"freelance" poems
It's hard to change any cult
More so the jealous from the occult
Faculty of the melting mold of mind
Zealous of inflicting conflicts of all kind
To the just and graceful among mankind.
Brazenly different from vogue dears
conspires to inspire its rogue peers
To smear even slur on godly seers.
Constantly configures to figure out,
Anything, by any means to spy out
The faintest attribute of the virtuous
Contributes to trigger the rash jealous
To fling out and pierce the gall
to gush out to spread and stall
The arteries, nerves to blood-en
the face and the cheeks to redden
Nose and the chin to harden
Ear lobs to burn and burden.
The jealous is well known
Yet the cause is unknown
Why does it vent its ire
Dent and impair the fair
Engage in freelance
To abuse in parlance
In parliaments of vanity fair
The evil avail many a company
Of gluttons, covetous avaricious
sloth, sensuous pride and many
Engage merely to rage in ferocious
Fire, the fuel of the evil in the savage dark ages
obsessed in rampage and carnage
All celebrations become aberrations
Of the essence of celestial presence
The din dares to dampen the spiritual
Asphyx the specifics in fad rituals
It is difficult to change the cult
of the stinky melting mold
of the evil minds that find
new felony ways to inflict conflicts
To the just and graceful lives
of the peace loving among mankind.
Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 10:09 PM UTC
my type breathes ink
pressing said ink against sky
holds it, sticks it, stains it
each letter pushes
and stays
every mistake she makes is crinkled
and college-lined
freethrown in and around
an endless waste basket
later,
we'll call it her greatest work
because my type
type: writer
alphabet ingester
idea inventor
stainer of sky
believes in a world
where the world believes
she dots her eye-contact
and crosses her teachings
she sees old folks as encyclopedias
and children as ear to ear echoes
of all of this beautiful ****
that makes us shout
out loud
she sees fairytales
as tomorrow's scientific law
and travels this crazy world
via lopsided butterfly
whom by nature
always take the scenic route
because my type
type: writer
freelance flower grower
with watercolor wordplay
breathes, believes
and redrafts
breathes, believes
Nov 20, 2011
Nov 20, 2011 at 8:13 PM UTC
Pull down thy vanity.
Woe be unto you. Sighing children. Left behind.
Make the best of it. Stand by your Brand. Freelance.
Start-ups of futility. Write content for six blogs.
Wake up and smell the copy. Serve drinks.
In three bars. Kludge together the rent. Part-time.
Hustle. Hurry. Make of virtue of activity. Be productive.
Convince yourself busyness is productive. Deliver.
Productivity as Divine. Ten steps to improve.
Seven ways to better. Fifteen hacks to boost.
Means of production stolen long before you.
You are cormorants with rings tight on your necks.
The truth shall make you work. Harder and longer.
Believe you are on your way. You are. To getting old.
Old and broke and lonely. To wondering what went wrong.
Your children will disdain you and the world you made.
Same story told with tattoos and piercings. Good luck.
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 9:47 AM UTC
I pulled out a scarf and pretended to be a fortune teller;
thick insense, marijuana. Lottery smile.
I'd never lie about my lucky document shredder, my broken down motorcycle.
Not like cheap wine poured over cellulite; a hog dripping blood; she hunter fed on leaves.
Should the basketball hoop fall at a different angle and spare your clavicle, you would
see smoke signals from the squatters place- their fruitcake is delicious.
Can't be sure about their dog though, their dog had rabies and a collar that says FREELANCE.
I put too much hot sauce in the hashbrowns. I was still drunk.
I told my boyfriend his fortune was insincere,
that I am [today] a dead pilot and a stripper and a jilted florist all before noon.
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 8:39 AM UTC
Oh I often wonder,
I always want to prove
That there is something behind your kindness
Yes
There's something behind that move.
Is it because you are sincere- profound from the heart?
Or is it because you, yourself is a major key braggart.
