"fixations" poems
Reflecting disdainfully, remembering painfully,
upsetting, annoying, troublesome
Bickering, sarcastic, disputing, bombastic,
arrogant, conceited, unwelcome
Fastidious relations, private fixations,
foreboding, disturbing resentment
Silently scheming, nobody weeping,
selfish, unblinking, TRIUMPHANT!
Feb 7, 2010
Feb 7, 2010 at 10:23 AM UTC
Fire Hazard
A crime against humanity,
this life is pure and utter insanity,
waking up to restrictions of gravity.
I find myself committing to humility,
a step forward from brutality.
A ******* high trip of no pure quality.
Stop.
In honor of desperate assassinations,
Throw away any glimpse of foundation,
spiraling into a sess pool of hallucinations.
Cloudy minds smear wind shield wipers,
across grimy fixations.
Drop.
Clear all hesitations
of this imperfect reality
there’s no cure for the mental stability,
of human nature
that we so seldom take as a sign of fertility.
Wake up to noise that bleeds ears like
sewers so fatally.
Roll.
Ignorant mortals,
try not to sound so angry.
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 8:43 PM UTC
The King of the World is on his way now,
he always shows up when the chips are down.
Everyone just loves The King of the World,
he always arrives with his banners unfurled.
The King can be a loud chap,
or The King can be quite a quiet mime,
he even puts his pants on
one royal leg at a time!
The King might eat breakfast,
or The King just might not,
he is everything you are,
yet is is all that you forgot.
He's a musician of sorts,
with a very big band,
his arrival is in herald,
throughout every land
-with brass trumpets a-blare,
and snare-drums rat-a-tat,
he makes everyone aware,
that he's now where you're at!
The King marches his forces
through the cities and fields,
assure of his courses,
lying flat beneath his heel.
He revels at the sight of deterioration,
fills his belly with the joy of nations in extinction.
The King grounds everything down to things he scrapes off his boots,
he topples the governs and poisons the cultural roots.
The King's fixations are splashed with spatters of blood,
turning kingdoms into crumbles of ashes and mud.
He bulldozes the bodies into toxic pits of ****
contaminates by obscenity, wringing his hands at the wit.
Lionized by his minions in the empty empires he wrought,
The King's elite ruling class is dictated with rot.
In the aftermath of the bile
of his genocidal, sweet plight,
The King celebrates with great style,
turning the daylight into night.
With bonfires a-blaze on the wicked, windy wasteland,
The King of the World strikes up his big band,
and once marching again will torch and ravish the land,
dropping massive, beautiful bombs for the sake of the thrill,
melting the people and villages and eroding the hills.
The time for The King
always is nigh,
for he is surrounded by
the conjurations of lies.
Some say he is evil,
(but, he's not the Devil, you see)
-He's The King of the World,
he is you, he is me.
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 9:14 AM UTC
Once I looked to the Bard for words profound;
ageless, his wisdom ran unabated.
Yet Hamlet is now ideologically unsound,
“the slings and arrows” historically Iocated.
I wept for the creature of Frankenstein,
spurned by his master, forced to roam the Earth.
But I’d been subjectively positioned in a paradigm
by Mary’s anxiety about childbirth.
I read Balzac, Hardy and Henry James
describing “worlds” which seemed quite sensible.
Now Eagleton’s exposed their bourgeois games
I find them morally reprehensible.
I dreamt of being Robinson Crusoe
or proud, fierce Hawkeye in his buckskins dressed,
but Fenimore and Defoe have to go,
they’re culturally encoded and empirically obsessed.
Inspired by Guinness, did James Joyce sit down
to see what magic flowed when he was ******
The stream of Ulysses floats Bloom-about-town
dreamthinkingnever : “I’mamodernist”.
I’d gladly give Woolf a Room of Her Own
and be one of the boys with Hemingway,
but sensitive guys leave their bulls alone
say de Beauvoir and Luce Irigaray.
No more fun with Wordsworth being daffodilly,
no simple pleasure reading Mickey Mouse;
Steamboat Willie can’t help but look silly
dissected by Foucault and Levi-Strauss.
The Bible shows intertextuality
says the two Jacques, Lacan and Derrida.
Judas, a construct of bisexuality?
The **** fixations of Herod are?
