"frizzed" poems
I wanted to see your body’s
Curling limbs,
And a tangled body.
I wanted to feel your soft skin,
The warmth.
How you tingled when we made contact.
I wanted to feel your heart beating
Under my hand,
I know your life was stronger.
I wanted to twirl your hair,
Which frizzed in the morning,
The hair that was covering my face that night.
I used to want you,
Yearning so badly,
Feeling it pulsing threw me and making my mind throb.
And you moved first.
I saw you watching me,
I felt you rubbing up my arm.
I watched as you moved up to my chest,
I sensed you kissing my ear.
I've giving in
On what you wanted,
Before I could give in for myself.
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 10:59 PM UTC
I imagine to romanticize my life
I fantisize my drive to work as quirky and cute
My cup of tea is the best thing I've ever tasted
Wearisome tasks are now so compelling to do
Now I start to picture things in such a charming and beautiful way.
Darkness and heterodox philosophies clouded my mind for so long,
I almost forgot to admire goods and breathing trinkets.
Waking up and peaking in, would be the bright sunshine through the blinds
And my frizzed hair all over my face.
Through triumphs and trebulations
This is a film
About a girl
Viewing her life
As a studio ghibli film
Aug 8, 2019
Aug 8, 2019 at 2:17 AM UTC
Dark circles around my eyes move to the table
But they seem to be less permanent there.
A night of small glasses turns into a morning of tall mugs
Both filled to the brim with fake happiness
And false healing.
One more sip will make me forget
But one more cup will make me remember.
Playing tug-of-war in my cerebrum.
My hands pour another cup
But my eyes can't grasp that concept
So these burns on my hands are the only reminders
Of last night
Along with the bruises on my side
And the throbbing in my ears
All of which will fade
Like the disappointment of my adventures.
I can't shy away from all light
But all it does is highlight my flaws.
So I throw on a long sleeve shirt
That covers my palms
Because the last thing I need is a Physic
Telling me my past
As I walk down streets
I wish I could have forgotten months ago.
But the fabric is so thin
The wind even knows what I'm trying to hide.
I'll plug myself into my fake world
And I'll tell you it's to protect myself
But really
I'm saving you from adding me to your list of lifetime disappointments.
Because that's all I'll ever be
In my own eyes.
I'll walk home
Hair frizzed
Makeup smeared
Because I couldn't be bothered with the mirror
Or the mirror couldn't be bothered with me.
So say your prayer for me
I wonder if God will listen
Because every time I call
I go straight to voicemail
And I'm tired of crying on an answering machine
That nobody checks.
My winter coat isn't even strong enough to protect me
But maybe if I added a layer of you
I might finally feel safe.
So please
Make me feel safe.
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 12:25 AM UTC
His lips were soft.
Her heart was big.
His shoulders were broad.
Her actions were selfless.
His eyes were blue.
Her words were deep.
He didn't think
She was good enough to keep.
Because her hair was frizzed.
Clothes were stale.
He told all his friends
She was "too pale".
But what he failed to see
Was that on the inside.
He wanted all the things
That true love doesn't need.
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 5:35 PM UTC
Under frizzed hair,
The Conscious Operator,
Smacking gum,
Waits with her tails of living wire
To make connections
At Synaptic Central.
The reader
Tilts a page to catch the rays,
Scans for symbols,
Begins to send
And to receive
Electric fires of thought
Traveling in from
Senses Five -
Traveling out from
Schema Library's
Data files -
To meet and
To commingle
At the Board.
With octopal finesse,
The tireless Operator
Plies Neural Central,
Sending quick myriads of thought
To rest or to revive in living files.
Neurons snap and arc;
Their coded leaping fires
Surge message-full
Through cables sheathed
To Synapse Central,
Where in her nimble hands
Fire Control finds slots
And coordinates connections,
During and Long After
The Outward Reading's done.
Even when the Blinds go down
Synaptic Central's work goes on.
The frizz-haired friend steps out to rest;
Sub-Conscious moves into her place
And with unsteady hand
Plays seeming havoc at the Board
Rearranging and Deranging
Delightful dreams, or horrid.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 8:06 AM UTC
my mind is cyclical,
Battle Bot on Hamster Wheel
installation art soon to be in
Tokyo, San Francisco, New
York, Chicago: every city
I had the languorous pleasure of
kissing You in.
being unkind to me is terrible and
yet I love being able to vent
my emotions like so much
sulfurous smoke. [redacted]'s in
his bunk bed, 30,000 feet up and
only 1 girl is invited;
****** brain frizzed out, wasted
girls coughing kush while we
contemplate wasted opportunities.
