When I cannot look at your face
I look at your feet.
Your feet of arched bone,
your hard little feet.
I know that they support you,
and that your sweet weight
rises upon them.
Your waist and your breasts,
the doubled purple
of your nipples,
the sockets of your eyes
that have just flown away,
your wide fruit mouth,
your red tresses,
my little tower.
But I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters,
until they found me.
RH 78 Jan 2015
Box fresh protectors.
How can 2 items take such a pounding day in day out?
My feet are safe in their leather enclosures.
Bound up like 2 Egyptian mummies.
Grace Mar 2014
My feet are disgusting and horrendous
Crooked toes and calluses tell my stories
the pitter patter of them on the kitchen floor, trying to be quit and not wake up my parents in the mornings when I was little
Always wishing they were bigger so I could get new shoes

Years wearing on my feet, scars from running into sharp corners

And yet they still hold me up

smushing them into my skates, getting calluses every week for eight years

running from one place another and are learning why every type of ground feels like between my toes

From the frozen pavement to the searing sand they have been through the harshest conditions

And yet they will never fail me
Olga Valerevna Aug 2014
When everything is heavy but you cannot feel the
weight
You must've put the balances on someone else's
fate
And that was the beginning of the end that you will
see
A shallow recognition of the life you chose to
leave
It happens all too often, people give themselves
away
Accept the hands of others when they think they cannot
stay
But even if the truth puts reassurance in their
heads
The power they possess is like a prison for the
dead
Because you aren't walking and your feet are not your
own
You haven't the ability to set a different tone
for me, for those who give it all away
Nothing Much Jan 2015
I've always had itchy feet
Never can sit still
Or let the soles of my shoes fuse to the ground

I keep my home around my neck
Wear it in a golden heart shaped locket
I misplaced my compass but never lost myself

I crave the ground passing beneath my feet
Beneath wheels and airplane shadows
I measure my age in miles acquired

I've seen the Milky Way from every angle
And swam in every sea
I keep going, going, going
And I never stop to wonder what I'm running from
Wrote this on a train!
WistfulHope Aug 2014
My feet
Are so far away
From my head.
I think that they are
The most fortunate
Piece of my body.
Rarely are they
Punctured
Or stabbed.
Clawed
Or sliced.
They even try
To hold me up
When I'm too dizzy,
Depleted to think.
To bad I hate them,
For they are still
A part of me.
Drake Taylor Jun 2014
It ripples out,
So prominent at first,
And the disappears,
Like everything else.
I think I'm on my feet again
Can you feel it? Can you feel it?
Don't know how or why or when
Can you feel it? Can you feel it?
I think I'm on my feet again
Can you hear it? Can you hear it?
Tell me where do I begin
I can't hear it. I can't hear it.
Recovery is a process
Fiona Campbell Jan 2015
Barefoot, blistered and bleeding
She wanders in from the street
People stare, flabbergasted
Very odd, unheard of in fact

She doesn’t know her size
So like Cinderella, she tries them on
Randomly selecting pretty colours

Silvery, glittery heels
She twirls for the mirror
Sales assistant sighs
Wellingtons for the garden
If she had one!

Satin ice skates
She would glide on the icy pond
Pretty sandals
To feel the sand between her toes

Boring, black brogues
Perfect!
With no pennies in her pocket
She wanders back to the street
Barefoot, blistered and bleeding
Ian Woods Jul 2015
No-one can know another man's trouble
they walk the same path unaware of the rubble
they don't take a spill, ever stumble or slip
their feet will jump, dance, prance and skip
while other feet rip letting blood ooze
others have lucky feet born wearing shoes
that keep them bone dry when they walk life's mire
and leave them unburned when stepping on fire
not troubled by rocks or by mud or hot coals
their feet remain sweet but they've holes in their souls.
Inspired by the mighty SoulSurvivor and her poem, Rocks.
lulu Dec 2014
i have hands but i don't see them.*  

i don't see them doing something different.
i don't see them creating magnificent pieces.
i don't see them writing for a greater cause.

all i see
is what they *destroy
.
i see *the hearts they break
,
the egos they shatter,
the minds they shake,
and the souls they crush.

i have feet, but it doesn't seem like it.

i don't feel my feet marching for a better world.
i don't feel my feet going to places it should.
i don't feel my feet running from the negativity of this place.

the times i do see them,
they're walking to the pits of fire
they're running in a maze
they're falling to the pavement.
12/1/14
And their feet move
rhythmically, as tender
feet of Cretan girls
danced once around an

altar of love, crushing
a circle in the soft
smooth flowering grass
mt Oct 2013
Deadbeat
Smelly feet
Walking across its own callouses
Creator of worlds
Perfect inscriber of nameless wonders beyond mere
Conception and discrimination
That permeates the minds of men
Misguided across the arc of ages
Leading only to cycles of
Hollow pain repeating itself
Lacking substance but appearing
Like unmovable boulders perched
Atop greener mountains
That whisper using their voice,
The wind
Carrying its message in its form
Disappearing but never gone
The homeless,
Not content to trap two sided
Ideas of being in overflowing
Homes filled with the true
Forms of out sourcing
The spirit, torn for
Perfect packages to be sent
To faceless names to further
The collection of vessels
Unused.
The wanderer,
Unhappy with goals
Moving towards the never ending
Journey of perfection
That ends nowhere but travels
Everywhere leaving no quarter
Uninvaded and sadly ringing
In transcendental ears
The lonely,
Unwilling to spread their
Personal pain
From personal failures
To any one but themselves
Using the compressed aggregate
Sickness in scientific lobes, only
Representations, to create faucets through which representations
Of the unrepresentative
Eek out an existence
Among glaring, modern edgy
Movements in endless circles
That sear images into retinas
Working their way to virgin
Thoughts, deflowering the only
Worthwhile virginity in the sad reflections of experience
Called man.
The junkie,
Never fulfilled from false conceptions
Or the self materializing aspect as
The passage of time
Looking to capture the eternal moment and orgasm of the Now
Lasting forever but done long
Ago
Chasing the end of self
And forgetting the body for
Higher realms untouched by lazy
Thoughts and repetitive notions
Creating the mundane
The un-mundane is furthur up than most of us can see
Even if touching it is
The experience
Not different from the life you will
Live for a million regressions
The contemporaries
Never travel the
Path of the Mountain
First camels, then lions
Finally to turn into godly offspring of
Flowering being at the peak
Standing above ubiquitous faces
But contact on level planes
The mountain of self
To create a new identity divorced from the diseased blockage
Flowing through humanity's veins
Only to tumble down
Into the pulsating
Heart filling, disintegrating
All in one undiscriminating
Destruction unborn from the
Young universe only
To lose the conception
And absorb the absorber
Forgetting that once,
A young man carried all the
Pain he had handed to himself
In shiny packages
Pretending that the others
Ever even existed.
Next page