"kempt" poems
For you knew of the girl whose cheeks were so pink, they'd be mistaken for sweet peas.
And whose skin could be misplaced for dogwood.
Tongue as innocent as the boy that cried wolf,
And eyes as golden as yore.
You knew of that girl, count every school day,
Where she walked through the door, head bowed and heart prayed.
'neath those bangs, whose color is as dark as our breaths, and as shiny as false tree,
Whose eyes--exotic--bluer--bluer than a thumbtack and bluebells set out by sea.
Whose eyes are mismatched by plentiful lips--small as the silver spec on my shoe,
And shimmered 'neath sterile light, as if she kissed the face of Mt. Rushmore, too.
With those high lips and V-line chin, which connected with her pencil neck to her petite body,
No ******* or bottom, with legs as thin as stilts and as blinding as our phones,
She holds the body of a cradle, and sings like a tongue-less canary.
Always kempt and proper--her hair tied back with a lovely noose.
And shoes worry not of dirt--for she never played outside.
Resting 'neath maple-wood trees like a bunny--face and knees tucked by arms, and that's where they reside.
Many boys had asked for her hand in play, but that bunny went deeper--deeper into the flesh hole she burrowed.
"Painfully shy, she was." They said.
And that pain was her devil.
For you knew not the cause of those florid, pink, cheeks.
Whose purpose means nothing but dead machines.
Whose eyes rung bright--struck the world alight,
Yet, they themselves could not see.
For you knew of the girl whose cheeks were so pink, they'd be mistaken for vintage bust,
And whose skin could be misplaced for bile.
Whose eyes mistaken for lust,
And face mistaken for tile.
For you knew of the girl whose cheeks were so pink, they'd be mistaken for heat,
And whose skin could be misplaced for bleach.
For again and again and again, the belt beats.
And hello to endless ******
For if you drew closer and closer--and closer, you see,
Blue waters and purple veins clash--wash again and again 'gainst land--and befit the word: queer.
For if you drew closer and closer--and closer, you see,
Innocence knows no bounds and eyes no longer see flavor,
For if you drew closer and closer--and closer, you see,
Exotic eyes bled--rained--pink--and pink--and pink with grand fervor...!
For sometimes it may frighten you to know,
Not all persons are truly healthy,
even those who you hold truly dear.
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 10:21 AM UTC
You could desperate hear me start weeping
Ruckus started to crying to crack tangerine
holds one still upright auburn
as an immortal's loneliness fogged or condemned
stays a Sahara burnt hot tambourine
a hangover led Arabian
a broken record
some shattered the bathroom bar.
I wonder for my brother's dowry
on beds too kempt to be called beds
and doorframes and lamps set never high enough to hit again,
to stand to kneel to lock to lash to hold to my brother's body
now felt to me like the female sold fragile to the greater cities with
a vote,
he clearly left his Argentina behind no matter
how she paled, ended struck.
No longer a child or sister to pass as
to take guests in alone
to stand our married couple's cries an unmuteable radio
can't go back to playrooms for imparallel dignities' sake
that made all the noise at night worth it to deal with
I, don't want to play the rook
if no horse of yours' beside.
Now once the scarcity of your voice,
if even morbid,
is to be greeted by me alone,
Adam and Eve we have unable to see,
just for the empty halls of your decision just for me to hit,
your turned leaf hidden agenda of relief,
I recognise my faiths of the old of your endless
mornings supposedly killed by snoring and your
vividness to my thoughts a foreign concept,
to note you resurrected out of mind and out of sight
the congruence picks me out and slaps me that
our cocoon and safe designed for you
was nothing short of a coma web in your eyes
to begin with instead.
...
I look out to my brother's dowry
to hold stubborn, fainted in my nook the head of my brother's body
to sit on his old air this house keeps like a sari gem
he will never long for
again.
Dec 14, 2020
Dec 14, 2020 at 10:10 AM UTC
A soft, pink, closed bud
She lay in my palm,
Her untouched, unexplored,
Sparkling pristine charm
Made me desirous of uncovering
The little secrets her innocent depths held,
Though surely there wouldn't be too many,
She was but a little flowerlet.
So, slowly and gently I
Let my fingers unfold
The sheets of her petals hiding
Her stories untold,
I drove into her likes and dislikes,
Her passions, her fears,
I thought that was all but I
Was guided again, into another layer.
