"gluing" poems
You cause
a break inside my organs
Pointing out my flaws
our differences.
You are at peace.
I sit jittering, worrying
what everyone will think
of when I didn’t care
you made me laugh at
everything
Changes. You’re not right for me
Nor I for you, but I can’t help
Thinking
What if? Then I remember
you’re not what nor
Everything I want.
You are an intellectual snob you
have a depth about you
I would love to delve in,
a psychological study
that even the best critics would praise,
but I don’t want anyone else to have been there
or ever go there.
I cannot hold on to you
tear me away while
You’re haphazardly gluing us together
We’re a kindergarten art project
messy, trying to see
Beauty within the confusion,
unfinished
You asked me
Where am I most at peace
4 years old.
I could be anything
No fears
I hadn’t been ripped apart.
I was the girl that said everything,
until I felt the need to screen my thoughts,
like the filter you use to make your coffee
each morning. I wish that’s where I was,
having you tell me
that you like your women like your coffee
Dark and bitter.
I can look past your chauvinistic ways,
not giving a **** about anyone.
You’re not really closed minded
You just act like it,
which annoys the hell out of me
Sometimes. I wish life was simple.
But then
I would never know your complexities nor
Feel the things you help me feel,
like hate for train whistles
or the burn of gin hitting my throat.
Music
you introduce me to
offstage trumpets, bad movies. Your politics,
your brown eyes
and how you can hear frequencies
that most everyone else can’t. I worry
that you hear
the fear in my voice and heartbreak
With every word I speak.
When were you going to tell me?
Or was that your plan all along?
To throw me out
like yesterday’s coffee grounds
or cut up scraps
Used and unwanted.
I wish I could tell you
to tell her you don’t want her
but me instead,
you don’t, I don’t want you to.
I want holding hands, laughter
comfort, personality, humor, intellect.
You want that plus things
I can’t give
But you always take.
You are your coffee
disgusting, caffeinated,
addicting
the only patch that helps is
comforting words you never spoke.
We had many conversations
of your desires, lusts, mistakes,
but I was burned,
by lies, distrust.
You left, like always,
a harsh, acidic aftertaste
on my tongue.
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 10:20 AM UTC
Depression shall not get the best of you
Between all of the colors, you chose blue
Tell me what makes you happy if I couldn’t do
All of the books and paper, i wish I could listen to you
You are cutting your wings and I am gluing them on
With me or with out me, you are going to be strong
If my poems and I didn’t stand tall
We’ll fall with you but, surely later we will catch on
We will crush all of your sad feelings,
We will crush them all
Only sunshine baby, even if your sky was blue
And I am here for you!
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 4:35 AM UTC
In the castle of my smile
All lovely words are imprisoned in stone
This place I am king that stretches a mile
My tongue its gilded throne
In the castle of my smile,
I spy through its bars of milky white
The silky wonderful love of my life
Walk Eden's paradise of light.
In the castle of my smile,
I weave a golden rope of magic letters,
Gluing jointed lyrics with praise filled ethers
Ignoring the splinters of criticism for better.
My means of escape down the walls to you.
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 12:47 PM UTC
There should be a genre of poetry called waste verse
tasteless and terse like the khaki pine needles that
litter the space underneath your porch.
a neglected place,
where the broken blue bottles and dew
marry in early morning ,
attended by a congregation of woodchips,
beers cans and
guinea pig ****
dancing easy with the morning breeze,
and carried like the currency of an early dreamer's reverie,
morning.
morning.
morning is gluing a teacup together knowing
that it will be broken tomorrow.
and day by day, the absence in form will grow
until that once teacup becomes nothing but empty space, with
its base designated in place of the back porch ash tray.
when i turned back one day, there was nothing left of its body
nothing left of it that i could see but paint dust, a couple of cuts
and some blood covered by a bandaid that doesn't stay on
because feet sweat a little too much.
morning is repetition for comfort
but breaking routine is
starting to feel more appealing
than keeping it,
because I know one morning I will wake alone,
with a rusted infrastructure and fractured backbone,
and have to look upon a screen with thousand texts that read,
"there are other fish in the sea"
well, **** you, maybe he was my sea.
i mean,
he is my sea,
maybe.
there is a genre of waste verse called poetry,
and the simple syllogism of it all
leaves me reeling.
but after i finish my cigarette over the khaki pine needles
beneath your porch and go inside,
"good morning", i say.
