"niceties" poems
I used to hate your healthy avocados...until I had one
Not that your coffee tasted superior to my tea
But what's taste when you season mine with gun powder?
Yes, In case you did not detect
There is a lot of hate in this one
Call me aggressive and spiteful
Whilst holding your rifle
They say hate begets hate begets hate begets hate
So for you to understand
I put aside my ignorance and try to walk in your shoes
OK, let's start:
A lot of trees
Beautiful sky, delightful breeze
A rich land where tenants are a many and they shun the proprietor
I know I promised to be nice
But let's face it for that white picket fence, someone had to pay the price.
Start again:
Sunny coasts
Bacon, eggs on toast
Walk the dog in the park, life is not all that hectic here.
To make it clear, running out of coffee is my basic fear.
Flat stomachs
In fact, six packs!
Cupboard full of knick-knacks
and plenty of time to kick back and relax
Never-ending supply of niceties
Calm waters
Long walks along the harbor
and perhaps a tall pint of lager at the pub
Throw some juicy ones on the barbie mate!
Who cares if 6.2 mil in Somalia are starving mate?
You say to me:
"survival of the fittest, Darwin mate"
"It's so difficult to fit in" I say; so tiring MATE
Did I say that right?
I'm Mohammad, as James in a play called "Aussie Catch Up"
and I don't know how to play that part
What else can I say? they gave me a voice (although in English)
between the self deprecating migrant and the middle eastern rag head, the gave me a choice
And by the way my boss tried to anglicize my name
Said Sebastian had a nice ‘ring’ to it
Well go ahead, march to your colonial tune and have me sing to it
Oh healthy avocados, you're too ripe for my liking
Maybe I'm just used to a bit of rawness in my diet
To be honest
I have a heavy heart, a dark one
Maybe to reconcile, you should take a step
a very very very very very very long one
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 6:00 AM UTC
It wasnt long before the baluster flapped somewhere in the distance and Icarus knew how old he had been on the day of his birth. For whatever reason, the snow capped cappuccinos he had willfully destroyed in a heated debate on fiscal policy had him beginning again. Why was there always a beginning where there was an end? Fur traders used to circumnavigate the Hudson's Bay of his humanity when he was young, sharing drinks and fire water whiskey like it was all an H2O ready for the soul search. Sadly, many ended up in Hitlers concentration camps weeks after the **** invasion of Poland, about a month or so before the fall of the Roman Empire. Beginning with a last breath, Icarus strode off the plank with a new-found confidence unnatural in his niceties of long past. It was as if 1 minute and 35 seconds was enough to dish a clamouring populace onto the dinner table before the fat step-father gleefully orders
everyone to 'dig in, everyone!'
Cancelling everyone's appointment with Dr. Pardon meant the gaining of a key participatory certificate in El Dorado, and the gold lingering in dusty sun-beams was sifted for the taking. Some got rich, the rest got miserable. The rest used to imagine the gold, staring at ivory towers and lottery tickets, apple cores lording over old public servant applications near the city hall drain pipes as the modern world collapsed into a flash-mob image of Ronald Reagan.
Icarus was a sliver of duskish light flittering a top distant windowsills, all cupped in an intentional light because happiness was as possible as sadness. Not that considering either would make you either.
Icarus slept as his wings incinerated at the first glimpse of the solar system. He now believed every single proverb the old ***** slumbers had whispered their children as they woke to find themselves adults.
In the beginning he found the beginning beginning again. It made him feel however you wish. Both were just as possible. Both were just as much a jazz configuration as a smooth and easy guitar rift.
Ahha!
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 5:31 PM UTC
Perhaps they expect a pool
offerings of rare coffee
from Ethiopia
Instead of
a view of hydrangea
plus pale ale in mugs
Conversation entails
irrelevant niceties
of trivial events
Smiles exchanged
chairs rearranged
subtlety reigns
Another chance
to touch humanity
willfully aborted
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 9:50 AM UTC
Hands, plural to make us one
Near the end of August the heat told me to stop
It's vicious, wanting you
No milder than the jaws of winter
And every person not you cuts
On the street, our wounded lips
Before October and on silver screens
Your face projected on everything
You wanted the cinema, I thought
So I spoke fumbled niceties at your door
But the camera was stuck in my eye
And the words I scripted shifted into your mouth
The breaths I take, the breaths I shout
Your smile corroded in the rain
Your endless longing,
My endless shame
It keeps me in this thought
That what I feel has no name
But the credits crept up with the dregs of December
Money is noisy, and I liked your quietudes
But the snow will blanket my blood-buoyant bright
And I will drown into night
To lay by you until dawn
To lay by you until you are gone
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC
Here, have a cookie
Or really anything
Sweet.
