"hunks" poems
light cursed falling in a singular block
her,rain-warm-naked
exquisitely hashed
(little careful hunks-of-lilac laughter splashed
from the world prettily upward,mock
us….)
and there was a clock. tac-tic. tac-toc.
Time and lilacs….minutes and love….do you?and
Always
(i simply understand
the gnashing petals of *** which lock
me seriously.
Dumb for a while.my
god—a patter of kisses,the chewed stump
of a mouth,huge dropping of a flesh from
hinging thighs
….merci….i want to die
nous sommes heureux
My soul a limp lump
of lymph
she kissed
and i
….chéri….nous sommes
6.3k
Mud is good,
Its dead good mud,
It's in me blood,
But where not understood,
Us people of mud,
In the shadow of a gas tank and born on a Mersey bank, I lived on cobbled streets dark and dank,
I played on a ship that sank, and for anything else I wouldn’t thank....... you
On king street docks, girls in cheap frocks, curly locks, time tocks, the boat rocks,
The tanyard smell made life hell for all that dwell, under the bridge,
In Garston L19, it’s the scene, its clean, it’s where I’ve been, it’s not obscene or green, if you know what I mean.
Its community security sincerity and every other word that ends with erity,
But it’s fallen apart,
Don’t lose heart.
I go into town when I’m down, it clears me frown,
I don’t go in me jarmies or me dressin gown,
There’s men with round bellies, toddlers in wellies,
Posh ladies gather in their marks and spencer swagger,
There’s scouse brow teens, sunbed queens,
Hunks and punks, lonely drunks,
Suits in boots forgetting their roots and hens in *****
Big issue sellers, statue fellas holding golf umbrellas,
Coz of all the rain,
But it’s all good, coz we come from mud,
Let’s cheer, why?
Coz I’m here,
I’m me, me names T, and me hubbys P me best friends she..... lagh,
I like coffee and toffee and Roger Mcgoughy,
I like statistics logistics eye shadow and lipsticks,
I like bags and wags and cigarette **** but not beer,
I’m fine on wine if I take me time,
I don’t do a line, unless I’m hanging me washing on it,
I work in a bar, not far, I don’t drive a car, and I don’t say Lar or kid or lad or lid or mar,
I’m proud and loud, don’t live on a cloud, and I don’t follow the crowd,
I’m a mum to some, I’ve got a big round *** but I’m me you see,
I’m not square, I dye me hair, I swear but you can take me anywhere,
Coz I care,
I’m good,
I’m mud; it’s in me blood,
Understood
By Christina Ford
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 7:23 PM UTC
I arrived--
though I needn't a formal invite,
for you and I, we are two old friends.
Companions walking along
a similar trail.
The leaves distort and distress the
yellow and gleaming light of the
victorious Sun, who has once again
conquered Night and all
her iniquities.
Scents and colors fill the air,
pinks and reds and greens mix and match
and blend together, forming
a rich atmosphere of synesthetic remarkableness.
Each atom and molecule
of the wind
shivers and shakes atop their
invisible chariots,
perhaps the true location of Atlas
and those great, big hunks of
shoulders;
"Man, what a man."
Take it because you know you like it--
we are social creatures,
creatures of logic
of habit
creatures of horribly idiosyncratic and idle instinct,
rulers of fleshy bodies
which we hardly understand.
The Sun grimaces as it
retreats back to the negative air,
once again,
not to poke its radiant face out until
the next morning.
The Moon came shimmering out,
smiling furtively and compactly,
looking down like
my oldest confidante.
After all,
who else but our fair
Luna atop the stars
is the keeper of all our deepest
and most primal
secrets?
In the cover of her noxy cloak
we sin and hide,
pushing every secret under and between
the cracks in her space,
patching up time and
keeping dark and brooding Atlas
good company.
"You're one of the few great guys."
Oh, my fat and failing Atlas,
lover for the Night and
of my night,
you are a temporary stop on
my trail,
a brief twilight in my
life's journey.
The Sun creeps its
spindly, golden fingers under
the cloak of the Moon,
Night: the stitchings and
sewings of the sins of mortal men.
Playfully, the light stretches out,
first dancing along the stage of the horizon,
then inching closer,
desperate for living contact,
for the greatest warmth of
over 2 billion hearts
all beating at once--
perfectly,
in time.
