"leering" poems
Dusting off the rabbity
that squirrely tempo anxiety,
closing in with night.
The irresistible pattern
the irrational illogical fight
a battle with one’s discipline,
mirroring our might.
I make it home a fluttering
belly twirled and muttering,
I tell myself tis alright!
The damage done, and everyone,
I’m just like them and millions more
succumbing at the Devil’s door.
And the taste, the burn,
the healing calm,
the shaking and the thinking gone.
Knock one back, slam out another
night is early, rock it brother,
Tying on a swilly swirling
buzzed-out brain and mind a twirling. . .
“Ahhhh…”
I feel better now, exhilarated,
exasperation falls to stout resound;
I pour again and knock it down!
“Ahhhh…”
Spinning now, not to say I’m spun
but choosey choosing several a pun
I see myself an accomplished one!
Yes, that’s it, that is me,
look upon with thoughts of glory
yank open the freezer for glass that’s hoary. . .
How cool am I? certainly not boring
all night I’m here, pouring, pouring. . .
Buzz subsides, thoughts slow too,
lurid leering, slobbering swearing,
stupid actions and nothing new?
I lose the bottle,
I lose my shirt,
***** on myself,
pass out in dirt.
Another night of drunken hero,
time that’s wasted for kingly Nero.
But who am I to judge myself?
*I’m hardly worse than anyone else?* *
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 10:23 PM UTC
O'er the midnight moorlands crying,
Thro' the cypress forests sighing,
In the night-wind madly flying,
Hellish forms with streaming hair;
In the barren branches creaking,
By the stagnant swamp-pools speaking,
Past the shore-cliffs ever shrieking,
Damn'd demons of despair.
Once, I think I half remember,
Ere the grey skies of November
Quench'd my youth's aspiring ember,
Liv'd there such a thing as bliss;
Skies that now are dark were beaming,
Bold and azure, splendid seeming
Till I learn'd it all was dreaming —
Deadly drowsiness of Dis.
But the stream of Time, swift flowing,
Brings the torment of half-knowing —
Dimly rushing, blindly going
Past the never-trodden lea;
And the voyager, repining,
Sees the wicked death-fires shining,
Hears the wicked petrel's whining
As he helpless drifts to sea.
Evil wings in ether beating;
Vultures at the spirit eating;
Things unseen forever fleeting
Black against the leering sky.
Ghastly shades of bygone gladness,
Clawing fiends of future sadness,
Mingle in a cloud of madness
Ever on the soul to lie.
Thus the living, lone and sobbing,
In the throes of anguish throbbing,
With the loathsome Furies robbing
Night and noon of peace and rest.
But beyond the groans and grating
Of abhorrent Life, is waiting
Sweet Oblivion, culminating
All the years of fruitless quest.
26k
Having observed others and containing the self consciousness of a noticer (do other people look at me the way I look at them?) she would dress in old borrowed clothing that smelled like other peoples’ laundry and leather because secretly she wanted to wear the other people try them on and she had this wrinkle between each brow that made her look just sort of worried no matter how she tried to press and smooth that wrinkle down with her thumb and in very private moments she’d stare at her features in the mirror with a sort of curiosity because she’d been told by leering men that she was beautiful but sometimes she saw only features: Nose eyes mouth all in pretty good proportion sure but she supposed the thing that held her curiosity was not her face itself but rather the disconnect between the face and the universe of thought behind it and all this she’d marveled at a very young age as ma would see her staring at herself in front of the bathroom mirror or in store windows and tell her not to be so vain kid to hurry along
And so she feared writing about her own vulnerable beauty for fear that she might be both of those things—vulnerable and beautiful. Instead she would take an hour long train ride, fake-dozing so as not to be ticketed, walk anonymous between busy persons until she reached a place that satisfied her Washington Square park, perhaps, or some small playground on the lower east side, or down by water or the hip corner shops in Brooklyn. And there, in strangers, she would find her vulnerable beauty, and there with the aid of a pen they became her and she became them.
