"muffling" poems
Pale legs sprawl out;
untangling and stretching,
as I absorb the
Montana air.
Isolated, we sit,
under the big
sky.
Silent.
White clouds float
through a sea of
orange.
The same shade of
orange as those sugary
push-up's my father would
shove down my
throat.
Gas station sweets
to make me
me forgive
him.
I shake the feeling
of comparisons—
they never did me
any good.
Instead, I lie down
and allow you
to touch my
tense body.
Softly, you
reach over, muffling
words of beauty and
astonishment.
I do not flinch.
I flash a smile
and focus on
Montana.
The mountains in
West Virginia
rolled; they flowed,
so graciously
together.
There was never a
road that was not
winding.
I've never
seen a rugged
mountain.
Snow-capped and
radiant.
Not until Montana.
Until this moment,
I, too, have
tried to
flow.
Living the same ways,
in which I experienced,
Mother Nature.
Going through the
motions—
with no purpose.
No passion.
The fear of becoming
an abrasive,
overbearing woman
urged me to
flow.
To slide through
life, barely
noticed.
Never climbing
for more,
to discover the
true beauty in
becoming
a bit
rocky.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 11:06 PM UTC
and all these years
they told you that heartbreak would be
not being able to do anything;
crying most of the days;
not being ok for a long time;
being able to hear the sound of your heart breaking;
'the heart break syndrome', they would say.
'time heals', everyone promised.
'this too shall pass', everyone whispered.
'it will strengthen you', they encouraged.
what they did not tell you
was that
heartbreak would make you do the unthinkable.
crying on your bathroom floor during shower.
muffling your crying on your pillow.
trying to explore yourself.
meditate, read books, watch movies, writing.
waking up with puffy eyes.
and have to go on like nothing happened.
lock yourself in your own room at night when you get home.
laying awake staring at the ceiling.
counting on what you did wrong.
replaying every scenes.
endless pool of tears -
those kind that make you really tired;
not the sleepy kind of tired,
but the 'God-please-end-this' kind of tired.
praying to God to please just end this
for you cannot take more pain.
asking God on what you had done wrong in life
to deserve this kind of pain.
do i even still believe in God?
they did not tell you that heartbreak
change your perspective in life.
that it would feel like you are suffocating;
unable to breath.
where is the air?
even when you sleep,
you wake up and dreaming about him again.
the desperation to end it;
that you would google
'how to deal with heartbreak'
or the desperation to ask people for help.
but you know it's useless
and you don't want to be a burden.
or when you hear others telling you about their relationship
and you can not even give them any advices anymore.
'i used to be so good at giving advices', you think to yourself.
but now not anymore.
they did not tell you that heartbreak
would make you numb
when you are surrounded by people.
the way you get yourself throughout the day
and do the daily routines
laughing,
do random things,
being weird;
'you are still the same old you even after all these things', they would say.
'no i'm not', you tell yourself.
even when your heart is broken
or the way
you would act like you had never got your heart broken
or the way
others would tell you their problems
and you have to act
like you are okay
and you have none
they did not tell you that heartbreak
would make you feel this useless
like how you suddenly think of
'i am so broken'
and yet you could not
even think
of telling anyone
because of how pointless it would be
'what's the use? they don't get it like i do', you would think.
they did not tell you that heartbreak
would take this long to heal
'time heals', i used to say
'this too shall pass', i used to tell my friend.
but now
i am not so sure anymore.
time heals, they say.
well, i'm still waiting for the time mine would heal
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 1:48 PM UTC
I fell asleep
To the smell of antiseptic,
Sterilizer, biogesic,
And the cold touch of metal
Rods that only seem
To grow colder
With the touch of hospital
Left in the student's
Ward - a whistle
Permeates the silence
Of seniors
Painlessly sleeping away
Hours upon
Hours until graduation -
A coming of age -
An escapism from past papers
And teachers who have
Themselves given up
On them.
