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Danielle Shorr Apr 2014
You don't realize how fragile life is
Until you attend a funeral
And finally understand
Why everyone is crying
You don't realize how fragile life is
Until you realize that
They're never coming back
You don't realize how fragile life is
Until you hear the word cancer
Come from the mouth
Of a loved one
You don't realize how fragile life is
Until you hear it
Multiple times
You don't realize how fragile life is
Until you find yourself praying
To a god you never even believed in Yet hope with all of your heart, exists
You don't realize how fragile life is
Until they say
"there's nothing more we can do for them"
You dont realize how fragile life is
Until someone you know
Tries to take their own
You don't realize how fragile life is
Until someone succeeds
You dont realize how fragile life is
Until someone makes a mistake
And it's permanent
You dont realize how fragile life is
Until drugs
Have claimed another one of your friends lives
You don't realize how fragile life is
Until you're holding your breath
At doctors appointments
Hoping your tests came back alright
You dont realize how fragile life is
Until you come close to losing it
You don't realize how fragile life is
Until you've ever felt
Like it's not worth the fight
You dont realize how fragile life is
Until you've contemplated death
You dont realize how fragile life is
In fact
You might never
Because you truly don't understand
How fragile life is
Until you truly learn
To live.
Achick Jul 8
I am a fragile woman. I am a fragile woman. I am a fragile woman. I am a fragile woman. I am a fragile woman. I am a fragile woman. I am a fragile woman. I am a frI AMagile woman.I am a fragile woman. I am a fragile woman. I am a fragile woman. I am a fragile woman. I am a fragile woman. I am a fragile woman. I am a fragile woman. I am a fragile woman.I have to act like a lady. I have to act like a lady. I have to act like a lady. I have to act like a lady. I have to act like a lady. I have to acSTRONGERt like a lady. I have to act like a lady. I have to act like a lady. I have to act like a lady. I have to act like a lady. I have to act like a lady. I have to act like a lady. I am compliant. I am compliant. I am compliant. I am compliant.I am compliant.I am compliant. I am compliant. I am compliant. I am compliant. I am compliant.THAN AI am compliant. I am compliant.I am compliant. I am compliant. I am compliant. I am compliant. I am compliant. I know my place. I know my place. I know my place. I know my place. I know my place. I know my place. I know my place. I kFORCEnow my place. I know my place. I know my place. I know my place. I know my place. I know my place. I know my place. I am nothing without you. I am nothing without you. I am nothing without you. I am nothing without you. I am nothing without you.OF NATUREI am nothing without you. I am nothing without you. I am nothing without you. I am nothing without you. I am nothing without you. I am nothing without you. I am nothing without you.
Expectations of my past life. Inside my expectations I found my courage to survive.
I couldn't get it the exact way i saw it in my mind, but I'm okay with how this turned out. couldn't get the volcano effect i wanted. Thats why i changed the title to hidden messages
Kyle John Somer Oct 2012
We are all so very fragile.
Our sun kissed porcelain faces
are freckled with Achilles heel fault lines and chipped paint.
Shining through to our nervous nervous system and our tendency to over think things.
We hide so much inside of us.
Behind dance less masquerades
Our bodies held together only by cages of ivory bones
cages that cradle the thin winged heart beats of our chest
nervous moths stumbling around inside
knocking books off of shelves and
eating the sweaters that we use to keep our hearts from freezing over.

The autumn wind is cold like sad glaciers
and it's easy to break down at times like these.
Our bones ache and shriek like boiling tea kettles.
Making it hard not to shatter.

We are all so fragile.
Burnt out light bulb fragile.
Frozen lake fragile.
Defibrillated heartbeat fragile.
We are broken branch fragile
chronic alcoholics sobriety fragile.
The middles school girls reaction to the word “fat” fragile
We are the kind of fragile that set off big bangs.
We are, paranoid breakable.
And its got to the point where
we have begun taping up our light leak vulnerabilities
with perceptions of perfection and thoughts of rejection
spending our time in dark rooms as our minds just keep reeling
and trying to shut off feelings and unwind
but we have been over exposed to such ****.
To slides and slides of negative negatives

we used to burst apart with so much light.

but the sun isn't shining honest, the night sky is black
and its raining in all the wrong ways.
We're out of season.
sewing up the holes in our personality
with floods of insecurities and droughts of identity.
damning what matters.

****, its hard to know what matters.

But I am still trying to figure that one out
And the moths are still here
as the pendulum clocks keep ticking
eating the sweaters that we used
to keep our hearts from freezing over.

But we are freezing to the core.
The atoms inside of us splinting into half lives;
we haven't even lived half of our lives
yet we feel so ancient.
The dust piles growing on our slanted bookshelves shoulders
Our bright idea light bulbs flickering,
getting covered up by snowdrifts.

We are gas giants wrapping ourselves into open space darkness
hiding from the bright side of the moon.
Like a black cat superstition we are running from our own precondition
of lying about being ourselves
We pull dark black-hole hoods over our eyes
wincing at the light trails of shooting stars
though we, too, want to be brilliant.
We try to orbit the sun hoping that humanity is a symphony;
that being popular and having the most friends is what matters.
and we can be where the grass is always greener by fitting in and by being mirrors
Even though not being yourself is nauseating.

We can be nauseating, we can be mirrors.

Because we are scared that if we don't
hide who we really are
we may end up like Pluto.
Ostracized for existing.
floating around in space having stare downs with wormholes
A shivering rock entity with a complete loss of identity.

We already are so lost.
Our souls waning and waxing
Rocking back and forth
on wood beams and porches.
like an ADD moonbeam rocking chair.

But now its time to stop in one place and readjust our backbones.

Because I know that we are fragile, I know that.
I know that its hard filling in the cracks that have found their way down our back-stabbed spines
we all have our histories with being dropped and rejected.
But we weren't made to be cardboard box people,
packing tape and labels wrapped in all of the wrong places.
we are boxes full of wormholes into other dimensions
we are full of life and blood and bones,
full of oceans and stardust and daggers
There is so much more to us than our brown paper complexions.
So climb out of those kangaroo pouch caves that you have called home for the last few years
There's no need hiding anymore.
You can be safe in your own skin.
You can climb the Himalayas and scream out as many lightning rods as you want
we will all be listening as you burst apart into thunder claps.
As you bleed yourself into infinity

So, dim the lights

Throw your self at the world
and crash like waves into existence
you are perfect when you are yourself.
Grab that porcelain off of your face
and let your smile super nova fracture into a cosmic grin of constellations.

People will look up to you and be inspired.
A cardboard box rookie sprawled out in the stars.
Lighting up all of our faces with E.T. fingertips.
No longer hiding being reflective eclipses
There's only one person who can tell you who you are.
Only you can speak for yourself.

I know that your fragile
I know that.

We all are..,
Abeja Reina Jan 2017
we are not fragile, together we would have been super heroes
we are not fragile, together we could have taken on the world
we are not fragile, together we could have soared to new heights
we are not fragile, together we could have had what all would envy
we are not fragile, together we could have been the unbreakable
we are not fragile, together we could have lasted through the ages
we are not fragile, together we could have held each other up in pride
we are not fragile, together we could have shown all what love is

we are not fragile, together no one could have stopped us ever...
By: B. Peterson
tzvi lindeman May 2017
Trump sat in his tower, supreme in every way
Whatever he wanted, he only had to say
The President to the press corps, of him, one day made fun
I’m gonna replace you bud, when your term is done

He started his campaign, they said he was a joke
But he became popular with all the common folk
The stuff that he spouted, was more and more absurd
But the stupid morons, swallowed his every word

He’s a Super Callous Fragile Racist Sexist **** Potus
Even though the sound of it is really quite atrocious
Maybe we could change him, if we tried hypnosis
He’s a Super Callous Fragile Racist Sexist **** Potus

There's no such thing as climate change, everything is fine
Burning coal and shale oil is perfectly divine
Those lefty enviornmentalists love to yell and shout
(making lots of money is what I'm all about)

The Mexicans are gonna pay when I build the wall
And I’ll lock you up Clinton, guaranteed next fall
No one could believe it, when the count was done
The blonde haired, orange faced, nitwit, actually had won

He’s a Super Callous Fragile Racist Sexist **** Potus
Even though the sound of it is really quite atrocious
Maybe we could change him, if we tried hypnosis
He’s a Super Callous Fragile Racist Sexist **** Potus

It’s just that he was used to, always getting his way
He signed executive orders, on his very first day
The Judges over ruled him, and put him in his place
They threw the executive orders, right back in his face

He’s having lot’s of problems, with the phoney press
And though he tweets daily, it’s still causing distress
If he bombed the Syrians, maybe it would make amends
But all he succeeded in doing, was ******* his Russian friends

He’s a Super Callous Fragile Racist Sexist **** Potus
Even though the sound of it is really quite atrocious
Maybe we could change him, if we tried hypnosis
He’s a Super Callous Fragile Racist Sexist **** Potus

The FBI investigate, so he fired their chief
The replacement just carried on, Trump got no relief
Congress is thinking, let's put Trump against the wall
Pence is in the wings, just waiting for their call

