"ligaments" poems
I thought the pain of not being respected by my peers was the worst
Until I met Social Media
She is a selfish dictator
Dictating who I should be,who I need to be
Telling me in every moment I am not good enough
Now if I get praise then I am elated,in such madness I feel accepted for my personal moment
Then the next day comes and I have to prove myself all over again
I am a blank slate,time for my begging
Social Media you have ****** my moisture dry in the deepest of my ligaments and bones
Who do you think you are?
How dare you tell me who I am?
You know nothing...nothing at all
To live ones life in constant expectation
left wanting to be liked,even appreciated for your work
Are you a photographer,writer,singer,lover of the Arts that have given you such joy
Artists of our past put out their work every 6 months to a year or even years
And we are expected to come up with something magical everyday,multiple times a day...again I scream,"Madness!"
I have been a people pleaser my whole life.
Beginning my life yelling at the adults,"Look at me,look at me!"
I grow tired of this impossible grind
Weariness is my comfort(how twisted)
Forget this,forget them all
I am going to go read a book now
Nov 5, 2016
Nov 5, 2016 at 6:49 PM UTC
In the divet between mountains
Resides a wooden cabin – ostensibly an amalgamation of the scape
Adroitly - I - quondam female warrior flit
Down massive (ancient) hand-laid, hand-cut carved stone steps
Bounding from contingent step onto the dense pad of turned soil
Tacit compliance between gravity and soil holds footprints bound
A compressed deflating crescendo as pace ignites with bounds
Cadences of protuberant wildflowers and grasses erupt from swollen terra
A winsome chromatic menagerie, dispersed in ecstatic fistfuls
A venerably ancient ritual
My nascent clandestine vocation
Personally meted out - a beatification for my provisional sanctuary
Along glacier-fed stream
Lissome fingers shadow inert stalks –plucking dormant beginnings from their desiccated ligaments
I am austere and unadorned save for a festoon of pyrite flecks trailing my semblance
Residual gilding from my ante-meridian swim taken after requisite gathering of wild blackberries, goose berries, and rhubarb along oft-tamped path
The sun, nestling into its requisite apex endorsed my completion
I reclined into the hassock of soil, feeling the elements settle about with an embossment of my form
Imposing verdure arched subtly as compressed soil beckoned hyperbolic flux
As I lay within the basilica of opulent living columns replete with comestible bounty
Lingering dew honed inflections of sacrosanct petrichor in unison with piquant clover
Wild purple clover buds saccharinely tinted and inundated nestled nerves in mine cribriform plate
Birds pitched and galloped through the frond tips and beyond in the lapis expanse
Frequently snatching damselfly’s and assemblages of midges from their ephemeral drift
Auspicious rays transcended stippled diaphanous gravid clouds
Light inundated ether entered humbly into the cathedral oculus
Pyrite speckled terrain beneath, and my bare gilded form above
Cast a refracted aura about my sanctuary
Precipitously the elusive vaporous embankment distended further
Ashen atmospheric correspondence inaugurated liquescent sustenance to my mountain abode
And I -
Lingered beneath the descending gobbets, curls furled in a puddle
Fresh topsoil cupping my corporal topographic contours
Pressing blackberries into my mouth between smiles
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
Oh it's all hanging threads,
Hanging ligaments with drops of red:
Vines without poles - flesh without bones.
Events roll out in scarlatine flashes:
Eyes in crowd flap down their eyelashes
And in silence the suspense grows strong;
The bricks are set, the façade is over,
But from within, the house still lacks a structure:
One penetrates rooms without walls.
A memory from the depth is brought up,
A storyline used to link so many dispersed dots:
Leaves are flying free as the childhood tree rots...
Oh it's all hanging threads
Hanging sources, hanging roots:
Scars over the sun revolving in loops.
And the conduit narrows down,
Leaks a single bolt of light to glow:
An empty room as throne and crown
And a thorn, pain escaping death,
A frown of estrangement in the face
Of all that's known - what's most unknown.
