"overheating" poems
would you listen or laugh at me
for claiming love's an ocean?
neither a knife, nor a blindfold
...but a sea.
there's a human-borne catastrophe.
cast your eye upon those with no share.
the contents of their buckets
are polluted and impure
yet all but 5%
goes unexplored.
do you find yourself choking in your sleep?
why watch the waves from safe dry ground
when you could delve in deep?
do you live in fear of unchartered seas
and life still left unfound?
are you overheating if only not to drown?
we 'love addicts' are water children.
i run outside and taste the rain.
let's go! let's drink! let's swim! let's bathe
and watch it seep into our pores
-- it escapes me how you stay indoors!
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 11:24 AM UTC
i give them my executables and
ask them to reverse engineer me
to look into my code for reasons
reasons that i'm not just broken
not just slow
not just bad
if these letters
on this line
mean
that i am programmed to worry
then it is not my fault
not my fault that
i have wasted years
years of my life in fear
it's just a bug
looping too many times
using too many clock cycles
my code may be broken, but
if it is broken
then i am not
maybe, just maybe
i am a good processor
given bad code.
not my fault.
no one could blame me.
it would mean
i do what i am told to
perfectly
quickly
efficiently.
but
what i am told to do is
buggy
unoptimized
inefficient
my programmers are lazy -
not me.
when i find
a function in my code
that never works
and they say
"that code is fine"
then why?
why does it never run?
something must be wrong with me after all
me, myself, the processor
i don't do what i am told
but no, no, no
i don't want that
i can't be broken, overheating, dusty
segfaulting
bluescreening
panicking
no!
the code must be wrong
it must be
so i look again and again and again
i lose myself in my code
i click and click and click
2x more and 2x more and 2x more
COMT and DRD4 and ANKK1
rs53576 and rs7794745 and rs1858830
lower risk and normal risk and higher risk
of the same thing
in me at once
conflicting
overwriting each other
there is no code to add risk objects
and no one knows
whether
they make a group or a ring or a field
or just
something
useless.
like dividing by zero.
you can...
but it's useless in the real world.
just like me.
i look for more code
for more functions
for more comments
more more more
give me more
take my rights
make me open source
as long as i can see me too.
602,000 lines are not enough
not when i run millions
stick your wires in my veins
take the code from my blood
decompile it
untangle it
i need to see it all
i need to know
that i am a good little processor
even if i am doomed to
forever
run BASIC and
a million GOTO statements
and ugly ugly spaghetti code
i am still good.
Dec 27, 2017
Dec 27, 2017 at 5:43 PM UTC
Hummingbird heart flutters in your throat.
It's like having someone squeeze your lungs slowly.
It must be what dying feels like,
Hummingbird heart.
You know how their wings beat so fast and hard,
How you only see the blur?
Hummingbird heart,
It HURTS to be so fast inside.
Whirring like a machine out of control, overheating,
Friction fire in your throat,
Tears escaping bare and raw.
It hurts to be so vicious, like a runaway train with sparks flying.
Hummingbird heart,
Stuck on the other side of glass, pounding, pounding to get out.
Hummingbird heart, faster, faster.
A balloon about to burst.
Whirring, spinning, shivering.
Hummingbird heart,
Nowhere to run.
Hummingbird heart,
Nothing to be done.
Hummingbird heart,
Hemmed in, stuck fast, immobilized.
Hummingbird heart,
Speeding up, frantic, painful.
Hummingbird heart,
You don't have long.
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 9:21 PM UTC
I feel like my brain has put an ad block on emotion
And when I try to reach out for you I see a pop up warning me that No! This function cannot be accessed whilst an Ad Block is in use.
So, I try to uninstall and reset the browser but I wake up just the same.
An empty shell of technology, faulty wiring falling into the hands of those without the qualifications to find the on-switch.
A brain both in standby and overworking, an overheating of wired vessels working overtime to provide life to a barely-functional heart.
The quiet murmur of my breathing the only reminder that there is still something behind the blank screen.
You try to keep your patience but I know you want to just throw me to the wall, an excuse to replace my shattered interface with the newest model.
A model that doesn’t feel like it takes them 3 years to get out of bed every morning, a model that doesn’t seem to contract a new virus every day.
Maybe I’m just tired, maybe I’ve run my course, maybe I’ve accidentally encountered malware. Maybe I am the malware.
Or maybe, my brain has put an Ad Block on emotion.
