"insulation" poems
Overwhelming mental congestion for perfection,
Socially influenced blueprints of future attraction.
Constructive criticism given by construction workers,
The labor of family and friends for reassurance.
A solid foundation of first impressions,
Structured walls of growth and development.
Insulation of natural feelings and experiences,
Ventilation to cool down the heated encounters.
Electrical wiring of an emotional and physical connection,
A circuitry of passion and romance with a light switch.
Hardwood flooring for candle lit dinners and ballroom dancing,
Granite kitchen counters for intimate midnight snacks.
An attractive exterior siding to woo the public eye,
A secure lock of commitment on all the doors.
A roof of trust, and a picket fence,
And now, my love,
I’m simply yours.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 3:05 PM UTC
Walls of silence,
Of guarded wariness.
Walls of hesitation,
Of experienced caution.
Walls of distrust,
Of practiced isolation.
Walls I put up intentionally.
Walls you tore down unknowingly.
Walls I found crumbled,
The door of my heart opened.
Walls I found breached,
And you were just sitting there.
Walls I had never lived without,
Suddenly seemingly unneeded.
Walls I was glad to let down,
Until you shanked my heart.
Walls I should have fortified
With anger and hate and experience.
Walls of "I know better."
Of "There are NO exceptions to the pattern."
Walls of protection,
Of much needed security.
Walls of insulation,
Of broken-heart bandaging.
Walls I won't let down again.
Thanks to you, I've learned my lesson.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 9:25 PM UTC
In the twilight night
That casts shadows to the day
The cold creeps at the October edges of my single pane windows,
And seeps into my cheaply heated home with newspaper insulation
It catches my toes, and walks up my white hands and grabs my face and nose
The cold grasps firm and goes deep
And in the chilly dieing light
I found a picture of you laughing, tucked into a book I was going to give you
Suddenly I am dragged back to the moment when I fell in love with your soft native eyes.
And your freckled cheeks drawn in an eternal smile
I loved your black hair and your carefree way
The cold is not cold enough for this,
I open a window and the back door.
I finish my drink to the whiskey sharp bottom,
I cast off my blanket and sit as wind comes in.
The cold is not yet cold enough
I add ice and ***** to my glass
Hoping for Russian absolution
But in the freezing flesh core of my sad meat suit,
As the temperature drops to negative numbers
My stupid heart still beats for you
And the cold is not cold enough for this.
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 12:57 AM UTC
March comes like a punching bag
March will bring her smiles like plastic bags
Some tear some don’t
You never know when she will glare her teeth like razorblades and bleed the snow
from underneath these fingertips.
Leave my insulation soaked, me; feverish.
And the joke is, I saw this coming
shivering the melted ice out of me she
bares her grin like a warning sign,
and I was either too brave or dumb enough to step inside
like a welcome mat made out of ice
and a cartoon dog
A scared pitbull, and a woman in charge.
The joke is that haha
There is no joke, you walked in.,
and made one out of yourself.
Out of the frost on your eyelashes and grief on your fingernails.
haha get it,
sweat her out like the coldest fever, without dying of shock.
Get it now?
She brings back the taste of firewood and comfort of flames when you needed it the most
Punches like the best punchline
hard enough to make it hurt
not hard enough to make you forget
hahaha
Knocks the wind out of you.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
I’m thinking of the faded checkered pattern that has been
smoothed away by time on the dark cloth seats of a Nissan Pathfinder
driving down Ryan Road on a hot day in June.
My mother, in the front seat, singing along to a Spice Girls cassette.
I’m thinking: red, plastic, crab-shaped sandbox and
McDonald’s Happy Meal toys.
I’m thinking: light princess pink, seafoam green, and robin’s egg blue.
I’m thinking of a framed cheetah cross stitch, hanging on the wall of what
used to be our bedroom at my grandparent’s house.
I’m thinking: Barbie doll houses and Hot Wheels and a cul-de-sac at
the end of the street.
The sweet smell of cigar smoke. The ice cold splash of the garden hose. The pop of a bubble. The sting of soap in the eye. Dreams by The Cranberries. As Long as You Love Me by The Backstreet Boys. A HelloKitty boombox slowly spitting out vapor when the deck builders hit a power line while digging. The deer in the backyard looking for corn. The faded wood of a playset that was never really played on.
My father: sitting alone on a splintered bench by the firepit at the edge of the woods, empty beer cans at his feet, chain smoking cigarettes, and humming along to a song that is stuck—forever stuck—on the tip of my tongue.
