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Fred Feb 2018
There are three versions of this poem. only one of them is available on the internet. This first version is from the New Yorker in a 1941 issue. It is the earliest version and the one that is quoted all over the internet.

To My Valentine

    by Ogden Nash (1902-1971)

More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or the Axis hates the United States,
That's how much I love you.

I love you more than a duck can swim,
And more than a grapefruit squirts,
I love you more than gin rummy is a bore,
And more than a toothache hurts.

As a shipwrecked sailor hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a hostess detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.

I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than the subway jerks,
I love you as much as a beggar needs a crutch,
And more than a hangnail irks.

I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As the High Court loathes perjurious oaths,
That's how you're loved by me.

The next version is the lyric of a song from the Broadway musical "One Touch of Venus" (1943) by Ogden Nash, J S Perelman and Kurt Weill. Nash wrote this lyric. It is not on the internet that I could find. I got it from the sheet music.

HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU

More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or the Axis hates the United States,
That's how much I love you.

As a sailor's sweetheart hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a wife detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.

I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than a hangnail hurts.
I love you more than commercials are a bore,
And more than a grapefruit squirts.

I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As a bride would resent a blessed event,
That's how you are loved by me.

More than a waitress hates to wait ,
Or a lioness hates the zoo,
Or a batter dislikes those called third strikes,
That's how much I love you.

As much as a lifeguard hates to swim,
Or a writer hates to read,
As Hays office frowns on low cut gowns,
That's how much you I need.


I love you more than a hive can itch,
And more than a chilblain chills.
I yearn for you in an ivy clad igloo,
As a liver yearns for pills.

I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As a dachshund abhors revolving doors,
That's how you are loved by me.

The third is from the book "Marriage Lines: notes of a student husband" It was published in 1964 and contains a revised version of the poem with a much different ending. This too is not on the internet. I got it from the book.

TO MY VALENTINE

More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or an odalisque hates the Sultan's mates,
That's how much I love you.

I love you more than a duck can swim,
And more than a grapefruit squirts,
I love you more than commercials are a bore,
And more than a toothache hurts.

As a shipwrecked sailor hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a hostess detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.

I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than the subway jerks,
I love you truer than a toper loves a brewer,
And more than a hangnail irks.

I love you more than a bronco bucks,
Or a Yale man cheers the Blue.
Ask not what is this thing called love;
It's what I'm in with you.
Hope you enjoy comparing these three. They all have their virtues but I prefer the last. I feel the ending is the best and the truest sentiment.
David Flemister Jul 2014
A nagging, stinging hangnail,
A self inflicted pain,
Although, unintentional,
I can't help but complain,
Regretful of my actions,
Blood-rimmed fingers swell,
Though I feel a certain traction,
Toward this pain as well,
Taste buds clothed in nicotine,
I watch the candle burn,
And as the flame,
Extinguished,
Smokes,
I fade away in turn
Sora Aug 2014
He lost his dad
Hold onto his hand so he doesn't run
He lost his dad
With the rubble smothering the color of the sky in war.
He lost his dad
Caught sight of the coffin the pain worse than an eight year hangnail.
He lost his dad for God's sake
Could we really say that name in a time like this without a taste of guilt?
He lost his dad
Turn and down half a bottle of alcohol and then tuck him in tonight
Quick, we're running out of paper
He lost his -
The super hero got a little close to the waves and didn't know how to swim
His super hero got too many of these corrupted crazy villians to fight off
And now the hero needs saving while we sit and turn away
He was already under when we look at the empty silhouette panicking
He lost his dad
His super hero
Emily Grace Oct 2012
Planks, splintering in solidity
Together twined in tedium
Curving cords of mated metal
Lost in ludicrous loops
Twines of tetanus protrude
Danger danger
Rising flying roaring floating
Above the stillborn trains
Arching acrid aerial arms
Lazy concrete spiral, neighbor snail
Inverse slide with railings
Rumble rumble try and grumble
Jitter in jumpy juxtaposition
Guts of grotesque giants
Flayed flawed under flaming flight
Blink away oblivion
Orange and omnificent, opaque concern
Useful hangnail, table scraps
Rise above
Shocked stillness soon stumbling
Ornamental oasis for the oracles
Unseen unheard untasted unsmelled
Unfeeling unused to understanding
Carry me across
Fly me over
Lift me beyond
Suspend.
Glimpse the unparalleled phenomenon
Ribs of steel, rain has parted
Seeping to the soul
Buzzing through the boards
Immobile, cradle in the wind
Twist
Take off your sunglasses
Be sure to look around as you pass through
Leo Pold Dec 2011
i hate it when you have a hangnail but it is mostly a piece
of skin that is really steadfast about not detaching