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 3:11 PM UTC
Our world has many distractions,
Many of which I've known.
But here am I in the midst of it all,
writing a poem to whom I don't know.
Most of all I love you,
More than you could know.
And someone out there, near or far,
To you my love does flow.
I cannot help but think of holding hands,
Crazy dancing and smiling glances,
Movie nights and games with friends,
Writing notes of silly romances.
I'll sing you songs,
Some sincere, others silly but true,
Cause I'm just that kind of person,
You'd best be crazy with me too!
I'll try and love your sports,
and support your teams with cheering,
I'll bring you snacks, and cuddle up,
Though on the inside I may be leering!!
I'll make you cookies and huge cakes,
whipped beautifully with cream,
Even with this I'll be so happy,
I may believe myself to dream.
Oh darling, the future feels so far,
Maybe I should embrace today,
but what good is that to me,
When half this heart is out at bay?
They think me strange, and very different,
Just waiting for my prince,
Forever thinking to my tomorrow,
Based on parent's experience.
I'm sorry mother, father,
It does hardly seem fair,
But for you I will continue on this journey,
A life lived with special care.
And they are out there, living today's life,
And while they're grounded there I twirl,
Waiting for you to find in me:
A precious, beautiful pearl
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 7:59 AM UTC
leering lurking
before me
crazy jet black coal eyes
peer
red crimson droplets
forming on foaming saliva
teeth as sharp
as a bear trap
baited and ready to pounce
copyright gothic mistress 2012
May 28, 2012
May 28, 2012 at 9:39 AM UTC
Abigail slides the glass door shut.
As beads of water percolate off her body
and land on the faux stone tile,
the smell of chlorine from her swim
and the smell of coffee from my brewing *** blend.
My uncle, Abigail's father, and my mother
are seated at the sticky, spilt soda kitchen table beside me.
"Go get ready for dinner," my mother's brother says, sending
Abigail's bikini'd frame through doorway and around the bend.
The brew idles, and I'm all porcelain and sugar substitute for a moment,
then back by my uncle and mother.
"Abigail has gotten so thin," my mother says.
"Is she eating?" my mother asks.
"I know it's tough for girls her age. When they're looking to marry," my mother says.
I want to bash the smoking cup into her face.
My uncle says she's been training for a marathon.
My neurons get tidy and taper off.
So, it's out of the kitchen and into an empty living room
to park my *** on an empty piano bench.
I set the coffee on top, and press eight of my fingers down
on black keys.
I hear toes-to-heels, toes-to-heels.
I gaze over my shoulder.
Now, Abigail's in a black, black dress. Mid-thigh.
In her left hand,
red fuck-me-shoes with a heel that could turn a curious man blind;
in her right hand,
black pantyhose and cherry lipgloss.
"You should have swam," Abigail delivers with hushed precision,
like she'd been reciting the line throughout the duration of her swim.
Abigail has long brunette hair,
and it's sticking to her neck.
Deep permanent dimples frame her lips.
She's a nurse in Waco.
Each time I see her, I think about
Bukowski's 103-pound "Texan".
It makes me rash, violent, a heady monstrosity,
and trembling sick.
"I forgot my trunks."
"That's no excuse."
I would respond, but she's sliding the hose up her leg.
In the living room.
While my uncle talks a second mortgage around the bend.
Her right leg crosses her left,
an overpass and an interstate.
My forehead overheats in a flash,
and I feel like she's staring back at me.
When my leering eyes shift from
her toes to her eyes, the pupils beckon:
"All roads lead to me."
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 12:48 AM UTC
Retail-hunter gatherers pick
clean processed bones, digging graves
with their shiny teeth, studious in
their reveries as they drone
past worlds dumped in the thresher;
the trucked-in fields of film-wrapped
gore splayed lustily before the managers
wound tight in Machiavellian design.