I do not know if this happened. I cannot ask him.
(I’m not sure if I would want to ask him.)
But I can make an educated inference that that line of
fiction is really nonfiction.
A memory that feels like a phantom limb.
Sounds like the sharp crinkle of static.
Covered in a gossamer, dreamlike haze.
There is a distinct otherness to this memory, to who
I think I was before the trauma.
We are two different people. A yin and a yang. A day and a night.
The hermit crab is soft beneath its hard shell.
The asbestos is not apparent within the insulation.
You cannot see the lead in the paint.
The mold inside the fruit.
May 5, 2021
May 5, 2021 at 2:46 AM UTC
I like my headphones for the
Insulation. Sometimes my ears
Take in too much stray noise,
Dredge up too much disorienting
Mud from the depths of a TV
Screen or an iPod. Then I can
Always snuggle into my headphones
And be silent - and silence is a
Dear dear commodity, to be sure,
When every other scene-
Stealing, pudgy-mouthed buffoon
Has to put his ten cents in. So
Much sound should be a sin;
Background music, ambient noise,
Music for airports, and pubescent
Boys screeching from tinny silver
Speakers near the wall. I don't
Want it, not every bit, not all
The hate and the slippery tongues
That speak and salivate and don't
Say anything human. I want to reprimand,
To excommunicate them from
This Holy rite of sound. (And really,
I would be content to never hear
Music if I could block out the roundabout
Fights and the sultry nightlife descriptions
Gushing from my screen, if I could
Use my headphones to keep
That liquid crystal from pouring in
My too needfully silent ears.)
Maybe I'll follow a painter's path:
All visuals and open dripping wet
Wrath with a noisy race. I can be a
Terrifying girl. Cut off my ears and
Be deaf to the world. Wrap me in
Canvas and chase me back into the
Woods on a starry starry night.
Sep 28, 2010
Sep 28, 2010 at 5:29 PM UTC
Four pigeons sing-song, nine hours the day long
Menial and manual, this warehouse life is annual
Lonely industrial estates on a hazy morning
when the ecstatic eastern winds are horning
Where I count boxes, load lorries and dodge bosses
Listen to the birds coo and a phone playing blues too
I give names to them all, the birds in the rafters
and sing a nine hour song of all their ever afters
Dirt under my nails, from a day of insulation sales
The solace I find of an eve is the fantastic words you weave
You who write to live, you who my soul I will give
The ghost of my future self, a rambling poet
working for money, I'll be you I just know it
Simultaneous afterlife, generational satellite
The energy we possess, is transferred with every breath
You are me and I am you, together, nothing we can't do
Some day I'll run wild, a leader of a literary mob
but right now I just dream of such things on the job
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 2:56 PM UTC
I fear how much my heart would bleed
To witness real tragedy
To sink in Flanders Field
To collapse in Choeung Ek
To scream for mercy in Nanking
To beg before the walls of Baghdad
A life of insulation
Pain relative to the first world
My heart hardly calcified
Compared to the bones of those who died
Hardly removed from the horrors of mankind
My drywall castle shields each breath
So hardly removed
From the stench of death
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 12:56 PM UTC
The ruler comes down from on high
Dragging himself along the earth
Insulation going up like confetti
Take cover, take shelter
Ice the size of softballs
Comes streaking from the sky
There’s nowhere left to run
Huddled under the bridge
And then a sound like rushing water
Feels like a freight train overhead
We weep and cry and gnash our teeth
As the trumpet blares
Drove down Telephone Road
Where it crosses the highway
Sandcastles washed out to sea
Old bills put through the shredder
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 12:50 AM UTC
She ***** on a milkshake through a metal straw. Strawberry.
The place, Tom's on Western, is bare. Ash falls outside. It's
sticking to the glass windows. Glass and steel frames
and white paint and white chairs and ash outside.
A taxi cab goes up over the curb. A black woman in a headdress
gets out and tosses money, red money, blood money.
I'm here too sitting by the bathroom, noting the length
of Strawberry Milkshake's boy shorts. Is this objectification
or object reduction or reverse personification?
The siren in the distance winds down, sounds like it's melting.
Do sounds melt? She, Strawberry Milkshake, doesn't
seem bothered by what's going on outside. I want to sink
my teeth into her shoulder. Ash sticks to the glass, and a
kid, eight or nine, runs by, newspaper up over his head.
