"frighteningly" poems
He told us the truth.
Writing isn't so hard, really.
You just sit with a pen and paper,
And bleed.
Maybe pounding my head
Isn't the right way to elicit bleeding.
But it did bring the kind of headache
That reminded me what I had to bleed for in the first place.
White House.
White papers.
Black suits.
Black president.
For change.
No better.
They pretend to have a headache, but their incompetence leaves us with headaches we're too young and shiny to deserve.
Aren't we?
Filled up
With life,
Potential, hope.
Why do we shoulder their burden?
The black suits in the white house made their own headache.
It doesn't matter to us.
Until it does.
Stimulus.
Filibuster.
Health-care.
Bail-out.
Drowned-out.
Shut-down.
Shout-down.
Bring-us-down.
We could be on our way to the top.
Mess-up.
Then complain about the headache it brings them.
What about us?
Because we're the ones affected.
Then is the worst part.
They do it frighteningly quick.
So easy, too.
Give-up ,
And leave for us to
Fix-up.
We have to shout.
Make you listen.
Stand-up.
One-two.
Thousands, millions.
Make them listen.
March-up.
Three-four.
Slogans, protests.
Make them change.
Head-up.
Five-Six.
Defeat, Regret.
See the impossibility.
Sit-down.
Seven-eight.
They won't listen.
**** the system.
**** the suits.
**** the house.
**** growing up.
Because you know,
Now we're grown.
So this is the headache
They talked about.
So this is why
We spill our blood.
Where's the cancel button?
How to delete?
It's a cycle,
Don't you see.
You can't wipe the memory.
Why we thought
We could ever get rid
Of the headache…
Beats me.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 12:19 AM UTC
We hardly fit with our jagged edges
and our heavy breathing, our holes
don't even coincide. Our symmetry
is imperfect, as imperfection can be.
We can't call it home. We're too
edgy to ever do so. It doesn't even
come close to that feeling of
comfort and love. We're not in love,
nor are we friends by any means.
Hardly acquaintances. We wouldn't
lift a finger a finger to help the other
No, this isn't home, love or friendship.
Our weapons are still on us. The poison's
hidden in the secret compartments of the
rings we gifted each other. We never
believed in anything but practicality.
I specially sharpened the blades I
brought with me. I know he loaded
some 'special' bullets in his gun.
We deal like this, like rival gang leaders
It's the only thing that has remained
the same through all these years,
frighteningly comforting in it's stagnancy.
It doesn't even come close to companionship.
It's definition lies somewhere between
hatred, addiction and need. Quiet intimacy
will prevail between us and anyone who walks in,
feels like they're intruding on something a bit
more private and clandestine. Though no one
notices, our spines don't relax even once.
Aug 6, 2012
Aug 6, 2012 at 7:48 AM UTC
After I met you
I discovered how dangerous of a thing
Eye contact is
Frighteningly dangerous
But lovely
So very, very lovely
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 7:20 PM UTC
INTP
Introvert
Intuitive
Thinker
Perceiver
Highly intellectual but
score lower than expected on
standardized tests
Fascinated with the world
Plan maker and
abandoner
Frighteningly unemotional and seemingly moves on from devastating events rapidly
Acts self absorbed but
truly cares for people under the cold exterior
Often feels detached from the world
Unable to articulate great idea and thoughts exactly
Loves to argue and debate
for learning sake but
some don’t see it as
friendly banter
Called the mad scientist without
convention
An absent-minded wonderfully built learner,
That INTP
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 11:13 PM UTC
I trust much too easily
Much too frighteningly
Yet, if I could only trust one thing
If one day I became a cynic and grew senile
If only one place i were to place my trust
Then I trust only Future.
Past is manipulative,
He has only false consistency
He tells my mother he will have me home by 12
And I find my self spending the night.
Present is only sneaky
And finds joy in the fright that she gives small children.
Not to be trusted...
While the Future,
The Future is noble....
