"hornets" poems
The oxygen secreted from the walnut tree,
the snap-pole green beans growing
up the side of the rusty garden fence, and
bags of aluminum cans stored in the shed
with the old cash registers from the antique store.
These are the golden frames caught and
edited onto organic film, etched into grey matter,
projected from a foggy lens onto reflective marble.
We abandoned the clubhouse because of spiders;
they took the place for themselves after a storm.
Our new abode was the patch of grass between the
walnut tree and the fence in the back corner of the yard;
shady, rough terrain from fallen walnuts, and
the grass always had a slight dew in places.
"The place where the snakes live" is what we called it
when we were sprouts; now we could catch them in both hands.
One night, the wind blew over the shed doors;
flimsy, sliding rail, aluminum thing.
We slinked in and got to play with the old adding machines,
foreign tools, jars full of door hinges, and
rusty hand-crank egg beaters.
Eventually, the roof of the shed collected so many years
of twigs, walnut husks, and foliage fallen that
tiny trees began to pop their heads up from the clutter.
Crickets underneath the gutter guards-
two types; the black singers and the
ones you have to dig for that will draw blood
if they get a hold of one of your fingers.
Sometimes, if bravery was roused and boiling,
we would drift closer to the railroad tracks
in attempts to catch yellow jackets, or even hornets.
One popped their stinger into the back of my neck.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 9:06 PM UTC
Cicadas whine metallically
In trees along the sweltered streets;
Wasps and hornets arc angrily
Enough to cause me fear.
Late summer’s not my favorite time of year.
Flowers nearly done;
The tulips, irises, and poppies
Long since seeded out;
They’ve had their fun.
Bedraggled day lilies remain,
This is the beginning of the mums.
Bees seek latent nectars
Or tap into their golden stores
To supplement their bumbling runs.
Lawns foist a burnt but stubborn edge
While only thistles still refuse
To bow to August's incessant heat;
Their spikes sprout poisonous defiance.
The dog’s left yellowed pools of dying grass;
I admit the neighbors’ lawns surpass.
I suppose the time to gather
Drying excrement’s returned, alas....
Keeping up appearances is hard at summer's end.
Ennui of season full and just past ripe
Leaves tired old men like me
A chiding cause to gripe.
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 10:39 AM UTC
Sometimes the words I love you swarm like hornets behind my teeth, a phrase so heavy it only has eight letters just like I lost you.
Sometimes in the pause you take before you speak, I wonder if you’re fighting to keep down the same things as I am; trying to swallow a confession that seems less like a secret and more like stating the obvious.
We were funny, we were bad at holding hands, I hated when a car goes over the tracks, you had this way of making silence the loudest sound in the room when it hit the floor.
I made a home out of your hands just like how many beautiful things go without reciprocation.
We seem to have found fault in being whole, somewhere alone the way, we’ve started enjoying breaking things;
Like my ribs when you’re gone and I want to know if you can tell the difference between the absence of my voice and silence.
You are the only thing I’ve ever let go that makes my hands ache.
I’m still trying to piece together what made you lose your faith in me, was it how everything starts with gritting teeth and everything ends with you walking away? I should’ve known, the way you used to hold my back like you were checking it for exit wounds.
It took me 2 car wrecks and 6 shattered mirrors for me to realize that the world has so much more to say when it is silent;
if I didn’t bruise so easily, if I wasn’t looking for a way to be made of a river, if I needed the silence to mean something, then I would ask you to build me out of quiet revenge and goodbyes that stick in your sides like tree branches, I would need you to build me out of reasons to believe instead of reasons to be afraid, I would turn my kneecaps into strawberries in exchange for potter’s hands so I could mild you a bulletproof spirit.
It was silence and your lighter, I was cold, you were drinking; that was our backbone.
You were alone, I was going too fast because sometimes you don’t have to be in the wrong place to be looking for the wrong thing.
I am afraid and you are warm; this is the beginning of a forest fire filled with broken glass shattering in broken homes with broken people inside on a broken piece of land in a city that has too much rain for someone to build an emergency room in.
I spend nights up until my body can’t handle itself any longer,
mornings have come like a hammer to my head-
instead of my face, all I can see in the mirror is an unfamiliar expression,
something like a dead battery.
All I ever wanted was for you to be my fire, I am tired of these old lives and would like to see them burn.
