"nostalgically" poems
My friends complain to me
They tell me their sorrows
And tear filled litanies.
I nod along and offer advice
Scowling inside.
Oh so now finally the guy you like doesn’t like you?
So no you finally get hurt?
You dare complain to me who would ****
To feel that pain to feel that love burst?
You finally feel rejected huh,
Left on the street?
Welcome to the real world *******
Welcome to the meat.
Rotting and corroding,
sick filled heart,
That we call rejection.
Beating furiously
As a thousand bulls on the range
Feel our pain.
Now you’re alive.
How does it feel when you’re lucks ran out?
But still you have fond memories.
Kisses to look back on nostalgically
What do I have…
Well I have you.
What a friend you turned out to be.
Jan 10, 2011
Jan 10, 2011 at 9:44 PM UTC
I would laugh every morning
At how the right combination
Of words would cause an ocean
Of nostalgia, big enough for me
To drown in.
Simple sentences like 'I miss you'
made me nostalgically homesick
Only now my home had two legs,
a heartbeat of her own and called me 'baby'
Sentences like 'I love you'...
Sentences like 'I love you' only seemed to create an earthquake inside my chest.
and when the earthquake had settled there were always whispers of 'I love you more'
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 4:08 PM UTC
Fall into her hollow cheeks
what is left of her helpless hands
bleed her until there is nothing left to bleed
climb upon her neck until she cannot stand
Roll your tongue in and out of her mouth
Plant your lies securely in her mind
leave her without a doubt
until herself she cannot find
So you move away and tread on water
cannot mistake the ripples
like cracked egg shells you break them
so loudly they echo in your mind
these friends once dogs
scatter off to a better find
no more loyalty in the face of fresh meat
I don't blame the hounds the smell is too strong
and the ***** too good
My fault for trying to find solace with
guitar boys in bands
I will always be a once lost sister
they speak of nostalgically when they meet another sister
someone they used to know
I havent changed; they have this place has, it is no longer home.
It just smells like it.
find bullet wounds in my guts
I am spineless
I ride myself on cowardice and pride
I have blood alcohol of 0.5
Theres nothing left but
pride pride pride
Oh Theresa you carry your bible so well
your hands haven't aged in this golden state
the orpahn by your side could use a meal though
the smell of dead animals and garbage trucks and burning
nothing like smoke that has lodged its way into your throat
you cannot un-lodge the dark black sticky stuff
its poison
gun blasts
I thought I could face it
I am a child of nowhere
Jul 9, 2012
Jul 9, 2012 at 10:45 AM UTC
The old man sighed and jammed his freshly rolled, freshly lit cigarette into the ash tray.
"Too many cigarettes before bedtime oft' keep an' old man like me up all night."
The young man put out his cigarette as well, gently weeping inside over the wasted tobacco.
"Aye, a youngin' like myself as well."
The conversation had been going slightly south ever since the young man made the mistake of asking about his counterparts first wife. "She died," he had said "One of them December o' 2012 suicides that plagued the big cities such as this."
The young man remembered how he had looked out the window at this point a bit too nostalgically.
"She was crazy," he had added "I knew it the day I slipped the ring on and I know it now."
They dropped the subject and began talking about The War, coincidentally another touchy subject.
"Most of my friends died, and if you've read your history books you know it was not courage or chivalry that killed them but the ignorance and fear that our country breathed when drafting all the young men."
He had escaped with his life, which he believed was garbage. he told of how he had hid in the sewers while the long thought peaceful Canadian's swarmed over the East coast. While his friends died he ate rats. While the war machine chugged he was cowering.
"Aye, I see how you looked at that stoke, though."
"Pardon?" The young man had been deep in thought of the conversation they had been having.
"How old are you anyway?"
"19 on the 9th."
"And still not a whisker on your chin, aye?"
"Aye."
He told of many more battles. Some he fought in, others he cowered under.
"And one, that I cowered over. I passed out in the helicopter, do-it-please-yah."
He told of his second wife, a bit more fondly and romantically than his first wife.
She had passed away not 8 months before the young man visited him for the first time and that was 6 months past.
He showed scars, from the prison camps.
He rolled cigarettes from his poke pouch.
He admitted forgetting the face of his father.
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 7:50 PM UTC
Some things are sadly poetic
Like the cougar whose boyfriend
Won’t come back outside and she’s alone
At the only table in the cold
smoking a pall mall,
Having a beer.
