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"pins" poems
Enrique, Emilio, Lorenzo, the three of them frozen: Enrique by the world of beds; Emilio by the world of eyes and wounded hands; Lorenzo by the world of roofless universities. Lorenzo, Emilio, Enrique, the three of them burned: Lorenzo by the world of leaves and billiard ***** Emilio by the world of blood and white pins; Enrique by the world of the dead and abandoned newspapers. Lorenzo, Emilio, Enrique, the three of them buried: Lorenzo in one of Flora's ******* Emilio in the dead gin forgotten in the glass; Enrique in the ant, the sea, and the empty eyes of birds. Lorenzo, Emilio, Enrique, the three in my hands were three Chinese mountains, three shadows of a horse, three landscapes of snow and a cabin of white lilies by the pigeon coops where the moon lies flat under the rooster. One and one and one, the three of them mummified, with the flies of winter, with the inkwells the dog ****** and the thistle despises, with the breeze that freezes theh eart of all the mothers, by the white ruins of Jupiter where drunks snack on death. Three and two and one, I saw them disappear, crying and singing into a hen's egg, into the night that showed its skeleton of tobacco, into my sorrow full of faces and piercing bone splinters of moon, into my happiness of whips and notched wheels, into my breast troubled by pigeons, into my deserted death with one mistaken wanderer. I had killed the fifth moon and the fans and the applause drank water from the fountains. Hidden away, the warm milk of newborn girls, shook the roses with a long white sorrow. Enrique, Emilio, Lorenzo, Diana is hard, but somtimes she has ******* of clouds. The white stone can beat in the blood of a deer and the deer can dream through the eyes of a horse. When the pure forms sank under the cri cri of daisies I understood they had murdered me. They searched the cafés and the graveyards and churches, they opened the wine casks and wardrobes, they destroyed three skeletons to pull out their gold teeth. Still they couldn't fine me. They couldn't? No. They couldn't. But they learned the sixth moon fled against the torrent, and the sea remembered, suddenly, the names of all her drowned.
0
20.5k
Federico García Lorca
Fable and Round of the Three Friends
Enrique, Emilio, Lorenzo, the three of them frozen: Enrique by the world of beds; Emilio by the world of eyes and wounded hands; Lorenzo by the world of roofless universities. Lorenzo, Emilio, Enrique, the three of them burned: Lorenzo by the world of leaves and billiard ***** Emilio by the world of blood and white pins; Enrique by the world of the dead and abandoned newspapers. Lorenzo, Emilio, Enrique, the three of them buried: Lorenzo in one of Flora's ******* Emilio in the dead gin forgotten in the glass; Enrique in the ant, the sea, and the empty eyes of birds. Lorenzo, Emilio, Enrique, the three in my hands were three Chinese mountains, three shadows of a horse, three landscapes of snow and a cabin of white lilies by the pigeon coops where the moon lies flat under the rooster. One and one and one, the three of them mummified, with the flies of winter, with the inkwells the dog ****** and the thistle despises, with the breeze that freezes theh eart of all the mothers, by the white ruins of Jupiter where drunks snack on death. Three and two and one, I saw them disappear, crying and singing into a hen's egg, into the night that showed its skeleton of tobacco, into my sorrow full of faces and piercing bone splinters of moon, into my happiness of whips and notched wheels, into my breast troubled by pigeons, into my deserted death with one mistaken wanderer. I had killed the fifth moon and the fans and the applause drank water from the fountains. Hidden away, the warm milk of newborn girls, shook the roses with a long white sorrow. Enrique, Emilio, Lorenzo, Diana is hard, but somtimes she has ******* of clouds. The white stone can beat in the blood of a deer and the deer can dream through the eyes of a horse. When the pure forms sank under the cri cri of daisies I understood they had murdered me. They searched the cafés and the graveyards and churches, they opened the wine casks and wardrobes, they destroyed three skeletons to pull out their gold teeth. Still they couldn't fine me. They couldn't? No. They couldn't. But they learned the sixth moon fled against the torrent, and the sea remembered, suddenly, the names of all her drowned.
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70
The photos were leaked today They were of a **** woman with brown skin Love making as she stared straight into the lenses I was showed by a man who did not know how to react once I had been shown My reaction was not shock I merely stated "That's baad" I did not know how to react to the staunch cyber-bully who was sure he was doing himself a justice by being so open about his anger at the naked, brown, humiliated, naked, shamed, beautiful I am shamed by his shaming I am naked by his ********** I am beautiful by myself sometimes Sometimes I take the tape off my camera and position it near my bloom I am not alone in this activity and yet I feel alone in an intimate situation, feel less alone, in a private situation. Sometimes I work it so that every part of my dark lips are shadowed and my fingers seem to work for a living rather than play My body is not a string It is a temple of dark things It is a ossuary filled with the dust of former lives It is not to be dangled for cats for play It has no puppet hands Or puppet face It smiles because it sees you smile And she frowns when she sees you laugh It is alive The misfortune you hope her body will bring her is shame I hope it will bring other people enlightenment The fault is not in her The fault is in the malicious, villainous, caricature of man who is hallow and made of maddening bells Every time you disturb him he rings in announcement "This lady I had once an intimate relationship and she abused me. Here is her punishment." We are all cavernous tunnels with lights to shoot out of the pins and needles sensational feelings we do not desire this but we must desire to be freed from being owned by this We all think we're exempted from shame until we are ashamed There are no exemptions, only more bells They ring, until background noise renders them obsolete to us
0
Oct 3, 2017
Oct 3, 2017 at 10:43 AM UTC
ccg
Beautiful, brown, naked, woman
The photos were leaked today They were of a **** woman with brown skin Love making as she stared straight into the lenses I was showed by a man who did not know how to react once I had been shown My reaction was not shock I merely stated "That's baad" I did not know how to react to the staunch cyber-bully who was sure he was doing himself a justice by being so open about his anger at the naked, brown, humiliated, naked, shamed, beautiful I am shamed by his shaming I am naked by his ********** I am beautiful by myself sometimes Sometimes I take the tape off my camera and position it near my bloom I am not alone in this activity and yet I feel alone in an intimate situation, feel less alone, in a private situation. Sometimes I work it so that every part of my dark lips are shadowed and my fingers seem to work for a living rather than play My body is not a string It is a temple of dark things It is a ossuary filled with the dust of former lives It is not to be dangled for cats for play It has no puppet hands Or puppet face It smiles because it sees you smile And she frowns when she sees you laugh It is alive The misfortune you hope her body will bring her is shame I hope it will bring other people enlightenment The fault is not in her The fault is in the malicious, villainous, caricature of man who is hallow and made of maddening bells Every time you disturb him he rings in announcement "This lady I had once an intimate relationship and she abused me. Here is her punishment." We are all cavernous tunnels with lights to shoot out of the pins and needles sensational feelings we do not desire this but we must desire to be freed from being owned by this We all think we're exempted from shame until we are ashamed There are no exemptions, only more bells They ring, until background noise renders them obsolete to us
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31
Faces painted with colors that make girl's skin pop out. Eyes large and done up with circles around them Coverup hiding the blemishes that grew out of stress and fear Legs shaved and exposed under the beautiful gowns Smiles grow on their faces when they see their date; dashing in suits and winsome smiles. Small flower pins added to their beautiful dresses The night is ready. Legs spin around and around as they twirl, smiles in motions and hearts race. Sweat lingers down their faces as their laughs grow more. The night is ablaze. Everyone is smiling. But only one question lingers, "May I have this dance?"
