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VickyEbes Nov 2013
It’s been a while
I forget how beginnings go
I’m so eager to start running that I forget to tie my shoe laces
Maybe that’s why I’ve never won a race
I couldn’t remember how to start and I didn’t bother taking the time to learn again
So once I skipped right to the middle, throwing in all the ingredients, trying to bake something without even bothering to look at the measurements
Too much contact, not enough connection
The ending came too quick
And i was left with a mess i’m still trying to clean up
I’ve found myself facing never ending beginnings
Where you’re left hanging onto anything because it’s just about to happen, like the tempt of a sneeze
But all you get is teary eyes and wasted tissues
I’m a collector of stories
And I’ve only ever found pieces and rough drafts
I’m not sure how beginnings go, or how the threads would unravel into a book
Because all i have is my patch work quilt of Once Up A Times and Middle Chapters
Maybe You’ve had a beginning, middle, and end before
But by the time you’ve reached the end and found yourself facing another beginning
You might forget how they go too
Maybe it’s been a while
So let’s paint a picture
There doesn’t have to be any rules or guidlines
We’ll paint ourselves a sunrise
A perfect beginning
Because as it comes up, even the Sun isn’t sure of what it’s about to face
And we can paint ourselves a river
With whirlpools and rocky edges
Stretching far and long
Because our middle will have power to split mountain ranges and the strength to make it through the roughest terrains
Let’s curl up under blankets with flashlights
Cause the world is a dark place and I’d much rather stay here and make forts out of sheets, where the only demons we’ll find are shadows cast from out flashlights
I’ll whisper you lullabies, just promise to keep holding me tight
Babe with you here, my universe doesn’t need to be anything bigger than this mattress
I’m a collector of stories
But i’m not quite sure how to write one
So let’s stay here and not think about endings
I’m not sure how they go
And i’m hoping i won’t have to know for a while
Hannah Apr 2019
There is noone above me
Beside me
Infront of me
I am my own anarchy
My inner soul of
Wisdom for that I have lived
For long and
Suffered twice as much
I wandered through the
Gazing abyss,
Flashlights of every submarine
I swim with my inner coward
The color of your eyes
Has been withdrawed
In the arms of sleep on a
Moonless night. On a
Windy day
Thunderstorm took me away.
Ern Aug 2014
No, it doesn't happen
Through secret glances
And shy smiles

Nor does it happen
When you gaze into ones
Deep crystal eyes

It doesn't happen
In the midst of flashlights
Or romantic background music

It happens
When you see deep within
Ones soul
Not just the window
But the whole house of emotions

It happens
When he grows meadows of daisies
Inside the ugliest parts of you

It happens
When he caresses your tear stained face
In 2 in the morning
And holds you like you're gold

It happens
When you're upset over him
Not being there for your little fits

It happens
When the suitcases under your eyes
Are packed
With thoughts of him
And only him

It happens
When you're too young
To fully comprehend
What the universe holds for you and him
But what if
At a tender age of fifteen
You know he's the one?
The one
That holds the perfect fit
To your broken soul

It happens
When you least want it to
Ranita Mar 2013
9:00pm: We hugged and chatted. Your sister joking with us, your brothers being silly. I love your siblings.

9:30pm: We went hunting for gear. Your dad helped us find sleeping mats and told us where to find some tarps.

10:00pm: We climbed onto the fort and made our beds. I swept the bugs and pine needles away. I remember thinking, I hate pine needles. Why Florida trees, why?

10:30pm: We made tea and got ready for bed. I love chamomile tea. Lots of sugar. Washing off my makeup was easy with your sister's fancy face wipes.

10:45pm: We climbed into our sleeping bags. I was warm. I love the plaid pattern of the sleeping bag I always use.

11:00pm: We ate snacks, drank tea, and talked. Poptarts are so good late at night. Better than in the morning. And the hot tea felt so good against the chilling breezes.

11:30pm: I turned off the flashlights. I liked it better that way. I like hearing only voices, not seeing the person. My hearing what they say feels amplified that way.

11:30pm: I laid on my back and realized how pretty the trees are. The sky was orange, oddly lit up more than normal for that time of night. Few clouds drifted in the sky.

12:00am: I poured the story out to you.

12:05am: I began watching the moon cross the sky. It was very orange and it moved faster than I imagined it would.

12:30am: I got a text.

1:00am: I proposed an adventure. I wanted to do something. I wanted not to have to think for a while. I like late night happenings. And I like not being alone.

1:15am: We got off our lazy butts and went to the garage. I started riding the ripstick. I picked it up right away and didn't fall which was new for me.

1:30am: You taught me how to longboard. It was fun, though I kept forgetting which way I would put my feet.

1:45am: We started riding bikes. I love your mom's bike. It's so smooth and easy to ride..but it clicks sometimes in weird ways. I liked the clicking too.

1:50am: ***** it, I didn't want to reply.

2:00am: We rode through the neighborhood. I love the houses in Naples..

2:05am: I fell in love with the night sky. It was beginning to look more like the normal dark blue rather than orange. The stars started to peek through better.

2:10am: The cold air made my blood rush. I was wearing such warm clothes, but the wind went straight through. I loved going fast, racing you. Speed is beautiful on a bike.

2:15am: I never wanted the night to end. I wanted to ride late at night forever.

2:35am: The silence was so beautiful. We would be quiet for short bits. I liked the pictures my mind created during that time.

2:40am: I wished I had his time stopping watch. I always wish I did.

2:45am: We started the ride home. My breathing got pretty rough. Cold air always hurts my lungs. But it was so worth it.

3:00am: We put the bikes away and crawled back into bed. I loved the fort so much..

3:10am: You fell asleep.

3:15am: The moon was higher in the sky. It was clear and white and full.  I could see it perfectly. Peeking through the trees. I fell asleep slowly. Loved it all.
Sleepover at a friend's house. That night was lovely. The next day was beautiful as well.
Florida weather has its perks.
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2013
You Sir, Are An Electrician!


technocrat
— noun
a proponent, adherent, or supporter of technocracy.



This city boy was expert at
Turning the lights on,
Unlocking the front door,
Putting new batteries in flashlights,
And calling the handyman to
"Please come upstairs"
When the degree of diving difficulty was a
Positive number.

Also,
Freezing the semi-permanently the DVR,
Triggering alarms,
Killing car batteries,
Making laptops question
Human sanity,
Tearing up when reading,
"Some Assembly Required!"

Raised in a city of experts,
He was unskilled in things electric,
Becoming apoplectic,
When a device had an
On/off switch that ignored him.

Somewhat famous he was,
For engaging the inanimate,
In a verbal dialectic,
Which included words highly phonetic,
But unsuitable for children's ears.

She was raised in rural pastures,
Corn fields used for hide n' go seek,
Riding goats after school
Just for fun,
Familiar with innards of
Deus ex machina, a/k/a
Minor engine repairs, and
Doing what he called,
Making reparations.

IOS7, heaven.
Cabling laptop to external devices,
Icing on the cake,
Dis and reassembling a German coffee maker,
Did not require calling an 800 number.
She never read an instruction sheet
Without pleasurable laughing at
Japanese English.

