"hangars" poems - Hello Poetry

She called me She called me a little ***** in which five knuckles and four spaces were the only faces that ever turned a light on for me. Or off, as a matter of fact. Write it on a flier, or tie her up in the back of a limousine, ask her to give you some sugar and send you to sleep. Just don't be weird about it. And seriously, pay attention, you just might burn something. I think my voice is changing. I press four fingers into my forehead and smoke a cigarette like that one writer I was too cool to ever read. You know, they treat you like a ******** drug? A ******** drug! Past lovers, and their coat hangars, I don't wanna talk to 'em, I don't wanna touch 'em. But I do; it's easy to cut into those veins once you've found 'em. *I'm sorry, so prone to wasting time, I love when my head spins on an axis all of its own.*

0

Oct 28, 2012

Oct 28, 2012 at 5:13 PM UTC

shashank-virkud-1

I Promise I'll Stop Wasting Your Minutes

She called me She called me a little ***** in which five knuckles and four spaces were the only faces that ever turned a light on for me. Or off, as a matter of fact. Write it on a flier, or tie her up in the back of a limousine, ask her to give you some sugar and send you to sleep. Just don't be weird about it. And seriously, pay attention, you just might burn something. I think my voice is changing. I press four fingers into my forehead and smoke a cigarette like that one writer I was too cool to ever read. You know, they treat you like a ******** drug? A ******** drug! Past lovers, and their coat hangars, I don't wanna talk to 'em, I don't wanna touch 'em. But I do; it's easy to cut into those veins once you've found 'em. *I'm sorry, so prone to wasting time, I love when my head spins on an axis all of its own.*

37

Je danse au milieu des miracles Mille soleils peints sur le sol Mille amis Mille yeux ou monocles M'illuminent de leurs regards Pleurs du pétrole sur la route Sang perdu depuis les hangars Je saute ainsi d'un jour à l'autre Rond polychrome et plus joli Qu'un paillasson de tir ou l'âtre Quand la flamme est couleur du vent Vie ô paisible automobile Et le joyeux péril de courir au devant Je brûlerai du feu des phares.

0

1.1k

Louis Aragon

Parti-pris

Je danse au milieu des miracles Mille soleils peints sur le sol Mille amis Mille yeux ou monocles M'illuminent de leurs regards Pleurs du pétrole sur la route Sang perdu depuis les hangars Je saute ainsi d'un jour à l'autre Rond polychrome et plus joli Qu'un paillasson de tir ou l'âtre Quand la flamme est couleur du vent Vie ô paisible automobile Et le joyeux péril de courir au devant Je brûlerai du feu des phares.

13

You want a woman that will go out of her way to unlock your Door **** with a coat hangar And not second guess herself Because she has full faith in what she feels Cause she doesn't play mind games with herself And she knows exactly what she wants

0

Aug 9, 2015

Aug 9, 2015 at 12:21 AM UTC

peter-r-hamilton

Coat Hangars and Doorknobs

You want a woman that will go out of her way to unlock your Door **** with a coat hangar And not second guess herself Because she has full faith in what she feels Cause she doesn't play mind games with herself And she knows exactly what she wants

5

No aeroplanes should leave the capital, incoming traffic should be diverted into hangars loaded with soldiers of no recognisable denomination. All passengers must surrender to security checks at Gate 3, where security personnel will stamp your passport for onward movement to selected hotels on outskirts of city. Journalists are not allowed to take pictures of cats and dogs without clearance from Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Men in un-uniform should not disclose their barrack locations. If any passenger sticks a flower in your rifle pull the trigger! Foreign guests posing as tourists may be allowed into city centre where the riots rage. They make take pictures of selected zones where tyres burn and firewood has, at last, come out of homes into the street, to protest against the snow and icy conditions. No citizen should have duck roast for a week the president has just gone duck shooting and assures everyone there will be enough left for everybody for the coming festive season. Real peace will be over in a week and everything will be normal again. The firewood may go home and all the cats dogs may return to the barracks. An announcement will be made when journalists , may, at last photograph people at war! ( pssst, with their neighbours)