And the lights you
See are as bright
And as empty as those blinking
Feebly
In that of the school doctor's
Office, one not really
Blinking more of
Washed, and supported
Wobbling by daylight
Seeping in through peeling blinds,
Unable to see too much -
The headaches and stomachaches
Have rendered him numb
To the feeling.
And lunch comes
And out blows the whistle to
Signify the end
Of playtime for
The young ones, start
Of playtime for
The older ones,
Whistle blowing muffled
By the septic tank glass
Doors of this sacred outhouse,
Wards muffling the cries of children
As they flee the quadrangle,
Once mad, twice elated,
Still innocent, untired,
Not needing to fake sick
And rest their heads softly
Upon thin soft beds with
Towels wrapped haphazardly
Behind their backs,
Nostalgia, it was
Laughter, I swear it was louder
When we used to run,
When our eyes lit up like
The sun petering in through
The doctor's orifices,
When our bruises and bumps
Smelled like betadine,
Not sleep
And cups of sterile water downed
To mask the scent of
Fake cough syrup,
And cuts gotten from fiddled syringes,
Bruised ankles
Bent over undersized beds,
And not running over
Uneven pavement,
Ankles brushing tablecloth,
Schoolbag,
Basketball and frisbee,
And the screaming.
Oh, how I miss
The screaming.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 9:55 AM UTC
THE HAGGARD woman with a hacking cough and a deathless love whispers of white
flowers ... in your poem you pour like a cup of coffee, Gabriel.
The slim girl whose voice was lost in the waves of flesh piled on her bones ... and
the woman who sold to many men and saw her ******* shrivel ... in two poems you
pour these like a cup of coffee, Francois.
The woman whose lips are a thread of scarlet, the woman whose feet take hold on
hell, the woman who turned to a memorial of salt looking at the lights of a
forgotten city ... in your affidavits, ancient Jews, you pour these like cups of
coffee.
The woman who took men as snakes take rabbits, a rag and a bone and a hank of
hair, she whose eyes called men to sea dreams and shark's teeth ... in a poem you
pour this like a cup of coffee, Kip.
Marching to the footlights in night robes with spots of blood, marching in white
sheets muffling the faces, marching with heads in the air they come back and
cough and cry and sneer:... in your poems, men, you pour these like cups of coffee.
2.6k
Trump and Brexit,
Two beautiful scrolls in a sync
Singing a song of white nationalism
On the crest in the Ivy League station,
Busy Muffling the **** drop sounds
On the bowls of foot-loose beggars,
A lesson for you dark son of Africa
That tomfoolery is no defense before
The rational altar of Trump and Brexit
Riding on followership’s bitter hangover
For the Nostalgia of the waning glory,
Sired by Machiavelli, groomed by ******
Festooned by Mussolini into a Jim Crow tor,
But fault not them, that is politics or religion,
Always sweet only in full gear of power-piety,
Then Nurture your tiny ***** for no pawn earns it,
To pile your wood for pharaonic winter is obvious
In paranoia of Brexit and Trumpish megalomania
Coming in a stampede with Tigre’s thorax, only
To worry us for nothing as it is the fear of change
Truly, they are not the first clouds in the sky
Of global terror and politics of self-idolatry,
Soon to vamoose in service to their nature
Of aureate appearing to whimpering fade,
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 5:24 AM UTC
Bubblegum flavored tequila and bubblegum flavored kisses.
Drink up. Drink more.
My friend and I sat giggling on the bed across from two wolves, their fangs hidden behind blue lipped smiles.
Have another sip, the bottle is nearly empty.
My friend leaves me, and the wolf makes a gesture to his friend to follow.
I am left alone.
Blue lips kissing blue lips,
blue on my neck,
blue on my stomach,
Take these off he says,
it will be more comfortable he says.
The room is spinning and all I can see is an empty bottle of blue bubblegum flavored tequila on the floor,
And blue bite marks down my legs,
And I'm struggling to fight off his hands as my ******* are torn off,
And I am wearing a blue bra that's wires are piercing into my chest,
And inside my chest I can feel my heart pounding,
And my ribs are not protecting the pain in my heart,
I can hear my friend outside the door,
she's on the phone to a boy,
I am calling out to her but she cant hear because his paw is muffling my scream.
