"proliferating" poems
Identifying this domain, naming it life,
Thinking am I the main, just hiding in disguise,
Exploring the world gaining in size,
Singing endless stories to my side,
Working for the day when answer will become one,
Myriad possibilities are there to come,
Questioning is this the one or someone else has to hum,
The dreams becoming reality,
when life will be calling and acceptance will come.
All will fathom one and one will fathom all.
A journey will welcome a journey in rise.
One will start understanding the blunder,
And never will the veracity of a dream be in plunder,
A proliferating uncovering will arise,
And Sapiens will ask Is this world suffice?
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 12:55 PM UTC
When we think about the choices in our lives
When we fight and we bicker and become bitter
When we think there is only power or powerlessness
If we can realize that there is power and powerlessness
Then haven't we began to acquire consciousness
In that instance haven't we began the process of choice
That there is those who have not have given birth to this consciousness
To those who have only lived powerlessness
And know nothing else
Haven't you owed them part of your consciousness
That you have ceased to be one of them
Or your mere power has denied one of them
That there is no choice for them
Because they haven't birthed that consciousness
And if you choose power they'll remain powerless
Because within you there is no loyalty, right?
It is a choice predicated by an erroneous concept of self-preservation
It is a treacherous dichotomy; doesn't make sense
This is not an indictment of your desire not to suffer
Because surely to hold power would cease your suffering
But it is this type of power that thrives on the proliferation of powerlessness
This conceptual understanding of what it means to have power
That is not what we've come learn, but readily ascribe to
That a mind and body can cultivate power
That can be harvested, shared, communal
For the sole purpose of the survival of the other, not the self
That that can survive in this world is impossible
Its antithetical to the modes of production
In which our societies operate and thrive
How can workers begin to derive power from their collective efforts
How can workers' purchasing power equal the power of the production of their labor
How can any community in any corner of the world escape
The misanthropic missions of first world free trade capitalism
When will we reclaim our escaping humanity
When will we cease to keep feeding the system with our minds, our bodies, our labor
How much longer can we become fodder, scraps, waste feeding the machine
And don't think that you are safe when you have made it
When you have entered the circle of dominance
Because it is then when you will loose your humanity or die
It is at that apex of power that your presence becomes
Just as dispensable as that of the powerless
Because to maintain that circle of dominance
Requires a total conversion to misanthropy
The rigor with which your power will be required
To keep proliferating powerlessness will give no break
And when you become useless, it will replace you
So that we must realize that the modes of production
That we allow to exploit us
In powerlessness, or the semblance of power
Can never safeguard our humanity
How much further will we allow power to be concentrated
So that soon we ourselves, or our children won't have a choice
Won't have the consciousness of power just powerlessness
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 9:49 PM UTC
Everywhere, on the sidewalks, in the gutters, right outside my door. Flourishing in the streets of Tegucigalpa, like leftover confetti from Mardi Gras. Lining the paths, nestled in the gravel, the broken concrete, and overgrown weeds. Coloring the landscape with orange and green.
Proliferating around garbage cans, discarded bottles, tires, and take out boxes, liberated to the acrid landscape around.
Men, cutting back the peels, devouring the tropical flesh, delectable, united to pits. Dark skin and eyes, their accents singing, so different from my own.
I stepped carefully, but always underneath, a sweet stickness, clinging to my soles. A bond to the red dirt, platanos fritos, and cattle roaming the street.
When I returned to the wide boulevards, pristine and meticulously clean, I stopped watching my feet, looking for mango peels underneath.
Jan 17, 2019
Jan 17, 2019 at 3:04 PM UTC
building purist æsthetic
proselytizing solar-powered heliolatry
commemorating historic concert
sensing dark forces
fokken lekker antwoord
pumping sensory overload
featuring high-tech dee-jay
admiring gelato micro-truck
laxing laying lazing
"doing something nasty"
continuing quality content
entering another cathedral
journeying without borders
"exactly one year
since visiting vatican"
appreciating full-time gigasphere
awaiting pyongyang performance
depicting unlikely crowdsurfer
foreseeing exponential improvements
furthering esoteric agenda
sensing profound incompatibility
data-mining people's infidelities
anticipating futuristic caffeine
perfecting invisible propaganda
researching mind-control techniques
polishing psycho-social weaponry
sensing social embargo
flourishing frantic fanfare
admiring longitudinal monument
parodying marketing slogans
cycling through österreich
eyeing dystopian disneyland
streaming crosswords extended-play
herding glass kittens
deleting idiosyncratic fragment
loremipsum-ing laconic loudmouth
receiving ultramodern telegram
eigo-ga wakarimasu ka?