To make up for my lack
Of niceties.
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 5:06 AM UTC
When I was stationed at Enoggera, as a young platoon sergeant with 9 RAR, a Merino ram was offered, and accepted, as the Battalion mascot. The diggers called him Stan. The brigade RSM of the time was outraged because he viewed our adoption of Stan as a direct and improper play on his surname, which was Lamb. And, of course, he being as bald as a coot the diggers called him Curly. As I recall, Stan was a lively, ill disciplined beast with little respect for the niceties of service life, hence:
When Stan-the-Ram met Curly Lamb a fracas did ensue.
For Curly stood beside the road just outside B.H.Q.;
His Sam Brown belt so shiny, his pace-stick 'neath one arm,
The RSM of our brigade was used to war's alarm.
But Stan, although a raw recruit and barely chewing grass,
Unimpressed by Curly, charged and knocked him on his ****
"It's contact rear" cried Curly, as he struggled to his feet,
Turned about with arms akimbo his assailant for to meet.
Meanwhile Stan's poor handler looked ready to desert
'cos Stan-the-Ram whilst in his care had Curly eating dirt.
I guess he felt embarrassed, which was natural, wouldn't you?
If involved in such a fracas outside of BHQ.
Your questions are but natural and in answer I can swear,
As these events unfolded I was marching off the square.
Having Just dismissed defaulters I was feeling rather mean
But my despondency was lifted by that ****** glorious scene.
And in the mess that evening rang out laughter clear and loud,
For I'd told them all my story and of Stan we felt quite proud.
There was Sutherland and Massingham, and Peter Cowan too
And Tim Daly called **** Gordon from his room, well, wouldn't you?
And when **** heard my story he poured port into a glass,
And we drank a toast to Stanly putting Curly on his ****
Mar 10, 2019
Mar 10, 2019 at 1:45 AM UTC
While I return and slow down
to the classics;
the film analog cameras,
vinyl records,
typewriters,
silent movies,
worn-out pocketbooks,
and other novelties
of the old world charm...
I also enjoy the convenience
of the contemporary;
my phone's one-click camera,
spotify premium,
notes app,
netflix,
kindle,
and other niceties
that the here and now has to offer...
And while I rev back
to the retro and vintage,
I also race forward
to the excitement and danger
brought about by the internet,
of chatting with a familiar stranger.
of exchanging laughters in electronic.
of feeling emotions from a vague, distant, technical, difficult source.
Oh, the thrill and tragedy of technology!
May 7, 2022
May 7, 2022 at 8:22 AM UTC
through graceless steps and cleavaged twirls,
girls shared repost with other girls,
and the upper lips of the ladies curled,
as the married men all swooned.
they got bored all too readily,
so drunk their liquid steadily,
synthetically coloured blue and green,
she'd seen the latest advert.
and the boys in their polo shirts,
drunk and high on testosterone,
they took pictures on their camera phones,
and called each other gay.
the male claws began to itch,
for the feeling of **** and the feeling of ****
and the dancefloor was badly lit,
so they knew they had a chance.
sweaty hands and fluorescent teeth,
moved through crowds to find their niche,
and the necessity for niceties,
was shortly overruled.
uninvited gropes from behind,
on bellies of those who looked like they might,
be easily persuaded to bed that night,
without heavy rhetoric.
then came the bartering stage,
those awkward five minutes in which to arrange,
the consummating details, the exchanging of names,
the reality of night.
there were many things to factor in,
tales of lost friends still waiting,
I said we'd share a taxi home,
and she can't walk alone.
and after the barter is all complete,
the scorned pick fights in the street,
the end draws near finally,
so the masses all go home.
