"patching" poems
Today not all of our mistakes are failures
Today I'm closing the door on
the things we keep behind our teeth,
the ways we never learned how to be
soft, but always tried
our best anyway
this is a tribute to the lost sleep
the nights I keep marked in tallies on
my arms, the letters I keep locked up
in a dark drawer,
where maybe something besides moths and regret
will eat away at them.
Today, not all of our thoughts are broken
today you take me out of my skin and I learn how to dance;
the rhythm is choppy but I follow
it anyway, after all we are only testing the waters here
we are only stargazers
awaiting some grand cosmic miracle, we are waiting with our
hands in our pockets for something big to happen,
we are falling in and out of obsession
chasing strangers
around and around in circles,
throwing our
fists in the air claiming "not everything is lost",
slowly coming to the realization that
it's also true not everything is found.
Today you don't know what you're looking for but you can't stop
searching the horizon, like maybe if you peer long enough,
your brain will slow down enough to process
the harsh thump-thump, thump-thump that tells you you're still alive
that tells you you're still here
that tells you you're still waiting
And my fingernails are digging into my palms now from the suspense
of writing and re-writing my name onto fresh pages,
crumpling and collecting them
in the bottom of waste baskets along with
half smoked cigarettes and
last night's rain, because
it is rare that two paths will cross in this world with anything more
than a brief flash of recognition,
it is rare that anything
better can be captured before it slips
down through the cracks;
but that thought was me eons ago
that was me in someone else's skin
today I'm putting nets out to catch the things
we throw around & never keep,
I'm writing your story into my
daily script & keeping a list
of "to-dos" before the big event;
tonight I'm alone and I'm
too busy to look out the window,
maybe the stars will flicker or maybe
they won't, but regardless
I'm still counting my heartbeats to know that I'm here
(still counting my heartbeats to know
the time I have left),
I'm still patching
this wound up with fragments of could have been,
reminding myself that not all
of our hearts are broken, and not all
of our moments are failures.
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 1:32 AM UTC
I am a master seamstress
I sew on a grin every day
You can never see my seams
Careful little stitchings
All across the surface
At the end of the day
I cut every little string
I let my sewn smile fall weak
I could smile without it
But it wouldn't be true
Because my cute little smile
Is merely a façade
The real me hides behind seams
She sews to be a survivor
The little seamstress I become
I am a master seamstress
I sew thoughts onto papers
The ink could never bleed through
My strong tight stitchings
Gliding across the blank paper
At the edge of the sheet
I find myself stopping
My stitches want to unravel
I have to let them out
Because they look so caged
So I exterminate my thoughts
They never come back to visit
I set them free for a reason
And it was for them to survive
This little seamstress has a heart
I am a master seamstress
I turn colors into thoughts
The thoughts I turn to material
The material I turn to beauty
The beauty I turn to stitches
The stitches heal broken hearts
My work is so well known
But then they go and leave
I do my part and they are pleased
I stitch their hearts up
They cut some stitchings
Right off my patched heart
The little strings I use
On my seamless tiny grin fray
The seamstress I was works no wonders
I am a master seamstress
I sew the strings onto the puppets
They act a lot like I do
So I admire their tough hearts
They are controlled by another
Little hands lift them up
And make them walk through life
They have their grins plastered on
Just like my seamless little smile
They prance and fly among us
But we never seem to notice them
It's like they are invisible
Falling upon deaf eyes
But I keep them alive
Because a seamstress always saves
I am a master seamstress
I sew what some call impossible
I prove them wrong with one stitch
Still they see right through me
I sewed myself invisibly
Don't let them see the real me
Don't let them know the seamstress
I've sewed their eyes to know
Not to look upon me
As I fix as I repair
They think of me as a fairy
Patching up their cuts
I'm just a small little figure
They never really see
That's just the way a seamstress likes
I am a master seamstress
I sew my wings of thread
Wear them proudly like a trophy
Every stitch is always perfect
They fly up off the wings
They soar when I fly up high
Drooping when I try to walk
My wings are seamless grins
They pretend to be when I'm not
Just like the little grin of everyday
