"messily" poems
We are all silhouettes
Wrapped in the tapestry
Of a blooming night
Outlines etched messily
Into a cotton wool sky
Beautifully imperfect
A stray wisp illuminates
Sings sweet like our
Honey bee laughs
We smile, always
Endlessly sunshine yellow
For here we are youth
Wild like dandelions
Rebelling against being
A common flower
We paint the word ****
In shining glitter
Send it to outer space in
A paper airplane
Then dance on crazily
Like the night is infinite
Dreaming for a forever
May 4, 2018
May 4, 2018 at 2:09 PM UTC
You make me feel alive and I wanted to paint every sunset myself to match the emotions I felt each day
You make me feel alive as if I had the power to reach out and grasp the stars
You make me feel alive like I could messily splatter light onto a blanket of darkness and suddenly I had created the night sky.
You make me feel alive to the point where my heart was racing faster than the shooting stars that dance across our world
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 2:33 PM UTC
He grasps stardust in his
Hands
Sand they turn truly lovely
In one hand
The edges glint golden rusty and Brown they turn
The color of lovely shriveled late
Autumn leaves
They sink soundly to the ground
Smell of raw;
Earthy taste moist like rich bread and wine
So red his lips have not
The look of innocence
Stripped naked like bark chiseled wood
How I would love them forever
My vain endeavour
Still he lays partially
Amongst the blotchy patch of shade as
The
Tree
Lovingly sways
To the sound of his
Coos
Darling he sleeps as the Sheep watch over him
My little Sheppard boy
Dreamingly sound
May rippling waters of your subconscious mind settle to shore
Tides emerge in deepest
Blue
Violently crash into the
Crimson colored rocky edge of the
Stone face cliff
Now faced with thick
Cumulonimbus clouds that
Cloud the dawn's last fiery
Light
Streaks of lightening
Silhouette whip upon his
Face and like thunder the
Lions
Roar not in pain
But in vigorous anger as
The ringmaster bows at the
Choking applaud of the
Painted audience
The wind unweaves grassy tangles in your hair
Tormenting suitors
Tease;
You messily please
Imperfectly perfect that you are able to
Appeal as effortlessly
Dressed in natures blend
Like a jar of
Roasted nuts
Of assorted trail mix
Still
You lay there
Decorated in earth's blankets of roots Grass
Twigs leaves
Oh
How it hurts to leave
I'd sit here loving you
Instead
Twist peering down upon
Deepest desires
Swept in eternal sleep
Longingly
I join your slumber
Drift into dream where I
May wake up finding you
Beside me
Where sleep steals me upon
Your shoulder
Warmth of arms lightly
Grasped
Dawn red as a match in the
Distance slowly
Smothered
Surrendering to nights cold
Silence
But the stars
Whispers of compliments to
The moon
Each night loved you kindly
Each star a kiss upon your
Cheek
May the stars love you Sweeter than they have Loved me
But darling I've loved you
Forever
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 1:17 PM UTC
Speculation proved
contagious,
misinterpretation
crept silently on patchwork soles
(odds n' sods messily stitched,
tittle tattle did no favours)
like a flu it spread,
hushed curiosities rested
outside ol' Hutch baker's door,
where even a freshly oven'd
batch might strain an ear
or five to net nearby tongue trading,
seeds straining on their brows.
Even those Mother hens
had a cluck or two left in them,
rumours about the
'Dust mite Martyr'
as she was dubbed,
“Does she have no shame,
sitting pretty in Matrimony's dress?”
one heaving checkered breast commented
titling her beak
to gain a better look -
At that shriveller slumped,
an examiner of the cobbles
with such a religious stare
her lids traced stones
within the darkness,
a traveller -
wanderer not to be trusted,
especially not
with bloodied lilies tangled
within her gleaming mop.
