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ThePoet Feb 2015
You cannot fix yourself with what

you destroyed yourself with.
Astral Dec 2018
When I was a child,
I was taught poetry wasn't mild,
It was deep as the sea,
And it seemed truly unachievable for me.
I was taught poetry had to rhyme,
Every single line, every single time.
So poetry seemed out of my reach,
Like chasing a seagull down a beach,
Jumping ever so slightly away,
Or soaring into the sunny day.

So I never thrived for what I thought would,
No, Could
Never be.

I guess now I'm fixing the mistakes of past me.
Kara Jean May 2016
The barbaric queen, her abilities stiffened
His presence strickened by her directed speech
Could it be her brick fence weakend
Love had made it's way into the leaks
Thoughts become lies, diminishing her kingdom
****** passion, a caused lusting
Touching her breast
Carressing her hips
Legs shake, she is a disgrace
The guards ushering him from her towering mattress
Empathy made her a mockery
A hatchet to the soul, he is nonexistent and undesirable
Her long webbed veil, disguises her weeping
Her eyes blackened, she is a demon bleeding
Halo misplaced, in dismay
She is a woman rigid and prevailing
Silverflame Aug 2018
my old futile dreams
make the windows all misty
ripping up the seams
blood mixed with ancient whiskey

a smile around the corner
lures the naive mind
******* up the world order
another death wish signed

overhead, brick by brick
the november wind stands still
heart oozing of homesick
empty thoughts keep my glass refilled

delusions cover my sight
faraway lights blink with eager
fixing the crooked night
dinner with the grim reaper
Ken Pepiton Oct 2018
God's thoughts are claimed unthinkable
correctly by a man, but there is a way

a man
may,
however,
imagine he can. Amen. Amen?

Higher than the earth,
above all we can think or ask,
God's thoughts are said to be,
yond all a man can imagine.

Yet I do, imagine God thinks, if anything, at all.

In my thought, a child emerges in the midst,
thinking round and round,
up and down, this way and that

what if
some how, we think, this child in me,
and I , we think

Off the tight line from here to there,
God's thoughts must be
every where
we can think,

tighter

up and down and all around,
through solid ground and
non-empty space.

Minds are bubbles, let us say,
God's thought are not up above us
exceeding both our reach and grasp.

but nearer, being here, in the bubble
where we live, and move, and have our

being.

Seeing the never hidden
is not revelation,

it is ignorance, ceasing.

Peace,
be with us, everyone.

Time shall tell if this fixed that.
Ignoring innocence, I sense signals seeming meaningful minding my manner of thinking. It keeps me from shouting at fools who ignore the music and deny the harmony we bring to every discordant resonance. I edit this to be the first of my 2018 holiday amuse meants intending to instill joy to the world. That's the big idea.
Freijah Sel Yna Oct 2018
She's like a glass
with a broken body,
chipped heart by every events
she had gone through.
Cracked, damaged and flawed.
Got hurt trying to fix things,
and bleed trying hold
herself together.
One more gentle touch
to make sure how she was doing?
She'll be shattered
into pieces without knowing.
Gabriel burnS Sep 2018
she said she was broken
needed fixing
came for the fix
I said “look honey,
I don’t do clockwork”
somewhere between the fourth and fifth

load of laundry,

sometime after breakfast~lunch,
now served in the USA at home,
as an all day meal, per the edict of Mcdonalds,
start fixing dinner, take a break, walk to the mailbox,
retrieve the post and quick retreat back inside,
ah that Texas sun, bilingual chili hot,
toss the unopened on the prior weeks pile,
cause everyone loves company

the home-cold-brewed ice coffee needs a filling
for the fridge has decided not to help
by automatically refilling the pitcher

even if it could
I, busy folding,
needing two hands
and all my teeth
for folding my master’s rocket ship

sheets

my master observes with one of his alternating demeanors,
this one, super silent watching, announcing that  I need a nap:

