"grimacing" poems
Toting the mysterious bundle and sporting a sore back
I drag my feet up the last few steps, expended of vigour
I almost couldn't resist prematurely looking through the sack
Remembering the words from the wise old seer
Grimacing I walk a slow gait to get to the table
Set the bundle down and relieve my weight onto a chair
Parched throat but wait longer I am unable
Curiosity takes charge and into the gift I will tear
Blood is pumping along with an increasing heart rate
Fingers scrambling clumsily over the strings that bind
Nails digging frantically into this package bearing my fate
Gnawing thoughts of uncertainty flooding my mind
At last my fingers win the battle that lasted
The final string has fallen... Obstinate knots all undone
I pick the cloth by the edges to have it unfolded
The contents inside reach out like rays of the sun
Corners of the cloth open up like a fully bloomed blossom
Exposing the treasure that lay solemn and quiet inside
Common objects we'd normally perceive as random
Petty things now important as they attempt to guide
I pick up the first and notice an engraving on it's stem
Between my fingers - an unassuming feathered quill
Barely legible, such little space the words do cram
"Here is your sword... Draw blood and let spill"
More riddles, I sought to examine the next
A flat bottomed vial filled with jet black ink
On it is a label with scrawling of time worn text
"Here is your blood; let flow what you think"
Lastly, lay bound up sheets of yellow stained parchment
They reek of age-old herbs; intoxicating slightly
At the top of the first, a note scribbled not so recent
"Within these pages, you must bleed to find Sanctuary"
Staring down at the objects laid in front of me
In hopes of discovering something I should miss
Then finally it struck me, so plain to see
I'm using the instruments now, writing to find release...
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 10:58 PM UTC
There is some genie
in our house, curdling poisonously.
I stay in the house
with a freckled old lady;
we're roommates,
unlucky enough to meet each other as life abated.
He does not live in the attic,
like a ***** ghoul; or in some
rubbing bottle like an amnesiac.
But we call the spirit lady, because the genie is vicious.
She comes to the house and says we need to move
things
around.
Her eyes are circled by some creamy mascara
into these black, skin-tight, **** rings,
like absurdist ****** targets.
Things are moved,
the genie stays, gets more vicious.
The mongerer is blamed
for bad things:
broken pots, fights over rent,
**** on the toilet seat,
lost keys.
We call the spirit lady,
this time her fingers jingle with golden rings,
her wrists sing with wrought-iron rainbows,
and says rain will send that sucker running.
So, we build little smoke pits in our house,
and take the most important things:
bills, and alumni letters from my school,
and birthday cards for her,
and burn them until it rains.
The genie calls us falsifiers.
The spirit lady comes back,
a necklace of grimacing clams around her neck,
and knocks around dancing, dancing,
a frenzy, a wildness, a knee-knocking,
throat-throtlling, dismantingly,
limb-ecstasy,
until she poops out and,
breathing heavy,
saying finally:
"there is nothing I can do for you,
I don't think I ever could,
some things are just bad luck."
She turns,
walks away,
and one of her clams drops from her necklace,
it says made in America on the inner lip.
The genie left a few weeks later.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 1:48 AM UTC
“The executioner’s face is always well hidden”
a Bob Dylan lyric
<>
mine own “ex,” in chest encased, silent, with grimacing smile,
happy to be of sir-vice, sent home unhappy, cause his cut,
not quite deep enough
this time,
though nearly succeeded,
but his biz is an-all-or-none inclusive Swifty tour, disillusioned,
he don’t get paid unless he brings my punched ticket to a glorious
sadness conclusion
someone asked (axed in local accent) if I’m nearer my god
having survived despite my best efforts at self destruction,
to which I’m smiling when uttering a “heartfelt prayer” of
Hell No!
