"lodged" poems
Why can't we have meaningless talk
the way people have meaningless ***
you would crash over me into a
river of un-scathing emptiness
and leave marks on my skin-
stories that this was where
you started to tear at
the seams
effortlessly
like the silkness
of your sorrows on my floor.
You would become a sultry verse
in this anthology of every day
lodged between the rush and
vacancy of broken hearts
and anguished limbs.
You would radiate the heat
of your angry, angry heart onto
the cold deadness of mine,
and we could burn and melt
all at the same time.
Meaninglessly you would leave
me out of breath,
gather your clothes
and go home.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 10:16 AM UTC
In your eyes,
I have found my home.
In your heart,
I have found my love.
In your soul,
I have found my mate.
With you,
I am whole. Full. Alive.
You make me laugh, You let me cry.
You are my breath,
My every heartbeat.
I am yours
You are mine,
Of this we are certain.
You are lodged in my heart,
The small key is lost.
You must stay forever.
You are my inspiration,
And my soul's fire.
You are the magic of my days,
You help me laugh, you teach me love.
Each day I rediscover you,
You are my greatest gift.
I am yours
You are mine,
Of this we are certain.
You are lodged in my heart,
The small key is lost.
You must stay with me forever.
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 12:10 AM UTC
"Limousine Eyelash
Oh, baby with your pretty face
Drop a tear in my wineglass
Look at those big eyes
See what you mean to me
Sweet cakes and milkshakes
I am a delusion angel
I am a fantasy parade
I want you to know what I think
Don’t want you to guess anymore
You have no idea where I came from
We have no idea where we’re going
Lodged in life
Like two branches in a river
Flowing downstream
Caught in the current
I’ll carry you, you’ll carry me
That’s how it could be
Don’t you know me?
Don’t you know me by now?"
- From 'Before Sunrise'
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 10:33 AM UTC
born in illusory chains
gnarled metal
encrusted in my broken skin
the copper colored dust
of rusted steel
infectiously envelopes
shaving off antiquated layers
of fundamentalist religion
encrusted for generations
unpeeled until raw
an unsophisticated method
unveiling
ancient lodged glass shards
colored with deceit
brought before their court
interrogated
unfathomably skewered
an eerie salem witch trial
in modern times
barbarically they shun me
banished
i wander aimlessly
smelling the rotten decay of deceased community
as splinters pierce my feet
from the crooked wooden plank
i walk alone now
an unfathomable inner ache
kindled a residue within
igniting a wildfire from the darkest shadows
uncontainably erupting
i dance savagely
naked in the orange moonlight
and in every shaded edge
lit my soul ablaze
i am a nomad sheep
‘tho not one of their color
no pasture to contain me
no shepherd i can follow
theological safety nets
no longer there to catch me
bohemian-like
i plunge
free falling
plummeting
stripped wide open
magically
fearlessness
reverses gravitation
floating
untethered
i soar amongst
apricot tinged clouds
my skin still wet from rebirth
and rise with the flaming coral sun
you cannot destroy me
i twisted in your decrepit pencil sharpener
and with fresh mettle
cut through the chains that bound
you can have my ego
but you cannot have my soul
dismantling domestication
transcending limitation
wildly untamed
i fly
©2016janetaylor
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 6:40 AM UTC
Know that my heart beats for you...
Every crank of the wheel, turn of dials...
Leading to my every breath and every sigh
Wishing every moment would stay a while...
Unaware of themselves hard at work,
The cogs in my mind are constantly spinning...
The gears in my head are lodged in place...
Cogs and gears like clockwork, carelessly turning...
Like a factory of sorts,
They keep churning out ideas.
Conceived notions that only had been
Spawned by my mind's nucleus...
Blinking lights signalling ways,
And means to sweep you into the air,
Then leave you lofted for second....
Without a trace of fear or care.
At that moment, what I'd give to just admire...
You floating against a backdrop of stars.
An image frozen in infinite.
An image free from blemishes or scars.
Then when gravity claims you back,
You'd fall the most graceful of falls...
A fall in the slowest of motion.
A fall led by my loving calls.
Fear not darling for my arms would be there...
To catch you and hold you close in a tight embrace.
Cheek to cheek, chest to chest... You'd then know that,
Cogs and gears spin only for you in this very same place...
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 10:44 AM UTC
You’ve hardened me
And every silver bullet
you’ve lodged into my heart,
I’ve plucked out,
Enduring the pain
And built myself an armor
Out of your betrayal.
And You are not a Phoenix.
Your tears
Will not heal
the open wounds
you have caused
With your trifling talons.
You cannot fix this.
Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 5:30 AM UTC
once more
layers of casing
are torn
papers culled
windows gleam
sheets smile
the cost is high
if not see
when to stop
can I find north
after all
I’d asked
so life’s paths
once veiled
in yesterday's grime
dispatched
to the winds
reveal
another vision
refreshing as
spring rain
seeking every fissure
quietly lodged boarders
not paying rent
evicted
as another corner
begs mastery
along with
a neater place
it dawns on me
atrophy
is the order
of things
vacate for a few
short paces
and face
it all again
wrenching me
from the lulling
status quo
of my stilted
blindness
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 6:49 AM UTC
You know how the Lorax spoke for the trees? I feel the need to speak for my four-year-old niece. Not because she can't speak -- she can and rarely stops once she starts -- but because there are certain concepts time has yet to grant her. So until time does, I got you covered, Lucy.
Mommy,
you call it the "poetry" of a child's sleep,
ohh 'n ahh, she's so, so sweet,
I call it child's "pose." Not the yoga neither.
I'm posing and rolling and cooing
biding time until you're tripping on the
Ambien retreating to a dream.
You're only reprieve.
'Cause when your *** is asleep,
I be mixing up the Play-doh,
red and yellow, black and white,
'till it's 50 shades of brown, alright?
Dirt pies from the backyard,
put 'em by the brownies
in the morning world-weary in your pajamys
Slip-up, slip-up, I smell a slip-up.
Ain't a direct threat, Queen Buttercup
because you'd just say, "I ain't afraid of you, shorty."
Blood flow. Blood slow. Simmering, saucy.
Mommy, looking down skyscraper balcony.
May I remind, a giant ain't bringing down Manhattan,
It's that little, wayward wrecking ball, eh Captain?
Over my shoulder, drinking from a thermos --
stumble in your step mean you gettin' nervous--
hand me piece of paper and two crayons
macaroni orange and swamp water liaisons
these coloring sheets are so bourgeoisie.
These coloring sheets are so bourgeoisie.
"Color outside the lines, eh Lucy?
don't play by the rules," my Mommy say,
but I been around long enough to know dat
'dese rules pay. Outside the lines? Is just uh sloppy.
Been outside the club in front of the line
with my fellow shawties.
Slip-up, slip-up, I smell a slip-up.
Ain't a direct threat, Queen Buttercup
because you'd just say, "I ain't afraid of you, shorty."
Blood flow. Blood slow. Simmering, saucy.
Mommy, looking down skyscraper balcony.
May I remind, a giant ain't bringing down Manhattan,
It's that little, wayward wrecking ball, eh Captain?
Chicken and fries three meals-a-day.
Chocolate milk three meals-a-day.
Tricycle boys three wheels away.
Hands on your hips can't make me stay.
Lego blocks lodged in your skull.
I've hid the Advil. The Dayquil. Drank the Nyquil though.
Alright, alright, time to get confessional.
All my ***** accidents are intentional.
I melt my own Barbies to feel alive.
Snort glue sticks just to get hella high.
Mommy, you've got a messy ketchup face.
Mommy, you've got spiders in your hair.
Mommy, you've got ****** on your pants.
Ha. Ha.
Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Bi-otch.
Blood flow. Blood slow. Simmering, saucy.
Mommy, looking down skyscraper balcony.
May I remind, a giant ain't bringing down Manhattan,
It's that little, wayward wrecking ball, eh Captain?
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 7:29 PM UTC
*Cast out entirely this time around.
There's a beautiful world waiting,
But it's easy to be blinded by what you think is beautiful in a beautiful world.*
In the dark for so long.
The retina I own captured false images
Of what i once believed in.
So much effort stored in a mirage,
lodged in doubtful recollections.
I want no sympathy,
I can only evolve through the chasing of symphonies.
Villainous, aren't you?
The conflict is the enemy.
I'll do away with this blame game,
You're just so awfully gifted at how you play.
I was the warmhearted prey
Fooled into what appears to be defeat,
Due to stupidity.
I saw what I wanted to see,
And clearly my vision was wrong.
(c) 2014 Brandon Antonio Smith
(Originally written 10/31/10
Revised 9/27/14)
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
title: not god, but his clock, will gnaw at us: that we are mortal, and agitated by a libido to continue, as to why the immortals find us so cosmic, for the worth of not exacting a better joke prescribed to other genus archetypes... whether the atheists believe in a blind-watchmaker is beside the point... the actual conjuring of the ultimate engineered thing will undo us... only the gods could have engineered time... space? they can't fathom space, the gods could only engineer time, but they couldn't engineer space: the cliche, think outside the box? even the gods know nought concerning this; and if there is only one god... he has been lodged into a letter: θ - a 1 inside a 0; the being already confined... even gods have limits beyond the stressor of supposed immortality... they can't engineer space... all they can engineer, is a transcendence of time... only mortals, men, can engineer the concept of space... hence nations, hence borders, hence differences, hence the concept of magnetism and repulsion... if gods engineered time, then men engineered space... as now, and forever, will remain so, the quest for a cosmic joke / clue.
it won't be the blind-watchmaker
who eats us up,
the the clock itself -
it will devour us,
it will gnaw our flesh toward
the bone,
and then with out bones
play an instrument
to glorify its procession down
the aisles of our endeavours
to express civility...
was there any to begin with?
our temporal anxiety, being mortals,
equates itself
with the spatial anxiety of the immortals
(gods).
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 9:30 PM UTC
613
They shut me up in Prose—
As when a little Girl
They put me in the Closet—
Because they liked me “still”—
Still! Could themself have peeped—
And seen my Brain—go round—
They might as wise have lodged a Bird
For Treason—in the Pound—
Himself has but to will
And easy as a Star
Abolish his Captivity—
And laugh—No more have I—
5.2k
Long days seem so much longer.
Distance does not make the heart grow fonder.
You’ve conquered the empire of my subconscious.
Your crusade so short,
Yet I hope your reign continues for eons.
We’re far past passive flatteries,
Instead, we fill each other’s hearts with vows.
You mean them now,
But what about a few months?
What if you decide I’m not what you want?
The torment I am slowly approaching,
Consumes my distant soul.
I can hear the sounds of futuristic loathing,
From when you decide this love has taken it’s toll.
So tell me.
How can I pay this inevitable toll?
How can I save us from Cupid’s malicious tyranny?
His arrow is too far lodged within me,
I cannot remove it.
I can only push it farther and farther
Into my heart until it falls out of my back.
But this arrow, trenchant.
Cupid, the sharpest of marksmen.
Yet colorblind, he is.
He sees not what colors his targets represent.
He draws his bow for the pure love of marksmanship.
Sometimes, yet not often,
He will hit the intended target.
But the odds are scarce.
His subjects are often punctured,
And connected to one whom reciprocated Fate’s desire.
Yet this time…
This time…
Cupid must have hit a target of Fate’s approval.
For thrice he has missed.
This time He and Fate are in sync.
This wound may stretch over time,
But the arrow shall remain firmly lodged within my *****
***** and immovable.
Until you kick it through my backside.
But until then,
I can only endure.
I can only be woo wounded.
I can only survive,
Another ambush of the militant called Cupid.
But I will do it for you,
For by you,
I’ve been so divinely seduced.
Wooed by your lips.
Not by your kiss,
But by the music,
Which your mandibles so express.
I desire not to seal this wound,
But to evade its’ repercussions.
For I have endured a similar wound thrice.
He is winged as if an angel,
Yet Was Lucifer not once an angel as well?
Cupid is an impostor.
A spy of Agony, himself.
He prays on the young, the old, the strong, and the weak.
He cares not who he obliterates in his crusades.
He is a bloodthirsty heathen.
He makes scoundrels of Saints,
And Harlots of Housewives.
Saint Valentine is no Saint.
He is Satan’s nightmare.
At first, his arrows are ecstasy,
But like a cancer,
His poison-saturated arrows
Seep deep within every crevice of your body.
They consume you as if enriched with ******
And eventually rot within your *****
Until it is nothing but dust and a memory.
One day I will assassinate Fate’s Malicious militant,
The one we call Cupid.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 1:25 AM UTC
I try
warding off
the surge,
but it has
a sea's
nature,
lurking slurp,
mouth-watering
possibilities,
skin
lodged
to skin,
lickety
suckety
spring
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 2:56 AM UTC
"my boy's got me tongue tied in two different languages
he's calling me baby on mondays and sinta 'til sundays
he's got me looking for him in between eskinitas
and cathedrals from quezon avenue to intramuros
all i see are his eyes
and 7,107 islands in the palms of his hands
and i never knew love could be so hard
when your words ran faster than your heart
makata is what they call you
a master of poetry and performance
you called me your greatest work
and you are a master of fiction
manileño is what you are
my boy's got manila's grime and glory
pulsing through his makata veins
he's got makati's lights burning through his irises
he's got the danger of manila beating in his chest
he's got the cries of san juan lodged in his throat
he's got the rhythm of the city in every step
my boy's still a boy
hijo is what you think you aren't
he's got three stars on his back
and he thinks he's the sun
he thinks he can change the world
himagsikan is what he wants
a revolution beginning with him
but tell me makata, manileño, hijo,
my boy
how are you going to save me?
how are you going to love this country?
my boy's tongue tied in two different faiths
my boy forgot to save himself"
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 1:15 PM UTC
my boy's got me tongue tied in two different languages
he's calling me baby on mondays and sinta 'til sundays
he's got me looking for him in between eskinitas
and cathedrals from quezon avenue to intramuros
all i see are his eyes
and 7,107 islands in the palms of his hands
and i never knew love could be so hard
when your words ran faster than your heart
makata is what they call you
a master of poetry and performance
you called me your greatest work
and you are a master of fiction
manileño is what you are
my boy's got manila's grime and glory
pulsing through his makata veins
he's got makati's lights burning through his irises
he's got the danger of manila beating in his chest
he's got the cries of san juan lodged in his throat
he's got the rhythm of the city in every step
my boy's still a boy
hijo is what you think you aren't
he's got three stars on his back
and he thinks he's the sun
he thinks he can change the world
himagsikan is what he wants
a revolution beginning with him
but tell me makata, manileño, hijo,
my boy
how are you going to save me?
how are you going to love this country?
my boy's tongue tied in two different faiths
my boy forgot to save himself
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 5:21 AM UTC
My life is a virtual battlefield
complete with hidden traps,
layered atop cowardly assaults
between highly guarded spans of peace,
Inside my house
chairs and walls
are coarsely blown to bits
by verbal bombs,
and stark fists of shrapnel.
Behind that simple smile,
semblance of solid love
so easily shaken,
lies a ripened mine field
I tread on tiptoes
yet it erupts under
calloused feet unprovoked,
blasting glory to grey
as sacred sanctuary
falls to scarred terrain.
Spears lodged inside ribs
I peel myself from the ground,
shake off soot,
wait for dust to settle
before I march forward, again.
yes I lose the battles
But I will win this war.
Jan 21, 2019
Jan 21, 2019 at 6:30 PM UTC
Liberating the pixie wings
Swirling ribbons brushing the sky
Running in the ocean's breathe, you the wild horse no man could ever tame
You, The gypsy wanderer trailing the night
huddled in tiny cargo ships pioneering the sky - living on a tin can - in sheer ardor - to be outside from shackles below
The widen gap and the cracked stary sky
Your hands lodged through trying to find;
The teachings of the higher powers
Wisdom, philosophy's power, truth....
And you do, you stand upon a flower bed of knowledge - sharing to the world beyond
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 6:08 PM UTC
The Most Exciting Part About The Night,
Was Watching The Milliliters Of The IV Bag,
Count Down From 1000,
Blood Staining My Right Arm,
A Glassy Stare Fogging My Own Vision,
The Bitter Taste Of ***** And Dissapointment,
Was Lodged In The Back Of My Throat,
Thirst Coating The Roof Of My Mouth,
My Body Weak,
The Rhythmic Clicking Of Machines Relaxing,
Almost--Peaceful,
Black Clawing At The Sides Of My Eyes,
Whispering A Lulling Language--Sleep My Friend,
Doctors Poking At My Abdomen,
Nurses Pushing Fluids Through My Veins,
Dyes, Potassium, Water, And Many Medicines,
X-Rays And CAT Scans Went By In A Blur,
As I Slowly Regained My Body
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 12:34 PM UTC
You make the first move
and I rise to meet you
The destruction we agree
is mutually assured
If this love is war
we're going nuclear
I refuse to sign the peace
treaty, to surrender my
lands to a man who's history
rides nations in his eyes
You cannot coax me
out of my shell only
to crush me when I am
most vulnerable
I will not be an
innocent bystander
to your horrors
I will not allow you
to make my pain beautiful
*It is not your canvas
to experiment on.*
(You'll only throw
red at it anyway)
I'm tired of tiptoeing
around the subject
like it is a minefield
Eventually I will
bleed your intentions dry
bandage them with a kiss
and revel in their cries
I will tear apart the lies
deftly with nimble fingers
and your tongue will always
defy you, spitting fire
and carefully lodged bullets
Once your secrets flare
there will be no rescue party
to salvage what we had
Only our ashes shall remain
embers of a past unspoken.
