"eczema" poems
i asked her, does it look the same?
she gave me that funny look she gets
whenever i say or do something a little dim
it's a mirror image for a reason she said
in the mirror i see muscles, and strength
hips a little too wide and fleshy
but still muscular,
strength all the way down
but when i reflect on myself,
no mirror necessary
it is never the same
i don't feel as strong as i could
don't look as sharp and sturdy as i could
those fleshy sides, too soft
for a battle-hardened brain
and turbulent thoughts
i need angles, i need straight lines
but there's nothing straight about me
and that's half the problem
and the other half
is that i hate the softness that lingers
but everybody else loves it
and i don't want to be warm and
able to be cuddled
i want hard edges
and nimble, spindly fingers;
when i play my chords
i want my bones to tap the strings
and when sadness sheathes itself within me
i want eyes as dry
as my eczema-bitten hands
Jan 4, 2018
Jan 4, 2018 at 8:46 PM UTC
He's found himself in the closet
After he lost to himself in a game of tic-tac-toe
And tied his lobster bib tightly
Then hid his cheat sheet, for the pop quiz he knew was soon to come
It's curtains for her
She let the cat out of the bag
And now she's up **** creek with ****** for paddles to go **** herself with
Right in the birth canal
Then we'll auction off the ******
We'll pass them off as European defibrillators
Maybe some extremist will want them
If we spew out enough mindless dribble
The All Time Shit-Show is about to begin
We have
The Chronic Masturbater
The Hypochondriac
And The Pathological Liar
It was either sometime yesterday
Or sometime tomorrow
Or was it sometime today?
That you were all going to make fun of the boy with the cleft lip down at the laundromat?
Out of the three of you The Pathological Lair sticks out like a sore thumb
I can tell he was the runt of the litter
Who always bites off more than he can chew
I see the Hypochondriac has convinced himself he has eczema
He rattles off all his symptoms
Inordinate filibustering
Now there's the Chronic Masturbater
He looks like he's over the hill
He's only twenty one
But the blue circles under his eyes and the deep defined lines on his forehead denote his inelegant aging
I sign all your lives away in my horrible cursive
And now you belong to the ragtag trigger-happy posse of gun-jumpers
My billfold his happily filled
So I must go do some reconnaissance
Spy on those who have quit their day jobs
The fish out of water
You must find that thing that really rolls off the tongue with a nice ring to it
******
*******
*******
*******
No...
Go hang youself with dental flossed you home-schooled fool
Indentured servants we're just an after thought
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
Over the years, I taught so many classes
in many different schools,
long-term or short.
Hundreds and hundreds of students,
all ages, three to eighteen years old.
But how could I remember
all of them?
I was the teacher; they were there to learn.
Those were our roles; that was the contract.
They would move up and I move on, for all of us
always a new beginning.
But now and then
one will return to haunt me, like the girl
whose secret friend, Little Mister Hansford,
drove a tiny red plastic car.
I keep it now, in my drawer,
and remember.
The boy, his skin
flaking and cracked with eczema, trying to resist
the urge to scratch, but always failing.
How could he bear to wake each day to face that life?
Yet I was proud he claimed me for his brother;
On a school exchange visit,
an older girl, seventeen,
crossing the Alps in a coach,
moved beyond tears
by her first sight of real mountains.
Do they remember?
Maybe they do.
A young man I met by chance
one day on a Spanish street
surprised me by recalling
how I read Winnie-the-Pooh when he was small,
and did the animals in different voices.
So many children, so many years have gone,
but memories, like love, can linger on.
Jul 15, 2016
Jul 15, 2016 at 12:40 AM UTC
I first cried
where freshness itself struggled
to breathe. Outside
the Ganges,
asthmatic,
began to cower
back in fear, in
disgust, in
disease, browning
like the discarded banana peels
on the roadside below.
I first cried
in a dirt town
where kings and queens
drank to grass avenues
and swaying music in the realms
of history books.
I first cried
where those books
aged quietly
in forgotten rooms.
I first cried
where the streets bled
out crumpling homes and
cardboard stores with misspelt names,
spilling children in dust dresses
and hair matted
into rust pieces.
I first cried
where those children hung
babies on their arms
like my mother swung
her handbag, a flag
of Valentino, while stumbling on
crushed cans and dog ****
and foetid mud-water
on the way to the dentist.
And the children cried
out snot, their arms
perpetually reaching
for a rupee
from the traffic.
