"goosebump" poems
I
She exits herself on the
Sofa. Blanket, dog, and bits
Of a poem on a pad of paper
On the table, like a half-eaten
Piece of homework.
Shades of wine on her sleeping
Lips. Exits herself; space-walks
Outside that frame of mind she's
Been expected to hang herself
On the wall within; she knows
There is more.
There has to be more.
II
She has to be more.
Like so many writers, she falls
Asleep working. Sometimes
Works to fall asleep.
Digging her way through
Herself, mining for words,
Hacking away at painful pasts,
Gathering emerald experiences.
Diamond doubts and ruby
Regrets all fuel her poetry.
And she reads, spotlight kissed;
Audience adored,
Goosebump summoning; hairs
On arms and necks stand up as
She whispers directly to me.
About me. Because of me.
In front of everybody.
To music, and I've brought a box
Of pins, and between each of her
Every word, I drop one. And I
Swear to the gods, you can hear
Them all. Like the unsteady
Ticking of a clock too cool to
Care.
III
Poetry jewelry; set with stones
From her innermost. Chips of
Gold from her heart melted
Down to a key pendant she
Holds in her hand; chain dangling,
Eyes closed, forehead resting
Against a door she knows it is
Time to open. Key in one hand,
Pen in the other,
She
Enters
Herself.
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 6:34 AM UTC
We went to the movies and I didn't bring a sweater.
But the night was coldly filled with goosebump raising weather.
There were goosebumps on my skin but I didn't have my sweater.
I thought it would be better if we sat closer together.
You wrapped your arms around me and were my warmth spreader.
You made my heart melt and now I will forever be your debtor.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC
The skies were clear the day after he died.
I peeled off my clothes by the river
and watched the water breathe,
folding into itself like a chest wound.
It trembled at my touch,
as foot became current,
kissed thigh and naked breast,
warm cheek and curled lip.
The water was soft
and the world sighed beneath me.
My skin was built of goosebump
condensation.
I floated on my back and my body became the water cycle.
Evaporation is just another word
for rebirth.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 8:53 PM UTC
Path less traveled, Path unknown.
Mountains, Sand, rocks and stone.
No water, vegetation so scarce.
Sun at its ugliest, sun so fierce.
In this wilderness I fear I'll get lost.
I dread I'll be ruined, I will exhaust.
Some say this road will never end;
More I travel, more it will extend.
Soothing sound tells me to continue;
Sun is yet to set, travel miles few.
The heat forces me into a slump.
Solacing sound gives goosebump.
Very soon the blazing sun will fade.
I search tree with hundred years of shade.
They say to give up in this dusty heat.
I seek Gardens with rivers underneath.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 9:12 PM UTC
Explosion of the white tree,
A synapse in the damp air.
The fluid around the corsair,
Ambassador of the secret;
The perfume of a comet
Descends upon the wetland.
A goosebump stretches my hair;
Ripples forming across the sea
As nostril and flowers meet
Miles and miles without end.
The green flame always return
In a frenetic haze, a burst of fire,
As the solar wave caresses the earth
At welcomed glances, so soft a fur.
A last effort renewed forevermore;
Delirious poison continually brewed;
An elixir against the veil of dusk;
Cause and effect from dust to dust.
As the mind steps out back further,
It finds itself returned at the core,
Til all of Spring elapses.
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 11:53 PM UTC
Luscious ruby red lips, tell me white lies,
gorgeous supple **** there I hide my alibi's.
My eyes can't see anyone else anymore,
my life isn't the way that it was before.
Her womb welcomes me, her sin invites me.
She violates me, and I, hurt her too, willingly.
Her warm tender fingers ****** what they will,
every touch is the chilling goosebump overkill.
Feet fall on golden cobblestones, never alone,
'cause I always know just where she is.
Luscious ruby red lips, tell me white lies,
gorgeous supple **** where I hide my alibi's.
Nov 4, 2011
Nov 4, 2011 at 1:52 PM UTC
Outside the backyard windowpane
owl's clover beckons a butterfly
to feed in the wildflower meadow
silver tree bark and naked branches
stand lining edges on two sides
songbirds sing symphonies in flight.
Opaque shadows mark the horizon
in a blink, blurs eat blue from the sky
and as clouds circle back sunshine dies
winged creatures grounded, insects too
with no moonlight -no critters can fly,
cicada shrill to a coyote pack's howl
little hairs rise in a goosebump dance.
Heartbeats pound- pulse rate climbs high,
a scream -glass breaks -then silence
purple is devoured inside a chilled fog
as lights 'round the world pass me by,
weep with the willow- sob to the breeze
darkness yanks and dew kisses flesh,
curls, clothes, and soaked skin drip dry.