0
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
xoavey
Prom.
Faces painted with colors that make girl's skin pop out. Eyes large and done up with circles around them Coverup hiding the blemishes that grew out of stress and fear Legs shaved and exposed under the beautiful gowns Smiles grow on their faces when they see their date; dashing in suits and winsome smiles. Small flower pins added to their beautiful dresses The night is ready. Legs spin around and around as they twirl, smiles in motions and hearts race. Sweat lingers down their faces as their laughs grow more. The night is ablaze. Everyone is smiling. But only one question lingers, "May I have this dance?"
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13
Little Birds are dining Warily and well, Hid in mossy cell: Hid, I say, by waiters Gorgeous in their gaiters - I've a Tale to tell. Little Birds are feeding Justices with jam, Rich in frizzled ham: Rich, I say, in oysters Haunting shady cloisters - That is what I am. Little Birds are teaching Tigresses to smile, Innocent of guile: Smile, I say, not smirkle - Mouth a semicircle, That's the proper style! Little Birds are sleeping All among the pins, Where the loser wins: Where, I say, he sneezes When and how he pleases - So the Tale begins. Little Birds are writing Interesting books, To be read by cooks: Read, I say, not roasted - Letterpress, when toasted, Loses its good looks. Little Birds are playing Bagpipes on the shore, Where the tourists snore: "Thanks!" they cry. "'Tis thrilling! Take, oh take this shilling! Let us have no more!" Little Birds are bathing Crocodiles in cream, Like a happy dream: Like, but not so lasting - Crocodiles, when fasting, Are not all they seem! Little Birds are choking Baronets with bun, Taught to fire a gun: Taught, I say, to splinter Salmon in the winter - Merely for the fun. Little Birds are hiding Crimes in carpet-bags, Blessed by happy stags: Blessed, I say, though beaten - Since our friends are eaten When the memory flags. Little Birds are tasting Gratitude and gold, Pale with sudden cold: Pale, I say, and wrinkled - When the bells have tinkled, And the Tale is told.
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14k
Lewis Carroll
Little Birds
Little Birds are dining Warily and well, Hid in mossy cell: Hid, I say, by waiters Gorgeous in their gaiters - I've a Tale to tell. Little Birds are feeding Justices with jam, Rich in frizzled ham: Rich, I say, in oysters Haunting shady cloisters - That is what I am. Little Birds are teaching Tigresses to smile, Innocent of guile: Smile, I say, not smirkle - Mouth a semicircle, That's the proper style! Little Birds are sleeping All among the pins, Where the loser wins: Where, I say, he sneezes When and how he pleases - So the Tale begins. Little Birds are writing Interesting books, To be read by cooks: Read, I say, not roasted - Letterpress, when toasted, Loses its good looks. Little Birds are playing Bagpipes on the shore, Where the tourists snore: "Thanks!" they cry. "'Tis thrilling! Take, oh take this shilling! Let us have no more!" Little Birds are bathing Crocodiles in cream, Like a happy dream: Like, but not so lasting - Crocodiles, when fasting, Are not all they seem! Little Birds are choking Baronets with bun, Taught to fire a gun: Taught, I say, to splinter Salmon in the winter - Merely for the fun. Little Birds are hiding Crimes in carpet-bags, Blessed by happy stags: Blessed, I say, though beaten - Since our friends are eaten When the memory flags. Little Birds are tasting Gratitude and gold, Pale with sudden cold: Pale, I say, and wrinkled - When the bells have tinkled, And the Tale is told.
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60
Waiting all alone waiting on this cold table waiting for the doctors and the drones I feel the scratch of the itchy cotton gown on the narrows of my back as it climbs up and down Displayed I lye on the medical tables hard cold steel It seers into the crevices of my bones I ponder the lone window and wonder if it's real I listen for the bleep and bloop of medical tones Nurses walk by in a mechanical grace poke and **** & tap and touch my face and then proceed to leave without a trace with no hint of knowledge of my medical case Waiting all alone waiting on this cold table waiting for the doctors and the drones I'm a big girl, I'm a big girl I begin to chant in a simple rhythm as small as a ball I begin to curl I'm abandoned inside this glassy prism The dead silence creeps inside my brain I want to scream to fill the deadly gap but the cold thick air of silence brings pain I comfort myself and say it will be ok My breathing begins to quicken my eyes dart around the room only comfort is the fear which I am stricken my sight goes bleary as darkness looms Waiting all alone waiting on this cold table waiting for the doctors and the drones Tears sting the corner of my eyes I want someone to hold my hand Oh God how I want to cry but the only thing there is the bleeding arm band The test begins with the thickness of barium It slides down my throat and clings to my esophagus It tastes like chalk and pandemonium they want me to suffocate I guess I chug and chug as the pictures are snapped x-ray upon x-ray of my stomach and my back Drink more Drink more They tell me to do Nervously I shake and say, anymore and I will puke on you Waiting all alone waiting on this cold table waiting for the doctors and the drones Even more poking and prodding ensues but of my stomach, ribs and ******* I lay rigid as a board from the pain of each touch I grow weary of this tiresome rues The tests are done and the coast is clear I am left alone to dress myself in fear Dismissed and discharged to walk away they file my chart with a robotic smile now for the wait of endless days I'm lost in my mind's land of emotional exile Waiting all alone waiting on this cold table waiting for the doctors and the drones Pins & Needles Pins & Needles I wait for the results Is it stomach cancer, an ulcer or both?? In the dark I am kept like followers in cults.