And when I try to reach out for you I see a pop up warning me that No! This function cannot be accessed whilst an Ad Block is in use.
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 12:26 PM UTC
Where I’m From
I am from wires,
from electricity and TV screens.
I am from the dust covering the console.
(Piled high, thick,
It made me sneeze)
I am from the Sega Genesis
the Nintendo
Who has long been forgotten
amongst the shiny new games.
I am from controllers and memory cards,
From Mario and Sonic.
I’m from the hard core gamers,
And the once-in-a-whiles,
From You win! And Game over!
I’m from Thou saveth the princess
With Donkey and Diddy
And 10 cheats I know by heart.
I’m from GameStop and Best Buy,
brand new plastic and overheating console.
From the controller thrown across the room
To the memories,
bonding brother and sister.
In my closet is a box,
filled with old games,
scratched up discs
that will never again work
I am from these games
created before I was born,
born from the tree of electronics.
Apr 20, 2010
Apr 20, 2010 at 4:33 PM UTC
4:21am
Tue
Aug 12
<*>
restless is the thinking brain,
rapid repeated beating
from an overheating sun
in a room of full-on dark,
difficult to weep,
harder to silent breathe,
one listens to his arrhythmic heart,
sending out messages incessantly & incomplete
every single sin ever committed
comes in with cheery face,
a greeting of, still here!
in this ,
our temporary final resting place
finish us off by completion,
makes us full of restitution,
by seeing to our undoing,
revolving, unending, the finally of sufficiently
those old curses
we can only face
by turning our faces away,
drop in, like best friends, come to sunrise visit
though dawn is yet eons of minutes far away,
though relief can never be fully attained,
though "though' is the first ****** word of excusal,
though betrayal is always next, the secondarily, refusal,
there is never a dot of period,
only a comma of pause, because,
there is no ending in completion
only in forgiving by your harshest critic,
yourself, yourself, our selving,
this unsolvable function of forgiveness upon this,
this, the two-days of Tuesday,
to day
Aug 12, 2025
Aug 12, 2025 at 4:56 AM UTC
when he died, his jackets all went
to the grandkids (world-war-two-chic was
en vogue), his medals to his sons, and his
meticulous preparations for any far-off
hurricane, blizzard, fabled connecticut sandstorm,
power outage, overheating engine,
skinned knee
to the big and elegant dumpster.
his wife in her heels-for-every-occasion, in her
quiet knowing
languages and recipes and birdseed
loved him even after she forgot his name
and hers.
they built this house bare-handed
and in the shade of the trees
and spiders and cell-phone towers
it will stand as ever
it always has.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 11:25 PM UTC
1
I read in a poem that there is no sound more ****** than the clink of a belt being undone but you only wear worn out t-shirts and a frown on your face. I think of the sound of tires driving slowly over the asphalt and how I could get turned on easier by a look than a touch. Your bed and you both taste like sweat but I am not going to complain because I'd rather be overheating than alone. I consider switching on your swamp cooler but it's loud and I want to be able to hear your moans in order to remind myself that you want me too. Do you?
2
I was doing my poetry homework when I had to stop in order to write poetry.
3
I dont know if I can handle the fact that you have made playlists for other people and that is so 2018 of me. Did you make that playlist for her?
4
[redacted]
5
If panic attacks actually helped anything I wouldn't mind the hyperventilating but instead I still feel like a sink has sunk inside my chest even after I've calmed down. Wouldn't it be nice if you could cry it, release it, scream to the skies and then be okay afterwards? I'm not sure who made me believe the symptoms of my mental illness should be like a shower; I don't feel cleansed. I don't feel new. I only feel raw, exhausted. It feels more like that same dull knife is tearing me open each skin layer at a time until I figure out how to grab the hand that holds it or I'm left open on the table, whichever comes first.
6
I'm writing in order to breathe. If I can't get oxygen to my brain my fingers won't be able to move.
7
I'm so scared I'm going to lose you. I don't want you in any other way. I want to love you, hold you.
8
I hear a baby crying outside of your window and I realize I need to get up to go home and get my work clothes. I find these simple things excruciating. Writing to you is a diary but I never should have learned to open my mouth and speak.
9
I started this poem four months ago and titled it a seven day long poem but I guess now it’s more than that. You always made me feel the things I’m currently feeling, I've never given up control this much in my life. I like to be in control, the one ignoring, the one who needs the time. I wish I didn’t love you like I do (it's just, there you know. It won't go away. It's not too much or too little, it's just stubborn, just like you). I'm so scared I'm going to lose you. I don't want you in any other way. I want to love you, hold you. Did you make that playlist for her too?
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 8:16 PM UTC
She’s a sunny day.
You meet her and her laugh makes your heart curl into your chest. You asked her out and she glow with happiness. You think that your heart was made to feel like this, or maybe it was made to complement hers.
She becomes a lightning storm.
You think she’s a masterpiece hiding in storm clouds, but you forget about the thunder. You don’t tell her how it feels to hold her hand, so she lets go. She moves on before you realize it’s raining, but when you do find out it feels like drowning. You spend the next six months trying to breathe.
She becomes the chill in the air.
You can breathe until she sneaks in beside the fall leaves. She comes back so quietly that you don’t realize until your heart starts to pound. You pause, but six months of overheating and a hurting heart make the decision. You choose to repeat, you choose the changing weather. Now you laugh together over a cup of coffee, and you think you know what happiness is.
She becomes a snow storm.
She’s slow and steady and if you hold her she’ll melt. When you tell you need her she’s already gone. The next time you see her it will freeze your heart over.
She becomes a soft summer rain.
You spend the summer months forgetting that girl with galactic eyes. One day you realize she pales in comparison to the summer sunset, another day you realize the ocean pales in comparison to her.
Beware of them who change like the weather; they live in cycles you’ll always fall out of. It’s better to admire seasons than people who embody them.
Beware of me.
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 10:19 PM UTC
Alarm clock dead, power's out
What've I got to shout about?
Running late, we're behind
It's things like this make me lose my mind
Hot girls, Cold Beer, Fridge full, Good Cheer
Why can't life be a beer ad for me?
Great view, Fast Cars, Good Friends, Full Bars
Why can't life be a beer ad for me?
Notes written, Kids set to go
Open the fridge, and boom...power goes
It's never ending, all frustrating
The problems are just resonating
Hot girls, Cold Beer, Fridge full, Good Cheer
Why can't life be a beer ad for me?
Great view, Fast Cars, Good Friends, Full Bars
Why can't life be a beer ad for me?
Kids dropped off, on the road
When suddenly another load
Of troubles makes my day
It makes me want to say
Hot girls, Cold Beer, Fridge full, Good Cheer
Why can't life be a beer ad for me?
Great view, Fast Cars, Good Friends, Full Bars
Why can't life be a beer ad for me?
Tire's flat, that's not new
What's a guy supposed to do?
I smile and call for towing
My temper now is showing
Hot girls, Cold Beer, Fridge full, Good Cheer
Why can't life be a beer ad for me?
Great view, Fast Cars, Good Friends, Full Bars
Why can't life be a beer ad for me?
Get in late, that's a given
Boss says "Turner, you're not driven"
"Success comes hard, it isn't easy"
That's when I get really queasy
Hot girls, Cold Beer, Fridge full, Good Cheer
Why can't life be a beer ad for me?
Great view, Fast Cars, Good Friends, Full Bars
Why can't life be a beer ad for me?
Not worth fighting, got a meeting
Meanwhile I am overheating
All I know is that I try
And days like this just make me cry
Hot girls, Cold Beer, Fridge full, Good Cheer
Why can't life be a beer ad for me?
Great view, Fast Cars, Good Friends, Full Bars
Why can't life be a beer ad for me?
Work the day out, heading home
Knowing I am not alone
Millions more go through this too
What's a guy supposed to do?
Hot girls, Cold Beer, Fridge full, Good Cheer
Why can't life be a beer ad for me?
Great view, Fast Cars, Good Friends, Full Bars
Why can't life be a beer ad for me?
Ads are fake, and it's all phony
As I sit watching on my Sony
But one day it'd be really nice
To have that life, and glacier ice
Hot girls, Cold Beer, Fridge full, Good Cheer
Why can't life be a beer ad for me?
Great view, Fast Cars, Good Friends, Full Bars
Why can't life be a beer ad for me?
Really, Why can't life be a beer ad?
Just one little, stinking ****** beer ad...For Me?
