"inflected" poems
What is to come?
From a world where our children are given guns to play with,
It’s not the squirting of water,or release of plastic bullets, it’s the message we shoot into their heads .
Triggering violence from adolescence.
Planting seeds of hate,
And watering them with spilled blood .
Waiting for the fruit to ripen, but it never does,
Now we have the taste of bitterness lingering on our mouths.
That bitterness stays on our tongues ,
So that when we speak, that’s all that comes out.
You see Somehow the fruit is never as sweet as when it’s forbidden.
Sugared by sin,
Borrowed from thy neighbor, because when it’s sin there’s always enough to go around.
What is to come?
From a world where we are told to express ourselves , but within the guidelines.
Told that the world is your canvas , but restricted to only the color white.
It isn’t as pure as it seems.
Underneath the white paint lies splashes of read , gushing from a black body.
There is no canvas, all we are given is a painted picture, of what perfect looks like.
So that we Erase anything that doesn’t fit the image.
The slightest difference is reason for war.
Be it the quantity of melanin
Be it religion
Be it Gender.
What is to come?
Of a world that is only tolerable through the shade of intoxication .
Where pills serve as capsules of happiness
We are our biggest enemy,
Our pain is self inflected.
If this is what it is ,to be human
What is the cure?
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 11:09 PM UTC
I sit outside the jail house, this Sunday afternoon.
I watch the parade of people, going in and out so soon.
The visits here, come and gone. Time swiftly passes on.
The sadness shows on each face for the one which they belong.
The mother walks with their child, quietly through the door
To see a father not coming home, for many days or more.
They sit and wait so patiently for their short time to be
For twenty minutes on the phone, their “daddy” they will see.
So close are they but yet so far, no touching through the pane.
Fingers spread, hearts are breaking, their future down the drain.
The question on the little lips, will daddy come home now?
Soon, we hope, my dear child, maybe next week, somehow.
The parents come to visit him, with thoughts of shattered dreams.
The hopes they had for many years, are gone, so it seems.
They put on a smile, push back fears, to keep alive some hope.
They wonder “why, what went wrong, how will we ever cope?”
The pain inflected, bad decisions, when drugs have taken hold.
Ruined lives of those around them, the broken promise told.
His family grieves the senselessness, of life’s potential lost.
Hope now seems a fleeting dream, the family pays the cost.
Then comes a chance from the judge, “six months” he did say.
“To turn your life around for those who care for you, today.
A broken promise turns months to years, so get it right this time.
Don’t let them down, keep hope alive, as from this hole you climb.”
A broken life, a shattered dream, seems lost in the eyes of man.
When darkness falls, and hope is gone, when all has hit the fan.
God can mend the broken life, He turns darkness into light.
Forgiveness comes to those who ask, through grace and mercy’s might.
For those who choose to dream a dream of a better life to see.
Those who choose to change their hearts, the chains fall off, they’re free.
They turn their back and walk away from the old life to sever.
Redemption is a choice away, where lives are changed forever.
Jun 27, 2010
Jun 27, 2010 at 6:38 PM UTC
the heroes of
those action movies
from the 80s and 90s
always looked
so much cooler
with their split lips
and bloodied noses
than i ever could
as they faced off
against the villain
of the piece
bruised and aching
they would struggle on
regardless of pain
their success set back
but inevitable nonetheless
to be honest
i would love to see
one of those heroes
try to overcome
the villain
of my peace
i've had plenty
of nose bleeds
through the years
but most of them
self-inflected
Aug 30, 2023
Aug 30, 2023 at 9:54 AM UTC
I don't feel it, You say. And, pray tell her
name, my sir, that i may find she thee and prithee
Bear me off to southern sounds, fallow fields,
an altar ground, a garland rope of singing springtime snows.
this may be more than i can--;;
YOU
ARE
NOT
WOR
THW
HILE
and i had such an awful dream last night--
you said, Bronwen, my love;
and i could not sweep her hair from the floorboards
beneath which you hid your ***** mags from mice.
because you tell me about it.
