"fifteenth" poems
OCD is not all about remembering the freckles on her cheeks or telling her I love you repetitively
OCD is waking up at 2 in the morning after you have spent hours trying to delude yourself into thinking that your hands are clean only to end up in your washroom trying to rub your skin off.
(all because a stranger touched me on the sidewalk a month ago)
OCD is being in an abusive relationship with yourself. Your logic won't let you give in, but like a desperate lover, your OCD won't let you go. So you keep swinging, tick tock, to and fro, like the broken clock in the store room you can't get yourself to throw out because it belonged to your nana.
OCD is not finally finding a peace of moment when he looks at you but it is biting your teeth into your lips trying to hold in the cringe when he carelessly wipes his greasy hands on the napkin. "Don't complain, don't complain" you mutter to yourself as you throw a hand sanitiser his way.
(please don't leave me)
OCD is rearranging the pictures frame on the shelf for the fifteenth time a day because last time your brother interrupted you and so you might as well start again. OCD is the worry in your mum's eyes as she invites the guests to show them your room while she keeps throwing you cautious glances as someone touches your books.
(I'm sorry, ma. I can't help it)
OCD is reading the same line again and again, a part of your brain asks you why since you got it right the first time. You don't know why, but you keep doing it just to be sure. Check the door if it's locked properly before sleeping. Once, twice, thrice till it's morning already and it's time to wake up.
(another sleepless night, God **** it)
OCD is all these fuzzy voices mixed around with the signals from your brain telling you that your life will fall apart, if, just for this once, you do anything different.
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 3:34 AM UTC
I love my country: India , but
I hate many of its rulers, as
they speak for the poor and
act for tycoons bellicose, and-
Diversity sighs in armed Unity;
The selfish corrupted in unity
March ahead on graves crafty.
I love my country: India , but
August fifteenth : with freedom,
opened all devilish forces
out of Hell to fell all virtues.
Grim faced Buddha smiles
Like a nuclear Phantom ,his
tears drip on tomb of Peace.
No white dove sits on dome
It bleeds in the lap of Buddha.
If birth is the cause of gloom.
who stops one from bloom?
Dearth of berth clamour for
Death of birth at the womb.
I love my country: India , but
Souls are free on lovely Earth
Lay bodies strain to survive.
A nominal word equanimity
Gushes in landslide infirmity.
Service becomes self –service,
In black ink sleeps Socialism.
Fear Neurosis like King Kamsa
Keeps Liberty behind the bars.
Healthy, wealthy Bharat Matha
Groans in labour room for Santi.
Note: 1). August fifteenth= 15 August 1947 when India became free from Briton. 2).Buddha=Gutham Buddha(Prince Sidhardha) who established Buddhism.3).Kamsa= The mythological character , uncle of Lord Krishna who chained even his sister Devaki out of the fear psychosis. 4),Bharat Matha= Indians consider Bharat/India as their Mother(Matha)-so it is Mother land not Fatherland for them .Santi/Shanti=a Sanskrit word used in Vedas and Upanishads of India which means Peace or Islam.
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 10:08 AM UTC
I never got to meet my father...
He died when I was nine months old,
But his presence, I always felt
While I was growing up,
Even up to this day...
He would often visit me in my dreams,
Told me not to worry or despair,
Took my hand,
Told me I could go with him..
Which I almost did...
A few times, in high school
I felt a light push on my back
When my Home Economics teacher
Almost caught me nodding...I was
Too bored, to focus on her sewing lessons...
I was always saved from falling
Each time I climbed the guava tree...
I feel some kind of force stopping me,
Standing ahead of me,
Whenever I cross the street, even now...
My late aunt said she found me
Looking up and giggling
When at three or five years old,
I played by myself beside
My father's tall and sturdy book case...
I see his face when I go through
His dwindling collection of
Edgar Allan Poe books, including his
Law books, and a few western pocketbooks left,
All, with mottled pages now...
The matrimonial bed he shared
With my late mother is still in use...
His portrait is hung on our wall...
Today, the fifteenth of June, his birthday,
I look through his eyes, and-----
In silence, I greet him,
"Happy birthday, papa,
Happy Father's Day, as well."
In my mind, my father lives,
And my own stories of him therein dwells...
