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patty m Aug 2015
Emitting deep sighs old things fall apart

around me.

The roof leaks

leaving in pin ****** of light,

reminding me of the overgrowth

encroaching.  

Rickety table

slanting against the weight of my books

even the lamp seems to dim

against tired eyes.

.  

Love can be tiring,

a mountain of work;  

pleasing everyone usually means

you've given in

or had to bite the bullet.

Perhaps one day I'll be relegated to a museum,

titled the mindset of a previous generation.

I remember seeing the Neanderthals and shaking my head.

Is that how they'll see ME?

Words, how they stir me

a lost art,

buckling the flooring

only to be sanded away along with my emotions..  

Years of complacency

have softened my resolve,

now as I condense my belongings to fit inside

a shared house

I see photos of people no one after me will know or love

and my tiny self posing dynamically, hands on hip

the future sparkling in my eyes

before life smacked me down.

Now heavy rains seep into the living room

leaving me perched on circumstances

with an urgency stirring within,

the need to write.
Riley Madsen Jun 17
I’ve been limp-wristed for the past year,
after I broke her mirror with my paws.
I fell into it palms-first like a dog,
and she just watched.
She said, “I sure saw that coming,
you never look at where you’re going.”
I said, “I’ll give you something
to whine about,” and left
my bloodstains in her flooring.
jul Jun 2018
im declining,
deteriorating,
diminishing.
drowning.

i spent weeks fixated on only your happiness that i forgot to find my own.
i spent weeks wasting my words.
my feelings drained through an iv that which you have decided that you don't need anymore.
ripped from your veins, i drip onto the solid sheet vinyl flooring.
para ti. y ahora no soy nada.
i spent weeks craving your touch and while you let your words travel down my thighs, trickle down my tinted pink lips,
i imagined of what we could have been, now i imagine of what we were.
i spent weeks building kingdoms, placing our fantasies in citadels and while your voice lined the empty halls,
mine never seemed to echo along with yours.
now these walls are empty. they have crumbled at our feet, unable of resurrection.
i bathed in illusions and imagination was my drink.
now that i am sober, i realize.

para ti. y ahora no soy nada.
Since your "I'm sorry" seemed to prove flase, how am I supposed to believe that your "I love you" was genuine?
Mark Jul 2018
Scouring walls
sanding hands
grazing galls
varnished strands

upward stroll
winging tips
silent roll
grooving rips

sighing depths
whispers fall
staining breaths
unknown wall

senses bare
flooring sand
wetted air
dripping gland

morose dew
sickly lashes
mourning pew,
perching ashes

sleet-river veins
mist-tide lobes
stringing strains
vermilion globes

pale slim
stilling beat
liquid brim
sinking seat.
lowkeymorns Nov 2018
This anger grows
It's weight unknown
I carry it on my back
Can the flooring hold?
I ration why
On my back you lie
Tho i'd gladly climb,
your top so high
And imbrace the fall,
Rather then imbrace the climb.
Sick of being understanding, sometimes I just want to be mad and let it out, sometimes I just want to break something.
Kay-Rosa Apr 13
checkerboard flooring, red rose walls
the large caterpillar's snoring, lets count humpty-dumpty's falls

excessively strong tea, smiles that drive the crowds crazy
a snakeskin hat just for me, something in the tea made the world a little wavy

find me that hare, i want a scone
the white roses are still there, i want a jabberwocky of my own

please give me a design, i'll sew it up for you
NO THAT ONE'S MINE, i'll make tea for two

i want to save the world, then again it really doesn't matter
'cause you won't understand a word, i'm mad as a hatter
Dawn Jan 14
the leaves have entered the house
more are thriving and not wilting.
the vibrance ever so strong
Amongst the flowers carried by its fat stems.

our steel founded doors
do not stand a chance.
All are persistent enough to fill half of this home with wild ferns, curling perpetually.

All grew faster than the strands of my hair thats already been boosted by the magic of human calibre.
It pushed me to a side,
a small space, and sooner
it will just be one tile
In this checkered flooring

I am surrounded,
my toes to touch the silky forest capsuled in this house.
The vines slithering around my legs

I wilt at the touch.
Cristi May 1
I have been here before, and with this same pen, I express myself through words.
To better understand myself, and to avoid being misunderstood.