Is it because you want to prove something, the simplest thing ; that you can't say no
Or you're just in need of a good name
If it's not genuine it's not an inch of fame
Kindness varies in many different forms
Yes there's quite much
They're only kind to give you their eyes,
Their peering grudge to touch
Music, dance, poetry,
Writing freelance,
Are the only thing some people give, their hands are tightly closed,
Words and movements are the only thing that grows..
They'll give you their sense of humor,
To you they'll gain your trust
But if you choose to ask for something tangible,
They'll cry, Ooh how that's too much!
One of the major trick is to give when you have too much,
You don't want to waste your treasures, you'd rather give it away than keep facing all the dust;
Many give only to exchange ;
Oh I'll give you that sneakers in exchange for that beautiful dress
You can't say that I'm not giving
Only if you knew kindness was just my guest!
Peek a boo
Don't be surprised
Yes I've noticed those unidentified marks
Yes you say, you are kind
Which are you?
Say something I won't ignore your remarks.
Dec 24, 2018
Dec 24, 2018 at 8:23 PM UTC
I fall in love with every backwards hat, the way a boy holds
a Natural Light, his scarred knuckles stretching over the aluminum,
an *** in a great pair of khaki’s, how he bobs his head to the perfect
pre-game song. I fall in love with every you’re so gorgeous, or body scan,
or even when the drunken façade has faded and we are left
hanging onto window curtains and thin sheets, talking
about our dads or how he broke his arm in the 6th grade.
The way he balances his eyes on my shoulder blades, stares
at my lips like he just can’t wait until I stop talking so we can kiss.
I fall for every nightly temptation, every Tuesday morning regret,
every hug around my waist. I fall for every circle drawn with a thumb
around my hip bones, over and over again, until my skin is numb
and my expectation collides with this temporary high. And if you could collect
all the lover’s I left on slips of paper, I bet their sparks would glow purple,
neon confetti in the night air, just like stars. Because they fell,
whether momentarily or not, in love with me somewhere between
the ******* and the kissing and the tongue gracing the corner of my mouth
when he’s trying to pick me up at the party, or how I let my hand sit
in the loop of my jeans, how I take no ******** moonslide line
for bald truth. I just use it to get to people like you, because the fraction
of time in which I live begs for the short-term. It thrives on the idea
that one night and one small shatter is better than a committed sever
of someone you just got too ******* close to. Because I can’t want
to fall for your pride, your integrity, the way you picture your kids
using your old baseball glove. My generation needs fire just to feel a burn.
I can’t want to love you honestly, with dinner date plates, with a door
held open just a little longer, without the liquor. I’m just doll
living in the freelance design of a good time. My bedroom is your heart,
and I wear the lace high up on my thighs, just waiting for someone to play with me.
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 11:54 PM UTC
The late hours fluorescent light flicker
From the moon to the neon red lights
The scars of our fathers written on our thighs
Scared to be seen in the imminent daylight
Freelance extortionists and racketeering blacklist
Black market, black cats, capitalizing on rats
The rat race is being run by yuppies in ties
With lies and cries of spies in in the skies
Confusing their faces with ones that I like
Indecisive for lack of a vice at the peak
I scrape together letters from the people I fight
Where notes are written about the upcoming week
The world's on fire and I hold it trembling
My fingers are burning and my shoulders broken
I buckle but seconds before I go down
The world breaks open upon the cold ground
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 2:37 PM UTC
Freelance astronaut
With a ponytail
On the late-night shift
Took this rocket many times before
No nightmare grivets
Still something creeps inside
As I watch the metal birds fly
Like the wind before a tornado
Mister Rogers with a red glass eye
And I dream of forts and storm shelters
Paper crackers and magazines
But they're only crops in my head
Ding-dong the witch is dead
Got my coupons
Got my waivers
Better get on board
Blink an eye
Past the borderline
Trace the silver biblical chord
But what's this terror
What's this sensation
I'm alone and bound and tied
Promethean sacrifice
See the cavity craters
In my peripheral eye
Reading rainbow I can't read you
All I see is a misty circle
Butchered ogdoad for a baker's dozen
But three isn't what you'd expect
These ropes want to be untied
Menstrual men and cosmic spies
Feel them all from below
Hear them all from above
Like dead wind chimes
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 10:01 PM UTC
light fixtures hanging down by a single wire,
a single lightbulb adorning the end.
