"flippantly" poems
Today I carried on a brief conversation
With a friendly goodwill employee as I was checking out
She handed me my change and as I hurried to stuff it in my wallet
Before the people behind me became annoyed
She told me to have a nice day
A customary phrase I thought nothing of
Fed to almost every employee by his or her boss
I flippantly said "You too"
And threw in a friendly smile
As I turned my back to leave I heard her reply
"All we can do is try, sweetie,
All we can do is try."
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 1:35 AM UTC
the child recieves his paper
****** backward by the one in front
flip the three pages flippantly
one : intimidating . . two : boring
the third adorned unexpectedly
a longer -than seems can be usually- grown hair with a clump of green root
sprung out and slaughtered, down across the width; stuck above the questions beneath
how could he not have seen?
a pile so viscous and obscene?
does everyone else have one???
are they holding their disgust beneath?
he looked up at the teacher.
A look of vigilance his face bequeathed.
B ut now it sprung out almost pus like
a faint smile,
a teachers calm reprieve
he then leaned back on his chair in comfort
drooping his head back
his nostrils flared now toward the child
the hairs brustling from inside, all locked up in a ***** days remnants
all foul
and long
and dehydrated
like a swamp now sunned crisp; reeds on a stale bank
drawn in he felt uneasy
unable to cease to stare
incased inside the world that spawned
in the swamp that lay up there
in the cavernous orifices there
then he saw the teachers eyes, his gaze it
stuck on him, the teacher began to grin
further back his head leant
his eyes jaundiced
his teeth tanned
his face pale
his grin outstretched and thin
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 6:38 AM UTC
A choice is to be made,
A choice that will decide fate,
That choice rests within your hand,
Pick wisely, your choice is the difference,
The difference between success and failure.
Will you choose what is right?
The path that is certainly the hardest,
The path that may lead you to your demise,
The path that consists of morals and rectitude,
Choose: to benefit yourself or to benefit others.
Will you choose what is easy?
The path that is somewhat corrupt,
The path that may lead you to prosperity,
The path that consists of the wicked and decadent,
Choose: to benefit yourself or to benefit others.
So go on, don’t be shy,
Step up to the poll, the poll of fate,
And choose, do not choose flippantly,
Choose correctly and be rewarded,
Choose erroneously; no help will come.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 11:10 AM UTC
Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphorias of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix are pandemic. Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness. But what of stint-ness snities? Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums. Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied **** Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums. We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture. And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums? Do we only dream about dexterous articulation? Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary? What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton? We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache. Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology? Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward. Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective. Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable. Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue. Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh. Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered. Infusing all with the capability of aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others. I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection. Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony. Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual. Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist. We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.
May 29, 2019
May 29, 2019 at 11:35 AM UTC
What if nothing really meant nothing?
We use this word so flippantly,
In everything we do,
I've nothing in the cupboards,
But we all know that's not true,
There's nothing on the telly,
There's nothing in my purse,
I've nothing to wear right now,
This nothing is a curse,
I've nothing i can offer,
Nothing left to give,
Nothing in my life right now,
Nothing but to live,
But what a load of total crap,
We utter everyday,
We have so much to be grateful for,
In every single way,
So listen here to me right now,
It's not what we possess,
It's not what's in the cupboard,
Or the cut and style of dress,
It can't be measured by TV,
Or monetary gain,
It's what we feel and how we love,
That makes us all the same,
No matter what your day will bring,
Remember this is true,
That when you have a nothing phase,
I've got your back for you,
Because you have everything,
But nothing you can see,
And if all else seems to fail,
At least you have got me.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 9:46 AM UTC
Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphoria of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix is pandemic. Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness. But what of stint-ness snities? Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums. Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied **** Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums. We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture. And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums? Do we only dream about dexterous articulation? Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary? What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton? We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache. Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology? Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward. Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective. Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable. Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue. Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh. Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered. Infusing all with the capability of aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others. I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection. Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony. Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual. Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist. We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 7:19 PM UTC
Born and reared in the city of Bridgeport,
where the trash arose from Long Island Sound.