from your finger. it’s like the piece of skin has
separation anxiety and you can’t get it

to leave ever

all you want is for the piece of skin to move out.
today is your twentieth birthday and you are thinking

about your mortality a whole bunch and how you have provided
the piece of skin with a comfortable home and now

you want it to move on and make a big life

for itself so when you’re old and more carrot-like
you will have the piece of skin to take care of you

until you are ready to make the big trip to hamilton

known as dying alone and feeling okay about it
because hamilton is a nice place to die alone

hamilton is a port city in the canadian province of ontario

you dream of hamilton and you are already a little bit more
carrot-like on this day, your twentieth birthday. we want the

piece of skin to get its **** together so we can all be happy
for you one day when the amount of carrot-like

characteristics you grow into becomes immeasurable

and creamy. the piece of skin smiles and says
it does not like your conservative-minded nonsense

the piece of skin feels as though it has a right to
prosperity and a new season of hey arnold

and its own episode of mtv cribs.

you say the piece of skin is too liberal and you
get out a pair of scissors and cut of your finger

the finger with the piece of skin that was too clingy
is now resting peacefully on the hardwood floor
of your apartment in a pool of blood that you are

proud to say is something you made on your own.
the piece of skin quotes hemingway as it dies

the reference goes over your head and the reader’s head too
kg Nov 2012
i prefer to brush my teeth
to the point where my gums bleed
and pull the floss down hard
between my pearly whites,
grinding the thread back and forth.

i get chills down my back
when i get a papercut
and i can see the blood
slowly come out in little round *****,
or when i rip a hangnail down my thumb
and i can see the fresh layer of skin.

my body goes numb
and my mind draws a blank
when he bites at my neck,
even better when it leaves a bruise.

the feeling i get
when his hand suddenly meets
the bare skin of my lower body
is pure ecstacy, i could only imagine
what it would be like
if my brain was on a high.

the sting and the should-be negative,
or unwanted, emotions
are what i strive for in life.
i like the feel
of the pain
but not when i'm alone.
svdgrl Jul 2014
What does it mean to relax?
I think I've forgotten true comfort.
Fear is a constant hangnail,
and the summer heat makes my nerves kick in.
My teeth peel skin as I worry and my clothes dampen.
Drawing my own blood, it's a stupid self-induced sin.
Voices whisper in my ears.
"Watch your gaze, or they'll think you're up to something.
They'll assume the worst.
They won't see your chewed up fingers
and they'll only see the thirst.
Your lips parched from heavy breathing."
Who spoke first?
Was it me licking my lips-
causing questions within them?
Or am I the one asking?
Wondering like this when I should be relaxing?
"Close your eyes to heighten the panic,
seems like it's euphoric,
But you're really just frantic.
Open them but don't look at a soul."
I have eyes that penetrate
as deep as their goals.
They speak more than my clothes,
they speak more than my curves.
If I stare at them longer,
and release my nerves,
Misunderstood.
Misunderstood.
I'll relax when reality
And their thoughts become good.
Heather Feb 2012
You are an exit wound