Just a little bit he says,
I force a blue lipped bubblegum smile and shake my head.
Do not **** off this wolf.
I manage to kick him off but I cant find my clothes.
The next morning I wake up with a bubblegum flavored tequila hang over, and blue bruises.
"Its okay though, it could have been worse."
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 9:10 AM UTC
Thick fog
muffling street lights,
confusing shadows,
smoothing edges.
Silent stretch of phantom arms,
damp embrace.
Smothering distance
veiled:
harsh city vanishes.
As wondrous as it is eerie.
****** into its vacume of nothingness.
Spellbound.
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC
I’m sitting in my car, hugging my knees to my chest muffling my cries
My parents look at me through the rear-view mirror with worry in their eyes and in unison say
“It’s not your fault”
I’m sitting in a tight room, on a small chair, in the interrogation room
The first thing that comes out of the officer’s mouth is
“It’s not your fault”
I’m standing at the bottom of my stairs with tears streaming down my eyes
In front of me is my mom, she’s consoling me and she says
“It’s not your fault”
I’m struggling to keep myself standing wrapped in a pair of arms, sobs escaping my mouth
Hugging me is my dad and he’s repeating the phrase over and over
“It’s not your fault”
I’m telling my story, my typing is slow and my hands shaky, tears are flowing down my cheeks
Jonathan texts back his support and the first thing I read is
“It’s not your fault”
I’m sitting on a couch, I’m shaking and repeating the story holding back tears
My new counselor looks at me and says the infamous phrase
“It’s not your fault”
I lay in bed, lights off, blankets on, tears streaming down my cheeks
I can’t get all the people out of my head, the memories of what happened, the phrase is stuck on replay in my mind
“It’s not your fault” “It’s not your fault” “It’s not your fault”
I repeat the phrase over and over
Under my breath and into the night where the only person who can hear is me
“It’s not your fault”
It’s not my fault and it never was.
How can it be my fault when an adult took away my childhood?
How can it be my fault when I was in fear and embarrassment?
Most Importantly
How can the people who are supposed to be there for you think it’s your fault?
How can your family disown you when it’s not your fault?
I’m not going to apologize for trying to protect myself and everyone else he’s done it to.
I will be the voice for everyone and anyone who is or has been afraid to speak up about it.
Because It’s not your fault.
Sheyla Donatt
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 1:47 AM UTC
i’m the man who’s gonna wake up next to you
slipping away, a non-starter, her leg crosses over mine,
a right sided shakedown shackle, adhesion flesh as
tough as old yellowed scotch tape sticking stuck
no escaping, a known 6:00am risk when you sleep with
a pre-advertised holy roller, twist and turner woman,
making you into an unofficial woe-man (too)
left hand grabs the lamenting instrument, the beat up iPad,
to record your enslavement, a distraction from the bladder’s
faint morn winking at you with a Cheshire grin, muffling a
chuckle, at a predicament wonderful familiar, but unresolvable
this situation, a category of life’s small measure of annoyances,
invokes the wordy title, and a write-down list of pluses and minuses,
which I’ll spare which o’witch be the longer list
poems are where you find them, under your nose,
looking out a city bus window, but sometimes like flypaper,
they just come unasked and stick to you, the separating of the skin,
like a too tight bandaid, ain’t worth the pain and freedom gained
later, share this missive and her suggestion, she will prepare an
NDA (a non-disclosure agreement) or adopt other strategies like
pushing me out of the bed without warning when i am typing ,
to witch and to wit, reply,
ah!
