"overhearing" poems
I was on my way to a party
Dressed in heels and a crop top
When I entered the corner store
To purchase some snacks
And on my way to the cashier
A man standing in an aisle
Browsing through peanuts
Glanced up and stopped mid-search
When I clicked past him
And proceeded to uncomfortably stare
I walked into the gas station
Wearing dark wash jeans and a v-neck
With my best friend at 2 AM
When two drunken men stumbled in
And began eyeing us up and smirking
My friend leaned in to me and whispered,
"I'm really scared."
Overhearing her, one man elbowed the other
And with a smile on his face taunted,
"Oh no, we're scaring them."
I was at the laundry mat one night
Wearing shorts and a baggy shirt
When a middle aged man across the room
Kept gawking at me from over the washers
Uneasy, I went outside to smoke
To which he stood at the window
And kept a close eye on me
I called a friend and stayed on the phone
Because I was afraid to go back
And get my clothes alone
I stepped out of my vehicle
In my sweatpants and flipflops
To grab some cigarettes quick
When a white bearded man
Was already at my heels
"Hey, how're you honey?"
I quickly replied, "fine".
And hurried into the store
Without looking back
It seems like every time I leave the house
It doesn't matter what I'm wearing
It could be "provocative" or a burlap sack
I always end up feeling threatened
Heartbeat in my ears
Cold sweat on my back
So don't blame it on my outfit
Don't blame it on my actions
Because I'm not asking for it
I just want to be left alone
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 8:34 AM UTC
It is all I ever wanted
With you
To sit and wait
In this crowded space
Waving in vain
To the waiter in distress
And I crack up
To calm you down
No need to fret
His smile tender
Once we place our order.
Between bites
And overhearing
The couple beside
I bask
In delight
Eating
My obsession
While you carry on
With the conversation.
I pass by
Quickly catching this sight
I stand outside
At at loss it is not I
Savoring sushi at your side.
I walk past all I ever wanted
With you
You sit inside
Reveling in my sushi
With another one than me.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 1:43 PM UTC
born in 1975
40 odd beat
song now old
enough to buy a cold
drink
cold drink
We're hitting funk levels that shouldn't even be possible.
recommended algorithm
algorithm
recommended
for your ears only
We're hitting funk levels that shouldn't even be possible.
come band
funk funkier,
summon Brown
back from the dead.
Fibonacci's rabbit on steroids
what’s your count
Feel this beat
Fibonacci's rabbit on steroids
0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55,
seek me the vodoooo advice
quick turn to 23/16
(3+3+3+3+3+3+3+2)
probably overhearing
overhearing what is truly not there
it's my juju baby
over the speed limit
sound so slow
150 BPM
we’ve gone over the speed limit
billion BPM
and a
beat
direct line to NASA
monitored funk levels
from outer space
audio crackcocaine
legal be it \
this
speed deep beat
band come
come come
now
funkier,
Brown sermons
back from the dead.
James loves
brown brow
tall dark seregeti
beat
Mandingo beat
Khoudia Diop Repeats
If they got any funkier,
they'd summon James Brown
back from the dead
Fibonacci's rabbit on steroids
what’s your count
Feel this beat
Fibonacci's rabbit on steroids
0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55,
Warning: Do not turn the speed up to two.
YOU WILL BE OUT FUNKED.
double WITCHED
If speed is increased, wash eyes
Khoudia Diop Repeats
wash your eyes
ice cold
water
speed of sound
quicken your pace
release your soul
seek me
the vodoooo advice.
levels of funkiness been
theoretized
never imagined
achieved
born in 1975
Dumisaning
40 odd years ago.
song now old
enough to buy a cold
drink.
drink
seek me
thee vodoooo advice.
I have beaten about
this beat before.
Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 11:22 AM UTC
The days have blended into a poetic haze
of mismatched syllables, hanging participles
accented with a hint of discourage.
My purpose use to be therapeutic.
Each rhyme I wrote was a comma in my run-on sentences.