large, gray and brown tiles checkered beneath my feet.
inviting leather arm chairs
caressing inviting cellular people
glued to their books or cellular phones.
warm, minty walls and a cool breeze through the door-
the chill of autumn-
so comforting.
older, disgruntled, bearded men- most likely freelance writers?
and soccer moms in yoga pants coming in for their six dollar lattes.
not to mention the elderly ladies here for coffee and book club...
the college student in a sweatshirt and jeans, fixated on typing-
two espressos in hand.
the baristas- in plaid shirts or floral dresses or striped blouses-
busily taking orders, pressing buttons, pulling levers, calling out coffees.
and me.
sitting in my black cafe chair at my caramel cafe table
with my large, smooth coffee, drowned in cream, and
with my .5 pilot pen in hand, and
with my old notebook before me.
writing the autumn morning away.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 1:43 PM UTC
Slogging through endless Whitman prose and I have to make little marks
on the pages every 8 to 14 lines as my mind will not quit the wandering roam.
Blanket paragraphs blend into infinite droll, never ending whine-fest of bull
jazz…jazz singers fill the empty spaces between
the lines of drivel.
The dog barks on the veranda looking old and sad in the wind,
The water trickles through a series of rusted and holey pipes… peeling
asbestos laden lead paint tricks the mouths of children… a sick cat heaves near the Chesterfield.
Finding myself no longer interested in freelance fodder, I real from one daydream to the next
without enough pause to subconsciously journal… a subcutaneous oak shard
gives a slight reddish bump to my well defined forearm,
slight pressure sends nearly transparent ****
screaming from its melanin tomb.
The sliver remains diligent.
The sliver holds its ground,
The sliver has a new home,
The sliver wants to die here,
and never again travel the long lonesome forest road,
The sliver shines silver in the sunlight,
I shiver at the sight.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 5:16 PM UTC
The things that seemed important,
Ribboned gifts and designer pants,
My credit history of extravagance,
And fake passports as a freelance,
With several courtesy cards,
Shopping guns in Baghdad.
Then I gained influence,
Enslaved christian clerics in Africa,
Muslim brotherhood was dense,
Slaughter people then head to Mecca,
The routine of spilling blood,
Then go repent to God.
Family never came first,
Devotion was in the heart,
Heart of terrorism and hostile radio calls,
Satellite technology was radical,
Launching missiles to the US skyscrapers,
Hijack jetliners and victims calling helpers.
Human sacrifice was the norm,
'Bismillah Allah hu akbar' then slice the intestines,
Or hold hostages and bid ransom,
This is the life risked on landmines,
Embedded by Soviet Union,
'Conspiracy' the presidents say in unison.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 7:05 AM UTC
I faintly remember
a time
I stopped breathing and
explored my breath
That moment we introduced mysteries to our bodies
and our souls
walked the empty streets for awhile
eventually entered a realm of human beings
all while stuck in our own world
stopped
yet still conscious
experiencing the unbelievable
you with an ex
Me with the trees and
Freelance Whales echoing in my ears
Kid Cudi reminding me to
Breathe
Walking along the tree shaded street side
Stopping every 5 steps so you may text your then beloved
and myself
focusing on the flowing being of
the world
eventually making it to the theater
we stumbled upon your dad
scaring the ever loving ****
out of us and our future...
but you handled it
and
we proceeded to watch our movie believing in a
higher power
watching over
this feeling...
I could believe nothing else
It was my interpretation of a god
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 9:28 AM UTC
I don't associate well with anti-Christs,
false prophets,
and freelance pharisees.
I don't concur with tax collectors
and their dreaded ideas
to wrench the world of its money.
A friend once told me
I am ******* heartless.
She's never met these people before.