He’s a Super Callous Fragile Racist Sexist **** Potus
Even though the sound of it is really quite atrocious
Maybe we could change him, if we tried hypnosis
He’s a Super Callous Fragile Racist Sexist **** Potus
My Cousin got a T-Shirt that said "I won't abide a super callous fragile rascist sexist **** POTUS" and I thought that would make a great poem! (POTUS stands for President Of The United States for all those not in the know)
Amanda Welch Sep 2010
Fragile handle with care.
I have animosity towards the moon.
You look upon it with such a warm heart.
If only you could see that it was apart...of me.
The cosmic stars are pieces of my soul that I have sent out
I chose them to hang iridescently high because I do not think you could handle them.
I do not think that you could care for them the way the moon, which you look so fondly upon, does.
I use then darkness as a shield to hide from you who I am.
Who I really am
If you were to peel back the layers of the sky...the atmosphere which I have built to protect me you may see...
A soul that although reigns a good 6 feet tall actually feels as though she is only good enough to ride the kiddy rides at Disneyland.
If you were to listen to what the moon has to say as it phases with the ever changing days you would hear....
I speak loudly because no one listens, even when I am screaming, so just to be heard I say loud obscured things, I don’t mean all the time.
If you were to know what the nocturnal think about when they emerge from their daytime slumbers you would know...
That even though I truly know how things will happen and how my life go I cannot help but to make up scenarios in my head that would rival even the greatest love story.
And if by some way you were to know what the dark is truly like...
You would know what it is like to be me every minute of everyday.
I am the dark...I am fragile. I can be shattered by just the mere presence of a bright light. I am quite and I know the secrets of the world. I can be your greatest companion or the one you can’t rid your life of fast enough. I can be the optimism for a new day or the reminicing of the best day fleeting.
I AM the stars.
I AM the moon.
I AM the silence.
I AM the grey.
I AM fragile like the owl.
Or silent like the shooting star.
I fall just as hard and just as fast but then I am going going gone.
I am just as fragile as the light of the moon.
I am just as fragile. I am just as fragile. I am just as fragile, But if you feel the need to shine your flood light and erase me.
Please let me know first so I can tell dawn to come a little faster so I don’t have to see you **** me with your own bare hands.
© Virginia Penn Poems 2010
peter oram Dec 2011
AMBIGRAM VIII

Recto:

Yesterday was Christmas, and the days
already start to grow a little longer.
In our hand, the new year‘s fledgling, stronger
though more fragile too in many ways

than this bedraggled, aging crow, its song a
a sad, repeated phrase among the blackened
trees along a river. So sit back and
raise your glasses to it, do the conga,

auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And black and
white explode, a throng of rainbows—gaze!
You‘ll see it, wakened in  the morning haze,
ascending as the tethering s?tring is slackened:

Verso:

Yesterday was Christmas, and
the days already start to grow
a little longer. In our hand,

the new year‘s fledgling, stronger  though
more fragile too in many ways
than this bedraggled, aging crow,

its song a sad, repeated phrase
among the blackened trees along a
river. So sit back and raise

your glasses to it, do the conga,
auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And
And black and white explode, a throng of

rainbows—gaze! You‘ll see it, wakened
in the morning haze, ascend-
ing as the tethering string is slackened.






















































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AMBIGRAM
­
Recto:

Yesterday was Christmas, and the days
already start to grow a little longer.
In our hand, the new year‘s fledgling, stronger
though more fragile too in many ways

than this bedraggled, aging crow, its song a
a sad, repeated phrase among the blackened
trees along a river. So sit back and
raise your glasses to it, do the conga,

auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And black and
white explode, a throng of rainbows—gaze!
You‘ll see it, wakened in  the morning haze,
ascending as the tethering s?tring is slackened:

Verso:

Yesterday was Christmas, and
the days already start to grow
a little longer. In our hand,

the new year‘s fledgling, stronger  though
more fragile too in many ways
than this bedraggled, aging crow,

its song a sad, repeated phrase
among the blackened trees along a
river. So sit back and raise

your glasses to it, do the conga,
auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And
And black and white explode, a throng of

rainbows—gaze! You‘ll see it, wakened
in the morning haze, ascend-
ing as the tethering string is slackened.






















































­
































































­
































































­
































































­































































A­MBIGRAM

Recto:

Yesterday was Christmas, and the days
already start to grow a little longer.
In our hand, the new year‘s fledgling, stronger
though more fragile too in many ways

than this bedraggled, aging crow, its song a
a sad, repeated phrase among the blackened
trees along a river. So sit back and
raise your glasses to it, do the conga,

auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And black and
white explode, a throng of rainbows—gaze!
You‘ll see it, wakened in  the morning haze,
ascending as the tethering s?tring is slackened:

Verso:

Yesterday was Christmas, and
the days already start to grow
a little longer. In our hand,

the new year‘s fledgling, stronger  though
more fragile too in many ways
than this bedraggled, aging crow,

its song a sad, repeated phrase
among the blackened trees along a
river. So sit back and raise

your glasses to it, do the conga,
auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And
And black and white explode, a throng of

rainbows—gaze! You‘ll see it, wakened
in the morning haze, ascend-
ing as the tethering string is slackened.






















































­
































































­
































































­
































































­
































































­
































































­
































































­



























































AMBIG­RAM

Recto:

Yesterday was Christmas, and the days
already start to grow a little longer.
In our hand, the new year‘s fledgling, stronger
though more fragile too in many ways

than this bedraggled, aging crow, its song a
a sad, repeated phrase among the blackened
trees along a river. So sit back and
raise your glasses to it, do the conga,

auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And black and
white explode, a throng of rainbows—gaze!
You‘ll see it, wakened in  the morning haze,
ascending as the tethering s?tring is slackened:

Verso:

Yesterday was Christmas, and
the days already start to grow
a little longer. In our hand,

the new year‘s fledgling, stronger  though
more fragile too in many ways
than this bedraggled, aging crow,

its song a sad, repeated phrase
among the blackened trees along a
river. So sit back and raise

your glasses to it, do the conga,
auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And
And black and white explode, a throng of

rainbows—gaze! You‘ll see it, wakened
in the morning haze, ascend-
ing as the tethering string is slackened.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2019
again, madness!

one eye tears, why must you return to the old familiar,
the poets prescribed, already so well covered?

why?

must. it is the only shade of my voice that persists,
all else vanity.
these are words handily eye-read, given.
all I need do is “repeat after me” somewhat well,
and fill in the blanks.
<>

he writes me, in another place, to another name, describing himself:

“I'm a charming man with a fragile patience.”

no sir, Muses order me to disagree,
you are a fragile man with a charming patience!

your fragility is a royal hallmark, embedded in every scribing,
this human indentation, always well hidden, on the underside of the wine cup, the base of the candlesticks, the inside of the wedding ring of your tying allegiance to the humbled humanity.

the charming patience is the wait time tween your visions of
the excellence of the common, the exquisites of the small,
the delights of loss and pain translated into mercurial milestones,
poems.

here I cease, for overly long praise is a river too long, no end in sight,
making great and wide just another poem.
<>

But!
he writes me, in another place, to another name, describing himself,
yet again:

”A thousand poems I don't write, but they get written
in my heart.


A thousand!
ours is the patience fragile, your innate screen that filters out

these thousand forbidden unwritten,
needs a cleaning, open the tiny apertures and release them, for we are the humans needing, for the breathing of your fragile charm.

<>
the Muses do thee attend.
their patience neither charming or fragile,
reminding me, they too have a thousand.

a thousand other ears into which to whisper that
imperative imperial command,
and they river no delay...
the days has come when I can only write of others, this is the only shade of my voices that survives.
Aisling May 2016
I never thought of fragile as an insult until I saw the way you spat it through clenched teeth
"God you're so ******* fragile"
hissing barbed wire insults like they'd cut your tongue if you held them in any longer
before, I thought of fragile as the ultimate compliment
a sign that my concave stomach was home to fingerprint bruises
that you were afraid to hold me too tight lest I break
but then I heard it dripping slow dark molasses off your tongue
coating every syllable with thick syrupy tar

it didn't make sense to me that your voice,
petal soft and pitched for laughter
accustomed to slurring my name on dizzy nicotine breaths and over crackling long distance calls
could wrap its fingers around my lifeline and
crush it
until long after I chose to stop being your answering machine sounding board yes man lap dog

you never cared about my hollow birdlike bones or the blooming violet footsteps beneath my eyes
you said I was too ******* fragile
that my eyes were leaky taps and you had no plumbing experience
that my heart was a pincushion voodoo doll and you didn't know how to protect its satin softness from daily wear and tear
I got hurt too easily and playing tag with someone else's insecurities isn't fun

I never thought of fragile as an insult until you choked it out from behind your own iron voice box
and I realised it wasn't so much an insult as a burden
now there is leather binding forming around my cotton stuffed heart
and I'm doing my best to tighten the valves in my tear ducts
I'm still fragile
But it's not your job to hold me together anymore
I've been bitter about this comment for 4 years so it's such a ******* relief to get over it. I'm better without you.
Lena Waters Jan 2016
Isn't every life
                 Fragile?
Isn't all love
                  Fragile?
Aren't we all
                  Fragile?