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 3:31 AM UTC
captive audience listening
to the hornets pouring out of me
i was running fingers
listlessly down your face
and dreaming of acid rain
—a picture in my head
that refused to die
ever mindful
of the bedroom door
hinging on your aches
and unborn eyes
the reanimated heart
chimed
with the twisted shape
of what awaits us all
a rising overture
from behind the veil
warm, wet handed
in a bath of blood
Dec 21, 2017
Dec 21, 2017 at 10:15 AM UTC
We lie amidst Ripe mountain herbs,
The nightingale has just begun its summer trill,
This hymn for golden vocal cords
Composed no owner of a writing quill
So sweet were melodies produced
That I mistook the front row lady’s cheap perfume
For blossoms, above which haunting hornets mused;
For an aroma of our Shakespeare love in bloom.
The serenading cardboard creatures –
Those thieve their voice from birds with no address.
Meanwhile a glass raised in a playhouse features
But colored water, as red as gipsy’s dress.
When the last spectator goes,
Having not found at least one genuine sun,
As actors, we recede into descending roles;
Electric blood in lamps’ capillaries feels numb.
A lovely ladybug, I doubt, I will ever catch,
A lifelike flower, dipped in a painting fusion:
All this, fine artists tenderly attach
To lifeless decorations, for aid they do us in a willful staged illusion.
Three burnt sienna pearls run down your spine
Yet after a big round of applause
These jewels are no longer signs of the divine,
But witches’ marks or, rather, unalluring flaws.
After the play I went to buy a notebook from my shopping list
To store the overgrowing verses, such as these;
A sheet of paper guarantees
To treat them like extinguishing bees
Cashiers ****** the change into my hand,
You purchased hothouse roses with;
And up those pretty useless beauties stand
In someone’s vase, whose name remains a myth.
They give me back those polished dimes
You traded for a pair of shoes.
I’ve seen you marshal through onstage lifetimes,
Yet to disclose personas’ traces the theater walls refuse.
Your chocolate hair has just fallen from the hairdresser’s hand,–
That’s how I know the summer’s coming to a bitter end.
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 7:02 PM UTC
'I write about the butterfly,
It is a pretty thing;
And flies about like the birds,
But it does not sing.
'First it is a little grub,
And then it is a nice yellow cocoon,
And then the butterfly
Eats its way out soon.
'They live on dew and honey,
They do not have any hive,
They do not sting like wasps, and bees, and hornets,
And to be as good as they are we should strive.
2.7k
An overgrown pathway she takes,
A smile plastered on her face, so fake.
Deeper down does detail disquieting doubt.
As she stumbles and searches for a sign of the way out.
Entwined in thorns she now becomes,
As the overgrown pathway, the night succumbs.
Hovering hornets the only sound,
Pretending to enjoy the escapade, how profound.
A shattering noise halts her stride,
But the tranquil look stays in place, what pride.
How foolish a girl to continue on,
How foolish a girl to act as though nothing is wrong.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 7:57 AM UTC
There can be certain potions
needled in the clock
for the body's fall from grace,
to untorture and to plead for.
These I have known
and would sell all my furniture
and books and assorted goods
to avoid, and more, more.
But the other pain
I would sell my life to avoid
the pain that begins in the crib
with its bars or perhaps
with your first breath
when the planets drill
your future into you
for better of worse
as you marry life
and the love that gets doled out
or doesn't.
I find now, swallowing one teaspoon
of pain, that it drops downward
to the past where it mixes
with last year's cupful
and downward into a decade's quart
and downward into a lifetime's ocean.
I alternate treading water
and deadman's float.
The teaspoon ought to be hearable
if it didn't mix into the reruns
and thus enlarge into what it is not,
a sea pest's sting turning promptly
into the shark's neat biting off
of a leg because the soul
wears a magnifying glass.
Kicking the heart
with pain's big boots running up and down
the intestines like a motorcycle racer.
Yet one does get out of bed
and start over, plunge into the day
and put on a hopeful look
and does not allow fear to build a wall
between you and an old friend
or a new friend and reach out your hand,
shutting down the thought that
an axe may cut it off unexpectedly.
One learns not to blab about all this
except to yourself or the typewriter keys
who tell no one until they get brave
and crawl off onto the printed page.
I'm getting bored with it,
I tell the typewriter,
this constantly walking around
in wet shoes and then, surprise!
Somehow DECEASED keeps getting
stamped in red over the word HOPE.
And I who keep falling thankfully
into each new pillow of belief,
finding my Mercy Street,
kissing it and tenderly gift-wrapping my love,
am beginning to wonder just what
the planets had in mind on November 9th, 1928.