I first cried
where white-lit department stores
sprouted in defiant sanitation
between eczema-covered apartment blocks
in which washing lines drooped
and parking was always a problem.
I first cried
where many gods and goddesses
resided on the footpaths
decked in glitter
and cloths of rouge
as old men with
skin weathered into mottled
leather shook
beneath sheets of jute
on the roadside below
and offered tiny flames
to their gods
as morning bellowed and their coughs
grew worse.
I first cried
where stareless men burnt
their fingers
on the Chinese noodles with too much
chilli powder
they cooked and fried and cooked
for those who never saw them
but to haggle over a ten
rupee note,
on the roadside,
on every corner.
I first cried
as thread-blanketed teenage girls
with wrinkled faces
squatted amongst cows
in the middles of roads,
chanting prices, in voices
full of tar,
of the mound of peas
they were selling for that week.
I come every year.
And I'm ashamed to say
I'll never live here
but in my verses
because I can't stand the smell
of the place where I was born.
I first cried
here.
I first cried here.
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 2:55 AM UTC
There are so many things
that you can judge upon;
all I ask from you is to act as
if my soul has long since gone.
Jan 7, 2018
Jan 7, 2018 at 9:23 PM UTC
The old man who visits
in December and is loaded
with blustery showers
has forgotten us.
Lady July who enjoys
dancing in creek beds
draped in ferns and flowers
now has eczema instead.
The summer of smile
and flush I know well
has unexpectedly
become a dance with fire.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 11:59 PM UTC
my whole mouth tastes like metal,
copper pennies from before
The Great Zinc Switch
filling my warm wet mouth.
cigarette smoke hazing
my sinuses like a frat rush
and I'm desperately in need of an Advil.
let me place my coppery lips
on your bronzed skin,
Amman to Atlanta,
nails like knives and
The Book of Biology
teasing hormonal touches and hydration.
iron oxide keeps flaking off my
skin, eczema and psoriasis in rust, and
the guitars in my ears are ******* furious.
and still:
sweat and *** in the sheets, your love
lingering on my palate like a
too sour wine; you fermented and curdled
in my mouth, and
to taste you now
is agony.
time is dilating around me in ripples;
I cough until the gas in my stomach releases itself; crystal abrasive.
it's all drugs and
tinder matches these days,
****** kids...
total sunbeam, in my opinion
there's still enough for
a couple more
hits, it's still rolling,
words cloud around my head like
so much weedsmoke, Storm clouds
on the horizon of my parietal lobe
and I feel fine.
I am fine.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 6:52 PM UTC
I look at my hands, and I stretch my fingertips out before me
Twist and turn my wrist to inspect them
See the slender digits flex and bend to my will
Run my thumb along the crescent moons of my nails in validation:
They are sharp now, sharp enough to be instruments as I drum them against a desk
Sharp enough to be weapons
Eczema, believe it or not, is torture
I look at my hands; see little constellations of bruises and cuts
I trace the braille across my wrist, unable to read something I’ve never been accustomed to, despite it being an almost constant companion
It comes and goes like a fair-weather friend and always arrives when it is never wanted
In summer, when temperatures climb up buildings and trees
I find myself not just allergic to pollen, but to myself
In winter, I peel off small bits of layers to reach for places that won’t mind the cold as much
Reaching and searching quick as chilled air finds a break in the defenses
You asked me what was wrong; that if I was sad I could do whatever I wanted, even towards you
I would never hurt you
My anger, my sadness, is directed towards myself
I want to feel the rush of hurling myself at walls
Want to feel the thud of skin against bone against hollow plaster and wooden frame
I want to feel nails run down fabric; soft, thin and fragile
Want to see them tear things apart, see feathers spill out or paint chip, all jagged and frantic
I want this and I don’t want this
I glide nails across skin, across rashes along my hand
I find myself stagnant as my joints itch for action
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 10:32 PM UTC
At one point I couldn’t find love to purchase
I thought you ended those searches
but now I’m getting nervous
thinking I might be allergic
to your nature absurdist
and I can’t swerve this
feeling I’m worthless
stripped of all purpose
boils start to burn us.
I’ve got an eczema
sense of a
relationship
rashly lips
can’t kiss
who they wish.
I can’t leave the house
or your eczema breaks out
you scream and shout
and make me doubt
if your love is devout
when you treat me like trout.
