"impressionable" poems
Leg off the table
you red face recruit!
put on the offensive
and break down
the bolted door!
you are the soul saver
the peddle maker
the calibrator
with colored handbills
and front line
rhetoric
join the masquerade
in ivy league style!
politicking with
cunning guile
invisalign smile
blackened vile
bleeding the funnel
with gold plate omega
and crocodile shoes
get on stage
and dance you fool!
you are the headline maker
the pantomime juggler
the compromised closer
pull out that 5 page review
(bullet points only please)
and polish those weathered lines!
did you give it your all?
the door tags
and pleasantries
the tidings
and clippings
the irrevocable claims
and postured blames
all those impressionable basics
put to the test?
you know the call
(straight from
those cold academics)
the pie chart gurus
and contract killers
(complete with bone in finger)
whipping their
frenzied crew
in an all night
charade
old yellar
and the gatekeeper
sure seem amused
(sharpening their inquest
behind closed doors)
firing up the shiit storm
with those hostile priicks
and a slew
of insatiable
cures
there’s laughter from the back room
the dripping nose
and wavering hand
the cut white lines
and checkpoint tales
the pipeline romance
and lacking form
(of a basic essential
character!)
soundboard
and narratives
for logging time
slouching on the
steel case
over moot points
ready to play
the 3 weight
butter card
(if need be)
might I remind you
it’s only an inquiry
(with a slight hint of concern!)
surely no
malfeasance
or deception intended
so step back from
the melt down
and cut to the chase!
headlines to breadlines
penthouse to outhouse
those immoral pursuits
have taken their toll
(haven’t they?)
madman or rogue
(you take your pick)
for the scores
and tabulations
are final
shame on you
for the foul play
the bold hypocrisy
and order desk games
the back stabbing blames
and spurious names
just sign on the dotted line ~
this banter
is killing me
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 1:12 PM UTC
I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because the last time I opened up to someone artistically they told me it was pretty dark and I should keep it to myself.
I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because I was raised in a culture that was anti love and pro meaningless *** I saw endless commercials about movies that glamorize a lifestyle in which your body is fulfilled but your heart is ignored and at that impressionable age I learned my heart came second but my allure came first and the less I cared that happier I would be and I carried that belief around with me the way I used to carry around a Bible as a child.
I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because of the time that I opened my father’s phone to reveal a family secret I would hold to this day against my own moral instincts unraveling miles of insecurities wondering if I’m not a good enough daughter or if he stopped loving my mother or if true love was never real and although I had been taught marriage was my purpose, it was what I believed would make me happy, maybe rings aren’t enough to stay in love and maybe people’s feelings change and maybe no one actually has a “one true love” and that this purpose I had been taught was really an endless wild goose chase that only lead to broken families and lost souls.
I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because sometimes I still wonder why I fell into an abyss of toxicity at such a young age. And when I say wonder I don’t mean a trivial ponder, I mean I contemplate every possible reason why the person who I once believed held the universe in her eyes would lie to my face, why she never kissed me in public and our love was always a secret, why she valued girls with blue hair but my blonde hair was not good enough, why I had to hide bruises from my family when I was still in high school or more importantly, why at the time, I thought I deserved them. These thoughts, this lingering paranoia that I am undeserving of healthy love, they muddy my interpretations of real life and distort reality and effect my relationships. My doctor would call these intrusive thoughts, my best friend would tell me they’re symptoms of PTSD, but I have come to realize that I’ve been burned and I am damaged and I hope to god I can recover.
But you,
Oh god, you
You can write this poem. You can be my safety net while I’m free falling in love. You can be the one to listen to my mental tilt-a-whirls, you can be the one that introduces my body and my heart, you can be the one that calms the storms in my mind when I’m questioning the love I’m deserving of. You are the one who makes sure I fall asleep in my bed after drunk nights, you are the one that still sees my value after acknowledging my flaws.
You can write this poem.