And as we're all
                  Fragile,
If hope is so
                  Fragile,
Then how do we
                Survive?
For Jo Morris, who I thought would like this.
Judy Klein Oct 2013
Love is so fragile and precious which some take for granted ,
They do not realize what they have, they need not look any further,
because love is so fragile and precious,
What they needed they already have,
Love is the the wind, the trees the leafs how the seasons turns.
Learning how to love is a two way street, two lanes going into one,
What a beautiful site when love is truly shown woven like yarn.
I'm in love with love,the sweet fragrance, the feeling, the touch,
Love is so fragile and precious, it has given me so much.
It's like expensive china treat it with passion like a clock with no alarm
Do not treat it with pain as the china will shatter with a touch,
Oh Love is so fragile
You can hold on to your heart and it's up to us how we weave the yarn,
The yarn is a symbol of the stitches, crossing, weaving one piece on top of another,
Two become one and a beautiful heart is stitched together.
It's like expensive perfume, a fragrance of beauty,
A piece of exquisite fine Art that was done with the deepest talent.
Oh love is so Fragile.
finished
Lavina Akari Jul 2013
you are fragile
and the boy in the year above you calls you fat
and the girl in the row behind says you look like a rat
and you sit and think about it for a few minutes
minutes turn to hours, hours turn to days
and soon you've lost track of the last time you ate
and soon you've become obsessed with your weight
you forgot what colour your skin used to be
because your arms are covered in red lines
and you cry all the time

you are fragile
and the girl in the hospital bed groans
she is short and she is thin,
skin and bones
this girl is you
and there is only one thing you need to do
but again, all you can do is cry
all you hear the doctor do is sigh
you hear the boy in the year above has died
drunk with a car, an upsetting fate
and the girl in the row behinds period is late
when was the last time you ate?

you are fragile
and the man in the street smiles
he stares for a while
he soaks up any sadness
laughs at your jokes
you are happy -
madness
you remember what colour your skin was
and the last time you ate
because he has fixed you

*you are not fragile
Classy J Aug 2019
Fragile ties keep us together.
Standing on glass.
Thinking we’re stable.

Fragile hearts broken.
Lies coursing in our veins.
That’s what we get,
For surrounding ourselves with snakes.
Thought we had what it takes.
Turns out we didn’t.
Two people burdened by weights and expectations.
Had too much baggage.
So, we shouldn’t be surprised that our love plummeted.
Yet here we are.
In a hole.
Dug by our own hubris.
Fiddlesticks.
I hate being stuck in this toxic relationship.

Fragile ties keep us together.
Standing on glass.
Thinking we’re stable.

Tumbling down the hill.
Like jack and Jill.
Tumbling off the wall.
Like Humpty Dumpty.
Love as broken as those egg shells.
We can’t ever be put back together again.

Tumbling down the hill.
Like jack and Jill.
Tumbling off the wall.
Like Humpty Dumpty.
Love as broken as those egg shells.
We can’t ever be put back together again.

Fragile ties keep us together.
Standing on glass.
Thinking we’re stable.

Both being Cain’s.
To each other’s Able’s.
Fragile beings.
Not meant to be.
Hearts dried up like the desert.
Hearts fed up and bitter.  
It’s a wonder how these...

Fragile ties keep us together.
As we’re standing on glass.
Thinking we’re stable
Colleen Reilly May 2017
It’s fragile.
You shouldn’t drop something that can easily be broken.

The glass heart sits on the empty shelve,
Waiting.
And as time goes by the shine it once possessed,
Was gone.

With dust covering it,
it waits.

Waits for the one soul who’ll wipe away the dust,
And bring back the shine.

So the fragile glass heart,
On that empty shelve,
Waits for its pair.

Time flies and the heart is still waiting.
Dust continues to spread,
Hope begins to fall,
And loneliness consumes that once beautiful,
Fragile Glass Heart.
It’s sad how something once so admired can be so alone.

But that well known phrase,
“One mans trash, is another man's treasure.”
Shows to be true.

The hearts waiting comes to a stop,
When one other lonely soul ventures into the unknown.
He notices the Fragile Glass Heart,
and with the heart in hand he journeys home.

He cleans the dust,
Places it on a new shelve,
With other hearts.
And that Lonely Fragile Glass Heart,
Doesn’t feel so alone.
D-Quinn Dec 2013
Life is so fragile, like you and I.

The whisper of a cold wind blows in from the north and whips across your face,
destroying every brittle layer of protection you've placed
and sending waves of emotion cascading down your cheeks.

The heat of a murmur laced with hatred, deceit
or anger, uncertainty, a lack of faith and jab at your insecurities
or any one of a number of terrible things scalds the tender patches of your body
and leaves you weeping, leaves you with no means to regain what has burned away.
So you just burn away, piece by beautiful piece.

The tiny ***** of a prolonged stare breaches each of your mental boundaries
and sends your mind careening and whirling and spinning out of reality,
turning the security of your mind into a pit of despair.
And the lack of eyes of that care is enough to keep you down where you have fallen.

Eventually, even the gentle touch of a careful hand is enough to break you down.
You can't discern the difference between a cold whisper and a warm embrace,
can't see the line between a scalding murmur and something of a sweeter taste.
There is no division between a glare of judgement and a loving gaze,
not to you, not when you're so misused, so misunderstood, so misplaced.

Even a caress of such reverent certainty evokes too much emotion from you
and you find yourself drowning in an overflowing tub of
everything you never asked for but managed to receive anyway.
I reach in and pull you out of the water. I try to press it from your lungs.
But I cannot undo for you what you've already done.

Even the kiss of a compliment against your ear has become too much to take.
I see your body crumpling underneath its weight
and find you lacerated by your own reaction.
I could kiss the scars that mar you, my friend,
but I can never kiss your skin smooth again.

Even the silence becomes too loud to bear as it seems to scream
with a softness that, somehow, is so very deafening to you.
The contradicting voice in your head is a menace that renders you delirious
and you imagine yourself hanging from the rope of your life's experience,
looking down at your own body from a third person point of view.

Life is so fragile and, yet, so capable of crushing the breath from our lungs.
How frail we are, so much so that we begin to emanate an air of transparency,
and that's how we get lost in the rush of it all.
That's how we get forgotten, and neglected,
and that's how we find death at our sides with a hand placed possessively on our shoulders.
And we don't survive. We don't regain control or figure it all out. We just die.

Because life is fragile, so very fragile, like you and I.
This is a poem about realization, about loving someone who struggles with depression or anxiety or low self-esteem or a body image issues or any ******* thing ever at all and not being able to save them. It's about witnessing every incident, about watching them experience every stage right up until the end. When you lose someone, even if they don't die, you realize how fragile life really is and how little it can take to ****** it away from a fragile mind.
Jerry Apr 2019
“When an injured athlete urge a comeback to field for love of game, his vulnerability toward previous muscle wound hinder his mental ability to go on with a full swing. Though, same rule implicate for people who hold bleeding pen to draw alphabetic emotions”

Yesterday I met one of those fragile birds. She carry fractured pen fingers under her beautiful skin, has curious eyes with strange shyness and a touched heart. The pursue of selflove somehow quelled her creative charm. I never expected to encounter someone so likeminded. She put away her pen to avoid emotions, identically similar reason made me quit this so-called ability which once lured bunch of close friends and many others who never knew the face behind these emotionally colored pages...

Wish I could feel her feathers and let her touch my scars, but her shivering Fragile Soul stopped me to become a...
‘Bad Boy She Craves For...’
Overwhelmed Mar 2011
life is
like
a fragile
glass

it is intrinsic:
beautiful even
more on the
inside

it is valuable:
more for it’s
purpose than
its looks
alone

it is sacred:
something
that only a few
ever really
appreciate

life is
like
a fragile
glass

something whose value
is greatest
after years of refinement
and growth
but as each day
goes on
in its fragile,
oh so fragile,
existence
the chance of its breaking
grows as greatly
as the cost of
losing
it
Kayla Flanders Jan 2018
she was not fragile like a snowflake.
she was fragile like a bomb.
and i didn't know which was scarier-
                                                        ­  her explosion or her calm.
part 2
thund3r-bird Oct 2014
you said you'd never ever break
down
but here i am sweeping pieces off of the
ground
you said you'd never ever play
to crowds
but i've seen you hoping to play songs
to them now

i've spent all night long
scared of tomorrow
broke my alarm
everything is almost lost
pick it up slow before
its gone

we're fragile
(wish i'd have known)
i never thought i'd be so fragile
(you're not alone)
if it didn't break before its about to
(we've been here before)
i don't ever want to change
i'm fragile
i don't ever. . .
This is some of my favorite lyrics from Tech N9ne's song *fragile*
jeffrey robin Feb 2013
Young
Fragile

Like Wind is fragile
Like She ,too,
Emerging

Softly Slowly

Like Water
Is fragile
Moving

From hills
Thru valleys
Toward the sea

Is fragile

Evaporating
Returning
Emerging

Rain
We
Move
Up and down streets
---
What are we to do?
What are we to do
'Til we know what to do?

