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Abby Mendoza Sep 2017
Plip, plip, plop
I wonder when will it all stop
Every drop turns a darker red
As all hope are replaced with dread.

Plip, plip, plop
We need to fix this faucet
For soon we'll all drown
And sadly we are too poor for a casket.

Plip, plip, plop
Please don't pretend you don't hear
All the innocent's yawps
Pleading from the faith of your ruthless spear.

Plip, plip, plop
Alas! the streets are clean
Yet every house seems to pray
For their child to come home today.

Plip, plip, plop
I wish to live a day without fear
That the faucet won't wreck my home
Coating it with an awful besmear.

Plip, plip, plop
I just want it to stop
Pray, I do not want the past nor the present,
I just want a life that has future in it.

-a.m.
i wrote this for the current things that are happening in my country and to be honest i am f*cking scared.
mt Feb 2018
i want to be able to see my heart in word-form, all of its callouses and scars spelled out in strings of the alphabet
i want words to flow off of my fingertips like the drippings of water droplets into a sink from a faucet closed only half way
yet i've found that the four-letter word i've been feeling
can only be expressed as it is
numb
i want to be able to express myself but i feel as though i have nothing to express anymore
zebra Nov 2018
The write was written
red ice
twice bitten
his soul a black clot

a faucet for a neck
she fell in a crepuscular fold
odor of tincture fuckubus
red mouth
a snarling kiss
a hot hiss chariot
a black bite

her womb spread wide
for a tongue that didn't end
nail polished *******
like torn cherries
soft gauze tourniquet
a slow yield
milk petals and rivulets
a ghastly confection
leaning over like a spilled ***

her gullet a metropolis of jewels
forced throat bound
on a black cross
she sailed on a magic carpet
like a vampires fizz cocktail
a red ice float
of starvation
his mind a dead sky
a pageant of coiled clouds

he held her down
she levitated

they were in love
Vampire
Jay Jun 2018
I'M MAKING nachos in your toaster oven. The chips fall in the pan without a problem. Beans, evenly distributed (if I do say so myself.) Salsa- good to go. Then the cheese. Generic brand shredded cheese blend. I dangle my (washed) fingers into the zip-lock bag, grab a generous pinch and rain mild cheddar down on my gourmet meal. And I feel the tears building. "No," my conscious scolds, "you will not cry over shredded cheese." I add another pinch for flavor, then another to assert dominance. I slide the pan into the tiny oven- triumphant! But the next task breaks me. I freeze when I try to adjust the heat setting. I hear your voice so clearly, like you're still calling from the next room: "you have to press the TOAST button, it cooks much faster."  The tears start to roll. I think about how excited you were when cheese bubbled perfectly- "just a little brown, ever so slightly crispy." We would joke about your persnickety preferences, likely a product of your superior taste. Of course, you would have appreciated anything I made for you, but it was always better when the dish matched the idea in your head...when I made it like you would have made it (if you were only well enough to cook for yourself again.) In the present, I poke the TOAST button and flee the kitchen as to not cry in front of the smothered chips. I sit on the sofa and break down, gasping in childish sobs. "I miss her," I wail to an empty house. Warm tears coat my cheeks in the air-conditioned room. I feel so small. I feel so foolish for crying over stupid, little things. I feel so... so... A bell dings in the kitchen. I wipe my sleeve across my face and traipse back to the toaster. Hand into oven mitt, mitt onto pan, pan onto table. I grab the plastic tubs of sour cream and guacamole from the fridge and a spoon from the drawer that sticks a little when you try to open it. I pick the non-wilted bits off the head of lettuce and rinse them under the faucet. I finish the recipe. I pull out a chair. I sit down to nachos for one.
Grief is such a strange emotion/process.

