"indents" poems
i gave my heart away to a traveler in ****** shoes,
he had pretty eyes that made up for his pretty lies,
and now i don't know what to do.
i gave my soul away to a girl that said she worked for god,
she had oil in her hair but i didn't really care,
but she wasn't at all what i'd thought.
i gave my dreams to an artist i met down the street,
he knew what buttons to press to make me scream,
and now i'm not so sure that was a good thing.
i fell for a rose i thought was thriving,
but she was wilted, she was dying,
and i left quick as lightning.
i gave my limbs to a walking light beam,
he was made of this steel that tightly wrapped around me,
but these indents in my bones are a little too extreme.
i gave my poetry to the monster under my bed,
she crawled in and promised in the morning we'd be wed,
and now there's no rings but a shadow begging me to turn off the sun instead.
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 2:47 PM UTC
My hands fidget.
I will tell you when I see you that
my fingers could break when I speak,
loose from the chicken wire houses that pin them to nail holes
no one sees and my words could snap
with them, straight down their spines.
My hands fidget and my tongue trips.
One day I won’t be allowed to see your eyes, your eyes when the sun hits them and they turn green, your eyes when they're blue, when you're being real. Or both.
The sun is in your eyes and it's setting.
I think I could be the moon,
we could meet at every eclipse,
create our own lightshow in the sky or make them notice us just for five minutes,
the kids sat on steps behind the sports centre,
I will tell you when I see you that you are so ******* smart you could ruin the world with it, so why can’t I tell you this, so why can’t my hands stay still?
I want to feel the way my mouth tingles when we sit, you murmuring in my ear that you could spend all day here,
alone with the indents of each other's lips.
I guess if we ruined the world I wouldn't even feel Numb, the Nirvana song.
My hands fidget.
Recently I stuck a sticker over my fear of death to try and be as brave as you and now I am Nevermind,
I can't feel a thing.
My tongue sits still when I try to speak about thinking and when I think of losing you I see Topcat, Pink Panther and this time my mind trips over itself.
I chew my lips and the corners of my mouth close.
I can’t see in the dark like I can’t breathe when I see cartoons like I can’t see **** when you say we need to talk like I’m scared of the ******* dark so please walk me home.
You find my hair bobbles at your house and I'm sorry that that last one wasn’t a metaphor.
I imagine the space behind your closed eyelids looks like a dark place at 3am where you exhale smoke.
I imagine the space behind mine is inhaling, coughing and static in the form of a thousand headlights blinking
and
it burns.
My hands fidget.
You call me out and it sounds like my brain not being able to hold itself still, I can't,
I can't stop fidgeting under those blue-green eyes.
When you tell me you love me my fingers stay still.
When I think it's loud like nerve endings screaming at me ******* react like
controlling hands, interconnecting veins jumping from wrists,
hazy.
The stuff of nightmares where you say I don’t trust you
but I know that your hands on my wrists would not,
do not,
burn
like that.
I will tell you when I see you
I will not wrap you in chicken wire.
I am writing to tell you that when you speak my hands stay still.
I am trying to say that nothing snaps and my head is
quiet.
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 6:27 AM UTC
-is to feel the glow of light
even in darkness
is to want now to last forever
while still anticipating
tomorrow
is to draw a future
between the cracks of your smile
is to fill myself
in the lifeline of your palm
is to color cheeks into blush
at the sight of your gaze
is to stretch a smile
into a mountain range
is to pour myself
in the indents of your ribcage
is to hear a reminder of you
every time a love song plays
is to finally understand
why they were made
is to not have fully understood
a good night of sleep
until it is spent by your side
to be with you-
is to find god in our silence
to see the holy in our touching
to say grace for this feeling
and pray for it to stay.
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 9:59 PM UTC
I am melting into a dream of tangerines;
Falling, passing the branches of citrus blossoms that once were.
I land on a rigid peel,
the brightest orange in the colored pencil set.
There are indents in the skin,
depressions, each belonging to a different story,
this tangerine has been through a lot.
**From a young bud,
to a ripe fruit,
it has grown.**
Do not make the mistake of calling it an orange, or a clementine,
it is not.