I believe to be trustworthy.
Always pulling through,
when the Present is stabbing you in the back.
The Future will always be there,
Pulling through on the promises made of a better tomorrow.
The Future is a rolemodel.
Guiding the Present on her path to righteousness.
The only one I trust is the Future.
Even now, when I trust everyone.
I only truly trust the Future.
Because the Future has control over everything,
We can conquer everything,
If only with trust in the Future,
The Future can end this poem
however would make the biggest impac.......
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 10:40 PM UTC
The bleached mask reflects the words
A new white glow over black hurts
Brooding bones, charred and cracked
Buried with himself between
Thought he could
Learn to shrug some strangers’ names
Off
The skin grows thick
The scales slough
The eyes go blind, the fingers drop
Before he’s had it all
Before he’s had
But aches betray
And masks fall
The smile breaks when teeth are worn
I think he’s had some terrifying thoughts
Would no longer recognise his face at all
Because . . .
Some black eyes never open up
And blue deaths carve a hole no one can fill
The red lust leaves us chilled
Breathless, to temporary emerald pills
Some crimson lips just chew and chew
And violet pupils grow then still
The pale skin tightens its caress
Over awkward bones and burnt out chests
How frighteningly
Cruel
Our capacity
To ****
And ****
And ****
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 10:03 PM UTC
staying the night
up high
in rainclouds
& I feel safe now
when I look down
the wide world
is so small.
we are all
tiny specimen
divinely dissected
subdivided into
lively sections
by wants by fires
by greed by needs
& secret desires;
one nation
under god’s feet
tired slaves perspire
unnecessarily
for possession
& obsess over
what they each acquire.
it is you, it is I,
and we are
frighteningly alike.
my attention’s quite untidy
all the time
my mind gets redirected
it walks like hell
& talks like heaven.
I am not well
I never have been.
but this hex is a blessing,
it’s too **** precious.
we are spilling
into the ocean
over the edges.
The Land is dead and
has been, days now.
I find it kinda pleasant &
I wonder if
they’ll ever
get around to
disinfecting the nest
of decaying flesh,
before it infests the rest,
y’know, the ones that got left.
rot is a pox
spread by proxy
& is not bonded
by neither
lock nor key; that’s like,
**** what you got
**** what you be
**** what you thought
what you think
what you see.’
**** you,
**** me,
**** everyone,
**** everything.
it’s lovely, it’s lovely.
I even think it’s kinda funny,
I laugh at nothing.
Oh, the irony
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 7:05 PM UTC
Everything in life is so beautifully precious, yet so frighteningly temporary.
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 6:18 PM UTC
Everything I've waited is so frighteningly real
Everything I feel is meaningless and fake
-
I've been chased from my dreams too many times
And longing has been my only
feeling
For too much time
And I forgot who I really am
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 5:51 PM UTC
emotionally drained
past calling back
echoing all around
haunting and foreboding
threatening to reemerge
or is it just past expectations
past fears,
that I place over the present
though these words
are frighteningly familiar
too close to heart
to ignore
too close to past pain
past insecurities
to not worry,
not worry that it is
all too true
not worry that
the pattern will continue
that it really is cause of me -
the mine shaft is
closing all around
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 10:07 AM UTC
The shadows get frighteningly long,
he watches in silence like a painter
whose mixed up colors in the palette
are found to be of no use, the pictures
are muddled by inept handling of colors.
once colorful skyline is suddenly
pecked in to pieces by winds,
the belligerent evening birds in discord;
the child playing in the park now gives up
her carefully structured house,
receiving cues from swarms of darkness,
looks at her mother as if she isn't interested,
anymore, as if feeling the encroaching loneliness.
"Evening is a spoiler of beautiful things"
he jots down on the page of the day in his mind
"it's enticing beauty is just a masquerade"
a truth he would vouch as a fact of life.
