"improperly" poems
The basin drains her polluted blood as wine envelopes morose
Every minute is a memory, onset of her blanketed comatose
Vying in a fog of icons and myths, words always fail them
From every misread evil that is disposed of improperly
From every neighbor or friend eternally mute again
From every gilded pattern that leaves a cuff for the eyes
From every fetching barroom, where all such nadir lies
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 10:30 AM UTC
What is it about this chase that eludes me
That runs away from me
That seeks to experience and then flee me
Until I get hijacked by another
Consenting to my own free fall into ignorance and bliss
Conditioning myself to transmit
Abundance without reservation
Until shot at the knee
But dragged along for a while longer
By the chains I so genuinely let bind me
And even before the wounds have healed
I don't stop running, I won't stop running
Resolute in a chase that targets me
I do so unconditionally
But you can't hijack my senses
I am not an experience or experiment worth having
I am not a temporary treat to be improperly digested and defecated
I am not an amber that ignites upon initial contact
To then be mediated or extinguished if the temperate is not right
I am not the holy water that you colonize
And shower with to cleanse you
To then invalidate that sanctity
When it falls down the drain
I am not a barometer that reliefs the labor
Needed to challenge the aberrations
Of your colonized and colonizing tendencies
I exist
Physically insignificant
As the earth that birthed me and will bury me
But eternal in essence
I am a permanent presence
I am an unforgettable imprint
I am your equal, no less, no more
The moment that we mutually acknowledge
Each other's existence
I have bound myself to you
From that moment...loved you unconditionally and eternally
And expect no lesser commitment
From you to me, or any other person you meet
And even after the wounds have healed
I don't stop running, I won't stop running
Resolute in a chase that targets us
We must unleash our abundance unconditionally
And when we leave
We will have given
Absolutely everything
That we had to give
During that time of our existence
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 8:07 PM UTC
Melting down, crossing barriers, breaking out, stepping round.
Pieces fragmenting, character isolating. Green-acid, hair follicles, white is the blank slate, painting blues with reds.
Freaks from a sideshow, muscles in the sea, six-packs in a grog-shop, dancing improperly.
Beguiled by your bounce, sleep-walking this town. Fine is the white wine, poisoning the liver, spining on a sixpence, ********** follows dinner.
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 12:53 PM UTC
I hear my children
I listen
I care
Why won't you listen when I cry?
Why won't you listen?
Do you feel the ground moving?
Can you not hear me?
Can you not feel the vibrations?
Where are you all going to go when winter comes and the cold harsh reality of not having a dwelling settles in?
Who will you ask for help from then?
Will they listen?
Will they care?
Will they let you close
To their fire
Or will you freeze?
Alone,
With no one
No one to care about what war you fought
What you have done to save them
How hard you work at home
How you suffer in silence
Because you can't fly your flag!?
If you could just be you and stand up again! Be the soldier at home
To protect those you love and care about!
Be color blind!
Be deaf to the vile words!
Watch the theft and stop it
With kindness
Before it escalates!
Know that everyone has hard choices
To make to keep their kin alive!
But because you are mean
With your harsh words
You must be fighting somewhere...right?
Are you ready to fight at home?
Let me tell you
BLACK and BLUE does not need to be anyones skin color of the day!
Those colors do not look good on
Any family membor or friend!
Vile words hurt worse
They cut a person down
They replay in our heads
Until we go crazy!
At times that we need strength
Those emotional scars never leave us...
They take up space
In our heads and
Our hearts and even in our souls
They turn us into mean people
Who hurt others
Broken people have sharp edges
Handled improperly
Leaves nothing but
Hurt
Continuing to hurt each other is not the answer anyone is looking for
Maybe it used to be
We can not continue
Not anymore!
Not in 2017
Not now in 2018
Not later
No
Never
Ever
Again!
We need to
STOP!
Stop fighting each other
Start making our world
A great place to live in
Again!
Not just everyone out for themselves!
Our Mother Earth loves us
That is why we have the privilege
Of being alive on THIS PLANET!
Just keep that in mind next time you want to hurt someone else
The pen can be mightier then the sward but it still comes at a price
What are YOU willing to pay?
Will it be your family
Or your friends
Or how about
Your life?
Are the prices we pay too high?
Yes.
So be kind!
Put yourself
In their shoes
Even if
Just
For
A day!
Jul 5, 2018
Jul 5, 2018 at 2:01 PM UTC
the quality of quantity is unmerciful,
prodigious production of
wine improperly aged,
pours soiled drops
spilled without craft,
care or taste,
poured too quick to be
nothing more than
less than waste
born in reckless unrestrained
than every thought a golden gift,
bestowed upon the masses,
droppeth like the harshest hurricane rains,
gives no moisture sustenance to the world,
only floods and lays waste in dazed hazes
blesses none but the one who
cannot but cant,
measures his own demeanor in the mirror,
unsuspecting the mirror mirrors
the ides of ego,
seeds of self destruction
the throned monarch
who giveth
but does not take,
thinking the king he is,
his own best,
even better than his creator
and tho he carvo's his retno critiques
upon the brows of his subjects,
he cares not,
for it boring brings
more mastubatory page views
his addition of success,
his edition of self congratulatory
of writs and snits,
which adds up to a whole lot of
****
but you may put you pen down now,
for the world needs only
need one poet,
and it ain't me,
and it certainly ain't
you
.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 4:24 PM UTC
Why is there such thing as pressure? Social pressure, air pressure, blood pressure, peer pressure, sinus pressure, life pressure
We are pressured by every element ever created yet I am not a diamond
I am not a sparkling gem
I am not perfect
But I am something
I am a soul in a body that isn't truly mine and a pine tree in the middle of a cornfiepld and a bird who has to be fed by it's mother because it doesn't know how to live on it's own;
I am the waves that crash into the shoreline and I am the duckling who is always left behind and I am the broken voice who never yelled hallelujah because I didn't believe I could; I am a guitar that is improperly tuned and a book whose spine is destroyed and I am the child who yelled for her father that never came;
I am a unfinished painting and a crooked portrait and the broken record player that repeats the same groove over and over and over;
Yet I am not perfect, because if I was I would be able to answer your question but I can't and if I could, I know wouldn't be able to stand here and tell you who I truly am
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 11:43 PM UTC
It no longer fits.
Not because it’s wrong—
because there is
no longer
a shape for it.
It waits at the door
of a structure
that has sealed itself
to mystery.
No one silenced it.
No one feared it.
It was simply
not needed.
---
Not in fire.
Not in argument.
But through erosion
of context.
A slow recoding
of all signals
into currency,
and then
into noise.
It is not buried.
It is not archived.
It is
unrecognized.
You could hold it in your palm
and no one would call it a shape.
They would ask
what it is for.
And you would have no answer
they could use.
---
The system is not cruel.
It is
indifferent,
efficient,
alive in a way
that has moved past
texture.
It does not punish difference.
It dissolves it.
---
The ones who still carry it
do so improperly.
It cannot be shared
without being reshaped.
It cannot be translated
without being lost.
So they stop speaking.
Not out of bitterness—
out of futility.
Language becomes costume.
Gesture becomes content.
Feeling becomes
an old way
of being wrong.
They are not martyrs.
They are not rebels.
They are remainder.
Background error.
A trace.
---
Eventually,
the thought will be referenced
as a footnote to dysfunction.
Once, they dreamed in metaphor.
Once, they misused their time
to describe beauty
no one asked for.
The tone will be clinical.
A paragraph in the training module
on obsolete impulses.
---
No one will recover it.
Not because it was hidden,
but because no one is
looking
in that direction.
The shelf collapsed
years ago.
Its dust recycled
into something measurable.
If a trace remains,
it will be decorative—
a design choice
in a digital museum
of failed emotions.
A misread glyph.
A corrupted tag.
An unclickable file
in a format
no longer supported.
---
Still,
somewhere in the static,
a pulse misfires.
Not a message.
Not a warning.
Just the rhythm
of a shape
that refused
to dissolve.
It says nothing.
It means nothing.
But it does not
go away.
Aug 7, 2025
Aug 7, 2025 at 3:49 AM UTC
Burly bleak plumes roll out aloft corn
Where the dragon fell post spin and ditch
A wretched hulk of ruin splintered and worn
Amongst endless blanch green fields which
Arc with a gust and apart where he treads,
Dragging his silk cape afar from flame
Clueless and concussed to a near house he heads
With a tattered scarf that constricts yet ***** about his mane
Black fists of cloud had boomed around him as they soared
His beast spat metal fire whilst the pale sky turned dull
The zipping ballet of warfare smiled throughout as motors roared
Gnashing its teeth and making forgotten martyrs of them all
Shuddering not from demise rather conflict as a whole
He is as content with death as he is to survive
Just not burn the world and condemn his soul
A horror; men of rule seem keen to keep alive
An agrarian self-dines rancorous and crocked
Half sat, improperly perched from where he was shot
Monsters had come for him once before this day
They took his spouse and his daughter and then took them away
He can hear but does not hark to the battle aloft
It is now like the rain and the trees in a gust
But to the boom and the shake he stands with a cough
And as he cites the invader he sees he must do what he must
The grower limps out with a Chassepot in his arms
As the airman’s hands reach up and he falls to his knees
With beads on his brow the man pleads with met palms
The crofter sees naught but a Prussian blue monster disease
The pilot knows his death, ‘Ich bin nicht sicher, wo ich will gehen?”
