Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Caro Jun 2016
On the tip of my tongue you burned like hot coffee,
With a hit of my blunt you’ve undone my lofty,
made me a softy,
I wont forget.

Denim jacket leaning down, you’ve got room in your throat,
You’ve got words in your coat,
Pockets full of notes.

Ink on your arms that wrap, wrap around me,
Words pushing on your teeth like braces,
Laces,
Up your shoes that walk all around me,
I won't forget.

Maybe whisper it now or tell me tomorrow.

Denim jacket leaning down, tippy toes to kiss your nose.
You’ve made me a softy,
I won’t forget.

Sweet and simply say it from behind those curtains,
Smoke in your nose from my fire lungs,
Stain my breath with your words,
Blessed syllables,
I won’t forget.
Tanya Feb 2019
2 am and my feelings start to flow around,
waking up memories, that never wanted to be found

Insomnia, as always, is a welcome guest
I see her sitting besides my bed
stroking my cheek with her harsh hand,
whispering stories of how it all went,
of what you did and didn’t do
of all that left hidden with no clue.

Her laughter is so sweet and vibrant,
that it doesn’t let me sleep,
instead, it leaves me swimming
in the depths of my mind,
ugly thoughts causing sea levels to raise
struggling to take breath after breath
I remind myself of all I can’t forget.

I never learned how to swim
in that head.
Lily Feb 2019
i.
The sight of it brings back memories of
Your rival team, confronting you on the line of scrimmage,
The rain pouring down, stinging your face,
Your breath misting in the arctic air.

ii.
The smell of it brings you back to that Friday night
When you tripped up the bleachers and
Spilled popcorn all over yourself because
Her red hair and bright smile made you stop in your tracks.

iii.
The clang of the pins against each other
Follows you in the hallway wherever you go,
Reminding you of that triumphant feeling
That took over when your basketball team won districts.

iv.
The warm feeling that fills your heart when
You give it to her, the red-haired bright-smiled girl,
Matches the warm feeling she feels when she
Puts it on, drowning in your scent.

v.
You know that years later, after you’ve left high school
And everything about that place behind,
The sight of that jacket will bring back all the memories
Of football games, Friday nights, championships, and her.
we don't know what we have until it's gone
Nigdaw Jul 2019
The cow wore this skin better than I,
A little baggy round the udder, maybe
But with a tail to keep off the flies.

I paid three hundred quid for a jacket;

With a smell that really attracts flies,
A little baggy round the shoulders, definitely
The cow wore this skin better than I.
A horror movie scene as the heroine escapes.
Everything is still besides her convalescing breath and the distant, chasing wind.
Not a noise is heard except the fall leave's rattle and the birch wood's moaning bark in the moonlight.
Her body slouches into the protection of a lone shed, and shrouds itself in the aroma of cut grass.
A tense brow relieves and tired eyes close, thankful to receive the momentary peace.

A possible misstep turns the wary peace on end with the jagged cut of broken leaves. The once relieved brow now concedes surprise as wild eyes are cast towards an opaque barricade.
Sly pieces of garden equipment leash a weathered jacket in place as she attempts to stand.
A cackle is heard, a shriek undone.
To spite the brittle wood, the formulaic jump-scare-skeleton-hand bursts through the shed's solicitous walls, set to declare the last of a weary soul as his own.
The wind catches up and spearheads any hole it can find.
It begins whistling around the dim room like a tornado elated to havoc behind a castle's walls.
The tree bark howls, the leaves, now delight.
We learn there is no reprieve for a begging champion.
The camera slowly backs out of the splintered hole, and pans over a silhouetted forest to face the waning moon.
The hero succumbs with muted screams to a gore far below and out of frame.

Our only closure, a black screen, with bright white letters, slowly scrolling up.


The end.
Just something I had fun writing, figured not posting it would be a waste despite it not being "poetry", just an experiment I guess. I feel like it would be good, in like, a high-school, short story competition. *****.
Mikey Barnes Oct 2018
i have decided i no longer want my jacket back.
the one with no sleeves and the handmade back patch
that i liked to wear over hoodies -
you can keep it.

not that i don't miss my jacket,
because i do.
the louis theroux patch with iron-on backing...
the only somewhat ironic high school musical pin...
the hand-stitched ***** division pink triangle...
it was a ******* cool jacket.
but i no longer want it back.

when i left my jacket hanging on your wardrobe door
we both thought i'd see you soon,
but that was last june
and november's creeping round.
you're a college kid now.
your family packed up and left,
and i guess i'm fine with that
because i no longer want my jacket back.

