"prickle" poems
Lady, your room is lousy with flowers.
When you kick me out, that's what I'll remember,
Me, sitting here bored as a loepard
In your jungle of wine-bottle lamps,
Velvet pillows the color of blood pudding
And the white china flying fish from Italy.
I forget you, hearing the cut flowers
Sipping their liquids from assorted pots,
Pitchers and Coronation goblets
Like Monday drunkards. The milky berries
Bow down, a local constellation,
Toward their admirers in the tabletop:
Mobs of eyeballs looking up.
Are those petals of leaves you've paried with them ---
Those green-striped ovals of silver tissue?
The red geraniums I know.
Friends, friends. They stink of armpits
And the invovled maladies of autumn,
Musky as a lovebed the morning after.
My nostrils prickle with nostalgia.
Henna hags:cloth of your cloth.
They tow old water thick as fog.
The roses in the Toby jug
Gave up the ghost last night. High time.
Their yellow corsets were ready to split.
You snored, and I heard the petals unlatch,
Tapping and ticking like nervous fingers.
You should have junked them before they died.
Daybreak discovered the bureau lid
Littered with Chinese hands. Now I'm stared at
By chrysanthemums the size
Of Holofernes' head, dipped in the same
Magenta as this fubsy sofa.
In the mirror their doubles back them up.
Listen: your tenant mice
Are rattling the ******* packets. Fine flour
Muffles their bird feet: they whistle for joy.
And you doze on, nose to the wall.
This mizzle fits me like a sad jacket.
How did we make it up to your attic?
You handed me gin in a glass bud vase.
We slept like stones. Lady, what am I doing
With a lung full of dust and a tongue of wood,
Knee-deep in the cold swamped by flowers?
14.7k
the double-glaze and blackout curtains shield me
from the world's uncertainty.
the panes of glass so sure not to allow its overside to retreat and
seep its liquid coldness to reach me. it's neither
cold nor warm at the touch, unlike me.
i am protected by the double gaze and blackout curtains but
some force that differs from the one that is currently causing
the tree outside sway dangerously close to my perch is
causing my mind and body to be insulated
by a layer of ice.
goosebumps prickle and my arm and leg stubble
raise themselves.
but my mind does not provide for itself thermoregulatory
reflexes, i
must withstand the shiver of my memories.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 2:17 PM UTC
It's the little things in life that can change the way you feel,
like a kiss on the cheek, a flower in your hair or going for a meal
They say money makes the world go round, and money can buy you some amazing things
but it only takes a smile to wake me up in the winter mornings
Like a ladybird cautious to land,
eventually it will flutter down and reach for your hand
Let it guide you through the woods,
stone and prickle and wolves in hoods.
Till at last you taste the sun,
you need not worry about what's to come.
Its the simple things in life that matter the most,
sugar in your tea, jam and butter on your toast
Don't be afraid to take a chance,
Show yourself to me, laugh and dance
Be free to dream, love and kiss
There isn't a single part of you that I would want to miss.
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 12:21 PM UTC
i'm unable to understand.
goosebumps prickle methodically up and down my arms, and i
look at the wall opposite me, eyes small and watery,
and smile.
my face mocks me.
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 2:04 PM UTC
One of the Reasons
As day turns to night
My feelings get stronger
I can't get away
When the wind blows gently
Your smooth voice can almost be heard
Music to my ears
My arms prickle at the chill
Waiting for the arms
To wrap around to warm me and hold me close
Shivers go down my spine
Like the sensation I get
From your soft, smooth touch
Just your simple
Yet vibrant presence near me
Makes you irresistible
And that
Is one of the many reasons
Why I love you
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 12:39 AM UTC
Remember me as a Letter
Carefully written in order to best explain
Everything it is I could not seem to say
write me easy
write me deeply
write me only once.
Remember me as a Love Song
Structurally crafted lyrics filled with melodies
Sweeter than the first time we met
sing me to your mother
sing me to your lover
sing me to your children
Remember me as a Poem
Metaphor coloured emotions
Putting together moments amidst events
That never really happened
But we would swear over and over
That actually did
colour me purple
colour me blue
colour me Red
Remember me in your Nightmares
Think of me on those nights that simply closing your eyes
Causes fear to prickle on your skin
And adrenaline to race through your veins
close your eyes anyway
embrace the feeling of helplessness
let it help you remember
Remember me when you Don't Want To
Promise to think of me in those moments when
Remembering numbs you more than feeling nothing at all
love me easy
love me deeply
love me only once
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 4:41 PM UTC
Memories, memories,
Demons destined to remind!