Jun 12, 2017
Jun 12, 2017 at 12:33 AM UTC
I was acquainted with a raucous older man while I was still young and as impressionable as plaster-of-paris
Malleable as I was
He left a mark
And now
I watch you wearing baldness with classy elegance
and donning beards with ease, easy on my eyes
Can we fly through space safely?
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 2:05 AM UTC
I got an award
For being the stupidest young boy
With a wax soul
And impressionable.
I thought I'd find something
Nestled here amidst the trees
And I did,
But in no halls but the hall of god
Speaking to me
Dancing between the leaves
Singing with every whispered breeze
And yet when I stepped
Past the threshold and into the
"real world"
I was sold
A maniac of utter delinquency.
Everybody there
Waiting for their turn
Auditioning for the favor of hearts
They'll never win
Can't see
Laughing and wondering
Reading without comprehension
Sticking their *** in the face of the classics
Lap dogs licking the milk from
Professed *******
Thinking they'll be next
Its not resentment--
Is it fair to be bent
Towards dollars that've never been spent?
All those silly parks
Divided from the civilized lands
Frontiers of the past
Left to be little staging areas
For that invisible hand
Kids go on spring break
Take pictures between the towns
Maybe a stop along
On the way
To Vegas
Deep in the desert where it'd **** any other day
I cannot escape the unfathomable beauty of that place,
Living off the world in a way God said
To toil and love the pain
In a way nobody does
I am guilty of pride and
Stuffed like a pie full of anger
Cooking it into solid joy
And trying hard to scrape the cancerous crust away
All the dark sides we avoid
But screaming the heat away is good
Thermal induction is the name of the game
Entropic fizzlements like bubbles in the wind
Sublimating all that ever stood.
Yet soon enough I'll be born anew
And what I leave behind
Lifted up
Nautoloid shell
With a sparkling abalone interior
Someone will place on their shelf
And think,
"I wonder where that thing had been."
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 12:37 PM UTC
Let me tell you, I thought I knew love before you came around.
I mean, I’ve written a million love poems.
But the subjects, they’re more or less the same, black ink, red ink, graphite.
And the graphite smudges, and so the picture is never perfect.
I try to re-write it all without mistakes, but I don't have an eraser.
Which is to say that I have commitment issues, but no issue committing, I just commit all the time, to everything.
I've canoodled with paper, but there's never enough space on the page for all the love I have.
Sometimes, I’ll meet a crayon that brings some colour to my life, but they’re just too waxy and impressionable. Too immature, too naive.
Naive.
I’ve never actually been in love.
But you, you are so much different and way hotter.
You bring a spark into my life that I’ve never known.
Baby, you set my world on fire.
I tell myself, blue pen, don’t let this go up in smoke.
Let me tell you. I would do anything to know love.
You see, there isn’t much to me, but I’ve got this way with words and I’ll write you into every poem that’s ever birthed hope in the eyes of star-crossed lovers.
I’ll draw you a map of my heart so when you feel lonely after you’ve been put aside and forgotten in the back of a cupboard, I’ll be there.
I want you.
I want the good things and your sweet embrace of smoke smells really good right now.
I want the good things but I’ll take it all. I’ll take the bad things too.
Fill my lungs with your poison, show me what it’s like to love something so much it kills you.
Teach me how to give all of myself to someone just so they are satisfied, even if it leaves me crushed on the cement.
Let me become addicted to you.
My whole life is written in ink and I can’t escape the mistakes I’ve made so if you’ll have me, here I am.
I can’t guarantee that I’ll be right for you, who knows what you write with but I will be here.
Let me tell you, I will still love you after watching you kiss the lips of every person that craves your taste.
I will still love you after you steal the oxygen out of helpless gasps and sunken cheekbones.
I will still love you after your temper sets forests ablaze.
I will still love you when you suffocate me in your fumes, leaving me choking on everything I should have said to you.
I will still love you when you burn out and your ember softens against a pillow of ash, and your smell, your taste, your everything lingers in the air like a nostalgic dream that I never want to wake up from.
