"hoodies" poems
We wear this city on our feet
Planting our roots with each step
Our shadows
cast shapes of ancient oak trees stretching out over old squares at daybreak
We grow here
with the spirit of buildings past,
present and rising like a staircase to heaven in the distance,
the plumes of white smoke from their rooftops as burnt offerings for incense,
spires for steeples,
the bundled masses of people moving beneath as the calloused soles
of our feet pounding the pavement,
Our congregation
seated in reverant silence on the R-Line hissing to a stop
Their hushed prayers filing out from within to bring the reclaimed sidewalks of Fayetville Street back to life to join this pilgramage
They march
downtown toward Capitol
holding signs for disarmament
They bar-hop through Glenwood toasting to deliverance
They move in a blur of faces that become us,
Rush at all hours through our veins
Cross our hearts and keep us breathing,
Moving
wearing the city on our minds
like the greyest pieces of their winter sky and the way it caps the peaks of Mount PNC, BB&T and Wells Fargo like hoodies over our heads
We assume monk-like appearances
in robes color-coded by season- from blue collar sweaters to cold hard sweat
We'll wear their city until we're worn out and wet,
We'll wear their dreams at night
like streetlamps flickering on beneath wired telephone poles carrying conversations about each one as far south as Florida, fears unspoken, made visible
on iron park benches too cold to sit on at this hour
We'll keep walking
and wear this city like backpacks over our shoulders
under the watch of their heavens,
the skyline
a glowing testament
of every step taken
toward someplace higher.
Apr 9, 2018
Apr 9, 2018 at 7:27 PM UTC
I like the way your laugh, and when your wear my hoodies.
I like the jokes we have, and when you sneak up on me.
And when the kids take all our time, and we don't even have a dime,
sit back, relax, and close your eyes.
Meet me in my dreams.
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 8:43 AM UTC
First things first
I'd like to apologise
I'm sorry I'm not the good Indian girl I was bred to be
I'm sorry I don't make round rotis
I'm sorry that the tongue I use to speak punjabi is broken and hides in my mouth unused until desperately needed
I'm sorry that I don't cook and clean efficiently enough to be wifey material
Sorry that I love who I love and don't hate who I was told to
Sorry that I can't follow gods blindly and not try to sneak back stage to see their shining gold adornments and blue body paints and multiple arms in full and bare glory and scandal
I'm sorry that I'm actually not sorry for any of this
I'm sorry that these are false and empty apologies
I am unapologetically whole
A human not just a race
A female not a trust fund or business transaction
I filter out the good parts of the culture I'm from and the ones I identify with
I'll wear docs under my saari no apologies
I'll grind on dancefloors and do the best Bhangra dance you'll ever see unashamedly
Hareems and hoodies
Bindies and pin up eyeliner
Hedonism and head in the clouds
My ambition is Ambedkar untouchable
My drive is a salt march surging silently non violently through cities
My hometown pride is built in concrete and rickshaw dust,
Prejudice and Bollywood lust
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 1:25 PM UTC
An Oklahoma politician
wants to outlaw hoodies
in the hood
It's true, it must be
I read it in Fox News :)
I'd sooner be in Missouri or Cleveland
or New York City where you don't have to
wear a hoody or raise your hands to get shot
There are other things more pressing
than hoodies in the hood
that don't need ironing
like hoods in suits
and the elephant in the room
that needs shooting.
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 10:11 AM UTC
He struts through the street
With an arrogant stride
A staffy at his feet
Fills him with pride
Baseball cap on his head
Peak points in the air
Yea blood I'm hard
And I don't seem to care
Trackies and hoodies
Are the code of his dress
Big golden chains
Hang low on his chest
Sock's pulled up high
Above his designer boots
I'm a council house chav
So proud of me roots
I'm hard and I know it
And I'll rob ya of bread
Don't mess with me
Or you'll end up dead
His attitude stinks
Filth falls from his gob
With a chip on his shoulder
He don't want a job
But under the bravado
He's as quiet as a mouse
Living his life
From his council house
His mum is on drugs
His dad is long gone
No wonder this bloke
Turned out to be wrong
So show him some kindness
Just a friendly word
Might just be the the thing
That stops him doing bird
I somehow much doubt it
But its worth a try
Cause deep underneath
He's a friendly guy
Nov 3, 2010
Nov 3, 2010 at 3:16 AM UTC
they disappear,
tip-toeing past bedtime,
out into the cozy darkness
protected by the full moon shadows,
and fading high school hoodies.
