"ligament" poems
Does my blackness offend you?
Is my hair too curly for you?
Are my hips too wide for you?
My dark brown skin glows with all the melanin I have been gifted with.
My lucious thick hair is filled with curls that bounce with every stride I take forward, away from oppression.
My hips sway perfectly with the drums beating in the air of the Mother land.
Does my athletism bother you?
Is my intelligence too much for you?
Are my people beneath you?
My athletic feats have been studied by generations of white Americans who have hoped to find an extra ligament in my leg.
My intelligence has been the reason for many inventions all over the world.
My people will rise above , always have , always will.
My people will be given justice where it's due.
My people will be heard , just like the drums from the Mother land.
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 9:38 PM UTC
this door exists,
stately and staunchly it stands,
disheartening and terrifying it remains.
the door is unlocked, yet cannot be opened,
for in it, a path in time...
one decision that can affect everything
[such as my choice to wear the necklace you adore,
which lead to you noticing me for the very first time,
or my idea to play you the song that you fell in love with,
which i can no longer listen to]
...for in this door, one path
is intimidatingly located.
every bone in my body,
every last muscle, tendon, ligament
each artery, each vein, each capillary
every single nerve,
even each microscopic cell,
implores me not to open this tempting door...
[it is almost as if my hand refuses to grasp the handle,
to unleash the unknown upon me,
the colossal chain of events that would ensue]
the immensity of the unfamiliar,
the unexplored,
tends to perturb me.
change is unnerving
and is almost as chilling
as an abandoned graveyard at midnight.
but i bring my mind back to the door,
yes! this preposterous door that i have contrived for myself.
why is the **** so easily turned?
why does it not put up somewhat of a fight,
at least jolt me suddenly,
as to frighten my curious heart?
it is a constant battle between my body
my mind
and my heart
as to which doors to open
and which ones to leave ever so steadfastly closed.
but never once has there been such a struggle
for them to reach an understanding.
somehow my heart,
[even though a fraction of me,
a fist, dripping in blood]
is prevailing for the moment.
my heart reaches for the handle,
attempts to unclose the door...
yet, with the best of its ability,
withstanding my strong-willed
and obstinate heart,
my powerful body and commanding mind
overcome this hostile takeover,
and the door remains shut.
it is my body,
my skillful mouth,
my soft, rose lips,
my elegant tongue,
and my vocal chords...
all of these pieces must
contrive the words,
conceive the change,
which will unveil the path that will forever alter us...
slowly, opening the door.
being as in love with you as i am,
i will not let you slip away from my arms right now.
but when we are not together
[*i wish you’d have been there,
i needed you there*]
i stare at this humbling door.
if i wait too long, i’ll forever lose you;
for it is you who will make this choice for me,
opening your own door, fearless and dauntless.
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 2:40 AM UTC
Dear Talia,
I don't want to be a tortured artist.
I don't want to be depressed and I don't want to be anxious.
Competitive sadness and disorders treated like accessories disgust me.
The world glamorizes mental illness, and I don't understand why. There is nothing romantic about being mentally ill just like how there's nothing glamorous about a broken wrist or a torn medial collateral ligament. There's nothing romantic about constantly being afraid that the world will fold in itself and **** you with it. There's nothing romantic about feeling like you could break down and cry at any moment.
This is the first piece I've written while being medicated.
I want it to be Christmas already.
The world dreams itself a halo, but can only attain horns. The halo is an illusion and the horns are an idea.
I'm due to take another Lorazepam. Would I look cool to the kids who idolize dysfunction and misinterpret pain as style, if I were to take one of these, with water and a distant glance, in front of them? Geez, to have their approval would to have everything and nothing at all.
I'm not sure why I've written as much about this as I have.
You.
It is 2:48 am and all I can think about, in this moment, is you.
I can't wait to spend Christmas with you. I can't wait to wear bad Christmas sweaters, and be the couple everyone hates, as we sing Christmas carols and spread holiday cheer.
I wrote this poem a few minutes ago. Sometime around 2:30 am. I'm not sure. I'm exhausted:
I sat on the edge of my bed, and on the edge of my life,
medicated to the point of pointlessness. Soft.
It was the nineteenth, not the twentieth,
and I wished I saw the fireworks with her fifteen days earlier.
My gasps tore the shingles off of the house.
And they hung suspended above the hole in the roof.
And God stared down into my room, as the shingles swirled skyward.
"I see you," I said, "but I don't believe in you."
I left home and ran until I was a dream that had passed itself.
I hope that was okay.
I love you.
Yours,
Joshua Haines
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 2:56 AM UTC
You say I am the backbone of the family.
