"protrusion" poems
We had not spoke or wrote
for many long days
turning to even longer weeks
which grew into the longest months
until I could no longer weep
and again I found peace
in my once restless sleep.
But you came a calling
and a texting me
just when my hands
finally started feeling clean
spinning them words like
"I miss you"
"I just wanted to see"
wicked turn a phrases
pierce ears like crooked hooks
they could turn a man's thoughts
like the pages of an ancient book.
Your fingers gliding gently
over now so hazy memories
we meet again amidst a fog
but your eyes, your eyes
they do not remember me
they see a man foul in form
ugly, twisted flesh, weak and pathetic
ripping his own heart from his chest
This is not me you see (no not at all)
but a protrusion of your own ill-regard
you slithered on your belly like a serpent
begging to be tread upon
so I moved like certain kinds of dances
around tribal fires
determined not to slip but inevitably I did
how dare you hiss "Liar" at me.
I'm just a man
working on being a better one
I don't expect you to understand
cause I never said I could fly
so why the **** did you think
I was superman.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 8:05 PM UTC
Have heaven now **** me
Prior glimmering in its shade
Where every fear then not conclude
The stolen voices that she gave
To me on the wings and shoulders
Loosely agitated fogs
To collapse a mist of my see-throughence
Scaring blind hands reaching for love
Maybe in a whisper
Maybe in a wondering soul
Have darkness now judge me
After light has grown me old
Where often so still comes the protrusion
Of empty words from so long ago
Along the way I've been dismantled
Now heaven lifts it's mighty blade
While wishing only to've heard the faintest
Sound of love so beautifully unfrayed
Maybe in a whisper
Maybe in a wondering soul
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 2:10 PM UTC
The photo burns
Charcoal baby doll
Man and woman screams
Holding up
That incinerated thing
But it’s just a doll
Black flakes fall
Baby dolls clothing
Turning to dust
I cough it in and out
Choking on the musk
Stark stench of death
Yet they cradle their broken doll
Eyes closer ears ringing
Fears bringing me to edge of insanity
Her screaming seems strange
Her eyes look deranged
The dolls legs have little bones
Calcium protrusion
But it’s just a doll
Scorched skin
Not some porcelain
But it’s just a doll
Please let it be just a doll
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 9:00 PM UTC
anxiety: my heart wakes me up, tattooing irregular beats against
my ribs, pulse racing, breath shaking. i cannot tell
if this is real or psychosomatic. these days,
i think about death all the time,
no longer by suicide. now, i am
an accident waiting to happen,
fragile from years of misuse &
neglect. the shallow inhales
of my lungs tell me
i am not okay.
depression: this is a gray day. i swallow my meds even though
they take away my mania. so i drink black coffee until my mind
races itself in circles, chasing its tail like a rabid dog.
i keep the razors hidden in my sock drawer,
just in case.
anorexia: my ribs ****** forward from my skin again, the sharp
protrusion of my bones beginning to show through. i am eating
but drinking my weight in water
& mainlining caffeine to keep my metabolism high & my weight
low. i am still child-sized & i don't want to grow.
they lift me easily with their arms & marvel
at my featherweight body.
the compliments i get only make me
eat less.
self-harm: on the days when i am low, i trace
the silver stretch of scars scattered over my skin
with a yearning for a blade between my fingers
just one last time. i swear to you, the bleeding is over,
but i need to know
i am still brave
enough
to hold a sharp edge against my flesh
& press down,
hard.
addiction: a month ago,
i downed four adderall in one sitting,
luxuriating in the heady rush & lack of pain,
the quiet & the calm.
when i lived at home, i stole
my mother's vicodin & took the whole bottle.
i'm not sorry.
when the boy who only cared about ******* me
offered mdma for free,
i accepted, but i shouldn't have trusted him
to keep me safe,
blacking out on his kitchen
floor.
drink red wine to forget
my insecurity, inhale
thick, sweet smoke to feel
some semblance of happy,
drag on cigarettes
down to their filters
until i feel properly
alive.
all i want is to be better, but
where to begin?
