"overlapped" poems
I am a ******* broken radio that my grandpa wouldn’t even bother fixing
I got a thousand channels, and all of them overlapped in every second
You came to me and said you wanted to enjoy the 90s
I knew what I had and believed this time I was gonna make it right
“Sir, this is location 328…”
“Love is wonderful…”
“Oh, Jonny! You can go **** your own ****
All the channels got mixed up. Like the cereal that I had this morning
Uhm, It was more like the **** cake you slapped in my face on my birthday last year
I wished you would stop tapping me with your beautiful finger
At the same time, I loved the new crystal nails you just did yesterday. Your soft skin against mine and nails stuck on my back, left me marks and joy
Stop leaving me
Don’t give up on one tap or two
My frustrations attacked the balance of the stupid sound system
I was either too loud or too quiet
You finally left the room
I was still on the table
intermittently playing the 90s
Trying to find the perfect volume
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 6:05 AM UTC
I swirled in a ocean of brown.
Venting in steam.
My drown overlapped by current
On top of current.
I swirled around and around,
swimming in sugary spec.
I once dreamed of dry land.
Loosing my footing on the edge of a spoon.
The top of a pink packet torn off.
Sprinkled on my head.
There was no sense in fighting.
One single serving brewed.
It was exciting to feel myself swirl,
All I'd ever know.
around and around.
All I'd ever know.
The more I drunk the more evident it became.
The here after in addiction.
Sweet in taste.
My skin dipped in heart of something so delicious.
I swirled around in an ocean of brown.
Her eyes.
Never once did it occur that I couldn't gulp them.
I still tried.
Lost forever in Mocha flavored aroma
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 2:43 PM UTC
Empty skies embrace
Sparse cloud formations
The blues fade and overlapped hues
Sparkles crested in fickle delight
Lazy outstretched yawns of natural light
Sun’s glare glazed under Moon’s appearance
Embossed against the translucence of blue space
Everything up there is calm today
No rush or race or interference
Gentle indifference drifts to the West.
Staying dry for us
The beautiful simplicity of being Sky.
Stop and look around.
Cyclists trickle on painted pathways
Student groups pontificate about life
and the lecture they should all be at,
Lunchtime sprawls and **********
never ending spurts of schoolchildren
delirious for sausage rolls and E numbers.
Everyone in a rush to be someone
Going somewhere with purpose,
and yet,
Be indifferent
to each other.
The bland complexity of being modern People.
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 12:53 PM UTC
He smelt like smoke
as he leaned away from me,
texting himself with my phone.
We left the campfire outside,
in our shoes by the door
our socks overlapped in a tangle of limbs.
In that leftover guest room,
on the bottom bunk of the microwaved bed,
I remembered why I thought I knew what love was.
He was tired and needed a nap,
I was restless and cold.
Trapped inside because of violent temperate rainstorms.
This boy owed me stubbed toes,
thorn ****** through my jeans,
nicknames and rubber soles.
This was the boy who had always smelt of smoke,
who knocked over dead trees for me,
who lied about being able to rock climb.
This was the boy who went swimming in the ocean
before summer had properly began
when it was still much too chilly.
I taught him a new card game,
he beat me at badminton.
We played capture the flag and threw pinecones.
We sold cookies on the side of the road,
ate dusty blackberries,
traded innuendos and bad jokes.
This was sea-urchin boy,
slug boy,
the boy with the bird's nest hair.
This boy grew taller,
dropped his voice like a used bus pass,
looked past the top of my head.
He laughed when i stepped in a mud puddle,
dared me to walk in bare feet.
This boy suddenly went mountain biking.
I talked extra loud, in hopes that he would overhear me,
offered him rootbeer straight from the can.
Ate pretzels and learned to read his mind.
We shared our childhoods like penny candies,
switching all the peach ones for strawberry.
we agreed these are the best years of our lives.
He layed beside me, underneath as many covers as we could find,
taking up too much space and he knew it.
my cartoon boy.