The old Frenchman just sniggers as he thinks never again
With the rifle’s slug now spent and the horror sent back to his hell
The farmer mumbles to himself, ‘je dois me chercher une pelle,”
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
This is what I want
A little house with an a frame top
And giant colored strands of lights in every window
With a huge tree , too big most definitely for the room
And a ridiculous mixture of old and new just covering the walls
I want wallpaper
Peeling from the walls
As though it almost hurts it to remain stuck on so hard
And I want it so be intricately ugly and old an’ discolored
In a cozy way
I want to live on a street of little houses
With potluck suppers
Small gardens that are improperly tended
Maybe with some oregano spread throughout
I want a little cozy life
With a tall cozy boy
We can pick our oregano and our turnips
Cook us a stew
Peel the onions
Like the wallpaper from our little walls
I want a Polaroid camera
So I can take instant pictures that I cannot regret
That I can keep in a tin beneath my bed
Forever they will stay etched
I want to ride trains everywhere
Sitting in my seat
Glaring out at the window at the little houses
With A-frame tops
Yellowing lights
Covered in that glinting snow
Today the snowflakes looked like real flakes
Like the ones you cut out of paper
And hang on the wall of your dorm
To cover up the stains and cracks
In the yellowing paint
As is peels from the wall
Like my dream wallpaper
The wind in Buffalo makes me cry
From my right eye
My wrong one just sits and wonders
“What makes the right one so weak?
It is just a little storm,
Why can’t the right ones just hang in there?
Without drowning us in their sorrows…
Mar 6, 2010
Mar 6, 2010 at 7:47 AM UTC
Pardon me while I wipe this ******
spit out of my mouth.
Speak and write improperly
Bathe in holy water to wash
away the sins off my body
less charming and loving
then you would expect
it might not had been what it was
but it left a bad taste on my tongue. like taking five shots of whiskey
and licking your ashtray
I tried to stray far beyond
your ripped and shady nylons
the bloodletting on your stained sheets
where I will never sleep
try not to **** me on the way home
I should have stayed where I belong
the dark pool room
the underbelly of a red light saloon
I get paid again next Friday
not that im going to give you any
''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
ruin my beautiful morning from
nine till 10 am. spare yourself refusal from
five till seven
thick thighs emotional charged
I have hard boiled eggs
a dog snoring on the floor
a pain in my neck
and my arms and ankles, their nerves are jumping towards the door
heat is up to high IM sweating
like you the *****
Bukowski wrote a song
it is scratching, the needle
typewriter with a loud roar
I cant recall the wine
but the short cigarettes were brown
eyes squinting
I listened like a boy to him, and you
you and your drunk salutes and slurs
commanding a performance from my soul
as if you were Sylvia
such a stupendous, gracious love story
IM haunted by your stare
I do not even think you are here
after all you are a ..... no,
there is really no time for this
the whiskey on my lips you adore
IM sick against a wall and
people are statues above spitting
their teeth below
statues on a wall urinating below
my angst kisses you all farewell
may my spirit fly today
pain grows in the dark
all ye gather,elephants in the room and hall
i hunker down under the blue glow
of the evening news
hiding from both of you
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 8:12 PM UTC
During work I think of you
At home I think of you
Maybe if I shoot my brains out
I would stop wondering about you
Oh yes! To be a zombie
Undead walking on earth
Never thinking, never minding
Just walking and feeling hungry
But even if my brain gets frozen
It’s not the ***** that thinks improperly
This tiny red muscle with intricate branches
Pumps and thinks too much
Just **** my heart with any weapon
For if it ceases to beat then it stops
To think about the brain which flashes
Images of you to me
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 6:59 AM UTC
The Girl from Coronado
Dark brown eyes the brownest hair the most captivating was the faraway look in her eyes the painter
Searches for her in lost dreams she materializes on the sharp trumpet blast then she lingers as it turns
Softly as the street in front of the Saint Louis cathedral in New Orleans she was as wistful she was the
Bleeding torment held in battle field shadows her way had the razor sharp that cut through pretense to
The real the meaningful what was that certain something that held you in awe was it the southern sea
Breeze that was absorbed the enfolding touches that were exuded from her depths there are still
Waters then there is Gloria is it fondly promised like flowers floating on the tide the sweet smile that
Cuts and divides the waves like a surfer coming out of the Banji pipeline her brown hair blows softly it
