"hairier" poems
You looked much prettier with long hair.
Don’t - give me that, show me a smile
it’s better to be natural oh!
look your arms are so hairy, hairier than mine.
Not rowdy or older than myself but definitely
confident and intelligent and maybe even
‘quirky’ as long as she’s thin
and kind. Because I don’t like fat girls
how to find your dream woma
where to find dream woman online free
I think I’m still in love with Grace but
she ignores and blanks and shuns me even
after I shared so much yet
she doesn’t even seem to care
hey
I’m verrru drunk
I see u
the little green dot next to your name haha
night then iguess
I think I just hate women and that
stupid insipid conceited *****
couldn’t tell a good guy if
he cuffed her clean
across the cheekbone
and spat in both her eyes
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 7:06 PM UTC
Listening
Living in between seperate
Dimensions of being
We used to swim In public
Pools and used to gaze at the
Spray-painted underground
Nakedness rampant under
The bridges of our city
We used to coo in creeks and
Make invitations to every
Kid in class to our birthday
Parties
We played with basketballs
Hula-hoops and Gameboy
But somewhere down this
Beaten road through adolescence
Somewhere beyond the socks
For presents on
Christmas
We became taller and hairier.
Shaped crystals from diamond
Mines
And life gave us something to
Unwind
A music box for a wandering mind
To speak our truth
To speak you're soul
Disguised as a bruised indifference
Or an overt lunacy somedays
(Seems plausible on sleepless
Nights, insomniac-like In
Cemented rooms that turn so cold
In Autumn.)
But our truth is our sanity
Which must be uttered In
Amazement
Even as some hookah caterpillar
Is blowing smoke
Trying to convince you you're
Crazy
Maybe the caterpillar is only lazy
And trying to be a marmot.
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 8:09 AM UTC
I guess,
The world that burst forth
From my tender red womb
Is maniacally clawing
To get back inside,
Now,
Or am I pulling it by
It's tangled hairs?
Afterall,
I am flustered
With it wrenching
The brush from my hand,
Each time I reach out
To unravel the mess
It's made,
(Or, I made?)
Either way,
I'll let bygones be bygones,
Even if it means
Being carried away -
Lost in sterilized hair strands,
Sleeping wordlessly,
Amid
Insanely white teeth.
Aug 2, 2011
Aug 2, 2011 at 8:50 PM UTC
she awoke one morning to find wings upon her back
spread out across the length of her room
she had trouble getting out of the door
and every room she left and house she exited
she knocked things askew
destroyed more and more
she met a boy down-town of a similar strange sort
he was covered, every single last inch of him
in crawling, hugging spiders
his face was obscured and his tongue black
as he spoke, more came from his throat
fatter, hairier, wider
they fled together to a beach where a big bonfire sat
and around, for hundreds, in the fog, were others
others like them; outsides varied, insides same
there were some with wings too, the girl saw
but all stopped what they were doing as a sound was heard
and eyes turned toward the colossal flame
the people sat and gathered at the fire's base, close-knit
she linked arms with an old man with tears pouring from each wrinkle
and a little girl made of air
this crowd watched, enraptured for hours like moths
until the bonfire spluttered, stuttered, went to sleep
and wrote in the charcoal left: 'despair'
the boy with the spiders took her aside; his hands tickled
he bade the girl to wade out with him, into the swash
which giggled beseechingly at her toes, flecked with frost
the crowd of the beach overheard, and together they all joined
to slink into the fog and ocean depths united
to become, like the people of the night before them:
eternally lost.
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 5:18 PM UTC
Love constrained to 140 characters
Barriers
At a stand still, down hill
Pigeon carriers
Face getting hairier
Like trying to explain the pain to endangered animals
Societal cannibals
Launching cannonballs down crowded halls
No wherewithal
You've got me shook up, look up
Falling tears
Even after all these years
Shrouded on fears of falling on deaf ears
On and etch-a-sketch that never clears
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 12:38 PM UTC
Chimes bid farewell as the last wind to ever end,
blows its final charms through the hairs on our arms.
Walls, with bubbled fire gleeful for escape scratch-
out etches of their own cave paintings. I'll remember you.
Times hid beneath a soft surface the soul's foreign purpose,
to explore the alien that is land beyond here, a future mere.
Struck dumb, deaf, congenital heart murmurs and other gossips.
Fogged out windows bottomed at the last ends of an emptied quarry.
We dug the new digs and the careful resemblance to a rhyme we like to sing-
along to, in lieu of the high notes we contort brows and eyes high for a few.
This tumult of twenties gleam in stark contrast.
Made heavier with temptations, I forgot everything.
Finally tired of the past I find the future narrowing before my salted vision.
Too late to change course,
reef ourselves, then. The wind has harrowed a billow the last of its kind.
We are now safely where we must be, were told to go, were held and pointed
to by arms hairier than ours then, "That is your place in this world."
Carried across the sea in a pity as a great wind,
carried us, too, across the sky.
We act as rupture on this virginity.
A land with no wind is too new.
God, please, tell me what to do.
Guide me in, again.
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 5:20 AM UTC