Sally
Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 2:01 PM UTC
Drinking my tea
Without sugar-
No difference.
The sparrow *****
upside down
--ah! my brain & eggs
Mayan head in a
Pacific driftwood bole
--Someday I'll live in N.Y.
Looking over my shoulder
my behind was covered
with cherry blossoms.
Winter Haiku
I didn't know the names
of the flowers--now
my garden is gone.
I slapped the mosquito
and missed.
What made me do that?
Reading haiku
I am unhappy,
longing for the Nameless.
A frog floating
in the drugstore jar:
summer rain on grey pavements.
(after Shiki)
On the porch
in my shorts;
auto lights in the rain.
Another year
has past-the world
is no different.
The first thing I looked for
in my old garden was
The Cherry Tree.
My old desk:
the first thing I looked for
in my house.
My early journal:
the first thing I found
in my old desk.
My mother's ghost:
the first thing I found
in the living room.
I quit shaving
but the eyes that glanced at me
remained in the mirror.
The madman
emerges from the movies:
the street at lunchtime.
Cities of boys
are in their graves,
and in this town...
Lying on my side
in the void:
the breath in my nose.
On the fifteenth floor
the dog chews a bone-
Screech of taxicabs.
A hardon in New York,
a boy
in San Fransisco.
The moon over the roof,
worms in the garden.
I rent this house.
[Haiku composed in the backyard cottage at 1624
Milvia Street, Berkeley 1955, while reading R.H.
Blyth's 4 volumes, "Haiku."]
5.1k
*Over the centuries
a transforming logo
promoting and shaping
our dance with coffee..
a seafaring birth
fifteenth century siren
exposed and sensuous
twin-tailed mermaid..
her seductive history
reached to Seattle
with nautical theme..
one lasting effect
many centuries told
with modified modesty
her crown remains..
this enduring connection
upper and lower
crown and creation
transcends the coffee..
the logo reminds us:
senses through time
stimulate and attract
crowned light above...*
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 8:47 PM UTC
Once upon a time there was an Italian,
And some people thought he was a rapscallion,
But he wasn't offended,
Because other people thought he was splendid,
And he said the world was round,
And everybody made an uncomplimentary sound,
But he went and tried to borrow some money from Ferdinand
But Ferdinand said America was a bird in the bush and he'd rather have a berdinand,
But Columbus' brain was fertile, it wasn't arid,
And he remembered that Ferdinand was married,
And he thought, there is no wife like a misunderstood one,
Because if her husband thinks something is a terrible idea she is bound to think it a good one,
So he perfumed his handkerchief with bay *** and citronella,
And he went to see Isabella,
And he looked wonderful but he had never felt sillier,
And she said, I can't place the face but the aroma is familiar,
And Columbus didn't say a word,
All he said was, I am Columbus, the fifteenth-century Admiral Byrd,
And, just as he thought, her disposition was very malleable,
And she said, Here are my jewels, and she wasn't penurious like Cornelia the mother of the Gracchi, she wasn't referring to her children, no, she was referring to her jewels, which were very very valuable,
So Columbus said, Somebody show me the sunset and somebody did and he set sail for it,
And he discovered America and they put him in jail for it,
And the fetters gave him welts,
And they named America after somebody else,
So the sad fate of Columbus ought to be pointed out to every child and every voter,
Because it has a very important moral, which is, Don't be a discoverer, be a promoter.
3.3k
So I see that my poems have started trending. And according to my friend it has to do with the people that follow me.
And as of this moment I have 15 followers (6/3/2014). Cool. So I guess thanks are in order for all of you
1.Sierra Leone - You were my first follower on here so thank you I apprecaite it.
2. Ranger - You were my second follower. and you are a friend on my "little sister". thanks for the follow
3. Fenix Flight - I am surprised you werent my first follower. BUt regardless, you are the reason I am even on this site so thank you sis.
4. Summer Skye - My fourth and lucky follower. the sister of my "sister" thanks little LF, I am grateful you gave me the honor of being followed by you.