A shepherd herds his flock of
wreathed iron back to its pen, its
skeletal tangle lit in riotous gold by
swords flung from lambent eyes of
pre-dawn’s shunting chariots
Cages shunt and bobble like tugboats
chugging stoic up swimming pool lanes
of nondescript tile, cheered on by shouting
colours to float through archipelagos of
paper towel and chocolate blocks past
the vegemite diaspora, and the arctic
wastelands cased in sliding glass fields of
perfect steady storms as wraiths baked in halogen
ask silent questions of the silverbeet, while
Lana Del Ray’s voice falls like
nightshade—slutty and serene—coating
shelf stackers in a Piaf sadness as the
shelves reach their arms out for more.
The check out chick hatches
a sense of déjà vu as carrots
and biscuits drone towards her
mind berEFT of any twitching
sense of POSsibility that wised
up and flew this leering coop and
deep in her catalogue of grey folds
something stillborn and waxen is
perched on gleaming steel, reeling
out her guts like cassette tape with jerky
nightmare arms and laughing like a
banker watching ***** films, mornings
dull cerise an invocation through
auto-jaws as she bursts out to warble
with magpies in car park’s climbing fire.
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 9:23 PM UTC
.
Watching the rise and the fall of a kingdom
Walls once rebuilt again tumble the ground
Allowing the beasties free reign in the village
Bellowing out o’er the wickedest sound
Pacing the streets, seeking out bits of garbage
Leaving their stains on the innocent few
Leering in windows where children are hiding
Tender young things and so easy to chew
Thieves in the night lurk about come the morning
Stealing the sun at the break of the dawn
Drinking of sewage a’ flow in the gutters
Checking off names as the many are gone
Peering ‘round corners, down alleys, in shadows
Seeking the favor of all who do grieve
Laughing in spite of the torment now growing
Licking their lips in the hope you believe
Roaming in groups so the followed outnumber
Say what you will for the king does not hear
Lost in his throne made of mirrors that flatter
Shivering, cowering, caving to fear
Deaf to the villagers asking for reason
Blind to the pillage befalling this land
Dumb, well I guess that just goes without saying
Nary a care what the people demand
Feasting on turkey, potatoes and gravy
Raising a glass to the enemy proud
Taking a stand against those who support him
Locking the front doors while yelling aloud
***“Carry your torches, your pitchforks, your honor
It matters not for this evil shall win
Even when gone there are echoes of anger
Lingering on till they come back again
Give them your all, what you’ve poured your heart into
Down on your knees, bow to them one and all
Step over rock and the piles of rubble
This castle will stand even when the walls fall
Shout all you like as no change is forthcoming
Accept it or flee, you think I give a ****
When you are gone many more will replace you
Now pass those peas and a slice of that ham”***
So roam the beasties, their teeth ever sharpened
Fanning the flames as so many are burned
Tearing apart what the people envisioned
Silly to think that they somehow had learned
Nothing so happy with no ever after
Always the same, it will happen again
But unlike some other long winded stories
Sadly in this I can not say “the end”
Watching the rise and the fall of a kingdom
Walls once rebuilt again tumble the ground
Thankfully I can peruse from a distance
Witnessing all without hanging around
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 9:25 AM UTC
A desolate shore,
The sinister seduction of the Moon,
The menace of the irreclaimable Sea.
Flaunting, ****** and grim,
From cloud to cloud along her beat,
Leering her battered and inveterate leer,
She signals where he prowls in the dark alone,
Her horrible old man,
Mumbling old oaths and warming
His villainous old bones with villainous talk--
The secrets of their grisly housekeeping
Since they went out upon the pad
In the first twilight of self-conscious Time:
Growling, hideous and hoarse,
Tales of unnumbered Ships,
Goodly and strong, Companions of the Advance,
In some vile alley of the night
Waylaid and bludgeoned--
Dead.
