"freeform" poems
I wanted to eat you alive with my heart,
Disseminate my love for you,
soul coughing a Heimlich dance routine
that struggled to keep us one.
You were to busy ignoring the coward
that kept me alive
to see the bravery fighting chance
and drawing curtains against fate
There was feeling in these young bones
where the medicine was make believe,
all sugar coated fiery tales to drive us to the well,
wishers of hope forgot that love is an effort.
Liars will tell you that there is just one,
and that one and one is one, and I too,
will lie to you but only to keep the placebos
sweet jesus if you knew the truth.
There's a colourful cobweb
I tangled round us
And yeah, I'd take the floor away,
if it would keep you falling for me.
There is not a thing I wouldn't do
to keep the demons from your door
And the wolves in docile dream states
Nodding yes to your every request.
But Memory lane is no place to build a future,
Lets move past all the haunted houses
and build the home from more than cards
glued together with coffee stains.
Fits of laughter and pits of passion
litter landscapes of love in foreign places
where speaking in tongues
becomes common language.
Blissfully aware of our ignorance
We turned a blind eye to status chorus,
breathing freeform jazz into
independent harmonies,
Shards of Shotgun Showers
Add bass to blissful dreams,
A sense of the real, reeling us in,
A foundation shaken in eternal sin,
As the sax plays us out,
its a standing ovulation,
that keeps us on course,
encores are for failures, and things that... stop.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 4:25 PM UTC
Love lets children play
Fly away
In imaginary planes
Or soar in space
With alien races
It replaces fear
with compassion
Cares little
For what’s in fashion
Freeform, whimsical delight
No order or structure
No constancy
No normalcy
Freedom unrestrained
Our world might be improved
If more adults learned to play
In a childish way
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 9:41 AM UTC
Science is governed by theorems and laws, but I think its more important to learn, live, and love from nature’s flaws. Ideal reactions exist on paper created by pencils, but really its nothing more than a flawed man’s stencil. Something unable to exist in freeform untempered by the creative storm and unblemished by the perfect mistakes that prove its not fake. Thats not of what I partake.
You make my world spin and keep my gravity down. It’s just the physics of our situation, is this our mind or the worlds creation? Einstein was the founder of relativity but I’m sure of our brevity. A whirlwind thats almost out of control, the dance of days that composes our souls. Linked rhythmically together no longer singularly apart joined at the heart never to depart and so we start. I’m not sure how this equation functions but its a positive conjunction. I want to linearly progress without regress never to suppress or obsess but to travel and caress but I digress with my interest to express.
I haven’t done the math but I’m almost positive one heart plus one heart equals one heart. Thats real arithmetic, a force surely kinetic. Attracted and reacted to form a singular product of an environment construct. You make my world spin and keep my gravity down. It’s just the physics of our situation.
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 10:19 PM UTC
So much on my mind
What will happen?
Hopes of it going in my favor
Fear runs through my body
Marijuana in the system
Treated like a murderer
They prescribe **** to children
Why are they not in jail?
Head pounding
Cant sleep
I dont want to go there
To the place where I have nothing
No freedom
No health
No friends
You cant make friends there
Some say they have
I must not get it
I cant go there
Spent a night there once
Started boxing a wall out of boredom
My life would be hell
Maybe thats where they should send me
Hell
I cant imagine day upon day in a cell
Thats where they might send me
A cell
You dont have to read me my rights?
******* commonwealths
I truly did nothing wrong
But still, im treated like a murderer
I smoke a little grass
So what?
My tail lights out?
Sorry officer, I didnt know
My headlights insufficient?
I can see in front of me
On-comers can see me
I need insurance?
Thanks for telling me when I filed an accident report months before
They treat me like a murderer
I did nothing wrong
Wheres the **** makers?
The crack dealers?
The abusive husbands?
