"hollowing" poems - Hello Poetry

"hollowing" poems

Narcissist I Money questions hidden in cultures Instead of debates, we have the vultures They will overspend whatever their budget Destroy years hard work, their odour pungent Often called users, epiphytes of highest order Those that cannot earn sufficient to quarter Or manage their own, so they use others Spending, unfettered, is their druthers Cannot accept responsibility for damage Continue to feast on their host, they ravage Hollowing out from inside, funds they suction Weakening the structure for eventual destruction And weakened, debates then start about savings Too late, funds gone, too late for the cravings Absent conversation, leaves a bad situation Long ago, train of debate left the station What we have now is death and decay All caused by silence, as the vultures flay It will not be long until they seek a new host Just when their former home needs them most So leave they will, to claw the next poor victim Removing their talons of love and devotion Moving on, leaving behind just carcasses Warm used bodies, mark of a narcissist

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Jan 18, 2015

Jan 18, 2015 at 4:04 PM UTC

Narcissist I Money questions hidden in cultures Instead of debates, we have the vultures They will overspend whatever their budget Destroy years hard work, their odour pungent Often called users, epiphytes of highest order Those that cannot earn sufficient to quarter Or manage their own, so they use others Spending, unfettered, is their druthers Cannot accept responsibility for damage Continue to feast on their host, they ravage Hollowing out from inside, funds they suction Weakening the structure for eventual destruction And weakened, debates then start about savings Too late, funds gone, too late for the cravings Absent conversation, leaves a bad situation Long ago, train of debate left the station What we have now is death and decay All caused by silence, as the vultures flay It will not be long until they seek a new host Just when their former home needs them most So leave they will, to claw the next poor victim Removing their talons of love and devotion Moving on, leaving behind just carcasses Warm used bodies, mark of a narcissist

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Fly, Dragonfly, fly! Spread your wings and flex your tail take off to the skies, follow the blowing winds! Leave behind the Wicked Men of Hollowing Trail and escape the poisons of their worded sins Fly, Dragonfly, fly! Race, Dragonfly, race! Sweep your wings back against the windy skies Let your heart propel your spirited sprint faster! Faster! Escape from the Forest of Unnerving Lies and the creatures of the Lost Souled ******** Race, Dragonfly, race! Hunt, Dragonfly, hunt! Beat your wings to the sounds of the butterflies Feed your hunger for protecting the meek with the haunting taste of Honey-Soaked Flies and the sting of Sugar-Coated Bees Hunt, Dragonfly, hunt! Rest, Dragonfly, rest! Allow the venom to still your beatful wings Let the swift death claim a Hero's life Beckon the Raven of Heaven to blissfully sing to the tune of the Stalking Sparrow's whistling knife Rest, Dragonfly, rest!

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Dec 26, 2011

Dec 26, 2011 at 1:25 PM UTC

Fly, Dragonfly, fly! Spread your wings and flex your tail take off to the skies, follow the blowing winds! Leave behind the Wicked Men of Hollowing Trail and escape the poisons of their worded sins Fly, Dragonfly, fly! Race, Dragonfly, race! Sweep your wings back against the windy skies Let your heart propel your spirited sprint faster! Faster! Escape from the Forest of Unnerving Lies and the creatures of the Lost Souled ******** Race, Dragonfly, race! Hunt, Dragonfly, hunt! Beat your wings to the sounds of the butterflies Feed your hunger for protecting the meek with the haunting taste of Honey-Soaked Flies and the sting of Sugar-Coated Bees Hunt, Dragonfly, hunt! Rest, Dragonfly, rest! Allow the venom to still your beatful wings Let the swift death claim a Hero's life Beckon the Raven of Heaven to blissfully sing to the tune of the Stalking Sparrow's whistling knife Rest, Dragonfly, rest!