WHOAM?
you speak of gOd like dOgs & i am worthless coinage
in the sewers. the sewers find my dress still hanging from your bones.
your bones your bones your piano finger bones
kiss me again
until my lips swell my throat bleeds i do not want you to know how much i crawl spiderlike through the trails of hair in the drain as the autumn leaves the summer leaves the spring buds freeze over hell i am not i am not listening pan-drum please let me say this one last thing:;
he is your accordion player the ***** player man who speaks fluent french and inflected english he is your accordion player on the pipes-----
and you say i do not feel and i reply,
this is too bad too late, chuckle replay as your fantasy walks through the door my team my team she is porcelain lovely see the perfume in your synesthesia colorblind goat footed grandiose Cesar with epilepsy she is your dream she is she is she is!
&meanwhile; the trumpet in soul still plays solfeggio---
1 2 le 3 4 1 2 le 3---1 2 le 3 4 1 3--le 1 le 3 le 1
she is the discord of the seventh in the tenor line
she is membranes she is rain she is towels
LEIGH **** IT
if only if only you weren't so lonely i might call you mine and bring you back homely.
IF ONLY-----Charles weren't so busy while you
stare at silver spoons and cherub smiles
and cupid calls you home again.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 1:37 AM UTC
You ever think about how shallow some people are?
So shallow that if you stepped in a puddle of them your feet would still be dry
The people who aim to do things, maybe even great things just to impress or gratify someone
To put someone down
To make up for some kind of weakness
To prove others wrong
Those who create this image of themselves that appeases others perception of them
Money
Material things
Cars
Planes
Designer clothes
Gizmos and gadgets
Things that don't mean anything more than a look see to anyone of real depth
You know depth?
To appreciate everything you're lucky enough to have or gain
To understand the little things and the bigger picture
To have been through hardships and learned from them
Empathy
Patience
Passion
Creativity
Selflessness
Respect
Depth
But then, there is something worse than being shallow
Hollow
To be empty of anything
No desires
No pleasure
Just numb hopelessness
The ones who have been hurt and just couldn't get back up
And fill the void with either drugs, things of only monetary value or self-inflected lashings of pity, loathing and mistrust
They look at the ones with depth and see them as idiotic idealists with no direction or any idea what it means to be part of a normal society
They look at the shallow ones and see great figures of wealthy stature
Exciting lives being lead by beautiful elitists
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC
Angelic demons
Loaded with hives
Of violence and blood
A rash of tribes
Infected
Dissected
Inflected with sin
Built to lose
Broken to win
God is with us
In the end
To the darkness
We descend
This job is not ours
We did it for hours
Brick by brick
We built a wall
And then the third took a fall
We were on the rack
Never going back
On the rack
Never going back
Exit hell
Don't pass go
Paid in blood
Real slow
We saw red
Thousands dead
Needed a sacrifice
Something to gain
So they wouldn't be in pain
We fought in vain
Nothing but vanity
Murderous sanity
Forgive me father
For diminishing this sanctity
That you helped create
They pricked our lips
I poisoned the state
This fear means they won
Every victory
They gain unamerican sone
They are on the rack
We are back
On the rack
We are back
Back to hell
Where the blood swells
With good intentions
And no dissension
Security not guaranteed
If we are freed
We have no hope no will
Just buckets of pain and swill
Don't fight for the right
Fight for the pain
Fight for the fallen and the slain
Send them in pieces to their maker
Until you to are a husk
A baker
Of suffering and pain
Of bodies lain
Down in the name of hate
Our appetites will not sate
We will not satisfy
Until that desert is spread
Over the whole globe
We will only testify
Of the strobe
Of ashes and ashes
Dust to dust
These beliefs we once held
Sharpened with rust
Burn it down
Burn it down
Burn it down
Burn it down
Burn it down
Burn it down
Burn it down
Burn it down
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 8:04 PM UTC
They say,
that nothing you do is of much significance,
there's nothing you'll do that is of much importance,
but the small impact you make,
you have to do.
They say,
That your finger prints are permanent,
on someones life when you grab hold.
no matter how meek,
you leave your mark on their crime scene.
They say,
that love conquers all.
Your knight in shining armor will save you.
A young little pretty woman will love you for you and nurture you,
until together you die,
on a warm day in bed together,
to continue your lives in eternity, in blissful peace.
They never say the truth.
The story of how we just so happen to be here.