Some things are refreshingly poetic
like leaving the office for a bit with the boss
and going somewhere
where there are domes made of pure gold
and priests who pour milk on them from
helicopters.
Some things are interestingly poetic;
like the poet, turned novelist, turned artist,
who does landscaping to cover the spread.
Some things are courageously and nostalgically
And hurtfully poetic,
Like not seeing your family for nine years
Because the money’s good where you're at,
And plane tickets and passports are outrageous.
Some things should not be
poetic, but they are, because they are truthful
And that is verse;
like the waitress who was *****
when she cashed her check at a grocery store
after the night shift
and she wasn’t the only one in her car
when she got back.
Some things are poetry because they come
Into this world quietly
And bleeding internally,
and yet they survive
Even though their lungs are full of fluid,
And they can barely breathe.
Some things are poetry because they happened
And nothing can change that.
And because
Poetry is
unchangeable, immovable, and
grotesque, beautiful, uncomfortable, calming,
disfiguring, life-giving, ****** up,
Possibly ****** possibly a nectar
That God
or whoever the ****
allowed to be put on paper,
Possibly a way to talk about pain,
Possibly roided up with someone else’s words,
Possibly a way to talk about
the pure dream of a girl’s body
Without being a ***** *****
Poetry is love in the worst
and most unimaginable ways.
Mar 13, 2012
Mar 13, 2012 at 8:39 PM UTC
casually breaking your heart
i was walking the line,
inside those guideline confinements you marked out on the pavement in chalk all those years before.
I still see them x ray vision,
when i sneak by nostalgically,
less and less as the years go by.
I didn’t know at the time,
but it seems I was casually breaking your heart.
Gradually time heals real wounds and feelings,
exposure to the pain grows alongside the overgrowth greenery.
Picture the scenery,
and all that you mean to me,
as i’m casually breaking your heart again.
So long to the honey drip,
another quip yet to come.
We emerge ensured bacteria,
surrounded in the Somme.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 7:19 PM UTC
Busy mind, busy me.
Busy me minding my busy.
Busy, you see, minding me.
I’m busy all the time and we
Remind me of how busy
My mind used to be
For you.
Busy you, minding me
Busily rushing through, dizzy.
Dizzily stumbling around the truth
Hoping we wouldn’t be
Too busy minded to see
Still Polaroid’s in all the scenes.
Images golden and sweet
Nostalgically tasting honey
These funny memories made by Bees
Busy Bees
Like you and me.
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 7:45 PM UTC
Everyone's acting
like nothings going on,
Playing old roles
that's been over done
We've been walking down a corridor,
Now stumbling
Nostalgically at the door
Let's just open it!
Jan 5, 2012
Jan 5, 2012 at 5:48 AM UTC
Reminiscences of our future
Things to be, perhaps nostalgically
Who is wishing star's shooter?
Presently mind altering pendantically
Subconsciously forever no honesty
Someplace we never were together
Vicariously our algorithms meet
And I in my mind, with you forever
Though self-hypnosis not complete
Perpetuum delirium I greet
Infinitely brief occurrences
How we do so, what's not sought
Repress outer conscious past tenses
Hidden innermost thought
To table, it is never brought
Who could know the unaccomplished?
You and I, sheer mystery
If it weren't, I so astonished
And you and your word artillery
Slight chance we could change this
history?
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 1:35 PM UTC
Selectively mines, on conditions that I don't step out of line, don't dare ask too many questions because it makes you answer with more questions where I'm turnt into the bad guy,
the one who doesn't understand, it's all my fault somehow, it's because of me, I failed to give into to ridicules accusations or allow defeat, I was pushed past the point of breaking ,
I even lost me a few times, I've been insane for as long as I can remember but this time it's completely different, I wake to walk in fear every hours of the day,
I'm made to feel ashamed for loving you, told I'll never be as good as the one you're faithfully into someone whose not even known you not the real you not as I do,
seed after useless seeds polluted a once healthy womb, drop after drop tears fell hard on shadows passing me up,
leaving me for what may become a happy ending to this fairytale nightmare,screaming myself away flinging covers off of me, laughing as I cry out darkness, so dark and the scents nostalgically unpleasant, the many times her scents lingered on you
even in thought I conjure up the smell of lies, the musty deceit, the filthy metallic accusations thrown at me
Selectively mines when it suites your ego and when it's not inconveniencing you, I'm turnt into the bad one the person whose always to blame,
the one who
doesn't understand,
it's all my fault
somehow,
it's because of me,
I failed to give into
to ridicules accusations
or allow defeat,
I was pushed
past the point of breaking
the reason you need her - where I no longer have a place, I had no choice too, I had to move on.