May 21, 2012
May 21, 2012 at 7:59 PM UTC
Hell, I scrambled to an amusement park last night,
strapped myself in and coasted for hours
I didn't give myself a break instead I kept coasting until it got
hot and buzzed an alarming buzz
It was overheating, as was I, runnels of inhuman sweat stuck to my face
like glue from a hot gun
{they gave me a hot glue gun so I could make them better crafts than an 'ol family portrait with
blue and green markers on the backside of a receipt from the horse races; but my papa didn't
care about the crafts; he just wanted me busy so he could watch the tube and maybe have a nap
in the evening}
The cart is rattling out of its own carriage; I look up to the angels and only see black ***** smoke
Hell, I make a black ***** mess out of most things lately so instead I sit in it
because I usually run out of it; having towers crash and explode behind me
Hell, ya get what ya pay for; I pay for nothing, you pay for everything, I take everything – both of us will always know that
{remember when you'd say we'd go for ice cream to get me to shut up
we never went for ice cream}
Sparks underneath the rails, I twisted my stiff neck to stay still in something blasphemously heavy
{I used to think I was so heavy}
It’s like the feeling you get when you want to do something but your body won't succumb
Split mind & body interpersonal connections - left and right are both just forward,
Going forward to somewhere I've already been.
Hell, I let myself flood until they **** smacked the gates open with a
"What the **** are you tryna do? **** yourself?!" reprimand
And I even almost came to see you because you really wanted a daughter again and
I really wanted a father {again} - I've never really had one to begin with.
Instead, I listened to the cat's in the cradle and cut in my cradle
And hell, I really needed to be loved
I think more than I have ever needed
{you never left but you never came to leave me}
Hell, I don't think I have even seen hell yet; but one day it'll do me in good.
Thou he slay me, yet will I trust in him.
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 1:31 AM UTC
I don't know how to be scared anymore
I don't know how to be cold anymore
I've spent some nights in this car
Not worried about anything
Even though the transmission is failing
Drive back and forth most days
Trying to understand this thing we call home
And I want to repay you in something more substantial than money
This poetry posted on websites
and left on coffee tables
but the transmission is failing
And I am falling in love with you
And if I knew that love was the answer to homelesness
That in the shedding of weight
and in the cutting open
Was this
I'd have left long ago
Vaggabond heart
Finding safety
In your chestplate
Like a sea snail who has
shed his shell
To squeeze into yours
There is so much room in there
So much room
Your body
a cabin
made of welcome mats
An extra plate of food at the table
I am always hungry
This body
A broken radiator
always overheating
Give me your feet
To keep warm
Keep me
like a humble savage
Saying grace
In a language
You'll never understand
Changing clothes in a closet trunk
3 backpacks for different things
Worn like heirloom rings
Like they are all that I own
That mean anything
They are
And not that I know what it means just yet
but
Take me home tonight
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 4:39 PM UTC
Splattered
Like spaghetti sauce
On a baby's white highchair-
That's your inner life.
Red, dried, this is going to stain.
You swallowed bullets, and then they shot inside you.
Like an old broken computer,
You're bigger, and you look fine,
but you whir (and hum) at the slightest touch;
overheating.
Like not wearing underwear under your clothes,
everything is scratchy and a little raw and you feel more vulnerable.
You feel everyone must know. How could they?
Only if they notice.
Or
If they lure you into taking off those "I've got it together" clothes.
Which nobody can do anymore.
Because ****** you're going to integrate that ****
Wear that rawness like the Emperor in his new clothes.
Be your own mischievous taylor.
Laugh like a baby at the spaghetti stain.
Spit the bullet shards out
at kids so they don't do the same thing you did.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 4:01 AM UTC
Still sleep warm,
I am coaxed into
consciousness
by your fingers lazily
grazing the elastic
of my underwear.
That smooth plateau
between the mountains
of my hipbones: home.
Overnight, my shirt
has ridden up, too hot
in the California nights
neither of us are used to
yet, proven by the pool
of sweat beneath my
lower back. The sticky
staleness of my skin
matches yours.
We are anything but
a disaster, and still,
I am a fault line. Feeling
the tremors rumble low
in my belly, your overheating
hands the magma forcing
plates apart, revealing
the new earth beneath.
There's danger in my inhale,
the risk of being shaken to
the core and unfixable.
Yet not even an earthquake
could divide us: love.
V. K.
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 1:57 PM UTC
I adore you
in a way that when we hold hands i feel like I am holding worms
i'm both in awe at what's happening, and disturbed.
I can't tell if the thought of kissing you makes my torso feel like a towel that's being wrung out, or if it makes me want to peel off all of my skin but either way, the thought makes me feel something.
your laugh is precious.
it spits confetti into the air,
it's the present you forgot to bring to the party, and the promise you make to bring it next time.
it spills all kinds of new anxieties onto the floor.
the kind of liquid that gets into the divots of your shoes, and when it dries it becomes sticky.
it's with you all day, peeling from the tile with every step.
this sound makes me cringe.
your hugs are so warm, if they were a blanket covering me i would have to stick my feet out to avoid overheating, but i need the blanket to sleep.
and darling, I promise it's not you.
don't blame yourself.
I was completely fine until he decided I was old news.
he made so many promises and broke them all.
If i could turn back to the moment I stood in the front of the room reciting a poem about killing my ex lover, I would have threatened that he would later be on my hit list as well.
I apologize for my uncontrollable fear.
I know my tremors are repetitive and I'm sorry for apologizing constantly.
he didn't accept me like you do.
he couldn't handle the ticks.
he couldn't manage to fall asleep next to a time bomb.
I shouldn't blame him but i definitely do.
so if i cry, pull me close.
if i shake, grab my hands.
and if i ***** hold my hair.
I promise that one day i'll trust you.
Oct 4, 2016
Oct 4, 2016 at 9:44 AM UTC
The heat is rising, the summer is coming
Right now it seems nice because nature is humming
But I know what's lurking around the corner, I know its game
It goes from 90 to 111, Valley Of The Sun is its name
They say it's a dry heat, making it seem better
But it's not, I crave something cooler and wetter
MONSOON
I see your lightning and hear your tune
The temperature drops and the winds get strong
It's a little bit dangerous, but I hope it lasts long
Wash away the heat and hide the sun that's beating
I'm so sick from this intensity, I keep overheating
The oven is hot and bakes you alive
Why are there 6 million people here and how do we thrive!
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 5:21 PM UTC
i took a corpse
to the mall
on SUNDAY
(it was a religious experience)
& the weird thing is
she drove.
& when i got into her
car
or casket
or whatever
we hugged & kissed (like relatives)
but that was it
then she went stiff
again.
a tattooed statue at the wheel
& me
coughing up embalming fluid
amongst the cigarette smoke
i whispered out the window.
& you winced as we wiggled
between winnebagos & station wagons,
sloooooooooooooooowly
like pallbearers
balancing
a box,
or like a mother
placing an infant
in a crib,
hand behind its head.
& she understated the overture
so i sort of never understood
we were ending
up as enemies
all before the engine
stopped.
& it was winter but i was overheating
smoky breathing &
the words i couldn't reach &
the heaviness of my chest,
the weight of waiting.
but she never said another word
as we walked through the mall
& i floated next to her
like a ghost
or a balloon she was holding
& she grasped
at something new to try on
& let go of me
& i floated
& floated...
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 6:16 PM UTC
Ethereal. That's the squirming quality of that health-hazard house,
where a byproduct of divorce emulsion slept in a bare room on
a bare air mattress, vacuously lying around with the blinds down,
vicious AM radio mumbling through the walls. Homeschooling was more like
becoming housebroken, given that my social network consisted of thirty feral cats.
I suppose some boys require a deadbolt on their room's door.
Well, I grew up quick and I grew up mean,
My fist got hard and my wits got keen,
I'd roam from town to town to hide my shame.
The apathy cloud that crawled the house led to a
(the deadbolt was to lock me out of my room; not in)
prison break; I awkwardly assured myself that I would
never be anything if I was still Pinocchio, and pleaded
to go to liberal-dominated-non-Rush-Limbaugh-approved public schools.
I did; I got into university, I got a grant, I do research,
I got a job, I got a girl, I got a job, I got a girl...
I don't know how to leave my room now that I'm free.
I still hear the crackle of conversative talk radio.
'Cause we'll put a boot in your *** / It's the American way.
Like trembling flotsam I drift into every class,
every party, every... A poem can regurgitate a person who is all
covered in spit and acid and memories. I still know that house
better than I know my own breathing body. I'm just going to keep running;
like a yellowed refrigerator housing second-amendment-upbringing-coleslaw;
like an overheating computer; like I always do; statically, in stasis.
Well, I grew up quick and I grew up mean,
My fist got hard and my wits got keen,
I'd roam from town to town to hide my shame.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 7:37 AM UTC
it feels like thunder
the first time always feels that way
he takes me in his hands and i melt
my body is overheating
i try to suppress my pleasure
i'm afraid to make a sound
he kisses me
his lips are hot to the touch
everything about this is burning
sweat drips from our skin
his hands are holding mine and im lost
im feeling everything im feeling pleasure
the thunder booms
and i yelp and pant
then lighting strikes
it blooms all around us
it raises the hair on our skin
it flashes so quickly
i begin to relax
i feel warmth all over me
the rain begins to fall
and he lays beside me
i grab his hands and kiss his palms
the rain softens
and he pulls me closer
only he can create a storm inside my body
Dec 27, 2018
Dec 27, 2018 at 11:56 PM UTC
Shaking
Heart in my throat
I can't see straight anymore
Too many people
Too loud
Too much pressure
What if I mess up?
It could happen
Would they laugh?
Overheating in my short dress
Starting to shiver at the same time
Been practicing for weeks on end
But what if I am wrong?
What if I do it wrong?
Drawing a blank
What was I supposed to do?
Standing in front
Lights on me
Waiting for my cue
Waiting
One
Two
Three
And THERE
Start playing
Shaking gets worse
I can't remember the notes
I don't know what I'm doing
It's done now
There is applause
I swear I'm seeing stars
Breathe in
Breathe out
Take a bow
Keep going
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 7:01 PM UTC
Erasure & Found Poem from
"On Photography By Teju Cole in april 16th new york times magazine
--
You were The fast moving disaster of a tsunami
added to the slow motion disaster
of a nuclear calamity
Towns flooded
Infrastructure wrecked
Forests splintered
more than 15,000 people dead.
earthquake cut off
my external power supply
Floodwaters damaged my backup generators
Disabled it's cooling system
Overheating ensued
Fuel in three reactor cores melted
Releasing radiation
Everyone saw The water coming in
The roads swept away
Towns and harbors destroyed
Extensive documentary work
was undertaken by photographers
Of the ruins,
Debris,
Cleanup and relief operations
The gut-wrentching scale of destruction
The professionalism of the emergency crews
The fortitude of the survivers
The extreme uncertainty I feel
in our current political moment
helps me understand for the first time
the curious twinship
of mourning and premonition.
Information
about the tragedy
Sorrow for the suffering it caused
Gratitude for the work
that makes sorrow visible
Foreboding about the future.
An alert flashes
your phone
Something terrible has happened
Far away, a flood, an airstrike,
Soon, there's footage of people picking through wreckage
what used to be their homes
It is easy to pity them
Difficult to imagine this will be you
Suddenly bereft of a solid place in the world.
Listening to anything
that touches on the sublime
makes me apprehensive.
Like The silence that greets us
waking in the middle of the night
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 12:57 AM UTC
These past few weeks
Whenever I put pen to paper
I end up with nothing
No words flowing from my veins
No thoughts running in my mind
No stanzas waiting to be written
My leaves have dried up
My lake is frozen
My lemon fully squeezed
All thanks to you
You have been the only thing running in my mind for the past week
Tell me how long your legs can run cos I'm not sure I can take it any longer
You have been the only one dominating my mind like a computer virus
Making me forget everything but you
You are on my mind twenty four seven
In the 86400 seconds in a day
I can assure you you're the first and last thing on my mind
I'm starting to lose track of time
And yet I find no words to write about you
You bring out the bad poet inside of me
You bring to life this other side of me which ssstutters, always unsure of what to say because it might not be good enough
I am an overheating motor
I am an overmixed batter
I am a pen whose cap is left off
You know,
The funny thing is you have absolutely no idea how you affect me
You go on in your everyday life
You go about your day
You make endless maps and cross roads in my mind
And I don't even know if I cross yours
When others talk to you
I don't think they're aware that they're talking to my world
I don't think you're aware that you are my world
No, actually you are my universe
I am the stars, the galaxies, the comets, the meteors
The endless possibilities in our constantly expanding universe
Ready to be filled with our love
You leave me breathless, searching for words
So please,
tell me when you're going to leave my mind, cos I **** sure wanna start writing again
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 7:55 AM UTC
I must be overheating,
cause my air tubes are filled with steam.
My movement cogs are rattling,
awkwardly, clashing joints screech.
There is combustion in the oiled pits,
which catch fire all to quick,
and boils stomach grease
and releases gassy silage.
The gas seeps out the crevices
and pollutes the wholesome air.
Poison in and out,
hot smog--a warning sign.
I must be overheating,
as a mechanic rushes toward me.
He wets me with his coolant,
and cools me with his sweat.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 8:31 AM UTC