Oct 25, 2011
Oct 25, 2011 at 1:58 PM UTC
3rd Grade, Awards Assembly
Children are filed into the cafeteria in almost orderly lines
Giggling about silly jokes that make no sense to adults
But for awards, they are silent, and expecting.
Kindergarten, first grade, second grade, finally
The little girl with her shiny black shoes waits for her award telling her that she qualifies as smart
And she receives perfect attendance
8th Grade, School Computer Room
Awkward preteens set in blue plastic chairs
Friends clumped together around a single screen
"Secretly" googling ***** like it's a crime, though everyone knows
But in the very back
The girl with her black bag full of books checking her grades online
Has her nose to the monitor and worry in her heart
Because just perfect attendance makes her a disappointment.
Junior Year, Home Bathroom
Soapy water soaks the floor and into a dollar store rug
The bath is half empty and tinted a rusty shade of red
And sitting on the floor with her knees to her chin, carving A+ into the scarred skin of her arm
Is the girl, almost a woman, with her eyes messily ringed in black, who doesn't dare cut too deep.
Killing herself would mean losing her perfect attendance.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 12:13 AM UTC
The irreveracable state of falling moral
Piecing together newspaper dooms dayers
Always curious about generalized detachment
Yet unable to see the forest for the trees
Picket lines are home
Raging infernos of injustice and malcontent
Laying stoically at their doorstep
Wrapped messily in insomniac nightmares at yours
Big, BOLD letters voicing the masses
We are, We are
Oppressed, Depressed, Repressed
No longer though
Passing out the hymnals of our revolution
Unsatisfied but spent
I sit back and enjoy the show
Saturating my senses with the smell of burning GMO fields
Apr 6, 2012
Apr 6, 2012 at 10:13 AM UTC
I try my hand at poetry,
I am no great talent.
I write words that flow endlessly and messily
from my heart, merging with the words
my brain creates in its boredom.
I try my hand at being a girlfriend,
I have no great talent at this either.
For I often ruin my own good standings,
as if to stand only a little higher than my partner.
I try my hand at helping,
though I do not extend it as often
as I like. Most days it is hard enough
taking my own hand.
I try my hand at greatness,
though it cannot be measured
until the day comes where the only
thing my hand tries is resting for
eternity.
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 11:39 PM 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
He wore nothing other than black even in the summer, his crystal blue eyes reflected ocean-hues and had jet black ink that could slightly be seen under the sleeve of his tattered and torn Rolling Stones tee. That boy, he was quite a mystery, had the body language of a jigsaw puzzle not wanting to be mended, although it was all opaque to me, others saw him impenetrable, however, I read him like my favorite book. This boy is exactly like me intelligent yet covert, impassive and esoteric yet a universe full of secrets and unspoken thoughts. It seemed as if his soul was somber and consumed nothing but vacuity. But I saw a masterpiece, a messily painted work of art, and that was the beauty of it. Others saw chaos on a canvas while I saw every watercolored hue that completed the exotic illustration that was, Luke.
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 6:13 AM UTC
Why is it that I always shake when I'm anxious?
Re-reading our old messages, and skipping through pages.
You enjoyed every inch of every word that I had said,
I yearn so deeply to be the only thought that runs through your head.
I replay in my mind every second of our last conversation,
The tension that hung heavy in a room where my words now stay wasted,
On a man who only pretended he cared,
All the promises he made tucked messily in a box somewhere.
I am now neurotic and obsessive,
But I'm young and won't learn my lesson.
I'll spend the next few months dreaming of you as I lay in bed,
Shaking and cold and out of breath,
Because I tossed away, into you, all that I had left.
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 9:59 PM UTC
"There is no poetic beauty in pain."
I am learning this slowly.
My hands still shake when it's past 2 in the morning
and breathing isn't easy most nights.
I am not poignant with my words
and some days it's hard to get out of bed.
This is my adolescence:
A tangled mess of dismantled almosts
and empty promises scribbled messily on the back of restaurant napkins.