Our world is a note on
this Cosmic sheet music;
you are barely a splotch on the sheet.
Our existence is the single beat
out of infinite others,
without a beginning but
possibly and end.
I know that
there will be twists in my path,
bending and curving to avoid the
stars' wrath and the Suns'
might,
but,
might it be
that our two trails
are simply
not meant to meet?
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 3:55 AM UTC
LET us sit by a hissing steam radiator a winter's day, gray wind pattering frozen raindrops on the window,
And let us talk about milk wagon drivers and grocery delivery boys.
Let us keep our feet in wool slippers and mix hot punches-and talk about mail carriers and messenger boys slipping along the icy sidewalks.
Let us write of olden, golden days and hunters of the Holy Grail and men called "knights" riding horses in the rain, in the cold frozen rain for ladies they loved.
A roustabout hunched on a coal wagon goes by, icicles drip on his hat rim, sheets of ice wrapping the hunks of coal, the caravanserai a gray blur in slant of rain.
Let us nudge the steam radiator with our wool slippers and write poems of Launcelot, the hero, and Roland, the hero, and all the olden golden men who rode horses in the rain.
1.8k
striving for simplicity
has starting seeming
quite similar to settling
for much, much less.
i suffer this stubborness
like some plague;
some ***** scared of searching
for a saviour, or a cure,
unwilling to forgo the laws
that make him shout, 'impure!'
or 'unclean!' or 'run away,
******* run away!
i am death and his son hopeless,
and we've come out to play.'
an answer waiting underneath
every leaf and stone
and every molecule he breathes
on the wind when he's alone,
tickling his seeping wounds
and begging him to see . . .
i'm here, i'm here . . .
look here . . . see me.
but instead of living hopefully
looking for answers
that want to be seen,
just writhing in pain at the sting of the breeze,
and cursing and moaning
and spraying forth death
so stubborn and stupid with every breath
that's me, that's me . . .
that's me . . . that's me.
a leper's disposition
on a long dead, lifeless heart
afraid of hoping for a change,
a cure, a fairy's pond
stubborn like a stone
so stupid and stubborn with every breath . . .
a glass of porter left behind on the bar,
flat and forgotten,
forsaken, weak, and wasted . . .
that's me, that's me . . .
that's me . . . that's me.
so stubborn and so selfish,
never reaching, never finding
the simplicity i supposedly
believed might save my life . . .
an excuse to surrender
and to squander and forsake
every opportunity
that would ever come my way
until my talents are just rusty tools
in the back of some toolshed
in some swamp in new new orleans
in the background of my head.
i have long since lived too many years
to believe i am owed more
and i have yet to do one single thing
that's been worth fighting for,
and sticking to and seeing through
and working at until
it pays off and releases me
from my hopeless, bankrupt will.
a ***** with a strange and stubborn
sense of salvation
my days are leaking right through my skin,
and dripping their decaying death
along a trail stretched out behind me . . .
a path that's leading nowhere,
made from nothing, with no one along its way . . .
potential in hunks littering both sides
in different stages of decay.
stubborn, and selfish,
but some will must still remain
in the corner of some toolshed
in the bog that is my brain.
a cleansing of the soul, or a
katrina of the mind
my freedom must be lurking somewhere,
for i am still alive.
Apr 29, 2012
Apr 29, 2012 at 11:05 PM UTC
You are hollow and sharp--
not exactly hollow, but full of holes
where your guts should be.
You are rust and cruelty,
all ancient bloodstains and missing
hunks of steel.
You are afraid of your angles
the wicked serrations of your tongue.
You lick your own wounds
to taste blood wondering if
it really tastes like you at all
or more like the leftover bits of flesh
still stuck between your crooked teeth.
But you don't frighten me, Bonesaw;
your razor blade arms are nothing but home.
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC
I get tired of it
The guys who write "poems" just to try to pick up on women
Cliche ridden hunks of text depending upon abstractions to seem deep
Yes I know this work is subjective, yes I know I'm not one to judge
But I can smell the real thing brother, and it doesn't smell like you
You don't HAVE to do this **** sitting up late juggling concepts too broad to pin down
You don't HAVE to sit down and pour it out before it erupts into a case of bad attitude.