The seagulls appeared, then vanished from sight,
wafting and diving through radiant sky.
Some inlets and harbours, lapping the shore,
while sounds of young voices screamed with delight.
Marvelous moments to form our delight.
Skipping through the busy streets of Bridgeport.
Heading south down Park, to visit the shore.
Where all you could hear was the visual sound,
of airplanes and balloons, gracing the sky,
alive in my mind but quite out of sight.
The crystalline sparkle came into sight,
to everyone’s pure and simple delight.
We watched as the clouds emerged from blue sky,
over the stunted skyline of Bridgeport.
Suddenly the clamour, the noise, the sound
came crashingly close to the rocky shore.
With silence removed from that muffled sound,
bemoaning the graphite and speckled sky.
Searching and groping for inner delight.
pasteurized thoughts over the sandy shore.
Memorized pictures brought into our sight,
a lost time; in the bowels of Bridgeport.
Sail boats and tankers came upon the shore,
out of the distance, and into my sight.
All I could hear was breath of the sound,
with glee, laughter, and a certain delight.
The slums became the city of Bridgeport,
reaching endlessly toward the dancing sky.
Adrift; at peace, and awashed by the sound,
flippantly airy as ground touched the sky.
I strolled and smiled with love lost delight,
scampered along on our copious shore.
Aware that my flight was love at first sight,
on the coast, in the city of Bridgeport.
Amped delight amid the light of our sound
misconstrued Bridgeport scraped close to the sky,
up to the shore and again out of sight.
Apr 10, 2011
Apr 10, 2011 at 5:15 PM UTC
Pardon please my pedantry,
But I espied sir that in your rhapsody
You sometimes overlook crossing all your “t’s.”
If a point should be taken, then please let it be
That these consequential “t’s” should not be jotted down so flippantly.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 3:46 PM UTC
Tongue-tied
tripping over the words
that spill out between my teeth.
Mind flashes from red to green
sickly, mottled with yellow
tired of waiting.
I want to be able to exhale...
come to my senses,
know which way is up, in the midst of this chaos.
so much to say
and all that comes out is that 4-letter word
so flippantly used.
Can you see the inside of me?
my heart beating 100 times a minute
my entrails knotted, Gordian style.
Are you my Hero.
in this white trash epic
which is my life?
If so,
how many foes must we conquer
to find our way home?
May 12, 2010
May 12, 2010 at 7:21 PM UTC
I heard these words today,
I do not know their origins,
Nor what they truly represent.
They were said so flippantly,
That the beauty didn't strike me
Until I reached my place of work
Parked my car next to the old tree
Whose blossom reminded me:
"I'm a flower on a cliff"
Fragile beauty on a precipice.
Strong unseen anchoring roots.
Perfection is not a human quality.
Only Nature has perfected perfection
So it is a bold claim for a man
To boast of being a flower on a cliff.
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 6:05 PM UTC
Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphoria of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix is pandemic. Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness. But what of stint-ness snities? Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums. Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied **** Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums. We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture. And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums? Do we only dream about dexterous articulation? Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary? What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton? We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache. Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology? Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward. Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective. Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable. Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue. Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh. Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered. Infusing all with the capability of aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others. I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection. Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony. Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual. Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist. We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 3:04 PM UTC
F-flippantly finding four friends of mine praying
I-in cages bound wrists floundered hopelessness
N-nevertheless, the day after was flaying
E-everything, it was changing, don’t worry, I’m fine.
Feb 16, 2021
Feb 16, 2021 at 1:48 PM UTC
Perhaps everything that has ever existed will exist forever in the psychic clarity of God. Retrospectively retroactive's omniscient ubiquity. Objectified manifest's infinite possibilities exponentially
extemporaneous eidetic prospectus perpetrates incorporeity ideology's perfectible ontology.
Imagination's immaturities would seem to purvey that these things are irrefragably inevitable in the light of noumenal sentience's semantic regalia. Astral projection's distance traveled time spent's dynamic progressiveness to clairaudience clairvoyance existential extremity.
Spatiotemporal telemetry tactician's trajectory extant is totally tangential. Extravagantly exorbitant's flirtatious flamboyance to flippantly flighty flit-ness. Down here at the bizarre bazaar we all believe in the blasphemous farcical fugue-ness estranged ensemble orchestrations and all. Some of us are even into the various assorted forms of related stranger weirdness, similar states of analogous collusion and ancillary subordinateness. Laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tedium, excruciating exacerbations of autonomous avarice.
I'd like to think that these arguments have leverage on the reconnaissance reconnoiter. Mentality's osteopathic prescience is an empirical substance. Psychokinesis is an art. Eclectic synectics's social contiguities zoomorphic zoolatry to demagoguery could raise us all to new heights of enigmatism and leave our corporeally preternatural finiteness endowed with a fidelity that exceeds itself, foreshadowing life's mysteries. No more dour droll dreary ochlocracy of an oligarchy. Stolid stoic bailiff's rake-ness rails, vicarious recalcitrance for all!
Jan 25, 2025
Jan 25, 2025 at 12:34 PM UTC
the self seeking
white powder man
came
to consume her life
snorting
the only love
who'd ever embrace
a loneliness so rife
the relationship
destructive
to the soul
it propped her up
and took all control
an emptiness
he bought
a hollowness
in every facet
of his giving
the feeling of the muted line
so flippantly cold
she tossed away
the truer man's
caring
*for a ******* frequency*
incapable of love's
empathetic
heart
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 7:40 AM UTC
The ink spills dark as lights are flitting on,
the thoughts and dreams and very souls of ours.
Though bright the future, waiting, poised anon,
it notices but flippantly our scars.
A man might make his words into a deed,
might voice his hopes too loudly and be heard,
or else might sleep his days and so accede
the universe refuses to be stirred.
We came onto this planet lame and cold,
with Time already plotting our demise.
But rue the world which fetters us in gold;
We see the black and gaze into its eyes.
The moon sits innocently, just and fair.
The Devil's footsteps kiss the evening air.
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 11:12 PM UTC
Cornish spring drips and
all growth becomes riddled with
desire for warmth,
ridden with need for having more.
Freshly risen, green
gets liquid-addiction, an invisible
draw makes sward
swoon for regular fixes of water.
Crafty Spring knows
plants crave doses so being fickle
he drops trickles used
to tease shoots upwards for fuel.
Whoresome he opens
cores formerly hidden, then the
illicit physician lopes
in and flippantly erases hopes.
Bold, he impregnates
the deep sleep of inactive nature,
forcing in secret wet
potions to unclothe closed petals.
Then he may withhold
his advances and allow winter's
return to bring nights
of freeze to show is own might.
Old Spring hangs around
to tickle ground's fancy yet Sol's
hard passion he fears
for at start of heat he disappears.
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 6:52 AM UTC
I am the flipper
Rejection of shots
And I don't hurt when I dig deep
And I go underground
I am
'Good with words'
yet words seldom ever seem to fall out
Of my flippant mouth
I am nothing that I wish to be
Borderline rambunctious
And my thoughts constantly spill over
When I spout in a crowd
Flipper is flippantly
Objecting
Objectify me now
I am the silent breather that never sends chills down your spine
Yet you wonder if my calling
Has gone overtime
Flipper speak
Flipper be gone
Flipper take shelter
Flipper don't make a sound
Flipper give you best smiles
Flipper win all their hearts
Flipper give them charisma
Flipper keep all your darts
Flipper tires from trying now
Rusting with time
Have I let my guard down
Or am I at last
Feeling fine?
Call it anxiety
Call if whatever you wish
C'mon call it an excuse
Isn't it brilliant to use?
Flipper: better or worse?