Deep cellared in primeval ooze,
Ruined, dishonoured, spoiled,
They lie where the lean water-worm
Crawls free of their secrets, and their broken sides
Bulge with the slime of life. Thus they abide,
Thus fouled and desecrate,
The summons of the Trumpet, and the while
These Twain, their murderers,
Unravined, imperturbable, unsubdued,
Hang at the heels of their children--She aloft
As in the shining streets,
He as in ambush at some accomplice door.
The stalwart Ships,
The beautiful and bold adventurers!
Stationed out yonder in the isle,
The tall Policeman,
Flashing his bull's-eye, as he peers
About him in the ancient vacancy,
Tells them this way is safety--this way home.
4.2k
She is the lady on the road.
She is a mother, a sister, a colleague, a bird, a lassie, a damsel.
She is the lady on the road.
She spreads love and enriches kindness in the society,
She is the crux of an organization, and the fundamental principles.
She is the lady on the road.
She twinkles with the stars and shimmers with the moon,
She scampers with her pets and hops like a frog,
She is not a nomad, but a faithful keeper.
She is the lady on the road.
She wears short skirts,
She wears tight tops,
She doesn't encourage the flirts,
She neither abominates the leering of cops.
She is the lady on the road.
She holds a honourable reputation,
She forms the base of ethical standards,
She buries the grudges and resolves the dissension,
She consolidates herself and maintains her fettle,
She is the epitome of cheerful disposition.
She is the lady on the road.
She ignores the catcalls,
She endures the torture and prevails her morale,
She is a monument unshakable, and a stone unbreakable,
She dumps her burdens and enlightens her destiny,
She protects her dignity and negotiates with denunciation,
She does no harm, but deals with it.
She is the lady on the road, ..the seventh wonder of the world.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 7:37 PM UTC
You have been told that rapists were men in black hoodies
hidden in twisting shadows and dark alleyways.
****** offenders were always leering old men in rags;
never blonde haired and blue eyed and always smiling-
not once did you think to question the intentions
of his warm and familiar fingertips.
When you find yourself locked in his claws
and he tells you
that you must want it
don’t be a tease.
Look at what you’re wearing.
A sliver of skin mistaken for an invitation.
Do not be surprised when your mother
also asks you what you were wearing-
but do not forget.
Remember this for the next time.
You will also try to convince yourself that you asked him to,
but the scars on your sister
and the tribe of women with cut out tongues and pleading eyes
who stare back at you from your reflection
tell another story.
Tell your mother that no matter how many flowers she throws over the mass grave
she cannot hide the stench of rotting corpses,
do not pretend that you are okay when you feel all the lights inside of you begin to shut off
because your body has grown tired of sounding alarms and raising knives
against intruders who wield toxic gas and atomic bombs.
You have been taught to hold your tongue and to smile like nothing is wrong
but now your mouth is filled with your own bite marks and it is hard to hide the blood.
You should not have to.
Your words can crumble empires
and redeem centuries of trauma embedded in bleeding wombs.
It is time you used them to stand up for yourself.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 4:57 PM UTC
I should stop
Just stop and walk away
Walk away from everything
Hinder my problems
But I can't
It's my fault
Every touch, a punishment
Every kiss, torture
Lust filled eyes
Leering in the dark
No one notices
Just me
Heart thumping, waiting
For the clear signs of hunger
Just one call is all it takes
To take me in again
And I'll succumb
To your kisses
Your disgusting touches
The monster I created
The affair I'll keep hidden.
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 3:56 AM UTC
On the first day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
a heart still barely breathing.
On the second day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
broken, bleeding parts
and a heart still barely breathing.
On the third day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
a chill in the air
broken, bleeding parts
and a heart still barely breathing.
On the fourth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
all this does is hurt
a chill in the air
broken, bleeding parts
and a heart still barely breathing.
On the fifth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
a touch that still stings
all this does is hurt
a chill in the air
broken, bleeding parts
and a heart still barely breathing.
On the sixth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
leering lullabies
a touch that still stings
all this does is hurt
a chill in the air
broken, bleeding parts
and a heart still barely breathing.