the extra shot of tequila

the tangled knot of hair that has to be cut out

you are the cell phone ringing in a hushed theatre

pebble wedged in the sole of a boot

the ****** hangnail

you are, just this once

you are flip flops in a thunderstorm

the boy's lost *******

a pen gone dry

you are my father's nightmare

my mother's mirage

you are a manic high
which is to say:
you are a bad idea

you are ****** despite the ******

you are, I know better

you are pieces of cork floating in the wine glass

you are the morning after
whose name I can't remember
still in my bed

the hole in my rain boots

******* with no batteries

you are, shut up and kiss me

you are naked wearing socks

mascara bleeding down laughing cheeks

you are the wrong guy buying me a drink

you are the typo in an otherwise brilliant novel

sweetalk into unprotected ***

the married coworker

my stubbed toe

you are not new or uncommon
not brilliant or beautiful

you are a bad idea

rock star in the back seat of a taxi
burned popcorn
top shelf, at half price

you are everything I want

you are a poem I cannot write

a word I cannot translate

you are an exit wound

a name I cannot bring myself

to say aloud
Mitch Nihilist Nov 2016
pouring another glass  
is peeling a hangnail
down with your teeth,
a monotonous ****
will only draw blood
to surface,
waking up is now
a monotonous signature
on a death certificate,
a tedious magnificent
and I’m still here
and my calligraphy
is becoming magnificent
Jaya Gumatay Mar 2014
When she was 6,
Her wildest dream was to be an astronaut.
Her mom always told her to reach for the stars,
To dream bigger than life
Because she can be anything she wanted to be as long as she was happy.
When she went to her first day of grade school,
The teacher asked the kids to introduce themselves -
Name, age, and goal in life-
And when they flowed out of her mouth like a waterfall,
Spilling into the air with no way of turning back,
The boys giggled and told her that,
"Girls can't be that! That's a guys' job!"
The teacher made no effort to scold them,
Only telling her to ignore their constant teasing
And keep her ambitions to herself because
"Girls can't do that."
When she left that idea behind on the sidewalk of broken dreams,
A wall rose up from the ground
And caged her heart.
She found a haven in art,
Choosing to drown herself in an assortment of paints and oils.
She created beauty from an abyss of "No-you-can'ts" and "you're-a-girl-so-you-cant-do-thats"
But she still hesitated to show her talent to the world,
Wondered why boys always brought up the fact that most of the successful artists were men.
Everything they always told her kept ringing in her ears,
Like how alarms always sound and you can't ever get it out of your head.
She found a demon in her haven,
Found out that sometimes even the most beautiful things can have a dark side
Like how the moon always has a face not illuminated by the sun,
And she forgot how to create beauty.
When she lost all her inspiration to dream big,
To create art,
She cried to her mother,
Tried to find her 6-year-old self in the arms of her creator.
"We age like trees,
Have layers like an onion,
And every time you grow,
We add another ring to our skin.
Peel back the layers and you'll find your inner 6-year-old,
Young and restless
With eyes full of love for life.
Peel the skin back even more,
Like how a hangnail stands out next to your nail,
And peel it back even though it hurts and it bleeds crimson and smells like iron.
We're all aged and different,
All of different genders,
But don't ever be ashamed of being a girl,"
Is what her mother would tell her,
And she'd continue with,
"Don't ever let anyone tell you that being a girl,
A woman,
Is something to be ashamed of.
Don't ever let anyone tell you that you can't do what you want
Simply because you have physical differences.
Babies come from the womb of women,
Children nestle into their mother's ******* when they fall asleep,
Mothers of all creatures care for their young ones until they're fully grown,
So don't ever think that women can't do anything,
Because they can.
Baby, the first woman to ever be in space was a Russian named Valentina,
A word that stood for brave.
I didn't name you brave,
But you could be an astronaut if you wanted to.
Frida Kahlo was a famous artist,
And her name stood for beauty,
But, baby, if you wanted to, you could piece the world together with your bare hands.
My mother, your grandmother,
Her name stood for queen,
And she was the best thing I've ever seen walk on this planet.
My grandmother stood boldly next to her loved one's casket,
And she shed not one tear,
So tell me why it's a burden to be a girl."
When she was 6,
She wanted to be everything she could be,
But everyone always put her down for being a girl.
The insult of being a woman still rung in her ears even now,
A decade older,
Ten years wiser,
More rings embedded in her skin.
It still stung,
Like wounds being opened again only to flush it down with alcohol trying to make the pain go away,
She still heard them curse at her for being a girl,
A full grown woman now,
And she'll still cry like she did before,
Crying to find her inner 6-year-old,
Young and innocent
With dreams of gold,
And she'll peel back her layers,
Taking longer than before,
But always going back to the roots that being a girl isn't all that bad.
She's older now,
With frown lines on her face instead of wrinkles crinkling around her smile,
And all she could dream about is
Rewinding time
And being a 6-year-old girl again
Being
perfect never got me there
distractions however did and when there
perfect was nowhere to be seen.

But I've been there
where perfect never saw
had my hair cut short and
left my locks by the door and
wore out my welcome waiting for
some more.