It’s got so bad I deconstruct a holiday brochure.
I can’t even **** without Roland Barthes and Ferdinand de Saussure.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 12:06 AM UTC
There's a plethora of albums in my mind
And a good deal weighing on my heart
My brain desires fluctuation
Bipolar fixations based around emotion
And Unicorns with rainbows on blue,
wearable ocean
And everything is a microcosm
seemingly inconsequential
When looked at solely from
the view of entrusting it to You
And all the fear that rides the
coattails of such a decision.
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 11:15 PM UTC
cut the ****
your getting old
its not time to quit
dont be what your told
the skills are there
im quit certin of that
lungs fill with air
You know it's not an act
filter fake failures from familiar fixations
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 9:29 PM UTC
My happiness comes from me ask my friends and the world around me blossoming in a spark of crimsony red moon glow on forethought walks through the shivering lenses of percept that trickle down our backs as we enlighten ourselves with all that is in between and unseen.
It is as if our aged limbs were caressed into a symphony of leverages and their shapes. We cannot be cadavers. We are arms of cheer and picture jasper, adolescent googled-eyes gathers with virile fixations on our partners as we prey on the map lines subtly employing our eyes as we dart across each dimple, pimple, freckle, and gently worn rash lines.
These are the dogs of our incessant barking. Idling for sincerity, as actors swiftly press Winter into us while our limbless diction presents our inadequacy Rd upon our ugly and I'll-tempered neighborly-things. Aliens of the afternoon, first floor agony and karmas standard for living in a reduced climate One.
Wearing down the hooves, undulates from Pepperdine mark trails with breaking breads and twigs and bones. Undulates from another world, behoofed and bemoved, curdling their sappy reselling a of drat and unkindly remarks. And we have begun to wonder when evolution will kick-in. When will the military come for them at the doors and vacate is all from our nontoxic lie-shrouded apartment complexes, condos, and cabins. Slaughter numbers of letters and integers right out in the street; loonies in the town square and the moose are crying.
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 9:52 PM UTC
She ran from me
in her voyeuristic
tendencies.
Bespectacled in the night,
she shed away her divinity
this girl with a penchant for tragedy.
A dramatic prelude to her kiss
would be the fixations of the poet
to her eyes and lips and skin.
Those which he can only recall
in music--
the slow andante of violin strings
entangled in the coasts
of her body.
Come morning you wake
to the tune of silence.
You could never tell her
those three words she longed to hear.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 2:12 PM UTC
I would humbly put forth the idea, quite prostrate, that it would do us some good if we were to put aside, for a time, our epistemological certainties and archetypal savior fixations and, instead, opt for a more robust, ocher-hued ontological preeminence: putting the what before the why.
Only then can one, say, sip hot herbal tea from an old pink bone china teacup and, without thinking about all the things all the time, for once -just- feel the sun's warmth on your aged face as it begins its set over a half-eaten cotton candy sky that is epic af and reminds you of Peter Pan and then Robin Williams and then whywhywhy and then something random and weirrrd, and, in doing so, you can watch the lack of shittogetherness, of which duly occupies the very seat of your character like a bully usurper that hits you bc "he loves you," melt into a very (very) temporary oblivion and revel in what is before you without feeling paralyzing angst that is, usually, soo angst-y that you gotta pronounce that **** in German as if you were Schopenhauerly sitting at some non-descript desk in some non-descript room with your hand stroking your truly descript crazygeniusguy hair that is some kind of proto-Wolverine hairdo (and you wonder if Stan Lee was cryptically tipping his cap to S's philosophical pessimism with this peculiar gesture; consider googling it but don't because you've already googled too much sheeyt today), thinking (or brooding) about how much of a ******** Descartes is with his whole, yuhknow, theory about some ******* secret nanoputian angelic chemist that sits at the pearly gates of the Pineal Gland and performs the sacred transduction of the divine ghost, or whatever. Otherwise you are, like, consumed with analysis, which is a complete ******* bore and - let's face it - a thoroughly transparent attempt to sound smarter than you actually are.
This herbal tea I'm currently drinking has "rose hips" in it. Dear botany, that image is fun.
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 4:07 PM UTC
Divinity is all around us, yet no deity is to blame.
