"elisions" poems - Hello Poetry

Make my decisions for I am on the wrong track. A mind full of elisions that gives nothing back. A fearful dream keeps me still, no wake. Drifting in an ocean of appearances.

0

Jan 27, 2014

Jan 27, 2014 at 9:34 PM UTC

noname

Compass

Make my decisions for I am on the wrong track. A mind full of elisions that gives nothing back. A fearful dream keeps me still, no wake. Drifting in an ocean of appearances.

7

your words cut deep, deep in the flesh of my soul and that was how it’s always been, I guess. And we were just waiting for words to go between the words we said, to add up to the little things that brought us together, saying words to each other slowly, without affixing other words that can drive us away from each other, like when the love was said, and when the love was gone, and all we ever did was say ‘I don’t love you no more,’ instead of what we always told each other, as if the words ‘don’t’ and ‘no’ are always just negatively inserted between the cartridges of our vocabulary, and instead of loving each other more and more, we settled on elisions, thrown between our words, our sentences, our 5 AM conversations, our used-to-be-connections. your words cut deep and we tear our tangled limbs. elision. that’s what it will be.

0

Jan 5, 2014

Jan 5, 2014 at 10:42 AM UTC

andrea-espinosa

elision

your words cut deep, deep in the flesh of my soul and that was how it’s always been, I guess. And we were just waiting for words to go between the words we said, to add up to the little things that brought us together, saying words to each other slowly, without affixing other words that can drive us away from each other, like when the love was said, and when the love was gone, and all we ever did was say ‘I don’t love you no more,’ instead of what we always told each other, as if the words ‘don’t’ and ‘no’ are always just negatively inserted between the cartridges of our vocabulary, and instead of loving each other more and more, we settled on elisions, thrown between our words, our sentences, our 5 AM conversations, our used-to-be-connections. your words cut deep and we tear our tangled limbs. elision. that’s what it will be.

16

I can still taste your flesh on mine, as if my pores soaked in all of your pheromones and stored them in safekeeping for nights like this, nights when whiskey becomes the only sleeping medicine powerful enough to soothe my troubled mind. The memories come in broken patterns, like a film strip played on a rusty wheel, or like the thrifted records we would buy in the dozens - scratched and dusty, but still recognizable. A kiss. A hit. An I-love-you. A shudder. They were all the same at this point. I didn't know who else to go to but my mother. My speech was slurred, elisions that made my words condense into one. Still, she understood. She had been here before. She told me that days would turn into weeks, and before I knew it those weeks would shift to months, years, eternities within themselves. I told her I didn't like the prospects of this. She told me it would be okay, that all I had to do was follow in her footsteps. I found the bread crumbs easily. Jack Daniels was the only witness I had as I pulled the trigger and I smiled in spite of the fact that until tonight, I had never believed in ghosts.

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Jul 13, 2013

Jul 13, 2013 at 2:15 AM UTC

speakeasied

footsteps

I can still taste your flesh on mine, as if my pores soaked in all of your pheromones and stored them in safekeeping for nights like this, nights when whiskey becomes the only sleeping medicine powerful enough to soothe my troubled mind. The memories come in broken patterns, like a film strip played on a rusty wheel, or like the thrifted records we would buy in the dozens - scratched and dusty, but still recognizable. A kiss. A hit. An I-love-you. A shudder. They were all the same at this point. I didn't know who else to go to but my mother. My speech was slurred, elisions that made my words condense into one. Still, she understood. She had been here before. She told me that days would turn into weeks, and before I knew it those weeks would shift to months, years, eternities within themselves. I told her I didn't like the prospects of this. She told me it would be okay, that all I had to do was follow in her footsteps. I found the bread crumbs easily. Jack Daniels was the only witness I had as I pulled the trigger and I smiled in spite of the fact that until tonight, I had never believed in ghosts.

11

My Pen nonchalantly flows its ink, Over the empty lines; thirsty. Thirsty for epigrammatic language. The spoken line’s elisions and falsifications, Predispose propensities, And mutate the prevailing attitude, Towards us, our future, Not others or theirs.

0

Dec 31, 2016

Dec 31, 2016 at 4:26 PM UTC

Poetry-vehicle

The Power of The Pen

My Pen nonchalantly flows its ink, Over the empty lines; thirsty. Thirsty for epigrammatic language. The spoken line’s elisions and falsifications, Predispose propensities, And mutate the prevailing attitude, Towards us, our future, Not others or theirs.

8