i will no longer send you passive-agressive messages on facebook, kik, or whatsapp
asking for my jacket back.
when my friends offer to send you vaguely threatening emojis
conveying that they may or may not be willing to throw hands for my jacket,
i will say no.

sometimes i fantasise about what might have happened to my jacket.
i imagine your mother, pragmatic as always,
throwing away every trace of me remaining post-break up.
i picture you in a fit of rage
hacking my hard work to pieces.
i doubt that you took it to new york with you,
but somehow that's the scenario i like the least.

sometimes i think how if i had never met you
i would now own 25% more jackets.
but,
had i never met you,
i would also own 30% fewer pyjama shirts,
several less ****** hang-ups,
and 2 fewer stamps in my passport.

what i'm saying is
no matter what you did with it,
i forgive you
for not mailing it when you promised to.
and i forgive me
for leaving it in the first place.
i no longer want my jacket back,
because it probably wouldn't be the same anyway.
i have been moaning about my ex not returning my jacket to me for over a year now. i guess writing a poem means i'm finally over it?
annie rose Sep 2019
sitting in my closet
is one of my last memories of you.
ratty, beaten jacket
and it smells like you.

of the better days.
of walking hand in hand
of laughing shamelessly
of exploring, eating, kissing.

of the worst days.
of throwing our hands up
of crying hopelessly
of hiding, screaming, cursing.

it smells of you,
my home.
it smells of you,
my lover.
it smells of you,
that jacket, my jacket
which wraps me up
in so much
love and
too much pain.

you. are. gone.
yet
trapped
in the seams of fabric.
I smell that **** jacket sometimes.
Chris Thomas Nov 2017
It may surprise you to learn
That I cannot return to my genesis
Quite simply, I have no fail safe

It may leave you wanting for a whisper
But, when I open these frail, chapped lips
I have no fail safe

It may be that I am a savior in disguise
Hidden behind briers in the garden
But still, I have no fail safe

It may trigger a memory from nothing
To feel my fingers graze across your cheek
Yet, I have no fail safe

It may be a splintered crutch
That I lean on as I take the last train home
But, I have no fail safe

It may be that your delicate kiss
Is a beautiful straight-jacket
But, I have no fail safe

It may be that your unforgiving eyes
Are a glorious pair of fetters
But, I have no fail safe

It may be that the combination
Is within a world I no longer exist
Because after all this time
I still have no fail safe

.
JayceeJellies Apr 2015
Panic attacks for me are shakey.
I start to think everyone's starring,
I wonder what they're thinking.
My resoloution is to get out.
Then the tears come pouring down.
As they do my body follows.
I sink to the ground and try to hide myself.
The sleeves of my jacket become soaked,
And then my heart feels like it'll explode.
Anxiety is a whole nother code.
September Roses May 2018
I run myself a bath, I put fluffy bubbles and soothing soaps in it, I light candles and turn down the lights, and make sure it's the perfect temperature
To cry in it

I drag myself out of bed, brush my teeth and get dressed, I tediousely organize my room, alphabetical, by colour, I get out my books, I dust the smooth pages
To cry on them

I pick out a fresh shirt, pants, shoes. I tie my hair and dry my face. I put on a nice jacket
Just to soak it with tears

Just to cry

It's seems most of my time these days, is spent on things that stray to sobs
Stray to crying
CK Baker Apr 2017
Sunday sermons are spilling on the inner city streets
through the green heaps and brown bags
through the downtown whisperers
and sage solitude souls

Army bands prepare for march
(their trench members filling packs with canister and cane)
the high command and tricked militia head pinned
quick on the look for splinter, lorry and skuttle

Traffic patterns change at the COP connect
camouflage bearers break formal stride
battle men slip between colorful floats
unsuspecting slumlords (vein pricked and weary)
grin in their second suite dying rooms

Twitching men and rubbernecks
sit discreetly on the corner wall
JJ and the chief revere a 21 gun salute
holy rollers raise cheer (in a moment of silence)
chess men hold steady
with ivory cues

Flames belt from the distant foundry
streets come alive with crackle and dust
members of the attic group glance down from their perch
an elderly man in a straight jacket (happy in the now)
sits solemnly with a cold reflective stare