He's crying. I can see this, but I don't hear this. Water
starts leaking then pouring then falling in sheets. Ceiling
tile and insulation float at my feet. Strawberry Milkshake
pulls her wet hair back into a ponytail. I clear my throat.
She raises her middle finger. I walk over and tell her
there's this song she reminds me of. And a bomb hits just
down the street. There goes the glass, crashing all around
us, slicing past forearms and skipping through empty space.
The steel frames bend. She puts her hand to my face. My
face becomes her face, her hand my hand. She and I half-hum, half-sing
"Oh Destructo, you're so destructive. You're so destructive to me."
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 12:34 AM UTC
I live in a shoe
And before you ask me any questions
Or if this a metaphor
Or try to sell me a spot in the latest **** development
Let me assure you, I most definitely live in a shoe
It is the left shoe to be exact
Worn down and some spots extra layers of duct tape
To keep out the winter cold
And when it gets icy, I have to be careful
For if I jostle it just right, the shoe can slide a couple feet
You may ask me why, when, what and how
And this is what I will say
I used to work at a school, a crossing guard in the morning
Lunch lady in the afternoon, and chaperone seeing the children off in the afternoon
And with budget cuts, my job was the first to hit the floor
And so was my pension
My retirement was limited and with no health care
It was impossible to see a doctor for my growing aches and pain
And I was left with nothing, until I came across this shoe
Abandoned and tattered, I took to fancying it up
Scrubbing it out, making it into a home
It took me a winter or two to get the insulation right
And the city has all but forgotten this area
So for now, I am safe
Before the corporate giants clamor over the countryside
Pulling up homes like weeds so they can plant their boxed in communities
I am okay in my little spot
Not long the runaways found me
In school the children always ran to me for safety, and now
Their children have found me, these lost children
We are a little family of misfits, foraging off the land
Keeping each other safe
In a world that doesn’t even care if we are alive
Mar 11, 2021
Mar 11, 2021 at 2:28 AM UTC
3D Printing
Proud owners of 3D Printers !
Makers of 3D Printers !
Designers of 3D Printers !
What you are creating
Does't hold a candle
To Designer-maker-owner
All-in-one models
Created eons ago !!
It is the female of
Every species of mammals !
Bones, flesh, blood
Nerves, memory cells
Power plants to convert
Food to energy !
Control systems to regulate
Regeneration of fresh cells
Filter system to provide
Clean oxygen to
Fuel the Power Plants
With Powerful binoculars
Audio production mechanics
Audio receptors to pass on
Grey cells enclosed in
Secure and hard shell
Strands of fine hairs
To cushion impact and
As thermal insulation
Protection shields for
All sensory units
Efficient drainage system
Propulsion facilities
Guidance and command
Center for all activities!!
Processors working 24/7
Processing gene information
Tweaking and fine tuning
Some info and trashing a few
Data storage many TB more
Than many data centers could
Offer with minimum
Upkeep and maintenance
Self-Encryption capabilities
And above all the ability
To produce both male and
Female of their species
All from getting just
One ***** and
ultimately infusion
of LIFE
Into the product as casual
As our breathing.
Do we know the creator?
Different Religions have
Different Names for it
But all the same it is
THE ONLY ONE
That counts :-)
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 12:18 PM UTC
All of the pencils in the drawer are broken
Friday Night I'm sick of being alone
Hopping off the curb in search of the killer
Sniffing out the house parties
They like the bass loud and it swells
******* us inside past ten parked cars
They freestyle about
Gun fire and blood on concrete
He said I didn't believe him
Cracked out beyond repair
He shows me the scythe and hammer tattoo on his left breast
I laugh with the proletariat
Cheers and some soul passes me the bottle
Cigarette smoke contained by plaster walls
I'm eight days sober
Don't tread on me
Says a ***** blond next to me on the couch
All strung out she is searching
Searching for a bent spoon and needle in the tall grass
Back yard a bonfire
Walking barefoot on broken
Heineken bottles strewn in the shadows
Popping molly and sweating
She called me a hick
Her dopamine receptors
Rubbed flat by heavy grade sandpaper
I called her nothing
I was too busy watching
The rats scurry against the wall
To their safe warm nest
In the insulation
A hand around my wrist
Milk white incubus
With breath like puked whiskey
I escaped through a hole in the couch
I fell between the cracked leather cushions
And slept with the rats in piles of pink
Fiberglass insulation scratching at the flesh
I slip outside through the cracked window
A woman stands at a console
Turning dials that cause the streetlights to dim
And bleed storefront windows fractals of neon
She asks me what else I would like to know about the world.
