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Aaron McLane Dec 2015
The water pooled up at the lowest points on the sidewalk.
The rain gave way to the sun and the random puddles of water now sparkled with life.
My attention was guided to a single puddle.
The puddle had positioned itself right in the middle of the sidewalk.
People were hopping over to avoid getting their feet drenched.
Others sloshed through the puddle paying it no mind.
The puddle was calling out, but received no attention from the people.
A small child heard the call, and approached the puddle.
It was a small boy no more than the age of eight.
He leaned over and looked at his reflection in the still pool of water.
The boy began making silly faces into the mirrored surface.
The puddle responded by making the same silly faces back at the boy.
The boy squatted down and dipped his finger into the water.
Small ripples left from his fingers, and made their way to the edges of the puddle.
He carved his finger through the water making shapes for a time.
The puddle enjoyed the attention, and was glistening.
The boy stood up, and a smile slowly made it's way onto his face.
He then leapt into the puddle splashing water in every direction.
Jumping up and down in the puddle, and smiling the biggest smile the entire time.
An infectious laughter sprang from the boy.
Other's noticed, and smiled and laughed with the boy.
The boy's mother appeared, and scolded the child for playing with the puddle.
The smile left from the child's face, and those watching now walked back into their lives.
The puddle calmed itself back into a smooth surface.
Slowly evaporated, becoming smaller and smaller,  leaving only the dry concrete below.
The puddle would return after the next rain. Calling out once again.
Waiting patiently to give away it's joy.
howard brace Feb 2012
Inconspicuous, his presence noted only by the obscurity and the ever growing number of spent cigarette stubs that littered the ground.  It had been a long day and the rain, relentless in its tenacity had little intention of stopping, baleful clouds still  hung heavy, dominating the lateness of the afternoon sky, a rain laden skyline broken only by smoke filled chimney pots and the tangled snarl of corroded television aerials.

     The once busy street was fast emptying now, the lure of shop windows no longer enticed the casual browser as local traders closed their premises to the oncoming night, solitary lampposts curved hazily into the distance, casting little more than insipid pools mirrored in the gutter below, only the occasional stranger scurrying home on a bleak, rain swept afternoon, the hurried slap of wet leather soles on the pavement, the sightless umbrellas, the infrequent rumble of a half filled bus, hell-bent on its way to oblivion.

     In the near distance as the working day ended, a sudden emergence of factory workers told Beamish it was 5-o'clock, most would be hurrying home to a hot meal, while others, for a quick drink perhaps before making the same old sorry excuse... for Jack, the greasy spoon would be closing about now, denying him the comfort of a badly needed cuppa' and stale cheese sandwich.  A subtle legacy of lunchtime fish and chips still lingered in the air, Jack's stomach rumbled, there was little chance of a fish supper for Beamish tonight, it protested again... louder.

     From beneath the eaves of the building opposite several pigeons broke cover, startled by the rattle as a shopkeeper struggled to close the canvas awning above his shop window.  Narrowly missing Beamish they flew anxiously over the rooftops, memories of the blitz sprang to mind as Jack stepped smartly to one side, he stamped his feet... it dashed a little of the weather from his raincoat, just as the rain dashed a little of the pigeons' anxiety from the pavement... the day couldn't get much worse if it tried.  Shielding his face, Jack struck the Ronson one more time and cupped the freshly lit cigarette between his hands, it was the only source of heat to be had that day... and still it rained.

     'By Appointment to Certain Personages...' the letter heading rang out loudly... 'Jack Beamish ~ Private Investigator...' a throat choking mouthful by any stretch of the imagination, thought Jack and shot every vestige of credulity plummeting straight through the office window and amidst a fanfare of trumpet voluntary, nominate itself for a prodigious award in the New Year Honours list.   Having formally served in a professional capacity for a well known purveyor of pickled condiments, who  incidentally, brandished the same patronage emblazoned upon their extensive range of relish as the one Jack had more recently purloined from them... a paid commission no less, which by Jack's certain understanding had made him, albeit fleeting in nature, a professional consultant of said company... and consequently, if they could flaunt the auspicious emblem, then according to Jack's infallible logic, so could Jack.  

     The recently appropriated letterhead possessed certain distinction... in much the same way, Jack reasoned, that a blank piece of paper did not... and whereas correspondence bearing the heading 'By Appointment' may not exactly strike terror into the hearts of man... unlike a really strong pickled onion, it nevertheless made people think twice before playing him for the fool, which sadly, Jack had to concede, they still invariably did... and he would often catch them wagging an accusing finger or two in his direction with such platitudes as... "watch where you put your foot", they'd whisper, "that Jack's a right Shamus...", and when you'd misplaced your footing as many times as Jack had, then he reasoned, that by default the celebrated Shamus must have landed himself in more piles of indiscretion than he would readily care to admit, but that wouldn't be quite accurate either, in Jack's line of work it was the malefactor that actually dropped him in them more often than not.

     A cold shiver suddenly ran down his spine, another quickly followed as a spurt of icy water from a broken rain spout spattered across the back of his neck, he grimaced... Jack's expression spoke volumes as he took one final pull from his half soaked cigarette and flicked it, amid an eruption of sparks against the adjacent brick wall.  Sinking further into the shadow he tipped his fedora against the oncoming rain, then, digging both hands deep within his pockets, he huddled behind the upturned collar of his gabardine... watching.

     It was times such as these when Jack's mind would slip back, in much the same way you might slip back on a discarded banana peel, when a matter of some consequence, or in particular this case the pavement, would suddenly leap up from behind and give the back of Jack's head a resoundingly good slapping and tell him to "stop loafing around in office hours... or else", then drag him, albeit kicking and screaming back into the 20th century.  This intellectual assault and battery re-focused Jack's mind wonderfully as he whiled away the long weary hours until his next cigarette; cup of tea, or the last bus home, his capacity to endure such mind boggling tedium called for nothing less than sheer ******-mindedness and very little else... Beamish had long suspected that he possessed all the necessary qualifications.  

     Jack had come a long way since the early days, it had been a long haul but he'd finally arrived there in the end... and managed to pick up quite a few ***** looks along the way.  Whilst he was with the Police Constabulary... and it was only fair to stress the word 'with', as opposed to the word 'in'... although the more Jack considered, he had been 'with' the arresting officer, held 'in' the local Bridewell... detained at Her Majesties pleasure while assisting the boys in blue with their enquiries over a minor infringement of some local by-law that currently had quite slipped his mind at that moment.  Throughout this enforced leisure period he'd managed to read the entire abridged editions of Kilroy and other expansive works of graffiti exhibited in what passed locally as the next best thing to the Tate Gallery, whereupon it hadn't taken Jack very long to realise that it was always a good place to start if you wanted free breakfast, in fact the weeks bill of fare was tastefully displayed in vivid, polychromatic colour on the wall opposite... you just had to be au-fait with braille.
                            
     No matter how industrious Beamish laboured to rake the dirt there always appeared to be a dire shortage of gullible clients for Jack to squeeze, what would roughly translate as an honest crust out of, and although his financial retainer was highly competitive he understood that potential clients found it bewildering when grappling with the unplumbed depths of his monthly expense account, which would tend to fluctuate with the same unpredictability as the British weather, the rest of Jack's agenda revolved around a little shady moonlighting... in fact he'd happily consider anything to offset the remotest possibility of financial delinquency... short of extortion... which by the strangest twist was the very word prospective clients would cry while Jack beavered around the office with dust-pan and brush sweeping any concerns they may have had frantically under the carpet regarding all culpability of his extra-curricular monthly stipend... and they should remain assured at all times... as they dug deep and fished for their cheque books, and simply look upon it as kneading dough, which eerily enough was exactly the thick wedge of buttered granary that Jack had every intention of carving.

