"parabolas" poems
the miniscule, crystallized phenomena
floating down on their zephyr gondola
to the little children's enchantment.
the wintriness nipping at their stamina
produced petite gloved hands pulling tightly at their jacket.
to rollick the day away was their only commandment.
fast forward a few years, and they'll be learning algebra,
their minds drifting away during lectures on parabolas
to the forgotten days of freedom; they lament
the loss of their fragile frostwork taffeta.
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 11:04 PM UTC
He was brought into the world in poverty, in confusion, into a world of conflict and pain all of which was not his fault, all of which had nothing to do with him. He was conceived in love, but by the time he was born love had passed and all that was left was isolation and two separate parents trying hard not to acknowledge that their life together was over.
I remember the many walks we took together, my son and I. He was so little and I carried him on my chest facing outward in a baby carrier and he learned how to “steer me” by pressing a foot against one of my thighs so that I would turn in the direction he pressed and he could see better what it was that had caught his eye.
We walked all summer and he learned to love a certain stray cat, garbage trucks, fire engines, and motorcycles. We found and explored, it seemed, every construction site in the city and I taught him the miracle of the sunflowers that bloomed in gardens of new life so big it made us think that, perhaps, this beauty that we shared could be enough and, perhaps, could make up for the everything else that was not. When summer ended and the sunflowers went away, I assured my son that it was all right. They would return again in the spring. I had really thought they would.
One day we walked on a devastating autumn day, the trees an explosion of colors, the afternoon deliciously crisp with a slight chill in the air. We were late and in a hurry to get home. Suddenly, he stopped me and turned me to see, what? I looked and, at first, I couldn’t see what it could possibly be. Suddenly, I saw. A breathtaking autumn leaf tumbled through parabolas of time now forever present, forever tumbling now for me to contemplate, there forever for me to long for, suddenly awakening our shared beginner’s mind, a moment that will resonate forever, long after the pain of many quiet afternoons without him fades relentlessly into the everlasting October light that leaves behind so many painful, unanswered questions.
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 1:36 AM UTC
It's not OCD
I'm just anal-rententive.
There are two
coffee urns
in my office kitchenette.
Each urn has
a spot to place your mug
beneath the spigot.
Each of these spots has
a circular insert
of gridded plastic
to mark the mug-placement area
and allow spilled coffee to flow through
so this spot
doesn't become
just a puddle of coffee
soaking the bottom of everyone's mugs.
Each of these inserts has
three indentations:
one on each side
at nine and three o'clock
small, arcing parabolas
like reversed parentheses
there to allow someone to
get their fingers into the
coffee mug spot
and under the insert
to remove it
and, presumably
clean it
and then another indentation
more like a groove
or a notch
much smaller, thinner, and deeper
at the top
that fits perfectly with
a matching
small plastic protuberance
jutting from the coffee mug spot
where the insert goes.
In an almost ****** fashion
this protuberance fits into
this last indentation
this notch
this groove
to secure the insert in place.
For some reason
I've never known
perhaps laziness
perhaps inattentiveness
more likely simple
couldn't-care-less-ness
this insert never seems to be
placed into the mug spot
properly.
It is always placed sideways
rotated a quarter-turn
so that the larger indentations
on the side
meant as finger holes
are placed top-to-bottom
noon and six
the small plastic protuberance at the top
being swallowed whole
by the too-large indentation
and its mate
the groove
meant to hold the plastic piece
so tightly
is left alone
to one side
empty
and useless.
This has always bothered me.
Bothered me more than I would like to admit.
It's such a simple little thing to get right
it would take almost no effort at all
and yet, day-after-day
someone
I don't know who
whoever is in charge of these things
insists
on doing it wrong.
And I cannot abide it.
So, day-after-day
when I go to get my morning coffee
I fix it
I twist the insert ninety-degrees
and secure it in the correct position.
Lately
I have noticed something.
Sometimes
when I go to get my coffee
one of the inserts
will already be
fixed.
Someone else has seen
what I have seen
and felt the same
had the same response
took the same corrective action.
This feels like winning something.
I don't know what
but it definitely smells like Victory.
And Conspiracy.
And it makes me happy.
Happier than I'd like to admit.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 10:32 AM UTC
Music curls
In the stone shells
Of the arches, and rings
Their stone bells.