Memories, memories,
Extricate them from my mind!
Alas! They echo toward me
As ripples in the brain.
Evoked by love and roses
They prickle me insane.
Oh, I remember…
*The hour summons a restless, withered afternoon
During which I succumbed to ravenous decay.
I desperately chased feelings like an unhinged loon,
Swifting through my pond in fear, panic, and dismay.*
Impeccable beauty
& fanciful expectation:
I was thwarted by both.
Each summoned its own
Distinct, rolling shadow.
Oh I remember…
*I was washed forth by whistling tides of tomorrow,
Clinging to a heart I could not own or borrow.
My feelings, whisked in transit, dizzied by the fray,
Yearned for second chances to conquer yesterday.*
Gelid gloom would
Permeate my heart,
Tearing me apart.
Haunted by a feeling
I could not possess,
I drowned in
Darkness.
Oh I remember...
*Loneliness was chronic; slowly it tapped time;
My life become a poem lacking voice and rhyme.
As silent afternoons would coalesce into years,
My dreams burst into smoke & hope thawed into tears.*
Memories, memories,
Are nothing more than that.
Memories, memories,
**** **** ****
I do not wish to remember,
But dare not to forget
Moments that once plagued me:
Moments I regret.
*No matter how strong be my will,
These memories will haunt me still.*
Oh how I wish not to remember...
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 6:52 PM UTC
It comes from nowhere
It's the faint, burning prickle
Springs behind your eyes
Bidding you stop and wonder
Why your breath caught in your throat.
Mar 24, 2022
Mar 24, 2022 at 9:22 PM UTC
BLOSSOM
Flower
Beauty under the sun
It dances with the wind and rain
And brings feeling of serenity
Blossom
**************
SPINE
Prickle
It makes deep cuts
That make one cry in vain
Protected beauty in its own
Spine
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 9:37 PM UTC
Kisses
His lips
Stained red from cherry lip-gloss and his skin still damp from midnight lust.
Our arms and legs lay tangled beneath the stars.
These are the good nights
The, Nightmare, Night terror
Free nights.
Filled with burnt out cigarettes and hushed tones.
These are the nights
That push the cortisol from my mind to be replaced by a
Cheap serotonin fix.
These nights are my lullabies and goodnight
Kisses
His lips
Push their way against my squirming flesh, my tongue too tied to protest.
His hands caress,
My arms and legs. twisted behind locked doors.
These are the restless nights
Tossed and turned like mildewed clothes
Filled with empty cups and muffled moans.
These are the nights-- I’m sorry
The nights I pray for sunrise
Kisses.
Her lips
Find their way to my worried ear, stroking, Hushing.
“It’s okay baby girl mama’s here.”
Shhhhh.
These nights are long nights
When my legs are restless from running through my head,
Monsters,
Hiding underneath my bed.
These nights are filled with screams, they
Strangle my throat, and Chills prickle my spine but
These nights are saved
By her forehead
Kisses
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 12:24 PM UTC
crimson mistress
(crimson flower
in the swooning gloom)
tell me
why against thy sharp
prickle
(eyes of lynx)
my heart I’m pressing
(æt the nihtegale)*
and don’t understand that
freedom
(like the archetype of Moon)
of the kiss
with laughter devoted
in the broad gardens
---------------
*(with the nightingale)
The original:
***(тъмночервена господарке)
тъмночервена господарке
(тъмночервено цвете
във припадащия мрак)
кажи ми
защо във острия ти
шип
(очи на рис)
сърцето си притискам
(със славея)
и не разбирам тази
свобода
(както и архетипа на луната)
на целувката
със смях отдадена
в широките градини
*Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
Dec 11, 2010
Dec 11, 2010 at 10:17 AM UTC
Pickled on quixotic tonics
he strives for a polyglot's poise,
balancing plaster peas
at the end of his tippler's tongue.
But the rough-surfaced pearls prickle
his too-ticklish bed of pink,
and gulped down, he administers
only a lessoned indigestion.
Flipping the flop, he prevaricates
himself into the tight-fit corners
of a parallelogram traced
by unsolemn processionals
bedecked in platitudinous finery.
