"follicle" poems
I want a beard like Chris's beard
But I can't even grow hair on my chest
This may sound strange if not a bit weird
That I have a Chris beard full on man crush
I swear I'm not gay, why I'm even straighter than straight
You can call my house and ask my wife
She'll tell you I'm out back juggling chainsaws all day
And other manly things I do with my life
But with hair on my face there's not the slightest trace
Not a follicle will you even find
But with Chris's beard I think that it's clear
That sucker could grow over night
So yes, I want a beard like Chris's beard
And that is the straight up fact Jack
Cause with a beard like Chris's manly beard
I wouldn't have to put up with anyone's crap
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 10:12 PM UTC
I live so shyly it could be
taken as an apology but
it is only simply that
I seek to walk gently
As I live where thick
forest grow deep within
a hidden society places
you will never know.
I am a gentle giant the
King of the jungle a great
power house, walking
softly and slowly.
As you look into my eyes
rivers and waves will
channel and flow
between us.
I sit so still in the jungle
resting so deeply the world
is centered around me.
No human, monster or
giant cat could ever disturb
me my heart strong and enormous.
I am a fortress great castle made
of stone as many softly creep
past me.
I bear my chest a treasure chest
a temple for my heart.
As I open my inflated chest
puffing out my heart I breath
my love into this world.
Always holding a perfect space
for my a green house for
my family to grow.
I have the wisdom of many elders,
the strength strong men and the
touch of a gentle baby child.
Covered in warm soft fur we
hold each other within the
lightest kindest touch.
We know a gentleness can
only be built on enormous
power and strength.
As I am born to hold cherish
and protect as you will see
in my eyes I cradle my
family within my heart.
As an amplified love burst
through my chest I feel every
follicle of hair search to
express.
Although never anger me
never threaten my family
as I will drown you out
like thunder.
I will be all the storm clouds
of your life turning your day
into night as I shatter your
world with rain.
I will grow like KING KONG
curse and dominate your day,
you will wish you never
crossed me.
I am the beating heart of my
family as they all beat inside
of me so maybe no giant is
ever bigger than me.
Don't throw your lies at me
as they will bounce of my
silver chest as I do know my way.
I can be your worst nightmare
the softest mother and the
gentlest grand father.
And all the love in my chest
passes through my skin as
though it was paper thin.
I feel the jungle grow all
around me as I pour my
love into my family.
Give it to me, for all the world
all I want is to love my baby
and I will be so happy.
Living within a pool of amplified
love that turns brighter jungle a
electric field green.
As I really love my family
be careful with their sensitivity
as all their love sponsors me.
But be gentle and I will love
you like my family
as I am the
GREAT GORILLA
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 7:59 PM UTC
Doubt
So easy to say.
So hard to get past.
I've always had a little bit of it reflected inwardly because I've never been able to attain the appearance I wanted. I've never been quite thin enough. My hair has never been quite long enough. My skin never quite clear enough. And because of this its caused me to doubt other areas. If I can't get in peak physical shape, what makes me think I can become financially independent? Get a good job? Start my own business? If I can't control something as simple as a complexion, hair follicle or calorie, how do I think I can take on the outside world?
It's the doubt that eats you.
It's the doubt that tucks you into your grave with the could haves because you cancelled yourself out.
You're problem is not in your thighs or uneven eyebrows. Your problem is you think they're your problem.
Stop taking yourself out.
You are worthy.
