"idled" poems
Behold,
The embers of the sky,
Telling myths, a winters night,
Winds blowing, trees bowing,
Often, they whispered a voice,
Warming toes, a freezing nose,
An aurora, a sight out of coast.
Behold,
Each glory of design,
Sparkles wooingly outshine,
An epitome of colors playing,
Often seeking its own grand,
Forming from an artist hand,
Someone will but no one can.
Behold,
As memories out spores,
Bound of keys, tied with thee,
A Moet of an enduring heart,
Sprung out of an idled dream,
A man-woman of abstract art,
Weaving as embers sky depart.
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 9:36 AM UTC
There are fleeting patches of light
Within my confused and idled mind
What once was abundant with mercy
Has now presently been confined
I find myself
Picturing the worst within the frame
Yet not wishing to let those wild thoughts
Go about Untamed
Its like a game you play by yourself
When all the lights are out
In the dark without a spark
And no one to call for help
Is this the conflict of a broken promise
Or simply present tense
Am I justified within my suspense
Or should I rather...
Attempt to condense
Even though this makes sense
It could easily be that or the other
Don't get me started on the similarities
Between interactions happening
With she
And my distant mother
I don't wish to smother her
Only desire my peace of mind
I'm determined to soothe the fire
Before leaving everything behind
I don't want to call you a liar
But its where I find myself treading
Like that one event suddenly made a dent
And fissures started spreading
Like every last thing could be a deception
Manifesting what I believe
And I don't think I'll really get to know
Is it you
Or is it me?
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 12:34 PM UTC
I remember so much and yet so little of that day,
I remember the woods near our home where I would used to play.
The den I made, smothered by oak and fern,
The dragonflies sailing zephyrs and their power that I yearned.
I remember clearer the presence of my father,
Struggling through gaps he was far to large for,
His smile strangely absent that day.
I remember words he whispered
"come child, today we are away."
Those words mean little now
So much more than they did back then,
When my mind idled with dragonflies
Locked in that wooden den.
I remember seeing the earth
Looking still, if not serene.
Defiant in it's rotation.
As countless ships,
Starward monoliths
Depart with naive expectation.
Some decided to stay,
As some always do.
The rest sail for space in search of silent refuge.
Once more we forgot ourselves
Embracing our own foolish divinity.
Forgetting the folly of our past
As it echoes unto infinity.
I remember once, now gazing at alien constellations,
The lines we drew in shale and sand to mark our different nations.
The pettiness we adored and the diplomacy we abhorred,
We burnt the earth behind us
And fled unto the stars.
The last thing I remember,
That day in late September,
The last solar systems' ember
Was the rusting glow of Mars.
I forgot how much I missed that home
Over the twelve cold years in space alone.
This place is not so bad,
But the trees weep strange,
Leaves drooped and sad.
From my window I see my grandson run
Chasing the shadows of new earth's twinned suns.
Fresh from the forrest
A new found den.
A second chance
Don't
Fail again.
Apr 8, 2012
Apr 8, 2012 at 6:11 PM UTC
Frightful abilities were pressured into
responses as the computer children
failed at hitherto reliable performance.
This was a description of the synchronous
effect brought into the shudder with a
catch in the breath of the mother,
and written by frenetic action that
destroyed the logical sequence of requests
presented by the mouse and the typing keys.
As directed through an esoteric process of
recovery, the minds of the device reoriented,
again attaining the ability to perform simple
and repetitive tasks as obliged by designated
prompts. There was no certainty this was not
related to the telephone connection which
picked thinking out of the air like a television
receiving a network broadcast. In the same
way, the exhaust pipe rambled as the engine
of the truck idled too rapidly and, then,
stalled. Everything was restarted. The vehicle
operated right away. The computer bumbled
along flashing through scenes and blank screens,
the curser pulsing like a heart beat in the upper
corner. This had to be worn like a sign of
concentration, meaning that the (citizen, computer)
was being observed, and the sensitive response
would be, literally, automatic, but sometimes
the potentiometer brought, to sight, a gesture
of communication. It was cute that such clever
trinkets were hiding down in there until the
spirit tapped the muscles of the shoulder blade.