Spectators stare deceptively
While promises of relief are spared;
They too are suspended in the air...
Oh it's all hanging threads
Hanging loose, hanging dead;
Waiting for the artisan to ease the noose.
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 11:21 PM UTC
There is some decadent rise
limp during afternoon highs and
pulsing at moonlight, the morning
knows something I do not know –
glowing, too, at the clarity
the cut of one’s sum, you and I
we are constructed of limbs and
dumb ligaments, bolted joints
and pivots: but most of all,
tissues that bleed when separated,
is that the value our love holds?
Do our nerves have common
apexes, the sapphire ends?
How we glisten and shine,
but do not feel when torn apart –
I sometimes feel like a classic
piano you are playing, one white
key tortured by the skin that does
not match any other’s but yours,
my player’s, retching for noise.
And I will give louder than
midnight howls of a single man,
his fingers fell from his hand –
he knows the morning such as I,
waking up just to decay,
while muscles keep their color,
the sun, or absence of, gives clues:
like footprints, a duet in sand,
I should not wake up without you.
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 9:34 PM UTC
Mercies at juxtapositional refinement
Abandoned constitutional confinement
Handshakes on the bridged ligaments
The sweet melodious serene dreams fleets
One after the other like peculiar inventions
The mellow scenes of frames realignments
Wonderful crafted words verses paradigm
Harmonic jazz awesomeness, decode freeness
Orchestral spontaneity drills pragmatic energy
Yet, as the gingered steams rise from the hot brew
The scented breeze of life vaticinates with a smile afar
Whispers of "no obligation, no expectations" reverbs..... on and on....on and on
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 6:54 AM UTC
[i'm sorry. i'm not very good at love letters. i've confessed my love to more angels than real people, but please hear me out on this.]
to the girl i ran into yesterday, with love from the girl who ran into you yesterday
i'm pretty sure i'm in love with you.
you left a handprint on my heart (a literal one;
your fingers curved over my collarbone like you were afraid you would break me)
i have cigarette butts for nerve endings
and i'm pretty sure that you must be a lit match
because i haven't felt this alive in seventeen years
please tell me you feel the same way.
i just want to feel your heart beat against mine, and i know we've only just met, i know you will probably never come to this bookstore again,
but if you say no i will pretend that this is a letter to the galaxy
(my favorite constellation is the one stretching across your shoulders;
a thousand and one stars disguised as freckles
play connect the dots with ligaments and fissures)
i will pretend that you are not the sun in my solar system
and okay, maybe i'm being overdramatic but have you ever looked into someone's eyes
and wanted to memorize every fleck of gold you see
i wrote down the things i want to know about you, a wishlist ten miles long
with nothing but your name on it
i wonder how you'd react if i held your hand in public
the sea swelling up to meet us there are wires from my heart to yours
and i know there is approximately an 86.3% chance you will never see this love letter but i wished on a star for something real
and then i ran into you
(i'm sorry again. i hope you enjoy to **** a mockingbird. it's one of my favorites.)
i hope your hair is still a preposterous shade of blue because it makes your eyes look like constellations
do you want to form a galaxy with me?
to the girl i ran into yesterday, who wore bright pink flip flops and had a tattoo of a star on her left anklebone,
i think i'm in love with you
please reply at your earliest convenience.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 9:05 PM UTC
1.
Inhaling poison like it’s a sweet spring breeze,
an antidote to the pounding heart and aching stomach empty of comfort or substance
Meeting with pavement in a tiger’s crouch
fingers float toward parted lips
awaiting the taste of relief in the form of smouldering leaves.
2.
One tentative epidermis approaches another
tendons and ligaments straining, aching for contact
attempting nonchalance in the lamplight privacy of early morning,
cocking ears to detect voyeuristic insomniacs
who would disturb the disorderly expressions of early experimentation.
3.
White lady dusting the concrete path, sterile and unconfined
laid new before careful feet making their way to shiny metal boxes
bundled in seasonal expectations they trudge through stardust
on their way to blood borne obligations,
leaving behind careless tracks in ****** flesh
4.
