"priming" poems - Hello Poetry

I stepped out, finally, a terrestrial in Istanbul. My leveled shoulders carried an empty satchel of undone buckles To let every fresh sip of raw experience tumble inside, my adventures impatiently plucked from the closest branch of a banyan tree bearing a crisscross of endless tales. I rescued my lungs with air, thick with resentment while swallowing astringent flavored symphonies and ballads of orchestrated ruckus as women deflated their lungs blowing out antipathy, through high pitched whistles - A forgotten kettle blowing off steam. Adorned in scorn, sardonic welcoming mats lined the airport. Women pushed at their car horns as if the dragging sound, like a severing saw can cut through the tenacity of the ones with innate ear plugs. They have become obsolete traffic signals - First, their green light diminishes - like their wages Then, their red light is dimmed - it stops too many people in their footsteps. And thus the world just races past them, And they are left only with yellow - Telling them to slow down. They said it was an act of love. That their plumped crimson lips, Glossily complimented with nails that matched the tails, of the so-called mile high club was just too much to handle. Priming for work meant neglecting their love for the perfect shade of watermelon lipstick, No more sweet ketchup fingertips Showing you the emergency exits. No more, lipstick stained glasses of a self made woman. These cumulating lip kissed glasses stack up like trophies, that sway in the heavy panting of the ones who can’t keep up with this generation. So the women gracefully conducted the orchestra and through lipstick stained whistles, They tried to drown out the dogmatic policies And with unrelenting strife, they passed on some advide stop shattering our liberties And underminining our abilities for Endless possibilities. Because we are the ones Who fly high and soar And we will always look fabulous while doing it.

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Aug 5, 2013

Aug 5, 2013 at 7:45 AM UTC

mariam-paracha

To the ones who fly and soar, May you always look fabulous while doing it.

I stepped out, finally, a terrestrial in Istanbul. My leveled shoulders carried an empty satchel of undone buckles To let every fresh sip of raw experience tumble inside, my adventures impatiently plucked from the closest branch of a banyan tree bearing a crisscross of endless tales. I rescued my lungs with air, thick with resentment while swallowing astringent flavored symphonies and ballads of orchestrated ruckus as women deflated their lungs blowing out antipathy, through high pitched whistles - A forgotten kettle blowing off steam. Adorned in scorn, sardonic welcoming mats lined the airport. Women pushed at their car horns as if the dragging sound, like a severing saw can cut through the tenacity of the ones with innate ear plugs. They have become obsolete traffic signals - First, their green light diminishes - like their wages Then, their red light is dimmed - it stops too many people in their footsteps. And thus the world just races past them, And they are left only with yellow - Telling them to slow down. They said it was an act of love. That their plumped crimson lips, Glossily complimented with nails that matched the tails, of the so-called mile high club was just too much to handle. Priming for work meant neglecting their love for the perfect shade of watermelon lipstick, No more sweet ketchup fingertips Showing you the emergency exits. No more, lipstick stained glasses of a self made woman. These cumulating lip kissed glasses stack up like trophies, that sway in the heavy panting of the ones who can’t keep up with this generation. So the women gracefully conducted the orchestra and through lipstick stained whistles, They tried to drown out the dogmatic policies And with unrelenting strife, they passed on some advide stop shattering our liberties And underminining our abilities for Endless possibilities. Because we are the ones Who fly high and soar And we will always look fabulous while doing it.