both carrying a blanket,
a pillow, and a future
they climb,
step-by-step,
towards their favorite hole to the sky,
next to the old brick chimney,
weathered black shingles,
and forgotten leaves from
past seasons.
they lay,
hand-in-hand,
whispering valuable nonsense
and counting the asterisks,
until they slowly fall asleep
only minutes before the sun
begins to rise in the east.
Jan 4, 2010
Jan 4, 2010 at 7:36 PM UTC
You have been told that rapists were men in black hoodies
hidden in twisting shadows and dark alleyways.
****** offenders were always leering old men in rags;
never blonde haired and blue eyed and always smiling-
not once did you think to question the intentions
of his warm and familiar fingertips.
When you find yourself locked in his claws
and he tells you
that you must want it
don’t be a tease.
Look at what you’re wearing.
A sliver of skin mistaken for an invitation.
Do not be surprised when your mother
also asks you what you were wearing-
but do not forget.
Remember this for the next time.
You will also try to convince yourself that you asked him to,
but the scars on your sister
and the tribe of women with cut out tongues and pleading eyes
who stare back at you from your reflection
tell another story.
Tell your mother that no matter how many flowers she throws over the mass grave
she cannot hide the stench of rotting corpses,
do not pretend that you are okay when you feel all the lights inside of you begin to shut off
because your body has grown tired of sounding alarms and raising knives
against intruders who wield toxic gas and atomic bombs.
You have been taught to hold your tongue and to smile like nothing is wrong
but now your mouth is filled with your own bite marks and it is hard to hide the blood.
You should not have to.
Your words can crumble empires
and redeem centuries of trauma embedded in bleeding wombs.
It is time you used them to stand up for yourself.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 4:57 PM UTC
I've seen cops
way too many times,
too many times
to go through my ****
ripping apart pillows
with switches
and against my better judgment
I did nothing
as I heard the glass of
my grandmother's picture
being tossed around
in the back.
Too many times
asking me questions
about this
and that?
Him or her?
If you help us out,
we'll help you out,
understand?
in their rooms
where no love is grown
and no help is on the way,
their eyes were filled with the fire,
they were finally
gonna get this ******
make him pay
for crimes he didn't commit.
Too many times
when i was asleep
in some old sewer,
and rolling up
asking me if i was on drugs
or drunk,
and if i didn't leave
they were gonna shove
a nightstick up my ***
get me used to it.
Too many times have they slowed down
at a light
and turned slowly,
keeping their eyes on me
like I was a wolf,
when they had blood in their eyes
and teeth
in their holsters.
"Where you going tonight?"
as they surrounded me,
another inmate
inside the bounded
bars of an external prison.
Cops never helped me,
never asked
how I was doing,
or why I was doing it,
or why I felt trapped
inside my own body;
all they saw
was another ******
making problems
for the civilized people.
God will remember them,
just as I can't forget.
And most of the time,
it was other black men,
some fruit bred strong in them,
to hate them bottom-rung *******
because they had escaped
and remade themselves,
apparently.
In truth,
I have killed many of them
in my sleep,
but when I step back,
I see that they are a product
of the same system
that says the guns, drugs, and violence
are part of the ****** condition,
that only shows a ****** on tv
when he's ***** or killed somebody,
another mugshot for you to put in your
scrapbook of fear.
So, no I don't hate them,
I hate seeing people that look like me
getting killed
before they come to fruition.
I hate that
:"black"
is used as a term
meant to engender
fear.
I hate that I walk down the street,
and a white girl
walks ahead
turning around
to
check for me.