Flipper sets off a fuse
Flipper takes over mind
Flipper takes over news
Hush now stories are dry
For you let Flipper in
Build your walls up so high
Just to keep our your sin
Yet
Humans do lie
Courage comes from within
Sometimes it pays to hurt when you let your heart win
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 2:51 AM UTC
really don't
feel so good
pain i feel
not understood
images i see
i wonder how
i can keep being me
images of death
gun on the table
i see the trigger
but i'm not able
to go to the store
and purchase a rifle
go home
sit on the couch
and blow my brains out
i don't have the power
don't have the courage
the only thing i can do
is live and continue
and hope that I feel
a better way
I know tomorrow
has got to be better
than this ********
that I deal with
on a daily basis
I feel like
the pain that I feel
how I was treated
continually misled
******** got fed
and all in the end
I ended up with nothing
an empty hand
alone in the house
phone silent
no one calling
no one caring
I'm here crying
why can't this be easier
something like dying
all I can think of
are thoughts that bleed
from my stomach
and into my heart
misery it feeds
thought after thought
of the evils that dwell
in my mind
so much hate
I can't even tell
all I remember
is the hurt that was caused
things said so caustically
casually
flippantly
disgustingly
like
my family is weird
that one hurt the most
it burns so bad
makes me want to get out of my seat
find you in the street
grab you by the throat
and choke and choke and choke
until you can't breathe
I'll do you the worst
by letting you live
in your disgusting existence
that's the best revenge i can give
other than forgiveness
I guess I'll just post this
take another breath
stop thinking death
and ask for forgiveness
just gotta dismiss this
it's so hard to forgive this
I don't want to live this
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 6:52 PM UTC
I’m a bit of a sensualist.
First, let me emphasise emotional resonance,
there has to be an emotional base,
not just an appreciation of hotness.
Then, there’s a sense of longing and mystery—
that male unknowableness.
Don’t forget the hard strength of those rough male edges,
you know, the feeling that he’s kind of sculpted from
a marble that you just want to run your hands over.
And this jet-black hair, the curves and the spiky bits,
casual, careless, not fussy or particular,
and his warm, firm, implacable hands.
Oh, God. Gimmie some.
“Sensuality's connected to desire, ya?” I asked the room (Sunny and Lisa are there, studying).
“It sure is,” Sunny said, flippantly, “and you just need that hot boyfriend of yours to spank it out of you.”
“No,” I winced, “that’s not true.”
“Ooo! I love this song” Lisa said, as ‘try’ by BETWEEN FRIENDS began to play on our Echos.
.
.
*Songs for this:
this is what falling in love feels like by JVKE
golden hour by JVKE*
.
.
Our cast
Sunny, (suitemate) 21, a (pre-med) molecular, cellular, and developmental biology major, is a cowgirl from Nebraska (seriously, she has a quarter horse and barrel races). She’s an outspoken fem-facing ladies-lady.
Lisa, (roommate) 21, my bff and a high society princess, who grew up in a 50th floor Central Park South high-rise. A (pre-med) molecular biophysics and biochemistry major.
Your author, a simple, multinational, upper-crust, trust-fund baby from Athens, Georgia who's also a molecular biophysics and biochemistry major (pre-med).
Mar 28, 2025
Mar 28, 2025 at 8:39 AM UTC
WRITE YOUR OWN RESUME' - THEN I'LL SIGN IT,
MY MENTOR SAID TO ME, ALBEIT FLIPPANTLY,
SO I DID: PHD IN PHILOSOPHY, A FIRST
IN ENGLISH LIKE ALDUOS HUXLEY AND
PROFESSOR OF ORIENTAL STUDIES AT LONDON
UNIVERSITY; A NUMBER OF NOVELS, POETRY
AND WHITE PAPERS COMPLETED A BUSY LIFE,
NO TIME TO TAKE A WIFE, RATHER ARMED
WITH A KNIFE TO PUT INTO PEOPLE'S BACKS,
A REPUTATION MADE AFTER NUMEROUS ATTACKS,
KNOWLEDGE WAS PASSED ON, STUDENTS CAME
AND WENT, ANYWAY WHY SHOULD A PROFESSOR
NEED TO BE HEAVEN-SENT? THE LIFE WAS MINE,
NOT GOOD ENOUGH - MY MENTOR REFUSED TO SIGN.
