"graffitied" poems
“You are worth more than the marigolds”
I am assured by my loving mother as a child
I believe her because the beauty in everything flow’rs and flourishes
when you’re young
The world is yours to take, everyone is yours to meet, everything is yours to do;
and I believe her.
“You are worth more than the marigolds”
My first friend at school proclaims,
and I believe them.
We’ve tackled ***** training and preschool, now onto the playground and phonics!
We run and run together, taking the world like we’ve
whispered once before;
and I believe them.
“You are worth more than the marigolds”
The middle school test scores announce,
and I believe them.
Primary school is in the past and I’m ready for responsibility!
I put on makeup to feel pretty, care about my grades more than the teachers believe and flash my smile to the boys who spit “compliments” at my feet;
and I believe them.
“You are worth more than the marigolds”
but.. I don’t believe them anymore.
I’ve gained just enough confidence to smile at everyone in the halls in case they are having a bad day.
Suddenly my youthful euphoric vision is graffitied with hateful words and violence.
I run and constantly chase the innocence of the world,
being surrounded by darkness.
My self esteem has hit an all time low. Why is the world this way?
My friends and I chase what we used to believe and end up in deep holes;
and I don’t believe them anymore.
“You are worth more than the marigolds”
And it doesn’t matter.
I have lost all hope of finding that beauty.
My heart is an aching mess of “I love you”’s
But all I hear is “you are meaningless”
Slowly these phrases of deep hate sear into my soul
I hear them every day and every night
You are meaningless
You are not worthy
You could not possibly be good enough
Until I wake up one dismal morning to realize that I have been defined by the ones around me.
“You are worth more than the marigolds”
..and enough!
Because even my friends who say I’m worth something turn around and sneer at others like they can’t too be loved.
Because while the world screams “I hate people” I whisper
“but I don’t”.
But that doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things
because we’ll find someone who loves us, right?
No.
Our words between just us mean nothing if we spin around and
spit in others’ faces.
And we know we hurt because we’ve been hurt but we don’t stop, none of us stop.
I dream of a world that screams a vulnerable
“I love you”
out into the world instead of a pulsing
“I hate you”
And a world that remembers that we are all worthy of love and not only the kind that makes you blush.
“You are worth more than the marigolds”
The phrase I’ve heard since I was in my mother’s gentle hold
can only mean so much when you think you’re crumpled.
Stashed away until you’re needed
always feeling so defeated
but the truth
not told enough
to our weakened souls
We are all worth more than the marigolds
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 11:15 PM UTC
Sit in a crowded gymnasium
on a Thursday.
Basketball is not the point.
Stare at the orange speck anyway.
Silence your phone and his voice from before,
Still inside your head,
words the color of the burnt orange ball.
Find music in the squeak of the rubber soles,
Notice the referee's slanting stripes, and how they blur
when you stare, until even pictures inside your head blur.
Nod to the man wearing the red cap beside you,
whose words dribble across your mind,
They imprinting a message:
travel
next year
last year
time
killing
foul
out
losses
hope.
Maybe you miss that last word,
Or maybe you see the message graffitied on the score board.
Maybe you close your eyes and open them again,
And notice the white jerseys gleaming in song with light,
The same light that slants up toward you,
Your shirt should also be white,
With the same light shining on those who travel
and on those who foul out.
Sit in the crowded gymnasium
on a Thursday,
and forget about what he told you last night.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 10:30 PM UTC
I got a couple dents in the fender
Of my ****** car,
A couple rips in my best pair
Of my cheap jeans.
My scuffed up high tops
Are wearing thin,
Imperfection is my
New best friend.
My favorite t-shirt has
A couple of holes,
And my wallet's thinner than
My shoe's soles.
The scars on my skin
Are bright and white.
Imperfection is my
New best friend.
The streets of my ghetto
Are graffitied and dark,
And the knives in our pockets
Always stay sharp.
Though my best has a couple
Of nicks and cracks.
Imperfection is my
New best friend.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 11:22 AM UTC
What rarity can acclaim to this elusive title? Where surely
claiming it itself is against its nature.
It might be what our mothers told grubby faced, knee
knocked flecks that dart from graffitied parks
when light turns dark.
Is it in the eye of the beholder, a stubborn piece
of irritating dust? Perhaps those who search
will never be rewarded with a glimpse as
perfection becomes unfathomably further.
Why does the haughty swan rise when the
it squawks more than the pigeon?
Beauty is boxed. It is wrapped in parcels and
swaddled in ribbon until one forgets that it is in the child's
face and not his hands.