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I can't remember the last time I touched your face But I can feel your cheekbones digging into my mind like the feeling of taking a shovel hollowing out my own grave to lie in When was the last time I was able to run my fingers through your hair? Untangling hair is easy, but I haven't yet found anything to get out the knots in my stomach If someone asked me what color your eyes were, I couldn't tell them But I could explain just how it felt when they looked into mine Like when you look into the sun and are blinded by its immense beauty, so blinded you can't see the inevitable damage it inflicts upon every pore Except I haven't yet found anything to protect myself from your stare What if my skin burns before you can feel it again And how will you feel if you're too bright that I can't look anymore? You might begin to miss the fact that nobody can look at you the way I do before you even realize I can And I could tell them how you felt when mine looked into yours despite the fact that you can't Because you don't know what it's like to feel something other than your own fear But I'm not afraid of you anymore, I have no fear I have some hope you can have, it's been growing for quite some time And I may have some more strength left, although dealing with you feels like running to a destination that doesn't exist I'm tired of being selfish and hogging all the feelings And I think I'll share with you

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Jan 1, 2014

Jan 1, 2014 at 9:44 PM UTC

I can't remember the last time I touched your face But I can feel your cheekbones digging into my mind like the feeling of taking a shovel hollowing out my own grave to lie in When was the last time I was able to run my fingers through your hair? Untangling hair is easy, but I haven't yet found anything to get out the knots in my stomach If someone asked me what color your eyes were, I couldn't tell them But I could explain just how it felt when they looked into mine Like when you look into the sun and are blinded by its immense beauty, so blinded you can't see the inevitable damage it inflicts upon every pore Except I haven't yet found anything to protect myself from your stare What if my skin burns before you can feel it again And how will you feel if you're too bright that I can't look anymore? You might begin to miss the fact that nobody can look at you the way I do before you even realize I can And I could tell them how you felt when mine looked into yours despite the fact that you can't Because you don't know what it's like to feel something other than your own fear But I'm not afraid of you anymore, I have no fear I have some hope you can have, it's been growing for quite some time And I may have some more strength left, although dealing with you feels like running to a destination that doesn't exist I'm tired of being selfish and hogging all the feelings And I think I'll share with you

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She says she doesn’t have the strength within herself to write poetry. Yes, her. The one who so often nourished me with song til my soul began to learn how to hunt for itself, whose word carried weight in leading me to pick my own instrument, albeit one of a different tone, as the key in keyboard became prominent for the first time and the sound of purposeful fingers upon it could be considered, only in the right light, synonymous to the plucking of strings, just as rooted in emotion. Yet she's the first to say that she herself can't do it. Thing is, I suppose we’re politely at odds on the matter. She favors poetry that’s sharper, with a cleaner cut, that’s message is immediate and jarring as a conduit running from soul through skin, or a loose-lipped diary finally freed from lock and key. And when she declared it, I started to consider what my poems seem to me: Blackberry bushes (but kinder, I hope) that snag and immerse just long enough to make me feel I’ve had an effect. I’ve used writing to expel my most gnarled feelings to any passerby who’s maybe felt the same. Like crying in a mirror: alarming, but oddly refreshing, and an indefinite reminder that our aches are never only our own. Still, I'm not sure why it blows my mind to hear that even the most glamorous hearts, who wear confidence as a summer breeze that's always in their favor and who inspire, from beau gestures to sleight of hand, are included in those who find themselves pacing back, back and forth, begging curbside at the dime store for a scrap of the same feed that convinces a heart to pump ink. But she says that any art that's enjoyed is worth it. So while she seeks out words that bare the bones, I’ll stay and make a meal of the marrow, hollowing them so that the poetry may have a rightful place to reverberate as hymns in a universal monastery. But hell, like I’m any old soul. I dress nicer than I otherwise would, turn to the mother who told me I don’t meet her lowest standards, and ask for a critique. All for the moment when she greets me at the door with a legendary G#. ...Now please, could you spare a dime?