guzzling duck-fat fries
encouraging panic selling
(juxtaposing past incarnations)
getting black-and-white privilege
renewing boutique account
relishing cinema poutine
re-entering hibernation mode
opening old windows
continuing zoo motif
absquatulating excessive excesses
nullifying originality claims
proliferating protean persona
disappearing sidewalk alphabet
shrugging opprobrious moments
enjoying vertical alignment
re-entering cyberpunk paradise
approaching island sun
soaring beyond monoliths
trivializing extraneous argy-bargy
decreasing character limits
dumping generic accounts
uglifying commit message
escaping into idiosyncracy
moonshining great lake
exuding idiosyncratic propaganda
living nineties' dreams
making occidental cuisine
envisioning idiocratic president
expropriating your time
ascending homely helix
singing fat lady
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 12:12 PM UTC
"Funny poems aren't taken seriously",
the figure splashes verbal acid over the
crumpled piece of paper I handed them.
Refusing to laugh
Curling their lip.
The paper quickly,
without a thought,
thrusted back into my hands.
They leave behind my thought
which fills the space between
myself, fidgeting alone
and them, striding away.
*Does it have to be serious
to be taken seriously?*
A mental court gathers itself around me
Myself, a defense attorney
Pointing a stained finger
at the figure on the stand.
I present the shoe-eating Peruvian
and his limerick friends.
Generations of drinking songs
often crass, but lasting.
There is laughter from the jury
There is hope for the poems.
Then my final evidence
the crumpled paper
I read it aloud
silence.
Is split by the dull chuckle of the figure
elbows in suit jacket pressed against the stand.
"Sure, there's examples from the past,
but you?
the troubled kid?
the depressed one?
the pariah?"
I glance at more files, appearing,
my name on each.
analysis,
evaluation,
diagnosis,
test.
Laughter, the type that jeers,
grows into a crescendo.
I huddle, hands over ears,
creasing my suit
but the muted version is worse.
I stagger to my feet.
The court has morphed cruelly
into an arena of sorts.
Brutal, simple, life-ending
decisions are made here.
My jacket is gone
My cheek openly bleeds
My sleeves have ripped
revealing the scars below.
I hurl out, from deep within me
"It's because I'm ****** up that
I need to write it!
Don't you understand?
Making people laugh
keeps and edge off the old habits
keeps the thoughts where they belong!"
My voice is hoarse.
The arena tightens.
Even as I say it, I'm overwhelmed by the thoughts
That I do not belong.
That a funny poem punctuated by my fingers
despite their past harm
delivered from my mouth
despite its harsh denouncements
and shared by my whole self
despite my self-banishment
is not enough.
I sink to the ground, stripped of my senses.
My poems have turned course
once helping ease pain,
now proliferating it.
My fingernails pierce the palm of my hand
through the crumpled paper
and two drops of blood strike the tiles.
I meant for this to be
a funny poem
But I guess it's about why
some people need to write them.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 11:50 PM UTC
A barren field, now I sit wasted.
Had my time, but it's passed.
The children have grown.
Boom, bang blast.
Breaking out as flowers bloom.
Forget me nots, they are not.
As in my barren field I sit.
Unforgiven.
Proliferating as an incendiary device.
A starter of fires deep in my heart.
Filled up my mother of wombs.
Once they burned out of control.
Curse my heart and my soul.
For me, myself, I die insolvent.
Wailing in maladies of loves lost attachments.
Why may this be, I hear thee say.
I disregarded them, I wanted to play.
The heart of the matter.
Who mattered was me!
(C) Livvi
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 7:45 AM UTC
♠ ♠ ♠
Pseudo-Oriental visions
Haiku, Tanka, exotic terms
Vapid New Age vibe-transmissions
proliferating eastern germs…
Anarchistic thought collages
Existential lacerations
Nihilistic heart-massages
Incoherent lamentations,
Communism on a mission,
grievance-mongering, stewed in hate;
pounding Fascist fusion/fission
chanting harshly “ours the state”,
Hymns to Gods who choked on *****
undertaken in overdose;
rocks that never rose to comet
rolling – but ending comatose,
Hipster ironies, tongue in chic
Metro-wimps who feign the normal,
Redneck rantings up the creek
semaphoric, semi-formal,
matron’s maudlin observations,
motivational hypnosis,
(sentimental medications
offered prior to diagnosis),
coldly abstract neo-nonsense
read (by dullards) as cutting edge,
letters void of correspondence;
well-trimmed words’ linguistic hedge.
