"paragraphs" poems
Words swathe me in calm,
Sentences, paragraphs that soothe.
Viridian verbs burst through the grey,
Taunting me into action-
Seducing me into a delicious dance-
Gypsy girl, swing your sentences my way!
Turquoise adjectives wrap around my wounds,
Embracing my flaws and perfections.
Rough olive skin; somber caesious eyes-
Gypsy girl, with amaranthine scars.
I drape myself over sienna nouns,
Steadfast, supporting me proper, improper, always.
Paper, songs, tree, sky, love, Jami Lee-
Gypsy girl, use your words correctly!
Each turn of a page lures me deeper-
Each spoken rhyme embraces me close-
Jami Lee, sweet little girl, get your head out of the clouds,
And your nose out of a book!
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 9:23 AM UTC
Life is an open book.
Time is an oscillating fan.
I've had to learn to skim-read because
before I can read more than a few paragraphs,
that ******* airhead comes circling back,
blowing pages like a medieval **********
The cool air feels nice, though.
Sometimes, when my head aches,
I let my eyes relax
and I enjoy the breeze as the words blur.
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 4:42 PM UTC
i’d rather write about the freckles on your back than think about all of the ways in which you quite possibly don’t love me.
i feel sick at the very thought of you picking me apart the way you did; fingers grabbing and stroking in a catastrophic symphony of skin and vulnerability.
let’s read between each other’s lines; share my sentences and punctuate my paragraphs with your mouth; because i can breathe easier on the mornings where i wake up wrapped around you.
because my moods change like the ******* seasons and the spinning in my head doesn’t want to stop.
you tell me that i should probably get a therapist because no one that thinks about all the ways in which they could **** themselves has an ounce of mental stability.
i tell you that i have been to four.
names faded into a blur with hazy snippets of conversation remaining.
20mg.
30mg.
you tell me that trust issues and scars aren’t endearing and i tell you that neither is counting up the potential number of pills needed to dissolve your body into the living room carpet.
let me sink inside your skin and make a home in your flesh;
i tell you about the nights where i lay awake in the bath turning the water red.
tragic, isn’t it.
you tell me that this isn’t how my head should work and i tell you that i already know. everything you could possibly tell me i already know.
i know that 400 calories a day isn’t normal, and my hands shouldn’t shake all the time.
i know.
please let me stitch myself into you, even just for a while; until i no longer feel dizzy and my world stops spinning.
i don’t need you to tell me that it will be okay, because honestly i don’t think it will be and, that in itself, is okay.
let me stitch myself into you, because my own skin can’t take it anymore.
let me call you back when my voice stops wobbling and my vision straightens out, but honestly, i’m terrified that it never will. what if this is it. headaches and tears and shaking and blood.
and the debilitating, gut-wrenching feeling of pure and euphoric emptiness.
tragic, isn’t it.
Apr 4, 2018
Apr 4, 2018 at 2:41 PM UTC
midnights still find me retracing the moments
that led to our thousand lakeside kisses;
they were secrets left in a summer dream.
each second — a bowline knot
leading straight to our
late night drives
and vehicle breakdowns
and last minute goodbyes
at the break of dawn.
midnights still find me sleeping
next to a shoebox of the books you left;
i still hear your voice
when i read the lines
of your favorite paragraphs
the clock hands, mocking,
leading me through a maze of
memories and parking lot conversations.
midnights still find me rewriting histories
with resin-pressed flowers,
maybe the petals will point to where
i started losing you —
and maybe it's in every direction.
the black, bold numbers have become my crumbs
leading to road trips and
to all the bus stops we missed,
kissing;
now i still miss my stop
without your lips next to mine.
and midnights still find me
writing poems like these
but clearly,
you're too far off
for these words to reach.
and now, midnights still find me wanting you back.
and 'til now, midnights still find you gone.
Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 7:52 AM UTC
Once it was garbage, refuse, trash.