Not because I am the youngest,
But because I never showed my emotions.
But I think it's time to let go.
Because when she died,
I was the only one who didn't cry.
But i cried on the inside.
And, when they buried her 6 feet under,
My heart skipped 6 beats and I was choking.
Yes, it's time for me to let go of my emotions.
Because you say I am the backbone.
But, I am not strong enough to support 3 sisters,
1 brother, 2 aunts, 1 uncle, and 3 cousins with this,
Skinny backbone.
Arthritis can't help because I am still afraid to break down.
"You have always been the backbone, no matter what."
But,
I am tired of being Miss Motivation.
You are breaking me down form my,
Coccyx to my,
Sacral to my,
Lumber to my,
Thorracic and,
You're giving me Cervical Cancer.
And instead of being a backbone,
I feel more like a ligament.
Connecting your tears to her tears and,
Her tears to his tears and,
And that tears me apart.
You're swelling up my heart from all your pain and,
Right now it's about the size of a catchers mit.
I don't want to be the backbone.
I am not strong enough to suppport the whole family.
Why can't you see that you're exhausting me?
Kiaren, Kirsten, Kaye, Lloyd, Aunt Atheda,Aunt Regina,
Uncle Tony,Chris,Oliver, Aaron...
I am tired of being your backbone.
I am not that strong.
May 24, 2010
May 24, 2010 at 2:05 PM UTC
I ached for you last night,
and I yearned and I cried and I shaked for you last night.
I wanted nothing but to be near you,
to hear your heartbeat in your chest.
But I did not want to break you down,
or put this love to rest.
I dreamt of you lying beside me last night,
and I kissed you and I held you and I felt you last night.
I traced out the moon beams surrounding your spine,
and kissed every ligament, still hoping you're mine.
But before I could sleep, and before I could slumber,
I readied my mind and I phoned to your number.
I wanted you to come here to me,
and I wanted you to be near.
But with wanting and heartache I hung up that phone,
and I watched the blood moon appear.
(i.r)
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 1:03 PM UTC
Trust came as a blade catapulting through the air
Unsure of its trajectory
Unsure of where it may land
Unsure of where it was even thrown from
But it was so gorgeous rotating in its path, pushing light from its edges
I had to have it
That feeling of utter security
I reached and in half a second my hand was gone
Trust had sliced every ligament and sinew away
Carved muscle from bone
And I felt weak
I quite literally could not grasp the double edged blade that was trust, and now
I think I may not ever even reach for it again
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 3:18 PM UTC
What's in a name?
Let me tell you a story,
Of how my life changed,
And how my name changed,
Every time it appeared on the newspaper.
Replaced by a pseudonym,
Something to do with courage,
I was namelessly admired, slandered, and debated over,
Media’s Exclusive Coverage!
The newspaper headline read in big block letters:
“14 YEAR OLD GIRL SAVES SIX KINDERGARTNERS”,
That made me smile.
Just maybe I thought we had come that extra mile.
But no for I noticed,
My name was changed,
And the Printing Department was not at fault.
That’s just how my country dealt with ****** assault.
I never asked them to hide my name,
They had presumed, of course, that I was ashamed,
Of saving lives. It took me a minute to remember,
I had called Jyoti Nirbhaya for years.
I wanted them to know who I was,
Hiding I thought was for criminals,
Until I realized that I WAS one when,
On returning from the hospital I saw,
Pain in my mother’s,
Anger in my father’s,
And disgust in my relatives’ eyes.
No idea why a part of me had come expecting pride.
In school my “friends” guiltily refrained from talking to me,
Neither were my teachers too happy to see,
That I had returned to the same school,
Bringing with me my painful story,
Which I had mistaken as one of glory.
And when I went to receive the “Bravery Award”,
Only the trophy didn’t read compensation award.
They looked at me with too kind eyes calling me a “hero”
Their smiles told me they meant violated.
As I received the award,
I saw they were trying really hard,
To not let it show,
That they wanted me to know,
The difference between:
Bullet marks on the chest to bite marks on the breast,
Blue around the eyes to blue around the thighs,
Scratches on the fists to cuts on the wrists,
Loud screams in the cold to muffled screams against the cold,
The red of the torn ligament to the red of the torn *****
The difference between a soldier’s and a victim’s blood.
And suddenly I felt as if I was,
The rescued,
Not the rescuer,
The maimed,
Not the fighter,
The oppressed,
Not the rebel,
The hostage,
Not the warrior,
I thought myself to be.
What’s in a name?
Apparently, a lot.
