"pantomimed" poems - Hello Poetry

the body falls soft curves collapsing on the edge of bedspread tangled in cliched prison escape ropes tied loose like old tendon, we are all but used. I feel the force of Fibonacci spiraling between ribs and pelvis, golden ratios divining skin, 1 to 1.616

0

Jul 5, 2013

Jul 5, 2013 at 8:09 PM UTC

glen-brunson

Pantomimed Prison

the body falls soft curves collapsing on the edge of bedspread tangled in cliched prison escape ropes tied loose like old tendon, we are all but used. I feel the force of Fibonacci spiraling between ribs and pelvis, golden ratios divining skin, 1 to 1.616

11

We can escape, now, it's smoky with a chance of curtain drawn, our minds won't tramsit light from our empty, covered windo- the train is here. I'm ready to go. And though I'm leaving on a train with room for only one, I'm hoping you can catch a cheap ride hidden in my pocket. Nobody checks your person, anymore, Nobody cares; Homeland Security lovingly fed us fattened falsities As the fat cats in suburban alleyways tore off the thickest pieces of marrow from the national animal of our Fiction States of America. I have known this because I have seen it from my seat in coach, thank god, too, because the train is packed. So fill up if you aren't going to hop in, wishing to distort your mind with all of their public drugs, community opiates transmitting across electrical wires hidden in the ground, the trees, the air itself, stitched into the layers of dark matter and cosmic foam insulating our fragile and overdone Universe. I hear their static, that pantomimed reality, caught inside carbon fibers running through everything, running through me, running through you, running into and out of your brain like a thief without pause or moral. We could run, too, the heavy bass notes of the nurturing ocean could shield the screech of the battered train's wheels; the wheels need a rest from screeching, anyway. Quick! While the conductor isn't looking! The wires will tell him you're here until you're gone, hidden in my coat pocket inside a layer of my inner smoke. Well, if you insist, I suppose you may leave, but once the wound of knowledge opens, just know it never closes. It will fester and prickle with the fetid odor of truths turned into lies. I know I'm talking to myself, now, but I don't want to let you go, though I'll stay here, safe, in the train carriage, hidden in smoke. Smoke, smoke, smoke, the train heats up, breaths out smoke from its burning and throbbing pipe. The engine has built up an overdose of heat, trying to throw off the weeds trying to grow inside. They tried to enter me, and they will soon enter you, now, without my smoke to shroud you, to leave your naked wound easily hidden in paranoid dreams. Screeeeee, screeeeeee, screeeeeeee, the wheels screech out, ready to go, ready to run, to run down the track, to run through all obstacles, to run through everything, to run through me, to run through you, to run in and out of your brain, blown away in a puff of smoke, my memory has burned away and blows off as ash and smoke.

0

Feb 6, 2011

Feb 6, 2011 at 7:32 PM UTC

hands

In a Puff of Smoke

We can escape, now, it's smoky with a chance of curtain drawn, our minds won't tramsit light from our empty, covered windo- the train is here. I'm ready to go. And though I'm leaving on a train with room for only one, I'm hoping you can catch a cheap ride hidden in my pocket. Nobody checks your person, anymore, Nobody cares; Homeland Security lovingly fed us fattened falsities As the fat cats in suburban alleyways tore off the thickest pieces of marrow from the national animal of our Fiction States of America. I have known this because I have seen it from my seat in coach, thank god, too, because the train is packed. So fill up if you aren't going to hop in, wishing to distort your mind with all of their public drugs, community opiates transmitting across electrical wires hidden in the ground, the trees, the air itself, stitched into the layers of dark matter and cosmic foam insulating our fragile and overdone Universe. I hear their static, that pantomimed reality, caught inside carbon fibers running through everything, running through me, running through you, running into and out of your brain like a thief without pause or moral. We could run, too, the heavy bass notes of the nurturing ocean could shield the screech of the battered train's wheels; the wheels need a rest from screeching, anyway. Quick! While the conductor isn't looking! The wires will tell him you're here until you're gone, hidden in my coat pocket inside a layer of my inner smoke. Well, if you insist, I suppose you may leave, but once the wound of knowledge opens, just know it never closes. It will fester and prickle with the fetid odor of truths turned into lies. I know I'm talking to myself, now, but I don't want to let you go, though I'll stay here, safe, in the train carriage, hidden in smoke. Smoke, smoke, smoke, the train heats up, breaths out smoke from its burning and throbbing pipe. The engine has built up an overdose of heat, trying to throw off the weeds trying to grow inside. They tried to enter me, and they will soon enter you, now, without my smoke to shroud you, to leave your naked wound easily hidden in paranoid dreams. Screeeeee, screeeeeee, screeeeeeee, the wheels screech out, ready to go, ready to run, to run down the track, to run through all obstacles, to run through everything, to run through me, to run through you, to run in and out of your brain, blown away in a puff of smoke, my memory has burned away and blows off as ash and smoke.