Body shakes- lips quiver- teeth rattle
my grey view bleeds into ebony,
no Seraphin cradles me in a goodbye,
tunnel lantern holds no oil for the light
too dark to lift me or for us to fly.
Jan 3, 2019
Jan 3, 2019 at 2:18 AM UTC
lately the little hailstorm
in my fingernails has
been crawling up
goosebump skin and faltering
pulse until
the
rain
is
trickling
down
my
spine
between bones and nerve
endings, my eyelashes only
know how to blink away the
shadows when there is a
heartbeat in my ears
and ink stains on my skin
i don't know how to
bleed out the rain with
pretty words anymore
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 4:19 AM UTC
Yes, kiss my neck.
No, don't go back to my lips.
Give me more of your warm, wet air against my goosebump covered neck.
Bury your face into me.
More!
let me show you
just how much.
Yes!
right at the base of my neck where it meets my chest
Don't be shy,
I don't care if the world can see this tomorrow.
Actually, bruise me,
make sure
they all can see
it feels so
much better with that
assertion.
I don't need to see anymore, just let me relish the bright blindness of eyes shut tight
I'll figure you out with my hands.
Yes! press your tongue against me in that seal you made with your lips.
And yes, the only time I want you to stop laying those kisses is for
an audible breath.
Better yet a small moan
when my hands slide under your rough denim and past your soft jagged ridges of lace,
a strong grip and squeeze of your ***
That's it..
Now you're setting me off.
Yes, I want flesh on flesh.
No, I'm done with this hesitation
and your shirt.
I don't need mine either.
Actually, you can stop making my blood rush
through my neck.
Better only be for a moment though
while our hands grasp
for whatever part of our shirts to pull them off.
Yes, crawl further up me
let me feel your heating skin
against my blood boiled body.
No, don't just crawl-
straddle me
like this.
Actually, that sly lick against my earlobe made me groan.
Better yet
move your hips like- yes! just like that.
And Yes, we're still wearing too many clothes.
And yes, exactly, fix that problem.
No! I'm not done with those lips quite yet.
Exactly. That's the spot and don't you stop.
Actually-no-yes!-what was I saying?
Oh- that's right,
better yet,
turn around-but don't let go of me with your tongue and kiss-
my tongue also wants a taste. Y-yes..!
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 1:42 AM UTC
This is not a rhyme
this is not a poem
there is no hidden messages between ambiguous word
or conveyed through complex metaphors
this is the tears of my heart
bleeding
fuelling me
so that I can find the courage to speak
to speak the words of my soul
the words I've been dying to say
... no
to scream!!!
The words I've been dying to shout out
as a proclamation to the whole world...
I DON'T LOVE YOU
I DON'T because I don't know what love is
but I do know you make me wonder
you make me philosophize about it
about what it feels like
I DON'T know what love is...
but you make me feel
something that must be close to it
...
if not better
I think about you ALL the time...
there is not a moment that passes where I don't think of you...
not a single message from you at which I don't smile
not a single night where I hate the dawn of sleep, because it means goodbye
ALL OF MY FRICKEN POEMS ARE ABOUT YOU
last night when you were here...
in the three seconds that we kissed
in those mere blinks of an eye
when our lips softly brushed
... I was paralysed
... It was the first time in my life where my mind was COMPLETELY quiet
the first time I didn't instruct myself through a kiss
and just let go...
now your scent is stuck to me...
I smell it all the time
the smell is intoxicating
and I think of you with every breath I take
unwillingly falling further and further into your arms...
and so I call you...
just to hear your voice...
just to hear you laugh at what I say...
because hearing your voice makes my day...
the sound of your laughter...
it's a toe curling
goosebump-giving
heart-wrenching
pulse-rising
start-smiling
start-crying
but never nail baiting...
because I know you hate that
... sort of sound.
and I envy the guy who is lucky enough to have you
I envy him with all my heart.
I have a bitterness towards him compared by only few...
and a sadness towards you compared to no other greatness...
why can't you see
that his love for you is not...
nor will it ever be...
the same as my NOT-LOVE for you
can't you see he doesn't give you the romance and the happiness you deserve
the laughter and the acceptance and the complete free will...
can't you see that I adore you
... so much so that I have turned into this monster who envies...
one who feels bitter towards someone he has never met!!!
I am lost without you...
I want you...
I need you...
I want to need you...
I Better-than-love you
I xoxo you and mwa you
forever and continuous
(not-)love (- but better)
me...
