"nighting" poems
Head spinning
Feet tapping
Mind wrapping
Thought trapping
Idea capping
Desperation mapping
Quality lacking
Spaces filled
Time killed
Not thrilled
Answers willed
Nails biting
Cheaters sighting
After all nighting
Wrongs not righting
Feel like flighting
Brainpower waning
Lack of knowledge maintaining
Wisdom draining
Composure regaining
Test failing
Arms flailing
Letters mailing
Face paling
The big unveiling
No more prevailing
The action entailing:
My annihilation
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 5:04 AM UTC
This dream of consciousness will not end alarmingly,
though it leaves lines on Billo's face
smushed against pillows placed
strategically
The strategy?
To look tragically well put-together
to get her to lie in the bed I made hastily
Well - I say this, but the presentation's done tastefully:
Big blanket tucked
IN with style
OUT of luck since I've not been...
...touched in a while
I grinningly smile - it'll all be ok
(I'm not much for physical lovin' anyway)
...beyond hugging and kissing and getting to stay
for the night curled up close whispering "sweetie, sleep tight"
I've not got these dreams, but I've some aspirations
No sweetie, I'm not sweaty,
- I've no *** persperation
My room is too cold with the wind's drafty laughter
My bed is too cold since I've not quite yet asked her
to lie with me and lie to me that she is the one
and I will be won over,
over-nighting done right
...
Left to the imagination, day-dreaming's my vision
Pigeon-holing my gamboling gambling rambling
Not quite in shambles, see?
I get it: regretting is letting me settle into misery
"Mysterio the (not-so) great" is dutifully bound to wait
Patience is love doctors' medication - "Just wait!" they prescribe
and in time their patients' trepidation will end.
Inner peace outer space and I pace.
(without her face to grin at)
synapse fired
for nodding off on the job
**** awake, up for work
Woken, spurred
on toward spoken word
March forwards - four words
Reverse reverie never hurt
"But I don't dream!" I think
Does it stop me from trying?
From lying to and by myself,
in doubt in a drought
Good - buy myself a drink:
rootbeer, two shots of espresso
let's go, caffeine-Billo tag team
on the rocks, off the clock
(talk about self-deprecation, why don't you)
Chew on the cubes with contextual frustration
The drink's gone, I think long and hard at long last
ARRRG I yell in a fit mentally I'll
sleep on it.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 4:35 PM UTC
Do you ever glance at your watch?
Like never?
... Yeah it shows
Explains your bad timing
Your selfish ways
Your nonchalance
Your all nighting
Your need to play
Your childish taunts
Explains why you are here and there
In and out
Everywhere
Except at the house
Explains why you can't explain
"I am busy" are the only words that you can say
When dinner is preparing
The chicken is turning
Pasta is churning
Bread is burning
It's you who I'm learning
I fix my plate 30 minutes early
Knowing that you gonna be late
8 turns into 8
Night turns into morning
And you out by noon because of something suddenly alarming
But whenever my call pop up you steadily ignoring
In a relationship where one person live by eastern timing and the other is 3 hours behind
How do they ever spend time?
When one person speaks English and the other speaks German
How do they ever rhyme?
When one person is alone and the other is accompanied
How do they ever bind?
And if I'm never on your mind
Why don't I nevermind?
And stop letting time roll by
Every minute
Your'e never in it
Every second
I always come second
And every time the long hand reaches 12
I'm always by myself
I might buy you a digital watch to see if that helps
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 5:38 PM UTC
there is nothing. And the wide night seems to toil outward into dark space of cut with just a strand of light it peers gauntly through rain up climbing with difficult precise silence seems to wander into the nooks and crooks its deep blanket of void stirs from which not a whisker or a claw of the fast cat sleep into nighting with deep purring of smooth body.
(how many more totally unimportant ultimately priceless nights will pass like from me out of lips and fingers into nothing without random seeming jounce of colorless minutes?
i can't know wouldn't want to even if tomorrow was the last sublime gasping of complete mundanity.
washing a dish is like that.
flush with hot hands in water drinks around fingers and lather coils in blossoms of vibrant tininess.
i cannot say i love Anyone or Anything perhaps i can love the rust of an old dying city the gable of a church girl and the collapsed rushing of immanent life.
or maybe i'll press into days and nights my body to be of some excellent stuff most economic.
nots now the time to think of such a thing two hours to wake from going work in a boring old amazing flash of perhaps the last moment you will live.
a poem doesn't mean a **** thing and
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 12:09 AM UTC