A little darker than before, with
Melancholic tales, guilts and regrets,
Punctuated by naughty quirks and unique mirth,
******* me deeper into her nest,
Her nest so ruffled, how she hid it
Within her kempt exterior,
Each depth bizzarely twisting
Into yet another dazzling sphere.
I lost myself inside of her then,
And continue to be, perennially-
Amazed, astonished, perplexed, dazed
At the extravagant flower she turned out to be.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
The dark night was out there
even though the shutters
were up at the windows
and the night nurse sat
in the small office
with her coffee
and wearing glasses
and you entered
unable to sleep
you wearing pyjamas
and dressing gown sans belt
in case you tried
to hang yourself again
and you sat opposite
taking in her big blue eyes
behind the lens of her glasses
her hair brown
and well kempt
and you said
when can I go home?
when you’re better
she said
when will that be?
you’ll know
she said
and sipped her coffee
how good does better feel
you have forgotten
but do not ask
her upper lip has skin
from the milky coffee
hanging
and she wiped it off
with the back
of her hand
and Christine stood
by the door of the office
dressed in her nightgown
pale green
and open at the top
showing the indentation
of her throat
and the small valley
where her ******* began
can’t sleep
she said moving in
and standing by the desk
you looked her
feeling an intrusion
yet glad she is there
her being there beside you
the smell of her
her hands on the desk
tapping
what is it with you two?
the night nurse said
if it’s not one
it’s the other
or both
can’t sleep
Christine repeated
had a nightmare
dreamed I was at the altar again
and he didn’t show again
and it happened again
and again
the nurse said
I’ll get you both something
but if the doctor
hears of this
he may recommend
ECT again
she looked at you opposite
across my dead ****
Christine said
but the nurse had gone
just you and Christine
and her nightmares clinging
gazing out the office
onto the sleeping ward
in semi dark
and the dread
of the ECTs
hauntingly present
remembering the last time
in the small back room
waking with a head heavy
and in pain
and Christine
lying beside you
on another bed
eyes closed
stiff like one sleeping
but acting dead.
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 2:15 PM UTC
He was last spotted
With his gnarled hands
making love to his pockets
maybe bearing a child
half palm
half cotton
Every so often
he’d flail the lint
from his fingernails
serrated from his spleen,
knot them up
into steely ***** of yarn
and batter the window
of his sister’s room
His knuckles may have suffered
some trauma
but it’s likely now
they speak in scars
with windbag bones
that don’t shut up
He isn’t a looker
His nose is large
and barbed
like wire
with currents
that breathe in pollen
he’s allergic to
He got inked last March
on his eighteenth
shrouding his flaxen leg hairs
in ****** red roses,
a wide mouthed skull
with an inverted cross
bludgeoning its left temple,
and the words
“Here’s to your destiny”
in all caps
He has a mop
of tow colored hair
and narrow eyes
either a robin’s egg
or air force blue
that I once piloted
He’s a well padded
five feet and nine inches
But I picture him
far rounder
You’ll never see him
well kempt
he smells of minced cattle
and marijuana
He could dissolve you
into laughter
even on unlit nights
when the moon
goes to the cleaners
and the stars
swish around
in the Laundromat
with your knickers
His grin was cloying
like syrup
until his teeth stuck together
in a wonted pout
Don’t keep your eyes peeled
You won’t find his face
on a milk carton
This boy isn’t really missing
He’s out there somewhere
studying chemistry
or law
But he isn’t here
to give me hell
anymore
So I picture his calf,
his immutable tattoo
whispering
“Here’s to your destiny”
and hope I still have one
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 1:18 AM UTC
Not tasting like affliction,
Not looking with reflection,
Needing a new affectation,
Unable to keep either hand
off
that remote control,
surfing from place to place,
Finding varying degrees of
un-
kempt hair,
Channeling, "Chocolate,
My Chocolate,"
The darker the better,
silky smooth
mousse, melts, making
merriments,
for the senses,
These are a few, of some favorite things
yet nothing compared to what
red wine brings to the table,
with nothing on,
as it unveils the light,
as added swirl to glass,
the round of the cup in the palm
of an open hand,
reminds one of...
past...bottles lying about the place,
a few at a time, Listen...
