Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
neth jones May 16
.

i wake before the others                                                     
                                          betraying the family bed
conduct domestic procedure                                 
         (the sun has yet to rise and punish)
the rooms are illuminated       with the city dim
   projected from streetlight in
a dossing grain of orange                        
                   wiltered by the sheets          
 we use to cower our windows
 
in this near light i go to spread a morning meal
a tray of fruit, yogurt and breakfast biscuits
i bring it too our low living room table
but Abrupt !                                                            
   ­    there is a form   occupying the table

i scout for a spot to place my wares                            
put the tray / direct contact / the floor
                         and make a closer examination
on the table                                                            ­        
it is a soldier boy       simple      life spent out

this warrants artificial light                                      
i pull the cord on the corner lamp                      
   in a glimpse of eyes the bulb pops dead
               i know i won't meet result this way
its a brain pattern going on  i determine        
   and remove shrouding from a street view
orange wash lends  to the olive uniform
both hands hitched                                                
to his webbing   in the middle of his chest
helmet discomforts  his head turned to a side
eyes yelling a relaxed nothing                  
no surprise to his ****** features
boots that haven't even made mud yet
this is clean    but   for the blood reduction
a syrup for his presentation
no fooling  and there is.. the gun                          

the child in me and the child in him want it
he makes seventeen at most
and it is now i feel
when i see the device

war oversees
makes international the weather
Owen Phillips May 2013
This trail leads to the animal crossing
It fails to accommodate intrepid adventurers,
Bushy tailed explorers, mountain climbers,
Talkers to squirrels and chewers of pine pitch.
The divine medicine denies us the headspace to believe we're really dead,
The reclined estrogen felt good against twenty million years of insecurity
Golden-layered, factually flawed
It lay exposed for decades
Rusting innards and misfiring sparks
None of the heavy equipment does what it says
Robot arms move with intensity
No programmer yet programs tenderness
The limiting factor has always attracted the acting crowd
Always desperate for theatrical work they magically appear
When it's clear that they're needed
But heed the warnings, they're known to be cheaters; the people who say so could also be wife-beaters
No need to wait for a stereotype
Follow the one you haven't lost touch with
Well I actually wrote it at 1:21 AM but I was in bed about to sleep so it is more appropriately grouped with the other PM poems than the AM ones... Maybe I should come up with another way to designate them, since I'm so often writing after midnight.
Julia Oct 2018
forever is a long time












to wait
for someone
and he waited








for me
for 9 years
until
9 tears
spilled
  d
      o
  w
      n
   his face
   a trace
   of              
         d       n       e
   a                           s
s                                 s

o       l       t       f
n       i       h      r
         n      a      o
t        e      t       m
h       s              
e               r       h
                 a       i
                 n       s


E      E
Y      S
    t
    o
    h
     i
     s
t          s
   o   e

nobody knows
how far this goes
how      o                     n
        o        o           o         g
     l                   o                  she strolls
without (whoa)s

each pebble places puzzles
pedaling peddlers play in puddles

triplet
        o
      twin
        e            tu
   ­     r              mb
        s            le

rumble mumble bumble
                        


                       GO AWAY
                             stay okay

my tires are all tiring
my spark plug is misfiring
my wires need rewiring
my modem is requiring
the answers i’m inquiring
why are we all conspiring
an interweb inspiring
an instant gram empire ring













my Angel waits on HI
                                   BI
If I replaced all the time I spent on social media with hello poetry engagement, I would probably be a lot happier.
Autumn May 2018
its hilarious when he says it
then I say the same sentence
but the words sound fumbley and dumb
I end up chuckling it off and we laugh about how dumb it was when I said it

so supposedly it's all about the delivery
I guess I'll work at a pizza place then.
oh wait I already did
but I stopped doing that because it wrecked my car
my car said "please no more"

it started with the misfiring
I was like okay lets take you to the shop
so the misfiring stopped and i was like all better now right?
little ham and pineapple to this house, how bout a pepperoni over here
oh and what about some cheezy bread to 455 barry st.

