"erasable" poems
Remember that guy,
Yea the one who I said made me feel all this love inside;
Well he ******* lied,
He played with my mind,
I should of known after seeing several bad signs;
Never did I ever think he would or could do that to me,
He ******* cheating on me,
He thought I wouldn't see;
I'm too smart to not have found out,
He thought I would believe his words without a doubt?
Nah my intuition
is far beyond his cognition;
So I got up and did better,
To not value me is something I won't except, never;
So **** his love,
**** all those fake hugs;
They mean nothing now,
What he did to me was ******* foul;
I have no losses,
because in this situation I was faultless;
I just hope I'm not having his baby,
Because to have two ******* pregnant now that ***** crazy;
It's too bad
he lost the best life he could of had;
As for me I'm unbreakable,
And he's now erasable.
-E.G
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 11:53 PM UTC
*Poetry moves from within our souls,
It's emotions pouring out
Covering us in rhymes and flow,
Like rain from the clouds*
***Infinite letters, words and phrases
In various permutations we play
Collaboration between heart and mind
Breathed into these pieces that we lay***
*Touching lives with our written form
Healing with words, what's poetically true
Freedom of expression, thoughts and ideals
Crying out in ink, until our sadness is through*
***Similar in thoughts but meander through individual routes
We all sing the same but to different rhythm and tunes
Inscribe our innermost but to varying worthy causes
We all draw inspiration but from the same loyal moon***
*A different form of art, yet art none the same
It's in the eye of the beholder, so they say
Poetry is life drawn in pen, it's not an erasable game
It truly breathes life, looking forward to each new day*
***We proudly fly our diverse flags
United under one banner
We revel in words of poetry
In the hopes they'd last forever***
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 11:24 PM UTC
I think in statistics,
and you in heartbeats.
I am. You are. I am. You are.
I am chemical-based, you are a meaningful scar.
You explore,
covet,
and hoard,
anything near you.
While I am
stuck,
looking at my addiction,
through a lens.
I am forever cursed:
to skim for importance,
to look only at the bigger picture,
to glance only with logic's borrowed eye,
but you are here beside me, and you take in every little detail.
To me, blood is but a fluid,
yet in your eyes,
it is the fuel for lovers and the ink for poetry.
You are feather pens, I am erasable chalk.
The insomniac that is so filled with dreamer-talk.
So enticed by the world, that you couldn’t close an eye.
My mind is logic, reasoning, and your complete opposite.
Every word has a different meaning in your perspective
and every syllable holds a secret—
one you must find out.
I am textbooks and punctuality and schedules.
But you, you are the only person I can wait on.
This is a cycle with ragged edges, bizarre.
I am. You are. I am. You are.
We are combined; a marvelous oxymoron.
Oct 18, 2011
Oct 18, 2011 at 10:40 PM UTC
Emaciated creatures
pace their pens
Erasable features
begin and end
locked in hand
locked by key
Just demand
Dreamless sea
The miasma shrieks
An impulse creeps
Floorboards creak
to disturb your sleep
Now rest well
Empty, undefined
heaven or hell
you decide
May 12, 2025
May 12, 2025 at 5:44 AM UTC
Nursing my secret longings
I lie awake in the wee hours of the night
Mind restless, like a caged bird, craving redemption
My thoughts journeying through time and space
I recognize a thousand appetites
Still waiting to be appeased!
Sadly there isn’t time enough
To realize what I really crave.
It is in the stillness of the night
When sleep deserts the eyes
That mind derails its track
And wanders like an aimless vagabond
Though rooted firmly on the ground
At times, I feel, I lose my bearings
How I longed to paint my sky
In garish colors and shades!
I wonder if the scales of my life’s balance
Lean more to gains or losses now!
There was a time when hope ruled the roost
And I heard love’s soft whispers all around!
