"hunches" poems
On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain.
I do not expect a miracle
Or an accident
To set the sight on fire
In my eye, nor seek
Any more in the desultory weather some design,
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall,
Without ceremony, or portent.
Although, I admit, I desire,
Occasionally, some backtalk
From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain:
A certain minor light may still
Lean incandescent
Out of kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --
Thus hallowing an interval
Otherwise inconsequent
By bestowing largesse, honor,
One might say love. At any rate, I now walk
Wary (for it could happen
Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); skeptical,
Yet politic; ignorant
Of whatever angel may choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As to seize my senses, haul
My eyelids up, and grant
A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
Of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content
Of sorts. Miracles occur,
If you care to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again,
The long wait for the angel,
For that rare, random descent.
18k
stripped naked in the figurative sense, I see a girl that is far overdue for a dose of joy. so much emptiness in her eyes, blood flow has become invisible. beauty. oh so much beauty in the way she cares absolutely too much for those that are unaware of her favorite color nevertheless asks how she feels every blue moon. perfectionist could quite possibly be her middle name by the way her heart beats in sync with the spontaneous moods that show their appearance every two days or so. anxiety equals a rapid beat. "if you feel worried then you must act on it" seems to be her philosophy because when she's sad and shaky the heart must go slow.
for,
she.
is.
slow.
when the depression hits and vulnerability only shows its face behind closed doors im sure she would say that she feels as though she's suffocating. suffocating in the figurative sense, where everyone is there watching her but no one can differentiate heavy breathing in basketball practice from a ******** asthma attack.
idiots.
so numb. she's so numb in the figurative sense. you ask her how she is and each time it's an automated "good" as if practiced hundreds of times before a theatre performance. an actress. she's an actress in the literal sense. planting a smile from ear to ear even when it's an obvious gloomy day for everyone else. she puts on a show of happiness that could very much earn her an oscar, if only she were literally in the entertainment business. I can see her falling in the way her back hunches just 10 degrees lower than it had a year ago. I would recommend a doctors appointment but im hoping she learns to fix it on her own. I'm hoping it begins to appear in someone around her that maybe she isn't as okay as she seems. this beautiful perfectionist doesn't just have bad days and doesn't just spare her low moods in spite of upsetting those around her. this beautiful perfectionist doesn't see herself as beautiful. this beautiful perfectionist is so far from perfect.
maybe if someone looked a little deeper in the literal and figurative sense, they would choose to ask, after her automated response of "good", "are you really?"
-mxy
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 9:33 PM UTC
Rolling with the hunches
Safety in a tiger's eye
Has become a lucid scent, a possible unction
To the staring hour, we remember for denial...?
Saviors to break for it...
Sated pleas of untoward necessity...
Themselves, in the grasp of order and wit...
Speed of patience, to a wealth we knew should, politely...
The thunder we dote, was a marvel...?
Sent to merit for the ultimatum baring
Brief as loves boredom can be, the smile is actual
Where sincerity is from ear to ear, the want of caring
Do you remember me?
Like calling a kiss a sweet lightning
Come from the cloud, we devote to ourselves, see
The question of unity become our only hope, realizing...
A real tooth of repose and hindrance, that knows, you
Ready to chew nothing but the thought, of callous interim
Where we are, the tone of a silent voice to see the rue
Of compliment, are we that we are, a solution to anarchy's whim?
Sweet deliverance
Set to wishes only a courage's mind could blow
Forces and prowess to assure an imagination with seemly chance
Timid as we are, is a truth the only, when in the house to know?
