"molds" poems
"sly wordplay, it glows, feels like a shimmering address, half warning and half blessing, really alive with cadence"
read Kiki Dresden poetry^
once more into the sea trench divide,
I dive to devise,
Your provoking comment,
demands my full attention,
you divert me from struggling with
ginger & clay,
a contra concept
that molds and enflames,
yet strikes overtly sweet,
it does not
come so easy
as this playful notion
But
your words deserve the
attention immédiate
atenção imediata
that births this script,
tumbling forth in an instantly
instantaneously
me student, you mistress~master,
schooling me on sublimity subliminal,
capturing the capering
stylistic that bursts forth from within,
that my fingertips provide,
while my brain connives & connivers
continuously
you overlay analytics
that never are to me
revealed,
the what and wherefore
of the whom
hiding within
of the im~perpetuity impish essence of
i m p ishness
by charmingly doing me, not once,
but many times better
here a spillage:
an observational ditty,
dressed in a tux,
most formally,
to render the greatest
wordplay
ever invented
t,
the uniqueness of a simple
thank you
my favorite poem
a forever for ever,
the song that
plys and plays me
in the me
so often,
the linguists have banned the word
repeatedly
from my lexicon
so in its stead,
this all-in-one mighty steed
(verb phrase, a noun, or an adjective depending on its usage)
this phatic expression,
here disguised in
Portuguese,
muito obrigado!
muito obrigado!
muito obrigado!
nml 5:39am nyc 10/4, 10/4
Oct 4, 2025
Oct 4, 2025 at 5:44 AM UTC
Ripe Mourning, so Crisp and Crackling with Life Waking or Life preparing to sleep.
A shift change taking place at dawn, both sleepers and wakers will share a Yawn, for worlds of dream or worlds awake, it's like Consciousness balances itself in this way.
I see a Blue Herron standing on one leg near the pond, ducklings waddling in a line behind their Mom.
I see children running and playing on the jungle gym, how appropriately named. Training ground for the perils of the Jungle ahead, the Jungle of Life.
" Welcome to the Jungle"
Everything in Life is a Test
Every Choice Molds your Future Self
Prepare Yourself, Prepare Your Children, Train them on the Jungle Gym.
"Welcome to the Jungle"
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 10:40 AM UTC
Wax captured in all the flex
Structured detail with all the contour molds
Realistic in looks of behold
Wax of Bodybuilding champions at their best
Craftsmanship in not settling for less
It’s all about the pose
All angles covered I suppose
Imagine seeing Arnold Schwarzenegger captured at the time he won the 1970 Mr. Olympia
Then Sergio Olivia comes to mind
A waxed monster in the crab pose
All the veins looking like an intense fire hose
It would be competition in being prepared
The time vintage bodybuilders stepping on stage, and commotion in making the competition mad
The idea of muscles captured in pure wax
To attend I hope they don’t add any tax
But Bodybuilding is about facts
Achieve with a will and it’s no matter what age being still
Picture weights molded into wax
A bodybuilder lifting feeling a little perplexed
But it is true strength and dedication that makes bodybuilding work
This would be the message that the vintage Bodybuilding Wax Museum would convey
Bodybuilding exposure in every way
A vintage bodybuilding wax museum encouraging people to give Bodybuilding a try
I am quite sure there are questions of why
It is the intensity with effort that would make one cry
But the most important aspect would be “Stay away from drugs”
This should be captured on every souvenir mug
If anyone is caught taking drugs, we will just pull the plug
Well vintage bodybuilding wax museum it does have appeal
Now if we could just make it happen being for real.
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 7:32 PM UTC
I write these words from boredom.
Where they lead to I know not.
All I know, is that I write from boredom.
Boredom creeps upon me, like a stealthy foe within the night. My interests can be peaked then can go out like a light. Maybe with a bit of horror my boredom could be solved through some fright. Alas I know that to resolve my boredom I'll have to put up a fight.
To the boredom I say good day and try to be on my merry way. Boredom however has more to say upon this day in such a way that it molds me like wet gooey clay. Shaping and forming my mind for the evening, the boredom kicks in an my spirits start leaving.