Hardest things to do when your reaching for a hand but end up with straws, darkness and no help, dreams unpleasantly real, craving a touch a kiss, to be notice.
**Knock knock,
whose there?**
*No one....
Just your
Wife of 11 years.*
Always Me Ayeshah ®
Copyright 1977 - Present ©
K.A.C.L.N ©
All right reserved ®
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 4:26 AM UTC
this deep
stabbing stake
wrenched in my chest
feels so nostalgically familiar
i welcome it with open arms
despite the hurt that comes with it
i am a self *********
and shove it even deeper
until it feels like i am choking
desperate for air
the stake turns to poison
falls into the depths of my stomach
and curls up there, forcing
the contents inside out
into a porcelain bowl
3 am and nothing but a wrecked mess
pale and shivering
cheek pressed against the cool tile
of a beige bathroom floor
shaky breaths spill out from
terrified lips
frantically wondering
if they will be my last
yet day after day
my eyes seek you out
self masochism is my only talent, i say
as i watch you kiss her
bullets riddle my chest
yet i still smile and say i am fine
self masochism is my only talent, i scream
because if i am not happy
the only thing that matters is you
even if i fall at least it was for you
self masochism is my only talent, i whisper
it feels as if i am dying
with every step i take i wonder
if you hate me for what i did for you
self masochism is my only talent,
but i cannot speak no more
for i bite my tongue and drown myself in self pity
this stake that emerges from my chest
is just another heartbreak
Jan 21, 2018
Jan 21, 2018 at 4:48 AM UTC
As I drove through Vermont
where a ****** only south in Elizabeth
that I would come upon her scenery
and there it made me dream nostalgically
Where she was as divine by candlelight
and we both liked to chat at their In Corner now a pitch so shrill
that adulation was entirely blue,
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 1:10 AM UTC
Oh we loved once,
You were there,
I gave you myself
And you dissappeared
Off in the mountains of Spain.
I'm lying here,
Writing lyrics on my computer,
Singing about your apathy
And my heartbreak.
I reminisce nostalgically of the pressure of your lips,
That burning friction that aroused my desire,
Infatuated love.
Red turns blue,
Fire washed by rain,
Water mixed with tears,
River flowing endlessly
I'm a trout, going against the current.
Reaching for that dry place,
The fire flame.
It'll dry me out but I seek closure,
I seek to find the burning embers
In the cavern.
I know cavemen lurk within and will spear me,
But maybe, from death is rebirth.
From rebirth is debt,
From debt attatchment,
And I'll find that love,
That resurrected unsevered love that crosses
Multiple universes and lives.
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 7:45 AM UTC
Tell me what it is
About the trees
Dusty grey and gloomy in October
That resonates so dearly with a heart
Melancholy and somber
This rain is soothing
Like the soft white I line my walls with
A golden haze playing through my veins
And flames to match the essence
But not the calefaction
You can watch me drift into a paralysis effortlessly
A debilitation cold and lingering
Like lifeless trees awaiting the worst
Some sun
Does not change the course of nature
And I wonder what flavor of future
Nature holds for me
I feel like the trees
In the middle of a foggy autumn afternoon
Comfortable
And content
Living in the shadows of a world
Too engulfed in regurgitated highs
To contemplate or appreciate struggle
A world utterly ignorant to individuals soft spoken and inherently
Harmonious in the ways of authenticity
And naturalism and realism
We have the endurance to undergo lifelong tempests
But lack the energy to speed through
Trivial phases of Insatiable beauty
Our growth is goddess enough
Tell me what it is about the moon
Majestic and nostalgically haunting
A calming through night's terrors
And unforgiving traumas
Silver whisps of validation shine into a heart
With love looking a little too much like silhouettes
An ebony void seeping into the cracks of joy
And pain becoming an obvious pattern
And the moon is there always
Watching the molding in a resentful awe
What happened to the life of the young
Happiness looking like summer nights
And chrismas lights and vintage pop bottles
Fading into an uninviting outline
Through that type of half reality
Half fantasy version of time
Months feeling like hours
But unrewarding years all the same
Childhoods disappearing into insomnia
And I'm not very hungry
And I don't want anything for my birthday
Kind of aloof answers
We get it
We're all just tired
Tell me what it is
About the stillness of autumn
That induces a numbness in our hearts
Watching our desires blow away with the wind
One by one
They sing their remorse through aeolian howls
Uncanny and ghost like
Or the early nightfalls
That strangely feel more intimate
Than our last touch did
A type of familiarity rather profound
And lacking in any form of resentment
Maybe it's the significance in vulnerability
The stripping away of irrelevant priorities
To see the real
To see the roots
Tell me what is is
About the trees
Dusty grey and gloomy in October
That soothes a tired soul
A vagabond in search for more
And a heart a little too in love with loss
May 31, 2020
May 31, 2020 at 2:21 AM UTC
The synopsis we spend so much time writing - are for characters we no longer are. You cannot always draw lines between what was and what is and what should thenceforth be.