"good morning", he said.
i cannot remember what was so important just a few moments ago.
morning.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 11:58 AM UTC
Stare, my child
Head tilted back
Eyes wide and bright
Pupil glitters reflective light
Nebulas matching thy iris
Moon telling stories to thy soul
Illumination recreation
Time passing through broken glass
Wonder on, wonder about all
Gravity gluing feet and hopes
Earth spins on with grace
Trace the lines for story lines
Learn from present to past
A red one right there
And a blue one not far
Burning to burn then out
Look back at third
Blades green and soft
To be here where I belong
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 2:07 AM UTC
My eyes were beaming out,
onto the gloomy streets.
Fog was lurking in.
It adhered to my skin.
As the dew latched on,
after only seconds,
I slowly became damp.
Contributing to my silky skin.
Dusting my cheeks,
generating rosiness on my surface.
Glazing over my hair,
gluing each strand to another.
Coating my hands,
nipping at my fingertips
The haze in the back of my head,
It kept getting heavier.
Digging my fingernails into my head.
Tugging on each strand,
between my scalp and jagged fingernail.
Clawing as my nails trailed down my skull.
Blood dripping,
Streaming,
Creating tidal waves.
Fog was sprouting in my essence
The fog began to maneuver on me.
Blanketing over my body,
weighing down my soul,
overloading my carcass.
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 11:05 PM UTC
They pretended not to notice how much you had changed
But they did comment on your thinning face
And how much healthier you looked
How much better
They pulled you to the side "Oh my gosh, how did you do it?"
Quizzical looks
They didn't know that the weight you lost
Was unintentional
A compensation for the heavy load inside
You tried to somehow shake off
You hated your jutting rib bones,
Losing your sanity along with your "baby" fat
You lost what made you a woman
No no one noticed your gaunt eyes
and the sharp angle of your cheekbone
Like pain
and the way you started drinking
(Although you never stopped)
They didn't notice the new scars you kept hidden with makeup
Meticulous
careful
calculating
So unlike you
No no one noticed how your eyes shone a little less brighter
Especially when you smiled
Apart from that ex-boyfriend you left a winter ago
Standing in the cold
Because he was an *******
But ******** can be right
And you saw the way he looked at you like-
the way you used to look at a broken mirror
Wondering which piece to pick up first
And start gluing back together
The way you looked at your own blood flow from your wrist's
A little scared, amazed, numb..
Like "Where do we start first?"
And "What happened here?"
Thats how he looked at you
Atleast someone noticed
Jan 6, 2012
Jan 6, 2012 at 12:27 PM UTC
I may be a little rougher
than all those other girls:
skipping stones instead of gluing sparkles
rib-cracking laugh instead of lipstick smiles
tree climbing scrapes instead of hair curler burns —
but I’m softer than all of them.
I am your little avocado
dark skin cynicism and hardened core
but really I’m just as easily bruised
So, Sweet Smiled Serendipity,
please remember to kiss my cheek
my nose
my finger tips
when we lie together in a blanket of 2am sweat
because even after a night like that
I am more fragile than you’ll ever know.
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 8:00 AM UTC
It's been a bit jarring, this stumble into symmetry,
my good senses
gluing themselves intact
like an eleventh-hour craft project.
No string sections swelling for this comeback kid--
the just desserts, in this case,
arrive in the form
of a steady hum
that breezes the past away
with the ease of a loose eyelash
flying in a tropical storm.
It took years to embody this equilibrium,
to approach the mid-morning sun
and not recoil from overexposure,
no longer draped in the sweat-soaked robes
of secrecy. I have tripped upon a biome
of bravery, fallen into the measurements
that require no prickly tampering
from the rusty, dulled needle
of a fraudulent tailor.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 9:21 PM UTC
My mother is my seamstress,
lapping around a genetic retail store,
she had 23 chromosomes to spend.
Knitting freedom’s peach fuzz fabric over the inseam of muscles,
cross stitching stereotypes of blonde thread into the pores of a rounded scalp,
hot-gluing privilege into blue eyes,
kneading the molds of a thigh gap between legs of the race that would shame its way to superiority.
I am white.
My mother was my seamstress,
she made sure the licks of discrimination didn’t scar my back.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 3:11 PM UTC
so you decided to call me and plead yourself
the soundscape music made you miss me, again
what am I to wonder as I ponder your request
I'm still gluing back the pieces of another broken heart
am I just a spray on cologne when you need the fragrance of love
only to try your other brands when I finally wear off
perhaps i'ts not the product, but the user's misuse
read the label, this product expires in thirty days
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
A membrane of black ice
obscured
by a fog-bank
porcelain gaze,
he loves her with
Gein's focus—
gluing glamour on the ghastly.