cause the channel always been open and either side can initiate when so desired, the gates of love always open,
so wasn’t surprised when playing with my matches,
he went silent, but knew fully well, Mr. G a risk taker,
put his roulette chips on a “basket bet,” (1)
needing a double 00, to collect,
because, shoot, the timing was good…
Me?
ain’t naive enough to hope that a prayerful request
would not be met with a “now you want some intercession?”
and a heavenly sneer, cause we always been perfectly clear,
with each other, ask and you won’t receive, and none of that
what have you done for me lately razzamatazz,
nah, the record impurities gray
and no pencil erasures allowed…
knowing that the executioner will be back’ round someday,
my wounded heart too tempting to pass up twice, and
that’s ok, this old man learned to live with
a not entirely pleasant uncertainty,
*”This old man, he played one,
He played knick-knack on my thumb;
With a knick-knack paddywhack,
Give the dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.”*
but he didn’t play two, having no kazoo!
Sep 5, 2023
Sep 5, 2023 at 12:24 PM UTC
Direct,
Physically dominant.
Unargueably aggressive,
Yet,
So unnoticed.
Recognisable colours,
Hidden behind,
Covering deceit.
Deceptive courage,
Fake smile,
Grimacing strength.
Cowering,
Submission is granted.
Obvious circumstances,
So misunderstood,
Retreat,
Access denied.
Apologies don't exist,
Escape artist,
Mascuerading as the helpless,
Only the strong,
Survive in,
Shadows.
Sudden movement,
Hard, cold floor.
Casualty,
More questions,
More lies,
No truth,
Is ever uttered.
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 4:05 AM UTC
Saddle up
Gurl!
It's time
to hit the trail,
as quietly & gently
I spank the pony-
tail,
&
know,
it's how
I love you, baby..
You'll see me riding like the wind,
spurred on by our time & trials ~ that no-one got to win.
We were always mining Fools Gold & giggle indulging every sin!
Our
Poke(h)er
hands
stayed empty
&
the music's...
long since died.
Your sweet songs done,
gone & left me
(sobs)
tumbleweed rolls by
Once
we prospected forever
in this inky ol' ghost town
marking spots with X's before
a WANTED sign was found
and
One Moonshine
still
ain't big en'f 'f both of us
to get our quills thirst drowned
(hic-
cup)
"Look West,
and to the horizon,
see the stage at the edge of town?"
My last performance, PRIVATE, snigger to all the wide-eyed boys around
Ace-high, on a barebacked filly, play gallerying all my skills
I'll slap my thigh
&
Yee-haw !
riding for them there hills
~Saddled up in the softest leather
Chin up!Deep Breath!Chest out!
Corseted
& brimming,
encased in
perfume scented lace
~Bat my eyelids for the masses~
I'll find another place.
And
then you can
cut a swell down Main Street,
(remember the brothels to your right)
keep your low slung loaded though, for it's no place to start a fight
cos just outside that swing (ing) door,
the coffin maker winks at such a cheerful sight,
stood grimacing in his top hat,
grasping 13 nails
tight.
&
I'm sure
you'll measure up
darling
blowing rubied kisses
as
I bid
mine own
true-love's heart
goodnight.
***HiHO Silver,
away..........!***
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 5:33 PM UTC
Invisibility;
it need not mean
to not physically be seen,
for eyes look on,
taking in the
loneliness
I don;
crowds and rooms
bursting loud with tunes,
faces happily grimacing,
I am grimacing back,
revelry I am feigning,
as on spins the DJ track;
professional smile-maker,
the most experienced faker,
regarded by passerbyers,
they know nothing of my
insides on fire;
room crowded
and still alone,
optimism shrouded
by apathetic groan;
You
see
"me,"
but
you
don't
see
me;
Invisibility.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 1:48 PM UTC
When everything was fine
And the notion of sin had vanished
And the earth was ready
In universal peace
To consume and rejoice
Without creeds and utopias,
I, for unknown reasons,
Surrounded by the books
Of prophets and theologians,
Of philosophers, poets,
Searched for an answer,
Scowling, grimacing,
Waking up at night, muttering at dawn.