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 8:13 AM UTC
In the deep of time indigenous tribes
surfaced a red earth with protruding plateaus
and burnt canyons along the Cimarron River.
The ancient Anasazi settled
at the core of this mesa.
Scattered ponderosa pine.
Yet, their sudden demise echoed curiosity.
Navajo sensed a struggle of two infinite worlds,
a quivering inundation.
Circling its haunted ominous shape,
a skull with one eye, the apparition of light
rose into a blue desert sky.
Violent storms crackle hot lightning
strikes in a sulfurous summer-
an oracular hothouse.
Navajo talk of spirits or the gateway
to fire. Heaps of iron and lodestone
lodged in the cap. Only two
brazen, cat totem poles guarding its passage.
Standing among the mesa
to feel the verve of the earth.
A New Mexico sun beats down
burning the drowsed terrain.
To see the legendary shaman glow
in his ephemeral blue nimbus.
Bathed in gaudy turquoise.
Sensing the dark encroachment
of a ghost. Near the bony hills, soared
a turbulent black bird in full flight,
upward.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
You at least went.
so that meant the party could finally be awkward.
that's homeroom
at your personal Harvard
your low self esteem was the head dean
[ claimed you had promise ]
then promptly vomits
but you promised to maim
your lollipops with hot topic's
most goth night-shade of hemlock
iron-on, henna tattoos
for your thin lips.
like two gates
to a birdcage
where you keep
ravens...
pecking the tip of your tongue
where your brave words die
for lack of oxygen... pecking
the flesh off the skeleton key
to the heart of your insightful
comment,... stymied -
a black raven
savors the succulent eyes
of your hurricanes, so
braille maps for blind rage
fly off the shelves... fly like
led zeppelins to
fresh hell.
you lose your window seat
on the wing of a prayer
to Charles Bukowski.
now you're scowling a gilded smile
at all the Ed Hardlys'...
good thing you brought Jello Biafra Shots
to the shindig... cubes of gelatinous absinthe
each with a sugar box
lodged in supermax insecurity prisms...
fey emeralds.
monochrome rubicons
you pop
when cross.
like wainscoting the panic room
that came with a deejay
who thinks you're
a boy who got
lost.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 7:10 AM UTC
I have saved many others from falling at her feet,
a dagger lodged within their rib cage as they gasp.
but the weight of my heart soon became too heavy
to save myself from her already bloodied sword.
Nov 4, 2021
Nov 4, 2021 at 9:42 PM UTC
It’s hard to move forward in life
When Past still has its razors lodged in your flesh.
It’s hard to look to the past for help
When Future’s clouding your vision.
It’s hard to live in the present
When Past and Future are using your mind
As a rope in a game of Tug-of-War.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 5:59 PM UTC
I'm a foreigner
at the crossroads
what you see from a distance
wave hands
say hello to you.
I've been confused
ever since stand alone in the crowd,
no one sees me
except for a pair of eyes
that is lodged in people's heads
which I never knew before;
and the clouds turn blue but don't hurt flowing right over the head
then the birds rise expel the wind
who had tossed my long hair.
I just stare at them,
hope they don't look at me.
However, the world suddenly stopped. And my world seems to have a limit
to transcend isolation.
I'm a foreigner
at the crossroads,
which has been left behind by old memories,
and when the new comrades have become adept at reading signs,
and therefore we have bonded
like a relationship
that we are not really aware of.
I'm a foreigner
at the crossroads,
greet you as a stranger too,
but now everyone is busy making their own festival,
and don't ask,
I make a festival for whom,
except for the day
when I'm not known anymore.
Dec 25, 2021
Dec 25, 2021 at 12:05 AM UTC