If the happening is and when it's
perfecting the being and
only then.
bb Feb 2014
Pull your sleeve over your fist. Clean your window. The moon is smirking, hanging like a hangnail off of the fingers of the night, about to teeter off the edge of the atmosphere trying to get a good glimpse of you - a better one. Let your hair fall down, and do not be afraid. Stars stare in a twinkling trance until the cruel curtain of the blue summer sky veils them from your sleeping face like a bride from the aisle, and from outer space you are a fuzzy silhouette until the sun sleepily sets, rolls off the sky's tongue like an alliteration from God himself; we have found that the atmosphere's magnetic field will put on a celestial show, but something about the way you sigh in your sleep keeps the dawn peeking over the horizon like a rosy-cheeked child over the tops of trees. The fog has dissipated like cigarette smoke - it's a beautiful night to be the full moon. Stretch your sinewy body - let your bones crack ever so carelessly. Allow the moonlight to cling to your skin like my arms never can, and bring yourself to keep your form cradled by the curtains of a silky breeze as you gaze at the sky as though it wants to tell you something. On this evening, midnight is going to love you better than I ever could. On this night I cannot be the moonlight, on many nights I can only dream. But at least you are immortal when the moon abandons the tugging of the tides to gently tug at your hair until mist and cicada songs are woven throughout, until milky beacons of starlight on your cheeks transform into my very own fingertips.
nactuyah Feb 2014
pulling on a pigtail
chewing on a hangnail
tucking in a shirt tail
your hearts on the line

turn to a stranger
look him in the eye
you feel a little awkward
you feel a little shy
your hearts on the line

ducking in the restroom
fiddle with your hair doo
looking in the mirror
though it never looks right
******* in your tummy
checking on your ****
well you know what
your hearts on the line
well you know what
your hearts on the line
MereCat Nov 2014
04:14 and the shadows are long
A boy pressed into a rail-side bench
Raises his arms to shelter himself
From the cloudless sky
He ticks off seconds with the twitch of his left knee
And the jump of his unhinging jaw
He falls
He falls nowhere
But flat, back, motionless in his seat
Hands cocooning head like a heavy day’s work
And then digging up and pressing down
Trying to rid himself of the sounds
Which splice him like glass shards
Or screaming shrapnel
And mutilate
His view of a pretty English station
And a blue steam engine
Beaming like the moon for which it was named
04:18 and he sets himself straight
Like ***** shoelaces
Or cards on the mantelpiece
Winds a bit of string
Around his wedding finger
And croons
As a man inside a toddler
Re-wired refrains
Lick his lips like soup stains
       Pack up your troubles…
                Long way to Tipperary…
        In your old kit bag…
                                 I wonder who’s…
                My heart’s right there…
                                 Kissing her now…
         Smile, smile, smile…

And from my compartment
I watch him fade like
An ink blot from a pillow case
While a boy who looks a lot like him
Turns with purposeful avoidance
And takes the opposite view
Of a pretty English station
He soothes the angry creases
Of his forehead
Of his uniform
And smiles
Smiles
Smiles
And mutters to himself
And they said it would be over by Christmas
04:14 and the shadows are long
A boy pressed into a rail-side bench
Jogs his knees
With the obligatory poppy
His mum pushed into the zip of his winter coat
Drooping like a hangnail
He is busied and hassled
By the phone in his palm
It plays an odd kind of game
Where those who die
Are allowed to come back
And press *Retry
Sarah Johnson Apr 2015
the bleak reality of life
is giving spark to a dream
and one day waking up
inside a coffeeshop
in the city you love
but have begun to question

(once the doubt sets in, it aches small and grows and grows)

the magical backdrop,
the music and hipsters,
bikelanes and teetering mountaintops

you can barely grasp the
feeling you once knew so well

breathless expectancy
towering opportunity
a fire in your chest

what was safe was safe in the
unknown and the opportunity

two pennies and a peach soda
coffeeshop dreams and tattoo guns
brokenhearted like a nagging hangnail

the best feeling in the world is
being recognized in a crowd and
pulled into familiar arms

and drunken monologues,
nihilism and Nietzsche

fridge beer - it's in the fridge
***** looks from passerby
purple sunglasses and
a sleeve of mountaintops

mid-afternoon rush and strange men
wearing sports shoes
empty words and another good
day

there's never enough time to write as life is happening

these are just words and words,
for writing's sake
he told me to write about it
but maybe I can't.
I tried to jump past it -
the messy dreams and the
stark emotion each morning