He was unashamed of his skilled
Unskilled characteristics,
For such is the way of the world
In the human kingdom,
Some of us two handed,
some of us, bi-standers.

But upon occasion,
He would bemoan his fate,
Decry his inability to survive
On a post-apocalyptic Earth,
Like the people on tv and movies.

Periodically he would grow morose,
Listless, at his inability to adapt to a
Point Oh world.
Uncomprehending
Icons and symbols whose meaning
Were wholly unintuitive,
He secretly ashamed of his need for
technological ******.

She would sense his frustration,
Wipe away his inner condensation,
Climbing into his lap,
Whispering the following:

You sir, are an electrician
of words, a verbal technocrat,

Plumber of the depths where
Few fear to tread, explorer of the head,
Restorer of human paintings unmatched,
Without your ilk,
this world would be unbearable,
Your heart's warming silk
Comforts bodies and souls,
Speaking from experience personal.

Then, she flicked his
On/Off switch,
On.
Don't  believe a word of this, except for the downloading of IOS7.
we’re riding in your best friend’s car
where yah tell me that I’m cute
I just bow my head and say
you’re pretty cute yourself
you put your arm around my shoulders
and tell me I’m adorable
my body responds by touching your leg
my head just thinks “how can he be mine?”
he sings outloud, “please fall asleep so I can take pictures if you
& hang them in my room”
I just close my eyes and bob my head
to this tune that reminds me of you
Elizabeth Jul 2018
This is my life. I have to be okay with the dark presence that looms over me, and I have to accept that I won’t be able to expel him for I must make friends with him to get my way. I have taught my self to just breathe every time I hear his loud footsteps coming up the stairs and not to duck underneath my covers or shout my mother's name. I learned to keep my distance, and In the darkest hour of the night even when he creeps through these halls, I must keep my composure and swallow my pills until the shaking has gone away. He goes by the name Dad, but he’s treated me unlike so, and now I don’t look him in the eye or laugh any longer than I should because one day I’m scared of what’ll happen if I do. I’m afraid of the day when I will lose to the darkness that creeps inside rooms once light and beautiful and changes the presence for good. Rooms once light now dark and dreary.
Rooms once light now dark and dreary
zuolim Apr 2013
In my Times column Thursday, I reviewed a new generation of LED light bulbs. They last 25 times as long as regular bulbs, use maybe one-eighth the electricity, work with dimmers, turn on instantly to full brightness and remain cool to the touch. A big drawback has always been cost, but now, I noted, the prices have fallen.

This column generated a lot of reader e-mail, probably because LED represents change. And change is always scary. Here are some excerpts, with my responses.
FDDP
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* For LED bulbs, the biggest issue that most consumers will notice is the color. You correctly point out that you can get different colors, and also different shades of white, from warm white, to cool white, to daylight. However, not all white is the same. Two bulbs, both of which measure 2700K (warm white) color may create a completely different impression in the room.

The difference is C.R.I. (Color Rendering Index). Incandescent bulbs have a C.R.I. of 100. Really bad LEDs have a C.R.I. of 50; average ones (most of them) have a C.R.I. of 80 to 85. The really good ones have C.R.I.’s above 90.

C.R.I. is a way of expressing how many colors in the rainbow are actually contained in the white light. Incandescent bulbs contain every color in the rainbow, all in equal measure.

With LED bulbs that have low C.R.I.’s, the color of objects looks wrong, and everything “feels” ghostly. It is not a subtle effect.

Wow. Well, I’d never heard of C.R.I., and it certainly isn’t listed on the package.

I can say only that I’m completely happy with the light color of the Cree bulbs. They look nothing like the weak, diluted light of the compact fluorescents they’re going to replace. I don’t perceive anything ghostly or wrong about them.

But if you’re worried about C.R.I, maybe try out one bulb at home before you replace the whole house’s bulbs.

* Why I don’t have LED bulbs: I have yet to see one that puts out close to the same lumens of an incandescent bulb rated at 75 or 100 watts offered for sale in my area.

Many of you made this point: that the 40- and 60-watt bulbs I reviewed are not bright enough for aging eyes, reading, detail work and so on.

That really is a good point. You can buy 75- and 100-watt-equivalent LED bulbs — online, they’re plentiful — but they’re still expensive ($30 to $45 each).

* At my home, CFLs don’t last half as long as stated on the box, and when CFL electronics flame out, they leave that nasty burnt electronics smell, strongly disliked by my wife. A few friends have reported CFL flame outs that have set things on fire.

Sorry to hear that! However, my column was about LED lights, not compact fluorescent light bulbs. Compact flourescents are basically curlicue tubes filled with gas that lights up. LED bulbs use tiny light-emitting diodes, of the type you have seen in some flashlights and the “flashes” of smartphones.

* Why didn’t you write up the LIFX bulbs on Kickstarter? Are you some kind of paid shill for the light-bulb industry?

Mainly, because I hadn’t heard about LIFX bulbs. Now I have!

Looks like it’s a lot like the Philips Hue kit I reviewed, in that these are LED bulbs you can control from a phone app: brightness, timing and color. The beauty of LIFX, though, is that there’s no router box required. The networking electronics are right in the bulb.

And the LIFX does more, too: changes color in time to the music, for example, or notifies you when you have new e-mail.

These bulbs did super-well on Kickstarter, so they’ve obviously captured the public’s imagination. I’m in touch with the creators, and they’ve promised to send me one to try out when it becomes available!

* You have done what many before have done: Praise LED light bulbs — without touching on the quality of light.

It doesn’t matter whether the light bulb is $200 or 50 cents. If the light is ugly, and it hurts your eyes to read, then why should I buy it?

Compact fluorescent lights have an austere blue tinge. Some give a “warmer” shade of yellow. But the quality of light they produce is atrocious.

I did, in fact, mention the quality of light; in my opinion, it’s wonderful. You can choose “daylight” (whiter) or “warmer” (yellower). With some, like the Philips, you can dial up any color you like: white with a touch of blue or yellow, say.

But I’m not sure why we keep talking about compact fluorescent lights. LED technology is completely different. There is zero relationship between a compact fluorescent light bulb’s light quality and LED’s light quality.

* You neglected an important point: because of heat issues, you’re not supposed to put LED bulbs into enclosed fixtures, like ceiling “cans.”

Actually, I asked Cree specifically about this. The representative says the bulbs are fine in ceiling cans. “The Cree LED bulb can be used in any application that would use an incandescent bulb. As long as there is an opportunity for air to circulate, the bulb is designed to work properly.”

I’m aware that not all bulbs meet this criterion; I’ve seen warnings on 3M and Philips bulbs, for example, not to use them in ceiling cans.

* Is there a potential issue with RF (radio frequency) interference from the circuitry? I know someone who put the LED bulbs in his garage door opener and then had trouble with the remote control.For more information, please visit cree led flashlight
Nicole Jul 2013
I.
There will be a day, you say,
where the world stops and all that ever was
and all there ever will be would cease.

                                                                     Trust.

There will be a time, he says,
when I will no longer love like how
you built the moon for me, balancing
upon a staircase of wooden boxes.

                                                                    Trust.

You don’t care. You let him weave
with string, then with your soul,
your heart the ball of yarn at the end.