another poem commissioned, and
*perhaps, name change too, needed,
making love in the morning*
12/14/19
Dec 14, 2019
Dec 14, 2019 at 1:40 PM UTC
I KNOW LOVE AND INTIMACY ARENT TWO IN THE SAME BY DICTIONARY DEFINITION BUT WHEN IM STARING INTO HIS EYES AND SEEING YOUR REFLECTION I CANT HELP BUT THINK THEY ARE. WHEN IM BITING ONTO HIS SHOULDER MUFFLING MY MOANS BUT I DONT HAVE THE HEART TO TELL HIM AFTERWARDS IT WASNT BECAUSE I COULDN'T CONTROL MYSELF BUT RATHER THAT I COULDN'T KEEP FROM MOANING YOUR NAME FOLLOWED BY A STRING OF SCRAMBLED WORDS ALL FORMED BY THE SAME LETTERS USED TO SPELL I LOVE YOU I CANT IMAGINE A PLACE WHERE INTIMACY AND LOVE ARENT DIRECTLY RELATED BECAUSE IT IS ******* IMPOSSIBLE FOR ME TO BE INTIMATE WITH SOMEBODY REGARDLESS OF HOW MUCH I DRINK AND HOW MANY TIMES I SCREAM INTO MIRRORS TELLING MYSELF TO GET OVER YOU WITHOUT IMAGINING YOUR FINGERTIPS TRAVELING THE LENGTH OF MY SPINE INSTEAD OF HIS AND YOUR WORDS SPILLING INTO MY MIND WHILE WE LAY ENTANGLED IN SHEETS THAT ARE SOILED WITH BROKEN MEMORIES AND SHATTERED DREAMS. IF INTIMACY AND LOVE ARENT SECRETLY GLUED TOGETHER WITH YOUR NAME THEN HOPELESSNESS AND DESPERATION MUST BE TIED TOGETHER WITH MINE BECAUSE I HAVE NEVER BEEN SO DESPERATE TO FEEL INTIMACY YET STILL HOPELESSLY CRAVING IT FROM YOU AND YOU ALONE EVEN AFTER IT HAS BEEN PRESENTED TO ME IN A DIAMOND PLATED BOX FILLED WITH LETTERS ATTEMPTING TO MATCH THE ONES YOU USED TO SPEND HOURS WRITING
c.a.l
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 12:31 AM UTC
When the tide is high and the spray flies wild
And storm-battered cliffs loom grey,
Gulls are flung like litter in the wind
Above the tossing boats in the bay.
Now grey-gloved fingers feel from afar,
A muffling shroud of fear,
For the mist's stolen in with a furtive glance
At the lighthouse winking on the pier.
The ******* surf on the shingle shore
Rattles like smugglers' bones
Stirring the dark and dreary depths
With gales of ghoulish groans.
Wrestling waves in a turmoil twist
Their heaving muscles in mounds,
And crash to a crescendo of spittle and spray -
A rejoicing of ocean sounds!
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 3:14 AM UTC
when my boyfriend
rests his head on my chest,
he listens to my heartbeat.
I wonder if he knows
what is in the blood
that thumps beneath
my rib cage.
I wonder if he can hear
fists smacking chins
and drunken yelling
and noses bleeding
and children crying
and pill bottles opening
and ambulances blaring
and parents fighting
and skin slicing
and screams muffling.
I wonder if he can hear
the ***** music
and funeral speeches
and lives ending
and hearts breaking.
I wonder
when he listens
to my heartbeat,
can he hear
where I come from
and what I am made of?
can he hear
who I am?
and I wonder if
he could hear
all of those things,
would he still be here
with his head on my chest?
Jan 6, 2021
Jan 6, 2021 at 5:51 PM UTC
It’s all over Weak Man’s MySpace
(might as well be on the news),
it’s in his MSN name;
he has no face to lose.
He’s always been so open,
(worn his heart upon his sleeve);
up pops his Facebook status,
so emotional, every eve.
Then a phone call to his friends
(tears muffling the line).
After listening for hours,
the verdict is “It’s fine.”
His jury is so kind
(one sided sympathy).
They do the trick for Weak Man;
they are what sets him “free”
He looks through some old photos
(sunglasses and a smile)
turns up his brand new ipod,
reminisces for a while.