You are so. worth. loving.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 11:28 PM UTC
You are not original
You are not unique
There is nothing special about you
You are every step taken
By every sole
Of every shoe
In the history of shoes
You are every vein
On every maple leaf
That has ever fallen
And every one that has
Grown as replacement
Everything
Everything
You are every joke
You are every stroke
Of every painbrush
Every pencil
Every pen
Every primitive crayon
Against a cave wall
You are every sightless
Creature in every cave
You are every speck of dust
Stuck to every speck of dust
In the cosmos
You are every diaphragm
Contraction
Of every laugh ever laughed
You are every
Perverted thought
In every brain,
You are every measurement
Of time
Of weight
Of temperature
Of character
You are every pressure wave
From every pair
Of clapped hands
You are every pigment
In every premature obituary
You are every hair follicle
On every bison
You are every decision
God or bad
Or wise or naive
You are every influence
Every force
Every imagined deity
Every word ever spoken
Every word you are reading
You are every sunset
On every satellite
Of every star
You are every villain
Every success story
Every tragedy
Every spark that has
Birthed a flame
You are every set
Of rolled eyes
Every kernel
On every ear of corn
Every oxidation
Every drop of alcohol
Ever consumed
You are heaven
You are every molecule of water
In every hot spring
Every strum
Of every guitar
Ever played
You are condensation
You are every witch trial
You are every frown
Every school of skipjacks
Every byte of data
On every hard drive
You are every meadowlark
You are every broken arm
From every fall
Off a bicycle
You are the way Autumn smells
The way he looks at you
The way she makes you smile
The way earthworms
Escape the mud
when it rains
You are every passing car
Every glimmer of hope
Every plane crash
Every time math fails
Every swift defeat
You are everything ugly
And everything beautiful
You are nothing
You are everything
Everything you've done
Has been done before you
You are every paradox
You are beautiful when you sleep
You are me
We are nothing.
Everything,
Everything.
We are everything
We're not.
We are nothing we are.
The snow has fallen,
Terrible is the sound.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 10:53 PM UTC
the presence of your breath
down the nape of my neck
goosebumps
encaptivate fields of epithelium
ravaging my integumentary system
follicle by follicle
the touch of your lips
color my cheeks
like the red of holi
marking every cell
every junction
as conquered territory
the gaze of your eyes
occipital lobes, is it?
strip me naked
without a touch
simple introspection
I really can't get enough of this anatomy
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 11:40 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
As the Protagonist expects
*** as a pretext
Baffles intellects
In an election context
So it’s no mystery
That he does this ya see
When ancient history
Can be so blistery
Given the nomenclature
Of its prurient nature
Clearly I would hate to
Be forced to debate you
But the Protagonist
Has long been doing this
Although he gets me ******
He doesn’t feel remiss
As long as he’s untoward
He won’t fall on his sword
And you can rest assured
That the past won’t be ignored
In any given broadcast
He can be put on blast
Because if one chose to ask
They'd learn about his past
Right down to his hair follicle
The man is diabolical
And also quite methodical
What I’m saying is he’s horrible
Like excrement stuck on a shoe
He’s nasty and it’s also true
Like a bowl of witches brew
He’s impossible to misconstrue
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2016. All rights reserved.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 1:59 PM UTC
I have been born in this skin,
and have loved it wholeheartedly.
I've watched it grow, and play,
nurturing it, neglecting it. I know
my shaking knees do not smile,
the sweat on my palms do not taste sweet.
I know the sent of my body; every follicle
of hair which grows wild,
soft and familiar, like the forests of home.
I love the wrinkles, and dimples,
the great mass of my flesh.
My fingers play across it
as a child would trace her fingers over
the body of a lake, or the frost
on windows during a cool morning.
I speak in tongues, in dreams, and images
that no other could hope to know.
I walk my mind in summer afternoons,
and nights on a lonely beaches.
I imagine,
ugly and silly,
stupid and witty,
wonderful, fanciful,
and frightening blurrs;
and they are all beautiful,
and they are all my own.
I love myself, even when I am unfair
even when I am wrong, and selfish, and angry.
Even when I wish to rip at myself
until I’m a harmless mass
of calcium and iron.
Even when I heave under the scale of things
so much larger than this, so much darker and older
and deeper than this,
there is a voice in my heart that says:
no.
You are a daughter of dying stars
and You are stronger than the trees you love
and You are not perfect
and I love You.
and I forgive You.
my shaking knees do not smile,
the sweat on my palms do not taste sweet.
So tell me stranger,
what do you know of loving me?