Stress boils through my skin
after you tell me I win
and leave my house of sin
leaving a gift in
an itch
given by a witch
to make me twitch.
You’re the itch that rashes
causing unnecessary scratches
leaving a width of lashes
on my skin in patches
your personality matches
the blistering ashes
of my skin that detaches.
I keep itching
I keep scratching
to be switching
from your thrashing
into comfort
to numb hurt
of dumb words
creating thunder.
A doctor gave me a prescription
to avoid your dereliction
and feral diction.
He gave me an antidote
in a plan of hope
helping me cope
with saying nope.
The rash lingers
like poison fingers
choking me
woefully
draining life
like rain at night
I pray for light
and wait inside.
I found cortisone
in the form of a home
with a man
so I’m in demand
not your empty hand
red from the brand
of all the discomfort you withstand
now that you’re itching like sand
seeing I’m no longer ******
Jun 5, 2020
Jun 5, 2020 at 5:46 AM UTC
He told me i was prettier in person
the night after we kissed in my best-friend's foyer
awkwardly missing the mouth because he was afraid
he would make a mistake
with a mistake
who had acne on her lip
and crooked teeth he'd luckily missed
when he kissed mouth closed
the second time
He told me Jesus Christ I was lovely
the moment I returned home
to cover my legs unfairly scratched by grass and flowers
with CVS brand diaper rash ointment, all over my fingers,
in my eczema cracks,
because I couldn't take the pain on my knees any longer
He told me to please not move
when I laid my head on his shoulder,
my unshaven arm round his waist and unshaven leg touching his own
and I could feel the bridge of my long nose
pushing in to the carotid artery where his heart pulsed faster and faster
as he ran one soft and gentle hand through my hair
and held my eczema cracks in his other, my grandmother hands,
that the other boy had called contagious, and the other girl had called
Alligator Skin
He told me he loved to walk behind me
though i had forgotten to suffer through bra stuffing
and wore baggy pants to prevent my knees against the trees
and my figure resembed a giraffe, knobly and unkept mane and all
He told me nothing
when He leaned in to kiss me a second time
and He put his hands in my mane
and His leg under my CVS knees
and His face in my Alligator hands
and my unstuffed bra near his chest
And His open mouth on my acne covered, crooked toothed mouth
because I am prettier in person
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 6:06 PM UTC
On the night of women, Yoruyoru Yoruyoru Yoruyoru,
a business war in the United States in the war,
but the war in the United States, is so well known
that she had written in blue and white jewelry
on the approach of the Soviet Union.
European glass of power to the woman, as the eyes of the East
and 3 from the heart of the dead from the heart in the world in the mirror
in the house is completely lost to me:
The latest party Adult RomeDoor.png Christian warrior FLINT
Hillside Minnesota is a give and take as rise Intolerantia as a little kid;
Wind of the fame of the rich wildlife Yokuza pieces, a company
in the United States of eczema, eczema, 7 days, in Greece,
and brought him to be, as regards the name of the cocktail to the way
of the true honor of John the Baptist | is the stone which was beautiful,
he was sitting up against Babylon, to fly about;
Window in the window is the feeling of the women
littering the family tree,
every half-Australian stripper, public nudist camp scientist
who lives in the Philosophy of Science, said,
"It's more a crime to support a criminal rather than a world
which is plagued by the face of a Panegyric, |
who is supposed to campaign |
in world history. "in fact, I was in a military camp in the Tanaka Establishing a conceptual Ivana as a Localizer dancing
Localizer, what charming Chinese dollars to play a full-time
unknown dancing silver and long-term debt financing institution
as the optics go false on the original charge of ****
and Ethel 500 Sisun thinks it should be a hot girl playing
with Einstein's first entry into the jack jack jacket USMC Mild Toes
and muscle fat o' credit mock abduction can bring
Ten ten ten ten flute
playing Aka Tuberculosis with the Arab world,
you walk down to play
the game, and the game continues, A drug
Oct 24, 2018
Oct 24, 2018 at 5:26 AM UTC
dear john,
how are you?
*[i wonder, 'cause i'm getting
crazier for every second
i feel your heart wrenching absence-
i think of you constantly -
it'd help to know you're all right?]*
do you ever think of me?
*['cause i don't think you
do so anymore. you stopped
responding to my letters weeks ago,
and i refuse to
believe they got
lost in the mail.
i simply refuse.]*
does the sun burn your skin?