5. Zero Zaneh - Fifth follower, Thank you man. your work is good.
6. Stace - sixth follower. we never talk or whatnot, but your work is really good.
7. IJ Keddie - seventh follower, thank you. your work is interesting. I like it.
8. Beryldov Lew - eighth follower, thank you. every follow means something to me
9. ᏰέƦẙḽԃṏሁ Լέῳ - ninth follower. I do not understand your name but i like the work you put up
10. That Asian Josh - tenth follower. (dont take this the wrong way but) We asains must stick together right?. your work is intersting. I enjoy reading it
11. POETIC T - eleventh follower. Marvel? **** yeah man. keep up the cool work
12. Namir- twelvth follower (i cant spell for **** Dude really it took you this long to follow me -.-. come on, but thanks for it anyway. your work is intense.
13 ISverre G Holter thirteenth follower. your work is cool. I like it. keep it up
14.PrttyBrd- Fourteenth follower, you started following me last night (6/2/14) after my poem Life started trending. thank you
15.Nanna Harrow -fifteenth follower, last but not least. you as well started following me last night after my poem Life started trending. thanks for the boost of confedence
There you have it folks. all the people who on here think I am worth something to follow. thanks to each and everyone of you.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 10:31 AM UTC
Somebody put Kylie Minogue on
from the wall mounted touchscreen one-pound-a-go jukebox-
Coldplay would've been better, but I should be so lucky-
and the rising water in the Titanic's engine room of noise
rose to a First Class stateroom chatter and Kate Winslet
and the queue to the bar grew a little longer
and then
you
walked
in
like
a
Sunday
morning
walk,
one long stroll by a river edge or lake side,
through a Westfield, Bluewater Meadowhall
in one long rehearsed map move entrance
dodging standing drinkers and their plus ones in Zara trench coats and Boden shawls,
and you left a wake of wet forest and crumbling beachhead afternoons behind you as you
walked
on
through
the
crowd
to the pool table at the back where you watched
*** after ***
after pint
after ***
after we need more one pound coins to play more pool,
and you went out for **** though you don't smoke yourself
and you looked up into the mist because you're the kind that would find New York Stuart Little big:
mostly building, building, building, window, balcony, bridge, statue and Central Park trees,
and you walked back in with river eyes, your lids moving from cold back to behind-the-fridge, pub-room warm
and they watered a little, Pacific blue sliding over eternal black;
I think she's the kind that needs a lion tamer not an orchestra leader,
but I've only got Petit Filous muscles and I had four raw eggs this morning and I'm still not as strong as I’d like to be,
(put the baton down, Tim)
a River Phoenix younger Harrison Ford stasis, one train wreck ride to remember,
nowhere near the lion tamer you need.
Kylie sings for the fifteenth time in a row,
and the bar is past last orders though cash is pushed under for pints
and you disappeared under bar light
and then into the moonlight
and now I'm sat grieving
the Golden Retriever of The Nutshell
in Bury St Edmunds this evening.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 12:26 PM UTC
1.
Exposed train platform
And the type of wind that goes right through you
A small cup of coffee clutched tight in naked hands
The only source of heat
2.
Quiet café on Saturday morning
Two friends long estranged
Brought together by bad news
3.
Half-punched coffee cards
A daily routine
Five cups and the next one’s free
4.
Don’t talk to me before I’ve had my coffee
Because I might still be half-asleep
And if I see you I’ll think I’m dreaming
5.
She takes a nap
I take a coffee break
6.
Greeting the sunrise with the day’s first cup of coffee
After walking to the bus through the snow
And riding the bus through unfriendly streets
The snow melting through the window and the wait for class to start
7.
Greeting the sunrise with the day’s fifteenth cup of coffee
Or fifth hit of amphetamines
At the moment two days become one
8.
“Let’s get coffee sometime”
“I don’t like coffee”
“Tea, then?”
But I guess you don’t drink either
9.
My first week in a new city
Walking along the arterial at night to meet you
At a coffee shop
It’s small, just me and the man playing guitar
And two other customers
No, wait
One of them is getting behind the counter
So one other customer
You aren’t there yet
I don’t know if you’ll show
So I sit and fiddle with the chess pieces on the table
While I drink
10.
When entrees have come and gone
And dessert is just a memory
We’ll still be in this restaurant
With just ourselves
Our coffee &
Our conversation
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 6:51 PM UTC
There's a crowd of pitch black unicorns at a Chelsea Wolfe's concert.
A crowd of pitch black unicorns moving their onyx hooves and horns
at the rhythm of drones dressed in electric guitars. An acoustic break follows.