It's time to be back home, the dusk falls
holding mom's finger she goes
back to the lighted space of warmth
that has an assurance of kiss any moment,
on his way she sends a smile, just a stranger
till two days before, as if saying "See you tomorrow"
this little one is a fresh guest of breeze
a pure blessing, sunshine rare in winter.
This rusted garden bench knows him well,
the fragrance of mango blossoms from a land distant
in a season long past still spreads the scent of musk
touches somewhere deep, brings
memories from a land so far, a land where
evenings were spent under the shades of mango trees
in exhilaration, awaiting the mango fruit season.
A change in the lighting of sky overturns everything.
time administers it's hidden poison drop by drop,
the memories of an evening from afar asks in a feeble voice
"Will the child come to the park to play tomorrow again?"
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 12:30 AM UTC
I've been keeping a journal of trips I wish you'd taken with me.
An album of photos you should have been in.
A list of nights I wish you'd spent in my passenger seat.
I've been collecting all of our favorite pieces of myself in a mason jar;
Fireflies to leave by your bedside so if you wake up in the middle of the night you won't feel alone.
I know too well the hourglass purgatory that is your absence;
Frighteningly similar to the sensation of waking up in empty darkness, unable to remember falling asleep.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 12:45 AM UTC
The gears in my clockwork heart
St-st-stutter and cough
Twisting, wrenching, straining
To turn back to our normal
"Click-clunk-click":
Our structured rhythm-dance
As clouds of rust-dust, lust-dust
Fly from my mechanized mind which,
Mis-wired, streams lifeblood data to my people processor
And my sights focus sharply on you.
Metal arms reach but are not seen,
Fingers touch but are not felt.
My mouth screams: "See me! Discern me!"
But the flat iron tone does not compute.
I say nothing that is real.
Nothing that is human.
You stand before me, unaffected
Frighteningly beautiful in your imperfection.
Kerchlunk.
The gears turn.
Oil: black-brown
Eases from my eyes.
Gun cocked, gaze steady,
We move on.
Ready.
Aim.
Fire.
Next victim, please.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 4:43 PM UTC
You see the smile,
I feel its pain,
And the accused stands there,
Being guilty of everything but giving me the love I needed,
Sentencing me to a life of imprisonment within my own jail cell,
As each day passes,
I feel as if I was the guilty one,
Giving you what I didn't want to,
Letting you break down that barrier, behind which I stood,
Little did I know,
That you weren't the person that was going to save me from falling,
But you were the car whose headlights flashed so brightly in my eyes,
Leaving nothing but tears crashing in to my soul,
Stealing each breath of mine while I lay there,
I suddenly became a statistic that day,
She who loved, she who lost, she who felt each part of her heart breaking,
As though it was physically possible,
The illusion of an happy ending, was all that it remained,
An illusion,
This made so many like her live life in its utmost delusion,
When you give your heart away once,
The owner of the sparkle in your eyes then belongs to someone else,
And when they leave, they take that sparkle with them,
That is why you only need to look into the eyes of an individual,
And you will be able to see just how much they have loved and more importantly just how much They have lost in life,
For that's why we all walk without seeing,
Sometimes the truth you see in someone's eyes,
Is more than you could have ever expected,
So frighteningly honest and bare,
And one day, when you're looking at your reflection,
You may not even know whose eyes you're looking into.
Sep 6, 2009
Sep 6, 2009 at 2:39 PM UTC
She
is a beautiful
giantess
painted with
blushing
rose-colored hues like
peaches-
-and-
cream;
her
soft hair
coils and
coils
of gold
with colors of
wild wheat
and
honey
twisted
throughout it;
with eyes
the color of the fairest
skies
in the world,
like ice cubes
with little dark blue flecks
of a mysterious
azure
stone,
cool and penetrative
and frighteningly
intense.