Let me tell you, I am forever.
I am infinite and I can create and write anything you want, even if it’s just prose on a piece of paper or a picture of the moon on nights when you’re the only good left in the world.
I can be anything you want, and if that is someone that will love you because they want to, and not because they have to, then I will be that.
I won’t quit you.
I can’t.
Nov 19, 2018
Nov 19, 2018 at 2:36 PM UTC
If you are afraid of the unrequited, there is a chance you might have learned it from a parent. and you were probably young; children are too impressionable. it lingered in the air and echoed through the silence when you asked your mom when you were going to see dad again. the word “unrequited” is a taste bud on the back of your tongue that will always remind you how even the sweetest things turn sour.
If you are afraid of the unrequited, you will start to type a message to your friends because the loneliness has become to heavy, but you will always be stopped by the sour taste of trying to swallow your pride.
If you are afraid of the unrequited, you might apologize for yourself every day and tell people that you wouldn’t blame them if they cut you off. maybe being alone will feel a little easier if you are certain you did something to deserve it.
If you are afraid of the unrequited, you might go out in public to make sure you are seen,
talk to yourself to know that you have a voice,
watch strangers converse to convince yourself that everybody has somebody, even you,
you might write poetry to try and teach yourself the lessons on the love that was never requited to you.
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 12:12 AM UTC
A slow break in the monotony,
As low whispers fill my eyes.
There is a silence on the air with a subtle cruelty,
Redolent of my most feverish nights.
Impressionable though you are,
The fierce desire of each night spent lying awake so the coarse memory of your skin may plague my mind.
The Kiss never seemed so haunting,
So deathly.
I can't believe it would look as I feel even today.
I drink the remedy in silence,
But not tranquility.
Complacency is a mistaken innervation.
Jaded though widely perceived as infallible truth.
Divinity is as tranquility strives to be,
For I have witnessed your gaze,
And know it to be true.
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 6:50 PM UTC
I never gave interviews
There was nothing to say,
No one needs to know
What I had for breakfast
The day I made my mark
On an impressionable city.
They don't need my opinion,
It would just be another color
On their palette, and
I can't have that.
I don't want to see myself
Painted on the homes and faces of strangers.
I have lived to prove my worth,
Not to have it affirmed -
Mirrors are not worth their reflections.
Mirrors can be vacant.
I know my selfishness prevails on them
Only while I live. I don't mind.
Perhaps when I am gone,
They'll look me up.
They'll forgive my stinginess
When they have me pinned up in a glass case.
They will thank Death for transparency,
But use my name to save face.
At least I will be spared the sight;
That's all I have come to expect.
I console myself that it won't quite
Be me those empty minds reflect.
Imagination travels miles with a breath,
For that I thank the generosity in Death.
Apr 25, 2011
Apr 25, 2011 at 4:45 PM UTC
#
*In time..
You will learn to forgive yourself..
for all the reasons why
you think you need
to forgive yourself.
The blame, and shame
placed in to you
was done in the most
horrendously unfair way..
when you were at such a
tenderly-young,
and impressionable age.
It was your v u l n e r a b i l i ty
that was so horribly cashed in on.
The greatest horror of all
was the shame and blame
that you were forced to carry..
as if it was your own doing..
It Was Not.*
#
Oct 17, 2021
Oct 17, 2021 at 9:30 PM UTC
Dear Mr. Heaney
I wish I'd read your poetry
years ago when I was still impressionable and coy and all that jazz.
Now it resounds in my skull, leaving a tingle in my right hand.
My pen is somewhat snug, but a revolver, no.
Ink and shovels aren't far from each other,
so your point is well-taken. In fact, they're co-workers –
Ink's proved itself just as deadly. It slowly ushers men into the earth,
their soil-seat, while the shovel stages the unending play;
the eternal lattice.
The Nobel hung above your head,
the vast array of pins, medals, papers with your name in billowing scarlet.