Fly away all you little seams
All the little frayed strings
Gather up in all my stitchings
They look upon the air with care
But the seamstress can't fly away anymore
I am a master seamstress
Sewing up what cannot be fixed by man
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 2:35 PM UTC
I need to try and stop saying discouraging words when I look in the mirror
I need to stop wincing at reflections in the buildings windows
I need to purposely not look at my reflections to spare the pain anymore
People can't believe I hate myself when it comes to physical appearance
But the small jokes I make are as serious as my outlook on myself
And walking down the hallways is an effort to mask my face and body
And I'm desperately trying to patch the holes in myself
The holes that allowed my self confidence to leak from me in the first place
The holes drilled over and over by the repeated words that weren't meant to hurt
But I knew the hidden meaning, I knew the real thoughts underneath
And as people constantly hammer in to me you are beautiful
It becomes a familiar sound, a phrase more cliché to me than yolo
And as the dark cloud of self hatred looms ominously overhead,
It is only visible to those who truly know me, those who see the thunderstorm
It's funny how the people who try and lift you up end up slamming you to the ground
And when you hit rock bottom you stop trying to disguise the rocks that are ugly
You stop trying to cover them with make up, you stop trying
Because a rock is a rock no matter the cover up, and it'll be ugly no matter what
And if I'm a rock someone hand me a chisel so I can carve myself down
And shape myself into the girl in the ******* magazine,
Because who could ever be a attracted to a girl who wouldn't date herself
Who would love someone trying to make up for their lack of love for themselves
By loving everyone else, and patching their holes leaving myself empty
It's funny how the people who say I'm beautiful would never date me
It's funny how my mother will not utter the words that would save her drowning child
Yes honey, you are beautiful
But instead I have sunk to the pit of the ocean, who cares about trying to hold my breath
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 11:11 AM UTC
crisp atmosphere, special ordered
for perfect pumpkin patching, apple picking,
stout sweaters all, a blueish autumnal sky,
orange 'n red leaves delivered on time
the old uber-man-grand-pa,
hired as a day driver,
saddles them up,
three generations all tucked in a
repeating mise en scène
a replay of some thirty years earlier,
when the now-father
was about the same age,
as his boy, three years aged
and yet so impatient
asking the same question
his father perfected,
in the same sweet voice,
at about the same time,
in the same way,
a little voice from deep in
the cavernous back seat,
sighing, squeaking with an
I've-seen-it-all ennui,
some mere five minutes into
the hour's plus journey
to the 'country' bound
"are we there yet?"
titters 'n snickers from assorted adults,
but grandpa weeps words with composition instant,
so many answers to such an important question,
so serious that an admission, confession
required, due you,
grandpa still asks the same question
every day of his life
it's Sunday and longish poems per Yeoman,
strictly verboten,
God knows there's an essay unwritten
as the answer, a symphonette with
a thousand opus, by-your-command repertoire,
a pumpkin for every patch,
some answers that even may be a
young prince's carriage in hiding
but for now let this suffice,
sometimes yes, sometimes no,
and sometimes, the goal line just goes and moves on ya
so with utmost seriousness
a purposed thoughtfulness proposed,
posing said inquiry knows no age limitation,
if you have not asked of yourself this day,
"are we there yet?”
then the answer is surely,
not yet
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 5:14 PM UTC
Blind sighted was I as I traveled the darken roads,
walking within the confines of my mind.
Learning of the darker paths again,
trying to explore the things left unsaid.
Occasionally trailing off the path,
patching the wounds that still bled.
Such a fool to let your guard down,
Such a fool to leave the paths unguarded.
Such a fool to believe again
Such a fool to suffer in torment.
Only to learn of a new wound there,
close to the one left by authority figures.
Stepping closer to examine it and
wondering if it could honestly be true.
Poking at it to try and learn more,
finding it a wound that travels deep.
Such a fool to let your guard down,
Such a fool to leave the paths unguarded.
Such a fool to believe again
Such a fool to suffer in torment.
Morbid curiosity encouraging me further,
extending hand to learn of the depth it holds.
Finding it to be larger than my fist,
what a deep wound this doth be.
Such a fool to let your guard down,
Such a fool to leave the paths unguarded.
Such a fool to believe again
Such a fool to suffer in torment.
Pus and gross things spilling along side
of the blood that seeps out.
Deadly infection having set in,
where I thought healing had started.
Silly thing I have been when I thought it scabbed over,
and healing as it should've been..
Such a fool to bare this burden.
Such a fool to think it was gone.
Such a fool to believe in trust.
Such a fool deserves to suffer.
Sep 22, 2010
Sep 22, 2010 at 9:44 PM UTC
*She threw herself at heartbreak,
like a moth drawn to flame.
Patching up her broken wings,
just to try it once again.
And the world all thought her foolish,
for she seemed to never learn.
But how do you save somebody,
whose convinced that they should burn?*
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 11:54 AM UTC
Countless series of melancholic oceans
Hitting through waves of adversity
Only to be repulsed by provocations
Disjointed affections falls effortlessly
With no such contemporary feelings
Choked amongst the walls of solitary
Praying silently for a better ending
A hopeless romantic it seems evidently
Voyaging away from the sufferings
Patching holes of memories
Rekindling fire from breathing
Dreams torn away in fantasies
Sober desires creates a lustful reality
Shone away ignoring a truthful beginning
Nothing can hold us against this treachery
Forsaken our love has left me begging
©2014 Maman Screams
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 12:21 PM UTC
i am my grandmother’s small and plump tears
when she thinks of her pueblo.
i am my mother’s broken english
as she greets the cashier.
i am my sister’s abandoned dreams,
her acceptance letter is etched into my palm.
i am my brother’s path to citizenship
along with all the photographic evidence.
i am my brother in law’s laughter
when he speaks to the nephew he has never met.
i am the ever constant fear
of being denied a home.
i am the secrets carried on backs
through miles and miles of desert.
i am the pan dulce on sunday mornings.
i am the mole and carnitas at birthday parties.
i am the thick hair on arms.
i am the first bite of a burger king hamburger
after years of poverty.
i am the first item of clothing bought at a kmart
after years of patching up old clothes.
so how dare you think less of me?
you do not know what i carry.
all this pain.
all this joy.
all this strength.
i am chicana.
the bridge between two worlds.
i will not be burned down.
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 4:22 PM UTC
The Commercial says:
Collect the whole set!
Buy Tommy Toddler™! –Now says 6 gibberish phrases!
Buy Hannah Housewife™! –Laundry basket and stove included!
Buy Stanley Stepdad™! –Comes with realistic child abusing action!
Buy Cole, the College Student™! –Life-like *** and beer ***** scent!
It says: Buy the whole family.
Batteries not rechargeable, but included. Residing inside.
No assembly required unless buying Ralph the Retired™ – in which case,
Go to the hospital and inquire, am I covered ?
Have I expired ?
At the store I’d, see them all sorted, and sordid, clumped in little bins. Together.
Sort of. See,
Lawyers, and scientists, and authors were all in higher priced bins.
I felt shorted.
A cheap skate like me couldn’t afford it, wait-
there are the janitors, soldiers, and waitresses, each only a quarter.
Somewhere in Taiwan, thin children wont to wanting,
Are making Model Americans.
Patching together assembly-line-lives, no breaks inbetween,
Workers named High School, College, and Career sew mini seams.
So many seem, to delight in dreaming the American Dream,
To leave earthly bodies and become pristine; little dolls.
Toys colored C.R.E.A.M.
“…and the home of the brave!” ?
maybe, home of the depraved.
Home of the pre-made, pre-packaged, and
Enslaved.
Displayed, in plastic tombs engraved. With phrases like:
Save! 50% off!
or perhaps it’s 50 stars off.
50 stars that are missin.
Cuz Old Glory sure looks like a **** question mark ( ?)
End transmission.
Restart television with Remote Control.
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 3:00 PM UTC
These words that I am speaking are not my own.
No, they come from the Heavenly Father seated on His Heavenly throne.
Hallowed be Your name, Father!
Hallowed be Your name.
Father, grace.
Father, spirit.
Father, power.
Father, peace.
This is what the Father says,
"Be still, child.