a week later i turned the key and the start up was slow and i could hear the murmurs
"please no more"
I was like come on you are my income
but the tan beast was relentless and finally I took it to the shop again
and quit my job.
now my beastly and tan station wagon is in tip top condition
and I'm going to work on my delivery
of words and jokes and actions and kindness and all good things
but not pizzas
even though pizza is a very good thing
i love you my lovely car please take me on more adventures
ju Oct 2011
I’ve tried really, really hard
to not look like I’m trying-
See? I am Super Girlie-Girl
for one night only.
Every detail attended to.
I’m even wearing kitten heels
for ****’s sake.
(quite literally, I think)
I’ve gone for pretty…
(or as close as age allows)
... not at all scary.
I’ve no idea what we’ll talk about but,
so far, I’ve managed to say hi
and not stare at his hands.
Still thinking ‘bout them though.
I’ve seen him play guitar-
‘nough said.
He’s grinning and I wonder,
briefly-
If I might’ve let slip as words
some of these thoughts but,
since no one near by is rolling round on the floor
******* themselves laughing-
I think I’m safe.
He’s just given me the most beautiful flowers.
The deepest red roses, all half-opened velvety buds
and frothy white gypsophila.
(it’s one of those bouquets)
Closer,
almost burying my face in the petals-
they smell delicious.
That's done it.
Even without a context- that word turns me on
but now?
My brain is seriously misfiring.
Pinging thoughts and words and images around
like a demonic pinball machine.
Oh Dear God-
I hope he’s not a mind reader.
How long, do you think- can I stay
hidden here in these (delicious) flowers?
How long before I need to try one?
Before the urge to lick and taste and bite-
overcomes me?
That just wouldn’t be cool, would it?
Not on a first date.
afteryourimbaud Feb 2017
I
won't
mourn
over
my
eventual
demise.

I
just
want
to
keep
in mind.

I
am
done
with
lies.

Walking
out
of
thin
line.

Running
o­ut
of
time.
Mental disability what an epigram, it bounds on burried complexity
Titter inside hysterical effectuation
Feeling electrical currents misfiring in my cerebellum
Screaming unremebered prayers in my night terrors at the devils fornication
Remaining in my presence, anticipating my sleep
***** to reverse the dementia
Waking day dreams, lost in unreality
Descry vociferation calling my name
Wanting to claw my etes out against nebulous shadows creeping behind
Wanting a medium to banih apparitions from my space
Paranoid of all establishment
While securing eye contact with others, they could decipher all my thoughts
With binoculars neighbors surveil
Me camouflaged with drawn shades and pale skin
To go outside summoned all my demons
Wanting to battle, rage war to fulfill some morbid desire
Annihilating hordes in my dreams by any means
***** to reverse the madness
OCD for a little control
A million times repeated thoughts flashing in my eyes
Confusion! What day is it? Am I doing something wrong?
Not glancing in mirrors hiding from myself Garbled guttural utterances in my left ear
Hot breath on my neck
Bawling at flexibility and spontaneity
Not in my scheme for the coming confusing hours
Wanting to pull my skull off exposing the insanity
Just wanted it to STOP!!
***** to reverse the derangement
Limbs not answering brain waves crisscrossed as they dwell
On a daily basis surviving hell
On a nightly basis in true hell
Needing to shriek and explode
Afraid to sleep, walking in exhausted dreams
Broken pains in my bones
No peace day or night
My medication saved my life
I penned this down about my Schizoaffective disorder. I dealt with delusions too lengthy to add to this script. Lived this way for twenty long years. It was difficult to relive and put into words, my sickness. There is no rhyme or reason. It's just what it was.....
Onoma Oct 2012
Die at the mouth,
live at the eyes...
nominal head
downed.
Action Painted
by misfiring
nerves...whose
spasmodic dance
choreographs
days...on...end.
Josh Bilyeu Sep 2012
Hope serves the watchful eyes of the tireless observer.
Freight trains of predacious signals burn through the Western hemisphere, misfiring the neurons of walking creativity. Authenticity belongs in the unknown showers of passion. Growing out in billows of lover’s hair. Lost in translation, victories will be claimed in earnest. To failures be honest exploration.
Ignorance will not bind the bees of new springs or the birds of southern departure. I contend for further marching. Bring about the movement. Action stems from desire. To knowledge I lend my contribution, through passion we make this in-land testimony. Behold the passing of butterflies. Many ponder these chances of fate. Decisive will the what-if tragedies be if one could see the reversal of choice, but rain still falls. Events unfold with the consequences of existence.
Knowing the truthful selves of East and West comes at the even pace of diversity. Personality differs as peaceful individuals of preferable serenity work inwardly as the proclamations of the lively bodies of social intrigue light their torches. Jugs of withered grape inebriate the tongues of their mood. Unifying the tangible honesty of exuberated calm. Flows, flowing in rhymes of poetry.
Eileen Prunster Aug 2012
only in
a place
of absence
can i
be here
Brad Lambert Sep 2013
How about that gasoline
in Autumn rain puddles?