Actually,
they’re more like a Caribbean
Sea,
like when the waters shift
from a tender cerulean
to an amazing aquamarine…
and in the sun,
to the side,
they're the slightest hint of green…
Her
cheeks
are
blooming,
rugged
peonies
and her eyebrows
full
and the color of
sand
and
straw;
her
lips
ruddy plums
in every season of the year;
her gorgeous teeth
hug each other closely,
and when
she
smiles,
it’s a little
gift
from heaven…
her laugh is
infectious,
a hiccup of
giggles…
her arms are
pure shades of
pale
pink
petals
and in the summer,
graciously tanned: the lightest,
most
beautiful
bronze, a color
all
her
own.
Her
hands are
large
and
rough
and
strong,
wrapping one's own and all else
in a manner most
complete
and
indestructibly;
her demeanor is thrilling
and irresistible
and
intense.
her
moods
are
unknown
and
ever-changing….
pry into her
feelings
long
enough
and you will
meet
an
abyss
and never return
and
never
learn
anything
at all.
Her
eyes
are
immense
innocent
expressive
,
pupils darting to
everything
happening
at
once;
when she
walks, she’s
proud
and direct
and
she’s
the
light
of the
world;
everywhere
she
goes,
she
illuminates the
paths she chooses to
grace;
she carries the
torch of strength and beauty and mischief
and
daunts, races
the
flames --
she’s as
spontaneous
as they
are.
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 8:50 PM UTC
Poetic visions of heavenly moments captured in mental pictures as if by old-time cameras.
Black and white bodies with silken skin and moon kissed hair touch the stars to invoke
color flavored scents of passion and whispered promises.
Only glimpses of things to come.
Only possibilities sprinkle the vast landscape of open minds and tease the back of the eyes
where dreams play on wide screens like drive in movies.
Extinct now, except where it counts.
Rarity causes sweet sensations across the tongue that hints at juicy strawberries eaten on sweltering summer afternoons.
Perhaps watermelon passed across the fullness of lips swollen from kisses.
Endless roads mimic endless desires and dreams.
The scenery constantly changes and sleep is something vile.
A cruel optical illusion no less tangible than aged lace found in an abandoned attic.
A heart slumbers amidst the sands of the desert-like rib cage, rearing it's head to roar for it's mate unexpectedly and frighteningly loud.
Impossible to ignore for very long.
Placate the beast with promises of more sleep, more dreams, more voices, more silent movie moments of words spoken with veiled glances and feather light caresses.
Promise to acknowledge what it already knows as truth and to stop dancing in shadows of fear and safety.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 8:20 PM UTC
I am without hope
Until I look upon the One
The holy One, my God
Who sent His only Son
I've been here before
Time and time again
Same old story
Same familiar place
I'm so frighteningly far from perfect
I want to hide my face
But through the open door
Blinding me again
Light so holy
Promises your grace
When I feel like I'm helplessly shipwrecked
I long to see your face
I am without hope
But then I look upon the One
The loving One, my God
Through whom all can be undone
I feel so weak now
I feel controlled by sin
I can't do this
I am my own slave
My dark desires keep me where I am
My heart's a dark, black cave
So I give up now
I know I will give in
I aim, I miss
Only You can save
So I give control to the great I Am
God, make it You I crave
I am filled with hope
For when I look upon the One
I know that in His hands
My battles will be won
I am filled with hope
Now as I look upon the One
Thank You, O my God
For giving me your Son
I am filled with hope
For I know the battle's won
I am filled with hope
For my Lord said, “It is done.”
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 4:18 PM UTC
We're at a crossroads ~
The path ahead is frighteningly unfamiliar ~
I may leave you standing here ~
I can't keep waiting for you to make up your mind ~
Because the pain, love ~
It stabs at my delicate skin ~
It tears out my too human heart ~
I was ready to walk with you ~
Now I just want to walk ~
We're at a crossroads ~
And you still ~ don't know which path to take ~
Copyright © Tia Jane Fajardo
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 2:52 AM UTC
Fierce faced warlord's
frantic antics were mere ploys
to hide from the world
his real face; the most
frightened was he, of the lot.
