"kniving" poems - Hello Poetry

Thirty-two. Adventure. Exotic was the word we felt. You rode beside me, small as we were on rickety flippant and injured bikes, but it was so dark dark and your hair your hair was ***** and the lights that neoned over our heads turned into lines and twists fists of red and blue and green and the bricks were wet, like the dirt on the bottom of your shoes shoes that we fled in, shoes that slapped water and collided with the pavement You were just as cunning kniving knifing strafing dodging as I and our lips cracked smiles of sharp white teeth and we ran because we were bad, we were motors of deliberate disobedience our eyes were glazed with dizzy daffodil poppyseed crushed ice and bottles hidden and the room that was the city sky was spinning weightless and confused and sure so sure, we broke window after window with rocks and danced, out of character and space I took you home late

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Jan 17, 2013

Jan 17, 2013 at 11:09 PM UTC

emily-nolan

Streetlights

Thirty-two. Adventure. Exotic was the word we felt. You rode beside me, small as we were on rickety flippant and injured bikes, but it was so dark dark and your hair your hair was ***** and the lights that neoned over our heads turned into lines and twists fists of red and blue and green and the bricks were wet, like the dirt on the bottom of your shoes shoes that we fled in, shoes that slapped water and collided with the pavement You were just as cunning kniving knifing strafing dodging as I and our lips cracked smiles of sharp white teeth and we ran because we were bad, we were motors of deliberate disobedience our eyes were glazed with dizzy daffodil poppyseed crushed ice and bottles hidden and the room that was the city sky was spinning weightless and confused and sure so sure, we broke window after window with rocks and danced, out of character and space I took you home late

14

Eight months ago we parted ways Like a ship parts the water When slicing through the sea. Now when I close my eyes at night I dream some wavering dreams. Sometimes it feels we're inseparable The way the ripples of your fingertips Would embrace the warmth of my hand And my problems would magically wash. Or how I could be so timid and nervous Your presence would impede my expressions And I'd struggle to snap out of it. Maybe it was the beautiful blue in your eyes That would wave when I looked at you And sometimes I'd forget to wave back. Or even just simply hanging out with you Knowing the hours that would follow Will be filled with nothing but conversation. And how my odd sense of humor Somehow seemed to make you laugh and smile, quite an overjoying sight. Sometimes I can't stand the thought of you When I close my eyes at night Because you left me to look like a fool. False promise given to a hopeful heart Built walls greater than those of China That aren't the easiest to move past. It all seemed like an elaborate plan That was constructed by a con-artist And being truthful happened to be the con. You duped a vulnerable soul Who ventured outside his body Because of this risky. . . decision. I learned a caring sense of compassion Is an unrealistic trait to look for In someone who is kniving and selfish. Because to walk away from someone, with what seemed like little to no regret, who walked into your life and made any sort of an impact is as heartless as Kanye West.

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Nov 15, 2013

Nov 15, 2013 at 9:44 PM UTC

benny-the-jet

Con-iving Plan

Eight months ago we parted ways Like a ship parts the water When slicing through the sea. Now when I close my eyes at night I dream some wavering dreams. Sometimes it feels we're inseparable The way the ripples of your fingertips Would embrace the warmth of my hand And my problems would magically wash. Or how I could be so timid and nervous Your presence would impede my expressions And I'd struggle to snap out of it. Maybe it was the beautiful blue in your eyes That would wave when I looked at you And sometimes I'd forget to wave back. Or even just simply hanging out with you Knowing the hours that would follow Will be filled with nothing but conversation. And how my odd sense of humor Somehow seemed to make you laugh and smile, quite an overjoying sight. Sometimes I can't stand the thought of you When I close my eyes at night Because you left me to look like a fool. False promise given to a hopeful heart Built walls greater than those of China That aren't the easiest to move past. It all seemed like an elaborate plan That was constructed by a con-artist And being truthful happened to be the con. You duped a vulnerable soul Who ventured outside his body Because of this risky. . . decision. I learned a caring sense of compassion Is an unrealistic trait to look for In someone who is kniving and selfish. Because to walk away from someone, with what seemed like little to no regret, who walked into your life and made any sort of an impact is as heartless as Kanye West.