How the only difference betwixt us and an animal is that we escaped natures food chain,
and have made our own controlled by pieces of paper and fat pigs congratulating eachother over brandy and illegal drugs on wall street feeding on our developed Darwinist society.
They never say
How no matter what you'll do your efforts are deleted months after your enviable death.
Self inflected or other wise.
So why do we value our fingerprint lives so dearly?
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 3:17 PM UTC
He found himself with painted walls, fish tanks, and a wiener dog. A place to sleep, a place to eat, a fine couch to rest his feet. A barbecue that was sturdy and new, a fridge of craft beer the finest of brew. But aside all the comforts and things on the walls the one thing that was most comforting of all, was a little blonde who would follow him around, who turned him right-side up when he was upside down. A girl who was worried about only him; and tried everything to set him free. Free of a troubled mind that could not find the time for anyone but him. No matter her struggle, her talks, or her love, he would not cave to all the above. It came to the point where she had to go, she'd lost the person she loved the most. She left in a blink with her head in the fog, taking the pictures, fish tanks, and the wiener dog. The girl that knew him oh so well could not save him from an imprisoned hell. The self-inflected wound that would not mend; but conform as the standard of life he led. A blank canvas is all that he knew, no pictures on the walls, no new barbecue. No more snoring at night or meeting for fun, this fairy tale was finally done. It passed so fast and looking back was it worth it for where he's at? Is this the place where he should be? Two job's, school, and a shattered dream. She was his love, his hope, his home, and now it's just him all alone.
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 4:11 PM UTC
Sometime, I'll have a dream
A dream in which I'll be engaging in ***
With the loose folds of skin and cellulite
Around Maya Angelou's neck
I use the word engage b/c I don't think
It'll be my idea or if I would even want to be a completely willing
Participant
You know how dreams go:
You're able to detach
So anyway, all the while she'll be reciting her verse
In that overly inflected, pretentious and annoying grandmotherly Huxtable
Tone she uses and
Right as the nauseousness becomes unbearable
And I fear I won't be able to keep the contents of my
Stomach from forcing itself out and onto her face
She starts to devour the entirety of my lower abdomen
The sickness I was feeling quickly dissipating and the
Realization that she's no longer speaking and merely
Gnashing, ripping and eating my viscera
I return to an almost homeostasis
A comfortableness
Copyright © 2009-Present
May 14, 2011
May 14, 2011 at 8:39 PM UTC
There Are So Many Things I Can Say To You,
To Try To Make It Right,
But Nothing Really Can,
I'm Sorry I Hurt You,
But I Can't Erase The Past,
I'm Sorry You Didn't Hear It From Me,
But This Wound Was Made,
Long Before I Was In Love With You,
It Was A Mistake,
It Really Was,
I Believed A Lie,
And The Outcome Still Haunts Me Today...
I'm Sorry That You Are Mad At Me,
I'll Try To Give You Some Space,
I'm Sorry That I Cant Take Away,
The Heartbreak Which I Gave To You,
If I Could I Would,
Because I Have Never Loved Anyone More,
I Am So So Sorry I Let You Down...
I'm Sorry Because I Saw Those Tears In Your Eyes,
I Knew You Didn't Want To Believe,
I Know,
I'm So Sorry I Let Your Hope Down,
I'm So Sorry,
I Crushed Your Loyal Heart....
I Have Never Been Unfaithful To You,
Please Believe That,
I Never Intended To Hurt You,
I Didnt Try To Keep It A Secret,
Because I Was A Liar,
I Kept It From You Because I Didn't Want,
To Talk About It,
I Didn't Want To Feel That Pain Again,
To See The Hurt I Have Inflected On You,
I Wanted To Move On,
Because He Was My Yesterday,
And You Are My Today,
And I Really Hope,
With All My Heart,
You Will Choose To Be My Tomorrow....
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 8:11 PM UTC
Betrayal is not just a stab in the back
It’s a slap in the face
In public
How?
Why would someone do that to another person?
It feels like someone stabbed you in the back
Fixed the wound
Then stabbed it again
Just so they could enjoy watching the pain
Themselves
Knowing they inflected it themselves
Betrayal causes scars
Scars that can never go away
The wound may heal
The scar will always be that reminder
Of who did this to you
But how could someone do this to you
Some people give with all their heart
May care with all their heart
But in the end their heart has a scar
And they get hurt he most
From the betrayal
They may change forever
So before you betray someone
Stop
And
Think
You could change a kind hearted person forever
And yourself will never know what if?