*[i hope the summer gives you
eczema and scalded cheeks.
i hope it hurts so much you
can't sleep at night from the pain.
then you can use the gained
hours of awake to read to this letter]*
dear john,
do you think we should give up on us?
['cause i think i did months ago.]
Feb 21, 2012
Feb 21, 2012 at 2:22 AM UTC
This is life lived in the Kinema
on the outskirts of a town
called Eczema,
where the usherette flicks cigarettes
at the players in the pit, they
think it's ****
but we love it.
The owner, eyes like razor wire,
tongue tied puts the price of
entrance higher,
with a look from the hook up on the screen
I take a slice out of the scene and
catapult him from the frame,
all in the name of art.
In the interval, we fill the time by
smoking dope and drinking wine because
the Kinema is where we're king, where
anything goes and often will.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 6:41 PM UTC
I have been living on a diet
of cigarettes and digestive biscuits.
My bowels empty into the System
and my hunger concedes
to the supermarket glow;
bigger names
under surgical lights.
The operation was not successful.
You can see it in the grey faces,
upturned collars;
that manic headphone stare.
The lone smoker skulks a bus-stop
like angry eczema
on a bride's upper lip.
I see it for myself now.
How crowds congregate by light,
stamens of fat and sachets of salt,
then separate as sadness
cuts through the delusion;
working poverty and panic attacks
on the hard kitchen floor.
The ache of anxiety
caught up with you again.
Self-imposed catastrophes pile up
as you find yourself walking against
the grain of lunatics passing your way.
The pupae gather and slaver
at their freedom;
you broke through The Promise.
I followed the path of your recovery.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
Pale, porcelain-pigmented flesh
Vibrant veins revealed against wrists
I claw at my eczema sheath
I tried scrubbing you off my skin
But your bittersweet scent lingered.
Every bruise that trails my body
Reminds me of your kisses that
I thought once graced my lifeless shell.
Times have changed and every blemish
That trails my body ablazes
Any pleasing idea of you.
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 7:31 PM UTC
Mirror is merciful
Lambs sleep in the willow
Rough leaves carry heaven up
Delivering the sinner
Cold black mirror still love his lips
Lamb off the living
Hearts over
Hearts asthma
Hearts lie with no one
Hearts frozen
Hearts mirror
Hearts asthma
Parts Madonna
Hearts eczema
Part scoundrel
I will walk low
Harsh eczema
I die past a week
Hearts nirvana
I don't need no lessons now
Hearts taking over
I wish I could wake up
Hearts over
Hearts eczema
Hearts asthma
**** your theory, and just **** everything
Love must be ashes, that's blood in the blue forest
Ya it's the age of pure ahead of us
Hearts over
Hard seller
Mercy I have in the imaginary nation of us
You don't want me here jerking off
Your force, I was sorry
I saw the mirror I thought off when it was all over
Heart scold ya
Oh I am every man
Watch no longer
and in the shadows
corpse scamper
Who moves even slower?
Part suffer
Move **** all day monkeys
Hearts scamper
The holy case of us
Hearts worth of love
In there walks the sheep
Part scabbed up
I was sad and got blue
Hearts taking over
Hearts never
Hearts never
I done some bad
and I've killed obviously
no sweet people, hogs, and dogs, pets I have no beef with them
Offered me the exit till they locked me in
Harsh scalper
Harsh scalper
Lock in here with nuts that are just like me
Love must be a pacifistic
There's blood in the small forest
Out here in the near cosmos
Delivering the sinner
All woman in the center
iiiiiiiiii
I fear hes lost his nerve
I'm over living it
I'm over living it
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
iiiiiiiiiiii
IIIiii'mmm
delivering the sinner
AAAaaalllll
woman in the center
In swimming willows
Luxury feast on the edge of love
Luxury feast on the edge of love
Mirror in the sonnet
Mirroring us and them
I heard he'd lost his nerve
I'm over living it
I'm living it
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 4:10 AM UTC
where are my ugly people?
shuffling with holed shoes,
defunct ****** organs,
crossed eyes.
those whose strides echo their
genetic abnormalities,
a leg an inch longer than the other (like me),
arms fat with blood,
skin resplendent with eczema
boils on eyelids,
dilated pupils,
escaping from the mirror with
horse tranquilizer
and enough ***** to sink
the state of California.
where are my ugly people,
too long under the delusion of
"finding inner beauty"
by the pretty ones;
straight teeth,
combed and styled hair,
brown and ivory skinned
drowning the streets with their
cackling and condescension.
we should scar their faces
with buckshot,
carve those empty smiles across
their high cheekbones
to be an omnipresent companion.
show them a bit of our own
benevolence;
where are my ugly people
like me?