Up gets Weak Man from his chair,
Looks out his bay window,
and on his face a nice new grin,
who’s the strong man now?
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 6:10 PM UTC
his mouth an infusion of lust,
eagerly impinges; suckling,
tasting as a kitten to milk.
playing in titillating wetness;
sliding tongue over fevered
flesh, leaving me blushed.
arched in desire…
laid back; glaze eyed,
licking delicacy of my essence ~
as I moan sweet and primal.
savoring labials to **** entering
sharp tongued cove of pleasure
widening thighs inch by inch.
our bodies immerge ******* hips
slow dips, locking lips muffling
sighs; drenching aches in rhythm.
a symphony of wood, soaked
tangled sheets losing ourselves
in ecstasies kiss; assuaging
hungered ***** unleashed
greed explodes; drenched in
trembling aches as we bend
into supplication of us.
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 8:25 PM UTC
The open gaping mouth of glass, looking in and looking out
The light refracting across the silent room
Everything is closed off; the blinds; the doors; the boxes
The glass eyes of the house muffling the sounds of the outside world
The inhabitant grown a slave to watching
The gaping mouth of glass, looking in and looking out
Stretching lines, darkening eyes, smiles turned hollow
She'll trace the filtered light with frozen desperate fingers
Her sounds are empty and echo like a dripping water from a faucet
The tiled floor is as cold as the snow that falls. Unseen
The open gaping mouth of glass, looking in and looking out
The wind seems to be whispering words she no longer yearns for
The blood is dancing with the cold
Warming the static embrace of her head and fingers
The inhabitant closes the blinds again, hiding the quiet scene
The open gaping mouth of glass, looking in and looking out
Feb 17, 2021
Feb 17, 2021 at 11:43 PM UTC
A pair of lovers is a pair of tongues that say the word alternately, the same word, which moves from mouth to mouth.
A pair of lovers is a pair of eyes that never tired of looking at each other, lyrics to each other, closing each other, in the light and dark.
A pair of lovers are two travelers searching each other, and steadfast wait until finally found each other.
A pair of lovers is a pair of names that ask each other for a place in memory, so as not lost in the loss.
A pair of lovers are a pair of farmers who rush to the fields do not wait for the rain to die, because love is a fertile morning.
A pair of lovers is a pair of eyes in the night, there is a beautiful dangling light, and there is hope that gee, rampant.
A pair of lovers are two lines on a gurindam, longing for revenge, mutual opening and closing, harassing, muffling.
A pair of lovers is a pair of longing hands, stalling to the empty, as if to rub a love on the forehead full of sweat.
A pair of lovers are a pair of hearts at a glance, bristling, as you imagine the longing will be very torture.
A pair of lovers is a pair of interconnected books, the first book, continues into the second book, and vice versa.
A pair of lovers is a pair of books that amaze each other on the cover, because it knows very well what is written on them.
A pair of lovers are two books, writing and reading each other, without ever interchanging the pages.
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 12:09 AM UTC
How can it be that when ever I can't see you
I'm stuck so empty. **** do you even know?
I'm damming up a waterfall but I can feel the pressure building...
and I fight it, I fight it so hard and I don't even know why.
Logs come loose, currents push through, leaking
I pull my head down, using my curls as leverage to keep my face hidden.
Hidden away from these four walls, these four hovering beings.
The only witnesses. Counting my tears, muffling my sobs, but you don't know.
No one really does.
These walls unmoving, silent, still with eggshell paint, cannot comfort me. Cannot hold me. Cannot tell me that I am not a worthless person, that these feelings will fade. These walls cannot take the blade off of my thighs, soak up this crimson shame before it stains the thin gauze that makes up who I am.
A simple stumble of my thoughts can send me tumbling into reality where I sit alone.