Once thriving and passionate, once creative and fair. Now because of my boredom I lack the very will to care. To care about feelings, hopes and dreams. Like most of my cares, they simply fall through the seams.
Seams within my mind that bind me into one whole thing. A thing that has no will to continue with such a boring night. A flightless, hopeless, careless, and boredom filled night.
So sleep tight, because as of now it's all I have to escape my boredom. Once I crawl into bed my mind is at ease, but when I wake up I need something that will please. Anything, anything at all.
Whether it be down or up the stairs, in between some spider hair, along a glowing beam, even along a narrow stream.
A gray dull life is not one I desire, day by day I hope for something to light my fire. Boredom strikes when I least expect, I always wonder when it will hit next. I'm lucky when it leaves and pray that is does not return.
However when it does return I yearn for something to do. I Look for a clue for something to do, just as you likely read this from boredom too. So my dear reader I bid you farewell, from whence I came I shall return to my boring spell.
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 10:28 PM UTC
THERE
he was kissing her dreams,
holding her heart
taking her lips
loving her form
from his manly smell
he envelops her
and kissed her love
as he gives her daisies, roses
and brings his soul to her,
he picks her up
and gives her a loving surprise
and loves her like there will be no tomorrow
as he lays her in his dreams.
He molds her body with his hands
as lips dance all over her
then lifts her to new heights,
giving is he,
and fast falling in love with this man.
He takes her hand
and leads her to his domain
he whispers in her ear,
I will always love you
and his loving is slow and long
holding her in his position
his lips tingle her all over
his tongue explores every inch..
Her body is tingling
wanting more and more,
as she cries his name
he whispers in her ear
as she moans
he kisses her flower
she falls into her dream state
of passion and complete love ...
Debbie Brooks 2015
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 11:08 PM UTC
In the world of lines and curves,
I was questioned at the doorstep,
"Are you a line or a curve?",
I decided I was a curve, and they let me in in the group of curves.
Somebody asked, "Why is your curve not curvier? You must go to the lines instead."
I said, "Fair enough", and moved over to the group of lines.
Somebody said again, "You are too crooked to be a line. Go away!"
Disappointed, I realized I had nowhere to go.
There was no group for me. I was a curvy, crooked line.
I was a ******
Then,
Along came a curve, and a line,
They were curious of what it would mean to push their boundaries.
So I asked them to hold hands.
And suddenly I realized I was not alone.
I held their hands too, and we were transformed,
We wriggled and jiggled, and broke our molds,
And formed a perfect circle.
From our imperfections.
Now I belonged somewhere.
And I am not a ****** anymore.
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 10:46 PM UTC
Pizza is my life
I started out as dough with doughy eyes
Mother picks me up
Mother molds me
After no time at all I'm sent down the line
Toppings...
Things other people want but I get
By the end the toppings are as important as the dough
Sometimes I wonder if there was any dough to begin with
Because the foundation is changed so much by the fires of the oven
The chaos makes me steam, bubble, and boil
Once I simmer down I'm recognizable as what I should be but not what I once was
Now that I'm developed it's time to be delivered into the world
And find my own home
But what will I find when I get there?
Will it be love?
Or will I be ate up and shat out?
Or is there a difference?
May 22, 2017
May 22, 2017 at 1:28 PM UTC
Admiration is a word that comes to mind when I think about her work.
The seamstress only has to imagine and she can create a masterpiece of herself.
With every thread, button, and hem she tells a story.
She represents herself with every outfit. Her work molds to her every curve and bump.
She can move effortlessly and not worry about a tair
or loose string.
She can create herself into exactly who she wants to be.
And then there is me.
Who has to fight every zipper,
glare at every neckline,
and gripe at worn out areas that have rubbed and tugged to try and fit
my untamed figure.
The clothes that disguise me only entangle me
in a world of self hate and disappointment.
The number or letter on the tag become scars tattooed in my brain of three words:
not
skinny
enough.
I remember when a boy in line during the 4th grade called me fat ***
I remember when I was taken by my mother to a store that "might have things that fit better."