0

Mar 2, 2014

Mar 2, 2014 at 1:36 PM UTC

marshall-gass

The Announcement

No aeroplanes should leave the capital, incoming traffic should be diverted into hangars loaded with soldiers of no recognisable denomination. All passengers must surrender to security checks at Gate 3, where security personnel will stamp your passport for onward movement to selected hotels on outskirts of city. Journalists are not allowed to take pictures of cats and dogs without clearance from Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Men in un-uniform should not disclose their barrack locations. If any passenger sticks a flower in your rifle pull the trigger! Foreign guests posing as tourists may be allowed into city centre where the riots rage. They make take pictures of selected zones where tyres burn and firewood has, at last, come out of homes into the street, to protest against the snow and icy conditions. No citizen should have duck roast for a week the president has just gone duck shooting and assures everyone there will be enough left for everybody for the coming festive season. Real peace will be over in a week and everything will be normal again. The firewood may go home and all the cats dogs may return to the barracks. An announcement will be made when journalists , may, at last photograph people at war! ( pssst, with their neighbours)

28

Another sleepless night. As the hours tick by, days seem to blur together. The concept of time, lost a seemingly unrecognized importance. A constant order, now shrouded. Lacking focus, distinctions hard to identify. Clarity is a wonderful thing, with value tends to be misrepresented. Taking into account all the extra hours I have, Reflection and self-evaluation tend to fuel all my extra thoughts. Nights like this tend to be the worst, at least during the day there is sunlight to dispel the inner shadows. These thoughts, more painful than any physical abuse I have ever experienced. For my psychological prison tortures me more than those forsaken tools of punishment. Coat hangars, wire, studded leather, the list goes on and on and on and on, long-lasting impacts, not initially seen. While the scars on my body have healed, the injuries of the spirit remain fresh. Damaged so badly, dreams are gone. All that remains is hurt. Those nightmares so vivid, so painful, so... real. As things run into each other, the nightmares fuse with reality. These distractions limit my interactions, for sometimes, comprehension disappears. Letting things happen and not making decisions serves as an escape. For my brain is busy trying to distinguish what is and isn't real. Expressing myself has never been a forte, for how do I explain the hallucinations, the manifested fears, the projected demons that originate from within? So I deflect. I run away. I pretend to be okay. I try to remain steady amidst a raging typhoon of anxiety, regret, and fear.

0

May 20, 2014

May 20, 2014 at 3:09 AM UTC

lane33

Insomnia

Another sleepless night. As the hours tick by, days seem to blur together. The concept of time, lost a seemingly unrecognized importance. A constant order, now shrouded. Lacking focus, distinctions hard to identify. Clarity is a wonderful thing, with value tends to be misrepresented. Taking into account all the extra hours I have, Reflection and self-evaluation tend to fuel all my extra thoughts. Nights like this tend to be the worst, at least during the day there is sunlight to dispel the inner shadows. These thoughts, more painful than any physical abuse I have ever experienced. For my psychological prison tortures me more than those forsaken tools of punishment. Coat hangars, wire, studded leather, the list goes on and on and on and on, long-lasting impacts, not initially seen. While the scars on my body have healed, the injuries of the spirit remain fresh. Damaged so badly, dreams are gone. All that remains is hurt. Those nightmares so vivid, so painful, so... real. As things run into each other, the nightmares fuse with reality. These distractions limit my interactions, for sometimes, comprehension disappears. Letting things happen and not making decisions serves as an escape. For my brain is busy trying to distinguish what is and isn't real. Expressing myself has never been a forte, for how do I explain the hallucinations, the manifested fears, the projected demons that originate from within? So I deflect. I run away. I pretend to be okay. I try to remain steady amidst a raging typhoon of anxiety, regret, and fear.

45

Nothing but a forlorn pain Phantoms of art Snake charmers Larva tamers “Free Me from the sun” Helicopter steed Blaring Gjallarhorn Crystalline ammunition Shrub-like heads Civilian militants Snake charmers, take my hands Sting them once again Render me strong and heartless Tend to my obsidian horn It grows longer as the sun subsides Blood on the papers Christened for television Whitened crusade Negotiation for control Count your blessings Arm the hangars Send the reserves Whip the cavalry Watch the nation Watch them bleed again

0

Dec 11, 2018

Dec 11, 2018 at 8:21 PM UTC

DerrekEstrella

Tend To The Horn

Nothing but a forlorn pain Phantoms of art Snake charmers Larva tamers “Free Me from the sun” Helicopter steed Blaring Gjallarhorn Crystalline ammunition Shrub-like heads Civilian militants Snake charmers, take my hands Sting them once again Render me strong and heartless Tend to my obsidian horn It grows longer as the sun subsides Blood on the papers Christened for television Whitened crusade Negotiation for control Count your blessings Arm the hangars Send the reserves Whip the cavalry Watch the nation Watch them bleed again

