"monologues" poems
The problem with falling for a woman
Questioning her strength to catch you
Or maybe you fall on purpose
To catch a glance under her dress
Either thin, tall and lean
Thick, short and curvy
Any shape, any size
The female gender can make you insane
The very thought of a **** goddess
Brings the mightiest of men to their knees
This briefly entails without question
The power a ****** can hold
Simple like exotic dancers
Complex like business CEOs
No matter the background she withholds
You can never figure a woman out
A tale as old as time
A riddle still not solved
But yet how could Adam have made it
Without Eve?
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 4:58 PM UTC
Sarah
Sarah is a virgo
but she is no ******
She is full of experience,
and im not talking about *** or drugs.
( though she had her fair share.)
Im talking about life.
Sarah hasnt lived in a fairy tale,
but if she did,
she would be a prince.
She is charming,
bold,
kind,
and tenacious.
Sarah would **** a dragon
just to make sure you were safe.
She will make you laugh,
and iron soap,
Dancing as she watches you with
her precious knowledge of Amity.
Sarah will hold you when you cry,
and she will tell you its okay to be sad.
Sarah had her vision turn gray when she was a child;
words tore at her skin,
but she is still alive.
Her vision turned back to technicolor
but that doesn’t mean it won’t turn back to gray.
Sarah dosent like to talk about herself,
but you can talk to her,
She will help you see the world.
If you can’t see the flowers
Sarah will hold your hand and
sing you a picture.
Sarah holds all of her friends,
there names taped to the front of her heart.
She plants her seed of friendship
deep in the roots of your garden.
You dont need to meet her more than once,
you can tell that she is always there.
Sarah can be mean,
but thats just cause shes tired.
Sarah carries the troubles she has with her,
they are wrapped with the sign
“do not enter”
but she dosen’t let them weigh her down.
Sarah dosent ask for help
she is given it,
and she will always return the favor
but she will complain about you giving
even before you finish your task.
Sarah is a mystery,
She smokes a lot of
cigarettes
but she still
smells like
Sarah.
She is far from perfect,
she animates her life with overdramatic hand movements
and tells her wisdom with sonnets or
Monologues from act i scene ii,
She plays overtures from her heart,
and talks lyrics from her soul.
Sarah is a musical of a life
full of future.
She is a name in lights
not yet recognized.
Sarah hasn’t finished her life yet,
but she is the lines
of poetry, and songs
not yet written.
Sarah adds years to peoples lives.
Sarah is a friend,
and im happy to know her
even if a short minute of her hourglass
is all I ever see.
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 8:36 AM UTC
I promise not to promise anything again
But ladies gotta SAY NO MORE! I said it, men!
The ***** monologues, we’ve had it up to here
Your ***** in aura, ***** mouth, and every ear
We call ghost busters, catch that ***** demon yet
Go ********** yourself to sleep, don’t make me wet
You tell that boy that it’s a girl. Shake hands! Acknowledge!
And take that girl to college get some ******* knowledge
When vida gives you women go make lemonade
Fresh out of momma’s blender tastes like toil n jade
They do it for the ***** do it for the coins
Kom alla kvinnor! Power of the burning *****
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 3:50 PM UTC
My Lucifer, unwitting Muse, dog-eared Vonnegut,
afrobeatnik third eye, howls escaping
from your headphones, wailing about secrets, about infidelity,
about analyzing life until there ain’t nothin’
left. Then you shuffle by in your black and white Adidas,
hair in twists, wearing the striped sweater
of nihilistic intent, quoting the rants of Holden Caulfield
in your blog like you never didn’t know him.
I never asked to know you, to want who I can’t have
when I can’t even love myself. And every fiber
Of my being yearns for reciprocation. What is there
to return? What is there to feel, you meditate on truth,
fallen angel in the parlor of rebellion, blasphemous goodbye,
bright and morning star simpering like crickets in the palms
of daybreak. Your musicality radiates from subway chatter
and overheard profanity down El Camino Real.
I take in your ballad at my post office mailbox,
in the abandoned echoes of daydream monologues.
You’re a philosopher, exploring theory of mind, a cartographer,
mapping the labyrinth of your deepest desires.
Tell me again about desires, demonstrations of divine sadism. Tell me
about human empathy, the animated faces of wordless expression,
the metaphysics of free will, my beginning and my end,
alpha and omega, my fortress in the land of chic.
