"miscarried" poems
Who believes what we’ve heard and seen?
Who would have thought God’s saving power would look like this?
The servant grew up before God—a scrawny seedling,
a scrubby plant in a parched field.
There was nothing attractive about him,
nothing to cause us to take a second look.
He was looked down on and passed over,
a man who suffered, who knew pain firsthand.
One look at him and people turned away.
We looked down on him, thought he was ****
But the fact is, it was our pains he carried—
our disfigurements, all the things wrong with us.
We thought he brought it on himself,
that God was punishing him for his own failures.
But it was our sins that did that to him,
that ripped and tore and crushed him—our sins!
He took the punishment, and that made us whole.
Through his bruises we get healed.
We’re all like sheep who’ve wandered off and gotten lost.
We’ve all done our own thing, gone our own way.
And God has piled all our sins, everything we’ve done wrong,
on him, on him.
He was beaten, he was tortured,
but he didn’t say a word.
Like a lamb taken to be slaughtered
and like a sheep being sheared,
he took it all in silence.
Justice miscarried, and he was led off—
and did anyone really know what was happening?
He died without a thought for his own welfare,
beaten ****** for the sins of my people.
They buried him with the wicked,
threw him in a grave with a rich man,
Even though he’d never hurt a soul
or said one word that wasn’t true.
Still, it’s what God had in mind all along,
to crush him with pain.
The plan was that he give himself as an offering for sin
so that he’d see life come from it—life, life, and more life.
And God’s plan will deeply prosper through him.
Out of that terrible travail of soul,
he’ll see that it’s worth it and be glad he did it.
Through what he experienced, my righteous one, my servant,
will make many “righteous ones,”
as he himself carries the burden of their sins.
Therefore I’ll reward him extravagantly—
the best of everything, the highest honors—
Because he looked death in the face and didn’t flinch,
because he embraced the company of the lowest.
He took on his own shoulders the sin of the many,
he took up the cause of all the black sheep.
~ Eugene Peterson
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 12:31 PM UTC
Equations of creepiness exist beyond the surface of interplanetary suckers or tendrils.
So, tell me, how horizontal are your expressions?
As girls are not dissimilar to counting backwards on a scale of oratory genius, then
how far do you deviate from what is considered to be the norm?
Although foliage may display her open and ontological beauty at this uncertain period of nothingness,
I unravel myself from this Egyptian tomb of aborted eloquence.
Just be yourself, please.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 12:02 AM UTC
Forgive the malicious repetitious dismay.
This quarrel so vicious, flagitious swordplay.
Inauspicious foreboding, one lover’s display.
Seditious naught, my miscarried parlay.
Delicious divulging- in this adventitious decay.
Oct 12, 2011
Oct 12, 2011 at 4:27 AM UTC
We always said we didn’t know what we would do without each other
But we did know
We’d only known each other for two years
I wasn’t there when your parents split up and each remarried
or when you had to get stitches on your face
or watched your first scary movie
And you weren’t there when I smoked my first cigarette
or tried to **** myself when I was 13
or when I won that soccer game my freshman year
The last time we had *** we were in a rush
because we had school in 37 minutes
and so we made it sloppy and fast in your shower
and then we drove to school together with wet hair and we laughed
The last time we had *** I got pregnant
This wasn’t one of those scares where you’re two weeks late
so you buy a few cheap tests and it’s negative
so you stash the rest in the back of your drawer and forget about it
I got pregnant on the first day of June and I never told you
I miscarried on the last day of August
and you never even knew how close you came to being a father
We stopped talking and I couldn’t even tell you
how I was stunned into silence when I realized I was going to be a mother and then knew I had to keep it a secret
Knew I had to keep our dark haired future to myself
So here it is the end of February
I should have been having the baby this week or next
and you NEVER EVEN KNEW
I watch you say how much you love this little 15 year old girl
you’ve been dating for six months
I miscarried the day you started dating so tell me that was just a
coincidence
But don't you dare ever tell me you don't know what you'd do without me
Well, I guess you wouldn't anymore
Seeing as how you don't want me
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 2:39 PM UTC
On the surface of your skin
I can see
You are
Within the reflection of a breath
And soft
Spoken words
They demand everything
At once my
Heavy thoughts
Soak
In blood while
In some other world the desolation
Of days gone
Filters like 26
Fleeting memories
Strangled
By the hands of
Angels
I’ve described my moments on napkins
And given them to strangers
On the street
At some point my collapse
Will re-invent the air and the movement
Of your digestion
And the scary
Part of you
Will be there holding me down
Pressed
Against
The glass wall
The reflections will disappear and broken
Windows cut
Each
Artery
I’m letting
Go
Don’t be afraid
If all else within my reach loves
You then we can die
Like small raindrops trapped in a
Pothole
The miscarried thoughts of eyes
And saliva soaked kisses soon
Envelope you an extension of morning
And the hands that touched you in so many ways are now lost
In the vague shadows of your voice
Apprehending colors that disappear and I forget about you and silence
Left among the doves of grass
Your shelter it all
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 10:10 AM UTC
I'm imaingining your fingers,
as they tightly grasp.