99

Lucky. Some people would look at this little life of Grace and think, **** she is lucky. Of course, you know better, don't you, Wonderland? You know what goes on in my hodge-podge head where the rainbows lament and the killers dance. So come and tell me what my kiss tastes like. I want to know if the poison is evident or I'm just the one who can feel it. Skeletons twirl on my walls, and that's not a metaphor. I literally have neon skeletons dancing on my walls. That's just the type of person I am. No where. That's where we're going right now, with wonderful gibberings of a lost cockatoo, so lost she found herself in a young woman's body. Lost little Grace, trying to find her place in the world, just like her beloved Alice. Yet Alice was always free of Wonderland at the end of the night. Or was she? She did always gravitate towards the insane place, maybe she's just as trapped as Grace. Musings of the world as I grow, from young little wide-eyed girl to the woman I am today. A young woman, albeit, a naive, wide-eyed woman with too much hope in her heart, but a woman nonetheless. The scars of your love leave me breathless. Oh no, no they don't. I hope mine have left you dead. Still bitter I am how my caterpillar betrayed me. Have I not told this story? How in the dark of the night he found solace in the wings of another, to leave me blind to his deception. Thank the gods the March Hare had the sense to enlighten me. Now I spend my nights in the arms of other, and I could not be happier. Never one solid man, never one stationary enough to become a character of Wonderland. But there enough so the loneliness does not creep up on me in the waking hours of the moon. Stars are my companions now, yes, that's what they are. I am always stargazing and sometimes, when I'm lucky, I share my pantomimed sleep with them, pantomimed for of course I do not sleep. So perhaps I am lucky, for I am a Grace surrounded by stars, and at the moment, I would not have it any other way.

0

Sep 26, 2014

Sep 26, 2014 at 12:49 PM UTC

grace-7

My Wonderland pt. 7

Lucky. Some people would look at this little life of Grace and think, **** she is lucky. Of course, you know better, don't you, Wonderland? You know what goes on in my hodge-podge head where the rainbows lament and the killers dance. So come and tell me what my kiss tastes like. I want to know if the poison is evident or I'm just the one who can feel it. Skeletons twirl on my walls, and that's not a metaphor. I literally have neon skeletons dancing on my walls. That's just the type of person I am. No where. That's where we're going right now, with wonderful gibberings of a lost cockatoo, so lost she found herself in a young woman's body. Lost little Grace, trying to find her place in the world, just like her beloved Alice. Yet Alice was always free of Wonderland at the end of the night. Or was she? She did always gravitate towards the insane place, maybe she's just as trapped as Grace. Musings of the world as I grow, from young little wide-eyed girl to the woman I am today. A young woman, albeit, a naive, wide-eyed woman with too much hope in her heart, but a woman nonetheless. The scars of your love leave me breathless. Oh no, no they don't. I hope mine have left you dead. Still bitter I am how my caterpillar betrayed me. Have I not told this story? How in the dark of the night he found solace in the wings of another, to leave me blind to his deception. Thank the gods the March Hare had the sense to enlighten me. Now I spend my nights in the arms of other, and I could not be happier. Never one solid man, never one stationary enough to become a character of Wonderland. But there enough so the loneliness does not creep up on me in the waking hours of the moon. Stars are my companions now, yes, that's what they are. I am always stargazing and sometimes, when I'm lucky, I share my pantomimed sleep with them, pantomimed for of course I do not sleep. So perhaps I am lucky, for I am a Grace surrounded by stars, and at the moment, I would not have it any other way.

12

One almost tore away my wall One almost said he chooses me Another almost made me fall One almost finally set me free But almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades Fool's gold has luster and sweet are borrowed serenades You can't call it love I'll call your bluff because almost is only almost and that's not enough A roller coaster only climbing missing the train by a minute's timing A frozen bud in a snap of cold An unfinished novel, story untold A sentence fragment A muddled accent A pantomimed kiss A swing and a miss A pencil sketch A warm up stretch A suspended chord A ringless lord A lightning bolt, no rain or thunder A child at play, no sense of wonder Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades Fool's gold has luster and sweet are borrowed serenades You can't call it love I'll call your bluff because almost is only almost and that's not enough I almost love you too I almost let you in I almost wish I was the one I can almost begin again And even if the words only almost rhyme I only almost care by the end of the lines While I could almost forget, in truth I find that I will always remember how you were almost mine

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Apr 17, 2016

Apr 17, 2016 at 5:27 PM UTC

celeste-mcneil

Almost

One almost tore away my wall One almost said he chooses me Another almost made me fall One almost finally set me free But almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades Fool's gold has luster and sweet are borrowed serenades You can't call it love I'll call your bluff because almost is only almost and that's not enough A roller coaster only climbing missing the train by a minute's timing A frozen bud in a snap of cold An unfinished novel, story untold A sentence fragment A muddled accent A pantomimed kiss A swing and a miss A pencil sketch A warm up stretch A suspended chord A ringless lord A lightning bolt, no rain or thunder A child at play, no sense of wonder Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades Fool's gold has luster and sweet are borrowed serenades You can't call it love I'll call your bluff because almost is only almost and that's not enough I almost love you too I almost let you in I almost wish I was the one I can almost begin again And even if the words only almost rhyme I only almost care by the end of the lines While I could almost forget, in truth I find that I will always remember how you were almost mine

42

Coated in moonlight I take in your scent The taste is sweet but the high is oppressive My mind is haunted by the hollow embrace of your gaze Swinging from hit to hit, always unbalanced Your energy fuels my high and for a moment it all feels real I want to stay in that feeling, building a log cabin in it’s lakeside shores But far too soon I will be alone and realize my clock is bleeding Last night’s residue lingers, the cold air tastes of honey and all at once I feel the need to ***** Struggling to accept my addiction, I say “I need to leave” as I relapse into your body When you are away I am haunted by your pantomimed withdrawal. I choke on the loss of productivity High on you I feel sedentary in a galaxy of movement Our finale, a supernova of light and lust shatters to drift alone and cold I leave you behind, feeling a hunger to find a new drug with a different name

0

May 6, 2021

May 6, 2021 at 12:08 AM UTC

jbwrites2100

Sonnet #2

Coated in moonlight I take in your scent The taste is sweet but the high is oppressive My mind is haunted by the hollow embrace of your gaze Swinging from hit to hit, always unbalanced Your energy fuels my high and for a moment it all feels real I want to stay in that feeling, building a log cabin in it’s lakeside shores But far too soon I will be alone and realize my clock is bleeding Last night’s residue lingers, the cold air tastes of honey and all at once I feel the need to ***** Struggling to accept my addiction, I say “I need to leave” as I relapse into your body When you are away I am haunted by your pantomimed withdrawal. I choke on the loss of productivity High on you I feel sedentary in a galaxy of movement Our finale, a supernova of light and lust shatters to drift alone and cold I leave you behind, feeling a hunger to find a new drug with a different name

14

I hate them, they’re everywhere with their painted on smiles Behind your back, they probably stab and despise knowing how to stir up hate and lies Apparently they make good bosses but if you know one, avoid, cut your losses They have no conscience or empathy, their emotions are pantomimed not real Remember, they don’t have to make a bloodbath to be a psychopath

0

Sep 13, 2014

Sep 13, 2014 at 8:46 PM UTC

tonyc

Abnormal

I hate them, they’re everywhere with their painted on smiles Behind your back, they probably stab and despise knowing how to stir up hate and lies Apparently they make good bosses but if you know one, avoid, cut your losses They have no conscience or empathy, their emotions are pantomimed not real Remember, they don’t have to make a bloodbath to be a psychopath

12

passages and pathways proliferate the minds of young men and women wondering too big. it is strange how there are hidden rooms within the fabric of a brain, how the web weaves itself wondrously among all the fibers and frequencies of thought. though subtle might the message be, brave in thought and clear in word, harder it might be to see with vision that always blurs. it is certainly strange how the brain builds itself over time and becomes the face and the object pantomimed. act well, act loudly, act brilliantly brash, even though we all will perish and we all will turn to ash. it is just so very strange how some words are far too similar even though the meaning may not be so. and I wonder how it is to wander in the wonderings of a wandering mind; we are wondering far too big for such small, squishy minds. don't be frightened, but, we might be out of time.

0

Dec 31, 2012

Dec 31, 2012 at 5:05 AM UTC

hands

wonder lust

passages and pathways proliferate the minds of young men and women wondering too big. it is strange how there are hidden rooms within the fabric of a brain, how the web weaves itself wondrously among all the fibers and frequencies of thought. though subtle might the message be, brave in thought and clear in word, harder it might be to see with vision that always blurs. it is certainly strange how the brain builds itself over time and becomes the face and the object pantomimed. act well, act loudly, act brilliantly brash, even though we all will perish and we all will turn to ash. it is just so very strange how some words are far too similar even though the meaning may not be so. and I wonder how it is to wander in the wonderings of a wandering mind; we are wondering far too big for such small, squishy minds. don't be frightened, but, we might be out of time.

29

Destroy the idea that I am perfect Because by **** I am anything but I am the epitome of a Trojan horse I'll win you over with my understanding nods I'll say things too loudly, and you'll think "This level of ridiculousness must be trusted" DO NOT TRUST ME Please oh please protect yourself I will destroy you I won't mean to, but I will I will be the train and you'll let yourself walk on the tracks Loving the aesthetic I will try to stop when I realize what is happening But you will be flattened nonetheless I will ask myself how you did not see I will wonder how you could have even gotten on the tracks I will remember putting up warning signs "I love me some strong men" I said *"Love me some **** I said I pantomimed blowing a dude And checked out the guy jogging Still you were on the tracks And I will know that it was my fault Somehow, somewhere along the line, I was ambiguous Because I'm always ambiguous Because I can't stand the thought of someone being hurt by me And I think that if I remain shielded by ambiguity Maybe everyone can win I will stay alone But everyone else will be happy It never works out **I always **** up** And someone gets hurt They asked why I punched the wall Why I let my knuckles bleed and drip on my shoes I love those shoes But I led you on And I deserve to be punished No one will understand, because I am a Trojan horse I have won them over with my understanding nods I punch the wall, wishing you were punching me Taking payment for my ****** actions Do not be ambiguous with your pain Transfer it to me Let me shoulder your burden, because I would rather be miserable Than believe for a moment that someone is miserable because of me I am barely a man, more of a boy, really We are a dime a dozen And my kind are ******** We are not worth much And I need you to realize That I am ****

0

Jan 14, 2015

Jan 14, 2015 at 3:22 AM UTC

venig

Untitled

Destroy the idea that I am perfect Because by **** I am anything but I am the epitome of a Trojan horse I'll win you over with my understanding nods I'll say things too loudly, and you'll think "This level of ridiculousness must be trusted" DO NOT TRUST ME Please oh please protect yourself I will destroy you I won't mean to, but I will I will be the train and you'll let yourself walk on the tracks Loving the aesthetic I will try to stop when I realize what is happening But you will be flattened nonetheless I will ask myself how you did not see I will wonder how you could have even gotten on the tracks I will remember putting up warning signs "I love me some strong men" I said *"Love me some **** I said I pantomimed blowing a dude And checked out the guy jogging Still you were on the tracks And I will know that it was my fault Somehow, somewhere along the line, I was ambiguous Because I'm always ambiguous Because I can't stand the thought of someone being hurt by me And I think that if I remain shielded by ambiguity Maybe everyone can win I will stay alone But everyone else will be happy It never works out **I always **** up** And someone gets hurt They asked why I punched the wall Why I let my knuckles bleed and drip on my shoes I love those shoes But I led you on And I deserve to be punished No one will understand, because I am a Trojan horse I have won them over with my understanding nods I punch the wall, wishing you were punching me Taking payment for my ****** actions Do not be ambiguous with your pain Transfer it to me Let me shoulder your burden, because I would rather be miserable Than believe for a moment that someone is miserable because of me I am barely a man, more of a boy, really We are a dime a dozen And my kind are ******** We are not worth much And I need you to realize That I am ****

52

I feel it the pantomimed joke of my affection. Grinding hips like clenched teeth when the nightmares sing. Through the haze of absurdity I wonder: is this love too?

0

Jan 26, 2019

Jan 26, 2019 at 3:51 PM UTC

ahbpoetry

Hollows

I feel it the pantomimed joke of my affection. Grinding hips like clenched teeth when the nightmares sing. Through the haze of absurdity I wonder: is this love too?

13