What if I do this?
How will it affect the other person
You might just leave a scar forever
But you’ll never know
Unless you do the right thing to begin with
Every action has an opposite reaction
You never know what will happen
When you leave a scar in someone heart
Every betrayal begins with trust.
Maybe you can’t trust this person
You trust and you may loose
But now you know one thing
THE TRUTH
-Copyright Sam Schemmel
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 10:23 AM UTC
Everyone has their daily struggles
But with depression it's more than doubled
I rise each day to face the sun
But a part of me just wants to run
To hide away and lock the door
Or **** someone and settle the score
The wounds inflected on me I can not hide
You can see them all plainly on every side
They are apart of me, inside and out
I've been prey to many, and my trophy head they mount
In their memory of victims, I'm another count
They did it slow, they took their time, in no hurry
Then sent me off to the f**king taxidermy
They cleaned me up and stuff in the saw dust
But all you see standing before you, is just my crust.
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 5:14 PM UTC
A dream in which I'll be engaging in ***
With the loose folds of skin and cellulite
around Maya Angelou's neck
I use the word engage b/c I don't think
It'll be my idea or if I would even want to be a completely willing
Participant
You know how dreams go: you're able to detach
So anyway, all the while she'll be reciting her verse
In that overly inflected, pretentious and annoying grandmotherly Huxtable
Tone she uses and
Right as the nauseousness becomes unbearable
And I fear I won't be able to keep the contents of my
Stomach from forcing itself out and onto her face
She starts to devour the entirety of my lower abdomen
The sickness I was feeling quickly dissipating and the
Realization that she's no longer speaking and merely
Gnashing, ripping and eating my viscera
I return to an almost homeostasis
A comfortableness
Damon Michael Garrett
Copyright © 1972-Present
Mar 16, 2010
Mar 16, 2010 at 6:39 PM UTC
Everyone has there daily struggles
But with depression it's more than doubled
I rise each day to face the sun
But a part of me just wants to run
To hide away and lock the door
Or **** someone and settle the score
The wounds inflected on me I can not hide
You can see them all plainly on every side
They are apart of me, inside and out
I've been prey to many, and my trophy head they mount
In their memory of victims, I'm another count
They did it slow, they took their time, in no hurry
Then sent me off to the ******* taxidermy
They cleaned me up and stuff in the saw dust
But all you see standing before you, is just my crust.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 8:09 PM UTC
Our interpretation of time
is only backed
by the ego of our arrogance
as if we alone could master
the infinite mysteries of the stars
and chain them to the definition
of the dot to dot constellations
of our limited imaginations
then trap the sands of time
to gears and springs
and strap it to our brittle wrists
as we crown ourselves
the children of a grand designer
who sculpted our flesh alone
in “HIS” most holly image
we know nothing of the things
we pretend to know
as the flaw of our intelligence
is that it is self designed
we are non the better
than the creatures
we share this planet with
other than we deny ourselves
the simple pleasures
of howling at the moon
or singing with the sunrise
or laying on the surface
and in the silence
of the moonlight shimmering
over the still waters of a pond
we make noise
when it is unnecessary
and keep silent
when we should speak out
as the devil in our deeds
is in every detail
of the cruelty
we have spread out through history
sometimes in the name of god
and sometimes in the name of country
and in the times
of our most overindulgent hypocrisy
in the name of both
as we have dived ourselves
by imaginary lines
drawn in the sand
we believe we have trapped
and strapped to our brittle wrists
as if time is only on our side
moving in one direction
playing by our rules
shaped by the god
we created to bless us
for our self inflected
and self indulgent sins
because it is easier
to blame the devil
for the all fruit we steal and horde
but the devil is only real
in the crimes committed
by the blood we have
running in our veins
and the blood we spill
to feed the fear and hatred
of fables and myths too old
for anyone to remember
written in languages
no one has ever spoken or heard
all the while we ignore
the simplest of facts
that when we have gone too far
dropped one too many bombs
let one too many bullets soar
that when fear and hate swallows
the last of us whole
that time will march on without us
and that all in all
all we have strapped to our brittle wrists
is nothing more
than our meaningless egos
Nov 26, 2018
Nov 26, 2018 at 11:11 AM UTC
I didn't know I'd end up here again, especially so quickly after crashing.