Some call it bewitched, but I call it love.
There is an emptiness in the freedom of being alone,
And liberty in being caught in that divine spell.

The day that I stop writing love poetry is the day that my pen's ink will run out,
Along with my sense of connection to humanity.

Love is hard, and so difficult to describe,
Too complex to express simply by stringing words together.
Yet here I am, trying over and over, for years,
Always feeling limited, unfulfilled, unsatisfied.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I have been here before, I am comforted by love's familiarity,
Its pleasant tenderness shining like rays of sun, enveloping me in warmth and sincerity.
Its floral fragrance in the form of beautiful golden sunflowers,
Bundled with red ribbon at the stems, followed by conversations that go on for hours.
Its sweet taste in the form of kisses, followed by more and more and more, all over my cheeks and face,
Until there is not a spot that his lips have not touched, and then I point lower, to a different space.
I want more but I am too timid to say,
But my flushed cheeks and smile gives it away anyway.

But, I've also been here before, reminiscing on this familiarity,
I am then reminded of the heartache that follows, and I get a sense of polarity.
The shattered promises of forever, and the final goodbyes,
The returning of sweaters that smell like him while holding back desperate cries.
The empty and cold interactions as he shuts the door behind him,
The sinking loneliness as I stand in the room that is now too dim.
The racking sobs as my heart begs me to stop doing this to myself,
And for a while, I take the thought of love, lock it in a box, and put it high on a shelf.

But I have been here before, knowing that I cannot stop,
Love is embedded deep inside of me, it is not something I can just drop.
My heart knows how capable I am to feel such raw emotions,
It flows gracefully through me, and soars with plummeting waves like the ocean.
My heart demands to spark a flame in the one who ignited such feelings inside of me,
It longs and yearns to douse them with unwavering loyalty.
It demands to be expressed, through every form of self-expression that I use,
Whether that is poetry, painting, music, whatever outlet I choose to let loose.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I have been here before, trying to express my feeling of love.
It is difficult and frustrating, and most attempts are ripped apart and disposed of.
I have been trying to describe love for years, and still feel unsatisfied,
The countless filled notebooks are evidence of all the times that I have tried.
I cannot find how to put it simply but in a beautiful way,
I write poetry about it for hours and hours, from night until day.
I want to be cherished for not only who I am, but who I was, and how I came to be,
So instead of writing about love, I will write about how to better love me.

I have not been here before, so I will take it slow,
If it helps you better understand me, please let me know.
This is for you, if you want to love me,
It is complex and it may not come immediately.
Please understand that it will take time,
For you to love me the way that I need, this is not just a rhyme.
This is new to me, I have not been here before,
If it makes you see the real me, for you I will write more.
I have not been here before, but I am still using the same pen,
If you follow my trail of disorganized thinking, nod every now and then.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I am honest, and I will never lie.
I want you to be my best friend before being my guy.
I want to build a sense of familiarity -- to know about you and your life.
I want consistency, continuous communication, so we can avoid all strife.
I want passion and longing, the magnetic pull between our lips and bodies until they unify.
I want "I love you"s to be meaningful, not fillers to be thrown in when our conversation dies.

He must know that the "he" in this story, could also be a she.
My ability to love isn't limited by appearances that fade with time, and that's a guarantee.
He must know my personality, my strengths, goals, hopes, and dreams,
And when we fight, he must remember that we are not on opposing teams.
He must know how to support me and my life goals, how to motivate me,
When the coldness of the world frightens me, and I search for ways to escape reality.
He must want the best for me, for me to be happy, even if that is not by his side,
If we realize that we are not compatible, or our relationship makes us feel unsatisfied.
He must know my weaknesses, my flaws.
My tendency to push away when I am overwhelmed, and how to find the probable cause.
He must know that though I love to care for others, I am not great at caring for my own body.
My self-destructive nature has a story of its own, and it is not shared with everybody.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I have been here before, and with the same pen, I try to help him understand me,
I have been fighting my demons for a long time, and I can't remove the shackles that would set me free.
He feels a need to fix me, as if I were a broken wine glass,
I tell him to mind his footing, bringing attention to the pieces he should avoid and overpass.
He thinks that sweet words could be the glue to adhere my shards together,
And praises the curvature of my body, accentuated by a jacket made of leather.
He believes that he could love me more than anyone else has, and by doing so, he would mend me,
I quietly sigh, close my eyes, and slowly count to three.