It’s not far from the steely mud holes
from the flying fragments and sharp broken dreams
from the arsenal digs and madmen (who quietly turned the *****)
the ivy trellis
and flowing white gown
are a nocturne fit
for this elevated rolling highland
zebra Jul 2018
like cellophane wraps hard candy
like ink loves to dry
like hot sauce drenches noodles
like sunrise casts shadows
like band-aids sooth cut flesh
like irons crease linens
like origami folds paper
like water floats boats
like a tempest loves a teapot
like syrup and bananas drench waffles
like spoons love soup
like cats love fish
like french fries love ketchup
like wild girls dance
like a crow loves road ****
like eyes love beauty
like a circle loves a square
like buttered buns fit a bikini
like a kissed mouth hungers for wet lips
like moths love a flame
like dogs love *******
and like ******* hug butts

like howling ******* pulse hearts
like vampires love blood and castles
like dark grapes ferment in bubbling cauldrons
like white loves rice
like madness loves a straight jacket
like a ***** loves a ****
and music gets you dancing

like suns fall through cobalt night all smashing diamonds
  
that's
how i love you
love
Rich Hues Jan 2019
In Manolo Blahniks,
While her chair wears her jacket
And her fingernails play Orpheus
   On a cigarette packet,                                      
A cold goddess in stone                
And in a flounce of french lace,
     Gravelled footsteps don't lift
Her resting-*****-face.                                    
So I announce my arrival                      
With an unconfident cough,
                Her eyes still on the sunset,  
             She tells me to...
                                           *******.
Lewis Hyden Mar 2019
His new jacket,
Hot off the hot-sale shelves.
Strangely decadent - in the
Personal sense - yet straight,
Reserved, almost classy.
An honest facade, clean-cut

Hides within itself
A rich tapestry of ambiguity.
The lemur paws a jungle-vine,
From whence hangs a
Broad-winged and exotic bloom,
Rich with the complexity of a man

Whose aspect is honesty,
Simple integrity; but whose
Inner workings are ever more vivid
And complex, like the lush petals
Sewn through the lining of
His new jacket.
© Lewis Hyden, 2019
He Pa'amon Aug 2018
"And in a funny way, the shaving of my, uh, head has been a liberation from, uh, a lot of, uh, stupid vanities really. Uh, it has simplified everything for me, it has opened a lot of doors maybe." - Stephen Malkmus, Jo Jo's Jacket

the first layer of skin i shed
was the bra

rid of the foreign metal sculptor producing a deep rift between skin
my third eye, swallowing gazes

rid of my **** , my ***** , my rack
replaced with sacks of fat and nerve and milk ducts
hanging, existing, for no one else
not even myself

the second layer of skin was the painting of the face
the concealing and erasing of imperfections, the lines of laughter of sorrow of life
redirecting attention and importance to the bow and symmetry of the lip

no longer did i have to put myself on in the morning
i woke up as i was, as i needed to be,
bare and uninhibited

my skin now breathed, and for no one else
not even myself

and then i grew another layer of skin,
made of dank tangles to protect my age,
i stopped shaving the years i'd walked this earth, shedding my womanhood

the skin grew to my armpits, little tufts of sweaty, odorous mother nature dozing in a fleshy convex nest

and to my legs, were the tangles wrapped around my ankles
preventing the spreading of the legs for every life
for not every life wanted what was not tame
and what was not tame no longer wanted to be.

my body did not conform,
for it was not brought into this world to be consumed for the pleasure of others

it exists for no one else,
not even myself

and as i was engulfed in this hairy wonder of my own body
i shed the last layer,
the shaving of the head

my brain, my being breathed
porous and exposed
vulnerable to weather and whispers

but i was all at once naked and calm,
having finally peeled away the layers of ***** over-sexualization and constrained femininity that had molded this meat sack that serves me,
a bundle of circuitry and solution balancing and bobbing on the neck

for i exist for no one else,
only myself
inspired by the song Jo Jo's Jacket by Stephen Malkmus
Ivana Rodriguez Dec 2019
You were my red life jacket,
And saved me from the sea.
Kept me calm while drowning
With your arms wrapped around me.

I wish we never parted—
I wish you stayed with me,
And kept being my life jacket,
Providing warmth and safety.

So if you’d like to come back
To save me from the sea,
And be my red life jacket,
With your arms wrapped around me.

Yet another month of crying;
Another month to which I disagree
With your choices, my ripped life jacket,
Like choosing to slip off of me.

Please, my red life jacket—
For once listen to my plea!
Listen to the water’s sirens
Who I called to sing for thee.

The ballade I have composed
For the sirens to sing to thee
Is one to lure you back in
To hold and cradle me.

Though I know you’ll never listen
To my song they sing to thee.
I still have hope you’ll come back,
And save me from the sea.