The vibrations of the music and dancing cause purple flowers to grow,
purple flowers weaned on blood and sticky black tar. There's a crowd of
unicorns dancing at a Chelsea Wolfe's concert feeding on ladybirds crisps
and dragonflies sticks, that once home will play vinyls on mystic turntables of fire.
The purple flowers grow into vines and try to smother the unicorns
to prevent them from listening to bloodred-dyed vinyls on mystic turntables of fire.
Meanwhile in the corner of a museum S. Teresa of Avila's statue animates by itself, walks
to the window and throwing itself crumbles into a thousand of pieces of marble.
The seventh seal has not been opened yet but the ninth the eleventh and the seventeenth
exploded already, cracked their own wax and started spreading tongues of flames
and water to decimate humanity. A woman dressed in a fifteenth century scarlet outfit
leads the pitch black unicorns to salvation creating a safe haven for them
in Manchester and another one in California. They have in the meantime gone bonkers
and started feeding on each other. Equine teeth suddenly grow carnivorous jaws.
Nothing is left in the two oasis apart from a puddle of blood and a pavement of corpses.
It's 7 a.m. Chelsea has not yet finished her concert and her music blossoms around
played by the mystic turntables of fire. That which remaineth is pitch black light
and the breath of aeons lingering here and beyond and nowhere.
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 8:33 PM UTC
I could drown myself in cups of coffee, in nicotine, old books, and whiskey.
But that won't make me crave you any less.
I could immerse myself in the deepest of enthralling literature, poems, a sea of colloquy,
Waves, strangling the current of my mind.
But you'd still be the resonant word.
I could listen to the sweetest of voices on repeat, golden like honey, sticky,
But my ears would only ever truly answer to yours.
Serpents tend to bite their own tails, a mythological and alchemic symbol of the cyclic nature of the universe: creation out of destruction.
But I'm not breaking my heart, loving you.
Swollen, yearning, daydreamed astray, gathered fast by night.
Curiosity deniable no more, innocence lost, hands wandered exploratory below.
Clambering desperate over themselves, those hands fell over folds of warmed flesh, over forgotten nooks and unfound crevasses, over trembling thighs and aching calves.
Astounded by the vast array of fresh delicacies, of unencountered sensations and deepest pleasures, she stood by loyal as those hands swiftly accustomed themselves to pursuing true ecstasy.
What divine rapture. What soaring heights of pleasure to ascend to. And what a delicious revelation to encounter such unimaginable ecstasy.
That twelfth year become a fourteenth, a fifteenth, a sixteenth.
And with the passing of each came a series of ever more adventurous trysts, the sorts of which Cousteau, Armstrong, and even Columbus could all be truly proud of.
Depths sounded, crevasses plundered, self’s nectars tasted and devoured, the pleasures of the flesh went unearthed.
Elaborate constructions lovingly shaped, waxed and honed, years of heady experimentation, trial and errors, fantasy and dreaming, all in the pursuit of even harder, better, faster, stronger ******* Perhaps it was that, or was it more a case of welcomed companionship? Ambidextrous frustration? A carnal appetite, most terrifying in its magnitude?
Isn’t it time then, you tried a little tenderness?
Be good to you.
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 3:20 PM UTC
As I went about my day.....I thought about Dr. Seuss. How much I enjoyed his rhymes and his stories in my youth.
The truth of the matter is this.....Sometimes I feel like the grinch and my heart doesn't measure above an inch.
I feel sad ...mad and blue.....and when I feel I have been disrespected...my reply is " Who are you talking to?"
I don't live in a zoo.....and never met a "who", but needed them to give me a clue?
Aachoo! Bless you! Who me? yes you.....couldn't be. Then who? Anywho....I don't like to argue and fight .....my intentions are to do what's right.
I write due to a love affair I have with words.....adjectives ....nouns and verbs. You may call it cheating....but its not that at all. I believe they're all beautiful ......and allow them to shine when I write about our time at the ball.
How beautiful she was standing there unassuming in a dress that was red. I approached her from the rear of course and whispered in her ear about my horse parked outside.
I was curious to know if she wanted to ride. Aside from her beauty her scent drove me crazy.....as it entered my system my nervous system became lazy.