It's stolen kisses in sleepy coffee shops,
failing chemistry,
driving recklessly,
and staying up late on lonely nights to watch the sunrise.
There are days where I'm convinced life shines
with a brilliance unknown to me,
so I continue on and live for those days.
Those days where breathing comes a little easier and I remind myself
that everything happens for a reason.
I hope you find these days where all you know is basked in a vibrance you've only read about.
Live for those days.
Live for me.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 3:24 PM UTC
you are every midnight shot I should not have threw down my throat,
every syllable I should not have stammered out beneath
shy gazes and lowered eyelashes and chewed bottom lips.
you are every (in)coherent verse I could not keep
my shaky grip from messily scrawling across any blank page;
you are in every frustrated sigh,
every agitated run of fingers through messy hair,
every tear at 2am.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 12:18 PM UTC
I loved you like a daughter but I can't forgive you as a woman
I sure hope you burns in hell but I can't say this out loud
Cause you are my father
But you were her husband first
And I can't change that no I can't change that.
I will never forget when you called her crazy
When she put up your cheating evidence in our faces / on the dinner table.
You laughed messily and denied it cause you are spoiled
It's the same old wives tale
Someone will end it up hurting badly
And it will be always be a woman
Sep 13, 2024
Sep 13, 2024 at 11:19 PM UTC
you knew my eyes
knew that they had been leaking, faulty, allowing my body to flood
with emotion
and then drain
messily, leaving black rivers to dry on my cheeks
but still, you shook me
with your anger
you allowed me to fill up again
but this time i burst
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 7:56 PM UTC
Imagine yourself
a linear expression of experience,
a long strip of film like
the kind in old projectors with the
sepiatic sputters and flickers--
yes! Imagine yourself a strip of film but
rolled up messily like
the earbuds in your pocket or
folding fitted bedsheets.
You are a movie and the filmstrip endpiece lies at your feet,
you are knots and coils and tangles and
if you were to lie down at the top of this mountain for a moment--just a moment!--perhaps
the wind would catch the loops of film and
you would feel yourself
unravel.
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 12:44 PM UTC
You’re six feet tall and more feet apart
from anyone you claim to be close to.
Struggling to breathe and a defunct heart,
in denial of prophecy; inevitably it came true.
You didn’t even pretend you ever cared for me,
we both know we’re not the ones you wanted to see.
If only you could realize what was important in life,
maybe you wouldn’t face the close in strife.
If only you could realize what this was all about,
maybe your funeral wouldn’t be cardboard cut outs.
In your last breath of air,
was there regret or despair?
It’s the ones that you don’t peg for depth
that seem to never be fully understood.
I’ve watched how easily they’ve wept,
and immediately reverted back to wood.
You didn’t even pretend you ever cared for me,
couldn’t care less; we’re supposed to be family.
If only you could realize what was important in life,
then you wouldn’t have replaced your kids and wife.
If only you could look back on all those years,
maybe you’d hold your kids instead of your beers.
No invite for dining with the dead,
no faking pleasantries unpleasantly.
Breaking promises along with the bread,
and never present even presently.
No invite for dining with the dead,
ignoring a mess while eating messily.
Smelling copper while tasting lead,
feeling separated both separately.
In your last breath of air,
did you notice we weren’t there?
In your last breath of air,
did you start to care?
No invite for dining with the dead,
no faking pleasantries unpleasantly.
Ignoring last call and ignoring bed,
my mental exhaustion is kicking in mentally.
No invite for dining with the dead,
ignoring a mess while eating messily.
The scene will remain within my head,
and my refusal to be desperate has grown desperately.