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 11:36 AM UTC
Lose your breath
Catch your fall
Only this time
Its not a close call
Fuzz begins its ascent
But gravity pulls on you harder
Level of pain is decent
The result: Torn up ligament
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC
So the other day I put on my big, black hat and hobbled down town
(Yep, hobbled as I fell stupidly playing in the yard pretending as though I was a kid and tore a ligament)
I donned my black chucks and I was hot **** again for a while
I threw on that big fur coat my grams left me And a few of her gaudy jewels
Anyhow, I went down to "L" street and sat on that bench again
The one in that make shift "park" where they lined up a bunch of big rocks and called it good
I sat and looked at that giant lady painted on the side of that falling down brick building for more than a bit
"L" street, The bad part of town where you can get anything
Not named L street because it's L shaped, but because of a pill that apparently makes you Tripp
I guess you can or could get them there, the L pills I mean
So I sat there thinking and being mad
Staring at that giant, painted, brown woman
She advertises tobacco from 80 years ago and she's almost gone
Flaking and peeling,
Pieces of her lost to the wind, and to time itself
She smiles
And she's beautiful
And I hate her
But since I was 15, She draws me to her
That Tobacco Lady, with her smile, and red dress and feathered hair
She always smiles
When it rains, she smiles
When it snows, she smiles
Hell, when half the ******* town burned
That ***** smiled
I cry, she smiles....
That Tobacco Lady
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 6:22 PM UTC
Funny how life seems everything but not worth any more pain,
the snow is reducing to hail outside my Parisian window but it will take me years to thaw your heart
I put the frozen peas in the microwave and hope what would it be like to have all fragments of your should lay defrosted on my bone china plate
But all that happens is that I keep on romanticizing pain and contemplating that if my ruptured ligament can heal up in 3 weeks,
Then why can’t our hidden love embolden up into a bone?
Funny how all my dreams seem to have left their axis and moved farther away into some other galaxy and nothing seems right anymore,
And you who seemed like the only date I waited for in the calendar,
Has turned into the Mayan code of Mayan calendar that I can’t decipher at all.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 7:10 AM UTC
I want to flay my skin
Rid myself of all that is surface deep
Throw off my flesh like a coat
Feel raw pain as air hits nerve
See my endoskeleton of muscle and ligament
Heart pumping blood through artery and vein
I'd pluck it out still beating
And lay it on the butchers block
Alongside kidneys, liver, guts
An offal offering
Consume me my darling
'Til there's nothing left save bone.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 5:24 PM UTC
Hate is so hard to conquer, every single day
When half of my hate is sent my own way
Love is hard to acquire, when I lack a face
That keeps the pride to tie my own lace
I cannot wake up in the morning
With a valid reason
So, I bide my time adorning
My mind’s acts of treason
The seasons fly
And I will be conquered
Like a fly
Beholden to its scroll of anatomy
Dissecting its brother
And niece
And now I careen
Cajole myself
Into callow hedonism
Shallow as it may be
It is profound in its posture
And depraved at a glance
I will conquer the palms
With every ligament that moves
With every rotten tree groove
While my mother approves
I can only improve
My lonely psalms
The Qabalah balms
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 7:03 PM UTC
Cold and calculating
There are equations that need to be solved
I've been contemplating
These situations that'll eventually have to be resolved
Some people leave their mark
Some people bring about change
But it won't change who we are
Instead our species's endangered
The consequences arise from when our heart unfuse
Only a matter of time before we blow the fuse
They call it love, only because they see through abuse
One sided relationships always leave the other used
Claws ready to tear every ligament to shreds
Scream at me, my heart is what broke
Dysphoria won't make me find you dead
It's inevitable that I'm going to croak
There's a reason why they call me magician
I'll confuse your mind, I'll put on a illusion
You'll never notice, without me, there's ok in broken
Your thoughts would never be your own, still harmed by all unspoken.
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 7:02 AM UTC
Teeth
gentle razors
in the night.
Gold
skin of galactic composition.
Scars on star crossed love
so subtle.
Do you notice?
Hands
Tiny muscles
and ligament
and bone
in place
by chance
like us
Do you see?
Eyes
alone
*more than
ENOUGH*
to set fire within this soul
and bring a tiny dancing light
to once empty hollows.
Two reasons
t(w)*o place you
dangerously close
to that sun...*
Remember?
Sounds.
Introductions to a genre
of life.
I listened,
did you hear me too?
Tiny flames
dancing for no audience,
remembering
once
yellow fields.
Feet crushing
little lives
along the way,
insignificant.
Crunching
time
to fit me in...
to your mystery.
I fell.
Scars
on star crossed...
Love,
do you notice?