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 6:22 PM UTC
The library is more like a hospital.
Bleached lights cause migraines,
the words too clinical and exposed
like eczema scars on my wrists.
It is too bright to fall in a thicket
of cognitive thought and blind imagery.
The secret of beauty is good lighting.
I could never fall in love with a word
under such a surgical glow,
all intimacy on show in a place meant for
German Dictionaries and free wi-fi.
A place for the missing to sleep,
and not a place to daydream.
There is no smell of coffee,
only the occasional whiff and crackle
of a surreptitious sandwich interrupting
the stale breath of printer ink and ointment.
I am all for public places
until I find myself within one.
Exposed under these artificial stars,
I come here for a chance of no distraction.
Each time, however, I find myself languid.
Eyes set to some indefatigable point
whilst I catch the taste of shared air,
the sirens in the distance,
the location of nowhere.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 6:25 PM UTC
Inside my body the guilty seeds have rooted through all my veins
and in to my heart
strangling it dead.
Inside my heart the anger fights to still beat,
no matter the pressure it competes,
its cold because its a zombie heart but it still pumps blood that reaches
my brain.
Inside my mind is misery,
its been confused so much it yerns to shut off
but somehow it can't,
it won't let me sleep,
too many memories and thoughts eat it
from the inside out
but nevertheless my rotten brain still allows me to have a spirit.
Inside my soul is death,
the once bright white doves have darkened and can barley lift one wing,
choking on my bodies misfortune,
as I sit so small in this big monstrous world thats poisoning my skin.
My skin is covered in eczema,
my face in blemishes
it coughs on the pollution and cigarette smoke that its too exposed to,
its infected but somehow my eyes still survive on the surface
with it.
My eyes are worn down
with a astigmatism
from all the rough things I have seen
but they still slow me to see
more.
I'm falling
apart,
I guess you could say that zombies are real,
just not the kind you can see
with your own zombie eyes.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 8:38 PM UTC
November 17, 2017
Red dry patches there
Red dry patches here
Red dry patches everywhere
Irritating, itchy , and ugly
“Put some lotion and everything will be fine. It will be gone and it won’t be fugly”
They said
If only it was that easy as a book I just read
But no.
I always keep myself on the low
You see, sometimes these patches bleed
And I cry, because it hurts and wish it will heal at such greater speed
I cry because when the water cleanses my body, it sometimes burns
I wish we could take turns
So you would understand
Why I can’t simply put myself with such confidence within myself, as I seem like a lost strand
Why my insecurities are high off the roof
How I want my body to disappear, like ****
How I’ll never have decent skin until many months from now
From time to time admiring other people’s fair skin and I say “wow”
I wish I had normal skin
So I wouldn’t have to be dry and flaky, I would’ve had some sort of win
I wish I could be able to wear clothes that reveal some of my beauty from my body
But being snapped in reality, it’ll just disturb everybody
So I shall wait
And just deal with everything as it is my fate
Dec 14, 2017
Dec 14, 2017 at 6:33 PM UTC
Beginning
The diaper rash
Scratching the eczema until it bled
Ruby Red Sea trickling from my nostrils
Mom and I on a mission for the bottom of the stairs
Baby's first autographed cast!
Upside down on the couch,
Laughing
Preteen
Awareness of death
Love letter with a thirst for embarrassment
Ruby Red Sea trickling from my forearm,
My thighs
Playing ***** in the park; wanting to forfeit
Makeshift waterslide,
Bruised
Teen
First attempt to meet God
Ambulance
Throwing beer cans at cars from the hilltop
Lucy, Mary, and Molly
Discovering self confidence
First love,
Six losses
What does it take to be a friend?