Jan 6, 2024
Jan 6, 2024 at 4:36 PM UTC
Rugged body hunches,
Impression of a humpback,
Spit blood more than saliva,
Straighten posture to reveal
Ghastly mold of ribcage,
Bones poke at the dermis,
Gasp, prickling oxygen,
Pierces respiratory system,
Flinch to agonizing pain
An hour of spasms at the most,
Wounds deemed trivial,
Famed hers walk around
To stitch the prized emblems
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 9:25 PM UTC
This is one of those serious poems
And yet it has nothing new to say
But the poet needs to keep himself busy
And writing seems to be the easiest way
The poet rises up on his soapbox
Because he works better from an elevated height
He screams about organized religion, politics
And stripping away of our basic human rights
Like a magician with a classic misdirection
The poet wraps his moralizing in purple prose
He hits you over the head with one simple point
That he’s forgotten more than you’ll ever know
Around the time of the nineteenth obscure reference
The reader is in awe of his far-reaching knowledge
Then the poet overuses polysyllabic words
Just to prove he went to a good college
And the poet keeps filling up the notebooks
Even though he should have stopped long ago
But the publisher agreed to pay by the word
So unfortunately, there’s four more stanzas to go
Quickly, the release date approaches
There’s one printing, then two, then three
And the poem becomes a hit in coffee shops
Recited by grad students in between bites of biscotti
His face now graces the cover of every magazine
In an explosion of exuberant media admiration
Dozens of talk show appearances are scheduled
For the newly crowned “voice of our generation”
The publisher decorates the dust jacket with blurbs
Complimenting the book’s “dangerously original rhymes”
But it’s nothing more than passing hyperbole
Gathered from a glowing review in The New York Times
Now thousands grasp the paperback edition
And eagerly await the feature film adaptation
Meanwhile, the poet hunches over his typewriter
And commits more sententious literary ************
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 3:18 PM UTC
We slump in mismatched chairs. Two hunches
over shame and a 3am breakfast, I think:
*There’s gotta be a reason why art rhymes with ****
If you want anything to go anywhere with any respectable…affect,
the force of pressure on the inside must exceed that from the outside.
Interrupting this genius, He asks:
How can you eat that crap? It’s so…empty.
He is flipping through his coffeeblack back pocket note rag.
It’s soiled, wrinkled concave with the ever-heaving
stomachfuls of his inky midnight doubt, and I would really
rather not have it at the table while I’m eating.
I am pouring another glorious bowl of Frooty Froot Hoops—yeasty,
store-brand sugarfuel for the lower-middle-income child poet.
He spends another tasteless oatmeal evening
reading essays about how to improve his writing.
Instead of, like, writing to improve his writing.
I ask:
If you took a knife to the edge of your boundary’s boundary—stabbed right into your life-world’s fleshy monad-sac,
glory running ****** down your blade,
As you breached forth into the well-lit unknown,
would it still be courageous, if you emerged from
your warm wet ignorance, and they were all waiting outside with mylar balloons, a banner, and "Congratulations on your Artistic Rupture!”
in blue icing on the cake??
There's still a moment there, right?
Petrified in the sap of thrill, in the momentous-stasis between
The arrow flung and the arrow fallen. A moment of
advancement …a moment of abandon!
(He nods along, but he isn't listening.)
I say:
Newness, originality, (birth), is purely indexical.
It points, and no one notices that all those shiny vegas lights aren't really moving anywhere—It's just utility bills and light-bulb trickery.
They're asking for genesis extended, genesis again and again
and each false gesture points only towards another
incandescent unreachable elsewhere.
(He nods along, still, not listening.)
But there's little monotony in taking a stab!
Even if it's just for them, again, those perennial spectators expecting,
Waiting outside with ***** little pocket notebooks of their own,
crowding the bassinets, ever-eager to begin another “surprise" celebration.
Gulping sweet, sugarpink milk, I say:
I happen to like this crap!
It keeps my knife sharp.
(He nods along, but he isn't listening.)