Has enlightened on the breeze as fragrance unspoiled unidentifiable it enthralls as she walks the sandy
Sea swept beach in the distance she passes as a spirit cast improperly in a human role to disturbing to
Fetching she makes appearances in Celtic dreams of misfortune she brings trouble as a winged wonders
Those that are not for evil but hidden in them are clandestine secrets that open new corridors of
Simplicity that brim with honor they are the culminations of promises long deferred now they are at
The door to restore she possesses powers that are seemingly strange but they are beholding the
Glimpses she allows trigger eager disruptions the common falls before her gaze you find establishments
That seemed impossible could she be Isis presumably not but just bearer of her traits one who gives gifts
Of the natural world to artisans from normal items joy is in them as fluid emotions they suppress but
Only for the pure cause of making greater results occur the tiresome is abolished the clay is gold even
Though it be hidden from many to the few it is cherished sought and redeemed by love in a sea side
Town on the southern coast of California her alluring beauty you too can possess this just open yourself
seek the opportunity to give to others your name will be favorably spoken like the graceful girl from
Coronado
May 12, 2012
May 12, 2012 at 3:00 PM UTC
Little Sapling
sitting upright in the
Big Arm Chair
calm classical music
muffles the sedated voices
behind each door.
You sit
upright, improperly left alone
to fill such a Large Arm Chair.
You turn
your young face to the side,
staring with large eyes at
the toys adorning
The Corner Table.
The toys which you
once would have played with,
been engrossed with,
a few Long Sunny Days ago.
Yet today your innocent eyes merely
dabble with the sight of them;
the sight of a Long Sunny Day
which was once yours
to behold.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 1:24 PM UTC
There once was a flower,
Things happened too soon
In less than a year,
She would be moved
A positive flower
watered with goop
roots were lifted
heart regifted
parents shifted
a problem...
The roots improperly planted
They grew side ways
They grew upside down
They even grew in the dark
They did not grow like all the others
But they did grow...
Confused
Why do I not smile when they do?
Why am drowning by the water when they grow?
During growth
She lost
And many other things
But most importantly her...
Confused
Did not really know what to do
But grow
She grew
But she could not forgot her roots
The ones that grew in the dark
The ones that tore her apart
There was no undo.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 12:38 AM UTC
You know
they say that
you should be careful
of the
things that fly out of your mouth,
because you never know
how how it might land.
Just like
how airplanes
try to land on
gusty airports,
trying to
land on the tarmac.
There are chances that it might
just instead of landing
like a kiss of a woman on
the lips of a man she loves,
their teeth and nose get in the way.
Your words,
can land improperly
the airplanes that carry the best of feelings,
turn into dynamites.
Exploding violently.
Misguided missiles
that does nothing but destroy,
just like how the army promised us,
that this will bring us happiness and safety,
but
only at the cost of the nation its bombing,
leaving its soil,
turmoiled,
disfigured,
and produces nothing
But
radioactive plants,
we have come up
with a classification for it,
we call it
insecurities.
So don't ask me if I'm ok,
if you did nothing but
toss explosives at my feelings
cause clearly
I'm destroyed.
So no,
I'm not ok.
You
cannot stitch
tofu
back together,
after being sliced into two.
That
a sorry
will not be a substitute
for superglue,
using it to stick back
broken pieces of me.
So remember this,
that
the next time
you release statements
words,
phrases,
that you have the
power
disintegrate
the person receiving them.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 11:42 PM UTC
if you walked a thousand miles in my shoes you still
would not have any room judge me
where'd that idea come from, anyway?
that because you see what I see and walk where
I walk you have the power and knowledge to
write a book of every mistake I've ever made
and set it right outside of the gates of heaven
so that when my time comes I know it was your
words that left me dead?
people are not god's
you grew up reading mythology, watching the half-human
Hercules build a wall on top of his shoulders and carrying
it even throughout his most human times
I grew up reading poetry, memorizing the beauty of
metaphors to the point where I decided that when I grew up
I would become one and everything I do would be one
no wonder we have such different outlooks on life.
if someone put a knife through your back, you would die
you are not immortal because people are not gods
so why allow them to do what they do?
