"gritting" poems
Benji...this is your conscience speaking...
"You'll never be good enough for her,
Who are you kidding?
You aren't attractive enough,
To obtain her love.
What are you thinking boy...?
Why are you trying to destroy
everything left inside yourself.
Do you want to be addicted to this drug?
Better stop praying to the sky above...
Get back up Benji, move a little faster
or this storm is going to catch up with ya.
I know you don't give a f**k,
But you better start
Or you'll end up back in that slump
and this time...I'm not sure you'll get back up
And pull yourself back out of that dump."
Resurrect everything inside of my soul
Reignite that light, that once shined
Bring me back
So I can fight, let me find
That parts of me that I lost
in the dark
Give me the spark
to restore life to my heart
Just can't seem to get a grip
People all around me
Are gritting their teeth
Waiting for my next slip
Trying to anticipate my next trip
That just ain't cool...
Why don't you worry about yourself?
I don't need your help.
I've dealt with everything else on my own
People catch me in public
speaking to myself
I'm just talking to the inner me
trying to work out my inner being
Haven't you ever been confused?
Feeling self-accused, hurt and bruised.
Resurrect everything inside of my soul
Reignite that light, that once shined
Bring me back
So I can fight, let me find
That parts of me that I lost
in the dark
Give me the spark
to restore life to my heart
"Benji look at you now...
You crashed yourself into the ground
You tried to rebound
Back from the darkness of life
You just drowned in the blackness inside
You are losing parts of yourself
Every time you're inflicted with pain
Your soul melts
You die a little more inside
You're trying to ride this tide
But you keep running out of time
So you better decide
If you're willing to climb
This jagged cliff edge
One last time."
Resurrect everything inside of my soul
Reignite that light, that once shined
Bring me back
So I can fight, let me find
That parts of me that I lost
in the dark
Give me the spark
to restore life to my heart
©2018 Written By Benji James
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 11:36 PM UTC
At times I feel socially awkward
hiding away those eyes from contact
mumbling and stuttering
as though I were stumbling,
upon the words as I was discovering.
Please don’t think I don’t want to talk
when I rush out,
Please don’t think I don’t want to talk,
when I don’t open your messages.
I escape out of nervosity
I feel the fuzziness in my head
butterflies in my stomach
nervosity in my nerves
lack of air in my lungs
tremble in my muscles
and the gritting of my teeth on my nails
as it drains every ounce of energy out of me.
I hide behind shadows
so I don’t encounter any social interaction.
No matter how many times I plan
and play a conversation in my head
I shudder and fret in reality,
making myself look like an awkward mess.
I want to be friends
I want to say hi
but the words do not escape
for I feel tongue tied.
I feel conscience and dreadful
for being such an awkward mess
choking on words
unable to let them
escape my tongue.
I am thinking
more than I am speaking
I can have a conversation in my head
but somehow, I find it difficult in reality.
But then you reach out
and make the first move
It makes it easier;
only to find myself
being an embarrassment once again.
But you don’t judge
you play it cool
and remain patient
you still show an eager to talk
and maybe that was what I needed
to be comfortable and me.
Feb 21, 2018
Feb 21, 2018 at 1:47 AM UTC
Sometimes the words I love you swarm like hornets behind my teeth, a phrase so heavy it only has eight letters just like I lost you.
Sometimes in the pause you take before you speak, I wonder if you’re fighting to keep down the same things as I am; trying to swallow a confession that seems less like a secret and more like stating the obvious.
We were funny, we were bad at holding hands, I hated when a car goes over the tracks, you had this way of making silence the loudest sound in the room when it hit the floor.
I made a home out of your hands just like how many beautiful things go without reciprocation.
We seem to have found fault in being whole, somewhere alone the way, we’ve started enjoying breaking things;
Like my ribs when you’re gone and I want to know if you can tell the difference between the absence of my voice and silence.
You are the only thing I’ve ever let go that makes my hands ache.
I’m still trying to piece together what made you lose your faith in me, was it how everything starts with gritting teeth and everything ends with you walking away? I should’ve known, the way you used to hold my back like you were checking it for exit wounds.
It took me 2 car wrecks and 6 shattered mirrors for me to realize that the world has so much more to say when it is silent;
if I didn’t bruise so easily, if I wasn’t looking for a way to be made of a river, if I needed the silence to mean something, then I would ask you to build me out of quiet revenge and goodbyes that stick in your sides like tree branches, I would need you to build me out of reasons to believe instead of reasons to be afraid, I would turn my kneecaps into strawberries in exchange for potter’s hands so I could mild you a bulletproof spirit.
