"indentions" poems
I etched patterns into a tree with a pocket knife that had a red plastic handle
Indentions such as these never stay
Yet eternally we press against the world
Hoping to make a mark that will shine in the daylight and glow in the dark
~
*I'm a shriveled slice of the Americana pie
With my soul on a swivel and the devil in my eyes*
Life was a son of a b!tch with fists that spat dirt when it spoke
And it ONLY screamed.
~
I'm somewhere between David Duchovny and Stephen King
And I'm trying to rip up manuscripts that I didn't write and I don't know who did.
Goodnight America. My patterns will explain my existence more than I ever could.
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 9:29 PM UTC
the skin on my wrists tingle from the shadow of your fingertips tracing. you follow the curves and indentions of flesh, hesitantly running the pad of your thumb across the stars inked onto my skin, until you finally look up to met my eyes.
i see so many galaxies spinning, stories of untold hurt, pain, redemption, change. i begin to wonder if you can read my soul like i can yours.
my mind drifts to the idea of orion, sitting in the sky, watching over you at night, knowing you are safe. i exhale -
you smile.
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 12:03 AM UTC
faked botulism
and Beulah reds
Abyssinian horses
purportedly dead
all night blindness
that 'gravel' soothes
hovering indentions
southwestern barceuse
luminaries marked
tiny infantries swell
conically formed
so steady with shell
dihedral burns
for unlucky hands
swaying cognition
oh, little demands
sanctums ******
the sputum reigns
tenderness denied
a proper grave
you were ferried
holstered soul
lift your head
and let it go
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 5:20 AM UTC
i am trying to convince myself that i don't love you any more [sent]
but right now, it's so quiet and I just want to inject the painful silence with your medicating voice [deleted]
the imprints you left on my memory foam are as deep as memories themselves [deleted]
but they're fading quickly like the way your scent, which once clung to my bedsheets, tangled with the wind, leaving my bedsheets smelling like just bedsheets again [deleted]
i wish memories and attachment faded as quickly as foam indentions or your fragrance or even you [deleted]
you faded off too quickly [deleted]
i never knew love and hurt could be embodied by a single person [deleted]
but you were compassion and pain and healing and suffering and everything in between heaven and hell [deleted]
and i guess, i would not make a great lawyer because i **** at convincing even myself that i don't love you any more [deleted]
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 9:43 AM UTC
It's been a few years,
since I picked up that blade
determined to slice the sadness
out of my viens.
Ridges and indentions
of scar tissue
litter my body.
Yet, even now,
when I get really down,
I still want to add to my collection.
I am starkly aware
that it's not right,
not at all; but,
nothing else works quite as well.
Besides...
perhaps it's a punishment, too.
One that I deserve.
(d.d.b)
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 10:15 PM UTC
Why am I the happiest with
your hands around my neck
You have sharp teeth
and you leave indentions in my skin
I want to let you know that its okay
to want to crawl out of your skin
You awake with cracked bones
I chipped my jaw on your frozen over shoulder
I saw you digging in the backyard
Another hole to hide your growing secrets
I wonder when you will stop watering words
And start digging them up by the roots
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 7:47 AM UTC
My brain is fighting
The migration in my stomach
But I know better
Than to follow every heart
That passes by.
My hopes are higher
Than my expectations.
I've been here before,
My naivety has yet to depart
But the more I over think your words
The more cautiously I have to find my own
Yet you always leave me with a loss.
I'm a deer in the headlights.
More mayhem than
The Allstate commercials
Circulates my brain
With the idea
That I am actually worth
A love I've always dreamed of.
I don't know the shape of your handwriting yet,
An authenticity built
Constructing more than just words
Or indentions in the paper.
I dream of tracing my fingers
Across your ink ridden paths
To find a memento just for me.
But I don't even know if you'll remember
A promise I'd never break.
I'll be Mrs. Goldfarb
Waiting for the mail
Waiting on you
to stop and
Wait
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 1:39 AM UTC
It's structure, but not as coherent as it seems
It has paragraphs.
setting the stage of life.
It has indentions to help you clarify your life
It has a intro stating when you was born...
body paragraphs to explain your growth development
and a conclusion that ends your life...
or hints our next lifetime.