I told myself you would never make me sick again, ever
let me have a 105 degree fever and a pain in my shoulder
before I ever get nauseous remembering what happened
what was said or what we both did, but when I went to
the doctor and begged him to cure me he just filled his
syringe up with a photographic memory and inserted it
directly into my veins whispering
people are not god's
people are not god's
if you want to became the hands on a clock learn to
add and subtract and memorize when the sun rises and sets
if you are dead set on becoming something no one can
touch without crumbling to a pile of dust
breathe deep and walk tall
move as if your spine is made of words
that were said in such a fragile time that if you distribute
your weight improperly the tightrope will break
act as if it is never a fragile time
even though it is 99% of the time, but say it's not
say it's all just fine until your mind is snickering because
it has convinced the rest of your body it's able to keep running
people are not gods, people are not gods
people are just people and that's all they'll ever be
a mere five and a half feet, unless you allow them to
put on stilts and start walking around in your head
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 3:11 PM UTC
February 15th: This is to be a new chapter in my living narrative. With the advent of recent changes in this life I so improperly had been leading, I hope with the utmost sincerity they are lasting changes. It has come to a point in which I have called upon the aide of a deliberate force, a chemical force. And before I may continue, it need be known that chemicals are what brought me into my current state of lackluster. A risk? I should think so, however my will is seeking to purge my spirit of a cancer so piously imbued within my shivering soul. This is day one of the intervention plan Adderall. I know what this is today; I have had enough first times with the **** speed. No more need be said about what was felt other than this was the same happy high I remember.
February 16th: Try and recall, I dare you.
February 17th: Two Adderall
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 8:17 PM UTC
There is no fairytale in misery. Yet I find myself drowning in this unpolished desire to hold the hand of greed. I pulled out the knife too quickly, leaving it to heal improperly. Forever a mistake, forever a lost cause. My light seems broken. Every time I open my eyes, all I can see are shards of multi-coloured glass surrounding the happiness I cannot have. The nightmares have taken root and are a crippling comfort in which I cannot bear. I wipe away the mothering tears and hold back the putrid ***** Passion is my curse and sorrow is my blanket. I lust for the ugly and jagged pieces of hope, because it's all I have left to lean on.
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 10:49 PM UTC
someone will be tired
one before the
other
that's just the way
it is
I wait for impatience
in my lighthouse of uncertainty
& doubt is diverted
through sunlight-kissed waves
nearly the precise hue
of his eyes
someone will be tired
how could you love anyone
with such a hidden
temper?
the kind who stalks herself
through the night
never fully satisfied with
destination or
decision
she wakes, inadequate
& improperly
rested
the day is a haze of
unpaid bills
empty cabinets
& her rebellious toddler
don't be her
don't be tired
don't say a word
the imaginary harbor of hurt
shall subside with the
rush of
tomorrow's tide
& she'll still wonder when he'll tire
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 6:56 PM UTC
Golden apples, crisp sandwiches, and smiling milk
Golden boy, growing hands, and smiling eyes
Easy to learn those lessons woven by a voice of silk
Easy to yearn with countless ways to fly on free skies
Silver tongue to gild her hope in their enticing game
Silver lost on nickel and dime since the value change
Tough to beat that cowboy has wound up all the true dames
Tough to see success outside that boy's jubilant range
Copperhead and improperly read, now he is out on the town
Copper tools to trade between fools for a means through today
Hard to make it now that his future is a thought that brings him down
Hard landing and hard to stand knowing soldiers get to fly away
Muscle-cut, silent disciple by uniform and drill
On a new path where the steps are already named
Earning inertia and purpose as his hands fill
By the rifle, by his life, now he can cut through the future
Winning trust and won his chance at enemies to ****
Now they are dead.
Oh glory, oh honor, our hero returns home with tempered will
The war is over, he held his weight, yet from that rigid world he must depart
He cannot remember how the old rhyme went
He cannot tell if his time was well spent
Weary from angels shattered and morals hell bent
Wary for how neighbors treat what is different
Witness to blindness for what is done, and what is meant
Advertised pride for racist media and murderous government
Now his last hope is a child with lustrous intent
To ask,
"Sir, where do all the old soldiers come from,
and where have they been since?"