                                                                   Trust in him.

You are a lover. You are a fool.

II.
Light. Soft light and harsh light and lantern lights
and fairy lights and neon lights and flashlights.

Light, like that which comes on in his eyes
when you tell him you want Honey Stars, and
you two spend the night picking at those overhead.
He tells you that when you drop stars into the
Pacific, they become sweet, like honey.

All you wanted was cereal, but you are a fool
one that picks at stars that have long since died,
one that can’t tell a corpse from a sparkle.

You don’t get any stars in the end, except for the
ones in his eyes.

A fool.

III.
This is where you grew poppies,
expecting to harvest the seeds and
crush,
thinking that maybe,
just maybe,
the dust will help you sleep, like the
sand of the Golden man.
You teeter on the edge that separates
wanting and needing,
You walk on a slowly fraying tightrope.

Tight,
        like your heart.
Rope,
          like how you rope
souls into believing you,
how you rope in friends
and demand their faith.

This is where you rearranged
his little soldier boys, where the
ceramic crashed against the wood
and refused to break.

Not like you, then.

This is where you kissed him,
over
       and
             over, because
air is useless without oxygen
and oxygen is useless to a pair of collapsed lungs.

IV.
You hate him. You hate his strength,
how he bangs the table and it snaps in two.

You hate his laughter, scratching against the walls
in tune with your sobbing.

You hate how you have to scan his eyes before you sit,
have to look before you make the metaphorical leap.

You hate how you let him force open your legs,
hate his pride at being in control, and his guilt
for the purple and blue spots on your skin,
like garish children’s make-up,
a clown at the party of life.

You hate how he holds onto your sides till
you hear the crack, and how you tell the doctors
you fell, because you did.

You are still falling, every time he looks at you,
Honey Stars in his eyes.

You don’t hate him. You love him,
that’s why you come back to be destroyed.

You hate yourself.
That’s also why you come back, to be destroyed.

You can’t repair hurt like that
but you try anyway, because the best part of building
is when you knock down.

V.
It is painful, but pain is a symptom of life.
You let him hurt you, let him crush your
bones and self-esteem, because no one
taught you how to love and if it means giving,

then you must be doing it right.

VI.
Wake, from the best sleep you’ve had,
wake from a nightmare, to a nightmare.
He is gazing out of the window, with
suspenders to hold up his pants
and his courage.
Your canines sink into your thumb, as
he turns to you and he says, “Hera,
I love you, but–”

The memory ends there.

Hera was the wife of Zeus,
goddess of women and marriage.
Your parents made a mistake,
more than once.

VII.
You are alone.
Quiet was never your thing, silence the most
deafening noise in the world.

This is your hand, a hand that once
rested against his neck, a hand that
felt his blood pulsing in his veins.

This is your hand and it is green
not from gardening but with envy.

These are your shoulders, shoulders that once
carried backpacks stuffed with Honey Stars
and sour things like love.

These are your shoulders, and even Atlas
cannot carry the weight on them.

This is your heart, and it is red.
This is your soul, and it is aluminium,
his words like sandpaper, polishing
until your soul tears and can be collected,
filtered and cross-examined under a microscope.
It will be reactive with the acid of his absence,
but only for a while.

This is your neck, and the rope feels rough
compared to your memories of his hands.
Hi, I published this poem a few months back on my other writing blog, ofparadiseandwords.wordpress.com

Some of my other works can be found there. Thanks for reading!
A Jun 2015
I was marching down the crowded avenue
When I realized my hair was covered in kerosene.

Eyes flash; memories appear.
Bitter lips and kisses just covered in lies.
I was as stainless as the flowers in my hair;
The ones you picked from the garden.
I was as passionate as the ocean;
Always coming back to kiss the shore.
A sweet love, a love as wonderful and
As vibrant as the floral perfume around my neck.
The same one that gave me a rash.

Once we held flashlights, escaping into
The dark and hollow night alone.
Two hearts ignited on fire.
But flashlights always run out of battery,
Right?
I breathe in the salty ocean air.
I detect traces of you.
A ratted baseball glove.
Faded mint soap.
Stale potato chips; always crushed.

Nights of March play over and over;
Leaving and leaving and lying.
You talk of
Nightmares of dead flowers, wasted love.
Dissolving all bonds of emotion.
All I can see are flames.

You held the knife,
But I was destined to burn.
I was holding the matches all along.
Unity Drain Dec 2013
Even if I throw words
That hit and break your skin
Never let them sink in
Because sometimes soon
The sun will rise
And you won't be stuck
Under a sky with no moon
Because running without a flashlight
Only means you'll get good at running in the dark
Because a lighter with no fluid
Only mean you can't cause the spark
That would set this flammable world on fire
Mother, mother, what ill-bred aunt
Or what disfigured and unsightly
Cousin did you so unwisely keep
Unasked to my christening, that she
Sent these ladies in her stead
With heads like darning-eggs to nod
And nod and nod at foot and head
And at the left side of my crib?

Mother, who made to order stories
Of Mixie Blackshort the heroic bear,
Mother, whose witches always, always
Got baked into gingerbread, I wonder
Whether you saw them, whether you said
Words to rid me of those three ladies
Nodding by night around my bed,
Mouthless, eyeless, with stitched bald head.

In the hurricane, when father's twelve
Study windows bellied in
Like bubbles about to break, you fed
My brother and me cookies and Ovaltine
And helped the two of us to choir:
'Thor is angry; boom boom boom!
Thor is angry: we don't care!'
But those ladies broke the panes.

When on tiptoe the schoolgirls danced,
Blinking flashlights like fireflies
And singing the glowworm song, I could
Not lift a foot in the twinkle-dress
But, heavy-footed, stood aside
In the shadow cast by my dismal-headed
Godmothers, and you cried and cried:
And the shadow stretched, the lights went out.

Mother, you sent me to piano lessons
And praised my arabesques and trills
Although each teacher found my touch
Oddly wooden in spite of scales
And the hours of practicing, my ear
Tone-deaf and yes, unteachable.
I learned, I learned, I learned elsewhere,
From muses unhired by you, dear mother.

I woke one day to see you, mother,
Floating above me in bluest air
On a green balloon bright with a million
Flowers and bluebirds that never were
Never, never, found anywhere.
But the little planet bobbed away
Like a soap-bubble as you called: Come here!
And I faced my traveling companions.

Day now, night now, at head, side, feet,
They stand their vigil in gowns of stone,
Faces blank as the day I was born.
Their shadows long in the setting sun
That never brightens or goes down.
And this is the kingdom you bore me to,
Mother, mother. But no frown of mine
Will betray the company I keep.
Rapunzoll Apr 2016
Faces only remind you of
How lonely you are,
You say you've swam too far
Into the sea of your regrets
That I am your lifeboat
But didn't you hear
I sank long, long ago?

You've been searching
For a new home,
One that doesn't creak
Or shudder at night.
But homes are not people
And your voice cracks
As you point out
There's a welcome mat
By the front door
But I never answer
When you knock.

It's been a while since
I started attracting
Strangers with flashlights
To search me like
A haunted place.
I finally realized they
Were the ones that
Needed scaring away.

