"headbands" poems
I’m going through a phase where I put glitter on everything
I went to a craft store and I bought like five different colors
And some brushes and glues so I could just paint ******* everything with glitter.
I don’t want to just paint some pencils and notebooks or some shoes and headbands,
I want to paint my **** walls with glitter
I want to paint YOUR **** walls with glitter
I want to sew glitter into your clothes
I want to sew glitter into your skin
Get a bunch of sewing needles dripping with shiny blood
Get red and sunshine under my fingernails
I want to have *** with a boy
(in his car or wherever, I don’t care)
and when we’re done, I’ll throw the ****** away and then toss some glitter in the air and cover his torso with sparkles
Because then no matter how fast he moves on
He’ll have to deal with me for just a little bit longer
And he’ll have to give me just one more thought,
at least when he’s washing the glitter down the drain of his shower.
Jun 26, 2012
Jun 26, 2012 at 10:15 PM UTC
Step One: Dress for Success
Dawn yourself in armor each morning
Spikes and studs
Headbands and helmets
Strike fear into every man’s heart
And look good while doing it
Step Two: Be a Lotus Flower
A rose, a lily
Be a venus fly trap
Deadly nightshade
Lady Macbeth said it best
“Look like the innocent flower
But be the serpent under it.”
Step Three: Always Have a Perfect Manicure
Sharpen your nails into knives
Slit your attackers throat
With just one swift movement
Of the wrist
Walk away with the blood working as polish
They won’t be able to tell the difference
Step Four: Smile
Never let them see you crumble
Never let them see you for what you are
Human.
Put up the walls
Man the cannons
You’re no longer a girl
You are a castle
And they want to storm you
Step Five: Be Polite
Swallow the bad words that want so badly
To sting that *******
Who cut in line at 7 Eleven
Suppress the rage that makes the blood
Under your pretty skin
Rise to your cheeks.
Instead, when he’s not looking,
Slash his tires in the parking lot.
Step Six: Stay In Shape
How else are you going to be able to survive
When the apocalypse comes
And its only you left
Step Seven: Focus on Your Education
So when the boys at school
Groan because they have to work with you on the English project
You can spit out verses of Shakespeare
And Frost
And Plath
And make them shake in their
Khaki shorts
Step Eight: Don’t Forget Where You Cme From
Don’t forget the hours
Your mother spent in labor
Pushing you through heaven’s doors
Don’t forget the women who came before you
The women who have tried so hard
To be the perfect girl
To collapse themselves into paper
To roll themselves like dough
Don’t forget those women,
Those girls.
Don’t forget to kiss your wrists each night
And say thank you to the stars.
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 4:18 PM UTC
we took the long way
to Hadley and MacFadden, goin' about twenty-five in twenty-six ways...
twelve sheets to the wind at a cosmic chili banquet. we wove through the tambourines and headlights -
cruising through the pinch in the grid, on the Eastside. where Margret hustles feathers from very still pigeons, and Mosley, that little runt Mosley conquered Connie Haskel's Willow Tree in the backyard.
we were coming up on something special in our Hometown
but we were low on gas, and had just bought Beer.
this scenario was on repeat. night after night in the sultry debauch of a languid stroll in a couch rocket.
glaring at the skirts on Perkins and 5th, that eat seaweed and cough drops.
they're so hot you just wanna drive a better car.
we used to park -
at Todd's Mom's and walk to the Slaughtered Hog and order a rack O' ribs and drink moonshine, smokin' that **** and sitting next to ****** jockeys in jogging suits and headbands that say " i sweat profusely, when I want too. "
And Carmen What'sHerName? used to get our table 'cause i figured out the location of her section.
she would smile and bring pecan pie
and flash those eyes that said " i'm off in an hour " . we sang to Muzak - and
left our To-Go Boxes at the table; stumbling through the lot
fumbling for the keys to the TARDIS.
and thinking about Carmen.
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 7:44 PM UTC
i miss pretending to be older than i was, by carrying some of the groceries,
wearing red lipstick i wouldn't go near today, nail polish to match.
now i want to pretend it is three/fourths of this lifetime of mine ago.
i want to cry and sleep and play and whine and get piggy back rides, and get paint all over.
i want tattoos i can wash off, but never would. i want bedtime stories i never heard the end of, excuses to stay up late, not responsibilities that leave me no other choice.
nap time, snack time, play dates, mary-kate and ashley movies, on the big screen.
hugs everyday from my mom, my dad, from everyone i see!
kisses every night, from all of the above.
wagons with fans and cool headbands.
songs with kazoos and afternoons with "Blue"
a shoe a shoe, NO a clue a clue.
collecting rocks and getting married under monkey bars.
I want to wake up and have to Figure it Out.
i would like to dream , and be, and still have the anticipation of this.
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 3:22 PM UTC
Bohemian goddesses stalking the coffeehouse
All wiry hair and flowing skirts
Points of view and opinions and self worth
How her soul craved to join them
Don headbands and sandals and learn to be like them
To play the bongos and be part of natures and kove what’s real
She wanted to feel her soul in the mass joining of the human spirit
She envisioned it, and it was beautiful.