Music lips
Each cold groove
Of parabolas' laced
Warp and woof,
And lingers round nodes
Of the ribbed roof
Chords open
Their flowers among
The stone flowers; blossom;
Stalkless hang.
2.6k
This is to the camera, that sees me as nothing but
Delicate bones and pearly whites
My essence captured through awkward captions and
My worth measured by likes and heart bytes
A photograph carefully composed
Of a girl with her true thoughts [boxed up tight]
This is to the boys who see me as nothing but
Geometric shapes
Circles and curves and parabolas
**** and *** and legs and waist
And an irrelevant concave where my brain should be
My “radical ideas” make me a butterface
This is to the academy, that sees me as nothing but
3.97 and a good SAT score
A scholar of great potential
That will donate millions or more
As an honored alumni
Of the greatest institution in the world
This is to society, that sees me as nothing but
A golden gal who always colored inside the lines
Mrs. Goody-Two-Shoes, no fire in my soles
“She’s never insubordinate, ‘cause she’s never been inclined”
Determined but docile
Go ahead and assume I’m not the rebellious kind
This is to myself, because I see that
My mind is a kaleidoscope of technicolor dreams
Ideas colliding like specks in sunbeams
And I’ll call myself a feminist or riot grrl if I **** well please
You are not my dictator or an office label machine
It’s 2015; I’ll be whatever the hell I want to be.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 12:52 PM UTC
The highs and lows of living life
Occur in sweeping loops
The ups and downs of everything
Are determined by the groups
Of numbers as they glide
Across a digital display,
In rendering the parabolas
Of this game of life we play.
The winning runs of business
A sweet windfall of cash
Temptation to extend that deal
Beyond …is perhaps rash;
It may just tip the balance
Commence the start of the decline
And your parabolic plunge
Will see you quailing to divine.
How you claw your way to solvency
You sweat to make it right,
How you battle tax malignancy
To surmount official might.
The administrative penchants
Of administrative types
Who insist on crossing every “T”
And switching “OUT” the lights.
Having made it, you sit astride the top
And bask in shining light.
You cast off the cloak of caution,
Claim success as yours by right.
But by morning there’s a thunderstorm
A headache and a snag,
By lunch evicted on the street
With your belongings in a bag.
The ups and downs of life my friend
Are a parabolic coast
One day you’re sitting pretty
The next day you are toast.
The only consolation
Of this constant change of state
Is the reconstructive challenge
In re-determining your fate.
So gird yourself my beauty
Hitch your belt another notch
And launch yourself at living
Before you seek that midnight watch.
For tomorrow is a mystery
The possibilities are vast
And paradoxically speaking
The very best is usually last.
Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
20th July 2008
May 11, 2010
May 11, 2010 at 4:55 PM UTC
clicking teeth
rattling breath
veins too small and cramped lungs
spindly ribs and spiderweb lips
you wake up
sunshine on your face
lazy smile lazy voice eyes squinted
why can't I be happy like you?
you taste like ozone and i have traced the knots on your ankles
and the hole in your chest
for hours
revising calculations
compiling a chart
mapping your unknown spaces to find the real distance from you to me
not in the light years from your mouth to mine
but thoughts
memories
four thousand six hundred fourty four instances without me
that void is infinite
your mouth is full of flies
your brain is a quasar with no light on the horizon
there is nothing left of you but bones
and a nest of veins and arteries with your heart stuck in the center like an egg
your wings are melting
you've flown too close to the sun again
wax tattoos you poppy red in drip
drip
drips
how could i forget you?
your parabolas
your rosy cheeks
and the weight of you
how could i forget?
you have no solution
(i could help you find one)
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 9:55 PM UTC
Grim grey day
starts in the dark,
grumbles, glowers
shoulders hunched
Everyone in bitter agreement -
"Miserable!"
Rain driven against windows,
streaming pavements,
shoe-squelched curses
cast at baleful sky.
Travelling home at last,
raincoat defeated
tricklebacked discomfort,
Windscreen wipers ten to the dozen
under sopping sorrowful trees,
headlights strobing relentless rain
And -
Those aren't leaves.
What are they?
Tumbling across the road,
crisscrossing parabolas
of peculiar joy
Frogs!
I stop:
I have to.