Their porous smirks drip sticky
reminders of a plethora
of previously pernicious exercises
and dampen his fluffy ambition,
prodding procrastinations until
his drunken promise dries out
to become a posthumous wish.
Apr 7, 2010
Apr 7, 2010 at 5:03 PM UTC
For Sam Cook and Michael Lee
While standing at Marshall and 140th
the lightning over the horizon begs me to come to it
it's like the flickering streetlights, seeming like silent firefights,
simply asking to be looked for.
When I still elementary,
I used to watch the sky as the bolts shocked the earth
and I'd count:
one
two
three
Until I heard the boom and crack of thunder
three miles away, at least, the fourth graders said each second was a mile
it could have been true, it could have not, yet still I watch the light.
The flickering of the fading streetlamp tells me that this moment is not going to last forever
that it will not be heavenly or touchable, but it is there
and it wants you to touch the light as it flickers like a strobe light
like kids playing with the tabs of flashlights
and like the first discovery of light switches
and I'm reaching out so far.
Trying to grab hold of a piece of simplicity,
of normal,
of what I can always find:
Mistakes and wounds
and trying to hold on
Because lately, it seems like the only places we want to flicker are in the clubs.
Standing on a planet where illness and difference are cause enough to torch cities.
We like to light the fires and we like to watch them burn,
but we could care less about what their burning
and it seems like the dark ages came and stayed,
But like tributes to Guy Fawkes say:
*A man can be killed and forgotten,
but four hundred years later an idea can still change the world*
So I think as I stand at that intersection
watching the streetlights and the night's light bulbs flicker on and off like the light in my head
I can feel my fingertips prickle and I seize that moment to reach for the lamppost and final destination
those kids are flipping tabs faster and faster
my hair is at attention
and I can feel the race.
For a second,
everything slows down.
The streetlight stops flickering as my fingertips come upon it
and the lightning illuminates the sky
I can feel the breeze push my hair to this minutes path
and for a second,
I have something.
I pull my fingers away from the light and it returns to its flicker
the lightning fades away
and the boom comes in.
And here, standing at what once for me was Marshall and 140th
I realize,
that all I have
is all
I'll ever claim to know
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 6:48 AM UTC
We can escape, now,
it's smoky with a chance of curtain drawn,
our minds won't tramsit light
from our empty, covered windo- the train is here.
I'm ready to go.
And though I'm leaving on a train
with room for only one,
I'm hoping you can catch a cheap ride
hidden in my pocket.
Nobody checks your person, anymore,
Nobody cares;
Homeland Security lovingly fed
us fattened falsities
As the fat cats in suburban alleyways
tore off the thickest
pieces of marrow from the national animal
of our Fiction States of America.
I have known this
because I have seen it from my seat
in coach,
thank god, too, because the train is packed.
So fill up
if you aren't going to hop in,
wishing to distort
your mind with all of their public drugs,
community opiates
transmitting across electrical wires hidden
in the ground,
the trees,
the air itself,
stitched into the layers of
dark matter and cosmic foam insulating
our fragile and overdone Universe.
I hear their static,
that pantomimed reality,
caught inside carbon fibers running through everything,
running through me,
running through you,
running into and out of your brain like
a thief without pause or moral.
We could run, too,
the heavy bass notes of the
nurturing ocean could shield the screech
of the battered train's wheels;
the wheels need a rest from screeching, anyway.
Quick!
While the conductor isn't looking!
The wires will tell him you're here
until you're gone,
hidden in my coat pocket
inside a layer of my inner smoke.
Well, if you insist,
I suppose you may leave,
but once the wound of knowledge opens,
just know it never closes.
It will fester and
prickle
with the fetid odor
of truths turned into lies.
I know I'm talking
to myself, now, but I don't
want to let you go,
though I'll stay here,
safe,
in the train carriage,
hidden in smoke.
Smoke,
smoke,
smoke,
the train heats up,
breaths out smoke from its burning
and throbbing pipe.
The engine has built up
an overdose of heat,
trying to throw off the weeds trying
to grow inside.
They tried to enter me,
and they will soon enter you,
now,
without my smoke to shroud you,
to leave your naked wound
easily hidden in
paranoid dreams.
Screeeeee,
screeeeeee,
screeeeeeee,
the wheels screech out,
ready to go,
ready to run,
to run down the track,
to run through all obstacles,
to run through everything,
to run through me,
to run through you,
to run in and out of your brain,
blown away in a puff of smoke,
my memory has burned away
and blows off as ash
and smoke.