Her urges
are a cleft lip-
reconstructed, not
repaired.
They make a lovely couple.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 6:48 PM UTC
all i've been able to think about lately
is a poem written by fingers on a keyboard
attached to a left hand not yet responsible
for being blistered with cigarette burns
or lifting can or shot or handle to lips
with which to stain -- barley, hops,
potatoes, rice, and alcoholic love.
and i've been thinking about how i felt
after i read a poem written the night
before by a left hand now singed
and swollen, and guilty of lifting
many such apparatuses bearing
many such inks to blot out
mistakes and scribble over
all the misjudged words
that have spilled from
lips stained with barley,
hops, potatoes, and rice.
and i've been thinking about
the content of that poem,
and about how differently
i thought of it two nights ago,
before i got my own matching
business card with a followup
appointment for next week,
and a matching warning
to allow 24 hours notice
before changing the day
or time of an appointment
in order to avoid being charged;
and with it came the opportunity
to write my own poem about it:
Christina M., LMFT,
Wed, 4-17-13 at 4:00 PM,
and it has a sacramento street
address with a phone number
i have no intention of calling.
and i've been thinking about
how i met with her today,
and what we spoke of,
how i told her about drugs,
and how i told her about drinking,
and how my grades have been slipping,
and how i realized that
my poem is his poem,
just eleven months too late.
and that's why i told her about
this party i went to this weekend,
and how i'm passive, and i have trouble
speaking up for myself when i need to,
and how we sang until i left the room,
and how i went outside in the cold
after i came back inside to notice
something i wasn't expecting
to make me sad, but did.
and this person with whom
i have another appointment next week,
and most likely the week after that,
for however many weeks it takes,
told me that it helps to tell a person
how you're feeling without
gluing strings to the information,
or getting upset, or lying,
and so i guess this is an attempt,
albeit one made out of cowardice
and impatience, and some desire
for there to be an easier way
to tell a boy i've loved him
ever since i found this stupid website,
filled with his stupid words,
and his stupid poem about
a stupid girl he used to date,
that clinically broke open
my amygdalae and upon them
tattooed every feeling
of which i was never sure.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 4:56 PM UTC
Pull your teeth out,
threading your lips together with twine.
Reach into your bellybutton with a finger,
hook-shaped,
and remove your intestines,
like a serpent.
Run a hook into your nose,
removing your brain
as if mummifying you.
Carve a smile with a razor,
under each breast,
******* out the fat
and replacing it with silicone.
Pull your nails off,
leaving ****** beds,
krazy-gluing plastic
over the tips of the fingers.
Fingers into ****
pulling out the ******
Spoon the eyeballs out,
sew the sockets shut.
My doll, broken and battered,
now fixed in perfection.
A soft suicide relapse into plasticine porcelain -
you tremble when we ****
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 1:31 PM UTC
I am prepared to caravan our
Cargo across the country into
New times zones.
Carpool with our college friends
Through rush hour traffic and back roads
Without street lights or deer crossing signs.
Pledge my allegiance to the
Fraternity of road trippers who
Believe all homes are mobile.
Measure myself by interstate
Mile markers—every township line
We cross is an invisible stamp
On the passport of my soul.
Spend bathroom breaks between pilgrimages
Gluing Polaroid pictures of our expedition
Next to city names in our road atlas.
Learn how to **** into coke
Bottles in bumper to bumper
Traffic between rest stops.
Discover new reasons to live
As the glow of brake lights guides
Me toward the next exit.
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 12:12 PM UTC
You can’t, if you can’t feel it, if it never
Rises from the soul, and sways
The heart of every single hearer,
With deepest power, in simple ways.
You’ll sit forever, gluing things together,
Cooking up a stew from other’s scraps,
Blowing on a miserable fire,
Made from your heap of dying ash.
Let apes and children praise your art,
If their admiration’s to your taste,
But you’ll never speak from heart to heart,
Unless it rises up from your heart’s space.
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 10:58 PM UTC
My mother only had one son
But it ain’t enough
I’ve paid all my dues
It ain’t enough
Oh no
Rolling on to ruin
Gluing quarters to the roof
Make a dollar, it’s the rule
Used as a man, seen as a boy
This is all
Am I moving too slowly?
Does anything move?
Roaming over love until noon
Rapid rivers look brand new
Licking scabbed wounds
Overlook my truancy
As if you’ve never known
Looking for nonexistent proof
Looking over cratered moons
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 11:27 AM UTC
May I write a Shakespearian sonnet on
the square inches of skin
between your thumb joint and elbow?