What oppressed me so much
Was a bit shameful.
Talking of it aloud
Would show neither tact nor prudence.
It might even seem an outrage
Against the health of mankind.
Alas, my memory
Does not want to leave me
And in it, live beings
Each with its own pain,
Each with its own dying,
Its own trepidation.
Why then innocence
On paradisal beaches,
An impeccable sky
Over the church of hygiene?
Is it because that
Was long ago?
To a saintly man
--So goes an Arab tale--
God said somewhat maliciously:
"Had I revealed to people
How great a sinner you are,
They could not praise you."
"And I," answered the pious one,
"Had I unveiled to them
How merciful you are,
They would not care for you."
To whom should I turn
With that affair so dark
Of pain and also guilt
In the structure of the world,
If either here below
Or over there on high
No power can abolish
The cause and the effect?
Don't think, don't remember
The death on the cross,
Though everyday He dies,
The only one, all-loving,
Who without any need
Consented and allowed
To exist all that is,
Including nails of torture.
Totally enigmatic.
Impossibly intricate.
Better to stop speech here.
This language is not for people.
Blessed be jubilation.
Vintages and harvests.
Even if not everyone
Is granted serenity.
2.6k
i loved you, right
a love unreturned,
unrequited
but alas, still
stoked by little miners with
hearts of brass their
iron faces grimacing at the task,
little beads of lots of sweat
dripping down their
taut frowns.
so what i meant to say is that
i love you, right,
and it’s a love that still
burns, bright, enough
to bring the boys home but
let’s be honest
it wouldn’t best the sun, but
**** it’s a terrible light,
it throws everything into a soft relief
where pretty, soft voiced sheep say
pretty, soft voiced things like
‘it’s okay to feel this way’
‘i want you to be happy’
‘she sounds amazing’
and other things that normal people
tell me mean that either
i don’t love you
or i’m moving on.
they don’t understand though,
i mean,
i love you, right,
though all that sheep **** makes it
sound as if
i’m waving you off,
smashing the celebratory champagne on your bow,
waving you off into the distance with a lacy hanky,
joyful tears cascading down my powdered cheekbones,
i’m greedy
maybe even,
needy,
a disgusting word and
even if i make pacts with myself
to the order of
‘he can do so much better’
‘i am damaged goods’
and other associated half truths
i’d be a liar if i said that
i would kick you out of bed
or even rebuke the slightest of
advances, no i’d take my chances
and i cannot bear it, really
i’d touch you and whatever wholeness
whatever someone else would
parse as clean or pure or holy
wouldn’t disintegrate, no
wouldn’t tarnish, no
would most probably just implode
under the combined pressure
of emotionally-mentally-fucked-in-the-head-doe
(where the **** do you think the miners got all that coal)
so, yes… wait. no?
i love you, right
but just ignore it
enjoy the lights
please remember them
tell your friends and
cherish them until
they are taken by
death, drink, dementia
but i’m sure your mum,
teacher,
or television
long ago informed you that
bright lights are detrimental to vision
so think of your future and
forget now
if you’re tempted by how i look at you
remember how
sunburn seems innocuous
until you see your skin
and sunscreen pretty useless
‘til you learn the sun will win
and the best way to avoid
dainty melanoma
is
to
go
inside
and
lock
your
door
and act like you don’t know her.
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 11:51 PM UTC
Rush around in circles like a headless chicken running
Diminishing to spirals in a blue encircled churn
Giddying to balance in unsteady equilibrium,
Whilst canting to the left on a gyroscopic turn.
Vaulting to the heavens in gymnastical maneuvering,
Launching into ether in fanatical escape,
****** features grimacing through muscular contortion
With abdominal contractions in a pantomime of ****
Yowling to the darkness in a feline form of vocalness
Hissing through the teeth in a serpentine display,
Bellowing the bellicose of bovine innuendo
And bleeding feet in gumboots on a ****** raining day.