For the first time,
I wished it would last.
I was dreaming of first steps,
the words you would first say.
Your smile and eyes,
that would help me through the day.
I thought of your cry,
what it may sound like.
But your smile and laugh,
would make it alright.
I didn't even care,
boy or girl, didn't matter to me.
As long as you were here,
and you came along healthy.
But the blood came fast,
when it really shouldn't have.
I rushed to the doctor,
with that test on my lap.
"Doctor, look, it's positive,
was it just a mistake?
Is there something I can do?
or is it just too late?
"Tell me, my baby,
that it's alright.
That'll I hear that cry,
that it'll make it through the night"
"I'm sorry ma'am to tell you,
this baby is no more.
You miscarried your child,
and there's nothing you can do for.
"This child to make it through,
I'm sorry, it's far too late.
This wasn't meant to be,
this was truely fate."
Now I sit here on my bed,
with the test in hand.
I was going to tell you,
I knew, I said, I can.
But there's not point now,
I sit here silently broken.
At what could have been,
my baby took my lost token.
Sep 17, 2010
Sep 17, 2010 at 3:41 PM UTC
The Church is the undying antagonist to the soul,
What was once a pure practice, has now been sold,
It's an undying commodity
That sells definitive absolution,
An unresting subsidy
That force-feeds their pollution.
-
The throats of unsure masses,
Are at their max capacity,
The unknowing public,
Craves Leaders' depravity.
To find God, one must first find themself,
Or find themself subjected
To a liar's daunting Hell.
The contradictions in the library of religions,
Written on Earth by men, with their own conditions,
Have soiled the name of God's Word,
They chose the verses carefully to
Distribute amongst the heard.
-
For Christians such as I,
Where is Judas, where is Mary?
Their gospels from the Holy Book
Ripped out and now miscarried,
Why did a peaceful Pope and King
Sanctify a genocide?
How do they know that Heaven,
For this exception, will subside?
-
Does God not weep at the loss,
Of any children slain upon his Earth?
So then why must we put Hindus, Jews,
Christians, Muslims, and Buddhists through eternal rebirth?
-
Each faction that lies herein
Has flaws amongst themselves,
The contradictory messages,
Lie entwined and fervently spelled.
-
Why does each religion preach
To love among another,
Yet wars are caused on their basis,
Of freedom from each other?
Look into your heart of hearts,
And "excuse" this ungodly behavior,
Save yourself your ******* pity
And start your own God to savor.
Find within yourself what is right,
Not to them, but to your own mind,
God will see your heart open,
With righteousness and kind.
-
We take the written, and copied oral stories,
Scribed years after the event
By man to mean they are of God's own lips
And to man we do repent.
That is blasphemy in itself
And we lie to one another,
About what we "know" to believe,
And chastise our own brothers.
-
This is why fewer Believe,
It is our elders' longing fault,
That they cannot explain questions,
Without expressing their own flaws.
The generations are no longer stupid,
But intelligent and wise,
They do not see within themselves,
That God himself in guise,
Of tests and corrupt men,
Within the religious establishment,
These dictatorships,
Are meant to blind us from within.
Release your heart and remain steadfast,
Their cultures cannot then bite,
We will achieve Paradise through Freedom,
And the evil, my God will smite.
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 7:30 AM UTC
January 1st
I woke up in bed next to you.
I had the flu.
January 5th
I wasn't sick anymore but I was so depressed.
January 7th
I called you crying hysterically.
By the end of the call...
You told me that you wanted a break.
January 9th
We decided to wait till I went back to Texas for the break though not speak at all from when I left to when I came back.
January 11th
I realized I was pregnant.
I called my best friend asking for a pregnancy test and a cigeratte.
I had stopped smoking for you when we got together.
January 12th
I boarded a plane.
I was so sick.
January 13th
I couldn't eat without getting sick.
January 14th
I couldn't drink water without throwing up.
My mom told me she was divorcing my dad.
I laid in bed all night in pain mentally screaming/praying for my baby to be okay.
January 15th
I woke up and had miscarried.
I was approximently 3-4wks pregnant.
I almost killed myself that night.
I didn't because I knew it would **** the guy I loved.
I layed in bed for a week. Didn't have the energy to eat let alone speak. I became so frail. So thin.
January 25th
I realized we weren't getting back together.
February 1st
I relapsed on pills.
February 4th
I was back in town.
I stayed the night at your house so my mom could talk to my dad.
We hadn't spoke in weeks.
By the end of the night we were us again.
However, you were so different in general.
February 6th
I overdosed on pills.
You sat there next to me.
Crying your eyes out.
Pleading with me to stop.
You sounded so angry and you were shaking.
I could hear the fear in your voice.
See how much you loved me in your eyes.
I stopped without a thought to it.
I couldn't hurt you.
February 7th
I had to go back to Texas again.
February 14th
You accidentally said you were my Valentine.
February 15th
You asked me about getting back together.
You backed out.
Time passed we were bestfriends yet there was more. I came back to town and you had a distance with me. After spring break I could feel you coming back to me.
April 18th
I was emotionally done.
I allowed myself to get manipulated.
I made the worst mistake.
I lost you.
April 19th
I tried to **** myself.
I chugged whiskey.
Then...
Chugged cleaning fluid.
It didn't work...
This entire year has been hell. All I think about is you and that baby. I still love you. I can't figure out how to get past this. Something in me has died. Died with that child. Died with losing you. Smiles aren't real. Happiness is pretend. It took me months to stop crying everyday. Yet I still find times where the tears won't stop coming. The pain is the only thing real. I just can't wait for this hellish year to be over.
Maybe then I can start new...
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 6:57 AM UTC
To poetry
guarding chickens
and chronicling crisis in Cleveland
To poetry
fighting back sleep
in a factory of miscarried dreams
To poetry
fighting for justice
with hashtags and cameraphones
To poetry in caves
gathering people like fire
To poetry in Halls
gathering children like home
To poetry
that is loud and activating,
To poetry
that is quiet and contemplative,
To poetry
that is honest and brutal
To poetry
that is tongue in cheek
To poetry,
in all shapes, colors, sizes
forms and meters
To poetry,
and to all of us
who are full of it
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 8:02 PM UTC
my aunt miscarried in october.
i remember thinking: strange, her
baby died in the
month when the dead were supposed to come back to
life. her
face sags more now, it's almost as if the
baby tugged at every inch of
her on its way down to the
underworld. my
uncle has gained a few pounds, too. the
weight of absence sits heavy on his once muscular
shoulders. i
thought i tasted true
sadness when he left
me, but i didn't account for the
bitterness of having to sell baby
shoes never once
worn. my
aunt still has her list of favourite baby
names hanging on her bedroom
door, but she turns it around
some days when she's feeling extra
sad. my
uncle doesn't talk to my
aunt much anymore. i
wonder if he blames
her. i
wonder if he blames
himself. i
wonder why the world takes things from you too
early on, and if you
complain you're thought of as a bad
person. i
wonder if you stop living when part of you
dies.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
we like to think that only the dead
are ghosts, and we've heard some
say there they were as if, clear as day,
yes, they were.
and my mama used to say she could
see her lost baby, the one she did and
the one that miscarried, the way
they would have grown up into
pretty girls like me--
and lord how she waited on
forgiveness like it was a thing
that visited but some **** just
ain't show up ever,
like people and fathers
and brothers when you need 'em
they all the ghosts that won't
visit, they got too much on
their minds, too much time
and you ain't the one they
hauntin.
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 9:08 PM UTC
The world is sometimes dark and not all trees survive.
I'm not saying this because you don't know this.
I'm saying it because, sometimes, I need reminding that it's not all good.
My tree of happiness is not struggling to grow,
Leaves of fake laughter making it look pretty.
You see, I have a tendency to overanalyze, overdramatize, over-generalize, looking for the good in everyone,
Wishing on stars that all the saplings will live and grow strong.
I guess I should be careful what I wish for.
I have a hard time coming to grips with the reality that life is not
Full of good people and good intentions and good reasons.