I have been here before, and with the same pen, I try to make him see,
My broken pieces are not mean to be picked up by fragile hands, nor by anybody.
He learns this when the sharp sting of glass runs along the tips of his digits,
He realizes that the scars on my fingers were from all the attempts I made when I felt brave and ambitious.
Trust me, I have been there before -- I know how much it hurts, I do not want you to share my pain,
I know that I am a sad girl, but still some happiness remains.
I want to embrace this darkness, my ability to feel emotions so immense,
My dear, there is no need to put your fists up in defense.

I have been here before, and I watch him try to fit the pieces together,
But they are sharp, merciless, and weigh much more than a feather.
They are not a puzzle, they do not even fit me anymore,
But he becomes increasingly frustrated, exclaiming that this is more than he asked for.
I try to make him understand that they do not define me,
I only want them to be a visual for my story, I do not need them to be complete, nor to feel free.
I want him to see my past and my struggles, laid on the table,
Only then he will know how intricately strong the roots are that ground me and keep me stable.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I have been here before, and I don't feel like rhyming anymore,
It took me a long time to understand myself and what I stand for.

The shattered pieces that lay before him are all of the times I've lost a piece of myself;
The innocence that I clung to for so long and had to drop in order to survive and adapt.
The ideologies of supportive families, shattered by abusive alcoholics that no one questioned.
The expectations of loving and supportive friends, broken by betrayal and abandonment.
The life that I once knew, had to leave behind, and the shock that crackled my perspective and forever changed me.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I have been here before, and with the same pen, I try to reassure him,
But he is drowning in my sorrows and has forgotten how to swim.
He feels a need to scare away my demons, and cure what plagues my mind,
He becomes frightened by my pain and wants to protect me, so he covers my eyes.
But my self-destructive nature was never his job to correct,
I try to help him understand that I am grateful, I never meant any disrespect.

I have been here before, and with the same pen, I try prove that I am his equal and that we are the same,
I am not expecting him to be anything more than he is, I am not a helpless dame.
But he feels that it is his duty as a man to complete me, to support me, to give me a reason to smile.
I put down my pen, and and stare into his eyes for a while.

Though I may be broken, I am complete on my own.
The only support I want is holding hands as we walk side by side, not in the form of you carrying me.
Our world is beautiful enough to make me smile, I only want to enjoy it alongside you.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

But, I have been here before, and I have been through all that.
For 24 years actually, so that makes me stronger than you.
I am better equipped and more than capable to deal with certain things on my own,
These pieces are not even a part of me anymore.
My demons do not need to be slain by a knight in shining armor, because they are more scared of me.
They know what I've overcome, and know that I will not take **** from anybody.

I've been here before, and with the same pen, I acknowledge my strength,
I've rebuilt the walls of my wine glass exterior with precise width and length.
I designed them using the knowledge that I have gained from my hardships and where I went wrong,
I shaped and molded them with the experiences that have taught me how to be strong.
And I placed seeds that blossomed when nourished by my own self-determination,
I spent many years adding to my durable and unbreakable flooring and foundation.
I painted the walls crimson red, and hung golden accents on the ceiling,
And laid mats to meditate on when I am hurting and need healing.

I have been here before, and I've created this for myself,
I will invite you in, if you'd like to see it for yourself.
I am strong, I am intelligent, and I hope to be more brave,
But I am a lover and a fighter, so please don't think that I need to be saved.
I want to share this beautiful experience of life with you,
But it is not a journey that you have to carry me through.
We will put on comfortable shoes and make our way together,
And we'll prepare for obstacles, challenges, and unpleasant weather.