How about them cars that don't start,
can't start.

I just wanted to start.

Playing games like this never amused me much;
I guess I'm more of a reader than a writer than a toy-game-player.

I want the facts.

None of this horseshit media circus,
ignorance is neither knowing nor caring.

Nay bliss,

It was bliss on those cold winter nights,
night twilights pressed hard against the city-smogged sky
where the gases of sugar beets and petroleum reflect back down orange.

Orange on the snow and orange on snow drifts and snow flakes on your eyelashes.
Little orange dusts
(**** your lashes grow long)
dusts fallen halfheartedly like rain in the fall
and rain puddles shone red
and blue
and green
and orange, orange, orange...

Always orange.

Like gasoline in rain puddles,
gasoline in cars that won't start.

They can't start, don't start;
My engine must be misfiring.

(How about them metaphors for a heart?)

Will you call me when you get there?
Josh Bilyeu Sep 2012
Hope serves the watchful eyes of the tireless observer.
Freight trains of predacious signals burn through the Western hemisphere, misfiring the neurons of walking creativity. Authenticity belongs in the unknown showers of passion. Growing out in billows of lover’s hair. Lost in translation, victories will be claimed in earnest. To failures be honest exploration.
Ignorance will not bind the bees of new springs or the birds of southern departure. I contend for further marching. Bring about the movement. Action stems from desire. To knowledge I lend my contribution, through passion we make this in-land testimony. Behold the passing of butterflies. Many ponder these chances of fate. Decisive will the what-if tragedies be if one could see the reversal of choice, but rain still falls. Events unfold with the consequences of existence.
Knowing the truthful selves of East and West comes at the even pace of diversity. Personality differs as peaceful individuals of preferable serenity work inwardly as the proclamations of the lively bodies of social intrigue light their torches. Jugs of withered grape inebriate the tongues of their mood. Unifying the tangible honesty of exuberated calm. Flows, flowing in rhymes of poetry.
Smelling sharp,
Line up in the graveyard.
Throw in your bones.
The pious are the sactified.

Hold the bottle,
Intermittent puddles.
Full of people.
Breathing and suffocating.

Unconvinced thoughts,
Continually misfiring.
That poisonous smell,
That soft ticking.

Pulling me closer,
To the end of the world.
Burn the spires,
Complicated regressions.

Dead mind,
Straight to stone,
Close the door on,
The shadows on the ceiling
it’s the twelfth of can’t-remember
as i find myself marveling at the soft cadence of your affection
fluttering against my cheek in faint echoes of conjured memories,
and crafted illusions which bind me in turn,
to the hollow chambers of misfiring synapses
and daisy-chained coaxials tethering my lips
to this anvil-shaped heart.
the steam rises in wispy forms
from places where all is void
and memories are married with dreams
becoming those smiling faces
left in the picture frame i brought home from the store,
smudged by the cellophane,
and now conceived whole by the very absence
of a loving progeny to call my own -
pieces of me left to bloom amidst the shadows
exalting themselves sub rosa within the absence of light.
it is a moment to taste the waters
and wade out until my bristly chin
is beguiled by the ripples born
of *ulacia's stone finally reaching the bottom,
and cry out little pieces of nothingness
to bounce off of the shoreline,
if only to sate the grumbling deception
that my tears could float here without end or amen,
isolated within these painful shapes of you
to clot the cursive wounds
all the while imploring of elysium
that one day i shall awaken to a strange smell
and realize . . . that i am burning.
* manuel ulacia's poem "the stone at the bottom"
Luka Love Sep 2012
Tired
Brain spits words in fits and starts
The internal running commentary misfiring badly
Ideas stuck in bottlenecks
Traffic backed up and down the on-ramps
Leading off the congested thoughtways
Tired
Stormwater overflow pours out of blocked drains
Sidling up the gutters of fallen leaves
And other assorted detritus of modern existence
Spewing out over footpaths and under cars
And over the tops of the boots of downtrodden dawn treaders
Tired
Mountain pass impassable under it’s mercurial precipitate mask
Features only glimpsed in snatches
Like looking through a white picket fence while running
Thought trees bunching up around the middle
Warping under the sun and the scrutiny of others
Tired
Collapsing under the weight of the wave function
Subatomic particles currently in a state of nonexistence
Abandoned altogether by the Higgs, thoughts vibrate and dissipate
In extraordinary frequency and noise
Drowned out by the audible hum of the big bang
Tired
As if running a marathon in treacle
Start with a whimper then dribble to a halt
Running barefoot on salt flats
Or over pillows in stilettos
More time spent on face than feet
Tired
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more
The court jester prances for the Big Queen *****
And her merry King of Fools with his band of merry drunkards
Quickly losing the point of it all
As words start tumbling down in random order
Staccato signal messages like binary or Morse code
Information overload threatens to upend the boatload
Like the military dumping refugees into the harbour
Buckle up armour and wait for the onslaught
Of somnatic visions, twisted psychedelic impressions
Land mine concussions in the fevered dreams of veterans
Who witnessed limb torn from limb
In the name of something nobody remembers
Lose their tempers and start a war on home turf
Jungles petrified into concrete monstrosities that blot out the sun
From the flowers that feed in the cracks of the pavement
Everywhere bereavement and none shall take leave
From the cold, impassive logic of Death
Who comes knocking as you read this
Wired
No chance of sleep now
This is why one shouldn’t write poetry late at night
Autumn Feb 2019
Its hilarious when he says it. Then I say the same sentence but the words come out sounding fumbley and dumb. I end up chuckling it off and we laugh about how dumb it was when I said it. So supposedly it's all about the delivery? I guess I'll work at a pizza place then. Oh wait I already did. Unfortunately I had to stop doing that because it wrecked my car. My car said please no more.

It started with the misfiring. I was like okay let’s take you to the shop. So the misfiring stopped and I said all better now right? Little ham and pineapple to this house, how bout a pepperoni over here. Oh and what about some cheezy bread to 455 Barry Street?

A week later I turned the key and the start up was slow and I could hear the murmurs: please no more. I said come on you are my income. Naturally, the tan beast was relentless and finally I took it to the shop again.

And quit my job.
Which I loved.

Now my beastly and tan station wagon is in tip top condition and I'm going to work on my delivery.
My delivery of words and jokes and actions and kindness and all good things.
But not pizzas.
Even though pizza is a very good thing.

I love you my lovely car please take me on more adventures.
Jenn Nix Nov 2014
Hounds

The hounds are barking again outside my window.
they are snarling and snapping with teeth of ice
that rips my tears into a tundra of frost.

The indifferent air carries their hunger
under the unhinged door in my head;
a gale is coming, feral and wild.

I am not comfortable in my head right now;
Chain smoke to keep my hands to myself.
I wander through ash and fire: what have I done?


Planets

I am helpless against my misfiring neurons;
numbed against myself and you;
Pills streak like comets across the bed.

In the sky the stars peer in confusion,
planets misalign again, a sun implodes,
Earth groans and shifts, somewhere something dies.