0
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 2:34 PM UTC
erin-schenke
Doctors Visit
Waiting all alone waiting on this cold table waiting for the doctors and the drones I feel the scratch of the itchy cotton gown on the narrows of my back as it climbs up and down Displayed I lye on the medical tables hard cold steel It seers into the crevices of my bones I ponder the lone window and wonder if it's real I listen for the bleep and bloop of medical tones Nurses walk by in a mechanical grace poke and **** & tap and touch my face and then proceed to leave without a trace with no hint of knowledge of my medical case Waiting all alone waiting on this cold table waiting for the doctors and the drones I'm a big girl, I'm a big girl I begin to chant in a simple rhythm as small as a ball I begin to curl I'm abandoned inside this glassy prism The dead silence creeps inside my brain I want to scream to fill the deadly gap but the cold thick air of silence brings pain I comfort myself and say it will be ok My breathing begins to quicken my eyes dart around the room only comfort is the fear which I am stricken my sight goes bleary as darkness looms Waiting all alone waiting on this cold table waiting for the doctors and the drones Tears sting the corner of my eyes I want someone to hold my hand Oh God how I want to cry but the only thing there is the bleeding arm band The test begins with the thickness of barium It slides down my throat and clings to my esophagus It tastes like chalk and pandemonium they want me to suffocate I guess I chug and chug as the pictures are snapped x-ray upon x-ray of my stomach and my back Drink more Drink more They tell me to do Nervously I shake and say, anymore and I will puke on you Waiting all alone waiting on this cold table waiting for the doctors and the drones Even more poking and prodding ensues but of my stomach, ribs and ******* I lay rigid as a board from the pain of each touch I grow weary of this tiresome rues The tests are done and the coast is clear I am left alone to dress myself in fear Dismissed and discharged to walk away they file my chart with a robotic smile now for the wait of endless days I'm lost in my mind's land of emotional exile Waiting all alone waiting on this cold table waiting for the doctors and the drones Pins & Needles Pins & Needles I wait for the results Is it stomach cancer, an ulcer or both?? In the dark I am kept like followers in cults.
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67
lines cut heavy on a button stretched brow thick rubber shoes and dragon canes fill out the closet floor gospel sounds and narratives (drowned) apparitions set sullenly amid voices from the past finger pins and crosswords find the favor list point men and preachers tip up their tuscany caps twitching and sign gazing with spectacles held firm recurring evening news and beadledom views clappers and caregivers raise a crooked foot grips and rockers settle in on the front porch gertrude grimaces at an untimely turn as the gooseberry pie (with a smidgen of cloves) chills by the night watch
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Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 12:07 PM UTC
ck-baker
the golden years
lines cut heavy on a button stretched brow thick rubber shoes and dragon canes fill out the closet floor gospel sounds and narratives (drowned) apparitions set sullenly amid voices from the past finger pins and crosswords find the favor list point men and preachers tip up their tuscany caps twitching and sign gazing with spectacles held firm recurring evening news and beadledom views clappers and caregivers raise a crooked foot grips and rockers settle in on the front porch gertrude grimaces at an untimely turn as the gooseberry pie (with a smidgen of cloves) chills by the night watch
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27
It seems I was born with a flawed mind and an inferior anatomy. I was raised to be a daisy soft and dainty abandoned in the polar air to be protected by the starving dirt that pins us to the earth. Now I wait to be tossed fertilizer …every once and a while. In the meantime my innocent petals are plucked and my stem grows grungy. I watch horrified. Flowers being ripped from their roots purely out of admiration for their beauty sacrificing the vibrant life that once painted its scales. I am forced to grasp tightly onto soil that will never be stable.
0
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 9:44 PM UTC
temple-shepherd
Corruption
It seems I was born with a flawed mind and an inferior anatomy. I was raised to be a daisy soft and dainty abandoned in the polar air to be protected by the starving dirt that pins us to the earth. Now I wait to be tossed fertilizer …every once and a while. In the meantime my innocent petals are plucked and my stem grows grungy. I watch horrified. Flowers being ripped from their roots purely out of admiration for their beauty sacrificing the vibrant life that once painted its scales. I am forced to grasp tightly onto soil that will never be stable.
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19
I She exits herself on the Sofa. Blanket, dog, and bits Of a poem on a pad of paper On the table, like a half-eaten Piece of homework. Shades of wine on her sleeping Lips. Exits herself; space-walks Outside that frame of mind she's Been expected to hang herself On the wall within; she knows There is more. There has to be more. II She has to be more. Like so many writers, she falls Asleep working. Sometimes Works to fall asleep. Digging her way through Herself, mining for words, Hacking away at painful pasts, Gathering emerald experiences.   Diamond doubts and ruby Regrets all fuel her poetry. And she reads, spotlight kissed;   Audience adored, Goosebump summoning; hairs On arms and necks stand up as She whispers directly to me. About me. Because of me. In front of everybody. To music, and I've brought a box Of pins, and between each of her Every word, I drop one. And I Swear to the gods, you can hear Them all. Like the unsteady Ticking of a clock too cool to Care. III Poetry jewelry; set with stones From her innermost. Chips of Gold from her heart melted Down to a key pendant she Holds in her hand; chain dangling, Eyes closed, forehead resting Against a door she knows it is Time to open. Key in one hand, Pen in the other, She Enters Herself.
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Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 6:34 AM UTC
sgholter
A Clock too Cool to Care
I She exits herself on the Sofa. Blanket, dog, and bits Of a poem on a pad of paper On the table, like a half-eaten Piece of homework. Shades of wine on her sleeping Lips. Exits herself; space-walks Outside that frame of mind she's Been expected to hang herself On the wall within; she knows There is more. There has to be more. II She has to be more. Like so many writers, she falls Asleep working. Sometimes Works to fall asleep. Digging her way through Herself, mining for words, Hacking away at painful pasts, Gathering emerald experiences.   Diamond doubts and ruby Regrets all fuel her poetry. And she reads, spotlight kissed;   Audience adored, Goosebump summoning; hairs On arms and necks stand up as She whispers directly to me. About me. Because of me. In front of everybody. To music, and I've brought a box Of pins, and between each of her Every word, I drop one. And I Swear to the gods, you can hear Them all. Like the unsteady Ticking of a clock too cool to Care. III Poetry jewelry; set with stones From her innermost. Chips of Gold from her heart melted Down to a key pendant she Holds in her hand; chain dangling, Eyes closed, forehead resting Against a door she knows it is Time to open. Key in one hand, Pen in the other, She Enters Herself.