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Jun 28, 2018

Jun 28, 2018 at 2:27 PM UTC

This Just In: No Showboat's Without a Few Leaks, Either

She says she doesn’t have the strength within herself to write poetry. Yes, her. The one who so often nourished me with song til my soul began to learn how to hunt for itself, whose word carried weight in leading me to pick my own instrument, albeit one of a different tone, as the key in keyboard became prominent for the first time and the sound of purposeful fingers upon it could be considered, only in the right light, synonymous to the plucking of strings, just as rooted in emotion. Yet she's the first to say that she herself can't do it. Thing is, I suppose we’re politely at odds on the matter. She favors poetry that’s sharper, with a cleaner cut, that’s message is immediate and jarring as a conduit running from soul through skin, or a loose-lipped diary finally freed from lock and key. And when she declared it, I started to consider what my poems seem to me: Blackberry bushes (but kinder, I hope) that snag and immerse just long enough to make me feel I’ve had an effect. I’ve used writing to expel my most gnarled feelings to any passerby who’s maybe felt the same. Like crying in a mirror: alarming, but oddly refreshing, and an indefinite reminder that our aches are never only our own. Still, I'm not sure why it blows my mind to hear that even the most glamorous hearts, who wear confidence as a summer breeze that's always in their favor and who inspire, from beau gestures to sleight of hand, are included in those who find themselves pacing back, back and forth, begging curbside at the dime store for a scrap of the same feed that convinces a heart to pump ink. But she says that any art that's enjoyed is worth it. So while she seeks out words that bare the bones, I’ll stay and make a meal of the marrow, hollowing them so that the poetry may have a rightful place to reverberate as hymns in a universal monastery. But hell, like I’m any old soul. I dress nicer than I otherwise would, turn to the mother who told me I don’t meet her lowest standards, and ask for a critique. All for the moment when she greets me at the door with a legendary G#. ...Now please, could you spare a dime?

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Here I tread on a woodland promontory— With wings and wind conjuring the rains, All is vastness and shroud, open, empty, Even the light is carried away in silence, My flesh all but smearings on the tableau, Foothold of dream within disrupted dream, Our hands once reached out into forever, Now my soul is seeping from veined cairns, Cut chains, mist, rains hollowing the wind.

0

Apr 3, 2014

Apr 3, 2014 at 1:10 PM UTC

Here I tread on a woodland promontory— With wings and wind conjuring the rains, All is vastness and shroud, open, empty, Even the light is carried away in silence, My flesh all but smearings on the tableau, Foothold of dream within disrupted dream, Our hands once reached out into forever, Now my soul is seeping from veined cairns, Cut chains, mist, rains hollowing the wind.

Continue reading...

Here I tread on a woodland promontory— With wings and wind conjuring the rains, All is vastness and shroud, open, empty, Even the light is carried away in silence, My flesh all but smearings on the tableau, Foothold of dream within disrupted dream, Our hands once reached out into forever, Now my soul is seeping from veined cairns, Cut chains, mist, rains hollowing the wind.

0

Oct 1, 2013

Oct 1, 2013 at 8:01 PM UTC

Here I tread on a woodland promontory— With wings and wind conjuring the rains, All is vastness and shroud, open, empty, Even the light is carried away in silence, My flesh all but smearings on the tableau, Foothold of dream within disrupted dream, Our hands once reached out into forever, Now my soul is seeping from veined cairns, Cut chains, mist, rains hollowing the wind.

Continue reading...

Here I tread on a woodland promontory— With wings and wind conjuring the rains, All is vastness and shroud, open, empty, Even the light is carried away in silence, My flesh all but smearings on the tableau, Foothold of dream within disrupted dream, Our hands once reached out into forever, Now my soul is seeping from veined cairns, Cut chains, mist, rains hollowing the wind.

0

Jun 28, 2014

Jun 28, 2014 at 1:10 PM UTC

Here I tread on a woodland promontory— With wings and wind conjuring the rains, All is vastness and shroud, open, empty, Even the light is carried away in silence, My flesh all but smearings on the tableau, Foothold of dream within disrupted dream, Our hands once reached out into forever, Now my soul is seeping from veined cairns, Cut chains, mist, rains hollowing the wind.

Continue reading...

i miss that light i might die buzz that I used to have. it wasn’t the amphetamine high-- it was the empty stomach i don’t have to eat high every meal skipped was power as if we were otherworldly creatures whose stomachs would only contain naughty water and faerie food. we were hollowing out and i loved it. the lightness of my bones, the way my cheek bones were shining through and my ribs were getting e a s i e r to count. & i miss that heart exploding dilated eyes rush. not for the high but for the simple matter that i was bird thin empty. not thin enough, but on my way. i miss it, and it misses me. i am strong enough…aren’t i? i could do it again. and this time— i wont need the pills. self loathing is fuel enough. i want that power— every bite I don’t take is a boy who told me i wasn’t good enough. every skipped meal is a small triumph against myself. i can do it. it would be easy and no one would notice. but i wont.