And for awhile, I could breathe. Each breath became less wheezy, uneven and strained.
After I gathered enough air, I dared to speak.
Me? How could I even have the audacity to think!?
To my disbelief, my words didn't fall on deaf ears.
The anxiety, shame, depression and fear woven
into every poem made me familiar in the minds of strangers.
These strangers made me feel human.
With quickness that's comparable to the slickness of a parable
I was ****** from a catapult into the essence of prose.
However, the latency between the beginning of my literary journey
and the discovery of my gift for poetry was afflicting my sensibility.
I succumbed to the bullying from hyperboles
and the taunting of iambic pentameter.
At times I was afraid to talk to neighbors
for fear of narrative structure overhearing.
Now, I am wandering in a fog
though the hills of unpublished work,
echoed only by the crunch of "not good enough" beneath my feet.
This was therapeutic. Now I use it to influence my movements.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 6:52 PM UTC
Invited to a party
To another good time
How about a Coke and Bacardi
With a twist of lime
So many problems on my mind
Keep quiet have a good time
Just keep it together unwind
I’m sure I’ll be fine
How are things they all ask?
Things are great I say
Wearing my smiling mask
Why is life kicking my ***
Have a drink do a shot
Trying not to talk to big shots
Overhearing about all they got
One day I will be on top.
Listen to them talk
Why won’t they just stop?
Look at that chick she’s hot
I wish she would **** my ****
When will I catch a break?
Have a drink and be fake
Oh for Pete’s Sake
How much more can I take
Must converse and be polite
Rather hit a bar and start a fight
Where’s the food need a bite
Keep quiet and don’t gripe
So he says how’s biz?
Oh gee ****
Fine excuse me I have to ****
I wish I had a job like his
They are all nice people why do I wish they’d go to hell
Because my life ain’t doing so well?
Pull it together before someone can tell
Turn on the charm put them under your spell.
No one knows your ills
Tell a few jokes don’t stand still
Relax get them laughing….chill
Tell the one from the office that one kills.
They laugh and giggle that’s why they invited you
You drink and get silly they lap up your spew
You’re a jester and you entertained them through and through
If only they knew
If only they knew
Deep down inside your blue
Everyone says goodbye they had such a good time
You drive home your spirits in decline
Sunday then Monday back to the grind
Please lord show me a sign.
Finally you are at your place
No plans for tomorrow
Just escape the rat race
Close your eyes the room spins what silent sorrow.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 1:38 PM UTC
in line at the bookstore
overhearing three suicides.
occupied,
endless vacuums
and no translation ....
- -
what poet has nothing to say?
eavesdropping as balm
for loneliness -
people aren’t
making it.
Jul 20, 2019
Jul 20, 2019 at 8:47 PM UTC
fingers tapping against your thigh, music note mumblings. subtract everyone else and watch the feeling
m
u
l
t
i
p
l
y
disassemble and reassemble the ensemble and allocate your earnings as earnestly as you can without appearing overeager. overhearing a conspiracy between my lips and your neck. a secret isn't a secret unless you whisper it, so do it, make sure the russians don't hear us as they rush off to give reports on that look I just gave you, the one that is oh so telling. reveling in it. living in the revelation of your skin, pouring down your presence like honey, like sweet molasses dripping thick and sweet, simmering under the sun, glimmering in the water like a jewel, jealous and **** painful and dark and dazzling. beating only in anatomical hearts, out of tune, cacophony and cruel crimson, missing someone not something, left wanting and waning in the light of a lopsided moon, farsighted and fingers that prune in purple light rippling across the walls, willing to travel the planes of your body, embodied travesty traversing the sahara, dunes doomed to be swept away by the wind, breaking and kept away, each grain unable to touch one another more than once, gorgeous enough to be pain, staking your claim on misery before the misers bury it in their own backyards, backwards discovery, a convenient amnesia, believing ruses and runes to decipher in delicate dictum like tricking a language into translating itself.
almost too much of not enough.