May 19, 2010
May 19, 2010 at 7:11 PM UTC
Morning newspaper
Greets you with a smile
“Thank you paperboy”
Swallowing tablets
At the sunny ball
Watching the faces
Shape shift into rabbits
Morphing
Into who knows what
Feel like Alice
Explosions of color
And grandeur
Overwhelming voices
Lead the game
“I am God” shouted
They laugh eternally
Though it’s only
Temporally
And clouds devour
The yellow sun
Raindrop suicide
With their mile high jump
Tambourine and guitar
And the dancing
So much dancing
That summer is lost
Among the headbands
And shirtless kids
A blur
A blur
But what a swell time!
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 2:06 PM UTC
*Found on the date of nine – two – three – two – oh – one – seven -
Barely more than one month after the grand eclipse of heaven
The revised twelve stars of Leo crown the head of the ******
In her land of milk and honey, her labors merge in.
Jupiter encircles the womb while within the Holiest of gastronomes.
Mercury, Mars and Venus conjoined with Leo’s nine making the dozen.
Seventy-five days prior the New City’s Trumpet has merged with Put In
Calling for Levant’s retribution which will divide ancient Ebian within.
The Virgin’s head newly crowned with the temporal twelve stars of Leo,
At her feet quiver the sun and moon awaiting the arrival of Palladio.
She being with child cries in the pain to deliver.
The earth quickens the mystery in perfected position, as both quiver.
Nine months prior the consummation completed by NATO’s resolution
Casting out the promised land – this is real – this is not the imagination.
Jubilee last appeared on the eave of the six day war
Marked by half centuries, Jubilee returns this year once more.
The revelations of tribulation are set by a single star that does always appear
Every two thousand years and four thousand years ago it founded Israel.
Two thousand years ago this same star led the three kings to the king of all kings.
This star is visible for two years and appeared in September two thousand and fifteen.
And yet another sign appears in the heavens: behold a great fiery Red Kachina
Having seven followers and ten outcasts with seven headbands in the arena.
The Red Kachina drawing in a third of the stars, hurling them toward the earth.
This Kachina standing at the Virgin’s feet waiting for her to give up the birth.
The Red Kacina’s vile evilness waiting to consume Jupiter’s birth failing
To devour the newborn who is to lead all nations with a rod of iron.
But the child remains in the heavens with it’s mother to feed grazed
By the Red Kachina for one thousand two hundred and twenty six days.*
Jul 11, 2017
Jul 11, 2017 at 12:09 PM UTC
Your body took mine on a slow dance, slow motion
four days milliseconds stopped to whistle.
You, in my ear too, with your songs of the weather:
we meet the hurricane with camellia headbands
to water from left to right. Some of your
vessel had fell into mine – it buoyed, that naked sea.
I only knew about your skin and bones
how it bubbled when burned, a bacteria bathtub
and that your eyes became less than caramel
rather a stern grey. I gathered sand.
It made you a beach devastated by summer squalls.
Next morning, a fog was caught in my throat –
thieved from those red-veined orbs.
The sheets said you tossed and turned while I dreamt
but I still awoke to your lips coupling my neck.
Lovers do not walk or limp, you maintained
and so there was a waltz beneath rain – time paused
as we sped up but the tide did not stop crashing.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 1:09 AM UTC
My edges got snatched
And they never came back
While I was getting those tracks
They got detached
There's this empty space
At the side of my face
I feel ashamed
They were even tamed
Sick of wearing headbands
Just to cover those strands
Hoping they'll return
I'm getting so concerned
Everyday I get fried
I want to hide
They say my hairline
Looks like frankenstein
I go home crying
I keep on trying
To grow them out
Without a doubt
Next thing you know
They start to grow
I then show them off
And they start to cough
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 9:35 PM UTC
I will never feel bad for you if you think life ***** because you're SO pretty. You have no idea how much harder it is not to be.
I don't even want to hear the struggle of an 18 yr old who is just getting their first job. Welcome to the real world.
I can't stand people who don't have a job and are still better off than me.
I am not going to care if you're complaining about the significant other that you've been on and off with for EVER!
People with no money who smoke more *** than I do, because it's other people's **** and call themselves a "stoner."
People who call themselves hippies because they smoke *** wear sunflower headbands from Claire's and have only done acid once in their lives.
Oh and that John Green is a ******* sell out who shouldn't let anyone make Looking for Alaska into a movie because they're just going to RUIN it.
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 9:08 PM UTC
.
I remember that old electric guitar,
no name brand, a Fender knockoff,
stripped and painted
to look like an American flag
because Peter Fonda made it cool
That Silvertone amp, volume cranked
reverb, two inputs, tubes, bass, treble,
when Sears was the place where
music dreams came alive
because Dad had a credit card
Out in my parent’s garage,
Skippy on drums and John on bass
Wearing shades in the dark like John Kay
A tape recorder mike hanging from the ceiling
Playing “The Pusher” at all hours
Until the neighbors called my mom
and we had to shut the door
or turn it down, we shut the door
Black light posters, an old couch,
power saws and Christmas decorations
We were gonna be stars, rock stars
Chicks would dig us and guys would envy us
Our hair down to our shoulders
Incense to hide certain smells
Bad *** wasn’t even a term yet, but we were
Patch covered jeans, zig zag
and faded denim jackets,
peace signs and headbands,
Santana and Arlo, “Alice’s Restaurant”
Nothing could stop us
I remember that old electric guitar,
the guys are gone now, not dead, just gone
I can still hear Alvin Lee rocking “I’m coming home”
But somewhere along the line I got old (grew up)
when I wasn’t paying attention I guess
I still wear my hair a little long, a little
and I have nice collection of guitars
But that “Rock Star” dream faded long ago
Now I carry a different instrument,
I carry a pen...
and it’s a name brand pen
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 3:24 PM UTC
Knees scraped along bark as the lion tree
****** me into its embrace.
My mother hated that I climbed trees.
My mother hated that I climbed trees
with the neighborhood boys.
The sun stirred in the sky,
clouds melted apart,
and there was fishing
there was biking
there was climbing—and lots of it
there was fighting
and, of course, too much pretending.
The sun followed me,
spinning in time,
hands covering its marked face.
Puberty came
and with it my curls—my genetically re-enforced femininity.
Goodbye, hats!
Hello, headbands.
No longer looking but looked at,
baptized in my own hormones,
I stand on the roots of the trees
that no longer **** me in.
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 8:22 PM UTC
Bless brown girl hair
that needs so little
to be so much.
Bless its curls and waves,
and every non-straight permutation.
Bless the way it will not stand down,
will not be contained
by barrettes or headbands.
Bless brown girl hair.
Bless how it grows and grows and
if you take a blade to it,
it will only come back
faster,
fiercer.
Brown girl hair is the revolution,
made a statement
long before white feminists decided to stop shaving
or dye their pits and *****
This hair is ours,
not available for white hands,
not up for debate.
Bless brown girl hair,
let me be like my brown girl hair.
Dec 11, 2016
Dec 11, 2016 at 8:54 PM UTC
Hamas are dressing up
hostages in military attire
with green headbands
and issuing them with
replica AK 47s and letting
them loose in Gaza.
Dec 17, 2023
Dec 17, 2023 at 12:35 PM UTC
Always long sleeves
Tight jeans
Never a crop top,
Tank top,
Or halter top in sight.
Never questioned
Or noticed.
Even the summer
Showed no interest
In what she wore over
And what she wore under.
She was decorated in
Necklaces,
Headbands,
Anklets,
But never bracelets.
She was decorated in
Battle wounds,
Angry scars,
Nasty lines,
But never anything pretty appeared
There underneath
Where underneath
No one would look.
Why?
She tried
Too much.
She was tired
Too much.
She cried
Too much.
Why?
Too much.
High,
Cry,
Try,
Why?
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Take it.
All of it.
None of it.
Some of it.
One of it.
When will all of it
Leave
Leave
Leave?
So who would know?
Where she was
Why she was
What she was
When she was
Gone
Gone
Gone
Done.
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 12:19 AM UTC
You can say you are the
light and we the darknes
You can build your wall
taller than our olive trees
You can cast your satanic
silhouettes dawn to dusk
You can shadow over
our struggling seedlings.
Yet, fungi, lichen and moss
for the Hamas headbands
were flourishing in the Ubac
of our enforced depravation
while the circadian rhythm
of resistance survived all
your attempts to dominate
eradicate and control.
Nov 13, 2023
Nov 13, 2023 at 11:25 AM UTC
please marry me. please, oh my god, please marry me,
because i have feelings i need to bury in the backyard
of our really nice house on our quiet gated street. i can
give you slightly above average *** and you can give
me your arm around my waist, boring and boring and
steady, a nice "have you met my wife?" to round off
the pleasant evening. we're friends, we're friends, you
tell your stories to an adoring audience, but you're only
looking at me, and i draw the shape of your head over
and over, trying to get it right. we can be alright, isn't
that what we all want in the end? i can give you those
chubby hands, a gummy smile, through the bars of the
crib, and you can be the voice over in the first birthday
party home movie, the proof that it's not just me. i roll
over in the dark and my arm hits you and it's not just me.
and when you get too drunk i can be the stern hands on
the steering wheel of our sensible car, and when i get
too sad, you can help me fill out doctor's office forms.
relation: spouse. tell me we don't have to be in love. i
don't want to be in love, i want the beige place mats, the
suburban nothing, the pb&j cut into triangles, a life of
april tuesdays. we can get a ****** golden retriever and
make our baby wear one of those flower headbands from
etsy and you can say, "i don't think you've met my wife,"
and when i roll over in the dark, you'll be there, boring boring steady, and
we can be alright.
Dec 5, 2019
Dec 5, 2019 at 11:58 PM UTC