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Nov 12, 2012

Nov 12, 2012 at 5:18 PM UTC

ashley-wade-parker

i miss that light i might die buzz that I used to have. it wasn’t the amphetamine high-- it was the empty stomach i don’t have to eat high every meal skipped was power as if we were otherworldly creatures whose stomachs would only contain naughty water and faerie food. we were hollowing out and i loved it. the lightness of my bones, the way my cheek bones were shining through and my ribs were getting e a s i e r to count. & i miss that heart exploding dilated eyes rush. not for the high but for the simple matter that i was bird thin empty. not thin enough, but on my way. i miss it, and it misses me. i am strong enough…aren’t i? i could do it again. and this time— i wont need the pills. self loathing is fuel enough. i want that power— every bite I don’t take is a boy who told me i wasn’t good enough. every skipped meal is a small triumph against myself. i can do it. it would be easy and no one would notice. but i wont.

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I have not been well lately But I have a secret to tell you It’s a success story: my most secret success You see, I’m very skilled in crafting holes And I’ve punched a massive hole Right through the middle of my life Please, don’t mistake this accomplishment for the result of talent This is a skill and it takes practice to master I went to college and learned to turn theories and ideals from basin to sieve I learned to critique everything hopeful And punched a hole right through the heart of hope I honed my ability to close out creativity I built a track down which to guide concrete linear thoughts And I learned to use said thoughts as a battering ram with which to Knock a hole in the barricaded door to dissatisfaction And, though this skill is often practical As you know, one cannot walk around wearing an open hole So, a corresponding skill has successfully emerged In parallel with nurturing voids I have learned to conceal each and every hole Sometimes with a thick canvass and Sometimes with a paper-thin veneer I may have learned to wrap a package And to tie a bow With the express purpose of packaging The broken gift of life Full of ugly holes And, now, all that is left to complete the perfect ending to this success story Is to grow old in a neatly kept apartment Filled with the unseen haunts of relationships neatly hole-punched and Filed in a hidden mental cabinet Next to a night stand where I keep my phone and glasses And across from the bed There will be a glass trophy case Full of trophies denoting various acceptable successes But, just between you and I The largest trophy denoting the largest success Will be a lifetime achievement award Bestowed for hollowing out what could have been A beautiful life.

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Feb 21, 2013

Feb 21, 2013 at 4:07 PM UTC

I have not been well lately But I have a secret to tell you It’s a success story: my most secret success You see, I’m very skilled in crafting holes And I’ve punched a massive hole Right through the middle of my life Please, don’t mistake this accomplishment for the result of talent This is a skill and it takes practice to master I went to college and learned to turn theories and ideals from basin to sieve I learned to critique everything hopeful And punched a hole right through the heart of hope I honed my ability to close out creativity I built a track down which to guide concrete linear thoughts And I learned to use said thoughts as a battering ram with which to Knock a hole in the barricaded door to dissatisfaction And, though this skill is often practical As you know, one cannot walk around wearing an open hole So, a corresponding skill has successfully emerged In parallel with nurturing voids I have learned to conceal each and every hole Sometimes with a thick canvass and Sometimes with a paper-thin veneer I may have learned to wrap a package And to tie a bow With the express purpose of packaging The broken gift of life Full of ugly holes And, now, all that is left to complete the perfect ending to this success story Is to grow old in a neatly kept apartment Filled with the unseen haunts of relationships neatly hole-punched and Filed in a hidden mental cabinet Next to a night stand where I keep my phone and glasses And across from the bed There will be a glass trophy case Full of trophies denoting various acceptable successes But, just between you and I The largest trophy denoting the largest success Will be a lifetime achievement award Bestowed for hollowing out what could have been A beautiful life.