Climate whining (tried untrue)
with eco-prophecies warning doom,
Wiccans and tree-sprites trying to
undo the curse and lift the gloom,
Feministic tribal ranting,
Race-complaining, agitation,
GLBT gallivanting –
all are blights upon our nation.
Boring modernist excess,
(no longer daring – formulaic)
confounds – yet never can address
what’s wrong, and so becomes prosaic.
Lists like this are perhaps the worst;
another symptom of our times:
we who are woefully unversed
in rhythmic complaining that rhymes.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 11:58 AM UTC
Lightning.
Crack.
Thunder.
I split.
Straight down.
Gazing up. I see.
The 4th Horseman.
Standing split, where I stood.
I see. The Beast. Proliferating in my absence.
The Horseman, crooked smile and evil gaze.
The Beast a chaotic shade of nightmares.
I lay, dying. Watching. What I refused to be.
I, existing in them. But now split.
I feel their darkness. I feel the burn.
They walk over to me. Throwing me aside.
They cackle in a blood curdling scream.
We exchange looks.
We embrace the end.
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 9:57 AM UTC
Skeletons of shadow teach me anatomy from inside the ark.
Quiet. Old women at the double doors. So dark, the sanctum.
Heaven is stained glass. Fold your paper hands, your husband
Mumbles under the preacher's emphysema. On the mic,
Occasional screams of raspy black-and-white noise. Screams.
How He screams. Red-faced Church-parent. Little Easter bows,
The snarling bouquets who sting and follow the grass-green Moon.
Of the ten mounted fans, only one stays awake enough to listen,
Awake enough to hope to catch every particle of sleeping dust.
We were made from dust. The mountains too. I can't see.
The concrete days. Cinders and spiders and cracking tile.
Roaring, wailing, proliferating my thick umbra in the mesmer flask.
When the door opens, how will I feel? Glass and sandstone.
Will I have my face or someone else's? Eight faces by four.
How will I taste? Cinnamon and lapis.
Will I have angles or planes? Metric and function.
Little, silver words trail fingers through me, trace me, and cement me.
I glisten once and then am spent.
Apr 5, 2010
Apr 5, 2010 at 7:08 PM UTC
She Waited for me
On the corners of life
And all the other destinies we have yet to reach
She waited
While taxi cabs of time
With flashy lights
Of forced fake opportunities
With horns of loud disturbance
Like musical madness
Mandatory for all the people
Stopping by
Waving hands of rhetorical questions
With cigarettes of flying ashes
Like the sand boxes that measure time
Upside down
But she refused
She refused because she was waiting for me
Her eyes so sincere
Like poems of honesty
Long lost in humanity
With a laugh of a million stars
Colliding to form a mirage of happiness
Mixed with a sense of existence
Like no other…
She waited for me
But I never came
Her delicate soul
Lingered her impatience a little longer
Her urge to be vivid
Was tamed by the desperate dullness of my presence
Her circumventing vibe of light-like energies
Were hindered and toned down
Just to feed my egoistic
Patriarchal sense of self
Lacking the properties to be a proper man
She waited for me…
As I struggled through
The worldly matters
Breaking glass of shadows
Fighting sin of forbidden years
Destroying fear and respect
With a sense of anger
Clutching knuckles of regret
Proliferating rage
But she was waiting for me
So I fought
I fought for her waiting
She waits for me to fight
And all of a sudden I realize
That I was waiting for her
I was waiting for her all along…
She represented the life I never lived
The decency I never had
The courage I kept within my words
And the light for shadows I lurked behind
And the light for the shadows I now could not seem to find.