A jumble of foul-smelling detritus hauled to the curb
And removed by sinewy men
Contributing a harder day's work
Than anyone else in the city.
Our energy now removes its entropy.
Sorted and classified into coloured bins,
We add order to our rejected matter.
Specialized trucks arrive to collect
The date-synchronized bins
Emptying them into functionally compatible mechanisms.
Most desolate is the black box of paper and cardboard.
Brochures and flyers, old magazines and letters.
Annual reports and cereal boxes.
Once these were enameled with crafted sentences,
Painstakingly typed, edited and debated,
On the monitors of copywriters.
Now they are just millions of words printed on flattened fibre substrates,
Jumbled into the bruised and scarred black box,
Entering into the recycling stream.
The nouns and adjectives,
Prepositions and gerunds,
All jumble together.
Fragments of precisely-crafted sentences and paragraphs
Are gradually broken, shredded and pulped.
Incomplete thoughts, broken phrases
Like those of a rejected stranger
In an lonely, unknown country.
Then words without context.
Then just disparate letters
Are all that remain.
Their M ea N inG
G r a Du all y
is re mov
e d
.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 10:26 AM UTC
My dear summers dream was to the taste cream
Pass me the triple beam the microphone fiend
Back on the scene simplicity is your complexity
So amazingly like grace I be rockin' the place
Like we Studio 54 shut down the doors
Once the bubbly pours and the **** adores
Ya mental **** ya sentimentals and these new aged millennials
They too satirical I make miracles flow potholes
Creatin' mass mayhem your an inconvenience
Cuz of ya hesitance my presence is known
Without even being shown paragraphs of stone
Hard to crack waxing tracks like a shark attack
Felonious acts we never back down
Til my soul drown in the core of the earth
Royalties since birth new my worth they tried to mirth
At my pain tryna change the game cuz all these cowards
Saying the same thang got dang got dang
Time to chess box like Wu Tang leavin' a stain
On ya reign no tears though I'll be on solo
Rippin' up instrumentals ya know how we do so...yeahhh
From the Sunny to bees that make the honey
Sticky icky like my spliffs be call me smokey
Puttin' fire to mother natures forests check the creases I
unleashes
Rap game mafiaso so so better back back
Or else get dropped lika Domino so here we go!
Here we go!
With the ghetto jams love girls with the derriere's of Pam
Got **** once again it's time to slam
Mics harder than Shawn Kemp ya flows shrimp
That's why ya girl calls me Mr **** no limp
Slick as Rick hello young world tilt and a whirl
Catch the swirl of Qatar Pearls on the neck of ya girl
Suckas better know I'm coming with a blow
Harder than Bowe combined with a super glow
black Saiyan raps slayin' turntables layin'
So I can get wicked lyrics Pickett
like Wilson
Flows in unison formation
of words
Herds a violent surge
feel the purge
We high rising no disguisin'
knockin' out Suckas who jivin' ain't none survivin' ?
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 11:09 PM UTC
I used to flip through my pages
Scanning
There were some interesting points
Some high, some low, some kind of just sitting in-between after the good and the bad cancelled each other out, but mostly I
Skimmed by,
Until I met you,
You can't be summed up, there's too much to you, you're too rich, too deep
Too interesting to be confined to a few measly paragraphs and sped-read through
You deserve attention, you deserve time,
And the more I've gotten to know you, the more I realize you're the entire book, the entire story in beautiful, vivid detail.
I'm going to take my time getting to the end of you, and I dog-eared the page where you entered my heart, so that if I ever forget how it feels to fall for you, I can go back to the start
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 3:14 AM UTC
In the burning right hand of the bald city,
denizens frame calories and count instagram blessings
while beacons of hope refund inspiration in USADA *** cups.
Abyssinian maids wail over yesterday lovers
who wore Ginsberg’s skirt with less pizzazz
and watched bedbugs **** blood off knee caps
wondering, what if Jesus Christ drove a Nissan?