Rush around in circles like a headless chicken running
With ****** features grimaced on a ****** raining day,
Yowling to the darkness with abdominal contraction
In a bovine innuendo of a serpentine display.
Bellowing the bellicose of bleeding feet in gumboots,
Vaulting to the heavens in fanatical escape,
Giddying to spirals in contracting equilibrium
Just a ****** innuendo of a gyroscopic shake.
Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
On a ****** raining day.
7 August 2010
Aug 6, 2010
Aug 6, 2010 at 6:17 PM UTC
There's a raccoon inside me,
I've never liked raccoons.
He nuzzles my heartstrings when I feel worthless,
and cackles maniacally when I believe that I'm worth it.
Whenever I'm bold enough to speak he claws my vocal chords closed,
leaving me dumbfounded with an obvious lump in my throat.
I feel his grimacing face and beady bandit eyes in constant stare.
He hisses angrily when he catches me unaware,
of just how afraid I am.
His grubby paws pander to my love of cancelled plans.
I guess you could say we're selfish,
because I relish the nights spent alone with him.
And I'm positive that he does too,
because he knows I'm often too weak to leave my room,
and disdain is a dish that makes a feast for two.
I really like raccoons.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 8:00 PM UTC
writing love poetry in/on time of hatred
<~>
not for the absence of love, for there is sufficient out and about,
in the eyes of children who cannot hide their glee at your surprises,
tousled morning hair patted down almost into not-a-horror-show,
a shapely body in a black one piece suit, that speaks of hints and
mischievous frolic, a summer night~right of taking, reciprocation,
god’s coffee delivered bedside every morn, with kisses of tenderness
but
**these are the days when hatred speaks loudest,
volume of volumes,
and the hypocrisy runs blood red in the streets and we we wonder
has the world learned nothing from the horrific history of the prior
century, the absence of easy solutions for those who reject in the
provident supply of the low humane treatment of a world where the
word
society
is a mirthless grimacing joke**
maybe that’s why I I turn on the love songs and music, a soupçon
of cherishing, a wail for its absence and loss,
the thrill unique it provided,
and may yet again, and to just remember, remember, remember!
why we obsess about crazy love in the artistry of our lives
so, I will force myself…to write of tenderness, let sneaky,
much needed,
sentimental in…
oops, looks like I already did…
Nov 10, 2023
Nov 10, 2023 at 8:40 AM UTC
You're risking naught, an annihilation of worth
Wasting and encouraging moments to rot. Decay.
Values friendship
Twisted morals dipped in deceit.
Not satisfied with boundaries
Chasing infected affection
swirling in the smooth crevasses of backwash around emptied wine bottles
Impressionable, emitting the most tenacious
of the F word
Fake
Fake and Selfish
It isn't narcissism when you drown yourself
in the pits
No permission, no inhibition
As lazy as the Greeks
who never made a move to climb the mountaintop
and defy their Gods face to face
Dependent and ******* support from Clans
because you're terrified of this world
At least I"m honest with my decanter of
harming thoughts.
obsessed and overbearing, flesh crawling
use my being as subject matter and
mold it into paperdoll play toys
like gold eye-liner
its a party trick
seek solice when grimacing down a bottle of brew
bumpers in the bowling alley
a Life Alert sort of living
You claim to haven no fear
but I see your throat clench
start living
admit the defeat
a proud coward
lilly livered, yellow belly
shift
shift between a fable and nerve
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 1:38 AM UTC
I want to say something about cursive writing (this might seem random).
I’ve seen articles saying that cursive writing is a “dead art,” that computers have destined it for oblivion and questioning whether cursive writing should be taught in schools now-a-days.
But if you plan to go to college - relearn it and practice it, because you’ll need it.
Random hot fact. The first time you have to handwrite a multiple-question essay test - where each answer requires five hundred to a thousand words (a written page) - handwriting, in block letters, is unsustainable.
