"exasperatingly" poems
sand exasperatingly tickles skin
as waves roaringly crashes upon it
a deafening wind agitates hair
as it rumbles through air
in all its chaos
I find tranquillity
Dec 9, 2020
Dec 9, 2020 at 2:59 AM UTC
i wish i knew how to put some pretty words together;
in a way that you could read me and cry without realizing it,
in a way that you don't know how it all suddenly made sense
but it all fell together - so right - till the end.
with the steady hand of a seamstress and the persistence of a theorist,
i would string together wispy letters, carefully taking away
and holding all the guilty, lukewarm feelings of self-romanticized nostalgia,
with those hollow, deep pangs of shamelessly missing you
from the somewheres and over theres beneath my ribs.
sometimes, i really miss you - and all of those times, i hate it.
sometimes i stare back at you longer than i should,
but i'm beginning to think that even looking your way
is much worse than a waste of sweet time at this point.
i don't want you inside of my mind anymore.
my wants and needs and maybes of tomorrow are foggy and furiously blinded with
what you used to make me feel. will i ever want anything that much again?
i see you a lot in my mind, smiling handsomely in a way that kind of ****** me off.
in some way, i am overwhelmingly upset in a way i can't describe, in such a strange dialect that
i've maybe only begun to understand when you spoke it to me with watery eyes and an offkey tone:
"i can't do it." i think i know what you mean now.
you were trying to say something deep, i had thought all along,
but i think you were just trying, just simply trying to go along
with something that was safe; you know, i forgive you for playing it safe.
we're just trying to protect what little good we think is left.
i wish i could have tried just as hard; tried harder/ to be with you
because i'm just so tired
(i need to rub my eyes clear)
that i will exasperatingly admit that i am lost after you.
i'm so ruthlessly childish, in a curious way that i refuse to let these warm,
painful feelings for you go.
ruthlessly, still into you, i'm so hardheaded that i will even ignore myself
to forget you
over
(this is the last time i'll look back on you)
and over
(i swear his name won't come to me tomorrow)
again.
you replay in my mind;
maybe one day i will
forget that you ever really meant everything to me once
anyways.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 8:46 PM UTC
for reasons unknown to me,
the urgent need to commence
this one with the words:
Oh man,
this is, this be, challenging,
but these words were found on the drying rack in my
abattoir, my nickname for my unending Draft Day
filings
and kept poking despite another overnight splash,
the product pool is full of creativity's synaptic junctions,
a wild night of up~writing, from god knows when,
and here it is 7:18, there are obligations, needs that
a demand a face to face meeting, tho the troops are
in their boarded beds, gently snoring…
so quick, to the sizable task at hand
the search is perpetual, not eternal,
for no one comes forward, willing
to admit, they have been around
since King David's time, practicing
this verbal chicanery game of using
words to guide the perplexed, unless,
of course, unless someone you might
know might be a big fat fibber
right about now, you're exasperatingly seething,
"where the heck is a poem gonna show its face?"
well, and now,
some struggle mightily, to ascertain
who and what is their uniqueness,
oft turned and twisted, caught between
competing entities, asking quests that
take lifetimes to resolute, and when
you look at the typewriter roll silently
choking the white cloud surrounding it,
you, you want to cry/pray out aloud, who, who
shall I be, to make a completion between
the person inside of me. the person I think
I want to be, dream of be-coming,
and yes it is too, eternal, for as long as humans
can think dream, create and anticipate, we all
will nonetheless perpetually search for the other
someone, sometwo
in us…
Sep 23, 2025
Sep 23, 2025 at 3:46 PM UTC
one night or midafternoon you fell asleep
and snored lightly in my ear.
i stroked your hair (it was longer then)
and thought of my love-lorn words
hijacked by this impermanent sleeper.
i started to laugh and you got lost in my chest
but you said it'd be "a good way to go."
and i heard the sincerity, cheap as silence,
like the first time you drunkenly called me darling
and it was steel wool exfoliating my atriums.
i would rather write about the frivolity
of a cigarette in a hot tub with strangers
and the absurdity of dripping sinuses
or a manifesto for the exasperatingly mediocre
but my words are full of you.