The pillows are ripped away,
the hand guillotined,
dog **** thrown into the middle of a laugh,
a hornets' nest building into the hi-fi speaker
and leaving me in silence,
where, without music,
I become a cracked orphan.
Well,
one gets out of bed
and the planets don't always hiss
or muck up the day, each day.
As for the pain and its multiplying teaspoon,
perhaps it is a medicine
that will cure the soul
of its greed for love
next Thursday.
2k
They stood across the battlefield
Facing against each other these days
When the guns silenced they'd meet
One wore blue and one wore gray
The two men shared coffee and smokes
Talked about family and life as soldiers
Laughing at some crude little jokes
And what they'd do when the war was over
Every conversation ended the same way
They'd look at each other and say
'I'll see you in hell Johnny Reb'
'I'll see you in hell Billy Yank'
They both knew that someday soon
Their paths may cross through the haze
And see each other across the way
Through that ****** and deadly space
So far luck has been their lady
Seemed like the war will last an eternity
Both longed for home and their family
Born brothers but now they're enemies
They both remembered it the same way
They'd look at each other and say
'I'll see you in hell Johnny Reb'
'I'll see you in hell Billy Yank'
Every battle could be a very tough time
Back home for their dear mother
She always just asked herself why?
What if her only children killed each other?
She was all alone in bluegrass Kentucky
Shielded herself from the news of war
Always praying for them to be lucky
Her poor heart just couldn't take it anymore
Her final words were written in ink
As she mumbled the words to say
'I'll see you in heaven Johnny Reb'
'I'll see you in heaven Billy Yank'
Cannons boomed from a nearby hill
Bullets whistled like hornets overhead
The ground was red from blood that spilled
One can't walk without stepping on the dead
The smoke cleared as the sun fell away
Two wounded men lay beside each other
One wore blue and one wore gray
Morality wounded they held one another
The brothers struggled for a final breath
They looked at each other to say
'I'll see you at home Johnny Reb'
'I'll see you at home Billy Yank'
© 2020 Michael Messinger(All rights reserved)
Jan 15, 2020
Jan 15, 2020 at 9:22 PM UTC
I am not yet defiled; O hear me.
Let not the crazed hornets or serpents or ophidian or the
buzzard bee come near me.
I am not yet defiled; console me.
I fear that the snake charmer may with rhythmic body clocks clock me,
with predatory hissing paralyze me, with authoritative power anger me,
on wicker constraints constrain me, in bamboo-patches pierce me.
I am not yet defiled; provide me
With beauty to free me, dressage to cover me, silence to come
to me, souls to save me, charmers and angels
in my wandering existence seeking fights to waver the war within me.
I am not yet defiled; forgive me
For the provocative glances in me, my presence when womanity holds me,
my mythological beauty by deities beyond me,
my head held high when they slay by means of my
crossbow, my addiction when they poison me.
I am not yet defiled; rehearse me
In the dreams and the prayers I must take when
art interrupts me, material disturbs me, splintered souls
gaze at me, smiles fade at me, the knifes edge
stains me and everlasting scars pain
me to shame and the shames taints
my skin and my heart abandons me.
I am not yet defiled; O hear me,
Let not Perseus who is warrior or who thinks he is King
or a rival to me.
I am not yet defiled; O fill me
With gasoline against those who would inhabit my
bones, would sink me into empty caverns,
would make me a prisoner locked, a monster with
blood dripping, a monster, and a passer of dis-ease
who would execute my self, would
flush me like ***** oozing and
***** and ooze and *****
like alcohol seeping in the
pores would drown me.
Let Poseidan not make me defiled and let him not **** me.
Otherwise **** me.
© Sia Jane
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 7:38 PM UTC
Do you remember when we saw the Milky Way
Looking up at the night from your father’s cornfield
We were too far north for tick checks
Wading under the bridge
Minnows eating dead skin off our toes
While hornets buzzed at the banks
Shooting guns at old VCRs and broken microwaves
Laying on our backs on the grass
We watched his Fourth of July fireworks
The embers landing in our hair
And when the smoke cleared
The Milky Way, again
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 6:54 PM UTC
How do I unfurl a truth with the lights out?
You confessed the bean spillage
This tale is arduous when you are as blind as a bat.
It maybe toilsome but I know it is crucial,
for your maladroit ways have brought me here.