To be true, only hearing about
drugs as recreation, or
******** substances of
abuse, strange mystery to me,
as I am high on life,
so I cannot write about
what I don't know,
On anger, the hurt, on self-loathing, sings
a call from the Halls of the mountain King,
as printed voices tell in clear,
of battle scars,
of toxic people,
influence,
on lives that matter much,
much more than you know, I care for y'all,
but this ends, a tortured
free
verse,
freed,
for now I must feed my addiction,
"Open up, beautiful, here is another dark chocolate wine dipped cherry, no, no,
not from the bowl, but from my naked lips...
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 9:09 PM UTC
We work as if to vanquish sin, delight
In pay day, reign the ego boosting bills
The hours nine to five grow tired and gripe,
Our sense of worth built firm in green and thrills
A victory deserves a toast, so raise
Your glass and cheer! But don't you dare talk ill
Of men who seek the outside bench, no place
To sleep, ignored by wealthy launderers who'll
Deny the beggar hundred cents yet blow
One hundred bucks to keep their hair due kempt
If love were space then that's how far I'd go
Myself, to mourn the late compassion's sense
It's true: they may be rich upon retire
But who will hold them when their time expires?
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 3:16 PM UTC
i took a route to eastwood
far off the end of a road that does not exist
i took a route
and was enticed by the aroma of growing freedom
kempt and hidden, underneath the soil and concrete
it was numbers away and off the grid
a name, almost too ordinary and typical
of what it offered, i did not know
but the uncertainty was what kept me going
a motivation for my augmenting footsteps
a sense of clarity for my clouded reasons and thoughts
i took a route to eastwood
far off the end and beyond the bustling surface
i took a route
and was enticed by the introverted trees featured alongside the lonely roads
of what it offered, i wasn't sure
but i welcomed the idea of a new beginning with open arms and an open heart
and a certainty for happiness
(n.j.)
Sep 7, 2016
Sep 7, 2016 at 7:01 AM UTC
I am a black foot angel, wingless and forgotten,
tasting immortal memories with stronger passion.
I will grab this bottle and toss eons of romance away
because the angel I loved broke my dark sky heart.
I sit underwater with the trees that sway upside down,
taking breaths of nitrogen mixed in with my tears.
All rocks unturned in the current that is never quenched,
darkened skin from the lava I bathe to heat my tranquility.
Cooled down in the rainforests that hide my dreams,
underneath the diseased soil for my incompetence.
I irrigate the lands I’ve sown in my lust to grow another day,
yet no fruition from my most fertile feelings from drought.
I follow the clouds that flood my misery in these valleys
and cry with the sun as it descends the haven of eyes,
speak with the moon that tells of lone lit stars and lovers
just to wait until it lullabies a quiet lunar night once more.
For the angels I knew that burst open my aerated wounds,
to caress the worry of mortal lives given to all sinners,
uneasy paths that fly upward as the rivers I sent unto my coasts
disgraced when I nail my hopeless love to the omnipotent cross.
Now I gently slip away into the kempt trunks of friends hidden,
an incredible place of secrecy and all-knowing substance,
only to leave again into the horizon that cuts me whole
from the pictures meant to make us all suffer internally.
I rest in the cradle of reality, born on a vine of trust,
this gracious corridor inside me is laden with unfamiliar doors.
My hope sparkles falsely under apprehension, which ruined the walls,
I point the finger, but can only blame the lost fool I see in my mirror.
I ponder my possibilities for flying back into that angel’s heart,
since I lay here in my bed, comatose to my clockwork feelings,
A newborn to a lovelorn life has grown feeble in understanding.
I await inanimate, inside as I cast my vessel into a new dedication of failure.
© 2004
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 3:01 PM UTC
It is in no way a coincidence that those who walk the path of a wandering soul will soon discover that their world does have its boundaries. They will one day stumble upon a definitive edge, a real place where space and time transcend one another to form a mere glimpse into the chronicles of eternity. For the wanderer, this slightest and most sacred instance is to become the reason for their restless instinct. Until the occurrence of this moment those of us who journeyed into the void of ceaseless unknowing that bears the title earth, have simply their raw gut to motivate a then objective-less pursuit. The frightening intimation of the young wanderer is nothing less than this pivotal fact. A kind of blind faith is required in all facets of existence however; it becomes a more literal and even physical leap for one to uproot themselves just to cast their entire worth into this most often vague idea.