some walked home solemnly,
whilst others share the company,
of people they'd knew they'd never see,
after the night is through.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 10:34 AM UTC
The funny thing about life is
You try and try to be a good person
A good neighbor
In a good mood
With only good things to say
But then life intervenes
With the landlord screaming
About uncollected bills
That shouldn’t exist in the first place
Of bosses ranting
That you’re lucky to be working for them
When they’re running the company into the ground
And your only compensation is a poor paycheck
That you take home to your family
So that you can afford to stay under your roof
For another day longer
And put some food on the table
For another night longer
And let’s not forget about the conservatives
Screaming at the top of their lungs
That we’ve lost our way
And that only they can save us
By bringing us back to how it used to be
News flash grenade explosion
**We are the way we are
Because we were the way we were
For far too long**
And then the conservatives parading
Their hidden agendas like they’re liberals
Pay more taxes than the government is worth
A system that’s failing to support it’s own weight
Should have it’s leg kicked out from beneath it
To quicken the fall and rise of sovereignty
Every day is a new day
And it’s how you deal with the obstacles
Placed in front of you that matters
But the matter of banging your head
On the brick wall
Trying to placate the niceties that we were
Brought up to hold so dear to our hearts
Gets out of control
I’ll grab the sledgehammer
And bash the wall down
I’ll walk around the wall
And find my own path
The one least occupied
By the masses
Mar 6, 2012
Mar 6, 2012 at 5:53 PM UTC
You’ll find them in all such establishments,
(Be they graceful small-town former Victorian homes,
Or cinderblock edifices mindful of some campus multi-faith center)
Sitting in the basement, cheek-to-jowl
With moldering burial records and banking statements,
Yellowed newspaper clippings, faded prayer cards
Small squared-off boxes hastily tabbed together,
Ostensibly temporary containers which have acquired
An unintended and wholly unwelcome permanence.
The whys and wherefores of their subterranean placement
A mixed bag of foible and outright foolishness:
Unresolvable squabbles concerning possession and burial,
Families that skipped out on the bill, leaving mom behind,
Cases of outright not giving a good-goddamn.
And so they remain, in lieu of repatriation and redemption,
To sit for something akin to perpetuity in some cases
(Members of the profession resolute in their respect
For the dignity of life,
Though their sincerity enjoys less unanimity)
While others wait for mass burial
Once legal niceties have been satisfied,
While still others, in care of firms not so scrupulous
About crossing their t’s and dotting their i’s,
Are flung, albeit somewhat surreptitiously, out the back door,
The remains to take flight if the grass is dry and the wind is brisk,
Otherwise to be left to the vagaries
Of curious birds and creped soles.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 11:28 AM UTC
I was disappointed when the electricity came back.
The magic of flicking a switch and Lo! There is light! was doubly
triply
exponentially
more magic than it had ever been.
To watch television, to cook on the stove, to turn on a heater - magic, marvellous, miraculous.
Yet I was disappointed.
That's the end of the apocalypse camping, I thought, sadly. I will miss these days.
Do you appreciate the wonder of a switch that makes all the luxuries you consider necessities work?
Do you understand the glory that is a tap that turns on and provides clean drinking water? Or even more glorious, that allows your toilet to flush?
Appreciate these things. They are not little, they are significant.
Without them life is different.
Have you ever walked to a well and returned with water, to drink, to clean yourself with, to wash your clothes?
Do you know how much water it takes to wash clothes, or how HEAVY water is?
I spent a mere two weeks without electricity, and perhaps
another week with no running water
and each day was consumed with those tasks
I normally considered arduous
but which took so little effort, I came to realise,
when compared to a more third world lifestyle.
"I want a drink of water - I shall turn on a tap."
versus
"I want a drink of water. Are the water bottles full? Has the water truck been yet? Or must I walk to the well? Where is a clean vessel? There are none, and no hot water to wash them in."
Without a thought I turned on switches, ran water from the tap, and consumed all the niceties of a life so **** rich
in luxury I took for granted.
Two short weeks without taught me to appreciate what I have.
Some days, now, I forget to marvel
at my easy, privileged life, but I make myself remember
apocalypse camping,
which was challenging and difficult, but satisfying in a way my life no longer is.
I miss those days, I value their lessons.
I would mutter and complain at carrying water back to my house, at cooking over the open fire - this was my life for two weeks.
Not forever, not always,
two weeks only.
Appreciate what you have, for many live a life without, and your own life, already so wealthy,
will be richer for your gratitude.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 1:52 PM UTC
To be alone
Is to be complete
They say
No man is an island,
But isn't everyone?