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 9:58 PM UTC
the young egoist licks a blunt blade in the wall
until his tongue bleeds, to feel, yes to feel, feel anything
in these fettid depths where splinters of light
find themselves lost in the subterranean gloom
of his bedroom
where on occasion when it presents itself
listens to grotesques, yes listens with an ear
a plain nasty and unfeeling ear
yet it listens without any phoney, putrid arty language
he hears old irregular clocks
feels the smells under the ground
drinks unquenchable angers
citing their antique tonal ability
to create magic words out of rain and mist
then screaming his voice starts oozing and undulating
creeping through these slow subterranean pampas
compressing and expanding themselves never and at once
he believes it is an unsafe place of frighteningly sincere dangers
then thinks is danger a place, licks the blunt blade in the wall
for even in this desperation
it makes him happy when his tongue bleeds
he tries to perfect conventionally generous impulses
the spit of dreams, his dreams as he dons his mask
his mask of foolscap to write a poem
then encounters angel-devils and demons
who he has the power to deceive
and thinks to himself as he licks
the blunt blade in the wall
finish it, finish it
then realizes it's unfinishable
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 7:18 PM UTC
I’d much rather push up daffodils than daisies,
should summer be renamed sprung?
Last winter, so cold
I worried all the birds would freeze,
fed them toast, dreamt of knitting them jackets.
A robin died in my hands on Christmas eve one year,
Found on chewing gum pavements barely breathing,
his soft little breast rising and falling heavily like snow,
his neck a little droopy, so soft he was almost boneless,
frighteningly fragile, lovely.
Osiris’ scales about to be tipped,
I tripped and skidded the way home,
broken bird in one hand, dog lead straining the other.
As the door swung open,
a **** for breath, his twist of head and then…
This bird is dead dirt.
His orange crumbled.
Buried in a dog food box,
The guilt of knowledge lies under the duvet,
the winter grows stagnant.
Oct 5, 2010
Oct 5, 2010 at 1:18 PM UTC
back when summertime
sadness was hip.
beating hearts felt like butterflies
trapped in a plastic water
bottle trying their hardest
to get out and bodies of water
that were frighteningly black but as clear as
broken glass and
worn down cowboy boots
and perfectly fragmented
scarlet and burnt orange
canyons
and crushed
beer cans by the firepit
and isolation and
inescapable infatuation.
the world was so beautiful and
almost ethereal but it wasn't
familiar. like it had been
taken apart and put back
together differently than before.
-z. vega
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 3:17 PM UTC
She moans and he writhes
and they shiver on the ground,
Minds reeling through 911 tapes and sirens blaring
and blue-red lights glaring, and mothers screaming
and lovers leaping and parents weeping and
children seething.
Their minds are at war,
every tremor a quake,
every shudder a shake;
They start molting like snakes,
shedding pieces and flakes
of themselves, their identity
their strength and serenity;
become anonymity, silently, frighteningly,
Til nothing is left
but raw red meat
that bleeds straight through the streets.
It's oozing and thawing,
more alive than a drawing,
But much too alive, just wanting to hide,
and melt into nothing under the hot sun,
and be laid to rest with the shot of a gun.
Apr 21, 2011
Apr 21, 2011 at 1:24 PM UTC
It's in the hours late at night,
Early in the morning,
When the light is frighteningly absent,
That my soul lingers in deep pondering,
"How can I be great?"
A question with no small,
Or simple answer, but
I'm relieved at this,
Despite my negative thoughts
Which flow quite freely at these hours
A great person is not without fault.
All that I have yearned to achieve,
It lies in wait, like a holiday home
Waiting to be reached!
Although it ***** to have to work,
To suffer in something meticulous,
Or suffer some slings and arrows
Of complete misfortune,
Yes, I know this doesn't quite rhyme.
But despite all of this, there is hope,
And you mightn't see it just yet,
But this is the greatest hope!
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 8:50 PM UTC