You're far more interested in seeming deep, while the deep are far more interested in surviving
You want to front like you're a cool guy, like you've gotten in touch with all of the rally calls, and you're up on all the obscurities that anyone in the know should have a handle on
I don't give a **** what music you think is superior, or what author you feel your style most closely resembles, because you don't have a voice of your own
When you've got some **** to say, say it, own it, and put a real voice behind it, otherwise don't waste my time.
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 2:54 AM UTC
Familys ******** can ya hear em?
Uncle larry's probaly gonna puke dont get near him.
I kinda ****** up sight.
Someone get Bobby Joe outthe street cause ya know he aint bright.
Christmas kinda blows around here.
So toss me a bottle and crack a beer.
Hey did anyone know how the tree caught fire?
No sweetie uncle Stan isnt a down on his luck actor.
He's really a drug dealer and habitual liar.
Is egg nog supposed to have chunks.
No baby it's not cool that your 13 on facebook asking
for pic's of shirtless hunks.
Great it's time to sit down to dinner
Yes sure is great Father O Malley showed up.
Who better to chasethe boys and drink up the whiskey
screaming at the hat rack it's a sinner.
Um it's hard to make snow Angels on the concrete.
No your son isnt spoiled.
He's just wearing more than i make month with his
seven thousand dollar sneakers on his feet.
Grandma it's kiss under the mistletoe no tongue.
Ya think grandpa would have slowed on the cigs after getting put in the iron lung.
Great a blizzard has snowed us all in. yippie im bunking with Little Tommy tinkles thats the way the holiday goes.
I think freezing to death doesnt sound so bad.
Lord how Christmas blows.
Dec 5, 2010
Dec 5, 2010 at 11:00 AM UTC
You hold the universe
inside your eyes
Constellations dancing
around the solar system
hearts beating
pinpricks of light
faster than sound waves
carried quietly
through tunnels of
asteroids
drifting hunks of feelings
we've forgotten
Stranded in space
between the wrinkles of time
This fabric of your love
unfolds in ripples
Showering our heads in meteorite
dust
But how we glimmer
defying gravity
we'll meet again
along the northern lights
when the wind kicks in
our cheeks still sun-kissed
Bodies shattering,
arms and legs
pave the milky way,
Explore with me my love,
ride the tails of comets
into the horizons
that exist
only for us
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 9:08 AM UTC
Glowing Windows embedded into mouldy brick walls
Ivy climbing the gutters of neighbourhood roofs
Skies becoming burnt out like charred blackened fields
Tall spiny trees project shadows onto the road below
Leaves curl up to receive some weakening light from above
A formation of sputtering cars cling to each turn they decide to make
Cloudy milky light bounces off faulty windows that exhale the aroma of somebodies impending supper
A heavy truck manoeuvres itself into the blistered bitumen horizon
Dry deflated branches make obscene gestures towards passers-by
Gardeners rummage through their bags as they near the end of their working day
Their faces filled with an expired enthusiasm for breathing
Parked hunks of metal pelted with dead itchy leaves
Windscreen wipers hold fragile twigs down against grotty neglected glass
Chain-link fences link disparate housing and the sleeping people within
Some dispirited unsatisfied psychos gaze up as they catch a moving bus
Smoky Incense billows down from some apartment balcony
The air becomes cold and sharply fills these ordinary streets
Engine sounds try to supress the divine quietness
They only merge into it
Now the stars are out and about
Bright specks waddling in an aerial pool of dark blue
You turn the key and walk through the front door
Feb 27, 2019
Feb 27, 2019 at 11:24 AM UTC
The fuselage must gleam
in a pink Pacific sunset
at 29000 feet
inside, I am brought puffed cellophane pouches of tamarind by attendant ladies and men
and a sanitary case wraps my pillow.
Bangkok’s taxis are driven by a man with bones for a neck on cracked
roads that vanish into blind ways.
Later a child – spying left – pulls me through a curtained door into an ante-room to
sell me cling-wrapped copies of Japanese slasher movies. “Cheap!”
Flies circle a mound of meat spiked to a vending cart -- “special for you.”
A sea of mopeds rumble up the road and chase me between parked cars
Tattered hunks of plastic bag blow past off the beach.
At night gut rot infects the air, and I walk in brown puddled streets.
The tar sky smothers above the neon and the barkers and the *** for $10. This last part was in the guidebook.
A woman sits, cloaked in a shawl, selling women’s apparel, all arranged on pale and chalky mannequins, angled at attention.