What a treat. Like the last cupcake in the back of
the refrigerator that had too much chocolate icing and was only
semi-covered in multi-colored snowflakes. I'd loved to have
personally presented it to you. There'd be my own plaque,
billowing scarlet and all. It'd say, "Mr. Heaney,
, you must own a ***** I hope you'd laugh, and not be offended,
thinking me a distasteful and insensitive lout. It may not be right,
but I can't help but steal the volumes surrounding yours out of
every **** library so
"Seamus Heaney"
may catch the eye of the common passerby
more easily. I think I even went to work on
enhancing a spine with a red sharpie once.
Red hits the eye hard.
That was in the central library downtown.
Don't tell anyone.
Beyond a laugh, what I hope for most is that you get this letter.
Just look at it.
Wonder why someone so far removed in age and culture and place
would ever think of you holding an over-frosted desert as glorious.
Sep 2, 2012
Sep 2, 2012 at 7:50 PM UTC
in the summer before
everything ended,
we went to an art museum
that had entire rooms showcasing death
and you pulled me away before I could admire the human composition
stains, melted into bronze silhouettes, because
what if I thought it looked ugly
what if I figured out
I didn’t actually want to **** myself
and instead just wanted to escape you –
stains of strawberry juice around my mouth I thought of
as blood and you thought of
as lipstick
I prettied myself for
suicide , I scratched maps into my thighs – little guides of where a
knife would go
little hopes that if I saw the death display
maybe I would have known.
for years
it was all experimental. I watched pieces of us
come and go like art exhibits, you watched me as if I was nothing but
a work in progress
that soaked up so much paint I could
not help but look like you when it was through. I was
a child, was
impressionist (impressionable –
now your thoughts persist
as human composition stains – happily, I am alive
and you will never be dead enough.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 2:47 AM UTC
It's a shame how you must have aspired me to become the child you always wanted
in the months and days before I was born,
before reality had its chance to construct the person I would become.
when the happy news was first heard of a new child in a new world,
who would be brave and cheerful and kind
and above all sporty,
the kind that would make an impression,a born leader and dutiful follower
a proud patron of the family name.
We would have much in common and I would remind you of yourselves
at such an impressionable age
and I would achieve all you had hoped for.
But perhaps this is the great tragedy that parents stumble upon in this constant letdown of a life.
You were lucky that I was an easy child,never keeping you up at night and never causing trouble,
but the fact that I was lazy,introspective,morbid,
cowardly,unattentive,unhelpful,bookish,obsessive,
uninvolving and unsatisfied
made me realise how much I must have let you down.
I sigh too much,I read too much,I'm so full full of sarcasm that I cannot take anything seriously,
I never want to be the focus of attention,I never eat enough,I dont care about trends,
I dont care if people comprehend me.
I must be impossible to love.
Thats why I have decided to never have children.
They could never be what I would expect of them.
I could never love someone who I was ultimately responsible for,
someone who I could indoctrinate into my own idea of happiness.
Jun 28, 2012
Jun 28, 2012 at 2:53 PM UTC
My mother once told me I was adorable.
She said so with a light smile and a soft voice.
I was young and impressionable,
And forever thought -I was adorable.
My friend once told me I was pretty.
She said so with a wide smirk and a sour tongue.
I was young and somewhat twiggy
And never thought -I was pretty.
My love tells me I am very beautiful.
He says so with a caring grin and a loving tone.
I am young and quite suitable
And often think -yes, I am beautiful.
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 3:56 PM UTC
Somethin' about an empty room, depending on how the light asks to be let in on its edges.
An empty room don’t expect you to do nothin' whatever. And its floor responds in this kinda lilting relief when you tap-dance barefoot upon it.
If you sit in all its corners, with your eyeballs (try it!) you can trace the refractions and suggestions on the wall, 'specially the places where paint and odd plaster stick up like little men and cast shadows all their own.
You can spend hours doing this.
You, the impressionable film upon which the world's projected herself—you turn the world upside down and make sense of the image in this empty box.
You
Make art here.