For many months I was this young wanderer. A boy whom by the heal of his crooked step tripped into the life he only could hope awaited him. I cannot account for the reasons I left behind my past life. They, like most things have morphed into meager provocations when held again in the proper light. In the end it was my wide-eyed ambition and shear innocence that drove me from my home. That is reason sound enough when one is confronted by the crushing boldness of the wanderer’s theory. It is as if once the directness of this idea enters the well kempt garden of any youth’s consciousness a simple question becomes apparent. Will you heed this call or shall you forever wonder what this life may have held?
I shutter still when my mind should tarry once more to those long buried thoughts, back to the days of my constant and tepid self-reflections. I was so young and was that even long ago? This wandering life does change a man; it may even create the man.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 8:24 PM UTC
Imprison me
For I had performed some vilest sin
Not burn this rapacious body
but gulp every last piece
and **** over your kempt mouth
And not incarcerate my soul
You vow me this
I beseech you lord
keep my soul in such a state
that even among the ****** of all the goddess it will not be able to touch the thirst within .
Aug 28, 2017
Aug 28, 2017 at 6:20 AM UTC
Sincerely, what images come to your minds,
When you read this one name of my nation?
Whether
A land full of people who speak languages,
Many languages in the recumbent country,
Or
Rich heritage and history both poorly kempt,
A land of several classes among its citizens?
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 6:40 AM UTC
As the Artichoke, succulent when raw
Add stunning Flavours when allowed to roast
Whose Heart, seeped Marrow richer my Tongue saw
Spells a better Taste when eaten the most
Yet in your School, Time has honoured your Bake
Which Rosencrantz and Guildenstern took Like
Seems so, for Tested Barrels be your Make
Cross that of Swollen Souls which took Excite
Such was your Work - your pink, spongy Brioche
Rowdily kempt though tempting to enjoy
Which they Both consume; Then reserve their Broth
Hoping some Dames would savour your Specialty.
And Savour indeed, I Hope in Expense
Till such Recipe goes beyond Intense.
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 10:14 AM UTC
The story is never written,
A narrative never told.
The old lined paper
Kempt by metal fingers,
A face wrinkled with use;
Scarred-- with gray tributes,
Slashed with gaudy limelight.
Serrations of effect,
Course by course
Delineation of subjects.
180 men strong -
standing at attention.
Hundreds of guns--
Straight and narrow:
Waiting for the charge,
Muzzle-flash discharge.
Three identical wounds,
Inflicted on the men;
Identity branded skin.
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 2:32 PM UTC
alabaster power-washed vinyl siding
semi-well-kempt lawn, ankle length grass
a garden living and dying and flowering
permanently unpaved driveway
parked car, parked truck, parked camper van
red, white and faded gunmetal grey
plausible display of upkeep
familial appeal, hometown base of operations
welcoming
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 2:03 AM UTC
Christina met you
on the playing field
after lunch in recess
the sun was warm
butterflies went by
clouds white puffs
moved over head
I saw you playing cricket
this morning
from the classroom window
during domestic science
Christina said
standing there
in your whites
your hands behind your back
looking bored
if I had known you were watching
I’d have waved
you said
you were not long batting
she said
after sitting down on the grass
pulling you down beside her
by the hand
no not my best performance
you said smiling
how good
is your best performance?
depends what I’m doing
you said
but not batting?
she asked
no not batting
you replied
looking at her hair
dark and well kempt
her lips parted just so
her white teeth showing
you kiss well
she said suddenly
do I?
you said
yes you do
but you could always do
with practice
yes I suppose so
you said watching Rolland
kicking ball with other boys
across the way
your sister said
you keep my photo
on the bedside cabinet
by your bed
Christina said
yes I do
not my best photo
but it’s the only one
I could sneak out
of the house
without the parents
noticing
Rolland scored a goal
passing the ball
by a kid between
two coats
do you kiss it at night?
she asked
kiss what?
the photo my photo?
only if my brother’s not looking
you said
but otherwise you do?