Swirling galaxies light up the synapses
Serotonin battles amphetamine
Orion stalks the twins and unsheathes his sword.

Submersion*

I need some water on my feet, my head;
submerge me in the Lethe and bathe me in forgetfulness
the room grows hot and I swallow another star.

I am swathed in your concern, smothered by your regard.
I need clear air to think,
the night and the susurrus of hibiscus bathed by the moon.

Inside my room in my bed
white noise and white sheets wrap me,
bundle and bind me tighter than panic.

No, I will not go outside tonight.
The hounds are barking outside my window-
they come for me.
Sergio Gonzalez Jan 2021
I’m 40,000 feet above the ocean
And 400 parsecs away from this Earth
I say hello to Orion’s nebula
On my way to towards the unknown

Deep in space within my own my brain
I feel the neurons misfiring on every end
I try to rationalize everything
Why am I feeling overwhelmed?

Ignorance is bliss up to a certain point
But never knowing what’s past this universe
Has my head thinking to a boiling point
But for now it’s getting late
So I fastened my seatbelt
As I return back to Earth
Red Starr Jan 2013
Box cutter to skin
Stop!
But the lights are screaming
The corners become razors
The stars even hurt my eyes
And the voices are vices to my head
My skin becomes a prison
My vessels and veins are clawing to get out
Misfiring neurotransmitters, the doctors say
Swallow this cocktail of pretty pills and you'll feel fine
Pastels of pink and yellow and green
Swallow them daily, I do
But still the world screams and cuts at me
I want dark and cool and peace
This world does not understand
It hurls at me
Throwing knives and swords as I sprint away
Box cutter to skin
Peace as the stress drips down my arm
Dark as it drips faster
Cool, peace and dark
HRTsOnFyR Apr 2015
His body grounds me...
I was an alternating current
with a frayed wire
Sputtering... sparking...
Misfiring...
Alone and flickering in quiet desperation...
Then he drew me in with his hands
Held me tightly, pulling me close...
Inviting me into his Center
Insulating my circuits from the heat of their own charge,
Reigniting those cold, dead connections...
Redirecting, realigning
Aeons of my dissipated energies.
I become more, now, than some
Reckless, erratic sunburst...
Snapping and flaring on the mere surface of things...
A loving so strong it makes me re-enter the belly of the beast,
He and I, we become the pulse...
Folding ourselves into the warm, primitive heart of God...
Selflessness... Sacrifice...
Joy, Radiance... Gratitude...
I find all these things here.
And everything false just quietly disappears.
Mark Donnelly Jul 2016
Sad is the day when a man carries a gun,
to end a life and sow the seed of hate,
divide and deconstruct what has taken eons to build,
reckless and selfish this prophecy occurs,
to what end does the man have,
in their own mind of misfiring thoughts,
lies create alternate reality,
bullets need not be fired,
words and understanding will heal,
together we will build and strengthen,
divided we fall.
Why does this happen? To much hate.
JT Jun 2016
For her eighteenth birthday,
a gift from the fates;
she knows how she will die.
Before, there was a vague notion—
A shadow cast by a hungry dragon
who roosts on the branches of the family tree,
devouring her ancestors, waiting and unslayable.
Now, the diviners speak to her in pedigrees
and punnett squares, leafing through a deck
of tarot cards, checking vials of her blood
for patterns in the tea leaves at the bottom,
hardening the shadows at their edges and
twisting peripheral horror into prophecy,
a promise, and she sees it all,
she sees everything, laid in front of her
and stretching out like a golden string
towards the vanishing horizon:

The sharp burn of dread at every twitch
and missing memory, jellied elegies oozing
from the center of others’ puffed pleasantries,
years spent watching her soul
get thinner and thinner, trapped
within a broken heap of matter and flesh,
cursed bone, misfiring electricity,
eroding endlessly, self destructing,
never ending, ending soon,
and, at last, alone, gazing back on a youth
spent gazing forward, ******, and dying
and derelict, and decades in the making—
she asks herself, what would she not give
for the chance to unknow,
to trade the dragon for the slow, soft lull
of the indifferent stars,
and to die whole and confused,
like the rest of us.
ahmo Sep 2015
wax-coated tables
sealed with stains of
vinegar, cheese
and questions from my father

what is his story

Behind every story
there is struggle
betwixt highlighted glory.

snowy hills,
mountain peaks,
laughter.

there was a drain
******* it all away
as if today was always
a black and white yesterday.

and so I brought red into the equation.
a knife-
bringing dormant veins
to life.

silence is the loudest
silence is the saddest
alone and dragged
unwillingly
down one-way streets

chemicals misfiring.
They don't understand
development of false wiring.