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 9:59 AM UTC
I've ran my hands across the bones of teachers
Buried between the bricks of The Great Wall
I heard them whisper grumbles of their true worth
Beneath the crack of the overseer's whip
I've felt the shivers of their shame
As they ground the bones of their colleagues into a paste
And lathered the human mortar among the sections of rock
I spit on the ground before me
When I tasted the words of imperial edicts blasted from uniformed men
I stood upon a guard tower at The Great Wall of China
And saw in all directions the nothing for miles
Felt the hollow loneliness of the soldiers, teachers, slaves
Men thousands of miles from their homes
Bitterly building defenses for a collection of villages
One man called his nation
I ran my hand along the edge of The Wall and got a splinter
Studied the protrusion
Wondered if it was stone, dirt, stick, or bone
A tourist took a picture
A jogger ran by
Father told me they could see this monument from space
I saw a drop of blood on my little finger
Wondered if it was mine or the walls
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 2:11 AM UTC
Coastal mist and mountains blue as ache –
As ice crystals encase his heart
Shadows begin to flood the valleys below.
With shallow breaths he lays embraced by snows
Upon a glacial bed – its covers will enrobe him for millennia.
The merciful numbness comes with the fading of the day
Finally bringing heavy, failing eyes
And the mists rise further up the slopes
To meet the gathering cloud.
Rendered helpless by the thinned air
He pushed himself beyond the boundary of the human world
Seeking rebirth in a Norse Asgard,
To find instead an icy tomb.
At the end all is blue and white and grey
To sleep, is to embrace the mountain.
He becomes another protrusion between ice-encrusted peaks
A mystery for another time, waiting amid the snow.
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 5:41 PM UTC
Mid June
during lunch time recess
after cheese sandwiches
in the science room
which doubled
as a sandwich
lunch room
you met Christina
on the playing field
where she was sitting
alone on the grass
her school friends going off
when they saw you
walking across the field
their eyes on you
their giggles filling the air
like seagulls taking flight
don’t mind them
Christina said
as you sat down
beside her
they’re just jealous
because I have a boyfriend
and they haven’t
you looked over
at the departing girls
walking off in a huddle
some doubled over
in laughter
I don’t mind them
You said
count myself lucky
I didn’t land
with one of them
Christina looked over
at the girls
heading towards
a group of boys
kicking ball
doesn’t your friend like me?
she asked
what friend?
you said
that Reynard boy
you walk around with
you looked at her
and took in
her dark hair
brushed smoothly
her eyes catching
the sunlight
he doesn’t trust girls
you said
he thinks
they’re like icebergs
icebergs?
she said
yes
he said you only see
the surface of girls
its what you don’t see
that’s dangerous
she frowned
I thought
it was what you don’t see
that held the interest
depends what’s hidden
you said
well you know
what most boys are after
what they can’t see
on the surface
she said
beginning to blush
looking away from you
and you studied
her profile
the way her hair
touched her cheek
and hid her ear
and lined up
with her jaw line
the open neck
of her white blouse
the skin there
the slight protrusion
of small ****
through the grey cardigan
maybe it’s what’s hidden within
that’s more important
you said
maybe
she said
turning back
and gazing at you
maybe it’s all that’s hidden
that matters
she added
putting your hand
on her thigh
you sensing
the warmth of sun
and the feel of pulse
beneath the skirt
the beat of heart
pushing her tides
maybe
you said
smiling at her
what a girl shows
is as good
as what she hides.
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 2:41 PM UTC
With each step,
blistered skin slaps against my bare foot
like a 3-day-old band-aid.
The glare of passing headlights
blinds me, and for a few seconds,
I’m clinging to this world only
by the bottoms of my feet
and the air, thick with
remnants of the sweltering day.
Every so often, I dip my ear into the music.
Each time, like a forgetful child
touching a hot stove,
I shrink back.
The comforting rush of passing cars
and the buzz of crickets
will by my symphony.
Suddenly, there is a shadow before me;
a sinister outline in an eerie light.
Looking over my shoulder, I see a
UFO, looking for a place to land.
It has a mysterious protrusion
….
that is firmly rooted to the ground.