I remember looking at pictures of myself next to my friends and instantly comparing every inch of myself to theirs.
I remember when I looked at myself and thought, "maybe if you lost 20lbs. you would be attractive."
When the Seamstress looks in the mirror she sees a canvas.
A challenge.
A body that will fit herself.
When I look in the mirror I see a girl fighting to fit in her body.
I see those memories of hiding behind baggy sweaters.
I see countless dressing room breakdowns.
The seamstress must have harsh eyes.
She must have her own burden.
Her clothes may be her own, but is it all a disguise to hide herself too?
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 9:43 AM UTC
Sun goes down the littoral,
Painting shadows on the sky.
If skies could tell stories,
Tonight it's telling mine.
The orange molds memories,
Language of love,
Beautiful stories,
But swiftly slithering to mauve.
The vast blue says torment,
Rivers I've cried,
Sleepless nights,
Tears that have dried.
But when the blue will turn black,
It'll scream pain.
As the memories erase,
Loving I'll forsake.
Feb 20, 2023
Feb 20, 2023 at 5:37 PM UTC
For your hand I untie the laces of my corset to disclose the eternity of my mind and body on the cold cement floor. For your eyes I remove the molds which ever so carefully holds my insides in tact and allow them to flood the careful corners of our existence. For your mind I caress your knots, untie your passions and pry at your past. For your soul I allow your mouth to wander the brief and quick passages of my short exiled being.
for your heart I cut out mine own and press both thumbs on your disjointed limbs.
Severe heads and pass into the point of no return.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 11:25 PM UTC
Green husks burned
Summer sky molds the fruit to hold its passion;
Probed curiosity of a world above
our atmosphere.
What happens that we, the all-powerful humans, couldn't fathom?
Peeled open, a bright yellow star,
Alone in the fruit filled universe
In a forgotten crate at the end of an aisle
Whilst apples and grapes go on parade
the passion, guava, and star are a scandal.
Bruised sides see the glare of the electric light
(Once the bright orange glow of the sun
kissed these green skins)
The sweet flesh of a bitten star
is covered by black holes
once as bright as stars
The apples and grapes fade
in their repetition
Jun 12, 2010
Jun 12, 2010 at 8:52 PM UTC
please to admit, it is
true & not too deep within,
a scientifically proven and a oddly
curio shop fact,
we are all aliens
to each other, despite,
the overlapping of
a billion permutations
of cellular related associations
our individuating palettes
the diversity of our genetics,
other than the physics of sharing a planet,
simplest put,
no one can ever
be exactly the same,
the precisely of you or me,
doppelgängers notwithstanding,
our individuation, so incredibly due
to our blessed diversification, that to
subdivide ourselves from others,
is a downward
facing absolutely ridiculous ideation
and thus we reveal here and (n/kn-ow) that the
only reason we aliens unique nonetheless
can communicate with each other,
regardless of alphabet or character of idiom,
(or idiots of character)
is
*all alien beings love to breathe and speak
intuitively in a pleasing rhyme and meter,*
to the ear of our overlapping physique,
and that is why, every tongue is connectable,
and every alpha produces its own poetic creations,
'tis poetic soundings alliterating glue,
that molds this planet of aliens
from a tower of babel into a
shapely sphere
Sep 27, 2025
Sep 27, 2025 at 1:05 AM UTC
Leashed by loves lynch till I’m dropped by my lack of respect for the beauty’s presence
Thank god she wasn’t curbside taking tips with perked lips for a stranger’s ****** fix,
But I needed to feel the evidence that the pieces fit,
That’s why this is about me and a barstool princess
Getting close enough to taste the moans of vodka’s venom
Get close enough so I can know my needs can be fulfilled
Like a lunar eclipse this species keeps grinding its teeth when teased
Time and time again we’ve been taunted by,
The mistress our ancestors once described as the serpent of Eve,
When procreation was preached as an STD
Yet we’ve been perpetually pivoting,
To defy the chastity of a species
Grandfathered misconceptions relating to why you and I exist
As wickedness warms in the covers of the lustfully parallel
So let’s drown in this bliss,
From head to toe, eye caught, grazes at the nose,
From the bar stool to a lonely man’s home,
From one dollar tips for two *** and cokes
To the bedroom of this writing,
The nights like this, that remind me I am alone
But this isn’t about me loathing the fact that I won’t hear her whispering for more body warmth,
Nor am I looking for you to pity me because I’ll be sleeping solo
Enough is enough since we are humans seeking ****** catacombs
I’ll try to be an adult about how the human molds but it started me at childhood,
When those that conceptualized love gave me this world,
And now I no longer have to listen to what I’ve been told
This is about how to perceive something we can never truly control,
Lucky enough to avoid a contraceptive despite unable to remember the doctor’s pull,
Its night’s like this I get to question,
When will my sheets meet the perfect fit?
