"freehand" poems
do you know
i fall asleep
with my hands
touching
together
but I notice the difference
as yours Are tougher
bigger
rougher
but i've never had the pleasure
of falling asleep with
your hands
though ive slept
cocooned
in your scent
do you know
i've never been very good
at confessions
i confess
i could draw
freehand
the shape of your lips
from Memory
(i could show you
where they curve
and bend
and they look like
the perfect destinatIon
for my life to end
killing myself,
to die upon a kiss
to die upon
your kiss
i'm killing myself
by even thinking this)
i confess
i could shade
the exact ways
your hair falls
dowN
by your face
(i could explain
the smelL of your hair
after a long day at work
it feels thicker
as it resists against
my hands
you dO that too
do you know)
i confess
i could describe
the wonders
in
your eyes
of
your eyes
so accurately
they would be seen
by the blind
(i'd rather not tell you
how i feel
when you catch me
staring
but i just
can't
help myself
i neVer want to miss
a single blink
a wink
no time to think)
i confess
words,
the words,
keEp
running
sprinting
dancing
prancing
in my mind
but i cannot find
an acceptable order
to confess them in
love in you i am with
one two three four five six
and, oh father,
there is no need to confess
for We have not sinned
he would not look
upon me
if i was the last to exIst
he merely
glances over to me
now and then
and, oh father,
you know
how i desire
These
tormenting
words
to go
he could barely tell you
the colour of my Hair
i could tell you
the colour of his
when he was five
milky way kid
do You know
me
am i
just a girl
who falls asleep
alone
in the backseat
Of the car
that old red polo
is not so appealing
anymore
and, love,
i confess
or
these words will die
on the lips
yoU leave
unkissed
i am in...
i cant
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC
swim until you can’t see land
until names etched deep in cardiac tissue blur
and fade, scored over with seasalt and creases of a million maps,
a secret stash of maps. absurd and hoarded and crumpled under carseats and
rolled neat
and boastful in umbrella holders or worse, framed and hung
Maps jotted freehand on napkins stained with tea and mustard and left
to be bused with the crusts and pocketful of change.
swim until you can’t read the maps.
the lines to here from there are arteries
on your fresh, clean heart.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 12:15 AM UTC
Today Leonardo drew a perfect circle freehand,
it was pretty rad.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 2:23 AM UTC
You wound me up like a spiral staircase
Predictable like my weekdays
Fluent in enticing my reactions
I forgave you of toxic infractions
You could draw my body freehand
I sunk into you like quicksand
Aug 10, 2017
Aug 10, 2017 at 5:17 AM UTC
I wish people could understand
That sometimes things don't go as planned
And that I'll always try to hide
The things I feel deep down inside
I wish people could understand
That's sometimes being true is hard
That sticking to the rules is bland
So let this all become freehand
I wish they know
That it's possible to
Like boys and girls
And still be you
To be bi in a world
Where straight is the norm
To be wild and untamed
When people conform
That it's possible to
Be 'smart' and suicidal
That comfort doesn't make one
Want to keep their vitals
That just because I smile
Doesn't mean it's all fine
That I can hate my life
And still act in line
So please understand
Don't judge, don't sigh
I want you to know
That I really try
To be normal and stuff
To not scream and cry
To act like I'm still
A really good child
But before you judge
Keep this in mind
I'll keep killing myself
Until everyone thinks I'm fine
Apr 30, 2021
Apr 30, 2021 at 7:59 AM UTC
I used to have a book, books,
that I scribbled in furiously
at work, at traffic lights
in the morning and at night
after I went to bed, I'd get up again
and bled upon a page
I'd be halfway through a shower
and I'd rush through top and toe
just to drip upon the page
so the feelings would not go away
now
I write mine freehand, in the dark
after my world has gone to sleep
I take another drink
and become part of all of me
I used to think carefully
about each syllable,
each carefully constructed line
but there is no time, no time left
for me to care what falls from my brain
I read everyday, every word said
I collect emotions of others wounds
and store them as prizes in my head
I love everyone you do, or, did
and I hate them for how they treated you
or, I did, until you forgave them
or, killed them in memory or,
flogged yourself stupid for their mistakes
I get it, you write what I've lived
I draw on memories that aren't mine
Emotions I've never allowed to cut deep
Promises that were left unspoken
and crossroads where we would never meet
Hence the darkness needed to write
because I'm afraid of the shadows
that seem to hide in the light
In the dark I can pretend to be alone
Just my drink, and my dog
which occasionally likes to sit on me
and I can pretend I mean something
to just anyone, kissing emotional lips
with a passion of memories
I don't seem to own
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 5:20 AM UTC
*
With shiny curls flowing over the two ears,
In a stunning color her lovely image appears,
Her splendor ensnares with every tender rays,
She shines with glamour in incredible ways
Just like a frame, most valued and blessed fine,
Her unerring grandeur shall forever remain divine.