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 7:32 PM UTC
self destruction like burning bridges you know full well you'll drown without
being reckless with your rafts and your lifesavers
and feeling the heat of the fire prickle your forehead,
beads of sweat teasing your skin
and making it impossible to ignore the deep water already lapping at your feet,
clearly prepared to completely engulf you in liquid darkness.
self destruction like inhaling the fumes of a hundred toxic promises,
made to you by old would-be lovers;
sugarcoated words and lies roughly covered in white,
feeling the poison seizing up your struggling lungs,
fingertips flicking through dictionaries with cracked spines:
desperate to find a word that isn't even there.
self destruction like breaking hearts that aren't yours for once,
just to hold the power of corruption and allow it to make you bloodthirsty,
much like slaughtering ants beneath magnifying glasses,
watching them struggle and turn to unrecognisable ashes,
whimpering half hearted apologies whilst trying to convince yourself
that you are not a bad person, but simply a broken soul.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 5:58 PM UTC
I stretch forward, elongating my neck, making the hairs that grow down onto my nape prickle,
envisioning
my true horse-nature.
I’m hooves clopping on river rocks. My mane combed to one side, my angular muzzle huffing.
I’m strong and sturdy – muscle and a soft steel kind of strength. And yet at the
whistle of a windblown reed,
I’m gone,
scattered and spooked.
I trace the angles that connect weakly on my rawboned face. Strong lines
never broken never snapped,
just shifted and sifted easily.
I stand before others, pulled loosely together, unsettled in my people-clothes.
Loyal – love me.
Wild – but not too tightly.
I sit for sketches
sometimes hours sometimes minutes sometimes seconds sometimes months.
I look like a human,
solid to the fingertips of others pressing in – but
I’m a ghost.
I’m burned by the red clay of a canyon wall, shiny from the sun. My sweat reflects ribbons of
wet diamonds
at the bottom of a cold, fast river.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 12:42 AM UTC
I feel it starting, like a prickle down my spine.
My rubbery lungs expand and push
against my ribs.
Organs start crawling
up my throat
leaving a hollow cavity
which I must seal.
My heart is pumping faster
but the only thing to get my blood moving
is to fill my emptiness.
Hands shaking I scrawl a haphazard
paper chain to keep me from floating away
as my love looks on concerned.
“Can I fill it with a kiss?
A caress? If I whisper to you
will my words fall through your ears and
weigh you down?”
But anxiety
is not like drowning
and a life preserver won’t reign me in.
The only thing to do is wait
for me to compress my lungs
and talk my insides off the ledge.
Let me close my eyes and breathe,
give me room to reassemble.
I promise I will come down soon.
When I can concentrate enough,
the Earth starts shrinking
until its mass rests on my pen tip
and I can write the blood back through my veins.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 6:52 PM UTC
Dear poet,
Dear ***** talker of some unrequited nasty,
Dear slow admirer,
Noticing my detail like a detective
Twist this halo into handcuffs
And love me already
Or don’t
I’m not real
And if I were
I’d hate to be her
You perfect pitch psalm sayer
Waxing generic
Quit the verbal dance
And dance with me
I am glad you know I’m not perfect
I am as faulty
As a topographical map of California
This body is chills
Is goosebumps
Is legs that were soft yesterday
Kiss them
Prickle your cheeks
Does your beard know the difference?
Do you?
Do I feel like scented sandpaper love notes
Still stained with a kiss?
I know I might just be squid ink to everyone else
But you dear poet
Dear detective
Black lighting my flaws into glowing beauty
Put your lips to my stains
They still taste like stains
You made them
You made me
You made me Dear Poet
Stop talking
And take me
Mar 24, 2012
Mar 24, 2012 at 3:09 AM UTC
I Inhaled so many silent forgotten gasps today.
They passed over my pulsating skin
like jeweled kings in pauper’s clothes.
Morning blue sheets sticking
like sparkling pool water as I twirled
my Georgia love, one Georgia summer.
Stuck like the dew of her legs,
like the brushing warmth of her breath that once
swept me into the blessing of her closeness.
This afternoon, talked to a friendly blonde
and wondered how her curls would wet
from Mediterranean water. Whether her breath
would brush or prickle my ambivalent cheek,
move my ambivalent heart.
Befriended a young musician on the bus ride
to the airport, heard in his slight lisp
his artistic dreaming, imagined what music
compels his eyelids to shut and shield him
from the carnivorous spoon-feeding.