A world of wisdom is there to be explored
both in the outside World and the universe Inside
if only we allow ourselves to break our fixations
and to overcome our own shortcomings
and forgive those of others.
Empathy. A word created by it's absence.
Compassion. A word fortified with guilt.
Enlightenment. A word used as a carrot on a spiritual stick.
Virtue. A subjective and metaphysical code of honor.
Love.
Words are but tools. Signs upon the path.
They weave into an intricate map of reality.
A subjective map. A distorted map.
The map is not the territory.
One must acquaint one's self to the territory
before the map can be put into it's proper context.
Words are funny tools.
Used for every purpose.
By both good and evil. Truth and lies.
Profit and charity. Prophet and atheist.
They are limited. They are imperfect.
Such is our Communication,
Such is our Perception,
and thus
Such is our reality.
Life without death is non-existence.
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 7:39 PM UTC
L'heure verte
The mountains. The heaps of their bountiful gravels, and earth, and soil, large oversized masses of half-frozen water teetering on the precipice of subzero masculine ******* Francophilic cleavage jetting out of this deserted white pastoral dressing. The inaugural bawl, wanton fixations of putting the imperialist foot on every spot of tree, each and every shrub, until the limbs' cast reaches each dimple that foliage braves, where that blue eagle of patriotism dredges its claws to form every river, rill, estuary, creek, channel, flume, littoral, and waterway where the iron-rich gullies once brimmed in the interamnian basins, rich crimsony waters riffling through fruitful and extravagant aquifers. Beyond that, where an inexplicably feral wind rips vines from their dendritic housings, where barely an eye can see, this place of exsanguination and abysmal phytocide.
At the end of this lamentable torture, only a desert of human interest remains. There is no reason to laugh, or smile, or cheer, or put a leg up, to call on a friend, or to have ice cream. There will be no more ice cream. There is only the loathsome incredulousness and avarice in the semblances and familiarity of those with whom we thought we once knew. Little can ever be known, for there is much to gain in the absence of knowledge, and even greater that can be acquired in the alms of wisdom through patient examination and thorough silence. Here on the buttes and cornices, the thwacking gavels of evil power deities throw down their lust for more and soon become adjoined to these grand discrepancies greed mistakenly loses to a lack of awareness and to self-aggrandizement.
Power is the weapon of inexperienced wielders. Passion is the immortal frequency that is worn by artisans and artists, poets and painters, it is the business of quietness to learnedly evolve to protect our tomorrows from personal needs, but to instead preserve the integral parts of society. The words of languages, artifacts, and cultures, rather than the skeletons of ****** and the deeds of possession. Each who sleeps knows their bedfellows to equally be at peace. For no wealth can exceed that of comfortable pillows, soft quilts, and sheets. We are all the same while we sleep.
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 6:52 AM UTC
Death walked up to me one night,
Slipped me a cigarette
We sat beneath the stars beneath my dorm room window,
Death said, “I haven’t touched you yet”
The next day I heard the church bells toll,
My colleague from theater, swung free of her bonds
The whole campus chorusing, their Kyrie Eleison
Who could’ve known? Who could’ve known?
I knew, Death walked in her just as it did me,
I watched Death take her aside and haunt her as she desperately tried
To find an anchor, to find solace, well hers and mine became the theater
When I saw Death with her I envied her the company,
Our morbid fixations sought through our scripts, both of us cast
The same character,
Both of us popping pills carefully hidden in little soap boxes,
Boxed up with wine and razors in care packages from the same lover
Death sat with me the other night,
Held a bandage to my wrist and lay me to bed
He lifted his hood, wiped the tears from my eyes,
Begged me to dance again, on ankles slit,
Caressing me as Elisabeth
Now I’ve been kissed,
Kyrie Eleison,
We shared the same stage, once,
Tell me what's waiting there for me
Beyond the mist of Chapel Hill
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 4:32 PM UTC
My 11:11s were made for sleepless nights
playing back all these scenes
when your heartbeat still melted against my ears,
every sigh that lingered on my temple,
every touch that lingered on my skin
11:11s were made for asking
this dimmed wall sconces what it would be like
to feel your body close the spaces,
to feel it next to mine once more,
of what it would be like to kiss you in the dark,
with complete abandonment,
like a wolf howling its heart out
to the moon after a sunset that lasted forever
It was 11:11, and now, I know
I should’ve closed my eyes
and kissed you that drunken April night,
and melted in your arms when I still had the chance.