Your hand will literally cramp up - dog, you’ll suffer, your essays will suffer and so will your grade.
Writing in cursive is faster than block lettering and with a little practice, it’s effortless.
My sister told me this once, and this morning, as I watched other students, one third of the way into our essay test, grimacing and flexing their aching hands - I just smiled to myself.
Yeah, you can thank me later.
Dec 21, 2022
Dec 21, 2022 at 11:36 AM UTC
it was one of those crazy hot days in the dead of summer.
i remember because of the sweat that poured down my skin
and the way my eyes squinted as the bright sun shone.
i massaged my neck nervously, my mouth twisted into a grimace.
ya see, i’ve always been weak, especially when it comes to you.
so what i was readying myself to do, i knew, would be too much.
but i had to let you go as the rays of sunlight baked my skin and
my head began to ache from how hard i was squinting, grimacing.
i said goodbye, as my heart raced, either from the heat or the pain.
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 6:16 PM UTC
The way to the city
on both sides of the street
was discretely displayed
then replayed
as recollections of the mundane
inequitable and respectable
a ubiquitous ritual
with screams of laughter
cries from shouting houses
and grimacing faces.
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 2:55 AM UTC
A dark rim hugs an acre of
A zinc ocean - no fish, no birds,
Save a pure body, no soul,
No words, fluttering on a bro-
ken sea, and grimacing
From time to time, from
Wave to wave, in lieu
Of lifting an imploring hand.
©LazharBouazzi (2017)
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 3:00 PM UTC
I walk to my work, says Senlin, along a street
Superbly hung in space.
I lift these mortal stones, and with my trowel
I tap them into place.
But is god, perhaps, a giant who ties his tie
Grimacing before a colossal glass of sky?
These stones are heavy, these stones decay,
These stones are wet with rain,
I build them into a wall today,
Tomorrow they fall again.
Does god arise from a chaos of starless sleep,
Rise from the dark and stretch his arms and yawn;
And drowsily look from the window at his garden;
And rejoice at the dewdrop sparkeling on his lawn?
Does he remember, suddenly, with amazement,
The yesterday he left in sleep,--his name,--
Or the glittering street superbly hung in wind
Along which, in the dusk, he slowly came?
I devise new patterns for laying stones
And build a stronger wall.
One drop of rain astonishes me
And I let my trowel fall.
The flashing of leaves delights my eyes,
Blue air delights my face;
I will dedicate this stone to god
And tap it into its place.
1.7k
I ran from these demons
For all my ******* life
Now I stand in their presence
With inner strength and might
You thought you could control me
I scream with a grimacing face
No longer can you hold me down
As I shot them and sealed my fate
So as they were ripped forever
From my scarred memories
I came at last to that final man
Who has been as steady as the sea
So you finally found a way around
This everlasting game? He asked
I smiled from behind my gun
And fired my freeing shot at last
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 4:16 PM UTC
We all derive from the same paper
that which is forcefully folded,
patiently pressed and
carefully creased.
We all speak through the same pen
that wishes for stencils,
grimacing at unpracticed,
crooked lines.
We all take action with the same scissors,
cutting away from the whole
to create paper people
holding hands.
We all are constructed in the same accordion,
snipping away the background
that falls like snowflakes
to create identity.
We all fear severing the same sections
that conjoin one being to another,
waiting with knives in our hands,
anticipating to cut.
We all fall from the separation,
slicing the connections that bind us,
sacrificing our grip
that suspends us in safety.
We all meet at the bottom
of the same paper shredder,
lost in the screams of its blades,
obsessing ourselves to be
broken pieces of an individual,
but forgetting that we paper people
once all derived from the same paper.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 12:38 AM UTC
In the half light of the
Dying sun
Blood falls from her lips
Puts dark beads in
The sand
Around her fingers.