A lamppost that suddenly flicked on.
The shadow, is mine.
Jul 12, 2012
Jul 12, 2012 at 1:46 AM UTC
The sun kissed the horizon
The plump Russian babysitters have
Strolled away with their strollers
Long ago.
But I watched her make dinner
On the bark stove she carved into her mind.
She set the table with her fanciest china,
Tonight was a special occasion
I presumed.
She placed a heaping plate of potatoes
On the flower-splattered tablecloth,
Made to match the grass growing
Underneath her feet.
I could almost see the steam rising
From a distance
As she scooped each golden yellow tater
One by one into each dish:
First, second, third.
How sweet,
She’s preparing for our family dinner.
It will be as likely as the willow branches,
Serving as her ceiling,
Will protect her from lightning.
It starts to pour
I start to leave
The horizon has swallowed the sun whole.
I want to run back and tell her
That the willow will not be the only one
Weeping
some day.
The branches will curl onto themselves
And the stove will rust with age
Until it can no longer be used.
I turn
Behind her still thin lenses she peers at me
With twinkling eyes;
Penetrating my already thick ones.
Her head is like a protrusion of the tree.
I want to go back and tell her
To run away with me
Far away from the willow.
But all I can manage is
A heavy yawn
Ready to swallow
The glowing beacon hanging by a thread
In the sky.
How time has flown by
And how I wish,
My little darling,
That my memory of you
Stopped haunting my dreams.
She wanted to tell me
The willow is not as ***** as it seems.
But I’m not meant to make such predictions.
With a regretful tear I turn away
And run up the hill
To what I thought was higher ground.
Maybe one day
She will greet the journey with a smile.
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 3:05 PM UTC
I bend over
drag your fingers on my spiral spinal protrusion.
I want you inside of me,
fist in a mother cattle's birth canal.
I'm elated at this.
I wonder why it feels so cold, when I'm so hot and wet.
Take it,
a focused heresy.
Say my name
if you can guess it.
I know yours:
Chastity and Life.
Apr 22, 2011
Apr 22, 2011 at 4:33 PM UTC
A particular peculiarity of my piss-poor
personality is a predictable penchant
for pursuing people who put that
***** of prominent protrusion
of pinpointed pain just
inside my perfect
throat.
It's in
the quaint
place where
questions quell
beneath the quiver
of emotion that could be
quickly dissolved if quelling
qualified in the quest for quiet peace.
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 10:17 AM UTC
A backwards obsession.
A closed confession.
Checking the scale too often.
Smirking at the pounds,
I've somehow managed to shed.
Welcoming the protrusion of bone,
Disregarding the tautness of skin.
Compliments stupidly fuel my craze,
But lack thereof builds motivation the same.
Ill reassure you it’s fine,
If you show any concern.
But still watch old clothes grow
drop around my tender ankles
reassuring myself, your opinions don’t exit.
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 9:08 PM UTC
molecular confusion
inner-temple pollution
case for head institution
ego protrusion
sense of self diffusion
living within the confines of one's own delusion-
[|creating constricting prisons|]
Just listen~
Reducing ticks, slowly
Seducing lustful luxuries
Chasing things instead of dreams
When we could all live a life as beautiful as the feel of skin on satin sheets
Or something else substituted in if that's not your cup of tea~
This means goodnight for me, been up since 445
Thanking all that's divine for the opportunity to be alive
Determined to achieve masterful lucidity
Diving into the universe within you, within me
eyes closed, walls fall
infinite possibility in a sprawl
unlimited mind
~wormholes of consciousness
in a land where most mostly see randomness
Eye tend to see vivid vivacious images of perfection
Puzzles, and symbols creating mind-maps that outlast past perceptions
Speak your truth-
Gain divine intervention with immediate introspection
Choosing to see the beautiful in every reflection
We all plummet from the skies
~like stones into the water, rippling out vibes~
Enjoy the swim,
~just remember you can still fly~
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 11:18 AM UTC
Are we not here to support each other? Fragments remain desolate, exhausted from their attempt to fit in places they don’t belong. We can never replace someone’s righteousness and impact on the world puzzle with our destructive dominance. It simply won’t work. You’ll never interlock your protrusion into the dented heart of someone else. You’ll only concave them further and hurt yourself along the way. Let us teach our neighbors to connect, to interlace their strengths and sorrows. For none of us are even without the others filling in our gaps and gracing us with their humility. Maybe one day we’ll all be bordered by the conjunction of an endless mind and spirit.