When will this be more than just a humanizing fix?
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 12:41 AM UTC
Barnacles crunch like fast food under your sneakers,
my gnawed-on boots.
We pass over cat-eyed shards of glass
still spicy with beer bubbles
and still fizzy with teen rebellion;
It molds like an infection here.
In a town nicknamed "Little Norway." ~
This place hoards candy-colored suburbia in its pockets.
Houses like skittles weigh down its pants
and it belches out tourist traps weaker than expired pepsi,
yet it still manages these moments
where I can trot by your gazelle legs
and blast Julie Andrew's confidence.
And I want to heap myself on the oyster shells, say
STOP
Put this moment in a snowglobe,
sigh into it before we move on,
do anything before the wind whips it away.
Etch it into your hand if you have to.
But breeze dimples the water like a golf ball
and rips at the seams of the shore.
Please don't forget me when you leave.
Mar 6, 2012
Mar 6, 2012 at 1:20 AM UTC
Tonight I have no words.
I cannot grandly sweep my pen
In flowing arcs across the page,
Drawing little soft impressions
(little soft depressions)
That show how lovely pain can be.
I cannot play the great Creator
Who rips a vital pulsing mass
from out His chest,
And molds still-beating clay
With a sad old potter’s gentle hands
into a little melancholic harpist
who plucks the heartstrings perfectly.
No, I have no words that fit
Like others have made fit before,
composing language to fit all the inward lines and curves
(I once knew a few of her’s)
that twist and turn and come entwined,
(the twists and turns of long ago)
crying “Lacrimosa!” in some wee hour
as the breeze blows a lacy curtain back.
I am no Aeolian instrument
Sounding a sweet ethereal chord into the night.
I am the vacuous breath left behind in silence
When the musician’s music stops —
A tuneless referent —
An empty exclamation mark
Howling noiselessly in space,
Meaning nothing
And everything, all the same.
!
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 3:37 PM UTC
My brain is a finely tuned A string
Plucking and picking itself out of tune
And though out of tune itself
Molds and bends to be in tune
Relative to others.
My skin like a mahogany fingerboard
Is constantly pressed
And squeezed and slapped
—Abused by my own hand.
My mouth and tongue are f-holes
Through which my inner vibrations
Are released into the air.
My heart is a bridge
Keeping my thoughts
In their rightful place
But also connecting
My body and mind.
My bones make up my sound-post
Holding me together
And providing the structure
Necessary to speak.
My feet are an endpin
Grounding me
And connecting me
To my surroundings.
Occasionally a bow comes along
Forcing me to do or say
The opposite of my desires
Moving me
And playing me
Like an instrument,
A toy.
I am a cello
Here to say what I want
How I want.
Though my strings need occasional tuning,
I decide how they sound
And when they sound.
Although I am sometimes used by others
For their gain
I am always in control of my expression.
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 9:36 PM UTC
I am a vessel
waiting to be filled with doubts and reason
waiting to hear the songs that wave in the atmosphere
let your influence flow so that we all can pollute our seasons
without a blend of innocence and curiosity
you cannot have clay that molds to your liking
at least not to your tasteless velocity
rushing away any thought of magic
at one point nothing needed definition
life was all and pure to the touch
connection gave us premonition
to a universe of one
Downwards is the direction of a new soul
to land and welcome the progress
purpose and destiny do not have their hold
for we question instead of taking the chance to cherish
Now a war exists to fight for the past
while building a narcissistic future
we grudge and we pride in a false ability to last
when the cycle and spiral is infinite
we are dust for now
energy to be
a dimensional vow
spoken continuously
I am a vessel
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 8:34 PM UTC
*Weathervanes with harmonically
tuned brains, took up the call to Step Lively.