Now, I close them, without you around,
wrestling with these fixations
trying to convince myself
that one more recall of the memories would be the last;
one more make-believe,
one more fantasy wouldn't hurt.
One more,
and one more,
and one more,
I said,
and it was 11:12
and suddenly,
it did.
Feb 18, 2020
Feb 18, 2020 at 9:49 PM UTC
All my life I've been told
How to act and how to think
What to do and who to be
"Don't use those words"
"Don't stay out late"
"You should have fun!
Just not that way"
"Keep your grades up"
"Keep your laugh down"
"But whoever told you
you should frown?"
I've always been good
I did as I was told
I never misbehaved
But now I'm growing old
My youth is passing by me
And how have I spent it?
Obedient - I'm seeing it
Never the miscreant
But always the misfit
"Don't talk back"
"Don't disagree"
Can't you see
your words are hurting me?
"Honey, I always wanted the best for you"
*Then why don't you let my real self
shine on through?*
Never had any friends
and you ask me why?
How am I supposed to blend
when you never even let me try?
But that doesn't matter
it's not what I want
What I want is out there
and you keep me locked up
But it all ends now
though you still ask how -
how did this happen?
Why did I change?
Well now I'm here to tell you
I broke out from my cage
All these
Obligations
Frustrations
Condemnations
Aggravations
Your fixations
and my deprivations
They're done now cause can't you see?
From this day on
I'm doing me.
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 3:11 PM UTC
Dance to the little drum beats.
Skipping through city streets in **** boy cleets.
Dancing like its no little feat.
Crawling through allways filled with weapers
I find myself at the top. I might be one of the leapers
Dancing on skyline roofs in my freshman hoofs.
I don't have enough proof.
Just this wide blue roof
Falling upwards with a passion
No distractions.
Black bag blankets and broken tracking anklets
Desperate situations call for unecasarry fixations
Ive spent to long wrapping myself in ellation
To notice the devastation beneath me.
I see it now
As I fall
So slowly towards the sky
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 8:47 PM UTC
Faded fixations of foretimes fallen
Formally frustrated from forwarded fantasies
I visualize future fortunes forged from a forgotten flutter of flukes...
Founders folley forbids foreign flourishing
Jan 3, 2012
Jan 3, 2012 at 2:31 PM UTC
My body,
host of the latter beast of being
Has infected me
abhorrence flowing through the veins as if a sweet ****** remedy
What earthly holds it has on the simple minded
What policies it makes of the limited.
Jesus,
Would you kindly redeem me?
And take the aching bones and implications from underneath me
Lord take my flesh.
Have it for your own.
And as for my brothers and my sisters
remove the cursed metaphors and fixations that contain their inept perceptions of identity
Allow the spirits to Dance,
On their infinite spectrums
O We'll make a routine of it.
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 7:26 AM UTC
It was a long bus ride
And the **** plastic sheet seats
Were cracking from abuse and freeze
We all kept warm with conversations
And secrets
And scandals in the back row
The era of shame
My own propaganda
Selling me on the idea
That I should carry everyone's.
Sourness
Sins
Shame
That bus was wretched
With the stench
Of frozen sweat
And regret
Despite it all
I could find any single one of you
And we'd exchange
Untouchable moments
Memories of the heart
Strung along that tattered pavement
Here's mine
It was in your eyes
That I saw myself shine
For across that opaque pane
I witnessed your thought
"this guy is interesting"
You and your curly raven rings
Asking about my fixations
Changed the course
Of who I see
when I close my eyes
I've never seen you since that summer
I've never sat behind you again
Can't even recall the name
Can't remember if we won the game
But you're a warm tea I get to sip
When it comes across my mind
No loose ends
No ***** stains
Just the sun breaking the squall
And the summer of ****** football
Sep 19, 2023
Sep 19, 2023 at 1:37 AM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
Girl what is your problem?
still sipping up out that bottle,
having fixations with darkskins for their
mythical ****** performance,
you still ignore who lays dormant,
stuck in your euphoria,
thinking you got the best of both worlds,
while our brown skin men are getting shot like a ************
i'll back away from you if your skin isn't mine and
although some of y'all have a ****** likeness.
you think most of us like this,
i was a slave at one point in time but you no different
from a white *****
ever since i opened my mind i started looking at mixed and white like they
were the same, awareness to blame,
fitting seeing as how everytime you go on a dating
app they ask for **** or a plug, you dumb ***** give up,
of course as always this is simply my opinion,
whites and lightskins are the same , theres no difference,
i hope you get the message and the picture.