They wear the rouge of the truth-telling jester.
Their mouths are gaping, smiling, lurid, laughing, howling. Eyes wide, piercing and empty, excited.
They look like me. And I look away.
The woman’s throat moves. Or does she chuckle?
“For you.”
Jul 18, 2010
Jul 18, 2010 at 11:14 PM UTC
Her eyes are dying embers...
Her skin's cracked porcelain...
Her soul's a spring; she's coiled tight...
Oh! Where do I begin?
She's dying from the surface-in,
But there's a danger lurking there--
Betwixt the hunks of rotting meat;
Beneath the mounds of matted hair.
Her hands are crooked razors...
Her ******* are melted wax...
Her womb will bear only darkness now...
But her heart holds out for more attacks.
Her spine's a fuse in dynamite...
Her bones are all but dust...
But there's still malice in her mind;
A mind that's caked in rust...
She's decaying from the outside-in,
But there's a monster 'neath the husk.
A being built of horrid things;
Of claw and hoof and tusk.
Her voice is winter windstorms...
She draws in her toxic breath...
Her muscles crack like autumn leaves...
She is a sight of withered death.
She'll score your flesh with talons...
She'll strip you of your flesh...
She'll bottle up your insides,
In an attempt to keep them fresh.
She's a curse that comes from inside-out,
A plague that yearns to maim.
A rage that yields to only one,
But no one knows their name...
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 2:36 AM UTC
The monks
hunks of spiritual form
take to the ocean
on a cloudy winter morn
I see them from here
& it fills me with fear
for unearthly music
has begun to take form.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 11:56 PM UTC
What do infants dream of?
Do they dream of wombs?
Places dark
and comfortable
and perfect beyond comparison.
Sedating heartbeat above regular
and comforting
like a vascular clock.
Always keeping time;
always breathing life.
Do they dream of mothers *******
Soft pillows of nurturing flesh.
The source of life on their planet.
Flowing ivory elixir,
from soft rose *******
Do they dream of us?
Of grotesk giants
that pinch cheeks
and speak in meaningless howls.
Smiling oversized faces
that clean the **** that builds below
where that sweet tube once provided life.
Gnawing white stumps
eating indigestible hunks of flesh,
or plants.
Do they understand love?
Can they dream of pure emotion?
Without the words and representations of it interfering?
I wish to be like this.
I wish to be swaddled,
to have dreams about nothing,
and real.
Dreams as pure and amazed
as a teary eyed infant.
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 2:03 AM UTC
Look at him
A pile of limbs
One hunk of flesh
He pulsates with blood
He's nowhere near human
He's a beast
Carrying burden
The privileged burden
Such is a privilege
To be morphed
Entangled
Intertwined
He's hideously deformed
Carrying a part of her
With him
Everywhere
She won't ever fall off
She won't melt away
She won't be cut off
He doesn't want her to
It makes him marked
An Elephant Man
Grotesque
To those who can't understand
Hundreds of us
Walk the streets
In plain sight
Deformed
When he's most alone
He looks to a tumour
He looks to a scar
Knowing "That's where you are"
When he's most at home
She starts to sink
Into his skin
To be closer to him
When he's said and done
When he's ready to stop looking
At his weaved flesh and bone
He'll keep her inside
Stowed her away
To fester inside
To let him walk
Free of deform
In the hopes that
Someone else could be so lucky
As to let themselves sink
To mangle themselves upon him
Let it be that he
Deforms
Just as he let himself be
Let them mark one and other
So that
They won't ever fall off
They won't ever melt away
They won't ever be cut off
Look at them
A pile of limbs
Two hunks sew flesh
Their hearts pulsate together
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 4:49 AM UTC
It’s the Wholly Babble!
Obfuscation for the rabble;
Its plagiarized bunk
Delivered in hunks
And carefully rigged
To put lipstick on the pig
That means, at least,
A good living for priests.
So, let’s take a collection
Everyone pays the tab
For a few thousand years
Of indecipherable blab.
Let’s make up stories
That never appeared
And discuss the length
Of God-On-High’s beard.
In the Wholly Babble!
Godly, revered people
You can search and find
Many murderously unkind.
Despicable tales galore
Talking snakes and gore;
****** and genocide,
Infanticide and fratricide.