I have been here before, and I see that look in his eyes,
The corners of his lips curl down and he feels the need to apologize.
I don't need an apology, or for you to change who you are,
Let's enjoy our time together and have a cigar.
The universe granted us to exist alongside each other, and we have crossed paths for a reason,
So please enjoy the warm weather with me this season.
There are so many beautiful sights out there,
I don't care what we do, or where we go, we can go to Times Square!
As long as I'm by your side, and you love me,
In the most pure, raw, and passionate form, it would make me so happy.
Put on the other headphone in and listen to this song,
I think now that you understand how to better love me, you can do no wrong.
I put my pen down as we listen along,
I dedicate a playlist to him, filled with love songs.

I have been here before, and even though my pen is down,
It seems that I cannot and will not stop expressing love.
lysco Mar 7
I took myself from from city to city
To pursue my dreams as tall as skyscrapers
But with more freedom comes more precaution
And all the safety nets set around couldn’t catch me from the fall

Mom told me to not forget about the top lock of my door at night
Dad said to always tell a friend when I’m heading out
I’ve learned not to ride the subway alone after 5 pm
But I needed someone to tell me that I did the right thing

I navigated my nights through pavements and grids
I found myself in the Upper East side, the streets shifting beneath my feet
Bacardi dictating each of my steps, but making no difference when I danced
I was always told to never trust a back alley, but no one warned me about a dance floor

I stumble my way onto the street, change scattered all over 72nd
I count the pennies like I count sheep, usually I’m out by 30
Hailing a cab, with him right beside me
My head rests on his shoulder along with the thought of good intentions

His apartment had a remarkable view of the skyline, but I can’t look at it the same
The Empire State reminds me of bruises on my thighs and muffled screams
My night faded in and out from flickering kitchen lights and cold linoleum flooring
But the next morning clarity hit
Veiled with excuses
Confusion
Regret
Shame
They say the NYPD are the finest in the world
But I sit in this cold, stale building reflecting on the night before
My mascara still smeared and a rip in my tights

“Is this what you were wearing?”
“How much exactly did you have to drink”
“You agreed to go to his apartment though”
“How often do you go home with strangers?”

My throat is tight
Everything I say is taken and twisted
Eyes glaring at me with low-brows
And the smell of burnt coffee
Trust draining out my body as color drains from my face
I’m ripping through the safety nets, one by one

Unable to take their judgemental gaze, I look up at the ceiling
Answering questions
I think to myself, “Was this moment in a cold police station even worth the fight?”
Was this cry for help from one terrible night worth the trauma they’ve caused from doubt
It’s unbelievable that I would have to rationalize which event was worse

I just needed someone to tell me I did the right thing.

I can’t look at them
I still look up and answer questions
That time spent counting each tile on the ceiling until it was over,
when i should have been counting sheep,
hoping I can wake up and this was just a dream,
but I keep counting…

100, 200, 300..
I hope you get the justice you deserve.

Co-written with Dallas @stoopkid .
Wk kortas Oct 2018
He’d been able, after some gentle persistence,
To wheedle his way into the place
(He’d been vaguely recognized by the caretaker,
A certain affable familiarity his stock in trade, after all)
And he had been decidedly deliberate in his search for the shoes,
Though he’d been quite certain where he’d left them,
Simply hoping to drink this all in just one more time
But though the rooms were ostensibly unchanged
(He'd noted the odd knick-knack and piece of bric-a-brac
Had been secreted out, to be preserved or pawned)
They held no fascination for him now,
Simply concoctions of hardwood flooring,
Decorative wall coverings, staid pieces of furniture
(Indeed, the paterfamilias of this whole mélange
Increasingly beyond his recall-- he could hearken back
To a certain hail-fellow-well-met in his demeanor,
And he'd had an affecting smile,
But he was unable to conjure any further details
From the recesses of his memory)
And with nothing else to moor him to these silent rooms,
He'd slipped on the ostensible reasons he'd come in the first place
(Their uppers maintaining their whiteness
Through any number of bleachings,
The soles worn to a near smoothness)
And, nodding perfunctorily to the mansion's steward,
He slipped away, heading to some other party
Carrying on in more or less perpetuity,
The battered bottoms of his shoes
Leaving just the faintest marks as he crossed the dunes,
Soon to be buffed away altogether by the breeze.
AUTHOR'S NOTE:  For the uninitiated, Ewing Klipspringer was a party-guest-***-squatter who shows up here and there in The Great Gatsby.
chickens still wait for corn
by the door of my granny's kitchen,
where sun once rose with a daughter
in skin of gold, and set with a son,
with silvery dreams

little girls still dance in twilight,
clad in the nakedness of innocence,
their chests bare, where ******* ought to be,
their scarves wild, flowing in the wind
and their voices climb palm trees,
in a bid to beat the boys to their dreams.