On the seventh day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
scattered, insane
leering lullabies
a touch that still stings
all this does is hurt
a chill in the air
broken, bleeding parts
and a heart still barely breathing.
On the eighth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
bullets in my brain
scattered, insane
leering lullabies
a touch that still stings
all this does is hurt
a chill in the air
broken, bleeding parts
and a heart still barely breathing.
On the ninth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
coffin to lie in
bullets in my brain
scattered, insane
leering lullabies
a touch that still stings
all this does is hurt
a chill in the air
broken, bleeding parts
and a heart still barely breathing.
On the tenth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
lies that I drown in
coffin to lie in
bullets in my brain
scattered, insane
leering lullabies
a touch that still stings
all this does is hurt
a chill in the air
broken, bleeding parts
and a heart still barely breathing.
On the eleventh day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
ears that keep ringing
lies that I drown in
coffin to lie in
bullets in my brain
scattered, insane
leering lullabies
a touch that still stings
all this does is hurt
a chill in the air
broken, bleeding parts
and a heart still barely breathing.
On the twelfth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
tears that won’t stop spilling
ears that keep ringing
lies that I drown in
coffin to lie in
bullets in my brain
scattered, insane
leering lullabies
a touch that still stings
all this does is hurt
a chill in the air
broken, bleeding parts
and a heart still barely breathing.
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 4:11 AM UTC
Eight-
In a general store,
the middle of nowhere.
I stared at toys,
oblivious to the stranger too close.
A hand on my backside,
a rub and squeeze.
The cops huffed,
'are you sure it wasn't an accident?'
'Is it really that important?'
Suddenly I knew shame.
Twelve-
Last day of school,
cornered in an empty classroom
by my lifelong bully.
He tore my pink shirt,
grabbed me where Trump would have.
My father helped.
Did what he could.
Told me it wasn't my fault.
But the teacher,
a male who never liked my voice,
groaned in private,
'this will ruin that poor boys life.'
But what about me?
Sixteen-
A class full of people,
feeling pretty as a rare treat.
A boy with a knife
sitting too close,
hand inching up my thigh.
A malicious smile
with a dangerous whisper,
'spread your knees.'
I never told,
It had hardly mattered before.
But that's the last time
I wore a skirt to school.
Eighteen-
The officer taking my prints
made me cringe as he lingered.
His compliments made me shudder
but I told myself I was paranoid.
Leading me to a cell
he offered me a private room
leering as he mentioned
I wouldn't feel alone.
I almost laugh now
at his offer to pay me with juice.
But a year later at the hearing
his lude claims were loud enough
for everyone to hear.
A court room full of people
heard him brag about things
he never did.
Only one person shut him down
without even a word.
Simply a glare of digust
that I was too scared to give.
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 7:18 PM UTC
A grimoire of nuptials apporting
The implored cadaverous knight
Securing obsequious omens
Stirring the sleeping metals of
Chaste belladonna, glistening
Elf-locks entangled with Hellweed
Vowing until the golden bowl is broken
Clasping the devils paintbrush promising
Before the garrulous black mass
Leering upon Vulcans mirror
Cursing the covenant of faithfulness
With a moonstone band
Evoking a vixens wedding
Sealing with Adams holy ale
Their oath as the belfry rings
Resounding admist white sepulchre.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 9:00 AM UTC
The pastor is preaching, is trying to hit
the heart today: What really is Mass, why
is it the center of our faith, why really do we
come? Familiar questions I’ve asked (though
minus the m.) Now this is interesting. He says,
this church is Bethlehem, the home of bread.
His voice is gradually becoming a mewling
through the microphone that annoys me, the
strings in his box tightening to a choke like
ends of piano wire, almost always to tearing.
I can’t see past the doxologizing, but it sounds that
this is why we come, his eyes might just have torn.
It is the day of the nativity of some
Lord, or incarnate God, or son—an almighty
Savior. I guess I’d be histrionic too, then, if I
knew there was something called my Salvation.
If all that was needed was to repent and believe
and be faithful and give yourself.