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 11:47 PM UTC
Life's like a big wheel keeps on turning
Time runs away, every day I'm learning
To roll with the punches, follow my hunches
Loving the way it feels
Just to be alive
Getting the chance to ride on the big wheel
I'm takin my share of dead end curves
Had to steady my nerves and steal my courage
Had a lot of hard landings
but I ain't hanging up my wings
Yeah I'm still rippin' down that hill
Still hanging on with all my will
Lookin' back now I still
Wouldn't change a thing
I've had a few lovers leave their mark
I've broken my pride
and I've broken my heart
But I'm gonna live my life
before it all goes dark
Life's like a big wheel keeps on turning
Time runs away, every day I'm learning
To roll with the punches, follow my hunches
Loving the way it feels
Just to be alive
Getting the chance to ride on the big wheel
On the big wheel
Just to be alive
Getting the chance to ride on the big wheel
On the big wheel
On the big wheel
I'm still learning to ride on the big wheel
I'm still learning to ride on the big wheel
On the big wheel
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 11:17 AM UTC
Black and blue eyes
From rolling with the punches,
Another lonely night
From relying on the hunches,
Flicking through the channels
And hoping for a sign
That tonight will the night
He won't walk another line,
Shielding his face from the red and blue,
Slurring his words
Because he hasn't got a clue,
Where he is
Or why he's behind bars,
A night in a cell
Because he's written off his car.
He wonders why women walk away,
Why they give him the finger
Or why he never gets their name,
But then again he enjoys the rush,
Of taking them to bed
With another heart to crush,
Of sleeping in sheets
That still smell of Chanel,
From the woman before
Who said "go to hell".
He puts on his shoes
And walks through the door,
Hoping tonight
He'll once again score.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 3:02 PM UTC
My name is bill, no capitalization, required,
the Writer will be ill, soon, once he gets me,
or my friends in the mail, my cousin e bill.
Won’t be far behind, a marvel of technology!
I am famed and legendary, but be wary,
we attack in groups and bunches and
don’t rely on hunches that you settled with us.
We don’t make a fuss or a muss, we will cut
off your cable, and internet, see?
Hydro and Natural Gas you can ill afford
to miss, we do pay dates, instead of play dates.
So if you don’t pay up we are through
with you, hope you can find your self in
the dark, call us and we will talk until your
cell phone loses power or they drop your
call from their towering collection.
So with affection,
from us named bill,
make a plan and a will,
to pay us on time, after
all it is your dime, until it
is ours, all ours.
You can take that to the bank,
but we will do it for you too!
Save you the trip...
signed the
bills
P.S.(we were going to list a few,
but we don’t name names, we
just collect Presidents and Prime Ministers,
they may be dead or royalty, but they are
acceptable to faceless nameless ones,called
bill(s), Thanks!)
©DWE042013
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
My back hunches
Like a stuffed bookcase in a corner
Too full
My back laden with possibility
I find myself lost in a maze
Of what should be tranquility
Except you lurk there
Your eyes filled with miserable possibility
I've watched your pale fingers
Turn into twiggy claws
And your green eyes
The ones that look like the sea
Turn cracked and dark
Under the light of the grey sun
She clutches your shoulder
Cackling at how I search
For an exit
And exit from this maze
A maze of possibility
Her stature slouched and heavy
Her hands cold and grey
Stroke your thick hair
And I see the disgust in your eyes
And taste it on the air
I struggle through
Getting closer to you
Trapped in a maze of
Possiblity
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
My existence hunches on the surge of homeostasis,
Peeking through botany and paralyzed life.
These skeletons are coated with flesh, fluid, and cells,
An integument the size of my being in spitting distance,
Admitting natural flaws with debeaked drains and
Demonstrating actual emotion with rearranging face.
Narrow wings without sails are flapping noodled,
Desperately escaping living reality into paradise
In the black eyes which can travel with no hesitation,
Development always unfulfilled at clipped appendages.
An ordinary watcher devours the ghost souls in limbo;
Gravity allows a wallflower to soar away through diverse emptiness.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 2:43 AM UTC
She blooms in the darkest season.
She is the light you crave.