yes long as wet
you said
and she laughed
and crossed her legs
and you caught a glimpse
of her thigh
I’d like to take you home
for lunch again soon
if I can get my mother
in a good mood
not when she’s depressed
she said
that’d be good
you said
she leaned forward
and took your hand
and drew you near her
and kissed you
on the lips
girls nearby giggled
and you looked over at them
feeling shy but warmed
don’t mind them
she said
they’re just green
with envy
you looked away
from the girls
and saw Rolland
score another goal
and a cheer went up
but they were lost
from view
when Christina
with feverishly hot lips
kissed you.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 2:50 AM UTC
she is porous and kempt
underneath seven layers of tunneling veins
the first chronicles birth to end birth
her cycle
regular load
warm rinse
tumble dry
the second spoons out perverses
honey drizzle on her sacred bell
all for a man to dine and dash
Christ died for her sinful pleasures
the third cultivates fear of yellows
caution, wet floor
your father's skin three days before expiration
lemon lozenge in baby's gorge
the fourth is paralysis
in sleep in speech
in speep in sleech
in in in
in slurry sleep in
in snory speech
the fifth tickles her eyelashes
soft legs soon to amputate
wishes many a wishes
self-ful sacrifices
the sixth weighs a wagon and a mule
which will carry better?
her only baggage is a clove of garlic
a wooden axe
and birthday twine
the seventh encases in a web
a black button estranged from mothercoat
she is beneath this button coin
a porous sponge-doll
gowned in sheer satin night
she is kempt after all
Dec 18, 2016
Dec 18, 2016 at 1:16 AM UTC
The sweet words echo over and over again in my head
"I love you" "I love you" "I love you" How sweet it is.
It's so nice until I wake up and realize i'm just in my bed.
I wish that feeling could last forever , because waking up feels like a major diss.
However, today is the day that i'm going to stop being lazy and try,
I don't want those words to forever evade me until the day that I die.
I don't want to be surrounded by my repetitive unsuccessful attempts,
instead I want to find somewhere where I can live and be kempt.
So I slip on my shoes and out through the door I go.
I'm ready to find that special someone that will sing me that sweet chorus:
"I love you" "I love you" "Oh how much I TRULY love you" And so,
Here I am, waiting by this dam, searching for my one true madam.
Time passes by, but this time I will try, my eyes will stay dry.
Because this time, I'm not ready to bleed grime, swallowed up like a lime.
This is when I make my stand, this is now my land, and I need a hand.
And finally among the horizon , there I see a beautiful amazon, standing there brazen.
And then out of nowhere it hits me like a ton of bricks.
After a sudden flash and my eyes have had enough time to adjust,
I realize that i'm dreaming in the day and that it's a trick,
and it's then that I decide that it would just be best to turn to rust.
Dec 21, 2017
Dec 21, 2017 at 8:24 PM UTC
Kratos the King, keenly kept the Kingdom of Kittens,
Katerina was his Kween, his Khaleesi,
Kindheartedly he kindled her,
Katerina was kind and knowledgeable,
Yet Katerina kindled no kittens for the King,
Kratos, who was keen for kids.
Knuckles was a knight, keen and klutzy,
Knuckles kept the killing knife,
He kept knaves from the King’s Kingdom.
Kiska kept the kitchen.
Kawaii and krasiva was Kiska.
Knuckles kindled her, kindheartedly, as she was his kin.
Karma kindled kindly in the Kingdom,
Kinetic kaleidoscopic karma,
Kindred karma of kindness,
Karma knotted in kinesis,
***** karma,
Kooky karma -
Knocked-out the karmic kismet:
Kratos kissed Kiska.
…
Katerina knew Kiska was knocked-up,
Kindlessly she kneaded killing karma, and,
Knowingly knocked Knuckles into knowing:
Kiska his kin, keyed kingly by Kratos!
“Knave! Klepto! Kin of the kennel!”
Knuckles kicked-off at Kratos.
“Katerina! Thou know-it-all Karen!”
“Kiska is no kink to me!”
“Knowst me kempt and kosher!”
Kratos knew he was kaput.
The Knight kicked the King, killingly,
Kicked and kept kicking.
Kratos kneeled, knackered,
Knocked down,
He knew, the killing knife was,
Kinda a kindness…
Knowing the knockout,
Knuckles killed the King!