*Oh my! Thank you all so much for your support! I wrote this back in June when I needed to get it out of my head and had no idea it was chosen as a daily until I just logged back on and thought there was a glitch with my notifications number. I was slightly mortified that a piece of my mourning got exposure but after reading your comments I'm glad that I documented something many of you identified with. I've since journeyed a bit farther in my grief- slowly overcoming my initial instinct of trying to instantaneously analyze every feeling to determine whether I'm "allowed" to have it. I went to a group bereavement meeting offered by the hospital that treated the loved one in this poem and the nurse running the session made a good point- no one can fully understand another person's relationship with an individual who's passed on. Interpersonal relationships are unique and so is grieving. Being gentle with yourself (especially in times of struggle) is woefully underrated. And with that, I send love, gratitude, and positive vibes to this wonderful community
K Balachandran Apr 2017
Last drop of water,
Quivers"Sorry"at the faucet,
It's my turn to fret.
trf Jul 2018
sleeping tears awoke to crimson crust & apple red veins,
eyes peering through the dizzying fog to find a faucet
& drizzle rain like nectar down the peach pit's core,
along rugged edges & oval pores,

imperfect patterns & lightning blinks
remind the second sadness to cry once again.

My swipe of crust is rusting
like a smoker's yellowing finger tips gathering paint on callouses
& cracked lips

mirrored reflections shadow gaze,
squinting to locate bronze crow's feet of a man, mid thirties,
lying for what-to die
dying to wait-for what
I wrote this poem on the back of my most recent 36x48 painting. Abstract-fully Delicious, yet sad and viscous
jane taylor May 2016
i fight to peel each moment
of pure stagnation
off of me

a tinnitus cacophony whines in my ears
as my dilapidated fan
keeps slow rhythm to the faucet drip

minutes drag like molasses
handcuffed to the daily lag
groundhog day

i escape into the forest
running, the breeze caresses my face
wildlife pries open my desperate eyes

a spider’s web bends and sways in the wind
fine strands of silver silk flow
soaring they meld in crescent waves

a butterfly glides gently by
befriending gusts of air
softly breathing in another tomorrow

the conductor of the symphony
with sculptor’s hands i cannot see
whispers ever graciously

life is not your enemy
drink it in and let it seep
drop your sword i’m molding thee

©2016janetaylor
Levi Kips Feb 2018
Natural disasters flow like Water.
Either naturally or what we consider to be natural like water from a faucet.
The nature behind the definition natural used to be so concrete like telling the difference between an earthquake and thunder but lately it bends so flexible that now
it’s like telling the difference between a 6 and a 9.
I realized my definition and vocabulary was about to be tested when I saw him.
Nothing about our encounter was natural except for our reactions.
Normally we're supposed to look at them Aurora Borealis
like their presence is a gift from God but naturally,
I look at him like a rooted tree looks at a thunderstorm while he,
He looks at me the same way a tsunami looks at a beach house.
I'm just trying to survive while he.......  
I'm trying still to decide what he wanted.
Was he trying to do what he sees as natural now or
was he trying to protect and serve God,
The Earth,
His Life.  
Either way, I know how natural disaster stories end and
I don't want to end up like Louisiana to Katrina,
like Haiti to the earthquake,
like Eric Garner to the NYPD.
That word natural is so abused and misused,
the word they really mean is normal.
It is normal for all kings to get taken down,
like King Charles the 1st,
like King Richard the 1st,
like African Kingdoms,
like Rodney King,
like Martin Luther King.
I want to keep having natural endings and not normal ones,
I rather want the debate of
"was that sound a heartbreak or an earthquake" and not
" was that the sound thunder or another black body hitting concrete".
In today's society, natural and normal trade blows and dance around each other so much
we ignore the chaos their tornado creates.
I can very much so be another victim of the normal slash new natural tornado
and hang my name up in the clouds next to a rip hashtag
and have it blow away the next day.
Instead, I hand over my genetic recipe to the elemental force
and hope that it doesn't return to the melanin back to the earth.
Normally the statistics aren't in my favor
nor is it in the favor for black bodies but today
nature rooted for me,
it didn't promise me a forever, but it helped me weather this storm.
Weather if you are looking at this situation as a 6 or a 9.
This shouldn't be the new normal.
Today I survive, and hopefully,
There will be a nature to help others do so too.
This is about when I was pulled over on a bike around the corner from home
Left Foot Poet Apr 2018
(seep yourself to leak away)