     Were there ever the slightest possibility that a day could be so utterly wretched, then today was that day, Jack felt a certain empathy as he merged with his surroundings... at one with nature as it were.  The rain, a timpani on the metal dustbin lids, by the side of which Beamish had taken up vigil, also taking up vigil and in search of a morsel was the stray mongrel, this was the third time now that he'd returned, the same apprehensive wag, yet still the same hopeful look of expectation in his eyes, a brief but friendly companion who paid more attention to Jack's left trouser leg than anything that could be had from nosing around the dustbins that day... some days you're the dog, scowled Beamish as he shook his trouser leg... and some days the lamppost, Jack's foot swung out playfully, keeping his new friend's incontinence at a safe distance, feigning indignance  the scruffy mongrel shook himself defiantly from nose to tail, a distinct odour of wet dog filled the air as an abundance of spent rainwater flew in all directions.   Pricking one ear he looked accusingly at Jack before turning and snuffled off, his nose resolutely to the pavement and diligently, picking out the few diluted scents still remaining, the poor little stalwart renewed its search for scraps, or making his way perhaps to some dry seclusion known only to itself.
  
     Two hours later and... SPLOSH, a puddle poured itself through the front door of the nearest Public House... SPLOSH, the puddle squelched over to the payphone... SPLOSH, then, fumbling for small change dialled and pressed button 'A'..., then button 'B'... then started all over again amid a flurry of precipitation... SPLASH.  The puddle floundered to the bar and ordered itself a drink, then ebbed back to the payphone again... the local taxi company doggedly refused to answer... finally, wallowing over to the window the puddle drifted up against a warm radiator amidst a cloud of humidity and came to rest... flotsam, cast upon the shore of contentment, the puddle sighed contentedly... the Landlady watched this anomaly... suspiciously.

     The puddle's finely tuned perception soon got to grips with the unhurried banter and muffled gossip drifting along the bar, having little else to loose, other than what could still be wrung from his clothing... Beamish, working on the principle that a little eavesdropping was his stock-in-trade engaged instinct into overdrive and casually rippled in their general direction...  They were clearly regulars by the way one of them belched in a well rehearsed, taken-a-back sort of way as Jack took stock of the situation and was now at some pains to ingratiate himself into their exclusive midst and attempt several friendly, yet relevant questions pertinent to his enquiries... all of which were skillfully deflected with more than friendly, yet totally irrelevant answers pertinent to theirs'... and would Jack care for a game of dominoes', they enquired... if so, would he be good enough to pay the refundable deposit, as by common consent it just so happened to be his turn...  Jack graciously declined this generous offer, as the obliging Landlady, just as graciously, cancelled the one shilling returnable deposit from the cash register, such was the flow of light conversation that evening... they didn't call him Lucky Jack for nothing... discouraged, Beamish turned back to the bar and reached for his glass... to which one of his recent companions, and yet again just as graciously, had taken the trouble to drink for him... the Landlady gave Jack a knowing look, Beamish returned the heartfelt sentiment and ordered one more pint.

     From the licenced premises opposite, a myriad of jostling customers plied through the door, business was picking up... the sudden influx of punters rapidly persuaded Beamish to retire from the bar and find a vacant table.  Sitting, he removed several discarded crisp packets from the centre of the table only to discover a freshly vacated ashtray below... by sleight of hand Jack's Ronson appeared... as he lit the cigarette the fragile smoke curled blue as it rose... influenced by subtle caprice, it joined others and formed a horizontal curtain dividing the room, a delicate, undulating layer held between two conflicting forces.

     The possibility of a free drink soon attracted the attention of a local bar fly, who, hovering in the near vicinity promptly landed in Jack's beer, Beamish declined this generous offer as being far too nutritious and with the corner of yesterdays beer mat, flipped the offending organism from the top of his glass, carefully inspecting his drink for debris as he did so.

     A sudden draught and clip of stiletto heels as the side door opened caused Beamish to turn as a double shadow slipped discreetly into the friendly Snug... a little adulterous intimacy on an otherwise cheerless evening.  The faceless man, concealed beneath a fedora and the upturned collar of his overcoat, the surreptitious lady friend, decked out in damp cony, cheap perfume and a surfeit of bling proclaimed a not too infrequent assignation, he'd seen it all before... the over attentive manner and the band of white, Sun-starved skin recently hidden behind a now absent wedding token, ordinarily it was the sort of assignment Jack didn't much care for... the discreet tail, the candid snapshot through half drawn curtains... and the all too familiar steak tartare... for the all too familiar black eye.

     To the untrained eye, the prospect of Jack's long anticipated supper was rapidly dwindling, when it suddenly focused with renewed vigour upon the contents of a pickled egg jar he'd observed earlier that evening, lurking on the back counter, his enthusiasm swiftly diminished however as the belching customer procured the final two specimens from the jar and proceeded to demolish them.  Who, Jack reflected, after being stood out in the rain all day, had egg all over his face now... and who, he reflected deeper, still had an empty stomach.  Disillusioned, Jack tipped back his glass and considered a further sortie with the taxicab company.

     "FIVE-BOB"!!! Jack screamed... you could have shredded the air with a cheese grater... hurtling into the kerb like a fairground attraction came flying past the chequered flag at a record breaking 99 in Jack's top 100 most not wanted list of things to do that day... and that the cabby should think himself fortunate they weren't both stretched flat on a marble slab, "exploding tyres" Jack spluttered, dribbling down his chin, were enough to give anyone a coronary... further broadsides of neurotic ambiance filled the cab as the driver, miffed at the prospect of missing snooker night out with the lads, considered charging extra for the additional space Jack's profanity was taking...

     And what part of 'Drive-Carefully', fumed Beamish, did the cabby simply not understand, that pavements were there to be bypassed, 'Nay Circumvented', preferably on the left... and not veered into, wildly on the front axle... an eerie premonition of 'jemais-vu' perched and ready to strike like a disembodied Jiminy Cricket on Jack's left shoulder, looking to stick its own two-penny worth in at the 'Standing-Room-Only' arrangements in the overcrowded cab... and at what further point, Jack shrieked, eyes leaping from his head as he lurched forward, shaking his fist through the sliding glass partition, had the cabbie failed to grasp the importance of the word 'Steering-Wheel...' someone wanted horse whipping, and as far as Beamish was concerned the sole contender was the cab driver...

     In having a somewhat sedate and unruffled disposition it had fallen to Beamish... as befalls all great leaders in times of adversity, to single handedly take the bull by the horns, so to speak and at great personal cost, alert the unwary passing motorist...  Waving his arms about like a man possessed whilst performing acrobatic evolutions in the centre of the road as the cabby changed the wheel came whizzing around the corner at a back breaking 98 on Jack's ever growing list... and why, Jack puzzled, why had they all lowered their side windows and gestured back at him in semaphore..?  Rallying to its aid, Jack's head and shoulders now joined his shaking fist through the sliding glass partition and into the cabby's face, "Who" Beamish screeched with renewed vigour ,"Who Was The Man", Jack wanted to know... *"a
I am a puddle in the ocean
Blended in a blue dream
With wandering waves
That capsize in captivity
Condescending from freedom

I am a puddle in the ocean
Struggling to stay calm
In this vicious storm
As the wind is whirling
Whipping my family around

I am a puddle in the ocean
Lost in space like a star
Wishing I could shine
Like the ferocious flame
Of the sun's searing rays

I am a puddle in the ocean
Drowning in earths tears
Shed from the sorrow
Of all the pain in the world
That never washed ashore

I am a puddle in the ocean
Fighting to stay afloat
Holding on to a rope
With a grip that's groping
But safety is far from sight

I am a puddle in the ocean
Tired of being tortured
By tricks of the truth
Seeking to expose them
With a splash of sunshine

I am a puddle in the ocean
Looking to ride a wave
One that will carry me
Far away from the storm
To be soaked up by the sun
Donall Dempsey May 2016
A LATE 1962-ISH PUDDLE

It was a late 1962-ish
puddle.

A Curragh puddle
to be exact

but you
...wouldn't know that.

A moon had fallen
asleep in it

with scattered silver stars
nailing it to the ground.

I was 6-ish
by then &

had encountered more
puddles than you

could ever splash
about in.

But, this was
the first puddle

I ever
remember.

An Ur-puddle.

To the rest of the world
it was as if

it had never been &
existed only for me.

A robin stood
at my side.

Us both...staring at the puddle.

Suddenly the robin
made up its mind &

stepped defiantly
into this miniature ocean.