Simple creatures
Moving
Reigning
Evaporating

Fragiley
howard brace Feb 2012
Inconspicuous, his presence noted only by the obscurity and the ever growing number of spent cigarette stubs that littered the ground.  It had been a long day and the rain, relentless in its tenacity had little intention of stopping, baleful clouds still  hung heavy, dominating the lateness of the afternoon sky, a rain laden skyline broken only by smoke filled chimney pots and the tangled snarl of corroded television aerials.

     The once busy street was fast emptying now, the lure of shop windows no longer enticed the casual browser as local traders closed their premises to the oncoming night, solitary lampposts curved hazily into the distance, casting little more than insipid pools mirrored in the gutter below, only the occasional stranger scurrying home on a bleak, rain swept afternoon, the hurried slap of wet leather soles on the pavement, the sightless umbrellas, the infrequent rumble of a half filled bus, hell-bent on its way to oblivion.

     In the near distance as the working day ended, a sudden emergence of factory workers told Beamish it was 5-o'clock, most would be hurrying home to a hot meal, while others, for a quick drink perhaps before making the same old sorry excuse... for Jack, the greasy spoon would be closing about now, denying him the comfort of a badly needed cuppa' and stale cheese sandwich.  A subtle legacy of lunchtime fish and chips still lingered in the air, Jack's stomach rumbled, there was little chance of a fish supper for Beamish tonight, it protested again... louder.

     From beneath the eaves of the building opposite several pigeons broke cover, startled by the rattle as a shopkeeper struggled to close the canvas awning above his shop window.  Narrowly missing Beamish they flew anxiously over the rooftops, memories of the blitz sprang to mind as Jack stepped smartly to one side, he stamped his feet... it dashed a little of the weather from his raincoat, just as the rain dashed a little of the pigeons' anxiety from the pavement... the day couldn't get much worse if it tried.  Shielding his face, Jack struck the Ronson one more time and cupped the freshly lit cigarette between his hands, it was the only source of heat to be had that day... and still it rained.

     'By Appointment to Certain Personages...' the letter heading rang out loudly... 'Jack Beamish ~ Private Investigator...' a throat choking mouthful by any stretch of the imagination, thought Jack and shot every vestige of credulity plummeting straight through the office window and amidst a fanfare of trumpet voluntary, nominate itself for a prodigious award in the New Year Honours list.   Having formally served in a professional capacity for a well known purveyor of pickled condiments, who  incidentally, brandished the same patronage emblazoned upon their extensive range of relish as the one Jack had more recently purloined from them... a paid commission no less, which by Jack's certain understanding had made him, albeit fleeting in nature, a professional consultant of said company... and consequently, if they could flaunt the auspicious emblem, then according to Jack's infallible logic, so could Jack.  

     The recently appropriated letterhead possessed certain distinction... in much the same way, Jack reasoned, that a blank piece of paper did not... and whereas correspondence bearing the heading 'By Appointment' may not exactly strike terror into the hearts of man... unlike a really strong pickled onion, it nevertheless made people think twice before playing him for the fool, which sadly, Jack had to concede, they still invariably did... and he would often catch them wagging an accusing finger or two in his direction with such platitudes as... "watch where you put your foot", they'd whisper, "that Jack's a right Shamus...", and when you'd misplaced your footing as many times as Jack had, then he reasoned, that by default the celebrated Shamus must have landed himself in more piles of indiscretion than he would readily care to admit, but that wouldn't be quite accurate either, in Jack's line of work it was the malefactor that actually dropped him in them more often than not.

     A cold shiver suddenly ran down his spine, another quickly followed as a spurt of icy water from a broken rain spout spattered across the back of his neck, he grimaced... Jack's expression spoke volumes as he took one final pull from his half soaked cigarette and flicked it, amid an eruption of sparks against the adjacent brick wall.  Sinking further into the shadow he tipped his fedora against the oncoming rain, then, digging both hands deep within his pockets, he huddled behind the upturned collar of his gabardine... watching.

     It was times such as these when Jack's mind would slip back, in much the same way you might slip back on a discarded banana peel, when a matter of some consequence, or in particular this case the pavement, would suddenly leap up from behind and give the back of Jack's head a resoundingly good slapping and tell him to "stop loafing around in office hours... or else", then drag him, albeit kicking and screaming back into the 20th century.  This intellectual assault and battery re-focused Jack's mind wonderfully as he whiled away the long weary hours until his next cigarette; cup of tea, or the last bus home, his capacity to endure such mind boggling tedium called for nothing less than sheer ******-mindedness and very little else... Beamish had long suspected that he possessed all the necessary qualifications.  

     Jack had come a long way since the early days, it had been a long haul but he'd finally arrived there in the end... and managed to pick up quite a few ***** looks along the way.  Whilst he was with the Police Constabulary... and it was only fair to stress the word 'with', as opposed to the word 'in'... although the more Jack considered, he had been 'with' the arresting officer, held 'in' the local Bridewell... detained at Her Majesties pleasure while assisting the boys in blue with their enquiries over a minor infringement of some local by-law that currently had quite slipped his mind at that moment.  Throughout this enforced leisure period he'd managed to read the entire abridged editions of Kilroy and other expansive works of graffiti exhibited in what passed locally as the next best thing to the Tate Gallery, whereupon it hadn't taken Jack very long to realise that it was always a good place to start if you wanted free breakfast, in fact the weeks bill of fare was tastefully displayed in vivid, polychromatic colour on the wall opposite... you just had to be au-fait with braille.
                            
     No matter how industrious Beamish laboured to rake the dirt there always appeared to be a dire shortage of gullible clients for Jack to squeeze, what would roughly translate as an honest crust out of, and although his financial retainer was highly competitive he understood that potential clients found it bewildering when grappling with the unplumbed depths of his monthly expense account, which would tend to fluctuate with the same unpredictability as the British weather, the rest of Jack's agenda revolved around a little shady moonlighting... in fact he'd happily consider anything to offset the remotest possibility of financial delinquency... short of extortion... which by the strangest twist was the very word prospective clients would cry while Jack beavered around the office with dust-pan and brush sweeping any concerns they may have had frantically under the carpet regarding all culpability of his extra-curricular monthly stipend... and they should remain assured at all times... as they dug deep and fished for their cheque books, and simply look upon it as kneading dough, which eerily enough was exactly the thick wedge of buttered granary that Jack had every intention of carving.

     Were there ever the slightest possibility that a day could be so utterly wretched, then today was that day, Jack felt a certain empathy as he merged with his surroundings... at one with nature as it were.  The rain, a timpani on the metal dustbin lids, by the side of which Beamish had taken up vigil, also taking up vigil and in search of a morsel was the stray mongrel, this was the third time now that he'd returned, the same apprehensive wag, yet still the same hopeful look of expectation in his eyes, a brief but friendly companion who paid more attention to Jack's left trouser leg than anything that could be had from nosing around the dustbins that day... some days you're the dog, scowled Beamish as he shook his trouser leg... and some days the lamppost, Jack's foot swung out playfully, keeping his new friend's incontinence at a safe distance, feigning indignance  the scruffy mongrel shook himself defiantly from nose to tail, a distinct odour of wet dog filled the air as an abundance of spent rainwater flew in all directions.   Pricking one ear he looked accusingly at Jack before turning and snuffled off, his nose resolutely to the pavement and diligently, picking out the few diluted scents still remaining, the poor little stalwart renewed its search for scraps, or making his way perhaps to some dry seclusion known only to itself.
  
     Two hours later and... SPLOSH, a puddle poured itself through the front door of the nearest Public House... SPLOSH, the puddle squelched over to the payphone... SPLOSH, then, fumbling for small change dialled and pressed button 'A'..., then button 'B'... then started all over again amid a flurry of precipitation... SPLASH.  The puddle floundered to the bar and ordered itself a drink, then ebbed back to the payphone again... the local taxi company doggedly refused to answer... finally, wallowing over to the window the puddle drifted up against a warm radiator amidst a cloud of humidity and came to rest... flotsam, cast upon the shore of contentment, the puddle sighed contentedly... the Landlady watched this anomaly... suspiciously.

     The puddle's finely tuned perception soon got to grips with the unhurried banter and muffled gossip drifting along the bar, having little else to loose, other than what could still be wrung from his clothing... Beamish, working on the principle that a little eavesdropping was his stock-in-trade engaged instinct into overdrive and casually rippled in their general direction...  They were clearly regulars by the way one of them belched in a well rehearsed, taken-a-back sort of way as Jack took stock of the situation and was now at some pains to ingratiate himself into their exclusive midst and attempt several friendly, yet relevant questions pertinent to his enquiries... all of which were skillfully deflected with more than friendly, yet totally irrelevant answers pertinent to theirs'... and would Jack care for a game of dominoes', they enquired... if so, would he be good enough to pay the refundable deposit, as by common consent it just so happened to be his turn...  Jack graciously declined this generous offer, as the obliging Landlady, just as graciously, cancelled the one shilling returnable deposit from the cash register, such was the flow of light conversation that evening... they didn't call him Lucky Jack for nothing... discouraged, Beamish turned back to the bar and reached for his glass... to which one of his recent companions, and yet again just as graciously, had taken the trouble to drink for him... the Landlady gave Jack a knowing look, Beamish returned the heartfelt sentiment and ordered one more pint.

