"jabbed" poems
it is funny, you will be dead some day.
By you the mouth hair eyes,and i mean
the unique and nervously obscene
need;it’s funny. They will all be dead
knead of lustfulhunched deeplytoplay
lips and stare the gross fuzzy-pash
—dead—and the dark gold delicately smash….
grass,and the stars,of my shoulder in stead.
It is a funny,thing. And you will be
and i and all the days and nights that matter
knocked by sun moon jabbed ****** with ecstasy
….tremble (not knowing how much better
than me will you like the rain’s face and
the rich improbable hands of the Wind)
69.5k
I was thirteen when I broke my wrist for the first time,
Miming Cinderella Man's fists as they jabbed faster than jets through the sky.
He was blue collar, blue jeans, blue bruises and blue eyes;
Waiting for his chance, and then taking it by the blind-side,
He taught me the meaning of a left hook to life and coming back from behind.
I was raised on Cinderella.
She was thirteen when daddy read her the tale that first time,
and she grew up wishing to be Cinderella, miming her words and her stride,
She wore blue dresses, smoked blue crystals, cried blue tears with blue eyes;
Waiting to be saved by a prince with blood bluer than money could buy,
Cinderella taught her to sit back and wait for her princely perfect guy,
She was raised on Cinderella.
We were raised on Cinderella,
We were twenty and change when we locked blue and green eyes,
Mine had darkened to green by that eye-locking time,
Life tends to darken things; It's just how it goes, and when mine
took that hue, things were no longer so blue.
Because even though we were both raised on Cinderella,
Princesses and Paupers don't find love; When they do it isn't "true"
Because no blue crystal smoked could cloak the pain and disguise;
No fairytale magic can hold back real tears from real eyes.
My Cinderella was a prize fighter;
Her Cinderella was the prize,
but the stories are different, and in the end, both are lies.
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 4:03 PM UTC
perpetual expeditions amidst this hazy twilight,
periwinkled vistas ensnaring me in
buzzzzzzzzzzzz
the sound penetrates my ear drum
black and yellow rabble-rouser
this rambunctious little menace
a pomegranate
eternally ripe, giving me life
gilled, scaled, underwater creature
emerging from the deep, boundless rift
two tantalizing tigers
troublesome, treacherous
and she laid there—
undisturbed, unaware
jabbed in her side by a M1903 Springfield
soothed state rattled, shattered
wincing from the poke of the blunt end of the gun
the sleeping lady slept no more
poor fellows,
how were they supposed to hold on to it without opposable thumbs?
the distressed damsel appeared grotesque,
flailing and fidgeting at the sight of her surroundings
surface rocking beneath my feat,
my trusty elephant’s weak ankles shattering my already shattered stability
i had no more time for such nonsenses
buzzing sounds burned deep into my psyche
the soft-spoken horizon called out to me
calling for me to continue on into the enigmatic expanse
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 12:14 PM UTC
I almost lost you,
I really could’ve too.
You wanted me to tell you,
Something I simply couldn’t do.
I hated how I let you,
Walk right over me,
That really hurt,
Can’t you see?
Threatening our friendship,
Over a petty little thing.
Trying to destroy me,
But you can’t,
You can’t hurt me.
You have already
Broken me enough,
But I’ll tell you,
I’m pretty tough.
You hit me, jabbed me,
Told me you could trust me.
Just because I didn’t tell you
What you simply couldn’t see?
I almost lost you,
And it would’ve been for the better,
Because you’re like,
A loose string on a sweater.
but what i’ve found out,
I really should’ve forgotten her.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 12:25 AM UTC
I'm all for peace and the hippie days
We were the children of the 60s, layin' about and lettin' our hair sprout
We were influenced as much as we influenced others
Flower power didn't work, maybe it's just the American way, no doubt
Turning over all the apple carts, should've just turned the other cheek my baby
Some say, I went too far, is it because, i've got such a rebel heart? Maybe.