The robin stood on the moon
which shattered &

reformed itself about
its tiny feet.

It was the first robin
I'd seen

walking on the moon.

The puddle lived
inside my head

for many many
years until

these words came along
and took it away.

It was like the hand
of a man

long long before
history was invented

pressed against
the flickering cave wall

leaving a sooty hand print
in celebration of himself.

"This mark means
me!"

My late 1962-ish
Curragh puddle

and that robin walking
on a watery moon

is my handprint
on the cave wall

of my mind
in the long long ago.

I laugh at
the me-ness of me!
Katie Day Jan 2014
I ask what your favourite word is.

You say you don’t have one, and
I don’t understand.

See. I’m a poet.

I tried hard not to be,
Rejected it with every
Fibre of who I am but
Words form in ways I can’t
Negate.

See,

You speak and I notice
There’s more in what you say than
You know.

Your voice is delicate,
Not in the way you sound words
But the way you phrase sentences,
Like the subject is something to be
hidden behind premises.
Some people grab chance by the throat,
****** you right into the center,
Until you’re drowning in meaning
And unable to listen to anything but the
Beat,
B-,
Beat,
Of your heart but

Not you.

I can respect that.

You’re all tact and logic and
It’s not about feeling
It’s about thought process and

I still don’t understand.

See, my tongue is clumsy,
It stutters and stumbles and smashes its way through life,

But it finds meaning where there isn’t any,
Notes how you say “Spoke”, not “talked”,
How you dance through every word in the English language because
Deciding on the right one
Has to be perfect.

I think that,
You are perfect.

My favourite word is puddle.

I don’t know why, but
When I say it, my tongue kicks
my teeth and
It reminds me of the way my
Consonants get heavier with
******* in my brain.
It makes language ridiculous,
Because the end of its vowel is so sudden
It should cut
But it’s so ******* round.

Puddle.

I can’t explain, not in words,
But I smile when you say it and
I promise you that sometimes
language is less about logic
And more about that feeling
in your gut
When you look
at me and verbs flow out of your mouth
And for once you’re not thinking
And, -

"I love you."

If you thought, it wouldn’t be true and -

"I love you."

Cogs whir to a halt and,

"I love you."

I don’t trust you for a second because
My mind is now skipping stones across oceans
Waiting for depth to show, yet
There’s nothing below,

but still,

Sail away with me.

Let’s leave language behind and use touch to define
The borders between where I start
And you stop.

We’ll find they’re less obvious than we’d thought,

Because I love you.

Not in the way that I say it but
In the way that your presence makes my stomach churn out musical notes
And I was broken, but I don’t want to seem desperate and
I guess that when you say you that don’t have a favourite
I realise,
Puddle’s a scapegoat.

My favourite word is whatever name you’d give for the
Goosebumps on your skin when I touch you.

My favourite word is the colour of your eyes.

My favourite word is the way your voice goes real high when you’re excited.

My favourite word is how I can feel where you touched my flesh, for days after we last met.

My favourite word

Is you

But I’m too shy to say it.

So here, take puddle,

And run away with it.
This is part of my poem a day challenge.

It's actually a piece of spoken word, which you can hear recorded on my poetry blog here:
http://ccclxvpoetry.tumblr.com/post/72646142531/i-ask-what-your-favourite-word-is-you-say-you
Breanna Stockham May 2015
You quickly approach
A puddle of mud
Small enough to step over
But you thought it'd be fun
To splish and splash
And make a mess
But it's dirtied your face
And ruined your dress

You stomp out of the puddle
It has ruined your day
You look back in anger
And head on your way

But what is to blame here,
The action or trouble?
The mud or the splashes?
The person or puddle?

Don't walk into mud
Then complain of the mess
If you want to stay clean
Just watch where you step

Not all, but many outcomes
Are up to us
So be careful that your actions
Will lead to what you want
all the lapses in time
mix like melted crayons
i'm tired and wish that they could stay on
my skin, but they drip down and in
to a puddle at my feet
the moments that drip, slip away
are the ones that i wish that i could keep
but they melt, mix and make
a puddle so deep
i should step in
i'd be delighted to sink
take turns to tip back and taste each one like a drink
splash, spill each one over my skin
make each a mess for memory's sake
turn, tilt, and take time to
clothe my self in all the caressing colors
like a motley collage
of rainbows turned chameleon camouflage
i'll hide in the folds of these memoreies
for earth's forever
fly where they take me
daydreaming while waking
splash in a puddle comprised of the past
pbpbpbpbpbpbp play in a puddle of
paint like
late night
rain puddle baptisms
and fake rage spasms
and faces so cute it's hard to look at em
money could buy happiness if
someone bottled and sold the sunlight that we napped in
on the sidewalk
the opposite appearance but the same substance
as our late night...not dates...adventures...and deep talks
the early Tuesday morning
walks and discovering
our very own piece of paradise
complete with waterfall
the overall romance
like an always sheepish glance filled swing dance
the innocence...
the spontaneity and
"do-it-you-won't-i-wouldn't-even-be-mad" spring break trips
taco bell and heathens and sheathens, HELL!!! comments
fresh beginnings and new starts
curious minds and ravenous hearts
lakes that look like bits of Scotland
and arms with seals also on hearts
(ar ar ar)
memories like melted crayons in a puddle at my feet
he will take the memories that i can't shake
Naomi Dec 2018
Hello,  I am a puddle person.
I'm certainly not the only puddle person, of course.
And I often think I'm more puddle then person.

I lay on the floor still.
People come by and see themselves reflected in me.
Sometimes they step in me,  and drops of me splish around and evaporate.

I'm content being a puddle it's, comfortable.
People are aware of me whether looking at themselves, tip toeing around me or jumping in.

I am NOT invisible.

Love me or hate me this puddle person isn't going anywhere,
until I become more puddle then person.
I live a shallow life.
No one is willing to submerge too deep.
I see them all around me…
Dancing on the sand,
Their skin hot from the sun,
& burning with romance.
I let them come and go as they please,
Stepping in my puddle by the sea,
Taking away a little at a time,
Leaving me alone…yet free.
I hear the others coming,
Rolling in so gently,
Each just a passerby
Speaking to me eloquently.
I see in the distance the whole that I should be,
But here I wait, unattached…
Just like a puddle by the sea.
Toby Lucas May 2016
A dot outside the circle,
Isolated.
Feeling as if I'm
A puddle on the beach.

So close, almost the ocean.
So close to the sea it needs to join,
Otherwise it will evaporate
Unfinished.

I am the one who waits for the time to speak,
But opens his mouth once the moment passes. Too late.
The tide of conversation has gone out,
Leaving just a puddle on the beach.

When the rain comes to drench the soil,
It's the crop that grows offside,
Not a ****, but un-harvested nonetheless,
That's yearning for a transplant into the greener side.

And if this flower was to be picked,
Would the field realise?
Eventually.
You don't realise something's there until it's gone.
September 2015
Styles Mar 2017
Fingers sinking deep
               below your surface;
               seeping into your *****,
               caressing your crevices.
               leaving their mark; baring pleasure.
               coursing ecstasy through your veins.
           searching for the highest of peeks beyond measure
               scorching heat, blood boiling, the pleasure pains
               soothing your aching flesh
               in relentless pursuit; of higher depths
               guilty yearnings, urges run rampant
               as your ecstasy starts to progress
               heavy breathing your hands held abreast
               pungent liquids; drenched with desire
               a seeping puddle stains the mattress
               gingerly leaking, outlining your canvas
                a mist in the air, cooling your skin;
Scurry hurry
Shaking hands shaped by worry
tie the knot of plastic
A bubble home for the hard green cup
where brown and white
mixed lay married.

Wash rush
Dainty legs in dark blue denim
hasn't time to be romantic
A worn out sister played by hope
shuts the door panting.

  It clings to a robust tree
  head hidden under rosy pink    
  protective shield
  edged in yellow

  The fireflies

  
Sticky webs of empty lies packaged in boxes of deception by the wizard that doesn't work
sit dead on the small bedside table
like the results they provide.