     From the licenced premises opposite, a myriad of jostling customers plied through the door, business was picking up... the sudden influx of punters rapidly persuaded Beamish to retire from the bar and find a vacant table.  Sitting, he removed several discarded crisp packets from the centre of the table only to discover a freshly vacated ashtray below... by sleight of hand Jack's Ronson appeared... as he lit the cigarette the fragile smoke curled blue as it rose... influenced by subtle caprice, it joined others and formed a horizontal curtain dividing the room, a delicate, undulating layer held between two conflicting forces.

     The possibility of a free drink soon attracted the attention of a local bar fly, who, hovering in the near vicinity promptly landed in Jack's beer, Beamish declined this generous offer as being far too nutritious and with the corner of yesterdays beer mat, flipped the offending organism from the top of his glass, carefully inspecting his drink for debris as he did so.

     A sudden draught and clip of stiletto heels as the side door opened caused Beamish to turn as a double shadow slipped discreetly into the friendly Snug... a little adulterous intimacy on an otherwise cheerless evening.  The faceless man, concealed beneath a fedora and the upturned collar of his overcoat, the surreptitious lady friend, decked out in damp cony, cheap perfume and a surfeit of bling proclaimed a not too infrequent assignation, he'd seen it all before... the over attentive manner and the band of white, Sun-starved skin recently hidden behind a now absent wedding token, ordinarily it was the sort of assignment Jack didn't much care for... the discreet tail, the candid snapshot through half drawn curtains... and the all too familiar steak tartare... for the all too familiar black eye.

     To the untrained eye, the prospect of Jack's long anticipated supper was rapidly dwindling, when it suddenly focused with renewed vigour upon the contents of a pickled egg jar he'd observed earlier that evening, lurking on the back counter, his enthusiasm swiftly diminished however as the belching customer procured the final two specimens from the jar and proceeded to demolish them.  Who, Jack reflected, after being stood out in the rain all day, had egg all over his face now... and who, he reflected deeper, still had an empty stomach.  Disillusioned, Jack tipped back his glass and considered a further sortie with the taxicab company.

     "FIVE-BOB"!!! Jack screamed... you could have shredded the air with a cheese grater... hurtling into the kerb like a fairground attraction came flying past the chequered flag at a record breaking 99 in Jack's top 100 most not wanted list of things to do that day... and that the cabby should think himself fortunate they weren't both stretched flat on a marble slab, "exploding tyres" Jack spluttered, dribbling down his chin, were enough to give anyone a coronary... further broadsides of neurotic ambiance filled the cab as the driver, miffed at the prospect of missing snooker night out with the lads, considered charging extra for the additional space Jack's profanity was taking...

     And what part of 'Drive-Carefully', fumed Beamish, did the cabby simply not understand, that pavements were there to be bypassed, 'Nay Circumvented', preferably on the left... and not veered into, wildly on the front axle... an eerie premonition of 'jemais-vu' perched and ready to strike like a disembodied Jiminy Cricket on Jack's left shoulder, looking to stick its own two-penny worth in at the 'Standing-Room-Only' arrangements in the overcrowded cab... and at what further point, Jack shrieked, eyes leaping from his head as he lurched forward, shaking his fist through the sliding glass partition, had the cabbie failed to grasp the importance of the word 'Steering-Wheel...' someone wanted horse whipping, and as far as Beamish was concerned the sole contender was the cab driver...

     In having a somewhat sedate and unruffled disposition it had fallen to Beamish... as befalls all great leaders in times of adversity, to single handedly take the bull by the horns, so to speak and at great personal cost, alert the unwary passing motorist...  Waving his arms about like a man possessed whilst performing acrobatic evolutions in the centre of the road as the cabby changed the wheel came whizzing around the corner at a back breaking 98 on Jack's ever growing list... and why, Jack puzzled, why had they all lowered their side windows and gestured back at him in semaphore..?  Rallying to its aid, Jack's head and shoulders now joined his shaking fist through the sliding glass partition and into the cabby's face, "Who" Beamish screeched with renewed vigour ,"Who Was The Man", Jack wanted to know... *"a
a thing most new complete fragile intense,
which wholly trembling memory undertakes
—your kiss,the little pushings of flesh,makes
my body sorry when the minute moon
is a remarkable splinter in the quick
of twilight
            ….or if sunsets utters one
unhurried muscled huge chromatic
fist skilfully modeling silence
—to feel how through the stopped entire day
horribly and seriously thrills
the moment of enthusiastic space
is a little wonderful, and say
Perhaps her body touched me;and to face
suddenly the lighted living hills
Ironatmosphere May 2015
She looked so fragile
A porcelain doll
Fragile but beautiful with protruding bones
Sadness colored her brown eyes blue
As her heart struggled to beat another beat or two
gray rain Feb 2017
Masculinity is fragile
A mask to hide the brokenness of the soul which lies beneath.
The strength that you're supposed to have but was just out of reach.

Masculinity is fragile
You have to pretend to be strong
The cracks are forming on your skin waiting to be fixed with the tears you have to hold on.

Masculinity is fragile
Because it's like glass in you're hands that you hold so tight it shatters.
Then you have to pickup the pieces and look at the broken reflection of yourself.
Everyone has a breaking point it's just harder to accept when you're expected to be strong.
IcySky Jun 2015
Trust you!?!?
Trust you!?!?
How do you expect me,
to trust you after everything?

Trust is a fragile thing,
and when you lose my trust,
it's hard to get back...
How can I trust you?

Trust you...pshh
You don't even know
the meaning of the word.
Trust you

You have not a clue,
do you?
Of what it takes to keep,
nay, earn back trust.

My heart is *not
a toy,
that can be replaced.
It's fragile, and should not be broken.
But yet... you have.

Trust you?
I can't...
No way...
No how...

See what you have done?
*My Trust is gone!
Robert C Howard Dec 2013
Above the caldera at Yellowstone,
a brittle soil-rock crust
caps a lake of liquid fire
with only fumaroles and roiling geysers
to slake its upward ******.

A single heedless step is enough
to breech that mantle's fragile seal -
spelling death by fire
to any hapless soul
who fails to guard his steps.

Fragile calderas also roil
buried in dark crevices of our psyches -
brewed of failures, slights and fears
dissolved in fiery pools
of self-consuming misery.

To dress and salve our wounded souls
we plant fertile gardens of reconciliation
with beauty, trust and charity
and kneel to gods of grace and solace.

But a despot’s practiced eye
knows how to tap our fragile crusts,
releasing acrid lava flows
from pools where fear and rage reign hot,
and reason has no district.

Friends and siblings - my flesh and kin,
this world is ours to lose or save
so let us seal well our Sacred Calderas
from bitter foes that stalk us from within.

July, 2006, revised December, 2014, 2015 and 2018
Robert Charles Howard
Tana Young Jun 2013
She has very high walls