It was silence and your lighter, I was cold, you were drinking; that was our backbone.
You were alone, I was going too fast because sometimes you don’t have to be in the wrong place to be looking for the wrong thing.
I am afraid and you are warm; this is the beginning of a forest fire filled with broken glass shattering in broken homes with broken people inside on a broken piece of land in a city that has too much rain for someone to build an emergency room in.
I spend nights up until my body can’t handle itself any longer,
mornings have come like a hammer to my head-
instead of my face, all I can see in the mirror is an unfamiliar expression,
something like a dead battery.
All I ever wanted was for you to be my fire, I am tired of these old lives and would like to see them burn.
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 3:31 AM UTC
Loneliness is like hunting for redwood trees
Their gnarled faces
Gritting teeth
They bite the loveliest poison
Out of all the holes your heart couldn’t fill
Sprout carnations
Sprout dahlias
All crimson petals
Blooming from the places
You wanted to be held
Loneliness is a garden
That no one tends
So you choke on the roots
Your tongue turns green
And little tendrils tickle up your throat
Looks like worms at first
But those come later
Pretty soon you’re planted
And collapsing blood red beautiful
Loneliness kills you sometimes
Turns you into a garden after you go hunting
For redwood trees
And on the brief occasions the light breaks the treetop
It shines on you
Just a few red red flowers
A little girl sees one maybe
She plucks what’s left of you
Places you in a vase
That sits on a kitchen table
Without much sunlight
Loneliness is you in a vase
Trying to be as beautiful as you can
Before your petals fall
And your stalks wilt
For a girl
Who thought you were worth taking home
Long enough to brighten up a kitchen
A few days maybe
That’s all we can hope for
Jun 28, 2012
Jun 28, 2012 at 4:10 PM UTC
don't sleep anymore
feeling on top of the world
no one can stop me now
can go hours on end
of thoughtless talks
constantly moving
legs bumping up and down
up and down
biting my nails
gritting my teeth
irritated
impulsive
indecisive
happy as all hell
but it will not last
i can bet you that
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
It's hard to shake that feeling you get after you've done something you never thought you could do.
After the gritting of teeth and continuous self motivation, but before the elation and self satisfaction that comes with hindsight.
The stomach loosens and the jaw relaxes, you come back down to normality gradually enough to be caught in a limbo.
Where you're by no means changed, or cured, or better, but you're not quite yourself either.
Just a medium ground, more pensive than happy or any other kind of emotion.
And we're left to stumble around trying to decide whether to congratulate yourselves or regret your actions.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 9:06 AM UTC
there are but 2 reasons to be an educator;
one is to teach them about your successes,
to tell them how much you have conquered through perseverance and hardwork
about how you climbed the tallest of mountains and explored the deepest of waters
the other is to teach them about your failures,
about how you were beat down and how you lost everything
about how you were pushed into the dirt
that sometimes gritting your teeth and putting your all amounts to nothing
but you stand tall, in a room full of unlimited potential
helping along thirty unique personalities in the span of a year
how they can learn from your victories and the times you were forced to concede
so that one day, they may strive to be greater men
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 9:24 AM UTC
So this is as it was, the old wound still itches
Glimpses of your face and my heart still twitches
If time heals all wounds then what am I to do
When my life has been frozen
Since last I saw
You soften your eyes as they flickered to mine
Skirted the contact then burned deep inside
Gritting my teeth in the pleasurable pain
A razor machete in welcome invasion
Expertly wielded through my jungle of thoughts
Clearing a path and discovering
My soul lost in
Your damp forest of evergreen trees
Rooting my soil and growing up through me
Bringing fresh life to my stagnant dirt
Oxygenating the air of my earth
Reversing pollution, reviving, refreshing,
Regressing the growth of the thorns in my flesh and
Cutting the cancer that
I might live,
Leaving your legacy scars.
So this is as it was, the wound still itches
Glimpses of your hand and my heart still twitches
If time heals all then what can I do
Since my death was frozen
When last I felt you.