I’m a pretty good storyteller,
I can narrate in blank verse if you wish.
Can I write poetry on your spine?
Up and down in broken haikus,
tankas quilting along the curve of your sides.
Perhaps a sestina?
So be it.
I can work bay leaves into tea cakes.
May I write alliterations across your toes,
over finger bones and broken knuckles?
I have enough form poems to
paint my walls a matte black.
Gloppy ink blobs,
carnation stamps,
over raised red lines of a villanelle.3
Can I write poetry on your stomach?
I have soft ballad-dipped brushes
that leak cinnamon sugar.
Acrostic biographies written to a jazz tune,
papier-mâchéd into a handmade piñata.
Spider web hair pins
left in the bathroom sink spell out
another useless cinquain.
May I write a rondeau on your calves,
rising up into your knees?
Epitaphs in your running shoes
make limericks out of the hail in your back yard.
Don’t try super gluing petals back onto stems,
they’ll fall apart eventually.
Poetry is written on you like paper.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 12:14 PM UTC
what is to be of a wasted life of spent breath to vent the concepts unkempt to the context of the plight?
It could really be alright, as we dance the night away, and play house on a world scale, a snails pace on the trails of progress.
Yet to digress to a better man with a plan and a project to reach naivety, in elementary innocence never completely lost.
We are the boss of our own reflections.
Gluing together the inter-sections divided of the perfections embossed in loss-less injections upon your ghost.
Host to your congregation of one.
One day to become
Become the son of the day
Days encased of night
Nights blathering beautifully in the love songs of lonely poets united beneath the stars of afar in unprompted kindness that spread like a virus inside us, and opened the eyes of babes with the dice of slaves freed on self gambles, leaving dread in the shambles of yesterday's imagination.
Be emptied everything.
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 3:20 AM UTC
someone told me time heals everything
but time is not gluing my heart together and fixing the spaces where you belonged
time is not erasing the image of your body, lifeless and cold
time is not healing anything
all time does is stall.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 8:19 PM UTC
Under the stars alone and cold...
Remembering what has been told...
Wondering if cold I will stay...
Wondering if alone I'll be all the way...
Wondering what will be up ahead...
Feelings of feathers or lead?
Walking, shivering, further...
Calling, getting colder...
Listening, making no sound...
I can't possibly turn around...
So further I go...
Through desert and snow...
Mountains or sea...
Where is glee?
Tears, why are you burning behind my eyes?
Silence, why are you answering my cries?
Wind, why are you whispering in my ears?
Time, how long and how many years?
Pain, why are you the only one hugging me?
Joy, why do you let me be?
Have I chosen for these scars to be made?
Have I asked to live in this darkness and shade?
Am I responsible for this smile of mine?
How do I make my heart shine?
Maybe, I should stop looking back...
I am the one to make me run faster on this track...
So I lift my head...
And this heaviness, I shed...
There, now I see the sun and the rainbow above...
I now know how to laugh and to love...
Smile, I have missed you so...
Happiness, I won't let go...
Laughter, I'm glad I opened the door...
Love, make me fly above the floor...
I found the missing pieces and am gluing them together...
Heart of mine, you are lighter as a feather...
Soul, don't fade from me...
Even if it hurts to see...
Scars, I know you teach me where to go...
I'm thankful for what I know...
Experience, good or bad...
I'm glad I can learn by losing what I had...
I'm not scared to smile or cry...
Both are necessary, it's no lie...
Hug yourself with a smile...
You are so much more than a computer file...
No matter who you are, I'm happy about you...
Reading this, I hope you are too...
Jan 24, 2021
Jan 24, 2021 at 2:59 PM UTC
I'll fall in your embrace
With my droplets mizzling upon you,
Dear, would you let me embosom?
I'll wander around your infinite contours,
Gluing to you in your rugged facets,
Dear, would you let me explore?
I'll dance with your essence
And liberate your scents imbibed in me,
Dear, would you let me adrift?
I'll mingle with your hues
Without loosing my limpid self-hood,
Dear, would you let me defy?
Under the glaring sun, under the gleaming moon,
I'll shine back our entwined zeal,
Dear, would you let me scintillate?
I'll quiver and twitch when the breeze hits hard,
I'll cling to you with my sinking heart,
Dear, would you then let me depart?
I was lost to infinity, you'd thought.
But here I am, in pieces, but caught.
Dewy loam lets me in.
To unite us again, for love must win.
Dear, would you let me be you?
Dear, would you let me be us?
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 2:47 PM UTC