That’s not really hard if you never happen to
not know your sin or whiff at air or be betrayed or
fail to be gotten. At least something else is, though.
There’s a girl I spot I would like to **** She is
attractive from where I’m standing, flirty I can
tell, leering at me and gossiping with another
cute girl. If I happen to meet her after the service,
I’d like not to have to say much to get her in bed.
That way, there isn’t the risk of exhaustion or
feeling pointless from trying to tell so much.
But that is always going to be hard. That is why
I’ll stop sometimes, just chew the bread.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 7:17 PM UTC
He called me a chameleon once.
The words fell like sweet thick honey that matched his sandy blonde hair.
It fell just over his eyes. I had to duck and search to meet his gaze.
He told me that I acted like a mother to one, and a daughter to another.
He told me that he had yet to figure out my true colours.
I only smiled.
He studied me carefully everyday afterwards.
Peering, leering, examining every last breath that left my lips.
I chuckled, and allowed it, knowing he could spend his life dedicated to studying me yet never find the answer he was looking for.
A chameleon can only blend in with what surrounds them,
fire, blue skies, dark blizzards, animated companions.
A chameleon can never see the colour of its own skin, because it's too busy trying to match everyone else.
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 7:36 PM UTC
Obama jetted
back to Africa
soaring aloft on
gulf stream swank
a posse of
oil company execs
in tow, intent on liberating
Dark Continent
fossil fuels from unjust
underground prisons
American
entrepreneurs
angling to get the
upper hand in the
high stakes global
resource poker game
pulled a big time race card
to trump China’s
full house
On Goree Island,
political paparazzi
popped and clicked
a perfect image
of the neocolonial
white clad President
framed in a doorway filled
with dark shadows and
heinous memory of the
unspeakable horrors
of global trade
leering from
the portal at the
Gate of No Return
Obama welled with
meditative epiphanies
of personal seachange,
and the vicissitudes of life,
pondering his meteoric rise
from a Land of Lincoln
State Senator to
American President
in the span of
one golden
9/11 decade
At a
South African University
Town Hall Summit,
the fist bumpin,
mike droppin Prez
telepromted the
star struck folks with
solemn universal civil rights
pronouncements,
wrapped in the riddle of
the pursuit of peace,
hidden in the enigma of
the reverence for
human dignity
Later in the day
Mr. Obama sat at the
feet of a comatose Mandela;
whispering into his ear
why an Afghan peace
eludes him, why his
drone strikes rain
death upon innocents
and why his democratic
republic defiles
the civil liberties of its
citizens to ransom
a daily diet of fear
But Madiba does not hear
Mr. Obama’s feverish
confessions; his
ears are closed,
he dreams only
of the paradise of
liberation he earned
for his life's hard wages
Music Selection:
Gil Scott Heron
Western Sunrise
Oakland
070213
jbm
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 11:14 AM UTC
(Song title from Lightnin’ Hopkins’ catalogue, by Whittaker)
He stalks the parks; staring; leering,
Smiling contented,
Hiding behind his façade of walking his dog,
He reveals his true darkness,
As around the roundabout he ambles and strolls,
Looking at the children in their innocent poses,
We crouches by a boy alone in the shadows,
A boy who is happy to sit down and doodle,
He tells this stalker “let me play with your poodle”,
The menace moves in.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 11:37 AM UTC
A moment’s inspiration to grasp a building thought,
A panicked, surged excitement, now achieved, where once was naught.
In plucking crystal thought from the yonder crisp, blue air,
And coalescing mishmash into meaningful repair.
To seek a path of verbage realigning phrases bright
And feel the resurrection of creative works this night.
In pulling rich vocabulary from within the concrete hash
Concocting circumspection in this brilliant verse from trash.
Annunciating clarity and a purity of class
To haul yourself, abruptly, to get off your lazy ****
To burst forth in immaculate and spontaneous wordage clear
And blithely blow away your critics on their loathsome, leering ear.