I could hardly concentrate on what I should do.....instead of level ten ....my mind was on level two. What should I do?.....my grinch like heart had gathered a spark.
As words danced around in my mind....and massaged my hardened heart .......my anger was released to create a work of art. The feelings that were trapped inside were allowed free reign.
The substance that they contained.....revealed a man who should have gone insane.....it's plain to me .....and why wouldn't it be?.....that suddenly my mind is free......
At least for the moment......I don't like green eggs and ham....but I do enjoy money in my hand. Yes! I do.....and if I gave you a few dollars ....I'm sure you would too.
How much I enjoy when money is around....although she doesn't stay long. As soon as Bill comes along ......she suddenly is gone. My pockets become empty and my mood not so bright.
I feel like a jilted lover.....whose been abandoned late at night. She never returns.....but I am able to hold her again......until Bill arrives and demands her attention again. I don't like him....he's always around like the first and fifteenth.
**** Bill is what I often say.....I'm a little Suessed out ....forgive me for my rant if you can I say.....Have you seen Thing one and Thing two?
I wonder if they can come out to play?
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 12:06 PM UTC
My naivety died with my father
at the bottom of Lake Shelbyville
when I was seven years old
and still losing little teeth.
-
I turn twenty-four next week;
January the fifteenth.
I can still sense the difference between you and I
by the long pauses in between weather talks.
-
I find solace in solitude
and that will never change.
Too many years of misunderstandings,
dope addled family, and conflict avoidance.
-
My mother has an addictive personality
which she tries to superimpose onto me
as a way to keep me away from the ****
She wants me to be her negative film; her opposite.
-
I wish my grandma had leveled with her
instead of surrounding drugs with the mystique
and the danger of a loaded weapon
in a teenager's back pocket; denim daredevil.
-
Grandma.
Now that is a name I miss saying.
She was the stern force that matured me
and my protector in time of matriarchal absence.
-
Her mind started to die years before her body did
and I had to sit and watch it happen, helpless,
with my mother; her daughter.
Alzheimer's, falls, strokes, and in a flash she wasn't there.
-
I don't find myself rooting for the cause these days.
I just want to escape where I came from;
who I am, but the path is circular.
I'm accepting the fate, bathing in lust, and waiting for summer.
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 1:44 AM UTC
I fall asleep before 11 PM and dream that I am grazing graveyards with my fingerprints that I thought were my own when it turns out they are identical to yours. I wake up feeling soft and I wait for you to get up so that I can take over the warm spot your body left – it feels to me like the soft and butter-sunken center of a pancake stack and I like that. I like you enough to want you to come back but I do not love you enough to pay for your name to be on my license plate. I want hell to freeze over because that’s when you said we could be together and maybe afterwards we could go ice-skating there? I will lick your eyeballs with snowflakes on my tongue and fire underneath my feet. I think about you eating Fig Newtons and laughing at Wallace and Gromit, even though I’ve never seen you do either of those things. I feel like you’re wrong about most things but I would think the same way for you. I am trying to become a smaller part of the universe and less of a burden to you so that you can dangle me off of one pinky finger. I mouth-kiss you but it’s not the same as sleeping on your stomach. I mouth-kiss you and wish I hadn’t. I mouth-kiss you and wish you were a caramel apple. I mouth-kiss you in a futile attempt to remember what my fifteenth birthday was like. I mouth-kiss you period. I will wean off of you – eventually, and wane, and waste away.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 7:42 PM UTC
Only a few hours old,
already surrounded by love;
carefree and joyous
as her mother's lips touch
down on her cheeks.
Twelve months have passed
and she is beginning to learn;
how to walk, how to talk,
how to see the dangers
of this harsh world.
Two years now
her eyes remain blind
as she remains happy, oblivious
to the cruel world outside
her tiny childhood skies.
At three years old
she begins to understand
that the world is not safe,
that although she is young
they are already out to get her.
Four years of age
and happy as ever.
She has grown into a toddler,
careless and clever,
for she is still blinded.
Five years now
and she continues her life,
half-blinded, half-understanding.
She sees them fighting,
but sees nothing of it.
Her sixth birthday comes
and the fighting has not stopped.
She worries now,
but is hopeful that it
will all be better tomorrow.
By her seventh year,
she is joyful again;
surrounded by friends
who keep her away
from the terrible yelling.