Boxes and boxes of cozy containers
and cards of capsules
47 I counted them
current and extras
They choke my sight
then I am groped by the smooth blue robes worn by the youthful shepherd
posing aside a grey rock looking yonder
into the distance as insta-natural as possible in a pastel painted picture framed in wood against the wall.
  
  Unstable molecules in tiny airtubes,  
  many, breakdown and explode
  like little landmines
  A bio-luminescent lit ***** assaults a  
  dense night flashing brilliant
  to find a mate
  Six strong neon-green throbbing blinks
  Six slow seconds of unimaginable
  wordless dreamless dark.

  are bright.

  
I turn my head
The whole unsettling mass of reality
is torn apart into vibrant colorful morsels,
then reassembled
as my eyes  
settle
on

Her

"Oh God, if you're here, heal her now
and you'll have me. Show me what those confident tongues so eagerly confess.
Please!"

NOTHING
Another sticky empty square
covered in thick black-strap molasses
slapped to the face of the fool
who likes sweet things.

BUT

What happened to the omni-this, omni-that CEO of God enterprises?
"Go on Death" is what that means
"Go on Death do your job" is what it does

"It's your time.
It's to test your faith.
Gods plan."
All slogans for the man
who believes and dies.
  Culture creates the fool
  Hope keeps the fool
  Belief kills the fool
Thanks for doing what all those boxes
and all the pictures
on all the walls of the world do

FOOL

Her face,
a gaunt kind of skin-to-bone sight
a bad flavor
like a meal with no taste

Her mouth,
crack-lipped, framed by dry
delivers deadly blows to a heaving chest
that says; "Give me air"
yet lungs say no

Anguish,
is ****** from the pit of my cold stomach
then up through the spirit of a warm heart
I plaster the feeling in the shape of water.
My eyes puddle

I weep

It sticks

Love,

Falls

Fluttering as a twinkle
through soft beams of sunlight,
the drop glistens
plops
then dies
on the pink and blue checkered blanket.

All I have to offer are busky palms
to soothe this battered body
before you are torn apart by what
puts things like us together.

I swallow her frame

Her calf - bone

Squeeze and move

Her thigh,
my hand wraps completely
pinching a sausage sized piece of muscle
not big enough to walk
between plump thumb
and meaty middle

Squeeze and move

Her hip bone is angular
It fits flush in my hand
like the hard front peak of a cricket cap
when held above the grid

Squeeze and move

My chunky tentacles massage over
wire-thin barely blue throbless veins
that decorate her meatless paws
and twig-like fingers.

Squeeze and move
  
  It's after midnight
  Thick curds of desperation push
  again, through a splendid backside
  a special toosh
  slogging a dancing night-fever
  to beat the two-to-four,
  a beam as bright as a green day
  cuts through the black pitch of night

  

I hold her hand
A thin filling between two slices of mine
I look at her eyes and turn away

Have you ever been pulled from the center of  your heart, ripped head first through the narrow crack of your own chest, tossed aside like a skin-sheet onto a concrete glass-covered floor then squashed beneath the majesty of a billion dancing floor-clapping feet attached to a shapeless void shapeshifting as slideshows  between all things gone, here, and still to come, stopping on the body of a small blue boy that sings in ghostly echo;
"Don't turn away from this.
Look till you see me through the eyes of another because this too
will happen to you
Clap clap clap clap!
I'm coming for you.

Trapped in a square tunnel made of brick, walls wide enough for one bus no brakes to speed through, no escape,
I accept what will squash me
I Face it
I Stand before it

I stare at her eyes staring back at me
A deep dagger stare
Two parts steel
meshed
until there is only steel
It melts

I simmer the room in soft whisper;
"It's okay. It's okay. It's okay."
I hold her hand,
patting the top as I warm the bottom
I smile for her, at me
I smile back, as me
  
  A skillful mimic
  Here I come
  I have light and breath
  I see yours
  I come at night
  Not for genes or ***
  I hunt and gut
  Hawking down I come as death

  
The gaps between her labored breaths become bigger and for a second I drift at the sight reappearing on the sandy dunes of an empty dessert space pushed by a dying wind I can barely feel.

A sharp salty tang toils the tip of my tongue and brings me back to her.

Her eyes

They have changed

Open

But

Soul

   less

     Soulless

     Desolate

   Like

That dessert

And that place where


*The Fireflies Lose their Light
I'm on a train.

One of those red ones with black trimmed windows you can imagine rolling through the suburbs on the way to NYC. Not a subway car but a classier vintage with proper rows of cushioned seats and a lever to pull if there is an emergency. There are sparse shrubberies on one side of the tracks and the ocean on the other. Young trees and bushes stroll by.  A little wind is pushing off the ocean, massaging the car ever so gently back and forth as we move along. A gentle click-clack is on the tips of our ears.

We got on together. I hadn't known you for very long but the connection was stronger than anything I had ever felt or have since. You practically sat on top of me for the first few miles. Couldn't keep your hands off me,  staring in my eyes like you were searching for something lost but you couldn't remember what. The edges of your lips turned upwards permanently as if you were always at the verge of a laugh. You interlaced my fingers with yours and held on like you would be ripped away if your grip loosened for even a second. Slender fingers holding so tightly that they were becoming red.

You were excited to to be riding with me, about where we were going and all the things we would do when we got there. I would see you peer out of the corner of your eye, then lean over to brush your soft cheek against my budding stubble. Kissing and gently biting my lips insatiably. The suns rays coming in at an angle and lighting up your perfect smile and dimple.

I had to remind you we were in public.

I was lost in your blonde curls and the incense of your neck. I had fallen incredibly hard and so fast that my face hurt from smiling and my heart beat with vibrations I had never known. Not even a whiff of anxiety or neurosis. Some of the best memories of my life, as fleeting as they turned out to be.

I yawned and you put your finger in my mouth. I bent over to tie my shoe and you would poke my **** and laugh with your own reflection in the window, like this was the first and best joke of all time. Maybe it was and maybe it is.

The waiter came and informed us that a thing called "the bar car" existed. We both jumped at the idea. I didn't exactly notice at the time, during our excitement, but that's when the train started going faster and everything out the windows began to blur.

The bar car was a wild ride and we took advantage of our lo'cal. All kinds of fine wine, liquors and illicit substances were available. We tried them all. You were beautiful, your laugh infecting everyone around you, I was charming and held a captive audience.   It was a dark, loud and glorious blur. We were the life of the party and it chugged on till dawn.

We woke up in our seats, disheveled and discombobulated. It was dark out already. Did we sleep through the entire day? The train was slowing down, maybe approaching a station. The party was amazing but we were certainly paying the price for the black out. You moved over to the seat across from me to have some more space and lay down. I saw myself in the reflection. My hat, charm and smile from the night before had vanished. I must have left them in the bar car the night before.
      You had changed, beauty uninterrupted but different somehow. I couldn't put my finger on it. Irritated maybe? I invited you to cuddle and battle the hangover together but you ignored me. Like you couldn't hear me or didn't want to. I decided to let you be.

I got up to use the bathroom and thought I would go look for my scattered belongings. Maybe I could find a scrap of leftover dignity while you rested. I inquired to the conductor who directed me to the bartender in the bar car. He hadn't changed a bit, somehow untouched and unaffected by last nights antics that had effected me so dramatically.  Same black suspenders and white pressed shirt with impeccably slicked hair. I asked him what happened and if I had an open tab. While slowly polishing a rocks glass he looked up and made eye contact for a split second before looking away.
He said:  "Oh the bar car takes its toll. In the end we all end up paying one way or another". I still don't know what he meant by that or if he knew.
      I asked him if he found my hat and he said he would check the camera. We walked in to a small back room, while he was reviewing the tape, over his shoulder I noticed a tragedy.

We were drunk. I was going on to a group of new friends on one side of the bar, they were hanging on my words and I was eagerly explaining whatever nonsense they were drooling over. You were in the corner wearing that red dress I love, with your hair up in a tight bun. A few curls had escaped and brushed your high cheekbones, a thin line of pearls dancing delicately across your perfectly symmetrical collar. You were stunning and inebriated, swaying with each bump and motion of the train. A man wearing my hat put his hand on your side to keep you from swaying over and then he left it there.
I took a sharp breath.