She gives all she has
To be beautiful for you,
To be presentable,
And to be joy in darkness.
She stands in grace,
Trying to fulfill every expectation
Set before her.
But even the amaryllis
In all her beauty,
Soon grows tired
And hunches
And sighs
And dies.
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 12:33 AM UTC
Mountains of pain is what I have been foretold
Waves of confusion for my being and all that is
Constantly questioning everything in a dark world that is painfully cold
I apologize for sometimes being so terrible with words as I am trying to express the gratitude I have within me
I try my best to seem appreciative, to seem friendly
Positive perspectives in this life I know I may lack
Many emotions I refuse to show to the world because I know very well how they can be belittled or mocked behind my back
Empathy I feel for those who share feelings similar to how I do, for they should never
I’m quite good at persuading others in believing positive lies about life, I’m what you may call clever
The truth is we are all inevitably doomed for an earth that cannot handle all of our weight
I returned to these same earthly grounds after many centuries, perhaps too late
Misunderstood, is my old soul to this generation, but perhaps it was always
Each day I find myself wishing, begging for clearer days
Time is a wheel that never stops
Silence greets us when we are alone at night, yet the chaos screams so very loud within our deepest thoughts
Music grips my saddened soul, warming me to my core
Bringing me company, somewhat soothing the pain I fail to ignore
I often sit and remind myself how there is good in this world and it shall win over the evil.. or at least this is what people believe
Evil often hunches over me, but I need the light to shine through the darkest depths of my being so the stress and discontent inside can perhaps heal, perhaps relieve
I take what comes whether it may be fair or not
I’m unsure of how many demons I have even successfully fought
Familiar feelings I have carried with me, heavy as my fatigued eyes
The belief that I will get better may just be nothing but lies, lies, lies.
Dec 20, 2021
Dec 20, 2021 at 3:00 AM UTC
Born in the medievals
The thoughts of many stray
Hidden wishes not made known
Projective techniques can't get but few
The flames of thoughts that consume me
Leaving a slight blisters of ravishing pain
A capsule of red and black entwined
like a time bomb shell,
It mars our heart
In the corridor of our heart
Some thought strays out
Ugly pleasures of unconscious wish fulfilments
Driven only by our instinct
But repressed deeply by our Super egos ...
An unconscious folks we grew to have
That represses all abnormal wishes,
Deep down into the sub conscious minds...
Like hunches
We back the thoughts no more....
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 11:09 AM UTC
Three back and second from the left:
my home for period six,
a desk more scuffed and scratched than its parallel, footprint littered tiles.
Here, three quarters of an hour is a day for every minute,
where the name of the month is Algebra II,
and the year: 2009
multiplied by the square root of x
minus pi.
I have a front row seat to a bird’s eye view
of Josh’s back.
It is a russet landscape of rolling creases,
the ever changing dunes of the Sahara.
Tomorrow is Saint Patrick’s Day (God bless the Irish,
drowning it all in liquid ignorance),
and I hope to muffle the jaded sighs; the irritating pinches;
the variables
with a lush and verdant mountain range
subsiding to grassy plains
as Josh hunches—listening intently to his eraser—closer to his desk
(two back and second from the left)
to write the value of y.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 6:43 PM UTC
He is like those grains in the sand
those that disperse and get blown away
in unsteady stances, unfair hunches
and the point is.... "you don't turn my mind"
in the caskets of your stored emotional
where a connection is jarred and jammed
such a physical distaste and stirred responses
and besides that, the gods must be in the know
ohh...may be the wind that turn into the spring
will turn me on to a mountain of dreams
then the rains will wash and touch me deep
until my feelings tickle me to the flow
that’s the time I would be free to make love
holding hands by the dimmed candle lights
kissing under the bloom of the weeping willow tree
beside other lovers who will be mesmerized
by the flight of the need, the fight as agreed
and the season will capture the realness of love
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 3:26 PM UTC
I'm just trying to find my purpose
Isn't that the theory behind what our time here is?