Someone tells me to get in and the door shuts
A sound like gunfire I perspire sweat with cough
Syrup scent peaking on the dark road to Okeechobee
I should **** myself or run barefoot again through your head
Where the forest floor is warm and the trees are alive always with birdsong
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 4:14 AM UTC
My voice falls limp,
carried reluctantly
across synapse-space,
landing upon the deaf brick
and insulation. Even this,
this inanimate audience
breathes fog of indifference,
into the speech
I call my song.
They trace shapes,
doodles and musings.
Anything to amuse above
these listless words,
this dead-pan circuitry
of sound, of chorus,
of rote strings, broken chord
and the misery of
unachieved catharsis.
Still, in humble melody,
I mumble through another verse,
fingers rolling in bands of
forever, walking up and
down the root notes,
as if scales were naught but
a busy mind, stilling orbit,
thawing memories
in the motion of music.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 3:41 PM UTC
My window has no seat, why would it? I wish it did.
There is just a glossy magnolia ledge, barely wide enough to
cater a slender bottom. Upon the ledge books and candles
rest, illuminating the murk outside. Directly opposite orchard
trees recede as I welcome autumn with a zealous smirk.
For now faintly visible between their visceral arms are the
all-seeing hillocks that in winter will dominate my view.
An impartial observer once stated they were mere freckles
on the landscapes recumbent spine, but to me their sight alone
is vertiginous. On balmy April days I would surmount them,
a personal expedition, up there where I’m the valleys curator, wearing
pristine white gloves I meticulously unravel the terrain: an ancient
manuscript, the vellum inked with meandering streams, occasional farms,
cursive hamlets and little else - a land of sobriety and dearth.
In November though there is a permanent mist and its source
inexplicable. Does it simply effervesce from the precipitous tors about?
Is it the villager’s enshrined collective sigh? No it is something
more. Sitting atop the villages head it’s the beloved satin bonnet you
wore religiously as a child. Wholly impractical for this season
its gossamer fabric offers little solace or insulation to those below
as its pleated extremities elope with the moss-brown hinterland.
Fervently stoking their hearths the villagers broaden the
ethereal cloth with a smoke not acrid but satisfying and nourishing:
with a terrifically edible, hardwood flavour. From my hillock
vantage, the sanguine stone of the manorial chimneys is all that
penetrates the film; casually they release torrents of smoke like
ivory doves that weft patterns instinctively into the sky’s pallid damask.
©Thomas Gabriel
Dec 9, 2011
Dec 9, 2011 at 6:00 PM UTC
It's said that the earth's magnetic
Polarity will flip
Every few hundred thousand
Years.
But my brain decides to flip
Every few weeks on a trip.
Every look toward the future,
With gloominess leers.
It's like riding on a train,
50/50 through rain
And the other part is on a
Precipice.
But it has no destination,
And's surrounded by insulation.
I can't seem to get off it,
But there aren't any stops to miss.
This journey I'm on, it's
Half pernicious existence,
Half psychotic persistence.
Looks like
I'll need to find a
comfortable chair with a
half decent view.
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 5:05 PM UTC
Beginning with the frost and snow,
anticipation extended its tedious reach again,
but it was not right to suffer as the season
swept around the sun. A member of the
fall, like a tender leaf felt inured, by thought,
a humble intellect to serve the usual course
in words and weather, the pride of a
recurring sort. Weary blades of grass
were striving, even so, to grow against
the warmth in the few weeks, and, as the
skirts were purchased in the stores,
investment ruled to favor amiable, cold
breezes. The house grew quiet as the fans
were stilled for a suspense until the
furnace roared. The issue was patterns in
layers from the top, and the claim to the
design belonged only to the way the ice
expanded as crystals of moisture, crazy,
having forgotten how to caress the blossoms
of the shrubs; thus, a pleasure had gone to
sleep, its circulation numbed by
inevitable force, and conditions hibernated
beneath the indelible clarity of the air. The
splendid gyrations of the course became
obstacles harder on tightened joints, while
contestants moved from the warm climate
to the chilling, northern forests. It remained
possible to survive, because there were other
members of the team such as split sticks of
wood and cradles for sprained elbows. It
could not be suitable to grow tired of such a
challenge. When the door was secured, the
roots could relax and spread out like the
tentacles of a squid, beside the glowing hearth,
to read a book or watch a show. Above, there
was nothing left alive between the earth and
the birds, scratched into the sky and dashed
along the lines of wire. Birds sagged and were
swaying while the gusts played with their bony
feet clutched around the cylinders made of
copper and coated with insulation. Warm
currents and feathers made a thatch for a roof
that favored the roots and left them insulated
while around them slumbering creatures had
been forgotten. No memory existed to claim
the cycle of the warm days when the humming
in space reflected the ripples in the shaded
pools. The endless days were the realm of
vacant threads of branches in the chilly trees.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 8:10 PM UTC
You're always forging me,
to see how far I'll bend.
