"fimiliar" poems
I hear one note
I close my eyes
I hear one beat
I start to smile
I'm not just hearing
I'm also listening
How could such fimiliar words
have such different meanings
I might be percieving the sound
but I am also giving one's attention
Not only the sense of hearing
but the sense of feeling
it hits my core
chills from all of my toes
to the tip of my nose
to the back of my neck
from a shoulder to another
I let out a sound
Just to realize its over
now I feel nothing
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 12:56 AM UTC
i am
settling
floating
suspended in the unsustainable
adrift in fire
and blood
missing parts
the predecessors,
victims,
of unholy theistic ritual
being whole
was a luxury
oneness
a virtue
taken for granted
in the box
we lived and grew
the comfort in the chill
of a fimiliar place,
communities
cracked apart and tossed
separated and forgotten
the box was gone
and elsewhere was hell
to be thrown to the lukewarm sea
facing the uncertain panic of
no more
in no time
we disappeared,
used and consumed
one more brief, familiar chill
stripped of the flesh,
i am
small
Jun 29, 2023
Jun 29, 2023 at 8:36 PM UTC
For our own fairy tale lies fairly far within ourselves
And for the sake of bringing it out, we take the books off the shelves
We recite the words with older voices equipped with new vices
Like a fimiliar phrase,we remember them, yet can't find it's fit
When change backs into the same corner, well it's a circle that begins and ends with our names
And for the sake of something to cry about, we find our rules created by someone else,
We remember their place and order, yet their structure lies word of mouth
Oct 31, 2011
Oct 31, 2011 at 6:25 AM UTC
the sound of the suttle rainfall and the fear of the dispiteful thunder haunt me in my mind....
the taunting shadows cast by the moonlight fill the back of my mind with the thought of you....
the puddle on my doorstep is begging me to let it inside....
but i think to myself before i make a remark of any sort.... the thunder booms after the long pause of wonder..
as i walk in the rain i pick out each lightening bolt about twenty feet away with the recognition of the danger that i am now faced with.... i lay on the ground as if i was waiting for that moment where the lightening travels through my very body putting me in this strange stat where i fall up and breathe through my hands; everytime i hold your hand it cuts off my breath.... i become fragile and courageous enough to squeeze tighter and tighter. i awaken from my daze by the sound of thunder.. it sounded so sweet in my mind as it reeved like your harleys engine.... so smooth and like you; quick to react.... the rain is starting to burn my skin as i start to run.... the once fimiliar scenery turns distorted and cold.... im back on my doorstep.... you're gone again.... the storm goes on but i pay no mind to it any longer.... i make my way inside.. i unfold my bedspread and turn the fan on high.. i go lay down in the bed you used to tuck me into.. close my eyes and get ready to see you in my dreams.... 6/13/49 - 6/12/08
Oct 17, 2011
Oct 17, 2011 at 9:10 PM UTC
The names hide who I really am.
People can't see through them, and sadly they never will.
Names hide our true nature,
And when I see a fimiliar face I throw one up to match.
I don't know why.
I guess I fell my true self would scare people and thats not my pourpose.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 4:17 PM UTC
a fimiliar ray of warm sunlight settles on your face
it doesn't really matter where we are anymore
you feel like home,
and a love that will last
for the rest of my days
sudden anger and pride
cause us to give each other too much space.
don't you realise,
distance was one of our biggest mistakes?
the best is yet to come, but nothing good's come yet -
i wait for better,
until after the sun sets and the clock breaks.
dream state is now where we meet -
with unclear beginnings and endings
of what we speak.
illusions are uncontrollably building up in my mind.
god knows,
i'm just trying to put the past behind.
encounters have become ever so brief,
you forgot your home and
i forgot how to breathe
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 12:39 AM UTC
When the air is calm and warm the white man would tell us stories.
We would lay down and listen.
The tall green fingers holding us gently.
The stories always change.
He told us of his adventures.
He lets out a sigh a the story changes.
Ever changing.
There is a rhythm to the story, making it a song.
The beat comes from the blue reflection.
She moves willingly, gracefully.
The light begins to fade.
Soon our story must come to an end.
The blue reflection beckons us back.
We must go.
The white man slowly turns pink as the light begins to fade, soon he will be grey.
We sit up, out of the fingers.
Looking back we see the prints they hold, tomorrow we will return on the blue reflection, just as the white man always returns from his black slumber.
I will always remember the days when we go back.
Back in the blue reflection to the fimiliar green fingers.
The white man will always be there, never growing old, never growing tired.
He will tell his stories around the world for all to embrace.
But are they not all the same?
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 2:29 PM UTC