But yet again, my heart is an unexpected, fickle thing.
My hair is ***** just like my hands, for I have as much pain and blood on my fingertips as has been inflected upon my heart. Funny how a small little girl from Wonderland can cause so much pain. Innocence was once on my lips, but then the world killed my brother, and then the Jabberwocky came to play.
But where are my manners? Let me invite you to tea, buy you your last meal before I ravage your body with my teeth and claws and words and terrify you when my green eyes before blood-red with the splattering of you. I hate to make people forgettable, so trust me, it'll be a night to remember.
The demons inside come out to play at night, when my defenses are weak, talking of death so easily, when I know I don't have a heart for killing. I only have a heart for destruction and dismemberment of hearts and minds, not lives.
Grace was once so little and pure and kind, but the second blood red graced her sibling's lips, it was over. The monster had come to reside in her.
Red, green, the colors of my heart. Funnily enough, also the colors of Christmas. Didn't know generosity would share the same colors as my envious, greedy, ****** heart.
I am not a fan of myself in the darkness. Perhaps because I see in the nothing a reflection of my own shadows.
Go to bed, dear Grace, before the monster inside eats you. **** you, Jabberwocky, and all your tricks. No one comes back from Wonderland without a tad bit of baggage.
Don't beware the darkness, beware thyself.
Goodnight.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 3:16 AM UTC
Convex curvature, female caricature
In the shiny polished upper side resides my reflection
Up left, roses would strive
To derive right ***** from the
Unparsimonious point of inflection
And what inflection! Phrasing inflected
Sings songs well affected
By the erratic gliding
Of ********* chiding
The inopportune haste of
Her lover
I, graced, sit down in bemusement:
For nor does she bring just a
Knickknack's amusement
Nor do I lug
A source of apologies
Instead our duality slates
Juxtaposition
As the most redundant of tautologies.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 4:29 PM UTC
Seemingly precise yet akimbo
Inflected glares bend windows
Directly begin kin in skin
We sin again.
Yours is mine redefined
More blessed so unaligned.
Sight delight our kindled spite
Adjourn loops and dash hopes
Love longs its wrong devotes.
A myriad making way
Unelectric secrete display
Rolling sheets tumbling say
Let fluid fly demon's prey.
Loping along
Coping strong
Moaning songs
Rejoicing our way
The way to Much.
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 7:29 PM UTC
I knew how I've felt
and its not your fault...
You did love me best,
but I thought all wrong.
I didn't have faith enough to believe-
you'd really do
all you've promised me.
I didn't know the magnitude
of your feeling for me,
nor could Imagine
someone like you
can really want to be with me.
Forever you'd say & I never understood,
couldn't fathom it,
not after all the bitterness in my life.
Someone like you
whose always looking at the positives,
where
I've only focused on the negatives.
I didn't know
that you'd show me
all the possibilities
there was to being loved
so completely!
My hurt consumed me,
I never saw you,
not in the way you've
needed me to.
Too consumed in
my own bitter resentments
to reflect on the agony
being inflected upon you
so much so,
that I've dissipated whatever it were
we could of be and had!
All I could do was
hoard the love you've given,
selfishly cling to it and store it away.
Never did I allow myself
to return the favors of your endearments,
I wasn't able to,
my blindness and hurtful neglect
wouldn't allow me to cave in.
You knew,
I came broken,
confused,
lonely & so used
knew too,
I'd been dealt poorly & left beaten,
bruised
inside,
well as out,
I couldn't risk another let down or set back.
My mind,
nor my heart
wouldn't be persuaded,
I allowed my body to feed off your energy,
allowed you to manifest
within my flowery walls
a safe heaven of ****** bliss.
While I was retaining
the very best parts
of
ME
- away .....
Away from your longing soul
and your
beautiful wondrous heart.
I didn't know
how to let go of my past,
I didn't understand
the beauty of all that you possessed,
someone like you
wanted me for
everything that I am,
good, bad & the very worst
parts of me.
You didn't worry,
long as you had me
all the fibers of my being--
"He"
ie (YOU)
only wished to see me happy,
in love and by your side.
