monstrous brute.
It's a dainty little feeling, fear they call it,
On their faces, clear and large is it writ.
They turn from the brave to the meek,
Everyone caught in this noxious reek.
What they ought to have predicted,
Is that this reverie is self inflicted.
Sullen cheeks, and drippy noses abound,
Waiting to be addressed and found.
This place is a walking minefield,
Of broken bones and souls to be healed.
But its not their fault, I can't complain,
Because all they feel they don't feign.
As in the midst of this perennial parade,
I find solace in the friends I've made.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 10:28 AM UTC
.
*A story is brothers with a poem.
That's all this is, family.*
~~~
Your soul couldn't get any bigger,
twilight crept over your toes, and
before you knew it---
it was gliding along your throat.
Cliffs aren't made of bones,
they rock and gleam like armor gnashing
twin dragon scales. The earth growls and lashes, dominance is its domain.
Bellow my legs I view the darkness pleading~
I've never witnessed a starving sea,
it begged to swallow every inch of
my crippled heart of wine.
I'm hanging by the wires we call gallows,
tendrils thinning like my silver lining.
Soon I'll feel the tides swallowing at my spine.
When I fall,
I'll do so
bliss-
ful-
y
This cliff has lockjaw,
the stones morphing into fangs of a Greek legend.
You're staring at me,
Saturn now makes its home in your auburn depths.
How I'll miss the misty mountains,
because you named them
after me.
A whisper louder than thunder,
lonesome ashes staining venom on my tongue.
Coughing up my regrets as if
I had lung cancer.
I'm a hanging nightmare.
That's ready to drown.
No wonder they call you daughter of old man winter, you're practically frozen in place.
I've seen the universe, but I think I'll swing by hell for a change.
"Ahkira....Ahkira look at me."
Why must your voice be so drippy? I thought you were a frost flower.
Since when did you melt when it sleeted?
"Yes?"
"Don't let go....Don't let go please...I'm coming."
"It's no use. I'm going to die,
Cinder."
Oh but darling,
you should've stayed glued to glass.
"Don't say that! I-"
With a lurch the mottled sky pinned you down,
senselessly, you crashed to the floor, 6 feet away from my hourglass body.
"Give me your hand!"
You reached, but I couldn't hold the wire.
Slip-
ping
ne-
ver
felt
so
****
wick-
ed,
But I was wrong.
Your soul multiplied.
It expanded.
But before I fell into the hug of oblivion, I tugged at your heartstrings my very last time.
I brushed the surface of your being and my words stung perfectly in your ear.
"Close your eyes."
.
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 12:14 AM UTC
under the skin all i am is blood and thought
forming into a lesser sum of the whole
fitted between floorboards and motel rooms
between clumsy words and continental souls
this is a tired, drippy saying my mother would repeat from the tongue, like a song but not like a poem, just a saying
"love this strong has to be domesticated"
and i wish i didn't exist outside of my head; i only wish to be a vacancy of thought
and i've bruises on the insides of my palms from it; easily hidden and slowly mended
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 4:00 PM UTC
I’m having a hippy drippy day
A great day to snuggle up inside
A drizzling rain and skies are gray.
I’ll call some friends to come and play.
I’ll cook up some muffins and popcorn
And chill off a gallon of cheap jug wine
Get out my guitar and my old ukulele
This day is going to work out just fine.
Rotten Ray and Pity Patty will come
The first to arrive as they always are.
Cokehead Bobby will ride with them
Because he never has a working car.
Dan will bring his Alice B. brownies
And whatever squeeze he has today.
Eldon Day will come since Dan’s here
As usual pretending he is not gay.
The music will start in right away
Four or five guitars and bongo drums.
There may be more instruments later
It depends on if Dial-A-Party comes.
While that is not a professional company,
It’s what we call it when we all meet
One calls another and soon we see
Small groups of people on the street.
Especially on rainy days, it turns out
We all love this kind of gathering
Depending on who is off that day
And how big a storm we’re weathering.
But joy and music is the rule of the day.
We laugh and get ****** and sing,
Some drizzily hippy drippy happy fun;
A gathering of close friends means everything.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 3:39 PM UTC
You taste like apple ginger
Especially in the rain
The smell of wet around us
A memory like a stain.
You smell like earth and spices
I breathe you into my soul
Your scent enticing
Like a magnet pull.
Your hair in my hands
Your lips on mine
I want to be in collision
With your hips in due time.