Mar 30, 2012
Mar 30, 2012 at 4:22 PM UTC
look,
she will never tell you her deepest secrets or kiss you quite long enough to feel whole. and some nights she will sneak out of bed and yell when you follow her, because there are nights when she needs to breathe and there have been too many fires too close to her throat lately.
let her go. tell her you know about thunderstorms, about storms so rough you seem to topple over at the thought of them—tell her, you too, have felt the earth shake beneath the soles of your feet a few times too many to stay still.
you don’t have to kiss her scars. you just have to kiss her.
boy, on good days, take her by her bruised hands and lead her to a place where you have always found sanctuary. kiss her then. she will trace your bones with her tongue and lay her hand on your chest to check if you’re hollow. kiss her then. sometimes she will smoke to fill herself with something else than pain. kiss her then.
look: when she trembles so loud you can hear her empty bones rattle, place one hand in her hair and one on her hip and kiss her. kiss her until she stills. being an avalanche like her is exhausting, but sometimes she just won’t know how to stop it.
when she falls asleep on the couch again, know that she is not avoiding you. she’s avoiding the emptiness of having you so close she doesn’t know if she’s allowed to touch yet. she doesn’t know if she earned it yet. and when you see her do her workout routine twice, it’s because the couch is giving her trouble sleeping—even more than the bed did. she hopes she will be too tired to care this way.
take her by the hand again. take her to bed. place her head on your chest. show her it’s alright to touch.
when she tells you she’s been counting the cracks in the ceiling because her head is filled with ideas of death and despair, repaint it. tell her this is a new colour for new thoughts and new beginnings. cover her eyes. kiss her eyelids. tell her they don’t always filter light but they don’t have to. tell her it’s alright to be an avalanche. tell her it’s alright to be an avalanche.
but remember this: when you are ready to fall to your knees, she will be there. when you feel the earth tremble beneath your feet, she will be there. and when your hands shake so much you don’t think you can hold her anymore, she will be there.
there is so much more to her than just something to hold. she’s not just this anger, she’s not just this closeness in her veins that makes you forget the way home, she is so much more than just gritting teeth and letting it go.
when you are ready to fall, she will always be there to catch you. remember: she knows the ripple of hurt that tears through your body so violently—she knows how it feels. she has felt it herself. when you tremble, she will make you still. when you tremble, she will make you still.
this is not just about her. this is about you, too. about the cracks in your ceiling. about your avalanche. realise that she understands. when you lay your head on her chest to check if she is hollow, realise she knows exactly what you’re doing. when you ask her to pass the cigarette, realise that she too, knows how it feels to fill yourself with something besides pain.
oh sweetheart, when the vastness of her love makes you agoraphobic, she will take you to the place she loves most and kiss you. she will kiss you breathless. don’t you know it’s in her blood to take care of you?
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 3:19 PM UTC
Investment Principles:
Staying the course,
your owned love
will not fail you
~~~~
Staying the course means going against your own emotions at times.
when weeping is easier than squaring the jaw, gritting teeth
Staying the course means thinking and acting for the long term even when it doesn’t feel right in the short-term.
*lost loving, when the other walks away, and being brave is
the only path, brace, and excise that stooped shoulder, stand straight!*
Staying the course means preparing not predicting.
*predict only that hope is eternal, perpetual and maybe, just,
around the corner*
Stay the course means doing nothing when that’s what your plan calls for.
~~~
steady the breathing,
ok, now! wipe the tears,
be resolved that once tasted,
love, is human, though inimitable,
and your sunrises will return inevitable
and the return on investment unbelievable
Jun 23, 2023
Jun 23, 2023 at 8:30 AM UTC
it's not me
pushing you
away except
it actually is me
it's the kind of
morning that the
wind is blowing
just right so that
the open flag
flutters in front
of the window
where i can see it
the kind of morning
i don't need coffee
and i try not to
think about
it too
much
*(i just wanted to
be the girl in
an owl city song)*
pacing back and
forth in straight
lines and gritting
my teeth against
an onslaught of
small town gunfire
*(i'll bet annmarie
never had scars
or scratches
brielle didn't cry
and shake for
hours thinking
how to end it all
it turned out
okay for anna
and vienna probably
knew how to dance
between the snowflakes
and underneath her regret)*
i've never been good at
drowning out thoughts
they just get louder the
longer time rolls on
good at rolling out
cookie dough and
good at drowning
in dishwater when
the brownie batter's
baking and the bowl
needs washing when
nobody's looking
*(i've had moments
here and there in golden
sneakers and navy blue
lace covered dresses
but i'm not the girl
in an owl city song
not something worth
writing dreamy poems
about not so lovestruck you
replace your words with dada)*
girls like me wear flannel
khaki too much day old
eyeliner too many day old
scones have half heads of weird
colored hair and spend valentines
day alone watching tv
so maybe why i'm bitter
as the inside of a lemon is
that i'll never be able to change
to someone drenched in verbena
spinning through the sunny
skies between your fingers
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 9:39 PM UTC
Pumping iron,
Sweating blood,
Gritting teeth,
Plays in mud.