Unmeasurable pleasure shouldn't be contained, it roams and commands like a caged tiger. It controls the eye and navigates,
onward soldier. So perhaps it is not rare at all but there
for all customary enough to
anticipate the undeniable.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 12:19 PM UTC
Running on empty,
Lost luck and fumes,
Choking out victims, with a distinct perfume.
Rub the glass between your palms,
And let it bleed out the toxins.
Litter the house with crude memories,
Like oil churning, polluting possibilities.
Ripping wings from flies,
And the legs from a spider.
One by one, shooting cans like army men.
Bleeding out to start again.
Snarky saints believing they're saved,
Crying blood and burning sage,
To rid themselves of the rage.
Thinking they'll see the graffitied golden gates,
When all they're doing is shoveling their own graves.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 2:18 PM UTC
You came and went again today even quicker than last time... front door carelessly swinging on its rusty hinges behind you & porch creaking under your feet as you ran down its tired steps; the baby blue paint chips falling to their deaths from the railings to your sleeping front yard. No one around here can vividly recall the last time they looked into your eyes. No one around here can vividly recall the way your voice sounds in the middle of the night. You are the start of an engine. You are the gravel that rolls beneath your tires & perhaps sometimes even a passing smile. I don't question your desire to go and go and go. I just hope that where ever you travel you're offered more than old graffitied stop signs and broken windows & maybe one day you can show me which exit to take out of this lazy place.
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 9:53 AM UTC
I ripped our love apart.
I defiled it.
Whatever we had I graffitied all over,
I sprayed noxious fumes over a work of art.
And you're gone.
I ate our love up.
Devoured it.
We had a four course meal planned out.
I ate the desert before the meal began.
And you're gone.
I bulldozed our love.
Destroyed it.
We were architects for not just a building, a city.
I burned the plans, the structures.
And you're gone.
I killed our love.
Murdered it.
a life of
Your pit bull and
hairless cat and
motorcycle
Workbench
-did you ever take that course?
love
Your eyes when they were seventy.
When we were on shrooms,
I hallucinated you at seventy.
I started crying because you were so beautiful.
That was before I went homicidal.
But you are gone.
And I don't blame you.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 4:25 AM UTC
I took my luggage to you
and you said, “Just check it over here.”
Then we went sailing
as people do when they find one another.
We went fishing
for words and atonement.
I said, “I am this violent thing and
I thrash about like there’s anger when there is not.”
We put together seven hundred and fifty pieces of a
puzzle and it made my heart ache.
You put pieces together of me and I put
a few together of you.
You said, “You’ll leave. I am not enough.
Never was. That’s how it goes.”
We sat in a park, on a graffitied picnic table
and did nothing but talk then sit quietly.
I was once taught the value of silence and stillness
but before that park I felt too raw to practice it in turn.
I carved curves and names into the table beneath us
and bumped my shoulder to yours.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 10:09 PM UTC
if you are missing him, remember this. remember how cruel he was to you, how every time he drove away the moonlight made your skin look bruised, it made you feel soft. remember that you are not. you might break but you will always heal. think of the nights where he turned away and refused to let you touch him, nights where he moaned your best friends' names into your mouth while you tried to prove how much you loved him, nights where he'd refuse to stop yelling until you put your hands on him. do not think of his hands, or his mouth, or any of the bones in his body. they're not for you. they're not for anybody but himself and you should pity the fact he doesn't know how to love them. you gave your best to him and he crumpled it up until it looked like your worst. don't feel sorry for being emotional, he was a gaping wound in your chest and things like that deserve a good cry. if you're missing him, remember how distant he was, how when you'd sink down on him he wouldn't be looking at your face. how his shoes were always graffitied with the numbers of other girls. how in the middle of a date he asked another girl her name. I know it hurts, it's going to be okay, I promise. remember how unhelpful he was? how little he cared, moving so fast he could never type the 'I?' he blamed you for loving him too much, for being too sad: both things were his fault. I know it doesn't seem like it but I promise there is somebody much, much more lovely, somebody who will treat you like a cloud, and won't throw a fit when you start to rain. you just have to wait.
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 4:23 PM UTC
saw his mother
while they buried him. her hair
--with sorrow as flint--
smoked and caught fire. the world began to
cave in up and around the swollen fist of regret that punched
through my stomach --the fire spread--
speared my gut with blame.
all the while
a cacophony
of strings and trumpets
cried parting and
a soul flew
on golden banners
towards heaven
those stone white graffitied gates.