Jun 3, 2011
Jun 3, 2011 at 4:25 PM UTC
Dreams provide the building blocks for nightmares
Working with outsourced puppeteers,
Freelance shiit talkers
And unlicensed engineers
Incorporating in-house failures,
Stacked to the rafters,
To orchestrate such fears
A passion project with plenty of volunteers
But after 40 some years
Missteps and heartbreak are full blown careers
With daily bonus checks awarded for tears
©2024
Jul 3, 2024
Jul 3, 2024 at 4:26 PM UTC
The light dims and the dead raise their glasses
To the wine of wasted, blood-streaked tears
That permeate my mind. I lift my hand and reach
For them, but I am left with dripping dark
As the spirits of my dead emotions seek release.
As freelance feelings take their leave, am I human?
The thought of thatching shattered glasses
Brings back the dead, their forming tears
Mysteriously absent. And so they reach
The clammy, clotted, ****** hands through dark
Eyes; I scream that they might release.
But will the cold hands pity, and me release?
The light has fled the black irises: inhuman
Fusion of animation and empty glasses
In their eyes, like mine. Dry, lacking tears
That life gives. She bustles in the kitchen, reaches
For the saffron. But their souls remain dark.
And my sorrowing saffron soul is poisoned dark.
Let me go! I sigh release.
I am not human.
I am broken glass.
A fading fear of tears,
A soul outside my reach.
I am no fool; I do not claim to reach
Outside the world of dreaded dark
In which I live without release.
The creeping hands of Death are human,
As I am. Cast aside my riveting rose glasses
That rivers may run swift in my trailing tears.
Finally, the tears.
My own icy hand does reach
And wipes away the shifting dark.
The dead, as always, seek the just release,
But they are not human.
They do not wear my eyes, my glasses.
So raise the glass to my trying tears,
I reach and find no dark.
My feeling now released, I say that I am human.
May 19, 2012
May 19, 2012 at 3:41 AM UTC
I was born to make a difference
Not to stay stagnant in the indifference
That is the default.
I never saw the point of being the basic
I'm just basic on the essential things
But when it comes for the rest
I'm very advanced
I will make sure the ones repressed will be at a freelance.
Hold your rifles diligently, i'm not calling to arms
Unless their only option is complete harm
We carry our hearts before the onslaught,
For their traps to be caught
Failing in the midst of revival.
The resistance is the greatest outcome humanity can ever create.
Oct 24, 2015
Oct 24, 2015 at 5:47 PM UTC
I poured my heart into an empty glass
Couldn't look foward
Too busy drinking to loves long past
Broken shards of my heart
Cuts worse than a razors edge
Effects of wrong love
No more is my solemn pledge
Trust is for the unsuspecting
Blind to the consequences of giving all
So hard to gather yourself again
After that painful four letter fall
Every so often you see your reflection
God places your image in another
Faces them in your direction
But myself too ignorant to recognize my image in plain sight
Will forever be alone on this journey
I trusted my mind with what's left since my soul couldnt see what was right
In front of my eyes
I let it go
Yet in still I try
Forever wondering...
Did I miss a chance
To connect my soul with its missing puzzle piece
Alone cursed to wander...freelance
Well let me finish my glass
Empty with sorrow
So I filled it with regret
Drunk on that four letter word
Thought I released the past...