Each one ecking, drop by drop,
To feed you silliness, to lighten your soul.
Wakey, wakey
Eat well
It's your Daddy, I mean attorney
You're really been being very bad.*
If you insist, I will.
Learn obedience
or patience or something
in between,
a kernal of obedience?
I'll never promise that,
in order to give it to freely.
I was afraid to let you in.
They were menacing,
stamping us into tiny little molds.
Insistent that we are,
what they think we are.
*Did they convince you
that I'd gone off and left you?*
No, changing that would require
quantum amounts of convincing.
Was not mistaken that it was you,
just attacked by encroaching apiculture
*That is how it felt,
How it feels, but subtler now.*
First course correction will be
the sliver of a melody,
Spreading like a depth charge.
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 9:03 AM UTC
Heavy beast and heavy burden
Burned into growing feet,
a mile above all great sentiments of
Home, clouds settle into molds
Carved inside carnivorous minds.
There is no quadrant on this island
You could go
Where I could not see who you created
In me, fiery and dormant, whirlwind
Of silence and fear. I see you everywhere,
In every line on my face,
You exist.
I exist amongst a million cold dandelions in a weary field.
Inescablable youth, river stones wrapped to knarled knees
To ground me to three separate waterfalls,
All who whisper of the dead
To creatures who eat the love from out the backs of children’s heads.
I own a million fragments of a life
And nowhere have I found the one
Who makes them whole.
Feb 23, 2021
Feb 23, 2021 at 9:41 PM UTC
Hordes of metaphorical oracles awaken me from sleep
Dreams of paralysis, lost inside the deep
Rabbit hole analysis meets a descent so steep
While these Prodding thoughts got me tripping over my own feet
Interpretations or revelations what does it mean?
How long can one last existing inside of this scene?
Wide eyes lids closed coincide with winter snow
shallow breath heavy toll watching bodies decompose
presence felt, identity unknown, an experience to shake the bones.
Straining to take quick control, interpretations from the occipital lobe
lying semi lucid, fear from the cold
vocalizing panicked silence binded in time with mind stuck in molds
To even have witnissed this instance means it's time to grow.
the fire's flowing im slowly blowing my CO2
What do I want, what do I need?
This mission eye must see through
Take this steady ascension into the next lesson
clearing the mirror for a perspective of truth.
The more that is reflected, the more I see you
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 7:27 PM UTC
My hands have a mind of their own
Melt down all my doubts to fill molds of jail cell bars
Of locks with no keys
I’ve built a cage around my heart made of all the things you hate about me and the things I hate about myself
I know the weight of living is heavy love
Place it on my chest until my lungs cave in
I’ll find air in the spaces between our fingers and in the distance I’ve put between us
My minds become a road map full of roundabouts
From an aerial view you can see the loops of my neural pathways
They look a lot like “I’m sorry”
Made of dead ends and clovers and things my therapist says are out of my control
It goes around and around and around on repeat
But I’ll apologize again anyway even if it keeps you here longer than you wanted
In the maze
In the cage
Ive met people with keys
I don’t know how to ask for them
Even just for a second
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 3:46 PM UTC
Life molds you into a shapeshifting mess.
One stumbles through different tribulations, and the soul diversifies as the years pass.
You turn into different versions of yourself.
It’s like treading through hell, but you taste heaven at the same time.
It’s not a choice, it’s a requirement.
Its like drinking liquid gold. The concept is luxurious, but it kills you so deliberately.
A beautiful solemnity?
Emotions so immense.
It hurts so much to breathe, to exist, yet you need to stay, you stay because of love. We suffer to exert empathy. Love is the cutlass that impales deeply.
It cuts far, it makes you bleed profusely, but it feels so good.
It just feels so good.
Is there a point to it all in the very end?