It looked like you put your hand on his hand to move it but then it stayed and you both swayed together. As the air left my lungs and the blood drained out of my face I watched your lips touch the strangers. A small piece of my soul slipped away forever. I couldn't watch any further. When I asked the bartender how long it went on he fidgeted for a moment and uncomfortably muttered "quite some time". I never found my hat or the other part of me that left that day.  

The train slowed. I walked to the back, as far away from you as I could get, in utter disbelief. How could you? I thought to myself.
I mourned the loss of the you as I knew you yesterday, quietly and to myself. A tear  escaped my eye and rolled down my now fully formed stubble as I fell in to a random seat in mild shock. There were a few passengers back there so I had to pull together relatively quickly. After gaining some composure I knew it was time to get off. I knew we could never get back to yesterday morning though I would have said or done anything to do so.

The train had stopped. I went back to my seat and you were sleeping. I took my coat and gathered my things. The conductor looked at me confused as to why I would leave something so magnificent, I assume he had no idea what had transpired.   

I walked to the rear of the car and slid the door open slower than required. I stepped to the stairs and put one foot down on the step and the other on the ground. I stopped, rooted with my hand on the railing, lingering between two very different paths.
     I knew that it was time to get off, I knew this was the sensible thing to do, that I couldn't get past this offense regardless of how I had felt earlier the day before. The whistle screamed from the locomotive. The conductor looked at me and shook his head, I'm not sure if he was trying to tell me to stay or go but a decision had to be made.

The train lurched forward and I watched as the station slip away slowly. I sat in between the cars for a while and watched the ocean and birds. With a heavy heart and shoes I walked back to my seat. You were waiting. Crying. You knew. The bartender had told you. You didn't mean do do it, didn't realize what you were doing and thought it was me. He was wearing my hat and the whole world was blurry and dark.

I believed you. Self anguish mixed with alcohol was dripping from your pores. I knew you didn't mean it and were drunk, but could I ever forgive you or trust you again?

I loved you still.

I caught a glimpse of my reflection, a weaker version of myself looked back. As if an invisible chip in my teeth had developed and my shoulders lowered. The charming, confident man from the bar car the day before had been replaced. Something was off but not enough for anyone else to notice, just enough to know a change has happened.
       The train started to pick up speed again as we distanced ourselves from the station.  I second guessed my decision to stay but I didn't look back.

I found the man with my hat and punished him with a few blows in the dark. He knew he ****** up, apologized and took the beating like a man. I never got the hat back.

The engineer announced that we would be going through a tunnel soon and to turn on our lights and keep our hands in the windows.

It would be dark.  

We stayed away from the bar car for a while but the draw was irresistible. After a few hours we were there again but you never left my side.  Then you did. I was looking for you but you would disappear and not answer me when I called you name. The tunnel went deeper and darker and I didn't know where you were and I suspected you liked it that way. The train began to slow down again as we exited the tunnel.

I finally found you back at our seat, you had moved one row away from me. I asked you to come back, tried to hold your hands but you pulled away with vehemence. When I came back from the bathroom you had moved another row farther.
I knew I was losing you.
I begged you to return but you told me calmly that it was time for you to get off. At some point in the tunnel you had decided that you didn't want to go anymore . Your mind was made. You were going to catch another train at the next station.

When the train stopped I thought for sure you would reconsider but you didn't. Didn't even give it a thought. You just grabbed your coat and hat with one big bag under your arm. You kissed me on the cheek like a french stranger and were off. Going somewhere else on a different train. Just like that.

I rode the rails for quite some time by myself , many people getting on and getting off, passing me by. Every once in a while I would think I saw you at a station or in a **** though the window of another train. I often thought I could smell you but when I breathed deeper it was always gone. A ghost dancing on the edge of my senses.

A young girl in a headband got on the train. She was listening to headphones and dancing to herself as she bobbed along. She sat down in the seat next to me flashing a smile. She had a wedding ring on and I dismissed her immediately.  She didn't move from the seat or stop glancing my way. Eventually she confessed that she wanted to talk. I told her I wasn't interested but she persisted.  I hadn't talked to anyone on the train for quite some time and after some more mild persistence, I gave in.

We had a lot in common. We were both riding alone, desperately wanted attention and were thrilled to receive some.  After a few laughs she slid her hand in to mine and interlaced her fingers. I left it there. It was warm, comforting and wrong. She was married but I had been riding alone so long it felt good to have some company. She stayed and we talked. She was broken and I had a knack for fixing things. After a few hours of dramatic conversation I fell asleep with her head on my shoulder.

When I woke up  the train was flying up the track on the side of a mountain. Trees and rocks were a blur of green and grey. The engineer must be trying to make up for lost time I thought to myself.

The girl was asleep with her head on my lap. I looked down at her hand and the rings were gone. I woke her briefly to ask where they went. She said she didn't need them anymore and had thrown  them out the window.  She could of sold them, I said, but she said she just wanted them gone so she could be mine and fell back to sleep.  All of a sudden I couldn't breath. This train was roaring down the tracks, the once gentle click clack had become a loud hum. Suddenly too loud. This girl in my lap who had just gotten on the train wanted to stay. I considered her for a while as she looked up at me with big blue eyes, shining and wet, like a puppy in the shelter, terrified of rejection and desperate to be adopted.

At the peak of the mountain, just when the train began to even out, you waltzed back in to the car with a champagne flute in one hand and your bag in the other.

I don't know when or where you got back on, must have been a few stations ago when I stopped looking for you. Maybe you were wearing a disguise, who knows what you had been up to while you were gone. I'm not sure how long you were away but it was quite some time. That you had been through something was obvious, a new wrinkle had formed on your brow and you're once confident stride had changed to a cautious stroll. What actually happened out there I don't know.  I never asked and I don't want answers.

You looked at me and smiled. It was good to see that smile, like sun on my face on a brisk day.  You took a step toward me and then I looked down in my lap at the girl at the same time you did. I looked up. You and your smile were gone.

Everything I had begun to feel for this broken, head banded girl in my lap dried up like a puddle in  the dessert.  I quietly and gently nudged her awake and told her I had to use the bathroom. She put her head down on my coat and fell back into what ever trance she had been in, eyelids gently fluttering, eyes searching beneath them for what I would never give her.

I dashed up the isle and threw open the door, almost shattering the glass. The conductor glared at me and rolled his eyes as I barged past to the space between the cars.

There you were. Standing on the stairs with your head out the opening. The wind was blowing your perfectly formed curls around your head like a blonde explosion of familiarity. I yelled your name and you dove in to me. My senses erupted, my mind went numb as the train was nearing another station and I inhaled your essence greedily.

We moved to another car. I abandoned my coat with the married girl and never looked back. I hope she found what she was looking for. I  never could have been the answer she was so desperately seeking but I know I  helped steer her towards it.

You told me you had encountered some other people out there on the rails and they had reminded you of what we had when we first left the station. I never forgot.  

The train started to rock and get going again. We were back in the bar car and starting to brown out. We had to get off of this train right ******* now. In a desperate moment we looked at each other and put our hands, together, on the emergency brake cord. I looked in your eyes with your hand on top of mine. You kissed me while yanking down on the cord. Time slowed, the breaks squealed and everything exploded throwing luggage, people and the entire contents of the bar car in to a nondiscriminatory chaos . We got up off the ground, ran to the end of the car, dove off the side in to a soft patch of grass and rolled down a small incline. We watched as the conductor sifted through  the mess and interrogated the passengers, trying to ferret out the party responsible for pulling the brake. He spotted us off the side of the tracks and shook his fist while shouting every conceivable obscenity combination.

We laughed, held each other in the grass and kissed deeply.

We watched the train pick up speed and disappear in to the hills as relief spread over me.