Still out there
Harming others
I did nothing wrong
Especially compared to them
Dont ruin a young mans life over these petty things
Hope is lacking these days
The system just wants the money
Id rather wipe my *** with a hundred
Flush it
And never see it again
Than to pay for your ******** charges
So, let me be
Set me free
Cuz judge,
I truly did nothing wrong
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 5:02 AM UTC
~
Vibrations loosen
the dust on my piano,
releasing tiny particles
into a rectangle sunbeam
dancing about the glass,
as I play compositions
upon freeform keys,
fingered imagination
frantically moving
levers in never before
heard melodies
with a locked
sustain pedal
holding each note
to gradually
evanesce
into silence
as the dust
once
again
settles
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 2:19 PM UTC
Take me, Satan, for I have sinned.
I fell down on the job, fell down on my sword
but with no real purpose or cause. A martyr
for the sake of martyrdom is as useful as a
parka in Mexico.
Slit my wrists with a freeform kiss.
Cracked teeth, cracked skull, saltine crackers.
Counting calories, skipping meals.
Did it hurt to ascend from hell, and
how did you wash away
the grime?
I want to believe that you love me
but the world is unkind.
I need a shot of reassurance like a shot of
eighteen year old scotch, neat.
Rapid fire rejection, thunderstorms
of doubt. **** me with a smile. Rebuild
my psyche, brick by brick. Mortar me,
babe, and I'll adore you for it.
Melt into my mind and live there,
the mice who currently occupy
the quarters are hungry for
touch.
Ride my metaphor like
a throbbing **** longing for
release; please, release me.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 5:02 PM UTC
She ripped the stitches out of
Rotting skin and sinked in to
Seeping sin, dripping crimson
Crashing to the ground.
That same hole in the earth
With a cold to call home-
Not alone down there, she lets
The worms observe her every move.
Wriggling in dirt
Her thirst pulsed hard and black;
Can't take it back,
Too late to save that day
So let yourself unravel with the sutures
There's no future when you're dead.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 4:17 PM UTC
Briefly entranced
by a swish of hips
as they sashay past a doorman,
he takes a breath, approaches
and asks to get through.
"Sorry sir," the tall man says,
"your purchasing record suggests
"that you dislike jazz.
"I think you'd better move along."
Of course, of course,
what was he thinking?
A narrow escape, that.
And on home through the empty streets he goes,
Untroubled by the wide wild sounds,
the horns and pianos,
the reckless freeform blast and chatter
that might ruthlessly have smashed through
his carefully constructed identity.
Safe at home,
his television allows him to watch
a comedy he has seen thirteen times before
and so must really love.
Jan 27, 2012
Jan 27, 2012 at 3:16 PM UTC
i wake up
to blinking messages
that i managed to ignore
because my lids were fastened shut.
i have a tendency to fall asleep
during conversations.
but i love tuesday mornings,
(this semester, at least)
because that extra hour
and a half
of sleep
keeps me going through the day.
i spent most of the morning
browsing through
missed connections
on craigslist.
i wonder,
maybe one of these are for me.
maybe i’ll find my soul mate.
or maybe i’ll get kidnapped.
three hour lectures
are the least favorite part of my tuesdays.
that
and math.
i don’t understand matrices.
but i’m too proud to ask for help.
i slept, though.
in art
because i couldn’t
seem to focus
on industrial design
or my
professor’s racist
and sexist remarks.
but at least the day’s over.
and i managed to get
home
right before it started
to rain.
law and order
is on.
maybe i want to be
a police officer.
just like
when i watch house,
i want to be a
doctor.
Feb 20, 2011
Feb 20, 2011 at 5:32 PM UTC
My heart
Will be yours
The day i can hold you
Thats what i tell myself
I fear it will be before
I love that it may be before
You are so perfect
You are so sweet
You are so...
Undescribable
My feelings i can not fight
You are so amazing
I never know what to expect from you
Every day a new thing learned
As it should be
So many messages between us
So many more to come
The smile upon my face
As i see it is you messaging
Knowing you smile when you see its me
Could this be?
Can this be?