People constantly check for grmmar in their essays
looking for errors in ther lives.
not knowing that there will alway be errors
*Others dressed their paragraphs in fancy letters
not knowing that no amount of sophistication
will make them more smart
nor beautiful
nor even interesting in some cases*
Other people liked strong arguments
and EVIDENCE
not knowing that no matter how STRONG they are
A LITTLE LETTER LIKE A "z" WILL BREAK IT ALL APART
An essay was created for people to read, understand
and judge
tis is neither bad nor good
as people can critique such essays
manipulating and defining the lives of others with no restrictions
and after all that hard work
the physical object that the essay was etched on
will eventually dissolve away
and all that will be left
is the energy that a soul put into it.
not knowing that the best essay
will be just being themselves.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 8:51 PM UTC
How do I continue to stand with such a hollow body?
mostly filled with black tar and green smoke
your last kisses still sting my lips
even from three months ago
I don't know if I want the fairytale stings to stay or to leave
I don't know if I want to stay or to leave
All I know is that have indentions of where your arms used to be
burn holes where your eyes used to stare
and frozen hands from not being held
I thought my heart was left behind with you
but maybe you only took half
Because I still feel the sorrow flow through the holes in my heart
being pricked with pins and needles like a voodoo doll
your a black magic master
Fill my heart again with daisies
hold my hands and thaw them out
Patch up the holes in my skin with pieces of your band t-shirts
give a new meaning to "forever"
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 8:24 PM UTC
I make a jest of your many dimensions
curving our time
and its massive indentions
Reaching for me as a wave, as a particle,
your lightness of limb
you’re the genuine article
Sol invictus, opportune
white hot and yielding sun
you are the cause of my strange perihelion
Dec 11, 2011
Dec 11, 2011 at 3:10 PM UTC
I never knew anything was wrong
Until everyone started giving me sympathy.
I was a little girl with blinders and two
Doll hands that clasped over my ears
As they screamed and kicked
Through doors and laptops.
Now, I keep them tied
Above my head, arching chest out first.
This is what you left.
This is why when you leave, I wrap my arms
Around your waist,
But I never say I love you.
This is why, when I talk to boys,
I don't see love until I know
Where their hands will fit into the puzzle of my body.
I never thought I was damaged until I saw
How the other girls can pick and choose
And reject warm chests so casually, and
I realize that I am greedy.
This wasn't an issue while I was strong,
But I couldn't lie to myself for that long
And there aren't enough body-sized indentions
For me to give my weight to.
I never thought I would be bitter for all these years
Until each day, I never went back.
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 10:37 PM UTC
can try to capture beauty,
try to capture expression--
yet as an artist, never satisfied.
i want to do more than catch your likeness on paper
with pen or graphite, desire more than just a role as an avid watcher and portrayer.
i want to learn the hard planes of your body
the ways they could move in junction with mine,
hands with such strength and virility. there is an urge
to bring those fingers to my mouth, or a lone earlobe.
bite down. sharp inhale. that's music.
i want to know the shapes you make, the way a body looks glistened in hard work, trace the indentions in a spine, be familiar with its knobby structure, kindly measure the quiet strength of muscles, the contours of a figure that is a reflection of its environment.
feeling. quiet feeling.
i want to look and really look, study the proportions of smiles, the simplicity in wrinkles and the path of veins, gentle lines that nature already drew for me. especially observations of lines in your eyes. what is your gaze drawn to. don't tell me, show me.
let me understand a deep look. stare at me. let me stare at you.
i just want to draw on you--
human skin is my canvas,
eyes are inspiration,
raw souls are my
new medium,
and
passion is my paint brush.
can i sketch you, love?
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 8:54 PM UTC
Driving, driving for days
and each road I pass
each truck horn blast
that catches my glazing eyes
saves me from that terrible sleep.
In the distance the cities looks like
a million fireflies flickering in the night sky.
Home is always on the other side
of those flashing lights,
so I pass another exit sign
wishing it was mine.
The music repeats as I shift in my seat.
Scratching myself.
Uncomfortably shaking,
till I find the perfect spot.
Iron bar eyes flutter.
One blink, two blinks
three blinks, four blinks,
The car shakes as it hits
that outside lane
bouncing with those
safety indentions
and I am awake again.