It's so odd to think,
You once told me
You saw beauty
In clifftops,
And I thought you
Were talking about
The view.
© copyright
Catrina Sparrow Feb 2015
the worst part about people
whom understand nothing about themselves
     is their incessant need to pretend
as if they can see so clearly
through the dusty corners of each other's secrets
Lily Jun 2018
Spilled ink.
Old film.
Crumpled paper.
The click of a shutter.
Pens dying.
Wiping lenses.
Flashlights under the covers.
Struggling with a tripod.
Daydreaming.
The Rule of Thirds.
Tattered pages.
Beautiful sunsets.
Coffee shops.
Skittish animals.
3 am.
Cropping.
Always thinking.
The horizon line.
The frantic search for pen and paper.
Frustrated with trying to capture the beauty of the world In a small package.
HP won't let me change the words, but the "poet" things are supposed to be bolded, and the "photographer" things are italicized.  The final line is italicized and bolded.
Erik Ervin Oct 2012
For Sam Cook and Michael Lee*

While standing at Marshall and 140th
the lightning over the horizon begs me to come to it
it's like the flickering streetlights, seeming like silent firefights,
simply asking to be looked for.

When I still elementary,
I used to watch the sky as the bolts shocked the earth
and I'd count:
one
two
three
Until I heard the boom and crack of thunder
three miles away, at least, the fourth graders said each second was a mile
it could have been true, it could have not, yet still I watch the light.

The flickering of the fading streetlamp tells me that this moment is not going to last forever
that it will not be heavenly or touchable, but it is there
and it wants you to touch the light as it flickers like a strobe light
like kids playing with the tabs of flashlights
and like the first discovery of light switches

and I'm reaching out so far.
Trying to grab hold of a piece of simplicity,
of normal,
of what I can always find:
Mistakes and wounds
and trying to hold on

Because lately, it seems like the only places we want to flicker are in the clubs.
Standing on a planet where illness and difference are cause enough to torch cities.
We like to light the fires and we like to watch them burn,
but we could care less about what their burning
and it seems like the dark ages came and stayed,
But like tributes to Guy Fawkes say:
A man can be killed and forgotten,
but four hundred years later an idea can still change the world

So I think as I stand at that intersection
watching the streetlights and the night's light bulbs flicker on and off like the light in my head
I can feel my fingertips prickle and I seize that moment to reach for the lamppost and final destination

those kids are flipping tabs faster and faster
my hair is at attention
and I can feel the race.
For a second,
everything slows down.
The streetlight stops flickering as my fingertips come upon it
and the lightning illuminates the sky
I can feel the breeze push my hair to this minutes path
and for a second,
I have something.

I pull my fingers away from the light and it returns to its flicker
the lightning fades away
and the boom comes in.

And here, standing at what once for me was Marshall and 140th
I realize,
that all I have
is all
I'll ever claim to know
Henk Holveck Sep 2014
listening to you speak tonight,

made me ill,

you sounded so very different,

your tone, i could feel over the towers your love for me was never there.

i may want to die tonight but, i won’t why?

because then you’ve won. and i’m stronger than that.

i stood up to you tonight, and then shut you off.

turned off the flashlight that you ever so silently interrogated me with,

i’ll find a softer light, one that shines love through it’s glass.
Waverly Dec 2011
Me and the homies
built
up
a foundation of beer bottles in the corner of the living
room
that slide
down
when we play our music.

It's a pyramid
of transparent brown
******* bodies.

We stick our tongues into mouths
that will never fully be
ours,
and throw each new brick in the corner
with a clink,
*******
our
pants
and waking
up
in
entrail pools
of their digested innards the next morning.

A brown shimmer
like flashlights on the lake
bounces off them
bumping against our hips
and
mesmerizes
our upper thighs
and
inner groins.
Xander Duncan Jun 2014
One: Sleepy
When your spine takes cat-like curves into the recesses of blankets
And crickets and thunder and howling wind all sound like peace
And puzzle pieces fitting splendidly against each other
You’re sleepy when your eyelashes are weakly magnetized
And pull gently towards one another in soft but stuttered motions
When white noise and static fill your ears the way that water can sometimes fill a glass a little bit past the top without spilling
And you look forward to the lure of dreams or of dreamless nights
Because you know you’re sleepy when the only reason to be awake in the moment
Is so that you can appreciate the split second of falling
When you finally lose consciousness

Two: Bored
When you switch from counting ceiling tiles to counting the colors that you can find when you close your eyes with varying degrees of tension
And you’ve become so bored with distracting yourself that sleep seems like the only genuine option
Even if you’ve only just woken up
Even if you’re not feeling comforted by darkness and silence yet
Even if distractions are abundant
Because they just aren’t distracting enough
Sometimes boredom summons misery just to occupy your mind
And you’re bored when you remember you were supposed to be in bed an hour before
And you actually listen to yourself and go

Three: Drowsy
When you wish you had longer limbs just so you could properly drape them from the edges of your mattress and stretch at better angles
Suspecting that maybe the odd crooks in your bedframe are the crooks that have been thieving in bits of the night and stealing the ends of dreams and the beginnings of alarms
You’re drowsy when you can feel the burn of smoke sloping against the walls of your lungs
Even when you’ve been breathing clean air all day
And the dizzy spin of the room is more of a waltz that’s moving just a little bit slower than expected
Until you turn the music off

Four: Fed Up
When stress is snapping at your synapses and igniting fizzling fireworks at the back of your throat
But the forward corners of your eyes pull together to shut out the world
Because ignoring is a temporary retreat into forgetting
And permanence isn’t something you’re in the mood to believe in any way
You’re fed up with the world, and with existing
Or maybe just being awake
When you know there are better things that you could and should be doing
But shutting down is all you can manage right now

Five:  Faint
When the world appears not only blurry, but verging on translucent
And there’s a steady hum lacing the edges of reality
With sporadic jolts of memory forcing twitching sensations down your back
You’re feeling faint when you’re hopelessly holding onto consciousness
Because you’re a little bit afraid of falling
But you would never admit it
Because there are too many blank spaces in your vision to allow for any vagueness in your thoughts
But sometimes the body can’t keep up with the mind
And you collapse all the same

Six: Weary
When time seems to thicken and stick to your skin
Weighing down your movements like steel beads of sweat
And pressing palms to your eyes almost seems to drown out sound as well
You’re weary when the grass feels a few inches too long and the ground seems a few inches too close
And the ends of your limbs feel as though they have been reaching for something a little bit too far away
And you have only just given up
So you grab handfuls of the clothes you have on and pull them tighter against yourself
Forming an artificial blanket
And imitation slumber

Seven: Exhausted
When you can feel static buzzing through your veins
Stretching capillaries into threads to keep yourself sewn together
Knowing that consciousness could spill from the cracks in your skin all too easily if given the chance
And your eyelids hold together like the grand doors of a cathedral
Opening only with a struggle that everyone tries to make seem effortless
You’re exhausted when you’ve been writing this poem for days trying to find the words
To properly describe different degrees of fatigue
And you’re sure that you’ve probably recycled a metaphor or two but you don’t bother to double check
So you keep trudging along
Until nothing makes sense anymore
And the seams that encase your consciousness begin to strain
And snap