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 11:18 PM UTC
"Arf! Arf!"
I can see him from afar
And oh - is that a ****
Yesterday he got hit by a car
It left him a big scar
As the years passed by
We noticed something different
It makes me want to cry
As the cancer cells destroyed his ligament
I didn't know he was sick
Until he was thin as stick
And my worst nightmare came
He's not the same, he became lame
Then he became blind
We traveled just to find
The medicines that he needed
But it was too late
His little sight and sound of us slowly faded
I guess it was the hurtful fate
He was not given to last forever
He was given for us to share memories together
For a short period of time
The sound "Arf Arf" became the best rhyme
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 7:35 AM UTC
Sometimes it feels
Ever so slightly annoying
Sometimes I just can’t
Be on my best behaviour
Life is a test,
I’m failing my papers
I want me dead
But that is for later
I am obsessed
There isn’t enough evidence
My worthlessness’s
Determined by my intelligence
Days. Weeks months: time
I’ll tell you that I’m feeling fine
My performances are only Fs
I WANNA TEAR EVERY LIGAMENT TO SHREDS
My heart is what broke
I sw**r I wouldn’t do it again
Knives, lemme **********
Can’t disappoint you if I am dead
"Get lost and never be found."
That’s what she said
Mar 13, 2020
Mar 13, 2020 at 10:08 AM UTC
My alacrity scares me,
like the electrical figurations in your head
that create valleys and mediocre love.
Sometimes, we love just to prove that we can do so,
because our lungs breathe effortlessly
while possibilities are fleeting
and slipping through our grip like
the missed first kiss and futile attempts
for you to notice me.
The concaves of your skin,
wrapped tightly around colliding bone and ligament,
the barrier against me learning you –
the twists and lifelines leading me to something
greater than your chest rising and falling
in the haze of the night.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 4:13 PM UTC
I've always ever wanted a muse
with pickled eyes the color of
the dank, polluted snow that haunts the crevices of my city,
Brooklyn.
I've only ever yearned to touch
something bent, but not broken --
like the ligament of your bone.
With what breath do I hold from you,
but fog, smog , sour pears, and a hint of lague
You are the grim beauty to walk the Victorian era
Dashing, lashing --
Oscar Wilde couldn't even spout a witty retort.
Pink lips that incise like the curve of a scalpel
sent Hannibal on his way to salvation
and a voice like the cursive handwriting I could never perfect
Morose, macabre -- these are the terms to coincide with obsession.
In any way,
you have always ever been my muse.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 4:00 PM UTC
He said he liked her style
and her pianist fingers.
She told him that he could paint her
onto canvas, in shades
of cinnamon and ivory.
He laughed at her trembling hands
as she sat there, dressed in naught
but peonies and wild roses.
She scowled at his impudence
and then laughed
at the absurdity of it all.
She sat there and he told her
hold still
with a smile that flashed
across his eyes like quicksilver.
She watched him create poetry
with strokes of umber and chartreuse,
cerulean and scarlet.
He pulled the shadows from her eyes
and placed them into a fixed state of being.
She watched the metamorphosis of scars
into moonlit fault lines and
freckles into blips of smooth paint.
He transformed her pale outline
into a sensuous display of smooth gradients
and colors deep enough to make men weep.
He captured the penumbra of sorrow
and spread it across her painted eyes.
As he anointed the canvas
with delicate finishing touches,
She dressed in a paint-spattered shirt
and marveled at the uncanny likeness.
They sat and watched the paint dry
as he rubbed the knots from her shoulders
and kissed strained tendons and ligament
beneath innocuous flesh,
as she tapped rhythms into his hands.
He is no longer hers to consume.
He belongs now to the kingdom of earthworms
and a darkness that swallows all traces of light.
He took with him the chunk of her
that knew how to love as a human
and left her with shirts devoid of his form
and gradually losing his scent,
fragmented memories that slip
through fingers like sand,
and a room full of paintings
that she cannot bring herself
to uncover.
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 9:47 PM UTC
It was like removing an arm
Severing flesh and bone,
Sawing down through ligament
Until the muscles shown.
I felt the weakness pull me down;
A riptide of lost blood.
Swirling in the undertow,
Yet hiding from the flood.
Alone, the other arm groped
The space its twin had been,
Fingers only closed on air
Around the phantom limb.
Gone and yet still here with me
In everything I do.
Feel as though it never left
Though in my heart, I knew.
And though this piece, this part of me
Is never coming back
I feel it still, so tangibly
As I stay the track.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 12:30 PM UTC
Some blades sting
as they slice through skin;
laced with backhanded
compliments, a withering glance,
and the steady hand of
an executioner, they aim
to demolish, stick by stick
of explosive hatred.