Blazing sun presses down on shoulders hunched behind compact table tops
peddling penny prologues to unabashed strangers
bartering unwanted pocket change for rejected trinkets
haggling over half-dried finger paints and unfinished chess sets
rescuing garish afghans from dusty closeted life.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 7:33 PM UTC
Dear
Brown colored boy,
Mine
Shining in all your melanin filled armor I salute you.
The soldier you are as tall as the tree that bore the wood of the cross they burned on martins lawn.
You burn brighter than those flames
You ignite something in me that wants to melt into your melanin crossing legs and arms and becoming tangled in ligaments that look more like trees before they were torn apart to become those burning crosses.
Mine
Eye closed I imagine you holding a brown boy bore from my trees,
Laying him on your bare chest
Loving him because he's your own.
Not just mine anymore,
I'll look at you both in fear seeing those burning crosses become shining badges and sirens in the distance
Not just mine anymore
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 10:45 AM UTC
Please excuse the gore
Of my poetry
For
It is inspired by the craziness
Of the chaotic mess that tore
My ligaments into ****** pieces
Family
Irony
All I've ever desired in life
is the simplicity
Of love - sick of strife
All I've ever cared for is creating
A love between family
I'm sick and tired of family
Filled with **** yous"
I hate you
The irony
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 12:28 PM UTC
i miss the way fingertips felt against my cold skin
the soft touch that only a lover can provide
the kind of touch that can melt icebergs and start wildfires
i miss the sweet sound of whispered words that could start a revolution and the goosebumps that came with each mumbled "i love you"
i miss the feeling of drifting off in a pair of arms that transformed an embrace into a home and made a safety net around me as if protection could only exist within this space between fingertips and other ligaments
i miss the feeling that you provided
i miss the feeling of being wanted
i miss loving something, someone
i feel as if i have lost all sense of direction
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 11:38 PM UTC
When my body turns to dust,
I want the earth to know it.
My knees will filter sunlight,
sparkling shards of broken glass
to feed the turned, fallen leaves.
From my hands will rise a steam,
lost from ghosts of wilted dahlias
and pulling beads from snail shells.
Softening footsteps in numbing silence,
my scalp will take root in boulders:
a lichen stretched anew.
The crunch of my nails will lilt,
a filling sound which bleeds the heart.
My heart, itself, a rotten composition
(spoiled as tender and cloying fruits)
will slip through Her fingers,
drench Her purpose in richness,
and swallow my searing in depth.
My skin, taken first as appetizer,
breeds microcosms of tiny dancers
and will never forget that feeling.
Collapsed and empty, one lung and the other
will cease to feed themselves,
twisting from entrepreneur to altruist.
Other sundry organs, bones, hair and ligaments:
a donation of retribution,
payment for what was stolen,
recompense for an unforgivable abuse.
It is all I have, and it will be everything.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 1:55 PM UTC
New York drowns in the California-made blue
The child of the voodoo kisses the sky
Her indigo ligaments are laid bare
While she falls, chasing smoking rabbits
She is small yet she soars
With her proportions falling on deaf heads
She remembers the knights of the dawn
Tangled in her gallivanting hair
Without knowing her doors
She noses her way through her window
The modest parachute travels
With the nomadic East
She recognizes heaven by taste
Knowing that she believes less and less
Seeing all without need for the travel
Ignoring the scrutiny of a gavel
Leaving in the morning
Not stopping until the fifth night
Learning for forty fortnights
Stopping to rest every second year
What a bright-eyed soul!