(I hate waking up to my emotions, spending most of the morning putting them back where they belong...)
stream of consciousness, a day in my life
Behold
As a fly does
She swiftly escapes
The fingertips
Of her old friend
Death
Over and over again
All he wants
Is a handshake
A “fair game”, a gentle goodbye
But she is quick
To run
Door closed behind
Tightly
Thoughts shut within
Softly
Exotically neurotic
Behold!
They say
She is the fox
Too sly
To be caught
Too cunning
To be trusted
And she has lusted
She has lusted
She has lusted
They say
Like an alchemist
She eats tar
And regurgitates
Sweet glittering gold
To the people
Laying roads
Behold!
They say
She is the silent, stalking menace
The shadow in the corner
Of your childhood bedroom
She lurks and lingers
She fastens her fingers
Into unsuspecting hearts
She is no darkness, no
She is the holder of light
In the mouths of drunks
They praise her
For all that she has overcome
All that she has undone
From what they have done
And what she has become
A fang toothed light switch
They praise her
Behold!
They say
A prodigy of protest
She builds her bones
In restless legs
In limp, loose arms
In a hoarder managed head
And a stale, vacant heart
Behold!
They say
She forges on
Though it never leaves her
If just a quick blip in time
In the corner of her eye
A hole burned by
A hot cigarette
A small portal
The other world
Like a maddening hangnail
She is afraid
She may unzip the very fabric
If she holds on too tightly
Behold!
She says
I am no rainy day blues
I am a symphony forged in
A natural disaster
Behold.
E Townsend Oct 2015
The sun undresses its silky rays
before the blushing earth.

The earth gazes,
her sapphire eyes soak in
the glimmering shot of dawn. The moon
hide away, curving against
the hangnail of light. Stars
scintillate their last dust of evening.

“You always act like you’ve never seen me before.”
The sun removes another layer.
“Like each time is too good to be true. ”

Spinning, the earth grows dizzy. “You are the one who
abandons me in the dark.”

Above the horizon, the sun smiles.
“Clairvoyance is buried inside of you.
You know I will always return.”

The sun’s amber skin
radiates along coasts and cities,
intensifying. Brightness diminishes-
night turns into day into night once more.

“I’m still alive for you, love.”
The earth tucks in the trails of dusk
as the sun cradles revolving planets.

“See you again, soon.”
thought of the first two lines while driving and touched on the rest just now, wish I could magically pull out all of the right words
Mary-Eliz Mar 2018
sitting by a window
staring out the smudged pane
past the polychromatic crowds
bent, huddled, faceless in the rain

a smeared image swirling by
modern art painting not yet dry

wishing to nod off
tired to the bone
the rattle and rumble beneath
the stop and the start
keep my weary eyelids apart

the odors of crowded humanity
fill my nostrils,
make them burn
alcohol, sweat, stale cigarette smoke
on clothes that are old and worn

garlic, deep fryer grease
pastrami and cheese in a sack
blood dried on the apron
slung over a butcher's back