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*For I have known them all already, known them all: Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons...* Beyond the blackest cotton glove, the compulsively edited manuscripts, unmentionable lines untrained ears love; beyond the satin lining of a human husk, the failing engine or cooing soul nightingales smuggled in the dusk; beyond asking how giraffes like to die, the moon's waxing through a kaleidoscope, eyes hollowing before hearts tell a lie; beyond the manifestation of a mental illness, the coffee spoon having no coffee left to measure, an overwhelming sense of an unseen presence; beyond where the orchard truncates its blossoming is renewal of equality like an unmapped sea spilling its welcome to a choked wish.

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Feb 6, 2013

Feb 6, 2013 at 8:45 PM UTC

christopher-howard-gorrie

*For I have known them all already, known them all: Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons...* Beyond the blackest cotton glove, the compulsively edited manuscripts, unmentionable lines untrained ears love; beyond the satin lining of a human husk, the failing engine or cooing soul nightingales smuggled in the dusk; beyond asking how giraffes like to die, the moon's waxing through a kaleidoscope, eyes hollowing before hearts tell a lie; beyond the manifestation of a mental illness, the coffee spoon having no coffee left to measure, an overwhelming sense of an unseen presence; beyond where the orchard truncates its blossoming is renewal of equality like an unmapped sea spilling its welcome to a choked wish.

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The clock ticks, a persistent sound So timely, predictable, comforting Straight like a board, simplicity is complexity The small hand is their conductor Pup-petting their very motion The walls creak the sound of despair Longing to be relieved from their shackles Hollowing out their insides, Revealing their holes Concrete, stucco, asphalt Solidifies their existence The board mocks their silent screams An empty canvas to be scribbled upon Steered by the gestures of its very strokes Tainted by the smell of the ink’s sweet high A reflection of their inner thoughts

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Oct 8, 2012

Oct 8, 2012 at 1:55 AM UTC

Empty Classroom

The clock ticks, a persistent sound So timely, predictable, comforting Straight like a board, simplicity is complexity The small hand is their conductor Pup-petting their very motion The walls creak the sound of despair Longing to be relieved from their shackles Hollowing out their insides, Revealing their holes Concrete, stucco, asphalt Solidifies their existence The board mocks their silent screams An empty canvas to be scribbled upon Steered by the gestures of its very strokes Tainted by the smell of the ink’s sweet high A reflection of their inner thoughts

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I can't breathe and its your fault. You are all the elephant sitting on my lungs. With each breath your weight is all the more crushing. Every little struggle makes me so close to hating you. Hate is hollowing. I have felt it. You think you can't help it, you call me cruel. Words weigh more than you'd care to know so even in that I suppose you really don't care about me. Even in that love is a flighty phrase you haven't yet used with sincerity. But you don't know it or maybe you just won't admit it. I always hope you'll each find your way but please don't sit and wait, please don't sit any longer on my lungs, for me to find my way. I've found it now, so quietly and I'm afraid, I'm overjoyed, I chose the path leading far and away.

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Jul 25, 2012

Jul 25, 2012 at 2:18 AM UTC

I can't breathe and its your fault. You are all the elephant sitting on my lungs. With each breath your weight is all the more crushing. Every little struggle makes me so close to hating you. Hate is hollowing. I have felt it. You think you can't help it, you call me cruel. Words weigh more than you'd care to know so even in that I suppose you really don't care about me. Even in that love is a flighty phrase you haven't yet used with sincerity. But you don't know it or maybe you just won't admit it. I always hope you'll each find your way but please don't sit and wait, please don't sit any longer on my lungs, for me to find my way. I've found it now, so quietly and I'm afraid, I'm overjoyed, I chose the path leading far and away.

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"i love you" is hollowing three words aren't enough for me (they were until my brain ate them whole. now they echo inside my ears, bounce around until my head has had its fill) tell me i'm better than the others tell me you haven't come close to loving another soul the way you love mine tell me that you weren't functioning that you were a clock without hands time flew by in the wrong direction and the numbers on your face were a dead language until we fell together and then you started counting in real time and loving every tick of every second i want you to be aggressive brand your love into the side of my skull scar it into my collarbones make my illness remember i want you to carve my name into your ******* heart i want you to grab ahold of my lungs and breathe your love into them make sure it's the only thing i know send it flooding through my bloodstream i need my illness to remember when i'm like this, don't tell me you ******* love me your skin is made of cellophane i can show you exactly where the lie is coming from my own head can't take care of me, how could you? tell me you'd cut off your hands if they couldn't hold mine tell me you'd wiggle your way into my ribcage if you could just so you could be closer to the beat of my heart tell me you love me and make my illness believe it