I hate that when me
and some of the homies
walk down the street,
our hoodies pulled over our heads,
people look behind us
for the grim reaper.
There is hope,
but without
it being fostered,
The fruits
die on the vine,
noosed up
in a new way
as they drop.
Feb 11, 2012
Feb 11, 2012 at 6:36 PM UTC
we'm from the valleys,
high in wales,
dull as donkeys,
hard as nails.
torvaen town,blaenavon gwent,
council caves,that some pay rent.
black and white tellys,
run on gas,
houses wiv lectric,is upper class.
we shoplift in winter,
cos summers no good,
you can't wear coats,
you can't wear hoods.
we once mined coal,
made steel and iron,
honest hardmen,
pittance relied on.
now thats all gone,
thro government bullies,
now hoodies steal goodies,
from tesco and woolies.
valley boy logic,
philosophy real,
all good fings come.
....to those who steal.
Feb 24, 2010
Feb 24, 2010 at 9:58 AM UTC
hoodies and sweaters, hoodies and sweaters
even in the summer, nobody questions it
a couple of times she's been caught bare armed
a couple of people have seen her scars
her secret is safe but when will it end?
when will she be able to wear short sleeves and swim?
she knows she cant keep living her life like this
but shes addicted to the beautiful pain razors give
she loves the blood, she loves the scars
she loves the pain that comes from tearing her skin apart
she loves the fresh pink scars that are new
she loves the old faded brown ones too
most people would never understand
if the knew they would think she's an alien
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 11:51 PM UTC
17 hoodies all in a line
a teenage girl wears one at a time
when it gets hot she rolls up a side
not the other because there's something she hides
she wakes up on a monday with a tear-stained face
and runs to the bathroom with quickened pace
so as to not let her parents see her mind
she hides from others because her emotions blind
she goes to school
walks though the gates but no one notices her not her mates
all else ignores her but she stays calm
as her emotions will pour from her palms
she need to be rescued from her own hands
but no one no where understands
crimson tears fall from my arms my life seems worthless so i self harm
Jul 29, 2012
Jul 29, 2012 at 4:46 AM UTC
The land flooded,
the sky was dark and wet.
I had reached the bottom of my jar
and there was no glory.
It was all drained away and swallowed up by careless mouths.
A pool had formed
in the flooded land
and in it sat two boys;
young like adolescences
yet humble and mature with knowledge.
I felt like I should know them,
but their faces were masked by their black hoodies.
And their voices matched everyone's
and they matched no one's.
One beckoned me to swim to them.
They were familiar
in a welcoming stranger way.
So I submerged into the comforting warm water,
and I slowly swam next to the boy.
The one who beckoned asked me,
"What is your story?"
and
just as easily as unzipping a jacket,
I spilled out my worries
he soaked up my loneliness and aches,
and I found myself
curled up in his arms.
He took my empty jar
and filled it with a glowing light.
The land surrounding
was still cold and dark
but the light inside was the one thing that brought me
warmth and renewal
and undying hope and joy.
He was the holy man.
Who welcomes everyone
and forgives everyone.
He is equal.
He is greater.
He is the one who sat in the flooded land
and waited for me
so that he could give me
a wholesome warmth
that I've never felt until now.