It is a tangerine.
Peeling it almost sounds like a symphony.
Inch by inch, the orchestral rhythm plays off,
until you are slicing it, accidentally rupturing its walls,
in that moment, it sounds like a little boy, who doesn’t quite understand why it’s encouraged to chew with your mouth closed.
A tangerine,
each segment of it looks like half a pair of healthy lungs,
pure, and fresh.
It is a surprise when you bite into it.
Realize, the prettiest things are not always the sweetest,
they can be a little tangy, a little sour.
The taste bouncing off the inside of your mouth like it is a trampoline.
Realize, it is a tangerine;
**from a young bud,
to a ripe fruit,
it has grown.**
Jan 29, 2017
Jan 29, 2017 at 2:32 PM UTC
I call you an *****
An ***** player,
Player of hearts and eyes alike
Your fingers pressed to the porcelain
as if the weather depends on
whether or not the pipes pipe up
as if a heart does not beat without
your hands repairing the metal indents
An ***** donor,
Donor of drunken livers and stomachs full of barbed wire fencing
Your lips pointed upward once awakened from dissection
as if you could lacerate a human being from the inside
and go on being
as if keeping them in liquor-filled mason jars
will cradle their fear
An ***** system,
Without a skeleton or bandaids to piece yourself together
You bleed out and ignite a single flame
as if you could burn a house down
with all your leaving
as if you could survive a life spineless
not living but breathing
DDD
(11/10/2013)
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 1:02 AM UTC
vase.
your fingers;
so delicate
and fragile;
cool to the touch
as i allow
my fingertips
to trail down
the surface
of your smooth skin;
almost like porcelain
to the touch,
you calmed me,
just being in the same vicinity as you
made me suddenly feel
overcome with a sense
of serenity,
of peace
and because of this,
i couldn't get enough of you;
i had never in my life
seen anything i regarded
as remotely close to
as beautiful as you were,
causing me to place you
on the highest of pedestals,
an insurmountable target
with which i used
to compare
every other person;
and none of them did;
the way
you complemented a room
made me have to compliment you
for i have not once
come across something
so pure,
an untainted piece of art
that i fear
will leave my life
sooner than i'd like,
for,
by a stroke
of awful luck,
you'd been dropped
many a time
by undeserving people
that didn't recognize
the priceless masterpiece
they once had
to call their own,
leaving you
to pick up the shattered pieces of yourself
and put them all back together
and while there are scars,
permanent indents and grooves
endlessly reminiscing previous pain,
i am not deterred in my quest
to show the whole world
what a magnificent specimen you are.
and because of this,
i vow to cradle you,
to protect you,
and to love you;
and i'll hope, every week,
that you like the flowers
i got for you to hold
(they glimmer well
with the hint of your eyes)
when the light
from the early morning sun
illuminates every corner
of those daisies,
and more importantly,
the beautiful vaselike angel
caressing them
as if she's the only thing
keeping them from
the rest of the world;
the parts of reality
that don't notice,
that don't realize
the significance
and the simple beauty
inside of both of them;
which is why, darling
i understand
with your broken past
you fear falling apart
but i promise
to keep you safe
after all,
you're my work of heart.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 4:08 PM UTC
Memory comes quickly and goes faster still.
Childhood blurs and bends from the action
to nostalgia to nothing to a surprise visit
and ultimately, back to nothing.
It's never formal, opting out of knocking
before entering with muddy sneakers
and corn-butter-dribbled chin.
The hues of a late, summer afternoon
filled with fireflies and barbecue smell
connect the doorbell circuit
and make itself at home
before ears or legs can bid welcome.
Smile and greet one another breathless
only to depart at a moment's notice
as if the nomad suddenly realized
that no crop or solace remains.
So distinctly different
than that of a severed relationship,
which typically takes its bitter, sweet time.
For months, that fracture can stay and continue asking
for another Earl Grey and bowlful of discontent,
adding in spurts of lonely self-conversation
every several, silence-ridden hours.