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Dec 23, 2016

Dec 23, 2016 at 1:42 AM UTC

"i love you" is hollowing three words aren't enough for me (they were until my brain ate them whole. now they echo inside my ears, bounce around until my head has had its fill) tell me i'm better than the others tell me you haven't come close to loving another soul the way you love mine tell me that you weren't functioning that you were a clock without hands time flew by in the wrong direction and the numbers on your face were a dead language until we fell together and then you started counting in real time and loving every tick of every second i want you to be aggressive brand your love into the side of my skull scar it into my collarbones make my illness remember i want you to carve my name into your ******* heart i want you to grab ahold of my lungs and breathe your love into them make sure it's the only thing i know send it flooding through my bloodstream i need my illness to remember when i'm like this, don't tell me you ******* love me your skin is made of cellophane i can show you exactly where the lie is coming from my own head can't take care of me, how could you? tell me you'd cut off your hands if they couldn't hold mine tell me you'd wiggle your way into my ribcage if you could just so you could be closer to the beat of my heart tell me you love me and make my illness believe it

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Dear friend, The Earth divided in two and there was much preparation There was trenches built by humans, hollowing out the underground Somehow, there were others that were sure they would not live through it In which preparation was minor for them Humans that traveled for days and days, just to live out their dream Gathering around the fire from the core of the earth, Only to capture the beauty with their camera and canvas Strange it was to see everyone singing in millions of different twos With a string of words from all the other ways we speak, All buzzing around, with no two the same These were, in fact, the ones who were not afraid to die Right before they burned, they all held hands and smiled United in the ways they loved, While the others died in fear, these were the ones who died happy and surrounded by the ones they loved. As if humans are very emotionally complicated Striving too hard to survive It's very beautiful around Earth's falling apart Don't bother writing back sincerely, Lover of all things

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Oct 12, 2013

Oct 12, 2013 at 4:11 PM UTC

|S|L|E|E|P| (To Someone On Another Planet) {Self-Sacrificing Art}

Dear friend, The Earth divided in two and there was much preparation There was trenches built by humans, hollowing out the underground Somehow, there were others that were sure they would not live through it In which preparation was minor for them Humans that traveled for days and days, just to live out their dream Gathering around the fire from the core of the earth, Only to capture the beauty with their camera and canvas Strange it was to see everyone singing in millions of different twos With a string of words from all the other ways we speak, All buzzing around, with no two the same These were, in fact, the ones who were not afraid to die Right before they burned, they all held hands and smiled United in the ways they loved, While the others died in fear, these were the ones who died happy and surrounded by the ones they loved. As if humans are very emotionally complicated Striving too hard to survive It's very beautiful around Earth's falling apart Don't bother writing back sincerely, Lover of all things

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then he made a gesture like a farmer with a full hand of seeds he made a gesture and colours spilled over the world and words like water coloured worlds dripping in my window sill flooded in waves of forbidden wanting in a dispersion of me luths and flutes silky veils and a galaxy i made a gesture walls of cold glass intangible all the colours his sail is a wing a hiatus in the blue hollowing me i tie an iron ribbon to my heart and watch it drowning silently 12.11.14

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Nov 13, 2014

Nov 13, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC

On farmers and sailors and music

then he made a gesture like a farmer with a full hand of seeds he made a gesture and colours spilled over the world and words like water coloured worlds dripping in my window sill flooded in waves of forbidden wanting in a dispersion of me luths and flutes silky veils and a galaxy i made a gesture walls of cold glass intangible all the colours his sail is a wing a hiatus in the blue hollowing me i tie an iron ribbon to my heart and watch it drowning silently 12.11.14

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The music is long done We dance now merely to a hum An unheard whisper Of a god long dead The last vestiges of consciousness Fleeing a hollowing skull

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Sep 15, 2025

Sep 15, 2025 at 10:03 PM UTC

The music is long done We dance now merely to a hum An unheard whisper Of a god long dead The last vestiges of consciousness Fleeing a hollowing skull

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He hasn't buried the baby within but today he buried the ashes of his baby crying like a baby as the river devoured the bone dusts and all the remnants of the cuddles and kisses hollowing him to remember the guest of his blood that would feed on his grief for the rest of his life.