The blueprints had shined-
there were smiles in between the notes.
The eights were serotonin,
the wholes were adrenaline.

Silence still screamed.
When nothing speaks for years,
the crust rusts eyes
like the underside
of the old Ford
in dad's shop.

Beats,
kisses,
*****.

The rust spread north
as my extremities
fell to the ocean floor.

I fear I cannot float on
any longer.

Somewhere between
pills,
plastic,
a princess,
and polycentric support
was the epicenter.

It tasted like fudge
on a warm winter evening
by the fireplace.

The silence still screams-
I doubt it will ever cease.
But the secret is always knowing
that the sun still shines during sleep.

this is where he lies;
this is his story-
betwixt his struggle
love,
art,
and
invisibly,
blinding glory
Jared Eli Oct 2013
99 cents for an iced tea
At the corner liquor store
But when the men in suits came and shut it down
We couldn't go there anymore
The man at the register never could add
Or maybe he short-changed us all
It wasn't the quarters he took from the kids
But the product in back made him fall
The stuff was the kind like none you'd ingest
Just go in for the coffee because that'd be best
Avoid all the product he put in the back
Because not only will you have a heart attack
But your mind and your eyes would be decieved
And the things you would see would be believed
Like Dave in the last five minutes of Stanley Kubrick's depiction
Of a Space Odyssey, but you would mistake reality for what he wrote as fiction
Up would be down and down would be blue
And your poor little brain wouldn't know what to do
All those misfiring connections made right by gunpowder
Your neural responses as sensible as chowder
Like Less Than Jake said, "I don't think I can yell any louder!"
Teresa Magaña Feb 2019
There is no rest tonight
I sleep… But I do not rest
I dream that you are being eaten from the inside out
When I wake and look into your sunken eyes… Hug your frail body...
I know that MY dream is YOUR reality
There is no rest for you
There is no sleep for you

I dream you are drowning
And even though you grab my arm for me to pull you out
The weight of your heart, tainted blood in your veins, and gathered regrets in your mind are too heavy for us both

But your head remains afloat…allowing you to breathe
So you let me comfort you by holding your hand
And you hold your mouth open…only allowing a sustenance that your mind has tricked you to believe is salvation
But its poison…a twisted substance that tangles itself in your mind, attaching itself to your body…
I remain holding your hand, because in the depths of your sunken eyes, I still see the glimmer of your spirit

I dream that you are being destroyed from the inside out…almost every night
And you are
Your thoughts and emotions are continually triggering and misfiring
Sharp and ricocheting through out your whole being
Destroying you, leaving you aching and in pain
Your solution…to go numb and distract from actually healing

I dream you are choking
And you are,
Pills, Acid
Corroding and dissolving more than just your physical being
Your turmoil becoming sludge
Just wanting to escape from your body
Getting trapped in your lungs and throat as you cry out for help

I dream you are suffocating
And you were
A dark shadow found its way in front and on top of you
A heavy blanket of darkness so dense you had no way to breathe

And somehow, through these dreams and in our waking moments together
You always found a way to extend your arm out, reaching for help
I’d grip your hand tighter and tighter every time
Your grip feeling stronger the every next time

And somehow…your reality began to change, and my dreams…my nightmares began to fade
Somehow… you found your way…back to us …
Away from the grips of your addiction
Closer to love, light and clarity of your life
Your Mind
Your Heart
Your Spirit