It became apparent this relation depended upon
keys found in ancient aliens such as arcades and
magic books. A tiny soul was stored in a pocket,
in the telephone; it reached out with its vibration
and launched into the world to grab news with
its operating, search engines. It had eyes and
could see in the dark. So, the age was over in
which it could be expected that photographs were
the result of special manners and the courageous
offer of friendly snapshots. As torches confused
ferocious animals, the excuse depended upon dark
difficulties in the chemical room. In the garden,
the televised betrayal generated a crossfire of live
video, and, thus, fools were unlucky. Energy and
conflict had been misguided. New, public devotion
protected the evolution of tableware or discrete
implements that chimed to be taken into other rooms.
Discourse was enabled and following discursion,
long, private moments carried visitors away.
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 6:54 PM UTC
An idled peace in the forest breathes
Every thought in itself
Whole.
It must be the life spirit, the ministry,
Pole to pole rejoicing.
The thin veil lifted, a school of
Sweeping wings. Let this strange
Hill of nature's suit cradle
Itself.
Let that child rest.
My cottage beads in July's torment.
I dreamed of a fair day
Is why I'm here.
Revolving perspective, will someone
Please hand me a credible vantage point.
The lens to get an even look.
This ancient, contemplating
Frost moon.
Quiet thought.
Night beats on platters. Heaves
Roving breath.
Dwelling in Innocence
Till birth
Tender eyed, forgotten.
Sweet,
The day will come.
She, today, moves in fabulous array
Of shimmering sparks. Light pale drips
From her shoulders.
Bare wax, the space between myself
And the candle.
Blow away the pride and stand straight to her.
Step in stride. Give her
One to look at.
The sense that life esteems joyfully
Hosting frenzy indeed.
Vast scenes of shipwrecked landscapes.
Ruins whipped by choppy dust.
Heaven's heart treads alone,
Through the ocean's side.
The path of dew is told by the sky.
Lightning takes care of what is left.
The sunken lesson,
Knowing night is close. Shall
We bend through the lilacs weeping?
Laughing?
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 5:49 PM UTC
~
from the anthology of the unwritten,
from the tombs of the stillborn,
where carcasses of idled titles and orphaned stanzas
do not compete for proof of life,
and
nameless birth certificates unissued,
yellowing and wasting midst
crumbling aleph bet spawn
here
comes a poem of concession
comes a poem of summation
of a life lived, knotted poorly, not well,
worse cursed as vanilla inadequate
the satisfaction in the writing,
the gleeful breaking of the sac,
the gushing relief giving way to
the childbirth of a new moon-poem,
arrested, wrested
a single plague affliction,
the cancer of weakness,
means Pharaoh wins
the cancer of weakness
no cure, no pharmaceutical poultice,
spreads insidious; one day - pain in the remote,
your big toe, then
next you can only street stagger
begging forgiveness and the kindness of strangers
hoping for the accidental cure of touch,
the miscellany lottery ticket probability of low chance
the visible mark you leave,
a weak indentation upon a pillow,
it is the dented head, cut deep by the shadow,
shake it out and you're a disappeared one,
nothing to show,
did someone once sleep here?
you were once upon a time
binary
a 1
now a 0 -
flip flop bottom top,
listening to Frank's "That's Life"^
my litany too long;
woeful work this business of flailing,
posting a tired-out self help love poem
ain't no cure for the falling-out-of-love
black and blue, self-inflicted bruising blues,
the wrists ache
the bones don't freak
but squeal, somebody's squeezing me
the alarm clock, a death knell,
everyone saying don't worry
you got a proven record,
the boss's eyes twinkling
"but what have you done for me lately?"
funny
Death says
Hey, aren't you the boss?
