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ryn Nov 2014
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      (              )         )            (          )   
               )      (        (        )        )             
              (          )        )     (       (    (           
                     )               (                       )              
there you are...sitting right across •
and here i am...fidgeting in my seat
•searching for words...but seeming-
ly at a loss•only the eloquence of
my racing, thumping heartbeat•
trading only in silent words and
coy gazes•mingling within the
tendrils of  wafting steam•
divine  moment  as the
heart rapidly races•

over our hot cuppas, soaring into caffeine
fueled dreams•
Inspired by a topic in a chat earlier today.
Chrissy Ade Aug 2018
On Monday we met, our eyes fixated on one another, eager to know more
On Tuesday we talked, twiddling our thumbs, fidgeting in our seats, pondering on the right things to say
On Wednesday we hugged, your arms held me close, heartbeats in sync, I felt myself floating
On Thursday we kissed, our lips gravitated towards each other, like the moon and the sea, the connection was natural
On Friday we confessed, three little words wrapped around our ears,
forever tattooed in our minds
On Saturday you disappeared, no note, no call, no text
not a trace of you left that I could still hold on to
On Sunday I cried, my heart still beats, but never the same way,
would you ever give me a reason if I ever asked "Why?"
Just a cheeky poem about first love... :P
Constructive  Criticism and feedback is welcomed and appreciated :)
Don Bouchard Nov 2016
After all the work of forming sprouts,
Calling out all forms of  leaves,
Beckoning grasses, inert, unseen,
HE turned browns to golds and greens.

After awakening from restful sleep
The slumbering, snoring bears,
The fidgeting squirrels,
The ball-coiled snakes;

After HE irresistibly wooed to life,
Fish, Fur, and Fowl,
Gave orders of procreation,
Set ardor in the *******
Of all living things,
To make them spawn and breed,
To make them stomp and howl,
Under the teeming blue of oceans,
Upon the verdant plains of grass,
Beneath the sun that holds us fast,
Fecundity blooming where HE passed,

After the world was teeming and alive,
HE left humans asking questions,
And a Serpent asking on the sly,
"Perhaps it's just another lesson?"

Suggested truth beyond the Truth might lie.
And she, Pandora's Mother, Mother of all men
Considered loss of innocence the price of "Why?"
And death a mystery to share with Man.

So Winter came upon the world,
So Death declared its right to win,
And Living Things upon the earth,
Discovered cold and death and sin.
So comes the Fall....
Hugoose Feb 28
Not One Hours Rest, Moon Still Standing Nice and Tall

Stars Still Hanging on, You Ride Hazily and Lazily to The City Train Station

Seeing Faces, Seeing Slouched Shoulders, Seeing Tired Eyes all around you

Waiting and Thinking of Home, Observing Yet Constantly Yawning

In No Time You Are Propelled Forwards and Out Through the City Limits

Metal Container Rattling, No Snooze Alarm for the Rising Sun

The City Dissolves into the Back of Your Eyes as You Hit A Tunnel and Enter the Suburban Void

Suddenly Fantastic Splotches of Greenery Drift into Sight, Dabs of Golden Light Float Like Dandelion Spores in The Air

People Move Up and Down the Carriage Schizophrenically, Fidgeting, Never Considering Sitting Still, Not Even Once

Please Just Look Out the Window

Outside Battered Tree Trunks Lay Lifelessly in the Middle of Wondrous Sprawling Fields

Clouds Ripple Insanely Throughout the Horizon, Livestock Enjoying Themselves While They Still Can

What Follows This is a Series of Dilapidated Sheds and Abandoned Roads Leading Up into the Hills so Jagged They Must Have Been Cut by a One Single Colossal Breadknife
Bastet Nov 2018
There they are.
Lined up, one by one.
Standing tall, perfectly ordered, not a hair's width out of line.
They're strong, still. They're the strongest in the world, refusing to abandon their formation with a finality I just can't argue with.
They seem unmovable, so certain in their stance;
and so gentle.
Not even a whisper of tension controls them;
they stand with ease,
and the reassuring practice of time.

Then I look at mine.
Shaking, fluttering.
They can't seem to find their place, scrambling from spot to spot with desperation.
They seem like they can't stand still, slouching and fidgeting, and certainly not getting along with each other.
I can't seem to find even a hint of confidence when I see their hunched shoulders.