Seems I haven't..just yet
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC
A new world opened up today
Right before my eyes in May
An asphalt jungle of barren space
Transformed to a marketplace
Of shaking hands and lazy feet
Of sweetened sweat drawn by the heat
Of spices, mixtures, drink and dine
Of herbs and paper, food and wine
Where freelance poets and barefoot souls
Can wonder in a wandering flow
Where worry's gone and work is done
And getting lost is half the fun
Till 'neath your soles is verde lush
And gathering is quite the rush
When singles, triples, droves and pairs
Unite in glee at what they share-
A celebration worth the fare
For exorcism of despair
And when the artificial lights
Dim amidst the stars in flight
I'll ponder in my solitude
Why blissful moments still elude
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 12:10 PM UTC
i would like to sleep
in a flowerbed
pansies cushioning my head
for all the thoughts
i bought from a freelance writer
the last time i pulled an all nighter on my own
you wanted to talk on the phone
so i did
but i had nothing to say for myself
i nodded and smiled like you could see me
and worried about my mental health, again
my drunk honeysuckle fingers slurred
over the power button
and they cut you off
before i had to pay for another word
i really can’t afford to be so shy
cut through the brambles of telephone lines
put your hand in mine
and we’ll sleep a hundred years
and keep the thorns for souvenirs
i wish my voice didnt sound so dumb
but now the stitches of my vocal chords have come undone
and i don’t feel like spinning thread today
so i embroider every word i didn’t want to say
in pink and blue
on my faux punk jacket
and use it to cover you
sweet dreams
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 10:09 PM UTC
Enigmatic and sulphuric
wonders and detouring ,
outside the box alluring
tempter of faint touches
skip the lust head to lunches
dip in the basket
dreams collide.
they have to!
BUT THEY NEVER STAY THE SAME
same vibe tho
He lost illusions delusions
and i lost the shy veneer of freelance escort
some may call -
but if you knew me as well as he does then you know that
lovers are lovers , and friends are friends - do everything with your heart
and it’ll ring true in the end.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 8:37 AM UTC
her exquisite laugh
decorates the night air
while the freelance jesters look for
pennys on the ground
she rides the limelight she makes
and dances a quick two step on her
very own red carpet roll-out
while her kid brother flicks the light on and off
parody of paparazzi
its a pizza night and they pass
the special smile round like a litre bottle of coke
long after the party broke up
she lingers in the mirror
debating her narrow hips
and dreamy thinking of some special boy
she would dish the salacious details in full
but none of that really happened
just like a kid in an ice cream shop
wants all the flavours all the time
its been years
but she tells the tale vividly
while looking at old pictures with such
as mystical tears in her hearts eye
shes all grown up
but we are all still young someplace inside
i kiss her goodnight
and we dream
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 8:12 AM UTC
She makes with me eye contact
in protracted conversations and
I stutter out my yearnings in
confetti flavoured feelings,
then she takes my hand in friendship
which is more than I could hope for,
walks me off into the forest where
the trees are waving signals in
search of semaphore
induced survival,
and we lay down at the crossroads
where she opens up the bible,
passing psalms like Chinese whispers which
my ears can barely hear.
we are home.
The lady with the beehive who was once known as
Medusa
comes to wallow in the silence and release the snakes
that use her,
doesn't notice that the tide turned in the
hollow of her cheekbones
and is drowning in self sacrifice, where her
victims close their eyes in order that
they cannot see her
but the moon strikes trails across her face
and tears build oceans in her,
she is home.
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 6:04 AM UTC
freelance free baller
freely falling in the fresh foliage
looking up at the slowly drifting clouds
head cradled by mounded crab grass
lifes little ponders
begin to take shape
fleeting images of bitten cupcakes
and rattlesnake bowties,
dandruff flakes
and broken rake handles
dialog follows, at first innocent
but soon more sinister
“Will I be rich?”
“Could I live on grass blades as if I were a cow?”
"When I stop in traffic does the momentum from my car effect
flapping butterfly wings?”
darkness follows
psychic energy blotting out the sun
“I ought to **** that ************
“She thinks she just… just can act like I don’t exist.”
“That dog better not *** on the sofa.”
settling in, a bee bounces aimlessly of a reddening shoulder
invoking a quick slap
enough inertia to send the small insect reeling
rolling over and propping himself on an elbow
the thought crosses his sun soaked mind
“At least I am alive.”
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 3:54 PM UTC
I'm a freelance lover
And I know no shame
You don't need feelings
That's not in the game
I'll take you to one side
To tell you all the things
No pride no promise no wedding rings
No need for idle chit chat
No reason for concern
In the game of freedom
There is a lot to learn
Yet do I feel at ease
Is this an empty life life
No husband no lover no waiting wife
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 1:29 PM UTC