Happiness seems temporary. Chasing it is like the drop you feel when the veil is pulled from under your foundation; long, scary.
Happiness is the rarest paragon.
The heart, heavy and the mind, full.
Wondering day after day.
Who will understand me, touch me, sense me.
Wonder, keep wondering.
Wonder possesses you.
Wonder keeps watching you.
Wonder doesn’t let go, it comes to watch you die.
That’s the why, that’s the death.
Life will never give you an answer.
Nov 20, 2021
Nov 20, 2021 at 1:54 PM UTC
A wise man once told me that all people are like precious metals.
He told me this in different words than I will use, but I took this to heart.
We are mined from ***** places; these miners see the value that lies beneath our harsh surface.
We are plucked from our resting places, sent to great, large cities where we will be put over fire to burn out our impurities.
We will go through pain and fire.
We will melt and be tortured.
We will cry and scream and we will suffer.
All of our repulsive imperfections will float to the top while this is happening.
To purify gold, it must be melted.
To purify silver, it must be melted.
It must be melted and the rough **** that exists within and without these bits of precious metal must float to the top to be extracted.
Sometimes, this process must happen multiple times.
Sometimes, we must use chemicals and medicines to make sure it happens properly.
To purify us, we must be melted.
These are our trials in life.
This fire represents our hardships.
This fire represents every life change that we don't want to happen, but must pull through.
This fire represents each truth that we don’t want to know, but have to accept.
This fire represents each person that walks in and out of our lives like rainstorms, pouring for hours and moments before disappearing on the wind, never to be seen again.
This fire represents each night we must spend alone, crying for someone to save us.
This fire is us.
This fire is self-preservation.
This fire doesn't last.
And after the fire is over, and our imperfections are drawn away from us, we are perfect.
Of course no one is ever perfect, but no metal is ever completely perfect; everything that glitters is not gold.
After the fire has died, and we have been poured into new molds, into new people, we are stronger.
With our disfigurements gone, our molecules bond tighter to form a stronger metal.
With our faults gone, we sparkle and shine for the world to see.
After we have been pulled from the ground, after the fire has died, after we have come out as stronger, prettier people, there is still a chance for staining.
We may scuff and stain, we may grow new impurities, but then we must suffer fire again.
It is an ongoing process.
We are never perfected.
We are ever changing, yet we are solid as metal.
A wise man once told me that I resembled gold, that everyone around me resembled gold. He once explained this to me in such a way that it changed my mind about hardship.
I now meet it with open arms.
If I couldn’t handle the fire, it wouldn’t burn for me.
A wise man once told me that eventually, when the fire was extinguished, I would be a stronger person.
A wise man once explained to me that I am not alone, that everyone must hurt to get stronger, and that I will emerge from the fire.
This man changed my life, and I hope that maybe I can change someone else’s life.
That maybe I can help scrape the imperfections from someone’s boiling surface.
That maybe I can help myself become purer, by purifying some other gold or silver.
After all, at the end of the day, a wise man once told me we are all like precious metals:
We are all gold.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
The fandom did it better
They filled your plot holes
The fandom did it better
At filling your character molds
The fandom did it better
The added angst and comedy and depth
The fandom did it better
So I read the fandom, **** the rest
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 2:55 AM UTC
*The August Moon saw the rise of a phoenix from the ashes,
In the huts of poverty was she born,
An arrow of peace,
The changing touch of a stranger
She, the one with an old soul
She, the one with joy
She, the one with a vibrant smile
She, the one with a heart of gold
She, the one with selfless love
Born and bred with the tenacity of a lioness, courage did she ooze with her every day stride
A delicate orchid, with the raw beauty of a black rose
A gift amongst the blessed
She, a pillar of strength
She, a beacon of hope
She, a wild heart
She, a rebellious soul
She, a free spirit
She, a phenomenal woman
Floundered the earth for her offspring did she,
Gave wholeheartedly,
Loved wholeheartedly,
Lived fully did she.
Still now, she molds from her final resting place a queen and king
She, my mother.*
**Happy Birthday Mom!!!
12/08/1974--12/11/2008
Rest In Peace**
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 6:38 PM UTC