And when I leave here let it be with no fear.
Not on my knees begging please,
But on my feet like a beast!
This is me. Here I am. Hear me ROAR.
Watch me soar. See me fly. Or pass me by.
I don't have time for the negative,
It's draining mental sedative.
I need that progressive ****
Sapiosexual. Heavy Mentalist.
Learn not to speak when you should listen
Like when your creep'n at the corner
and your mom's in the kitchen.
Drop'n that real knowledge
The kinda stuff they didn't teach in college.
Facts I'll keep with me for life
Because somehow I didn't know what she ment
but I knew she was right.
Yeah yeah, mom was right.
She said **** ain't easy and **** gets tight.
You gottah learn to roll with the punches
Follow your hunches.
Do what make you happy
even if that means excessive fat jeans. (Eat, eat)
Let them call your hair *****
Because little do they know tangled in these curls
Is a good *** leave in conditioner,
And the heart of a girl
Who's as strong as her locs
Who just doesn't know when to stop.
Who isn't afraid to top rock, knock down her obstacles.
Hulk ****** clear vision
Though I'll be honest,
Sometimes I don't know what to seek
It always seems to be hiding.
But I know, what ever it is I'll be sure to find it.
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 6:08 PM UTC
when the world,
was much younger
and i was a stupid-crazy
girl-ly-chick, enamoured
with her youth.
i drove, a sunshine,
lemon, yellow bottomed, white pith on top combi van. coyly, cloyingly named Mello Martha.
it was...surfboards and swimsuits,
egg and bacon sangers,
early morning breezes,
after a blitz at the breadbox.
before... changing into
the structured, tortured baby, bank teller blues,
in the back,doors left open.
it was... rockin, knockin,
*** on credit,
to a promised future,
alluded to, but postponed,
for the moment.
it was... bruised back and
grazed knees,
harder, deeper oh god!
oh god! please... faster, fucken frenzies,
on a saturday night.
it was....running away to nowhere,
to find myself,
then finding me,
running away from,
the self i didn't want to know.
noway, nowhere, nohow.
it was... a barrel of monkeys, a barrel of laughs,
a keg of beer,
a box of wine,
under the crowded stars.
it was.... a roadtrip,
up the coast,
midnight bonfire,
midnight munchies,
playing hunches,
exploring reefs and reefers and such.
it was...far from family
and church rules,
a friendly rebellion,
of loud, proud youth.
totally and brazenly,
uncouth
it was... wham! and m.j.
cindy and boy george's culture club ,paperlace,
billy idol and the beach boys.
sung with abandon,
at spinal tap level eleven.
it was... peaceful, quiet, sleeping grace.
insanely in love with...
i forgot his name.
it was.... the birth of bodaciously me.
all brass hair and bosoms,
wild and carefree.
it was ....so long ago,
it was... yesterday night,
when i saw... Mello Martha's identical twin,
stopped at a traffic light.
it was... sunshine and lemon, bitter and sweet,
as she sailed off, down the street.
i sat and watched,
wist, full of recollect,
far and away, from my presently minded place...