Blasphemous hustler, let your idealism simmer, your wit, your mojo,
I come to you an amateur, a neophyte, a lowly scab
in the strike against ignorance. Give me my melody, my song,
my one-hit-wonder of all that is cliché and unknown.
But I can’t be the other woman, your girlfriend, your aspiring
Playboy bunny only 10-bucks-a-throw. Your highness-who-yells-
his-ideas-into-the-ears-of-echoes, your every quirk spellbinds me.
Each day I wake to your entourage vibrato.
I am held captive by your brooding stare, empress of liberal
doves. You visit in my dreams when the sky is a force of darkness
viewing light through peepholes, your flaws an aphrodisiac, a love drug,
a fast hit in the basement from the ecstasy of words.
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 5:37 AM UTC
I really want to thank you.
Whether I'm being sarcastic or not,
You'll never know.
I feel like every time I write something,
It's for someone to read.
Spooky government guys,
Or girls who really like fries.
But sometimes it feels like I don't want to.
I don't want you to read about
Who or what affects me.
Sometimes I worry because my friends can read these things.
My friends, they enjoy poetry too.
My English teacher's on here.
She says she approves.
It's weird, isn't it?
How small the world is.
Yet I never see who I really want to.
I see uncles and aunts
And really long lost cousins.
I see my grandma's friends everywhere.
At weddings and all affairs.
But the only way I can see
Who I really want to.
Is through writing and pictures,
And trust me,
I do.
But it feels like it can't be real,
not yet.
I have eight months to go,
And I fret and I fret.
I can't wait to see those
Amazing blue eyes.
The upturn of blond hair,
And your shirts like the skies.
Your sense of adventure keeps me going.
It's weird,
I know,
how these words keep flowing.
You'll never read them.
But if you do,
Hi,
I suppose.
I miss you.
With your laugh,
So infrequent,
And your entrances.
Through fire escapes?
That's perfectly normal to me.
From under a table?
That's pretty normal to see.
To scare me on a staircase?
Of course, why not?
Hanging off a balcony?
Fine, but keep your thoughts.
But the one entrance you have yet to make.
Is the one I want you to most.
The one that leads you back into my world.
The one that makes the legend unfurl.
I have documents upon documents
I'd love you to read.
But you never really will,
It's not hard to believe.
Poems and lists,
Monologues galore.
But wait and look,
Here's one more.
And you ask,
What is it truly for?
A thank you,
Dear friend
For being who you are.
And simply to ask you to look up at the stars.
For I can see the moon,
And so can you.
And I just wish,
I could see you too.
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 4:14 PM UTC
My skin is seeping salty feelings, and cooking warm under the pressure of anxiety.
I just typed a series of monologues to your inbox again, but you don't seem to hear them.
It's 3:46 AM. I'm almost delirious. What is sleep? I spend about 14 hours in bed everyday.
I usually get 1-2 hours of sleep.
My tears have stained my pillowcase. Like, I don't turn the light on anymore because I see the stains.
In my room, it is very cold. I guess it's cold like me. Or is it really, just cold like you?
I'm lost and alone, and I'm afraid you'll never come back.
I need you back.
What did you not understand?
When I told you when we were still together, that I'd love you until the day I died?
When I told you after you forcefully dumped me, I'd have this problem until the day I died?
Because the day I die, in my last moments, I will finally be able to decide to give up on you.
At times, I've wanted to commit suicide.
Because if I'm not waiting for you,
I'm waiting until the day I die.
Oh look, another monologue.
Don't read this one.
Go hang with your girlfriend instead.
You already decided that's whats best for your health.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 3:47 AM UTC
Sad girl rock
Fills the room with hopeless longing.
Rootless dreams take off out of the open 2nd floor window.
Cold Coffee.
Ain’t nothing
To a Cold, Cold heart.
This isn’t how the story ends.
Cryogenic stasis.
A general lack of brain damage.
Neurological bliss.
Goosebumps when it’s 90 degrees.
If a tree falls in the woods….
Questions.
Paralysis in analysis.
I understood more before the literary critique.
Lost.
We’re all lost.
Thematic speeches
and character monologues.
Overbearing landscape descriptions.
It’s all so oppressive.
Characters who walk around and around.