You cannot always make sense of your coexisting truths, you can only know that they are valid.
You cannot avoid good things because somewhere along the line, the character schematic you outlined for yourself doesn’t believe it deserves what you have.
You weren’t meant to be a story that plays out in a nostalgically pleasing way.
Life is vivid, changing, real, and unpredictable.
Unchartable.
With no plot other than the one we’re living in the moment, here and now.
We don’t even realize how often we choose our current experiences based on old beliefs we are still subconsciously holding of ourselves.
Because what we think of ourselves translates into what we allow of ourselves, and what we allow is what we experience, and what we experience is what amounts to our lives as a whole.
A whole of which is a book of stories, of which doesn’t need to seamlessly transition into one another.
Of which doesn’t have to be narrated the same way.
Of which can be as short or long or staggered or confusing or exciting as you want.
You are in control of how it plays out —
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 5:27 PM UTC
red taillights graze the asphalt,
shaving off whatever we thought
was now.
the violent bloom of neon sanguine
dissolves into the thick darkness,
the dense night sky that the moon slices through
straight onto you
(so piercingly it could spark a fire)
just as the silence envelopes me into
bitter and total solitude
I forget to let go, I forget to forget.
Time wraps itself around me and ribbons me with memories, maybe this is all you see when you look at me. Maybe you are waiting to unwrap me. Constellations uncoil and stars dance on the polished marble floor
freely.
effortlessly,
closer.
Closer now.
Just as reclusively as the moon, watching the stars occupy her room
as undefined as the horizon swallowing the foggy spheres of red light
and as nostalgically as the night
I wait for you.
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 6:44 PM UTC
We live on the same street
Sometimes when I lay down
At night
Snuggle with my pillow
In the frozen air
I hear a car **** by
And I wonder if it's you
I always
Always
Wonder if it's you
And the strange thing is
Inevitably
Sooner or later
I'll be right
And I'll be thinking of you
Driving past my house
Thinking of me
And all the mistakes we made
My hands are just as filthy
As yours
And you'll be wondering
if I'm home.
And you know what?
Maybe just once
You'll be right.
And for just a moment
We'll be thinking of each other again
Sharing a second in the dark
For a moment
We'll be nostalgically alone
These nights are so bitter now
It's so hard to sleep
With you living down my street.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 10:14 PM UTC
I am a mess. I am a ticking bomb. I am an empty broken bottle of ***** on my kitchen floor, a collection of dying stars ready to explode. I am a wallflower, an insecure bundle of fear, a shy girl who rarely talks about her feelings. I am a grey induvidual with strands of orchid ribbons frayed at the tips. A moderately pale lanky teenager whose friends are few. I am my past. A quiet girl who refused to eat, who carried razors and trinkets in her pockets, who rarely spoke but broke down and weeped constantly, who was afraid to speak out, for fear no one would listen. I am my present. A young woman who is lost in every direction, who strives to be perfect but won't actually achieve anything, who is only somewhat antisocial, who is deeply afraid to love someone, for fear they'll break her heart. I am my future. A loveless woman who has a decent career in fine arts, who goes home to her empty, stuffy apartment and nostalgically looks back at her teenage years while sitting in front of a bright screen, who secretly wakes up early on weekends to drive to her support group but gets pulled over for the ***** in her hands. I am a potential alcoholic, a misunderstood whiny teenager, an overdosed blackout, a late night trigger. I am the queen of insecurity, who sits on a throne of judgement. I am an array of colors bursting at the seams ready to bleed on the ones they loved. I am a listener who wants to comfort others but can't quite grasp the idea. I am a pair of torn lungs clogged with dafodil petals, sticky black tar, and what ifs. I am a girl crying out for mercy but my throat has been surgically removed and is replaced with quiet bruises. I. Am. A. Mess.