Hippies have survived since the caveman days
Sometimes hiding behind societies blurry daze
Never wanting to upset the nations orderly ways
Always demonstrating for their true beliefs in a cloudy haze.
Now it feels like I've been jabbed, with a poison dart
So deep down inside my experienced, but innocent rebel heart
That 60s biz was just our breakfast and we hadn't even got to lunch yet
If I was a new gen baby, I could still show others love and peace, I bet
Give me a chance at showing you, that I'm not that different than you
Go ahead, ask me questions, there well overdue.
Hippies have survived since the caveman days
Sometimes hiding behind societies blurry daze
Never wanting to upset the nations orderly ways
Always demonstrating for their true beliefs in a cloudy haze.
Not changing my ways, but adapting my ways, is what I need to do
I'll listen to others and always take your cue, to try and remove the venom for you
It might not happen overnight, it could take a while, alright!
Maybe I'll go with the flow or maybe wake-up in a sweat, in the middle of the night
Let me get my groove back and things will change, we'll go back to the start
Just forgive me and always remember, I was born with this rebel heart.
Hippies have survived since the caveman days
Sometimes hiding behind societies blurry daze
Never wanting to upset the nations orderly ways
Always demonstrating for their true beliefs in a cloudy haze.
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 5:31 PM UTC
The good.
The good die young?
Is it absolutely true
That only the good are jabbed
With an arrow of a short life?
It makes no sense to me…
I had breakfast this morning.
She couldn’t.
I laughed with my friends.
She can’t.
The most hurtful thing is,
I woke up this morning.
She didn’t.
Why?
Why, God?
Why is it that the lives
That seem to have been
The most valuable are the ones
That get taken away the quickest?
I take a breath,
And it’s over.
But, not for me.
I carry on.
Is the fact that my life
Is far from perfect
The reason I’m still here,
Still breathing?
Was her vibrancy and passion
Something you needed right then?
Yes, she will be exactly the angel
You were searching for yesterday.
She is no longer in pain.
It’s the ones she left behind
That my prayers are for,
Tonight.
You will be missed, angel.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 2:58 AM UTC
It seemed that out of battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which titanic wars had groined.
Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then ,as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall, -
By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.
With a thousand pains that vision's face was grained;
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.
'Strange friend,' I said, 'here is no cause to mourn.'
'None,' said that other, 'save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something had been left,
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled,
Or, discontent, boil ****** and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress.
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery,
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery:
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels,
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.
I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now...'
2.7k
I took my heart
and tore it
in punishment and scorn
I squeezed the lump
and swore it
must never be forlorn
now my soul is bleeding
from the nails I jabbed straight in
and all my roses bruising
from no more than selfish sin
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 3:16 PM UTC
I wish you had died on that day
then maybe I'd only face grief
and not the betrayal of that double-edged sword you jabbed into my back.
you said that you also wanted to die on that day
then maybe you couldn't have to face the stress of killing me,
and the depressing aftermath of which you ensued on yourself.
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 10:58 AM UTC
The bicycles were a forged parent-permission slip
But well-forged.
I lifted myself over the tear in the truck's seat cover, not sliding
Not perforating further for today.
The road was short, short enough to have ridden the bicycles from first start to real start.
But that would not have been exotic
Connection is exotic, and channels must be followed through an antfarm
Proper etiquette must be observed with touch-me-nots
The bicycles were easier to lift from the bed with two
I gave him that, passing a front end, and jammed the wheelspokes with a jabbed finger
So that the damp spinning would not flick his face with groundwater
I expected it to hurt. My expectation tapped lightly.
That narrow pock-marked blacktop was my windtunnel
The air stroked its thumbs over my eyelids and I ached to push, breathe, push further
He held me back with his slow handlebars,
His slow kickstand clicking.
Pedaling slowly is more difficult than flying.
One finds gladness in choosing leaves to crunch with an inch-wide tire
And high-fiving low-hanging branches is socially satisfying.