One more energy pill,
one more caffeine drink,
one more bathroom break
washing my face in a gas stop sink.
The cold water refreshes me
temporarily.
A frontage lane to change it up,
familiar foliage and a country road
that I know
takes me past an old folks home
were frail lonely faces watch me
passing through their city.
Hours later I make it back.
The final wave hits,
as exhaustion attacks.
One knockout punch
and I am K.O.d;
Alive and grateful
to finally be home.
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 2:51 AM UTC
They say, your palms tell stories
With flesh as pages and indentions as the vocabulary
Yet I wonder where I lie in the palm of your hand
Am I that scar you got when you were six
Trying to cut your handprint out of colorful pages
Or that callous you have from caring for your garden
And always holding onto things, and people, far too tight
Now that I think of it your hand is a reflection of who you are
I love how it tells a story with every line
How it speaks of your beauty with every imperfection
But most importantly, I love how it fits perfectly into mine.
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 2:39 PM UTC
I'm in such a state of panic for what seems like no reason, to you.
But what if the story of your life was all at the tip of a quill pen.
The words are running out of ink too fast as they unravel on to the page like a tangled ball of thread coming undone and at any moment the weak thread could break.
Tangles take time to unravel.
That's the danger of rushing this but all of this waiting is making my heart weak as anxiety swallows my heart into a seemingly bottomless chasm.
I have so much to say but my words seemed to have become knots in the thread. Still tied to you and as soon as you decide to fly away my malnourished veins will burst.
A part of me has been stolen and I'd file a case of identify theft but I never knew who I was to begin with so maybe I've always been nobody.
There's no ink left anyway.
I keep writing and no words are visible.
There are only light indentions of where words are supposed to be and if you tilt your head a little to the left you can almost see what I was trying to say.
But no amount of squinting or light on the page can make these words real because they are only glimmers of dying ideas.
The future is unwritten and I'm out of ink.
As pure and gentle as your flawless feathers seem I don't have the ink to write with.
This feather doesn't do me any good if our future isn't flowing from the quill.
I feed the fire with the pages of my life as if I'm a hoarder of pens with unlimited pages in this journal
But I only have just this one quill pen with no ink and I'm on the last page.
You'd be panicking too.
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 1:21 AM UTC
I look down and see the burning of these lines
The deep red indentions
That only form over time
And I'm trying to figure out what sets them off
Emotional peril
Or being weaned off
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 2:37 PM UTC
Sometimes, I can hear your voice over the announcement speakers in the space of my mind saying things that made my bones rattle and my teeth shake.
Epinephrine burns memories into your mind.
My adrenal glands tend to find a production overload at just a glance of you, now the only thing holding my leather casings together are the indentions of your memory.
My pages have never felt so worn.
I'm becoming a a novel you never wrote.
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 3:14 PM UTC
on the moist spot the sheets curl around her
make for indentions in my head
memories unforgotten all these years hence
still I picture long legs
in the air
hear her crying my name
Geronimo be mine
I should have told her
my real name
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 3:39 AM UTC
I never thought it was my fault
Until everyone started telling me it wasn’t.
I was a little girl with two left feet and a
Right hand that shot up before everyone else’s
In class.
Now, I keep it in my lap,
Tucked safely beneath my left.
This is what you left.
This is why on Christmas, I get an email,
And you don’t get a response.
This is why, when I talk to boys,
I don’t see love until I know
Where their hands go during a fight.
I never thought I was damaged until I saw
How the other girls lay their heads casually
Down on warm chests, and
I realize my neck does not bend that direction.
This wasn’t an issue while I was strong,
But time is too long, and there are no
Body-sized indentions for me to lean against
On the walls that I stand inside.
I never thought you would be gone for seven whole years
Until each day, you didn’t come back.
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 10:07 PM UTC
today i cut off some of my hair with a pink razor
and now i keep finding half-inch strands
all in my shirt
and on my wrists
and even once on this page
and ever since i've been
waiting
for that new freeing
feeling
the one you're supposed
to get
when you're listening to soft
music
and you're not sure what your
hair will look like
when it dries
and that sun ––
that sun is peeling through the
leaves just to meet your gaze
then blind you.
i've been waiting,
and waiting,
and waiting.
yet all i feel is this
silly complacence and a
slight mourning for all the
time i've wasted.
and through these former pages
i can see the indentions
of the pressure
my hands have pressed
into these former pages
and i wonder what it was
that caused me to apply
so much force
to a 5cent yellow mechanical
pencil
that can do no more than
breathe sentience into my
thoughts,
my drawling thoughts,
and remind me that i've been
wearing gym shorts and a
grey t-shirt with the logo of
a bar i've never even been
to before
for about three days now.
i guess
i'm expecting the wrong things
to fill me up.
