"knicked" poems
I found a spoon in my garden.
Could you even call this a garden?
The planters are all full of
pine needles and stagnancy.
Even the bench I'm sitting on
is rotting and covered in ants.
Anyway this spoon was barely visible
among the dead leaves and dog ****
Not rusty, save for the edges that had been
knicked by a lawn mower at some time
and then bent perfectly
down the
middle.
A memory of playing superheroes
disrupts my study.
Someone was trying to prove their
strength by bending it
"with their mind".
Eventually we tired of our
mind's lack of capabilities
and used brute force to
bend the dreaded spoon
but the celebration was nonetheless
sweet after being able to bend
our mother's cutlery.
Back then the garden was tended.
My mother put us to work
and my
"secret garden" was born partly
out of my imagination and
a lack of reality.
My mother called one plant
"lamb's ear" and I didn't
argue because it was the softest
thing I had ever felt or ever will feel.
Did she make that name up?
Surely, she wouldn't lie to me.
And now that lamb's ear, like
everything else is covered in
a thick, itchy layer of pine straw
and stagnancy. To let the plants
even begin to heal from their
prolonged exposure to cold,
mistifying darkness I would have
to scratch through the
allergy-inducing tentacles.
Push them out of the way.
Dig up the dead, dry earth,
plant new seeds and tend to them
arduously--all while wondering
why couldn't my family just
take care of what they had?
but then I notice this spoon.
I've gotten carried away again
and now I forgot to write about
what I meant to write about in
the first place.
It's not healthy to let things rust.
Jul 14, 2012
Jul 14, 2012 at 11:25 PM UTC
He's quiet in class,
Sits at the back,
Never put's his hand up,
Friends he does lack,
On his way to lessons,
And before school,
He's beaten to a pulp,
He spits blood and drool,
Every day he runs,
Faster and faster,
Trying to escape,
His self-proclaimed master,
Scared to roam the playground,
Scared of having fun,
Hopes it will get better,
But they've only just begun,
Eveything is better now,
He's laughing, playing games,
No more bullies in the school,
To tease him, call him names,
He decided to tell a teacher,
And then he told his dad,
Went to the head,
Said it made him really sad,
The school rang the police,
And had the bully arrested,
They took him away in handcuffs,
The one who had molested,
His gang disappeared,
Without a trace,
For they had no leader,
They had no ace,
Everybody cheers,
Fans of the Victim,
Some guy has hit a teacher,
Now in one foul swoop he's knicked 'em,
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 9:08 AM UTC
I kicked the edge
of the coffee table
with the top of
my small toe.
And then I thought of you.
I dropped that glass
But nearly caught it
with my then glass
Shard filled hand.
And then I thought of you.
Knicked the edge of
my Razer against the
Contour of my face
while my blood filled
the rest of the mirror.
And then I thought of you.
But when I nearly
cut myself in half
with that old ax
And dead tree,
I didn't think of you.
You don't want me dead,
Just alive enough to feel the pain,
because when you're dead you can't
feel dead,
when you're living
Sometimes it's all you can feel.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 11:28 PM UTC
What if we mailed a letter,
To Matthew, Luke, and John.
That Mark had conceived a practice
Which would turn the world around.
To freely speak his mind upon them,
Faceless tadpoles in the crowd.
Just open your ears and hear these
Insightful thoughts through a speaker loud.
As he turned his mic toward her,
And grinned a smile so warm.
She often got too frightened,
Fearing his life in danger and harm.
But this was not a contest,
No beauty prize at hand.
The only thing he demanded
Was to introduce them to his band.
Of cheerful loving misfits,
That faught for truth and good.
To flip the frown from beneath them,
Just like any honest citizen should.
But to win over such an election,
Of justice, daft, and punk.
Would be to lift them from their tight knicked chains
And fill their lungs up til they are drunk.
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 10:51 AM UTC
It's a little late for
A smile
It's a little late for
A mile
You promised
Or
Maybe I did
That the sun
Would always shine
In
Both of our eyes
You're a tad quick
With your pick
You're a bit knicked
With your tick
But I love you
Just the same
There's no reason
I wouldn't have came
Walk toward a dead poet
Mirror
Expose of a soulless
Exhibitionist
Praying
One day
They'll have a soul
They believe
Is not worth
Remembering.
Dec 8, 2019
Dec 8, 2019 at 5:29 AM UTC
Stop killing me with deep despair,
In deepest sleep hides your constant stare!
Nails clawing at blackest sin,
That clings and stains at my white narrow shins.
Guilt drives to this midnight panic,
Fingers breaking through and revealing the satanic.
I loved you with this down trodden heart,
But you killed it with your wicked arts.
It started with a drunken fist,
And struck hard in the blood streaked mist.
I screamed and flailed in your arrest,
Tearfilled terrified and distressed!
Scared hands encountered,
On the kitchen counter,
The weapon of your instant death,
Which robbed you of your final breath.
The knife knicked,
With a frantic flick.
And dead were you upon our floor.
Right next to the garden door.....
Aug 4, 2010
Aug 4, 2010 at 7:50 AM UTC
If this was the solution to everything
Why did it take so long for it to sting?
I poured the alcohol long ago
And rubbed it on my wounds
I tried to tell you I needed help
Upon many, many moons
Did restating my question make more sense?
What is it that finally clicked?
Is my pain finally too much for you?
Has your soul, too, been knicked?
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 6:19 PM UTC
Sometimes I feel like a stone caught between tides
I crave to be smoothed beautifully by life
Sometimes I am knicked
Sometimes I'm pulled too far beneath
But I will always find my way back to the shoreline.
I will glisten in the sun, and ride the waves
Where the water takes me next, I will never know.
But I am not aimless, or without purpose
I'm eternal, even in death
My memory etched in every wave, every grain of sand.
I am a rock you see.
I'm always exactly where I need to be.
Jul 7, 2020
Jul 7, 2020 at 11:10 PM UTC
Ouch she squealed,
an internal groan,
The sliver of glass knicked her finger,
Near down to the bone.
She patched it up with tissue,
to try to stop that bleed,
At that very moment,
she remembered the sailor man,
the one that she just freed.
Took a closer peep
carefully, remembering the glass, this time.
She actually thought, she saw him weep.
She thought she'd take a closer look,
His expression had changed,
He was no longer looking deranged.
As from the broken ship he'd fled,
The bottle was shattered but he wasn't dead.
The old sea dog,
in the gaberdeen mac,
Peeped in the doorway,
yes,
he came back.
Said he to the assistant ,
where is my ship?
The girl she explained with an expression that pained,
I'm so sorry Sir,
It met a grisly end.
"Once ,It was my ship said he,
When the bottle got broke,
I was set free.
I bet you never realised,
the bottled sailor boy was me."
(C) Livvi
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 10:19 AM UTC
Dougie wept
because his zip-off chiffon sleeves
had blown away in a strong gust of wind
that issued from a nearby kebab shop.
Don’t cry for him, though.
He knicked ‘em from a mad old woman.
May 10, 2020
May 10, 2020 at 9:15 PM UTC