Now I am unable to precisely tell
What my mind craves and pines
But this much I know for certain
I am becoming worn and old
Years have so quickly skipped past me
With youth and beauty sapped away
Leaving life an exhausted well
With the dregs remaining at the bottom
My eyesight has waned, the earlier lustre gone
My once supple knees have started to creak
And the muscles, begun to sag
I feel as vulnerable as a foetus in the womb
Pain grows with years
As a smudge deepens into an erasable stain
I am no wizard to call back all that have left
But listen to their ‘long, melancholy, withdrawing roar’
No more springing steps
And a fast fading cortex
Still I stretch myself
To catch at Hope, winging away!
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 6:07 AM UTC
my winter eyes are epic
emptied of the seduction
of never dying days
for now
but
still looking for an incantation:
this field this wave this sway
this maze this daze
the soul's substance
untranslatable
allusive
perfumed
some find it in the dark recesses
some insist it doesnt't exist
I contemplate blankness inside
my skin
my mind just a dream catcher
for illusions
a suspended note
an erasable tape
a network for the delicate architecture of moss
or was it mold?
some words have no heart at all
and we need canyons of tenderness, paths of joy
is it time that is dripping its imagination
in this turmoil?
the irrationality of mornings of violins of drums
strikes a chord inside
what is the basis of harmony?
so many shapes of wonder
on bridges, shores, sidewalks and hills
and valleys of the unknown
full of space atoms
a spirit of a shaman sits beside me
she calls me soul surfer
perhaps
god is
part violence
part beauty
part wonder
and I fall for it
when I find it
in the flesh
of the heart
only
Dec 19, 2022
Dec 19, 2022 at 11:43 AM UTC
Your actions
Are like a bold pen.
Never erasable.
Always visible.
Jul 7, 2021
Jul 7, 2021 at 1:23 AM UTC
An empty drinking glass is pressed against a wall; amplifying the voices on the other side. My ear is pressed to the words, ”outside is a secret key” - I can honestly say, “I hear…" Your words, idealizations, sentiments, selected scrawls of graffiti-type promise and viewpoints echo through the wall. Over and over. Championing outsiders…
Are there WALLS WITHIN WALLS? Can we walk through them? ARE THE WALLS ERASABLE? Will the walls tumble down? Will the walls polarize? WHAT ABOUT CRACKS IN THE WALLS? Can they hear? Can we leap over them?
DO WE build them where everything and anything follows and flows?
DO WE build them where something's nothingness tethers vapors with souls?
DO WE build them so molecular melodies of light and dark can collide unopposed?
Are these word walls of dust? Can we move them? Can you angle between these walls? Will the walls speak a wealth of quiet surprises, poems, and meditations? Do walls give birth to improvisation?
Now some of these walls, in their moment are with no rules, self-constructed, circling dramatically, and might prove more resistant to erosion. These are often troubling walls, no voice, no strength of decency, no laughter, which place freedom at stake. That and survival. One can be easily manipulated or yanked by an image of the truth swirling in the brick blackness of the wall. Discomforts relish now. Walls such as these are very deep-rooted and passed on for generations. Yet even those barriers eventually give way once we read the super fine print etched into the wall - a word salad of B.S., idiocy and hypocrisy.
Reach for spray-paint and enlarge your wall… maybe it enhances your world now with colored aerosols of wall portraiture's that capture rebellion and mirth. So many Walls, AND SO MANY QUERIES…
I heard a poem say, “Step out from behind one (wall) and FIND YOUR REAL SELF” – or maybe it whispered “jus walk through that door in the wall.”
Your tightly strung trampoline of words has provided a springboard for me to bounce freely over the many walls we build around ourselves.
by "ooznozz"
Aug 10, 2017
Aug 10, 2017 at 9:06 PM UTC
Words hurt they say,
but the feeling of them being etched
is akin to new found pain
a pen would be easier,
staining my skin, in-erasable
the pencil is more dull
perhaps then will I finally feel smart
it feels like an unwanted tattoo.