©abpoetry2020
Dec 25, 2020
Dec 25, 2020 at 10:59 PM UTC
So let me ask you then
how many nights I have spent lying on my kitchen floor like this
praying to a piece of paper that I find a way to make this all come out right?
And while I'm lying there have you tasted
the emptiness that settles on my lips as I count the stars on my fingertips
begging a soul I don't recognize any more to come and carry me?
Have you ever tried to hold something that heavy?
You don't make it far before you're dragging your feet
around a promise nobody had to make, but was clear
It was clear that you loved me more than I
always knew you did.
So let me ask you then
how I spend the time I don't have on fixations like that
hallucinating that I see your feet by my door or your name on my telephone?
And while I'm smudging my eyes from the minute reminder
that I waited longer than me and the god that holds me now knew I should have
I turn to the clock that haunts me.
Have you ever tried to feel how long that is?
You don't realize it until you're twenty-five staring the same blue-eyed problem in the face,
that grew from the memory you have of him as a kid you tossed through,
and you're wondering how you managed to scrape through with the amount of dignity
you gaze at in the reflection of the mirror.
I know that you love me more than I
always knew you did.
So let me ask you then
how come we aren't better than this?
How come it's 12:28 in the morning and I'm waiting on a call I'm never going to get?
How come we bank through changes with a common hand in hand,
but we can't make it through to see the sunrise?
How come we aren't better than a vulnerable night, a couple drinks, a wish
between the sheets of a bed with no destination that somehow
we'd wind up back in the fragmented places we've been?
How come we always want more, but we can't have it now?
How come you won't have me now?
When I know that you love me more than I
always knew you did.
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 11:12 PM UTC
My eyes have never had the opportunity to even glare at diamonds.
I’ve never had the experience of tasting water from the cup of life.
The shame of my current status, in a suburban purgatory; where all the houses look the same.
And the town is slowly decaying.
The radio, television and computer spew promises of golden treasures
Dionysian parties.
Lavish, mischievous endeavors.
And never even taking a moment to mull over the choices.
Bentleys soaring through the city nights.
But it’s just in our prayers.
A watch covered in rubies that won’t tell time,
Because it doesn’t matter,
Pricey top shelf alcohols,
Exotic purebred animals,
Paying no mind to the expense.
I have no time to listen to your lustful desires.
We may never be these magnificent stars above…
For our blood isn’t lucky or holy.
Yet we don’t crave extravagance.
But desire that eluding excitement.
Name me king!
And kiss the ring!
I’m just a fool.
It’s all but a dream.
We have unraveled the clandestine riddles.
Rolling pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters,
On our way to the wishing well.
And it’s effortless to distinguish between barren pockets and bursting pouches of dabloons and denarius’.
No nuisance to us we’ve worked for what we have.
The curse of greed, self-indulgence,
Splurging on foolish fixations.
Impaired, decked out
Obliterating the palace.
While keeping their noses in the airs they put on.
Pumpkin carriages at midnight,
Platinum plates for a marvelous feast.
Airplanes, cruise ships.
All we need are the keys.
Ride on the horizon.
We maybe become millionaires, take the money and run
But we don’t need the luxury;
We only yearn for the golden sun.
I’m not an emperor,
Nor a leader.