As bullets of paragraphs fall Vietnamese pesticides on my head,
The dusts off my breath sing homilies
With letters of broken leather whiskey,
For even in the most dishonest jest,
clandestine toothbrushes are overrated
and every first false lie is the only truth.
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 8:02 PM UTC
Señor Garcia Marquez
Whatever did you mean
When you wrote of life
And of death by family
I'm in love with
Prudencio Aguilar's ghost
Roaming about the Buendía household
Hole in his throat
Washing out the wound
But what did you mean?!
I'm in love with
Do it yourself chastity belts
And Ursula's fear of ***
But why is this even a theory
Your concept behind biracial inbreeding
And Señor do not get me started
On Melquíades and José Arcadio Buendía
Because that friendship was
Fated to be doomed
I mean no disrespect in all this
I just want to know
Why use Macondo as an allegory
For the Angel Gabriel
You're genius, really
But your run on paragraphs
Infuriate every ounce of my writing soul
You're a Columbian Tolstoy
I mean that as no insult
Your works are tremendous and outstanding
But what am I doing
You're now just an old dead man
"Under the ground"
So now I belong to figure out
Why Pilar needs to fill a void
Opened by a ******
And why Colonel Aureliano Buendía
Thinks of his fond memory of ice
Just before being killed
I've paid my respects to your work
Please pay respects to my search
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 3:57 PM UTC
Night is for the hours
Cowards,
Let a man of God speak or night
Will continue to burn flowers
It's been said napkins are the greatest currency
For it holds the food spittle of man
Like how ambulances sit waiting
To clean up after misfortunes
And make fortunes for the fortun-
Who Ate paragraphs of spider webs
And patted weaves like black men seating at the back of the limited luxurious Q46 bus nodding heads to the noise of Toyota cameras they couldn't afford in the land where they spend $300 million to part the seas for summer entertainment
While they only spent $40 on California cuteness and walked on water with 13 Jesus' and ate at the bottom of the sea with only three tokes from the plastic bag
Let a man of God speak or night
Will continue to burn flowers
For we graduated from 30 hot nights of mathematics
Only to find that the future will always be white and in the *******
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 7:44 PM UTC
this one girl I used to be friends with, she was so beautiful and never ever did she see it in herself. I used to look at her though, and I used to wish I looked just like her or had a personality as kind and sweet and determined as her. I used to want to be as free of a soul as her and sometimes, even as guarded. It made me sad a lot of the time because she was so depressed and mysterious to me; her life kinda ****** back when I had first met her. I remember we dropped acid together twice and I told her that if ever there was someone I didn’t want to lose, it was her. And then the following year we had a fall out and we don’t talk anymore. I guess people change and that should be okay but sometimes I still wonder about her and what she is doing now and how she spends her friday nights.
then there was this other friend, who I may have even considered myself closer with but in a different way. We used to sneak out of my house during sleepovers when we were younger and sit on the curb and share a cigarette. we’d talk about all the people we miss and how afraid we were of the future. I always felt like I hardly knew her even though she shared most of herself with me. the first time I saw her cry was terrifying to me, but I didn’t tell her that. I remember how pretty I thought she was. physically though. and physically alone. She had a lot birthmarks that made her intriguing and skinny legs with pretty knees. however, she was mean and usually very bitter. one time she told me “I hate people until they give me a reason to like them” and hearing that disappointed me. I tried the most to be her friend again after she walked away but it was no use.
another friend I had I was friends with since I was six. I knew her from pre school and we were inseparable. I could write paragraphs and paragraphs about how amazing that girl is. I could do the same about how bad I felt for her. she was a friend who I never thought I would lose and I remember we had the type of friendship where our parents used to sign us up to do the same sports (horseback riding, gymnastics). after we stopped being friends I heard she fell off the deep end and was doing a lot of drugs. I got back in touch with her recently however she never seemed interested in hanging out and some of my texts went unanswered so I gave up. when I think about her, I still see my 12 year old self, playing mermaids in her pool as if time had stood still. if any of the people I’m writing about read this post, I hope it’s her most of all. miss you.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 7:54 AM UTC
Words and letters are written on walls
Some as vandalization others as messages
Words and letters are written on walls
Words and sentences are written on billboards
Some serve as advertising others to arouse awareness
Words and sentences are written on billboards
Words and paragraphs are written on my brain
Some serve as inspiration others to support guidance
Words and paragraphs are written on my brain
Words are the weapons I use in a society that controls my image
Words are the only thing that can divide me from being ghetto or educated
My words are the only thing that I can vouch for like my *****
My words are the root of the intelligence that propels this sentence
Letters in my words stand close to each other eager to make a statement
If I do not show my words, my letters of cheerfulness begin to fade away
Sentences are the compound of the mind that begs to be understood
Sentences are made up of a tyranny chained down by a trendsetters mood
My sentences contain verbs, nouns, adjectives and subjects that explain a lost purpose
My sentences define the meaning of an ironical imagery that leads me to dream
Sentences paint a picture that any blind character can see
If I do not paint my sentences how will I ever show my brains art gallery
Picasso used the paint brush to express his moods and feelings on a canvas
Shakespeare and Allan Poe used ink to utter their thoughts on a sheet of paper
Somewhere in my mind the collision of words and paint occurred
Where I fused the essence of writing with the masterfulness of painting
My words and sentences have met a significant other called paint
Paint and words are my new best friend
Paint and brushes are splattered and used upon walls
Some are called vandalization while they represent artistic skills
Paint and brushes are splattered and used upon walls
Paint and words are written on subways
So the eyes of the young and old can see the traveling message
Paint and words are written on subways
Paint and words smack up at my face
So that the world sees who conveys this message
Paint and words smack up at my face
Paint gives visual to what words cannot picture
My Paint serves as a method of expressing the mind’s tears and smiles
My Paint becomes a tour guide through the loops of divine wonders
Paint is just a stepping stone to the magnificent path of beauty
A brush is just a brush depending on who holds it
A brush is like the keyboard I constantly battle with to unleash my mind
A brush can combine negativity and positivity and make peace
A brush unites celibate beliefs with those whom are perverse
Words and sentences along with paint and brushes help explain my motive
Jonathan Pizarro
Lost Cause © 2011
April 17th, 2011
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 12:42 AM UTC
The story I've been telling is becoming less close to the chest.
Curious nature is that of a private man openly speaking tragedy.
Delivered with an uncomfortable smirk, because humility is foreign.
At this time, respectively.
It began with short sentences. Small worked because it was never enough to give insight into
the whole picture. Of course there was source material. Coincidences occasionally, but my sources were
always kept hidden. My skeletons, some would say.
Then the sentences became longer, if not, the paragraphs would.
Every now and then a hand cramp would delay the process, but
the mind kept going. What else did it have to do, but think?
But back to misplacing a humble way.
As soon as you state that you are,
you have become a contradiction,
a liar,
a cheat,
a thief,
the **** of the Earth.
But what do I know?
I'm only trying to be humble.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 5:42 PM UTC
As a child the frustration and aggravation we caused our parents counting down the days until Christmas or our Birthday.
And those afternoons in elementary school trying not to doze off while counting the minutes until the dismissal bell would ring.
The older I got the more I've counted my life away.
Count the years until 16 to be able to drive and be free.
Count the years until 21 to be able to drink and feel like a grownup.
Counting the months then years of the length of each relationship
Waiting to be wed.
Then counting the negative pregnancy tests over and over becoming hopeless that I would ever be able to count little toes and fingers.
Counting the tears that I shed for my husband, as the fairy tale family I dreamed of turned into a nightmare.
Counting the nights left alone, scared and waiting for him to return home.
Counting the minutes between each contraction.
Counting the moments before my miracle would arrive.
Then counting the staples in my belly where she had to be taken from my body so that we would survive.
Finally counting ten piggies and ten little fingers
Counting the hours and days daddy left us alone and scared in the hospital for him to party and drink.
Counting the paragraphs on the separation papers
Counting the steps to the court house
Counting the people watching as my romance and love was flushed away
Counting the almost endless nights praying for me and my baby
Counting her smiles, counting her wishes
Counting her Birthday's
Counting the moments I am blessed to be her mom
Counting the hours of work to be able to return home to her.
I will spend my lifetime counting.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 2:40 PM UTC
*Onward, soldier.
Onward.*
That’s what they all
tell me, but
let me
slow down for a moment.
There’s a little something I gotta
say,
Thank you.
To that swing set in Greenhills Music Studio
San Juan City,
without you,
I’d never have learned that sometimes
it’s the other way around—
feet in the sky and head on the ground.
Mrs. Arambulo, the swing set’s owner,
who made sure I was well versed in
sonatinas and arpeggio scales
before I found out they’d already made
a piano that didn’t need tuning, and
Ma, who’d test my memory by
asking me if I
could recite
whole paragraphs at age four,
she’s why I remember things like
the smell of pilmeni,
the color of our first house’s carpet,
and nine page spoken word poetry,
to everyone behind that old kids’ show, Bayani,
watching it in my
second grade HEKASI class
would bring me to tears each time — no kidding,
you all paved the way for my homeland’s history
to make its home in my heart,
my English teachers from
sixth all the way to eleventh grade,
who all believed and still believe in the words I put down on paper
and spew out on dark stages armed with imagery and the Spirit,
you made me fall deeper in love with the way words can be waves
or flames,
Dad, who taught me
to climb mountains, to read books,
to let myself run free among the nations
but to always remember to leave a part of my heart at home,
to the four little boys I met in Hong Kong,
if we meet again, I owe you a better explanation to your question,
“Why do you dance?”
thank you for asking me that, and I’m sorry for my cowardly answer back then
but I’m braver now, and
I promise it’s for more than just fun or exercise,
it’s for this God I hope you get to know,
and to every Philippine history teacher I’ve ever had,
keep teaching like that,
we need more young ones who’d be willing
to die for their homeland,
you taught me that there is so much more to this country
than its own people tell me, so
burn on.
and make sure they catch fire.
*Onward, soldier.
Onward.*
I’m not sure where I’m headed,
but I’d rather be uncertain of the road ahead
than forget
where
I started.
I’ve told you mine, now
tell them yours.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 12:29 PM UTC
There are periods that need to be put at the end of sentences that started with a thought, rambled onto paragraphs that branched into multiple ambitious topics that was then left hanging in jumbled confusion half-way through time. In the endless strings of unecessary conjunctions, painful careless adjectives, and inappropriate prepositions, a simple period, used at the end of a completed, sensible sentence, one in which you put an effort to complete, regardless of the distracting pauses of time...a perfect period like that could go a long, long way. It ends THAT sentence so that another, more mature, wiser, more sensible one that could bring forth beautiful thoughts in endless paragraphs, could then begin.
Such is the language of life.
Such is the power of a period.
It is called closure.
Sometimes, we should use more periods in our lives,
to make our sentences clear.
Yes.
Period.
Dec 23, 2009
Dec 23, 2009 at 6:56 PM UTC
I've learned my ABCs at one,
learned to read by four,
constructed my paragraphs at six,
a know-it-all reciting parts of speech by seven.
Letters assembled themselves ready for scrabble.
Rocks, paper, scissors,
I never learned to let go of the paper.
And grew up with dry fingers caressing books.
Breathing in language and literature.
They say you can only love something so much
until it leaves you empty.
But I've only ever truly loved a few things about life,
and first was how words strung empathy.
The way I wrote about tying yellow ribbons on trees for a hero at eleven,
wrote about anything that won me passports to a passion I had to sacrifice a few years later after fourteen,
wrote about the boy who broke my heart at seventeen,
wrote about the monsters in my head at nineteen.
I don't know how words always found me
whenever I tried to run away from the world;
how they kept my sanity along with melodies for as long as I can remember,
and made countless others feel less alone.
What I love is a weapon
that has sparked revolutions, waged wars.
What I love is art that built acropolises from embers
and most the world's wonders.
It rushes euphoriant through my veins as much as it does through yours,
yet it is neither blood nor oxygen.
It is all the words burning as we keep them hidden,
dying for us to give them meaning.
Aug 29, 2017
Aug 29, 2017 at 11:54 PM UTC
Sleep is timed to the minute,
my breaths let out lazy smoke
icicles make goose bumps into paragraphs
books written on my arms through yellow mist
bare feet in the morning on my rooftops
counting international planes in the sky.
My migrant bones take to the sky,
each moderate minute
that passes by on my rooftops,
increases the rawness of smoke
like lung-fulls of lemon mist
spewing a nebula of paragraphs.
In the murk of paragraphs
red papery ashes explode into the sky
leaving a cloud of syllable mist.
The last fragile minute
reduces my shivers to smoke,
a winter shell of shoulders on rooftops.
Double exposed film across rooftops
turn silhouettes into paragraphs,
a congregation of vapours and smoke
speaking soliloquies into the sky.
I am minute,
dissipating into canary mist.
Billows of ocean mist
make my fingers melancholy on rooftops
where a tidal minute
freezes salty foam paragraphs
a vacation from the sky,
my mossy perch and violet smoke.
Heliotropic smoke
spirals against dense mist;
fine rain blinding the sky
soaking lemonade rooftops.
My bed of paragraphs
curls into an illegible minute.
The lilac smoke in my eyes is almost minute.
A mustard mist wrinkles the paragraphs,
like the purple sky dropping over the rooftops.
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 11:46 PM UTC
Sometimes I feel as if
You have something to say;
Like it is on the tip of your tongue...
But you push it away,
And swallow those words
That would create sentences,
Which would develop paragraphs
That would have meaning.
Those significant phrases-
Shunned and Lost,
Deep into the depths
Of your conscience.
I do realize that this
May seem like over-analyzation,
But I see a glimmer in your eye
That deserves to turn into
Fireworks.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
Dribble your words all over my body, sprinkle me with your writing. Smother me with your thoughts. Lather me up with scented syllables. Massage your lazy vowels into my skin. Wash me down with your beautiful language. Wrap your sentences around my wrists, hold me down with your paragraphs. Tickle me with with interpunktion. Scrub me with silent speech. When I'm all wet and rosy clean, dry me with the pages of your warm typing
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 8:28 AM UTC
The blood of dinosaurs
pump through the soil
serving as cold platter
for the lit Norwegian cigarette
The war of music pump paragraphs of hope
through the ear of youths
burning lips in pursuit of happiness.
In search of naked pictures of God in our mirrors,
the internet spent our laws and threw our only hallelujah out the sea—
and Arachne smiled, knowing she’s now the Womb—
and all men come in the belly of eternity in order to be.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 7:00 PM UTC
They print their lives on a price tag,
Those big fat numbers,
All they do is brag.
My daughter’s a neurosurgeon,
Graduated from Johns Hopkins,
Saving lives by the hundreds.
My son a number-crunching accountant,
A career that keeps his wallet thick,
And his pockets filled.
They wonder what I do,
I tell them I work with words.
They gasp,
Eyes widen.
I tell them that,
I can count the spaces between adjacent letters in a word,
String words together to build a sentence,
Layer each sentence above another like bricks,
Place a single powerful mark of punctuation in between,
The glue that holds the bricks intact and forms a wall.
A wall of stanzas,
Connected by commas and semicolons.
A wall of paragraphs,
Big enough to block numbers out.
Because words fill souls while numbers fill pockets.
Words are immeasurable.
Infinite.
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 11:22 AM UTC
. what?
between MC hammer...
and men at work...
there's a choice?
come on...
you could have given
me an easier question,
like... Debussy
contra Satie...
or, like...
egg yolk or egg white?!
point being...
i'd love to see
christopher lambert
play the role of
raiden in that... mortal kombat
game made into a motion
picture...
you know...
if i owned a PS2...
i'd still be a gamer...
but i never owned a PS2....
or the metal gear solid 2
gaming experience...
not the PS1 experience
fighting ****** mantis*...
you know that hack / cheat...
when you switch controller
slots...
when ****** mantis* is
giving his grandiose speech..
and you switch the controller
ports, so that in in the game
you're not predictable...
final fantasy 7?!
completed it with a walk-through...
sorry... homework...
that being said:
all of Friday night and all of
Saturday morning...
and some Tenchu....
wacky-Jacky...
cow later chow,
enter mein...
choppers chop chop...
these days?
i game...
when i take a ****
i figured... if there are people who
take a book to the crapper...
i'll take a game...
war robots....
you know what's fascinating?
the interactive applicability of
a game...
team-work...
mesmerizing...
the whole gaming
structure drifted from a narrative,
to a congregational dynamism...
solipsism unraveled...
i dig the whole team work,
while taking a ****
love it... 5 stars review...
but am i a gamer...
do i not think that
a.i. is a revamp of Pinocchio?
no...
but metal gear solid?
a ******* solid game
on PS1...
you would be talking to a gamer
if i was allowed to buy
a PS2 console...
oh right...
i read books and listened to music,
and ended up writing anti-routine /
anti-technicality poetry /
anti-rhyme poetics....
my bad;
"we're" calling a revision
of chess in play;
yeah... sorry...
i was never into paragraphs,
with dialogue interludes...
for me...
poems were always above
a structural stature of paragraphs;
something to do with
haiku or... whatever came out of
Godzilla's mouth.
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 11:05 PM UTC
our conversations are all in blue.
i try not to mind it,
like i try not to mind the hair falling out of my scalp.
you're just busy being unattached to me.
i make excuses for you as easy as i double text.
they flood my head like mantras,
but not the kind that make you feel calm or loved.
it's more like telling yourself you won't throw up after the twisty roads up the mountain.
but i want to see the view with you.
so i keep sending you blue paragraphs filled with 'sorry's and 'i love you's.
you send the same grey 'i love you, too's.
and we call it communication.
i'm the driver and the passenger
the carsick kid trying not to throw up and the toddler asking over and over if we're there yet.
but i want to see the view with you.
would it hurt to send a grey paragraph? or ask me,
in your best whine,
if we are at the top yet?
throw up in my lap. drive me crazy.
ask me for the aux cord and i'll give it to you.
i'm done listening to this album on repeat.
i want to hold your hand without worrying if your fingers are numb and you just don't want to hurt my feelings.
this car needs more you.
and i don't mean the you dressed in grey half messages that you probably rewrote three times.
i need the you that talked about faking our deaths together
like it was the only part of life worth living.
wearing that laugh you always say is too loud,
but really it sounds like music.
i like my music loud and angry.
and ****** at your parents for being expired versions of themselves, always expecting you to be organic.
i need that you like i need a vice.
because that's who i want to see the view with.
May 9, 2021
May 9, 2021 at 3:13 AM UTC
you know? i'll stop being so empty sometimes. i'll fill myself with words, so they will be dripping down the carefully creased seams of my lips and dents in my cheeks. i am tired of margins and paragraphs to box in what i have to say. i'm ready to let things out like a destroyed dam barricading a swift, roaring feline river; distorted reflections of the day racing past. i am a goddess with dripping hair and naked skin, you can't stop me from feeling. i feel with my soul i feel i feel I FEEL and i am alive. i am the start of morning, i am red tinged and purple, i am the end of the afternoon, dark skinned and starry. i am everything that this universe is made up of, and i intend to be that way till the very earth splits my bones and drills my skull, and my skin droops tiredly to the ground. i am whole, and i am divine. i am eternal, like the dust scattered across the milkyway, and you can't stifle me.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 9:56 AM UTC