Nov 3, 2011
Nov 3, 2011 at 12:32 AM UTC
plasticized packaging of ******** another supermarket shelf.
give me another reason why i should give a **** to reason with myslef.
alone and i'm dieing, crippled self. beat and im broken another discarded self.
together we're dreaming, dreaming of dieing, set us free, alone and i'm dieing, liberty.
give in, give up, wasted space. thoughtless protrusion, it isnt me.
giving and taking always mistaking. forgive and forget, I hate myself.
endless illusion, sanity. believing and defying, alone and im crying.
heartless conclusion inflated contusion
lets just breathe.
give it away now, insanity.
bringing it back now, releasing me.
holding my hand now, unity.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 7:15 AM UTC
day time disaster drifting
disdainfully into nights dark-lit
by only the protrusion of the sky
skinned till thin
in pieces at my feet, once, I mourned
and now again before mystique fails mystery
I grow tall and directed
shifted and perfected
incomplete
do they trim the *****
after doing your chin?
doing that to me is not a sin?
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 5:55 AM UTC
*I have sought answers to the query what makes a person perfectly sightly, yet have not I found it.
Is it in the curl of his hair, or the warmth in her stare?
The touch of her skin as she lays bare?
Or is it in the hue of his eyes - deep sea blue? Or the beating of her heart, as if on cue?
Is it in the lines of his jaw, or that perfectly white teeth? The blush on her cheeks or the rise of her chest as she breathes?
I know not if it is in the grace of her gait, nor if it is her weight. Or his broad shoulders or the size of his feet.
Is it in the lobes of his ear? Or her view in rear? Is it in the curves of her waist, or his abdomenals like hills? The complexion of his arms? Or her hug that warms?
Is beauty in the arch of her back or the contour of her ******* Or his suit and tie and his Sunday's best?
Does it have anything to do with the fragrance he wears - warm and woody? Or is it in her pair of sneakers and a hoodie?
Can it be found in the protrusion of her clavicles or the density of his brows? Or in the depth of his voice? The color of her toes?
Is it in the ball that he plays or the gentleness of her face? Ah! How can someone be so angelic in demeanor?
It isn't clear to me if splendor in countenance can really be found. Should not it rather be felt? Or should it be perceived through sight?
One is beautiful because people say she is. But beauty could be forfeited at the thought of the beholder that she isn't.
Does one tell himself that he is as Adonis in loveliness when he looks in the mirror? Or does he say he is like Hephaestus in visage?
Is beauty defined in the standard: dark hair, appealing stare;
aligned teeth, sharp nose;
tan skin, shaved brows;
waxed legs, hefty breast;
mild touch, sweet caress;
cheeks sans freckles, six feet tall;
flamboyant voice, and foxy lips?
What about molls and vagrant rips?
To say one is grotesque - is not it just in your perspective? And to say one is gorgeous - what is your basis?
Is it her beautiful locks? --but she is a ****
Or the emerald windows of his soul? --but he is a criminal--
Does beauty still nest on them?
I say the efficacy to arouse fascination is not found in the facade of a person, rather found somewhere more profound.