He seemed to be wondering that, too.
Knew I was writing in my head.
A flight to home, delayed among fog
and a President’s presence.
A quiet meal, a chicken sandwich.
A golden ale and a sit at the bar
to rest my arms on the counter
like heavy soldiers, returning home.
Listening to the businessman yell
at the player who should have scored,
won the game.
Late at night, arrive home,
when nothing beautifully happens.
Can you believe? Tornados are sweeping
North Georgia. I can only see in my mind
empty pool water swirling.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 8:01 PM UTC
you never cared
they say you never stutter to the things you call home, and i was never one to flinch to the sound of broken promises and holocaust
but then i met you
they warn us about the drugs in the streets and dangers of heights but I’ve never been warned that a drug can be a person, and that danger can be in your smile
i took inside me all your pains and we watched them burn within me together, and until today i still cough up ashes of the fire that lived under my skin
so why did we ever bleed the only love we had and covered the wounds in sheets of apathy
i saw even angels getting lost in the seams of your devilish smile
and now all i have left is my torrid burning throat and the walls that never listened
I’ve learned that everything i touch i shatter, too bad I’ve never touched your heart
and you never cared
oh if only i had more say to who my heart decides to love
but no, I’m always left a helpless slave to the pulsing inside my chest
and like athe voices in my head that cant stop screaming your name, i never slept or had enough of you
i craved the blood in your lips and the veins on your arms
i kissed you like i was drowning and you were air
i saw the light in you no matter what
like the dusk of the morning or an after storm
but you never cared
you never cared that i stock around
even when i realized you were more of poison than medicine to me
and i was so addicted to the way you made the hair on my arm prickle and the beat of my heart race
that i loved the toxic that was you
the toxic was killing me
you were killing me
but i never cared
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 11:57 PM UTC
Before it became a crush,
we were family friends.
You slipped in and out of my parent's parties.
I saw you only in passing.
We were never introduced...
...formally, that is.
The first time I saw you out of my house
was that night.
The night we first spoke.
You comforted me and
cradled me in your arms.
I was with all my best friends,
but you and I seemed to fit so perfectly.
Some say we took those first steps too quickly.
It wasn't love right away, but I was
intrigued by you and your
sense of warmth.
After nights similar to the first,
I began to think of you a lot.
If a weekend would pass without you in it,
in me,
it was incomplete.
I yearned for your touch
and the way you made my skin prickle.
My lips tingle in the thought of you now.
At the beginning, it was simply fun with you.
Innocent fun with no repercussions.
That is when I learned to love you.
I loved how you didn't have a plan or sense of direction.
You were spontaneous.
I was insecure and fragile, looking for someone,
something,
just like you.
At first, you brought out the best in me,
showed me that when we were together,
I meant something,
and I will always thank you for that.
There were times when I questioned your worth.
Some nights you would engulf me,
take everything of me,
chew me up
and spit me back out.
You never threatened me, or hurt me.
I just loved you so much that I would do anything you said.
Maybe I was angry with you in the morning,
but I always forgave you the next time we were together.
Run up to you and hug you, and you would kiss me twice on each cheek.
Like you always had.
As if nothing had happened.
Somehow promising that tonight would be better.
From that first night to now,
our love affair has been consistent.
I always want you
and your smooth touch.
And even after every time you put me down.
You're always the one to pull me back up.
I've shared so many memories with you,
dark and messy nights,
poetic and spiritual ones too.
Every time I hear your name or
know that you are near,
my eyes widen.
I bite my lip and smile.
I get shaky and anticipate your arrival.
Some people love you superficially.
They are the ones who don't easily forgive.
But you know that I will always love you.
Some will try to tear us apart,
saying that you don't love me back.
That you can't.
They've tried and lost.
Even if I don't directly receive love in return,
the way you make me feel, and act, and cry,
lets me know that you do love me.
You are the only one who can hurt me
as much as you have,
and know that I will always run back into your arms.
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 10:21 PM UTC
The monsters in my mind
Are taunting me through eyes
That laugh at me,
Scratch at me,
And beg for time to play.
The monsters in my mind
Distort my face,
Curl my lips into a snarl of pure disdain.
My skin and nose become reptilian,
The hands that touch my features
Become claws of smoke.
I laugh at my shell, it is a joke.
The monsters in my mind
Allow no time for rest.