A ravishing shade the cheeks flawlessly displays,
Many splendors by her smiles elegantly arrays.
While a mellowed shade her brow gracefully shows,
The glossy color from the lips fashionably flows
With every beam a glory to the realm spreads
That changes its colors whenever she treads.
Her loveliness is not at all lies in the ****** mole,
but the factual beauty is reflected in her soul.
*
By Williamsji Maveli
Email:[email protected]
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 9:01 AM UTC
My heart
Cracked at the corners
Freehand stitches attempting to hold it together
Whispering your name through the beats
Your heart
Rich shades of crimson
Never broken and never needing to be fixed
Each strong pounding keeps you alive
Our hearts
Complete opposites
Weak leaning against strength
Dark looking to light
Our veins are tied up in each other like two ships
Leading back to us
Two hearts in one
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 11:29 PM UTC
A breakfast on a train,
packed one as you normally find during a rain,
I had company with me of the kind that entertain,
it was an orchestra that will play again and again.
As I was preparing for my next stop,
noticed a new menace that was taking its hop,
landed on businessman’s nose at a hat’s drop,
his face was on fire as he hurt his nose with a plop.
It had whale of a time and a freehand,
not knowing where this demon would go to land,
unsure what the storm outside had planned,
storm in my teacup became the next landing target for it to stand.
With ears like a giraffe,
It gave everyone a good morning laugh,
I had to empty my water carafe,
to catch this strange yodeler flea on everyone’s behalf.
Jan 19, 2020
Jan 19, 2020 at 9:21 PM UTC
~April 12th, 2017~
Some time between 8:00pm and 9:00pm in the street of Paris...
Imagine walking down the street with the best strawberry yogurt ice cream in the world. Seeing the street of starving artists in all different forms, like that one scene from a movie you saw years ago.
Seeing freehand artists drawing the faces of complete strangers, and the suddenly hearing music.
Hearing a complete strangers singing over classical guitar and not knowing if they were singing in english of french.
But I don't really care. Music has been and always will be a universal language.
So what more can you do about a starving artist?
Well there's only so much you can do for a guy playing classical guitar in the middle of Paris.
So about 3 songs and €10 later, this artist's voice rings through the empty street. And somehow I become the starving artist, playing this guitar that doesn't belong to me.
And yet I play out like nobody is listening in.
Applause comes... and it goes...
I played one song to look up, and one song from here. All the while feeling the air pass through this street. The only thing left to do was pick up a name and a sappy french poem.
I shake his hand and come away from the street with a major music high. (Pun intended)
And I wasn't the only one on Cloud 9, the feeling shared by yet another music nerd.
And as we roam the streets of Paris singing the same lyrics from "La La Land", we feel complete for now.
And in that moment...
I lived.
And there's nothing more I can really say other than...
How did we get here?
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 12:20 AM UTC
1. I would read an essay on How to Draw A Straight Line if someone wrote it, I would like to know how to freehand perfection, how draw a flawless connection.
2. I would buy a lifetime supply if there was a perfume that smelled like CDs after I eject them from the player in my car, like fundip sticks, faintly sweet, completely bizarre.
3. I’ll scour every article on the science of smiles if it meant yours might leave me less lost, so I could interpret the exact angle of your lips and not feel like I have become one of your sunken ships.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 8:26 PM UTC
To be shaped by love, know first
How it destroys.
To know how it destroys,
Recognize love as a physical act.
To recognize love as a physical act,
Consider the body's limits and transgressions.
To consider the body's limits and transgressions,
Probe it for signs of anomaly. Of creatureness.
To probe, start by using your fingers to poke
Regions where illusions are cooked, like the groin.
To locate the groin, slither your hand from mouth
all the way down until you feel dirt.
Once there, dig. The mush will feel soft and wet and grisly
And delicious. Like exile. Feel around for a thin chord.
Once you get your hand on this chord, pull. Pull very hard.
Like you're born to unstitch. Or turn off a light. Or flush.
Your body will split open like a thick *** of paper bills
fresh off a rubber band hug. And your remains
Will flutter like a flag. Notice the bone marrow in bloodspeck
jangling in wind chime language to announce an arrival.
Your arrival, maybe. But what is left other than your body splayed
open? Notice your meatshop bargain delicacy. Limbs as vivid
As a freehand sketch artist's depiction of alive. It sounds so beautiful,
Love. Especially in Springtime.