But for now the rain
Pouring down like a shower
Washing away filth
And all the painful power.
Refreshing and delicious
Of cold and drippy wet
Later in the moonlight from the window
A hotter mess, I bet.
Daydreaming of a collision
But for now a car ride
A hopefully fulfilled prediction
Only now just your hand on my thigh.
In due time, in due time
You will be mine
Sweaty but gingerly
Between my thighs.
Feb 20, 2011
Feb 20, 2011 at 3:30 PM UTC
This silence,
this incessant silence
drives me mad
like the drippy faucet
that breaks the night
I cry.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 5:01 AM UTC
I loved the schoolbus.
I had friends in the front,
and friends in the back.
But sometimes when I climbed those steps,
I didn't want to have friends.
I didn't want to smile,
I didn't want to laugh.
I just wanted it quiet so
I sat in the middle sometimes,
right in between everything.
And that's where I met Vanessa,
right there in the middle of the bus.
She sat alone every day,
with her eyes always
cast upon the window
and what lay beyond it.
I noticed her right away
even though she was older
and a few grades ahead of me.
See she was seventeen, and much more
experienced than the fourteen-year-old me.
But I approached her anyway,
working my way into the seat
adjacent to her.
Eventually working up the *****
to actually say something.
We talked for a few weeks,
and she humored me.
Even when I went to sit in the back
and was loud and obnoxious, I would
catch her glancing.
She would look and sneer at me.
So when the day finally came
that she said my name
and told me to sit in her seat,
I dropped everything
and joined her.
Want to see something?
she asked, without so
much as a blink.
Sure, I mean, of course.
I replied, trying my best
not to sound too eager
She kept her eyes on me as
her hands lifted up her skirt,
one inch at a time showing me
more and more of her.
My eyes were locked on
her crotch, I could almost hear
the shutter clicking as I documented
the whole thing mentally.
But she stopped when she revealed
a crescent-shaped scab on her upper thigh.
It was shot through with red lines,
swollen and inflamed and
I swear that it moved and pulsed
right before my eyes.
I couldn't look away
as she picked the scab off
in one big piece, and I saw
a white caterpillar unfold from
her wound in a squelching
symphony of sickening sound
and roll it's way down
her leg, covered with blood and
leaving ***** streaks.
Then it hit the seat and I gasped
when she grabbed it before it could
crawl away and shoved the
macabre thing into her mouth,
still crawling,
killing it with her teeth.
I never sat with Vanessa again.
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 10:03 PM UTC
youre in a too-small bed in pediatrics
all sticky plasters and twitching toes
stuffed full of wires, pink to the bone
hollow and soft, impossibly close
youre a skinned hare, still running
eyes drippy with moon milk so fresh
teeth carved from wax and every orifice
a wound; every love, from the flesh
so now the sun rises on a sea of all-pale
im holding your hand, waiting to flower
you let down your hair--i know its gone thin
but dear deer, ill still try your tower
we're wasting away in symmetrical styles
one from the heart; another from the head
ill leave it to you to figure which is literal
ill leave it to you to see my blood be bled
(its too much for me, now: all i can consider
are the slow and subtle pains of sharing your bed.)
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 3:27 PM UTC
A touch, a word, a song
The reaching out to tell someone you care
can lift the spirit as it travels long
You find that you too in the blessing share.
I had a drippy miserable cold
the gloomy day had made me feel so blue
Wrapped in self pity, I was feeling old
And then the postman came with thoughts of you.
That you erased my cold, I cannot say
But words of cheer and happy thoughts you shared
I began feeling better on that day
It always helps to know that someone cares.
Sep 13, 2010
Sep 13, 2010 at 9:16 AM UTC
Tiny tawny girl next door,
Watch you scrub your kitchen floor.
Doggie down there, on all four:
I can’t wait ‘til you spill some more.
Laundry day, your fragrance drifts
Through my screen: My spirit lifts.
Subtle scents, your careless gifts,
And through each one, my keen nose sifts.
Singing, humming, filled with glee:
You wash your dishes, dutifully.
I hear you, though I cannot see,
How drippy-wet and wonderfully?
Accomp’nied by Spanish guitar,
This summer day, you wash your car.
Flamenco skirt, my jaw ajar,
On tippy-toes, you’ve stretched too far!
Then one day, from the box you came,
Bearing junk mail with my name.
I quickly turned to hide my shame.
You’d caught me staring, just the same.