And they are made of sadness

What a firm foundation

What a fragile heart she has

Then she met him

His happiness made her feel something

She has only felt very few times

trust

She has very short walls

And they are made of trust

What a firm foundation

Oh and how he makes her

feel

A feel she has never felt

“I love you” he said

And what a smile came to her face

One that has never fell upon her face

What a fragile heart she has

He didn’t know any better

He couldn’t even start to comprehend

What a fragile heart she has

What a fragile heart she had

What a firm foundation

She had
Tommy Johnson Dec 2013
You can hear the voices of our peers being silenced, ignored, shunned and distorted.
Staggering out of their bedroom doorways to the street corner to score a dime bag.
Bright, insightful millennials freezing in search of warmth from something to believe in that will encourage them to look forward to see another day.
Where our economy has made financial prudence clear when talking about education, yet price tags of university tuition's skyrocket.
The refused, the ones with hope but no money or scholarships; tread the streets with the echoes of electro house pulsing in their skulls.
Those who strip themselves down and shred their own morals to scraps just to find themselves and to see their own limitations.
Searching for answers to the unknown, to ascertain what they are, who they are and why.
Timid in high school, pushed along with nothing and no one to put their creative vigor into.
The squeakiest wheels that were never even considered to be given a good greasing.
Faculties giving them lethargic hellos on the first day of school, bestowing celebrated goodbyes to them on graduation day, diplomas in hand.
Now are the ones slumped over in a lackadaisical position contemplating how they can afford an education.
They work eight to ten at seven twenty five an hour Monday to Friday; and weekends staying in as not to blow their earnings.
Those who commute to university and balance a job with it, I applaud you.
The bewilderment of adulthood, the overabundance of pressure and responsibility.
Awakened from nightmares of lost opportunities, missed trains and lost contacts.
To step out of bed and splash water onto a severely distressed face and staring into a mirror with a despairing look.
Then hoping a bus to Garfield to bring back weight for all the embryonic smokers not yet at the point of make or break, just save up enough to pave my own way.
Gazing at the town on a roof top, chugging down the tenth…no…twelfth beer of the night wondering how this all happened.
Wild sensations of kissing an attractive stranger, the rush of touching on things never felt, tasting pleasures only the lucky have known.
The passionate, yet dissolute yearning for that ever eluding ******* adrenaline. Pounding, Pounding, Pounding until the culmination of energy has come.
Flip sided to those dizzying, tear jerking thoughts of suicide, annihilation of ones being, the contradictions of their faith in themselves and the people around them.
Unexplainable waves of anxiety crashing onto the shore of a diminutive island of optimism
Striving to look past the panic, the gloominess and fury that may or may not be present. But to remain composed and press forward to what awaits them.
Coffee keeps them going. Cup after cup, late night cramming every bit they can; into their caffeine driven psyches until the indisputable crash and failure.
Packs and packs of menthol cigarettes to calm their rattling nerves but at the same time killing them slowly. Their lives will seem shorter than the time it took to finish one bogey when death is near.
Marijuana induced ventures to run down burger shacks, laughing hysterical in the car ride, eyes heavy with a most ridiculous elastic grin extending from ear to ear. While inside millions of thoughts and realizations of consciously simple speculations and troubles become clear and unproblematic. So the joy is mirrored outside in.
LSD trips in Petruska dancing and singing in the rain! Making music, making love; playing pretend and creating art. Becoming a family while kicking back under the warmth of an illuminated tree on a cool fall night.
MDMA streaming through the body, everything is as it should be
Beautiful, lovely to touch, wondrous to stroke, marvelous to move.
To contact and connect, converse and converge with the dwelling desire to share what you feel with everyone for it would be selfish and unpleasant to keep it in.
Mushrooms oh the emotional overflow I need not say more but ****.
Then there are over the counter candies, Oxycontin, ******, Adderall and Xanax, painkillers and antidepressants. Ups, downs, side ways and backwards.
Selling addiction and dependency legally to kids. Making heroine, ******* and speed easily obtainable to them. Changing the names and giving out prescriptions so the parents can feel like they're actually helping their children but are subconsciously making it easier on themselves because they cannot handle the way their offsprings actually are. Some parents a feel it is the only way, I wish it wasn't so. Becoming zombies, mindless addicts before they even start to mature into puberty. I've seen it, firsthand front row.
Oh, the monotonous, mundane rituals and agendas of our lives. School, work, sleep eat, the sluggish schedules and repetitions of yesterday's conversations and redundancy of itineraries we had plotted months prior.
Same people, the constant faces of boredom that groan in apathy and hold the fear of complacency.
We talk about how hum drum out lives have become and what we could to put some color in our world but don’t.
We speak of how unfair the system is but ultimately confuse ourselves and everyone else due to lack or organization and dedication so nothing is changed.
We speak of breath taking women we want to share ****** fantasies with but can’t even muster enough courage to send a trivial friend request.
Texting away for hours trying to court those who now occupy our minds and possess our hearts hoping they may allow us to acquire their attention and affection. Calling them only to receive futile dial tones and know we are being evaded.
Weeping on and on for seemingly endless time frames of a dilapidated relationship that was so strained that a miniscule breeze could cause it to collapse but still clinging to every memory as if they were vital hieroglyphics depicting your very essence.
Brilliant theories blurted out in a drunken stupor.
Ingenious hypothesis shrouded in marijuana smoked out room.
Remembrance of friends long gone.
The marines, the navy.
The casualties of drug addiction.
The conquerors or their afflictions.
The scholars.
The insane locked away on the flight deck never to be seen again.
Teenage mothers unsure of themselves, abandoned by their families for they believe that they brought fictional shame upon the family’s name. The fate of the child is unclear but the mother’s everlasting love shines through any obscurities in its way.
Dear mother of the new born winter’s moon may the aura of life protect you and your baby.
The father gone without a trace.
He will never know his daughter.
And it will haunt him forever.
Parents bringing up their kids with values and morals, The Holy Bible, mantras and meditation, the Holy Quran, The Bhagavad Gita, and Upanishads. Islamic anecdotes and Jewish parables.
The names all different
The message the same
The stories unlike
Goals equivalent
Faith
Kabala, Scientology and Wicca
Amish and Mormons
All separate paths that intertwine and runoff each other then pool into the plateau of eternal life.
But do we have faith in our country, our government?
They do not have faith in us. Cameras on every street corner, FBI agents stalking social media, recordings of our personal lives and police brutality. 4th amendment where have you gone?
We say farewell to Oresko the last veteran of the last great war. And revisit the Arab spring, Al-Assad’s soldiers opening fire on innocent protesters, one hundred fifteen thousand lay dead. Bin laden dead, Hussein hanged, Gaddafi receiving every ounce of his comeuppance. War, terrorism, the fear of being attacked or is it an excuse to secure our nation's investments across the sea? Throwing trillions of dollars to keep the ****** machine cranking away, taxes, pensions, credit scores, insurance and annuities all cogs in the convoluted contraptions plight.
My dear friend contemplates this every night laying in bed, fetal position; the anxiety if having to be a part of this.
Falling apart on the inside but on the outside, an Adonis, *******, Casanova wanna be. Who worshiped the almighty dollar, gripping it so tightly until it made change, drank until he had his fill falling face first into the snow. The guy who lead on legions of clueless girls wearing their hearts on their sleeves not knowing he had a girlfriend the entire time. Arranging secret meetings in hidden gardens, streaking into the early morning. Driving to Ewing in his yellow Mustang to woo a sado masochistic girl. The chains and whips do nothing to him he is already numbed by the thrill. Then he comes home, lays in bed until one, with no job and having people pay for his meals.
He knows what he does and who he is wrong. He recites and regurgitates excuses endlessly. He cries because he knows he is weak, he knows he must fix himself. I sit on the edge of myself with my fingers crossed hoping maybe, maybe he will set himself straight.
My chum who can talk his way out of any confrontation and into a woman’s *******. Multitudes of amorous affairs in backrooms, backseats, front rows of movies theaters. Selfish, boastful and ignorant, yet woman fling themselves at him like catapulted boulders over a medieval battle field just to say hello. These girls blind to see what going on, for their eyes were taken by low self esteem. A need to be accepted, to feel wanted even only for fifteen minutes. Poor self image, daddy issues, anorexic razor blade slicing sirens screaming on about counted calories and social status. Their uncontrollable mental breakdowns and emotional collapse. Their uncles who ***** them, their parents who split up and confusing their definition of love and loyalty for the rest of their lives. Broken homes, domestic abuse and raised voices, sending jolts of fright into the young girl’s fragile minds. I send my sorrows to you ladies, to see such beautiful creatures suffer then be used and thrown away with the ****** that was just ****** deep into their *****.
Then I see women and men of marvelous stature, romantic in the streets holding everyone and everything in high regards. Finding beauty in anything and anyone. Enjoying every second as if the rapture was over head eating exotic foods from unheard of countries and cultures. Bouncing to the sound of whimsical , reverb ricochets and sense stimulating music. Huffing inspiration to create something out of thin air. Dancing to retired jazz and swing albums as if no time had past since their conception. Wearing bold colors and patterns, thrifty leather shoes or suede.
Dawning pre-owned blazers because why spend hundreds of dollars on new clothes just to look good but feel uncomfortable with a hole in your pocket. Dressing up but dressing down, so class yet urban I love it, chinos, pea coats and flannels so simple but chic.
At night they go to underground dens, sweaty bodies, loud music and freedom. Expressive manifestations glowing fueled with MDMA and other substances to further their enjoyment of the dark glorious occasion. Kandi kids sporting colorful bracelets, not watches for time is of no concern to them, they have all eternity they know that.
Going to book stores, coffee shops just to have some peace of mind and a moment of silence to themselves so that can weave the tapestry of imaginative innovation. Writing their own versions of the same story, endless doors of perception, reading news papers and taking it with a grain of salt. Watching the news on TV with a hand full of salt. Searching for the real story so they can know if the world they all live in is actually safe.
She who made her own way breaking hearts, rolling blunts and making deals. The flower child of the modern age, left the rainy days in search of radiant sunshine, idealistic. Reality was subjective, purple dyed hair, multicolored sweater with sandals on her feet. A ten inch bowl with bud from California packed in tightly. Coming from Dumont to Bergenfeild then on to Philly to Mount Vernon. Off to Astoria and the Heights. Now to Sweden laying in the grassy plains below the mountains. Good for you my friend whom I have loved, may fortunes of unsullied joy come to you and all you meet.
Since you’ve left I have encountered drunken burly firemen just trying to have a good time. Pounding down Pabst Blue Ribbon as if it were water; as if it were good tasting beer. But heroes none the less.
EMT's, young eighteen years old high school graduates, saving lives reviving people who are a mere inch close to death.
Sport stars getting scholarships thanks to their superior skills and strength.
Striking beauty school students who are into making the people of this world a little bit more beautiful on the outside.
All these people, successful, doing things. Departing to their desired destinations. I see inside them, they carry baggage, loneliness and insecurities. I can feel their guilt slowing them down. All have their loads but it’s the way they carry them that shows who they really are. And to me their all gems.
Not far in Paterson I watch the junkies limping across busy winding street, perusing a severely needed fix. “Diesel!” they shout beneath flickering streetlights, asking for spare change and if bold enough a ride to some shady sketchy place. I give them a dollar and politely decline. They’ll die without it. Vomiting up bile and blood, twitches and shivers are all you feel when it’s not in you. They cannot stop, they need help. Why not help them instead of “assisting” those who are homosexual? Cleansing so they can be granted entry to the kingdom of God. Looking down on people who have found love and understanding and a deep attraction to others who just so happen to share alike genitals.
Narrow minded uproars about the spread of AIDS, nonsense! The puritanical onslaught of those who want nothing more than the rest of us, love. "Gay", "****", "******", "queer", how about "kind", "funny", "genuine human being"? The right to be married and divorced should be an option for everyone to enjoy. The strains and hardships of matrimony are yours if you want them. If you don’t agree don’t hate or harm just allow them to be peacefully. Same goes for anything for that matter, Jehovah's going door to door, Mormons from Burbank. New ideas are never a bad thing, they’re not a waste of time. On average you have about eighty years to mull over your options.
Some people don’t live long enough to do so, cancer is rampant, blood diseases, ****** diseases, natural disasters coming right out of left field and blindsiding the innocent bystanders of both hemispheres. Some go through life handicapped, autism is apparent these days. Schizophrenia, Asperburgers, ADD and ADHD. Some lose their golden memories of their many valuable years walking down Alzheimer's Lane, not being able to remember whatever transpired only a few moments ago but revisiting gold nuggets from from fifty-some-odd years ago with ease. Some go through life delusional or bipolar. Some can't even sleep at night but they still carry on. And if assistance is needed it is our job as a race to help our brothers and sisters, no one deserves to be excluded from the gala of life. Or be denied by society and pumped with brightly colored pills from doctors promising a cure but prescribing a crutch.
Finding solace in sincerity.
The serendipity of it all hasn’t been uncovered and that keeps me going.
“Radiate boundless love towards the entire world above, below and across. Unhindered without ill will without enmity.” Oh Buddha the truth as it ever was.
Who is he who keeps these thoughts from the conscious minds of the population?
Who is it that distracts us from the humbling beauty and overwhelming devastation of this place of existence we’re in?
It’s they who do under the table parlor trick behind our backs.
Those who broadcast mind numbing so called reality TV shows without an underlying value or meaning.
Those who produce music, proclaiming extravagance to be the end all be all gluttonous goal we all should aim to achieve.
And those who turn noble causes into money making scams and defile pure ideas.
And of course those who give false promises of easily obtained  bright futures, those who don’t care, those who steal, ****, curse, bad mouth and lie. But still manage to get elected into positions that more or less decide out fates. Monsters, demons, banshees howling inconsequential worries and leaving us deaf to hear the real issues.
The
Ô petite hirondelle
Qui bats de l'aile,
Et viens contre mon mur,
Comme abri sûr,
Bâtir d'un bec agile
Un nid fragile,
Dis-moi, pour vivre ainsi
Sans nul souci,
Comment fait l'hirondelle
Qui bat de l'aile ?