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 8:25 PM UTC
Outside Oslo
in the base camp
after showering
you met Moira
in the cafe
for breakfast
and coffee
she was in a mood
about the Yank girl
and having to share
a tent with her
(when she wasn’t off
someplace being *******
Moira said)
and always chewing gum
and those *******
she wears
I’ve seen more cloth
on a finger cut
she said
I’ll take your word for it
you said
she pouted
and stared at you
the finger cut I meant
you said
by the way
are you into
Oslo today?
you asked
mind if I hang along?
sure as long as you don’t
talk about the Yank
or football or Mahler
or whoever else
is hid up
in that brain of yours
she sipped her coffee
and ate her breakfast
saying nothing more
and you watched
as she ate
her eyes dark
and deep
her hair frizzed up
after the shower
her tee shirt
holding tight
her ****
and her blue jeans
hugging her thighs
as you’d like to do
later in Oslo
you toured about
the streets
saw the sights
had a beer or two
while you sat
with her
in some bar
she talking of Glasgow
and her job
and her brother
and his girlfriend
and how
she had this awful
wiggly ****
and floppy *******
and large eyes
like cow pats
soft and brown
and she laughed
and you liked it
when she laughed
it made her seem better
more human
less grumpy
less critical
and had you been
more brave you might
have kissed her
there and then
but you didn’t
you just ordered
another beer
and talked of Nietzsche
and Mahler
just to watch
her lips move
and incidentally
bore her.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 3:25 PM UTC
Oslo that summer
having left the base camp
and the tent
with the Australian guy
(he was with the Yank girl)
you walked about
looking at the sights
Moira beside you
in her denims
and white tee shirt
and her hair frizzed
after a shower
(which she had taken alone
worse luck)
and she was talking
about the Yank girl
with whom she shared
her tent
O the perfume she wears
I’d rather sleep
in a tent
with a camel
than with her
and her voice
***** my head
and do you know
I've heard about
her love life
from the very beginning
I’d rather spend the night
listening to a duck quack
you nodded
and listened
taking in her fire talk
her four letters words
filling the air
floating there
like black
angry birds
you can share with me
any time
well you could
if I didn't have
the Australian guy there
smelling of beer
and talking about Sheilas
and how he did this
and that
you said
no
Moira said
and have them
talk about me too
no I’m not that
kind of girl
besides
how would we work it
to allow that to be?
don't get so angry
about things
why do you Scots
get so moody?
it's not just us
she said
it's the ******* world's
view of us
as wee tight ********
when we're not
anyway
she went on
giving you the stare
what do you
know of Scots?
lived in Edinburgh
for a while
you said
nice place
so much history
well there you go
she said
anyway what’s that
got to do
with the Yank *****
and her perfume
and the love life
of a ******* rabbit
nothing I guess
you said
I think she's over here
studying art
O then
that explains it
the way she has
the I-couldn’t-go-a-day
-without- a man's- ****
-in-me
kind of talk
and philosophy
Moira said
spitting out words
like broken teeth
what about a beer?
you said
chill out
and take in a view
and have a smoke
and I can tell you
of my love life?
the beer's a good idea
but I’m not so keen
on the tales
of your **** life
she said
so you found a bar
off a street
and sat outside
with two beers
and a couple of smokes
and you wondering
how she bedded
and how indeed
to get her into your tent
and what to do
with the Australian guy
and the Yank dame
and off she went again
moaning about
the Southend
teacher guy
did you see him
at the from
of the mini bus
giving it all
that talk of history
and that Lancaster *****
all ears and ******* teeth ?
you sat and smiled
listening to her
talking of herself
and the world's grief.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 2:20 AM UTC
Under frizzed hair,
The Conscious Operator,
Smacking gum,
Waits with her tails of living wire
To make connections
At Synaptic Central.
The reader
Tilts a page to catch the rays,
Scans for symbols,
Begins to send
And to receive
Electric fires of thought
Traveling in from
Senses Five -
Traveling out from
Schema Library's
Data files -
To meet and
To commingle
At the Board.
With octopal finesse,
The tireless Operator
Plies Neural Central,
Sending quick myriads of thought
To rest or to revive in living files.
Neurons snap and arc;
Their coded leaping fires
Surge message-full
Through cables sheathed
To Synapse Central,
Where in her nimble hands
Fire Control finds slots
And coordinates connections,
During and Long After
The Outward Reading's done.
Even when the Blinds go down
Synaptic Central's work goes on.