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 11:17 PM UTC
curling red & white post outside a barbershop
entices me to enter for a shave.
i put the follicle-filled lather in a bag & express-post it
to a friend.
*(she collects **** like that.)*
i estimate the date of arrival to be
2 days 5 hours from current.
(will it get there/in time for her to use in in that exhibit?)
Jul 4, 2011
Jul 4, 2011 at 6:43 AM UTC
soft larch needles I sniff wish thin dangling larch twigs hold
raindrops christ & pagan wrapped to tinsel autumn light
has projected Borrowdale’s matter a work crafts growth I
peer at a twig’s knuckles a needle’s green edge a tiny globe
dissolving landscape Borrowdale is a mass of details full
a vastness of minuscule high resolution beauty immense
numbers of bits of leaf-frames pebbles daddylongleg claws
for an instant I spread let a moment explode as I climb
through woods by crags every detail of me follicle bone-cell
grease shatters or slicks amongst Borrowdale’s infinite
tiny details one of my gasps stretches wetly with the beck
others entwine with white fibres of gills unravelling gravity
the calcium atoms of my teeth jumble along drystone walls
moss green-gleaming my meal of Herdwick meat passes
through my gut whilst Borrowdale’s details digest my soul
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 8:20 AM UTC
Words can't express the emptiness that is hopelessness. It's something that you wouldn't wish upon your worst enemy's worst enemy.
Wait, your worst enemy's worst enemy would probably be a really good friend to have. Then you could sit around together and plot ways to **** with your common enemy's head.
Like sneaking into their house every day and emptying all the bottles of shampoo. Not the conditioner. Not the body wash or shower gel. Just the shampoo. Every day. Every bottle. No matter how many bottles they buy to replace the ones you've wasted. All the shampoo gone. Just gone. Every day.
Try and imagine what lengths they would go to trying to find out what happened to all the **** shampoo. Four empty bottles sitting right where they'd been placed when they were full, now without a drop of hope of being able to wash, rinse, and repeat.
No hope of being able to lather up and wash away the built-up residue of the day's grimy, polluted, filth infested air breathed out by the uncaring populous that attached itself from the follicle to the unsplit end of every perfectly thick and just right wavy hair on your worst enemy's head.
Maybe they'll lose sleep over it and then have dark rings around the bulbous bags under their usually twinkling and happy hazel eyes for a day or two. All the time just wondering what in the hell happened to all the **** shampoo.
Anyway, if you can't find the words to express hopelessness, at least maybe you can find someone with a common enemy to sit around with and think of ways to try and fill the emptiness.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 10:56 PM UTC
I pull the covers of tonight across our skin
A blanket of stars upstaged by your eyes
Every hair follicle awakened with the movement of your lips
Tenderness in gentle dream
The smell of the midsummer nights breeze
The palm of my hand to the warmth of your chest, I press
And leave the shooting-star for another
Who needs the hope of its wish
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 3:14 PM UTC
Why can’t these lines liberate
or conflagrate, remonstrate
or set me straight like
like they had in the
midnight hour
That may never have happened?
I saw you in a dream,
with no torso upon your legs
and I cried myself awake
unable to remember what you said
minutes after the doctors ascertained
all those swollen lumps had spread.
Like a pen could sort the difference,
pin my quiet words, or even listen
to the high-speed pileup of a listless mind:
pull my teeth and ask me one more time
What has more power than insistence?
Because your hair had once insisted that
even a dive can hold a rhythm,
and every follicle leapt from your head, lying
“We are the makers of our decisions.”
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 5:49 AM UTC
I am your eyelids and the train-tracks of your stitches. I am the cracks in your bones and the wealthy mind riches. I am the fluid of your language that speaks in every sentence of your prose, I am the syllable you cannot speak though your tongue still knows. I am the chapel of your rib cage and the rage that it slows, closing the gates to the crosses in rows. I am the dirt under your cuticle and the follicle of your skin, sprouting a thread of your body within. I am the anxiety of your brain and the ecstasy of your flesh, crawling at the sense that you attain and possess. I am your lost baby teeth and the way that they chatter, I am the neurons, the synapses, the white and grey matter. I am your saliva burning caverns in the cave of your time. I am the line of your lips and the lungs you call, "mine." I am your soul, your secrecy, your sanctity. Your spine.