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 4:52 AM UTC
Spiced Autumn air
Swirling through my home
It peppers my memory
With sadness and hope
It brings me back to seven years ago,
I was a broken-hearted girl
Perplexed over the telephone,
I tried so hard but he had made the decision to close his heart
But here I am now,
Older and wiser
Still dreamt of his distance last night
But truly,
My waking mind is over it
It's just my life is a river
And I'm going deeper into it
Once on the surface
There was so much agitation
So I held my breathe and went under,
Trying to fix the cause of my turbulence
I've definitely healed,
And learned a lot
Both the easy way and the hard way
These little internal shifts
That I've been making gradually
For seven years
Have produced something beautiful in me
Breaking through the seams of my previous tortured being
This river is winding,
So I never know what awaits me
But I've married uncertainty
Knowing it's always pregnant with possibility
I haven't met any cultural milestones
I'm not cool, popular or trendy
All I have to offer this world
Is a broken heart on the mend
But still I'm full of gratitude
And calling in more
For though on the outside
I don't appear to have arrived
I have a root of joy inside my heart
And it's rapidly proliferating
As my gratitude grows.
Nov 22, 2018
Nov 22, 2018 at 9:17 AM UTC
So what did happen to old Cocky,
Swearing away, profanity?
We gave him a new abode,
A cage in a nursing home,
Old Cocky struck it lucky,
Full of parrots, like he,
Cocky believed in sharing,
Oldies heard unique caring,
In his inimitable way,
"You fat f...ing c...s, get out of bed!"
Not sure this is what geriatrics meant,
Cocky and Co. abuse the residents,
Yes, Cocky was communicating,
Soon every cocky was proliferating,
Cocky's happy ending! Let's pray,
He is still alive and swearing today!
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 7:24 PM UTC
a glance
a word
a gesture
a little sigh
a formula
the neighbor’s greetings
the train schedule
a note on your door
quite clear to understand
not long ago
now seem to foster
strange significances
the code for
unequivocal interpretation
no longer works
ambiguity hovers in mid-air
you hesitate and ponder
before you speak
begin to choose words carefully
hoping
against your knowing
that this would make them clearer
yet feeling that it does not really matter
that whatever you say
may be received quite differently
from what it is meant to convey
likewise
what you hear and see
appears to lack precision
possible meanings
proliferating connotations
of irony, deceit, hidden aggression
threaten to shroud familiar sense
make you question old axioms
in fearful apprehension of unperceived realities
signs of a loss of self?
your brain dissolving?
senility approaching before its time?
or just too much of that foie gras and cabernet
the night before?
will it be gone tomorrow
with bright sunshine and blue skies
or darken your remaining days
under leaden clouds of doubts and insecurity?
Or is all this just a reminder
that you should take
nothing
for granted and that
the only constant in life
is
change?
* * *
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 5:07 PM UTC
Karate,
Karate is a game of skill
Its not about having those big muscles
Its not about the number of pounds you can lift with one hand
All those big chests and six packs
Karate is all about skill
You ask yourself a thousand times
Why am I failing thinking of giving up
Maybe sometimes in life we apply wrong methods in wrong games
Life is not the survival of the fittest
Neither how strong you are 'physically' to fight battles
Nor how many wars you have won in less than a second
Its all about skill and wisdom
Skill can serve your energy that you can fight when necessary
You wasting your time chasing an ant with a gun
Lions and beasts are waiting
Then you will be caught tired and exhausted, loosing the game
Why cant you just light up the fire and move on
I see the tears of the broken heart
Crying in pain and distress, of the wasted years and energy
Just because they gave their whole effort feels like they don't deserve
But if all the power that you posses failed, why not trying the other method
Like using the skills that you possess
You know why we are educated
So that we might have skills on problem solving in the community
If it wasn't skill, education might be a cipher, turning to be soldiers of war
But that can not stop the ravages of overwhelming diseases proliferating our society
This failing economy can never be brought back to life
Maybe our businesses cannot flow smoothly like a river after the storm
But we need doctors
Economists well skilled and trained
To make solutions with a pen and a page
Because some battles are not worthy fighting.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 4:28 AM UTC
Gnashing of teeth
Mutilating flesh;
Annihilation.
Reanimate,
Decay
Proliferating
Malady
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 9:08 PM UTC
I rest my consciousness
On the proliferating meadows
That stretch toward the sun,
That sway in placid solitude
In the tacit winds
That flow across my body.
I rest my consciousness
In the stars of the night
That caress my jaded visage
And assure me that my wishes
Will manifest themselves
Within my beating heart.
I rest my consciousness
Atop mountains and peaks
That envision a world of harmony
By harboring the aspirations
Of those who stand atop them,
Awe-struck by the omnipresent calm.
I rest my consciousness
In the landscape of my thoughts
That, like the meadows,
Will stretch onward
Until I draw my last breath
And exhale dispassionately.