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 4:49 AM UTC
Hope is a thread hanging
off my ceiling like spider webs made from a spider named hopefulness.
Happiness, optimism, and vitality, intertwine forming cobwebs at the corner ends of my room...
Regret, bitterness, and hopelessness, morph into black-widows crawling on my limbs.
Injecting a poison I call mental suicide into my veins.
Why does dying feel fulfilling,
like being alive for the first time?
These spider webs take form of memories falling on my body like rain....
Leaving me nostalgically hollow, like empty pictures inside picture frames.
Hopefulness crawled into my mouth as I clenched my teeth shut.
Chewed up, swallowed, and left a misfortunate taste on my tongue.
These black-widows won't let me sleep..
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 3:08 AM UTC
Two friends and I
spend part of the night
hanging out.
It last about
two hours
till I excuse myself
feeling bad.
Cards, and anime,
once or twice a week
but I can only hang
for an hour or two
before I need to leave,
Video games
And Netflix;
Nostalgically
we reminisce
my oldest and dearest friend
but I can only sustain this
energy for an hour
three tops.
Godfather to his two kids
take them both to different movies
barely make it through the second
tell their dad I’ll be over after I take a nap
but I sleep a little past four.
I apologize, but it is not the first time
most likely will not be the last.
He gives me what I ask,
says he understands.
I still feel bad
for breaking plans.
It is just who I am.
I need the quiet time
to recharge
after a couple hours
of social interactions.
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 8:45 PM UTC
We sat
Me and him
A table between us
Its funny how we weren't
Even next to one another yet
I felt closer than I ever
Had before
We shared
A million memories
Childhood's present and past
Danced vividly, alive in his and my
Nostalgically saturated eyes
I thoughtlessly giggled
Carelessly happy
He spoke
Out words the
Colour of a beautiful rainbow
I'd never saw in him before
He smiled and for the
First time in years
I felt safe.
Nov 22, 2017
Nov 22, 2017 at 3:54 PM UTC
Lips kiss carefully
leaving me craving for
the carvings dug deep
within your undeveloped brain
I found carnations
pink as your Italian cheeks
left on my dusty dashboard
in the midst of summer
when I climbed back in heels over head
after the jeep flipped over
There they lay
limp and lonely
telling me stories stuck within their thin throats
and warning with their petals pointed towards the sun
but I’m bleeding nostalgically from my nose
licking the beet red bath from my upper lip
speaking with no teeth left
salty says my tongue but
I see bubbled blotches of someone
I used to call “baby”
Maybe I taste the bittersweet bouquet of
stale rain after all,
Maybe I can hear the clouds gaining weight
when I listen close
Jul 15, 2016
Jul 15, 2016 at 8:15 PM UTC
a man carrying his dog stops to kneel.
for my distance from him, I am disallowed
any inquiry that would flower.
he sets the black dog in front of him in the manner I have imagined god
at the simple chore of placing those first shadows.
I am holding my son nostalgically. was my tooth would ache
and his tooth would ache
and both would be things I knew and he didn’t.
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 10:29 PM UTC
You are earth but I can’t feel the sky closing in
You haven’t seen my face but marked like mine
I’ve seen your hand in my sunglasses
And that’s just enough fight for me
Calling out does no good for petulant screams
I can’t believe you’ve never seen the sea
I know now you’ll never again want me
Ghosts in my hall and monsters in my soul
I couldn’t betray them if I tried
Silence is no sorrow I’ve ever known
Gravel and rock in my path wear and weather
All of my best feet have jaded holes
Lies untouched are never unspoken
Filth and fondness grow clandestinely
Gazing nostalgically and infuriatingly far
Find my ever mutable, lost, and final role
Past is no present I’d imagine living again
You are earth but I’m not closing in
Apr 18, 2012
Apr 18, 2012 at 11:47 PM UTC