“don't you always say, baby,
take a nap when you can, baby,
for when you need one, baby,
you probably won’t be able, my baby”


with selected-hand-led fingers,
he lays me down to sleep,
bids me to slow slide to dreamland, dinner will keep,
curling inside my frame, hands a-cupping my *******,  
telling me a drowsy tale, inherited from his mother’s womb
and his granddaddy’s tongue, mindful of his family’s history

there, is where, they find us,
dinner fixings burnt,
me and my five year old baby boy,
still sleeping fast, around 5pm, bodies enwrapped,
tied by blood and entwined in old nursery rhymes,
Texas tall tales of Pecos Bill,
me and my very own

nap-ster master

<•>

p.s.  and they call me by my other name to wake me, momma
Katherine Mar 2018
Find a love so deep,
Find a life so neat,
Find the challenge and the heat.
Feel the cold and the warm,
Feel the quite and the storm.
And fall apart with the pressure and the noise,
Fall apart with every second that it toys.
Fall apart with the struggles of the beat,
Fall apart with the tunnel vision and the seat.
But know your soul feel the fire burning cold,
Know your soul be loving and be bold.
Know your soul be the love you know you have,
Know your soul dont be a mother who is sad.
Fix yourself bring the energy back,
Fix yourself stop going so black.
Fix yourself take the anger out,
Fix yourself stop carrying doubt.
But most of all its ok to fall,
But most of all carry your family tall,
But most of all love with it all.
Then give it back with a love more deep,
Then give it back with a life of more heat.
King Panda Jun 2016
my brain is a magnet
attracting itself to you
and my heart is a wrench
fixing the toilet
these incantations to raise
you up
these words to make you holy
have me on my knees
with the ****-mucked tiles
but I wouldn’t change
any of it
no
I’d do anything for you
my soul will split
at the rack before
I ever mutter a word
love
how dare I!
I thought I was better
I thought I could look
without touching
speak without breathing
feel without loving
disaster
fortuitous
storm of color
spray me red
splay me naked
for the world to see
my fingers are inspired
to write a friend
in history
in my heart
forever
A Sep 2018
I want you to imagine fixing a watch, all the tiny little parts
And I want you to imagine fixing a watch with broken hands
An overly involved metaphor for the idea that you can’t fix someone else when you yourself are broken

I fell in love with this image of drugs and ***** and rock and roll
And the reckless way you lived your life despite the fragility
When I found myself broken I spent years picking up shards of glass and trying to put them back together
You swallowed yours with a bottle of whiskey and marched on

I think you’ve always seen me as someone who could fix you
I’ve never been able to do that
And that’s why you come back whenever you feel like killing yourself or you’ve finally decided that you want someone to come home to that doesn’t live inside a bottle

I’m still picking up glass
I wish I could love you enough to fix you
But I won’t ever be waiting for you at home
There’s too much glass
There’s not enough time

Even if I could find a way to go back and fix that watch I can’t use it to turn back time
We’re here right now
And my hands are broken
Everything is
Old *** repost poem
fix
The world falls upon me,
So heavy, Yet I outlive it,
Piece by piece fixing life.
Desirae Hoover Oct 2013
It’s too late
There’s no place to run
There’s no street to cross
There’s no solution

It’s too late

Too much damage has already been done.
Too much heart already has a big enough hole.
  Too much soul already has a big enough crack.
No way of fixing it.

It’s too late

You can’t change the past.
You can’t heal blood deep scars.
You can’t make fairy dust out of dirt.

I’m too far gone
It’s too late for me
karin naude Feb 2014
my 3rd vice
my catalyst for food restriction
desperate to sooth my shattered self image
daily bombarded by airbrushed perfect female beauty
braking my image of beauty and showing my cellulite
followed by overloading information about fixing me
regular exercise, beauty routines and Cal restricted diets
insecurity the new female epidemic
we fight for women's rights
and threw the baby out with the bath water
a basic human need
unmet and exploited
our legacy
the English standard
geneticly out of reach for women of color
Lyn Senz Nov 2013
Let's write so many poems
we could stack'em to the sky
let's roll'em up and smoke'em
or just recite'em til we die

my head is full of poems
my shed is full of *****
my bed is full
of springs and wool
it's where I go to snooze

you got another poem
well submit it to the site
right now I'm fixing steak'umms
but I'll read them all tonite

so let's share another poem
let's dare another rhyme
let's declare that
there's none fairer
but beware of one of mine!