Eight: Hyperactive
When despite all reason dictating that you should be experiencing the drag of being awake for too long
You see clearly and think in double time
With energy flickering behind your irises
Foreshadowing the dread of sunrise
You’re hyperactive when you’re knitting your voice with your friends’ voices in a collage of laughs
Each indistinguishable from the last
And you start counting the stars with flashlights until
Like sugar and smiles
And fast cars on icy roads
You inevitably
Crash

Nine: Emotionally Drained
When you’re worn to the point that mental distress manifests itself physically
And you can feel the chains of your own thoughts around your wrists
Almost wishing they were tighter so there would at least be proof of their damage
You’re emotionally drained when you can scream without making any sound
And you've perfected the syncopated rhythm of a nervous twitch
You realize that you've been grinding your teeth for the last two hours
So you switch to biting your tongue
And you don’t rest
You don’t rest until there are tears mimicking a Jackson ******* on your pillowcase
You don’t rest until the clock is judging you for testing it
You don’t rest until you feel empty
You cannot rest when you feel empty
No matter how desperately you wish you could just fade
And drift away
You do not
Rest

Ten: Tired
Just…tired
This is about twice as long as it can be for a poetry slam, so I need to cut out almost half, but at least I can post the full version here
Dreamfall121 Apr 2015
Leaving a love message
After the machine's beep
Delivery failed
I am in Pixel Maze's
Escape garden
With green grass
On Genesis walls
Flashlights are switching
On and off
Rapidly
Walking by ethnic purple demons
Their gold hands
Hanging
Over their several heads
Static at the summit
They freeze
In prolonged pauses
They don't even exist
But our eyes still torches
Consistently
Music is thundering down now
From the heavens
With electro nodes
Intertwining
Am I that out of it?
And I never really left
That haunted warehouse
Watching evil trees
Awake now
By the nightfall
They are dancing
By father's campfire
Slicking my hair
I am jumping
On polish mushrooms
We don't even like him
I hear him Tolling
Church's bells
Resurrecting guilt
On immature Sunday
But I don't want to listen
He is reading again
Those antique diaries
Hours fly by
Won't listen
Uneasy by his discomfort
I find that magic carpet
And i elude
Sjr1000 Apr 2015
I don't know what I'm doing,
I don't know where I'm going,
I don't know who I'm being.
I keep getting asked this riddle
for which I have no answer,
An answer with a riddle
I can't decipher.

I'm only trying to be
the vision I'm a seeing
but it seems sometimes
so meaningless to me.

I can only nod and smile
as my words are delivered,
I can only look at the door
and wonder who
it was that stole the mirror.

I know somewhere
a breeze is blowing
but it isn't inside of me
I keep watching my shoes
waiting for one of them to make a move.

I don't know what I'm doing
I don't know where I'm going
I don't know who I'm supposed to be.

Where do you look when you are so lost
and can you tell me
what will be the cost
to find one's heart's desire,
I don't have the answer.

I don't know the road ahead,
a rearview mirror floats in my head.
The darkness is on either side
I know I have these flashlights
hidden somewhere inside.

Listen closely
you can hear your name
calling you,
But this time instead
down the road
I will go.

I don't know what I'm seeing
I don't know what I'm feeling
I can't find the road to being
I only know what I've been told
I only know what I believe
my mind has been known to deceive,
I don't know who I'm trying to be,
I guess I'll find it as I go,
Moving on down the line,
One more time.

You can come along with me
but only if you want to be.
I cleaned out an old drawer
of odds and ends.
    paperclips and the door to a battery case on some remote
    an orange candle stub, from Halloween I think
    batteries and four flashlights, though only one worked
    and parts of things I'm sure made sense to keep at the time
          I have no idea what they are now

I cleaned out an old drawer
  of things forgotten
      my daughter's picture in a setting unknown
      a letter of gratitude from a friend, for what?
      a postcard from Barcelona
      graduation announcements for a friend's child
           I don't think I sent a gift

I cleaned out an old drawer
  of memories and my past
     a ticket stub from an evening with Isabel
     a newspaper clipping of my son in scouts
     old mother's day cards from the kids
     New York City subway map from October 2001
         Memories of adventure and affection

I cleaned out an old drawer
  and sorted, discarded and remembered
     batteries went together in a small box
     old fortune cookie notes in the trash
    memories dusted off and replaced
        out of the drawer and back into my heart

My life has cabinet drawers
   stuffed with junk and trash mixed with treasures and tools
I think I'll clean my cabinet more often
     To organize things that I've needed
         like my mom and dads enduring affection
         kind and playful  friends'
     Throw away useless things
          like anger, resentment, and regret
          to make room for treasures
    And to be reminded of what has been
         a real childhood of play and discovery
         magical children  and the wonder of them
         my beloved's steadfast love and respect
I cleaned out an old drawer
        and found some peace.
Druzzayne Rika Mar 2019
When there is no sun
and no moon around
The darkness reflects
Night shines the brightest

Flashlights take us places
to make our way through spaces
the time moves slower
and dark clouds hover

blinding black surround
and echoes of voices of hounds
the heart freezes
we sleep till late

Keep our eyes closed
to protect from the truth
Hands on every surface
finding the path out

Hoping to come across
morning rays coming through glasses
Urging to wake from
this terrible nightmare
There was a girl
who danced in the city that night,
that April 22nd,
all along the Charles River.
It was as if one hundred men were watching
or do I mean the one hundred eyes of God?
The yellow patches in the sycamores
glowed like miniature flashlights.
The shadows, the skin of them
were ice cubes that flashed
from the red dress to the roof.
Mile by mile along the Charles she danced
past the benches of lovers,
past the dogs ******* on the benches.
She had on a red, red dress
and there was a small rain
and she lifted her face to it
and thought it part of the river.
And cars and trucks went by
on Memorial Drive.
And the Harvard students in the brick
hallowed houses studied Sappho in cement rooms.
And this Sappho danced on the grass.
and danced and danced and danced.
It was a death dance.
The Larz Anderson bridge wore its lights
and many cars went by,
and a few students strolling under
their Coop umbrellas.
And a black man who asked this Sappho the time,
the time, as if her watch spoke.
Words were turning into grease,
and she said, "Why do you lie to me?"
And the waters of the Charles were beautiful,
sticking out in many colored tongues
and this strange Sappho knew she would enter the lights
and be lit by them and sink into them.
And how the end would come -
it had been foretold to her -
she would aspirate swallowing a fish,
going down with God's first creature
dancing all the way.
Michael W Noland Sep 2013
She took in the light
Of flashlights
As though a sun
Warming her
To perfection

Her feline smile
Unmoved for hours
Despite her heaving breaths
Unrelentingly fed
To the fading bulbs