Marshalg
11 September 2013
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 12:10 AM UTC
I want to be a tight man
a fight man
a get it when I can man
a hard man
a ladies man
a take when its there man
a bad man
a cad man
a wham bang and thank you ma'am.
I want to be a flirt man
a take a bit of skirt man
a **** man
a slapper man
a kiss em quick an part man.
I want to be a cheat man
a cheap man
a slip between the sheets man
a creep man
a street man
a leering ****** beer man.
I want to be a cold man
an ice man
but some say I'm too nice man?
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 9:18 AM UTC
A perfect summer night;
moon shining in the sky,
fireflies surround us
as the light leaves our eyes.
We pay no attention to them,
so lost in our own thoughts,
that we didn't realize,
what was right before our eyes.
Their lights flick on and off,
much like our feelings do.
happy, sad, happy, sad,
what are we supposed to do?
We try to talk it out,
but our speech is a bit slurred,
regardless of the smoke,
our little friends stayed undeterred.
I felt like you saw right through me,
but they saw me plain and clear.
They could see the hurt;
something you mistook for fear.
Anxiety gets the best of you,
is there any room for me?
All you do is judge me,
for things I don't even see.
I haven't changed at all,
I've been here all along.
Do you know how hard it is?
To try to stand so tall?
With everyone leering at you,
breaking down your walls;
you're all that I have left,
so, before this castle falls;
I just wanted you to know,
that I'm not hiding any thing.
I need you to trust me,
I can't stand the sting...
your anxiety is killing me,
and the fireflies know;
because they paid attention;
and helped me see with their soft glow...
that maybe we can't fix this,
maybe we're too far gone.
So please just lay here with me,
and we'll watch just one more dawn;
together.
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 6:47 PM UTC
Those twin galaxies of yours
Beckoned on my sister oceans'shores.
I swam away, I heard the lore,
'A furtive glance will ask for more.'
I hid beneath these bitter waters
heaven graciously showers,
And sank to their esoteric depth-
My treasured detaching step.
But these shrouds are latent webs,
Impalpable yet enthralling herbs,
That compelled those galaxies
Towards my oceans'caged reveries.
Astral lights came flowing
On my secret crevices - cosmic cunning.
On faint surrender, oceans reflected
Those lights thought connected.
But you feared degrees unknown,
Ceased the sailing, you will never own-
They you thought mastered the song of lorelei,
The depths you will die.
Was it that shed leering glimmer
From distant galaxies hover
Around the interval that mist covers
And stirring these waters?
My immensity is foreboding,
Your vastness is deceiving.
Would our core surface, if in mist
You linger and I in abyss?
You intoxicate me with cosmic light nothing can sober,
But refuse to drink from my oceans' water.
Your galaxies shine on infinity
But are not my property.
You are locked on a cache, no one could immerse,
Owned by some private universe.
The lore of your galaxies, a blurred maze,
An immortal quest to my gaze.
Feb 1, 2011
Feb 1, 2011 at 1:45 PM UTC
A soft flutter in the top of the trees
Beauty as the flowers are swarm by bees
Counting the cracks on the crooked ground
Dodging the birds as I spin around
Every sound slowly comes alive
Frantically the squirrels dig up nuts they use to survive
Gorgeous patches of fine green grass
Hastily jumping to avoid the broken glass
I take in the smell of the spring
Just listening to the birds sing
Kind eyes from passing friends
Loving embraces you never want to end
Meeting the soft sunrays with a warm smile
Never closing my eyes, just watching the sun a while
Over the hill I quietly lay
Patiently waiting for the vanishing sunrays
Quiter the world seems to fall
Resting their heads in the treetops so tall
Slowly the sun sinks lower
Towering for a minute the sun grows slower
Until it fades into dark blue skies
Vanishing before my green watching eyes
When the last glimpse of the golden globe disappears
X-rays of the stars fall leering
Zenith well passed in the open grass of the clearing
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 8:09 PM UTC