a cacophony of noises
surge inside the car
papers rattle, fingers tap
on electronics or on steel bar

~~~

nobody's talking
eyes are downcast
to newspaper, cell phone
or hangnail
fear and distrust
thick in the air
scattered about like
yesterday's mail

on this common commuter carrier
they're traveling the same route

home

just working folks
trying to make it all work out

they have much in common
in a way, aren't they all kin?
worn and weary at end of day,
fellows in the midst of this din?

14th Street station ahead
warns of various dangers
posted there on a column decreed

Please do not smile at strangers
I believe this is a real sign. It looks to be in the picture online.
Mortecai Null Nov 2018
Lines of scar tissue trace from the edge of your lips back to the end of your teeth. You run your tongue from one corner to the other. Right to left. You can’t be the only one to have this. Your desire to probe another’s orifices has close to overwhelmed you in the desire to relate to other people. Was this normal? When the fan runs wind over your skin it crawls to create peaks and divots. As they fade, one patch remains on the outside of your forearm. You pick at every little one until the whole population turns red to purple to green. Was this normal? Your teeth poke holes into each other. A corner of a molar no longer holds up a roof and with your tongue’s help you can just barely make out the inner cavity. It felt like porous webbing. It reminds you of the animal skulls you looked at in your biology class and their delicate nasal cavities. Looking at those cavities used to make you very sad. Was this normal? You once had a hangnail on your hallux. They had to numb your foot to break under your skin and pull the left section of it out. It took twice the amount of anesthetic for you to not feel it. It felt good to know you were being mutilated.  Was this normal? You always felt a dip in the upper back of your head. You once heard that newborn babies had a soft spot in that area of their skull, but that the hole closes as they get older. Pressing on yours incites headache. Was this normal? You once formed a cyst on your thigh. It did not want to be drained like its smaller companions that littered your back and face. You are determined to remove the blemish. You dig around the outsides and press inward to find the source. It seems deeper than you thought. You continue to scratch away at the layers of skin as you start to bleed. It doesn’t really hurt. You just want to find the cyst. After about thirty minutes you give up. You’re not really sure why you couldn’t find it. You must have took at least an inch into your leg. Was this normal? For weeks you slipped in and out of lucid dreams. You only got up to use the bathroom, check the news, and take your medicine. Some of the dreams were enjoyable and others less so. You almost started to forget which world was more real, but it all started to become unsettling. Even when you didn’t care where you were, every state felt as if it were decaying around you. And when you did care, the panic caused you to start to shake. In quiet, disabling anxiety, you spun counterclockwise to the world around you. You grabbed the razer from your shower. You gently rubbed the blades against your forearm. Erratic slices cut through the outermost dermal. There was no blood, just redness. It was only to make sure you were still there. But it wasn’t quite right. Your arm was there, but maybe the rest of you wasn’t. You had to make sure. Was this normal? You raced the blades up your arms, over your chest, down your torso, down and down. Certain curvatures ran strange and caused blood to pearl to the surface. Others barely upset the dead layer. You looked at yourself in the mirror. You always felt like your face didn’t look quite right. And right now, it was the face of some sort of estranged family member. Was this normal? You gently glide the razor sideways across your face. It’s the most sensitive yet. You remember some random piece of trivia about the temples on a human head. You start to slide the hand razor to the right side of your temple. It doesn’t hurt as much as you thought it would. You experiment with more and more pressure until blood starts to arise. The little bit of it running down the side of your face made you feel the most comfortable in your skin for a long time. You start to rotate from your forearms and your temples and your stomach and again. You’ve forgotten about the dreams. You’ve forgotten about the world. You’ve forgotten about the trivial division between reality and non-. You’ve forgotten about normalcy. You feel good. Was this normal?
Emma Mar 2014
A hangnail that ends beyond your cuticle,
I wish I could say it hasn't happened before.
It feels like I'm rotting on the backburner,
On everyone's backburner.
It feels like payback for the years of dust I've let them collect.
I've lost my touch; I can't sell it like I'm busy.
I just don't care to sell it at all.
Mitchell Aug 2011
In between
The choice of the knife
Or the razor
The bullet
Or the gun
Roads split in two directions
Two fates
Ode to past and present moments
That have been traveled before

We are the drifting wisps white with worry and anxiousness
We do no believe our fates
Mean only what the future
Deems important enough
To remember

Our Earth spins for itself
And we inhabit within that spin
That twirl
That curl of the God's fingernail
The hangnail of Hermes
The tip Zeus's bolt

Each mountain has vanquished
To quickly be
Reborn again
Each bird has soared through ****** meadow
We, we people
Are no different

And I see the light come through the tree tops