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 3:28 AM UTC
Spy Kids (the original)
A 5 dollar matinee with your mom
A box of Bunch A Crunch
Or a plastic sack of
Dip N Dots
Ninja Turtle walkie talkies
Flare denim cargo pants
Bobby Jack zip up hoodies
With blue Fla-Vor-Ice stains
And hide and seek
Now That’s What I Call Music
Volume 17
Playing from a 10in x 10in
Silver box TV
And high frequency noise
To accompany
Akon’s latest bass line
A razor scooter
The foot powered kind
When the Preacher’s Daughter
Has a shiny blue one with a motor
Weeping to Secondhand Serenade
Because your mom won’t let you have
A Wii
And your crush checked “no” on the
Note you gave them last week
Detention after pre algebra
From shooting a girl two seats over
At “close range”
With a hornet
And she was unfamiliar with the school wide
NO SNITCHIN’
policy
The words
Beastly
And epic
Used to describe what your
8th grade field trip is gonna be like
A phone call from your best friend
About finally finding Ben Franklin
In Tony Hawk’s Underground 2
Now
The OK symbol is your most used emoji
There are too many guys with long hair
And beards
White girls all have a weird obsession
With house plants
We’re all at least 50 thousand dollars in debt
And I think we all
Just really hope Donald Trump
Isn’t our next president
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 12:19 AM UTC
Do not utter a syllable
For the reaper lurks at the door
Dim the lights as our eyes are widened
Sit in a desperate, huddled mass
Feel the shivering, helpless creature on the left
Hear my traitorous lungs exhaling, surrendering my position
My heart pounding, screaming at my body
Ordering me to run, to fight, to ****
"Do not go gentle into that good night,"
As Dylan Thomas so elegantly stated
Yet it is not a time for romantic visions of heroism
Beowulf's idealism will not save us here
Sobbing, shivering, ***** stained American Eagle
Sweat drenched Under Amour Tees and hoodies
Feet ironically quivering in red and orange Nike Shocks
A 243 pound lineman blubbering under his breath
He wants his mother, his daddy, his pillow, to go home
Another boy, Darrel, clenches his fists, readies for attack
Cassidy sits silently, emotionless, statuesque, frozen in time
And I . . . What do I do? . . . What do I do?
Do I flinch like Sir Gawain in the face of death?
Or do I . . . . . . What do I do?
God, may I never discover the answer to this evil query
God help us stop the violence consuming innocent children
Render CODE RED obsolete
Yet, CODE RED will parish not
For society feeds on fictional fame
Fifteen minutes that Warhol never could have painted
Now it will be duplicated like so many Campbell's Soup cans
CODE RED CODE RED CODE RED CODE RED
And . . . What will I do?
What will I do?
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 6:58 PM UTC
superstar of the lowest level of the food chain
they marvel at my wondrous acts
i am enticing, raucous, too loud
the prima donna of the freakshow ballet
they would pay
to be seen with me
the perpetrator of chaos
hoodies with spikes on them
batman tshirts
and too tight
skinny jeans
tired pink sneaks
from my wandering days
i am the queen of misfits
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 1:49 AM UTC
Death showed me how to dress.
it says "not that one, these shoes rather, somewhat less dynamic and somewhat more meek, more
modesty, less certainty."
Death showed me not to wear hoodies, to keep my head revealed, to wear light hues
rather than dull in light of the fact that I am sufficiently dim as of now
to purchase a belt for some jeans I possess, even better, to not wear pants,
death showed me how to do my hair, it says "less curl, more typical, straighter, longer,
more slender," it consumes my scalp and gives me a brush and says "isn't it decent to run your
fingers through it now,"
Death showed me who to like, what music to tune in to, how to keep individuals agreeable,
instructions to walk; "don't limp, straight shoulders, however remain littler than them,"
it showed me my vocabulary, the majority of the enormous words that gain me honors, for example, 'verbalize,'
'dislike whatever remains of them,' 'a great one,'
Death is continually instructing me to be less, less American, more African , an appreciated expansion, a
token, to reveal myself and strip myself of any weapons, any dangers
Death is a x-beam machine, and says in the event that I do anything incorrectly, it will come
as though I'm not kicking the bucket to myself as of now
Death says "what an opportunity to be alive."
since in this nation, Black is imperceptible
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 12:56 PM UTC
silhouettes running down brick walls like
flashfloods clinging to ***** mascara
where starstruck children run in mud
call me the eve of original sin
for the things I have seen and the places I've been
for ridges of ink etched in landscapes of skin
for heartbeats in hoodies saying lest we forget
in the valley of the shadow of death
they rest with hands crossed over their chests
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 12:08 AM UTC
There's things that I don't say
In between kisses
And bowls of ramen noodles
On weeknights
There's a quiet sadness settled behind the couch and on the inside of my ribcage during our twilight marathons
On the weekends
Things left
To hopefully be forgotten under the bleachers at your soccer games
I go to whenever I can
It hangs with your hoodies in my closet
In the pit of my stomach
It's small but I can't stop it
And it takes me out for days at a time
I see you every day
But sometimes I am distant
In a different way
It's been done to me
And I'm sorry I'm doing it to you
I'm trying to phase the disappointment that has nothing to do with you
Out of my life like cycles of the moon...