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 12:14 PM UTC
On the lower rung of the ladder she stands wide eyed,
that ambiguous smile on her lips and my yearning
has a mysterious kinship, with the mysteries of the semi-lit attic,
I could discern from the bits and pieces she revealed
with that sly look as we walked hand in hand
through the garden path as slowly as we can.
The ladies in the neighborhood would stand in groups
and look curiously at us as we walk, a sight rare in the village
where movement in thickets were the symbol of unspeakable pleasures!
A shy boy and a girl unusually bold; no demure Indian girl she is!
"See how she leads the boy, knows how to play her tune, so well
sometimes I spy the pair stand together at
the mouth of that dark cave, contemplating mysteries perhaps"
overhearing their words, I would cast eyes down as if guilty.
Beyond the uppermost rung of the ladder, is the attic
I haven't seen it yet, but she is a girl and a woman in one
who could see far beyond a boy's ken, she acts her age
what her nail marks etched on my skin is the map of her desires.
In our stealthy expeditions through winding paths my lungs
get filled with feminine smells that are intense in certain times,
our feet become slow and stop without prompt at shaded corners
scented by musky orchid blooms, where blue beetles
hum amorous tunes, then longing takes many forms of expressions.
She knew the art of looking in to my heart,
through the peep holes of eyes, then I hear her whisper as if possessed,
"You are full of sweet poetry, it's beats permeate to my body
when I hold you closer to my ***** but you need me to make it loud"
In the dark attic where the scent of black pepper and dry ginger raged
she kept her promise, her lips caressed mine,with such urgency
my eyes involuntarily, close tightly and I hear her murmurs
it was her way of bringing out my inner poetry, making it flow out
such subtle power it had, we rolled uncontrollably on the floor,
when we did we sighed together, plunging in to a wonder moment.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
Even the walls have their ears,
Although they are nonliving,
****** cries were overheard,
Easily by the walls themselves,
**** sounds of **********
Deflowering the young wife,
Roping in spies for the purpose,
Opening the ***** so delicate,
People so enjoy overhearing,
Pretty sights shine right upfront,
In their addiction to **** time,
No secrets remain virtuously,
Good habits are hard to develop.
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 9:49 PM UTC
shifty-eyed sundays/summer smiles.
green backyards child-full,
meat eaters meat-eating,
bellies & throats conversation/food-filled.
young families flocking fawn-eyed to communion barbeques,
sweaty raspings/of feeding minds;
living-room, reading-room, lessons & phonics
shortwinded swindlings at tables of breakfast (equal portions)
---sub-divided.
categories..elements
systems of classifying,
lessons limping/near succeeding.
trekking inglorious [tired] track laps---round laps of track,
tried feet feet-walking
sleep-talking
waking, taking rests.
@ intervals,
(splashes of time) clock/clock-time.
sleep, repose, health profits;
restless prophets. word-of-mouth.
strange tongues, th'creaking of breaths,
classical forebodings---brow beating, war breeding.
wrist flickings/blurred strokes
markings/carvings---letters/numb3rs,
communicating---language speaking.
(overhearing.)
positive consensus
> press play.
un-buttoning buttons
soirée is overfinished, overture.
shirts come up/over/off---
bath's running---taps run-running,
clippings clipped from papers,
---snip-snipping.
crashing/slicing blades of scissors,
point-on-point.
television evening sign-off/lights off.
interestingopenwindowenergy,
an elegy..
under_scored.
Oct 27, 2011
Oct 27, 2011 at 9:20 PM UTC
~for Marion~
all poets are junkyard scavenger connoisseurs
who wear suits to Manhattan faculty afternoon tea parties,
broken-in jeans to Brooklyn midnite poetry slams,
regalers, tall tale storytellers, subway words pickpockets
of the extra-ordinary,
claiming innovations but from all saints stolen,
insights inside other's waste,
refusing to acknowledge the true owner's title
by fusing other's refuse.
the original recyclers,
junkyard dog liars,
willful sufferers of the plague of overhearing,
exceptional excerpters of the gems of coal dust noise,
*"Connoisseur of old thoughts
Bound in new gilt bindings"*
them's me.