Once more, be my red life jacket;
Save me from the sea!
Keep me calm while drowning
With your arms wrapped around me.
He makes me feel so safe and I miss him so much being with me all the time
zebra Jul 2018
there are women who love demons
you can see it in their eyes
like a sick hunger
silence in a straight jacket
smiling limbs on a pyre
starring entranced
whiskey blind
as if marveling
at a howling blood-spattered dingo in a crater
seduced to wander off half-naked into a bush of thorns
******* barbed hooks for heroine kisses
women on fire who believe in nothing
except their atavistic compulsions


they are a burning land
beauty in ruin
ready for the slender whip
and black-toothed kisses
who giggle and then plunge into an abyss

i hold her like a jaw holds teeth
L B Jan 2017
Her shoulder rose like the moon
above the black velvet of bolero jacket
She took his arm, his eyes--
An apogee
She took the room
in reverence

So slowly
shed the mountains
shed the light
hand to touch their wonder
Gazing after
her noiseless ascent
which never happened
while they watched....

Pearls—
roll against warmth
luxuriating offspring
cool encircling
contents iridesce
their energies’ warning:
Nothing quite that simple
Nothing quite that still

Nothing like the opulence
on the Proud Eve of catastrophe

Pearls—
caught in the lining
of what never happens the first time....

She heard them before she saw them
rip their orbits!
fission her universe!
in the mezzanine of the symphony hall
Pin ball in the Fun House
Bingo bounce
off—
the hardwoods of space....

Universal Theory of Scatter?
Even now I can still hear the clatter
of their round smooth souls
in the doorways of distant relatives

How could I know?
You would condemn me
to find them all?
I think it is possible to know the high water mark of your life.
Jenay Jarvis Nov 2012
I want to sink my teeth,
Into your lobes-
I want you now,
I want you close,
Inappropriate behavior,
In the back of a car,
You’re just not here and
Four hours is too far,

Thoughts of scenarios;
Like,
My leather jacket,
Thigh highs and,
Your skin; like magnets,
Your teeth and,
Clinging to cabinets,
Your tongue- THAT jaw,
Come closer,
I’ll un-cage my bra-
And arch my spine,
If you restrain my wrists,
Scraping my nails across your back,
And yours sinking into my hips,
You can watch,
The back of my head pull up from,
Generic damask sheets,
100 thread count and I don’t give a ****-
I won’t be discreet.

You can rip into my hair,
And I’ll rip into your pores,
With uneven nails,
Leaning on all fours,
We can always take it slow,
Yes, we can keep it sweet,
I just want you so badly,
I can’t contain the heat.
L B Aug 2017
Never sure who's boss between us
He comes when called
several minutes later...

Blinking sweetly
smiling as only cats can
Golden, half-moons of sunlit bliss
watch fat yellow-jacket
marginally motivated

The hunt cannot compare
to the soft grass with its tender clover
a  full belly
and the meeter-of-all-needs nearby

But the quick jitter-dance
of an easy moth
sends the tiger
to the jungle of forsythia
Gleaming, stalking stripes
Alternating white of paws in precise approach
The prey?  Too quick
The predator?  Too old and lazy
prefers attention
Lumbers slowly back
lolling against coffee cup
Enough....

On needles of white pine
a secret lion has lain down

waiting only for the lamb
This was written for my, 16 year-old cat, Joseph. who's been gone a while now.  I thought of the poem as I said good-bye to my latest pet, Bailey,  whom I buried this week.  
I do believe I'll see them again in the resurrection, when He will restore all  things in peace-- granting life again to all in which was the breath of life.
Lawrence Hall Feb 2019
No one ever figured out how Schlomo
Got off the ship with a life jacket
 
But there he was on the pier among the crowd
Sitting sadly on his little brown suitcase
 
And wearing a life jacket from the ship
With "Orinoco" stenciled across it
 
A sailor in a white uniform wanted it
But Schlomo would not take it off
 
A policeman in a blue uniform wanted it
But Schlomo would not take it off
 
Schlomo's father told him he wanted it
But Schlomo would not take it off
 
And on the bus ride through the city
Schlomo would not let go of it
 
And for weeks Schlomo wore his life jacket
 
In the park
In the dark
 
In his schule
In his school
 
Until one day in the park on the river's bank
He took it off
He threw it in
It promptly sank
 