My hand-drawn boy,
With smoke coming out of his ears
moved away.
We didn't talk again
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 12:39 AM UTC
Faded memories
lose their colour
and conversation
Alive
but wearing thin
with each recollection
and overlapped
by the heartache
meetings
kisses
and partings
tomorrow holds so close
Destined to be replaced
and painfully short lived
So fades another day
and another
and another
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 3:16 PM UTC
As your hand travels frivolously
To rest on my leg
My quiet heart races
Then faints
Awakened, I'm dizzy
And I look around
I'm not where I was
This is different ground
In this dreamworld
I wander
You take my hand
And lead me onward
There are teacups of chocolate
And rainbows of cream
Pathways of gum drops
In this delicious dream
I weep happy tears
As you lay here with me
On this sunken silk
Made of soft candy
Like sunken ships
Our feelings plummet
Into the sweet sea
They had just met
They descend into peace
Tranquility and ease
With every breath lost
They gave a tight squeeze
From one hand to the other
Between cold lips
Sweet nothings were murmured
And their tale was told
Waves turned to flame
Covered in fire
The cold left quick
Flames the new squire
The minty swirls
Overlapped and smothered
The orange licks of flame
In the dimming light
Our bodies dissolved
On lustful tongues
Our cries were not heard
From our disappearing lungs
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 5:19 PM UTC
i had a dream last night that there was water in my lungs.
i could feel the ocean wrapping careful hands around my limbs,
caressing my thighs with soft seaweed,
my hands with gentle current.
i could taste salt on my lip,
the way a first kiss with a new lover settles and stains on the skin above your tongue,
i could taste the care the water was taking in taking my life.
taking it's time, the ebbing ocean snaked across my midriff,
hands on waist, wasting away at skin with salty touch as sandpaper
scraping away at my sense of self
i dreamt the water changing pace from calm glass coffee table top,
held flowers and coffees and your feet and mine,
overlapped and intertwined
and into
undertow,
pulling your hand from my waist
and your salt from my mouth
i dreamt that i saw nothing,
felt nothing
but your salty sandpaper hand scraping skin across my collar bones
as you pulled your coral reef body away.
the glassy water turned to pavement
and you left me in rapids under black ice.
i had a dream that i was trapped under ice,
with children skating on top
and i couldn't hear or breathe or scream
but i could feel their skates on my insides
they cut my hair with their blades
and as they spun in circles above me
i spiraled further into the depths of an ocean
that felt more like a fire.
i had a dream last night that there was water in my lungs,
and it hurt less to breathe then
than it does now that you're gone.
i never thought about how it would feel to cough the water back up,
until i realized how much it hurt going down.
and i was never scared of the ocean
until i saw it's vastness unescapable
it's arms
unrelenting
and it's love
everchanging
and i realized nothing's everlasting.
i was never scared of drowning
until i woke up puking the water i drank before bed.
and realized there was nothing more in my stomach
but salt.
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 9:58 PM UTC
The trees overlapped
overhead creating a warm
cloister.
Harvey's car cooed past
the vibrant green
and sputter-stopped
at the plastic, fishhead
mailbox.
He drove up the grey gravel drive,
hopped out of his car and
with eager stride
headed toward
the door of the widow Prine.
"Hello, Harvey," Mrs. Prine
greeted from behind the screen
in her always-sugary-hushed tone.
"Hey, Mrs--I mean hello, Margaret."
"Haha, you remembered this time.
C'mon in, sweetie."
Harvey's steps matched gentle creaks
in wooden floor.
Pictures of Mrs. Prine's
three children lined the walls.
"That's Mattie, Cindy's baby. My first grandbaby,"
Mrs. Prine beamed.
"She's a cutie."
"Well thank you," Mrs. Prine picked up
some magazines lying on the couch,
"feel free to sit here. Can I get you something to drink?
Some wine, maybe? It's a red."
"Sure, sure. Sounds good."
Mrs. Prine stepped into the kitchen,
as the evening news played at a barely
audible volume.