Mar 26, 2019
Mar 26, 2019 at 2:05 PM UTC
Do I disgust you because I want ***
The hypothetical argument already slides as
graceful as tourettes, and I can
feel imaginary bile and panic creeping up my throat
and into my
mouth as I attempt to talk 'south'
Talk 'dirty' to you
Talk 'dirty' to me, 'baby'
I'm silently wishing you'd save me from the
awkwardness of this talk, wish you'd take me by the breast
and walk me through the rest of your likes
and dislikes
Because, I want to make you feel higher than a kite
or ****** or crack, or smack,
I want to stop endlessly repeating all the things
that I might lack
Because, you don't seem to want me anymore
No matter how much you adore who I am
Can you fill me in on the gaps please, I want
to know if you feel that you can have same aching need that I do
My sexuality is like an un-erasable tattoo
I don't take strives to hide it
I don't feel that I need to
But am I deranged in thinking
that you think I should be ashamed to?
Darling, I want to **** you.
I wish I didn't think that this
might be an issue.
Correct me,
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 3:42 PM UTC
A few years ago
Writers were chained
To typewriters.
Imprisoned by words.
Filling rolled white pages,
Onion-skinned and erasable.
They knew where
Their chains ended.
Today, I'm tethered
To a satelite,
Linked,
With no end
In sight.
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 10:02 AM UTC
because i lost touch with reality,
ventured in my brain a little.
got rid of all the dust, mentally,
and it was the opposite of brittle.
infact theres a whole other world in there,
just for me to vision.
and to be honestly completely fair,
it was always made of indecision.
coming back to the world is like a resurface
but not exactly to breathe air.
my source of survival stays to my own mind, versus,
daily affairs who need my care.
so there,
you see a flare?
of a feeling irreplacable?
untraceable, not erasable.
creative minds dont survive near me,
as my heart has her own philosophy.
even though i do produce cobwebs from time to time,
i have sights to see, places to go and heights to climb.
still, i was never one to fully mime.
im all mine to find, envision and be,
faceless, frenzied, fallible but... free.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 11:14 PM UTC
light hits the sky night
brings the sun to its peak
and erases all creatures of night.
vultures turn to jays
weeds turn to daisies
and complications turn to
but simplicities of your surroundings
and lift your insecurities
to disregard them into
the erasable being
of negativity and sorrow.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 1:00 AM UTC
When I was little I would always
Draw my mother’s hair with a yellow crayon
And my father’s with an orange one.
I would use both to color in my own hair
And we looked like the most colorful family
In poorly scribbled blue pants and ugly brown shoes.
As I got older
My mother’s hair turned less yellow
She started drinking
My father’s hair grew redder with anger
I turned indigo
And I learned to draw us always
With pencil
Sloppily scrawled
And easily
Erasable
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 1:36 PM UTC
Someone
is lifting people from my life
between blinks,
stripping familial faces from earth
as erasable ink images,
one
by
one---
gum drops plucked,
as soulless grapes
no longer fruitful,
absence multiplies---
divided by youthful apparitions,
stunted ambitions,
and
sorrow
Someone
is whittling my family tree
with tomorrow’s steady hands
so quickly my name rises to the top,
as cream
scraping heaven with barefoot screams
while innocence weeps
Jul 23, 2010
Jul 23, 2010 at 10:04 PM UTC
I used to say I wore my heart on my sleeve,
I wanted it tattooed on my left arm, permanent and in-erasable.
I said it out loud, and to myself.
Who was I kidding?
It's hidden and held.
He cries himself to sleep, he grieves for my reply,
I know he needs help, it's beating gives him away every time.
I don't think he's depressed, I reckon he's scared.
And how could he not be?
We cruise this mad world.
He's scared of the dark, from life and from death.
He's a paradox I know, by his arrhythmia I tell.
Dogs freak him out, he's scared of their bite
Those teeth can't be trusted, they carve like a knife
He's scared of the love he's never experienced,
how could someone love him all wounded and delirious?
Planes are far from his favourites, also anything contagious,
pilots and doctors all shiver his cages.
He's the king of disguise,
sheltered behind humour,
sometimes he genuinely doesn't care,
others he cries upon a rumour.
People think he's crazy, I do myself,
he's treated as obsessive, old soul and ******
His cuirass seems tough and unbreakable,
but really he's shy and mistakable.
He has the appearance of mean and despiteful,
he won't give in to show himself vulnerable and frightful.
He trusts no one,
he lets no one in.
His problems are his,
someone interfering would be a sin.
I'm sorry dear heart, I know it's my fault.
I've damaged and wrecked you,
with flaws and toxic loves.
Now you seem lost, you're head looking down,
please don't give up, it's not over now.
I can't promise I'll fix you, but yes I will try,
at the end no one saves you,
you're alone to die.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 11:04 PM UTC
I want to put you in front of a mirror
And watch you watch yourself
But if you asked me to take your place,
I'd refuse.
I've got too many flaws; most you've no idea of.
And if you put me under that light,
you'd turn away.
Disgusting.
You think you know me, but I don't even know me.
Every single day
I find another flaw in that mirror.
Some are non erasable.
Others are changeable.
I'm terrified one day I'll step in front of that mirror
and fall to the ground.
I never cease to surprise myself,
But an even greater fear-
surprising you.
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 8:44 PM UTC
#i.
your prose ache for company, a set of romantic ideals long bound in a strongbox labeled socially discouraged. you dont understand why they want you to treat her like some flower when she is one of those old-growth firs who has a soul older than you have ever lived and who will still be standing long after you are gone. you do not see the sense in treating her like glass when she is a steel-forged blade.
ii.
even still, you suppose you are a hopeless romantic, only you wish the roles could be reversed. you are weaker than her by far, and the both of you know it, so why must the prince save the princess from the dragon? (my thoughts are dragons, you write in black, erasable ink. dragons and fire.) you think that if you were to face down a dragon, whether or not there is a princess to save, it would swallow you whole.
iii.
flowers and chocolate and love poems are all part of the stereotypical romantic cliche, but youve never received any yourself. you wonder if you even deserve any
iv.
but listen, listen, little whiteboard poet. she may be strong and she may be sharp and she may have depths you could never hope to search, but just like you trace temporary words when no one is around, ive seen the way she looks at you when you arent paying attention. worry not, scholarly prince, your warrior princess is coming.
h.f.m.
Jun 13, 2019
Jun 13, 2019 at 7:09 PM UTC
I write soundlessly
My message to students
erasable
words the color of night
that cloaks still the marching band
practicing and
hiding loudly in the moments before dawn
awakening the day
calling forth the sun and
students--
rise and
greet one another with kindness
the message the color of night.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 7:12 PM UTC
I got unruly hair,
And I got a blank-slate stare.
I got electricity running through my veins,
Trying to make a break for my remains.
I got a heart falling out of my chest
And I got a night lacking of rest.
I got a paper full of erasable feelings,
Trying to break the glass ceilings.
I got spiders climbing up my walls,
And I'm making circles round these square halls.
I got a hazy, crazy memory
Trying to set the beast within me free.
Yet, I can't remember
What happened yesterday or last December.
All I got to my name
Are my words--which are all the same.
Mar 11, 2012
Mar 11, 2012 at 8:03 PM UTC
What am I suppose to do
With this notebook filled of half-done drawings
And scribblings and half-recited quotes
I've filled over one third of it
with you
And all I'm left with is a bunch of pages
Reminders of you
And who I hoped you were
The pages are etched with erased mistakes
I could never quite draw your nose
I could never trace the shape of your lips
I could never find the right words or songs to explain how I felt
I couldn't get your nose right because I was thinking of your mouth
And I couldn't trace the shape of your lips
Because I was too preoccupied with the thought
Of how they would fit, pressed against mine.
And I couldn't finish those sentences
Because no combination of the 26 letters in our alphabet
Could ever explain the feeling of the butterflies you gave me
Or the beautiful melody in my ear that was your laugh
So now I'm left with these pages
This notebook full of reminders
Of who I hoped you were
These pages are etched with erased mistakes
Of unfinished pieces
And my heart is etched with the un-erasable mistake
Of ever hoping you could love me.
Over one third of myself, entirely.
Wasted
-k.m.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 3:07 PM UTC