I can't blame you
for letting go,
I can't forget
all the good times and memories
we've shared.
It may just be too late,
yet I'd like to think one day,
maybe next lifetime
perhaps.....
For now
I'll say,
how very
sorry I am
because even
as the words left your lips,
I failed to agree or really understand.
Truth be told
it couldn't be help.
So I hope you'll forgive me,
for I truly,
wholeheartedly,
honestly,
mournfully
- apologetically
Didn't Know!
Always Me Ayeshah ™ ®
K.A.C.L.N ©
All right reserved ®
Copyright 1977 - Present
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 10:50 PM UTC
VII
This is my end
surely this is
the end of it all
all I know is here
and though I am
young this is the end
of life as I know it
now and soon I will
see my home no more
for this is my end
here where I shelter
from all I cannot
think beyond this ending
surely the end of all
I know is here
and will be gone
(after a cine still from 1930 of a St Kllda woman)
XVIIIa
house above the hut
of shadows holds itself
against the relentless wind
on so open a shore
islands and inlets beyond
reasonable number stand
before its policies
its promontory land
Up on the third floor
light fills every corner
expelling its shadows
to the hut held
within its sight
XVIIIb
slowly the darkness
reveals less than
a shadow thrown
against a plastered wall
inside silenced from the wind
an image grows as the eyes
succumb to less than light
used to looking Suggestion
and the memory of outside
supply the rest
(two poems connected by Chris Drury’s Hut of Shadows on North Uist)
XIX
following footsteps
crisp in the sand
hour-fresh from tide-fall
now the shadows form
in the weight of press
the imprint mark
different with every
fall of limb and claw
the 3-pronged bird-foot
the sandaled human
step singular one
before another after
another until perspective
conceals and merges
into distant sand
**
silence suddenly
the ringed plovers
hold their breath
then chorus
a chirping as they wade
together in their own
reflections
the water like glass
at their feet
mirroring
movement that light
hop for a few steps onto
a slight but sturdy island
tweet then terweet
inflected upwards
a questioning call
terweet?
XX1
the taste of salt sea
in the mouth
the touch of water
thick sea-water
on the legs between toes
the sharp cold plunge
immersion envelopment
sunlight throws a cascade
of bright steps across the sea
gradually merging into a band of light
ablaze on the horizon
at the base of distant Monarchs
a silhouette of massed rock
rises from the sea crowned
by static clouds decorating the sky
gentle white ermine-soft
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 3:40 AM UTC
Somehow, I need to learn to strangle the insomniac,
self-inflected, narcissistic monster.
I feel you every god **** day in my fingers, in my bones,
under my skin, thudding hard against my veins.
You pour out so smooth in my words,
and through any **** pen in my shaking hand.
Do you think there’s any hope left in me?
Any innocence spared?
I’d count for the first, but the second’s a toughie.
I’m sick of seeing the same thing when I close my eyes,
and craving the same thing
between my sheets.
This train better stop soon,
or if it’s crashed somewhere-
somewhere deep,
deep down in a place we’d both dare not visit again-
do you wonder if the passengers survived,
and who will appear when the smoke clears?