I feel like a duck egg because you have been a **** head
Your declaring a newborn heart in past tense
This doesn't cure this quandary of trust
I don't want to adopt eagle eyes!!
I am not a lover of Pandora's box nor any hornets nest
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 4:04 PM UTC
Some silly child kicked a Hornets nest
then the buzzing from within did get louder
six by six did they fly from the nest
armed with stings that can **** most
The silly child ran to it's mother and father
it pleaded for help from their kinder
but by the time they did shout
the swarm had followed it
Six hundred drones did some mighty stinging
then flew back to the hive
look at the family now with bloated bodies
for none of them did have a chance to survive
Never kick a hornets nest
unless you like to be stung
as within hornets nest all are clones
and fight for victory as just one
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
By NeonSolaris
© 2013 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 9:46 PM UTC
My home
Earth, USA, Poconos, Camp Ramah, Boys Campus, Bunk 12, Third wooden step
There is a hornets nest underneath- harmlessly buzzing,
we are drunk on youth and invincible
Peace draws me back.
Leaning back on the fourth step, the wood digs into my elbows but
I don't care. I'm too content.
In front of me is a sprawling bright green hill of grass
plunging downward with a strip of gravel leading to the lake.
Feeling the aged, warm wood beneath my feet is
cozy. The gazebo is at the apex of the lush hill;
it's falling apart. Cobwebs cover it and the wood is flaking, but
no one said home was perfect.
I tilt my head upward briefly to feel the warmth of the sun and then scan
downward at the square pool surrounded by a romantic chain-link fence.
Past the pool is a run down boathouse.
My first kiss was there. I told her I had a "secret to tell her,” tilted her chin with my hand, and kissed her.
A serene manmade lake sits just below the boathouse.
The deep blue waters
and the bouncing "blob” own my attention.
A picturesque scene… the lake surrounded by a dense forest at the bottom
of a giant, beautiful hill which houses for just a brief period,
some of the best friends I’ve ever had,
is home to me.
It is serenity, it is comfort, it is love.
Home has no definition,
but the third wooden step, bunk 12, boys campus, Camp Ramah, USA, Earth, gazing in the hot summer sun over the most
beautiful piece of land I've ever laid my eyes upon
sure feels like home to me.
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 2:27 PM UTC
It never has occurred to me that people do not care.
I understand their reasoning and know it isn't fair
that no-one really wants a thing except things for one’s own,
that no-one wants to please you til you please them to the bone.
From this fact comes the heartache that we all must face sometimes,
though no one quite believes they’re not alone when anguish climbs.
There are, however, no-ones better than most ones out there,
who'll fain and fake a reason to assist and sooth despair.
It’s those who make the lonely world a worthwhile waste of age,
the ones who, when you’re insecure, give strength to turn the page.
This family, I've heard them called,
related or attained,
are those who wouldn’t be appalled
when your hands, red, were stained.
Contrariwise, some no-ones are much worse of ones than most,
they build up all your ego and they give you strength to boast.
Although you'll surely fancy them for giving such a gift,
they do so with malicious goals to set your mind adrift.
And once they’ve hooked your heart with hooks as sharp as hornets’ teeth,
they'll draw you closer with their charms and cunningly unsheathe.
It’s not a blade of iron or a blade to cut your skin,
but a blade made of desire that will pierce you from within;
a pin-point ***** that gives rise to a sudden heart-attack,
an ache inside that sets your mind and spirit far aback.
Love is how I’ve heard it said,
Unanswered, star-crossed, true;
they all exist to fill with dread
a slowly dying you.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 5:09 AM UTC
there's a secret place i found to keep my fear
to hide my tenderness & be vulnerable --
it's next to the smallest bones in your inner ear
the fluid skin blanket of your swooping neckline
lily-soft & somehow stiff enough to break
open my seed-pod heart
the one i thought no one could pry apart
but with rosebud ******* -- lips --
the figure of biblical magdala takes me
away from a lone satsuma tree raising its
shriveled offering from the crippled earth
on sunday strolls through duckpond parks
kicking cobbled streets of augusta block
or scooping water at me smiling in cutoffs
on a hot hometown riverbank
you came to me on barefeet out of the smoke
& rain silence where i was invisibly sobbing
where heat-lightning waltzed
sneaky-pete over the prairie
& what are you if not a rain -- a zephyr
flowing through stone temple
just as the dry-mouth dog days of summer
brought hell's fire across the southern field
so i've abandoned the hermetic existence
& buried my old dead shell with a
harp song hail glory to the contortionist god
vaulting off the balance beam in the
back of my mind beneath the
rain soaked topsoil of dawn
among the mound palaces
of ants & mourning mud hornets
while the gray shadows of the magpie
dance & writhe on the mosaic faces of
the trespassed lupine forest
& the sun still comes up on time big
gold fluttering like a delusional cicada
over the empty pink street
i'm still fidgeting because
clouds with tails like jellyfish sting
with rooted memories of azaleas but
you kiss away my all my latent
restless gypsy fears & keep the harsh
light dimmed or wrapped in heat-foil
in your front dress pocket & you only
give it back to me in brief drips --
pinches -- wet tongue kisses --
we talk with our eyes as only animals
can our butts in the damp sand
beside the breathless sea where streaked
clouds seem free to finger the horizon
but are cut by the city skyline --
a switchblade
Nov 23, 2016
Nov 23, 2016 at 11:44 AM UTC
I'll stain my wrist cherry red,
I'll hang myself with angel hair [1]
I'll jump off a choco cliff
And smell bacon in the air.