Macho man,
Athlete of space,
Needs to win,
Every race.
Loves his body,
Masturbates all night.
Looks straight in the mirror,
**** to his own sight.
Goes to the gym,
To wallow in sweat.
Work out, work out, work out,
NOT BIG ENOUGH YET.
Can't stand them,
We all call them jocks.
Self centered ignorant *****
Wish they could **** their own *****
Mar 24, 2012
Mar 24, 2012 at 9:53 PM UTC
. *i was ************ when the earthquake hit.*
*i’d say it was the best ****** i ever had.*
an animal!
a multicellular eukaryotic organism of the kingdom ingesting other organisms to progress!
a well-organized kid of chaos strutting his stuff and puffing his puff.
rifle, duffel, falafel, phil.
fully blessed and stressed to strum forward for the sun, or fun
and fandango.
we are the people,
and the people are merely material,
and the material breathed and breached the darkness, for more.
we are man and woman and dog,
beasts screeching in a field over nothing, over everything, over ant-mounds and the sounds
of seasons meeting.
we think.
eat, drink, wine, woman, song.
he thinks
of nothing but her.
and so in the name of her, he acts, he reacts, he attacks the momentum of weekends into weekends into rhythm. he rolls
out and the words roll off and the days roll by, but this is the unfolding of life,
right?
strife upon strife upon struggle to eat,
and repeat,
and eat her *****
he was a well-spoken yet savage young buck,
evolving to confide and subside with these friends or enemies and imbibe the night away.
repeat/
he was a rise and shine early type with a mug of hot brew.
or the dream and shine late type with a bottle of cold cider.
repeat/
his blind date is a troll woman digging through the dumpster across the street.
he is a goblin boy gritting his fangs toward a girl, on a dancefloor, in a club, and bubble go the texts.
his texts are long and resolute.
she doesn’t respond.
she does respond.
she is seeing someone else. others
from a tall tree or lineage of men with strength and material.
a tall line of men and misters and teachers and tongues, all men obsessed with death &/or glory.
and by rite i obsess with death &/or glory.
and the dog, i want the dog there with me.
and the girl.
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 7:07 AM UTC
One for the man bunkered down in the trenches
sent in by his country as a henchman.
He's laying in the mud, praying for safety,
losing less blood than what's shed daily.
In this hazy hell, a drug buzz is needed.
Morphine seeps in, easing the beaten.
And in no man's land, a man cries for mercy
but his cries are cut off by the hands of Murphy.
Early in the morning, he packs his bags.
Rucksack on his back, heading back to base camp.
There's a damper in the room, sunken like the marsh.
Friends have fallen, it's clearly marked.
And his heart aches but they can't be dead.
Nah, he sees them every time he lays down his head.
From time to time, he jolts up out of breath,
but he never felt more alive, when he was close to death.
It's not a sob story, no it's just old glory
Two for the man bunkered down by the park bench,
clutching a cup, praying for penance.
He's laying on cement, waiting for change,
and trying to stay dry from the ******* rain.
In this day and age, a drug buzz is needed.
Morphine tabs, tap in the defeated.
Lungs splitting, teeth gritting, he's wishing for mercy.
Two times the dose, he curses out Murphy.
Early in the morning he packs his bags.
Rucksack on his back, he heads back to PADs.
He grabs a tray, sits alone, and says grace
because there's no space open for the "nutcase".
Arm's race to golden gates, he dragged a debt.
He carried his country as heavy as regret.
He carries his friends, they dangle from his neck.
But the thing about memories is that you can't forget.
It's not a sob story, it's just old glory
© Matthew Harlovic
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 12:25 PM UTC
Coffee. Desk. Ringing phone. Clacking keys.
This same pen. This same ******* pen,
that writes the same way—there is a thinning of the ink
in the curve of the E’s and the stroke of the Y’s
Endless stapling. I find myself gritting my teeth every time
as if I’m stapling my skin—or my hand. To my face.
The window behind me offers the same view
of the same skyline of the same ****** buildings!