~
12:37am may eighth
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 12:42 AM UTC
leaving grief. and i—i now remember why
i should never have allowed anyone
to get under my buckling skin
for fine friends are only fine, friends until
they know the perfect way to damage
the stillborn remnants of what you hold on to
them, without patience, distraught,
you; promises of finding someone better
overhearing a devotion that cannot possibly be true
only useful in the event of an epiphanic letdown
i love you but why have i loved you
did i love you because you were kind for five seconds
and it was only fair to bleed when it should not be enough
did you not love me because i wasn’t enough
or because you knew i was nothing to be proud of?
from knowing too much, trusting too well
follies and fey melodies for a final disconnect
i loved you never mean what you say
say anything to say anything to say anything to say
sorry. your smug conversation is one i carry still with me
even as the tactile memory of you burns
and my singed skin curls into the shape of an old friend
who never cared. i never remember to forget
they’ll always be there until they aren’t
leaving, grief, and i—i no longer wish for a happier end
i only wish there was a softer way to recover.
Jan 29, 2022
Jan 29, 2022 at 5:17 PM UTC
Last night's Wim Wenders film Wings of Desire, not starring Adam
Sandler,
great in the great tradition of Metropolis, Fellini, Children of
Paradise, Ikiru, Open City.
This is not comedy though it can be funny overhearing people
thinking,
the randomness of thought, data dots, circles with dots, sadness and
silliness,
silly sadness, confusion, rarely a clear thought, not one logical
lucid progression. Deep art.
I'd like to do better than my best so far, write something with
hydroxyapatite
that won't gather dust then become dust a neuron of sweetness,
an early morning bicyclist, a lost ghost or fallen angel
any form from which death might abstain or forego appetite.
Appearing to meander from subject to subject is my practice.
Looking for solutions to the equations. Learning the changes then
forgetting them.
The expressions emanating from mortal minds are broken stamens,
sticky stigmas.
Striving for immortality,
some Spanish philosopher (who looks like Don Quixote)
says he understands and it's alright.
I will read what he wrote and probably agree
but is he immortal? Not his body, but his thoughts.
True, I say, but this also: Not his mind, but his thoughts. Unchanging
and finite. Put them in a hatbox and pass them on as heirlooms.
To overhear the secret thoughts of others. Sharing and unsharing
electrons, disrobing
and bathing. That is the purpose of poetry. Gargoyle twice. Did Wim
give each thought its own voice or use the same voice for all thoughts,
every whim.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 4:50 PM UTC
she stood by me even when
most of my disasters
were of mine own creative actions,
but in the crises that always
unexpectedly
rose up dramatically
when driving off road,
where there were
no guardrail guarantees
so when the doc says
“sir, needed surgery right away,”
She unashamedly inquires
“ok, what about tomorrow”
making us all chuckle,
and doc a smile/responder,
“how about 6:00am the day after?”
and you accept (me observing)
with
a stern smile of pretending concession
so when recovery consists of
three ++ walks a day through
the corridors of the Unit
which morphed from an endless huge
to a
small prison courtyard,
where in a day everyone,
patients doctors and
rotating shifts of nurses
are greeted by me,
idiot extrovert,
with an intitial
giant hello and a wink,
which after first three
“shuffles around the block”
has become a
saluting exultation,
a look of surprise
with a
“You Again!”
that gets the inevitable
twinkle from everyone
somehow
this greeting came home with us
and thereafter when,
she stirred awake
to see me shuffling in with
coffee and a quarter cup
of crunchy Kashi & banana
(a/k/a nana & banana)
and a too loud
“You Again!”