He smiles behind the white mustache, and I don't mind.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 11:17 PM UTC
What I should have said
when Mike Whittle died, was
what a mighty man he was,
though small in stature,
yeah, how he set the students’
minds on fire.
Instead I said
he always jabbed himself with insulin
while we were having lunch
and I said that this was a literary tradition
like Polonius being stabbed in the arras
and Mark Antony falling on his sword after Actium
before Octavian could get there ahead of him.
And then I said that Antony's lover Cleopatra died
when she arranged to be bitten on her ***** by an asp.
And I thought I was a smart *** by saying
don’t get confused and think she was bitten on her asp.
Well, Mike and I did laugh about literary allusions,
along with all that insulin and his pancreas,
during all of those immortal lunches.
But what I should have said was that students
worshiped him, and they said that
‘he gave me my love of learning’.
Mike, you mighty little giant.
And how I loved that you could laugh when the admin staff
tried to cut you down because they hate popularity so much.
Those blasts of laughter in your classes
frightened them and they thought you were
an iconoclast. Oh Mike. I love you, just like all your students.
That's what I should have said about
the gifts you gave us all in
Learn, Love and Laughter 101.
This is your immortal epitaph.
Mike T Minehan
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC
Hans was outside himself. Perched on the edge of a daydream, he looked below, distantly aware of his bustling dinner table. How casually they live, Hans thought; with what feigned clarity they can connect and understand. There were his brothers and sisters; his aunts, uncles, cousins and ah—there was his father. Look at him personifying repugnance, locks of hair falling clumsily on his tattered shirt. Look at him! (Hans could yell only in silence.) Look there and see him cloyingly preparing his knife to hunt, to tear, to slice yet another hunk of meat for his own gluttony. With what excitement—what vivid, forbidden ecstasy Hans would take his father’s knife and turn the hunter into the hunted.
Somewhere in the cluttered abyss there was a sound followed by a warming light. Hans was entranced. And again, a gentle thunder followed by a thread of heat connecting for a moment earth and sky, father, family, and son.
It was goodness and caring, it was a mother’s voice. It was this graceful fluttering in the medium of time that awoke a primitive yearning in Hans, grabbed his throat and stared him lustily in the eyes. What could it be? Hans wondered aloud, what could it be that she desires, for he already knew that he had to be the one to deliver any object she longed for, to slay any beast that tormented her—it had to be him, to be Hans, to be her son.
Please, she said; can someone please pour me a glass of water. Oh how Hans was enraged to find that this whim had not been made solely of a son. It was his right to quench his mother’s thirst; it was his place within the natural order to satisfy her needs. What cruelty and ice! Hans said, but also felt; and in an instant returned to himself below, tumbling violently from the high canopy of his trance to the sight of his father’s filthy hand reaching for the water jug.
In base impulse, Hans jabbed at the jug, forcibly pushing aside the carnal hand. Upon contact, Hans felt an overwhelming calm, an absolute peace. He wrapped his fingers tightly around the handle, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply. At once he was joyous, he was spent; he was adrenalized and gloriously dominant. He would be the one to tend to the maternal flower, supplying water for a thirst that he prayed would always be there.
Mar 22, 2011
Mar 22, 2011 at 1:39 PM UTC
I have issues,
Lots of them,
I could fill a library with my issues,
My problems,
And self-loathing.
Whole buckets full of issues.
Like nails driven into my skin I can't quite get out,
I try to fix myself,
To find the things I lack and lost along the way,
But I find myself breaking even more,
Like a porcelain doll.
I feel like a liar,
Smiling like this in your face,
While I go bring pain upon myself by crushing the hopes and dreams I struggled to hang onto.
I've forgotten myself somewhere in the darkness,
And can't get out.
My sadness is only temporary,
It happens when I'm alone,
I put my mask on,
And take it off when I go home.