Drown myself in sea of grease;
In lard or melted butter
Get lost in a Balck Forest,
Eat fondant rocks for dinner.
Stick Butterfinger down my throat
Until I can no longer breathe
Peel off my caramel skin
And run through a pile of wheat.
I'll fly my way to Sweetzerland
And then I will jump off the plane;
Railroad trip with Willie Wonka
Then get myself crushed by a train.
I'll put the gun on my temples,
Pull the trigger, out the whip cream
Roll on hot coal with Tootsie [2]
Up in the skies you'll see our steam.
I'll grate my fingers just like cheese
And dice my arms like tomatoes;
Chop the onions, hold your tears
Mash my head like potatoes.
I'd stuff myself just like turkey
A big, fat one on Thanksgiving
I'd eat to death ruthlessly
So full that I'll be choking.
Fillet myself, eat my own meat
Or not, 'cause that would be so gross
I'll poison myself instead
A drop on my wine - let's toast!
I'd overdoze on sedatives
Each pill the size of Jellybeans
Or cross the road with closed eyes
Or live in a garbage bin.
Get under attacked by hornets
As I steal their precious honey
Huge marshmallows in my mouth
Die playing Chubby Bunny.
Ride a ship on a raging sea
Of milk or strawberry smoothie
And I'll let my boat be wrecked
Then feed a whale with cookie.
Get free popcorn with your ticket
As you watch me die, sit back
Don't stand 'til it is over,
Enjoy the show and relax.
This is what you always wanted -
See me lying on my coffin
I'll make you watch in total dread
As I **** myself with muffins.
And when I die, donut tell her -
My sweetest darling - Baby Ruth
She might slap you out of shock,
You might lose not just one tooth.
From the grave, I'll send you Kisses
My dear old Cad, bury me [3]
Give this body a Reese's [4]
From food that is it's enemy.
I have here a cake for you
Open your mouth, gently chew,
Close your eyes and hold your breath,
Savor now the taste of death.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 2:32 AM UTC
Sunny days, butterflies and her long eye lashes.
Stormy clouds, hornets and her self inflicted gashes.
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 3:51 AM UTC
I don't know why anything is how it is...
Why the kid in the stocking cap,
Throws rocks at the hornets nest.
Why birds fly north,
When winter comes again.
Why you hate me today,
And tomorrow were friends.
Aug 7, 2012
Aug 7, 2012 at 4:44 AM UTC
I whistle when I blow on my tea
and drink cofee when I can't go to sleep.
I call and leave you messages:
that make me feel like I'm trying too hard,
(or not enough, or like I don't know how,
because I'm not sure what I want)
because I forget what I want to say
when I think about:
your smile
(what makes you smile?)
your blue eyes
(I'm so sick of hiding behind mine,
and I'm ready to see my reflection
and your reflection, in the same frame.
In nothing,[we say nothing], because it means nothing:
unless we want it to.)
your shaking hands
("I know I can do this."
"I know you can do this.")
your silence
(both bathing, both nervous,
both nothing. Because I can't speak for you.
I have trouble speaking to you.)
how's this [?] for,
I'm here.
I don't understand, but I want to.
I'm sorry.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
I haven't been myself for a long time,
but
I'm changing
and
my feelings are
too.
you've been in my dreams for longer than I'd like to admit
[I would if you asked me].
I'm ready to spill some secrets of my own
[because secrets have never been my strong point,
but honesty has, and that's what you deserve].