Moi, sous le même toit, je trouve tour à tour
Trop prompt, trop long, le temps que peut durer un jour.
J'ai l'heure des regrets et l'heure du sourire,
J'ai des rêves divers que je ne puis redire ;
Et, roseau qui se courbe aux caprices du vent,
L'esprit calme ou troublé, je marche en hésitant.
Mais, du chemin je prends moins la fleur que l'épine,
Mon front se lève moins, hélas ! qu'il ne s'incline ;
Mon cœur, pesant la vie à des poids différents,
Souffre plus des hivers qu'il ne rit des printemps.

Ô petite hirondelle
Qui bats de l'aile,
Et viens contre mon mur,
Comme abri sûr,
Bâtir d'un bec agile
Un nid fragile,
Dis-moi, pour vivre ainsi
Sans nul souci,
Comment fait l'hirondelle
Qui bat de l'aile ?

J'évoque du passé le lointain souvenir ;
Aux jours qui ne sont plus je voudrais revenir.
De mes bonheurs enfuis, il me semble au jeune agi
N'avoir pas à loisir savouré le passage,
Car la jeunesse croit qu'elle est un long trésor,
Et, si l'on a reçu, l'on attend plus encor.
L'avenir nous parait l'espérance éternelle,
Promettant, et restant aux promesses fidèle ;
On gaspille des biens que l'on rêve sans fin...
Mais, qu'on voudrait, le soir, revenir au matin !

Ô petite hirondelle
Qui bats de l'aile,
Et viens contre mon mur,
Comme abri sûr,
Bâtir d'un bec agile
Un nid fragile,
Dis-moi, pour vivre ainsi
Sans nul souci,
Comment fait l'hirondelle
Qui bat de l'aile ?

De mes jours les plus doux je crains le lendemain,
Je pose sur mes yeux une tremblante main.
L'avenir est pour nous un mensonge, un mystère ;
N'y jetons pas trop tôt un regard téméraire.
Quand le soleil est pur, sur les épis fauchés
Dormons, et reposons longtemps nos fronts penchés ;
Et ne demandons pas si les moissons futures
Auront des champs féconds, des gerbes aussi mûres.
Bornons notre horizon.... Mais l'esprit insoumis
Repousse et rompt le frein que lui-même avait mis.

Ô petite hirondelle
Qui bats de l'aile,
Et viens contre mon mur,
Comme abri sûr,
Bâtir d'un bec agile
Un nid fragile,
Dis-moi, pour vivre ainsi
Sans nul souci,
Comment fait l'hirondelle
Qui bat de l'aile ?

Souvent de mes amis j'imagine l'oubli :
C'est le soir, au printemps, quand le jour affaibli
Jette l'ombre en mon cœur ainsi que sur la terre ;
Emportant avec lui l'espoir et la lumière ;
Rêveuse, je me dis : « Pourquoi m'aimeraient-ils ?
De nos affections les invisibles fils
Se brisent chaque jour au moindre vent qui passe,
Comme on voit que la brise enlève au **** et casse
Ces fils blancs de la Vierge, errants au sein des cieux ;
Tout amour sur la terre est incertain comme eux ! »

Ô petite hirondelle
Qui bats de l'aile,
Et viens contre mon mur,
Comme abri sûr,
Bâtir d'un bec agile
Un nid fragile,
Dis-moi, pour vivre ainsi
Sans nul souci,
Comment fait l'hirondelle
Qui bat de l'aile ?

C'est que, petit oiseau, tu voles **** de nous ;
L'air qu'on respire au ciel est plus pur et plus doux.
Ce n'est qu'avec regret que ton aile légère,
Lorsque les cieux sont noirs, vient effleurer la terre.
Ah ! que ne pouvons-nous, te suivant dans ton vol,
Oubliant que nos pieds sont attachés au sol,
Élever notre cœur vers la voûte éternelle,
Y chercher le printemps comme fait l'hirondelle,
Détourner nos regards d'un monde malheureux,
Et, vivant ici-bas, donner notre âme aux cieux !

Ô petite hirondelle
Qui bats de l'aile,
Et viens contre mon mur,
Comme abri sûr,
Bâtir d'un bec agile
Un nid fragile,
Dis-moi, pour vivre ainsi
Sans nul souci,
Comment fait l'hirondelle
Qui bat de l'aile ?
This love
So violent
So fragile
So tender
So hopeless
This love
Beautiful as the day
And bad as the weather
When the weather is bad
This love so true
This love so beautiful
So happy
So joyous
And so pathetic
Trembling with fear like a child in the dark
And so sure of itself
Like a tranquil man in the middle of the night
This love that made others afraid
That made them speak
That made them go pale
This love intently watched
Because we intently watch it
Run down hurt trampled finished denied forgotten
Because we ran it down hurt it trampled
it finished it denied it forgot it
This whole entire love
Still so lively
And so sunny
It's yours
It's mine
That which has been
This always new thing
And which hasn't changed
As true as a plant
As trembling as a bird
As warm as live as summer
We can both of us
Come and go
We can forget
And then go back to sleep
Wake up suffer grow old
Go back to sleep again
Awake smile and laugh
And feel younger
Our love stays there
Stubborn as an ***
Lively as desire
Cruel as memory
Foolish as regrets
Tender as remembrance
Cold as marble
Beautiful as day
Fragile as a child
It watches us, smiling
And it speaks to us without saying a word
And me I listen to it, trembling
And I cry out
I cry out for you
I cry out for me
I beg you
For you for me for all who love each other
And who loved each other
Yes I cry out to it
For you for me and for all the others
That I don't know
Stay there
There where you are
There where you were in the past
Stay there
Don't move
Don't go away
We who loved each other
We've forgotten you
Don't forget us
We had only you on the earth
Don't let us become cold
Always so much farther away
And anywhere
Give us a sign of life
Much later on a dark night
In the forest of memory
Appear suddenly
Hold your hand out to us
And save us
my love is building a building
around you,a frail slippery
house,a strong fragile house
(beginning at the singular beginning