Where she waited

For him
In the dim

Until the door opened

And he
Walked in
Lifting her
As he sat down

Laying her on his lap
In his chair

By the window

Where he
Brushed her
To sleep

Just once more

Once more
In the golden glow

He had seen before
My Sweet Pea had to be put down 20 minutes after I brushed her on Friday sept. 6th. She was my bud.
flying laser concept
shooting down airplane
flashlights for cops
getting dissacsciative
instantly distroying
dazers on your car
weird sound things
warning warning
hit the brakes
it's not a deer
good ****
have you ever seen him?
Star wars kid?
The good 'ol days.
Before there was any kind of like...
I bet he's huge.
There he is.
**** can happen.
Expandable pole.
Destructive laser.
All talk, no walk.
Death rays.
Forget my blowtorch.
Let there be fire.
Let it rain.
Targeting him.
That's stupid.
**** this spider.
Did he?
Huge ******* spider.
Brightest spotlight ever.
Can't escape it.
Pretty good shot.
It's gonna die.
Choke it out.
Go to the end.
Sad.
**** a dog.
Hot in here.
People like motherhood.
Is that a ferret?
Don't drip on me.
Pennies on the floor.
Are you jealous?
I had a bad case.
Gotta get rockin'.
Something we both like.
Look at Harold.
I might be goin' down.
I've been goin' down.
People do the work.
Enable it.
Consume battery.
Bring it to a nine.
Should be easy.
Catchy and fitted.
Going viral.
Pyramid scheme.
I'm on the top.
The fastest.
The most accurate.
A community project.
It's a contest.
Easter eggs.
Enable fun times.
Enable opportunities.
Making it happen.
Shocking update.
It's getting there.
Few more sips.
Wooowww Wowww Wow.
Got 'em.
Sad day.
Pack up everything.
Say hi.
Bring her chocolate.
They like attention.
That **** ferret.
Sorry I got somber.
We got to be heroes.
Might be a good idea.
Nice seeing you.
Goodbye.
Au revoise.
Hard to say goodbye.
Concept of sleep.
Three all nighters.
One more thing.
Sweet dreams.
Bye.
Thanks.
Sjr1000 May 2015
We don't have to wait,
Halloween comes every day,
Shadow figures on their way,
The side show
The freak show
The funhouse across the bay,
We go there on purpose every day.

My light is kind of
fading I can see it
in the mirror
I can't quite see my way
to make it there today.

Your flashlights
in this funhouse Darkness
continues
to light the way,
for lost and wandering souls
as it has every day.

Humor
Grace
The soul whisperer
A lone long walker
The warrior spirit
A solo ocean swimmer
The darting eyed organizer
with the heart of gold
A stand-up comic
The old old sage
willing to fight it out
in the bleakness factory
every day.

As I make my way
to the exit sign
I can hear the five o'clock
screams
the lobby scene
cops dragging
a woman
screaming my name
I go anyway.

For those kind souls
left behind
as
the listener hums a tune
in his own mind
closes the door
one last time
with a sigh,
finally
has left it
all behind
saying
a
short prayer to the passing
of time,
for those who put their
love and compassion
on the line
in every way
every day.
M K Apr 2015
a bottle of pills cannot evaporate the darkness you face, my friend.
they are stepping stones. the start. they may be at the end. they may not.
there will be many who are beacons; a few shall be your flashlights.
remember they have batteries; remember that the glass can crack.
remember that they can dim and flicker out, and you will need to leave them behind. such is as life goes.
there will be signs, there will be illusions. there will be sunny days and there will be days when it seems the sun has flickered out.
the road is hard and worn, and not all who travel it see the end.
but many still have, many still do.
many will find you on this road, and they will walk with you.
some will leave, some will stay, some will take the other path.
you will find me on this same road, and i hope we can walk it together.
we shall be the beacons, like others have been for us. we shall be each other's flashlights.
we will be the sun.
I hope to walk with you someday, my friend.
Lawrence Hall Feb 2017
A Burner on the Bridge

A burner on the bridge.  A human burns,
Trapped in technology and beer and fire
We hear the cold dispatch, the desperate call
To go, to see, to mend, if possible
We drive.  The flashers, blue and red, rotate
In the startled faces of those we pass
At speed, Hail Mary speed, surreal speed
Time, motion, space, and light obscure the night

In a pattern tail lights wink dim, then bright
Stalled traffic makes a long glowworm in reds
Boats, trailers, trucks, tankers, Volkswagens, Fords,
People in shorts drift around, slug Cokes, laugh
Unshaven men smoke cigarettes and swear
Blue-haired killers in Chrysler New Yorkers
Blink blankly through bifocals in the glare
Of flashers and flashlights, flares and taillights.
A burner on the bridge.  A Human burns.

We drive slowly through the curious crowds
Who mill about and stare and point and laugh
They consider a charred corpse fair reward
For being delayed on their trip home from the lake
When they ‘rive home they’ll hoist stories and yip:
“I was there; I seen it, man; it was gross!”
But some already are anxious to go
They honk, and pop a top, and cuss the cops.
A burner on the bridge.  A human burns.

Below the bridge, old, silent water lurks
Oozing warmly, fetidly, in its drift
Slithering blackly in the warm spring night
A silent observer of fire and death
A carrier of beer cans and debris,
Radiator coolant, plastic, and blood
Concrete pylons pounded into the mud
Where once were trees.  And now the water sees
A burner on the bridge.  A human burns.

The bridge is an altar.  The wreckages
Are vessels sacred to our gods, the dead
Are sacrifices to our gods, an incense of death
Our offering is broken flesh, and blood:
“The is my body, burnt on this spring night;
This is my blood, shed on the center stripe.
A burner on the bridge.  A human burns.

A shapeless hat among the smoking ash,
Old clothes, a shoe, cans of beer, fishing lures:
The sad trifles and trinkets of the dead
Now, firemen in their yellow rubber suits
Climb slowly through the tortured, broken steels
And gently stow a man into a bag
Ashes and smoke, green radiator fluid
The old river flows, wherever it goes.
A burner on the bridge.  A human burned.

Hours later: coffee at the Dairy Queen
High school baseball players yelp cheerfully as
They wreck fast cars in a video game.
Under the fluorescents, the flashers seem
Still to turn, endlessly turn, in the night
Hamburgers, possibly char-broiled, are gulped
Sloppily, laughingly, as cleated feet
And deep-fried breath cheer a video death.
A burner on the bridge.  A human burned.

A burner on the bridge.  A human burned.
Quinn Aug 2013
sunrise is lazy this morning
as our awakening coincides with shivers
running up and down cool spines
on crusty concrete floors

sheets and sweating water cups,
that's what we ride for
past waterfronts and freeways,
fast as we can with sleep in our eyes

paisley prints surround us
as i lay and recount our night

flashes of flash lights reveal
strange structures inside of silos,
climb on, climb on,
exploring exploitation of the norm,
art in ways art hasn't yet dreamed

wild animal sounds bounce and billow
around in old grain homes,
while hands keep beats and hearts
are pedaled in shadow onto walls

fire breathing pipes belch into the
calm, black night and attempts to
climb towers are squandered by
men holding flashlights and power

so we fade into the nothingness and find
other metal mountains to explore,
garage doors open up to windmills
and i find myself with knees as
****** and black as the night before us

still, the animals cry out, but this time
it's low and between rushed breaths
that betray a sense of ecstasy only felt
when it sneaks up from behind
Nicole H Aug 2015
restless summers swimming in lemonade
my shiny janes and your
mud sloshed loafers
swayed like the gulls of our
crayoned fence of a sky

daisies you would crown me
with rings of weeds i'd wed you
lightning bugs stain my lashes like my
fluorescent tears you brush away
dewdrops on my rose embroidered cheeks

i continue building forts armed with flashlights
with puppets of shade that guard me till morn
again i am locked within my tower feeling your
weight of shining armor as you take my locks as your stairway
but the night fades within you

i let down my hair
but you are not there
a long time ago
Waverly Nov 2011
We pull
the Humboldt
out of the water.