But my mask is fading fast,
Pealing away to reveal the things I lack,
As people get close to me,
I push them away,
The people I do keep close in mind,
I tell them all the time,
Of my issues,
And my hurting,
And they get bored of me and leave,
They don't want a basket-case,
A whiny little girl,
A problematic teen,
A pity party indeed,
When I do learn how to trust you,
I'll come to you with all my problems,
But soon enough you'll give up on me because you don't know how to solve them.
My issues are like chains,
And life is like water,
The more I struggle with these issues,
The faster I sink into the water,
Drowning.
Suffocating.
I don't want people to treat me different,
I don't them to try to fix me,
Because I'm a lost case.
I just want some friends to talk to,
Not to tell me what to do.
I don't you to try fix me,
Or cry over me,
Just go.
I don't want pity,
I don't want your pity,
I don't want anyone's pity,
I pity myself enough,
And hate myself too,
I've hurt myself worse than anyone ever could,
Worse than you.
I just want to keep my scars safely hidden away,
To push my issues so far beneath my skin,
You can no long see them,
And you and I both win,
I don't get pitied,
And you think you fixed me,
See?
isn't everyone happy.
But the problem is my mask it fades,
My issues are resurfacing,
And you can see everything that's wrong with me,
I try to pick the nails out of my skin, but more get jabbed in.
I'm too tired,
I can't sleep.
I'm too mad,
I can't eat.
I'm so happy.
...I feel sad.
So sad this happiness can't last forever,
But this sadness...
This sadness will last forever,
These wounds will never heal,
These scars will never quite fade,
I'll never learn to feel,
Happy,
Is word,
I never quite learned,
My dictionary is limited,
By me,
And my melancholy.
I can tell you words like,
Sadness,
And apathy.
I can tell you words like,
Ugliness,
And stupidity.
I can tell you words like,
Anger,
And rage.
But the word I'm most familiar with is
Melancholy,
Melancholy is me,
Issue are me,
I am made up of lies, melancholy and issues,
I have so many problems I don't know who I am!
Who am I?
This happy girl?
This sad one?
This mean girl?
This evil one?
This liar?
This quiet one?
Who is the real me?
Who are these people I try to be?
Which one do you see?
Which one do I portray to be?
Which one is the true me?
I have problems,
I have fears,
I have issues,
Like nails in my skin.
... Sometimes I don't think it's melancholy...
I think it's something worse,
Something that people know as the d word,
Something that you don't say,
Something that can get you on medication,
Something far more sinister than any old melancholy...
Do I dare say it?
What I think I have?
Yes...
I think have depression.
.... I have depression.
Sad.
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 4:51 PM UTC
I was visiting my older brother and sister-in-law, when he emerged from a storage room with a box filled with family"artifacts", photos, etc. In that box was a 78rpm record, created in 1947. I was not quite six years old. This caused the eruption of a memory long lost, for it was recorded by my kindergarten teacher; my recitation of a poem titled, "My Sore Thumb", written by Burges Johnson. It appeared in a 1921 publication of a book, "Youngsters:" Collected Poems of Childhood", published by E.P. Dutton Publishing Co., which is now part of the Penguin Group. I only had to memorize the first stanza.
ENJOY!
"My Sore Thumb"
I jabbed a jack-knife in my thumb—
Th' blood just spurted when it come!
The cook got faint, an' nurse she yelled
An' showed me how it should be held,
An' Gran'ma went to get a rag,
An' couldn't find one in th' bag;
An' all the rest was just struck dumb
To see my thumb!
Since I went an' jabbed my thumb
I go around a-lookin' glum,
And Aunt, she pats me on the head
An' gives me extra ginger-bread;
But brother's mad, an' says he'll go
An' take an' axe, an' chop his toe:
An' then he guesses I'll keep mum
About my thumb!
At school they as't to see my thumb,
But I just showed it to my chum,
An' any else that wants to see
Must divvy up their cake with me!
It's gettin' well so fast, I think
I'll fix it up with crimson ink,
An' that'll keep up int'rest some
In my poor thumb!