©2011 Lyn
Hi. This one was written a long time
ago on another site. So just to clarify.
I try not to read so many 'poems'
anymore. It's like looking for a
needle in a haystack. Exhausting
and depressing. And I don't
need any more help feeling that way.
Christian Ek Sep 2014
The two felt a chemical attraction.
Serotonin leaked onto his uncovered skin.
He couldn't speak, his tongue dried, dehydrated by her heat.
**** those eyes were like Kryptonite, He had pride in himself for being a statue.
Smooth as a razor blade he came out of that conversation dull.
The wrong impression was given since he had handed her rotten flowers.
Give me a second to recollect my thoughts and bring them back from the stunned blackout, wow, you are such a powerful knockout.
I'm fixing my posture and choosing my words right.
Our symbols are well matched and I'm not talking astrology, I'm talking chemistry.
Two different colors mixed together makes her blush and makes me crush.
Ralph Bobian Jul 2015
What can I tell you
About how I feel?
I can express I'm aware of every emotion,
And I know I need to heal.
I can tell you exactly where they came from
And what exactly caused them.
I can describe how they're so unbearably painful
And that I'm working to resolve them
I can explain in the most poetic and lyrically gifted way
How hard it is to face my emotions,
Each and every day.
I can weave my words on how I feel,
In ways that nobody can say
Just to make you comprehend the stress
That my mind and body pays

I’m a thousand miles from my own words
But the first to understand
It's like I'm fixing you a puzzle,
But the pieces are too far
from my reaching hand.
It's like I'm writing you a story,
But run out of ink to write the end.
It's like I'm without a paintbrush
Trying to paint an image in your head

So although I'm self-aware
Of every emotion that I've expressed
I'd rather be completely clueless,
And unaware instead.

Even though I can explain my emotions
Down to the finite and the specifics,
Even though
I can admit that I know
I've become undone and feel unfinished,
This entire time
I know you've tried,
But there's a point that you've been missing.
I want so badly to feel completed,
But the tools required

...are non-existent.
I feel everyone has a hard time expressing their emotions or even admitting or knowing that they need healing.  What I find even harder, being VERY self-aware of what's going on or knowing that things need to get better, and then you don't know how. That *****. This is for everyone lost in their own translation
Rich Hues Jan 29
She's wearing glasses and sits behind glass,
    He's wearing gloves; blue eyes in a mask,
    The note: "I haz Gun?",  hastily written,
    Brown eyes meet blue eyes; the brown eyes are smitten.

    In the distance, The Sweeney, all tongs and hammer,
    She's fixing his spelling, correcting his grammar,
    He's expecting used fivers stuffed in a sack,
    But she writes down her number and slides the note back.

    Outside: The driver's impatiently waiting.
    Inside:  Wide open,  blue eyes dilating,
    Then he runs, glancing back, and he's out in the rain,
    From the display case, a sigh; she'll never see him again.

    But at the end of her shift and in less of a hurry,
    In a whistle with some flowers, he takes her out for a curry.
A sonnet set during a bank robbery.

The rhyming slang...  

The Sweeney =  Sweeney Todd  = Flying Squad  = the police
Whistle = whistle & flute = suit.
Artemis Jul 27
silly girl.
did you think they would
follow you?

stupid girl.
did you think they could
love you?

childish girl.
did you think you were
all grown up now?

broken girl.
there's no fixing you.
PSA: this poem is not about MY mother. I love my mom a lot.
L B Nov 2016
Not the lone glory of an orange
basking in Depression’s dusk—
its fluted bowl of purple glass

Nor the fall ways of amber
Leaves burned by roadside
curling smoke’s sun-lit sash

Not tree-lined streets
rabid leaves’ raspy voices
whirling giddy in the wind—

...in none of these

But in the moments I filled with fixing
a lamp shade
painting this place
to a stern perfection

...I thought of you
ordering the tyranny of me
the glass of me
the concrete conscience
I must be right!  Mustn’t I?

The religion of our lives
Driving through Sundays with Polkas blaring
feeding the ducks
and a roast at noon
Waffles and TV later
Lassie and You Asked For It
Wiping my mouth on a Sunday sleeve

I asked for it, alright

He came and went
to the smell of Ice Blue Aqua Velva

He came and went larger than life and first on the scene
to hurricanes, fires, muggings, and races
and of course—THE SHOP!
in an amazing array of uniforms and vehicles
Ambulances, wreckers, pickups, and police cars

He was terrifying! Wonderful!