Eventually, ever so carefully and quietly,
it tip-toes away with lip-marked cup and peacoat
at the moment when you've unwillingly returned
from the kitchen to fill pained guest's requests
but the only thing that remains
are indents in the leather armrests
and moisture gone cold.
Flashed across mind's eye and on its way.
The hollow fills itself endlessly with present
and distantly connects with past to find
that neither can be here while the other exists.
Start again and re-ember remembering,
drifted away on a silent plane
of glazed eyes and wide smile.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 10:42 PM UTC
Some are cast in metal
others chipped from stone
yet more are shaped by hand in clay
what you sculpt, you own.
When your arms wrapped around me
I felt a process start
to render me defenceless
'gainst your sacred art.
I yielded to your motion
gave my skin up to the blade
had no cause to resist
the image you had made.
My essence pooled in trickles
flooding indents as you pressed
your fingertips into my flesh
there in rapture, I was blessed.
I yearned to feel the chisel
every scrape an evolution
each fetter of the holy rasp
my growing absolution.
I stand in gleaming marble
posed by you alone
forever on this pedestal
inert upon my throne.
In fatal love I slumber
and wishes are for fools
in luminescent, aching stone
naked of your tools.
Each tapping point a petal,
the slamming maul of lust
where once caressed by chisels
now I gather dust.
I dream of you approaching
to polish me anew
so I may shine in constant thanks
at being made by you.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 11:34 AM UTC
Do we ever forget what we see?
Do we enact what we believe?
Do we arm the spine of our diaries?
To self-detonate to remain drama-free?
Sometimes my intent indents ignorance,
But maybe I've umpired too many bazookas,
And wore out the strength of my remembrance,
Catching rockets aimed at this loser,
Loser?
What are you talking about?
Lost the L in Laughter
Lost the O in Optimistic,
Lost the S in Simplicity,
Lost the E in Expressionistic,
Lost the R in Reality,
So now my soul's succumbed to gravity,
Tragically hatching my apathy with a Whack-a-mole mallet,
A dastardly dressed casualty,
Actually,
I'm trying to reverse the black magic curse and verse my happiness,
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 4:55 PM UTC
thought breeds fear breeds hesitation breeds inactivity breeds regret breeds sorrow breeds this second
lying against the wall, heavy paint consuming terminal strands
ink stains on two-dollar offwhite notes
whose words are these?
not sure.
this second breeds disappointment breeds apathy breeds hopelessness breeds fatigue breeds long sleep
rivulets make short indents, slipping clockwork makes little difference
words by heart fall from cracked lip skin
whose laments are these?
I understand.
and wish I didn't.
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 8:24 PM UTC
darling they've found the body
curled up among the leaves
echoing the quiet decay
savoring the dying day
darling they've found the body
crying under the porch
choking on the insects
still she swallows more
pull out the nails
unwrap the barbed wire
cut the noose
pull out the nails
unwrap the barbed wire
cut the noose
darling they've found the body
on you're side on the bed
shes wearing white sheets
there are no eyes in her head
darling they've found the body
sitting in your place
talking with your voice
wearing half your face
pull out the nails
unwrap the barbed wire
cut the noose
pull out the nails
unwrap the barbed wire
cut the noose
darling they've found the body
her hands are around your throat
settling into indents
she put there long ago
darling they've found the body
they dig her up
wherever we go
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 6:04 PM UTC
Imagine,
A slippery, charcoal, behemoth of a rock
Lying dormant, as if sleeping,
Under the comfort of a seabed.
Waves are crashing onto
The shoreline,
Rippling across the weightless,
Unblemished sand
As though it were hair
Gently being pushed across your face
The almost unnoticeable,
Yet constant breeze
Of the in and outs of your breath
Are the only constant left.
Small indents,
The size of dimples
Are the only remains visible
A last and final reminiscent memory
Of the grace that was once there.
An almost tranquil sendoff
As the water gets pulled back into the expanse
An expanse as deep and as beautiful
As the locks of your hair.