which infallible makes
an AM grumpy disappear
and
soon becomes
a time honored
ritual
now that I’ve honored the oath
which was promised jokingly
by me to She,
that I be the last to depart,
cause doing it twice,
was an unbearable job,
and long enough gone
and I am back in my
own private recovery
honeyed (yellow) painted room,
The Enpty Pillow
with imaginary smiley face,
hears a mourning yellowing phrase,
and when the grandchildren
make
their obligatory dragged along
monthly visitation they be greeted
by old friends
a firm hug and an
emboldened
“You Again”
and their smile says
“you’re embarrassing us”
+++ childlike acceptance
and the rivulets ridiculousness
that accompany this scripting,
+ any accidental overhearing,
or get even getting a read,
is fresh brought out of
tears storage
and each teary one with
a Hey!
meant to be cheeryr
greet & repeat
😉us again!😉
Sep 29, 2024
Sep 29, 2024 at 11:52 AM UTC
It's a strain,
An immense pain,
Something he cannot quite handle,
Roused by the day the boy yearns to linger within his dreams,
But alas among those peculiar visions lies nightmares to cause his screams.
Silence stills him.
The absence of overhearing another heartbeat,
Vacant touch of his own hand trailing the empty side of the bed leaves him defeat,
Breathing slows to a dull rise as the boy refuses to leave this dismal spot
He feels no warmth and perhaps no need for such trends,
But doesn't everyone need at least someone in the end?
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 3:26 PM UTC
I remember overhearing at the tennis game
"I always take painkillers, I can't seem to get
the doctor to prescribe anything else
and I never sleep, and so with my morning
coffee, I slip some liquor in it
and take some Anadin, as simple as that."
I sat and listened. Just in earshot.
"It just calms me down and sets me off for the day."
I see her take out a flask.
Opening the lid she breathes in.
"And days like this," she giggles.
"I bring extra."
Both the women now giggle
I smile
maybe this will work for me.
That night I went home and straight
to the medicine cabinet
they sold paracetamol in tubs of hundreds
I was only 14
I'd only take a handful at a time
not enough to harm me
little enough to go unnoticed
I felt the rush even before I took them
I still have the journal from that time
an off-balance teenager who never fit in
a longing for freedom so deep
maybe this could give me the wings
to fly.
© Sia Jane
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 5:32 PM UTC
The Book of Days holds the future to come-its guarded in Heaven by the Angels.No mortal soul could every read it-for God prohibited its contents to be known.It holds every Souls journey ,written within...It also can change Eternity if ever opened up-and Gods Omnipotent plan for every heart-....The mysterY as to why it may never be read by anyone is that if the pages were turned ,EternityS outcome could be altered forever!It contains the End of Days"s war between God and the Devil himself-and could alter the outcome leading to terrible fatal overthrow of Gods natural Plan...Since the dawn of Time,the Devils only goal was to open the Book,for even He doesn't know how Eternity could sway within his favour-leading to his truimphant rule of Heaven for ever more....God placed the Book within the Tree of Life,which once Stood in the Garden of Eden-where Adam and Eve once lived,and later in Heaven, He placed its safety within the Angels watch...No mortal soul today even knows of the Books excistance-for Life is written from the Book,by God Himself,and so humanity lives here on Earth with no sense of Lifes mystery and its True meaning.The Devil tempted Eve,believing she would come to know of the Book,by gaining the knowledge from eating from the Tree which God forbid them in the Garden of Eden...yet God knew of his plan and banned them from the Garden once their eyes opened and they gained the knowledge..and so removed the Tree of Life,placing the safety of The Book now under the Angels guard in Heaven.The Devil -having lost the chance to let the Book be read,still yearns to get to it...yet the tale does not end here.For in a dream-i have come to know of its being-....a dream from the Devil?or God Himself?...and in my dream,I am in Heaven-overhearing the Angels speaking of The Book.Without them knowing of my presence,I hear where the Book is placed-and my curiosity drives me to seek it out...Silenty I walk to the area and unbelievingly I see it-just inches from my grasp..
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 11:13 AM UTC
Overhearing the torrents of spring
All she said she needed was a ring
Pouring out over the dam walls
All night she said we would learn to fall
But instead of the rose petals lit aflame
We came to our senses all the same
Where the train smoke pours from its engines
Passengers sip on their coffee and eat their crackers
Yesterday there was nothing that was repeated
But today feels much like the one yesterday
Each note of the violin passes into the wind
And the molasses slow in sin away from kin
Expecting that the money would come in
And we would be happy but well
That means that what we need is not what we want
And these definitions of nutrition make my mind go lame
Telling me that your straightness
Was just a game and that you could always go on your way
And since I know you and you think you know me
And you believe you can go on living
As if what you have you can just go off and give for free
But the streets aren't that forgiving
And the hobos near you sure aren't thinking of reading
Recollection was never your strongest suit
And the demons and angels and elf boots
You left them by my door
They weren't made for me
For I was made for something more
I must have written down the wrong note
Or you have walked through the one story book
Because what you are giving me isn't right
Something I never wanted to live in
Like a man taken in chess now without a rook
The bubbling has turned blood red
And what was never said
Churns underneath us now
Like high Vesuvias rocky ashen and grey
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 3:46 AM UTC
meanwhile,
back at the ranch,
.....or hacienda or suburban condo,
the young suburban ma'am
was weeping, 'n cryingn 'n sobbing,
having thrown herself down on her
soft, velvet covered chaise lounge.
"where are you Manly Cowboy?"
she wept
"wherefore did thou go?"
"whyfore have you doth forsaken me so?"
"in my hour of need?"
Boo hoo hoo hoo
the wailing was reaching a rather
intense volume,
so much so,
that,
soon,
there was a knock at the door.
wiping her tears from her
bright red swollen eyes and cheeks,
with her delicately embroidered
handkerchief,
her long white gosling robed gown
trailing her as,
she went to the door.
opening it,
what did she see?
but standing there,
there stood,
the,
most,
handsome, tall,
muscular man
of a manly plumber
she had ever seen.
said he,
"i couldn't but help to be
overhearing
your pitiful wails.
and i thought you might
need some help.
anything i can do to
assist you ma'am?"
WELL...
thought she,
this is the best iimprovement
in many a long day,
since the Manly Cowboy
had gone away.
"yes, you can" replied she
"would you like to come in
and take a cup of tea
with me?"
......not so fast,
we're not done
with this one.
"certainly, i would" replied he,
"and, well, ma'am, if it isn't any
trouble for you,
i'd really prefer something
a little stronger,
per chance, do you have
any beer?"
"why yes i do." says she
"cold?" asks he
"as a snowball in hell." she replied
the manly plumber strode in,
his tools jangling about
his firm hips and strong legs.
excusing herself,
she went to the kitchen and
opened up two beers.
pouring one in a tall glass,
over ice,
she poured an eighth of the other
into another
and finished filling it up
by adding warm water
from the tap.
she did this to prevent herself
from getting too tipsy
as she was dehydrated from
all of her crying.
out she walked,
two tall glasses
in hand,
she handed one to him
and looked over the other.
the first shy smile
her sweet face
had seen in a while,
began creeping up.
since,
now? who had gone???
the manly cowboy
lying on his back
of some foriegn land,
looked up and
saw a star twinkling
high in the sky,
and he smiled.
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 12:27 PM UTC
A lame idea's not a knock
At ones who can't stand and walk.
My eight handicap's not a slur
To any falling short of par.
I repeat, Are you deaf or something,
Doesn't insult the hard of hearing;
It only means you're not listening.
If one's blind as a bat,
It's not a slight, it's not a fact,
It's just a phrase we humans use;
I've heard some used against the Jews,
And others we've unlearned to use.
We of habit and long of tooth
Aren't as bad as you may think
When overhearing oldies speak:
I'm just jittery when I'm spooked.
Our excessive sensitivity's daunting.
Nothing said's meant to be hurting.
How does all this sit with Whitey?
Yes, Whitey's what I said.
Should I mind that name?
Isn't it the same?
It's used to ridicule,
Exposing Whiteys as the fools,
By some who think they're far too cool:
*Whitey said so...
Whitey did so...
Whitey don't know...*
This Whitey do know;
He don't like this ****
Not one little bit, Brother;
And it makes me cottin-pickin ******
With the hypocrisy, Sister.
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 8:55 AM UTC
I love the carnival
I don’t love butterflies or photographs
But I love the wings and faces
When they’re caught in the lights of the rusted rides
I love the way the light dances on your face
And makes amber to hold your pupils
I love the way you blur when we go in circles
The way your nectarine laugh tangs over the children’s
When the wind makes your hair a fury
And your teeth are naked in the glow
I love the ferris wheel
Over the river at night
The fake dahlias hanging from the booth tresses
The lilac smell of warm nightfall
And the cold fence wires passing over my fingers
While four eyes are hitched to the stars
I love the immortality
Like a kitten I was too afraid to touch
Delicate as a paper ornament
When I would twitch around 9:30
At the thought of my feet on the carpet
And my raspberry joints turning sour again
You overhearing the mortal in me
Became my midnight sigher
Ambrosia, I think
Is made of wet cotton candy
And the games we won
It’s made of teacups
The peer in the dark
And the way you looked into adult eyes
Older than they will ever be
And more innocent than their children
Your sneakers covered in dust
And your head lolling against the car window
With our hands touching like wind chimes
In our candlelit drive by the ocean
Your lips would open ever so slightly
When you started to fall asleep
As though you had something more to say
Man,
You carry me higher than any big drop
With your arms at your side
And when I go to the carnival at night
I still look up at the stars
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 12:17 AM UTC
I am sick and tired of you talking about other girls
Calling them weird and ugly and fake
When it is you who slathers on the makeup
Hiding behind false beauty
I am tired of overhearing you calling a girl fat
Because she is not a size two
When it is you who starved yourself
To look as you do today
I am done with you walking like you have a stick up your ***
Pretentiously scavenging the halls for your next target
When it is you who has been the target as of late
And you pay no mind
I am appalled by your arrogance
Telling professionals they have no right to tell you how to live
When they can see where you are heading
For you are not as original as you seem
I am sorry for how sad you must be
Constantly looking inward
When all you find is an empty abyss
Peering back at you
I am apologetic for what you have to go through
Constantly fighting battles that are far beyond your years
When they are far bigger then you
And anything you can do
Most of all
I am content
That we are not longer friends
No longer yearning for
When all you could tell me
Was how bad I was.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 10:48 PM UTC
Sitting In the library
Eating muffins
Throw away straws,coffee cups and
Writing.
Overhearing.
Amused, It's endearing
Eating.
Boredom sure takes a toll.
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 12:53 PM UTC
Trapped in rooms with bland, white walls
absently overhearing lessons
supposedly pertinent to life
“the experience of being torn between two incompatible alternatives”
Sigh of irony.
*“Symptoms of conflict:
inability to make decisions
general moral deterioration
avoidance of responsibility
taking the path of least resistance”*
***** this class.
I need a change of season,
a scorching sun,
a summer rain,
and roads that stretch for miles.
I need an escape
that doesn’t end so soon,
But hours later, I’m stuck in a cold office,
and both you and I know that
data entry and phone calls
will never distract our minds from pain.
And our
cold,
distant
communication,
if you could even call it that,
brings a violent ache
that floods my entire being.
But I can’t fight
anymore,
so I have to sit back
and wait.
wait.
wait.
Mar 1, 2011
Mar 1, 2011 at 10:10 AM UTC
He never wanted
to be stymied or recalled.
If the Spiff could plough through
enough people as a blasé traveller,
he would bag their yesterdays.
But looking through their Zebra glasses
over time , whose skies are really
outdone by the proverbial
"mind your own bees wax" ?
it was always the same, the arcane strain,
like overhearing variants of Serbo-Croat
on an unheated train to Chippenham.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 3:36 PM UTC