We're all stranded on islands of self-interest
Connected to others
Through flimsy bridges of temporary alliances
Mutual interests and gain
The more connected we are
The more isolated we become
Pictures and blog posts
Nothing more than facades
Anomie is the word of the decade
The individualistic
The self-sufficient
Is reviled
For refusing to play the game
To participate
In the masquerade
To jump through the hoops
Of social niceties
Somehow
To sit and squirm
Through ******* contests and gossip
To flap and flutter
In the howling gales of hysteria and contrived laughter
Is preferred over
Sitting alone
Revelations and epiphanies
Splayed out before oneself
Playing solitaire with one's reflections
In peace
Baby showers and mixers
Celebrated
The impenetrable silence
Of one's hermitage
Eschewed
The people-pleaser
Preferred
Over the lone wolf
The team player
Over the independent agent
I suppose
In an age of open doors
A locked one
Raises a few eyebrows
They'd knock and rattle
Then bang and kick and shout
Before leaving in a huff
Authenticity is now the rarest commodity
Valued over saffron and platinum
So people settle instead
For knockoffs
Alcohol-plied sincerity is better than nothing
A China-made Rolex still looks better --
Flashier, if nothing else --
Than a Timex
No man is an island,
They say,
Smirking
Frowning
Clucking with disapproval
Peering behind perfectly schooled masks
Nary a hair out of place
Looking at me
In all my artless imperfection
Paper, pen, and cigarettes for company
Well
Which of us here
Is truly alone?
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
To speak without any editing
Edging towards the ending
To talk without a purpose
Proposing nothing new
Just spewing modern niceties
As modern nice people do
To speak with no intention
Yet live by your words
I wonder do you have to yell
Or will the whispers be heard
To speak
Tongues touching syllables
Tasting the virility of what language is
Links to the past and present
But push us to a future
Were we have no clue
Of what we will do
To speak as I do
As I choose to
Be sociable with you
Let it all hang down and out
Let us speak to figure it out
Let us speak until breath
Becomes non-syllabic death
And we can speak no more
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 10:17 AM UTC
Today entails a small bit of
day drinking
I'm clad in a string bikini
and a chilled beer bottle
pressed to my lips.
It feels fantastic
to get a little drunk
at 2 in the afternoon
And yet, it also kind of
numbs the Pain,
the Pain of feeling
like a complete failure
or vapid
or inadequate
in life, love, and green
I'm dwelling on my
most personal desires:
a sweaty yoga practice,
deep beats pounding through my Body,
ironing white dress shirts,
the feeling that I am a piece of art:
you can look but you do not touch Me
Niceties tend to fly out the window
when the tiniest bit of liquor
enters My Temple.
Completely aware of
my role as
sugar, spice, everything nice;
its a balancing act
between the good and bad
coursing through my veins
There is nothing nobler
than being Good,
but sometimes it is
Oh. So. Good
to be Bad
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 5:22 PM UTC
I’ve always hated
That I wasn’t perfect
I writhed in agony
Hating myself for what I am
Human
My family wasn’t perfect
My friends weren’t perfect
I wasn’t perfect
Nothing was perfect
But constantly I was confronted
With this image
This abstract concept
Of what I was supposed to be
And it was always
A model of perfection
The perfect life
The perfect lie
And I believed it
They always had good intentions
To give me my “best life”
But no one lives like that
We have so many flaws
Our best life cannot be
A perfect life
But no one told me
They made it look
Like they all could do it
But all I was seeing
Were masks and games
To hide their imperfection
So I learned to hide mine
Behind smiles and niceties
But all the while
I was dying
From the
Lies of perfection
Mar 23, 2019
Mar 23, 2019 at 4:19 PM UTC
"good morning"
a distracted nod
the door opens
"have a nice day"
a preoccupied glance
the elevator closes
"have a nice weekend"
an abstracted smile
the register clatters
oh the niceties of the ersatz existence
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 9:24 AM UTC
I want to see where nice words are used on young ladies.
Damned Rome of rude-bred heights from the balcony of the city of dynamite. The villagers sacrifice their seven pounds of worry, and sleep like children in caves of textile reactors. Souls packed in coins and gasoline sin are sold hot at the bazaar on a University campus in America. What the **** do these lambs do in societal gardens? What the hell do pets know watching letters drizzle from the clouds? Parcel dreams scattered on foster children--I want to know where all our words for niceties went when we paid the women to be young.