But they're not ashamed, and neither am I.
I look back at those weathered masters.
Like little soldiers, lined up and ready,
watching my band of new recruits struggle to find their place.
They're so calm, and so experienced, and I believe that some day, mine will be just like theirs.
So I take up my instrument again, watching my teacher.
My fingers are hopeful, and so am I.
Jessica May 27
About a month ago I cried because I couldn't find my favourite pair of socks. Last week I cried because I forgot my AP books in my locker, and I couldn't do the homework that I wouldn't have been able to bring myself to do in the first place. Yesterday I cried because my cookies didn't come out just right.

I cry. A lot. About everything.

I have been called everything from oversensitive to a baby to overdramatic. I
mean, haha, I clearly really wanted to wear those socks because now my whole day is ruined. I am extremely good at making something out of nothing.

Being this kind of sad is funny that way, no inconvenience is a minor inconvenience, it's all the end of the world or might as well be.

But I go with it. I joke about my tears and their daily visits.

I also joke about my anger and the chair I kicked resulting in a dislocated toe. I joke about the things I've thrown and the people that make my hands clench at my sides. I joke about it because it's easier than explaining it. I don't like my anger.

So, I've learnt how to turn my angry into lonely and my lonely into busy.
How do I explain that when I say I've been super busy lately, I mean I've been too busy falling asleep because drowning my pillow is tiring.

Depression is a monologue shot underwater, depression is sulking because I won't talk about it anymore.

How can I explain to my friends what is happening inside of my head when I can't even figure it out myself? How do I explain to them that I have been hit by too many people with "how dare you hurt me with your hurt" to not be convinced that I will accidentally do that to them? So we've grown accustomed to sulking. It has become a routine, joking about those ridiculous mood swings of mine.

My depression is a coat disguised as depersonalisation tendencies, "laziness,"
cries for attention and closed bedroom doors behind which continuous music
plays, harmonised with the sound of dripping cries of loneliness.

Of which the belt is anxiety. My psychologist has given it a name: John. Its
supposed to make me feel like anxiety is some exterior force and not something fogging up my entire inside. But he's better known as:

"Sorry.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sorry.”

“I know I'm being annoying."

"Sorry.”

I try not to acknowledge it. So, I leave my pen clicking. hair fidgeting, periods of breathlessness and restless tendencies as just that; inconvenient tendencies. Sorry.

I've been told to pray and trust in faith, but I only wear a religious necklace because if I don't, I go home with a neck scratched raw by John.

I wrap myself in this coat for comfort, which seems ironic. But really, comfort is found in familiar places and it seems I keep losing my jackets of happiness and liveliness, so this coat is all I know.

There are some days I am so sad I don't remember what it's like not to be. Like when you're really sick and you forget how to breathe through your nose and you're so sure you'll never breathe through your nose again and I'm so sure I'll never feel joy again.

Except when you're sick, you can go and get a doctor's note to explain why you couldn't go to school and didn't write that test. I can't tell my coach I missed yesterday's practice because I got hit with a wave of sad. I can't tell you that my homework wasn't done because depression kept me tied to my bed for the better part of the day

My psychologist once told me I was brave to seek her help. I didn't feel brave. I felt scared. And desperate. And lonely. And tired. I am so tired of trying to take care of this terrible body that refuses to take care of me.

My depression doesn't ask for much but when it does it is something I cannot give and that is the joke. It is just me asking for something I cannot give. My friends get mad when I don't give them pieces of me. I can't give them something I'm not sure is there anymore.
Jessica
Sally A Bayan Apr 11
:
..
....
........
...........

As often as a human's breath,
deadlines and restrictions pop up
simultaneous with emergencies
chores, and necessities...all in a fast
pace, many things are prioritized
...though, most are unnecessary and
occupy precious space in our lives...

everyday, we struggle...silent battles
and tribulations stir the soul...
for some reason, some things cannot
be changed...some people play deaf
and stay the same.....neither could
thoughts towards them, be altered...
sometimes, our ties with useless stuff,
and useless people...need to be severed.
moments come when, we've had enough
..............of rules and regulations.
...................we just get fed up...

life is short, but precious.....a part of me
....awaits a break......a cold phase,
.........when all my discontent would freeze
..............when all queasy feelings
...................this fidgeting within,
........................would turn to ice
..............................permanently.....
.................­......
...................
.............
.........
......
....
..­
.

Sally

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
(an old unposted poem from 2014)
I simply cannot focus on my work
as all these animals have gone berserk!
Philippa, my darling girl, fill me in,
who on earth is making that awful din?