You interlaced your fingers in to mine and we both looked out to where the tracks disappeared into the horizon, wondering how far of a walk it was to the next station.
Alex P Gara Apr 2012
Werewolf stood in front of a puddle.
Four inches deep. Maybe.
Werewolf looked away.
Stickers. Graffiti.
Flem’s Revenge Live Tonight!
The Nifty Nymphos April 24th.
Ballz Deep featuring **** Matikz and Tremaine The Truest.
I’m a long way from Cologne, he thought.
Werewolf knelt towards the puddle.
The wet filth smelled of hot blood.
Exceptionally hot blood, rather.
He spat in the puddle and turned.
One thousand drunk humans.
Ten thousand more, asleep, above.
Not misunderstood.
Cursed.
It’s a very different sadness.
Alexander’s Feast ended.
Rounding out his latest playlist -
Bashfully Baroque.
Werewolf checked the time.
Less than an hour.
He buzzed a buzzer.
I’m here for the Devil’s Cherries.
The What?
The, ahem, Devil’s Cherries.
He’s cool. Let him in.
And just like that, he was let out.
A line was forming for Flem’s Revenge.
While a bright moon reflected in Werewolf’s puddle.
Werewolf shouldered through.
Cursed.
Clutching his score.
Olive Oct 2012
My heart is a puddle,
All full of muddle.
I'm slowly befuddled.
My heart is a puddle.

My heart is an ache
As my body, it quakes.
You give me the shakes.
My heart is an ache.

My heart is a puddle
and slowly befuddled.
You give me the shakes
and my heart is an ache.
Tomoko Jul 2014
In the returning road,
A streak of sunlight points at the empty asphalt and
A puddle laughs.
The sun illuminates a gray sky,
The rain is over.
Leaving  behind
A puddle...
How much rain
Fell?
Look, about this much
Only the puddle knows.
It rains as much as it can.
By now, in the sky somewhere
It is carried across by the blowing winds
Traveling.
Does it want to come again?
It will never come again.
All the rain
Only once.
Never again.
Only once
Traces of rain.
sarah minks Apr 2012
I am not of this world
Said she
The world of mediocrity
I am not part
Of this trivial life
This life of work
And endless strife
I do not want this inner struggle
I’ve been drowning in this abysmal puddle
The puddle appears shallow and harmless
You are not the one
Confronting its acrimoniousness
You are not haunted by its bitter taste
Being pulled down into its grotesque waste
You’ve no idea how arduous it can be
Poor, penniless, hopeless
Like me
Sarah Hall Minks copyright 4/28/12
This poem is about being from a "comfortable" family and then having it all stripped away for various reasons. It is hard to imagine almost no one else I've ever known knows this feeling.  Most people from successful parents become successful and most people from poor family's only know what being poor is like.   Also, it is one thing to rise above it, and quite another to fall below it. Martin E, if your out there you know my far off kindred spirit and friend.
Alysia Marie Sep 2018
I feel like a puddle in front of a school.
Having children jump in me one after another as they see me on the ground.
But every time you jump in a puddle,
the water disperses..
the puddle gets smaller from the water splashing out.
And oh my,
far too many feet have dipped their toes into the hollows of my being for me to feel functional.
I feel as if I’m shrinking like that puddle in a sense.
Tainted by ***** shoes making permanent alterations to my pre-existing form.
Maybe sometimes there’s no “adaptive responses.”
The only way for the puddle to fill and grow again,
is for more rain to fall.
But there are no clouds in this sky of “me.”
A bit of a ramble, but frankly I don’t know how else to describe the way I’m feeling tonight. Sometimes “nothing” says volumes- but it also is just that... nothing
Robyn Jul 2016
The heat of your forehead -
An oval of warmth on mine
Mint breath
And soft breathing
Your hands tighten as you relax
Fingers kissing
I say  be still
And guide you with my inhales and exhales
And the fear and the hurt and the anger drain out of you
Into a puddle on the floor
And you're a puddle in my arms
I love you so, little puddle
Sidney Nov 2014
There once was a little beagle who was stuck in a deep puddle of mud.
The puppy struggled and struggled, only to become more exasperated.
Crying and pouting, the beagle finally gave up and let himself slide neck-deep into the mud.

He laid like this all night, until the next morning, only his brown-speckled head was atop of the mud pile.

A small child walked by the puddle and to him, he saw a giant mass of mud with a head.

The young boy screamed in horror, but ran closer to get a better glimpse. To his surprise, the beagle woke up and yelped to be free from the mud.  The little boy felt an immediate affection for the puppy and jumped into the mud puddle and pulled the dog out.

The lesson?

I'm still trying to figure this one out, too.

I'll let you know when I figure out the lesson behind this one.
Styles Dec 2015
Appreciating her subtle tones, as they turn me on.
Far past my boiling point, my temperature rising,
I’m burning up in this joint. There's no surviving.

My eyes all over her curves, as I observe.
Conversation shorter than sure.
Flirted with our eyes, now our hands asking for more.

I started ******* on her lips, now they were my own,
Kissing on my tongue, turned my tongue to her clone.
Pulling her into my hips, like I wanted to bone.
Sending shivers up and down her backbone,

I could feel her body shiver, as she rubbed it against my hard bone.
looked deep into her eyes and she moaned and groaned.
I filled my mouth with the taste of her own,
swallowed her lips with my mouth, as she moaned.
As we kissed on each other, the moment kept getting better.  
Her body language making a point, leading me on - very clever.
the deeper we got, she got even wetter.

Her erogenous zone, and other places to be known -
got me harder than a stone, my head spinning like a cyclone -
as I endured her weather.  
My fingers wore her scent like cologne.
wet as a puddle, I want to play in forever.  

She, lost in the pleasure.
This love session close to closure the further they go.  
As much as she wants to, her body can never say no.
zebra Aug 2016
on the first date
she confided in me
i have a chromosomal disorder, disorder, disorder
i need love and pain strangely mixed together
my elixirs
i suffer reality distoooorrtions
a ghastly Vatican of ****** compulsions
my soul is black matter
my **** a seething cauldron of despicable desire
my *** cries for homicidal cruelty

mold me into a *******
fold me like a two dollar beach chair
the wrong way
tear me to bits
unwind my intestine
eat me like a blood ******* ghoul
make me squirm like an anime victim

i thought oh finally a soul mate
with soul

strange as a Dionysian mad hatter on hallucinogenics
hot girl creeping
grimacing at me
meandering conjurations by ****** contortions
stunning impersonations of a Fellini impaling
shes a famous artist
keeps broodish bowels and blood tampons in stainless vitrines
spot lighted
ready for her debut at the
Museum of Modern Art

she blows torrents of snot like ****
her beautiful desperate tongue searching the upper lip
a salty runny viscoses snack
oozy
finding it finally with her frenetic tongue
feeding her gooey ****
with wet fingers
oh yummy yum goo
up her *** too

first smiling then hideous scowls
exposed teeth
posing with a knife
wana see me cut my self bad boy, she taunts
wana see my impersonation of pizza with extra tomato sauce

blood blood *** in the be in the bed
wipe it up with ginger bread

some how she miraculously bulges her eyes out
then performs, ******* lips as if a minnow in a fish jar

pointing to her ***
giving me that **** hurt me twisted look
how about a peanut butter jelly ******* sandwich
with a side of ****** feet
**** and **** on toes
its especially prized this day of the month
as her **** tears like a vampires mouth, a torrent of blood
pouting **** with white red stained thighs that break a mans heart
*** nothing at all she quips
just a little accident
do you like it?
as she glares like an invitation
to play slip and slide bare foot in her puddle of blood

oh she made me *****
my cherry red **** having a nervous breakdown
from apoplectic horror gasms
a dose of heavens hell

i want her
she is voluptuous like a dozen venomous snakes
copulating in warm soup dark water everglades
she is slither theater

curdling screams
then muggling *******
brought on by the first belly stab
falling to her knees
looking up shocked
mouth gaping
eyes wide
grinning
glance steady
holding holding holding
the belly cut
a cacophonous modern dance of agony
followed by rapturous convulsing *******
that went on and on and on

get a bat she implored

she is a real ******* movie star
the Greta Garbo of *****
a dark jewel
a must have
a hell wife
goddess of dread
a ******* *** genius
my best girl ever

fused by desire
we kissed like **** loving catholic priests
in adoration of their savior
young boy *** castrato hitting the high notes