So, let’s take a collection
Everyone pays the tab
For a few thousand years
Of indecipherable blab.
Miracles are plenty there
To believe every word here
To tempt you with their glory
In the convoluted story
Of two people and two kids
Who did the son wed
When one got married?
From where was she carried?
Let’s make up stories
That never appeared
And discuss the length
Of God-On-High’s beard.
And the saddest thing is
An ‘us and them’ myth is
The idea used to create
An established cause for hate.
It’s your God against mine
Yours is evil, mine is fine.
Now isn’t that a fright
To keep you up at night?
So, let’s take a collection
Everyone pays the tab
For a few thousand years
Of indecipherable blab.
Let’s make up stories
That never appeared
And discuss the length
Of God-On-High’s beard.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 4:02 PM UTC
Hot dogs get chili
Burgers get mustard
Porterhouse gets steak sauce
At least the last I heard.
French fries don’t get vinegar
That’s totally absurd
French fries get ketchup
At least the last I heard.
Toilet paper rolls off the top
Toilet seats need to be up.
Tea is iced and in a glass
Coffee should be in a cup.
Tuna casserole is not for men,
We need meat and potatoes.
We only like marinara sauce
Instead of raw sliced tomatoes.
Salads are lettuce and dressing
Especially of the cheesy kind.
Eggplant is all plant and no egg
And tastes like watermelon rind.
Finger sandwiches are a waste
Especially those with watercress.
Cold borsht served in flat bowls
Is not much more than a mess.
Sushi is nothing else but
Some overdressed hunks of bait.
Pork bellies are pudgy bacon
And deserve a better fate.
Sweet breads are neither;
Sweet nor are they bread.
Steak tartar is just raw meat
And should be cooked instead.
Brunch is a truly silly word
One needs make up the mind.
Either have lunch or breakfast.
I don’t mean to be unkind.
We can be a confusing culture;
Combining things so badly.
Give me the basics, nothing more,
And I will go imbibe quite gladly.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 6:58 PM UTC
Take me back to the land of sausage and mustard eggs.
Thick, meaty, juicy hunks of meat. Cylindrical and delicious, I miss the sensation of snapping the end of one off into my mouth fresh off of a grill.
Lounging on the castle lawn. Speaking three different languages in one conversation. Drinking confusing juice and cuddling up next to bonfires and talking all night long.
Sleeping in a cardboard box that needed a little ****** Loving new people every day.
Singing. All day long. Getting the words wrong until the leaves rustled just the right way reminded us what were trying to say.
I miss the Mother Land. The chill mornings and colder afternoons. Frozen over duck ponds and introducing the natives to the glory of tacos.
Ich liebe dich Deutschland. Holen Sie mich Haupt Ihnen.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 7:17 PM UTC
The Queen of Qanant
Was a right royal ****
A ***** of the first water.
And almost as bad
Was the offspring she had,
Her high-class badass daughter.
She looked at folks funny
If they didn’t have money
To her it was all about gifts.
The Queen didn’t share
That her kid pulled her hair
Her stinginess created a rift.
The Queen of Qanant
Had all she could want
Spangles and baubles galore.
She had so much junk
She needed four hunks
To carry it all through the door.
Her land was in a pickle
No downward dollar trickle
With which the poor could pay rent.
She ignored all petitions
To improve the conditions
Thus a civil rebellion could foment.
Her people could starve,
No roast beast to carve;
To her the whole issue was closed.
So her daughter colluded
And the story concluded
When Mommy the Queen was deposed.
So, that’s what’s in store
When you ***** with the poor
And ignore their righteous complaining.
That’s the way things are
You get only so far
To **** on them and tell them it’s raining.
The daughter was no better
She matched mom to the letter
And the whole story started again.
But that’s what people earn
When they never quite learn;
They end up back where they’ve been.
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 2:44 PM UTC
An old man climbs into a vintage car
to smell the sweet upholstery,
caresses the steering wheel’s steel bars
and grips the gearshift **** of ivory.
He pulls the heavy door to close
it and hear its deep, dull iron clunk
that fuel-injects him with a dose
of chrome-clad metal hunks.
The streamlined car doesn’t move.
Still, it takes him on a favored trip
down a grey road well grooved
that his whitewall mind-tires firmly grip.
Its tires spin in grooves and sing
a well-pitched tune of rolling on.