Jul 31, 2021
Jul 31, 2021 at 8:40 AM UTC
she was the smart one
with a cute little smile
and heart full of kindness
she was the prettiest
and the smartest
and people
were either jealous of her
or
they wanted to be her
she was the one
who held my hand the most
and made me feel
like i was the best
of us all
we swam together
one on each lane
racing to the finish
or just helping each other make it
to the finish line
we laughed together
at the jokes that were cracked
laughing until our stomachs ached
and our eyes filled with tears
we sang together
four little voices trying to blend together
messily
but happily
we were happy
then she moved away
to a different place
to a different school
to different people
i remember
when she cried
when we had to part
i remember
when she felt lonely
and wrote me a letter
but lost it
i remember
when she had her first kiss
she was so excited
and so happy
and i remember
when she no longer called
and rarely texted
and weeks turned into months
before we'd finally meet
and talk
and tell each other
i miss you
keep in touch
but the promises are empty
because we say
but we never do
and her text are rare
and her calls rarer still
and what can i do
but sit here
and watch
as she goes out into the world
and the world changes her
until she only was
the person i once knew best
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 6:04 AM UTC
To hold a pen, all trembling nib and leaking tip,
At your mercy, supple in your hands,
Over the skin of soon-to-be words, people and places:
Gently exploding ink bombs of which I cherish total control –
Until I have to let them go -
until they are released and left to their own free will.
They bend and curl
And I bend and curl with them – through a place of rubble and debris,
Of clear water on emeralds and grey, creamy smoke.
A wasteland – but far from empty – a silvery mire filled with all the things of this earth.
Something both post and pre-apocalyptic that smells of old wood and heady incense,
Nostalgia and new memories.
Accidentally, messily, flawlessly crafted.
I wait for more sporadic dark poolings,
And they happen within quick succession of one another;
Splaying,
Isolated limbs and drops of a purple chemical
Spreading, bleeding, dissolving
Over the grainy paper.
The page is torn and frayed at the edges
Where almost fabric-like fibres
Were unable to withstand the impact of a knife’s blade,
Ripping all the tiny seams which bind them together,
Coming apart,
Undone,
Strand by dusty strand.
What is finished, what is done –
Is what has been given kindness,
And settled to rest.
As if drunk, sleepy, disorientated but somehow acutely aware of exactly where you are.
The feeling of dizziness where everything is hazy, fuzzy, blurry –
Inducing a comfortable, ***** slumber
In an old *** and vanilla shop.
Aureate, bronze pearls slide over each other, silky and luke-warm,
As you peer through glass and lace,
The spheres chinking together, a thousand times over.
A pen held above the paper, now still and impassive.
It is mine and I am its,
And we stand alone on the corner of a pavement,
A streetlamp
Rendering the scene golden in the rain.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 2:58 PM UTC
I can wash a dish SO GOOD...
So good, that you could eat off it...
I can fly a kite SO high, and a paper airplane SO fast and far you'd think...
You'd think I was some kind of a pilot
I listen to my music as I sleep.
I dream of green women abducting me.
I forget these dreams when I wake.
I tie my shoes before I fall on them.
I make less than average knots and fall on them anyways.
And I can do these things.
I can Fold a shirt SO Messily ...you'd think I had just thrown it on the floor.
Yes, I can iron my clothes SO unevenly you would think I'd jumped out of a basket.
Because I did. Why? Because I am an Average person.
My !LIFE!! is Average.
My !CITY! is Average.
And yes..even my love is average.
I walk around my city with...wide eyes...but my head down.
Who can see me?
Who can I see? ...I walk. I go home. I work..and I eat...and then I **** Average.
I wake up and I put my pants on one, two, no no FIVE! Five SLEEVES at a time.
I wear one sock and TWO sandals while making eggs in my apartment.
Why?
Well why not? I can do these things.
I am no superhero, I..am Average.