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51
I am too close for him to dream about me. I'm not flying over him, not fleeing him under the roots of trees. I am too close. Not with my voice sings the fish in the net. Not from my finger rolls the ring. I am too close. A large house is on fire without my calling for help. Too close for a bell dangling from my hair to chime. Too close for me to enter as a guest before whom the walls part. Never again will I die so readily, so far beyond the flesh, so inadvertently as once in his dream. I am too close, too close—I hear the hiss and see the glittering husk of that word, as I lie immobilized in his embrace. He sleeps, more available at this moment to the ticket lady of a one-lion traveling circus seen but once in his life than to me lying beside him. Now a valley grows for her in him, ochre-leaved, closed off by a snowy mountain in the azure air. I am too close to fall out of the sky for him. My scream might only awaken him. Poor me, limited to my own form, but I was a birch tree, I was a lizard, I emerged from satins and sundials my skins shimmering in different colors. I possessed the grace to disappear from astonished eyes, and that is the rich man's riches. I am too close, too close for him to dream about me. I slip my arm out from under his sleeping head. It's numb, full of imaginary pins and needles. And on the head of each, ready to be counted, dance the fallen angels.
0
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 6:53 AM UTC
liliana-jaworska
I am too close for him by Wislawa Szymborska
I am too close for him to dream about me. I'm not flying over him, not fleeing him under the roots of trees. I am too close. Not with my voice sings the fish in the net. Not from my finger rolls the ring. I am too close. A large house is on fire without my calling for help. Too close for a bell dangling from my hair to chime. Too close for me to enter as a guest before whom the walls part. Never again will I die so readily, so far beyond the flesh, so inadvertently as once in his dream. I am too close, too close—I hear the hiss and see the glittering husk of that word, as I lie immobilized in his embrace. He sleeps, more available at this moment to the ticket lady of a one-lion traveling circus seen but once in his life than to me lying beside him. Now a valley grows for her in him, ochre-leaved, closed off by a snowy mountain in the azure air. I am too close to fall out of the sky for him. My scream might only awaken him. Poor me, limited to my own form, but I was a birch tree, I was a lizard, I emerged from satins and sundials my skins shimmering in different colors. I possessed the grace to disappear from astonished eyes, and that is the rich man's riches. I am too close, too close for him to dream about me. I slip my arm out from under his sleeping head. It's numb, full of imaginary pins and needles. And on the head of each, ready to be counted, dance the fallen angels.
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36
upon a branch a pair of doves sit and doesn't bend the branch a bit it doesn't for being light and easy no cares weighted responsibility be weighted by gravity pins us tie to earth for we're not meant to fly as human wears heavy the crown of  ******* of the appointed one crooing on a branch the lovers sit the branch they sit don't hurt a bit.
0
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 8:45 PM UTC
mohamed-nasir
Two Doves On A Branch
upon a branch a pair of doves sit and doesn't bend the branch a bit it doesn't for being light and easy no cares weighted responsibility be weighted by gravity pins us tie to earth for we're not meant to fly as human wears heavy the crown of  ******* of the appointed one crooing on a branch the lovers sit the branch they sit don't hurt a bit.
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10
Society, it pins us against each other; Chubby girls are forced to hate themselves all the ads that say they are not right and that makes them cry at night. They defend themselves by calling littler girls sticks which makes those littler girls suffer; Gays are forced to hide or "pay for the crime"; We are all separated into our own cliques where we are forced to stay. A nerd and a **** are forced to hate one another because the athletic and genus differences. Society is cruel but its hard to keep are judgement under control.
0
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 8:57 PM UTC
nicoleshaw102296
Society
Society, it pins us against each other; Chubby girls are forced to hate themselves all the ads that say they are not right and that makes them cry at night. They defend themselves by calling littler girls sticks which makes those littler girls suffer; Gays are forced to hide or "pay for the crime"; We are all separated into our own cliques where we are forced to stay. A nerd and a **** are forced to hate one another because the athletic and genus differences. Society is cruel but its hard to keep are judgement under control.
Continue reading...
5
I'm drowning, I'm drowning, In a sea of regrets and torture. I'm drowning, I'm drowning, The anchor's too heavy. I'm drowning, I'm drowning, Hold my hand and lift me up. I'm drowning, I'm drowning, Just save me from my seas. Dispirited am I, To be myself and embrace the world. Cut the threads of reality from my veins, I am not worthy of this. I am empathetic yet heartless. I am mad and saddened. Feel my walls slowly crumble, Feel the cold blood gush from my veins, I am dead to myself. I am dead to myself. I am dead to myself. Nothing contains the darkness anymore; It reeks everywhere I am. This madman's too crazy to say those four letters. Hop, rabbit, for the clock ticks faster than ever before. Endless worries will flood your head. Loop in a spiral of insanity, Play the broken tunes you hid for too long. Toyed are you too much That tears never fall from your eyes no more, Yet you still feel the pain. Turn back to reality, See the crumbling of You. I'm drowning, I'm drowning. See my body float in your despair. I'm drowning, I'm drowning, See my frozen heart shatter. I'm drowning, I'm drowning, Drain the murky waters. I'm drowning, I'm drowning, See me in moss and algae. I'm drowning, I'm drowning, Hell never felt so cold. I'm drowning, I'm drowning, Evergreen is the anchor that pins me to havoc. I'm drowning, I'm drowning, Let the ocean floor eat me alive. I'm drowning, I'm drowning, Plague all with the decay of my soul.
0
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 1:28 PM UTC
paene-vivit
Waterhell
I'm drowning, I'm drowning, In a sea of regrets and torture. I'm drowning, I'm drowning, The anchor's too heavy. I'm drowning, I'm drowning, Hold my hand and lift me up. I'm drowning, I'm drowning, Just save me from my seas. Dispirited am I, To be myself and embrace the world. Cut the threads of reality from my veins, I am not worthy of this. I am empathetic yet heartless. I am mad and saddened. Feel my walls slowly crumble, Feel the cold blood gush from my veins, I am dead to myself. I am dead to myself. I am dead to myself. Nothing contains the darkness anymore; It reeks everywhere I am. This madman's too crazy to say those four letters. Hop, rabbit, for the clock ticks faster than ever before. Endless worries will flood your head. Loop in a spiral of insanity, Play the broken tunes you hid for too long. Toyed are you too much That tears never fall from your eyes no more, Yet you still feel the pain. Turn back to reality, See the crumbling of You. I'm drowning, I'm drowning. See my body float in your despair. I'm drowning, I'm drowning, See my frozen heart shatter. I'm drowning, I'm drowning, Drain the murky waters. I'm drowning, I'm drowning, See me in moss and algae. I'm drowning, I'm drowning, Hell never felt so cold. I'm drowning, I'm drowning, Evergreen is the anchor that pins me to havoc. I'm drowning, I'm drowning, Let the ocean floor eat me alive. I'm drowning, I'm drowning, Plague all with the decay of my soul.