Sometimes
they eat each other,
and we pull
up
shredded hooks
clotted
with white meat.

Sometimes
they
scramble
underneath the surface
and the film of water
separating us
from them
becomes pink and flashing.

We pulled up
a black
saucer
of an eye
one night.

It clung
to a hook
by
pink strings of optic muscle.

Our flashlights
put little continents of light all over its placid, black surface,
and I felt human sadness
some type of animal-human
empathy,
it ****** me up so much
that I threw the line overboard
again,
almost hitting Nestor in the face,
with an un-baited hook.

Our hauls
are getting smaller.

The carnivores
used to jump
into our boats,
slicking
the planks with an excretion
the consistency of placental fluid.

Now,
sometimes dusk burns
as
we yank
seaweed,
seagrass,
and
toilet seats
over the prow;
our bodies tenebrous;
straining with the line
like warriors
stabbing the sea.
rough draft.
Amanda Sep 2016
I am barely one millimeter tall
dragging my body limp across
the sidewalk and I try my best not to make eye contact any contact
with those glaring flashlights rising from the dead off their hard-helmeted heads
I'm still trying to keep mine twisted at one-hundred-eighty degrees
but stuck in the bulls-eye of a man-made hurricane    I wouldn't mind hearing a snapping neck any neck.

One of the hell-bent helmets removes itself to reveal a heavy-set sweating neck
the ******* a skateboard and I recoil synonymously at the sight of too many men too tall
it's seventy-five out but it's beginning to feel negative twenty degrees
I walk as quickly as my frost-gnawed legs allow me to move across
this soup line but they're feeding the wrong kind of hungry who wait for their ***** coins to flip heads
to see who goes first to play tackle-the-red-flags with little girls and the rules don't prohibit contact.

I can't imagine these helmets in human form not even when they ask for my number to keep in contact
I think of the time I was sent home for possessing tempting shoulders and a somehow sultry neck
all I see are claw machines and me, a come-here-doll, resisting the balance being ripped from my head
I forget about pacing myself on the ledge of this concrete just so I can stand tall
I hear the voice of an ex-friend who moved across
town tell me that you "just have to be smart", but you don't learn morals from earning degrees.

I'm thinking about the degree
of which it would mean if I were to reverse the prey predator roles and dare to make contact
blood sharing the same bed with safety sparks a flame across
my brain, I don't want to imagine trembling while holding this pocket knife over the apples of their necks
but I am a no choice girl because every time my mother calls she warns me that I'm not tall
enough to even chop the branches from their heads.

The fifth one in line yells something at me about giving head
silently I measure the trajectory of getting the hell out of this corner the exact angle the degree
what lie is there to tell that is tall
enough that they won't be able to see the panic beneath my contacts
I swat away the possibility of nearby lips staining bruises onto my neck
I keep the idea of my big-knuckled boyfriend like pepper-spray in my back pocket waiting at the street across.  

Hey *****, you seem a little cross
you shouldn't dress the way women dress to turn heads
one day you might make a man break his neck.
It finally began nearing seventy-five degrees
again as I fumbled through my contacts
dialed the first boy I knew, doubling as the tallest.  

I'm on the acceptance stage of mourning the fact that I'll never be tall enough to come across as mean when I come in contact
with non-human beings willing to burn holes in the back of girls heads at four-hundred degrees, who put their ****** trophies on the back-burner as long as it means getting some neck.
Kimberly Seibert Aug 2014
The hoods go up, the bandanas come out.
Their day really starts, when the sun goes down.
Geared up with paint, backpacks are full.
Armed not only with colors, but triggers to pull.

No stops in the stairwell, it's straight to the top.
Hope you grabbed your inhaler, in case of the cops.
The last couple steps are slathered in ice.
Their will to go higher it really entices.

Reaching the rooftop, the flashlights go off.
But the rooftop itself just isn't enough.
Steel rails to trail, the water tower is their peak.
Their names and their tags, voices to speak.

So when the city looks up, from I-75.
Their beacon of art, is kissing the sky.
Paige Anderson Nov 2011
hello, love.
    one day
       i would like a library
                   a whole library, in our very own house.


I've already started collecting, you know
(things like that take a lot of planning)
books, i mean. collecting books
from second-hand bookstores and thrift shops.
floor to ceiling to floor, the room will have books
and millions of golden threads leading from the pages,
connecting our little corner of the world to the rest of it.
to London in 1854, and Iran in 1990, and India tomorrow.
we can walk into our library any old time
and amble right on through to anywhere.

                     mom didn't like to buy me many books as a child
                     oh, yes, she taught me the importance of reading
                     we read every day, and for that i owe her my life.
                     but we didn't buy them
                    books, i mean
                     because i'd read them too quickly
                     a day or two, maybe
                     and so we used the library

want to know something nerdy?
i was probably the only nine-year-old in the city
to have the library card number memorized,
all fourteen digets.
did you know they max out at 30?
books, i mean.
30 books at one time.

We will read to our children every single night. we will act out the stories; we will help them see that the stories are just as alive and breathing as they are. you can be Peter Pan, and i'll be Frances Hodgson Burnett's Sara Crewe.

and when they are old enough, they will read to themselves every day as a chore, like making their beds or unloading the silverware. hopefully they won't see it like that, like a chore. hopefully they will become addicts. they will sneak flashlights into their rooms and read underneath the covers after bedtime every night.

                              but we'll never ground them for that.
                              instead, we'll take trips to the library
                             and teach them how to dream.

                                               all my love.
Thomas Newlove Jun 2012
It approaches swiftly.
A monsoon of rain readily setting off
Naive natives and their tiresome routines.
Shutters shroud the windows with irrational security,
Sandbags too are placed; it must be a big one!
Clouds roll and tumble into position.
A sunset evaporates quickly,
Yellow to orange to red and BANG,
As quick as a flash of lightning it blackens.
Pure darkness, but for humanity’s scars.
Another scar takes their places
As a deafening crash collapses the eardrums,
Seconds after its divine light pierces the sky,
The soul and that artificial light.
Darkness now, but for lightning,
Blinding flashlights and candles.