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 6:22 PM UTC
trying bad knew day think fight feeling know annoying lying time months tell like sure observe afternoon participant folds pass iron ask realization neck conversation pain poetaster tuesdays busy night lung sake sickness movies gets body reason turns incessantly awakens doesnt ones lifes gnashing try despondency
way pretentious idea cellulite strewn years fallen finally given stomach qualify spectacle necessary watching christ harbinger unconsciously thing girl loose walls unbearable start reach smile needing violent mean slowly engage engaging cell face sung struggle tone shes song cheaply correct contents normally quickly asleep close plea dark personality overly devour actions viscera completely eating list attractive liar power does figured use morning suffer
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nauseousness huxtable inflected angelous angelou itll dissipating impress giving lower relent articulate poetry doldrums wise left alot hate cheeks entirety perceived result willing mild speaking concedepretend skin alive shell death tantamount everytime ripping afloat worth adamisdronicus succession press hang jeanpaul speak dysthmic means dinner dreams sobriety bones repeatedly *** pang bc painted reallythat
May 16, 2010
May 16, 2010 at 10:28 PM UTC
I’m reading my dictionary with the pages missing
Of all the words that I’d much rather be dismissing
It’s much easier to ignore what’s been written
To stop the queue of a page that’s already printing
Listen
Cause we live where we can rip anything out that we don’t like
Take out words like bomb raids and hunger strike
My dictionary might be a little lifelike
It’s saying what I can and can’t do for a klondike
unlike
Sitting down and facing brown reality
Taking very simple things making hyperbole
To realize you might be a nobody
Cause there’s nothing that life can guarantee
Do you agree
To be afraid of a word in a book is nonsense
Maybe I don’t understand the context
But is there really that much weighing on your conscious
That reading is like consuming tons of toxins
Word
Everyone likes to tell me what I can and can’t say
But I like to disobey and I say it anyway
Any way that I can
To get my point across
Any way that I play
with word play
and words say
how much you can weigh
and can you be gay
or can you horseplay
on the Lord’s day
and hey
I take the highway
As my getaway
But the signs are on display
on where I can turn
and when should I yield
And still the words reflect
on my windshield
but what’s in a word
bird
I hear bird’s the word
But let me reword my password
Cause it’s too simple
To unlock the emotions of other people
When they wear their heart on their sleeve
Strung together with staples
And it is a staple
That I should be graceful
And tasteful
Not be wasteful of my words
Cause that’s all I got
and it seems I forgot
to boycott the
thought talk
and just keep it to myself
Because words are powerful
And I am not
And too often I hide behind them
And finally I’m giving it a second thought
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 2:11 AM UTC
I speak to you in riddles
A mismatch of half formed inflections and watered down complimentary words
I constantly tailor my speech to try and fix the places you need patched
Attempting stitches to fix the pools of pain lingering in the spaces between the freckles spanning your back,
My fingers try to touch them away but my hands cant block the bruising spread beneath the plane of your skin.
You’ve become one of those heartbeats I have to keep my eye on for fear it will scatter down the screen and never return,
Your clothes are brightly colored, meant to weather the wind, but on your thin frame they trap you like wetted wool
Making it impossible for you to leave the form you possessed in the past.
I try different types of talking these days
Leaving maps for you to find the thinly veiled meaning behind the paper kisses
And the gold-leafed print floating inside the swirls of my lips
The pads of my fingers try to score your jaw with reminders
That the only thing hollow is the space between your neck and your chest
And the words I whisper into your void is heavy with inflected subtext.
I want to place your quilting back around your heart,
Make your veins more insular to keep the warmth inside that instead trickles out through your hands and feet that never feel the sun,
Your body temperature is constant and chills my intonations,
I can’t give what you won’t take and every day its 20 degrees.
I hope that in your desperation to forget the words you will better remember their meanings.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
A.
drone this day empirical
from where we were once the we
rained from, a high excursion
which savvy the drop, weighing in, a fault
trying to convince the day when Sun
embellished from the ravine of your hand,
a catacomb secured by the rolling
of your body like a boulder keeping
a minute sacred, christened an evinced noon
that was your repetitive finding. onto
a netted frame caught, dripping out of
a felt space in need for graphs to measure
from, a well unnamed which presence
resembling your body, resounding
the fluency of what the physical ascribes
an iamb of a crowd inverted, diminishing
and inflected in a day's livid sigh
housed in a jar that is a mouth
words assemble an ikebana willing
a delayed color that was a lack.
held a device that was a sky
or a gleaming face with a high price
claiming a solstitial -- when I went
to your home it was Saturday all
week inside my ribcage chiming worship.
plastered to a sheen all is equal underneath
equatorial tracing a sphere when
I found stroking the innards of a calendar
it is November. it is Saturday.
B.
he comes from
low wattage this night's post
a wonderful polyp
to begin a
blight
apparently so from a cut blackest gutter
carrying an ample water virulent
when taken in and again in
a savingslight of metamorphosis
climbs vertical so the winged moon
is a black bird in the blackest
cage / baltic a different fraternity
of land with the same pictorial
this lovely stillness calling it work
a flood could mean pernicious is blood
brewed from this climate
it is here past Mandaue hillsides dreaming
if place were rumored as same-silent.
May 28, 2016
May 28, 2016 at 7:45 AM UTC