"permeated" poems
you took me
to a lovely garden
long ago,
and told me i was beautiful
you kissed my hair
just as the sun rose
illuminating
the intensity of our lost love
every inch
every crevice of me
loved you
missed you.
you were my infinite stars
cast on the midnight terrain
you lit up the world
just for me
a sweet scent of lavender
permeated through the garden
you said
it was the thousands of lilacs
blooming for me
you kissed my hair
leaving behind
a sweet scent
to caress me
(b.d.s.)
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
**** me like the ocean would the moon, Dear Amaranthine.
Teach me as you would any abecedarian, slow with pace.
My pallid arms are spread, and feet are crossed.
Crucify me, like one of your French girls.
Your endless frame arched over mine
a vaulting testament to the heat
of your front against my back.
This scene should have been a chapel.
Through hazed musk I can taste the saline
as it tumbles from your dripping brunette tendrils
forming brooks and lagoons the color of flesh
in the glens and about the islands of my spine.
I wish I could write about you in me
while you dance a contemporary beat
ceaseless, indeterminate, untold are
your feats within and upon my person.
For a split moment, seconds shattered in two,
I am completely and totally permeated by you.
I whine for you to vacillate me, I am ******* begging
to be occupied, satiated, by a rhythm akin to the sway of trees.
Love me fast and kiss me slow, Dear Amaranthine.
My palms are red, and feet bloodied, too. I moan.
Call me your poetaster but don't come on my chest;
There's far too much weight there already, my dear.
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 1:30 AM UTC
you ‘why’ her.
While she is thrilled & happily beside you,
Telling you when she’s up to something new.
Your pre-existing notion of setting a “ya” for her limits,
Persistent "no" to her wishes,
She grows up to know that,
if she got to do something new
She got to fight over the, 5 Ws & 1 H!
Ow! & you convince it’s out of distress not mistrust!
And by the Indian parenting manual,
questionnaire weighs heavier at a girl.
ultimately,
“This time”, “That day”,
" This place", “Those people”
Would impregnate her!
Sons of yours -
Son of nights! freely hatching eggs past curfew.
Not foreseeing the evenings his sister would come crying.
Parents when you talk on equality & empowerment,
Let broad mind not hit the very ceiling of your house
Let rest mindset that proclaims gender roles,
The differential idea you set on them,
From who uses broom to who chooses groom.
If misogyny is permeated in the roots of society
Cleansing and changing begins in the family,
Before there in your minds, first.
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 12:39 AM UTC
awakening with the gradual rise
of the subdued heather hued sun
a palpable spectral silence permeated the air
the anticipation of celebration intercepted
by an enveloping phantom black malaise
hiding in obscure shadows
the terror of the twin towers final doom
elucidated quivers of melancholic nuances
rippling through the greying vicinity
my birthday september 11th a tuesday
my night to sing at abravanel hall
with the utah symphony
unable to serenade death
our voices remained indubitably silenced
in hushed wistful reverence
ensuing 9/11s channel somber sentiments
cloaked with annihilation while
dark visions occupy smudged iphone screens
this anniversary i will dissipate despair
transmuting dark despondency
splashing all with lucent petals of delight
i’ll live this day with passionate intensity
and those subsequent with equal ardor
ferociously painting back the light
i will raise my voice with effervescence
and sing in wild abandon
for my precious brothers that were lost
demonstrating devotion through a refusal
to be silenced by fear bestowing honor
with a conspicuous message that love wins
©2016janetaylor
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 6:22 PM UTC
City lamps in clusters of concrete
On 18th and Sherman street
The cars pass by scanning me
Each unsound engine roaring
Darting pupils
I feel it on my externals
On my lips and phalanges
Intruding glances cascading over
my silhouette
Deja-vu-like resemblances,
strange
Sunken cheeks look bizarre
and blotchy as the socket drains
something toxic to the veins
that's permeated the future in an instant, like a comet,
encandescent and shimmering like a scale, the awareness fades
Like some dreary mirage
I remember those little band aids
Vintage carnival tickets
discarded on the scratchy ground..
Blue-violet bruises
The paradox of pleasure
A vague creature in
it's discomfort
sitting in defiance and
quivering my sentences
It reminded me of those
incandescent bugs that
smush into Chryslers
With a curled lip, bulging eyes
and ******* up tongue...