Past street signs. Past Monuments. Past that same newsstand again.
Circles in grids. So squares, then.
The time of Ulysses is near
So we can all be thoroughly confused together.
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 3:40 PM UTC
I see a Woman eating her muffin
looking at Man who is looking
looking into the depths of his paper cup
and the wrinkles and rivers on the back of his hand
thinking When did I get those?
Coffee Cup looking at the blue bin in the corner
Coffee Cup thinking Well, I guess this is how it goes
The secret force that wrenches eyes upward
from the secret morning monologues
happens like electricity happens
and Man sees Woman's eyes and frowns
and can't tell whether they are blue
or brown.
Crumbs are on her lap.
Man doesn't notice but Woman thinks he does
Moving imperceptibly and not wasting a calorie
she flutters her hands over the warm loaves of her thighs.
Man notices an ephemeral strain Simon and Garfunkle and
becomes aware of a softening within his sternum and
electrons slowing, softing, into a May spring aesthetic
Woman rubs her finger which does not have a ring
and Coffee Cup wonders if it will still
have sentience within the bin or if the world
with all its broken beauty and mornings and warm hands
will suddenly just stop everything?
I look at my keys. The sort that express, not
the sort that open doors and drawers
but even these, time to time, will
fall beneath the wooden floors.
Man pulls his long coat off the back of his chair
without ceremony rises and turns to go
leaves his cup on the table for a coffee girl to attend to
and exits as the rain turns to snow.
Woman sits. And sits.
Woman might order another pumpkin muffin.
Her knees are chilled, watching her pinkly from the edge
of a pencil skirt like children's faces from a blanket.
A moment later she makes that same comparison
and laughs internally without gesture or sound.
And Woman looks around.
Woman smiles. Not because of Man or muffin
or the secret life of a Coffee Cup
but because she is Woman
struck lively by the sudden meta
fleeting passage of The Bigger
and her eyes, definitively brown
spark like bumper car antennae
and struck by magic, the same magic electricity
for an irreversible instant meet mine.
And for one fourteenth of a moment
Woman knows Me with all her life.
I shiver and she lobs me the red bean bag
and I hold the image in my mind like
a relic of the living divine.
The Bigger, the morning
the secret was mine.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 11:44 AM UTC
I'll give you my thoughts for a penny.
Only a penny, because they're certainly not worth a nickel, five cents for the five fingers I'll frequently run along my collarbones, imagining myself imagining the moment when you did the same, all that's left now is the ghost of your fingers, negative space.
Not worth a dime. A dime I'll use to buy a caramel that'll glue my teeth together and trap the words I know I'll regret later on.
The sweetness of my unsaid words will linger for hours.
Not worth a quarter, 25, enough for all my fingers and toes, and one more for the hand that seems to linger around my throat, incarcerating monologues I can't seem to make anyone understand.
Certainly not worth a dollar, a dollar I'd use to buy sour patch kids, partly because I know they're your favorite, (you can appreciate the way they'll sting your tongue after a while, and the oxymoron living in the sour sugar that coats them), and partly because I sure am sour, and after all, I'm only a kid.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 8:21 PM UTC
with a drink in hand,
she is talking to herself.
about life she gives advice,
as she slips into the glass another cube of ice.
she is stumbling in the dimly lighted street,
and licks her lips that hold a sweet taste.
she is laughing at herself,
while taking both of her red heels in hand.
and there she is,
anyone could have spotted her,
with heels in hand,
bloodshot eyes and
sticky hair,
he feel in love with her drunken self,
while she was talking to the stop sign.
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 1:43 PM UTC
What is your greatest fear?
Do you worry about the past
The present, the future?
Do yesterdays woes play on your mind?
Or the worries of tomorrow?
How about the angsts of today?
What is your greatest fear?
Does money concern you?
Do you envision that a lack of material wealth will make you a lesser person?
Or that you won't be able to provide
For your mother, wife or children?
What is your greatest fear?
Do you fear great adventure?
From missions across treacherous terrains,
To learning something new.
Or maybe the unknown?
Does a non-existent threat debilitate and paralyse you?
What is your greatest fear?
I would say mine own is the fading of a great ability
To make words dance across a page as if they possess a life of their own
To link together phrases, to bring life to seemingly dreary monologues
To paint pictures with nouns and adjectives
Record films with verbs and adverbs
This is a gift I have been blessed with
Yet
I am scared
For I do not know when my time will come
And this pushes me
But until then?