I rest my consciousness
In the world of make-believe,
In the world that accepts me
Not because I am normal,
But because I can only be content
When I channel my inner wordsmith.
I rest my consciousness
In a night filled with silence
And, as I close my eyes
And let the dark fall over me,
I grin, cognizant
That my dreams are boundless.
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 9:01 PM UTC
Sick
Sad
Pathetic
Little world
And the fear of the unknown
A disease is growing
Proliferating in populations
And syncophantic minds
Sick
Sad
Pathetic
Little world
And a cancer that cant be cured
Cell by cell and whole body
It eats insatiably
Until nothing is left
Sick
Sad
Pathetic
l i t t l e
World
Truth
You don't want to hear
Our world is a diseased
And we are the cause
Still
don't worry
Death is coming soon
The disease we create
Dies when we do
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 1:59 AM UTC
We have this peculiar practice, both of us. We partake in the delight of nothing.
We are two walls being vandalized. And then we are the same walls being photographed
by onlookers. And we become the complicated eye of the strangers. We become the beauty
they try to subscribe to in strange calligraphies, bent caricatures, and flagrant peripatetics.
We have the most outlandish of penchants, especially when nothing happens while
everything happens. Forget the sidereal zeroes of this equation. We are one
unanswerable phenomenon tractioned by a willing cohesion. Put into mouth what fingers
cannot do. The one in pursuit is divided by blame and the other a fugitive.
Mind takes space when absence does its duty. There is ease in accepting
that a body impaled in a moment may bear no gravity.
We have disparaging repetitions.
We invest in invented lives. We know not much from here but we know
the end it tries to exact in itself. The silence teems in that probability:
all static, intrinsic, and jarring. We both know a fine day when it happens.
Lurking sounds of hermetic space brought to life by informed choices.
Clinking of bottles and the silver of fish on the platter. A book stolen
from a place where everything is organized – strangely enough, the disarray people
are capable of with their hands is not preempted
by a custodian. We have godless moments. Say for example, this body
houses a river and on its flaxen waters we have already let go of everything.
Soft waters gnaw flesh and shadow off immediate impulses.
We have bizarre practices, both of us, separate.
Desire is dispersal. Weathering the diaspora is grace.
We both are gilded by attendance, and in rooms fat with people we are
marauders of space together with them – our lives so unobstructed,
free, and proliferating. Why can’t we house ourselves? Why can’t we cling
like ivy to walls of stone, melancholy to walls of blood?
We have this peculiar practice, both of us. Separate. No warnings,
no conveyed messages, no alarms. To be unmoved in moving, to be moving
in stasis.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 10:54 AM UTC
Prevarication permits pretend perception, presenting
piquantly piqued, pimply pimping ******* plucky
pulchritudinous previously pusillanimous, prevalently
puckish, psychic packman, pokemon playing proletarian
puppeteer pygmy, peevishly ***** plummy, plumy,
pompously pushy, pampered, prefabricated pinchbeck,
pokily plying plowshear, plodding peregrination, pied
piper pitifully peppy pornographic potato pealing,
parsimonious paradoxical protagonist, proposing
preposterous panicky pacification plots, prioritization
pertinent penultimate peroration, perhaps perceiving
perjuring, perplexing, perverting puzzling pronouncements
projecting pulsating pixelated pulpy pinball pinging
packets prompting pacific, poetic, phlegmatic purplish
psoriasis plagued, plumbum pallor pallid, Paleolithic
protuberance pronounced, psychosomatic prohibitionist,
polarizing perfunctory peculiarly progressive, patriotic
postmodern pathologically proud paternal panache,
peripatetic panaceas portraying prescient perfidious
puerile president, predominantly proposing parochial
principles, plenty public parking, purposefully
promoting pharisee phalanxes, pilates practicing
paragons, perennially peaceably proficient protesters,
profitable polygamy, pugnacious pitbull powerball
players, pandering polyandry, propagating professional
palindrome pensive peeping people, peddling,
proselytizing predicating prostitution, proliferating
phenomenally, populist persona promulgated peyote
phased physicians pioneering prescription promoting
paradisiacal pricey photographic pictures, placating
phrenetic physical perturbation partaking place
purchased (paid paltry pennies) por palatial piazza.