41

i govern an idling heart doomingly glazey won't lift a care but won't swat no fly either maintains functional with the safety hitched on observes the public goings and fro-ings without discrimination but offers no service no aid and no addition docile and folded and dormant of view in a world-scape kniving to be brighter more memorable and avidly self dominant i am a skiving witness the older i get the more this approach is not an easy one i observe a neighbour bully about his kids using jest rewards between shouting them to heel and cuffing them violent i observe a lady place her friend with a simple remark ('i like your choker.. it's like something i wore as a child it's nice to remember that') i observe war retread on the screen i observe a couple secretly kiss and brush fingers. human spoil seen now ; it draws pity, pain and longing i am not devoid despite much practice some involvement on my part may be due

0

Mar 23, 2022

Mar 23, 2022 at 6:10 PM UTC

neth-jones

. . . . . . . . . . . . . devoid

i govern an idling heart doomingly glazey won't lift a care but won't swat no fly either maintains functional with the safety hitched on observes the public goings and fro-ings without discrimination but offers no service no aid and no addition docile and folded and dormant of view in a world-scape kniving to be brighter more memorable and avidly self dominant i am a skiving witness the older i get the more this approach is not an easy one i observe a neighbour bully about his kids using jest rewards between shouting them to heel and cuffing them violent i observe a lady place her friend with a simple remark ('i like your choker.. it's like something i wore as a child it's nice to remember that') i observe war retread on the screen i observe a couple secretly kiss and brush fingers. human spoil seen now ; it draws pity, pain and longing i am not devoid despite much practice some involvement on my part may be due

30

It was a ritual scarfing spiced-eggs at the subbase, then heading up to the mountaintop to check on the cumulous-situation. From the banana house, one can see for eternity the tips of Tortola & beyond & grow fond of such splendor. The beauty of such moments can sink deep & stir hearts. Even the stoutest of pirates can cry behind the patch, get snatched by this passion, reveal his hidden treasure. My blood-eyes always seemed mesmerized, pleasured by the rum-filled hours spent down on Back Street before each maiden voyage. The trips to Drake's Seat to confer with the dreadlocked-donkey man were always my final stop. For he had select bumblegum-ganja, homegrown at market prices, to change perspective & buccaneers ya know, certainly need that fix. Those warm Trade Winds whipped through the Inward Passage while lobsters boiled on the shore, and there, raised up high on the edge, my stiletto kniving sapphires, I understood the true meaning of freedom, riding supersonic under golden suns, in a world so alone & starving.

0

Jan 31, 2014

Jan 31, 2014 at 3:51 AM UTC

jonny-angel

I Cried Behind My Patch (Sailing on Island Time)

It was a ritual scarfing spiced-eggs at the subbase, then heading up to the mountaintop to check on the cumulous-situation. From the banana house, one can see for eternity the tips of Tortola & beyond & grow fond of such splendor. The beauty of such moments can sink deep & stir hearts. Even the stoutest of pirates can cry behind the patch, get snatched by this passion, reveal his hidden treasure. My blood-eyes always seemed mesmerized, pleasured by the rum-filled hours spent down on Back Street before each maiden voyage. The trips to Drake's Seat to confer with the dreadlocked-donkey man were always my final stop. For he had select bumblegum-ganja, homegrown at market prices, to change perspective & buccaneers ya know, certainly need that fix. Those warm Trade Winds whipped through the Inward Passage while lobsters boiled on the shore, and there, raised up high on the edge, my stiletto kniving sapphires, I understood the true meaning of freedom, riding supersonic under golden suns, in a world so alone & starving.

45