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Nov 3, 2016

Nov 3, 2016 at 10:06 AM UTC

pradip-chattopadhyay

He hasn't buried the baby within but today he buried the ashes of his baby crying like a baby as the river devoured the bone dusts and all the remnants of the cuddles and kisses hollowing him to remember the guest of his blood that would feed on his grief for the rest of his life.

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He told you He wants you to be sluttier. If he loved you Like you want him to Like you love him He would Never Even Think About asking you to change. Why can't you see? He's ruining you. He eats at your soul like an earthworm hollowing things out in there He's done it to girls before. Why can't you see? He's using you. Why can't you see?

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Mar 6, 2013

Mar 6, 2013 at 12:38 AM UTC

Why Can't You See?

He told you He wants you to be sluttier. If he loved you Like you want him to Like you love him He would Never Even Think About asking you to change. Why can't you see? He's ruining you. He eats at your soul like an earthworm hollowing things out in there He's done it to girls before. Why can't you see? He's using you. Why can't you see?

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Here I tread on a woodland promontory— With wings and wind conjuring the rains, All is vastness and shroud, open, empty, Even the light is carried away in silence, My flesh all but smearings on the tableau, Foothold of dream within disrupted dream, Our hands once reached out into forever, Now my soul is seeping from veined cairns, Cut chains, mist, rains hollowing the wind.

0

Nov 8, 2014

Nov 8, 2014 at 10:31 PM UTC

Here I tread on a woodland promontory— With wings and wind conjuring the rains, All is vastness and shroud, open, empty, Even the light is carried away in silence, My flesh all but smearings on the tableau, Foothold of dream within disrupted dream, Our hands once reached out into forever, Now my soul is seeping from veined cairns, Cut chains, mist, rains hollowing the wind.

Continue reading...

Same ****** mattress Same ***** white walls Same pile of unwashed laundry Same window left ajar Winters cold wind blows Hollowing through the trees outside Something colder and familiar travels on tonight's cold winter chill It bangs on the ajar window, knocking, no, insisting to come in It knots the stomach It Cracks the spine It Tightens the jaw It Poisons the mind Its grip tightens It whispers memories best forgot It sends shivers up and down the chest It laughs as it leaves Same ****** mattress Same ***** white walls Same pile of unwashed laundry Should really close that **** window.

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Jan 25, 2015

Jan 25, 2015 at 3:00 PM UTC

jerard-phillips

Midnight Cuddles

Same ****** mattress Same ***** white walls Same pile of unwashed laundry Same window left ajar Winters cold wind blows Hollowing through the trees outside Something colder and familiar travels on tonight's cold winter chill It bangs on the ajar window, knocking, no, insisting to come in It knots the stomach It Cracks the spine It Tightens the jaw It Poisons the mind Its grip tightens It whispers memories best forgot It sends shivers up and down the chest It laughs as it leaves Same ****** mattress Same ***** white walls Same pile of unwashed laundry Should really close that **** window.

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My descent into darkness Slow unwilling But slipping down all the same Letting go piece by piece Of the light, the warmth, the laughter Letting it drain out of me In fiery red droplets Slowly until it’s all gone Empty my soul and my heart Hollowing out my inside Until I’m nothing but a shell Brimming with terribly empty tears Wishing desperately I did not love you anymore

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May 3, 2012

May 3, 2012 at 11:47 PM UTC

Downward Spiral

My descent into darkness Slow unwilling But slipping down all the same Letting go piece by piece Of the light, the warmth, the laughter Letting it drain out of me In fiery red droplets Slowly until it’s all gone Empty my soul and my heart Hollowing out my inside Until I’m nothing but a shell Brimming with terribly empty tears Wishing desperately I did not love you anymore