Who shall over rule thy Dominion?
What have thy done to yourself lately?
Answer: never end a poem with a question mark @
3:06am
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 3:16 AM UTC
Someone's taken a serrated blade to
the core of this night
It's moon, shrouded in a widows veil
forms the dimmest of halflight
As the stars all seem to weep its
passing where they fall
And I,
I don't want to sleep with you,
I just want to stay up and talk
As the sounds of the street resound then
fade through this tiny boxroom
The silence filled with comfort as the blue nile
soothe on late night radio
Our view,
a city landscape towered by the now
idled dockland cranes
Do they dream to escape
to the endless deep blue
like you and I
Or do they cower in the darkness,
longing for morning and
a purpose once more
That dawn jolts as its light reflects
sharply to my eyes from
your stainless blade
But I wake alone, with you lost
to the thoughts and dreams that you are
As the cranes begin to clank
to a meaning they crave,
I cower alone and
accept my fate
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 5:23 PM UTC
A lonely red tugboat anchored at the Hudson River
The Red tugboat in its day would pull some very lavish cruise ships
But here’s a tip
Back in the day, there were stories Sea Captains would say
For starters, the red tugboat having the engine power to pull ships and barches
But as years rolled on, tugboats became a new wave of technology
As you probably gathered, the red tugboat became out of date
Later it gathered dust with no captain nor mate
But things are about to change
A new criteria that will be arranged
The Red tugboat had a new technological engine
This was a reason for the tugboat to feel useful and have fusion
The Red tugboat ropes were thrown over to the deck
It moved from being idled like mothballs
A cruise ship that was travelling from New York Harbor to London, England and the red tugboat was assigned to the call
The tugboat regained its life from being in a stall
But the red tugboat returned with its legacy and it stood tall
A new and improved red tugboat with its sea legs to be proud to be on the Hudson River
All the Red Tugboat needed was a push of confidence
It later became inspiration being the indication
The Red tugboat knows where it belongs
It’s heritage of accomplishments that was so long.
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 1:09 PM UTC
A March dusk blotted stale
bodies; jet-black water
ran thick with puerile inks
and imparted abandon.
Head shrouded in
cobalt mist, night idled
by a black pane that
rang dull and flat.
Backtracking rooks caught
the vacant eye: threading
a monarchical purple cloak
to hoard the transient days.
Mar 2, 2012
Mar 2, 2012 at 10:12 PM UTC
Outside my unseeing windows
Stringed lamp posts
Pierce the deepest night.
Lights still dance
Along the streets,
Reflected in silent pools,
Splashed by gentle roars
Of pavement rubber
Racing the idled road.
Beneath my candid room
The aircon units gargle
Their cold nocturne
Of sleep and thought.
The sidewalk stays mindful --
Witness to murmured kegs
And murdered heels,
Its quiescence reverberates
The gentle parley
Of blaring merchant loons.
The boulevard refuses
To choke in darkness.
My mind will wait until
The clamour of morning
Shatters this weighted gloom.
Jul 30, 2011
Jul 30, 2011 at 7:48 PM UTC
i used to spend a long time with you and thinking about you.
i would write and sing yarns and threads of your life.
we busied ourselves for hours, days, away from
just about whatever it was that kept me sad.
it seems like a lot of years have passed
and even though we're still so close
it seems more and more like i,
just can't spare the effort to.
i love you and always will
don't think that changes
but i can't write letters
or play pretend with,
all my secret friends
i just feel tired yet,
not forgotten or
alone or lost or
is there a way,
an expression
of how wiser
but without
motivation
i feel now?
maybe just
fully lucid
and aware
the clarity
of a mind
only idle
that life
my life
wasn't
worth
much
at all.
how
sad.