We would love at a pained distance

His cabinet in the cellar was always locked
But now, just suppose—

if a kid were to haul on its handles...
supposedly—the sheet metal would heave and roar
with the thunder of him!

And those late nights
those harsh ****** lights
lidded hundred watt cones
in the spotlight of THERE
where I wasn’t
in the odor of oils too noxious to dare
beyond the girlish shadows—

he cleaned his guns

I waited and watched where everything seemed
to be
What...?
It seems—he just pushed her against a wall!
I step from girlhood
with my two-cents worth
and it seems I will not be Queen for a Day!

I take my vows!
I swear I will not scrape wax
from the corner of the kitchen floor with a knife!

I have waited.  I have watched
the routines of his mornings
He’s brushing his teeth; he’s combing his hair
he’s tying his shoes while he chats with the cat
I can tell you the creak of the stairs
and the sound of his footsteps rounding the house

...the routine of his return at supper
the routine of anger
My routine of being late—
and as good as dead
squeezing behind—
HIS CHAIR
Praying he wouldn’t notice the mud
Praying for the epiphany of his good mood
when the TV and me--

wouldn’t be blamed for the downfall of the nation
We were not Polish, but my Dad's French-Canadian family lived in a Polish community.  Thus, the fused culture and all the happy, Sunday Polka music.

Lassie, You Asked For It, and Queen For a Day were popular TV programs of the 1950s.
Sam Hawkins Mar 2016
Carefree in leisure time, one blasé tourist,
almost happy, I once had collected a complicated stone;
after the sunny hours had ended and last opportunity
for keepsakes began.

In my hand the stone had kept all of its mouths sewn shut,
holding its amalgamated story, and likewise in the car,
on the plane, through US Customs where it was not
in the least suspected.

A thumbnail identity I now should guess at, marking an old date,
and fixing it to, with reasonable estimate, a map location:
Plot No. 243, East end of the island, slave sugar plantation,
the stone from the corner of a ruined sugarmill stair—
broken free by my criminal hand.

The stone like a bleached out mini-monolith,
square rectangular, could be stood on end;
was swollen at its center like a pulled cork.

What could have moved this sequestered world to opening?
That was not for me to exactly discover,
except what came on Christmas Day,
two days after my returning.

Slave watercourses, the sight of innumerable Dutch ships,
ballasted with human flesh and hewn rock
for sugar works buildings.

The drop at-arms-swish of the Driver’s bullwhip.
Flecks of spirit splayed on vegetation.

A mongrel dog barked beyond the windless wall of sugarcane
in centipede and mosquito heat.

Seaside, beautiful seaside impressions;
distant coral light shadows, etched deep azure;
snowy colored breakers that pencil-marked the sea.
The staid, vibrant, mocking power
of visual symphony backdrop.

So little of aid for the slaves, but for those dangerous secrets,
un-housed in the fallen coolness of the night:
demonstratively crystalline heaven of stars;
a ragged moon, clouds scudding eastward toward Africa.
And there -- Orion’s Belt, mid-sky, illustrious bright,
with its three centering star points in rational line,
as if Hope could have flung its anchor onto Life
engendering sanctified resistance.

Christmas morning, 5 a.m.
I had awakened from a stuck place, shapeless and dark,
half in dreaming and half knowing I was in no dream.

I was sobbing, yet strangely, because there were no tears.
I had only put the stone inside my pajama top onto my heart.
a story of what happened...a feeling and vision I had, in 2008. written then. the stone is piece of mortar...
MT Jun 2017
I know I messed up in the past, but I can be strong
I know I’m broken but know you’ve been fixing me all along
You picked up my pieces and glued them back together
We just lost a few pieces, but we can find them through gloomy weather
All the time I wish that you were here or I was there
And as long as this true love is something that we share
I will love you till eternity even through the despair
Because all this pain and hurt you have is something I can bare
You see, Eres mi eterno amor is what we always say
Because even through the bad times you know I’m here to stay
Because we always have this hurt and we always have this pain
But you can’t have a rainbow if you don’t have a little rain
Because even though we bring out the stress in each other
We also bring out the best like no other
Enjoy! Share, follow, and heart pleeeeeeaaaasssse!!!!
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
Have some fun.
Presentation of self.
Afterlife functional illusion.