Then he said to himself, our little Schlomo,
"I knew somehow - it was time to let go."
I disapprove of exposition, but I should explain: 1. I happen not to be Jewish. 2. I have not been thinking of the tragedies of the refugee ships of the 1930s. 3. Little Schlomo, with his paperboy's cap and dark coat and shorts and scuffed shoes and life jacket, appeared in a dream and I don't why, but here he is.
Waking up with sweat
stained sheets wrapped
around me and you are
nowhere to be seen as
you believe being mean
is keeping the lads keen.
Your leather jacket is
still here hanging on the
hook by the front door
and he wonders why
she didn’t want more.
He loved her laugh last
night as they drunkenly
tried to walk right home
after finishing a few gin
and tonics between them
that made his head spin
and her think that she
would forever win at sin.
Her long blonde hair
had flown out behind her
and it reminded him of
fresh sunflowers because
that was the colour of her
beauty and he prayed the
rest of the night would not
be another careless blur.
The radiance within her
shone so bright that he
didn’t even turn on the
kitchen light as he let
them both inside as the
liquor made their shyness
want to shrivel up and hide.
But in the next morning,
there was no hungover girl
mumbling sleepily and
yawning because instead
there was only her leather
jacket and the faint smell
of sweet perfume left on
his pillow as he tried to
visualize that beautifully
bright sunny yellow that
made his throat dry and
gave him a sickening urge
to cry because he didn’t
want this feeling to die.
He wondered if she would
call because it really hadn’t
taken him long to fall for her
long limbs and the way she
had dark humour that stung
him like a cheap rumour and
so he slept on the sofa that
day with the aching bones
of a man who lives alone
but with a leather jacket
wrapped around his arm
because he wanted to see
her again and see if she
maybe felt the same but
he knew deep down it
was a Friday night love
and the weekend would
soon fade away because
she was never destined to
stay yet he hung her jacket
in the closet for years to
come and tried again to
find the perfect one but
he’d let her slip between
his fingers yet the smell
of her sweet perfume still
lingered for Friday nights
to come and he missed the
colour of the sun that shone
in her hair and the bright
eyes that that craved fear.
She’d been his Friday night
coffee and cream that would
never return no matter how
much he stroked the seams
of her faded leather jacket.
Sunflower girl was now
gone with the wind and
soon he could no longer
recall her voice and the
paleness of her soft skin.
It was like she had never
met him in the first place
but oh god how he loved
her beautiful hair and knew
she had once been there in
his arms even if it had only
been for one Friday night.
King Panda Dec 2016
cedar and gold
the kiss of flakes
little glaciers
melt in canoed-orbs
these footsteps tracking along
the era of winter
some birds
still sing
and I shake
in trepidation
I
little leaf
molding
peat and whiskey
keeps me warm
your cedar and gold
along a fire crackles
and I move in
the sweater
tight
the jean jacket
50’s boy
and laughter at
the weather
closer and
closer
still
<3 you twin
zebra Aug 2017
i am much younger than i am
my hair is dark and thick
instead of pruned bald
i am lean and meek
feeling hollow
as if weightless

we are at an airport
with no memory of getting there
i had left my hotel room urgently
in a jacket that is not mine
i can't find my Swedish wife
whom i miss like a panicked child
and my Asian wife whom i've never never met before
and know all to well
is angry
and could care less if i got lost forever

i am going home to my parents house
i remember that they are dead
but we had just spoken
there will be soup and Hors d'oeuvre's
they wait for me
on my way
the streets and boulevards are unfamiliar
yet old hat
and no matter how long i walk
i can never find their house
it's located somewhere in Brooklyn
on Haze street in San Francisco
bright is the sun

i have a business
and retain no idea of what i do
i left my cloths somewhere
and i don't know why
in a locality i cant remember
for a reason that doesn't exist

a beautiful woman smiles offers me ***
she is friends with a girlfriend whom i'm committed too
but do not know and never met
i want to cheat with her
but guilty kisses will ruin everything
so i turn away
murdering desire
in an already anchor-less miasma

i remember a past
my life a continuum
of disjointed vagaries
tears well up

i fear myself a figment
a bodiless revenant
stranded in a fog
sparkles and smoke
incandescence and shrouds
a dis-junctured soul
that clutches memories
like braids of dust
living in the eye of nothing
a labyrinth of shades
lighted by the sun of cognizance
a wretched phantom
transparent husk
living a dark fiction
my grave a womb

i am the dead living
Irish Ditty.. One fine day, middle of the night, two dead men got up to fight. Back to back they faced each other, drew their swords and shot each other.
September Roses Oct 2018
The arctic cold has brushed my cheek once again
The skies are stained white
and the ringing in my ears
is louder than ever
I wonder what the clouds are doing, I never see them anymore
The night doesnt come but the sun doesn't shine
I have a silver notebook
I write, spearmint
Because my eyes are watering but I feel nothing
The world is dry while the air is full
And the heavens take their morning pills
Wash their face
Head off sleepily to begrudgingly watch the icy seas
The wind bites my cheeks
But moves in such silence I wonder if the feeling is not just my routine punishment
At least I'm used to my spirits
At least I have a jacket on
At least the heavens didnt take a sick day all together.
Next page