Be still.
You can feel the undertow tugging and pulling
not knowing
which way the
water will go and
there is a wave coming
a towering wave
a rushing wave
a crashing wave
a tidal wave but
do not be afraid.
The water's safe.
Come walk on it.
For this wave is not what it seems.
No,
this is a wave of blessing and people and provision coming your way
this is a wave of overcoming and
victory and answered prayers
this is a wave that will sweep you off your feet,
toss you around in its waters
leaving you breathless and gasping at My faithfulness and love everlasting
So you'd better be ready and brace yourselves,
this wave is coming.
Be ready.
Leave your doors wide open
and your doorstep clean for
I am sending you prodigal sons
the lost, the broken ones.
I am leading them back to Me.
For I am Love and this, this is love:
That I have loved and traded My kingdom for your sins
and My wealth for your filth.
Because I am Love and My love never runs out.
Be ready for the return of your
brothers and your sisters,
be ready with open doors and open arms,
be ready for a wave of those who need patching up.
Be ready for them.
Do you hear the rain?
Smell it.
Taste it.
Feel it.
Like the rain that pours without end, I will open the floodgates of heaven
and pour out so much blessing
your storehouses will overflow and
your hands won't be ready to catch the next one so
never worry about what you will eat
or drink
or wear
For I am Jehovah Jireh and
I am more
than enough.
Be ready for downpour.
Rise, youth.
Your time is now.
Don't tell Me you are too young
too inexperienced
too busy
or too scared.
I will take your weaknesses and make my strength perfect in them,
I will give you the wisdom and faith you need,
I will make you into the leaders I've called you to be.
Don't worry about what you will say to them,
for I will put the words in your mouth,
and the seeds in their hearts.
My plans never fail, child, so enough with the doubts,
enough with the fears,
your time is now.
Be ready for the youth.
A wave of breakthrough
is coming straight at you and
don't you for one second
cringe in fear.
Don't you be afraid of the wave coming,
Don't you whimper when I lead you
to walk upon deeper waters,
just
listen to my still, small voice, child, and
follow it.
Don't you for one second
let your faith falter
just trust in your Father and
you'd better get ready and
brace yourselves because
this wave is going to
blow
you
away."
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 7:48 AM UTC
I arrived--
though I needn't a formal invite,
for you and I, we are two old friends.
Companions walking along
a similar trail.
The leaves distort and distress the
yellow and gleaming light of the
victorious Sun, who has once again
conquered Night and all
her iniquities.
Scents and colors fill the air,
pinks and reds and greens mix and match
and blend together, forming
a rich atmosphere of synesthetic remarkableness.
Each atom and molecule
of the wind
shivers and shakes atop their
invisible chariots,
perhaps the true location of Atlas
and those great, big hunks of
shoulders;
"Man, what a man."
Take it because you know you like it--
we are social creatures,
creatures of logic
of habit
creatures of horribly idiosyncratic and idle instinct,
rulers of fleshy bodies
which we hardly understand.
The Sun grimaces as it
retreats back to the negative air,
once again,
not to poke its radiant face out until
the next morning.
The Moon came shimmering out,
smiling furtively and compactly,
looking down like
my oldest confidante.
After all,
who else but our fair
Luna atop the stars
is the keeper of all our deepest
and most primal
secrets?
In the cover of her noxy cloak
we sin and hide,
pushing every secret under and between
the cracks in her space,
patching up time and
keeping dark and brooding Atlas
good company.
"You're one of the few great guys."
Oh, my fat and failing Atlas,
lover for the Night and
of my night,
you are a temporary stop on
my trail,
a brief twilight in my
life's journey.
The Sun creeps its
spindly, golden fingers under
the cloak of the Moon,
Night: the stitchings and
sewings of the sins of mortal men.
Playfully, the light stretches out,
first dancing along the stage of the horizon,
then inching closer,
desperate for living contact,
for the greatest warmth of
over 2 billion hearts
all beating at once--
perfectly,
in time.
Our world is a note on
this Cosmic sheet music;
you are barely a splotch on the sheet.
Our existence is the single beat
out of infinite others,
without a beginning but
possibly and end.
I know that
there will be twists in my path,
bending and curving to avoid the
stars' wrath and the Suns'
might,
but,
might it be
that our two trails
are simply
not meant to meet?
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 3:55 AM UTC
PROCESSIONS that lack high stilts have nothing that
catches the eye.
What if my great-granddad had a pair that were
twenty foot high,
And mine were but fifteen foot, no modern Stalks
upon higher,
Some rogue of the world stole them to patch up a fence
or a fire.
Because piebald ponies, led bears, caged lions, ake
but poor shows,
Because children demand Daddy-long-legs upon This
timber toes,
Because women in the upper storeys demand a face at
the pane,
That patching old heels they may shriek, I take to
chisel and plane.
Malachi Stilt-Jack am I, whatever I learned has run wild,
From collar to collar, from stilt to stilt, from father to child.
All metaphor, Malachi, stilts and all. A barnacle goose
Far up in the stretches of night; night splits and the
dawn breaks loose;
I, through the terrible novelty of light, stalk on, stalk on;
Those great sea-horses bare their teeth and laugh at the dawn.
2.1k
John hawker English also was the official surgeon for the Swedish army.and this was a hard job patching up each and every wounded soldier who suffered there and sometimes it was easy and sometimes it was mighty hard for him
Because being apart of the Swedish army and fixing people up makes John think that the people he couldn't save and
All the people who yelled at him
You see John never had a family apart from a brother and parents because he devoted his
Soldiers at the Swedish army as his family and yes it was emotional when he couldn't save anyone and when he died
He had the Swedish army by his side nobody could save him
Despite John putting his best work for the Swedish army
Mind you death happens
You can't save everyone
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 6:47 AM UTC
Incense and candle wax
Roaches and hookah haze
**** my panic attacks
Numb me into a daze
Guitar strings and piano keys
Gentle breeze and rustling trees
Whispering secrets to my soul
Filling the void patching the hole
Skinny jeans and baggy shirts
Long hair and gentle skin
It heals all of my hurt
The environment I am safe in
Your eyes and soft subtle smile
Content to just stay for awhile
Let my fingertips dance along your arms
Unaware of notifications and ringing alarms
This is my Heaven my Nirvana
My heart talking not the marijuana
You are my drug without the crash
Each passing moment gone in a flash
With you every second is a lifetime
Each one worth repeating
These are simple lines put in rhyme
I just want to feel your heart beating
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 8:26 PM UTC
when you love,
you’re a country,
pierced by daily border
exchanged crossings,
to your closest neighbor
and though,
one rerun~returns home by night,
to your prior defining borderlines,
somehow
the externals of the container has
had its internality's modified
for the lines that prior defined
have altered
by passing the
point of prior,
now by thousands of
tiny holes breaching the
thickened protective lining,
by love punches ‘n kisses of
pinprick punctures
the resistance,
pulverized
<>
you are changed,
new language combos spoken,
embrace another with a
bilingual tonguing,
a real treat
to entreat each other and
that hyphen,
that little tiny
linear
~
punctuation mark is
reflecting your creativity of a
Singular Duality
it is mark that
speaks to a new
U~no individuality,
blended and connected
somehow a duo of
someone’s pulverized lines
forms a single stronger
chord
first a puncture
then a patching
finally
an adhesion pleasuring
and a new working word:
composite
the opposite
of
opposite*
Nov 14, 2024
Nov 14, 2024 at 7:26 AM UTC
Have you grown tired of being worn?
Hung loosely without care,
I apologize for ignoring the wrinkles
on your torso like a frown forming
across the lips, neglected in ignorance
like the iron trying to iron, not on.
Do you like being worn, sweater?
the coat hanger, your straight jacket,
restraining movement, limiting use
Because your attitude tore holes in seams
disappointing my skin, breaking the warm,
Allowing the cold to break the stitches,
Slowly unraveling, but you're still here,
In the back, pondering usefulness, sweater.
I don't know if I'll see you again,
But the moth ***** are collected memories,
Patching up holes, to make you whole.
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 11:23 AM UTC
what can I say that has not yet been said
and where can I go that my heart hasn't led
when faced with the truth, let it go to my head
it hurts, but at least it's an answer
and where is the one that I've wanted to date
yesterday's leftovers still on my plate
coming to grips with the fact that he's late
and he's probably out with that dancer
Oh he may come and he might go
and I can't follow, I'm too slow
but I can sing a song I know, it's called my soul needs patching
you can sing along with me, the humming bird and buzzing bee
for all we know you're just like me, two souls whose hearts needs patching.
Tell me, when will I have what that other girl's got
love for a lifetime, guess this is my lot
I've scared off a few with the end to this plot
how those mystery dates made me shiver
and who is this person that I have become
sometimes just lazy, and snapping my gum,
I've tried to play smarter, perhaps I'm just dumb
but I'm all that I've got to deliver
Oh they may come and they may go
but I can't follow, I'm too slow
still I can sing a song I know, it's called my soul needs patching
and you can sing along with me, the humming bird and buzzing bee
for all we know you're just like me, two souls whose hearts needs patching.
how can I slow what is driving me on
roll down the window, I'm more like a song
Set on the breeze that the wind blows along
with the fragrance of long summer days
So why all the longing when now is enough
precious and sweet are your words off the cuff
i'm happy to have you to read all this stuff
while the worlds smallest violin plays
Oh they may come and they may go
and I can't follow, I'm too slow
but I can sing a song I know it's called my soul needs patching
and you can sing along with me, the humming bird and buzzing bee
for all we know you're just like me, two souls whose hearts needs patching
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 8:32 PM UTC
"Scabulous. Adjective.
Proud of a scar on your body,
which is an autograph
signed to you by a world
grateful for your continued willingness to play with her,
even when you don’t feel like it."
-The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows
I am not afraid of scars;
They mean that I have chanced to live.
They mean that I have seen the world,
And the world has seen me.
That we have locked our gaze
Our eyes
Our wills in battle
Mortal combat
And it has blinked first.
They mean that I am a warrior.
They mean that I am a survivor.
They mean that I have healed,
Because scars come after wounds.
After we stitch closed
Our rips, and tears, and holes,
Patching ourselves up
Holding close our precious blood.
(Because a scar that still hurts
Means a fight unfinished.)
They are a warning.
They are a story.
They are a reminder.
Of love, and loss,
And life,
Beautiful life.
The moment when you catch a glimpse of death
Out of the corner of your eye.
And it sees you
And it nods
And you know it will come back
Someday
To collect.
But not today.
Because today
Today, you are the one who lives;
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 4:00 PM UTC
There lived, amid the common folk
A seamstress of renown
Tucked away most smartly
In a quiet sort of town
So perfect was her needlework
And delicate her hand
That all and sundry sought her out
Her skills were in demand
To gain a moment here and there
She took a silver thread
She deftly put a stitch in time
And curled up in her bed
For she was such a busy girl
Deserving of a nap
But as she slept one evening
The stitch in time went 'snap!'
Time unravelled rapidly
From 'will be' to 'before'
And coils of causality
Were all over the floor
But fortune is a canny dame
For a needle was at hand
Still threaded up with silver
At an artisan's command
She bustled in a flurry
And rummaged through the ages
She sorted out the centuries
With diligence, by stages
While shoring up the borderlines
And patching up the wars
She darned the holes in spider silk
And trimmed the dinosaurs
She hemmed the mighty oceans
To snuggly fit the sand
Then zipped up the horizon
So the sky adjoined the land
The night was stitched in situ
In between adjacent days
And time was mended seamlessly
And better in some ways
She locked away her needle
And her strand of silver thread
Her work would wait 'til morning
And with that, she went to bed
So next time life is hectic
And leaves you in a flap
Allow yourself an hour
For a cheeky little nap
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
I have pockets full of suffering
Stuffed to the brim with doubt
Enough tears to fill an ocean
But enough love to dry it out
I’ve walked a thousand miles with many pairs of shoes
Worn out all my zippers and learned to sing the blues
I’ve seen the tops of mountains
Watched rainbows kiss the sky
Felt the snap of a lightning crack
And earned all my patches too
I’ve held locks of lovers’ hair
Carried shame and pity too
Crossed the spaces on a map
Though on paper they were just an inch or two
I’ve listened to your whispers
Your admiration and your pride
How you can love every part of me
Even those I try to hide
You love my worn out zippers
My pockets full of fears
My heart held on with shoe strings
And the dirt earned over years
You told me I was beautiful
For all the things I’d seen
I told you, you were crazy
But keep talking anyways
I know I’ll settle down one day
When the world feels not so new
My threads will be much thinner then
And I’ll need some patching too
But I hope you’ll still think me beautiful
For all the things I’ve seen with you
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 7:48 PM UTC
clutching my crumbling holy relic,
that trace of her final kiss
still threading heat through quivered lips,
rise to find shelter,
move it safe from noise and haze
stumbling through shadows,
like uneven, forgotten lumber
patching gut shot with used bandages
the faded, drunken hymns of heart flung sadness
hang along Cahuenga Avenue, old and overplayed
wilted spider silk across a concrete violin
each parking meter my next crutch,
arguing with stoic streetlights,
giving their cold flicker that same
blood stained sermon,
self same pity, worn and overused
I warned, I was wounded, the cut never sealed
Never bled, just trailed smoke.
it whistled in the wind some nights,
she knew, it was permission to leave
reading the eviction note
on a house that never had walls,
from edge of a coin- I’ll scratch out her name,
from a nightman’s club- the darkness can fall,
from the tear of my eye- she’ll melt away,
from the skin of my teeth- I’ll feel the dawn crack
and learn, again,
to crawl
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 2:26 AM UTC
Cant seem to close my eyes with the world on the other side. Banging on my eyelids like when hammer and nail collide. Keeping reality ever present in my marathon of a mind. Even when im dreaming i cant seem to press unwind. So i press another button, as my life continues to play. Wishing that the days i wasted could simply be replayed. Running while my life is in a state of full unrest, body condeming me to sleep under house arrest. Sleep finding adversity in the priorities i have set. Making deals with the sandman to pay off my sleeping debt. But every debt made with him is one i cant seem to pay. So ill break even with the reaper on my dying day. And ill push away the sleep, and ill push away the night. Tricking myself with coffee and work; my sleeping schedule ill rewrite. Ill catch those Z's again, by the comming of first light. When priority meets procrastination, and sleeping becomes a right. So necessary to life as to every breath we take, keeping the sandman at bay for momentary sake. But sleep becomes anxiety as hour by hour they pass. Woken up abruptly by the sound of the next class. So you shuffle along your path, with one goal in sight. Keeping up your strength so you can stay in the fight. One where the rounds dont expire, and the bell never sounds. Only thing keeping you up, is that which knocks you to the ground. So you admit defeat for now and you suffer all the blows. Patching up all your wounds and reaping what you sew. Hoping that tomorrow you can finally take a rest. And find some sleep and peace of mind in your life of pure unrest. So finish up your work and try to close your eyes. Because in those few moments of silence, you can kiss your worries goobye.
Feb 19, 2012
Feb 19, 2012 at 10:00 PM UTC
Indulging in the pleasures of Luna,
Nocturnal eyes see beyond
Moonlight
The night is an enticing incentive
Luring us to dare be a part
Of a velvet heart that sings
The lullaby
"That which we create in the
Midst of others' dream is pure,
And most of all, true"
At the end of each note
Is a prelude to another
Evoking creativity that stems
And can only be nurtured
In the night
Yet flourishes in daylight
At the night's darkest hue
Patching syllable after syllable
Evoking stories that have
Begun to be to told
Indulging in the pleasures of Luna,
Nocturnal eyes see beyond moonlight
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 8:14 AM UTC
A thousand words, never to be written,
too many moments to translate.
An unnecessary task, but a preferred one.
It should be easy, I am a wordsmith, as you said,
but my fire is merely embers,
my hammer, lost,
The billows need patching.
Discouraged, I sit by my dying fire,
a pile of horseshoe memories by my side.
Broken plough hopes,
iron backed words.
All once glowing red,
now solidified in time,
by the cooling tears in a barrel.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 3:19 PM UTC