Young Adult
The difference between effort and ability
Self acceptance
Getting familiar with 4am
Summertime snow
Money hungry,
No, starving
Oct 27, 2017
Oct 27, 2017 at 6:15 PM UTC
This poet decided against
becoming a measly minced meaty morsel
undetected inauspicious augury
assigning adept
aqueous ace AOL amphibian,
who surreptitiously crept
to the secret crypt (guarded by
foo fighters and amazing dragons)
said gendarmes did except
special fluid scrip as egress into
heavily fortified
(with USDA recommended allowance),
thus when the configurative motley crue
including thyself (a bono fied doo
bee brother - long given up for lost,
which "FAKE" oracle
misinterpreted by a goo goo
doll, and cross dresser named Hugh
played being took a vow el,
and hence consonantly knew
all along, i dwelt peacefully
in a soundcloud loo
immensely spacious with ooh
dills of survival trappings
purchased from Peru
laborers treated by free pact
guaranteeing a socially
conscious shopper to rue
painstaking indigenous stoop labor,
now stamped imprimatur could allow,
enable and provide means to shoe
each formerly eczema dappled,
cracked bare foot
ah, a glimmer of hopefulness
(upon this crowded house of a planet) view
which youtube snapchat ting
reddit as joyous outlook
sans linkedin shutterfly,
twitter ring tender flickr ring shoots
communicated an instagram message
of hopefulness kickstarting optimism
versus the initial thread of this poem,
which to set this got off track
(hinting at goal to be
a paperback book writer wannabe)
rather than ending up as a byte size snack
for a limbering beast, into whose tumblr
of one jagged razor sharp teeth
like daggers lined up along a rack
of reinforced steel maw,
which bang for the bite did pack
leaves no room for bing a survivor
as fierce jaws clamp down
worse than getting steam rolled by a mack
truck, but subjected to thee yield,
whence thousands of pounds
per square inch of pressure
on par lambasted from Donald Trump flack.
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 9:32 PM UTC
i’ve always wondered what makes Destiny..
perhaps it is the dark shadows pressed into the sides of her face known as cheekbones.
the blotchiness of her skin.
that “cute little” dimple that runs down her chin.
the two very different shades between her face and neck that everyone points out.
“gotta be easy with the bleaching creams sis”..
sure because why not aspire to look like Lil’ Kim, right? *******
the way one side of her nose is slightly longer than the other.
the dents in her top lip.
the discoloration around her mouth from the breakouts of an annoying skin condition called eczema.
those ****** dark chocolate eyes.
maybe the stubborn eyebrows who refuse to claim each other as sisters, or even cousins for that matter.
the acne scars on her shoulders from too much sun.
her too wide of a “button nose”.
the bold jawline given to her by her daddy.
the shape of oversized freckled lips given to her by her momma.
the prominent collarbone given to her by Indian ancestors.
every feature (whether it be uneven, crooked, discolored, blotchy, too big or too small) is perfectly imperfect & molded by the hands of the Almighty.
after years and years of practicing patience and acceptance to love herself again, i’ve come to realize that this is what makes Destiny.
- d.berry
Mar 8, 2019
Mar 8, 2019 at 3:21 AM UTC
it's a second body sometimes,
a kind of chandelier of eczema,
tumbling from my shoulders
like a ragged royal robe,
white, shining, drifting scales
and this time I wear it
as a familiar dress,
put on me or
grown on me,
a lifeless moss,
scabs without passion,
drooping, dragging,
not reaching far,
not covering, not enobling
for in the deep sky where my soul lives
I've found an island to touch on,
an island filled with a swirling climbing hole
which is a road in time.
and I keep flying up to the surface,
surface of what I can hardly say,
to feel the wind (or what) buffet
and whip us back and forth
on the edge.
somehow you're there on the island too
yet you're not here, are you?
you don't know that you're there,
you don't know that it's there.
Only I've found its rocks,
that say "Yes" when touched,
the road that flows.
And so I wear this ragged dress,
not quite white,
showing and engrossing all,
and I can't help but stoop.
I slouch around my soul in prayer,
to stay close to it.
and if it hurts, it hurts.
I can bear it.
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 3:14 AM UTC
Honey
I'm just a man
Not a God, not a higher power
Honey, I just want you by my side
While I do what makes me happy
Its really not rocket science
I'm struggling to get out of the defiance
But I will improve my relations with my dreams
You made my heart warmer and warmer
So honey, keep that fire going
You walking towards me like that is enough
It's not hard to get my attention
I'm just a man
It speaks for itself
Honey, don't try too hard
Just be you
And I'll surely be going crazy
Knees weak for you
Knuckles bleeding for you
From all the eczema
Honey don't you know?
It was all worth it.
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 8:56 PM UTC