all reveals are feints;
I take you right
but I am moving left,
always left,
then left again

when I turn the faucet of me on,
brown, rusty pipe water comes out,
never turning clear,
even if the flow
went on for a millennium

someone traveller passerby
reads my excellent explicit illicit words,
with kind sweetness
observes a valid conclusion:
Poems take.a lot out of you

correct+wrong

not take, give
they are the slow seepage
of my overburdening
which is
yes, yes, I know, all relative,
but perspective is a
sometime summer thing,
and all the springtime streets
filled with filthy frozen slush

having  come from some rusty water leakage,
never turning clear
no matter how long the street runs away
from you

so you take yourself to give away,
seeping and leaking

ah words;

so useful and so inadequate
crushed petals from the Tree of Life

you ask me If I have read my brother,
the prophet-poet Jeremiah?

The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure.
Who can understand it?


When your words came, I ate them;
they were my joy and my heart's delight


Then the Lord reached out his hand unto my mouth and said,
"I have put my words in your mouth."


these are those words
written months ago
Britt Nichole Jan 2015
How tired we are
Always taking hot salt baths,
thinking that they'll heal our gaping wounds.
Then we cry because we hurt like hell and are naive enough to ask the faucet why it would do such a thing. It wasn't even the faucet.
How is it that we don't ever feel clean unless we are burning?
Our minds are saturated in switched blame but I'm also saturated in my own hot air.
Let's hum.
Stand naked in puddles of rain water and ask God why you've caught cold feet, why you're running away from feeling something.
Don't **** the passion, just watch it live sadly and then die. You die, not the passion. Someone else will catch it and since it's awfully contagious they'll give it to someone else too. Passion Plague.
I'm nifty with words.
Be nifty with hands.
Bend me over and fold me in until you're inhaling sticky sweat and loose hairs.
I have penny slots and other slots that are empty waiting. You've got the parts so you know what they are waiting for.
I do too, but I'll be ***** to make you ***** if I have to.
Pop off can tops and keep them between your front teeth as I dance around the empty ashtray in our hotel room. The sheets are cold like your rain water feet and thin like self restraint, but I'll still tease.
Let's make sin worth burying and call it the Boogie Monster anyway.
Molly Nicole Jun 25
Spilling out secrets
Like a dripping faucet
Through the night
You hold me as the sun comes up
Sewing my chest back together
With a wine stained thread
Pull my hair
And the seams grow closer together
Zoey Nov 5
I’ve been bleeding
Water
For such a long time
Just a drop at a time
One drop doesn’t hurt
Like a leaky faucet
Whispering

Drip, drip, drip

Such a soft, sweet noise
But like a bottle breaking
In this empty room

Every hit
Fell like water
From the cracks in my arms
Every scratch
Every kick
Every scream
Every look
So much love
So much hate
Drip, drip, dripping
Into pools at my feet
Until I was bleeding water
Just a drop at a time
From one thousand wounds
And the sound became a roar
Like an ocean
I could drown in
A raging river
I could swim
But I fell into that noise
And all the drops
Became a din
Until my head was under water
And the world
Turned purple-blue
And the quiet
At last prevailed

Until the drops
Began anew
Binx Jul 2018
Drip
Drip
Drip

I try to keep my anxiety in a bucket
Some days I can empty the pale with cold and sluggish hands

Other days the thoughts trickle out and so I grab my mop put out my “caution” sign

But today there’s a flood
I have a teacup during Katrina
Not filled with Earl Grey

But I try anyways.
Sam Maye Jan 22
Last I checked the sink
Hadn't been full of water, overflowing
but now I see
the faucet is running because he left it on.
I dunno. This one is kinda vague.
Bad Luck Feb 2013
This rain keeps falling
As dry as a drought.
                       “ Rain drops heavier than water,
                          When it’s laden with doubt. ”

He said,         " The ground simply can’t hold it
                                   … So it must go without.”


This rain keeps to itself; lets no one inside -
No one to know why the ground stays so dry.
For it comes from a place where souls idly drift by -
And the same forces that create are constantly defied.