The stars are ours
And that is true
I've never felt like I do when I'm with you
But I tried to tell you
I don't think
You completely understood
You have never felt
Such a sadness before.
.
.
.
.
*"What's wrong?"
"Is something wrong?"
"You would tell me if something was bothering you,
Right?"*
...
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 11:59 AM UTC
yes, i have other things to hold me together.
like poems that are dripping with you, and a small, shy cat who was once a stray like myself.
along with a ghostly stoner boy, who renames the colors of the rainbow and who speaks nonsense phrases, even when he's sober.
and a candle-flame girl who is covered in scars and who hides her pain in too-big hoodies, who hugs too tight and bleeds too easily and who doesn't know what a mistake falling for me will turn out to be, who draws me pictures and writes me love notes and cries into the night because she can tell that i ache for you still.
yes, you smartmouthed fool, i have other things to hold me together. but none of them are you.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 9:57 PM UTC
on my good days I am floating, there's background noise and the faint smell of desire, but I move like a needle pushing through skin; deliberate, with purpose. whether I'm the vaccine trying to prevent the disease or the cure hoping to alleviate some of your pain, I don't know. I think I might be a weird mixture of both, but the story is only in its rough draft, so there's no telling on if I work or if I'm just a waste of time.
on my bad days I'm only a silhouette, more background noise, the faint smell of gasoline, the sound of sirens, shady looking men walking down the street in hoodies and smoke in the air from a fire down the street, I am the stray dog, the road **** the broken down bus and the stars completely covered by smog. if you close your eyes, I'm still there. I think on these days there are people trying to run from me, I know I'm one of them, but we can't get away. red light after red light, 13 miles with a cop on your tail and tags that expired last week, rest assured your shadow always follows you, and so does my silhouette.
on both of these days, I love you. on both of these days I long for you, and on both of these days I am running in an attempt to get ahead of time because it's running out, and I'm not finished yet. I'm not ready to become someone who was, I know that I said I would be okay as long as at some point you remember me as someone who played a part but I am not ready to throw in the cards and become a past tense, not yet, maybe not ever.
I'll be 900 miles away driving away from the smog just so I can look at the moon and know you're standing underneath the same one, I'll be 900 miles away with different background noise then this with my hand in the air wondering how in the hell we're supposed to keep in touch if I can't manage to touch you. you say it's not that far, that I won't fall off the grid, that the months will fly by and I will pick up where I left off.
you say a lot of things.
I whispered that I loved you quiet enough for you not to hear and we hung up.
everything's falling, breaking, the seams are ripping, the hinges are stuck, the car won't ******* start again and I think the locks jammed too with my **** keys inside- and then there's the background noise. it's still all just background noise.