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47
What is happiness? Happiness is a smile plastered across your face. Happiness in you is seeing happiness in others. Happiness is accepting who you are. Happiness is love. Happiness is being content with what you have. Happiness is knowing that no matter what, someone is there to hold you tightly. Happiness is money. Happiness is your house. Happiness is your car. Happiness is the parties you throw. Happiness is the girl you met last night the girl waiting for you on your bed. Happiness is solitude. Happiness is not poisoning yourself with everything in the world around you. Happiness is keeping the door shut. Happiness is keeping the world out. Happiness rolls down your cheeks at night. Happiness pins you to your bed. Happiness holds you down. Happiness tells you that you’re not good enough. Happiness lives in the rope swinging from your ceiling.
0
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 5:31 AM UTC
dreamsofhope
Happiness.
What is happiness? Happiness is a smile plastered across your face. Happiness in you is seeing happiness in others. Happiness is accepting who you are. Happiness is love. Happiness is being content with what you have. Happiness is knowing that no matter what, someone is there to hold you tightly. Happiness is money. Happiness is your house. Happiness is your car. Happiness is the parties you throw. Happiness is the girl you met last night the girl waiting for you on your bed. Happiness is solitude. Happiness is not poisoning yourself with everything in the world around you. Happiness is keeping the door shut. Happiness is keeping the world out. Happiness rolls down your cheeks at night. Happiness pins you to your bed. Happiness holds you down. Happiness tells you that you’re not good enough. Happiness lives in the rope swinging from your ceiling.
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24
they stained the back deck today (with a hard to match 7 periwinkle) 400 square feet of knotted pine (in a striking rivet sequence) red ant drivers (who can forget those little ****** caked fir needles & feather cone bug hologram & cedar moss graffiti crack & cut joist wheel rut & pick pike stain (s) sow bugs electric blower purple fueled washer missing foul bits and two of its former pins somewhere near the erratic 9th stroke the side kick (and his sloppy dullard) fell sadly in a cacophony of sick laughter anxious peckers, poinsettias, grub box, rail stems lacewings (ladylike in their task), third door down windows old ergonomic chairs (so highly touted in the checkout isle at Lowes) all for not, I guess ~ seems they never reviewed the Homestead Manual on Fine Deck Painting ~
0
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 3:55 PM UTC
ck-baker
The Homestead Manual on Fine Deck Painting
they stained the back deck today (with a hard to match 7 periwinkle) 400 square feet of knotted pine (in a striking rivet sequence) red ant drivers (who can forget those little ****** caked fir needles & feather cone bug hologram & cedar moss graffiti crack & cut joist wheel rut & pick pike stain (s) sow bugs electric blower purple fueled washer missing foul bits and two of its former pins somewhere near the erratic 9th stroke the side kick (and his sloppy dullard) fell sadly in a cacophony of sick laughter anxious peckers, poinsettias, grub box, rail stems lacewings (ladylike in their task), third door down windows old ergonomic chairs (so highly touted in the checkout isle at Lowes) all for not, I guess ~ seems they never reviewed the Homestead Manual on Fine Deck Painting ~
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26
close your eyes… let your light lids become heavy like falling asleep in a bed of soft dreams. quiet your mind with a deep inhale.... breathe with me, and hold for a simple moment cleanse your mind with a firm exhale. Focus purely on your breath. Breathe with me. (take three sets of deep breaths) imagine no thoughts that bother you ignore the noise that follows your foot steps, the little buzzes of every day, like fruit flies orbiting succulent peaches let the noise fly away like those flies, far away Let go of those days where you find yourself worried… there is nothing to hold onto that worries you. you are a strong, magnificent, worry free energy, clean and sparkling. Relax, Envision your mind as a porcelain sink, and the drain in the center pulls all the noise away, until there is nothingness, emptiness. let the darkness behind your eyelids engulf you... it is warm, it is inviting, it is loving in this darkness... there is light. See and feel this ball of radiant light ripping through the black that tickles your skin like pins and needles the most beautiful light you’ve ever seen... be humble... this is your love manifested into an image that presents itself to you to show you all the love that your heart holds it beats into your blood, your veins, your energy, every inch of your physical, your mental, your soul... feel that smooooth, delicate love swim through every morsel of your being, it gives us light... it gives us life. ... Create an intention… what do you want most? Or perhaps, what do you want to give? What do you… as nobody else but yourself… want to embody? (take a few moments to gather and intention) take a deep inhale... (inhale) upon exhaling, release this intention into the universe... everything you give will come back. Let this intention become an extension of yourself this is you, and you are this. Now this part of you, the gentle intention, is part of the universe. and you… are part of the universe. thank the cosmos for caring about your mind, body, and spirit, and giving you this galactic love as you release yours, and the cycle continues on and on... feel the warmth of love kiss you tenderly, let it swallow you and hold you tightly, like a cosmic mother. you’re an infant again... in the arms of something divine, feeling pure bliss, like happiness is the only emotion that exists. happiness becomes organic, it is the ultimate source of life... happiness becomes the light, and combines itself with love, making the most beautiful offspring of purity and salvation. Inhale.... Exhale.... you are new, you are love let it run like a tranquil river from every one of your pours hear the liquid love follow the current of your mind’s creek.. hold your intention in your heart, and let it radiate let yourself be light let yourself be love. inhale... exhale... © 2016 D.M.V
0
Nov 18, 2016
Nov 18, 2016 at 3:40 PM UTC
flowernectar
Anahata Meditation (Heart Chakra)