I shall do what I know best
I shall write, query and ponder all the great questions life has for us
So I ask you
What is your greatest fear?
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 8:40 PM UTC
Five. Cinco.
Half of the ten and a fifth of the twenty five. Mathematics are a funny subject, don't you think? Some man just made up letters to correlate with numbers to transcend to concepts that in all reality could mean nothing and the square root of a orangutan could actually be yellow.
I contemplate on that a lot, being the Grace that I am, wondering if what's real is real, if words are just words, or all they the pygmy hippopotamuses flying in my dreams. Anything is possible. Dreams could be reality, and reality could be a dream. Or maybe there is no such thing as realness, and everything is just madness.
I learned a lot from my friend the Mad Hatter, how to love, how to be disappointed, how to fall into a pit of despair and how to wear a hat like a ****** deviant and love it.
But the most important thing I learned is that sanity is very subjective, because what may seem totally sane to me, completely within the norm, may seem like complex incongruity to someone else. Maybe we're all mad. Maybe no one's mad. Maybe its just you, maybe its not you.
Special. That's another word that always got me, but I prefer to think in the realms that everyone is different. The world is in different shades and hues, none are ever quite the same, so why should people be that way?
But maybe yet again I'm only speaking in riddles and soliloquies and monologues and standing over all my conquests I am screaming my thoughts while they utter not a word, fearful of manic me.
I'd be afraid of manic me. She is quite the finger-twitching tyrant.
Words are words but are they real? Are they what you mean or are they just lies, lies, words that you scream until she dies, dies, and the world is at peace.
Oh, that's not right.
I once wrote a short poem similar to that I could recite by heart, but as my heart has changed the words become jumbled. Death creeps its way into lies, and heavy juxtaposition ***** with my meanings. Eating my words, until I am not a girl anymore, I am a leaf, or a bat, stuck in Wonderland until the end of my days.
Funny how Alice the savior became Alice the bat.
Wait, I'm not Alice, I'm Grace.
Oh, I do not know who I am anymore. And that is the tragic beauty of Wonderland. You just never know what, or who, tomorrow may bring.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 4:57 PM UTC
insomnia is my best friend, it's molded into my bones because
the world never sleeps and the bats know me by name. i ripped
the lights out of the sky with the sharp teeth i bear to collect the
stars to stick onto my bedroom ceiling. the sky is a black hole, almost
like a tornado or mouth ready to throw me off my feet, and i'm faint
i can't tell the difference between sympathy, empathy, and apathy
anymore only because i was never good at recognizing faces covered
in masquerade masks. my nightmares aren't about dinosaurs and
aliens anymore, because fantasy is what i've become accustomed to.
reality terrifies me, we are living in our past, our present, and our
future, and my social anxiety is getting bad again to the point where
i lost track of time at night overthinking too much over simple things
- kra
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 4:24 AM UTC
I love the costume you wear
Discounted and undervalued
But I see it for its true colors
It's a method, a mood, a mystery
How after so much pain
You're still here somehow, and smiling.
I love the costume you wear
Ocean blue sadness
Veiled by the violet warmth of your acceptance
Indescribably beautiful melancholy
Like the sunrise I watched today
The night wistfully accepting the inevitable morning
Knowing that midnight's velvet comfort will once again return.
I love the costume you wear
But I wish you wouldn't hide your true colors within
Its fierce red curtained folds
Or behind those miserably memorized monologues that just don't ring true
It's like you've got stage fright but
The stage is yourself.
I love the costume you wear
But come with me
And let's dance until the pain glows like the sun and becomes beautiful
Until the moon lights your way and you are no longer afraid
Until the wind takes your hand and you can release the curtain and let go
Until you can drop the script and let your words fly like birds, of their own accord
And until you can embrace the world
With only your heart, your smile, and yourself
And dance beyond it all, freely.
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 6:34 PM UTC
She tells me,
"You're very self aware,
You know what, why and how you do things,
Yet you continue to do them."
I explain to her that I never learned how to ask for help
So I only ever knew how to look to myself for the answer
Which has led me to become pretty creative with metaphors
As well as entertaining internal monologues,
Like when I explained to her that my parents look at me
And see a knot of misfortune
Without looking at all the threads that I'm comprised of
Which led them to this conclusion of me.