Devils make knees slick
barbwire anacondas bless our country
write a laugh--write a song--and we will all work it out
We--used as a rapier to categorize the salt in vigorous blood flow--the bells, the bells of centuries worth of midnights. I--the edited cobble in roads that precipitation breaks in stride. Hearing the rambles of lucky men in the next room, but I know young ladies don't kiss and tell to friends they find effeminate, they rupture and explode. And laugh. And laugh. And laugh. And laugh with squeaky voices as true as poetry. Now they mumble till they are paid.
But you--are no ********** just an empty glass with chunks of broken accents skipping deadlines in life, for new deadlines in life. Abstract puzzle pieces resemble therapy that burns the interrupted wick in--you.
But as for--them--they--or others--delirium commercializes whispers aching the back of their tonsils till there is no relief, but coin to pay for more coin that will pay for more coin. Relief is in another language they refuse to learn because they are arrogant.
Cats scowl at one in the morning for attention, nails anchored in carpet, the rest of us are tired by the week of spending. They want more, more, more--till the gates in your eyes open.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 1:04 AM UTC
An ancient river
an old London chapel
& our last summer rays
of such an august Sun
The promise of niceties...
laughter, drinks, ice cream
& perhaps a softly stolen kiss
Fill my hand with yours.
If you please;
a pleasant walk with you
up on Tower Hill
© Qwey.ku
Aug 31, 2019
Aug 31, 2019 at 4:30 AM UTC
I seek
the whole
pitch
and whine
the petty
grasping
ridiculous
insecure
******* mess
behind the
lyrical niceties
but you know that
you get me
we ride the same
pendulum
apex
of light
nadir
of night
and like me
you're still learning
to speak
sometimes
words die
in your mouth
never make it out
resting roundly sweet
on your passive
tongue
bitter truth
I would forgive
before I'd see you
swallow
Better to risk offending than let your truth die unsaid.
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 11:05 AM UTC
Mother tried to be a decent mother
in the weeks ahead of Christmas.
she’d fill the month with Advent calendars,
finger countdowns and splotchy
un-successful attempts to create a
joyful face with lipstick.
In hindsight maybe the weight
of her guilt was especially heavy during
the one month of the year that God
could not be ignored.
Its different now.
God is no longer privy to X-mas,
and guilt is not an appropriate emotion
to be taught to children.
I was more afraid
of mother during Christmas
than at any other time of the year,
all that fake smiling and brittle kindness,
her strings could snap at any moment,
and you knew they would
you just didn’t know when,
or how, or on who.
“It always snows at Christmas!”
mother said as she reached
out my bedroom window to
gather a handful of fresh powder.
She’d bring it in to show me
and I’d wince and cringe because
her movements were erratic
and unpredictable
like a puppet on strings, her
arms swinging wildly
from side to side,
knees jerking up and down
across the floor
she’d always end up
spilling snow on my bed.
I think the snow helped numb
what it was that she hid,
helped her hide behind
that painted wooden smile,
if only for a little while.
My memories of snow
are quite vivid.
I’d shovel snow into
tall piles, taller than I stood
then build tunnels
to the other side.
I jumped off of rooftops
into huge snowdrifts
and come up with
sleeves full of snow.
My friends and I would
latch onto bumpers of
slow moving cars
and “skeech” through
the neighborhood,
or careen down toboggan
runs on our feet,
face planting
at the bottom where
the ice gave way
to fresh snow.
When I turned 16
we’d hide Old Style Beer
in snow drifts,
build ice forts in the forest
and spin donuts in
St. Mary’s parking lot with
open beers in our laps
and never get caught.
As I see it now
all of these things
helped ease the
burden of confusion
with my mother’s
dis- interested
wooden puppet
smiling,
but her guilt ridden
attempts at
Christmas niceties
were never going
to be enough
to keep me from
becoming
dysfunctional.
You see its all about the snow.
A life embraced by snow.
snow cut into lines,
Encapsulated snow,
spoon melted snow,
any kind of snow
to numb the extremities
and freeze the nerve endings,
a temporary escape from
the Christmas gift
of mother’s guilt.
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 8:52 AM UTC
You started to leave as the cold nose of Winter
bulldozed through Guy Fawks skies
and Christmas silent nights.