Unconscious thoughts dart through my mind
As quickly as the most nervous fish
Conjuring pictures and images
As vivid as Van Gogh’s
Streaked with lost and quickly forgotten words
Like a smoothed out seashell
Pulled under and out into the sea
To a place more wondrous than the eye will ever see
The shells float away,
Making one last attempt to stay above the water’s surface
To stay conscious.
But the smell of the air,
Mixed with the comfort of the water
Coaxes it back
Like a siren’s song.
Under those waves,
Beautiful waves,
The same everlasting and flowing haven I have fallen into
,
The endless,
unexplored, untouched,
Flawless shelter of your locks.
The ones that gently touch against my sand-colored skin
Lulling me and inviting me to drift away,
Away, back into the expanse of a dreamland
One almost as endless
As the ocean of us.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 1:48 AM UTC
peanut butter and jelly
smooth crunch,
dilapidated layers,
crushed into,
nuts and margarine,
it seems those screams,
in dreams are clarity,
in reality,
whispers of margins,
so close,
shaves and wavy days,
charging in %’s in head rests,
pieces left in indents of you,
on the mattress.
The fact is,
subjective to the
context of sparks,
ignited by espionage,
rubber gloves,
the ****** scope,
from afar,
how did we cope
before they put us together,
in jars.
The antithesis,
of all we can be.
Weak at the knees.
Peanut butter and jelly,
ready to eat.
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 5:22 PM UTC
I found a carving made of wood
A carving I made and
Never really understood
The shape was awfully made
And yet at the time
Emitted an aura that felt good
The raw quality,
The way light fell on it,
At the time I could only think
The carving was perfect,
The way that it stood.
I found a wood carving that I hid
Away from my mind
So that I could bid
Farewell to the misplaced notches and indents
That surfaced on the carving.
Why did I leave pieces here
And cut off parts there?
What experience did I have in carving
Such an obscene piece?
Of myself, the carving, I would rid
But if only I could
Forget what I did
What I carved
What I was amid
But I cannot
The reason I didn't understand
The decisions I made
Was because
I understood the decisions I made.
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 7:04 AM UTC
I’ve begun “The Wasting” once more.
That ragged uncovering of bones and peaks and ridges that crop up along my spine and shoulders.
My scapulas revealing themselves like the bed of a lake as the waters recede.
Indents beside and under my kneecaps, hollows that match the ones slowly sinking themselves back into my cheeks.
And the hipbones…the things I truly crave to see through the paper thin layer of my skin…
Those…I’d starve myself to waifish proportions just to graze my hands along the mountaintops of those things, those sharp little things.
I lose my hair and my colour and my shine just to dig my fingers into the hardness of my breastbone, just to know that my jawbone is an overhang, just to plunge headfirst into the thrill of being thin.
“The Wasting” and I are friends, and I want to drown in her.
Jul 6, 2023
Jul 6, 2023 at 2:50 AM UTC
You're all that I have
so,
excuse me if I'm a little mad,
I just don't want you to continue to be sad and
continue to let yourself get hurt so bad,
you already have so many indents still left in you
yet you still pursue actions that will only hurt you,
I've warned you yet you've scorned me.
You don't have to worry about me because I've
already been scorched by the flames too many times,
now what's left of me is I just don't care,
I'm strong,
but you're a fragile being that can easily be snapped still,
You're delicate,
Don't worry though, no matter how many times
you repeat this error or if they are new,
I'll be your personal healer forever and
Stitch up that frail heart,mind, and body of yours.
Cover me with your wounds
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 8:29 AM UTC
Sometimes I forget how well you write
Until I see your words
Laid out before me
You always seem to know exactly what to say
And when I read those words
I feel it
Leaving indents in my brain
Pumping blood through my body
I feel it with every inhale and exhale
My heart stops for a second
Your words paralyze me
And I search for you
Waiting for the next rush
Jun 25, 2017
Jun 25, 2017 at 2:21 PM UTC
faded,
stretch marks specking
skin, lines etched into thighs
and chest.
minuscule,
bijou ruby acne wounds;
concealed behind bangs,
not makeup.
hidden,
crescent fingernail indents
in palms, holding a fist
too tight.
unavoidable,
bumps on the backs
of legs, almost as if crinkled
paper *****
temporary,
blood red threading and
seams on waists, after
shrinking jeans.
saturated,
sangria and eggplant sunsets
ache to touch; swell slightly
before recovery.
these are my organic tattoos.