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 1:33 AM UTC
Your reality is altered
My imaginations wild
Together, a pair so faltered
But the efforts worth our while
A blink and then a nose rub
I shift my eyes, oh no
We both know who's lucky
And who's about to go
We smile then we grin now
As the roar of pain grows loud
The kissing over shouting
Is muffling the sounds
Washing all the blood off
They're beating on our door
You help me out the window
Just like we did before
Running, Gasping, Panting
But our grins are ear to ear
How could we get away again?
We're professionals with no fear
This game is far too easy
Were loosing interest now
Should we both confess sins
Exploit, I don't know how
Bars become our wallpaper
He's doing push-ups all in drag
She marked my arm with her name
But a better life, we've never had
Aug 29, 2010
Aug 29, 2010 at 4:04 PM UTC
The inner city is relocating
every day there's new direction,
sash windows replaced by double-glazing
robust masonry sandexted,
the muffling of the bespoke past proceeds.
Yet Parties and boom music,
testify to weekend strain,
Sometimes we get more than we need !
How I have longed to reside in Catsfield
nr Pudding Hill Lane
amongst the 888 parishioners
and live with a Battersea rescue cat
a victim of London neglect,
someone's got to live with Phoenix rising, I suppose.
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 5:35 PM UTC
an anesthesia as quiet as
mustard gas
with it's creeping cloud passing through barbed wire with a magnificent yellow intangibility;
slow-moving and inevitable, unavoidable, and deathly--
--it's silent stalking is the breath of the Holy Ghost.
an anesthesia as visible as
a mute scream
from the cracked beaks of all-black birds as they croak outside the thin, thin, thin, panes;
birds ruffling and rustling like reptiles that knew better
and beat the game that the mammals never tried.
Pressing, muffling, a heat so harsh and deep I wake from my sleep, running away from the pull of a endless dark tide. So dark the breaks cannot be seen in the black gulf. I am haunted.
I am haunted.
I am haunted.
I cannot sleep, I cannot dream. There is no rub--all folly and hubris brings the death knell.
Where is the source?
To whom must I kneel?
I can feel are my bruised knees from falling prey to false idols,
but all I can hear are the creaking ropes of hung robbers.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 4:51 AM UTC
My heart cried out as she did
And bled out when her teeth sank into her arm
Muffling her screams... This kid
Desperately searching for a key
I picked up my pink and fluffy, bite sized alpaca
And ran back to her side... I can not leave her be
Wrapped in the arms of a friend
Her eyes stared right into mine, almost pleading
I hand her the alpaca... Hoping her sadness will end
"Is this important to you?" "No"
With tremendous rage, she rips off it's tags, it's clothes, and it's chain
My heart sinks as my fluffy friend is torn apart... But these feelings I stow
Because when she asked, distraught
"Is this important to you?"
I immediately thought
Yes... But not nearly as much as you.
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 6:36 PM UTC
The day you left I felt the seed
plant in my brain.
The negative thoughts of you caused it to
flourish into a ****
one that rooted itself in my eyes,
performing dance routines in my sockets,
blurring my vision every step-ball-change,
making my eyes leak the water it tried
so desperately to drink,
drowning me in my own tears,
forcing them down my oesophagus,
gorging me with my own dismal identity,
Muffling my whimpers for help,
as it deflowers my innocent happiness,
and forces it into a pit of despair.
When people walk by me in the street,
and they see the elegant,
amber dandelion,
thriving and expanding out of my ears,
down my nostrils and out of my mouth,
they compliment me on my smile that
seems to pair so well with it,
almost as if it were made for me.
But they fail to see that it is choking me,
blocking my airways,
obscuring my vision and forcing me to the ground
with every clogged breath I breathe.
I could curse the stars and heavens for cursing me,
with the wondrous obscenity that is located under my left eye,
it grows outwards,
haunting my dreams.
It's the reminder of you.
I felt disgusted,
that I still water the plant that attacks me,
But as I watched you walk out of the door I realised
that you were happier this way.
So I am happy to make myself bleed,
as I shall do so better than any king would,
but before you leave,
trim the blooming flower that blinds my eye
and take it with you.
Jan 8, 2018
Jan 8, 2018 at 6:33 PM UTC