The night is alive
with manic delight
as secret creatures fling caution to the wind
and bound into sight,
into frantic celebration,
unphased by cars, by foolish bipeds
who thought this planet was theirs -
Open mouthed and uninvited
I gaze, displaced and foolish
for not knowing
It is,
it is the most beautiful night
that could possibly be imagined.
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 8:24 AM UTC
The more you understand how school works, and not just like "ew, I don't like homework" the more you realize what a scam it is. You work for grades, that doesn't even show if you actually understand the subject. And then you have to learn a TON of stuff you seriously will never use. I understand music, English, biology(for me because of doctor stuff) and math(to a very certain degree) and speech and Spanish.
However, we have to learn stuff about parabolas which you only use if you are an engineer or scientist(maybe) and then we waste hours of our life just sitting in a classroom and studying instead of bring out in the world making a difference, which is what I want to do.
And grades... If someone gets c or a b are they stupid? Maybe they just knew they would never use this Information and didn't try, being smart and living instead of wasting hours if their short life. Parents know that grades aren't good measurements, and yet they put so much emphasis on them! Because they, *** this is so stupid, they DETERMINE our whole future!!!! Why aren't we worrying about the kids in drugs and *** and in gangs??? But no, we have to worry for your future that you got a b on a test.
Please tell me how that makes any sense!
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 9:09 PM UTC
those are very sharp apples. bobbing for catheters and chasms have their own parabolas
or might you think your urchin skin; the pinnacle of passive violence
in the **** kingdom of your vibration
in the valley of our entropy.
the Either Nor'easter
of our zero degrees
West.
Due South of Sound Reason.
the locals call " the sound "
where the heads pool the dark waters of our consciousness
and eddies abide beneath the radiant dirge
of sweet sweet life, and singing blue whale pods in the dodgy brush-fires
of our Marianas Trench-coat Lining
the vocals explode the random and un-cloaked , it disappears as phenomenal
and all men seize the kelp beds of our delirium
with bashful wisdom.
I press my lips against your wet yes! and all this is January-nettles for jam.
for all seasons.
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 10:17 AM UTC
The logic, math problems threatening me
Laughing in my face
Emerging from the deep dark depths of
The textbook of my life
My hands trying to make it work
Dividing until there is no leftover
No remainder
But there’s always going to be a remainder
An unexpected variable thrown in
Watch out for that
Make one change one mistake and
You end up with a different answer
As your footsteps deviate from the path
You thought was right
Hopelessly wander, search for your light
And find yourself immersed in an ocean of
Parabolas and quadratics of the equation
Attempting to answer
Decode the numbers
Read between the lines
Break down the algorithm
And desensitize
As you calculate the rate at which
My mind speeds towards insanity
Measure how much you love me on a scale
Of one to ten
What if the number is eleven?
Then compare to a love for her
The question is irrelevant
Because what is equality
Two different things so much same
How can one surpass another?
Always want to know how can
You compare and contrast the highway
Of your body your mind to that of
Another body another mind
What makes one worth so much more
Is it really worth that much more
It’s unfair once you factor in opinion
After all love can’t be measured
In quantity or numbers
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 9:36 PM UTC
oh its not what it spouts
the obscenity
rancor
its the way that pearly(ish)
perfect parabolas
glean with the best
that almost-yellow can do
the swear and grin get more
mileage than could any "line" ever
nothing of this is intentional
i dont really need to be persuasive
but i could stand for a lesson in etiquette
shaking hands and dictating something direct
this is how it should happen
you say this and ill show you the pearly(ish)
but what are you
and what could we be
im talking about a power team
if i drew you a picture
it would be on a sidewalk
in 32 colors
i would be *****
and you would be laughing
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 2:21 AM UTC
He's different, I think
When I sat down firstly
I barely gave a blink
So did he, none did speak
But then he asked me
"Is that x over y?"
And he smiled so gently
So heavenly, it warmed me
I said, "Yes, yes it is,"
And returned the smile
half-heartedly
In hopes he'd return one back
Everyday, I sat beside him
Everyday, I hoped I could to to him
Everyday, I psyched myself
Everyday, I believe fate would bring him to me
I think I started to fall a little harder
in my mind, so much thoughts to ponder
"What if we fell together,
or would he treat me like another brother?"
His friends are vastly... different
Egos blown, language ever so sharp
They'd play and frolic around
But he, no, he'd rather sit and look around
Unlike them, he liked to smile a lot
Unlike them, he'd give and opt not to take
Unlike them, he'd speak with his eyes filled of genuine interest
Unlike them, he'd make you feel... warm... understood... human
Time passed, I did nothing
I was ever content with small talk
We'd have hard time graphing parabolas
But when will love come around, my own graph?
The last day came, and all we ever did was write
He'd make jokes, and I would laugh
The hour passed, now time to say goodbye
"Dart sa heart", he utters, leaving me to ponder
Time for judgment day came
I utter my wish for luck to him, him to me
A grueling hour or two ran by so fast
I sighed, was relieved, was done, but could not afford a glance.
"3 minutes left!", the professor says
I nodded sassily
He chuckles
He nods as well
I think
I ponder
I feel
"Did he even feel so differently about me?"
The day is done
He walked off first
I followed
But there was no goodbyes
and neither did close the door
so I was left open
"When would I ever see him again?"
But I'd like to meet
but the answer is never
maybe pain is part of this growing...
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 7:57 AM UTC
Like you perhaps I am the heathen who sifts through the
hazes of a blood soul sentence. One that is forged in an emptiness
that cannot fill or find space between remembering or forgetting past entrenchments.
With the shackles and shapings of exemplary upbringings, coupled with history's ancestral machining hands I am defined by, predictable to and quintessentially fixed in most certain consciousness.
My thoughts are parabolas of yearning sent in all directions to past and past participial futures. As each return without geometric certainty they are repeatedly sent again - missives to unknown or perhaps unfriendly oracles: what is known is that all go unanswered.
Perhaps endemic to each lived experience is the perfect folly of presumption that it is possible to rewrite the past. The angel's kindest mercy being to reveal the conundrum for which a state of equilibrium can only be reached by one anointed practice; which is, to accept that transcendence is in and of itself an illusion.
MChallis @ 2015
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 12:36 AM UTC
He never asked me for anything.
His humbleness and fruitfulness grew on me
Without knowing that his hand could carve words into ellipticals and parabolas.
His cooking skills were awful,
but he can make a Ramen soup
That'll make your knees melt like overcooked chicken broth.
He was 24 when he first came to this country,
his English broken like the glass protecting his eyes,
He left African battlefields and deserts
To generate cereal boxes and lithium batteries.
His pockets stuffed w/ month-long receipts,
because he always wanted to keep track of where he spent his hard-earned money.
Nobody gave him a cup to **** in, much less a ***
But he always felt optimism grow in his foreign lungs,
swinging his voice like a hammer to build maturity,
to stand like golden shrines.
He’d pray every night to speak to his lord,
to ask God to help shape him into something a bit more,
like his shoulders were too weak to bear the struggles of his cries.
He works harder than ghosts to keep his heart in this world.
The Beach Boys were his favorite band when he first came here,
and he always babbled about Brian Wilson because he wrote poems.
He searches for lost poems that he's buried inside the mother of his children
He visualizes the pages of these poems,
writing themselves on the faces of his children.
He tries not to see too long, too hard,
because then he may see too much of himself inside his oldest son.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
Like petals from the flower bloomed
her smile wades
as eyes consume
the personification of beauty...
of which every angel longs
but could never hope to be
because their wings are over encumbered
by the burden of our wrongs.
Shadows cast upon the face
of the ever-blazing sun
top rung being...
of the evolution sprung...
proof of natural selection
is the breath that leaves her lungs.
hour glassed and figurine(d)
are the angles of her curves
parabolas that round just right,
i wish they'd never end,
penned in shape with permanency
nerves twist and wined to lips
that trade kiss with me like currency.
Her soul peers out through her iris
desirous to capture this moment.
because this moment will last forever...
universally content
lips bent & crease at both corners
when i rest my hands upon her hips.
and treat each passing glance as the priceless...
the priceless gift of knowing bliss.
Feb 3, 2011
Feb 3, 2011 at 5:00 PM UTC
What was the point saying hi in the hallways
to all those girls (and it was only the girls)
You passed those same kids six times a day
Think of the energy wasted with Hi Mary! Hi Cindi!
when you could be thinking baseball or astronomy
the stuff of seventh grade.
Eighth grade brought the mystery
of introductory geometry
the jostling double parabolas of Julie’s body
shaped like an S, she was outgoing in so many ways
I just had to say Hi Julie!
whereas Kathleen one could discern was similarly shaped
but tightly encased, a quiet one, shyly a hello.
My curiosity was for Hi Julie!
my dreams for hello Kathleen
though that was the limit: hello, Hi!
and then after graduation, not even that.
Not even goodbye.
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 2:35 PM UTC
In high school we learn about many things
The quadratic formula is -b +/- the square root of b^2- 4ac all over 2a
The monomer of a protein is amino acid after amino acid and so on
But what we dont learn in school is the average amount of American Veterans that are out on the street, homeless.
What we dont learn is the percentage of children and young adults who commit suicide because of bullying
There are certain things thats appropriate for school and things that aren't
For example, talking about the four different chambers to a heart doesn't explain why mine feels empty
Doesn't explain why 30% of students consider suicide at least once in their life
It doesn't tell me why little billy or Kate felt the need to end their life because they didn't feel like theirs was worth living.
We dont learn about children in need because we are taught that learning parabolas is more important.
School is more important than living a healthy life.
In school you cant talk about real life stuff like **** or depression. Girls are taught that they're *** objects who need to control what they wear instead of guys being taught that they should respect us.
Schools avoid teaching kids good morals and instead teach them how to follow everyones rules.
They take creativity out of children and give anxiety right back. They bend and twist us into how they want us to be and if we dont bend.. Theirs something wrong with us. Or theres something wrong with our parents because god forbid theres something wrong with the school system in america.
Maybe suicide rates wouldnt be so high if schools would see students as what they are.. Human beings
Not robots
Not something you can mold into whatever you want
They say if you tell a monkey and a fish to climb a tree, the fish will always sit there and wonder whats wrong with it
Because its told that if you cant do what everyone else can than whats the point?
What are you good for?
Whats your purpose if you cant do what we tell you to do?
Why are you here!?
But of course we don't talk about this in school
Its not school appropriate.
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 1:23 PM UTC
remember when the parabolas were to steep
and the martyr flew out of the sky to save us
all?
exposure to the curves bent us, but we stood still.
icy syncopation in our eardrums and no one could stop
our cadence.
we were cold and chilly, and our bodies began to flush out the
heat, but we stood firm. the wind whipped our eyelids,
and the river crashed into the trees.
our own metamorphosis was one of tyrannical thoughts
but purity lied between our veins. i stared at my hands for hours,
webbed and amphibian-like. we weren't ourselves
and after the fifth of March we fell into the vespertine.
transformation complete.
androgyny in its fullest form.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 3:07 AM UTC
all i want to be in life is a bit of colonel tavington;
i executed loosing my mother
tongue and when i gripped
the new diacritic i earned a famous colonial greed,
even though i was lied to,
because polish diacritic was there in ś
while english was yorkshire nudist blank slacked
so i had to go back to augustus looking over my shoulder
utilising the d but not the ∂ like chiseling a v for a u in marble
to question the existence of parabolas easier.
i mean, i like that arrogant frown and i’ll admit it
unabashed into liking it, i want that ******* twinning
to pop that corn into popcorn for goo awe ah of the cinema goers.
i can be silent throughout the day,
but at night i lose the lazy drunk and soak the soap in carbonated
and bubble the words out: vengeance! thrill the jaw to munch on un-edible edibles! crack the bone **** the marrow!
all i want to be in life is a bit of colonel tavington,
very few sentiments for being loved and loved in private,
loved i can handle but only in the public domain
as prime antagonist.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 8:03 AM UTC
in england the maxim is said to be: i pathologize, therefore i am (pathological) - hence i write intellectual comedy, satire, yet still utilise canned laughter when necessary, i never understood humour as not so much what's said, but how body language primarily eases out the longest, simplest of laughters - i am the one who decided comedy had to be intelligent, and tragedy apathetic, because i didn't think, i simply pathologized: look at my grand psychiatric rainbow of an array of names to look at a shadow of the hand move behind a candle-flame! even a mongol horde could not invade england carrying thought as the explorer, the intention for pause.
cheeks raised do not give straight rivers
of tears flowing down through to the periphery
of the face via jaw through to the neck,
and indeed when not acting,
both curvatures of mouth and eyes
are the same down-turned, such parabolas
of union, the third eye like an opening of an
oyster soft pouched thought of the lowest
union, neither intellectual union nor
heartfelt union - but as oyster shell to that
pseudo-muscle of the enclosed pearl;
tears flow with curvatures of raised cheeks
half ellipse river shapes - till the salty cool
of the content heats up the skin -
indeed the powerful avatars of asia who enrich
the gods, and the begging actors of the western world
who would be but beggars had they not the chance
to thieve from their fellow men and
live out a shortening of autobiographies,
or perhaps simply weave a myth from history -
deity actors (avatars) are hardly
what has become understood as twin-human
actors - so to enrich an eternity for the passing
memory readied with body to be given a grave
and forgetting - long ago the body was engaged
and was allowed to be given the womb of inscription,
yet a ghost of that body remained as a second life
for the lives of others, a memory, until that memory
be buried no furtherance of life equipped with
imagining otherwise can be staged for the re cycling
of an ordained body to enter and inscribe
a rekindling of the memory for the camp fire of talk,
hence the extinction of memory in almost each man
with the widespread talk of dementia:
seek fame in mythology rather than like a ****
attracting the swarm of flies that the paparazzi are.
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 6:29 PM UTC
I want to carve my initials into the parabolas of your fingertips.
I want the etchings of your ribs caged against your flesh tattooed on the back of my hand.
I want to study the Braille of your tongue with my mouth, reading my name over and over and over.
I want to kiss your spine,
read books about your heroics and cowardice, write poems about the curve of your hair,
- stop
right there, I want to sketch you,
stretch your smile on a canvas,
capture your blinks, bends, and the Cupid's bow of your lips softly,softly,softly in pencil,
shhhh.
Let the cursive of your sleeping body tell me to stay,
nestled in the dip of an l,
the stout roundness of an o,
eternity, forever,
v's sharp trajectory calculating the distance to the moon and back, remember?
And the way two e's lock together,
pinkie swear, with all my heart,
I promise to love you
everyday, and twice on Sundays,
And only like you on Tuesdays,
but when the calendar becomes a measure of affection,
Who's to say what happens in a year's time?
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 5:10 AM UTC
The water sparkles like the time
I spilt sugar all over
Your kitchen table
Each granule reflected the sunlight
A smile splashed across your face
The silver fish re-emerge
Jumping in parabolas
To see where they are going
I don't think they know
When they are down there
And the frothy shoreside
Reminds me
Of the milk that rushed to the floor
After my clumsy hands betrayed me
I'm glad you weren't mad
I'm glad you didn't slam the door
Your wide mouthed laugh was there
To console me
You don't know
That I love you.
That I need you.
If only...
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 4:44 PM UTC
They start slowly climbing up the crevices deep down inside of me.
Looking: for a way out, to escape.
Their gentle wings lightly scrape the insides of me.
The parts we had to memorize and learn in biology.
They take the corners and duck in and out of little pockets of space that never existed before.
They take little peeps of me as I watch you out the corner of my eye.
I wonder why how these little things can make me feel so alive.
They the wonders of the insect world, they, make it beautiful.
They swirl and twirl and leave me flattered and faulted all at once.
Tangents and parabolas.
Math’s science and fiction.
Curves and contours.
These little insects of pleasure.
No bites or scars.
Not pest.
I chase them with a net pure joy.
These little butterflies you give me.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 3:27 AM UTC
She was a vision
fresh air blown south with
a cautious smile and a broken heart
long fingers–soft to the touch
longing to touch something she could believe
was real.
She was a mist
drifting through interactions
the way a mime may be made jealous–
silent motion on light feet. Was she
here? or just her contortions?
but those eyes!
emeralds poorly hidden behind tears
not yet fully dried,
anticipating tears
not yet fully cried
(for tears start first in the heart before finding their wings)
She was mine–
for a time.
those lips forming positive parabolas
without reserve or hesitation.
it was a drug incapable of inhalation
or ingestion, but I
felt it in my chest and center.
I, addicted to see her work her ****** mathematics,
would do all to coax it out of hiding.
However.
behind it hid another.
the reason those fingers that had interlocked mine so perfectly
searched blind for something real.
the reason she blew like the southerlies–
refreshing for a time, and then ghost;
the reason those jewels glistened as if
held beneath water
like hidden treasure.
She was never mine. But
nevermind
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC