"eustachian" poems - Hello Poetry

litter my body with art ornate drawings paintings mixed colors silver gold clay copper jewelry I don't mind bruises (any kind) thud thud thud through my heart litter my ears heart throat with songs that shake my aorta unbalancing my Eustachian tube deafen me to everything else and I will breathe in until my lungs ache (pulmonary artery backed up--too much oxygen) the air full of wrong lust love hope rain sun speed disease panic difference bodies hate sky and infinite space I must know what it feels like to be fully fully fully alive (I won't miss a thing)

0

Mar 11, 2015

Mar 11, 2015 at 1:38 PM UTC

sweet-ridicule

anything at all

litter my body with art ornate drawings paintings mixed colors silver gold clay copper jewelry I don't mind bruises (any kind) thud thud thud through my heart litter my ears heart throat with songs that shake my aorta unbalancing my Eustachian tube deafen me to everything else and I will breathe in until my lungs ache (pulmonary artery backed up--too much oxygen) the air full of wrong lust love hope rain sun speed disease panic difference bodies hate sky and infinite space I must know what it feels like to be fully fully fully alive (I won't miss a thing)

19

Sleep is for the body But sleep on an infected ear is a temptation of the mind To know the pain so obscured from passers-by But preoccupied in the mind of the infected, so craving rest There thrives the vicious throbbing A pulse radiating through the cartilage From the outer lobes to the frontal lobe The heartbeat has turned against me Every vessel scrawling suicides on the wall More than antibiotics can coax … This is the kind of heartbreak that makes you lose faith in medicine The eustachian balloon blown up and holding Swollen like the lung that held the loves unsaid To burst is to admit defeat, to pick up the pieces too great a cost To drain is salvation I cannot afford myself Some swirling impression hangs over This masterpiece keeps turning sinister in vertigo Even when the feet are still It’s a sick dog made of wine and high Refusing sleep for fear of never waking … I wrap myself in a fur I forget is still wet Self portraits catch my eye to walk past the drunken mirror To frighten oneself at how same it looks to crater from the pain Than to smile at the ignorant friend How the spine has not bent itself in two And the eyes have not fogged in the face But the ear can scream out … I walk the same house in the same clothes you held me in And throb to remember and to hear The white feather of your voice Plucked from the baby bird you saved So innocent and new, a kiss to the vernal earth Airy like fog on the mountain An orphaned fox playing in the midday That’s the perfume that drips from my lobes And falls to the backs of my hands When I remember the way you’d wake And say my name after a long sleep

0

Jun 9, 2015

Jun 9, 2015 at 12:16 AM UTC

jd-nyron

Ear Infection

Sleep is for the body But sleep on an infected ear is a temptation of the mind To know the pain so obscured from passers-by But preoccupied in the mind of the infected, so craving rest There thrives the vicious throbbing A pulse radiating through the cartilage From the outer lobes to the frontal lobe The heartbeat has turned against me Every vessel scrawling suicides on the wall More than antibiotics can coax … This is the kind of heartbreak that makes you lose faith in medicine The eustachian balloon blown up and holding Swollen like the lung that held the loves unsaid To burst is to admit defeat, to pick up the pieces too great a cost To drain is salvation I cannot afford myself Some swirling impression hangs over This masterpiece keeps turning sinister in vertigo Even when the feet are still It’s a sick dog made of wine and high Refusing sleep for fear of never waking … I wrap myself in a fur I forget is still wet Self portraits catch my eye to walk past the drunken mirror To frighten oneself at how same it looks to crater from the pain Than to smile at the ignorant friend How the spine has not bent itself in two And the eyes have not fogged in the face But the ear can scream out … I walk the same house in the same clothes you held me in And throb to remember and to hear The white feather of your voice Plucked from the baby bird you saved So innocent and new, a kiss to the vernal earth Airy like fog on the mountain An orphaned fox playing in the midday That’s the perfume that drips from my lobes And falls to the backs of my hands When I remember the way you’d wake And say my name after a long sleep

41

Whenever an old white guy butts into the middle of my conversation without fail he forces his opinion into my ears down my eustachian tubes and into my stomach. his opinion always comes up, like saltine crackers when you're sick or too much ***** when you're dumb. It burns my throat on the way up, but I never stop it I don't have the will to swallow it down. My face gets red even as the words come out of my mouth That is to say When an old white guy interrupts my conversation asks me a rhetorical question in a demeaning tone and acts like he's a greek philospher while I'm a lowly "stupid teenage girl" I find myself agreeing with him. I never truly believe him, but something in me becomes inexplicably embarrassed, it's easier to spew his own ideas back at him than it is to hold my ground. This is something I've been working on. See, maybe he is like a philosopher. His words can sound convincing But pretty words don't equate to the truth. He is aristotle. Aristotle was wrong about biology Chemistry Psychology Astronomy and yes Basic. Human. Rights. I may just be a stupid teenage girl, but aren't all the revolutionaries?

0

Sep 8, 2018

Sep 8, 2018 at 7:14 PM UTC

emily-lawson

The old white guy interrupts the stupid teenage girl, again.

Whenever an old white guy butts into the middle of my conversation without fail he forces his opinion into my ears down my eustachian tubes and into my stomach. his opinion always comes up, like saltine crackers when you're sick or too much ***** when you're dumb. It burns my throat on the way up, but I never stop it I don't have the will to swallow it down. My face gets red even as the words come out of my mouth That is to say When an old white guy interrupts my conversation asks me a rhetorical question in a demeaning tone and acts like he's a greek philospher while I'm a lowly "stupid teenage girl" I find myself agreeing with him. I never truly believe him, but something in me becomes inexplicably embarrassed, it's easier to spew his own ideas back at him than it is to hold my ground. This is something I've been working on. See, maybe he is like a philosopher. His words can sound convincing But pretty words don't equate to the truth. He is aristotle. Aristotle was wrong about biology Chemistry Psychology Astronomy and yes Basic. Human. Rights. I may just be a stupid teenage girl, but aren't all the revolutionaries?

30