She traces the shape
Of her teeth
With
A tender tongue.
Taste of rust and redness.
A grimacing bloodstained
Smile
Stretches her aching cheeks
As tears slide from
A swelling eye and
The air
Echoes with the sound
Of her
Breaking laughter.
The waves moan in reply,
Licking up
The droplets of blood
And caressing
Her kneeling legs.
She breathes deeply through
A bruised nose.
It won't be long now.
Closes her eyes.
Morning finds her sleeping,
Face down
And out to sea
Her body haloed by a
A ring of dark color
Obscured
By the blackest blue.
The fishes are her pallbearers,
The horizon is her headstone.
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 6:29 PM UTC
"Y'got city hands, Mr. Hooper."
I felt his coarse hands grip mine, too;
I lived through Mr. Hooper vicariously
as I looked down at open palms
spread to the heavens,
illuminated in the flashy brilliance of the glare.
I saw wrinkled, calloused eyes peer into mine;
I stood on that rickety old dock
in my fitted and worn wool cap,
faded denim shirt matching pants
and dingy white tennis shoes.
"Y'got city hands, Mr. Hooper."
My ego crestfallen as well,
pride in my intelligence proven in the Academia
withering, as the gritty gap-toothed
leery-eyed barnacle of a sailor
peered inquisitively into my soul.
He saw the smooth hands--
ah, but the callouses engraved deep between joints
on my fingers; a musician!
His eyes grilled, "In bourgeois leisure,
smiling meekly dwelling within milquetoast afternoon hours,
or,
from downtown haunts sweating jazz in the midnight hour,
dancing screaming cursing moaning lovingly?"
My eyes cast down again.
But I know not of the city as my abode!
I know the ****** and the farmer
more than any contributor to painted landscapes, nay;
they are my acquaintances, neighbors, cousins, brothers, and sisters!
For I have lived on the water;
I have eyed the vessels
commandeered by the gritty, grubby,
greased captains of my soul,
as I float buoyed in their wake,
eager to catch a semblance of the waters
that trail before them.
I live treading their wake,
eyes open and pencil in hand.
And lo;
I found sanctuary in the vast fields of the rustic farmer!
For I ate breakfast of the freshly-slaughtered calf;
I drank its mother's milk,
eggs fresh from the poultry den--
I squawked along with the mother hens.
I took in the bucolic smell of the country
atop the rugged tractor,
eyeing squinting
grimacing like a smile in the sun
burning burning down upon stiff backs
and leather necks--
I, the leaves of grass scattered
in the wake of the farmer,
I, the bails of hay furled tightly
sitting patiently in the once golden meadow,
I watched the tractors and their commandeers
disappear in the bombinate horizon;
the sound of insects ushering in the night sky
like unrolling the starry-eyed carpet
before the hazy late afternoon moon.
I watched, I lived,
waiting coiled in their wakes
eyes wide open and paper clenched in hand.
I lifted my eyes to once again
hear his curt admonition:
"Y'got city hands, Mr. Rhine."
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 3:37 PM UTC
I sat watching
the two actors in the cold room
i was patient and calm
while they were about to
**** themselves
waiting to carry on
My instructor then said,
“I want you to ask your partner something
dark, something you would never ask them
in a million years”
the walls went quiet
and all nerves struck
like a chord
patient and calm
disappeared after he
said each of those words
One of them was shaking
while the other was grimacing
And that's when the shaking one asked,
“Have you ever thought to yourself,
maybe you'd be better off not living?”
The grimacing man,
was now blank and white
like a sheet of paper
or a snowy night
And the shaking man,
was still shaking.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 5:20 PM UTC
This one is for the doctor who called me “delicate”
I think I missed that word in the thick textbooks about disease I’ve seen
This is for the lab technician who lost not one but two vials of my blood
Because I really wanted to help that new nurse figure out veins again.
This is for the stupid slogans on the walls
A fichus with the word peace under it, I'm cured.