I put myself in everyone else's shoes, seeing justifications through
Their eyes, blind and full of dust though they might be.
Because even when elm and oak trees get sick and die, I plant new seeds
And even when I have to squeeze my hips too tightly into
A child's swing set, I think I can still touch the sky
And even when I see lives cut short by guns, by drugs, by ***** abuse, suicide, gangs, cancer, hopelessness,
I don't really see the evil or the sorrow,
Only what could have been.
Only the Elysian Fields of immortal hopes and goals that now have a chance in somebody else's soul.
And even when my dreams are miscarried through open veins like exposed roots,
I feel joy.
Even when razors can't cut deep enough to remove my immediate tendrils and sprouts of pain,
Even when rivers of red on my legs don't rinse away my earthy, dark confusion,
I am happy. Deep inside,
I hope against hope that nothing will truly destroy my optimism.
Of course, as soon as I get out in the real, concrete, day-to-day, 9-to-5 (actually 8:30-to-3am) world,
I'm going to be crushed.
I'm going to find that seed of darkness and sorrow and pain that starts growing inside everyone.
From the time of our first skinned knee and broken promise, first heartbreak and the first time our dreams didn't come true,
The seed starts to grow.
I know I'll find mine eventually,
I think it's been mulched under 5 feet, 6 inches of forced smiles
And Sundays under that maple tree I could
Never quite climb.
The world is dark sometimes,
And not all trees survive.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 8:24 PM UTC
I haven't written to you in a very long time.
That's not true, I've written of you,
But I've written lies.
I've written about how you hurt people,
And how I'm stronger without you.
How I let you die inside me,
Like a miscarried child, someone I was never really meant to meet
and how I'm better now.
But in truth, darling, I miss you.
And I hate you.
And I want you,
but I can't have you.
Your kisses were sweet relief,
Your taste was divine.
And now I look for your face on every corner,
I look for a reason to call you up again,
even though I know there is never a good reason
to call you up again.
She hates you.
He's afraid of you,
But they don't know what you mean to me.
I love you.
I am not afraid,
The night I almost gave you my heart was not a cry for help.
I want you back.
I want to feel like I am human.
I want to open up and wear my love, seeping through my sleeve.
I am so lost without you.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 11:55 AM UTC
Board the train of Buddhist convenience whilst sparrows sing in the midst of societal demands. But remember this: the soul contains cherished secrets which are nothing less than a miscarried dream. So, keep planting the ******** garden of the great and mighty West, and the Goddess will exalt your ceremonial lusts. The harvest will come, and you will give birth to Southern discrepancies whilst sandalwood emits her sweet and pungent fragrance. We are captivated. Thank you for your astral Participation.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:30 PM UTC
What is on my mind?
Well take a look at what I write.
These are what I choose to say.
What I understand.
Or think I understand
For now.
For thoughts are always forming,
growing,
evolving,
CONSTANT
Things need to change.
Become different.
And not just with me.
With you.
With Others.
With the World.
With the way our souls connect.
You have no idea what is going on in a strangers life.
The least you can do is put
a Smile on
For them regardless
of how you feel.
It does not matter what you say,
what you do.
As long as you make a kind gesture
To acknowledge an "Others" existence.
We do not need analysis,
Theories made up and 'proven'
Words over drawn and meanings miscarried.
Thoughts over done and
Spoken words misleading.
All we need is that reconnection
Reclaim what we once had.
The Beauty of Everything
At our fingertips,
In our full grasp.
Lost.
But not gone.
While I say this,
I understand that I cannot know how
Things actually were way back when.
But look at the people right now,
Living in similar situations as those before us.
Yes.
They still exist.
They are Happy.
Though they have little.
Often none.
So where I am.
Where we are.
Is not where I'm supposed to be.
Not where I can exist.
Not where We can exist.
Where personal destruction found
Worldly disaster will soon follow
As we destroy ourselves,
Help each other dig those graves...
We are also destroying earth.
So how can we live,
How can I stay alive
How to get there?
This abysmal place where all is well.
These material things cannot follow
They weigh down,
Provoke,
Provide measurement.
There should be no scale.
Each moment should be one to share,
one to learn,
one to grow,
one to offer.
The greatest gift you can give to others is to let them Experience You.
The greatest gift others can give to you is to let You Experience Them.
June 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 7:24 PM UTC
Writing is like:
Trying to sing a song you've never heard
Or trying to live someone else's life,
As a picture inside their photo album
No one can help with it.