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 1:57 AM UTC
people -- blue jeans -- t-shirts -- volleyball -- sparklers -- *** its -- stone bridge -- pine trees -- new trees -- old trees -- fireworks -- grass -- sonic boom -- picnic chairs -- bicycles -- oak trees -- bare neck -- tickles -- sneezing -- bless you -- slight chill -- cloud cover -- police cars -- policemen -- uniforms -- night sticks -- sweat pants -- baby strollers -- skull & crossbones -- muscle shirt -- sweat shirt -- baseball caps -- fountains of sparks -- greenery -- dandelions -- yellow weeds -- wafting smoke -- black man in white shirt -- white man in black shirt -- SUV -- Boxer dog -- red wagon -- smoke stacks -- asian couple -- running shorts -- acrid smoke -- ice cream truck -- double trees -- pony tail -- mosquitos -- fishing hat -- yellow truck -- handlebar mustache -- bad *** attitude -- shaved head -- balloon -- barbeque -- sunset -- affro -- tennis shoes -- multi-colored hair -- canoe -- golden purse -- playing band -- American flag -- folding chair -- name badge -- red, white, & blue -- skipping rocks -- cargo shorts -- matching couple -- bike path -- hippie hair -- low rider -- peace sign -- golden chains -- waning moon -- waxed legs -- hoodies -- striped shirt -- victory dance -- short shorts -- cigar smoke -- watermelon -- Viking's bag -- leopard skin jacket -- skooter -- digital camera -- creepy stalker dude -- tent building -- horeshoes -- personal space invaders -- glow sticks -- picnic basket -- cooler -- smoke bombs -- plaid skirt -- 77 sweats -- interracial couples -- motorcycle -- orange vest -- plastic ball -- face paint -- cops in two different uniforms -- split tree -- pregnant lady -- trash talking horeshoe player -- street lamps -- playing tag -- large blue cooler -- bright green pants -- humorless boy
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 5:40 PM UTC
I will
do just that
until i'm nothing
but art
something to be admired
would you like that?
would you like it?
do you like art?
canvas
paintbrush
paint
why are you crying about it?
Relax,
I have a towel, it won't
get on your
precious ******* clothes
don't call someone.
I
said
don't.
I'm fine
happens all the time
just shut up
help me clean.
why the ****
are you looking
at me
like that
like I'm disgusting
like I'm *******
gross..
****
it's just paint.
taste it
do you want to touch it?
the paint's running off the canvas, let me get that.
sorry.
not a lot of people get it
not a lot of people like it.
you like art, don't you?
do you like to paint?
I've been inside your backpack.
I've seen you in your hoodies.
I've seen it all.
don't look surprised.
the little lighter in the side?
i like it
i wanted to light myself on fire.
do you burn your art?
do you burn the canvas?
sometimes it's frustrating
so you want to ruin it.
sometimes it's okay
to ruin things.
Daddy ruined mommy
mommy ruined you.
let me see.
don't scream. let me.
let me ******* see.
you saw mine, it's only fair, right?
there.
there it is.
you've dug hard, yeah?
do you like it?
have you shown anyone else?
no?
they saw but you didn't want them to.
the other ones reacted awfully, huh?
you're lucky I'm here.
I'll love you regardless,
you're not a freak to me.
just a bit messy.
i like messy.
your blood tastes nice, yknow.
i want to open them wider.
watch it flow.
shut up.
stop crying.
stop.
no one cares.
there. not too bad.
I just want to see your insides.
i will know how you work.
is that okay?
I'll carve my name next
it would look pretty, right?
you do it, too,
on me.
we can just leave each other
little messages.
i love you,
y'know?
you don't have to worry anymore
we're gonna keep each other's secrets
sometimes art is a group project.
no one gets to see but me.
does it hurt?
you'll get used to it
you'll crave it.
just like i do.
stop sniffling,
you jumping will make me mess up.
you want to hurt.
not die, yet, right?
sometimes, when I'm alone
at night
or day
or anywhere
i paint little flowers.
little smiles
little words
little things
****
****
****
****
you do too,
i saw it on your thighs.
i saw the words.
did that say "hate?"
what do you hate.
tell me.
tell me it all.
I'm going to find out.
yknow.
I've been through some ****
we all have.
gotta cope some way.
clean yourself up
don't ******* touch me.
i say when you touch me.
i say.
you're so soft. just grab the brush.
grab the brush, do it.
I'm painting.
I'm painting.
we're gonna paint the sky, the stars.
nah, fuckin' with you.
we're drawin' grass right now.
see where that goes.
you look shocked.
stop looking.
you're cute when you're afraid.
relax, I'll live.
i wish someone would tell me it's
******* fine.
god do NOT ******* touch me.
I'll **** you.
I'm going to die alone.
I'll pretend that I'm fine with it.
I'll pretend that I'm not playing with the crippled canvas.
how much until it rips in half, i wonder.
sorry.
I'm sorry.
I'm so sorry.
I'm so ******* sorry.