A sparkling visage
Adorning all her wanders
The world is at her command
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 3:07 PM UTC
My bones are shattered porcelains
And Dr Frankenstein is recreating
My body from the toes up
I have more screws than tarsals
More plates than fibulas
More scars than cracked paint on derelict homes
Greens, yellows, blues, blacks and purple
Dye my leg in splendid hues
Plaster decorates my toes and pokes under my knees
Pins and needles tingle constantly
But these are made of steel as well as
Peripheral neuropathy
My hospital discharge form
Reads like poetry
Displaced tibea
Goes on adventure and brings back
Swollen instead of souvenirs
And crushed ligaments as testament
To broken steps they have fallen on
Perhaps it is not as profound as sunsets or romance
But I am finding beauty in pain
Intricacies in injury
And the limits of my creativity
To distract from nightmares
Of how this happened
And to drown out the hungry goblins
Deep in my guts demanding opiates
Like drunken teenagers
They loot my stash and trash my viscera
Legal or not I'm still a ******
Writing poetry rather than sleeping-
Confronting demons with stanzas.
Over screams I am armed with the arsenals
Of metaphor, personification and symbolism
Whatever the pain, my posse of poetry and prose
Has always got my back
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 8:27 AM UTC
Mint spreading in elegance.
Some divine blanket of taste in the soft vert.
What meadows of limestone growing
tusks and a peppermint hair!
Verdent tastes of beaming echoes,
Bouncing off the walled caverns,
Body and soul.
Radiating vieled ripples.
The mountain's roots in caverns carved,
the speech of silent wind within,
inscribed on the hollow shell
of a white turtle from the deep lakes.
Waves form energy suppressing noise,
leaving keratin quiet.
Coral growing body soul,
maintaining vibrations of mossy
touch and taste.
Rhinestone tongue of night
Diamond sky.
A granite vineyard in the clouds, and
pitch shaped into a tower,
the glassy eyes of dawn and dusk.
Vespertine.
Translucent dreams.
Bamboo chins translucence,
Escalating moonstone shadows,
fingers spread in wide stretch,
ephemeral hollowness,
of everlasting happy spices.
Fingers locked in thin ligaments,
stones nestled in the crabgrass burrow,
moles' eggs in the nutmeg painting.
Luscious browning melange.
Quartz upon the wave-struck ridge.
Puffs of gray magical,
escaping cavern's entrance,
filling the air with
a fragrance uncompared
and bringing to the stomach,
a funny, fuzzy, filling feeling
called munchies!
Written by: Simon and Lotus
May 27, 2012
May 27, 2012 at 4:09 PM UTC
In the depth of pagan nightmares, rose the shadowed curtains of my doubt
To choke out the nonchalant sun, aloof on the morning sky
Two deaths, I died last night and a third might bring good luck
But for now I am alive and I feel like the Rapture
Tracking time through ticks on my track marked clock-work veins
While dead buildings mock me through the streets
Where has my supposed talent gone?
Some specter lingers, inverted above my bed
Number 12 in poise, but not quite enlightened
Frenzy is in my muscles, my ligaments laugh like high hell
My teeth burn like the Ohio River and I've bitten off all my nails
An atom bomb in a gilded cage
And a real tear-jerking ******
If you haven't put the pieces together by now,
Don't try
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 5:36 AM UTC
At an angle of ninety degrees,
two trees share the same plot.
This one grazes the eaves,
seeking vain attention in the window glass.
The other, its grey ghost lazes
prostrate on the herb garden, reveling
in secrets of lemon balsm and thyme.
At night, the first becomes demonic,
obliterates the universe,
branches scraping the pane, scratching
like fingernails on slate,
its coppery leaves trying to get in.
Its partner slinks to earth,
seeking solace,
wringing conterminous roots till sunrise.
I've had my fill of these unrested moments
fighting the pillow, not settling.
There is no joy in seeking stolen stars.
My dilemma grows horns.
I half dream of ******
at least amputation.
But even the dimmest light shines in the dark -
I consider its tormented destiny.
At daybreak, like a ****** I scale its gnarled branches
ridiculously one-handed,
the other a keen-toothed weapon.
I am an agile goat shinning upwards
feeding on dreams of peace.
Lost in the sky, I become sap,
melt into its arms,
(a vertiginous release)
I become a curved branch.
(There's someone standing in my elbow!)
Leaves helix down, settling on autumn crocus.
“Look! Gold on gold!"
The grey ghost yawns, grows its shadow,
waves its arms demanding justice.