little boys form a group of toughlings
flooring the other in smart fast moves,
wrestling for fun, and raising dead dusts,
dusts of their forebears, who warred,
and set boundaries they'd grow up to meet:
and then forget unwritten bro codes,
forge new laws and grow cold,
act brave and grow old...
watch dreams fade into the dark

and the song of wasted years
punctuated with short sighs
shall form a new language
that tumble down our throats, tasting strange,
yet worth the dirge after all

adieu is the song, and
the circle goes on,

life
I don't think people realize how fragile it all is
how it just falls apart when you're looking out of the window at something else
at first you don't realize because it happens bit by bit
you'll get used to it

the culture war looms
it pulls out your skirt on fridays
take me out please
take me where the boys are
you know you want to
it tugs at your sleeves saying
oh you didn't hear what they said about you?
flag wars they sing

truth is a preference
it's true if it feels right
if it doesn't well
it's fake news of course

oh you didn't know non-player character
will you play to win?
because feelings don't care about your facts

you see I was born in 83
in the newly formed islamic republic of iran
three years into the trench warfare that changed the psyche of a nation forever
high on the islamic revolution
full of fury
blood and soil
blood and soil
the hors d'oeuvres of the war
we fled in 88 three months before the war ended
nothing gained nothing fulfilled

I see the absolute worst in people
I watch them and learn much from what they get outraged by and what they don't
it all starts small rooted in a search for meaning a sense of purpose
once this is defined just watch them turn on each other
the other essentially

war needs a dragon
war needs young men to believe
the culture war has always been there
like a monster’s nails casting an ominous shadow
behind the bedroom door tapping away at your mother's vinyl flooring

when people get safe
with fear at bay the tapping dims
but when an immigrant stabs an infidel
or a black man is apparently murdered on video
the tapping gets louder
what is the dream of the foreigner hoping to penetrate the walls of the golden city
to weaken it?
from the russian bot to the isis video slicing brody's neck right before your eyes
it gets at you doesn't it?
doesn't he look like you?
your white knuckles are shaking
yes yes the monster says
I will draw you in

because I'm just a monster living in the hallway
and I'm nothing without you
is what he'll never ever tell you

but it's true
he aims to exaggerate the divisions within your family
to exploit it
to challenge your identity
to play with your emotions
as you've done to them
so you know this game very well
you just don't know the side of the table that will
as in the iran-iraq war both the us and the uk sold arms to both sides
the great game

War is profitable and the opportunity to cash in on it is tempting
people don't have ideas
ideas have people
how fragile at all is

this very society that I cherish that I sought refuge in
my family
the vast base
the stable economy
common law
democracy
if life started in the east
then the reason to be of the west is to carry on the torch
to learn from past mistakes and to be a light unto the world
until our very toes are inching at the pacific with no further to go
will I find myself staring at the window pondering what happened
like so many countless men throughout history have?