Nov 22, 2020
Nov 22, 2020 at 2:43 AM UTC
You're not really a baby, no more than I am an adult at 20.
I'm struggling to find the words to tell you that I understand.
I have been where you are.
I went through those days and nights when it felt like the world was against me.
Oh the nights were worse than the days, nothing like the ticking of a clock to make you feel alone.
Growing up isn't easy, kids at school are cruel and dumb.
I coped the way you're coping too.
Turned my body into a canvas in which I only painted with red.
Hid behind hoodies and long sleeved shirts.
Told mom and dad white lies about my newly painted "artwork".
So I'm not just some concerned family member condescendingly saying that I understand, I actually do.
I have fought that battle, and some days I still do.
I've been stuck in that darkness, felt the need to open myself up to fight my demons.
But baby brother, opening yourself up, painting those canvases will only win battles, and only for so long.
It takes family to really win that war.
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 10:59 PM UTC
Don't date a girl like her.
Because she giggles too much and trusts too fast and it's all because she's been brokenhearted too many times for things that never shoulda or coulda lasted and learned that life is so much better when you laugh things off and have faith in your surroundings-- including the people.
You'll find that she's rainbows, sunshine, and cotton candy. And much like a day at the carnival you might turn some corners to find all sorts of surprises. And some of them will be dark and scary and some will be taste tries of churros and your favorite sweets that you can't find anywhere else in the world.
She's like a carnival because you'll never find her staying in one place too long, but the things you love most about her-- the thrill rides and the people watching and the sponteneity-- it'll always stay the same.
She'll "borrow" your hoodies and your sweats and you'll probably let her keep them because she looks so cute in them while she's all cuddled up next to you. She'll give you massages after a long hard day as long as she can trust that you'll give them back.
She'll sing along to all the songs she doesn't know but be patient and love her shy confidence because she can only sort of carry a tune and she belts it out anyway. If you compliment her laugh and call it cute she'll smile about it for days because she knows it's obnoxious and she's insecure.
And she's insecure about a lot. She's learning. She's learning to love herself and she's trying. But when you compliment her, and when you remind her that she is good enough, it helps her see that she is worthy of trying to fall in love with.
She's trying to fall in love with herself. She's trying to be the kind of person that she even wants to love. And she's not there yet. But maybe you can help her.
Maybe your fearless singing and your confidence and your faith can help her to become herself. Maybe you can bring her our of her shell. Maybe if you let her steal your hoodies and let her tuck her feet under your thighs because she's cold and let her be open about her life..... maybe then, by those small and simple things, you'll become yourselves together.
And on second thought...Maybe... just probably... you should date her.
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 1:38 PM UTC
I’m Oxfam clothed and head full of henna,
he’s Age Concern dressed for less than a tenner.
Does this make us rivals or more compatible?
Anything’s possible now I’m out of hospital,
picking his path oblivious to obstacles,
catching him in an unguarded interval;
he’s too hospitable to swerve my tentacles
and I too intent on the prey.
“What’s with the titfer?” I bubble up giggly,
kissing his cheek and trying his trilby,
holding his eyes – why should I feel guilty?
If he’ll play Jesus lurking in Gethsemane
then I’ll be Judas flirting with the enemy.
Don’t say betrayal and the double agent,
I’m just a female at my play station.
He used to be nurse and I the patient,
now we negotiate new relations.
Aspiring to more of an equal footing
I’ve climbed too high and abandoned hoodies,
the dreary woollies, sackcloth and ashes,
the words that stuck to my tongue like glue.
Between heavy make-up and credit crashes
I talk too naughty and hug too warmly –
he must take his turn to be poorly,
his turn to breathe in blue.
In minutes the mood will be mellowing:
I shall saxophone and cello him
and proffer the charms of poor scarred arms,
the burnt flesh of thighs and *******
this sin within my second-hand dress
to caress his heart and capture him.
Wind and string go enrapturing!
Pull him close to the edge of the abyss –
I want him to hang on my lips
as I’ve hung so long on his.
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 12:39 PM UTC