Sep 20, 2010
Sep 20, 2010 at 5:04 PM UTC
she was the funny one
with wicked humour
and a sharp tongue
my cousin
she'd *****
so would i
we'd fight
we'd clash
but that was okay
because we were family
and that's what families do
she was the life
among us
we swam together
one on each lane
racing to the finish
or just helping each other make it
to the finish line
we laughed together
at the jokes that were cracked
laughing until our stomachs ached
and our eyes filled with tears
we sang together
four little voices trying to blend together
messily
but happily
we were happy
then she moved away
to a different place
to a different country
to different people
i remember
how she would
look in the mirror
everywhere we went
i remember
how she would run
against the wind
with her head tilted
so it would not mess her hair
i remember
her Michael Jackson dance
and the song she made
about a guy in our class
and i remember
when she made new best friends
and wore pounds of make up
and took pictures
with her cleavage showing
and we didn't meet up
because she never came back
and we rarely talked
because she was too busy
with life
a life where there is no me
no us
no inside jokes
no fighting
no sticking together
and what can i do
but sit here
and watch
as she goes out into the world
and the world changes her
until she only was
the person i once knew best
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 5:23 AM UTC
Twirling and swirling and whirling
A flash of red whisps through the crowd of dull and funeral-like decor.
She spins aimlessly, messily through the practised, and utterly strictly ballroom dancers -
Their faces a monotany of emotionless control,
Their poise impeccable,
And only the tell-tale bead of sweat and counting under their breathe betrays the otherwise flawless act.
Again a flash of red, and the floor is filled with life...besides the robotic dancers (and I don't mean they were doing the robot) who were already in the midst of a rumba.
Her closed eyes lead her to and fro through the dancing dead,
Her wandering hands grasp at the music flowing through the air,
Although there is not a learned step to her unprepared jive and jiggle;
her passion and innocence are enough to let any shy observer know who the real master of salsa really was.
Her carelessness was enough to inspire anyone to dance as she did
-and to break the solid, conservative mentality of society
- and to break away from conforming to the norm,
And to be yourself, no matter what anyone really thinks,
Since even though everyone may judge you, there'll always be someone who thinks you bring life to the party.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 1:43 PM UTC
oh, drag
it's you again
i miss not having to see you
how i hate watching you move
the way you speak in that unsure, adorable manner
the way you grin and look down to avoid eye contact that I know you secretly desire
you always loved gazing into my eyes
but no longer
oh, how i hate you
im sorry but its true
the way you walk, confidently but with sincerity
the way your hair blows messily in the wind, its long and curly now (the way i like it)
all of it kills me
it was just so nice being away
i grew out of my heartbreak and found marvelous, interesting things and people to steal my time
but just when i make a new and wise revelation
you walk in
basically renewing all of the feelings that i had crushed and forgotten
and i think you know how much worse it is now
the fact that you sit right beside me
and the way we converse casually about our summer happenings so far
we act like were classmates
friendly, but with no history whatsoever
what we had
whatever we could have had
is gone
except for the hidden cravings that you attempt to hide and push away
because you think it must be better this way
because you believe that she
is the wiser choice
so now all we are is
"just friends"
you've got to be kidding me
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 12:29 PM UTC
I racked my head for a poem;
some stack of words to say "good morning, pray you are well", but stacks swell and topple messily on my hands to your eyes, so
"Good
Morn-
ing
Jaz-
mean,
cruel,
fate
to wake to
one star,
and not
another."
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 2:11 PM UTC
I want to feel your skin graze mine
hot and lazy
in the summer afternoon
light and delicate
as if almost on accident
as if almost on purpose
as if almost in love
I want wet kisses that stain the curve
of my neck from the lingering presence of your lips
The breeze caressing and cooling the marks you've left behind
Trailing goosebumps up my spine
I want to feel your warm tacky fingers sticking to my thighs like you've just messily eaten something sweet
Moving like slow molasses
Melting me in the humid heat
I want to stay right there
with the summer sunlight trickling through the window blinds
With a dull sitcom on TV
The cued audience laughter
muted in my mind
Playing my faux innocence
in that dreadfully pleasurable
moment of yearning for you
forever
Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 3:37 AM UTC