Jul 10, 2017
Jul 10, 2017 at 4:20 AM UTC
Still a child; fragile, undefined -
trembling, timid and shy -
a body curling inwards
- petals and moonlight -
we're magnetised:
this shared desperation and
fumbling adolescent shame.
A throbbing, suffocated silence -
lost hands and strangled hysteria.
Achingly tiny,
shattered-glass bones flutter,
colliding and entangling;
causing the skin to lift
and contort. To ebb -
a fluid - a pulse.
His shoulder-blades
(the crushingly delicate shiver
of butterfly wings)
cast splintered, mosaic shadows
(sharp and electric
to trace) along
the gasping, groaning spine...
Pharate, we're demolishing ourselves
in a gorgeous, stumbling,
careless collapse -
colliding in cold frenzy, desperate
to hide - burrow - entomb --
to bury ourselves - his mesmerising flesh.
Rasping out - teeth and lip
and tongue - ravenous,
animalistic despair.
With timid breath - to rip, devour, engulf --
to hiss and **** delicious venom.
An ache - a yearning - for absorption,
for skin, for blood -
to be consumed and to consume -
to feel every pain of it -
to be wrecked - to become
the same debris.
I spill out into his shadows,
his indents, his cuts and curves -
their fervent whimpers, electrified palpitations -
and he to mine:
It's as though we're eclosing,
these golden deodorant nymphas - we're quaking through;
tearing apart every sad smother of silk - and now
desolate; forever nothing
but drifting, lambent dust.
Skin like porcelain -
cold and wrong to touch -
yet stomachs hot,
hurtling hot.
Flesh winces - ripples - under
premature pain.
("I'm sorry. I")
He crumbles, cuts
my thighs
and leaves us both with
scars that we, as scars, forever treasure;
and with veins seeping Hemolymph;
to heal, to beat, to grow.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 3:13 PM UTC
You're the answer I hear
when learning misbehaves
friendship running off around hedges
with rounded edges
calling me to figure out the facts
behind neatly pruned leaves
learning what is covered
when they cease
to scatter and dodge
I follow the delectable hints
to where the giggles grow
louder now I'm led toward
your near indecent scent
the flowers in the borders
wriggle with unbound glee
whilst love hides with held breath
in hidden indents
you dare to press up close
against an idle post
where radiance warms
to a chance find in prospect
expectant that your dalliance
will escape my notice
but I see it blooming in pupils
where love's not faked
I find you on a hunch
in the midst of hesitations
when I tease the bush
apart like two explaining pages
opening answering lips
brimming with wild questions
each kiss a knowing release
to lush and flowing fields
that day that friendship faced
the truth of love's sweet tutelage
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 1:16 AM UTC
She asks me,
To calm the ocean storm inside of her.
To harbour in her fickle fears,
And quell her urge to fly or run away.
She asks me,
To silence her cacophony,
A chatter's choir, passion’s angry mob,
And I soft my fingerprints, a lover’s mark,
On the pout of her red, red lips.
Talk to me in confidence and whispers,
She purrs,
As I undo the buttons on her dress,
She says,
Tell me,
No,
Convince me
You have missed me.
She shifts her shoulders,
And
A curtain call of fabric falls free,
Her dress,
A parachute,
Floats into a pretty bunch,
Settles round and round her ankles in a heap.
Sigh.
Sigh as if I'm your last chance to be free, she says,
Her hands in yoga pose behind her back,
Her bra disappears,
A red memory of elastic,
Tribal indents in her skin,
Temptation’s fragrance overwhelms,
Becomes a taste.
She turns her back to me.
Her thumbs hitchhike inside her ******* waist,
She slips them down
Steps out of them,
Naked in high heels, she pirouettes,
Hands above her head,
Her *******
Stiff and brazen buds,
They point and accuse me,
Of some premeditated crime.