Overcast, sunny, slight drizzle or deluge—
Doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but the rhythm of my heart
That is no different from the rhythm of my day.
I can’t even remember what happened yesterday. I just remember
The coffee. The desk. The ringing phone. The clacking keys.
At least this way, there’s no use fretting about tomorrow.
Because tomorrow—it’ll be that same pen. That same pathetic pen.
Sometimes, I want to cry. Cry for my wasted hours—days—life.
Cry for those clouds in the horizon that looked no different
from the same clouds in the same horizon yesterday.
Cry for the slowly dulling reds and greens and purples
in the canvas of this miserable life.
Howl for the Wonders of the World,
the Must Watch Movies Before You Die,
the 1001 Books You Have to Read Before You’re Dead,
that I will never get to savor.
Grays and Blacks and Whites.
So monochromatic.
So very monotonous.
At least, in the few nights that I dream…
I dream in color.
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 1:59 AM UTC
To the other guy
I only have five things to say to you.
1. The ring on her left hand doesn't mean she was playing hard to get. You thought you were winning her heart yet you're just a champion of second place. You gave your whole heart to a woman who only finds you good enough to give you half of hers.
2. If her love was a diet, you would be nothing but the cheat meal. You're like the slice of chocolate cake in the fridge; she has to sneak around at midnight to indulge, but wouldn't dare eat it in broad daylight.
3. Her daughter now looks at her with the same teeth-gritting, gut wrenching disgusted look that a Muslim has towards a pig. You came in like a wrecking ball and wrecked the first home she was proud of building. And you weren't even there to help pick up the pieces. A man like that should be castrated, but you'd need to grow a pair first.
4. If something is broken, you fix it. You don't destroy it.
5. I'm talking to you, because I wanted you to realize all that you destroyed without even thinking twice. I wanted you, the man in the mirror, to see what your selfishness selfishly took.
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 2:46 PM UTC
Bald, wide-eyed, white skinned stretched
Muscles ripple across obscene ink
Void of art there is hatred
Seething resentment and loathing
These strike the innermost realm
Murderous temptations
A reminder of our carnality
I must remain led by my helm
This has happened before
But not like this
It's a textbook cycle
Of being treated like ****
Fists clenched, teeth gritting, standing idly by
Domestic terror and physical distraught
The predators are strong
But the manipulator is stronger
A reminder of circumstantial hopelessness
Death has never sounded so sweet
The camel was thirsty and it's back was broken
When the prey was finally beat
Uniforms and papers
This will not stop it
It does not fear the flash and captured
It relishes in the resistance
It is sick beyond compare
A contagion forever void of rapture
Watching the script unfold
It is taken away
It took a victim with
And it's death we hope and pray
The next biome the predator seeks
It's next prey arrives and squeaks
It is unaware and uses it's beak
To dominate the once-chained but newly free
It's presence has yet to be seen
But it's return is anticipated
It has always been keen
To complete the cycle
A period of peace lies between
The next unnecessary tribulation
This time I refuse to be the light house
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 11:18 PM UTC
If you hear growls in the middle of the night
Don't be alarmed
Go back to bed, she's alright
It's just her imagination
It's all pretend
Bones aching
Muscles twitching
Her temperature is rising
She screams
But no sound comes out of her mouth
Clamping on to her pillow
For dear life
She's going through living hell
But no one knew it
Because no one was there
She let out soft moans
Whimpering on her bed
Drenched in sweat
Gritting her teeth
Trying to pull through
Her body itched
For what she couldn't have
She bit the inside of her cheek
Til she tasted blood
Then bit down harder
Hours of restless twisting and turning
Unsettled stomach
When will this end?
When will this end?
When will
This
End
Will this end?
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 1:05 AM UTC
I got to the point where I didn’t have enough self-respect to get out of it for myself.
But I did it for my daughter.
Let me explain.
I loved a guy. More than I’ve ever loved anyone. And I’m not sure if it’s one of those loves that can be replicated.
But like most crazy loves we were toxic and our highs were in the clouds and our lows were in hell.
We did things.
We both did things.
That were not ok.
After we ended it.
He slut-shamed me.
He called me easy.
Worthless.
A notch on a belt.
It was awful.
It was cruel.
It was All said in anger.
After time went on we reconciled. He apologized for what he said. He tried to make amends. He’d call me and say things to **** me back into this chaos of us.
I wanted to go back.
I still want to go back sometimes so ******* bad that it eats at my soul.
But I don’t.
And I don’t do it because of my fierce self-love. I wish I could say I do.
I wish I dig my heels in and look into the mirror and give myself a fierce talk and I’m good.
But sometimes that’s not enough.
When it’s not.
I do it for my daughter.
Because I will not allow her to have a father who has slut-shamed her mom.
I will not allow her to have a sexist father, who thought less of a woman because of the number of people she chose to have *** with.
I will not sit on her bedside when she’s crying over a boy and tell her she deserves to be treated better when I know I chose I did not.
I will not be the coward that tells her to be strong while gritting my teeth to suppress the memories of abuse I have endured.
I will sit on her bedside.
Look her dead in the eye and tell her, honestly.
I have been there before.
I left.
I’m better for it.
I decided to raise the bar for all women when I took a stand for what was unacceptable and she can and should continue to raise that bar.
In that moment. It will be worth it.
Jan 23, 2018
Jan 23, 2018 at 1:36 AM UTC
Feeling her heart pound with the quickness of her breath she knows that she has found her long lost brother. Her eyes shining with excitement, not knowing what to expect from him, scared that he will turn away and leave her again. Holding her breath and quietly walking over to him, tapping him on the shoulder with her index finger, slightly shaking with fear. Her brother turns around and smiles. The reconization dawns on him and his face burns with fury of being discovered, by his own sister nonetheless!!
How could she, he wonders furiously! He had left home for a reason and now she has come to take him home he is sure. Well, not this time, she
won't. In his heart he knows she means well, but he can't go back. If only she knew why he couldn't. Gritting his teeth he tears out of the bar, leaving his sister looking after him with tears streaming down her face and calling his name. He couldn't stop; he had to get out of there so he wouldn't have to hear her crying.
She slumps down onto the stool that he was sitting on before he decided to leave. She had traveled so far to bring him home safely and he wasn't about to let her! She knows in her head that she should leave him alone; yet in her heart she couldn't just let him go on living without knowing that his family was there for him no matter what kind of trouble was, but she was going to find out, whether he wants her to or not!!
Shivering from cold and anger, he walks through the streets hoping that she won't come after him. He loves his sister, but if she ever found out about him she would never love him the same way again. Feeling wetness on his cheeks, he furiously wipes the tears away, cursing at her under his breath. Feeling hands on his shoulders he whirls around ready to fight his attacker but stops short when he realizes whom it is. He was looking straight into his twin sister's deep blue eyes. He saw only love and affection, not anger or
hatred. How could he have ever thought that she would desert him? She was his twin and she would stand by him through think and thin.
As she stares into her brothers eyes, only feeling love for him hoping that he will say something or do something to let her know that he wasn't going to run from her again. With her tearstained cheeks and teeth trembling from the cold, she gently takes his hand and caresses it with her fingers looking into his eyes pleading to him to let her back into his life. His hand trembles with cold or anger, she can't quite figure it out.
He catches his breath as she takes his hands while they shake with the confusion of not knowing what to do. He draws in shaky breaths and extends his other hand and strokes her cheek wiping the tears away from her eyes pleading with an emotion choked voice to stop crying. She nods and says that she will try only if he stops, making him smile, for he had wiped his tears away and her still knowing that he was crying on the inside.
She slowly offers him a smile hoping that he will open up to her. When he gently strokes her cheek, she feels his fingers shaking, now knowing
not from anger, but from love........
Jun 15, 2010
Jun 15, 2010 at 3:49 AM UTC
“My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness.”
– Virginia Woolf, Selected Letters
Reading Virginia,
as if I understand her morals.
“Do not,” She has written.
Analyzing Woolf,
“One cannot think well,” she says.
my tongue is dry of new air, to “…love well…”
“…sleep well…” – Nightmares mostly,
leftover sleep and a dew of overdue promises
evaporating off my lips, purging with blood.
She ended, “…if one has not dined well.”
I began: “Do Not Speak to me about Hunger;
Speak to me about War.”
Here I stay: barefooted in between
airport tile floors – they tell me,
Gritting my teeth to the dreams,
forbidden desire and will to shining silver linings.
The cruelty, unrivaled, taking parts of a dream,
leaving most to die, but she’s hungry,
they told her the war’s over, but she won’t heel,
filling a God-sized with infused useless poetry madness.
- Emilyn Nguyen
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 1:41 AM UTC
Dandelion Flights, so Dandy
He's a Swell kinda fella
If you catch him at a proper Hour
He gets the Rosy Red, ya See
Reviews Legends, some about
Storming the Beaches of Normandy
Gritting Power of this Jaws,
Leans in close for Dramatists Pause
An Aged Mouth, the Black of Life
Spits over into his World of Words
Spirits gathering, the Deadening in Delivering
The Tales of the Long Lost Listeners
I Revel in the Imagery, Mindsight Sees
Battlegrounds Soundtrack
The lapping Tide, the remote Tanks and Warplane Engines, the dusty soldiers yelling out commands,
Words too faint to Understand
but the Sound of Fear, Gutwrenching, Rage, Pits of Painstaking, Heroic Strain
I'd so easily slip back in Time
To relive his Stories of Lucid Dreams
WAKE-UP ISN'T CONTRAST
I Only Will my Eyes open
After a Silence has Befallen
My Lids Jolt Open,
As I survey the Scene, Listening, Feeling for any Sign and Everything The Moment collapsed
In to the Present Presence.
Reaching over the Table
I felt for breath and the Old Man's Essence, I sighed and shook my head Knowingly
This Man who fought all Those Battles and Lived to Tell, Would not leave in It's Retelling,
not from this World nor the Next
No way, Not this One....He was just One of the many Spirits that passed through from Time to Time, and needed
an Ear to hear His Story...
I certainly didn't Mind...
Ethereal Sport is my Truest kinda Scene.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 11:17 PM UTC
Evil buried deep inside
waiting to burst, but for now, to hide
Heart raging, blood racing
Brain surging, stomach aching
Something pushing at the nails
eyes turn cold as stone
Teeth gritting, sprouting fangs
Hatred pulsing through my veins
Heat of rage, trapped in this cage
Let it out, bleed it out!
Can't you see what it's about?
Blind, you're blind!
I'm losing my mind!
Let me run, let me go!
Maybe then you'll finally know
Maybe then I'll be free
from this hatred that's rotting me
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 10:37 AM UTC
so the *** debate is raging
like a Californian
wildfire in the forests,
people are "presumed"
missing...
i'm sat watching
back to the future
(beats star wars, every,
single time:
the ****** is more obvious)
and then drinking...
i always wanted to
taste a lobster...
and listening to the best of
billy joel...
scratching my mustache...
BELGIANS IN
THE UK!
then fiddling with my bead...
my beard...
i have a beard?!i
**** i have a beard!
i took, fiddling with my *****
the wrong way...
after all ****** airs
have the same feel
as ***** hair...
a bit like cleavage...
so...
you're donningv
the buttock crack
up-front?!
funny, eh?
making fun of the phallus...
how about feeding
a Donnie Disney with your,
puppies?!
how about that?
***
if women do need
no men...
do what we do...
**** off anal-style...
we do the **** projective...
you cut out utilizing
the ******
look... 'appy bunnies"
if ai am about to turn
into a *****
the female right...
all the rights you require...
sure... have them...
but what sort of right
is it,
when there's no
existentialist argument?
go on... please...
make your dodo
and your
mixed-raced argument...
mono-racial is
the new neanderthal...
call it...
we're not progressive enough...
we're too ********
to mingle ethnicity...
call it!
call me halfway house
between down and
the ******
call it!
call it!
***** better call it!
(through gritting teeth):
call it!
i said... call it!
be your progressive "self"...
call it!
i'm ******** for not mingling
adequately enough with
crafting a trans-ethnicity populace...
neanderthal...
***** call it!
guess what... i love the laced
take on history via the Anglophone
re-reinterpretation
of Darwinism...
i love the neanderthal take on thiongs...
i'm bilingual, schizophrenic,
the sort of mongrel that...
has no place among
the duo-ethnicity... "mongrels"...
lucky you, lucky me...
i'm sorry... the F extends just so far...
two languages, orange man, bad...
but a congregation of
a dual ethnicity, green man, god,
and "the" good...
whatever suits your favor...
i should care,
i won't care,
i don't care,
i will, to never ever give a ****
about caring;
like god "said":
on your own;
i much prefer the freedoms
of the jungle,
than the restrictions of a zoo.
it's billy joel, "by the way"...
life will go on...
obviously a life much ********
than the intelligent people are used
to...
but... if that's what you allow...
then you're deserving it.
Nov 18, 2018
Nov 18, 2018 at 9:24 PM UTC