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 2:26 PM UTC
In the midnight vigil of my dreams
A faint lantern light ahead, it leads
The chilling winds that cross the spine
Then the sun that burns, and its shine
My faith has long walked on broken glass
Soul has dripped along, the wounds ever last
A stubborn silence in the place
And a stench of the deceased left to grace
And a carcass of hope that passes by
An autumn leaf, dead, it lies
A spectral music that ensues
A withered tree, its diseased fruit
A velvet night left to stare
And an untamed hollowness left to share
A blunt sword, held by its hilt
To **** some emptiness and eat my fill
I have traveled worlds, horizons apart
Waiting for the tunnel to end, a journey to start
Its only numbness now that I feel
The fire is extinguishing, so is my zeal
My perseverance fails, my eyes shut down
Paradise awaits me, the flames burn down
And then a white light coruscates, fills the sky
The colors reappear, subdue the cries
I see a creature, its golden locks sway
And a flower blooms where the parched land lay
She moves her wand, she spawns a dawn
And she heals the earth where it was torn
And some rain falls, from the ethereal skies above
It rejuvenates my soul, washes away the spilled blood
An exhilarating wind blows, flowers flutter to life
The heaven comes up, with the earth to dine
And I look at her, the angel in disguise
She loosens the knots in the lungs that are tied
The radiance of her beauty, the warmth in her eyes
I fail to behold it, it outcasts the light
And a nightingale sings, breaks the bow
Of silence that was created and was sowed
Some centuries pass, they seem like days
And in the forlorn deserts of time, these memories fall and lay
And then she stabs my heart, she fades away
The mirage disappears, I holding her hand, that was to stay
And it returns, my torment, my grief
Spiraling down, carried by the wind, it falls dead, the leaf
I have grown tired, my legs give away
It has been a strenuous journey, peace my heart craves
I walk down to my grave, a dove flies by
I lay down, beside the stake of holly, jabbed into me by my bride
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 2:38 PM UTC
Until recently,
most of my memories readily available
remind me of ghost needles,
ice picks
& phantom Taipan bites
jabbed wildly
into a heart that beats nails
through my veins.
There are only five people on this planet
I give a **** about.
Everyone else
are just scars
whose dull stabs of pain
remind me why I don't take life seriously.
You words remind me
of that pain I used to endure,
the blood eyed, vicious demons
with barbed-wire kisses
and razor blades to my throat
while their katana fingernails
clawed out my liver and kidneys
riding me like a sybian
whispering comforting Trinidad Moruga Scorpion lullabies.
And I thank you
for reminding me
we have to go through hell
to find the bliss we love.
Jul 14, 2012
Jul 14, 2012 at 12:15 PM UTC
many of his posts tilted
like trees tired of the wind; wires sagged,
red rusted, but still jabbed the errant cow
when duty called
three quarters a century
he rode the same trail; of late,
he had gone afoot, the saddle too heavy
for him to heft
walking, he reconnoitered
the tracks with more care--hooves of his myriad steers,
a few equine signs of the farrier’s labor
still there, fast fading
his boot prints were
more numerous now, and sometimes
tamped down by the few beasts left
in his herd
across the line lay his dead
neighbor’s pastures, peppered with mesquite,
pocked by fire ant holes; no livestock grazed, but the giant turbines whined, white whipsaws slashing not timber, but blue sky
driven by the relentless winds,
they called to him, in chanted chorus, issuing a premonition:
one day soon, your fence will fall, and the path you trod
will bear no new tracks for other souls to read
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 10:40 PM UTC
A boy.
A boy,
Who's love I need to feel.
I'm not his girl
He's the love I long to steal.
His voice is the sweetest,
My ears have ever heard.
For him,
I'd do anything,
Say anything
I'd give him the world.
Even with my best intent
I let him slip,
Melting to sloppy wet drips
And flowing straight,
Through my fingertips.
Even when I tried to grab hold,
I grabbed, I jabbed, and pricked,
Still away he had surely slipped.
Oceans apart
However, close we are.