Grey yellow white azure blue
Hues of history repeating repeating repeated
Hands cracked with blood soaked eyes carry burnt dust atop shoulders
Of men to be mistakingly
Immortalized
By tools
They will never know of

The photo remains the same
We remain the same
And the Earth continues to
Whirl
Twirl
And
Curl
there is a point of no return;
unthinkingly dismissed
a line crossed;
bringing
instant regret
each
    and
           every
                   decision
up until that moment;
questioned
lamented
rued

i have just crossed
that threshold

the hangnail was bitten
and pulled
until flesh was torn
and blood ran
now there is nothing
but discomfort

knowing full well
what i was doing;
there is no excuse for such idiocy
The Ripper Dec 2016
Door **** lock
mouth puffed vvith
saliva

pink extension
  release
   under circular
compressed tree matter

bended knee
shook off number
one

grease under thumb
  left knee
     pop
    hangnail & an eyelid

this tvvitch
   vvont stop
  for 40
I'm certain
Gadus Oct 2014
Taken from a sentient, spit forth and proceed. Like the hangnail that hung until you ripped it off, then told it about what happened. What ... what would happen in the coming months. Try to distance it: a runner in the coldest part of warsaw. The image that serves as the vessel through which I breathe, test tube attached to each struggle which is nothing. Everything vile in the phlegm of yesteryear. Why wait in this hypoxic state? Keep diving within and without.

Now - as if settled through writhing. Cold dex and cut-to-**** with baby's breath. Whittle me in the corner with a carrot peeler cause i ain't got the guts. Test the ceslestial light like a fuse box or put the lid on.
Alleviate and fallow where you will.
grumpy thumb Jan 2016
Don't hate you,
but you're beginning to bug me
like a hangnail snagging a jeans pocket or a wind-chime in a gale.

Don't hate you,
but you're grating my nerves
like a headcold when I'm out of tissues or having to break a fifty cause I'm eight pence short on change.

Don't hate you,
but you're wearing me down
like a hole in the sole of my only boots when it rains or an intrusive question asked again and again.

Don't hate you,
but I'm getting there.
Don't want to get there,
please leave me alone
Jason Cirkovic Apr 2019
I spy with my weatherd eyes
A broken clock that shows me better times from my past life.
As these spiteful tides have turned me
Into a grumpy soul.

This desecrated ship of doubt
It's slowly peeling me away like a potato peeler
I need to grab my papers and maps
To find the breath that I was once searching for.
These scramblings of ramblings
So nonsensical
As they lead me to the fact
That you hate that I bite my nails

Like a hangnail you chew me apart,
Gifting me these splinters from this shovel
That I used as a kid to build mountains of possibilities
Which now leaves me a hole,
To bury my soul with.
Each stone I turn I see these regrets
That look like texts I that shouldn't have sent.

The heavens from above
Have blocked their facebooks
Casting her curses in cursive
Leaving me with my grave,
My shovel,
Memories of you.
blushing prince Dec 2017
It’s the telemarketer’s day off
he often calls customer service on the weekends as a hobby
he feels like a loaded rifle when they ask
“what can I help you with today?”
a jitterbug with a contemplative stutter
the jilted staleness of his apartment is suddenly
a garden of words
images of violence appear while he rips a hangnail
loneliness is a grown man’s burden, he thinks
“I don’t want you to listen but I do need to be heard”
he waits for silence and he’s spoon fed this attention
“I work with people and yet I do not know people
my mind waters for intimacy not in the sensual term of the word but in the
way hands accidentally touch on a crowded train”
2,000 miles away there is a woman with a headset
a chronic consoler at the tender age of 19
her hand trembles as she hears this man speak
she’s reminded of her grandmother dying in her tiny home
back in Kansas City, desolate like her location
G Mar 2018
she runs a blade
along the side of truth
tearing seams to separate
the situation from semantics

tossing context
so I am nothing more
than a consequence
of bad behaviour,
an example of pain’s twisted path

reduced from a person
to a speed bump,
slowing her life plan

a hangnail on the hand
that feeds
Amanda Stoddard May 2015
Courage is a too way mirror-
you act a certain way when people aren't looking
when often times you don't realize they actually are
courage looks you in the face
it sees you how you wish you were-
courage knows all your secrets.

Courage is a four way intersection-
too much stop and go
too little patience
always having to predict another's move-
but courage doesn't always take turns.

I've always been really good at comparisons-
but really bad with expressing how I feel.
See missing you is like a simile
without the smile
because all I have left is just I
and not even my happiness anymore.
So I wonder when the waves will stop-
wonder why you will kiss me
at high tide
but leave when it becomes low again
I am low again-
But I hope that you realize I am so ******* happy
but at the same time I am nothing.
Like the sea, there are parts of me still uncharted-
I wish you could discover more of me
But you're a little too afraid of change
and I spend too much time shopping..

Courage is a hangnail-
taunting you to do what you know you should
realizing after it ******* hurts like hell-
sometimes you regret it most of the time you don't.
Courage will be there again one day-
just remember it's gonna hurt
but sometimes you have to bleed
to make room for new skin.

— The End —