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 3:58 PM UTC
Mercurial, or: the way your eyes look
When the curtains are drawn and we are the only ones in the room
Merc/your/ial, rather, more explains the way your eyes are hot jazz
Do you choose what you see, baby blue?
Do you run your fingers, like a comb, through each follicle, until you choose one
To wrap your fingers around and call home?
Mer/cure/ial, instead, I feel you in one, hot flash.
Zip-snip and farewell to trousers, baby.
The other men spoke soprano sax but
My mind shifts its way towards you
Because you are all blues and tourmaline and mercury-eyes,
And whoever said the roaring 20s was anything other than this?
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 5:40 AM UTC
My mirror's broken.
I want a new one with You've Made It
spelled in lights across the top.
I want the holograms
of tiny clapping hands inlaid
along its sides -
applauding when I give the nod.
I'd like a slight distortion, looking
younger, better kept ideally;
so I see me but
with all this potential in repose.
It should say I Love You somehow -
any time, whatever state,
for simply being there.
I would stare and I would stare
from follicle to freckle, plotting
every facet of the features
glaring back at
mine, mine, mine. I want
to share myself with something.
Let me care completely
for some imperfect reflection.
My mirror isn't cracked or
anything like that it's just I can't
quite catch the little twitches
twinkling my eye.
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 7:30 PM UTC
Ever found that one hair on your sweater
And think about how things could be better
Holding it up to the the sun to see the color
You know whose it is because there was no other
Rhyming along to hide the feeling
And the internal struggle you continue dealing
With the memories and time we shared
All from finding that single strand of hair
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 4:46 PM UTC
there is a hole in my tooth
but there is bigger one in my soul.
i will lay my head against my pillow again
longing, pleading that every breathing
wouldn't expand the hole within me.
every joke i have to ***** out of me
every laugh i have to hurt my ribs to execute
every smile i have to crack my skin to present
because they are only there when you're happy.
my academics will yell at me for marking it so slow
but how can i listen to the lectures
when the voices inside my head are louder than my teacher?
each moment of my life
i am accompanied with a screaming will to live, asking for its life
and i will realize that i'm the only one who is killing it.
it is difficult to help yourself
when your own murderer is you.
i will hate every moment
when i have to be alone
because alone means silence
and i can hear them more
i tug my hair hoping that with every pulled follicle
will vanish the ghost that lives in me.
it is hard to feel okay with people
when it is programmed in your brain
that every person has their bad side
and you are its trigger.
my world has completely turned black & white
no grey, no hue, nothing in between.
and here comes another day of
right first before left,
closing your stomach before it inflates,
joining the hateful voices in your head
i am my own murderer
and i will not cry until i drown myself in the ocean of my own pain.
Nov 19, 2016
Nov 19, 2016 at 4:11 AM UTC
in pealing season, she is a girl of lousy ingrowth
she is an unkempt corner; kitchen sink. legs pulled like knives. phone call her curled tendons; isolation in
grit and fibril
she is women with wings. this is how we stymie the rapunzel. we carve the ugly into her. we teach her to wear skin like saran. skin like punishment
cut-coin the rumpelstiltskin. how she is wound and string, paper-doll; bird-in-a-box
how we wring the juice of her on washcloth. hung upturned from the ceiling fang; plucked and feathered
like apology. cherry-picked; veins like mikado. how it is dark and she is blind-bat wind-warriors; waterboarded with no hands
upturning the paper boats of her in every follicle; how the flipswitch insecurity eats her like pickle. in a storm
she is neither nor tongue nor limb
just breast, bone, the weight of mirrors
how we jettison when the grief is heavy. abandon. thick, empty abandon.
alone in grit-cusps when the monsoon has eaten into the white, wispy mortuary. dark in hallways; yet pale and slender. she is beautiful.