At eight years old,
she understands that she lives
in a house, not a home,
but she remains happy
because there's always tomorrow.
On her ninth birthday,
she finally understands
that the world is evil,
and there is no escape,
yet she remains positive.
By ten years old,
she has felt pain.
The pain inflicted upon her
is nothing compared to
what tomorrow may bring.
Eleven years now and
she's plastering on a smile,
forcing a laugh,
half-heartedly joking,
and dreaming of childhood.
Twelve years have passed
now her fake smile is perfected.
No one sees her pain,
so no one worries. They
all assume they have tomorrow.
Thirteen years, her parents
begin to notice.
They say she is too young
to feel this pain,
but depression has no age.
By the age of fourteen
she has only gotten worse.
They have given her help,
but nothing works. She remains
in her shell until tomorrow.
She spends her fifteenth birthday
in a center for kids like her.
She found an escape,
but it comes with the price
of giving up tomorrow.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 5:44 PM UTC
When she opened the door and saw him standing there
Her first thought was
Holy crap he's so obsessed that he swam the Atlantic!
Well, his hair was dry
So she realized this thought was not reasonable,
But she couldn't formulate a second thought
Because that's when the shock started to set in
And all she could say was
"You exist!"
Awestruck,
Reaching out to make sure he was solid.
It was just like she'd imagined.
His lithe, sniper-trained body stood less than an inch
Above her own over-worked and over-fed frame,
And his brogue-heavy voice tumbled out
Without a type-face to give it cadence:
"You exist, too…"
Palm to palm they stood there,
Staring wonderingly at the other,
Unconsciously twining their fingers as though,
If they didn't hold on,
They'd flicker out like a computer shutting down.
On her fifteenth birthday she'd told him
"I'll be eighteen in three years. Then I'll come see you."
And in those days
The Atlantic Ocean didn't seem like such a big thing.
It seemed that its breadth was just a story moms told to keep their kids from wandering off,
From sneaking out and stone-skipping across its waves
Until they splashed up on some foreign beach.
Dimly, she thought she could flatten herself out
And fling her body so that she'd bounce her way across the ocean
Right to his door.
In those days
She was leashed by a modem,
Bound by the words typed out in real-time;
"I can't wait until I'm eighteen. We'll finally see each other."
On her eighteenth birthday,
She no longer wore her computer collar,
And she wasn't thinking about him
Or the Atlantic.
But looking at him standing in her foyer,
She couldn't quite remember
When two screens and a modem
Became too fragile to bridge two continents.
Virtual hugs crumbled under real life kisses;
LOL couldn't replace actual laughter;
Emoticons couldn't replace ****** expressions.
For all that she loved him,
Something was missing,
Lost in IP addresses and chat rooms,
Only to be found again
Dropping its luggage on her bedroom floor.
Nov 27, 2010
Nov 27, 2010 at 6:42 PM UTC
The movement of her body was entirely too loud
She is desert throat gasps
When the water is so good
She doesn’t stop for air
Can hear her comin’
Her rusty train wreck tremble
On loose tracks
Her collapse is a cinderblock rain
The crumble is so much quieter than the crash
Her crumble is so much quieter than the crash
Her hands shake as she swipes her EBT card for the fifteenth time
She puts back the bacon this time
Throws down 5.50 for the Marlboros
She talks to herself
Angrily
Slams ever door she enters
Every door she exits
Her children think she is crazy
She is crazy
She is a body built
On passive aggression
And the threat of a shaky foundation
When the earthquake hits
Any day could be my last day you know
Her son turns up the tv
Her daughter plugs her headphones into her cd player
Do you all think I am talking just to hear myself talk?
And if you don’t stop sleep talking
*Telling me you’re going to **** me*
I am sending you to the hospital
The boy mutes the tv
Dries his eyes before they’re wet
He shakes his head
Begs her not to do that
Says he doesn’t know he’s doing it
Says he doesn’t want to **** her
She walks away
And he is left wondering
I remind him later
That we were not raised on truth
So it’s hard sometimes
To trust people
I put a lock on his door
Tell him to shut himself in at night
As for the mother
We don’t talk anymore
Like I said
She’s crazy
And I’ve got too much of that myself already
Somewhere a door is slamming
Somewhere cinderblocks are crumbling quiet
There is a sizzle like slowly cracking glass
I feel it crawl my spine
It crawls his
The girl misses it
Head buried in pop culture
Going deaf in trying to drown out
Her mother’s noise
Do you think I am talking just to hear myself talk?