I wave back.
Suddenly terrified, I secrete an invisible scent.
The branches contract, tense as ligaments.
My heart plummets, rolls out recumbent,
presses heavily on the earth
listening to fleshy roots recede.
A few deft cuts......
Sun gutters through bereft spaces,
striking the window.
Both trees a shade lighter, a lighter shade.
Tonight I will dream under visible stars,
feel the moon's half-light slide over me.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2012
Mar 2, 2012
Mar 2, 2012 at 12:12 PM UTC
Chisel me away
I've given you the hammer and all my weak points
So you start
With little strength starting with all my ligaments and joints
You don't tear them
Very precise and careful like you know exact what you're doing
I should've learned from the past
Even though everyone tells and teaches not to take it with you
How can i forget when its in repetition and tied to the strings on my shoes
I have adapted to the hurt
Or lack there of
The sight of you doesn't make me sick anymore
Just an itch in the back of my throat that i still can't stand
You didn't rip out my heart or make me question who i am
You just simply made me feel like i wasn't worth it
Or anything at all
Dirt beneath your feet
I've dug through every inch of my body and ripped out your disease
Burned the bridge that connected our hearts and minds
I hope you do the same
As methodically and perfect as me
Because when you're digging through old love notes i don't want you to feel a thing when you find
Any residue of my feelings
Because they were a mistake
A mistake not so grave
You weren't the best or the worst
Just somewhere in the middle
Very forgettable
In all you're insecure self loathing beauty
You know my nature and all i stand for
A deliberate betrayel that i seen from a mile away
The itch is gone
And so are you
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 5:56 AM UTC
makeup messily blurs the outline
of your face, the one the sun is
beating sandpaper ciphers across--
translated they reflect the cesspit
of the first smile I have meant
in months--please just caress
the entropy of this water-winged sunset,
you cannot swallow your shyness
by intimidating everyone into not
speaking to you and by god
I don’t want to hurt you but
I can feel a hot one.
if those who’ve known hell
never talk about it
and nothing much bothers them
after that
why do we talk circles
around each moonrise, exhale
leaden stories like smoke
and charred vapor
everyone tastes like brimstone
so why are you so afraid of
being beautiful, why am I
so afraid of my ligaments eroding,
and we are so *******
tragic fuck-it
we’re ******* tragic
time blurs you
whipped the insomnia into
a frenzy
the way you kiss me
when the sun lurks backstage
waiting for her que makes it
okay for now not numb
so much because ******* was I
knife-fight numb. I can talk
about the hell with you the
other girl, not so much, the
tricky-bitch was that she
made it go away but it
never really does does it?
just blurs the time so
it can fast-pitch the happy
out of your lungs, like
my me is still here, so maybe
we can rub selves
while the sun bears down
from behind her curtain
of starless sky.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 6:20 PM UTC
White traces across the wooden flooring from freshly powdered feet. Muscles stretching to their maxim capability while the body leaves the ground for just a fraction of a second. Knees bent one moment, then quickly flexed straight with the use of the several small ligaments running down the lower half of the body. Blood is being pumped double time through the bodies most vital ***** and the lungs are contracting and expanding with such timing. The right side of the brain sends signals to every inch of the body. Dancing is an art form, and it is a way to become one with the your inner soul.
The moments that my arms break through the air and my feet flex using every muscle, those are the moments I feel the most alive.
When my brain is creating emotions, my body wants to reveal them through movement. Toss away the sorrow and embrace the new found love. When my feet leave the ground and then land with such placement and thought, happiness can be expressed. With the exhale and curving of the spine, stories can be told.
My body has not experienced this feeling for months now. It aches to be set free to express my inner sorrows, thoughts, and worries. My feet are longing to blister with the movements. My spine is weak from the time away. My movements rusty, but still there. Like a world renown pianist dusting off his grand or a child riding her bike on the first day the snow has melted off the sidewalks. I am craving the renewal of my soul and the expression of my body.