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I. pink satin masks blood and broken toes. i keep effortless poise while knees and lungs shake. i dance in tattered tutus, in old toe shoes, for a pocketful of coins; i dance until i am blind with joy, until my lungs are full of trumpet shouts, until i am exhausted and weightless, until my audience is standing, breath gone, knowing what it is to be-- II. in the storm of applause one gnarled hand launches a torch. "you danced with me," i cry-- her lips seal shut. wild, cold eyes watch flames singe my feathers, fuse flesh to bone, floorboards collapse. she stays until she hears my heart stop. at dusk, the stage is ash. III. at dawn, a chorus of mouths emerge from the ground, my audience, full-throated, white-knuckled, tchaikovsky hollowing cheeks, nasoprotivnyia daruia; knuckles white-- flat-footed, slack-jawed, the arsonist stands-- and i ascend from the dirt on pillars of diamond forged from ash, while my bare feet spill blood and i say look at the source of my strength-- while new wings spread, blood-red and gilded and brilliant in the sun-- while fire sprouts like flowers from my palms, while spiders wrap my toes in silk and i dance on thick-tongued harmonies that tremble the earth with new roots and i bourrée across the green trunks and i become the sun

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Aug 2, 2015

Aug 2, 2015 at 3:33 AM UTC

enpointephoenix

en pointe phoenix

I. pink satin masks blood and broken toes. i keep effortless poise while knees and lungs shake. i dance in tattered tutus, in old toe shoes, for a pocketful of coins; i dance until i am blind with joy, until my lungs are full of trumpet shouts, until i am exhausted and weightless, until my audience is standing, breath gone, knowing what it is to be-- II. in the storm of applause one gnarled hand launches a torch. "you danced with me," i cry-- her lips seal shut. wild, cold eyes watch flames singe my feathers, fuse flesh to bone, floorboards collapse. she stays until she hears my heart stop. at dusk, the stage is ash. III. at dawn, a chorus of mouths emerge from the ground, my audience, full-throated, white-knuckled, tchaikovsky hollowing cheeks, nasoprotivnyia daruia; knuckles white-- flat-footed, slack-jawed, the arsonist stands-- and i ascend from the dirt on pillars of diamond forged from ash, while my bare feet spill blood and i say look at the source of my strength-- while new wings spread, blood-red and gilded and brilliant in the sun-- while fire sprouts like flowers from my palms, while spiders wrap my toes in silk and i dance on thick-tongued harmonies that tremble the earth with new roots and i bourrée across the green trunks and i become the sun

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Jaded cyan were the shadows that sat and shriveled (as hollowing rings) under those downward eyes like mildly pressed flowers in dusty old books Radiant hues captured blushing in mental photographs of crossing fingers by a tender flowing stream (from an untroubled spring) where they harvested budding gemstones of light from dancing fields of lavender beneath the mountain Lavished mulberry were the plum tree branches that crept (as throbbing veins) around those half-moon eyes like hot blood trickling under sun dazed skin Emerald spirits intertwined in a physical vineyard of limbs they recklessly tangled (from an unseasoned summer) where they felt the stirrings of revolutionary ardor from expanding train tracks behind the mountain

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Dec 16, 2013

Dec 16, 2013 at 6:21 AM UTC

Jaded cyan were the shadows that sat and shriveled (as hollowing rings) under those downward eyes like mildly pressed flowers in dusty old books Radiant hues captured blushing in mental photographs of crossing fingers by a tender flowing stream (from an untroubled spring) where they harvested budding gemstones of light from dancing fields of lavender beneath the mountain Lavished mulberry were the plum tree branches that crept (as throbbing veins) around those half-moon eyes like hot blood trickling under sun dazed skin Emerald spirits intertwined in a physical vineyard of limbs they recklessly tangled (from an unseasoned summer) where they felt the stirrings of revolutionary ardor from expanding train tracks behind the mountain

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Bathed in vermilion anguish Hollowing out the delusive notions From the catacombs of the mind Ensnared in the quagmire Of disgruntlement Pulling an endless string From the throat.

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Jan 12, 2014

Jan 12, 2014 at 5:58 PM UTC

Vermilion Anguish

Bathed in vermilion anguish Hollowing out the delusive notions From the catacombs of the mind Ensnared in the quagmire Of disgruntlement Pulling an endless string From the throat.

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