As a poet I ask myself the same thing
Ask how far the apple can fall from the tree
If any one of us are lucky
It will be just far enough
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 1:20 PM UTC
Packet of Time
T'is the custom of some,
To do their self-sums,
Periodically,
A self-review of
What is seen
When standing before the
Mirror that cannot lie.
Some like Xmas, while others
Count their turkey feathers
on January first.
Others numerical ***** on
The fifteenth of April,
As required by the IRS.
Others habit bound,
Do a spring cleaning,
Or an annualized medical checkup.
Then there are the enviable few,
Who never do
Such an exercise,
For being sure of one's rightness
Precludes the necessity of having their
**** probed, their status, already known.
As I lie in bed at four am,
Waking after a four hour packet of rest,
Began to wonder, what is the proper period
That a person should time themselves out,
Take a look back, do a "get back Jack,"
To find where they not once belonged,
But where they should set the course heading.
Here is where
This poem gets
Deadly
Serious.
One minute please!
One on, one off.
Did you just spend the minute prior,
Setting your brain on fire,
Scrub away the false pretenses,
Or waste 60 of them on mindless telly?
Day dream, plan and scheme,
Outline the plan, man,
Or curse your fate
The one you, Nate,
Created.
Seems quite expensive,
Spending half a life
Thinking how to
Spend the other half.
But a **** worthwhile,
Notion,
likely to reduce
Self- promotion.
For after but a few such minutes,
You will likely conclude,
Better to think of others,
Than yourself.
Then you truly begin,
The voyage human.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 4:19 AM UTC
You ****** exotic,
beautiful creature.
Here we are again
I made sure to not be tardy this time
Which was easy since you moved ten minutes away
You called me seven times on the
walk from the parking lot, to your front door.
On the fourth call you mentioned pouring another shot of Jim Beam
So no, I will not be ******* you.
I am obligated to let you know I am a mess.
That is, I would have told you I am a mess
If you didn't mute me by providing more then enough proof it was mutual.
you said lets dump our boyfriends
date each other
Poly wouldn't be enough attention for you
Who have passed self destructive
into destroyed.
With your unzipped *** stained lingerie and ****** that I found
Still inside you.
you forgot it was there when you asked me to **** you
the next morning
After my fifteenth no.
God bless that ******
Caution tape boon from some deity I should pray to more often.
Blessing me with one last chance to think before my actions.
That ****** saved me from any number of potential tragedies.
Yes I was disgusted
Not because the cotton string was mistaken originally for some sort of ***** rat tail.
Not because I imagined for a breif moment, a tiny sufficated animal
who got a little to curious.
Not because you were offended I wouldn't yank it out and **** you anyway,
instead of assuming it was a sign
I should stop my hands.
Go to bed.
Disgusted at myself.
if not for that magical used ******
from what I assume to be
the God of a full eight hours of sleep and
Inverted libido
I would have let myself be seduced Into spiraling back into ******* the pain away.
I've worked too hard at reminding myself who I am.
To let myself be the man who throws away the bruised hearts.
Or drowns them in a sea of bodies.
No.
Now that you've woken me.
Put your body away.
Now that you're sober.
Where is your heart.
Go on, get it.
Beautiful.
God is that a specimen.
Bruised from aorta to base.
Here's mine.
All purple and calloused.
Uncanny isn't it?
almost Identical
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 3:02 PM UTC
Awake again for the tenth night
It could be the fifteenth or the twentieth
I don't know, who's counting?
I lost count around night three
Maybe it was four?
All I knew was that I was in for more
Tossing and turning
Unable to sleep
My eyelids unable to shut
Then the frustration sets in
And I'm a wreck again
Because the thoughts won't stop coming
Then the tears won't stop flowing
Because I'm tired of this
No one knows just how tired I am of this
And yes, I just tried to rhyme "this" and "this"
I keep praying that maybe I have a cyst
Removed with just a clip and a snip
But, I won't have that luxury
Because people will think that I'm just telling stories
That's in all in my head
That's why I can't see the end
But no one knows just how tired I am
Because it's always an excuse
But why would I put myself through this abuse?