sitting in, the driver's seat,
of my mom-blue subaru.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 6:16 PM UTC
I'm strong
As an ox
Courageous, Bold
Fearless,
Nothing can hold me back
Try and break me
I dare you
Because like a diamond in out of the rough
I refuse to be crushed
I'm strong
Rolling with the punches
Going all in on hunches
Not scared to fail
No need to bail
Not stuck in a prison, no limits
Can't remember the last time I felt timid
I'm strong
But today I feel weak
Feel like folding
Crawling into a hole
Today looks bleak
Encased in the prison of my own mind
Hits so hard
I'm going blind
Darkness is all I see
I embrace it
Hug the pain
I stand outside in the rain
I allow myself to get wet, get soaked
And this makes me strong
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
We rode to Ta’if on a flying carpet
— a Toyota with a missing hubcap
sweeping through fattened clouds
which clung to the hilltops like grazing bison
arriving on the otherworldly plateau that wore
the death shroud of an old hermit’s mystery
which our Prophet reached in sandals as ******
as the deck of a Nantucket whaling ship
Arabian Himalayas. He climbed like a yak
and the Lord strengthened his steps
Our taxi driver — as lost as the cheque in the mail —
poked at his satnav and called his mates
The Almighty’s beloved followed the angel and
never lost his way. He strained with pain
Our driver’s mirrored eyes intruded while we
held hands on the back seat and yawned
The Lord smiled down upon his aching friend
and eased the pain in cramping calves
A sagging mosque now hunches where the ignorant
had cast away the chance of a lifetime
Oh think if they had taken him in — Medina
would sit as a happy king on a mountain throne
I immortalised my love in a photo in that mosque
praying as a saint where our hero had struggled
I adore my captured shaikha and the memory
of when we followed in the footsteps of our Prophet
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 1:12 PM UTC
Suddenly it feels numb
My body restive
My words gone dumb.
Muted grievances against the window pane
Are wiped away as insane.
Something inside, yet miles away
Resonates a perfectly eternal dismay.
Sweet are the tears that embrace,
Coursing down the contours of the loving face.
I ask myself,
“Why can I never write about important things?
About Philosophy, Politics and similar meanderings?”
Reasonable things.
Inklings of promising meanings.
Instead I struggle with my tempestuous heart,
Unimportant to the world, yet the most excruciating art.
The pain and the glory
Is the never-ending selfish story
My childish mind can recall.
Despite all this wondrous melancholy,
I always choose to repeat my folly.
Up and about to write I go,
There’s too much heart material to forego.
I lie under those dry lifeless branches,
Sit, stand or walk around in hunches.
Only the grass understands
Under the skin in innumerable strands
Pain is the only conspicuous poison
Reigning the veins, arteries,
Defining the venison.
I couldn’t look at you much
Since you drank from my cup
Travesties of my past break-up
And chose to inflict it upon me again
To see if our old life
Could be regained.
But nonchalance has a way of defeating you.
It looks odd on you,
Like an unaccustomed parvenu.
Love wrecks your heart like the shivering of an earthquake.
When my insides tear, shrivel and menacingly rake.
You realize that your nonchalance was odd indeed.
I was the friend in need
You fled the deed.
That could have saved me
From depression.
Earthquakes don’t mean any harm.
They simple do their job
And leave destruction in the wake.
Naïve.
Nonchalant.
Dilettante.
They are not exactly wrong.
No culpable intentions.
Only humming a deleterious song.
Yet
We seldom recover when the grounds from below
Shake.
I thought you were the soft breeze, drizzling rain.
But turns out,
You are an earthquake.
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 1:25 AM UTC
what i find with western societies
is that they overly assert the worth of
psychology, without ever having read
a book of philosophy; meaning that
too many are treated as psychiatric
imbeciles, when in fact the culprit is
hard-worn and readied to re-enact the execution,
ready the plumber and forget the library banger;
with all that might hang, Charlie would
have asked Cromwell: did i have the power
or are you jeopardising in the extreme?
Calcutta o.k., hunches and surf's up!
surf's up... biggie bagpipe wave! hoo! hay!
a transvestite hooray! i too a
Thailand lady-boy, translated: north korea
in jitters and Japanese worth of shoo shy flips
of Kentucky Solomon... or some other slang
glued to cool.
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 10:28 PM UTC
There was always at least five feet between us. It was actually a good thing in the preliminary stage. We could lock eyes without the urgent need to look away too soon. The intensity was containable in those five feet.
(speaks very fast) And then my stupid self went around and quickly covered four of those five feet. It is the laws of mitotic cell division god ****** You do not grow four feet in a day. You grow inch by inch, centimeter by centimeter. Ask him about that literature assignment. Shakespeare is responsible for excess glutton in today’s pick up lines. Wait for your friends to dare him to kiss you on a Truth and Dare. Wait for him to want to. Then, tell him, maybe, I like you.