The sadness appears far away
Speedily it moves to a place inside of you
Inside the eyes, like ripe berries, of a blackbird
Inside the absence of the sister I never had
Inside the tens of thousands of unfertilized eggs
Life does not reward us for the sterile urges
The aborted plots, the miscarried plans
In the flower I just plucked
Lie all the other three thousand blooms
I ever dismembered
Breathing out as one, they plant the seed:
Watery tears and then
A bank of weeds sprouts somewhere within my brain
Privy to the common lot of flowers, and mankind,
How can I ask for more?
How can I fail to ask, for more?
Apr 20, 2010
Apr 20, 2010 at 1:01 PM UTC
The wise words taken for granted
The writing on the walls of the establishment.
Just when we want to burn it all down
Just when we realize how small we are
The sky opens up
My third eye's opening
Channeling the guardian angel
In the little black dress
A silver sliver
among the dazzling dynamo of night
waning away illumination
before the dark moon of my mind
I hear her voice resonating whispers
On the astral plane of miscarried ghosts
I'm humming along
*Summoning
some
summer
sweetness*
To help build me out of the cavities
Behind the teeth
I'm faking a smile in front of
Trying to climb without the rope
Out of the prison pit of existence
To salvage the creations
I snuffed out
Before the light became them
Abortions of ideas
Survived by hope and curiosity
Where will this take me now?
I feel a hand grab mine
Her wisdom crawls up my spine
Setting my mind on fire
I am the new illumination
Reality in focus
Turning my impossibles
Into I'mpossibilities
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 12:48 AM UTC
the free kittens and then just the one.
how I tried
not to run
out of people.
how I kicked
in a town
famous
for two things
a quilt and a lake.
how before I could throw it in the lake
the stone became a drop of water.
these are not without image, but I did see them.
the miscarried child in a graduated medicine cup-
how I almost poured mouthwash there.
Aug 15, 2012
Aug 15, 2012 at 12:46 AM UTC
I wonder sometimes do even you care
My whole entire life have you been there?
Watching my every move and guiding me
Or are you judging me and laughing at my stupidity
You're probably in heaven thinking "Who is he?"
Yet you're flying free
And I'm grounded like I can't watch tv
I'm mentally sick and I hide it by smiling
But I ponder on what you'd say to me
If anything at all
Do you like movies? Do you play basketball?
Do you like cookies? Can you cook? Can you draw?
Just some questions I want answered
Are you a good dancer?
Are you like me someone who doesn't know their place?
And wouldn't see it even if it was right there in their face
Someone who feels alone in a crowded room
And can only ponder about their own doom
And how the essence of life is in fact pointless
Or are you an optimist? An opportunist with unlimited confidence
Who can work a room like a ********** or a con artist
How do you feel about the institutes and the school system?
If you were given life what would have been your mission?
I bet you're just as lost as I am from every angle
But I still love you, fly high my miscarried guardian angel
Jul 30, 2017
Jul 30, 2017 at 3:43 AM UTC
Tiny heartbeats beneath me
I could've sworn I felt you breathing
And yet...
I couldn't wait to meet you
To see your big eyes, colored blue
And yet...
I never got the chance
I'm sorry I couldn't fight
But I would've given my last breath
I would've died
For you
Started with a pink plus sign
I knew you were mine
And yet...
I imagined you growing up
I was ready to give you love
And yet...
I never got the chance
I'm sorry I couldn't fight
But I would've given my last breath
I would've died
For you
It was three in the morning,
I'm in a hospital bed
With blood on my legs, I was a mess
Your daddy had tears in his eyes
And I could already tell
Because I felt empty inside, I was empty inside
What wouldn't I give?
There's nothing I wouldn't give
I wish I was dead
And yet...
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 5:20 PM UTC
The patient came to me with a plea I couldn’t refuse, so I placed my hand on his cold spine and warmed up to him, I the fire and he, suffering a harsh winter. With the rapid beat of his heart drumming against my palm, I doctored and diagnosed him. I fed him medicine and he was fine for a temporary time. A temporary, potentially affective, time. So warm, so brief—full recovery could’ve been conceived during the month of July if it weren’t miscarried, leaving that promise as a seed forever forgotten during harvest.
The patient would come back monthly for his check-up, claiming a new illness, begging for a new medicine. I’d give it to him willingly. After all, he needed help.