One day we will know
One day
Nov 24, 2012
Nov 24, 2012 at 6:38 AM UTC
Bolero
Roll….slowly,let me rope your soul solely,
As you feel the Sandmans touch take control see,
Theres a whole lotta atmospheric pressure involved,
Rhymes gamed, flames flamed- new riddles to be solved,
Dissolve yourself in my dissolution,
Sudoku rhymer-kabuki solution,
My approach comes over the crowd like a wave-
Hypnotic suggestions - your psyche’s enslaved,
Sway,stay,pray - I prey on your grey matter,
Thoughts dreams and scenes flee all become scattered…
A battered suit of plate armour that STILL holds firm,
Come with me as I whisk you away into the firmament,
See stars born and die in mere millisecs,
Come get drawn further every parsec,
Away from Earth a mere ball of dirt,
Some try to escape their fate the truth can hurt...
But we’re all stardust,so return to your beginnings,
Still spinning,no sinning hear the Multiverse singing,
my Bolero whips you tight in triple time,
dance with me hold tight to my rhyme…
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 6:35 PM UTC
names for no one
named by no one
poems about nothing
poems about everything
aren't they the same thing?
no function, no form
but now is the hour
it's how i get through
to the next one
two packs of cigarettes a day
it is getting expensive
old heartaches aren't forgotten
when nothing takes there place
and cigarettes don't pay the rent
freeform makes people stop listening
agoraphobics don't have much to write about
but need to say something
to someone
i wish i'de never met you.
all you did was hurt me in a way
that keeps on coming back, no matter how much times go by.
it was the way you looked at me,
like i was the ugliest thing that you had ever ******
and it made you feel good to let me know.
and it got worse from there, because you threw me away
and then would sporadically write to let me know
you were gone for good.
you were a total ramsay bolton type.
some days i have a memory and can't breathe or function.
i still have nightmares of you
trying to beat me to death, calling me to list off all the things that are wrong with me.
if i can't forget you, it would be great if someone would cut off your **** sometimes i fantasize about hiring someone to do that to you in your sleep. you could wake up dickless and i could be free of you. but back to the poem:
10 and a half years haven't gotten me anywhere
i've been too old for too long
Bob Dylan
Neil Young
Rolling Stones
Leonard Cohen
Paul Westerberg
everyone is too good for them now,
especially you,
i read that in vice
they made a list of the worst musicians of all time
and all those names were on it.
Johnny Cash was on the list too.
Jun 27, 2017
Jun 27, 2017 at 7:28 AM UTC
The evanescence of a light beam constructed inside Emilia's longing, desolate eyes as she searched her room for the pounding rhythm of a distance drum. The succinct stirring shot a severe ache into her eardrums, and she cradled her head inside her lanky forearms, comfortable in their cataclysm.
She had been stolen, and her arms were her only comfort. As she watched onward in the tiny, centipede-infested room she had been thrown into, the beating drums continued, and she could hear the unclear voices of large Ukrainian men prattling about "the beginning."
The beginning, she felt, had begun, whatever it was, and as she listened, the only thing she could think about was cutting those ropes loose and taking control again over these infuriating defectors as her birthright had dictated.
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 4:18 PM UTC
Ready.
An ancient mix
of connection plus
classic individuality.
Steady.
Heart and soul pull
together to form sweet
jams of melodious rewrite.
First draft,
Pah! No more than
scribbled lines of quick snap,
The sound of an idea. Crackle!
Electric pop.
Second screening;
This time with a chord
on blues and lyricise.
Word choice, bass drum
Action verb, guitar solo.
Stage left, practice practice
Perfect is only in front of a mirror.
Blue in the face,
Expertise of spit out syllables and rosy pink word fire.
Freeform poetry {jazz},
Filled with line
b
R
E
A
K
S
that shimmy and shake.
Get up!
The finale is now
Adoring fans
Closed eyes bring
fantastic images
of repressed nights
Howling to be free.
Stage fight
Charming souls
with solid words
and wisdom of the wah wah
Mar 4, 2010
Mar 4, 2010 at 7:56 PM UTC
my stomach has never hurt
so hard
from laughing because i’ve met
some of the best people
to share it
with.
it’s two in the morning
and we decide
perhaps it is time to start
the work that we should’ve
done ahead of time.
and in the morning,
we promise we’ll finish
but instead
we sit and laugh, again.
this time, inappropriately.
the professor’s watching,
and we aren’t getting our work done.
the mexican restaurant
ironically run by asians
is closed.
again.
i’m craving enchiladas.
so i make do with second tier
ones from gramercy.
they’re not bad.
but i prefer
the ones from the mexican restaurant
run by asians.
i sit bundled up,
half free-writing, half asleep,
and i take the person sitting in front of me
and use them to my advantage.
perhaps if i move my head
just a little to the left,
the professor won’t see me
nodding off to sleep.
