"misaligned" poems
Mrs. Claus was at the door
Making sure that Santa knew
He had to see the doctor
He must be there by two
Santa gruffed and grumbled
Said there's too much to be done
"You know I hate the doctor"
"The doctor's just no fun"
Mrs. Claus held fast and said
"You do this every year"
"and you always have a new excuse"
"when the appointment time is near"
Santa, said he'd do it
Although, it was done under duress
He could run an elven workshop
But the doctor, was more stress
He made it to the office
At two, precisely on the nose
The first thing the nurse said was
"Santa, take off all your clothes"
"You know we have to weigh you"
"It's in the contract that you signed"
"A little extra weight shift"
"Could get the sleigh all misaligned"
The scale said way past jolly
He was twenty pounds past plump
He was just below horrendous
Santa Claus was one fat lump
The doctor read the clipboard
And made a tsk tsk tsking sound
He said "Santa, you're much bigger"
"You're almost 5 full feet around"
"I have with me a letter"
"That the vet asked me to read"
"It says unless you drop some blubber"
"Four more reindeer you will need"
"Now, every story book out there"
"Names eight reindeer in line"
"And since you hired Rudolph"
"A lot have you with nine"
"But the vet now says you need thirteen"
"To get up in the sky"
"You've got to change your diet"
"Santa, please lay off the pie"
"I'm not saying all at once"
"But, you've got to drop some weight"
"Or, you'll be dropping gifts by plane"
"And you'll still be over weight"
Santa tried a little laugh,
Not a full out ** ** **
Truth be told, he'd lose his breath
He knew the weight would have to go
He got down off the table
Put on his hat, and Santa Suit
He looked as red as ever
When he tried to reach his boot
The doctor said "Good God Man"
"You can't go up like that"
Santa said "I'm fine doc"
"The kids want a Santa that is fat"
"There's a difference between jolly"
"Like the elf you're supposed to be"
"But Santa, count your chins man,"
"I lose count at twenty three"
"The elves are under orders"
"Not to load the magic sleigh"
"Until you commit to weight loss"
"And you promise right away"
"I know that you are Santa"
"And for this I may get coal"
"But, your wife, Santa...she scares me"
"She said she'd put me in a hole"
"Santa, lose some poundage"
"Give it just a little try"
"It's not right...thirteen reindeer"
"Flying through the Christmas sky"
"I know it's confidential"
"what has happened here today"
"But, Santa...I will tell her"
"If you don't...and right away"
Santa, said he'd try to
He said "just tell me what to do"
"Truth be told there doctor"
"The woman scares me too!!!"
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 10:24 PM UTC
In my little-boy town up north
rivers were not yet plugged.
Poled men came down and watched
for silvered flashes.
Pink would be inside and make
a mouth want to melt it down.
The river power we would sing
Guthrie-style in grade school,
how rolling power and darkness
were misaligned, how wild
river and light was such empty logic,
and little boys learn to forget.
In school, where poor men send
the next young nation, a new
nation conceived in hydrodamnation
and simple salmon ******
Little boy rain from Rockies
going near my door, and whipped
whirlpools spinning funnels of
quick deadening swim traps,
so stay so far from bad river,
doing nothing more than
running off to sea. Stay near shore
and enjoy the new electricity.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 12:37 PM UTC
Loving is inevitable.
Yet somehow, people say that love is a choice. You can choose to love or
not love somebody. I never wanted to, but I did. Loving you was not my choice—
not mine to begin with. But I did. I love how your calloused fingers, all beaten
up because of your love for paintbrushes and canvases, held mine tightly and
intertwined with them; dancing along with mine, which smelled like the enticing scent
of old, wrinkling books due to my love for reading. I love how your eyes are
lighter in color, more radiant and distinct than anybody else's. I love that scar of
yours placed just atop your crescent-shaped eyes. I love the way your crooked
teeth is still perfectly misaligned; not too much and not too little. I love how
your breath brushed against mine, smelling of nothing but you. I love how you
make yourself be like you and you alone. And I know that art is never supposed to
look beautiful, and that art is supposed to make you feel something, and that
you are. It's not my choice to begin with, but I did. Loving you was beyond my control.
Letting go isn't.