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 7:48 PM UTC
Convoluted emanations of the intellect
Proliferating pillars of translucent light
Spheres of thought orbiting infinitude
Ascending past the perception of time
Colliding the past, present and future
Creating the void that is imperceptible
To arrange the very fabric of existence
Jul 4, 2017
Jul 4, 2017 at 9:47 AM UTC
It’s wrong for me to say I love you,
When your heart is somewhere else.
Now I say it’s love without a clue,
It’s funny when you feel your heart pulse.
I see his soul and feel his Zeal,
I pace myself as nothing feels real.
If I could take his pain, make him smile,
Feel his joy and embrace him all the while.
I just want to make him happy,
And I know it’s not my place.
Should I fear what I want – Why,
A fear to just reach out and touch his face.
I’m more than a little confused,
And I don’t know what to say.
A friendship to which I’ve mused,
But I know there’s a price to pay.
I’ve walked this one-way street before,
Using analogies like, waves on the shore,
It’s like hitting reset and zooming back to start,
But this time it feels like I may actually break apart.
All Consuming Darkness prickles on my skin,
And I really don’t know if I’m fighting for a win.
The twisted wreckage of a once proud man,
Who’s really doing all he can.
The life you saw and boy you knew,
Watched the light fade and the shadows grew.
I lose my mind one sunrise and moonshine at a time,
One Tick, One Marble, One innocuously innocent crime.
In the darkest corners of my proliferating insanity,
Lurk the creatures of nethermost intensity.
Inside it churns and bubbles and writhes,
One rolling tear that never dries.
His passion lights fires, an unwavering warriors soul,
His determination gives purpose, a true survivors goal.
Holding back the tears, floodgates at the ready,
One Day, One Minute, One at fault, unsteady.
Phantasms abound unreal reaction,
You are the embedded One - real distraction.
I find no comfort in the darkness only consolation,
And when the light shines deeper, stark Isolation.
Feb 27, 2019
Feb 27, 2019 at 3:43 AM UTC
Eyes shut down on a dead city,
I sense the vibration of my deep inhalation.
(All the snickers lost their lustres.)
Mouths closed beneath the galaxy of prosperity,
I gasped at the tremor of my heart's creation.
(The siren drowned out the deserved cheers.)
Still my thoughts flashing into reality,
Reminiscing the fingerprints of those gone before me.
(Fingers all poised to my forehead now.)
Listen in on the silence of the cosmos.
Suddenly my self control collapses-----
-Out////to///the////air
my////rages////flew
like////servants
to////my////pride-
The vibration that is me explodes,
a seed of fire leaps through the weeds.
(They all fall back now; I raised higher my fists).
Proliferating in the ashes,
My memories, my love and my deathless ambition.
A spasm of colors as the door crashes,
I am here against all their mean wishes,
Claiming the shameless vanity
of being unapologetically me.
As I exhale.
Jun 17, 2017
Jun 17, 2017 at 8:47 PM UTC
In dreams we meet
per chance
pausing briefly-
with that boyish grin
whispering
your voice deep
sensual
"you're still beautiful"...
A pain
proliferating from the void
bereft of joy
longing to scream
in shock and horror..
You are still short
balding
larger around the middle
yet those hateful words of choke...
unable to return the pain you gave.
A heart that surrenders
Only to melt in the pools
of your deep hazel eyes...
"It is good to see you too.."
Then you fade into the crowd.
and out of my dreams.
Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 9:24 PM UTC
Boxford (Trees)
Something wicked
Towering over
All that lives below,
All seems quiet
Until a storm initiates
Armageddon on the lives beneath.
Newburyport (Snowball Fight)
You ever hang out
With a dude you think
Is a complete *******
But then you realize,
After a wholesome
Snowball fight, that
He’s actually still *******
Terrible?
Salem (Fake Witches)
Demons are supposed
To be horrifying-
Morbid creatures
Who wish the destruction
Of all mortal begins.
So yes, I’d consider
You salem freaks
“witches.”
Haverhill (Badasses)
The towers here are
Reinforced with pure
Awesomeness-
If something was going
To fall, it would have
Done so already.
Dogtown (Real Witches)
The four mile hike
Was terrifying.
Each sound
Proliferating
In my mind
As we walked.
There were witches there alright,
And at anytime, they could extend
A cold hand and pull you into the night.
Plum Island (Heath)
Oh ******* ****
My tank is low
Why did I drive
So far alone?
It’s cold and baren
Not a life form in sight,
I’m about to break down-
-And campout for the night.
Apr 25, 2018
Apr 25, 2018 at 11:52 AM UTC