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 5:05 PM UTC
I'm beautiful
Exuding soul
Protruding bold
Diluting cold
Until I fold
Once beauty is sold
Biting remarks
Made by sharks
Create sparks
Where it was dark
Displaying pain that is stark
As part of my character ark
They mug me
Until I'm ugly
Then suddenly
They're done with me
It must be some disease
Of a numbing freeze
From stunning thieves
Taking what I believe
They're not impressed
When I'm undressed
So I'm the stressed
I must confess
From this test
Of who's best
And who's less
A blue guess
That brews pests
This hall of fame
Dismal game
Is to blame
For the shame
In our brain
And our name
Fanning flames
Of social stains
I'm a coyote battling
With lonely howling
Until phonies scowling
Are all that powers me
Through what had been
Through what grew
I see you
Through the views
That light my fuse
It's you I choose
Flatter my vanity
To guard my sanity
Conjuring the man in me
More so than I planned to be
But became apparently
Through ****** gratification
You give social validation
You send a pal elation
That causes salivation
Until the callous nation
Invades my phallus station
Text me
I'm ****
To protect me
From the injecting
Inspecting
Dissecting
Directory
Next to me
That begs to see
The beggars seethe
Don't destroy my body image
With your haughty grimace
Applauding penance
An ungodly menace
You've become
Like Tim Gunn
A judgemental one
That fabricates fun
By blocking the sun
Incoherent
Interference
In the clearance
Of my appearance
Not knowing nearness
Outside your austere fence
You flippantly
Didn't see
The death of me
Or the mess I bleed
When my chest can't breathe
While you're blessed to breed
With a superior steed
The eye of the beholder
Is behind their shoulder
That keeps getting colder
From insurgent soldiers
Throwing boulders
Becoming molders
Of the boaters
With no motors
Who float through life
And drown in misery
From societal strife
Of subjective mysteries
To act on the behest of me
Say that you've met me
Say that you've let me
Enter you gently
To a centrifuge ending
For relationships pending
With perceptions tending
To be needlessly upending
By comparisons impending
No matter what they're intending
There's no way they can mend me
When my social rank bends me
To be something pretending
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 5:31 PM UTC
flippantly, her heads turns
unable to control the expressions of insanity
plastered across wild eyes
her body quivers in an explosion of excitement
twisting this way and that
as if there were no muscle memory
from a calm period
some piece of peace
she could relive in these moments
when her unhinged nature
sends me over the edge –
laying peacefully
steady breathing hiding
torment
every time a noise or movement
catches her periphery
unabashed joy pours forth
and the incessant wiggling
starts all over again –
ferocity waits for the proper moment
to be freed
set loose upon the unsuspecting world
waiting desperately for the word
or sign
expressing my readiness
for mayhem –
absentmindedly I pat her thick head
genetically blended American terrier
and classic Rottweiler
to perfection
glancing down at my little Rotty-pig
the thought crosses my mind
“I sure hope no one comes in here with malicious intent”
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 12:08 PM UTC
“Don’t let my name be the lyric to their cacophony of laughter. Don’t let me be the ridicule that your friends crack upon. I don’t want them to sip on our memories turning them into a hip story. So don’t give me away to their tongues that let my name slip ever so flippantly. Seal me in your heart where I would be untouched. Embed those memories in your mind as though they were sacred. Let my name be unknown and our stories untold. Let us be concealed for we are much more than the pleasantry gossip of their conversation” she said softly as she put down the phone.
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 5:30 AM UTC
I walk with a head full of clouds, a mouth full of wisdom
Trudging in a sea of doubt flippantly filling in the void with words unspoken
Teetering on the edge of what is "right" what is "wrong"
Floating on the tempting water between what I am and what I "should be"
What the letters upon the box should say, were they stuff me to forget me
Their labels still sting the inside of my nose, the latex embedded in the skin from each ripping and re-sticking.
I wear a face upon my skin her butterfly headdress bleeds the color of their contempt, the slick lines of abstract freedoms morph to become the fluttering of a thousand wings
What I want most I have bled to show, how my mind works and sees has printed on the skin
Put there to remind all I am more within.
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 6:45 PM UTC