Shout here! Run and kick and punch through the walls and
Love them as you do so, kid.
Something about emptiness itself, gets a lot of flack, you think,
cast as grave.
Hell!
Emptiness: potential,
Emptiness: casting being in sharp distinction.
Emptiness: sensual, like breath before the
action of the human magnetic.
You: the one alive in this your empty room and therefore acutely aware of
what you chose to project in such vibrant relief.
Today, it is newspapers and magazine clippings and a notebook and a blue pen and a book by Susan Sontag.
Today you lie on the woody floor, supine, eyes wide
and become part of it
your lungs breathe life into this ancient emptiness. And the air between its walls vibrates, and sighs, nascent, ‘thank you.’
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 3:01 PM UTC
It's been a long while
but I've no trace of time.
I'm covered in brown mud,
piled over with rusty
red and orange leaves.
I lay at the foot
of what now,
is an old friend.
It's not easy
to get much sunshine
the large Oak's roots
are what both isolate
and keep my company.
I'd been loved
a long while
but that story
is an old life lived
a memory
that became a fantasy
time stretched
until it's bonds broke.
They tried
to recover me,
for a short while
for something
that mirrored
commitment
at such a young
and impressionable
age.
They hunted
in and out
of trunks
of the large Oak's home
never to find
where I lay.
Embedded
in October's leaves.
Yet,
distance
didn't make
the heart grow
fonder.
I'd been lost
and long forgotten
at the brink of dusk,
at the ring
of a more warming
love.
They came back,
once or twice,
to test
the shaded wood,
the darkened dirt.
They came back
until leaves
covered me
eye-high.
If they were still yelling
for the track of my presence
I could no longer hear them.
Even if
they were still scouring
built-down woods,
I could no longer
see them
allow them
to catch my eye.
Even if they still loved me
I could no longer feel them
covered
by cracked dirt,
and crumpled leaves.
The roots
had become my lover
now
grown to hug
my rounded hips
my heaping
dirt-covered
smile.
The wind
doesn't play with me
much
only to allow
a sweeping
kiss of leaves,
or to pick
the dirt coat
from my back
and donate
to a better cause
the warming
of a seed
that tiny
Christmas Rose.
I quit
listening
long after
I quit
looking,
looking for the boys
that had once
loved me.
Only then
did he come
sticky handed,
dressed in metal,
and armed
to save
a princess.
Engrossed
in his enactment,
poking swords
at my Oak
demanding
emptied branches
release
his Rapunzel,
I saw him
catch glimpse
of my rounded edges.
I
didn't notice
until
I looked up
into those
adventurous
eyes.
He knelt,
gigantic
in young age,
he plucked me
easily
from my big
Oak roots.
He wiped
dirt
from my body
slowly
and softly
like I was
new-found
treasure
Like I was
the gold
every child
hunts for
in their own
back yard.
He ran
his rough thumbs
on my edges
never lifting
his eyes
from his fingers
on that short
walk home.
He rinsed me clean
under
warmed water,
wondered
about my stories
then dusk came.
I was tucked
warm
under his protection
under that imaginative
mind,
and the boy
made me his own.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 7:52 PM UTC
He enters the room, smirk on that hideously gorgeous face. The *******
Walks by the young girls like he owns the swag of a thousand Biebers.
He is mistaken. Or are we?
"Push the air through your diaphram" he says with a sly grin, looking across the room at her.
She looks back. Defiance on her lips? No. Intrigue.
Their eye contact puts a weight on bystanders; The building pressure of a crescendo waiting to be released.
She breaks it. He frowns.
He is impressionable but very rightly so.
She sighs.
Victory sings an out of tune pitch.
He walks over, dragging Zachary's broken French horn behind.
Looks like this student will have to wait; His teacher is on a mission.
"Mission accomplished" he thinks as she sits on his living room couch, wine of glass in hand.
He resides in his bedroom, awaiting the inevitable.
He walks out to find an empty wine glass and an empty room.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 10:13 AM UTC
The warm, chocolate gaze in your eyes,
promises safety, love and home.