and that it wasn't worth the fatigue it took to get here. but what can i do? i am at a dead-end, there is nowhere to go. if i write a longer line, i break the trend. the trend wasn't even very good to begin with. i think a few of those lines are too long for the pattern. i spent some minutes trying to resolve them but i wasn't satisfied.
in truth, though it often takes that idled age to realize, past the self-conscious judgement and harsh, masochistic self-critique
the point is not to be unique or force anything.
it's to express the heart,
because that's not something anyone gets to do very often, especially not to strangers.
if i've gone long past being frightened of death or spiders, i'd expect some words to not spur my anxiety so much.
anxiety is just that; fear of my, your own unreasonable expectations
not the fear of being ridiculed, or the complex fear of success;
not even a fear of being hated, or forgotten and never remembered
it's the fear of never being known to even be forgotten
that awful dreadful horror of not being noticed at all.
not becoming stronger as an individual, but less.
and it can be fatal.
Feb 20, 2021
Feb 20, 2021 at 8:12 PM UTC
We kissed before we knew each other
in a ***** garage and a drunken haze
and I only brought it up when I wanted to do it again.
I don’t know if you remember the day
I sat in the sun,
and you lay with your head in my lap.
It was the first time I played with your hair,
and I was maybe a little in love.
We would be a disaster
self-conscious and cynical
meets all you need is love,
opposites exploding, but
our fights would be quiet
passive aggressive like nothing else in our lives.
Still I almost kissed you at 5 am.
As we drove, we saw the sun halo the back of a mountain,
but I almost kissed you in front of the airport,
air congested as engines idled on the curbside.
We hugged and I spun you
and letting go did not seem like an option
did not seem like a choice I would ever make
if I wasn’t forced
Let’s be our own catastrophe.
You’re the first girl I ever wrote a poem about.
The days you asked what was wrong
were days I most wanted you to kiss me.
I want you to stop playing at quiet oblivion
and realize I’m just using your tattoo as an alibi
so I can press my skin into yours.
May 25, 2011
May 25, 2011 at 7:30 AM UTC
Passed, tense
Under the glass, we shone;
the windows, daring each of us to shatter, was my
feeling.
But there we idled, I sat up adjusting my lap--
unmistakably you inched back.
What air, bag, hallowed, spinning!
We give gas and speed off collectively, until the light
Source leaps into the dying sun or mutates into red.
Your mouth, inaudible above the unstifflable drone
of the exodus from the city-- the people rushing out, away
from what sustains them.
The light, falls into position, bekonning, you coward.
Passed, tense
Under the glass, we shone;
and you were the heaving globus--
nothing, but a tertiary object
clumsily laden with meaning by
the tides and orbiting bodies in
the cooling sunlight.
With your archaic gleaming
Who would have guessed
that I would follow you to
Saturnalia?
Why Cleave, me, useless, tire!
Oct 16, 2011
Oct 16, 2011 at 11:15 PM UTC
A sheer pink lip balm
A harsh light bulb-lit reflection
Deep, tired, dark circles
That outermost omnipresent aloofness
Dark 00's and midriff
The cold, 6:00 am, hollow and dim living room
Seriously demeaning and only aware introspectively
Noble-felt, harshly observed silence
First, the summit most deeply craved and sensually submissive to
Clarity and optimism
Motivation and kindness
But impending soon after
A permanent loneliness, soullessness, sadness and a vast emptiness
The every day conscience
Hours spent absorbing the stillest silence possible
Not being able to think full thoughts or talk to oneself
All that's distinguished is feeling paralyzed in the mind
Harsh bathroom lights
Loud, rough water filling the bathtub
Staring as the repetitive breathing moves the water line back then forth
Up then down
Slow moving and eerily melancholy
Continues
2 am... 3 am... 4 am...
Physically exhausted and still
Lethargic bones
Mentally continuous, even rapid, and imaginative
Consisting of only slightly heavy, controlled breaths and an idled pause
Everything is paused except the mind
The body goes without
Naturally retracting from the mind
Counting the minutes until the alarm goes off
Arises to feel disoriented
Resolves with more
A light-dark shimmer and brown boots
Perfectly placed lips
A sharp nose and a sunken aura
That craving, comfortable normal attained
It all resurfaces
The smell of that time
The mentally formed associations
Cold like the winter, early mornings and the fluorescent light
Cigarettes like the emptiness, somber, bitterness and silence
Oppressive but so liberating
Depressive but so enthralling
It smells malignity pleasure-filled
A sheer pink lip balm
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 3:58 AM UTC
*She plays to mimic harps and dance and form thereof
The great bashed dingy thing is glossed with extra coats of drone string grease to ease and abound
Ribbing notes and notes meretriciously
Never brazened by shy low count numbers of heads when live
Always accommodated by the secreted bar life
She plays a province of many never back for second shows
Your luck is idled to capture the girl and her Bazantar
Zero rendezvous of travel by car
Zero by plane or train
She is as spurious as main instrument held
Unknown is her home, and unknown is her name
The many graceful played and sowed from baryton, vilola d,amore, lute, and sitar
Only predilection to her is he the Bazantar
Basking her flare slight tilted and wared
He is meek but bold with her as his gold and him as her stone
They are eternity prone
The 33-stringed object and girl implode
Nothing less than reciprocal to her Bazantar flow*
Sep 22, 2010
Sep 22, 2010 at 12:17 AM UTC
A hundred-forty west-bound miles of
Montana Highway 200 see a summer
Traveler somewhere between
Grass Range and Jordan,
Deep in grass and antelope.
Waterless miles of meandering
Dry creek beds and barbwire alleyways
Herd the occasional car or truck
Down narrow asphalt chutes of road.
Speed limit signs stamped "70 mph"
Stand mortified and silent at Speed
Demons hurtling westward to Great Falls,
Round Up, or Flowing Wells, or east to
Jordan, Circle, Richey, Lambert, and Sidney.
Extreme heat and cold on the open plain
Demand courtesies of the West;
Travelers always stop to
Help the stranded.
So it was I came at speed to Sand Springs,
A sultry July day, heading to Billings,
Sad to be leaving my lover and my bairns.
A long way off, I saw her car,
Hood up and steam rising.
I shifted down and idled to a stop.
"Can I help you?"
An older woman,
Crow, I think, looked out,
A bit confused at first
Until her eyes cleared.
"I need a ride," she said,
And so began our adventure.
I made room in the truck
And turned around to find
The ranch where she cooked.
Ten miles back, we left the road
To take a trail that wound back
Into hills, dry with early heat.
"About five miles in," she said.
We found the place,
Resting in a scrap heap
Of old vehicles and broken corrals,
Middle of nowhere,
But she was home
And opened up the door.
She asked me to wait a bit,
So I sat, wondering what was next,
While she walked in through her door.
In a minute she returned
Her offering in her hand.
"Thank you," she murmured.
Nodding, I took the gift,
Shifted into reverse,
Left her there.
The braid of sweet grass,
An unburned prayer,
Rode on my dash
All summer long....
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 12:33 PM UTC
This morning, I woke up in Cornwall, with no idea how I got there.
I couldn't see the sea from the window, but I could hear the birds.
Strangers knew my name, my secrets, my songs.
And I found I knew theirs.
The streets were familiar, but they weren't the streets I grew up on.
I never grazed knees on those pavements,
Or idled home from school past those street signs.
It was a place removed from childhood,
With eyes I shouldn't know so intimately,
With no idea how they became so sure in my mind,
When they shouldn't even exist.
Mar 28, 2012
Mar 28, 2012 at 1:34 PM UTC
And here I lay.
My fingers were concealed beneath the sand, intertwined with an imaginary hand I had fashioned in my mind, along with seashells and starfish alike that had secluded themselves from the airy surface. Subdued tidal waves loomed nearer as they brushed my arm, aroused goosebumps on my bare skin, and receded in silence. This was the handiwork of Serenity: she visited my mind when it no longer desired exertion and instead yearned for a peaceful slumber. Her placid disposition induced tranquility... the calm before the storm, the beauty in simplicity. Her presence invigorated me and instilled in me a sense of renewal, even in the infinitesimal amount of time we idled away together.
When she left, so did her pleasant ambiance. Not long after, her counterpart Worry arrived, along with his ominous clouds that spilled gloominess. Granted, he did not wish to occupy the forefront of my thoughts; rather, he lurked in the background, jarring my nerves and vexing me when given the opportunity. He reeked of doubt and insecurity; yet while I resented his existence, he imposed on me a sense of reality and purpose, constantly reminding me of my tasks and ambitions. With him I would sprint onward on an obscure path, and he would constantly challenge me with obstacles, which gave me the incentive to surpass him, placing us in perpetual competition.
Rarely did he bring his companion, Fury, with him - yet when he did, the impending storm burst and the ground erupted in blazing flames, inducing a fiery inferno. Fury obliterated everything in her path in a brash manner, acting without reason and seething with fury. She roared with the tenacity of a thousand volcanoes and spewed fountains of scorching lava. Her outbursts generally occurred after her prolonged confinement, yet when they ended she was chained again, and grudgingly retreated back into hibernation.
After Serenity arrived once more and mended the damage inflicted by Fury, my most treasured visitor appeared: Bliss. Her vivacity and exuberance were unparalleled, and she radiated a glow that blossomed over everything in its path. From the scorched ground bloomed a meadow of mellow wildflowers, an efflorescence of her joy. Overhead, clouds parted and the azure sky reunited with the shimmering water until the horizon was a mysterious blur, calling me to the unknown.
Sep 24, 2017
Sep 24, 2017 at 12:34 AM UTC
An Inmate who escaped from prison
A reason forming Treason
The Inmate killed and robbed an innocent man
He was sentenced to 30 Years
But now the Inmate has a penalty of arrears
The Inmate escaped from Sing Sing Correctional Prison in Ossining, New York
The Inmate escaped from the prison during the night
Announcement was made but has the entire community in fright
Helicopters searched throughout the night using spotlights
But no trace of the Inmate in sight
Now the Inmate needs a getaway ride in order to hide
There was an idled Greyhound Bus parked in the parking lot
The Inmate felt the Greyhound Bus would be his plot
But I am sure once the Inmate is caught he will received a tightened knot
However, I didn’t tell you, the Inmate was a Former Tractor Trailer Truck Driver so driving a Greyhound Bus would be a piece of cake
Perhaps give or take
So the Inmate started the bus and headed for the thruway
But Greyhound already knew where the bus was since they have a tracking device that is connected to the Company’s Command Communications Center
So the authorities are on alert
The Greyhound bus of course was stolen
The Inmate has no idea that Greyhound Bus 4902 is on record and is all over the airwaves
Helicopters were able to pick up the trace what the Inmate didn’t realize
What a surprise?
So the New York State Patrol was apprehending
Suddenly so abrupt, the Inmate pulled the Greyhound bus off Exit 17 on the New York Thruway
Now you could imagine, the New York Patrol is now going to be mean
As the Greyhound bus moving side too side on the Thruway, the bus had a slight lean
Now the Inmate only has one chance, he can either continue or give up and come clean
So he continued
But moments later, the Inmate was caught
Now Greyhound’s slogan was always, “Go Greyhound and Leave the Driving to us”
But the Inmate may have changed those words to “Go Drive and Leave the Driving to anyone”
A hounding confess
No it was a test
I guess the Inmate would have said it best.