of your smile)a skilful uncouth
prison, a precise clumsy
prison(building thatandthis into Thus,
Around the reckless magic of your mouth)

my love is building a magic, a discrete
tower of magic and(as i guess)

when Farmer Death(whom fairies hate)shall

crumble the mouth-flower fleet
He’ll not my tower,
                        laborious, casual

where the surrounded smile
                                hangs

                                          breathless
Johnny Raven Sep 2015
This rope I’ve climbed for decades now
Has frayed from falls
From jagged rocks and
Bloodied blows of dialogue
Their firearms half-cocked
Breathing in this bile, this bog
Sinking slowly towards the
Unknown inhaling/breathing
People’s poisons I’ve lost my
Purpose, and I’ve never had a
Place I could ever deigned to
Call My Home
Beyond the veil, the hidden site
Have I once again gone mad?!
The faceless forcing wrongs
Twisting the twisted,
A manufacturing of tortured consent,
Blinded by a
Facade of Masked Wrongs passing off as a
Right - Evil gifts from the gifted
For the dead, for the fractured
****** screaming and screaming,
Confined in a cube of lead,
Paranoid delusions
Secretly inside am I just dead?
A walking corpse, decaying by
Days...am I lost, I’m just an
Ignorant intellectual
Pushing back the bounds of
My own Stupidity, a silent lucidity
The death of hope or stripped of
Everything, Everything, Everything
Even the hidden hand, ever so
Gently holding onto that one
Impossible fraying seems.
Too afraid to speak, when spoken
That cultivated dreams strengthened
Over the years through nightmares
And a sea of pointless *****
Trying to force those pieces into
That missing space,
Some coming close, but never
Ever measuring up, my dream's
Emerald eyes, your beautiful mind,
Momentary live-wire, grounded into place
Whom you brought into my *******
Life, a dream turned nightmare as I set ablaze what we were
You wisely walked away...and left me to my dreams….

When she spoke, my heart would skip it’s beats, I’d lose
The power of the English language
I'd lose the power of ******* speech….
And now that dream
Has come again…close enough to smell, close enough to make my Hell a little cooler, the shadows brighter, the burning soothed…
And yet…and yet…I cannot even tell
My Emerald Eyed Valkyrie,
Did I belong to her?
There have been other women of course,
Carnal place holders, temporary sometimes pleasant company,
But in the end…NOT My Valkyrie, Persephone,
A Love, one of three - who ever made me feel - even after Seeing my graveyard of skeletons and secrets…she still...
Loved Me…
Me!?
Really?!
She still loved me…can that Dream, so fragile, when spoken it would Shatter into a mist of 'could have been?'
I held so gently that Dream of Old
Hands outstretched, crucified asphyxiation - anticipation
A Hope, A Dream, But there will never to be a Reconciliation...

-  Johnny Raven  ©2015  *(September 16th)
imadeitallup May 2014
Blame it on
Your absent father
Your addict mother
Your unexpected children
Blame it on
Anyone, and anything
So you never have to
Take responsibility
For your own actions

It's the whiskey
That hit me
It's my own shards
That tore me apart
It's a malevolent God
That lied about love
'Cause you don't do anything

Blame it on
My fragile psyche
My insecurities
My "impossible" needs
Blame it on
Anyone, and anything
So you never have to
Take responsibility
For what you've done to me

It's the cigarettes
That stole my breath
The weight of my expectations
That broke my trust
The spinning of my own wheels
That drove me into madness
'Cause you don't do anything
Everyone has a **** like this in their life.
maura Feb 2014
The most fragile thing is not
Your mother’s favorite china
Or your family's crystal glasses
Or a teenage girl’s heart
Or even your most prized possession.
But what the most fragile thing is,
Is your own life.
In loving memory of Mandi, Paige, John, Garrett, and Mrs Mallory.
Evynne Nov 2015
I feel crazy in ways that make me question the "correct" way to put on a toilet paper roll

Does the ply come over and around the top,
Or under and out the bottom?


When I was a young girl, I use to switch the rolls to where the ply came from the bottom because I thought it was "easier" that way.

Now I think it looks "nicer" when it's the other way, though.

I keep thinking about how bad my anxiety gets when I am riding in a car and someone else is driving.

(This obviously has a lot to do with the fact that I have lost far too many amazing and incredible and beautiful people to freak car accidents)

But I think it also has to do with the feeling of not being in control.
I think that aspect plays a great role in feeding in to that constant edge of fear...

On the edge of my seat,
Cringing due to the fact of knowing that at any minute, there is a real possibility that we could get into a terrible crash and die.


Cars **** people every single day, you know.
And usually young people.
(At least it always seems that way).

But part of my thought process revolves around me realizing that every single one of these people is loved deeply by at least one other person (living or dead).

I don't think it's the dying part that scares me so much,
But knowing how many people whom I love more than life who would be so dreadfully hurt, and in so much pain, if I were to ever die suddenly and unexpectedly in some horrible and unfortunate accident.

That's what really scares me…
Hurting the people I love.

I've felt that pain.
I know that hurt deeply.
And never would I ever wish it upon a person,
(No matter how much I might possibly despise them).

I think that I get so upset when people drive recklessly (even just a little bit) because (to me) they don't realize how ******* fragile everything is...

(Fragile; I've always like that word)

Don't people see how fragile it all is? How fragile and finite the life of a loved one is? How fragile and finite all life is in general?

I'm scared to death riding in cars with people
(More scared than I've ever been)
And I've been thinking a lot about it.

*One week into it and November has been "fragile" so far.
November 7th
12:09 a.m.
Nicole Corea May 2015
Mother,
I know you carry the seed of a fragile heart
Many men twisted your beautiful soul into demonic beast.
Unable to love ,unable to nurture.
Possessed to inflict pain on others.
Hungry to **** smiles.
To imprint the world with your glass heart.
You carry the seed of a fragile heart
There's so much faults between us,
So when our land begins to shake
We implode to explode.
Tumbling down every walls we built.
You carry the seed of a fragile heart
Two Fierce eyes, growling lips
Majestic Lion Preying On A Lone Wolf
Vile words
vile injuries
Ding ding
Blood spattered among our cheeks.
Ferocious souls panting.
Who are we Mother ?
What are we? Mother
Do you know Mom ?
You carry the seed of a fragile heart
I hate you so much , but I reconcile your broken veins.
I hate you so much , but I want to satisfy your fiery soul .
I want to carry your fragile heart to paradise.
Where I can love you as a daughter, not an enemy.
Mother,
I want you proud of me.
I want you to own me,
not disown me from your throne.
But how can I make you proud,
When my heart , the one you raised
Is impaired on forgiving you ?
**I carry the seed of a broken heart
Ivie Oct 2013
A fragile little bird, with a torn wing sits on a wire, separate from the others, clinging to himself in the cold wind

All his life he has had to hold his lungs close to himself, hold his heart even closer, for heart is a traitor

Hold it in, close the doors and nail the wooden planks, line the heavy furniture long the doors ,walls naked devoid of any ink that would sketched his heart,

Windows bleached to strip off any residue of sunlight that might have clung to it, fragments of his soul and snatches of painful memories and strings of feather lie like a rug on the floor,

Thousand words as lithe and sharp as spears and bullets, crash, burn, the outlines of his heart, they steal an inch of his soul little by little,

  Terrorists crawling into the skyscraper, there are 22 bombs on the top floor

There are thousand bombs in his heart, that never burst like anguish of people does, but when it bursts,

It busts like meteorite crashing, tearing, slashing, and destroying every inch of land that ever grew flowers

A bird, careless and homeless, falls off from the pole, the fragile little bird opens up his arms, she descends  like an autumn leaf, signal of change,

Her painting lines his empty walls, and her words clambered up his heart and opened up his arteries

But she, a careless little bird, saw pale skin; she never saw the flaming mind looming inside,

And it burst like an atom bomb, bullet filtering though her veins

His aim was never at her, but she was the victim of his anger

His anger was only consequence to those thousand bullets aimed at him,

The fragile little bird like a crystal glass dropped, crashes into tiny shards,

That ****** your feet and bleed into droplets of lost happiness.
ashley Jun 2017
at 4:14 am
im still wide awake
imagining your body on top of mine
captivating me,
your large hands running down my fragile, tiny body,
claiming everything you brush as "yours".
at 4:20 am im still awake,
imagining myself on all fours,
your hand grasping my hair,
pulling it into that tight ponytail i wear during the day,
while you're telling me about how you could never resist me,baby. your words alone leaving me drenched and ready for you.
it's 4:30 am, and texting you:
"are you awake?"
a gale Aug 2014
He hugs her tight
Hoping the pieces
That has fallen apart
Will somehow find ways
To go back and fill
The spaces they’ve left

*a. gale

— The End —