That, in that one foot perimeter, I could see golden flakes in the circles of his eyes when clearly they are brown should have been the first sign that it was a bad idea. Five feet was our perimeter. Five feet was where we stopped. (points to own body) Five feet is where I stop.
For, I will never be anyone else but me. I will never experience, firsthand at least, what it is like to be a lanky six footer who hunches because she doesn't know what to do with her body. Or her exhilaration when she finds the basketball court. I will never experience being the Egyptian boy who has a chemistry counter in his kitchen, who asks his maid to buy him potassium nitrate. I won't know what it is like to be his maid who almost got arrested for asking to buy potassium nitrate (a component of explosives) in Egypt. I shall never experience courting like the characters in a Jane Austen novel. And how nice it must feel, feeling beautiful.
And I will never ever experience, what it is like to be his girlfriend.
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 9:03 AM UTC
How lonely infidel
He that passeth I;
in Phlegethon dwells.
Son of the Seas,
seasoned with algae.
Had a plea
about how he happened to be:
"When you threw me to the
depths, into the heart of the open sea,
then a very river encircled me"
Melpomene holds her Mother's dress
while sailing the temptuous tide.
Recalls the sight of hundreds and
hunches over to address.
"Lead by a primitive spirit" she wails
and solemnly stoops to ponder.
Their ship's prow now plunges deep and
through the ripples, Melpomene meets the
seedy yellow iris' of the beast
reflecting the clouds. She squints upwards
and beholds hoofs with Faithful and True.
As the river streams into Tartarus, Mnemosyne's ears
begin to ring with a thousand cries and pleads.
But the whinnies ring out louder to deafen her
while the tail of Leviathan disappears into the blue.
Through the cave and into Lethe, the earthy smell
of the tops remain as the last but dizzy to remember;
of all those who swam lightly past its mist. But to her,
tears to enter the watery abyss:
"Many must have passed through here,
lived long to see,
but not enough to learn--"
But the ship sailed on.
The stream narrows and an opening reveals. They
see melted hail with blood on the only land they recall.
A Tree glowing brightly in front of a black sky; counted many
swords gathered at the foot. Three days they traveled in
their ship, but now their oars were put on land.
Thunder whips and trumpets horn, the fallen fruit
comes ashore.
THEIR voices bellow to ask a question:
"Was it needed for a war?"
An answer, but no pardon:
"Many a pang I have felt, those aches
violently sprung up from the seven lakes,
Is nothing but a genuine mistake.
Those worthy time and day,
Will surely be given a way."
Mother and daughter wiped the tears from their eyes,
while gently lifting them to the skies.
Above them the sun shone on the wet mass,
they see high and colorfully cast:
A reassuring Promise and eternity.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 1:59 AM UTC
The girl with a beautiful smile
A vibrant personality,
And a picture perfect family.
Envied and loved.
Not a single person to hate
Besides herself.
The things that nobody sees is when
She breaks down,
Cries,
And every night
Hunches over the toilet
With a spoon in her throat.
Telling herself only one more time to be pretty.
One more time to be happy.
One more time to be loved.
One more time to escape.
One more time to get better.
One more time to stop.
She lets her emotions overrule
And demons take control.
Life shouldn't be this way.
Her father's a drunk, her mothers a drug addict.
She would do anything to escape this world
Of darkness,
But no one seems to know.
She puts on this picture perfect image
To protect herself,
Despite it killing her that her voice will never be heard
No one seems to even notice
The bruises on her legs and back
Or how she always seems to go to the bathroom
Every time she eats "too much."
If she told anyone,
They would hate her,
Her parents would hurt her,
And she would never have any hope
Of becoming the girl she pretends to be.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 12:46 AM UTC