Sure the pain only stops when I cry
But, that's just science, I can't lie
The feeling comes and body responds
Now let's change to "The Big Bang Theory"
Maybe some comedy will make my heart cheery
Maybe it'll make me sleepy
Need to find something else
Since the thoughts I once used
Have been beaten and abused
And no longer help me sleep
They just leave me here to weep
Until then the sleepless nights will come
I'll still be sleeping some
I'll just be tired until it's done.
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 12:40 AM UTC
Like the common cold
It seems like nothing
But like back in the fifteenth century
It could end me for good
But i'm going to fight it
Take my hand and don't let go
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 8:32 PM UTC
During the fifteenth century,
in Verona, Italy...
Lays a story of the star crossed lovers,
that ends in pure tragedy.
According to the stars above
it is said that the couple,
was never meant to fall in love.
The Capulet's rue,
the Montague's.
A long lasting feud,
that ended very crude.
Already secretly wed,
by the Friar Lawrence.
Juliet is forced to Marry Paris instead.
On the day she is to wed she drinks a potion,
to fake herself dead...
When Romeo hears about his wife's death...
It is at that moment,
he is ready to take his very last breath.
Their love was marked ill-fated.
All because one family was very well hated.
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 1:10 PM UTC
My dearest love,
You make me want to punch you in the face.
Then throw a T-bone steak on it so it won't bruise,
And kiss it so it doesn't ache.
I will be your fiercest protector,
with sharpened words headed for any who doubt
your inescapable and obvious brilliance.
And I will tell you for the fifteenth time,
"No. It is not funny to put the cats on the top of the bookshelf...
no matter how cute their forlorn faces are."
You will be my shelter in times when
I can't feel happiness.
When I've gone off the edge again;
You will give me warmth.
Like a blanket.
...even though I steal the blankets at night,
and never wake up to your plea,
spoken with teeth chattering.
I will be the pain in your backside,
and you will be the lone pea
stuck between my mattresses;
We will constantly remind each other
of our presence.
Sometimes we'll just be there to say,
"I saw you. I was there. I'm a witness to your life."
Sometimes we'll say things like,
"I can't believe you thought putting the laptop
in the microwave was a good idea".
But always,
we will be there for each other.
Like a shadow,
or a stalker.
Or an old friend,
who made the very foolish mistake
of falling in love with you once,
And promised to do it again,
over
and over
and over,
forever.
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 12:01 PM UTC
The crowded streets seemed empty now, beneath the noon day heat,
as the devils and the invalids wait 'til dusk to meet.
Then the sunlight fades and the neon signs, attract the social crowd,
the silence dies and an echo's born as the deadly night grows loud.
A ***** blonde in a ***** coat, leans on a grey stone wall,
waiting to lead her regulars down a dark and dingy hall.
While a blind man steers his cane ahead to aid his weary feet,
he gropes his way to a barstool where he and bottle meet.
The piercing sound of a siren is muffled by angry tongues,
as an old drunk falls in an alleyway clutching his heaving lungs.
The sight of the city from the fifteenth floor turns the heart to a giant pump,
as a ****** high in every way prepares for his final jump.
Dance hall girls line the stage and kick their legs in time,
as the prestige men in business suits order gin and lime.
An aging man with glass in hand finds friendship in the night
bringing back his childhood through the shouts of a barroom fight.
The pain goes on 'til the lights go out and the wolves all head for home
for those who have no place to rest the sidewalk is there to roam.
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 12:28 AM UTC
For fifteen years, I've loved you as "my own";
Denying all that time that you weren't "mine".
If you're not "mine", then what? Are you "on loan"?
No, no, you are a leaf upon my vine.
Mere foliage? No, My Dear, you are so more
Ah..Ah, still green—(Oh how I miss my babe...)
Yet self-sustainment, oozing from each pore,
Serrated wit to match e'en Honest Abe!
My God, My Sprout, how deep your roots have stretched,
So thin, and with such possibility!
Can Life Success and Depth be so far-fetched?
Not with your Scope and Life Agility.
This Day of Love I wish to say to you,
Your Vine is proud, through tears of Love, of You.
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 11:50 PM UTC