- - - - - - -
across the table conversation:
"it doesn't matter how many people read your poetry..."
"as long as it's written."
the question game: the life game: the experience: the answers.
after thoughts:
'but does it matter if the person you wrote it for
does?"
Apr 22, 2011
Apr 22, 2011 at 11:17 AM UTC
This peace you offer
Pinioned prayers and platitudes
Scry in the mercury shattered
Your brittle whispers snap in the rarified air
This madness is thunder at the back of my throat
Ragged and storm weary
I tread water in your wake
Spin my tahrihim and trim the fringe
I am the terminus of fragile breath
Falling away from you
Benedicimus Deum meum adventum et egrediente
There is solace in the blind blue moments
Let me surrender
To the baptism of despair
The upwelling catechism of deliquescence
Souls fall clutching the flesh
Gasping for one more shredding dream
Fill the spinnaker and set sail
I am no longer a seaworthy vessel
This tethered hope you offer
Stinging nettles in my mouth
On flitting wings
Is the drone of hornets in my hair
I crave
Oblivion
And you are bound to your promise
It is my free will
To let go...
06/12/12
TL Boehm
God bless my coming and my going out
melt away/decay
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 11:20 AM UTC
and so... There ! Amid all allurement and soft machines;
the spoiled brat of Venus, knicking the doors and kicking the canned laughter
to the foot of a mountain of existential speculation. Amid the cherry bombs and the Persian rugs; so many menageries of tinfoil origami swans.
so very little Time.
so little rosemary wine in the pickle jars. So few wolves
in the porcupine dens - and only a swarm of hornets
in your nightclothes, this
morning.
and nothing but nettles
in your tea.
well, nettles and golems and orange hope.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 12:50 PM UTC
There are times,
too far many,
the spaces between them are fading,
becoming slivers of slight reassurance.
But there are times,
when I no longer feel like a person,
no longer feel human,
cold to the touch and lifeless.
There are times when I fade into the background,
far too many,
watch the people pass by.
Sometimes, I muster the courage,
let my fingertips ghost along the skin of their arms.
Watch the bumps form, fear lingers in my eyes.
Most don't turn,
they're used to us.
They don't leave a glance, don't turn,
don't face us.
It's disgust, but also fear.
They don't want to become like us,
hollow, spaced and cold to the touch.
They like warm, soft skin, glowing white teethed smiles
and lively eyes.
But, there are some, who turn around and leave a lingering glance.
Most don't see us, let their eyes leave us before they're focused.
They fear us, they're young, they don't understand.
Most of us feel twinges of guilt when they're startled,
turn on us wide eyed with panic swarming in their eyes like hornets.
The others, they're different.
There's a few, the ones who take the time out of their day,
smell the roses and are grateful for the small things.
Never take advantage, always gentle, kindred souls.
They don't flinch when they feel cold grate against their warm skin,
don't flinch when they meet the putrid hollow of our gaze.
Don't run away, don't break out into a cold sweat.
Most smile, a warm, friendly grin with paint white smiles.
I used to believe he was one of them,
would guide me from the dark of the background
into the light and introduce me to life.
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 10:08 PM UTC
Find me Medusa, wrap her
snakes around my waist,
they nestle into, the buzzard bee,
form skulls, refusing my escape
hornets haven,
seeing the, ringlets form, I
am reminded of those,
serpents you took from,
me
all for your own gain, shame,
pass me the apple, tainted
love to wish upon despicable
me
my head caught, clouded
feathers fuss, entwine with
those branches carrying,
devils food, just one crunch of
that apple, killing
me
bearing forbidden fruit, exorcise
the red demon, succulent, free
shoot me with, those golden
spun, oppressed, distressed,
eyes of an angel, wilting within
me
or am I the, enslaved
a figment of myself, I
view daily, without, marking
my skin, to know I am
alive, is this
me
rosary beads, pray to a,
Holy Spirit, keep the memory
form a rosette
a noose,
around my neck.
© Sia Jane
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 1:19 PM UTC
Cornerstone of a drastic life
Are the lies that stop us
From killing each other
With these heavy metals
In deadly wars
Or just our fists
In the moment
To stop your deadly laughs
With storms of metal hornets
That nip at your flesh
Until you're dust
But with this
small unjust curve of words
Waiting will be worth it
Because you'll survive
Survive
But not live
That's all you need
All you need
is something
A lie
A cornerstone
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 7:41 PM UTC