After about a year, I gave out so much to him there was hardly medicine left for my other patients.
Considering, I reduced his dose to even the imbalance.
“Can you not see how I need your help?” said the most desperate wrinkle of a face, “Did I do something to deserve this?”
“No! No, of course not. There is just limited supply and high demand. You are one of many mouths to feed!”
“Do you not care for me anymore?” Was the worst one. Of course I cared for him. Admittedly, I cared for him more than all my other patients. I know this is not professional of me to disclose, nor is it fair, but it is an honest guilt that tugs at my hair like a gluttonous infant.
Blame was thrown at me like cannonballs. Suddenly, I was the cancer he tried so hard to fight. That thought alone was too heavy a burden to bare, so I reluctantly gave him the entirety of my supply.
Day in and day out, I began to hear the other patients drop like thick glass behind me, where I would never look back. I kept a steady eye on him, as he was my child in a rackety crib I was too afraid to leave alone for the fear that he’d stop breathing at any moment. I am a miserable, exhausted mother of a child that never matured.
And it’s just he and I now, forever in frozen time.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 9:36 AM UTC
METHODS
The supreme extinct of my species,
The legend of the east,
Known as the method of simplification,
The method of consciousness carnage,
The accumulator of the deceased
Omitting natured cause, to
Distort all parts of nature,
Yet retained from the moon and the sun,
Succeeded all the systematic empiric methods,
Yet decimally miscarried to Bring forth soul,
From BC to AC till Century factuality,
Thee methods to incinerate, to
Portray the impossible to possible,
Oh poor twisted nature,
Always in fear of toxic groom for earlier harvest,
Proven in black and white
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 5:24 AM UTC
The mocking birds mouth is as still as the tree, The mocking birds mouth is as still as the tree, The mocking birds mouth is as still as the tree, The mocking birds mouth is as still as the tree,
I shall be enveloped, intoxicated in it's last words effigy,
Transcribed across the tablets of the deserts final plea,
It searches for my body
The coyote calls my name,
The sands ask for me as a trophy
They swallow up my grave,
The slits of eyes in my wrist and thighs show my life's vision out to sky, it sees the world from the deep inside where I hid it in my skin and my arteries,
When you find me dead bury me in the sand, il be a sand angel in 2010,
I was never worth consoling, hid from every one I knew, finally at the end you found you hate me too.
Guilts too hard to take, it ***** in my soul like a vacuum, guilt beats hate, Benton falls down in the bathroom,
The tiles watch him **** on the floor
He collapsed then shat and vomited more, whole lives fall in the toilet. too moist as miscarried babies,
So bury me in the desert,
So the mocking bird can't say ****
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
Baby won't stay
Body not a home
Doc looks for heartbeat
But baby's long gone
Dec 25, 2017
Dec 25, 2017 at 6:08 AM UTC
i wonder where it is your ****** metaphors come from
when you say things like "she tastes like strawberries."
i am disenchanted miscarried
by what you are trying
to say, if anything.
this
social significance of a tangy fruit ripe for harvest- tiny for your convenience. connotations of innocence to sensuality, *** lips
if it is literal. evoking a certain tube of tacky lipbalm that finds itself applied tastelessly and often-
a certain perplexing exclusivity of diet.
or at least a strong penchant for the thing, that.
or if virginal.
recalling imagery of children's clothing- characters and franchises similarly swimming in the same shared canon of bad symbolism.
if you try to push us
into displeasure. violence. or grunge.
to challenge the peacefulness or comfort of normalcy.
shock us.
bring me somewhere
that would be better poetry.
i've read you like: all of you-
a thousand times from anywhere. any time
some might say the universality is its highest honor-
sign of its perfection and
truth.
it is not.
lazy.never real
long bereft of impulse
it makes you feel good because you are told it makes you feel good,
brought up with it.
watered down by it
like many other things.
devoid of specificity or idiosyncrasy
and the imagery of the DD/lg goes wayside.
though fetishist art, at its norm, becomes insular and self pleasuring
(just as fresh strawberries)
it can still be used as a tool when used to break away from expectation
as long as you don't let it become itself.
for it is just as average as anything else:
falling into a bad creepy pasta.
reading the news on a phone app.
unjustly scolding a cashier.
telling a girl that her skirt is too short at her bestfriend's father's funeral.
parents driving offspring to suicide through religion and therapy.
they belong to you.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 11:47 PM UTC