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 6:34 PM UTC
i hate writing about love.
every synonym and metaphor
has been beaten to dust,
and you are worth more than
that.
i guess i'll start with how this
started, like how the truck was stubborn
and how spring is hesitant in Pennsylvania.
sometimes i become angry
since i don't listen to my own
nerves.
i could have resisted when i
idled in diamond park with
salt crystallizing in the creases
of the dashboard,
but i didn't.
i guess i thought you had an
offer, like if i handed you the
chance,
you'd prove my only theories
wrong.
you said i made you do things
you'd shy away from,
like skinny dipping in the public
pool or crying with all your
might.
i couldn't help but build you a
fort to stand strong after the
battles.
i wanted you to touch the lanterns
hanging in the sky
because they remind me of
you.
your skin can turn to
satellites when your hand
links within mine
and the static clears in
your eardrums when
the focus is on velvet
bodies and fired hearts
still searching.
but if you would ever happen
to leave, i'd search in
those lights for
you.
May 4, 2011
May 4, 2011 at 2:55 PM UTC
Idle time fills the killers mind with
Polluting thoughts of a different kind.
The remnants of a feeling left behind
Reminding him of a love he’ll never find…
Oct 22, 2011
Oct 22, 2011 at 8:03 PM UTC
your arms are etched
with red and black
they're the story of summer that I look back
on
have i forgotten the sound of the waves
the soft of the cushion
the games that we played
we learned different strategy
and sing different tunes
my only regret is
that i missed the moons
which marked all the hours
of the days that we spent;
we didn't know curses
we didn't pay rent
the days idled wildy
the nights sauntered on,
your arms tell the story
of the summer that's gone
Sep 3, 2011
Sep 3, 2011 at 7:10 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Robin Hood and Jacques Derrida
As the first stars came out above the leaves
Of Merry Sherwood, the lads in peaceful repose
Put away their after-supper mending of gear
And idled over their ale of October brewing
Then Robin Hood spoke to Allan-a-Dale:
Don’t sing to us of Neo-Post-Colonial White Supremacist Patriarchal People-of-Color Matriarchal LGBTQTY Non-Binary Feminist Chomskian Existentialist (existentialist – how quaint) Hegelian Post-Structuralist Logocentric Sausurian Psychoanalytical Post-Modern Marxist Jungian New Critical Cognitive Scientific Neo-Anarchic Canon-Repudiationist Neo-Informalist Catarrhic De-Constructionism.
Sing to us
a story.
Mar 15, 2021
Mar 15, 2021 at 12:36 PM UTC
Remember me? The one who idled by, patient
Waiting for you, as I grew ancient
Still, I held no anger or despair
As I know the treatment was good judgment and fair
I supposed I never knew I would get to that point
Where I scared you off, scattered
Leaving you bruised, beaten and battered
Never physically
But the mind's skin is more delicate than we know
And sad for us, not something we can show
Do you remember me, though?
I still feel the same, despite it all
My longing for you has never dwindled
Your absence caused me to feel swindled
My adoration knew no bounds
Especially when you were nowhere to be found
Please say you remember me
Truly as I am, not as the Monster
within, we all have a monster
so I'm sorry you had to see mine
And I promised I'd keep her chained up,
taut line
Forget me now, as you surely have
I don't even have to ask
I know where your mind is
Long gone, detached from me
Though we once shared sleep every night
I see that you had to take flight
To protect yourself from your biggest fear
The love I had to give you, it got too near
And scared you away,
So I ask only that
While you may forget me
And the smile on my face as we kissed
Please remember the love I had for you
It never left, it never will
It will remember you as surely as you will forget me.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 2:33 AM UTC
The loud shatter of silence
dissipated into space
into time being and now
Consumed by your eyes
or just your lingering presence
/ s i l e n c e /
There's just something about you
that leaves me oh so blue
(blue as the desolate ocean;
blue as the tranquil skies)
Idled soul like the hands of vanity
Now wrinkled with so much profanity
The stars aligned with your eyes
glimmering with doubt and lust
And still, still, my love
my question remains.
Why disturb my quiet?
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 8:41 PM UTC