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 6:12 PM UTC
I'm melting
into tangerine
thoughts,
floating
in a pool
of orange
a pool of lemon
zest and peel
that comes to
sting
when I pry
open
my eyes
Tangerine thoughts
that look so sweet
so sincere
the bump-de-dump-de-dump
of textured life
where you can run your
finger on the goosebump
skin
and feel only
a fruit
and I can wrap my
soul around
and know that
I'm it too.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 12:40 AM UTC
I lay in awe as an angel lays beside me
and I can't help to wonder if this is it,
if this is the heaven-sent, God-sent miracle I've heard one has to experience to believe, to believe in God, to believe in heaven, to have hope, to believe in blessings. I wonder if she - this angel - is what one needs to believe in divinity, for It's impossible to meet an angel like her and not be tempted, and practically forced to, and be left with no choice but to believe in the celestial. It's impossible not to believe in God himself after you've been able to lay beside such holiness, after you've been able to watch an angel sleep in all Its sacredness, speak in all Its sacredness, revive you with all Its sacredness.
You're left with no choice but to believe that those days you believed to be your last days of life, those shaded days in which you prayed to a God you never before saw, the almighty invisible being you believed was deaf to your plea, wasn't really all that deaf.
It's impossible not to believe that God himself - the God you now only believe in because of the angel who leaves you no choice but to believe - sent you and angel, that he has heard you.
I lay in awe, blessed I lay, as an angel lays beside me, for how can someone with those hypnotizing eyes that devour you every time not be an angel, how can someone with that majestic, goosebump-causing skin not be an angel, how can someone with that gracious walk not be an angel, how can someone with that spirit-grabbing yet spirit-giving touch not possibly be an angel?
I lay in awe as an angel lays beside me
I believe, as an angel lays beside me
I now live, because this angel lays beside me
- F.V.
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 1:37 PM UTC
like the flap of butterfly wings,
and softer, smaller, thinner things.
golden shimmer blackened rings,
the tips of your limbs fluttering,
landed weightlessly on my skin.
tickling to my bone glowing hot,
you whispered in my ear, the *****
hairs at end by winds collapse,
revealing secrets, treasure maps,
weak rubberband encircling snaps.
the spot was marked by sweat to graze
the endless fields of goosebumps raise
an image of a butterfly, it plays,
and whisked into my range of hair.
when i can smell the sound it makes,
and feel its taste in stomach aches.
the butterfly of the body shakes.
into its home, my heart, it takes.
and wraps in black my golden shimmer veins.
your breath the breeze that brought the butterfly's
wings to form to speckles of your eyes.
and lashes batting winked into the skies,
and kissing cheeks and spaces between thighs,
to make goosebump mountains to scale.
when you feel the flap of butterfly wings,
in your bones valley, in blood springs,
into your ear a hush, whisper, the insect sings,
and pulls you in by golden harp strings,
wrapped in black in ropes and rings.
a melody in passion, it begins.
Jul 23, 2012
Jul 23, 2012 at 11:47 PM UTC
we'd walk with our noses up,
sovereign against the grey, moving sky.
we'd pay skinny women with wrinkles like canals
on their sagging faces,
with yellow teeth of ash and smoke,
and flitting eyes, buzzed off coke,
to buy us brandy and cigarettes
in the small gas-stations littered like filters
around town.
i'd convince you,
and a girl with silky hair like frozen rivers,
to run down in the safe enclosure of night
in suffocating fields, choking in ice
and reduce our clothing to dark shadows
scattered around the moon-reflecting snow,
and to run bare and naked,
with our ******* taut and heavy
against the bitter winds.
we'd be wearing heels
like deadly cliffs, thorns like
biting roses,
stealing little gulps from each bottle in a tall girls
liquor cabinet,
a tiny mouthful of
butterscotch ***
bombay sapphire sliding down
achingly painful, dry gin exploding
our tongues.
a little bit of Tennessee whiskey,
it was always my favorite.
we'd crawl out looming windows
like dark, slanted mouths,
into the night
on top of a shrouded mountain,
silky underwear,
goosebump legs, and
celebrating her first real shot.
we'd be laying on mattresses under the
breathless stars,
eyes heavy, cement filled
and hazy with hash.
we'd be on my bed, listening to brand new,
because it reminds us of words unsaid,
and kisses that
wont be taken back.
smoke a cigarette for me darling, wont you?
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 1:43 AM UTC
He's an artist
The way he paints
With bite marks and hickeys
On my goosebump canvas
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 6:56 PM UTC
The night was right it ended wrong
Heard something that hit a nerve be strong
No more self destruction cope with the pain
Good memories drown out not much to gain
Trusting the wrong want to believe it ends right
You can leave won't be around forever
Eventually say whatever find the confidence to start over
Not settling for less all I want is the best
I'm not perfect but want to be close to doing so
Lots of personal growth seeking closure
Hurting find the power within to forgive
I don't want to give up sometime you have to move on
Tears of relief and new beginings just believe
Don't blame yourself its not you
Sometimes lies are mistaken for the truth
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 2:39 AM UTC
The wet smell of the earth
was **** enough
I woke up to the moon glow
feasting his eyes
on my silky skin
The sultry feel of the night
covered me like silk sheets
caressing every goosebump on my skin
I tasted you in yesternight's alcohol binge
there were bits and pieces that surprised my tongue
along with my memory
The cigarette stench in my hair
whiffed instances that slapped
the drunk off my face
The crumpled money
harvested ash from the drive
in every crease
The burn marks on my hand
brought back the inhibitions
I felt that night or lack there of
what happened I have yet to decipher
yet, I still remember the blurred lights
that lit my eyes with seduction
one that I shared
with you
on
that
one
night!