25

"time heals all wounds" Oh how wrong I find that. Sure, the mind may bury the wounds, cover them in scar tissue, lessen the pain, but never heal. Sometimes you're the one that ends up getting buried. Each secret, every guilt ridden action acting like shackles, causing the wrists to go raw, every conscience thought acting like the worst witness, accuser. Nobody wants to feel like this. Nobody should have to. Nobody wants to live like this. Nobody should have to. So why does my mind plague me with thoughts of self mutilation mixed in with memories whips, chains, belts, coat hangars, heated metal, wooden spoons, frying pans, baseball bats, tools not meant for this so called "discipline". I can't distinguish what actual anguish I truly experienced, everything feeling so vivid, so real. While the physical scars, abrasions, evidence of what actually happened has healed, faded, washed away. Every broken bone, torn muscle, bruised bit of flesh has mended, even the severest of them, through the help of physical therapy. But no conditioning can help you outrun what you have firmly planted between your ears. Trust me, I know what its like to not be able to trust your own mind. Long before I take my last breath, heart flatlines, whether it be a bullet piercing my skull, razor blades carving up and down my forearms, or sleeping pills that permanently take effect, but believe me that a sad soul will **** a man, long before a gun is loaded, knife sharpened, bottle filled.

0

Oct 28, 2014

Oct 28, 2014 at 3:15 AM UTC

lane33

Time and Wounds

"time heals all wounds" Oh how wrong I find that. Sure, the mind may bury the wounds, cover them in scar tissue, lessen the pain, but never heal. Sometimes you're the one that ends up getting buried. Each secret, every guilt ridden action acting like shackles, causing the wrists to go raw, every conscience thought acting like the worst witness, accuser. Nobody wants to feel like this. Nobody should have to. Nobody wants to live like this. Nobody should have to. So why does my mind plague me with thoughts of self mutilation mixed in with memories whips, chains, belts, coat hangars, heated metal, wooden spoons, frying pans, baseball bats, tools not meant for this so called "discipline". I can't distinguish what actual anguish I truly experienced, everything feeling so vivid, so real. While the physical scars, abrasions, evidence of what actually happened has healed, faded, washed away. Every broken bone, torn muscle, bruised bit of flesh has mended, even the severest of them, through the help of physical therapy. But no conditioning can help you outrun what you have firmly planted between your ears. Trust me, I know what its like to not be able to trust your own mind. Long before I take my last breath, heart flatlines, whether it be a bullet piercing my skull, razor blades carving up and down my forearms, or sleeping pills that permanently take effect, but believe me that a sad soul will **** a man, long before a gun is loaded, knife sharpened, bottle filled.

36

A mastodon of grieving age filled the spectacle of times past. A rover of red in a jacket of green, to forward a foreword, the four-letter word; to endow the knight stars in velvet jades. Deeds and tumbleweeds and beetles and trenches; seize the days gone by to build a fortress of hangars. Bogotas and Bugattis creak doors wide shut, halfway there through the thoroughfare. Absolute is obsolete, bear in, child, dear and mild, and a clock goes tick tock. A hissing sore, to kiss and roar, the wild boar steps out the door. Rhythm and rhymes; the ancient mimes of windpipe chimes; whom seek dimes and memorable times. The jades bleak of charades and stepping stone parades, contemplating foals and shoals and riverbed holds. The Moonlight sonata jumps and soars to come back down the upstair, through internal voids of night; whom take home the earnings and yearnings of early morning wars.

0

Aug 21, 2016

Aug 21, 2016 at 4:12 PM UTC

moonhead

For Luna

A mastodon of grieving age filled the spectacle of times past. A rover of red in a jacket of green, to forward a foreword, the four-letter word; to endow the knight stars in velvet jades. Deeds and tumbleweeds and beetles and trenches; seize the days gone by to build a fortress of hangars. Bogotas and Bugattis creak doors wide shut, halfway there through the thoroughfare. Absolute is obsolete, bear in, child, dear and mild, and a clock goes tick tock. A hissing sore, to kiss and roar, the wild boar steps out the door. Rhythm and rhymes; the ancient mimes of windpipe chimes; whom seek dimes and memorable times. The jades bleak of charades and stepping stone parades, contemplating foals and shoals and riverbed holds. The Moonlight sonata jumps and soars to come back down the upstair, through internal voids of night; whom take home the earnings and yearnings of early morning wars.

1