she looked up with desperation
eyes with glittering tears
and said
are you my black knight?
do you know how to hurt a girl
are you my
Vex Mallus
Dr Satan
Marquis De Sick
Nick Nick
Dark Officer
Remus the Werewolf
Dom Sugar Daddy
Pit Bull
Tommy the Tummy Gutter
5 o'clock Shadow
London Cabby
Amputee ******
Uncle Surgery Gone Wrong
King of the Carpathian Vampires
my sweet kissy Kitten

ooohh yes i said
i am all that for loves sake
albeit twisted
i am what you crave.. your no taboo lover boy
your ******* licking foot slave with a razor in hand
a bubble of poison between my legs
your homicidal suicidal cockealiciousness

she said good,
now that we have that settled
can we go out for dinner
ill be dressed in a jiffy
if i can find my dead skirt
of soft white gauze
with that lovely motif of dread red
and my precious toe tag jewelery
My poems remain explorations of the subconscious ******
If i where a film maker or a novelist  you  would see me telling a story, not judge me, although i admit to my paraphilias  
These poems  are lunar anamorphic streams of consciousness from the deep chaotic subterranean glitz of transgressive  impulses we all share
Read them if you dare...You might find that part of yourself that you don't want you to know about and then again  you may feel more complete some how if you do....I always loved that dark thing that sleeps with in me
Whatyoudon'tknow Jul 2014
See the eye, the ******, little eye
See the puddle, the ******, little puddle
See the eye in the middle of the muddle of the ******, little puddle
See the eye, oh, that's right that's your eye
See the puddle, your ****** little puddle
See your are in the middle of the muddle of your warm, ******, little puddle.
Joseph Paris Oct 2015
I put a sardine in a mud puddle,              
My Grandma must not be told.
I would have fed it to my dog,
But it was too salty and so cold.

I would have ate it with my eyes closed
If it wasn’t so slimy and gray.
Grandma doesn’t know it’s been floating
In a mud puddle half the day.

The sardine may come to life and swim,
Or some boys will use it for bait --
If Grandma ever finds it,
Her white hairs will stand straight.

The secret of the sardine is safe so far --
Where I left it I’ll never admit.
It can stay forever in its muddy home,
With a butterfly attending to it.
Tryingsomethingdifferent
Elizabeth Zenk Jul 2018
Wistful tears melt down my cheeks.
Nostalgic of our infinity together.
I kept myself intact, wholly yet new, and now without the pitiful distractions, I must reflect upon myself, alone.
Debilitating heartache
Bleakening one’s life.
Pining to relive and forget the past.
Everything still so crystal clear,
so picturesque in nature.
The smells, the sights, the feelings.
How could I have let it slip away?
Did he ever speak of me?
Ever talk about me?
Or did he just forget the joyous days we spent together under the heat of moment’s madness?
Am I the only one homesick for not my house, but for the person that broke me?
My lip twitches as sentimental recollections start to overflow and spill, creating a puddle of emptiness, longing, and heartbreak.
Debilitating heartache.
Watching the clock tick down seconds I've wasted
waiting for you.
Hello Daisies Jun 2019
Sweet little child
Your laying on a cloud
It rains endlessly

You can't come off it
Sinking through it
You pray

Their darkness thunders
Turns your heart to blunders
Am I the bad one?

You fall asleep
Falling as you weep
You're in a puddle

Cold and broken
Always misspoken
Is this better ?

Never been perfect
But you always work it
Until they throw dirt

And you lie in your puddle
Seeing your struggle
You feel disgraceful

Always so sorry
Wishing my puddle
To be an endless ocean
R Saba Nov 2013
a winding road
and up ahead, a dark expanse
of water
it rained recently, and i'm wearing my boots
and for some reason that puddle is just
too tempting
you know that feeling?
it looks like fun
the damp leaves above my head whisper
go for it, what's the harm?
after all, you've got your boots on

so i step forward, confidence heavy
upon my chilled shoulders
and that is when i realize
just how ******* deep this puddle is
you know that feeling?
it looked like fun
and now the muddy water is spilling
over the tops of my boots
and my feet are swimming
in stale rain
and it sounds stupid, but i feel like i'm drowning
and the dead brown leaves on the rough cement whisper
now you've done it
you're in too deep


and i try to let go of your hand
but something stops me
some casual phrase, a few words
stitched together
and the thread tugs at my skin, saying
what's the problem?
we'll fix you

and i read the words again
realizing just how human everyone is
and feeling excluded
i don't get it
except maybe now i do
and i try to extract my arm
from around your waist
but something stops me

and the crooked bare branches above our heads whisper
now you've done it
you're in too deep

and the water is so ******* cold
gotta love dem rainy-day metaphors
Annelyra May 2013
I see your reflection in a puddle.

Waterbeads leak from
swollen cloud spleens,
broken little droplets
that were torn apart and
dragged from the oceans,
to hurtle and topple
towards the Earth,
thousands of miles
from the origin.
They collectively shiver,
silver and sleek,
in the crevices of the
man-made landscape,
where they become
slowly greyed by fog
and poisoned by smog.
Time goes on. These
innocent little raindrops
become impure, an alloy,
eventually picking up dust
and ***** and shame
as they crawl tiredly
along the city streets,
until settling, cringing,
in a dim little indent
in a concrete universe.

I see your reflection in a puddle.
Isabelle H Graye Aug 2013
A Shallow Puddle
Is how deep you are

Broken Light-blub
Is how bright of a star

Jack of all Trades
Master of none

Claiming Love
Breaking hearts of everyone

You are nothing more
Than a Two Faced *****
Rachel Elizabeth Oct 2012
People ask me why I cut
People say "Why would you do that?"
I'm too young to be this sad
People don't understand
I cut for me, I cut for pain
Emotional pain makes me sick
It is unbearable and all-consuming
Emotional pain in which I wallow
Physical pain is easier
Physical pain is short term
It allows me to Focus
Focus on the thin red line
The drops of blood pooling
I don't have to think at all
Nothing comes into my brain
Nothing but pain signals
No remembrance of ****
Abandonment and abuse
Cutting is my escape, my salvation
I am full of so many demons
When I cut I bleed them out
Each drop of red is a tear I've cried
Many tears and many red droplets
Physical pain overcomes me
Wraps me up in a ****** up blanket
Cutting is my drug, my escape
I am given the chance to numb
The ache in my heart is released
Through the valleys in my arm
Valleys carved into my flesh
Released through the blood
Pooling on the bathroom floor
A puddle of pain and demons
This is a puddle of me, all the
*****, nasty, unlovable, *******
Then there is a moment of bliss
That moment when I numb
Like right before they put you to sleep
The numb feeling of emptiness
I don't think about the demons
The demons in my head, screaming
They are no longer in my brain
They are in the puddle on the floor
No longer inside of me
Gone for a moment but not forever
Pain always comes back
This is why I cut, to quiet the pain
Sofie Louise Sep 2019
I’m not empty.
It’s not that I don’t feel anything.
The exact opposite.

I feel so much.

So much I get desensitized to my own emotions.
They flow around like water in every corner of my body.
Mixing in with my blood until there is no cell untouched.

It used to be a gentle lake.
But now It’s an ocean.
So all I can do is sit here and pretend that I’m a puddle.
Just like everyone else.
Jessica Cain Nov 2013
She pushed,
she pulled,
she fell.

She wrestled with her thoughts as she lay there in a puddle of her misery;
the puddle was clear and smelled of dreams coated in doubt.