Just a player in this life,
They call a game.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 5:38 PM UTC
Disaster & heartache, but it doesn't stop there,
it's thought of & preached, but who really cares;
the poor, the rich, the white boys & thugs,
we're all the center of the joke to stereotypical punks;
but if you reach to the bottom & search for the meaning,
all this bullshit's based on fixations & ludicrous teachings;
we follow their viewpoints just to prove that we're able,
but the "American Dream" still isn't stable;
poverty & exigency run like the rest,
like the men in the sky, with bombs strapped to their chest,
If you believe them, you're already trapped in their game,
They say you've got personal freedom, yet you're all raised the same;
nobody wants the reality, but they've defeated all hope;
when alliance is offered, the conversation is broke;
we spend all this time on building up "life",
we forget the meaning of whats wrong & whats right;
few still have givin qualities, hope they hold on til death,
cause others were proved cowards when faced with the test;
Unlike the hundreds who fight for our rights,
when they offer you honesty, you turn out the lights;
sincerity at its finest, benignant and pure,
while some just watch, others establish a cure;
but to think, thats only a nick on the board,
what bout the billions needed, but forced out to war;
but we let it all go, **** it never happened to me,"
allowing yourself to only feel what you see;
thats cowardly, what if the next to go was a friend,
would you blow it off, step up, would you defend;
like dictators in the past, civilizations reaching the end,
but that doesn't stop ignorance from reeling um in;
all the lies and propaganda is their key to success,
i laugh at the fools who fail when faced with the test
Kylagoodson-
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 3:55 PM UTC
It's funny how I spent lots of time writing about fixations
Without noticing those words written were already my pain killers.
And now, I don't have to stick with cigarettes and liquors,
I know they can burn parts of me like a piece of paper;
Poured with kerosene and match sticks to easily widespread a fire.
And as they burn me,
Hoping memories will also scatter flowing against the wind just like an ember.
But those times when I was still under your pressure,
I never felt compression behind these chests when we started to chisel;
I never felt sincerity behind your "I love you" and that's the ugliest thing I can remember:
When you kept on telling me that you love me but it was never genuine enough that it turns out to be a vine that's tying my neck that I need to sever.
You were my glorious endeavor,
But it turns out to be a game some thing you're good at,
And I'm sorry because I can't play your games because I'm a loser;
I'm a loser in a game of three's.
I'm sorry I can't flow your games of emotion because I get easily bleed.
I kept on telling people around me that when it comes to love I am a fragile being,
I befriended tolerance of emotional pain.
That when I start to hold the paper and the pen,
Your name and our memories comes out with a blood stain.
And I need to wake up from this beautiful nightmare;
And I want to escape from this mediocre love of ours.
Wake me up from this aesthetic grave,
I want to feel alive just like how I spent my time with my own self in the park.
My friends once told me to follow my heart,
But when I did, it tore me apart.
I will not blame them from my brokenness because I know they just wanted me to be happy.
I will just write about fixations till I can treat myself a better therapy
See, those nights when I was still crazy about you,
My friends despised me for forgetting them as a part of me.
They never knew I was battling alone because I don't want them to feel pity.
I remember that very night you told me you'll always love me more than you do to other guys.
And I can't put myself still,
So I have to sever 'us' and I'll be the one to say goodbye.
Good bye, my dear
You'll be categorized now as a history of a tragic fear
You put me into this fear where I can no longer identify a better atmosphere
In every angle of my room it gets darker and colder
My affection in sadness makes the room a little bit lighter
Because whenever I think of you,
It makes me feel dumb that I didn't listen to my friends telling me you were the liar.
Nov 12, 2016
Nov 12, 2016 at 8:08 PM UTC
Her house appeared ethical with walls steel and cold.
My head now sound.
My mind fled from the clear and ticked now like gears on a timely clock.
***** fixations grew non stop.
She calls without words.
She is now composed with radars that replace her heart.
I am Mother Mary's man machine.
Filthy dreams now spark.
Disturbed and distressed I scan what I've become.
I'm now hard to the touch!
I'm Mother Mary's man machine.
What vile things she has done!
Even with confusion it is the style I want.
A holy deal indeed.
Control ***** *** ,and then delete.
She does not tease.
She just takes!
She plays well with her role.
And we both function without love.
Machines have no soul...
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 3:47 PM UTC
My poetry is a
Dangerous place to be
I’m so in love with
Your story
I forget all the fragments of me
So I read, and reread
The caverns of the mind
How the vile side winds
Captivating fixations
Tangle and bind
Ferment and remind of
The here and now
As the north winds howl
Futile hush muzzled
Omens from the
Incubus vagrant brow
That follows me
On down to
The mountain edge
The city street hedge
Clock tower ledge
My poetry is a
Dangerous place to be
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 12:18 AM UTC