To let go of someone is a choice you can make. You can't let skies, or stars,
or moons, or signs to tell you when it has to happen. You either let go and free
someone, or cling onto someone you know will eventually get hurt or hurt you.
Letting go is something you can grasp onto with your fingertips and decide upon.
It is the fact that you have to let a part of you stray away that makes it hard to
do so, because loving you made me take a part of myself just so I could make
you feel as if you were mine and I was yours. Because once a part of you is given
to someone, you never truly get it back. It stays with them, long after you've
both moved on and fell apart. It sticks with their souls, reminding them of what
you two have had and have been. Once. I could've chosen to not let you go, but I
did, because we never should've been together in the first place—*ironic how first
place even appeared here, because we both knew I never was*—for a second. Letting
go of you was my choice. It always has been to begin with.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 9:16 AM UTC
Blue pleather bomber jacket,
You are smooth against my skin.
Your surface is cool and inviting
As it wraps around my torso-
Like a protective blanket
You are my security,
Blue pleather bomber jacket.
I pick at your skin and it falls apart.
The zipper, like your bottom teeth,
Are crooked and misaligned.
You shrug over my shoulders,
But leave my chest defenseless.
Blue pleather bomber jacket,
I bet you cost a fortune.
Almost as much as your nonprescription glasses,
Though you break just the same
Like the promises you keep making.
Blue pleather bomber jacket,
You never kept me warm
Just less affected by the
cutting winds of your back lash.
But when I fall asleep at night
I sleep beside the indent of your absence.
Blue pleather bomber jacket,
You are just now brand new,
Though your skin is already worn through
And your lining thinning by the second.
I trusted you,
Blue pleather bomber jacket,
To protect me from the cold.
Though you slump lazily
Over others' shoulders,
Not really caring I've been waiting
With my shoulders bare and frigid.
Blue pleather bomber jacket,
I thought you were one of kind.
But I see your manufactured gaze
Walking down the street,
Sitting across from me on the bus.
Go on, blue pleather bomber jacket,
Temporarily dangling over person after person.
Soon I will see you dangling
On the rotting hanger in a thrift shop,
Years from now looking preserved in your waning beauty.
Blue pleather bomber jacket,
Your trend is dying and your color fading.
I have been snagged by your imperfections for the last time.
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 11:24 AM UTC
Last weekend was “Parent’s” weekend at Yale. A time when parents are formally invited to visit. They have receptions and other events - but no potato-sack races (which is disappointing). My parents couldn’t come, they’ve never come to parent’s weekend, but Leong’s parents came again, from Macao, China, a 16,060-mile round trip.
There was a time when boys could tank my self-confidence with a word. When the male gaze seemed overpowering. I’d felt constantly evaluated - but I’ve evolved - somewhat. We’re going to a party. Lisa, Leong, Sunny, Anna and I - we’ve got our shine on and we’re drawing looks. Well, ok, Lisa’s drawing looks and I’m in the general frame.
Lisa sneezed, “The air quality’s bad tonight,” she announced, wiping her nose with a Kleenex.
“I don’t have any allergies,” I bragged. “Me neither,” Leong added.
“If you can breathe the air in China,” I said, “You’re golden.”
Leong laughed “Tài zhēnshí liǎo,” (Too true!) She agreed.
As we left the more street-lit part of the path, the moon, wandering in and out of the clouds, created moving shadows that peopled the darkness with phantoms. Was that impression the paranoia of fatigue? I haven’t been getting much sleep lately. Or maybe it’s October and Halloween’s just around the corner.
I was walking in the rear, nestled in the mingled scents of my roommates' perfumes that, like rare blossoms, enchanted and excited the child in me. I wasn’t paying attention, and I stubbed my toe on a misaligned sidewalk tile. Don’t you hate the gap between stubbing your toe and feeling the pain?
Oct 11, 2023
Oct 11, 2023 at 8:15 PM UTC
Headless chickens running aimless toward the almighty dollar
Blindly staring at the knife"s stainless steel amidst all the squaller
My thirsty soul argues against my numb skull to hold a thorough audition
They lewdly feud about potential candidates accrued to search for recognition
They conclude on a suspicion they mutually feared as a result of blind ambition
Search preludes the admission, that I found my dream car with no keys for ignition
Don"t question authority especially when it's the majority
Everyone knows the world is flat and let's just leave it at that
I bought water from you now I have ice to sell
I have a great story but no one worthy to tell
Hindsight should really be at least twenty fifteen
Because to admit we just don"t know is too obscene?