There's still a spark,
It magnifies every emotion
Heightens every notion
And through all the dark,
There is still a shrill
A deep, deep, shrill,
The life-giving *****
Beats out of turn,
Even still.
I look into those deep dark vessels,
The Windows to your soul.
They search my flesh
They cry out,
Why?
Our future clear as sunniest of skies.
Though it's not a happy ending,
What a surprise.
Reality the way it always does
Creeps close.
It's wrong we know very well
in the heat of the moment, passion swells
We're both thinking stop,
But onward we march
Into this terribly beautiful yet tragic arch,
Of love and lust that cuts so deep.
Our brains know better, but our hearts,
They are weak.
Then it hits.
In that instant a vivid dream
Comes to me lucid and not quite serene.
Your lips dancing in time
With mine closely behind
Stop
You look at me and remember her.
I'm sorry I say "I loved you first"
"Love me" I scream
Without a sound.
The words pouring out silently
My wide and weary eyes
Say it all as they cry.
Kiss me again
To send me away so abruptly.
Would surely begin,
My end.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 5:21 AM UTC
Blinding flash
Eardrums burst
Blood, so much blood
Is it mine?
My eyes!
MEDIC!!
Snipping ripping
Scissors and hands tear away at my clothes
Water or something splashes
Burning everywhere
The smell...
**** and fire and burned meat
Is this what death smells like?
MOM!!!
Floating
No carried
On a litter
Now flying
UH-60
****
Something jabbed...
Floating
Floating
Far away
Voices
Beeping
Crying
Screaming
Begging
Mom?
Closer
Voices
Beeping
Wheels rolling
Machine sounds
Words
Mom...
Here, Now
Bright lights
Searing pain
Masked faces
Muffled voices
IV bags
Machine sounds
Mom
Questions
No answers
Where's my leg?
Sep 4, 2021
Sep 4, 2021 at 12:04 PM UTC
Men are doomed, Carla told me,
It’s your eternal haircuts, she continued,
How can you sculpt a life from a single shape,
One look,
Every mirror an impersonation
Of the initial version of one’s self,
Each day reduced to a child’s calculation,
You wake up, only older, grayer, a withered rasp,
Ever more discouraged by the unfairness of things.
Carla exhaled a dragon’s torrent
White jet streams unfurled out of both nostrils,
A waft of my father’s morning scent.
With a flick of her thumb,
She snapped the ash
Off the end of her cigar.
A sharp hiss as the ember sizzled and sank
In the shallow of a pavement puddle.
It had cold rained most of the day.
Over a pause, the sky roiling with indigestion,
We bundled up in autumn clothes,
And trudged uptown,
Our chins tucked deep into our chests,
Our squinty eyes glued to our shoes,
The wind had a slap to it.
It isn’t war you should fear, she continued,
It’s robots.
Soon we won’t need you for anything,
Carla jabbed her lacquered fingernail at phantoms as she spoke.
Women have been fornicating with machines
For over a hundred years, she said,
The transition for us has already occurred.
Weld and solder us a pleasant replica,
One that can shine a toilet
Sterilize the dishes, **** us brilliantly,
And recite Shakespeare at will-
Believe me,
Soon we will barter for your *********
Exchanging bitcoins for the innate,
With no intention of ever attending your funeral.
No the war is over and men have lost, Carla repeated.
She walked ahead me,
Her hips a sashay as she spit a loose bit of tobacco leaf
Onto a lamp post.
I could not persuade my eyes to look away.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 9:36 PM UTC
Coined Up
Maybe we will all be dead in 6 months
Due to being jabbed up with the vac
Which was to stop the CCP Virus
But it backfired due to the mushrooms
Which are a toxin and **** in many ways
Only the rabid anti vaccers will live
In a kaos driven world of lunatix
Do you want to exist then and there?
Toss a coin get a jab wait and see
Jul 27, 2021
Jul 27, 2021 at 3:48 PM UTC
I know why the joker
Doth smile and jest,
And laughs so gleefully at thee.