To put beauty in the way that it is in the eyes of the beholder is quite narcissistic, but let people fancy you not for the sightliness of your face, but the goodness of your soul, though it is heir to sin; the mercy in your eyes, not its color; the care in your touch, not its balminess. Because the only thing that is undying and immortal is not your cast but the heart.*
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 7:14 AM UTC
itch scratch itch
in my arm above the bicep
where my wedding ring is tattooed under my skin
find an overly large protrusion
never noticed
shouldn't be there
where'd it come from
push pull pinch the flesh
work it out
no pain
pleasant release of pressure as the skin
tears
rips
bleeds
drips
reveals
yellow-white tube
jutting now from the wound
and then it moves
writhes
twists
wiggles
in my flesh
turns black eyes to mine
pleading innocence
to be left alone
to continue consuming me
inside
where it's dark and warm
it Loves me
i know
because it lives inside
my wedding ring
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 5:03 PM UTC
How do you write a poem
about yourself
when you don't even know why
you scratch at your leg until it bleeds
like the leaky thoughts in your head
that run more quickly than an itchy spider bite
that nipped your neck at night
and you threw out the window
two stories down
and it fell like a poisonous asteroid
onto the sleeping cricket
who gave luck to you
when you sat for hours on a branch,
a protrusion of an apple tree
that one dying dusk night
in which a silk string lowered down
to your shoulder and a widow spoke
apologizing for scaring you
but don't you know I can't forgive myself
and I can only apologize to you
and say I am sorry because
I Love You has gotten packed away
and I don't even know why.
May 25, 2012
May 25, 2012 at 1:38 PM UTC
tragedy has made me silent.
he crept down my throat
and softly snipped away at my voice;
now there is nothing.
i smile and nod
smile and nod
smile and smile
and nod and nod
falling asleep in plain sight
watching your lips move in speech
wishing mine would follow suit
tragedy has made me silent,
made me timid
made me grow in stature until i am awkward
gangly
always in the way
hiding behind
a shorter sister
but still a sore thumb
a quiet
quaking
obvious protrusion
i invoke conversation
but it dies out
with the smile in my eyes
the bobbing of my head
the silence of my lips
tragedy has made me silent.
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 8:35 PM UTC
Don't sit there and laugh
I promise it's real
I'm nowhere near daft
But I have an appeal
Women have united
We held a caucus
It has been decided
We want deeper pockets
Not stitches of yarn
To create the illusion
Not fingertips only
Whole hand exclusion
Not pockets so small
They cause a contusion
Not 1/4 of whole
Causing wallet protrusion
I should not be coerced
To carry a purse
It's like we're accursed
pocket problems traverse
You get it right on dresses
But never on pants
I need to stress this
Dress to pant transplant!
You do it for males
All big and cozy
Put some wind in your sails
This is no time to mosey
Pocket Equality for all!
Across every brand
Divided we fall
United we stand!
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 1:28 PM UTC
advertisement beckoned
free screening
trouser thuds upon hardwood
metal belt buckle clinks
gloved finger
probes to find
a nodular protrusion
resting sac bound
begotten, benign
now watch, wait
shall it birth
some high grade
tumor
with a passionate
desire to consume
the whole of you
vigilant
on guard
living
on edge
for inevitable
struggle
around each
new scrutiny
of numbers
presented in decimals
detectors of death
prowling
seeking to find
an oasis
to plant
to grow
Dec 25, 2016
Dec 25, 2016 at 12:05 PM UTC
An Undulation of life
A protrusion masked
A seethe of emotion
High and low
The essence of the unknown pushes forward
Breaking the surface
Unfettered renew and free
In its own eye it's seen
Of the sixth all into one
With the passion of timelessness
With the freedom of one
All learn to be untethered
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 7:10 AM UTC
When I was nine years old, my mother threw me into the shower.
Holding the removable shower facet in my face and proceeded to drown me.
This wasn’t a regular occurrence, fully clothed body and screaming for her to stop.
Choking, crying as this water cascaded into my open mouth while I struggled against the grasp of a plump body.
This scene, shattering protrusion of fear and betrayal.
A woman clawing out of flesh from the inside. “Don’t hurt her, she’s your daughter” one voice said but the urge was too strong.
I knew this woman, as she ripped me sleeping from my bedroom.
The smaller room in a two bedroom duplex adjacent to the bathroom and not very far.
“God wants me to do this”echoed repeatedly.
My brain registers the reality that she doesn’t intend to hurt me but I can’t breathe.
This only lasts a few minutes, she has done the lords work of cleansing the evil from me.
My mother apologizes profusely, but she is still my mother.
She holds me and dries me off.
I cry.
The moment passes.
And everything is normal.
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 5:40 AM UTC