close your eyes… let your light lids become heavy like falling asleep in a bed of soft dreams. quiet your mind with a deep inhale.... breathe with me, and hold for a simple moment cleanse your mind with a firm exhale. Focus purely on your breath. Breathe with me. (take three sets of deep breaths) imagine no thoughts that bother you ignore the noise that follows your foot steps, the little buzzes of every day, like fruit flies orbiting succulent peaches let the noise fly away like those flies, far away Let go of those days where you find yourself worried… there is nothing to hold onto that worries you. you are a strong, magnificent, worry free energy, clean and sparkling. Relax, Envision your mind as a porcelain sink, and the drain in the center pulls all the noise away, until there is nothingness, emptiness. let the darkness behind your eyelids engulf you... it is warm, it is inviting, it is loving in this darkness... there is light. See and feel this ball of radiant light ripping through the black that tickles your skin like pins and needles the most beautiful light you’ve ever seen... be humble... this is your love manifested into an image that presents itself to you to show you all the love that your heart holds it beats into your blood, your veins, your energy, every inch of your physical, your mental, your soul... feel that smooooth, delicate love swim through every morsel of your being, it gives us light... it gives us life. ... Create an intention… what do you want most? Or perhaps, what do you want to give? What do you… as nobody else but yourself… want to embody? (take a few moments to gather and intention) take a deep inhale... (inhale) upon exhaling, release this intention into the universe... everything you give will come back. Let this intention become an extension of yourself this is you, and you are this. Now this part of you, the gentle intention, is part of the universe. and you… are part of the universe. thank the cosmos for caring about your mind, body, and spirit, and giving you this galactic love as you release yours, and the cycle continues on and on... feel the warmth of love kiss you tenderly, let it swallow you and hold you tightly, like a cosmic mother. you’re an infant again... in the arms of something divine, feeling pure bliss, like happiness is the only emotion that exists. happiness becomes organic, it is the ultimate source of life... happiness becomes the light, and combines itself with love, making the most beautiful offspring of purity and salvation. Inhale.... Exhale.... you are new, you are love let it run like a tranquil river from every one of your pours hear the liquid love follow the current of your mind’s creek.. hold your intention in your heart, and let it radiate let yourself be light let yourself be love. inhale... exhale... © 2016 D.M.V
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73
Somebody is shooting at something in our town -- A dull pom, pom in the Sunday street. Jealousy can open the blood, It can make black roses. Who are the shooting at? It is you the knives are out for At Waterloo, Waterloo, Napoleon, The **** of Elba on your short back, And the snow, marshaling its brilliant cutlery Mass after mass, saying Shh! Shh! These are chess people you play with, Still figures of ivory. The mud squirms with throats, Stepping stones for French bootsoles. The gilt and pink domes of Russia melt and float off In the furnace of greed. Clouds, clouds. So the swarm ***** and deserts Seventy feet up, in a black pine tree. It must be shot down. Pom! Pom! So dumb it thinks bullets are thunder. It thinks they are the voice of God Condoning the beak, the claw, the grin of the dog Yellow-haunched, a pack-dog, Grinning over its bone of ivory Like the pack, the pack, like everybody. The bees have got so far. Seventy feet high! Russia, Poland and Germany! The mild hills, the same old magenta Fields shrunk to a penny Spun into a river, the river crossed. The bees argue, in their black ball, A flying hedgehog, all prickles. The man with gray hands stands under the honeycomb Of their dream, the hived station Where trains, faithful to their steel arcs, Leave and arrive, and there is no end to the country. Pom! Pom! They fall Dismembered, to a tod of ivy. So much for the charioteers, the outriders, the Grand Army! A red tatter, Napoleon! The last badge of victory. The swarm is knocked into a cocked straw hat. Elba, Elba, bleb on the sea! The white busts of marshals, admirals, generals Worming themselves into niches. How instructive this is! The dumb, banded bodies Walking the plank draped with Mother France's upholstery Into a new mausoleum, An ivory palace, a crotch pine. The man with gray hands smiles -- The smile of a man of business, intensely practical. They are not hands at all But asbestos receptacles. Pom! Pom! 'They would have killed me.' Stings big as drawing pins! It seems bees have a notion of honor, A black intractable mind. Napoleon is pleased, he is pleased with everything. O Europe! O ton of honey!
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7.8k
Sylvia Plath
The Swarm
Somebody is shooting at something in our town -- A dull pom, pom in the Sunday street. Jealousy can open the blood, It can make black roses. Who are the shooting at? It is you the knives are out for At Waterloo, Waterloo, Napoleon, The **** of Elba on your short back, And the snow, marshaling its brilliant cutlery Mass after mass, saying Shh! Shh! These are chess people you play with, Still figures of ivory. The mud squirms with throats, Stepping stones for French bootsoles. The gilt and pink domes of Russia melt and float off In the furnace of greed. Clouds, clouds. So the swarm ***** and deserts Seventy feet up, in a black pine tree. It must be shot down. Pom! Pom! So dumb it thinks bullets are thunder. It thinks they are the voice of God Condoning the beak, the claw, the grin of the dog Yellow-haunched, a pack-dog, Grinning over its bone of ivory Like the pack, the pack, like everybody. The bees have got so far. Seventy feet high! Russia, Poland and Germany! The mild hills, the same old magenta Fields shrunk to a penny Spun into a river, the river crossed. The bees argue, in their black ball, A flying hedgehog, all prickles. The man with gray hands stands under the honeycomb Of their dream, the hived station Where trains, faithful to their steel arcs, Leave and arrive, and there is no end to the country. Pom! Pom! They fall Dismembered, to a tod of ivy. So much for the charioteers, the outriders, the Grand Army! A red tatter, Napoleon! The last badge of victory. The swarm is knocked into a cocked straw hat. Elba, Elba, bleb on the sea! The white busts of marshals, admirals, generals Worming themselves into niches. How instructive this is! The dumb, banded bodies Walking the plank draped with Mother France's upholstery Into a new mausoleum, An ivory palace, a crotch pine. The man with gray hands smiles -- The smile of a man of business, intensely practical. They are not hands at all But asbestos receptacles. Pom! Pom! 'They would have killed me.' Stings big as drawing pins! It seems bees have a notion of honor, A black intractable mind. Napoleon is pleased, he is pleased with everything. O Europe! O ton of honey!
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60
Never will I be covered in tattoos My legs and toes shall forever stay bruised. I’ll never paint or carry a tune Forever and ever, I’ll wear a tutu. I won’t dye my hair pink or blue My piercings will stay as the simple two Nails cut short and hair in a bun In ballet, this must be done. Pink tights by the mound Bobby pins all around Leotards on the floor Pointe shoes by the door. Toes taped so tightly Smiling big and brightly Red lipstick adding to her beauty The dancer moves so smoothly. Turned out from my hips No words coming from my lips I dance sweetly to the sound Ooh ballet, to you, I am bound. Full of grace, never haste Filling perfectly my costume of lace Ever so sweet, my dancing feet Step after step, I repeat and repeat. Obtaining perfection is my key It’s what I strive for, it’s all that defines me Pushing harder and harder to reach my goal It’s what I live for, ballet is my soul. My toes may bleed And my knees, grow weak But I’ll never stop dancing… Not until I reach my peak. Pirouette, Pirouette Dancer’s silhouette Practicing at dusk Dedication is a must. Stretching my limbs Choreographing on a whim Alway aiming to be stronger To hold my arabesque longer. When I do finally reach that triple pirouette and all is done and all is set I put myself back into class Aiming for a fourth, to be better than the last. This is the life of a dancer en point Risking the health of her feet, legs and joints Just for that one perfect moment on stage Where the ballerina stands tall and all are amazed.