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 8:05 PM UTC
It is the jovial, gentle gradient of your first love
Transcending from the kind of blue that swims under a blanket of flesh on the topmost part of her wrist
Into an orange so pale it could just be pink;
Reminiscent of the peach of her cheeks
Dampered by the dreariness of a stormy Sunday noon
Light shrouded in the mysticism of "what if's" and "why"
It is the turbulence of heartbreak
Escaping with the breath you held in too long
Sighing a song of failed attempts and discarded hope
Dressed in the melancholy of grey-blue, exasperatingly clouding over in surrender;
The kind of dark that makes you wonder if it is pathetic fallacy
Or maybe just a coincidence that the sky can seem so sad.
All at once placid
Milky and cold and fresh as the first glass of Bessie's byproducts
It is the clarity accompanying self assurance
The comfort in the knowledge that blue is just a shade away from blue-grey
Cotton ***** on a sheet of glassy water
Just enough to get you through midday
Until scorching it sets, and your cat nap is marked with a rigid back and stood-up hairs
It is a blaze of passionate glory
The first crimson drop from the blood orange
Only to dilute before you into a tangerine so vivid you have to question if maybe your eyes are just over-dramatizing its hue.
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 4:43 PM UTC
Every turn, I take...
I felt the trench of heaving suddeness
I felt the simple rush, to rush
I felt a clash!
With wants, and following the flow
And no;
They are not aligned
One is sacrificing, one is true
And it's exasperatingly terrifying
To listen intently
Apr 5, 2019
Apr 5, 2019 at 5:55 AM UTC
Oh, Mr. Prufrock,
Pinned and wriggling on that wall.
Sometimes I wonder what those painted butterflies feel.
Sometimes I think
I know.
Measured with stretched bits of thread,
Taut and clean and precise.
Labeled with little placards
Like neat white grave markers.
How macabre, that we must
Skewer
Lovely things.
Define them,
Limit them,
Destroy them to preserve them.
I
Am formulated too.
I have felt the cold cut of it in my chest.
Behind that glass, up on that wall,
I wonder what that royal blue, feather-light creature felt
Just before the lights went out
With a bulbous, giant eye peering down
Carefully impaling it.
Those shiny black legs--- so fragile!---
Struggling.
Oh, Mr. Prufrock
I grow old as well.
I wonder if they ever feel---
Those winged acquisitions of ours---
The crumbling fragility of their beauty
Of their bodies.
Bodies that a stiff breeze can knock asunder,
Bodies that a sewing needle
Can unravel- I am OLD.
Your words stick me through
With who I am,
A sword the size of a pin,
But I am powder light
I am
Paper thin and I am so
Absurdly trapped--- A soul of supernovas
Held inside the tentative shell
Of a monarch butterfly
King of
"If you touch me the oils from your fingers will burn my wings away like acid."
How cruel! How laughable
And how exhausting
That I carry inside me
My own destruction
That I am a paper lantern
Which swallowed a holocaust of flames
And realized its mistake only when
Pregnant with immolation.
How exasperatingly final, and how precarious.
It must be so frustrating to be a butterfly,
Isn't that what you meant, sir?
To be so light
To be so gentle
To hold in your hands your little white label grave plate
And know, just know
That hardly anyone will wonder how much the needle hurt
Before they read it.
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 5:53 PM UTC
A break of this window glass
would break a beginning you think.
But you just watch through it, a squirrel, you
and it alone
assuredly peaceful cracking something.
But maybe it’s not. And maybe you’re not.
Your finger oil stains are skied out
like canyon rivers from the earth
a million million years ago, you don’t know.
You streaked your hands across it to feel
it push against you, its imperceptible thickness,
to feel it, in doubtful awe, you pawed against it
only because you knew it would
make you think, didn’t you. Oh didn’t you.
And your gaze would be drawn by whom(ever)
to the emerald shades, to the insides of the pine furs,
as if there was your mystery, your easy answer.
Uncomfortably, sure, but still, it had a home.
And being still, it was enough.
And then—
and then your hope, what else? For everything, for
anything, of course, you don’t know. Winged from
across the ocean, down upon you like felt breath,
like your ancestral wind slid from an eternal mountain,
upon you like wash, like eyes the warmth of which
only you know and can wish for, and then—
And then it was all imagined, all of it, and
the squirrel’s gone, you don’t know when, or
if it got what it cracked, the window’s ***** it
needs washing, and the deep green darkness within
the cloud of leaves sways exasperatingly to you.
What was today?
Was it my father’s birthday?
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 8:19 PM UTC