Hammering me down,
to see how low I can go.
Your heat dances close to me,
but I can't let everyone down.
Though you terrify me,
I would probably still let you cradle me
in your cast iron vice grip
and sing me to sleep,
like Louis
like Ella
crooning,
when I can't breathe.
You could reel me back in
with the promise of
creating something beautiful
and maybe not feeling so
empty and alone
all the time,
but I can't let everyone down.
Your atmosphere ***** at me
and I'm dragging my feet through your sludge,
plodding forward with my eyes cast down.
You know when my mind wanders
or when I'm filling my voids,
so you can sneak in through the cracks
and take your place in my subconscious,
but I can't let everyone down.
I try to remind myself
why your comfort isn't worth it;
like peaking out of my blinds
or chatting with insulation
(coaxing me towards one more)
or fearing the world outside
altogether.
I'm scared because I know
that you're the only thing
that has ever felt like home to me,
but I can't let everyone down.
I can't let everyone down.
Apr 2, 2018
Apr 2, 2018 at 5:08 PM UTC
Plus thirty in scorching sunshine at noon
Heat insulation isolates me from feeling
Warm sensation fries me from your touch
And a contrasting black emptiness inside
Is a distant sort of closeness for me now.
Jun 15, 2013
Jun 15, 2013 at 6:52 AM UTC
I am a writer. A writer that cannot find the words to write down this emotion. A writer out of many. I am not unique or special. I don't stand out. I'm just a writer with a head full of words and a soul full of feeling. I'm your everyday human.
Medically, i'm boring.
Socially, I'm entertaining.
I write while others sleep or fill their lungs with love.
I think while others talk.
I laugh while others cry.
I breathe while most stop.
I'm alive, weather it feels like it or not.
But, least importantly, i'm just a writer.
A writer with a head full of jumbled words and a soul filled with both love and hate. A body that feels numb and a heart for a home with a draft coming in due to little insulation. I'm a tad bit bitter, but aren't we all? I'm far from joyful, but most are now a days.
People change and so does this world.
People are at war with themselves.
People are disgusting.
But i'm a writer, not a person.
I'm a human, not a number.
But to most, i'm just there. Nearly the background music to their lives.
To me, I am a wall. No one gets in and no one can break it down. People have tried, but never succeeded.
I am damaged.
I am a writer.
To some, I am a friend.
To others, a stranger.
To very little, a lover.
To one, a hate.
But I am not any of those things.
I am flesh. Bare to the whole world.
Bare *****
Take a peek inside, you'll see.
People say they're a lot of things. But realistically, in the end of it all, we're all dust intertwining in eachothers specks.
Holding hands as the ship goes under.
All claiming we're the captain.
Where'd the individuals go?
Well, i'm right here. Standing alone. Waiting for something that is actually nothing.
To me, I am an individual.
To others, I am everything else.
To the world, i'm almost non-existant.
I don't search for anything.
But for now, I walk this Earth like many others.
I am just your average person.
Just another writer.
I am just bones and flesh, covered by a sickening disguise.
People say beauty is everywhere, but that's only to the naked eye. Take a look around, you'll see.
Take a look around in me.
Beauty can't be seen by anything.
It's hidden beneathe the depths of the oceans and the heart of the world.
It's hidden within everything.
Beauty is out of reach.
The world is too covered to see it.
We made it this way.
We made this world ugly.
But what do I know?
I am just a writer.
Your average joe stranger.
I am your sleepless dream.
I am your weakness.
Your strength.
Your hate.
Your love.
Your entertainment.
But I am not yours.
I am not anybody.
I am me.
I am an individual and this is why I stand alone.