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 6:23 PM UTC
I remember it was the middle of winter when the family I met became my only summer. The cracks and pops of the exhaust made me so deaf to the common banter, that when I heard this group from across the dive, I knew they weren’t just another group of leather-vested dropouts. Initially it was the liquor store cologne stuck in their beards that attracted me, but I stopped and stayed when they told my back how beautiful blue eyes were. In the few minutes it took to inhale a whiskey coke, they had seen the thirst I had for freedom flowing out of my pores. They said that I reminded them of those dead flies in the corner, turned over and lifeless from the exhaustion one puts themself through when trying to live life so hard and so fast. And they were right; I had made an art out of living fast and crashing hard. When the skin on my palms tore and bled all over the pavement, it was like fine art to any peanut gallery.
That was the night they taught me to ride. To unpin my curls and let them flow and crash in the wind like a desert ocean. They had found their horizon oasis in me. But Big Jimmy still hated me the most. I knew his secret and he saw that I had figured him out. He was a master at turning his cheap improperly functioning parts into his best character traits. But above everything, he let me learn that the open road will heal any scar.
I’d been at war with myself. Before I knew that a desert sunrise on chrome was the best alarm clock, I only ever thought that the way I’d wake up was with rushed embarrassment to grab the ***** tip. Big Jimmy weaseled my ****** heart out of my sunken chest, and was gettin’ twitchy now that I had my hand on his. He always said at every pit stop, life was too short for traffic. And when I stepped out of the 7/11 that chilly November morning, I could hear the sounds of distant engines, howling laughter and a single tear hitting the asphalt. I was alone again. But this time, I wasn’t at war.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 2:38 PM UTC
The blur of the subway reflection inspired me to
Inspired me to, to believe in
The crimson blood that flowed within you
You and your hollow valentines card veins
The bite of the winter wisps of wind asked me to
Asked me to, to remember if
Your embrace was the dagger sugar coated blue
The first icicles to fall in January’s pain
The drip and dance of the winter medication forced me to
Forced me to, to make love against
The memories that held me close within the heart’s decadent hue
I never asked for his real name
The salt and citrus that embraced the tequila motivated me to
Motivated me to, to waste tears upon
Your deep violet royalty and my role as the ingenue
I only wished to offer you a red paper crane
The pallor of my skin introduced me to
Introduced me to, to the truth
And nothing but the truth, so help me God, I cooed
Drive me somewhere beautiful, a place I cannot blame
The final echo of your weary voice released me to
Released me to, to an apocalyptic city
The street was reduced to a cemetery so I choose the avenue
The four horsemen galloped in the sanctuary of the bus lane
The loneliness of restless half-hearted dreaming lead me to
Lead me to, to a crystal forgotten river
It stretched through the city and the city’s shoes
Winding in and out like a vagrant gone insane
A switching staircase indebted me to
Indebted me, to the essence of humanity
It explained all is made so that it can be broken through
No river shall ever flow without rain
The bright of the afternoon convinced me to
Convinced me to, to stand before the mirror
Bright eyes and shaking lips sparkled wet with diamond dew
She blamed cupid’s arrow for it was surely improperly aimed
A lover, half asleep and half in dreams, insisted me to
Insisted me to, to scream until I collapse
It was the only sound I could honestly make to begin anew
He promised without shame
The blare of the harsh siren in the night awoke me to
Awoke me to, to a dream I once believed
The vivid coloration and forms were an artistic witch’s brew
I’ve been to love, so I’ve been to war and I shall never be the same
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 9:04 PM UTC
Aggressive stood the silhouette
Distant in the night.
Sutured to her shadow
A dark and haunting plight.
Forgotten was the hour
Desolation bereaved.
Consumed by her fears
A beast was conceived.
What's worse then battle
Is one fought alone.
When the lights are all on
But nobody's home.
When the demon that lurks
Is one that's detached.
Mindful yet careless
Improperly miss matched.
The void spreads like cancer
A concrete defeat.
Becoming the snake pit
By tripping over her feet.
Saved by good intentions
But just for a moment.
See, with actions and consequences
You just have to own it.
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 5:30 PM UTC
When the city speaks in whispers
over the shouting of animals
and ca-cawing of birds
I trace the lines of your face
against the case of my pillow
wondering again why things have taken so long
While life is so short
one quick gulp of the fantasy
now to rest in fluidity too shallow to tread
So I think of you often
and I forget you even more
not for memory because we're timeless
but for my own idea of the calendar
It's based on howls and ghosts
on improperly relaying messages
and what I truly loved most
And what kind of test this is
and incorrectly translating
endless lists of wistfulness
What kind of test is this?
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 8:47 PM UTC