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 1:04 AM UTC
I'll remember your absence
For its the only thing you left
The empty seat next to me
The oddly cold feeling on my chest
The missing cups of cold tea
With only a tad left
Placed mindlessly
In the midst of beautiful thoughtful revelries
When your fingers left indentions in your dress
Indentions in the grass where you slept
As if they were just as hesitant
To see you leave
That they held your shape just to remember you were there
I'll remember your absence
For its the only thing you left
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 12:41 PM UTC
sloping in a manner
where outside the brindled
world, light bends
like all else in loose wind
i can almost see
and make out with what
secret blueprint your
body works in its
mischief - or with what feast
welcomes the bounty of
your secret passages.
take this now. a pint of ether.
or something real like
this look on my face harpooning
your eyes unknowing of their
consequences.
just the subtle hint of
what my mind tries to
unclose in you makes
all shadows of my body frenzied
with tantric thought of doing
this and that and so much more
than just
this and
that...
like squeezing juice out
of the freshest fruits
or watching the rain
taint everything in picturesque
detail - or ****** of
butterflies on a clad flower,
or what the sea haplessly tries
to engrave on the shores with
its frequent, frothing thrusts
or making it all perpetual in
motion trapped in the bona fide
moment. say, i will
feign a moment of
colliding into you and
feel your surrendering force
imprint small indentions
without confiding in the exactitude of this domain where
i have you lured into my song
like a child put
to sleep.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 12:16 AM UTC
I've been spending my nights
Sipping whiskey tainted delights
Weaving together loose threads
I bet that if we dusted my heart
We would only find your finger prints
Finger prints
No indentions
No cave ins
Like you were trying to hold onto it
For fear of losing it when it tried to walk away from you
If you splayed your hands out
You would be able to find my heart beat
Stretching across the first two lines
That join when you put your hands side to side
You can see how it speeds up when I hear your laugh
You can see how it slows down when I think something might be off with you
You could see how it speeds up when I think about your eyes
Writing is the finest paintbrush
That I could ever use to try and impress you
Words sealing seamlessly together
The vibrancy from them mesmerizing you
Convincing you that maybe
Just maybe this once
I'm worth wasting your time on
And staying with for just a bit longer
Along this waltz
Of a waning summer's eve
A speckled splash of falling red
Emerald green joining in the dance
Gold leaf gilding your laugh
Droplets of gray underlining your smile
Only flaking when a saturnine willow weeps
Just for that smile to come back out
The gilded joy of your laughter
Echoing through
Crimson fades
Blue delays
And I find
I get to be stuck here with you
Except I'm not stuck here
I'm happy to be here
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 1:59 AM UTC
Blood spackles, like pretty pictures in a morbid scene of expression. It pools in microscopic indentions in the concrete, assuring this scene can never fully be washed away. The only witness to the crime has been whisked away, in lieu of a chalk outline. Yellow tape ***** in the wind, waving goodbye to the lost. Red and blue flashes ricochet off of every surface, momentarily blinding the shadows before flicking back off.
I stand, back against a tree, still in shock. The gunshots still echo off of the swollen pavement, the clink of the falling brass rings in my ears. But yet, I survived.
Jun 26, 2016
Jun 26, 2016 at 1:13 AM UTC
I hate my inner *****
who flares recurringly, consistently,
cruelly to the surface upon those
who least deserve it.
I hate my inner narcissist
who rears herself
so cleanly
on the outer sleeve of
Me
bashing down while lifting me up
on the shoulders of
comparison
I hate my learned complexes
bred not of my parents
but of a woman who saw a light
and sought only to
consume it.
I hate how amid the dread and sin
every rippled part of these indentions below my skin
I must completely forgive them.
Dec 1, 2020
Dec 1, 2020 at 8:25 AM UTC