Jul 15, 2019
Jul 15, 2019 at 5:55 AM UTC
she sat in the beautiful sunlight
with deeper wishes in her eyes but
her young heart dances to the sweeter song
so she asked me to hold her hand
till the darkness had passed
now shes hot on the trail of true creation
down to earth with all natural heartfelt ways
bends me round her legendary smile
and while writing a freehand verse of sunshines laughter
she paints a lifesize version of
tomorrow's beautiful sunrise into the eyes of her self portrait
she is knee deep in the mud of inspiration
the persistent sunshine of the soul lights her way
the enduring hope of a hand held guides her path
its beauty can be seen in her self portrait
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 8:45 PM UTC
This silly shrill putting
Clothes on hangers in my
Head
Judging me, myself by
Conceptions I should have long
Since shot dead
Either way the formalities
Leave you wasting time on
Trivialities
And my needs I cannot touch
I cannot grasp what sustains me much
It's like living up to someone's
Voice and the
Echoes linger still
That get mistranslated as the
Noise reverberates from the
Wall's of a well.
Such sounds I hear
And all this hot air
I'm just going to leave them there
To burn the floor down.
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 4:56 AM UTC
what is the what, this simplicity, the great difference?
~~<>~~
he reads certain words,^ then
the poet uncovered, stumbles upon, a rhythmic bearing, provoked,
his own bearing now lost in contemplation, exits the cottage, wandering on the always wet grass, observed by animal menagerie,
espy him watchfully, a human directionless wanderer wondering, asking himself the meaning of it all, knowing answers reserved not him
we celebrate subtlety, process the minutiae of extracting an exactitude of the precious précis of each momentary why, only when he honest confesses his ineptitude, can he truly begin to pluck words from the airy atmosphere to assemble them in format that mines the great difference in everything, the differential veins
the creatures, unshy, wish to contribute, suggesting editions, subtractions, this turn, this twist, this nuance, always clarifying, valuing utility beauteous, making the meaning perfectly clear in ways that make you gasp at words, their powerful, to define, then refine, then just plain be, be fine, finding, exploiting, drawing freehand the lines of distinction exacting***
this great differences
~~<>~~
^
“and next to nothing is everything, all worth knowing,
you, write my poetry, as I write of you with breathless
ease and comfort, for the thoughts of all men in all
ages and lands, are original to where our eyes espy
each other, where our lips kiss to cross, cross to kiss,
what is the what, this simplicity, the great differences?”
Jun 6, 2020
Jun 6, 2020 at 12:28 AM UTC
I lift my head
My heavy head
Full of worry for my future
Will my petals still be there
Or will they have blown to the wind
Will I still be in bloom
That is the question
There is a chance they will be
Or floating in my room
somewhere.
Will the stems to my brain
be detached never to return
In the atmosphere for all to catch
Latching on to this and that
but not me.
We will see.
Will the seeds of my soul be roaming
in cyberspace
Here in this place
I would like them to be
We will see.
I am a flower
An attractive one at that
Colours in my mind
are painted freehand
I try to understand
The winter comes
then the frost
freezing the mind with dust
clogging chambers
Just like a vaccum cleaner
Shake to the wind
freeing my soul
of grime and dust
which paint my world
for I am a flower.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 11:26 PM UTC
I have never been able to straight line a draw
Nor my name,
a letter missing always when I sign
Nothing so grand that would a painting make a camera sad
Beyond these perfections,
I fell short yet to speak was still mine
I have nothing to stare at for so long except the rain
So different, yet the same
Today I watched it’s fabric,
like wind across fields of wheat
or corduroy pants
But I do not have any to wear;
still,
I am dry as the balcony only feels the water like light
The rain does not care what I think
Nor of my sight
And though I am moved forward in my chair
Nature is not one to meet
Not anyone or anything
No language
Or memory
That is for me only
Like something I said to you long ago
Something that was true
I wonder if you remember
Or if only it was like the rain upon you
Not a place to live
A smile
Or a frown
A face to the sky
Or to run because your dress was new
But you know
As do I
The park will be there for you in the spring
There is nothing vain about rain upon your heart
Like the words I once spoke
Uneven as they were
Without every letter I wished upon you
A crooked line
An unrecognized signature
My life
Not perfect
Instead, discovering what an accident blessed;
still,
I will remember what love broke
Will you remember what love spoke?
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 8:26 PM UTC
a butterfly was asking for pennies on a bookshelf
as dusty as a mummy. i was absentmindedly
threading tea leaves
with sharp snowflakes and
milkweed silk. freehand…
with a Needle made
of Eyes.
Mar 28, 2019
Mar 28, 2019 at 9:33 PM UTC