Seams of concrete slabs now bring
the bumping heartbeat of this song.
His greying hairs match the road
which stretches out into his past,
leading him back in freeway flow
to a love that he’d made last.
For in a leather rumble seat
in a sleek car just like this one,
he’d kissed her hand and lips to greet
his sweetheart hunnybun.
She smiled as bright as high beams
at her motorheaded beau,
with wide eyes that stole his dreams
and made his fuel more quickly flow.
With hair like raven asphalt
framing lips in brake-light red,
in her saw he no faults,
but thanks to him, she’d end up dead
in a shattering crash
as they slid into a tree,
his youthful driving brash
and far too wild and free.
He swore to never leave
her by that bleak perditious street.
Resolved, he chose to grieve
her and keep the rumble seat.
So once a year he sits in this car.
He never drove again.
But each time it takes him far,
right to where his hunnybun had been.
Nov 26, 2024
Nov 26, 2024 at 7:51 PM UTC
They stand,
huddled together,
tall protests that peirce the air;
With their shear beauty
they show reason enough,
they need no more justification.
And there, bleeding out of their mass,
mangled hunks mercilessly hacked from helpless trunks,
reduced to a pile of rubble, of rotting flesh,
filling the air with their putrid smell,
murdering the serenity with their own death.
And the perpertrators?
Long gone.
Their blades dripping with blood, oozing with evil,
their stinking motors,
all gone,
leaving only destruction and acrid smoke,
which can not be cleared,
swept away,
by the mass that was beauty,
destroyed by greed.
Nov 2, 2011
Nov 2, 2011 at 7:38 PM UTC
I
meteor showers are not
very cleansing nor are
shooting stars much of
a threat
they pass over arms
raised and waving with
a hundred cries of
‘not yet’
by the time they
have passed the universe
might expand enough to
engulf Regret
and our arms will touch
our sides as we realise
the chances we may
have missed
and by then stars may
not exist and Never may
have already paid
its debt
and we’re left wondering
why we were left behind
and not chosen as hunks of
rock flew by
and though Ever After
has been stitched on
our minds dimensional
thread by thread
(and has with it what the
past cannot forget without
a vast sense of swoon)
Ever After will never
become Forever if it
speaks too late
or arrives too soon
II
if you were to ask Where when it would be
he would most definitely reply with ‘not now’
and if you were to ask Why exactly how
he would probably reply: ‘without me’
but if you were to question What with how it was
he would redirect you straight back to Why
so the last one to ask is the ever glum Was
(for he knows many things, most of all regret)
and Was also knows all you’ve done
and all you’ve done wrong he won’t let you forget
III
I’m about to begin work
on Forever but I don’t
know how long it will take
by the time I’m done
with Now who knows When
it will be
maybe by then North will
be South but true North
will be down somewhere
else
and clocks won’t have
numbers they’ll just
have words like ‘never’
and ‘too late’
it might take
a very long time
so it would be nice
to have someone here
just for having someone
here’s sake
it wouldn’t make Time
any less steady nor
pass it any quicker
or slower
but when the little hand
gets to ‘too late’ or
where ‘too late’ should
have been
I hope to have felt
and seen
everything
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 2:16 AM UTC
7 days for 1nce a month you're vermillion
taste like in the middle of copper thighs
2 lips magneticly parted
by 2 lips 1 tongue
and weeks a year you're like iron
and salt and copper reddish between
hunks of femurs pours a 12 times
dear, the crawling vapid sweet acidity
of 7 mouthfuls of queer drink surge
delightfully opaque crimson gallons of
you
r clefted
love h
eap
is
the best kind of drowned
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 4:08 AM UTC
I guess this is me
Open, inviting
Face up, arms spread
To the heavens
The stars
Only you, solid hunks of fire and ice
Can pound out and alleviate my sins
And lord, have I sinned
Gave everything away for nothing in return
A promise made to one who didn't deserve it
A decision made that could never be undone
Why by the cow when you can have the milk for free?
Silly metaphors, silly questions
For a pain so real and raw
A surgery started but not completed
A body left open, skin peeled away
Vulnerable
I can't help taking it all
All your good, your bad
Your moans, your cries, your sighs
Do with me what you will
I care too much to fight
I am too soft
Too sensitive, too open
I'll be broken before I know it
...
I fear I already am
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 2:14 AM UTC