how fragile at all this
we won't know until it's taken from us
not by the formless foreigner but by our own very hand that opens the bedroom door
to experience our darkest insides that grows and grows endlessly
until we have nothing else
the monster in the bed now
in all that cold
and all that dark
The bells tolling and gallow stools
Carved by a crisp knife sharpened by a stone flint-shaped among the garden tools
The molded and weak rose like the solid and stolid coveting
The dolorous limelight seekers were sure about the fun settling
The call-in your wake is sure to make you disagree, subversively
Pretentious till it leads me into ruinous states, with each verse
Troubled and telling about the stoic salacious dread, of your *******
The sins and arresting rebels brought you minister and spirit
The apologetic and shrieking in their walls their apologies
Am I the only one, who thinks
They don't change their disposition
Time I'm tearing you up into fragments
My stories are getting caught up in their endings
Caught by the hook of standing on the ceiling, rear-ended
The knee-deep hell, mountain high harp, what the ****!
Reelin' and rockin' in heaven, indeed purgatory calls your bulls and porgies
Greed and corporeal blood and recipe for dreadful disaster, and luck you yammer about out-and-out too
It's in your flesh and bones, ****** vain too
Feels like time is slipping and sliding out of my oval face and hateful hands
The friends you seek to hold you when you're ready?
Blows, busy days, France in its hey-day had some passion rather saints who come marching in
Are you ready to read your death in the newspapers, when your stomach lurches like holes in the air
Or here from storytellers like a burnt legacy, in the papers that herald flying guns and leveraging politics
And hate, rising with the ashes, the education burning blue like a phoenix
Apogee, really, after so many a doubt and clusterfuck of redactions, I'm ready to learn about counted visage among the many faces on a business street
About my attraction to nature and fantastic reality, I'm jumping with joy
But, smaller than the cosmic bubble that keeps us from dying
I can tell no one, this is our one and only time with faded humor
You're breeding and you're dying with famished and frayed daughters of petulant sons believing hilarious rumors
I am dismembered much to my won't, the stentorious frolicking reeks around astute anecdotes of my pain of having a name
Even it's a fake one and adopted by pretty old me
The antidote of all this, love and peace, it must be the end of fashion and integrity
Peace and love cradling the waves wandering in mystery
Walking among the feet of trembling rage hungry for power, our love is just an island, but, not the little flower that just matured
If I engender myself, I will be free from being prematurely always on
Smidges and shakes for the collared contingent of successful women
For the one, surreptitiously resting under the invisible sun, sticking out their necks for none
Smack her flesh across till light turns still
The center light pops in expectation of blue days and flooring her money on her mind
On the reeling hail, tying the wrong laces and pushing wrong buttons
I left the hall crazed and surprisingly fully-dressed
Snake-like heads facing away from each other with their smothering hands around my neck
I unhand my royal touch and my license for the cream-crop
Not sure about my violence and clammy hands, but, my old man didn't like it all that much
Handing the trembling papers of my record for another dispensary
The errands that I have to run, I would recommend this to no one
Watching movie reruns and playing my new dreams in my trailer park, every time she was the one
Tea and teeming, brink and livid feeling, reelin' with the great high upstart
Cosmopolitans and Neapolitans, I'm probably going play to Jupiter jazz for another meridian of Earth
Red rain splaying like the sand Andalusian like, waving my hands care-free, only to slam my self down easily
Into another speakeasy with a wake-up call and nightcap, dusk till dawn
The day seems brighter and the sun scintillating like the queenie-eyes on the resting sunshine on the iridescent soil
Ecstasy open miles ahead, the eyes lay in peace and capacious lamps full of soul food and meals
Like lamps and little lintels, the coruscating fire makes the colors of the day seem much more real
The tears in Heaven are adjusted for a place in my salvation
Vitriolic, but, mellifluous in it's surmise, you're sure about the music you're hearing
Crouching upon old times like washed memories
Or is it the waters of the ocean afar from snake-like repellent waves of the oceanic dreams
The snake passes by, in the time of your lifeless soul
You were just pacing yourself, the motto is "Always look your prime and best"
They are your true reflection, this is the one and only reflective surface I will attest to, lest I sound sanctimonious
Bo vine and in vino veritas, you're ecstatic about auriferous objects
Sheep and tipping civilization with the conquest of the times, and the same sundial from Eratosthenes that made citadels
The conquest of Troy is any different from the present oligarchy
Librarian of Alexandria, and the Trojan horse of cursed hands mixed with the opportunity
A couplet for a couple of composite numbers is enough to tempt the prime number
In showing up in your  classes brimming with achievers, some students among them
Eratosthenes' sieve is diligent work on simplicity, so yes, whoever reads this, the wake-up call is not a snake bite
This is Stoicism, and poetry is stoic writing cannot be duplicated
The moral could be looking at hopeless dreams, helplessly
Just passing by without shedding any of it on your probity
A gnomon is the part of a sundial that casts a shadow. The term is used for a variety of purposes in mathematics and other fields.

— The End —