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 8:16 AM UTC
clothes are uncomfortable
but so is the cold
whispering against my neck
goosebump constellations
gather in congregations
along the salt skin of your arms
and your mouth opens
but no words are spoken
instead a rotten tongue falls out
and you soak into my skin
like a warm milk bath
and you settle in my bones
like the age of a million years pass
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 5:25 AM UTC
On the desk, there lies a fountain pen
It doesn't take cartridges
Rather, you dip it in ink and press it to paper
It makes a sound, not unlike fingernails on a chalkboard
But not like it either - it's satisfying instead of goosebump-inducing
Slowly scratching the page until it's gone
The ink has bled onto page 3
I've pressed too hard
But this paper is thick
Previous poets pondered profusely
Pretending this pen was a pipe
Holding it between their teeth until an idea came ripe
This pen holds a history of poetry
Of spilling thoughts that otherwise stayed internalized
And of sometimes spilling ink
It gets everywhere
I love it
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 4:52 PM UTC
There is no silence in the night, darkness breaths, it grows unbound,
It is filled with shadows shifting, whispering, waiting to be found,
Silhouettes block out electric's shine, darkness creeping through the door,
Together searching, trying to, find out what they are looking for,
Frigid breath capers coldly, shoulders crack with goosebump-scars,
Her porcelain skin glows brightly, in the broken light of scattered stars,
Staining black like flecks of paint, a shining blur of cut glass shards,
Sweet scent is lost, we are found, my burning cheeks, she disregards,
Singing breaths whisper love, wishing the night will never end,
The empty night is beautiful as she, we now no longer have to pretend.
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 12:36 AM UTC
I've always wanted to travel the world.
So I will trek,
Across your skin,
Sail through your veins,
And climb over each goosebump.
Your bones will guide me,
So that I don't lose my way.
I'll explore the ridges of your lips,
And swim in the pools
That are your eyes.
I've always wanted to travel the world,
But your heart
Is where I'll make my home.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 7:33 PM UTC
go ahead
and worship yourself once in awhile
let the breeze come and, once in awhile,
remember how to stand -
check your posture, shoulders back, feet apart
and if all you see is cobblestone or pavement or dying brown grass,
look up
remember how to be valiant
check your heart rate
feel your fingertips
loosen the knots in your eyebrows
open your throat
remember the way sunsets look and that puppies and butterflies and popcorn exist
go ahead
and buy yourself flowers
once in awhile
buy a bouquet or seven
fill up a vase with water and let them drink love
place them on your windowsill or
coffee table
or bedside table
but remember to smell them every time you walk by
and once in awhile
buy someone else flowers
or chocolate or honey or a brand new notebook or coffee
make them feel special and important
remind them that tenderness is the root of peace
and you'll remember that tenderness is the root of peace
go ahead
and head outside
if it's raining, get wet, if it's chilly, greet each goosebump with a deep breath
and remember, once in awhile,
your eyes rain and your heart floods and they wash away whatever hurt comes
you are a rocket, baby, you are a fresh hardcover book sitting on a cafe table ready to be read, you are a tree trunk so wide, people must gather around you and hold hands to hug your circumference,
you are bright yellow rain boots, love, you are red pink white roses and lilacs and lavender and the entire flower bed,
you are the sunset, sweetie, the puppies and the butterflies and the popcorn and the peace
so, once in awhile, baby, worship yourself
go ahead
and worship yourself
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 9:10 PM UTC
My hands look old.
I don't know what happened to their previous beings,
their soft, pale, younger selves.
My hands are cracked from the dry humorless days of anticipation.
I have hangnails, my skin so dry it's splitting from itself.
And they shake.
They shake along with my voice and my thoughts.
Trembling with excitement and worry.
When you're in the room,
especially when you're not, though.
I have stretch marks.
On my inner thighs, and on my sides,
they remind me of roads, of maps, of going places.
Each goosebump is a hillside,
each little crack in my dry skin is a riverbed, waiting for rain.
My body is a terrain of imperfections,
and I'm just trying to keep still enough
as to not disturb the world that I harvest.
Mar 11, 2012
Mar 11, 2012 at 10:02 PM UTC