--the fire grew too much to handle--
in agony I flailed and screamed.
rolled down tall mountains clawing at bone and dirt
and flesh. gilded chariots breaking free. shepherding the beautiful
from the leperous, riddled atrophy that controls the living.
the dying and the burning. how everything burns
dies. fire smoke guilt regret. oh sweet death.
death in the summertime. death in the
morning, the evening, death of
everything. always.
eyes open
--a crisp, cluttered autumn hillside--
fall back upon his mother
reality stricken and grave.
blink twice. refocus.
a tear falls from her face
followed by
one from
mine.
the fire is out.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 7:15 PM UTC
I'm being ripped at the seams, slowly shredded into a fine paper doll,
then crucified,
nailed to the peeling yellow walls with a push pin,
creased,
stained,
mocked,
graffitied,
ignored,
buried beneath a galaxy of poor paper martyrs,
then finally crumbled - -
and as I fold in on myself,
as I twist, contort, break, shatter, transform,
undergo a tragic metamorphosis,
I begin to feel alive again.
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 8:46 PM UTC
I like looking at the narrow spaces
Between houses as the train passes by.
I like looking at the narrow spaces
Because they remind me of my childhood.
The empty narrow inches of space
Between two enormous brick houses
I'd obliviously pass by while playing tag,
Smiling from ear to ear,
Leaving only a narrow space for my teeth.
Running from dusk until dawn,
Leaving only a narrow space for bruised knees and tears.
And now the narrow spaces I pass every day
Between worn out houses in the city
Remind me of my heart.
So big, yet so full of others' pain
That all I have is narrow spaces
Reserved for my own joy.
And now the narrow spaces I pass every day
Between graffitied houses in the city
Remind me of my brain.
So tagged with useless information,
Yet so little space to paint true knowledge on.
And so I stare at the narrow spaces
Between houses as the train passes by
While I'm on my way
To waste the tiny chunks of time I have left
Hoping to widen the narrow spaces
Of my soul.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 9:22 PM UTC
ink scratches appear on skin in the
morning as the sunrise falls
into the streets. cars are
screeching and
smoking is rising and
screams are echoing off of the graffitied brick walls -
there's a woman dancing
on the ledge and
she nearly
trips, nearly
dies, nearly
cries out, but her hand grasps
the gate holding her
to the concrete cracked beneath her
feet. sirens are blaring and people are yelling till their lungs
burst and she is laughing because she -
the lines separating happiness and paranoia are faded
when the brain chemistry of a human being
is constructed of hopelessness and oh god why'd he leave me
and the kisses from people who
slowly ruin our bodies, our hearts, ourselves, and -
and -
and -
there is no such thing as black or white; merely grey,
and paintings have no colour when
chemicals in our brains are exploding
chemicals in our brains are spasming
chemicals in our brains are murdering us.
and the woman laughs as she
dances off the edge, the blood
orange sunrise bleeding into
the highways as
black
and
white
and
grey.
everything grey.
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 6:34 PM UTC
And there are nights when
the weight of missing you
sits on my chest,
so I come out and
look at the dull, blue skylines
and I believe —
I believe that
in a world similar to ours,
we’ll always have the star-mapped skies
and the backseat cuddles
and wallpapers graffitied with our names.
We’ll always have shopping at 4 am
and those strawberry flavored kisses
and each other’s erratic heartbeats
syncing amid horror movies.
And in that world, we’ll always have
summer plans
and library dates
and chess games and black coffees
in the middle of a thunderstorm.
And in that world,
we’ll always have
the paper plane letters
and the eye contacts
and the ‘goodnight, i love you’s
and each other, darling,
and everything else
we lost in this one.