Jun 27, 2025
Jun 27, 2025 at 7:43 AM UTC
Lurking somewhere in the middle
With a cloud of steam hovering
Stood a non-kempt hut
Surrounded by no existence or streets
Incompleteness of demolished pavements
Moon tarnishing jubilant memories
Caught the eye of a noble bishop
As he shook electrically with bees
Stumbled he to the rusty door ****
Succeeding jarring, rattling sound
As he insisted for a slight knock
The dust on his shoes scattered around
Darkness dispersed, a shadow peeked out
"I have no sole basis to live
Though dawn always breaks
Yet spring never carves its way
Hope, happiness twists my heart
This, I convey with pride
For I ain't a braggart"
The noble soul, a beauteous carnation
Showering divinity and sympathetic grace
" Richly blessed is how I feel
Oh troubled soul, to solve your mystery, I acclaim
As pristine, peaceful as subtle winds
As ecstatic as the ray of moonlight
As sombre-hearted as a poised hind
As respiting as warm soil's delight
An insightful, dynamic impulse
Painted were you on the Supreme Personality of Godhead's pallette
The warm sunshine and the spring carves it's way"
Grey shadow lingered, sparkling silvery shades
His unwavering faith was quite shaken and mistaken
The bishop saw him unfolding into seven colours
Embellishing nature's evermore divine rainbow..
Jan 18, 2019
Jan 18, 2019 at 9:21 AM UTC
She started with the dirt.
and so it began:
salty dreams dripped like rain water from her heart,
sounding like bass drum parade when
they bombarded
the seeds below.
Boom, bang.
and her symphony began.
Her eyes only rested softly on the peach petals and
green she wished to see one day,
trying to line them up in her mind.
Finding order in the colorful plumage
one could grow and
Row by row
She began to sow
Her own
beauty.
Every day spent, relentlessly push-pulling
with the thorned roses and monsooning
for her scars. She’d bind their branches and with scarlet
fingers, she’d bless each white petal she found
with blood across his white flesh,
so that he too, would not be taken for some
innocent fool, so easy to
pluck apart.
She lived this way for many years,
routinely carving out her heart for the
flowers in her garden.
for this notion
of keeping something pure
in a world so filthy that the only
place a flower has to grow is
in the mud and
the only way a flower is supposed to be able to grow pretty
is with“Fertilizer”.
Then one day,
she finally realized that all fertilizer is,
is ****
That very night she built herself a greenhouse
with her bed at the very center of the garden
and she threw out all the fertilizer
she’d bought at Lowe’s on sale earlier that week. She began to
practice sleeping with her thoughts and her cultivation,
the smell of fresh mud and potpourri
tormented each other the minute her head hit
her grassy green pillow and she would let her garden fester,
foliage bounded by her fear.
Once her fingers began to wrinkle and her voice no longer
bounced back at her from her fortified walls,
she found herself
tangled in the freely flowing vines she had once
kempt so well. The peach petals and green
made her heart squeeze as they grew lovingly,
between her toes
to her chest
and around her neck.
As she dreamt, they did not suffocate her
like she believed they would, one day long ago. The
dirt felt water-like beneath her back, soothing her bedsores and
sounding of the bass-drum parade from many years ago,
when she listened closely. Her eyes fluttered with
every bang and she found her peach petals again-
all so chaotically contained, their colors
stifled by the jagged walls she built for herself.
Taking in their unique passions and thorns
in one steady breath, rainwater fell for her
flowers softly this time. With every drip-drop,
each rose played his own sweet note.
Triangles and marimbas and strings
serenading her into bliss.
We can only dream that she found beauty
in her cultivations, just as they
found
in her.
May 19, 2019
May 19, 2019 at 4:08 AM UTC
How fair was it to blue the steel
clarity could have won.
if not for Celsius's involvement?
Fahrenheit would brighten her blade, yet subtle the temper of rash and shade.
A time of second guessing to absolve the fatal ring, I time the wager to the crashing of stones assembled once again to hold
your hammer.
Their unnatural order,
yet cannot reclaim the zeal.
We talk and whisper in sorrow and/or regret, the passing of beauty astonished, fallen,
before the plummet of regret.
The absence of the leap
Repeats whn I fall asleep.
Apr 28, 2020
Apr 28, 2020 at 3:25 AM UTC
Dear knife,
It's been three years since I've held you
And felt you on my skin
But please know
I'm still thinking of you
Of the bittersweet feeling
Of holding you
Feeling you slice into me
It's been a long time now
But I still want to pull you out
Of your neatly kempt drawer
And have you just one more time.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 9:43 AM UTC
seeds sprout sow
the very unhappy
love lost
the un-kempt
un-fertilized
loneliness of
sodden rows planted carefully
that fail to burst no matter the care
tended
tendrils from the next
row
creep in
to loose upon the soils
a magnum opus somehow someday
becomes roots
becomes the next day's soil
the next world's
good
a next field
open
Nov 10, 2017
Nov 10, 2017 at 1:41 AM UTC