I am content.
I will manage.
The world will still spin round, once i'm gone.
Aswell as once we're all gone, because the world waits for no one.
Jun 9, 2011
Jun 9, 2011 at 7:21 AM UTC
The world can be a painful place
when its all so far away
perhaps a hermits life is better
as close to home you always stay
If you do not gaze on foreign shores
will you still desire to roam?
Is it possible that happiness
can be found so close to home
If you do not see the beauty
that lives in foreign lands
Will your spirit find its soul mate
amongst those closer to hand
Ignorance is bliss they say
and while that may not be true
Disappointment comes with pain
that is harder to undo
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 5:27 PM UTC
Capacitor plate ల మద్య insulation లా నీ feelings దాచేసావే.
Diode forward bias లా నీ మనసు చప్పట్లు pass చెయ్యవే .
Zener reverse bias లా నా voltage stabilise చేసేయ్యవే .
Transistor regions లాగా ముచ్చు మూడైనా stages లో ఉన్నావే .
Cut చేసే వీలుమ్డే cut-off నుండి బయటకిరావే.
మితిమీరే అవకాశం ఉండే saturation నుండి తప్పుకుపోవే .
Universal Acceptance లా active stage కి చేరిపోవే .
Amplifier లాగా నీ ప్రేమను సైతం double triple అవ్వాలే .
ఎ input లేని స్పందించే oscillator నా heart అది chese beat ఏలే .
Infinite oscillations తో నీవెనకే నేను నాతొ నా ప్రేమ .
నన్ను control చేసే feedback loop ఎ నువ్వు .
నువ్వు చెప్పింది చేసే circuit నేను .
Transistor లా Switch అల్లే మన ఇరువురి ప్రేమని connect చేసేసే .
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 10:50 AM UTC
I knew the prettiest lady
She had more flavor than gravy
Her hair came all the way down there
And when she grab me she leaves streaks that's ashy
Manicure on her nails
Her eyes are rarely surprised and water never pour from her wells
Well, well
Oh Where oh where oh where could she be
As I'm searching I started to say oh well
But oh I can see
I can tell the reason why I couldn't see
Her is no longer she
She allowed the salt of the sea to waiver
So now when I wave to her
She performs as a stranger
I'm thinking how to tame her
Put a lapse to the substance that claims her
When we were in school she used to be my major
I studied everything which made her lovely
Now everything is fuzzy
With minor putty
Indicating that
I never accepted her insulation
In fact
We never drawn a line
So when we separated
Her course; I traced it
Of course not blatant
Though curious and tenacious
I was waiting and waiting
For this???
I remember her ample lips
And her apple-shaped hips
Take a lick of her stomach and tasted a hint of apple crisp
Her thighs reminded me of pie
And when her juices trickled down it sparkled like cider
Waited for this?
WHAT IS THIS?
Now I wish I can erase her face out of my cerebrum
Never mind all that I had to say about her
Forget about it
This is the part when I walk past her like I don't see her
...
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 10:52 PM UTC
the boy in front of me asked if the mushroom lasagna was any good
and the woman just shook her head no and said but the chicken was
so I got the chicken even though I wanted the lasagna
and it tasted like pink insulation with too much salt.
my friends and I recorded a song in a mobile studio last night
and the crowd of people around us danced and smiled and sang along
so we sang louder even though we knew we were bad
and discovered that morning that the CD they gave us at the end was blank.
my teacher asked me a question that I didn't know the answer to
and I turned to my neighbor and he whispered it in my ear
so I repeated it even though my throat was clenching up
and I choked back tears that I couldn't explain as I sunk farther into my seat.
my throat is dry just like that chicken and scratchy and sore
and when I speak my voice is low and rough like a blues singer
so I speak more often even though it burns and aches
and relish in the sound for as long as I can.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 4:34 PM UTC
Slowly unplugging dreams
Holding my breath
Uncomforted contentment beams
Calmed by screams
Cords of love and lust
I light the past to déjà vu
Cords of hatred and trust
I light the future for you
My fingertips burn with jealousy
Living celestial reverie
Success enveloped by a fallacy
I was suffocated at birth.
Dragged by the liberation
I was suffocated at birth.
Decorated with colorful lacerations
I was suffocated at birth.
With hard cored freedom and insulation
I was suffocated at birth.
Killed by supersonic maturation…
Jan 24, 2010
Jan 24, 2010 at 3:51 PM UTC