Thy spirits, he soothes,
With frolicking moves;
The way he sways is so lovely.
The cracks that he'll take
Are enough to make
The dimmest and dullest of minds
Feel stricken and stabbed
With all that he's jabbed:
His kicks are gained heeding your bind.
Showcases of joy,
He seeks to employ:
Even if it's at your expense,
He'll take your dismay,
And cast it away!
Despite his obvious offense...
Mar 29, 2017
Mar 29, 2017 at 1:33 AM UTC
There are barely memories left untainted
A childhood cut short
A trusting soul shredded with each stolen touch
Still now, after a lifetime of living,
Of forcibly refusing to be nothing,
Of overcoming everything
Remnants seep through the skin
From the depths of demon's lair
Distant cackles mock the resurgence of nightmares
Scouring pad scrubbies only removed skin
The stink of it remains
Filling every pore
Escaping in a sigh, infectious by design
Time heals nothing
It protects the broken pieces
Masking them behind affection & other surface emotions
The jagged edges of the memory of pain
Still violate innocence
Still ruin a smile before it is born
Used as brutal warnings,
They are jabbed straight through a heart trying desperately to heal
At the first sign of affection, the pain awakens
At the first sign of attachment, it skins the heart alive
Angered at defiance, it burns like molten metal
Scraping at the hardened crevasses of the mind
Searing pain in hidden dreams
Cauterizing the memories open
Reliving the blade time has dulled
Never allowed to love
Even if it's make-believe
Twisted sounds of tinkling music boxes
And the distant laughter of demons
CACKLE AND HISS
Cackle And Hiss
cackle and hiss
Muted into a familiar rhythm
Underlying the complacency of life
Only to scorch a soul into nightmares
When the heart dares to feel
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 2:09 AM UTC
I remember as a kid growing up in the presence of a lovely man.
You see he was not just a man to me, he was a father.
Each and every time I saw him my heart and eyes would glow. My ears would become red,
My cheeks would touch my ears
And I would rejoice.
When it was time for him to leave
My eyes would become red,
My ears could hear the heart beat of a broken heart.
But he would make it a point I smiled at the end of it all.
"Barbie girl" he called me.
You see this man lifted me up,
He laughed with me
A day would not pass without him calling me.
Whatever I needed came within a jiffy.
He would hurt inside if he saw tears in my eyes.
Not even a single soul was allowed to hurt me because they knew that my father had my back.
This man was my lifetime partner
He was my rock
He was best friend
He was my physical shield.
Now that I'm grown with these curves
With the resemblance of my father.
With his teeth that I smile with.
With the pain that I have without him
With this confusion that keeps on tearing me apart.
With a heart so hurt that it aches as if each and every part of it is being tampered with by a careless soul.
I never knew that a person can be dead and live at the same time.
I never knew I would spend days with no man being the reason behind my smile.
I never knew that my father would let me be hurt by these beasts of the wild.
Being jabbed by thorns of the red cave.
No longer do my cheeks reach my ears.
A Five year old girl cries in me
The mirror shows the reflection of a five year old me.
But those days are gone
Tormented into pieces
Seeing a man screaming I love you as if that's fucken true.
Touching and feeling what you don't fucken appreciate.
That's not the man my father was.
He showed me how a man is supposed to treat a woman by loving me.
He held my my hand and showed me brighter and braver days.
I wish I could say hear him say " I love you Barbie girl, no matter what you go through daddy will always be there for you, daddy will always protect you. "
But gone are those days.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 5:33 AM UTC
for a healing
we gathered
small things
you'd gotten the idea
to bring a paper mâché butterfly
once it was dry-
holding it above your head
as if the butterfly mantra wasn't
at the lip of some rogue amaranth-
you opened your mouth
but nothing
sound
happened
a halo mocking
the bitterfly saint
droop-wings of
soda pop bottle shards
plastic coated
paper clips jabbed
in for antennas
later we released
a pinprick pine spark
toward an indifferent moon
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 6:35 AM UTC