She asked me if I ever thought of harming other people
To which I noted that I tend to play fruit-ninja
With peoples faces
In my head.
Though I'd never actually do anything,
Just as I'm able to keep a professional demeanor
Giving no hints to
The constant stream of expletives in my head.
She asks me why I don't feel like I have friends,
Which leads me to disclose
That I can't tell if I work too much
To spend time with friends
Or if I do it to distract from the lack of.
I laugh when I regale her
With how I recently bought a yoyo
Because it is relaxing
And makes me feel like a cool kid
That would be part of the gang in Hey Arnold,
Stating that it's been helping me with my panic attacks
By focusing on making my yoyo
Go around the world,
Pretending it was me,
Circumventing my lack of coping mechanisms.
Iliana looks at me, with her mouth slightly turned down
Attempting to keep a straight face
Though her brows still knit together in slight confusion
As she asks me how I'm able to say all of this with a smile on my face,
"Well," I state, "I don't have time to be depressed."
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 12:31 AM UTC
.
Hello **archangel,
fallen goddess behind my morgue.
Whose complexion equaled the moon,
craters and abysses,
cascading like salt on
an empty**
wound.
**With the crosshairs of nicotine
a mirage on her cracked lips;**
“Leave me,
lowly poet,
Your pity is unbecoming.
I am the 13th fallen sister,
so linger here
no longer.”
“Death is an old friend,
I fear not his company,
nor his demise.”
**I’ve never seen such eyes;
glass-stained,
divine & unpredictable.**
“I’ll **** you.”
“Darling, I’m already dead.”
**Her monologues could summon the dead,
she preached of the lovers
who bore no fruit
and the heartless
that lay eternal
in the eyes of
her dalliance.
I’d often find myself
yearning at the pebbles at her gravestone,
impatient, to be graced by her
ink soul and** rhapsodic presence.
“Are you my friend,
poet?”
“No,
I am much more.”
**And for centuries
of cracked dawns and
folded nights,
shallow moons &
crippled suns,
we’d meet---
poet to god,
at her morgue.**
“Poet,
why must the most beautiful
people die?”
**She once asked me.
Alured, I answered:**
“When you’re in a garden,
which flowers do you pick?”
“...The most beautiful ones.”
**I’d spend my seconds ‘neath the gallows,
among the bones
of her brethren,
all had fallen before her,
from the house of god.
I bargained my soul with Ursula,
my sins with Lupus,
I ignored their tempertantrums
& discord.
That very evening I stitched a universe,
upon her shoulder-blades.**
“What are these?”
“Wings.”
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 8:28 PM UTC
You ************* monster!
What you have done is unforgivable.
Keep producing mongoloid monologues,
But, the best of what you were is gone.
I ******* hate you for what you have done.
There is no going or coming back.
I hope you ******* suffer,
You selfish, needy *****
I hope you are happy,
Because now I know who you really are.
All of you should be ashamed of yourselves,
You lying, self-centered ******* animals.
The faces you will put on today
Are ******* filthy fragmented foolish friendless freaks.
You hate me, your actions prove it,
But not half as much as I now hate you,
You petty *****
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 2:41 PM UTC
Soldiers sown in the field
And bodies usually are the yield
Bodies of strangers , friends and
colleagues
Leaving survivors with long lonely
monologues
Rendering life without taste or feel.
In this clash of elephants
The casualties include animals ,
civilians , even infants.
That is to say but the least .
Vultures gather in circles to feast
On the remains of once beautiful
living beings .
Where then is the profit of war ?
When rebuilding cost so much
more
Both humanly and materially .
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 4:09 PM UTC
I was walking down a dirt path
Deep within a great forest
The trees laid bare by Winters chokehold
The background varying shades of gray,
It was a dreary day
I stopped on a cliff face above a river
And sat on the edge of it's furthest point
And stared between the trees into the early morning sun
Coloring the horizon burnt orange
With the silhouettes of branches swaying in ballet
This was it.