(i just wanted a little nap).
but i resist
and we present
half-heartedly.
i don’t think we really cared
about the new chancellor
about bloomberg
and about joe torre.
the library brings a welcome change,
and i see a familiar face.
and we sit together
and we laugh
and before we know it,
it’s time for class.
again.
this time,
i make haste
to allow my eyelids to flutter
until they are cemented shut
as Descartes is explained to us
by our passionate
but flighty
professor.
i wake up in time
to be assigned into a group.
(what are we arguing again?)
something about the senses
and how to use them.
and whether we are certain.
i dislike debates like this.
i feel uncertain already.
and philosophy
makes me even more uncertain.
uncertainer. uncertainest.
the train ride home is a haze.
and i am glad to be home.
even though the living room
is missing
its lively chatter
half
from my parents
and half
from the television.
but they’ll be home soon,
and all will be right.
Feb 20, 2011
Feb 20, 2011 at 5:32 PM UTC
so typically expressed
so brilliantly bluebird blue
eight a.m. shadows drape
disguising delicate dew
veil of lifting light
expose her in due time
my Mexican petunia
my early morning bride
seamstress of the meadow
freeform drifting silk
dress of netting beauty
be gentle with your ****
wrap her with good measure
fix your eightfold eyes
dress her with your endless gift
your spindle, thread of ending life
pendulum of day
thine endless forceful swing
forget not my morning meadow
whence bluebird days do sing
May 18, 2017
May 18, 2017 at 9:54 AM UTC
The intraveneous needles pumped their black liquids, and I could feel my eyeballs bulging completely, pathetically to their limits as I extrapolated from the tantalum-covered machine the lifeforce I knew I needed.
"You can not breathe here," they always told me before I took my journal past the archway, and I was as good as dead if...
It was always if. If the machine broke down, if the communications were broken, if the moon didn't turn half-way just right at the given time.
There was a solid thought, though, a recurring idea.
"If you make it to Otherside, they're going to call you by name and recognize you. If you make it to Otherside, your cover will be blown," I kept hearing a voice call to me.
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 4:41 PM UTC
Work History
I lucked into my first job
building four-letter radio station
call signs from tangled bins
of consonants and vowels.
In those days it was
all done by hand.
Sharp corners on the F’s kept you
on your toes, O’s easy to bobble
when you got careless, “slot four,
out the door!”, a newbie mnemonic
forever lodged in my brain.
I bided my time on the K line
until a spot opened on the W,
the graveyard shift. It paid
a little more, the hours going
toward my Creative License.
It was the seventies. We chewed
betel to stay awake during long
classical station runs then punched
out woozy, blind in morning sun,
fingers bleeding, teeth stained red.
Top forty, we popped ‘em out
like biscuits and squirrelled
away X’s to slip onto the ends
of freeform formats, small acts
of defiance. I quit to avoid prosecution,
nabbed sneaking parts out
in my pants, one letter at a time,
building words, paragraphs, whole
stories in my basement.
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 7:22 AM UTC
everyday starts at
273.16 Kelvin, 611 Pascals
my body still unsure what it wants to be
-no, scratch that-
still unsure what other people want it to be
1. with my parents
the temperature drops and the pressure rises
while they yellcriticizedemand
and suddenly i am ice
solidfrigidhard
stubborn as hell but ten thousand times colder
2. my best friend is the fire
sparking excitement in dark parts of my soul
and as we heat up together
i become free as air
the earth no longer able to keep me together
or hold me down
3. i am fluid around everyone else
freeform
shapeshifting until all they see is their own reflection staring back at them
intangible
slipping through hands like an eel that will shock anyone who gets close
and quietly destructive
slowly eroding the paperthin walls of their hearts and leaving behind nothing but canyons in my wake
solid liquid gas
common science says that it ends there
but you
you always remind me that there is a fourth state of matter
because when we touch it is like i can feel the electrons of negativity jumping off my skin
and when you kiss me
i could swear we are the plasma that the universe and stars are made of
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 12:37 AM UTC
Lying awake
Eyes glazed
High
Music playing
Vision blurring
High
Hunger strikes
Fighting it
I am high
Nov 16, 2012
Nov 16, 2012 at 7:45 PM UTC
(20 minute poetry)
Stand clear Monday's here and no prisoners will be taken.