Her voice in echo, hardens my intent,
She offers me a carafe of oil,
Warm wet,
Her fingers find the best of me,
Through the thin fabric of my disguise.
Make me shine she murmurs,
Make me slippery and easy to handle, she begs,
My slick hands fill with her,
And I fall fast and forward,
To slip and disappear into a passing cloud.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 12:01 PM UTC
It's been so long since I've touched you
So long since i've felt the scratch of the stubble surrounding your lips
The kind that I always complain about
But deep down i think you know how much I adore
It seems like it's been an eternity since I've felt the softness of your skin
The way it streches over your bones so delicately
My fingers repeatedly outlining the indents of your back
Fitting my hands into the deepest curves
My lips have never felt so lonely
Missing the tickle from even the slightest and most gentle brush of yours against them
Forgetting that talking is their main function
Wishing that instead their only job was to love
My legs hang loosely and awkwardly without having yours to intertwine with
And arms rest on each side of my body feeling desperate for companionship
Hands locked into oneanother
So accustomed to holding
Naturally curling inward
Craving the rough callus of your palms
I did not know
That a body could feel nostalgia
But a need for touch proves otherwise.
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 9:24 AM UTC
I know that this is a puzzle,
with its scattered pieces ,
spread across the floor.
But I can't find,
the pieces that fit together.
I'm stuck staring,
at the picture,
on the box.
Just looking for one piece,
one little piece,
to match,
with the piece of a flower,
that is pressing into my hand,
leaving little red indents,
in my palm.
I look at the puzzle,
just searching
for the one piece that will get me started.
But I can't find it,
it's not there at all.
Well I guess this piece of flower,
will never find its match,
because i'm so blinded
by frustration,
that I just can't see,
the little puzzle piece,
that is right under my nose.
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 9:57 PM UTC
slip your hands down my shoulders, and memorize the pattern of markings. press your soul in fingerprint markings down my calves, make me feel as if i take up space. i need to be reminded of my existence or it might fall away all together. spell your name onto my collarbone in swirling font and count the cubic inches i exhale.
take the mid night hours and spread them apart, find more time in-between and use it to write your animation onto a sheet of paper. drop your words into my mouth, feed me like a starving cub, my palate is dry without your recited weeping.
wind telephone wires around my hands, dig them into my wrists and leave indents not unlike sleep marks. those leave though. contour yourself around the bridge of my nose and seep carefully into my pores, it's refreshing. glide through my hollow middle and decorate my entity with your pretty, pretty being.
Nov 5, 2010
Nov 5, 2010 at 4:49 PM UTC
My sadness is mediocre
My words are bland
The thoughts I think were thought before me, I don't understand.
I don't understand why I feel the way I do
But that's supposed to be okay because neither do you..
or you,
...or you.
I'm sorry but I don't want to be like you, though.
I don't want to be a piece of the pie.
I want to be the pan that the pie shapes itself after.
I want to be a blade, a shepherd, and an imprint in time.
My hair is curly, brown, with bronze streaks.
My mood is fairly down with sullen words my world sinks.
Her hair was dark, eyes containing broken earth and lullabies.
My love was true, the only thing not mediocre and that isn't a lie.
Let's dance on a table in a diner full of orphans, and try not to be slaves
to our loneliness.
...Do you love me?
Yes.
...Oh, okay.
Sometimes I want to die so ******* badly, it's hilarious.
I can't **** myself in case she comes back. How amazing.
I can't cut myself because I don't want to scar my flesh because if I do
it may decrease my chances of getting her back.
Even my motivation is mediocre, and my tolerance so strong it could be
mistaken as pathetic.
Put me in a silver chair from across the room she'll stare. My love will go nowhere and I swear to God we are eternal. And you and I infinite, and the world is the wind behind our feet as we run into the inaudible where the world is mute and where our love is loud, in and on my lips you trace the words you did imprint and from lightning you strike the lettered indents you did or did not meant. I cannot decide.
My mouth tastes of chocolate milk, 1993, and 1996.
Insomnia stains my eyes. I can't go to sleep because I see you.
That was so mediocre.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 3:38 AM UTC