Some blades have poisoned tips,
dipped in a brew so wicked
that it lurks from vein to vein
and blacks you out, strikes you
from existence by hijacking your senses
and drowning them with intense,
heady emotions like loneliness, and fear,
and fiery anger.
Some blades are disguised as a handshake,
one that grips and cracks your bones into splinters,
shards of what once was dignity
and pride. A grip that convinces you
to admit that you are nothing, that you are
less than, that you are inferior.
And then there is the blade,
tipped like a pen,
upon which I ****** myself. This
blade, unlike the others,
is choice and stupidity and release.
It is a forfeit, a crushing defeat
that the writers succumb to. It is this
blade, ink pouring from our pumping aortas
to our gnarled, stained fingertips
that dance across a page, that charm
our own minds with the drowsy lullabies
and delusions of omnipotence so that
we can spill the deepest, blackest pits
of our shriveled peach hearts
and spit them out into the universe.
A million voices collide and create the void
where we all end, where we all begin, and
forge the path of self-destruction it takes
to fish out a handful of temperate words,
biblical verses, even historic epics
to release ourselves of our woes
and of every singular thought.
Some blades are caused by the average,
the ones who would not ****** a dagger
through their chest, not even
for the truth.
But our blade, the wicked fiend,
sweeps through every bone and ligament
until she reaps what is due;
the words you're reading,
my thoughts scattered out
for you.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 9:45 PM UTC
There’s a dog on the bench
By the car on the sidewalk
She won’t move —
She wants to stay dry
And stay on the sidewalk.
I am paved in gold & the
Parts that make up a radiator
A rigid source of heat
In the cabin.
Like a ligament at the crook
Of your, her, leg — I am bathed
In the light of the fireplace
Waning from the moon.
I am afraid of the moon
It may render me a wolf caught
In a bear trap;
I howl.
I howl like the dog perched
Upon the bench by the car
Crashed upon the sidewalk.
She nor I will move for fear
Of straining the safety of dry fur.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 12:51 PM UTC
Crippled creature broken in ballistic bone fracture about the blind tile,
freckled in blade licked flesh,
back strap shoulder blades quiver gaunt as skeleton wings
sprinkled in splashed satin fruitless reds and auburn oils,
the child’s insides splattered across the stomach of the floor,
limp muscle binding that of bundled circuitry,
the boy only resembling needle and sticks
a mass of anatomy straightened out in lifeless splendor,
bone splinters clotted in saw dust muscle grindings
the face showered in locks and tangles,
galaxies and embered suns,
tassels golden simmered,
the creature’s hair a mane torn over his black socket eyes,
fierce in ferocity growling,
a monstrous roaring of prideful bangs,
Fallow face and cheek stomped to the floor as a rag
his form splashed about ground and surface.
Skin nearly bleached in cancer cell white,
a body folded as parchment, joints and ligament playing the part
lightless strewn as an idea lost in lifeless.
A white room hollow, muteness staling,
the busting of a boy broken in scaffold limbs torn
intwined amongst netted nerves wound about spindled bone
branched out in checkered blood stain
Shattered arms resembling puzzle pieced wings,
boy bathed in synthetic sunlight kisses,
But a watch crushed in brittle bronze shards about God’s feet
Aug 30, 2011
Aug 30, 2011 at 12:44 AM UTC
So numerous were the pits and gashes dotting Walsutaddel's frown that, looking at it, one was tempted to apply to it a thin coating of crushed shale for the purposes of examination (at the natural but, sadly, not at all deterrent horror of Walsutaddel himself). Endearing as this characteristic may have been, however, the deep pits of his eyes caught one slightly off guard, and so it was that many a potential acquaintance was driven away after an initially being so taken fascinating molding of the poor wretch. This is mind, it should be no great mystery that the face that delighted and lured in so many passers-by was contorted in such an expression of sorrow, but it was rare, one having seen the eyes of this beast and thus having the information absolutely necessary for this inference, that one gave the creature a further thought, to the exclusion, of course, of the universal and, one might say, basically human, shudder, if that can be considered a thought at all. In addition to the marred canvas of his face, the only other qualities to which one could apply the term «alluring» were a severely mangled spinal column, at some points reaching the regularity of a helix and at others simply resembling the path of a garden hose draped haphazardly over a stretch of hilly terrain, and a pair of wrists somehow more flaccidly attached than if they'd lacked bone and ligament altogether. The rest of his physiognomy was of such terrible shape and demeanor as to be totally unworthy of description.
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 8:44 PM UTC