There’s an aardvark having a bath,
   and a chameleon rolling dice,
an eagle searching in the freezer
   and a goose hiding in the hedge,
an iguana eating our jam
   and a koala juggling our lemons,
a marmoset slurping noodles
   and an octopus carrying paint pots,
a quail wearing a ring
   and a squirrel making the tea,
a unicorn using the vacuum cleaner
   and a walrus playing the xylophone,

and finally Philippa, finally my girl,
   a yak fidgeting with a zip!

Where did they come from? I really don’t know,
but very soon they will just have to go!
I’ve had enough now of this awful din,
thank you Philippa for filling me in!
Written: August 2018.
Explanation: A rare poem written in my own time that is aimed specifically for children. Maybe not the best, but I felt like having a go. There is an alphabetical pattern to this piece, which I'm sure you may well have noticed. Feedback welcome. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
sarah ann May 26
2019 & i'm editing poems eddie's making bbq mac & cheese telling me about a concert in Arizona & plain ******* pepperoni pizza, hungry eyes playing in the background while jess tries to decide if she wants a slice, ed loosing it laughing bc its the same ****** pizza from the venue they left, the lady at the counter waiting too long for them to compose themselves,
ed dancing in the kitchen while water boils & me fidgeting with chopsticks. i feel like i'm in high school working on a painting for carlin's class & up too late.
& eddie is excited to show me music. i forgot we have the same hands. fortunes:
Pat yourself on the back for creating an opportunity.
Lucky Numbers 36, 21, 28, 25, 32, 48
People learn little from success,
but much from failure.
Lucky Numbers 47, 8, 18, 35, 3, 12
dancingsky Oct 2018
I suppose
my brain is playing tricks
constantly replaying scenes of years past
through the foggy lenses of memory.

It was in the start of winter that you first asked me what my favorite color was. I remember drinking a smoothie so cold that my tongue became numb. My cheeks were hurting, protesting the work I had put it through from smiling so wide. I can’t remember who was the first to pose the question. All I can recall was my heart leaping out of its cage, warmth spreading down to my fingertips when you said “blue” with a hint of a smile on your face.

Hostage
to my own consciousness
witness
to a romance long gone.

We were walking aimlessly on a particularly cold day. You turned to me, and I to you. I looked into your eyes and saw a gentleness I had never witnessed before. Love, I thought it was. I couldn’t help but smile at your soft gaze. You looked away as I saw color rising to your cheeks. I watched on as you sputtered, fumbled, fidgeted – as I wondered what on earth could have brought Samson down. Eventually you told me you had wanted to kiss me, and that was when I knew I was your Delilah. Winter had never felt so cozy.

I wonder
how much longer
shall I stay shackled
bound to the chains
ghosts of our past selves
playing our youth.

Do you remember the first time we exchanged those three words? I do. We were ensconced in each other’s embrace. Taking cover from the bitter coldness of the rainy day; warm and cozy in our safe haven. It took me back to the one time you had asked me “Do you think there are other couples like us? Ones who just enjoy each other?” I no longer remember what I said, but your question seems to be forever etched in my mind. That day I looked into your eyes again, and thought that blue was indeed my favorite color as well. Did I ever tell you that? What the stories never revealed was how Delilah fell for Samson, too.

Humans are fickle
aren’t we?
Seasons change, time flies
for a brief moment
I forgot
that people do, too.

The way you tentatively wrapped your arms around me told me stories you could have never even started. The way I curled away, into, away, and into you again. Back and forth, tossing and turning; never making up my mind. The way your fingertips just barely grazed the small of my back. The way you gingerly pulled me closer; brought my hand to your lips like old times. So many words left unsaid, but the silence between us was thick and deafening. You turned to me, and I to you. I looked into your eyes and saw desire, grief, and acceptance all at the same time. I wonder what you saw in mine through your red-rimmed blues. I wondered out loud how life had twisted and turned. You kept your silence, and in that I found my answer. I shed tears of our color that night. In between kisses and embrace, knowing they would be our last, apologies were thrown haphazardly into the wind. It was a warm night, but tell me why I still felt cold.

People grow
old
apart
out of each other.
I know we did the right thing.
You had to find your way,
and I the same.
We had to lose
each other in order to gain
that’s what I kept saying.

It was in the middle of a summer night that you asked me again what my favorite color was. I remember looking into your eyes, fidgeting with my shirt of the same hue. I looked at you and whispered, “blue.” You told me to answer truthfully. I said I did. Perhaps on some level, we both knew why you did not want to accept my answer.