Antennaes intertwined like
Twizzlers
Making peace with all
that's stung as the
windshield wipers turn on
Some black tar-smack-oil-
******
My generation consists of
inheriting environmental
destruction and mal-parenting
Global warming. Animal extinction.
Polluting the oceans. Deforestation.
Biting shards off night-time to
suffice for the daily pangs
Shuffling the dregs of karma
to grow roots and vines all about the room
It's not Winter yet
Under this morning dew
I envision it in my mind
A crystal ball vision
contorting into smoke
I caught it in my breath
Catatonically hanging
A turtle with it's legs bending toward the sky
Searching for my tribe and a pulse
on this Earth in sentient souls
Aug 12, 2017
Aug 12, 2017 at 8:18 PM UTC
Oh, but it is *****
--this little filling station,
oil-soaked, oil-permeated
to a disturbing, over-all
black translucency.
Be careful with that match!
Father wears a *****
oil-soaked monkey suit
that cuts him under the arms,
and several quick and saucy
and greasy sons assist him
(it's a family filling station),
all quite thoroughly *****
Do they live in the station?
It has a cement porch
behind the pumps, and on it
a set of crushed and grease-
impregnated wickerwork;
on the wicker sofa
a ***** dog, quite comfy.
Some comic books provide
the only note of color-
of certain color. They lie
upon a big dim doily
draping a taboret
(part of the set), beside
a big hirsute begonia.
Why the extraneous plant?
Why the taboret?
Why, oh why, the doily?
(Embroidered in daisy stitch
with marguerites, I think,
and heavy with gray crochet.)
Somebody embroidered the doily.
Somebody waters the plant,
or oils it, maybe. Somebody
arranges the rows of cans
so that they softly say:
ESSO--SO--SO--SO
to high-strung automobiles.
Somebody loves us all.
3.8k
Metal permeated into her skin
Needles containing ink poked her
She moaned in pain.
It was the only way she could forget him.
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 8:16 PM UTC
Where life permeated through lushest
Colours reaching high, the heavens
Jealousy of such radiance as beautiful
As any sunset ever seen was eyed.
There wrath was swift as clouds of
Rage darkened and a kiss from the
Heavens graced Bark and leaf. All was
Still as ash fell earthwards in onyx tears.
Where elegant shades flowed, wisps of
Extinguished colour blossomed then faded
To oblivions nothingness. The heavens are
Beautiful but hide ominous jealous rage.
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 8:57 AM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, just an old a family memory on a dinner table--sorry no rhymes :>
to the no one who is not recognizing......
when I stopped for a long stare for me
I stopped and looked around me searching for something that
I don't know stashed deep into the picture I view
I smiled for the happiness that invades those hearts
for the gratitude that my soul is permeated
I crowned the thrones of blood in pure joy
I stole the sounds of laughter
I screened that shot that is bottled into the core of my memories that shot the reason I am on ground in this life
the reason that I believe in the reason that I hang on to the reason
that I long on my stormy nights and deprived alones
I locked them on that table of love and warm clouds attached
when I stopped for a long stare for me
------ravenfeels
Jun 29, 2021
Jun 29, 2021 at 1:57 PM UTC
Muffle echoing screams
Brush hot tears from heavy brown lashes
Falling from violent dreams
Kiss trembling lips lightly
When the monster comes
Till blackness permeated with pain
Flees from the rising sun
Caress oh so tenderly
The hesitant outstretched hand
Gaze upon the shattered being
The artwork of man
This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M Darby
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 12:54 PM UTC
Today there is a veil upon my world:
A gauzy muting of sound,
A mist that’s permeated the corners of thought.
I know there is a crisp clarity outside:
a pounding passion in the sunlit world,
A million hues to roll in and embrace.
My tingly thought centers all recede:
Rejecting stimuli like adventurous taste buds
Recovering from exciting, scalding tea burns.
I just have to remember and accept:
Sometime there are going to be days like this.
Lazy, hazy.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 1:21 AM UTC
It is the mundanity of the act,
of envisioning your hand gently wrapped around the copper kettle.
Obstinately gripping the pen, while you wring a sheet of paper dry for the right words.
You, cupping my face as if you were holding something precious.
As if I might slip through your fingers.
It is this devastating simplicity that obliterates every shard of my being.
A brick wall, left at the mercy of a gleaming sledgehammer
that is determined to turn everything to dust.
I see your hands everywhere.
In the haze of steam and shower curtains,
the lines dragged in velvet throw pillows,
the cloudy smudges left on a glass of water.
They run faint paths through my hair, their touch ghosts against my eyelid.
If I stare long enough,
your palm is right there, pressing into mine.
Silver cuts through the air and delivers a redundant blow.
The dust scatters once more.
You did not leave a hole
the way everyone said you were bound to.
Empty space cannot exist without everything that surrounds it, yields to it, forgives it,
validates its gaping hollowness.
Empty space is a needle and thread on the dresser, a sellotape dispenser on the desk, a container of soup left on the doorstep with a get-well-soon scribbled on the lid.
Empty space is where you can see remnants of what once was whole.
The faith and conviction that bit by bit, you will put your fragmented pieces back together again.
The nothing you left was so thick and suffocating
that it permeated every room,
filled my lungs to bursting capacity and left me gasping for more.
Its sickly, bitter fragrance danced relentlessly in my nostrils,
as though my suffering was the sweetest symphony ever heard.
It waltzed until I could feel it rising in my throat and leaking from my eyes,
twirled until my head spun.
The nothing you left insisted on making its presence known my every waking moment
and then gleefully romped its way into my nightmares.
It was so quiet, though.
A resigned quiet, like that of the ****** swinging in the gallows,
when everybody holds their breath to watch the pendulum sway.
The crossbeam glistens with last night’s rain and
they trudge back home, muttering to themselves as the dust settles beneath their feet.
I sink into sheets creased by your fingers and watch it sway.
Aug 21, 2021
Aug 21, 2021 at 6:45 AM UTC
MEMORIES OF SAND
I gave up sweeping that year
Like a penance
As sand permeated
Everything in my condo
Clung to my scalp and feet
Blew in with the fog and landed
In my tub, between my sheets, the sink, the carpet
Gritted between my teeth in the early hours
When i would reach for her still
Before the memory would detonate around me that she didn't come.
I would follow you anywhere.
Morphed into
I can't.
I hate those dagger give-up words.
Unlike the sand
I reviled in coaxing the beach closer still
And sand blurred the boundaries of my life
Inside. Outside.
Past. Present.
Old. New.
I could pull the blanket of crashing waves around me in hypnotizing hues
Breathe in the turquoise or gray or navy blue
Of the mecurial moods of the sea.
Each morning ritual of coffee and perching 8 foot tall on the sea wall studying the swells and tides
I could palpate the energy of my spirit rising around the waves
Curling and mixing as
Aqua-purple-red dragonflies hovered at my veranda hibiscus that murmers truths
I do no want to hear.
And in all that aloneness settled a great quiet still emptiness.
Because I couldn't cry I'd go diving in the persistent waves of salt and kelp.
The cold violated my eardrums and for a moment I'd go spinning-disoriented and weightless-suspended
Surrender without air as the Pacific held me buyouant
Only surfacing to breathe like a Baptism. I was ok being alone.
And sometimes I wasn't.
As the sand exfoliated my old self I'd grasp hold of the new wonders of phosphorescent tide under a harvest moon
And the fading memory of her would rise like a helium balloon I held down for 2 hrs and 4 weeks at Surfers Point in Ventura
Then let her go into the abyss of acceptance
Like granting permission to the invading sand
Gathering like whispers
In disappearing corners of her absence
And leaned into the redefinition of myself:
Barefoot. Sandy. Expectant.
The memory of sand.
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 2:19 PM UTC
I watched you there, sitting in the small booth. You were sitting in your denim pants, with your arm draped over the top of the bench’s backing, as if someone had been sitting with you, less than moments ago. A thought flashed into your eyes, and your posture became awful, it bent like a string that was meant to resound and hum, but instead twanged and then broke. The way you sat brought the table closer to your chin, and your eyes became watery.
You were gazing into your brown drink. You hadn’t touched the rim yet, hadn’t moistened it with your lips, which hid under a forest of coarse growth.
Did you notice the consistency of the foam in your glass? I bet you the waiter had spat in it. He didn’t like your tone; even as glass with something thrown in the middle.
He couldn’t place it.
Maybe it was melancholy with an aftertaste of maybe. An aftertaste of hope. Or it was an incurable sadness that hadn’t permeated the deepest caves in your lungs. Your heart, I mean.
Did you feel it in your chest? This emotion? Let me tell it to you backhand-style, because I think I understand.
It’s the time when the little boy runs off the cliff - but the mother or father snaps their fingers around the child’s hand. When you open your eyes, the child isn’t what you thought he would be (gone). He isn’t a soul that, with the loss of him has ripped the living, beating heart from your bare chest. He hasn’t. No, no, but the claws have grazed your skin. Still, you live, the child lives. This is because he hasn’t stolen the air from your heart. Your lungs, I mean. When you see him alive, then your lungs swell, swell, swell, then they pop.
Then, and only then, you know you’ve reached your capacity. Ah, but listen now; when joy leaves, it empties a room. The room can get very empty, and cold, like December, and meaningless like July afternoons. The rupture from the pop heals, and where do you go? You know what you’re missing, and you can’t get it back.
There you were, back at the shrinking booth. The foam hadn’t nestled in your mustache - yet-. The waiter turned away. You couldn’t see inside his mind, but your eyes told me the loss in yours.
I sipped my orange juice, all the while wondering how you were, wondering why I like to watch.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 10:31 AM UTC
I spoke to a wasp today. And he told me his story. He spoke to me about his childhood, and watching his own family being murdered. It was a bright and warm Friday evening. His father had ventured out and flew among the humans that lived in the home of his home. The smell of liquor permeated the air, as did the barbeque that was nearly too done. He drew close to the man of the home, just to watch and observe the scene. The man didn't like it too much. So he swatted him. It didn't hurt him, however, but it did confuse him. And in his confusion he landed upon the man and planted his stinger within him. The man slammed his hand down, cursing as the wasp's father's guts bled out. There was nothing the wasp could do but watch. The woman of the house asked if the man was ok. The man cursed once more and slammed his glass on the ground. The woman became upset and demanded to know why. The man had no answer. He merely just grabbed a gas can, took another ...swig of liquor, and walked up to the wasp's home and began dousing it in gasoline. The woman freaked out, afraid of what was about to happen. The man merely cursed at her as well and shoved her to the ground. When she tried to get back up he kicked her in the face. The blood poured. The wasp's home was now soaked in a lethal liquid. The man had a sinister grin as he glanced at his crying and bleeding woman lying on the ground, and he laughed as he lit a match and threw it on the wasp home. The nest went up in flames, and shortly after the home of the man did too. The little wasp escaped, unable to save the lives of his screaming family being burnt alive. The man merely laughed; the woman lay crying; the nest burnt to ashes; the house burnt down. So now the little wasp is all grown up. And when I asked what he wants to do with his life, all he replied was, "I want to sting people...because it seems that is all every creature is meant to do." ♥
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 11:13 PM UTC
*I breathe in your essence
the musk of morning ardor
mingle of last night still lingers
heat permeated somewhere
between pearls & lace
lust, the scent of you
ignites the longing flames
I feel the blaze building
hot musicality beat in our *****
waves of ecstasy wash over me
eagerness of nether bliss
wet warmth should be a clue
sans lace should be your cue
wrap these pearls
around your ardency
lavish me with
your male machismo
I'll fervently submit
to ravish your firm desire
tune you like my saxophone of love
play that instrument
all the night and day long*
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 5:37 AM UTC
She has a luminescence about her
A way of outshining the neon and fluorescent
That cling to her curves as she dances beneath them
I stood there, in my second-hand persona,
wearing a mask of bravado, now whimsical with
its mouth agape, staring as she made love to the music.
I recollected myself,
remembered to breathe,
swallowed my heart,
and dared to move closer.
The rhythmic pulse of the music
threatened to crush me as my feet touched the floor-
my head still in the cloud generated by her heat,
that permeated every molecule of my body.
The closer I got, the harder it was to keep
from succumbing to the lack of air.
"Remember to breathe.
You're sweating.
Abort. NO.
Play it cool. You're cool."
I could have pieced together
A thousand words, pulled from the ether
and crafted into exactly-what-she-wanted-to-hear,
But she had taken my air.
My tongue wouldn't move with my lips
To form a simple hello.
I just stood there in my mask.
No longer whimsical.
Nearly desperate
and certain that I would die right there.
Then, in a move that writes love songs,
that creates sunsets and shifts paradigms,
SHE, this caramel-skinned goddess
Wove her warm, illuminated fingers into mine
And pulled me into that dance
That she was sharing only with the music.
Not breathing again.
Keep moving.
Stop thinking.
Just be. Right now, just be.
So, I was. Dead to time and space,
alive to the moment and the music,
Her touch, the light and the curves.
She held to me as if she read my mind;
perhaps I wear my heart in my eyes.
Eyes that she seemed to pull my soul out of
To drown it in hers, as she danced
With me.
To me. Through me.
Beyond me.
But with me, as though I were the light and the music,
and she wasn't done making love.
Aug 3, 2016
Aug 3, 2016 at 7:01 AM UTC
In the fog
streetlight glow:
Will-o-the-Wisps
Embers wrapped in gauze
harsh yellow light
spills into grey monotony
The world has shrunk
confined
to the pools cast by floating lamps
All else
is a faded
grey blur
A stagnant breeze
stokes the down air
into writhing ethereal vines
Vision clouded
permeated by whisper
mist caressing
Everything is painted mute
a drear uneasy blanket
cast into the valley
I drift
strung along
by the luminous spectral splashes
Unseen
Unnoticed
a smudge in a world of vapor
Am I
anymore definite
than the intangible fog?
March today
despite being January
At least a good day for a walk
Ice in sepia speckled with black
wilted under
the Water’s surface
Ridges and islands
of white ice protrude
from the murk
Delicate ripples
roil from
inky black wells
Drab and tattered
the snow trodden grass
sways in the wind
Murk
Murk
The color of tea
steaming
Chai
In a floral mug
A warm up from
the chill
walk
I drink down
to the dregs
satisfied
It’s still March
as if January resigned early
and February forgot to come
Forty Degrees
clad in shorts
and sweatshirt, I walk
Air perfumed by thawing soil
and melted pond pools
painted robin’s egg blue
Ice bent trees
bow towards the road
like children’s hands
Reaching towards
pothole puddles with trickles
trailing like balloon strings
Reflecting the sky
inverted vignettes
Caste in brown
Framing the trees
skeletal fractal fingers
reaching across the tableaux
Peering through the clouds
the Sun silhouettes
black bottle brush pines
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 6:24 PM UTC
I watched you there, sitting in the small booth. You were sitting in your denim pants, with your arm draped over the top of the bench’s backing, as if someone had been sitting with you, less than moments ago. A thought flashed into your eyes, and your posture became awful, it bent like a string that was meant to resound and hum, but instead twanged and then broke. The way you sat brought the table closer to your chin, and your eyes became watery.
You were gazing into your brown drink. You hadn’t touched the rim yet, hadn’t moistened it with your lips, which hid under a forest of coarse growth.
Did you notice the consistency of the foam in your glass? I bet you the waiter had spat in it. He didn’t like your tone; even as glass with something thrown in the middle.
He couldn’t place it.
Maybe it was melancholy with an aftertaste of maybe. An aftertaste of hope. Or it was an incurable sadness that hadn’t permeated the deepest caves in your lungs. Your heart, I mean.
Did you feel it in your chest? This emotion? Let me tell it to you backhand-style, because I think I understand.
It’s the time when the little boy runs off the cliff - but the mother or father snaps their fingers around the child’s hand. When you open your eyes, the child isn’t what you thought he would be (gone). He isn’t a soul that, with the loss of him has ripped the living, beating heart from your bare chest. He hasn’t. No, no, but the claws have grazed your skin. Still, you live, the child lives. This is because he hasn’t stolen the air from your heart. Your lungs, I mean. When you see him alive, then your lungs swell, swell, swell, then they pop.
Then, and only then, you know you’ve reached your capacity. Ah, but listen now; when joy leaves, it empties a room. The room can get very empty, and cold, like December, and meaningless like July afternoons. The rupture from the pop heals, and where do you go? You know what you’re missing, and you can’t get it back.
There you were, back at the shrinking booth. The foam hadn’t nestled in your mustache - yet-. The waiter turned away. You couldn’t see inside his mind, but your eyes told me the loss in yours.
I sipped my orange juice, all the while wondering how you were, wondering why I like to watch.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 12:15 PM UTC
In a land-mass mural hung high over my
(Smaller, Statelier) existence -
One boy, permeated in a maple-flavored monotony - one boy, half-asleep in harlequin headaches and half-assed homework - one boy, munching on metaphorical muffins - one boy -
COUNTDOWN: 5 , 4 , 3 , 2 , 1
BREAKDOWN: B , E , N , N , Y
(Where am I?)
Between bridges burned with cigarette butts, within ***** all-night diners and pieced (or pierced) together by solemn, salt-encrusted shadows
(I could come to you, you could come to me)
(Petit a petit, l'oiseau fait son nid)
Track my tiny rabbit feet through location services and ten-second hints
(Instagram my dead body)
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 5:20 PM UTC
I lay
staring
at the spinning blades,
could hear your deep breathing,
it was almost a snore.
Our lovely-odor
permeated
the dimly-lit
room.
I lay
and bore witness
to the strewn clothes
lying in various places
around on the floor,
remembering your
wild-antics.
I lay
there
& for a brief moment,
it felt like only we existed,
then the sound of a radio
clicked on somewhere
down the hall,
probably six doors
away
from our
room.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 6:06 AM UTC
#
You chased
I ran
You yelled
I turned
You swung
I ducked
You huffed
I pushed
The back of your ankle caught
on the underside of a gnarly root
You twirled
I watched.
You screamed
I watched..
You bled
I watched...
You gasped at air
I watched....
The old jagged branch penetrated
through your squishy eye
and kissed the back of your skull
blood burst and squirted
while the rise and fall of your chest slowed
and your body grew cold
A rose bush was born amidst the clutches of an early winter
I left
You haunted
I cried
You permeated
I stayed silent
You spoke in my dreams
I know they found you
I visit and leave you flowers
But I am through,
I finally convinced myself
that it's not my
fault.
#
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 8:43 AM UTC
We sat cozily on the couch listening to Miles Davis
She, curled up with a glass of Chardonnay, me, a warmed brandy snifter
It seemed an eternity since we made time for each other like this
We enjoyed our home in silence, absent our attention grabbing offspring at Grandma's.
I savored the scent of her lavender infused body snuggled in my arms
Her beautiful brown eyes reflected flickered light
The candles we transplanted from our earlier bath, burned slowly
And "Kind of Blue" transported us as we held each other.
"May I have a sip of your brandy?" she asked coyly with a smile on her face
"Of course," I handed her my glass
"Not from your glass," her smile turned into a mischievous grin
The vanilla and oak from the brandy permeated the air above the gulp I took into my mouth.
My heart rate increased, my eyes closed, and our smiles met pressed together; Heaven is real...
Her lips parted, she pulled the brandy from me along with my tongue that now danced with hers
The fire of the brandy that left my mouth warm, now slid down her neck in one smooth swallow
We took great care in kissing each other, sensuously, passionately, time stood still, for us.
Luxuriating in this kiss, a tear fell from her eye, met only with the tears that fell from mine
As our mind's eye recalled the love we have endured over these adventurous years together
Brandywine never tasted this divine as from the lips of my beautiful lover
Lightheaded, more so from her than from the alcohol, I smiled and held her closer to me.
"I Love you Husband!"
"I Love you more Wife!"
-----ChawzzyScript
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC
I die a little bit inside each time
you offer an explanation for my
self,
stubbed heart [popped out of sync]
dips toward the ground and
flutters to a silence
a still, empty blue presiding over
the world at large tonight, permeated
by plumes of white
(from the scrambled heads of dreamers)
nothing to hold against your
fiery facade, flaming formidable
fits of brilliance blazing before
my flustered eyes
and why do we cease to
contract, left ventricle?
to start up again and enjoy
it that much more (the second
time around)
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 11:39 PM UTC