Laughter lives in there, too, but also pain,
and mysteries of unknown size.
While quick with a smile or a laugh
and born to protect,
at times, when unguarded, your face reveals
heartaches, kept hidden away.
On rare occasions, a word will be spoken
and a glimpse into the pain is shared.
Callous, ignorant remarks made to a small
impressionable child.
Scars carried over time through the years.
Shaping. Molding. Into the man you became.
Even as an adult, racial slurs slung absently about
by so called educated men.
Always driven to do better, be better than everyone else,
because of one thing.
Always harder on yourself than anyone else.
Driven to excellence by prejudice.
Aug 9, 2010
Aug 9, 2010 at 11:18 AM UTC
War paint I always found unnecessary:
Gloss for manicured lipstick commercial princesses
Not of my kind.
And though I walk with shield, I am without armour:
Ramparts mere cheekbones,
Bare skin impressionable as snow.
Boot-print,
The mark I hated. My characters:
Frail tree rings, exposed to the chill night air.
Gold inlay frozen solid.
The fairly bound dream factory
Lies purple with melancholy.
It’s the world’s bruise. It colours sudden,
Shadowing the other side of the room
Where it paused, rare moth
Lighted upon my dark reflection,
A Mona Lisa dressed in black
And reminiscent of bobby sox.
Beauty without fanfare.
Stuff of woods: we do not glitter.
We don’t call out.
Our tongues are both dumbstruck bells.
Shy rabbits, we fold within ourselves
And sequester our secret pulp.
Oct 4, 2016
Oct 4, 2016 at 7:15 PM UTC
is my wish what i really want?
are your kisses really that soft or are my memories unreliable
all this time i was unviable but now the tides changed
if the overcast can fade then so can the return of the grey
my impressionable mind molded by stoic time
the inescapable vines consume my innate drive
Apr 3, 2024
Apr 3, 2024 at 10:04 AM UTC
what is love
the line thrown around
my juvenile thoughts
my impressionable mind
the short time I've spent on this planet
my teenage ignorance
surrounded by love
in its many definitions
left to my own devices
never getting an answer
what is love
as evasive as wind
as fleeting as air
teenage confusion
love confusion
what is love
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 11:52 PM UTC
He wasn't exactly virulent,
nor was he benovalent.
He was always vindicated
which never failed to indicate,
that he was sophisticated.
They said he was a gift taken for granted.
He was free but priceless.
He was what they desired to have
Yet something which made them crave.
It was said he was an illusion.
Which never failed to create confusion.
In the soft &impressionable mind of their's,
They said he seemed limiteless in despair.
But yet was quick in perky affairs.
Once lost he could never be found again.
He was 'time'.
~Faiza Khan
May 10, 2019
May 10, 2019 at 4:09 AM UTC
You're risking naught, an annihilation of worth
Wasting and encouraging moments to rot. Decay.
Values friendship
Twisted morals dipped in deceit.
Not satisfied with boundaries
Chasing infected affection
swirling in the smooth crevasses of backwash around emptied wine bottles
Impressionable, emitting the most tenacious
of the F word
Fake
Fake and Selfish
It isn't narcissism when you drown yourself
in the pits
No permission, no inhibition
As lazy as the Greeks
who never made a move to climb the mountaintop
and defy their Gods face to face
Dependent and ******* support from Clans
because you're terrified of this world
At least I"m honest with my decanter of
harming thoughts.
obsessed and overbearing, flesh crawling
use my being as subject matter and
mold it into paperdoll play toys
like gold eye-liner
its a party trick
seek solice when grimacing down a bottle of brew
bumpers in the bowling alley
a Life Alert sort of living
You claim to haven no fear
but I see your throat clench
start living
admit the defeat
a proud coward
lilly livered, yellow belly
shift
shift between a fable and nerve
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 1:38 AM UTC
Some see Life is a puzzle put together piece by piece. Each eventually fits together.
like snowflakes, many slot beside one another quickly, but some seem like they take forever.