0
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 3:49 AM UTC
ghazal
Ballerina
Never will I be covered in tattoos My legs and toes shall forever stay bruised. I’ll never paint or carry a tune Forever and ever, I’ll wear a tutu. I won’t dye my hair pink or blue My piercings will stay as the simple two Nails cut short and hair in a bun In ballet, this must be done. Pink tights by the mound Bobby pins all around Leotards on the floor Pointe shoes by the door. Toes taped so tightly Smiling big and brightly Red lipstick adding to her beauty The dancer moves so smoothly. Turned out from my hips No words coming from my lips I dance sweetly to the sound Ooh ballet, to you, I am bound. Full of grace, never haste Filling perfectly my costume of lace Ever so sweet, my dancing feet Step after step, I repeat and repeat. Obtaining perfection is my key It’s what I strive for, it’s all that defines me Pushing harder and harder to reach my goal It’s what I live for, ballet is my soul. My toes may bleed And my knees, grow weak But I’ll never stop dancing… Not until I reach my peak. Pirouette, Pirouette Dancer’s silhouette Practicing at dusk Dedication is a must. Stretching my limbs Choreographing on a whim Alway aiming to be stronger To hold my arabesque longer. When I do finally reach that triple pirouette and all is done and all is set I put myself back into class Aiming for a fourth, to be better than the last. This is the life of a dancer en point Risking the health of her feet, legs and joints Just for that one perfect moment on stage Where the ballerina stands tall and all are amazed.
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48
The first time you hear "Beauty is pain" Is when your mother is brushing tangles Out of your hair You're too young to care The next time Is when you're getting your hair done For an event Bobby pins everywhere And this time it sticks Your legs sting After you shave them For the first time But you remind yourself Beauty is pain And go on with your day You remind yourself again As you pluck hairs From your eyebrows It helps you somehow Beauty is pain Your stomach growls You haven't eaten Because you want to be skinny You want to be pretty Beauty is pain Is all you hear When you walk into surgery To change your face Beauty is pain Lingers in the back of your mind When your boyfriend hits you For the first time One day you look in the mirror All you see is pain You wonder how it ended up this way
0
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 2:19 PM UTC
gwen-johnson
"Beauty is pain"
The first time you hear "Beauty is pain" Is when your mother is brushing tangles Out of your hair You're too young to care The next time Is when you're getting your hair done For an event Bobby pins everywhere And this time it sticks Your legs sting After you shave them For the first time But you remind yourself Beauty is pain And go on with your day You remind yourself again As you pluck hairs From your eyebrows It helps you somehow Beauty is pain Your stomach growls You haven't eaten Because you want to be skinny You want to be pretty Beauty is pain Is all you hear When you walk into surgery To change your face Beauty is pain Lingers in the back of your mind When your boyfriend hits you For the first time One day you look in the mirror All you see is pain You wonder how it ended up this way
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36
a draper is someone who creates garments or patterns by draping fabric directly onto a dress form (Wikipedia) ~~~~ I am a draper, by trade, by nature, by instinct; a fling of one arm across her body, while she dreams and sleeps, rambles, mumbles, and even convulses, to hold her tight with two, with both, soon grows discomforting as the blood ceases to flow, the heat breeds unsweetened sweat, and the snuggling impact, is too fast subsumed by the pins and needles numbing, deadening, and ironical attenuation this is my pattern, how I address her, how I dress her, draping my contiguous, drawing five fingers upon her form, reshaping her in her sleep, the arm flung, there, and then there, to be hung, at varied places across her body, higher lower, above below, but her face, free and clear, so not to interfere with her sensory preceptors and as I draw my pattern upon her skin, her body whole, listening her to indeterminate utterances, to determine which pitter patter pattern to which. she feels best suited, then, I prepare my invoice for her, for services rendered, to present upon awakening, demanding in voice, by her voice, payment in words, of her own chosen amuse-bouche, mmmm, will it be? good morning my love? hello you! or just an indiscriminate but yet, a discriminating sound of having been pleasured by unknown forces in her deeper sleep, using her lips to say, to hum, to sing, a genteel unspecific but, and yet, a terrific, deep from within guttural remittance, the sound of a delicious, mmmmmming greeting a new equinoxal gale of a refreshing fresh birthing, fulsome already satisfying draping of the day
0
Aug 13, 2025
Aug 13, 2025 at 5:01 PM UTC
onlylovepoetry
The Draper (draw my pattern upon her skin)
a draper is someone who creates garments or patterns by draping fabric directly onto a dress form (Wikipedia) ~~~~ I am a draper, by trade, by nature, by instinct; a fling of one arm across her body, while she dreams and sleeps, rambles, mumbles, and even convulses, to hold her tight with two, with both, soon grows discomforting as the blood ceases to flow, the heat breeds unsweetened sweat, and the snuggling impact, is too fast subsumed by the pins and needles numbing, deadening, and ironical attenuation this is my pattern, how I address her, how I dress her, draping my contiguous, drawing five fingers upon her form, reshaping her in her sleep, the arm flung, there, and then there, to be hung, at varied places across her body, higher lower, above below, but her face, free and clear, so not to interfere with her sensory preceptors and as I draw my pattern upon her skin, her body whole, listening her to indeterminate utterances, to determine which pitter patter pattern to which. she feels best suited, then, I prepare my invoice for her, for services rendered, to present upon awakening, demanding in voice, by her voice, payment in words, of her own chosen amuse-bouche, mmmm, will it be? good morning my love? hello you! or just an indiscriminate but yet, a discriminating sound of having been pleasured by unknown forces in her deeper sleep, using her lips to say, to hum, to sing, a genteel unspecific but, and yet, a terrific, deep from within guttural remittance, the sound of a delicious, mmmmmming greeting a new equinoxal gale of a refreshing fresh birthing, fulsome already satisfying draping of the day
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75
the committee has convened (kangaroos corralled) the agenda is set (scapegoats framed) the politicos are preened (perfect patriots) hair coiffed teeth whitened (fangs sharpened) correct talking points bulleted (minds closed) puffed chests perfectly postured (bombastic bravado) freedom fighters stand firm (Constitution usurpers) American flag lapel pins (sparkling bright) liberty's spirit and tolerance (roundly condemned) special interests are watching (payola earned) partisan lines clearly drawn (democracy doomed) Music Selection Cream: Politician Oakland 10/1/10 jbm