The frizz-haired friend steps out to rest;
Sub-Conscious moves into her place
And with unsteady hand
Plays seeming havoc at the Board
Rearranging and Deranging
Delightful dreams, or horrid.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 2:19 PM UTC
You don't dare disturb me
When I drift off in your arms
You run your hand across my head
Smoothing out my frizzed hair
Such a sweet gesture
For a girl who is half-asleep
Partially in the hologram of slumber
Partially in the dream of reality
But in due time, time has past
The hourglass always runs out of sand
You rouse me from my daze
To drive me home in the midnight hour
I'm Cinderella missing a glass slipper
My horses have already turned back to mice
I have to leave again in a day's time
But as we drive back in the dark
You tell me that you love me
You adore my taste in music
The way I think and speak
My quirks and abnormalities, to you,
Are just like freckles on a cheek
You divulge me deeper in your fondness
You tell me I'm different from the rest
You confess your long high school crush on me
Your love of my head upon your chest
All along you cared for me
Before I cared for you
And as life seemed to fall apart
It reformed into something new
It was us all along
I know it now like you knew it then
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 2:09 AM UTC
for the first time in years, i didn’t sing in the shower. the lights were off, and i didn’t even hum, and there wasn’t a message from you when i stepped out. my hair frizzed with the heat and i didn't stick my tongue out and take a picture, laughing as i sent it to you and when my mother knocked on the door it echoed in my chest.
even now, two days later, i’m still waking up on the side of my bed we laughed was yours and there’s a box in the corner of my room that i can’t even look at. i rip the polaroids off the wall in a fit, tear them to pieces with my fingertips until i’m crying and i’m no longer angry, just alone, and you ask me not to contact you. my fingers are stained with ink as i write this letter, surrounded by the things i spread out and uncatalogued, as if they weren't for you.
today i toured a college campus and thought about how i promised i would be at your graduation, right there beside you as you chased your dream, and i see you behind the bookshelves of a place i’ll never be. maybe it wasn't long ago but i once told you i would be there after you got home, wipe the smudges of paint from your chin and pull the paintbrushes from your ponytail as i kissed you.
i joked last night about not having to worry about finding an apartment with three bedrooms to my friends and i cried that night because one of them wouldn’t be ours.
it was always you and me against the world.
when did it become just me?
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 5:48 PM UTC
I'd give you a hand
If it didn't cost me an arm and a leg
You'll be in my thoughts
And my heart goes out to you
I laid my eyes
On your tapping toes
And buckling knees
You have no back bone
I got a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach
Even though you split my sides
I could read your lips
And I saw you were lying through your teeth
You were tongue tied
Your wrists were slit
Hair frizzed
Voice raspy and dishonest
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 11:48 AM UTC
a new therapist,
can you pinpoint when you started to feel like this?
a party four years ago with a boy with sun-bleached hair and blue eyes
got pinned on a couch and, sure, kissed him with tongue but wasn't drunk enough to
fool herself into sleeping with him, into regretting him, so she walked away
with a mouthful of his curses.
his, i made you what you are. his, you broke your promise.
the sky is always falling for her because the sun beat heavy on her neck.
you should get that mole checked, cassandra said, instead.
she takes the day off and thinks
drinks eight glasses of water and eats a full meal
deals with her frizzed hair and aching head
dreads seeing the sun rise the next morning
but still wakes early to see it anyways.
greece burns and she watches
it isn't the first time and it won't be the last time
her sister helen calls her on the phone
drones on and on about a new boy
and she asks her, she begs her, do you not remember troy?
her therapist says, we can't fix the problem if you don't talk.
but she does and she does and she wonders when she doesn't
she tells her the sun is falling out of the sky, greece is burning in bright lights,
how do you deal with a trauma reborn like a slice of something
taken from her parents, a splice of hatred from a lover scorned?
cassandra finds it hard to find a part of her that hasn't been left burned
her words like a cyclical epitaph.
she turns on the news and watches the sky fall again.
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 12:53 PM UTC
Wet grass broke my heart
Plastic tarps taught me how to hate myself
Metal cans frizzed my hair and sliced my throat
Fireworks burned my thumbs and left the kitchen lights on
We're all pushing twenty and things are going stale
Chlorine burns my brain even if I hold my nose
I slept inside with the mountain boy and my best friend
While they were naked in the dirt
I didn't want to leave The Survivors, but she saw my seams begin to fray, stitched me up, and put me to bed
The broken hearted girls stayed apart that night
I couldn't hear your American Screams and I'm sorry
I had a mental breakdown in a grocery store yesterday
Linoleum floors caked with dirt and a mother scolding her child
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 1:23 PM UTC
We lived in a world of facts and opinions
The fact that I loved you and the opinion that I was beautiful
We lived in a world of judgments and statements
The judgement that my eyes were cute and the statement that they are
Teeth marks on my fingernails
And bruises on your toes
Split ends on my long hair
Brush the birthmark on your nose
Laughed until our throats hurt
Kissed until we couldn't breathe
You played with my hair till it was frizzed and rough
Talked about nothing until we couldn't anymore
The night you told me that you loved me
I was sniffling and sick
Surrounded by tissues
You kissed my cheek
I was an actor
And you were a painter
I acted like I loved you
And you painted me like you did
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 9:14 PM UTC