They coo at me,
Bleeding for attention.
Timid, I close my eyes.
My attempt is feeble,
And the monsters are inside.
My shell takes shape,
It bends to their temptation.
They have control of me,
And I am pushed aside.
The monsters in my mind
Are always there.
Each glimpse of my reflection
Reveals my inner self,
But my eyes hold their stare.
The monsters are aware,
I usher them back in, but to where?
My mind is not my own,
This is not my face.
I do not recognize myself,
Has this become my fate?
The monsters in my mind
Are keeping me awake.
They are alert,
And cannot be tamed.
I am screaming, crawling,
Begging for relief.
My eyes mist from the thought
Of them leaving me.
But who can I tell?
Who can see?
The monsters in my mind are me.
Who could understand my dependency?
They cannot see my claws of smoke
Or hear my hooves
As they tap on the petrified wood
That encases the entrance to my darkest fears,
My deepest secrets,
The parts of my mind that frighten
And intrigue me.
The monsters in my mind
Are cruel.
They are my secret burden,
My constant delight.
They plague my eyes to see
Livid dreams of what could be.
They need attention,
They feed on my weakness,
They devour my light,
And I am grateful.
I enjoy the familiar prickle
That shudders over my shell as they enter my mind,
Controlling my thoughts.
It consumes me,
Washing over me like ****
The monsters in my mind
Hold me captive.
I am Stolkholmed to their urges.
I hold no breath that resists the be tainted
By their gruesome illusions.
They entice me,
Feed me,
Satisfy me,
Until my gluttony physically handicaps me.
I try to stop, I attempt to purge my mind,
But when they ask me why
I lose my will to try.
The monsters in my mind
Never fault.
I am laughing at the pain,
The idea of harm doesn’t hurt.
They will never fail,
I will never waste.
I am them,
And they are me.
There are monsters in my mind
And though I know no rest
I am at peace.
Death no longer frightens me.
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 9:33 PM UTC
there are bullets from told centuries
in my bones but this year has
ensnared them with flowers
so that i have crumbled in prickle
and thorn; i am too feeble for
the battlefield now, i have lost
my luster, have been scrubbed down to
sullied brass and **** without
purpose.
i want to bleed
the rose petals out of me
and make myself
a target again.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 9:00 PM UTC
A certain quiet glinting in the corner of my eye
a prickle-necked foreboding in a sullen winter sky
An ultrasonic wavelength tuned to sorrow and to fear
comes manifest, projected through my wish to bring it near
A pressure change, a slamming door, a thought of things undone
comes seeping through the paintwork for a bit of spectral fun
And I can sit complacently and watch the show unfold
My perfect explanations make me curious and bold
I wonder how my brain will paint this misty-coloured scene
What face will fly from memory where no face should have been
I have no need for magic or for spirits of the dead
But seek the secret passages that twine within my head
And here it comes, as if on cue, parading through the wall
(A weaker man than me would think his wisdom rather small)
The wraith is clothed in folklore, stepping past without a glance
And I would laugh it off but for one ghastly circumstance:
For all my knowledge, nothing helps the second that I see
That solid as I feel, this ghost
does not
believe
in me.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 10:55 AM UTC
will my endeavor be fruitless ?
did I neglect slumber,
live in solitary for days,
numb my sorrow with alcohol
trap myself within the same walls I get lonely in
being only distracted by the scribbling of this pen on a paper
just to leave thou with discontentment ?
a poets worst nightmare;
(an underappreciated piece)
I am writing a poem for one who has words in the palm of her hands
like God has the earth
I am writing to one whom words bow down to her feet
like prophets to God while on his throne he seats.
Is my piece profound enough to make thy beautiful brown eyes water
or make your skin prickle with goosebumps ?
will my words speak to you in ways no one ever has that my piece becomes your drug when you want to flee from all that chastises you ?
I can only hope the first stanza grasps your attention
and you get lost in poetic bliss
and the last leaves you breathless
to the point you crave my kiss
to restore air to your dying lungs.
But that's probably just wishful thinking
your least liked piece is probably more breathtaking than my most cherished
you leave your readers satiated by your words and rhythm that they now worship you.
they yearn to ease their angst by reading what you vent.
how intimidating it is to write a poem to a poet
great anxiety as they fixate their eyes on the paper
you hope, you just hope they don't roll their eyes in disdain at the last full stop.
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 1:19 PM UTC