With each new journey and new day, you add another piece to the puzzle.
By the end of each month or at the turn of the year you turn back to see the picture,
The painting on that canvas that we call life. With our back turned to the rest of the world
we work tirelessly to make sure the puzzle is completed in an effort to impress those impressionable.
We miss out on the leaves falling from the trees in the crisp air of the fall,
The fresh cut grass as the spring spawns from the dark dreary winter
Some fight tirelessly, to inlay the pieces as if they were creating a road by which to travel.
Relax. Step Aside. Let the pieces fall together as you simply tag along for the ride
Regardless of the moves you make, the pieces you choose, the path you take.
All of the pieces are already in the box, 500 or 1000 pieces of a pre-determined fate.
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 10:24 AM UTC
I pulled on an oversized sweater
to stop my hands from shivering as I typed my soul out to you
I arranged the alphabet into a story
made only for you to ball up
and throw into the chute
down to the garbage pit in the back of your mind
it was thanksgiving and
you packed my things
and you left
everything the way it was
incomplete
you
left
me
standing in my room
twelve years old and confused
the grand return came
as I conquered ninth grade
and I pulled on oversized sweaters
to stop my mind from wandering towards the mirror
listening intently to my stepmother’s words
and the drunken cries to God
you wept yourself to sleep on the porch every night
and what was I to do but wonder
fourteen and impressionable
you left again
to find a better life than the bottle could supply
you wrote me letters on Tuesdays
signed with an Ichthys and a verse
and I pulled on oversized sweaters
to stop the chills that sank deep into my heart
on nights when I needed someone who wasn’t there
and found someone who
didn’t need to be there in the first place
sixteen and licentious
you came back
and stopped leaving
found contentedness in the bottom of a Bible
etsi deus non daretur
and I pulled on oversized sweaters
to silence the questions brought forth by my past.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 3:28 PM UTC
Little pockets of sound that skyrocket around
Words: verbs, adjectives, nouns
Words can get me steaming or lucid dreaming
And it leaves me silently screaming to see people consider words a weapon
Like they mean to cause harm
Well let me remind you I have the right to bear arms
Just because what’s on that page is mine
Doesn’t means it aligns with the ideals in my mind
Writing is expression, not confession
So when I write about a character who is confused and depressed
Buys a used gun and a bulletproof vest
And shoots up his classmates in the middle of a test
Because everyone ignored the signs of his anger
Doesn’t mean there’s a trench coat on my hanger
But nevertheless, they labeled me me a threat
Better yet, they focused on me instead of the 15 year old addicted to cigarettes
and took my words out of context
Because they are con-text
Well I’m pro-text and I protest that they suggest that I’m hopeless
and I know this coldness only hones my focus on my magnum opus
But where would we be without controversy?
The indirect side effect to freedom of speech
A beacon for speakin’ your mind without your rights being breached
It’s all in the name
When you write, you’re right
But when you advocate censorship, then you’re ****
My two cents are worth a million bucks
So who cares if they contain a million *****
F-words might be wayward but in a way they aren’t F-words, they’re A-words
Because all words are equal on surface
Well, until one strikes a nerve with a conservative
Who, without even meeting me, determined me to be
The next **** Germany
I didn’t write a story about a school shooter
I wrote it about how one impressionable kid became a slave to the page
And lost himself in the rage as an unfortunate consequence
And it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense
That the school would let themselves fall victim to a nonexistent threat
Brought on by a few paragraphs on a pair of half ripped papers stapled and
Paper-clipped to the rest of my script
You can place the blame but you became that same shameful shell
Hell, you can expel me, but you can’t compel me
To stop yelling again with this paper and pen
Or a stage and a mic
Going without words is like an endless hunger strike
Being voiceless ain’t a choice for this
When I protest, I prefer to be heard
A whole lot can happen with a few simple words
Jul 22, 2012
Jul 22, 2012 at 8:39 PM UTC