0
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 7:46 PM UTC
james-bradley-mccallum
Senate Committee
the committee has convened (kangaroos corralled) the agenda is set (scapegoats framed) the politicos are preened (perfect patriots) hair coiffed teeth whitened (fangs sharpened) correct talking points bulleted (minds closed) puffed chests perfectly postured (bombastic bravado) freedom fighters stand firm (Constitution usurpers) American flag lapel pins (sparkling bright) liberty's spirit and tolerance (roundly condemned) special interests are watching (payola earned) partisan lines clearly drawn (democracy doomed) Music Selection Cream: Politician Oakland 10/1/10 jbm
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38
How can my eyes hunger for tormentors bodies where in my soul can I find desires for sadists Eves threw on fitted coats of Marquis de Sade borrowed his manuals and added even more pages pierced the heart of a Dove defending his nest with lethal pins And in joyous indignities with devilment aplomp they reclined and crackled in wanton doltishness He thinks of and desires us and wants to make amor with us How can a heart marinated in love truely sincere a soul ready to die rather than any harm to Eves Be mother or sister or perchance even a stranger alas in utter ********** and grotesque situation dire Come undone with healthy pristine heart ripped to pieces hung drawn and quartered and sliced in tiny morsels Like fish baits for mice and minnows or hens clucking All at the hands of Sirens who worshipped in Satan's cravens How can a soul with only the spark of Salvation aglow where it once housed his heart and enduring humanity With brimful joy and devotions in fitting measures true as all Eves where to him nowt but sisters and earth angels Now his burning blood runs cold like rivelets in the Arctic their words ring hollow and smiles shows rapiers of snakes Nothing stirs desires for all Eves now seem and look like wicked corpses Delilahs' wrecking vengeance on Samsons in wickedness supreme [email protected] rights reserved
0
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 4:31 AM UTC
yenson
I Don't See You That Way Anymore.......
How can my eyes hunger for tormentors bodies where in my soul can I find desires for sadists Eves threw on fitted coats of Marquis de Sade borrowed his manuals and added even more pages pierced the heart of a Dove defending his nest with lethal pins And in joyous indignities with devilment aplomp they reclined and crackled in wanton doltishness He thinks of and desires us and wants to make amor with us How can a heart marinated in love truely sincere a soul ready to die rather than any harm to Eves Be mother or sister or perchance even a stranger alas in utter ********** and grotesque situation dire Come undone with healthy pristine heart ripped to pieces hung drawn and quartered and sliced in tiny morsels Like fish baits for mice and minnows or hens clucking All at the hands of Sirens who worshipped in Satan's cravens How can a soul with only the spark of Salvation aglow where it once housed his heart and enduring humanity With brimful joy and devotions in fitting measures true as all Eves where to him nowt but sisters and earth angels Now his burning blood runs cold like rivelets in the Arctic their words ring hollow and smiles shows rapiers of snakes Nothing stirs desires for all Eves now seem and look like wicked corpses Delilahs' wrecking vengeance on Samsons in wickedness supreme [email protected] rights reserved
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25
The bars had opened just that morning turned him loose again he wandered blindly down the street just lookin for a friend The tombstones filled with empty graves were drinking in the park so he sat  to quench his thirst and lingered well past dark THE BARS ARE ALWAYS OPEN EXCEPT FOR WHEN THEY'RE CLOSED THE DRUNK TANK SPINS IN CIRCLES YOUR FREEDOM COMES AND GOES All the barkeeps know his name they've tossed him out before so he cracks a pint in silence next to the corner store He's drank with everyone in town they all pay for his drinks a legend to both young and old at least thats what he thinks THE BARS ARE ALWAYS OPEN EXCEPT FOR WHEN THEY'RE CLOSED THE DRUNK TANK SPINS IN CIRCLES YOUR FREEDOM COMES AND GOES The rising sun must weigh a ton pins him to the ground inside his skull a screaming hell that never makes a sound He always smells like whiskey wether day or if it's night a bottle stashed inside his coat the daydream goes allright he lives a dream thats long since passed he toasts to a full cup the nightmare there when he awakes he simply drinks it up THE BARS ARE ALWAYS OPEN EXCEPT FOR WHEN THEY'RE CLOSED THE DRUNK TANK SPINS IN CIRCLES YOUR FREEDOM COMES AND GOES
0
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 5:03 PM UTC
j-chicago
EMPTY GRAVE
The bars had opened just that morning turned him loose again he wandered blindly down the street just lookin for a friend The tombstones filled with empty graves were drinking in the park so he sat  to quench his thirst and lingered well past dark THE BARS ARE ALWAYS OPEN EXCEPT FOR WHEN THEY'RE CLOSED THE DRUNK TANK SPINS IN CIRCLES YOUR FREEDOM COMES AND GOES All the barkeeps know his name they've tossed him out before so he cracks a pint in silence next to the corner store He's drank with everyone in town they all pay for his drinks a legend to both young and old at least thats what he thinks THE BARS ARE ALWAYS OPEN EXCEPT FOR WHEN THEY'RE CLOSED THE DRUNK TANK SPINS IN CIRCLES YOUR FREEDOM COMES AND GOES The rising sun must weigh a ton pins him to the ground inside his skull a screaming hell that never makes a sound He always smells like whiskey wether day or if it's night a bottle stashed inside his coat the daydream goes allright he lives a dream thats long since passed he toasts to a full cup the nightmare there when he awakes he simply drinks it up THE BARS ARE ALWAYS OPEN EXCEPT FOR WHEN THEY'RE CLOSED THE DRUNK TANK SPINS IN CIRCLES YOUR FREEDOM COMES AND GOES
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40
THE PAWN-SHOP man knows hunger, And how far hunger has eaten the heart Of one who comes with an old keepsake. Here are wedding rings and baby bracelets, Scarf pins and shoe buckles, jeweled garters, Old-fashioned knives with inlaid handles, Watches of old gold and silver, Old coins worn with finger-marks. They tell stories.
0
5.9k
Carl Sandburg
Street Window
THE PAWN-SHOP man knows hunger, And how far hunger has eaten the heart Of one who comes with an old keepsake. Here are wedding rings and baby bracelets, Scarf pins and shoe buckles, jeweled garters, Old-fashioned knives with inlaid handles, Watches of old gold and silver, Old coins worn with finger-marks. They tell stories.
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9