This is for the geriatric room with the low table they always put me in
An arthritis patient means elderly woman, right?
This is for the negative tests and endless questionnaires about my health
Checking how often, how severe, and how much I care.
This is for the four empty orange prescription bottles sitting neatly on my desk
Red pills, and yellow pills, and white ones, oh my!
This is for the loud groan of pain in the morning I make before I even wake
Because why shouldn’t my roommate wake up when I do?
This is for the symphony of my cracking joints and creaking bones
Because violently trembling when you walk up stairs is so very ****
This is for the manic googling at 4 AM,
Does this symptom mean anything? Is it just a quirk or side affect?
This is for WebMd, bless their hearts,
Who think that sniffles mean polyps and headaches mean cancer.
This is for the flights upon flights of stairs I climb each day,
Cats are considered **** is panting like a dog?
This is for the cramping and shaking hands everyday
Because as a writer and artist I never even use them right?
This is for my mother
Who’s waited patiently with me through every doctor’s visit
This is for my best friend Lauren
Who missed three classes to take me to a clinic
This is for my nephew
Who is too big for me to pick up without grimacing now
This is for the wine I drank
And the bedroom basement I climb out of
And the backpack I heave around
And the school lunches I leave in toilets
It’s for the nights I have to stay in and the ones where I make myself leave
Because the only thing tough enough to stop me
Is me.
And I’ll tip my hat to myself for putting up such a good challenge.
It’ll just make it even more satisfying when I knock it the **** down.
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 4:48 PM UTC
*His eyes were not the reminder of a once well known friend they were the reminder that I only got three hours of sleep last night and there's a test on something I couldn't wrap my brain around because I was too busy searching how to tie a noose on a screen to bright for my tired eyes. I never knew he'd show up unexpectedly at dinner and I could almost see my mothers nose crinkle in disgust either from the stench of my lack of motivation or simply the smell of death. He had this way of holding himself. Hands shaking like a ticking time bomb or way to ready to jump to the next thing to ease the situation.
To ease the situation.
Ease the situation.
The smile carved as big as the jokers planted on a pale face and sunken eyes.
he had bags under his eyes.
bags under his eyes
Under his eyes.
Grimacing under growing bruises and bones that creaked with every movement because he is like an old house. Fun to look at and imagine what it was like in its glory days but spiderwebs and dust seem to be a better turn off than the word no.
No one told them that depression is a battle ground that theyd have to pick up their long lost child from.*
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 11:40 AM UTC
You come from a line of pleading
heavy enough to slam the door, dampen the folds of flannel sheets or
a furrowed brow.
'More' I hear your glossy eyes breathe.
They've been softened by endless searching
Scan after scan.
We've made a game of it.
We readily laugh at our preposterousness
believing love could grasp and stay, the last shriveled grape on a branch
smaller than the others.
Sweeter, too.
What we have precedes us, I say
Grimacing since I don't know exactly what I mean by that.
Once, in a dream, I walked down a corridor adorned with empty picture frames. It ended at a desert clearing, laced beneath a silver sky.
My ears alerted me first: before me lay a jumping cactus before me, embracing a teary coyote softly whimpering a prayer as thousands of needles sunk more securely into its fur.
I laughed and still couldn't tell you why.
I held my hand more closely to the shadowy breath, every release a firm match to my own.
Either to help it or endure its hateful bicuspid sink into my rigid flesh
I waved my hand faithfully before the dog.
Diverted, the stab of the plant wounded me instead.
I awoke, floating down a gushing claret river
The blood shimmering beneath me was my own.
My jaw split slightly enough to taste the salty tang of my demise.
Looking down, the once-pale tunic I wore was stained, candied.
I open my eyes to see your patient breath escape, confirming the truthful slumber I pray for you.
I expect you are told to say the most, so I tell myself through your waiting ear:
Love is irrevocably illusory.
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 2:54 PM UTC