Tonight we rest,
Tonight we sleep,
Tonight I know you will actually dream.
Dedicated to my son who gets to read this. Dedicated to the families who have experienced the many affects and rollercoasters of addiction. Stay strong and keep a light of faith on.
F White Jan 2014
balancing on the tops of trees, I
see everything, still,
in clarity, in the sharpsmooth confines
of my frustratingly stoic pre-frontal cortex

I sluggishly struggle through  the snarls and tangles
of my "emotional conundrums"
to quell the misfiring synapses still bouncing wetly within.
no pressure to focus
no tactile center to make it stop
the speeding car we nearly didn't miss
the feeling of this space
gently and dangerously adrift.

the shakes of a savior
who feels like a fool.

I  really didn't want
to have to skip school.
copyright fhw, 2014
Catherine Paige Jun 2010
Doesn't see through proper eyes
No vision like yours or mine

You look at that boy
See his devilish charm and good looks
Feel the animal attraction boil in the marrow of your bones
Your thoughts like seamless clockwork

She sees that boy
Sees him bloodied and broken
Feels the ache to be the one to brake him
Her thoughts are misfiring like they have countless times before

You see that girl
See her soft skin, hear her laughter
Feel the animal attraction rise within you
Your thoughts a well practice reaction

He sees that girl
Sees her skin peppered in blood, hears her scream
Feels the handle of a knife as if it were already in his hand
His thoughts are violent perversions on repeat

You glow with love
They burn with lust
You ignite their sickness
They consume your life
They devour your death

They talk like you
They think like you
They speak and walk and dream like you
The capabilities of one in the hands of another

All the same, all capable
A choice, an experience
A love, a connection
A betrayl, a lie

Waiting to awaken
Waiting to release
Written on March 18, 2010.
"Anything ever done, anyone is capable of." -Hatfield
Melanie Melon Mar 2017
**** me
**** me like we used to on my back porch
On a floral futon under toy car lights
Listening to cicadas and to the door
Waiting to get caught

**** me
Like the night I came to your freshman dorm room
And you offered only a hug and your roommate offered the truth
That you were (already) sleeping with someone else

**** me
Like the night I stumbled into your house
After misfiring pepper spray into my own right eye
And I woke up with my ex for the first time

**** me
Like the night you told me you were proud of me
That I was beautiful and strong and you had missed me

**** me
Like the night I gave my friend the wrong garage code
Because you had told me you loved me too

(but you couldn’t be with me
It was too much of something
I was too much of something)

**** me
**** me like the night I was so drunk
That I now have a Nike swoosh shaped scar under my arm
From falling off someone else’s bed

**** me like tonight
When your ****** communication skills
And wine that was more than $4 made me think
Something isn't quite right

(You aren’t quite right and I may be too much,
but only because you are too little).
what goes up must come down
rohini singal Sep 2016
I am made of memories
Like photographs stuck on a string
With clothespin
I am a series of thoughts
One commencing from the tail-end of another
Like a giant ouroboros
I am a web of consciousness
Ensnaring, seducing
into the deepest darkest pit
Of an entangled existence
Wires crossed over
Synapses misfiring
I am made of half baked theories
And pieces of knowledge
A flawed perception
Of an equally flawed world
Pearson Bolt Nov 2017
i hate this town
and all the memories
tied to it
like broken symmetry,
loose wires
misfiring
in a fragile mind.

flea markets
and dog parks,
the Orpheum
and Foundation,
every inch
of this
coastal city
whispers quietly
of you.

each moment spent
in this ******* apartment
is a constant reminder
that waking up
beside you
felt like coming home.
CR Aug 2014
this summer, the first of its kind, has been a very difficult one. I’m not unique in my anxiety for having the comfortable, intricate, beautifulinspiringwonderful rug I’ve come to love so deeply over the course of this chapter of my life ripped out from under me, but I think I’ve felt the pull particularly strongly. I’ve also lost quite a few people that I loved and love, in varying degrees and to various uncontrollable forces—first distance, then ungenerous and unforgiving illness, then irreconcilable differences of bagel topping and dog breed preferences. my world has been even more transient and transitory than usual, weekends punctuated by drives from my old home to my old home, neither of which I feel like I particularly belong to anymore. my weeks taken up first by a job clouded with exhaustion and headstrong disinterest, then by nothing at all, now by a conflict of interest—a place I love inside a place where I never wanted to land.