He said,       “ You’ve never known water to stain,
                         But you’ve never felt this kind of rain.
                         It’s thicker than your skin.
                         It stains your clothes and what’s within.
                         It sounds like hammers as it pounds -
                         And yet, the ground won’t let it in.

                         So it flows like a river that only gets bigger;
                         It runs like a force that knows no remorse.
                         Despite endless efforts to stop it -
                         It still runs like a faucet…
                                                         ­ With nowhere to drain. "


But if the ground holds no plants, is the water so vital?
Is the rain’s sole purpose this lifeless recital?
The ground stays so strong.
It holds fast, like pure stone
But can one stay so long when one’s so alone?
When one is forced to move,
               Will the ground or the rain?
And when the first one has gone,
               Will the other remain?


For now, they coexist,
Each facing a challenge it can’t resist -
Both unstoppable and immovable,
                              They hopelessly persist.
As compliments, they combine
                        With the product of a flood.
But the water that’s collecting
                        Has the consistency of blood.
There’s a heart behind this water.
It pulses instead of flowing.
So you turn to the only man you know,
             for parting words with danger growing.
And he says, as you leave,
                               “ I wish you luck where you are going.
                                 You’ve only seen the rain . . .
                                 The winds are not yet blowing.

But our eyes can't unmeet,
and you can't unwound my heart,
the strings you tugged at.
I'm not the kind of person you keep 
when you let everything just
fall apart.

You were always the first one
to bolt out the door
when the curtains caught fire,
when the faucet spewed dirt
instead of water.

What little light I thought you saw
in my fluorescent eyes,
couldn't get past your opacity
and you just watched them
burn out.

It was always going to end
exactly like
this.
02.01.19
23:59
a child, portable and small
respects the walls that you’ve made
these are not their cage but your shelter
self-culture is affluent not arrogant
sand mandalas are as tall as waterfalls
golden rainbows pour from the faucet in the sky
like mighty images wisdom bridges
the gaps in our imagination
juneau Jan 25
i sweat and sweat and sweat and sweat
my under arms are always wet
basting myself in my own vinaigrette
i’ll never be the cool guy in the corvette
blasting his tunes with an old school cassette
with a blonde on his right and in the back a brunette
i’ll always be this soggy piglet
you’d think i could just shower and then i’d be set
but NO! don’t you see these pits are a leaky faucet
January 25, 2019

fifty-seven
ew
Zoe Sue May 2014
Maybe if I'm buried beneath these sheets long enough
I'll melt into them
Chained to the bed
By a fatigue dressed in fuzzy pink handcuffs
With your name scrawled on the side

Ravaged the light from me
So if I don't see the sun for long enough
I'll convince myself I'm not real
A figment of someone's imagination
Sent to tell them their taxes are due
Their fly is undone

Convince myself that if I stay still for long enough
I'll slow my body to a leaking faucet
Lethargic sleeping pill slow motion
My heart will beat the way I imagine yours does


buhhh





boom



What a heart you have




buh



boom



A beat
As though living is an art I could just master



buh




boom


Like loving was the art you couldn't grasp



buh




boom

Maybe if I dream about you enough
I'll stop having these nightmares about being alone




buh




boom



Or maybe if I peer over the edge of the bed
It'll look less like a cliff than I thought

Buh


Boom

Maybe my feet could find the floor
You once swept out from under me

Buh Boom

Maybe I will stand without your hand to steady me
BUH BOOM
Maybe
I never needed you much at all
I prepared you for what's real.
Motivated and kindled the fire that went out inside your soul long before I came.
   I brought comfort even when you cut my wings as I promised I would never leave.
I managed to fly with the baggage although it still stings.
To show you peace is all I wanted.
   Leave? Never...
I'd have to dance with your hands wrapped upon my neck saying if you go its over.
Either way I went it's not.
The flames will never die between us because what I hold is fire,
And as I sit below the faucet scrubbing off what's left of ash, I manage to breathe freely but our memories make me choke.
And even though I know youre secrets I'll  never blow your smoke...
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