Jun 22, 2019
Jun 22, 2019 at 8:56 AM UTC
since you don't know me
here's something to help
I leave wood splinters in my hands
so I can brag about not crying
when I clench my first
manly, yes I know
because you told me
the scales slithering
through my spinal cord
tell me many things
like when you
bit my long hair
and said it was gay
I spent years dislodging your teeth
but I think I learned my lesson
build cradles from rusted nails
sew them to your skin
so you never have to leave
I forgot the next lesson though
and was caught swallowing pencil shavings
sneers rattle from the tail in my ribcage
hissing that I'm too skinny to be a boy
the jokes hard to get at first
so I l graffitied the punchline on my mirror
my heartchambers gasping for breath
is the sound they make from
draining blood for gun powder
a strong proverb really
I'm glad I learned how
to blow up ghost sailing to my head
now my shadow walks to the store for me
because
I'm still learning how to crawl on my belly
May 23, 2020
May 23, 2020 at 10:13 PM UTC
i'm not the only battered one here
we've got our separate histories,
but with similar intensity
i, overwhelmed and off-guard, admitted
to you my past intentions, the dread
i felt each morning, because
i wished i hadn't woken, the pain
i felt in each moment, the fear
from feeling trapped, and my
desire to end it all-
i told you, i showed you mine,
and you showed me yours
i was transfixed by the
salmon splotches and white lines
graffitied over your skin, enough that
i wanted to carve myself up again
for the beauty in pain, and the stimulation
because this is more than habit- this
is an addiction
i still bear the marks of your teeth in
my skin, the sweetest agony
to affect me in the past three weeks
i cradle your matchstick bones in
my selfish arms
promise to hold you if i snap again
it's vicious, my guilt
about my mental state, my self-hatred,
about my tears which you
still kissed me through, ignoring my
death-mask and the briny sorrow staining
your only cardigan, my salt-slick cheeks
red from too much despair- i gasped,
thanks for dealing with my **** babe
i promise you won't have to deal
with me like this for long
i'm getting better
and you repeated,
the words spilling in the spaces
between each lip-press,
don't get better for me
don't get better for me
get better for you
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 7:46 PM UTC
there was an arrow that shot into my rib cage years ago
i haven’t been strong enough to pull it out
the poisoned tip sunk deep beneath the alleyways of muscles
until it latched it’s teeth onto my bones
the street lamps burned out two years ago
i haven’t found the strength to replace the bulbs within
the street signs all point to “Hell”
my brain hasn’t stopped feeling like a night sky
a soulless vast nothingness
my heart feels like a bucket of water kicked over
nothing in me will let me replace it
what do you do when the map inside you has been painted over with black spray paint?
the graffitied walls of your being cant be recognized anymore
a whole ghost town of whispers and no where to turn
where do you go when the compass inside you has broken?
you etched a new map into the dirt but the wind blew it away
what do you do when the whole world is against you?
maybe being lost is the new way of living
feeling nothing
barely breathing
what do you do when you don’t want to fight anymore?
how do you escape the deep downpour?
blocked off streets and no detours
stuck in the middle of endings
where to turn to?
sit and watch the sky darken to pitch black
phantoms sitting hand in hand
staring into you like they’ve got something to prove
or choose the ending
choose the unfathomable
choose to leave
what do you do when you’re too scared to choose?
dark alleyways and nothing to lose
broken windows and a little bit of smoke
what do you do when it all feels like too much?
what do you do when you can’t get it to end?
what do you when you can’t stop the voices in your head?
what do you do when the words all blend?
and what do you do when you can’t leave your bed?
Jul 12, 2020
Jul 12, 2020 at 1:07 AM UTC
I'm not brave, never was and never will be
any scars I have are hidden in deep dungeons
somewhere in the vast open spaces of my mind
They are too deep to dig out and analyse. Even try.
There are no medals blistering my breast pocket
No name shouted from pulpit or podium
No one cheering academic prowess
scars of poverty or pain or orphan splendour
at tender twelve Christmases
all those scars buried under the skin, and swept out of sight
on the watching life. There were many watchers.
Not brave pushing boundaries
I learnt my visual language off
graffitied walls and bart simpson.
No I was not brave, when I arrived here
with a shirt on my back and a two dollar back pocket
bus ticket. Come on you got to be joking,
for switching countries, continents and communities
to earn a square meal.
See what I mean? I'm not brave, riding morning evening traffic
with ten thousand automissiles coming at me daily
I'm not brave when I scoff a whole chocolate
cake without counting the calories or checking that waistline
or watching Dr Oz rave on about nuts fruits ***** and berries.
Its on the rare occasion I get brave and take notes!
No Im not brave at all. I'm a coward that hides behind brave people
who have 9-5 jobs, wear white skins to work, white collars
and smile behind white sparkling teeth with red ties
dripping in bloody racist jibes of inequality.
No I'm not brave being 65 and hiding 65 thousand racist comments
under scars covered by moisturisers
white shirts and dark glasses
in the searing heat of society.
I am brave when it comes to using
words that hide behind lace-like feathery
curtains of verses and rhythms
that sing along to everything I write.
Author Notes
A critical look at society and how it functions between the layers of immigrants. Look under the skin to understand why we write poems, like we do. The harsher the social climate the more rugged are the desert rats it produces. History is full of such examples. This hierarchy will never change.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 6:54 PM UTC
We only just met
But I felt a tugging of my heart, forever in search of a friend
It was brief
Yet an unforgettable warmth still lingers after our passing
In my striving to remain honesty to myself, I always thought myself alone
Despite the eyes that casually yet constantly peer
They watch
Unknowing the truth of the damage inflicted
Yes, I am newly awakened
But the reality claws it's way with such strength
Exploding from my new found uncontainable mind
And continues its attacks on my body
My fragile and peaceful body
I am tired
It seems that the timelessness of this world I so recently discovered
Is nothing short of eternity
This battle I wish no part in has taken a toll so great
As if a lifetime
I am searching
Evreryday and night I search for comfort of a friend
I have found but a few
And their comfort teases me, as they so naturally delve in and out of light and shadow
As I lay my trusting head down on their shoulder offered
Temptation brushes it away
The tide pulling its victim back out to the treacherous sea
I am tired
No
I was exhausted
As a cool breeze washes the scorching dessert, so did you
Just a few words exchanged
A few minutes shared
And yet I have known you a lifetime
A sister, a friend, a long lost kindred spirit finally found
You understand this world
Full of hands untouchable
Graffitied with words unhearable
Parading love unattainable
So you offered no hand to hold, nor shoulder to lean on
As I have grown to understand the impersistance of form
I would never be permitted to maintain my grip
Instead you gave a piece of your tranquility
Finally
I can rest.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 12:10 PM UTC
I am from a golden coast,
an opera house of mammoth white sails
and salt for air.
I am from a lush green land
of soiled famine, exiled religions and northern Troubles
boiling in burning peat.
I am from bustling streets,
men in suits pass men in cardboard between
***** soaked, graffitied concrete.
I am from narrow canals,
hustling gondolas and homeless pigeons
squawking for a bite to eat.
I am from the center,
from the crumbling youth of everywhere:
a desolate town of dust and cattle,
a five-shop city of broken words.
I am from the world.
Dec 25, 2011
Dec 25, 2011 at 9:24 PM UTC
Running naked through the ruins of Detroit,
deep embrace against a graffitied wall.
The clink of spent bottles chime with passion's song,
and echoed down a forgotten hall.
Bombed out, Nagasakieque, sur-reality,
a strange and desolate aphrodisiac.
Ghosts watch our post-apocalyptic tryst,
through every wrecking ball crack.
With patchouli scented hair of reddish brown,
she's taken me to the forgotten side of town.
Paradise, hidden among the rubble.
But only for the discerning eye.
Her pen painted poetic justice here,
and tried to reveal the reasons why.
Street coney's and cold bottles of Stroh's
could not be scuttled in the wake.
Its someone's hometown, no matter what,
though it looks like hell for heaven's sake.
With patchouli scented hair of reddish brown
she's taken me to the forgotten side of town.
Like some lost and lonely stray, she takes it in,
dusts it off, and holds it to her heart.
Sees promise in every burnt out factory,
and hope in every unattended park.
Empty crack houses sleep down the darkened alleyways,
like effigies awaiting to be burned.
The clock tower is stuck on borrowed time,
with hands waiting to be turned.
With patchouli scented hair of reddish brown
she's taken me to the forgotten side of town.
And on our cardboard mattress
and the last few sips of wine,
the stars never looked so good to me,
her body never so fine.
Perfection amid controlled chaos,
eloquent profanities.
She dances naked in the moonlight,
and quelled our insanities.
With patchouli scented hair of reddish brown
she's taken me to the forgotten side of town.
Inspired by "Ghost Gardens" a poem by Rebecca Askew
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 10:01 AM UTC
do you remember
that one time in the summer
when we were in your old, smelly car
with the windows all the way down
in that ancient, forgotten town
trapped in the 60's still
and we rolled slowly through it
laughing at the sunshine
smiling at the old people
strolling in the heat
tights chafing
sweating through their baseball caps
fans winking
merrily at us?
and when we came to the edge of it
with all the blossoming trees
and green grass
the railroad lights flashed
and we stopped
and that one song about boogie shoes came on -
my favorite...
and as we watched for ages for the train to racket by
graffitied and dusty
you turned the sound all the way up
and all the bikers and walkers and dogs
waiting for the train to pass as well
danced to our music
the way it blasted through our bodies
washing us in exuberant waves...
i can still feel it.
i remember how you dragged me all over that town
even though i had something important to do
that afternoon...
i loved it all the same.
that day still remains
the feeling of summer
along with the hay rides we used to go on
permeate me on these winter days
that are so full of despair
i can't help but
cut.
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 12:30 AM UTC
Teddy bears, crosses, burnt candles,
wilted flowers, faded ribbons,
rain washed love notes to a child
taken too soon from these
city streets burdened by stray
bullets exploding on unforgiving
empire is a litter no one takes away.
It is only added upon.
Next to graffitied bus stop,
across from alarming firehouse,
in front of and attached to
weakening iron fence,
surrounding church of boarded windows where prayers have ascended too late,
is a mother on her knees,
feeling the burn of hell cooked pavement.
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 3:11 PM UTC