I'd found it
The most perfect spot in the world
to be alone
This cliff a shrine of inner monologues and meditation
I have laid my soul here
This forest and I are one
Everything is connected, a system
Inhale, 1, 2, 3, 4
Exhale
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 8:39 AM UTC
I'm a black actor
So my monologues are gospel
my dialogues are political
my blocking is a statment
My diction is forgiven
I'm a black actor
So Shakespeare speaks above my melanin,
Avant guarde is a canvas too fresh for color
And the urban expierence
Is a glove that fits too well to remove
I'm a black actor
So my casting is guaranteed
My bio line is their defense against vulturous social critics circling the audition table
They need a black actor
I'm a black actor
Jan 15, 2017
Jan 15, 2017 at 2:31 PM UTC
They lowered him on string,
his face unshaved and the coffin unhinged,
nothing broke his fall but a green cloth dressed in
storage-cupboard-fluff,
the first death of the second month.
Around him they said silent words, empty sentences
stretching the length of derelict paragraphs: morbid monologues
for the man who used words to **** up women
and tell them they were beautiful without them ever seeing it,
understanding it,
knowing if he was legit or not.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 4:20 PM UTC
you who swayed on stoop-steps and picked bits of teeth
from your knuckles, your fantasies, your crouched in blood
giggles; monologues.
you who wrapped knives around tree hides and in carvings
found your way back to days of love
& dead wet leaves.
you who rattled in hate of sweaty girls but
smeared out on the boulevard for girls anyways
& made those girls sweat.
you who ****** in the snow and wrote out all the names
of your far-fallen friends and sisters in just one stream.
pacific coast highway.
you who soaked back in the trans-fat pools of employment
to grip at tips and taste at *****
in this fine phase we call fermentation.
you who came hurdling down from hills and hallways
with navajo sidekicks,
your battle-axes sweetened with sugar powder flecks; for flavor
while dying.
you who peeled skin from your fingertips in protest
of the war on whales, warping you irrevocably
down the path
of a whisky avocado diet.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 6:23 AM UTC
there's a story on the wind
can you hear it?
an ode to a classic hero
facing enemies at every turn
a ballad from a love struck sailor
to his land locked dame
the lamentation of a tired soul
ready to exit stage left
epics bound in flesh
breathing the same air
walking the same earth
yet completely unaware
of when plot lines intersect
one persons sunrise
is another sunset
riding off to where the sidewalk ends
a stunning view of Mars in all his glory
from another window
an example of an empty vessel
hungry for content
with each step we act our the script
the world's a stage
the plays the thing
let's pan out and take into view
the aspect ratio in conjunction
with our soundtrack
monologues
dialogues
analog has less room for falsehood
than these digital lives
digital lies we lead
rewriting the scope and depth
of the narrative
without changing pace
or thinking to replace
certain key elements
like setting and grace
peace comes when the curtain closes
don't fret
encores are in order
but on the b-side of the single
we must note
with remixed emotion
that the stories we live have no sequel
so we must trust and ******
ourselves into every opportunity
paving the way to success
not just for us
but for those that read the synopsis
and hit rewind
Jul 7, 2012
Jul 7, 2012 at 7:51 AM UTC
Cliché is the glue of our bubblegum-flavored MTV culture,
Because we order language to go and with extra cheesy.
We pour words into televisions and radios,
And sent those waves to space.
We do this because the very vastness of our language
Is oozing from our ears like a runny nose,
And the torrents of tongues cannot seem
To penetrate the walls of the Jersey Shore.
Sometimes at night, Katie Couric weeps.
She bawls into the darkness when she realizes
That most of her viewers are waiting for her to shut up,
Like parents waiting for the baby to fall asleep,
Because there is *** to be had
And maybe Charlie Sheen will say something funny tonight.
We are tweeting away our TV-dinner monologues.
The cardinals miss our singing,
The way my “s” swishes against my “h,”
And the slightest stutter of my best friend,
Like a drum-solo-blue-jazz-soul-snare.
There is a river of modified nouns
This world has not had the privilege
To have run over their naked bodies.
Words that are chocolate-flavored like “cinnamon”
Curl up in your lap and scratch
The deepest part of your throat,
Where syntax has gone to hide away.
This river has been ****** by a thesaurus
That wants everything to be a synonym for ****
So I’ve got cliché stuck to my brain
Like gum beneath a classroom seat,
Like *********** that I can’t turn away from,
Disgusted though I may be,
Because everybody’s doing it.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 6:22 AM UTC