on the nights when I’ve fallen asleep, dreams of crying parents and misfiring deadbolts have awakened me, and those nights have been difficult to come by. I’ve felt the ennui brought on by the inescapable digitization of the world and the awareness that I’m not smart enough to be above it. that I’m not smart enough to even properly love the poetry that I love, to speak the language that I thought I knew, or to use the temperamental dishwasher in my own house. I’ve buried my misgivings about myself in lamentations that my friends have been scattered to different cities, so they can’t prop me up anymore.

I’ve shared pieces of myself with people more nakedly than ever before and with much higher stakes, and though I regret precisely zero of those risks, I’m learning it’s true that the harder you fall, the harder you’ll fall, and the latter isn’t something I’m yet accustomed to allowing for myself.

I haven’t yet accepted the death of a presence in my life that has been so large and multifaceted throughout, constantly reminded when the GPS winds me through the churchyard where she officially is now and when I pass her picture on my kitchen counter and when I keep on loving her wonderful family. when I remember that she’s the reason I had these phenomenal four years in this phenomenal place, and the reason I’m for now sitting comfortably in a job that I love.

and I haven’t yet accepted this transition into having so little control, so little trajectory. it’s a big life. this summer, as I said, has been very difficult.

but august, in time, will fade into september, and when it does I can say “last summer was very difficult." and I can remember how to stand up straight and that there’s a reason I have those city-scattered friends in the first place. and I can figure out that the lesson I learned is that risking a fall makes for a strictly irreplaceable, exquisite six month repose—not just a bruise—and maybe a new city-scattered friend. and that the death doesn’t erase the radiance of the life. and that distance is sometimes bridgeable, and that figuring out where to be takes a little time, and that nightmares aren’t there during the day, and that everything is, little by little, sometimes, usually, always all right.
CE Green Mar 2013
At the thought of the moments
We were choked up like your sister last Christmas eve when the wall came down
and the nails stayed put, rusting in fixture
Not unlike myself after the towel was thrown in, sopping wet with all types of misfiring on
our ends into the CENTER,
Oh, that golden galvanized CENTER!
That loses shine and color but remains glimmering whether we pay attention or not.
All in all:
There is still the shimmering wet spot
The arguments we hid and forgot
Blooming passion spoiled by rot
We go on saying the wall will pick itself up
and we know very well it will not.
Cate Sep 2016
My synapses are misfiring-
this weight more than gravity.
Depravity’s disastrous grasp,
the exit is not escape.

 Feel the world spinning,
churning on without.
remants, stationed
stagnant and static.

Buzzing in discomfort,
blistering heat
of combustible refuse
left only excuses.

Catatonic catastrophe,
blasphemous bile spews,
purposeless penitent sentiments,
drowning logic in mental mishap.

An exploding star,
Separating fuselage,
limbs detach from frame
Splintering out into space.
Written 9.14.16
Edited/tightened 9.15.16
Jamison Bell Apr 2022
You may not remember meeting me.
I’m just not that memorable.
Though I’ll never forget it.
I imagine it was like my first time seeing a candle.
Though I’d seen it before.
I thought it was just a dream.
I couldn’t have imagined you were real.
The moon was waxing gibbons.
Tempered spirits that never as so much crossed paths as to crash into one another.
wolf mother Jul 2019
Signal failed
Signature drooping
Telltale signs
Neurotransmitters: misfiring

Preoccupation,
Glitching phalanges
Losing grasp on reality
Creativity: collapsing

Paranoia resurfaces
Obsessions, obscure
Reduced to, as follows:
Fallacies: logical

Dissociation abundance
Time? Never on it
Obstacles: insurmountable
Retention? Improbable

Mimic and nod
Emotion: mirage
Glass full of emptiness

Present
As
Functional

— The End —