Blissful ignorance"s repugnant scent wafting through the cave
Mindless sheople"s chainlinked brains all dancing at the rave
Fire flickering Shadow puppets tastefully riding the next wave
Puppeteer wizard behind the curtain telling them how to behave
Misaligned redcoated frontline soldiers falsely labeled as brave
Life"s ironic conundrum puzzle, choosing which children to save
Diseased cement steadily drying in a world ever ready to pave
Hungrier than I"ve ever been, yet sickly devoid of things to crave
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 5:06 AM UTC
I was broken.
Shattered remains of what I used to be.
Random misaligned pieces, sprawled all over the floor, crushed more by whomever would walk over them.
And then you came.
And you saw.
Each piece you knew was a part of something greater.
"Something beautiful," you said.
You helped me pick up the pieces, ignoring the cuts on your hands.
You kept me safe, so noone else would hurt me.
You found a broken girl, but you saw Kintsugi.
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 10:08 PM UTC
If you get it, you lost it.
I am here
(On this platform it is evident for your reading now)
I express myself
(Heads scratching, wondering what and how?)
I share pieces of me
(A defragmented glimpse of an experience deemed ‘worthwhile')
Callous, sensuality?
(Or a traitor in sheep cosplay?)
A dead-end hi-way?
Or this pawn from yesterday?
Here, your final say
This family we never asked
Amontillado without it's cask
Dry and cheery
Heart’s are bleary
We own this laborious task
My sins are scrollable, thumbed in haste,
Wrapped in ribbons of curated taste.
A gallery of masks, all timed just right,
My shadow dances in the ring light.
What of shame when shame gets likes?
What of thought when thought’s in spikes?
I weep in drafts, but post a grin—
The world won’t wait for the shape I’m in.
So brand the bruise, then sell the hue:
A wellness tip in sponsored blue.
This self I host in feedback’s cage—
A pet, a post, a digital page.
I bare my soul (or just its shell).
You’ll never know. I sell it well.
I logged on seeking something undefined,
A tether, maybe—some reciprocal ache.
But all I found were mirrors misaligned,
Each smile too wide, each word opaque.
The comments pile like leaves, not read.
Applause from ghosts, replies from ghosts.
I feed the feed, it feeds instead—
A hunger that consumes its hosts.
I draft a truth. I dress it twice.
Add polish. Then delete.
I write in blood, convert to nice,
Make trauma fit a beat.
No lesson left. No higher shelf.
Just one more version of myself.
Jun 10, 2025
Jun 10, 2025 at 10:16 PM UTC
How uncanny!
Your stoic:
so suave,
so dapper.
How uncanny!
Your voice:
so sweet,
such a trapper.
How uncanny!
Your hair:
so fragrant,
such a teaser.
How uncanny!
Your eyes:
so magnified,
such an abrupter.
How uncanny!
Your lips:
like a bubblegum,
filled with eager.
How uncanny!
Your hands:
on mine,
no answer.
How uncanny!
Your silence:
in your mind,
like cancer.
How uncanny!
Your thoughts:
thorough rejection,
my soul's attacker.
How uncanny!
Your breaths:
fumes of disdain,
silent killer.
How uncanny!
Your scent:
faint whiff of trouble,
a heart-breaker.
How uncanny!
Your dreams:
misaligned with mine,
an eerie blockbuster.
How uncanny!
Your soul:
my bulls-eye,
a sharpshooter.
How uncanny!
That night:
I wish,
lasted forever.
How uncanny...
That night...
you wish...
hadn't transpire.
-my demise-
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 5:29 AM UTC
for the longest time
i thought i needed to
return to the child
i was.
i spent half my life
unlearning trauma,
only to lose sight
on the woman
i wanted to become.
Sep 16, 2025
Sep 16, 2025 at 11:06 AM UTC
Let me write you a poem
Between blue lines and red crosses and silly hairstyles
A poem that will eloquently tell
How you shone like dim stars on a pitch black beach
Figuratively
Full of HYPERBOLES! and synecdoches
About your misaligned teeth and your roaring, cackling laugh
It will drown you in allusions,
In perfectly crafted hybrid adjectives
That will tell
How you got caught in revolving doors
And how I laughed.
I hope you have seen the Spolarium
Because the poem will use it to denote
How I knew you were fine
But I never knew you'd be so huge
If you haven't,
We can see it together
The poem will trump Poe and O'Hara and Bukowski and Neruda
They will call it God's gift to Poetry
Studied and deconstructed
For the next few centuries
It was found taped under a desk they will say
And they will scour the world to find
That lovely mysterious beautiful person in the poem
Let me write you that poem
So that when they find you
Only the greatest people on this planet
Will read it to you.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 5:30 AM UTC
You found me
stuck staring
at rearview mirror reflections
of wintry, dusk intersections
of everything leaving me
all at once.
A forced exhale
of asphyxia caged
in collapsing lungs;
my mouth,
a fountain spring,
that coughed out
pools of blood.
I wish I saw myself
the way you saw me;
not a red traffic light
wounding speeding cars
on winding streets,
but an antique heirloom
priceless enough
you'd only wish
you could keep
in a heart-shaped box
you saw in dreams.
But, I'd cut my tongue,
paint my lips cherry shades
to blend with cells that'd stain
handkerchiefs you'd offer.
Make you believe
this isn't going to foster
because you are indecision,
unfinished watercolor landscapes
of summer forest fire skies,
a sun-kissed Pacific wanderer.
And I am true crime
untouched evidence of break-ins,
remains of faulty locks and lights.
I am mosaics misaligned;
static, seabed cracks
from forgotten fault lines.
Gaping fissures of sand,
and salt that won't let me stitch
frayed skin-deep fibres
barely holding me in.
Oceans would have to empty themselves
into whirring cyclones and high tides
for our selfish sense of touch to collide.
Ice caps would have to sink
deep enough to even bruise my skin.
And I wouldn't want to watch
more Shakespeare end
before it begins.
*See, I am the one
with sharp edges,
but why
did you have to be the one
to clip my wings?*
There is only an abyss
without a trampoline,
a safety net,
a bed of waterlilies,
I could fall in.
And I am so tired
of paradoxes
and ironies;
of always being wanted
by someone who doesn't even
want to be kept,
of always being mended
and then left
with more dislocations,
and fractures,
one after another
each taking longer to fix.
Now, in shapeless parcels,
without return addresses
sent out into the void
these words will echo
of love
I never intended to borrow,
and shadows
of false hope
you never thought yourself
capable of
giving away.
Jul 26, 2019
Jul 26, 2019 at 6:02 AM UTC
I am sorry,
I can't express my words.
My lips doesn't move.
I always feel I should say it in a hurry,
My eyes are getting blurred.
I... I.. haven't improved.
Your rage is justified.
I can only look and listen.
My reasons are invalid.
Our thoughts has been misaligned.
Your compassion was suddenly hidden.
I am in presence where my logic forbid.
We walk through the dark streets home.
I only heard your voice passing through.
My heart aches with each passing phrase.
Together... we.. roam.
Every command I would do.
My bowed down head's been raised.
I said nothing at the gate.
I only stared at your fierce eyes.
I walked backed home quietly.
No words has been said.
A piece of me dies.
I... am.. sorry.
Apr 13, 2023
Apr 13, 2023 at 1:02 PM UTC
Just a look
And you stirred my lungs
Now you filled it with stars
Must be fate's caprice
may be Cupid's feats
Did you feel it too?
This trance
Explosion of suns
Like shoots of fireworks in my head
You took out my fears
In silence I swear I did hear
The clock as his arms sojourned
and how they felt like years
Might be Saturn's rings misaligned
Could this be a sign?
Tell me how can I recover
from your sad eyes, brown like amber
as they reveal your sorrows
Please allow me
to dig your heart so I can repair it
Is this not enough
to believe that gods set us up?
Take my hand we'll ask the gods' permission
or maybe a reason for this collision
Because if time is relative
When our eyes met
I felt we're infinite
-Cupid's Arrow, Margaret Austin Go
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 5:21 AM UTC
She sits, emotionally bland,
Speaking mechanically;
Her right jaw, slightly misaligned,
From calcifications of former fractures;
And he is left-handed.
Lime-green circles about her
Distant, blue eyes indicate
That she has pleased him
This past week.