If your memories don't heart attack or cancer out
or from traffic accident
who will effortlessly flush them out?

You must give yourself to man
be more selfless.
Do one thing well. Flute.

History final. F is for fiction.
Nature's philosophical partner
afraid, affectionate, forceful, confused!

Within a tradition, fine to know what you're doing.
Polka dots and moonbeams. I'm old fashioned.
Noh, opera, film.

File with business cards.
What's the offer?
Free marketing. Unusual reflections.

Why fight fires, floods?
Hurricanes and other acts of the Father. As for man's
fate, what has this to do with the temperamental, fragile self.

Power failure
just as we were fixing dinner.
The white egret ate fish after fish, one then another then another,
      forever . . . .
www.ronnowpoetry.com
Sleepz Dec 2013
Lets play a game,
The one where we act like we know each other.
Let's play a game,
The one where I'll pretend to never hurt you.
Let's play a game,
Lets play a game.
People get used to pushing others away,
People get used to being on their own,
But it shouldnt be that way.
Let me understand you,
The way you understand me.
Let me show you a different game,
Let's call that game Life.
Let's play it together and cheat as much as we want,
Take off our masks,
And show the world what we really are.
Even if I'm ugly inside, and you are filled with happiness.
Even if I'm afraid of myself, show me that you aren't.
Show me a good future,
And I'll help you forget about the past.
Let's play this game,
Even though it wont last long,
Until the time comes where you have to come back home,
Back where youre alone trapped in your thoughts,
And you can't help but to be depressed.
You can't help but to wish you were dead.
Theres something missing here,
And you could use some fixing.
Let's play a game,
Where we could all pretend all these problems didnt even exist.
The one only me and you could understand.
Let's play a game,
Where you could escape and never come back.
Truth is I'll miss you,
Even though we pretended to know each other all along I fell in love with your disguise
But he thing is,
I know some truth about you,
I could see it in your eyes.
Let's play a game,
Where we dont need to act surprised
Where we dont try to hide,
It'd be impossible cause I'd always find you.
And when I do you'll have tears going down your eyes,
Its a side you never really let me see.
I remember you gave me the key to your heart,
But I still find myself knocking,
And you always answered the door.
Let's play a game,
Where I never saw you again.
Let's play a game,
Where all I really needed was your permission.
Let's play a game,
Before we ever have to go back to reality.
Let's play a a game.
Zoe Sue May 2014
I read him one of my poems
He complemented my mechanics
And although part of me laughed
Wondering how he heard me breathe the commas
Heard my spelling bee winner's letter placement
Still
The notion stuck
Steadfast
Push-pinned in my memory
In the neglected space where kind gestures live
I told him how I appreciated it
I should've told him
Boy no no
You don't understand
My mechanics need fixing
No not my grammar boy
I should've told him to volunteer
Sweet boy
I know hands are easier to work with than words
Touch me with both
Shhhh sweet boy
Fix me with your good nature
Let it wash over me
Wash away my grime
You needn't a good speaking voice
But a good intention
Warming arms
To thaw me
Couldn't hurt
But sweet boy
Too bad
We all grow sick of licorice
And I broke you
Like the mantelpiece momma told me not to play around
I broke you
For a less sweet boy
With a politician tongue
And words soaked in muddy motives
I broke you
Hardened you
Into a less sweet boy
With a polititia- err
Salesman tongue
And words soaked in muddy motives
I left you
Gone with the wind
You were the Rett
In the search for my Ashley
But he broke me
Like the soldiers countenance heading to combat
He left me
Wondering
Where all the sweet boys could have gone
Nobody Sep 2017
Your head feels foggy,
you sense yourself unwind;
It’s the same dreadful demons
toying with your mind.
They wait till it’s dark,
or the lights are down low;
unnerving sickly attacks,
through your blood and bones.
You can’t hide your black heart,
the demons can see;
they don’t allow any space,
in your head to breathe.  
Tear your reason to shreds,
you need fixing.
A worn stone sinking,
in an ocean that’s rotting;
decaying miserably, and
forced to bend the knee.
How much more agony
can the universe bring.
Not even your screams
can get you out of the cold;
and you’d rather give up
and drown,
than go it alone.
A mashup of lyrics from one of my fave artists
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