Your nearness was a far plane
of slumped reflection, deliberation,
contemplation of your plight, so mine.
Suspicion stirred in morning tea
and pre-work niceties.
You watched me when I turned my back,
your head buried in the ‘Daily Mail’,
too close to the print.
Denial hugged me a long while, dismissing
the cosseted phone and obsessive hygiene.
Giggling-head days, home-fire Wednesdays,
pledges in sweat daze
all rolling around
on a distant carousel.
I hoped you could see,
but hope could not override
your turning tide.
Your eyes begged for the ‘talk’,
so you could bring it up
like rancid *****
Coward
You left in a yellow haze with the daffodils,
and I hated you
with all the love anyone could imagine.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 4:59 PM UTC
your smile sunk its teeth into my brain
and I can’t get them out
I think about you in that way all the time,
as hard, little pieces of the bigger picture,
embedded in different parts of my memory
that appear when they please
I feel your arms around me before sleep hits me
I see your smile when you tell me good news
I hear your aching heart beating when you’re upset
these are the things embedded in my brain like teeth
the smile you buried in my memories
I’m ******* terrified
every piece of you I find in my life is just a small remnant of you
but every piece of you embedded in my skin, my hair, my personality
leaves a hole when you take it away
you’re quickly replacing my framework,
filling my bones with your mannerisms and laughter and niceties
and breathing life into me so that just that smile can warm every inch of me
but what happens when you’re gone?
what happens when your laughter leaves and bitterness breaks in and rips holes in the whole person you made me?
when sorrow pours into the gaps, do I suddenly sink and drown under its weight?
does it attack what’s left of me?
do I crumble until I am two inches tall, the person I was before you built me up?
there are pieces of you embedded in my memories that will leave holes when they’re gone
I try not to think of all the ways I will try and fail to replace them
even stitches leave scars
I am ******* terrified
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 1:00 AM UTC
I have an extra dry sense of humor
up here in the most sarcastic city in the country
Down south, they just can't figure it out
They think I'm dumb or
should be institutionalized for the things I say that
they just take to heart with 6 grade reading levels at best
There's no forethought, let alone critical analysis afterwards
Down there
you say what you mean or paint on fake niceties
You leave all the **** talking for when this or that person
leaves the room
There's no cold distance
Strangers will ask where you go to church
No respect that folks may have better things to do
A panopticon of middle school gossip and small talk
so you're never alone
I wish my brother never left
He came back and won't talk to me
after I gave his complaining back to him
in too clever remarks
In Carolina, you're lucky if they get it
on the drive back home
Jan 26, 2024
Jan 26, 2024 at 3:43 PM UTC
You held me closer to your skin than felt comfortable
Come on we are only passing strangers
There's no need for all these niceties
Pass me a cigarette and be gone with you
The moon is high and I'd rather be alone with my thoughts of who you might of been
**Sober for a change
I wipe your sweat from my brow
Too close brother god dam you**
Did I say you could come that close
**Pushing through my barriers
There's such a thing as personal space my friend**
Do I want to join you for a drink
I don't think so
Yep I may have called you friend but that doesn't make you my family
My brother
Hell in just a moment I'm joining the other wanderers on the road to oblivion
**Until then speak your truths
Tell no lies**
***I see you hide behind eyes of ice cold blue
The hues are amazing
But they aren't enough to catch this heart
Not on a night like this anyhow***
*Ok so your cultured and refined
Behind your grey shaggy hair and your hair spiked chin*
Your breathing is shallow upon my skin
***Why do you try to touch my soul
Do you really think there's anything left
I've been bleeding on these god dam paper sheets for years now
An obscure poetess from the other side of town
No body notices me
Not until now that is I guess***
**You deal
Ill win
I always do**
You stand silhouetted in the light of the window
I'm sure you were once a handsome soul
Something like loneliness lines your brow
A feeling of need arises in my chest
*You are an angel of darkness
And so I let you stay
You may wander my corridors a while if you desire
What be it you desire my way wood friend
You touch so much more*
And words will not give away the secrets our bodies hold
*Sleep fast on pillows of Egyptian cotton
Crisp white sheets
Blood stained
By my poets hand*
**Tomorrow you will run wild
Beckoning for your freedom
The silhouetted man with a need for a connection**
*Spit me out quick
Before your words fail you*
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 7:57 PM UTC