"Oh Lord. I forgot to put the wine in the
fridge, Harvey."
"That's okay, Mrs. Prine. I can--"
"Margaret."
"Margaret, I can drink it warm."
"How about some ice cubes?"
"That works too."
Mrs. Prine's husband died
driving an 18-wheeler,
six-miles outside of Dallas
two or three years ago.
One of the few times
a sedan won a war
against a big engine.
Her cheek bones
jutted sharply from
her face,
deep crimson lipstick
and light eyeshadow
emphasized her
few deep wrinkles,
as if she wore them
with pride.
They sat sipping lukewarm
red wine, saying nearly nothing--
touching only during commercial
breaks.
When the news ended,
Mrs. Prine grabbed Harvey's hand,
led him to the bedroom,
filled with pictures of her and her husband.
The love they made--
textbook in its precision,
light in its passion--
finished chapter,
Harvey reached for his cigarettes.
"Sweetie, please don't smoke in here."
"Oh, I'm sorry, Margaret."
Harvey stared at her old life's relics,
wrapped his arm around her,
pulled her naked flesh against his,
a summer breeze crawled through
open window,
and Harvey said,
"So, tell me more about your husband."
Mrs. Prine smiled, brushed her hair
out of her eyes,
and with a retrospective sigh,
she began.
May 19, 2011
May 19, 2011 at 5:31 PM UTC
I’ve got so many voices inside my head,
my Schizophrenia’s keeping them fed,
I’m starting to feel lost within myself,
think I’m turning into someone else.
I’m always planning my escape,
before my brain can escalate.
“I can’t find it,
where’s the door?
I don’t think we’ve been here before.”
Fight or flight is kicking in,
I can feel it in my skin.
My heart is pounding through my chest,
what is this?
I feel possessed.
“They’re out to get you,
stay at home,
you know it’s best to leave them alone.”
I can feel the panic taking over,
struggle keeping my composure,
start to shake uncontrollably,
I think the demons got ahold of me.
I’ve tried to drown them out,
but my head is in a drought,
my mind goes blank,
I’m in a daze,
somehow my body operates.
What was that?
I heard the door.
“Maybe you should go explore.”
The hallucinations are back again,
no one’s there,
there had never been.
It’s okay,
I’m not crazy,
things are just a little hazy.
“Who are you kidding?
You’re so deranged,
stop walking around like anything’s changed!”
I just want to make my family proud,
but these voices are getting so loud,
they push me down,
to the ground,
I think I hear them laughing now.
What’s so funny?
“It’s a game,
if you want to win you’ve got to play,
so pick a card and roll the dice,
Maybe tomorrow we’ll be nice.”
I picked a card,
they flipped The Fool,
I guess that means I’m just a tool,
a vessel meant for them to rule.
Which means tomorrow they’ll still be here,
emphasizing my every fear.
“Just close your eyes,
and relinquish your mind,
it’s time for you to say goodbye,
put that gun to your head,
we’ll be gone once your mind is dead.”
I’ve got the gun,
now there’s one in the chamber,
but let me leave you with this one disclaimer.
When I pulled the trigger,
my body collapsed,
then somewhere between life and death overlapped,
and my demons found their way through the cracks.
Now everything’s dark,
and it’s so **** scary,
I’m trapped with my demons,
in solitary.
Mar 14, 2020
Mar 14, 2020 at 4:29 PM UTC
He ascended to the room
That seemed to have blocked him from reconnaissance
For it takes the form of overlapped ropes
He explored the bastille
Where affection was imprisoned
For it was located in prison cells
He always knew
That freedom was sacred to the body
That exploration was claimed by the soul
But his love for adventures, uncertainty and even endangerment,
Has kept him close to both
Her brain and her heart
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 5:17 PM UTC
Stress cushioned grips, Check.
Speed Racer threads of mental strains, Check.
Lazy legs with baggy exhaustion, Check.
Unshaved follicles and overlapped cuticles, Check.
Unclipped toes with rotten flakes of age, Check.
Un-fished priorities topped off with an absent cherry, Check.
Uneasy knees and crack able joints, Check.
Absent-minded realizations of accomplishment, Check.
Did I miss something crucial? Check.
Motivation…Check.
Productivity in moderation…Check.
A list of values to jump over silently…
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 1:44 PM UTC
Had to get off the internet.
Thugging, Im not the biggest but pose a threat.
Maybe because I'm black or my colors repped.
Where fake **** will get you stretched.
Dealing with so much pain I can't recollect.
Roll me up a blunt of my deep regrets.
trying to focus, I need a check.
Dealing with all the glory and disrespect.
Been betrayed by ****** walking my silhouette.
How far can a Brutus stretch?
Steady learning my worth, others far fetched,
want to use my head just to get a check.
Got trial, I need to rest.
Temptation, money, drugs, and guns made me disconnect.
I still came right back, I had to die a sec.
**** could be worse, learned from the wreck.
All this going back and forth about who's the best.
You do so many shows but where people at?
Success has been over mapped.
A couple of turn in had me overlapped.
But I will make out the cloud;
too deep to rap.
Mar 31, 2022
Mar 31, 2022 at 2:20 PM UTC
she existed in the liminal spaces
between evening and night
a frosted marble statue
decorating the stone patio
in front of a white brick building
and she reaches out
her hands beckoning
any passerby
to spare her a glance
and a kind word
she existed in the liminal spaces
between love and apathy
a bright smile and blinding eyes
staring blankly into the shadows
in the corner of her favorite coffee shop
lifting her cup to her lips
a silent toast in my direction
telling me that
i did not go unnoticed
she existed in the liminal spaces
between your lips and mine
exchanging cold air cigarette smoke
between two lungs
like lovers
words dying as they hit
the cold november air
in the backseat of a yellow bus
and she breathes into the side of my neck
as i gather my thoughts into
words on my fingertips
and she tells me
he does not mind
she existed in the liminal spaces
between streetlights and mountain roads
hands on the worn leather wheel
screaming beautiful words
at the top of her lungs
she overlapped my melody
with her own
and in the pause between words
we switched effortlessly
gliding into the next verse
like practiced artists
and fated lovers
and the best of friends
we harmonized
Feb 28, 2018
Feb 28, 2018 at 11:50 PM UTC
The downy plumes
Surround his eyes
His twisted mouth
A tired disguise
The cotton shell he
Held so close
To hide the sheep
That cried inside
Sticky memories
Keep him trapped
Gooey fleece
Is gently wrapped
Fingers outstretched
Tenderly
Until their tears had
Overlapped
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 1:15 AM UTC
A group of friends,
A gathering,
Overlapped
And away,
Persists
Where all know all
With,
"You think you know me?"
In the all too honest background.
An answer to the above –
Our assumed empathy exists,
When truthfully
It truthfully eludes -
"You think I know you?"
"I"
Or rather the
"We" in the "here"
And "now" -
A lesser form,
And not our truest,
Hides the "real" and deep within.
Each has a pain,
Relatively at least
And perhaps our only concrete notion
Of who the "other" is.
A non-biological truth
Founded upon
A shared organic ancestry
Where
The skeletons in the closet
Translate as -
Lacks of ambition,
Ambiguous futures (at best),
Swept away addictions
And tears in the night,
Torture.
We shed our daily frown,
For a fake smile,
A facsimile
And play for the pains we do not share.
It’s a place
Where the hidden words,
The bad words,
The blasphemous words
Slip -
"Help me!"
And just as quickly
Retract -
"Never mind."
We hide it deep
And hide it well,
Because it's when it's
Shared
That we become what we try to
Avoid -
Attached
And in fear of losing
Each other.
Thus remains –
The ********** of perception.
As we hold to this
State of confused,
Or concussive,
Happiness.
And only later will we all cry,
As we've all gone home
And alone.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 11:43 AM UTC
we were laying on the floor talking
about your perpetually ***** hands,
stained from rusty machinery, and I got
to thinking that they looked an awful
lot like terra sigillata, or marmalade
or yams or tulip poplar honey--
waxy, with a glazed finish
you brush your left thumb down my pinky
and comment on the thinness of my skin
(unsurprisingly) I mean, look at my hands! you say
and I do and you're right, your hands
are like slabs of green wood--in fact
your whole body seems like some sort
of pliable tree trunk but I don't say this
because we've lapsed into a silence or
an otherwise conveniently synchronized
thought that has billowed up around our
hips until our arms are overlapped and
extended like a petiole of our bodies with
my palm cradled in yours like some aeriform body,
birdlike and gentle. You're tracing those lines like they
mean something.
Like they
mean something to you.
you have to understand that I am too often
inside myself, awash on a shore, grown into
the sand like a clam, experiencing solitude
through a shell, keeping at bay on the bay
sending prayers up like signal flares
pumped up into the sky, silent on
the horizon, loud from in here,
so when I tentatively thread my
fingers through your hair, know
that I do so in supreme intimacy
because words supposedly say
the most (depending on who
you're talking to) but my
hands are a different language
a different place, a different time
a company of dissarranged thoughts
and emotions, rippling and swelling
trying to make sense of being touched
so
softly
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 8:27 PM UTC
coarse words, angry sentences
disorganized letters, tangled strings
thoughts of hate and ugly things
formed in the back of my head
but too inappropriate to speak
instead became hostile phrases
muttered quietly under sour breath
jealously coloring these contents
a sour bile-green
and fear and sorrow
outlining the rough edges in black
so that my chest and all its corners
are filled with vileness, overlapped
like unwashed laundry piled
inside an unseen metal safe.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 7:57 PM UTC
Was it hard to stay true to your own beliefs
The strange taste collected upon your lips
Don't let it take you like everything else you own
Slowly spark the candle wax around your residue
Feel it in your bones, you would die for less than this
Just dont give in before its over, dont give up before you win
Now don't go stealing thoughts that aren't yours
I believed you to be someone but you're just another follower
A real life twitter ***** I never been blindfolded for this long before
It won't happen again because I don't see anything in you anymore
Peaceful wasn't my intention, an intervention won't prevent it, resented since the lessons stretched within your own resented presence
A matter of time before you snapped, the clocks run out and overlapped, it's said and done, Im sick of waiting, sick of cages and your traps
And I can't find the meaning to your persistence
Used to be drained of my life in order to satisfy yours
Take back whats rightfully mine, take back what I work for
After all that, you've gained nothing from stealing from the poor
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 8:48 PM UTC
Fight
I fight to eat and I fight to sleep
I fight to lose and I fight to keep
I fight to stay and I fight to go
I’m tired of fighting, it’s starting to show
I fight to live and I’ve fought to die
I fight to keep fighting, I question why
I fight to be happy, the fight makes me sad
I fight to be good whilst the fight makes me bad
I fight for freedom, but the fight has me trapped
Where does it end? It’s all overlapped
If i stop the fight, I don’t think I’ll live
It’s taking its toll, not much left to give
This fight is silent, me against the mind
Some can see it, some are now blind
‘How are you today?’ ‘I’m fine, of course’
You don’t want to know, the smile is forced
Nothing is real yet everything matters
The light has left, my mind is in tatters
My life as I know it, one great big fight
‘I’m fine, of course, I’ll be alright’........
Aug 18, 2019
Aug 18, 2019 at 4:54 PM UTC
here she goes again,
a devotee on her knees
at the peak of the full moon,
past midnight yet
way before witching hour
it’s the third time that month
that the girl kneels before Her,
weeping at the altar of Aphrodite,
feeling the full weight of past loves
on her fragile spine,
almost as heavy as the past lives
she was forced to carry through her youth
she was so young,
but her lamentations rang
millenniums before her
oh, Aphrodite
she wept
how many more innocent roses
do i rob of blooming?
how many more candles
left burning?
how many more full moons
do i watch waning?
the words overlapped in
deafening incoherence
but the clarity of pain
rang above the noise
of mumbled syllables
it was clear enough
that Aphrodite –
the cold goddess –
wept a tear
for She has allowed
this girl’s heart
the sweetness of infatuation,
only to drown that out
with the inevitability of disenchantment
Jan 27, 2018
Jan 27, 2018 at 3:16 AM UTC
In one smooth motion
she sheathed me
complete.
her vise like legs
tightly wrapped,
her nails dug deep.
passion pain overlapped
with heat.
there would be no
retreat.
Jul 14, 2012
Jul 14, 2012 at 3:28 PM UTC
Given a few moments to rest
Granted like fate, not kindly, not cruel
But with a sense of difference
Where in place I'd show indifference
Thinking quietly in pleasant worry
You left me to myself for a while
Given time to sit, to laugh
Helplessly, hopeless, because i know
I'm not assured
Then again, I'm not too concerned
There's a depth, a warmth
That i can understand
We see it all
Encompassed around a soft shell
There is a different approach
Passion overlapped with need
But taken lightly
The pressure smooth and caressing
Grasping, somehow still selfless
A calm mixture, it settles well
And worry recedes, a casual absence
Slipping away with stung pride
Giving way to what has grown
Tangled heart, it had always known
Feb 14, 2010
Feb 14, 2010 at 5:37 PM UTC
From every angle
I tried to capture your bright smiles
for a colorful dream
Overexposed
the images overlapped
and I had a sweet dark sleep
till dawn
Feb 9, 2021
Feb 9, 2021 at 10:26 PM UTC
Words convey so little,
like the beauty in your eyes,
or the ways which I am fickle,
the way you change your voice,
when you ask a question,
or how I hate the way I've been a yes man,
Things,
simply just fall apart,
but you know,
that I know,
that you've got a good heart.
It's just been toyed with,
by everyone,
not just him,
we're all under the gun,
I just convert it to hymns.
If people were stories,
made up of text,
I would be a dirge,
the end,
nothing else left,
simplified for those,
who care not for it,
saddening prose,
which causes lament.
That was the way,
that I felt in the heat,
and I met an artist,
who overlapped with her sweeps.
Over time we bonded,
shared joy,
and misery,
but to you,
without your knowledge,
I've remained a mystery.
It wasn't on purpose,
I was simply too scared,
of someone like me,
someone so rare.
But every time,
I've been on the brink,
you come back to me,
and I don't have to think.
Being alone with my thoughts,
was something to dread,
to dwell on the things,
inside of my head,
but maybe now,
it isn't so bad,
where happiness flowers,
creation is to be had.
Of that artist,
I am always in debt,
but in a brief instant,
she saw and she fled.
Days went by,
and I simply gave up,
the notion she'd return,
so I live in a truck.
The lessons I'd felt,
were worth so much more,
than the in-taken substance,
or a night on Doug’s floor.
A fictional letter,
came drifting by,
the name was now foreign,
yet still caught my eye,
and it was then I realized,
a canvas is I.
And therefore,
what if people were art?
We are things of beauty,
that can be torn apart.
And the artist itself?
A combination of their works,
the intrinsic sustains,
as the extrinsic smirks,
creators as we,
see every flaw in the plan,
we demand perfection,
or as close as we can.
While work will be done,
with meticulous ease,
our time alone,
can sting us like bees.
I could make metaphors,
for months upon years,
but my learned nature,
makes me imagined deaf ears.
When the artist came,
my craft was the best of my life,
nothing was framed,
and no bliss led to strife.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 2:10 AM UTC
She had memorized the train schedule, but
our speech bubbles overlapped the
right way, so I paid for her ticket,
thinking maybe there would be a tunnel
or two to keep our hearts in the dark until
London lay between them once and for all.
My uncle has a can for what goes in
to his mouth, and a bottle for
what comes out.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 1:33 AM UTC