I'm running scared
in third class
because the system
Is still in place,
all along the platform lined up instead of in freeform
are today's commuters,
baristas, solicitors, chancers and sharp operators,
they wait the same as I
under the weeping willow sky.
If this is the 'last chance saloon'
and the tube train's arriving soon
I'll have a double.
Monday's still here or it was,
not sure now because my eyes
are shut
but I think that it might be
still
able to see me.
For a brief moment
I thought
the screeching I could hear was
my brain jumping a gear
but it's the brakes on the train,
listen,
it's doing it again.
and again it's almost done,
I've used up my tiny portion
if such fun is dealt that way
Darling, Monday
is still here like a
milk bottle on the window sill
dear,
waiting for my corn flakes.
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 1:26 AM UTC
today, you seem
to swim consciously
in the blurry happenings
absorptive
of both their chaotic canopies
and their knotted stilts
in substantial intertwining
your recent form, you
effervescing lightness, as i deep-delve
into your freeform spectacle
in scribes and silence
is
a contemplated combobulation
in almost a hidden haziness: there's
but a fiery flame within
in boundless lucidity
of the flaring galactical suns
and the sacred smoking eyeblack
smears around from cores, the blackwhole scripts
that you realized
and still in the go as you grow
full and null and full and null
and so. verse traverse
your phasal swings
unto that yielding amplitude
that one unreturning
singularity
.
Oct 5, 2017
Oct 5, 2017 at 4:32 AM UTC
On a fleeting February morning
Seconds pass like icicles
And as I stop to listen to their steady drip
Those seconds seem to slowly slip
Away
Immeasurable, finite mornings full of
Infinite calculated risks.
Life weaving 'round my fingertips
Electricity, in my hands and my heart
Feeble panics and anxious starts
What, exactly, is love?
A painter's elegant brushstrokes, as tender and careful as
Or
A passionate song, the percussion mirroring the rapid heartbeat of
Or
Something as simple as a question
Sent to two phones.
There's a comfort in being alone.
You don't have to worry about breaking hearts
No nervous texts
Or ginger starts.
But
Everyone can hear the song.
Everyone can see the painting.
Anyone could read this poem.
Blank verse, freeform, enigmatic.
Confused.
Feb 2, 2019
Feb 2, 2019 at 9:09 AM UTC
I let my flesh bathe in the calm newborn sun rays,
While I listen to the gossiping topics presented to me by the waves, consumed.
Outside looking in, I'm just a naked man standing aimlessly in natures womb yet,
Through my eyes, I'm standing on a million acres of emerald dust, with my skin reflecting the surface of the Sun, my eyes incarcerating nebulas watching diamonds dancing in all sorts of blue.
And then there's this crown growing out of my skull....lovely.
Welcome to the land of a thousand drums residing in my chest,
Roaring with the cascades of energy my soul has possessed many of lifetimes before I became its host.
Welcome to the mind of primal instinct, where its shrouded by the freeform jungle like crown spawning out my my skull.
Welcome to the love I've had pleasures and pains of watching; wrong but felt right & right but felt wrong......
- Beau
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 6:30 PM UTC
.
Vibrations loosen
the dust on my piano,
releasing tiny particles
into a rectangle sunbeam
dancing about the glass,
while I play sad love songs
on freeform keys,
fingered imagination
frantically moving
levers in never before
heard melodies
with a locked
sustain pedal
holding each note
to gradually
evanesce
into silence,
as the dust
once again
settles
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 3:10 PM UTC