[To be continued]
Rachel Elizabeth Oct 2012
People ask me why I cut
People say "Why would you do that?"
I'm too young to be this sad
People don't understand
I cut for me, I cut for pain
Emotional pain makes me sick
It is unbearable and all-consuming
Emotional pain in which I wallow
Physical pain is easier
Physical pain is short term
It allows me to Focus
Focus on the thin red line
The drops of blood pooling
I don't have to think at all
Nothing comes into my brain
Nothing but pain signals
No remembrance of ****
Abandonment and abuse
Cutting is my escape, my salvation
I am full of so many demons
When I cut I bleed them out
Each drop of red is a tear I've cried
Many tears and many red droplets
Physical pain overcomes me
Wraps me up in a ****** up blanket
Cutting is my drug, my escape
I am given the chance to numb
The ache in my heart is released
Through the valleys in my arm
Valleys carved into my flesh
Released through the blood
Pooling on the bathroom floor
A puddle of pain and demons
This is a puddle of me, all the
*****, nasty, unlovable, *******
Then there is a moment of bliss
That moment when I numb
Like right before they put you to sleep
The numb feeling of emptiness
I don't think about the demons
The demons in my head, screaming
They are no longer in my brain
They are in the puddle on the floor
No longer inside of me
Gone for a moment but not forever
Pain always comes back
This is why I cut, to quiet the pain
Jason Drury May 2013
Beyond the ridge
Together we clamber down
The pitch is sharp
With field floral and dust

Sister in forefront
And I far behind
Limping to the tune
Of catching up

My Naked feet scarred
By fierce barbs
The palms bleed
beet red

Gripping the handle
Of a vessel of water
That didn’t escape
Once from its spout

We stop amongst
Sapling timber
As the gold
Lights the terrain

This jaunt is meant for two
It is made before the gold sleeps
A ritual of emotion
Within each of us

Its purpose is to pour
The putrid water
That plagues us
And our thoughts

We are inconsolable
Son and daughter
So we pour each day
Into the puddle

Droplets of memory
Splashes of abuse
Ripples of habit
Spray of deception

Since then
The puddle is no longer
But a vast body of liquid
A lake

Most have been swallowed
Except for a small parcel
Where we rest our feet
Upon the ridge

The flood has taken years
But we hold the ****
And nail it shut
The pressure is there

We can feel it
One of us will have to
break
To release the flow

One of us will have to…


break.........
andy fardell Jan 2015
The colour never changed
and its purpose
Well...who are we to challenge?
The muddy puddle held it's dankness
And I was ready to jump

A place I'd spent my life avoiding
This wet and murky
An avoidance that held no solace
No wanting
And for sure no appeal

The days,weeks and finally the years did pass
As bones became a little older
My mind wandered
Why had I avoided it?
What had made me jump like the sheep for their master?
And so became my question

The very next day
I continued on my walk
The path ...my life
As always the puddle waited for me
Only this time
When I jumped

My aim sharp
As quiver gripped my body
I flew
Higher than ever before
With my head held high and eyes wide shut
The middle of muddy puddle was ready
This place
My unknown

An avalanche of cascading water
Deafened my thoughts
The water was deep
My muddy puddle was playing its role
For not a single drop of water
touched me
I remained the dry

I was scared
Why was I dry?
Dare I open my eyes?

Of course I do

A smile broke out over my face
As my aged eyes took in their view
Such beauty bequeathed me
For the muddle puddle had painted my world

All my greys and blacks now gone
Flowers seen like never before
and a sky of blue so perfect
I could cry
The tears flowed as blurred eyes took in the reality
My life of past had been so colourless
And now
And now I would smile to make a million people smile with me
As I splashed and danced
I began to live
Sahil Suri Mar 2014
Before I begin, allow me to explain,
I too loved.. once,
so think of me not as some cynic-
nor as a master in the ways of love-
but rather as a keen observer-
now, that may mean I have nothing to offer you-
no insider knowledge-
no secrets of love-

But I do  know how to tell a true love story -

Interested?
Fantastic-
So let’s begin,

True love, if there is such a thing at all,
is like the thread that makes the cloth
you can’t tease it out-
you can’t extract meaning-
without ending up deeper in the web-
and it always remains-
hidden under layers -

In the end, that’s all you can really say about any
True love story-
They don’t generalize-
They don’t analyze-
They arent found-
They just… happen.

and that’s what makes them “true.”

But what is this coveted “love” -
the emotion?-
the act?-
the mentality?-

Love, is a constant state of illusionment-

A collective agreement amongst humans-
that it, whatever it may be,  can be treated as an excuse
for recklessness, irrationality, and misplaced strife-  

A quid pro quo  between two individuals-
to agree that they are doing something-
anything-
other than mindlessly drudging through life-

Now that is not to say that what love creates is pointless-
I said before, I have felt the embrace of love
Love festers between individuals for so long
it has no option-
but to mould the physical to itself-
and alter our personalities-

Characterized by spontaneity-
by indulgence-
by risk-
to love is the most dangerous experience in existence-
the act of being fully vulnerable with another-
while promising not to hurt them the same-

Love is characterized by vulnerability-
and the constant fear of being hurt-

So you want to know how to write a true love story?
be honest-
dwell not on the “romantic” blindfolds that keep us irrationally seeking our partners-
dwell not on the on the memories of a love that blossomed-
reveal the core of love -

A true love story comes from gut instinct-
A true love story, comes from experience.
A true love story, if truly told, makes the stomach believe

So I said I loved once,
allow me to elaborate-

I too have felt the “butterfly stomach”
- where the insides of the lovestruck turn on their host and manifests the emotional significance of meeting “the one”

I too have spent the day daydreaming...
-Lost in the thought of “the one”, seeking brief breaks from reality in my mind between moments of  utter normalcy

I too have melted into a puddle of emotion….
-lying next to “the one” as we slowly spill more and more of the secrets that bound us as individuals, joining a spirit much larger than ourselves-

I too have felt... invincible-
-to know that I’ve found something more significant than myself. Something that replaces the fear of the future.. and makes it something to look forward to.

Yes, I too have fallen in love.
and I did just that-
I fell.





..And that is my true love story-
Edit: Thank you everyone. It has meant a lot.
Jessy Mar 2018
crying on the floor
drowning in my tears
a puddle of salt water

cutting open wounds
drowning in my own blood
a puddle of redness

constantly overthinking
drowning in my depression
a puddle of self hatred
Whitney Oct 2017
Everyday I imagine a future where I can be with you
Some things truly are impossible
In my hand is a pen that will write a poem of me and you
Happiness can't exist there

Some things truly are impossible
The ink flows into a dark puddle
Happiness can't exist there
Just move your hand, write your way into his heart!

The ink flows into a dark puddle
Like Quicksand, smothering me
Just move your hand, write your way into his heart
Maybe I can make it out

Like Quicksand, smothering me
But in this world of infinite choices
Maybe I can make it out
what will it take just to find that special day?

But in this world of infinite choices
One choice always results in more choices
What will it take just to find that special day?
When there are no more choices to make

One choice always results in more choices
Have I found everybody a fun assignment to do today?
When there are no more choices to make;
When you're here, everything that we do is fun for them anyways

Have I found everybody a fun assignment to do today?
I don't want to let you guys down
When you're here, everything that we do is fun for them anyways
Nothing I do makes anything better

I don't want to let you guys down.
When I can't even read my own feelings
If I can't make anything better,
What good are words when a smile says it all?

When I can't even read my own feelings
I don't know what to do
What good are words when a smile says it all?
No one else here feels real

I don't know what to do
And if this world won't write me an ending
We're the only two who feel real
What will it take just for me to have it all?

And if this world won't write me an ending
I can write my own ending
What will it take just for me to have it all?
How will I know when I have it all?

I can write my own ending
Does my pen only write bitter words for those who are dear to me?
How will I know when I have it all?
Is it love if I take you, or is it love if I set you free?

Does my pen only write bitter words for those who are dear to me?
This wasn't my intention
Is it love if I take you, or is it love if I set you free?
I just want to love you...

This wasn't my intention
The ink flows down into a dark puddle
I just want to love you,
How can I write love into reality?

The ink flows down into a dark puddle
I succumb to it
How can I write love into reality?
I can only give you mine

I succumb to it
If I can't hear the sound of your heartbeat
I can only give you mine
What do you call love in your reality?

If I can't hear the sound of your heartbeat
How am I sure you are real?
What do you call love in your reality?
How do I know love is real?

I'm sure that you are real;
And in your reality, if I don't know how to love you
I know love is real;
I'll leave you be.

And in your reality, if I don't know how to love you
Everyday I'll imagine a future where I can be with you
I'll leave you be
Though my hand will hold a pen that will write a poem of me and
     you

— The End —