we lift her ribbed corpse off the shoreline.
we unload the offering like red carpet;
this is how we wrap her in white and weary-eyed
translucent. how unavoidable we become when we are the last hope. crippled. when we look hope in the eye. askance. how she will beg you to look at her with the heart in the honey-jar; torso in tourniquet
how the walls are ripped in shades of askance. how we look away.
how us, walls, look away.
how, us, walls, askance.
how we drip of askance; how the pink flesh and cherry-limb slips like matchstick on brushfire
how there is purple and primrose and bruise
there are some spots on the floor where it still reeks purple and yellow and bruise
how we are
lousy
ingrowth
here. how we
try
to
pluck
and erase
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 8:33 AM UTC
my hair's getting long, love
about as long as you would have liked
long enough to pull and squeeze
when we shared our kaleidoscopic bliss at night
people i haven't seen in a while
all have something to say
"hey man, i didn't know that was you!" they joked
last night as i set up my gear on stage
i'm glad you asked me to grow it, my fallen love
it's getting to the perfect length;
long enough to make me invisible
but long enough to give me strength
you see i always wanted to be a ninja
wear the ponytail of a samurai
i always thought it would just be cool
but last night i discovered why:
so i can be invisible to your love, my dear
like a ninja in the night
my hair will guide me right past you
without getting caught in the light
i'll slip right through your fingers
as my hair would slip through yours
using every new millimeter of every follicle
to remind me how long I can be strong for
the next time i see you, sweet dream
you won't even recognize me, i pray
i can only hope my heart won't be made of stone,
and just maybe
you'll be in the mood to talk to strangers that day
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 11:59 AM UTC
*Give me cigarettes, give me chocolate
I like it Joe...*
My soles rested on this cotton-white candy land
Unsure if it was the cold touch of these featherbeds
Or the flakes of hesitation that brought chills
Into my clueless mind
*Give me cigarettes, give me chocolate
I like it Joe...*
This 1945 song played over and over in my head
As if it helped lessen the shame and discomfort
That was traveling from the tip of my toe
To each in every active follicle of my hair
Ah, I savored the strange moment that it was
Of what I considered triumph. Strange,
That I even felt achieved in this strange land
When the real war of time and belief is yet to come
I wore Chinchilla coats over my dignity
Yet to me, every stride was irrelevant
An account for differences, even partiality
The Dr Pepper in my hand seemed out of place or was I?
The white backdrop where I was standing
Only served to amplify my striking shade
And how fool I was to even think
That the landlords would consider me germane?
Who was I to even presume acceptance
When their own predilection as old as time still lives?
Is it perfidiousness to long a taste of a miracle
In the land of dreams?
*Give me cigarettes, give me chocolate
I like it Joe...*
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 8:15 PM UTC
My mother would have told you I came in the dead of winter, on the coldest night of the year, and hit like a storm, if she had remembered it.
But she hadn't.
Asleep for several more months before my heartbeat would wake her from her deep sleep, I was born screaming.
Overwhelmingly solitary they called us. But your voice sounded like raspberries and honey, you smelled like summertime and love, I couldn't tell the difference between the two anymore.
Our cousins in Asia tell us this kind of infatuation is unheard of, say I must be going mad. The Northern family say I need someone to keep me warm at night, and I knew it had to be you. Mother said I was a late bloomer, six years into my life until I could love you the right way, I was tired of destroying all the things I touched, with more claw then palm.
I would swim oceans for you, over the coldest currents, paw over paw until my body sand. I would eat a diet of creatures one' one thousandth my size for you, all year long if it meant making you mine. When I thought I couldn't have you, I waded, restlessly to my stone swaddled basin and slept for so long when I awoke I swore months had past.
I would shed every inch of skin, every single hair follicle, 9,677 per square inch, make myself naked, for you.
But you left. Almost as soon as you came. Like a thief in the night, far away for far too long. But you said you wern't the type to mate for life. But I've expanded my rage, a 60 mile radius around the length of my home, and I'm waiting for you.
You'll be mine again.
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC