"pillowcases" poems
I'll kiss your pillowcases to stain them
Cover them in orange lipstick
For you to remember my lips
and when you wash them,
if you manage to gracefully clean them
I'll let you forget me
and I'll forget you
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 3:47 AM UTC
I smile knowing that this isn't a dream.
I smile knowing that you are where I am and I am where you are, in the dark, under blankets, on a cloud that would have felt like nails if you weren't here.
But I smile knowing that my breath doesn't escape into the loneliness of my room, as it brushes against your neck – my kiss of air that pushes you closer into me.
And I'd whisper words like
"I love you"
And
"You are so beautiful"
that would glide across pillowcases into your ears. And if you aren't awake to hear them, I'd make sure to repeat them the first thing in the morning when you wake.
But for now, the silence competes with the crickets, your soft snores, and my even softer sighs of laughter, in disbelief that such an adorable situation has laid itself out right in front of me, in my arms.
I have trouble falling asleep, because for the first time, my reality is much sweeter than any dream my mind can ever imagine.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 12:43 AM UTC
How could you leave me so unexpected?
I was waiting, I was waiting
For you but you just left me
I needed you, I needed you
Yo, I don't know what it's like to be addicted to *****
But I do know what it's like to be a witness it kills
You told me you love me, I'm thinking this isn't real
I think of you when I get a whiff of that cigarette smell, yeah
Welcome to the bottom of hell
They say pain is a prison, let me out of my cell
You say you proud of me, but you don't know me that well
Sit in my room, tears running down my face and I yell
Into my pillowcases, you say you coming to get me
Then call me a minute later just to tell me you not, I'm humiliated
I'm in a room with a parent that I don't barely know
Some lady in the corner watching us, while she taking notes
I don't get it dad, don't you want to watch your baby boy grow?
I guess that ***** is more important, all you have to say is no
But you won't do it will you? You gon' keep drinking 'til the ***** kills you
I know you gone but I can still feel you
Why would you leave me? Why would you leave me here?
How could you leave me here?
How would you leave me? Why would you leave me?
Oh, Hey
I got this picture in my room and it kills me
But I don't need a picture of my dad, I need the real thing
Now a relationship is something we won't ever have
Why do I feel like I lost something that I never had?
You shoulda been there when I graduated
Told me you love me and congratulations
Instead you left me at the window waiting
Where you at dad? I was too young to understand where you at huh?
Yeah, I know that alcohol got you held captive
I can see it in your eyes, its got your mind captured
Some say it's fun to get the high but I am not laughing
What you don't realise and what you not grasping
That I was nothing but a kid who couldn't understand
I ain't gon' say that I forgive you cause it hasn't happened
I thought that maybe I feel better as time passes
If you really cared for me, then where you at then?
Why would you leave me? Why would you leave me?
How could you leave me here?
How would you leave me? Why would you leave me?
Hey
Our last conversation, you and I sat in the living room
Playing our video games, you started slurring and I broke down in front of you
You started crying, telling me this isn't you
Couple weeks later, guess you were singing a different tune
You Drank that ***** for the last time, didn't you?
It took you from me once, guess It came back to finish you
Crying my eyes out in the studio is difficult
Music is the only place that I can go to speak to you
It took everything inside of me to not scream at your funeral
Sitting in my chair, that person talking was pitiful
I wish you were here dad but every time I picture you
All I feel is pain, I hate the way I remember you
They found you on the floor, I could tell that you felt hollow
Gave everything you had plus your life to those jack bottles
You gave everything you had plus your life to them jack bottles
Don't know if you hear me or not, but if you still watching why
Why would you leave me? Why would you leave me?
How could you leave me here?
How would you leave me? Why would you leave me?
Hey
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 5:29 PM UTC
Maybe I should wait
under the mistletoe.
Wait for her to come
and grab my hips.
Bring me close for
a kiss.
But she glances at
my thin wrist.
With a frown on her face,
her pace now comes to a jult.
Scans my emotions,
her eyes now full of disgust.
The cuts open again.
All that's left is
wilted mistletoe and tear stained
pillowcases.
(m.c.)
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 2:20 PM UTC
The smell of stale alcohol
and a slight pressure
upon my shoulder blades
greeted me
with cold air
and the winter sun
I thought that perhaps
my dreams had been reality
and that you were lying next to me
like so many times before
I opened my eyes
to find mascara-stained pillowcases
and blankets twisted
into a maze of confusion
and bitter disappointment
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 12:18 PM UTC
Do you remember my wool sweater:
How the fibers used to catch on your wristwatch
And tangle themselves in the buttons on your checkered shirt?
Those loose threads said what I was too afraid to—
Don't let go;
Stay just a little longer.
Fiber after fiber, they unraveled,
Until that old wool sweater was tattered and frayed and scattered—
Softly curled strings on shirt edges and neckties,
A memory begging not to be forgotten.
Even after all this time,
I'd bet you still find specks of red on your pillowcases
Or on your jacket as you ride the bus to work.
I hope you do.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 2:16 AM UTC
Tepid summer nights and
holes in the soles of your feet.
Holes in your wrists, no?
Soft fluttering of dusted eyelashes and
the pale pink of morning sun as you turn your cheek.
Blushing like a schoolgirl, no?
***** fingertips on dirtied skin and
toothy smiles, moth-eaten pillowcases, stale whispers.
'Pour susurrer des mots doux', non?
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 7:15 PM UTC
The boys were allergic
But before Dad came along
Mom had always been a cat whisperer
I saw her do it at a party once
Tongue rolling
Fingers twitching
From across the room
The little panther was entranced
Burn worthy witchcraft
I knew she had a way with birds
But this was something new
Something foreign and beautiful
Surprise surprise
It was a black kitty cat Halloween
Mom cut out ears to attach to my headband
Then drew dark brown eyeliner whiskers
With a triangle on the tip of my 6 year old nose
All in black
Part ninja
Part cat
We were off
Brother and sister
Pillowcases in hand
Noticing my lack of tail Mom called me back
She reached into the costume box and grabbed a long dark braid
With one swift tuck into the back of my pants
An instant flawless feline emerged ready to make her debut
And boy did I play the part
Prancing back from the hunt
There she was silhouetted in the doorway
Tongue rolling
Fingers twitching
******* on sweet tarts
I didn't stand a chance
A family of actors
"Mom, look what I found! Can we keep it?"
They each took turns petting the newest addition
And Dad let out a convincing sneeze
A life I could get used to
Tick Tock the cockatiel
Had better watch her back
E.Poe
Oct 2012
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 3:39 AM UTC
my first boyfriend bought me an etch-a-sketch for christmas
with "i love you" drawn onto it
then broke up with me on new years day
the irony is not lost on me
and i still don't know
what shook him so hard
that i was erased
i was young then-
didn't know much about life
about love
hell, i still don't
i stumble my way through it all
i often trip & fall
yeah, i'm clumsy like that
but i'm saving all my "i love you"'s
and keeping them to myself
'cause honestly,
my love is the quiet kind
it's not candles & fancy table-cloths
or nicholas sparks dialogue
no, it isn't shouted from rooftops
instead,
it's whispered into pillowcases
in lonely beds
i make valentines mixtapes
that i never give out
i catch my tongue
before it runs away
with the words
i don't have the guts to say
i keep them locked up
somewhere in my ribcage
when i see you
i feel them rattling in my bones
there are claw marks on my throat
from times they've threatened
to spill out my mouth
i cry for you
like spilled milk
as white as your library smile
let me inside
i wanna learn everything
your wisdom teeth have to offer
i promise
i will be the perfect pupil
get straight A's
in the curves of your lips
anyway,
what i mean to say
is if i kiss you
would that
be
okay?
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 7:31 PM UTC
I wade into tidal waves,
my hands full of dandelions
humbled by the sun
choked up over comets
I’ve given up on sunsets
you are a supernova clad only in my bed sheets
I make a wish every time your chest falls
****** lungs full of anxiety
My mouth tastes like an ashtray
filled with the buts of things i forgot to say
washed down by things i wish i hadn't
Still tripping over shoe laces,
I search for poetry in *** holes.
Forgiveness in pillowcases
my eyes have trouble resting these days
So, why aren't we dancing?
Following the rhythm of our mismatched heartbeats
I clumsily waltz through misleading conversations
Jul 19, 2012
Jul 19, 2012 at 5:01 AM UTC
difficult is sleeping with you
effortless is making love
shy is the moment after realizing I’m being too quiet in clarity
for you to feel comfortable
clarity is when I tell you the late evening sun lowers its golden tint
on everything and makes the leaves look vibrant green
and if it were to be one of those funny named colours in a paint swatch, it’d be
"I’m Alive! Green"
frustrated is when I see two pillowcases of identical fabric,
one more faded than the other,
and fail to explain why I’m not sure if the metaphor is sad or not
intricate is the way my mind is built
fragile is the way my heart is
heavy is when I talk about how rarely I cry
phoney is when I laugh about crying at a season finale to cover it up
beautiful is what you remind me I am
insecure is when I talk too much
comfort is eating lots of food
comfort is not eating food
disappointment is when I change my mind about your company
horror is asking you to leave
anxious is the way I feel when you are asleep beside me
frivolous is the pillow talk
juvenile is my babbling
fast is my heartbeat
enigma is what you keep calling me
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 9:59 PM UTC
I spy with my little- I
Spy with my little eye
a sleep cutter
red sheet maker
wet pillowcases and
wet pillowcases and
blankets.
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 2:43 PM UTC
My love;
Do I dare drop another shrouded truth upon your eardrum...?
I left another footprint today, you know
...but those granules of concrete are still hollow,
still quiet;
I've hidden behind your golden dreadlocks too often,
and heard your contemptuous laughter echo,
the crooked whistle of another gunshot
piercing the silence, and a silhouette
-of course
....yet I can't let go.
You're so young, I tell myself;
Your bedsheets are still crisp, still odorless;
...this sleep does not trouble you, does it?
-with her kissing nightmares.
And I dread my toes slipping-into that cadencing abyss,
...the scattered doom of my growing death wish;
there's no one to hold me,
but you.
The pillowcases still hiss...
their fingers clench my hair, often;
and threads tie me to a new paranoia
every night.
And I know
these windows aren't clean
...they disgust me;
yet they're my only source of light,
and I choose to compromise;
It's left me with nothing,
but your rusted blood on my tongue
and these shadows formed on the wall,
by your electric blue flesh...
I'm tired, dearest
...your fumbling silence hurts me-
maybe another drop of ******
will bring you back to life.
Feb 22, 2010
Feb 22, 2010 at 4:54 PM UTC
*Violaceous twilights,
clandestinely sated
lavished 'til morn's early blush
midst honey suckled euphoria,
poems hidden 'neath
satin pillowcases,
written 'tween the dew
of rendezvous'
blissed arousal
forevermore eagerly breathless,
reawakening intentions
aloft the vast obscurity of
a wistful sunset's surrender*
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 9:57 AM UTC
In some light
you were grey.
The mellow cast wrecks
what I've forgiven.
I loved you, I love you.
There are no birds, no half-
mouthed cliches, how?
I've died and I've died without
hatred, apathy.
In the morning
I kissed your cheeks and I loved you,
I love you. I open my hands and there
is only air.
I've swallowed my own yellow, my
own bouquet of mental ************
dressed all in pillowcases grey
wishing you'd lay over me, skin over skin
and whisper
I love you, I love you
into the shallow curves of my neck and ears.
Aug 14, 2012
Aug 14, 2012 at 12:15 AM UTC
Five AM.
Dawn is the one remnant of the 1800s left in all of us - the weather. And even that disappears quickly. The pockets of morning stuck between you and me, between this car, and that car, and Dawn's Appalachian highway slipping itself in between the SLEX and the sky take your breath away and slip past consciousnesses like faint dreams. You snap awake. ****** reminder that it's already
Five AM.
Faint strains of rooster crow and traffic whistle keeping you up despite your desire to sleep. This bus ride is meant for sleeping, rather. Your teammates lean on pillowcases shifting hues from black to gray to light pink to faint orange. You stare quietly out the ever shifting window. Somehow your eyes keep track of the streaks of light running alongside it. Somehow you're awake even if it's just
Five AM.
The sky is the one part of our cities that isn't yet covered in ******** Outlines of shantytowns and exhaust smoke belching smokestacks and piggeries and overpriced skyscrapers provide platforms for the sun's pink rays to shine upon but still it rises above it. With it. Through it. Over and around. Sunset mornings that glow with an innocent hue. Some say Apollo preferred the form of a young boy whenever he'd come down to Earth. Makes for easier running, I guess. The roads look wider at
Five AM.
The sky is the one part of our cities that isn't yet covered in ******** The time it takes for one photon of light to hit the surface of the Earth is eight minutes. Light is far. Light is distant and twisted and radiant. Light provides surface for the sky - paints the floors of heaven by which we gaze upon with bleary eyes and pray to. God walking on our ceilings. Humans knocking on our floors. Alarm clocks reminding me it's just
Five AM.
It's just
Five AM.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 8:02 AM UTC
the novelty fades
along with the glamour
sprinkling down like a cheap glitter shower
a spring shower;
soft
creeping along your hairline with the smell of light lilacs in a secret garden
dribbling wonderfully through a greasy scalp
one of the most ****** showers that’ll take place for a while
leaving loose indentations and wet feet and a swirling drain clogged with six years of hair
i should have thrown myself a line
now there’s just stale-smelling rooms and a lost little creature
rich in words
shallow in talent
its mouth is a river and help help it’s drowning
my head’s turned to mush and my heart’s turned to stone
i'm a rock caught between the spokes of your bike
twirling and whirling my hair brushes the ground with the bumpity-bump-bump of each rise and fall
it's hot down here, so close to the pavement
worms are frying, they better watch out,
or the rubber sole of a midnight wanderer will eat them right up
also your feet stink I would wash your shoes if I were you
i wish i wish i wish i wish
i wish i could make words fly from my tongue and spin worlds and not cower from the unseen
i wish i could melt through carpet and slip through cracks in the concrete
i don't want to be anymore
being is hard
i would be satisfied with a nonexistence
no more bridges to burn or heads to crack
no more bleeding eyes and empty shampoo bottles that cost too much and run out too early
no music that will get old
no glasses that will drain themselves
no more trying to fix something that isn’t there
no more pathetic musings
no more tear-stained pillowcases and forced laughter through one-way glass
goodbye persona 182
you were beautiful while you lasted
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 2:46 PM UTC
Tick tock tick tock.
"When will my breath stop?"
Apparently not appropriate conversation to make at my family gathering.
The chicken is delightful. Would you give me the recipe? (murmurs of agreement around table)
"I wasn't kidding. I avoid pools, yoga and beautiful people that take my breath away so I don't have to deal with slight fluctuations in my oxygen intake!"
The table was set up perfectly by the kids, don't you think? Granted they forgot the wine glasses! (adults chuckle)
"I can't help but imagine those pillowcases in our chests that expand occasionally, as if rotating fans face them. It's an obsession of mine!"
Oh I think Johnny's about to fall asleep! Is there a guest bed room I can let him rest in? (assistance follows)
"Why won't you listen! When I take off my T-shirts, I count down and gulp the air before pulling the fabrics off, out of fear of being found dead, half-naked due to suffocation."
Oh Laurie I really shouldn't have dessert, I'm trying to watch my weight, but let me help you bring it out? (chattering of women on the way to the kitchen)
"Don't you know that I carry both an oxygen tank and an assortment of plants and trees wherever I go. I insert the tubes or the vines into my nose so that even when I'm gone my lungs may never stop rising."
(speaker dies the next day in car crash)
Mar 4, 2018
Mar 4, 2018 at 11:39 AM UTC
fold the ventricle to the right
the pulmonary to the left
the wrinkled capillaries need to be ironed
pillowcases of vessels need to be thrown in the wash
take one last whiff of his scent
before he's just another sheet in the laundry
***** laundry
clean of heartache
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 3:54 PM UTC
My heart is a messy place
I don't clean up often
My emotions lay about like worn jeans and pile up at every corner
Murky tears that were long bemoaned
Lay inside my pillowcases long after they have dried
And make heavy a light thing where my thoughts reside
Shadowy folks have unmade beds
Though long beparted
And declared dead
Many things that was once fresh
Have now grown brown reached their Autumn
They still roam the halls and vents
Like after tastes of mint long after the in scents have burnt
Every possible surface is stained with faces
Shelves are stacked and layered and stuffed
And though I rummage for space
There is never enough
Not for an ant
Or a hand
Or a new thing
Just room enough for me
And this big old mess of memories
Jun 19, 2018
Jun 19, 2018 at 4:15 AM UTC
the truth is i want to live long enough
to find sustenance in the roots of trees
and the green of grass.
live long enough to see a flower sprouting
in the middle of an untended lawn
and find a metaphor for my own life
within it's growing petals.
i don't know exactly what it is i want to live for
but i know that whatever it is will be beautiful
and i will drown in it's relevance.
it may take me years to find
and i may be old and gray by the time that day comes
but as soon as my eyes lay upon that certain thing
everything that has ever tried to knock me down
will be left dead in dust for a grave
humans are like stones in the ocean
tides turn us over until smooth, if we're lucky
if we're unlucky, the tide rejects us,
rough around the edges
and we face being buried under hot sand
that represents our mistakes.
choices made in moments where thought
was not a process, but instead a rejected idea.
like the many balled up pieces of looseleaf
that live in the garbage pail
next to a dissatisfied writers desk.
it overflows like our own regret.
i can only pray that i do not end up settling
for anything less than the smooth perfection
that i've worked so hard for years to accomplish
i did not pick the hand i was dealt
only made do with the cards in my hand
i am tired of settling
too compulsive to deal with anything less than
what i am capable of changing
i am not saying that i am mansion bound
or set on owning a private jet
but a white picket fence would be nice
maybe a black lab guarding a red front door.
there will be daisies in the flower beds
and red wine in the fridge
i'll make dinners made for kings and our pillowcases
will always match, no matter what.
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 6:00 PM UTC
wishing on stars that only stare back
sitting on abandoned railroad tracks
staring at the blinding moonlight
wishing on the distant city lights
straying a bit too far away
talking with intensifying heart flames
a stomach filled with bitter things
hanging out at the abandoned swings
falling asleep with the tv on
knowing that he's already gone
sleeping on tear-soaked pillowcases
trying to feel the old embraces
looking at the infinite ceiling
nights spent with prayers, kneeling
creating conversations that work your way
watching your once red roses start to decay
ruffled book pages and messy photo albums
contemplating over living in an asylum
no matter how much different nights you spend
your heart still seems like it couldn't be mended
no matter how much you try to push these thoughts aside
you'll still be left with a broken chest and teary eyes
you only wish to bid these bitter things away
but no matter how much you try, these empty nights still stay
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 12:04 AM UTC
You're the kind of boy I cant tell my mother about, because she warned me not to fall for guys like you. I guess she didn't warn me enough because oh did I fall for you. She didn't warn me that you would leave & everything I've come to know would be complete & utter ******** She didn't warn me that I would see you on the street with a new girl, & I'd go home and cry for 3 days. She didn't warn me that mascara is so ******* hard to get out of pillowcases. & she didn't warn me that no matter what I do, you still don't want me. But she did warn me not to fall for you, & next time, I think I'll listen to my mother.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 10:29 PM UTC
Hand-me-down novels with bent corners
Piles of clothes and towels scattered on the carpet
Food stains on flowery bed sheets and blue pillowcases
A broken lamp on a single night stand
Gray suitcases filled with evening gowns
Closet mirror covered with fingerprints
Charging electronics underneath the bed
Popcorn ceiling and smooth beige walls
No clocks, no monsters, no tooth fairies, and no memories
It's rather....practical
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 10:48 AM UTC