She believes that she
Is Improving, is better;
As the distance between
The necessary corrections
Is elongating, and she doesn’t
Nap as often.
He seems to love her more;
And frequently resorts
To audible amendments,
Or is too fatigued, himself,
To properly intervene
In her enlightenment.
She inhales, fidgets, re-adjusts,
To breathe without pain;
Calmly expressing accolades for
The strength, perseverance,
Of her son who doesn’t fail;
But weeps, in anonymity,
For her daughter who must
Have inherited her propensity
Toward weakness, malfunction.
Perhaps, over time,
He will see fit to guide
Their daughter with
Identical acts of love;
And she will be well.
She stares out the window,
Toward the windswept willow;
Catatonic, citing that
Past years, learning years,
Were resonating like the
Dry-fire echo of the
Empty Chamber in a game
Of Russian-Roulette.
The sound, repeated and
Sustained in dull memory;
The clicks that fed
The ugly tomorrows;
But her eyes sparkle as
She admits to a yearning,
For the strike of the pin
To fresh primer;
And she may only regret
That she will not hear
The Sound
Heralding her freedom.
Jun 11, 2010
Jun 11, 2010 at 5:27 AM UTC
You can just tell
Yah know?
We speak in rhythms,
Passionate, fortified rhythms but
often misaligned.
I won't be blind to our truth, no
but don’t expect me to bask in some
Wonderland.
Defective perfection,
A ghastly unfortunate paradox and
A laden aura unlike any other.
My soul aches to ripen
so very desperately
But this love has taken it’s
Toll.
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 12:48 AM UTC
I look up
Only to see your eyes
Longing to see your smile
But it's gone
That's no surprise.
Mines gone.
Laughter turned to memories.
I still love you.
I give up from time to time
Hit a few bumps, earned a few scars
Left alone on lonely streets
And alleys looking rather blue.
Stars misaligned
And I still need you.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 10:29 PM UTC
the breeze tastes of strawberries
and the sun
swaying towards the horizon
in the deepening sky
pleasures my metronome thoughts
like her hips
as the music catches her
rolling and tumbling
when the rhythm in the salted air
matches the one she finds
pulsing
in the place she goes
on moonful nights
where crescent beaches linger
singing in her hands
with mother of pearl choirs
strung around her shoulders
in the ashen light
waves roll in
cresting on her
powdered sugar *******
and coral reef lips
leave their mark
crimson stains
on a leeward palm tree
having run aground
under a sky spread map
of misaligned stars
I search for grace
in the shadow of her eye
Aug 19, 2024
Aug 19, 2024 at 12:09 AM UTC
The sun was shining very bright
In my very darkest night
The stars' they misaligned
The moon I simply couldn't find
Left frozen on that August day
A blizzard of emotions in the way
Amongst the pain and agony
I found myself on bended knee
No longer able to stand
Buried in your life's sand
So now on my belly I'll crawl
Banging my head against the wall
Knowing I'll never see the light
This situation I can not fight
For you see our darkest hour
That leaves us all to cower
Rarely ever comes at night
It attacks when the day is bright
So sleeping with that gun under your pillow
Won't stop the winds of change that billow
©Pauline Russell
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 2:14 PM UTC
Your shingled roof keeps the sunbeams out of your head
Greasy grime-stained glass windows tint your cracked worldview
Spite dripping from the meaningless words you said
Time and again it rears its ugly head anew
Tiles misaligned by the slow shaking of years past
Rusted doorknob yielding to splintered wooden door
Vestiges of reason leave your mind all too fast
Eaten by insecurities, razed to the floor
Graffiti and dirt lie intertwined on your walls
Fractured wallpaper peels away in strips and flakes
The answering machine inside holds no more calls
The dusty mould on the tabletop swells and cakes
Broken pipes and tangled wires climb up your side
As varicose veins snaking up your wizened spine
All your flaws leak out and there's nowhere left to hide
Groaning in the wind, your voice hissing "They're not mine!"