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 1:10 PM UTC
The Artist painted
the skies and molded
the stars and galaxies
to His liking.
He sculpted the
mountains out of
clay and dirt.
He wrote music
and taught the birds
to sing His chords.
He carved a place
for the ocean and
poured His love
in its depths.
He made man.
He knit veins to bones.
Skin to ligaments and muscle.
Built a cage to protect our heart
as He knew that it
is so easily broken.
He connected nerves to the brain
and in that brain,
He made so complex of a
system that science is still
baffled by the ***** that
holds the information
of our personality.
Our emotions.
Our passions.
Then.
He did something crazy.
Insane.
He gave man free will.
To love or to hate.
To turn to or against.
And man turned against.
Hid from his Creator.
The One who knows his
inmost being.
And beauty was distorted.
All that is beautiful
is only an
echo.
An echo of the home
that we once knew.
An echo of the original
Artist, the one who
taught us to create.
*All I can do now
is to try and capture
Your beauty
to show to others.*
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 11:02 PM UTC
In another life, I was born a painter.
Gliding colors over canvas to imitate emotion.
Stepping back and marveling at the impressionism or the modernism or the realism of what I just created.
And people could look and gawk
and give gracious complements.
In another life, I was born a dancer.
Helplessly allowing melodies to transfuse my blood and move my limbs the way ocean waves move water.
Elegance in my bones, loveliness in my tendons, beauty in my ligaments.
Boys would leap toward me
and I would jeté toward them or grand jeté away from them.
In another life, I was born a singer.
A voice of gold and diamonds
that people love to eat
and bathe in.
Like summer sunlight in the springtime,
snow on December 25th.
Things people love to experience.
But, in this life, I was born a writer
so I live with what I must.
And I'll paint with my words-
give them color and life and realism, with just a hint of impressionism.
And I'll make my words dance-
across white pages, dressed in black, the smell of sweat and blood soaked within their skin.
And I'll make my words sing-
sing the ballad of my heart and the ballad of my mind and, maybe, even the ballad of the world.
Words are not inadequacy,
even in a world of painters, dancers, and singers.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 1:39 PM UTC
the surgical procedure required to probe into your
skull is way too difficult for me. how difficult is it to
learn how to examine the thoughts you conjure up,
like arithmetic or magic. the stem cutters to pull the
dead roots out of you are dull, like the color of dead
coral or fishes that don't see sunlight. maybe the fishes
just don't swim to the surface too often. if i would have
seen your arsenal and armory before i dedicated every
inch of my pointless existence of a heart to you, every
hour of my life wouldn't hold disdain and regret for you.
the only difference between us and a car crash was that
the shrapnel and glass was our shattered memories.
the hairline fractures that are burned into my wrist's bones
have turned into full blown fragments eradicated from the
ligaments. i've seen fall, winter, spring, and summer meet
all in the same day because of you. you are an impossible
calculation, a lobotomy no pet scanner can recognize.
- kra
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 7:20 PM UTC
One foot in front of the other.
Days passed by.
Walking was said to be a spiritual practice which yielded many dividends. The replenishment of the soul and the connection to all around you. Pilgrimage to sacred sites, walking the labyrinth, meditation. Strolling, cavorting, frolicking or wandering. As we stretch our legs, we stretch our minds and souls.
Few philosophers and writers had ever penned the absolute, gut-wrenching torturous boredom of the walk as Ronnie James now experienced it.
Fifty-six bones, one hundred and twelve ligaments and seventy-six muscles of dull, throbbing pain.
Who could tell how long it had been? He had but only the tedious task of counting his steps to judge it by. He'd long ago lost all track.
Sauntering alone through the barren ocean of sand.
Indeed, Thoreau wrote that the word itself, "saunter," may have been derived from “sans terre.”
“Without land or a home,” murmured Ronnie.
With every step we take, we leave some ghost of ourselves behind,
He who sits motionless, watching life pass by through the window, may be the most awful vagrant of them all – but the saunterer is no more vagrant than the meandering river.
Days passed by.
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 3:18 AM UTC