My name, without lifting her head,
From that misguided missive, read.
Upset? Not yet. She smiled, instead,
Then took me by my arm, and said,
“I must confide, my next-door boy,
I play with you: my sweetest toy.
All parts and parcels of my ploy,
I mean to share what you enjoy.
“I scrub the floor where you can see.
I perfume all of my laundry.
I softly sing each melody,
And even dress indecently.
“…But spiders cause me grievous fright!
I have a burned-out ceiling light.
So, if you can and think you might,
Come help me with my chores, tonight.”
©2Dec2017 @DracoTalpus
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 3:15 PM UTC
By Arcassin B
Slash, dangerous,
Break in some glass, I'm your home,
The tranquil place, the happy place,
about to be drowned in blood,
Fixing William Shatner mask,
I carry my demons heavily on my shoulder,
Provoking me, you would also be stupid to get
close to me,
The devil's messenger incarnate leaking through scared and drippy as I ascended the passage of evil,
Be glad I didn't RIP out the pupils,
I'm way worse than messily cabin fever,
The one that snips Roses and tulips,
Like chasing after a relative that doesn't think I exist,
Letting them know that my legend lives,
No dogs live to take a ****
You could get the blade or the fist,
Halloween is the day of bliss,
A devil on a night like this,
Wake to fulfill demon hour wish,
Wake to fulfill demon hour wish,
A devil on a night like this,
Halloween is the day of bliss,
You could get the blade or the fist.
●
I could feel as good as I feel , when I,
Let go,
We could make this right in our wills,
Feel free,
I don't know,
I don't know,
The horrors that await you can not illustrate you,
Their aiming to take this world from you,
specifics when theres rent due, they would want to
take you,
No streets , cars or avenues,
The hills definitely have eyes , we call them vultures,
Infiltration in disguise, we are their adventures,
A voyage , a play , a stage to be performed on,
This life is too fake to hold on,
Wool over the eyes of some , might as well put the mold on,
I wouldn't leave you to dry and dye a different color of your love for me, positivity overrules this tree,
Don't you ever think that I, don't love you cause I do, don't **** me,
It would break my heart if you , thought i didn't care, don't eat me,
Don't you ever think that I, don't love you cause I do,
It would break my heart if you , thought i didn't care.
©abpoetry2020 ©arcassinburnham2020.
Oct 31, 2020
Oct 31, 2020 at 2:08 AM UTC
You move me.
You move me like sunlight on the dew drops of wild flowers.
You move me like the loud rumbling of thunder.
Like an intense game of laser tag; sweating and running and chasing.
You move me like Louis Armstrong's fingers on his trumpet.
You move me like my mother smiling down at me from the kitchen table when I was six.
Like Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band,
Like the smooth surface of my first hand-made bowl.
You move me.
You move me like the wind in my face when the car windows are rolled down.
You move me like my first paint set.
You move me like holding my first nephew, staring up at me with his small, blue eyes.
You move me like The Ground Is Lava.
You move me like the pen on this paper,
racing to scribble down my next thought.
You move me like snapping hair ties, like broken records, like drippy nail polish.
You move me like the rain drops on my window during a violent storm.
You move me like a long, unwinding road.
You move me like holding my crying sister.
You move me like T.S. Eliot, John Green, Phyllis Reynolds Naylor, Neil Gaiman.
You move me like a fast swivel chair.
You move me like my first knocked-out tooth.
You move me.
You move me like my first kiss in the second grade, smiling and giggling and nodding at, "Do you want to do it again?"
You move me like your bruised fingertips.
You move me like nervous glances that are shot away when you look back at me.
Like our first hug, when I didn't want to let go.
Like my blistered feet when I snuck out and ran to see you.
Like the playful nudges when we walk rythmically side by side.
You move me like your slant rhyme.
You move me like my shaky leg.
You move me like the late nights spent looking at photos from my past.
You move me like new shoes on linoleum floors.
You move me like the purple bags under my eyes.
You move me like the first time you introduced yourself to me.
You move me like my first communion as a child; disrespecting the purpose to the practice and just wanting to down a shot of grape juice.
Like the printer that won't stop shooting out pages.
Like your tangled imagery and verse.
Like my first hat.
You move me like rushing water.
You move me like falling out bed.
You move me like when our hands accidentally brush against each other in the hallway.
You move me like refusing to give up and trying again.
You move me like the way I dream of moving you.
You move me.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 8:34 PM UTC