Your boarded-up middlesection is always torn
Wind-ripped by desolating gusts of delusion
The flight of fancy, the gloried facade you've worn
Hangs from bitten brick, a decomposed illusion
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 9:35 AM UTC
I remember when
I first read Bukowski
I thought he was a
joke
his poems weren’t even
poems
they were just a bunch
of lines
and sentences
strung about like flimsy
washing telling
mundane stories
about insipid things
who was he to venerate Cummings
(as if he had any of Edward’s
profundity)
and who was he to write
poems about poets not
writing poems
or his simple lines propping
up grossly defective and out of
date words
like jeroboams
or how he’d drink
(four-fifths a gallon of wine)
then write more derivative
lines
who was he to live so long
and write so much
drivel
and
claptrap
to other poets’ literary
athleticism
our darling Chuck was a
pedestrian
he was born a pensioner
but never received a
pension
his poems flow
like a river
to
no
where
and after reading them
the first time
I withdrew
my poetic concern
but then I read them again
and then
again
and I
realised
I was in his poem’s
stories
and that foolish girl I knew
that dense and brainless
denizen of triteville
was the heroine of
his ‘splashing’
and his love for classical
his love for wine
and even his love
for Edward
matched even mine
but most of all
and here
my rhetoric ends
the moment I sighed oh yes
when I read his poem
yes
you guessed it
‘oh, yes’
if not for his whimsical
words
or his misaligned wit
love him for his
grasp of regret
and the sheer sentiment
he can emit
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 2:08 AM UTC
It seems I don't know quite how to respond,
To the pain present, within and beyond,
So, my subconscious defaults to the lead,
With habitual patterns, I proceed…
Reliant on instincts and emotions,
These primal pathways take me through motions,
Now I’m acting rash, values misaligned,
Hurting loved ones in this stressed frame of mind,
All because I’m unable to pacify,
My cortex, drenched in stimuli.
Oct 11, 2024
Oct 11, 2024 at 10:37 PM UTC
It does not take a blazing comet
or rounds of tectonic tremors to
pry our grounds open.
Neither would the giant waves lashing,
or the angry volcano
swallow us whole.
Torpedoes, tornadoes, guns, germs and steel
do not suffice in bringing our annihilation.
From within,
a cosmic revolution
-where fates change and stories rewritten,
and all it takes could be merely
a fraction of a moment missed,
a heart navigating on a compass
misaligned,
or another that ceased beating.
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 12:36 PM UTC
There is an entire world
that you do not belong in.
Their dreams seem distant,
their hearts of stone,
their smiles withered;
upon them shines a different sun.
You reach out,
but are unseen.
Did they do so, too?
Why, they did of course,
with upraised words most unbefitting,
they reached out as well
to you.
What good, however?
Between us, a chasm.
And those that,
much to your surprise,
did jump it -
did not jump to treat with you,
but as you,
to linger.
You linger still,
as do your hopes.
You do not in vain
hope for this different world
of peace and understanding
of gaps sutured shut
with meaningful intention.
But your words
are misaligned.
And you are, to all,
foreign,
of malice,
greed
and hatred.
You do not dream in vain,
but for now, you don't belong.
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 7:58 AM UTC
July 3, 2011
These were the orders of the day,
issued by admirals
who monitor the lanes surrounding
this sea island and that now include
my desolated, desecrated, heart waves
that wash ashore.
With beacon searchlight,
high powered, prowl,
be a coast guard on the bay
of humanity, following wakes,
intersecting misaligned paths,
undoing crisscrossed roads
on a plane of water,
forever search,
permissioned only
to never cease, tasked only to:
Save the young ones.
For there is no cost
we will not bear,
take our mind's light,
our speech, the music from ears,
the fiber'd essence of
our tissue-thin life's weave,
but let us be, leave us,
to save the young ones.
Leave us not becalmed, baffled,
broken, discovering
what sound we make
when our throats are
grief engorged beyond bound,
so leave us the young ones.
When we fail, what it is,
I do not know,
how to name it, cannot,
for I am forever
star gazing, star lost, confused,
with every breath ruptured,
my own value to wonder,
and on and on to ponder:
Is there no end to the reservoir
of tears that accompany these
spilled and spoiled thoughts,
stained kisses on paper
where ink and saltwater connect,
and lay upon the surface of
memories that can't be blotted,
never be replaced or,
cry out, cry out,
be added to?
How many sad poems.
must yet invade my fingers,
ripping my mask of reason off,
making me unhappily familiar
with jagged edges of the sea,
each drop - a tipping point
into places I wanted never know,
a rendering reminder of
these days of disorder,
Save the young ones.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 2:18 PM UTC