Perhaps to convince yourself
maybe even me, too
that we have run our course.
gravygod Dec 2018
i'm not sure what to do with all the distance
it's been months that have felt like years
i can remember when you came into my life in the winter
and I can remember when you left in the summer
arrival and departure
the distinct difference between the two
i'm only at the thin line of division
the way my emotions don't add up
like miscalculated algebra
all to your advantage
i kept your love letter
the letter where you plagiarized a novel
because i wasn't good enough for your own words
that was my only closure
i wanted desperately to burn the stuffed bears from the carnival
i could only part with one
when i hold it close to me
i feel like how a child would
expecting prizes only in fabric and cotton stuffing
not words of affirmation or love
i almost drove by your house
but i knew i would only go mad thinking
of who has been touching your new furniture that i helped pick out
leaving their fingerprints in place of mine
i miss my t-shirts that you still have
i hope when and if you wear them
you can feel me close
my heart beating where yours is
sometimes i feel like i miss you enough for you to show up
as if my pain could teleport
the craving of a complete closure
one where i don't need liquor or a lighter
others bring up your name
as if i'm not in the process of misplacing the letters
or dismissing the syllables
i've been trying to forget your face
your face of sharp bones
flaring nostrils
and nostalgic lips

i've been trying to imagine if that night would have never happened
when that veteran couldn't take himself anymore
he chose you to be his last interaction
it was all in hints
he was screaming for help without making a sound
how were we supposed to know
i still wonder where that blue jay is that he buried behind the building
i just couldn't bare to see it
now i wish i made a map
X marks the spot where our love died
i remember when you had to bury your own blue jay
you never saw it coming
you took the wrong step and it was under your foot
just like he said his bluejay was
fidgeting and fighting for life
i'd like to think it was a sign from him
to let you know it's possible to move on and forward
so you did
you moved on to scabbed skin and worn-out lungs
i moved on to scholarly headaches and false pretenses
back then i could never fathom my days without you
now i find it difficult to recall how we were
it feels like our romance was a dream
because it only felt real when i was asleep
Zizaloom Oct 2018
Desire crept in the crease of my kidneys
Drowning in ***** and ammonia
I stank and still stink
Saw what could not be unseen
Covered by dirt, grit and grime
Squalid sewage
You dived in too
Head first
Or pretended to
And I saw water gleaming
And temper rising
And fever swelling, blistering, popping
Around the clock
You did not stop
And kept fidgeting and quivering
Singing and facing
Facts and faces
That were supposed to be stood up to
Big polished eye *****
And a neck three feet long
Watch than *******
The huge humongous pomegranate
A billion bubbly juicy lives
******* ******* the treasure fruit
Pearly pimples
Rolling earls
Sea shell pearls
One after the other
Cabbage carnage
Leaf under over inside leaf
What was left
A sack of straw
A mud-colored potato
And two carcasses made of sticks
Painted in cheap pink lipstick
Nathalie Dec 2018
I can tell you are

Simply dancing around

The words

I feel it

It’s in the way you

You are fidgeting

In your seat

I see it in your eyes

That unnerving stare

You get when you

Are uncomfortable

With your emotions

I don’t understand

Why you allow

Yourself to get

So dented by other

People’s impressions

What they think of

You is simply

Nonsense and none

Of their business

I wish you could

See the treasure

That I see

But I cannot

Give you my sight

As you need to find

It on your own

That can only

Be sourced

From you

And you alone.



~Nathalie
sheila sharpe May 21
He was a passenger on that cold morning
in the car from the hospital
an odd, muffled figure
his long black coat enveloping a slight stoop
an unmemorable face and wisps of dark hair
under a black woollen hat
It was, rather, the hands that unnerved,
the dusky greyish skin over long strong bones,
blue veins,  nails curved, yellow, ridged, effeminately long
somehow, there was a medieval air about him
still, he was, no fidgeting, no turn of neck as he sat there
His home was part of the City’s northern sprawl of grey
of dull dark brick terraced houses  in dull dark, dingy streets
with curtains drawn across grimy glass
protecting from neighbours’ prying eyes
a place echoing with a dwindling of  
hope and of futures unrealised
he seemed as unreal as the metal kerbside children
standing in mute warning to motorists
the car stopped and he uncoiled as might
a black asp awakening from long hibernation
out from the warmth and into the cold half light
the car moved away from  his figure
dwindled to a stoop before a locked and dusty door
then he was gone
except in the memory
of yellowed, ridged, curved, long nails
and the medieval air and the feeling
of  him being “somehow not there”
I would welcome readers' comments on this poem please
Queue

I’ll take my cue and talk about waiting
fidgeting, fumbling grumbling
Waiting
Short
long
Round the corner
Queue.
For hours
Days
Weeks
Always
But where would we be without the queue?
keeps us in line
Keep us in order

— The End —