Dewy droplets descend into view,
Dripping hopelessly through a silver fork.
Frightened faces too are seen,
Made more frightening by flashlight.
Rain, lightning and thunder
Can’t silence children’s cries
But can still awaken the waves –
Serfs turned warriors in an instant,
Harassing the horrified sandbags,
Overpowered and silenced.
The satanic storm battles on
Callously battering a weary world.
The sickening sun shines into the eye
And a torn green turtle begins to cry.
About a bad thunder and lightning storm that pre-empted a hurricane. The Turtle in question refers to the turtle on the flag of the Cayman Islands.
WistfulHope Mar 2015
I'm afraid to ask
for fear of disappointment
but do you remember
what you meant to me
you pervert
in the back of the room
all the ***** jokes
they changed
into prayers
not too sure which
I miss more
dancing in the bowling alley
your contacts traded for
glasses that are a turn on
the beach
with me wearing
your pants
on the subway home
no flashlights in the dark
tripping into each other
on through the orchard
my cheek brushing
your unshaven face
me clasped tight
not wanting to let go
do you remember
the conversations we had
how could you
just let go so easily
and start a new life
when you're the only one I ever had
I hate the way the world works.
I hate that I still can't ******* let go.

I don't even know if this is ******* done.
Gigi Tiji Feb 2015
Our eyes are near
and my heart is hot
but your stare is cold —
a thousand miles away

Your words are clear
and time has stopped
there's nowhere to go
my thoughts are broken and blurred

Sweet lips, your sweet lips
Carry such a bitter sound...

I'm floating in place with
no lover to face

trembling, trembling
trembling heart space

I'm spinning in circles
looking for miracles

and it's proving to be
horribly difficult

Trying to fly
with no wings to spread

I crumble and cry
a song for what's dead

the sound of alarms
ring in my head

the sound of alarms
ring in my head...

I'm trying so hard
I don't know what to do

My heart is aching
thinking of you

A small square of paper
sits on my tongue

With razor sharp edges
and tasting of dung

It takes me to spaces
deep in my mind

Where there's too many places
and not enough time

I've been drowned in guilt
and I'm suspended in shame

Repeatedly killed
like in a video game

Written upon
the sharp paper square
are words for destruction
and guilt and despair

It's a trip like no other
you won't even feel high
you'll feel like a bother
and just want to cry

Drifting in place
dead in deep space

You left me here with
tears on my face

Crystalline droplets
scintillating pearls

spinning in circles,
spirals, and swirls

Why did you think
to leave me alone

at the cold ugly brink
a frost to the bone

the cold hard shoulder
feels far colder
than a lifeless boulder
I'm cold, I'm
cold

I speak with my music
and these notes are my words
My harp is my voice
and these strings are the cords

I try hard to play
But you've cut them all off
My harp is left bare
naked, unstrung

I'll move all the pedals
But unto what end?
I can't speak my heart
I can no longer pretend

It's time to stand up
and take a great bow
Walk off the stage
The end is —
.....

and
There is a silence
in the mist, hidden
between the little
droplets, whispering
rivers of soft words from
past lovers evaporated~
.....

together
we held hands
and in our palms
we held time

and we ran away
from the rising sun
so we could see it
rise forever

but we grew tired
and we slowed down
and the sun sped up
and time was slipping
between our fingers
dripping
from our knuckles

and together we ran
we ran away toward
the setting sun
as fast as we could
but we were too tired...

and
you showered me in
silky sheets of glowing lovelight
you embraced me with
warm rays of shimmering soulshine

you pushed and pulled my ocean's tides
in and out like a lilting melody
making love to a perfect harmony

but slowly you
drifted away
into space
to shine on new rocks
leaving me cold my
ocean waves
still...

and
For the longest time
I wanted to thank you, thief
for stealing my heart.

I thought it'd be better off
in someone else's hands anyway,
because I sure as hell
didn't take good care of it.

Can you tell me about the time
you carefully held it close?

because I'm sure
that you can remember that
because that's all you want
to remember.

It was your
little pet.

and I can't tell you
how much it meant to me
that you found it so
intriguing...

but I can't tell you
how much it hurt when
it stopped being something special
and started being
just another animal

Don't you remember
how much fun you
had with it?
Mm..

But you don't remember
watching it struggle
to breathe in
and out?

Because it seems like
despite that

all I can remember now
is your tightening grip
suffocating it
carelessly
and your acidic lip
spouting seemingly
ceaseless
abuse

Tell me about the time
you played with it
until it was broken
and it bored you

Because I can sure
remember that.
but can you?...

Oh!
Batshit crazy,
Batshit soup.
Am I just lazy,
or caught in a loop?

Batshit crazy,
Owl **** soup.
Razor blades,
Razor blades,
Razor blades,
****!

Love is not a competition,
Love is not a game!
You see me as a player,
and it's a downright shame!

Batshit crazy,
Owl **** soup!
I am totally lazy,
and caught in a loop-die-loop?!

Glass houses
Baseball games
Angels wings and tar
SEPTA lines and pine trees
Can take you pretty far

Love is not a competition,
Love is not a war!
and acting like a soldier
is really quite a chore!

Silly souls
Wacky words
Dragonflies and tar
I want to make some art with you
but I don't know how you are!

and
it's
Just another slide
down the razor blade
of life! into a bowl
of sour owl ****...

Batshit crazy,
Owl **** soup!

Am I crazy,
or am I caught
in a loop?

Razor blades
Razor blades
Razor blades
****!

and you are
ribbed, but uncaged, and
you read like a book broken,
with a cracked spine, snapped,
always opening to
the same page

the wrinkles stacked
dendritically, along the
ragged column, show
where you were split,
down the seam,
in a fervent attempt
to be figured out

your leaves are worn,
dog eared, and torn,
with words used, and
defiled

unadorned,
sickly souls

forlorn figures,
sitting silently

wishing and waiting,
no kissing or playing

it seems that you've left me,
and you're all I want to read...

blistering sunsets
burn my skin

I watch the ball of love
get further from me,
falling a w a y

It was always out of reach,
but I could feel it's warmth!
as long as it was in sight,
but, no longer

It forms rivers from dry wells.

In it's absence
it has them brimming,
now overflowing, down
channels of skinclay
wrinkles

they run deeper,
than the roots of
the tallest trees,
falling slower, than
the softest cries,
unheard

rocky river ways
froth from the mouth,
splashing and bubbling
in maniacal sadness —

silent white water rapids...

Tussled and unkempt,
shriveled livers beg for mercy!
hidden behind layers of rotting drywall

a rusty sledgehammer.

—unused

You may want to take me inside
but your mind is a million dripping daggers
perpendicular to the infinite edges
of my circular paradigms.

your cold soul wraps around me
like a chainmail suit.

I want to love it, as
it's supposed to love me, but
it's heavy and pinches every fiber
of my existence

and why should I wear it
when I want to run into love
completely naked?

My name is derived from Tyrant
I would say you should have expected it
but I am not one to take someone's heart
that is the ultimate crime.

Can't you see that you've stolen your own?
Look in the mirror! Unfurl your ****** fists.

Now my fingers are ablaze with hellfire!

and
My unseen tears
condense onto windowpanes
as they're smashed open by codependent assumptions.

Blinding
blunt force flashlights
shatter sharp shards of light
across the darkest crevices
of my soul.

Impatience
and uncertainty
leads to reactionary behavior.

Do not plant flowers
in the gardens of someone
who cannot take care of their
own plants.

Their soil is unsaturated
with nutrients.

How can you expect to enjoy the fruit of their love?

I am a withered plot.
I am the dead of winter.

No one is interested in how it has died.
They are only upset that they can no longer feed themselves.

What you see is what you get.

— The End —