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liz Mar 2018
rainstorms steep
like tea leaves in boiling water
the clouds growing fat on
electricity and water vapour until
they can no longer expand
and the fragrance explodes
amorphous and yet
harsh, driving shards of
H₂O through the warmth
of sweaters stuffed by
bodies nourished
by the rain not as
gentle as scented steam
from a cup of steeped leaves
but just as incensed
was told to write about storms, and of course, I wrote about tea instead. but it turned out okay.
Hannah Bauer Jul 2015
When we see dark clouds,
we think the storm is beautiful.
We sit in our homes
and listen to the rain
soaking into the ground.
We go outside
and dance.

Sometimes there is destruction.
Sometimes there is chaos.
But there is still rain
And with rain,
the flowers and trees
are able to grow.

They become stronger.

Are not humans the same?
We see rainstorms and we see beauty.
Why is it that when we see
the storms of life,
we see only
Only pain.

*Even though the storm is painful,
we grow like nature.
SG Holter May 2015
Cover your nerves.
Stop picking at scars to
Make them wounds again,

Healing is the super in
Dry your tears when looking

Back; you'll see yesterday more
Bitterness is darkness to

The blind, grenade shrapnel
In the body of a brave one now

Stand up and smile at the light;
There are many enough who bask in
The blackness of their history.  

You've fought.
Cried rainstorms and tidal waves,

Run your hands across the view of Heaven
From the bellies of Hell shivering.
It takes courage to fall,

Grace to fly.
So fly.
It's as easy as trying.
And as I lie in bed,
Staring at the ceiling above me,
The rise and fall of my chest
Reminding me that I am alive,
Listening to the rain,
Landing on the roof,
The sky assures me that
There is nothing wrong
With having a good cry.
lonely nights and a steady rain
The rain drums down like red ants,
each bouncing off my window.
The ants are in great pain
and they cry out as they hit
as if their little legs were only
stitche don and their heads pasted.
And oh they bring to mind the grave,
so humble, so willing to be beat upon
with its awful lettering and
the body lying underneath
without an umbrella.
Depression is boring, I think
and I would do better to make
some soup and light up the cave.
mark john junor Jul 2014
in her devilishly shy
is a wild
lips of crimson creams
eyes deep waters blue

candlelight breathes promise into her warmth
the way she holds me tells me shes mine
but moonlight dances with her beauty
without her night would seem so vain

evenings magic at her fingertips
and with its she paints such pretty pictures
dancefloor with a sea of stars
a beach with the gentle sea
meadows with summer sun
such pretty things
are just a happiness that she finds in rainstorms
are just a beauty of living that she finds in my arms
safe and warm
in her devilishly shy
she is a wild

lips of crimson creams just for me
skin willin' and soft neath my hand
and the way she holds me tells me she is mine
in her devilishly shy
i see the naughty girl smiling
and i want to take her right there
in a wild way
Ayaba Babe Dec 2012
My teeth
Strolling along the beach of your lower lip
Swimming in saliva waves,
I swim to you
Like Baywatch
Watching you
Is like announcing a severe weather alert
Urgently advising to take shelter
There's a storm on the horizon.
Clouds accumulating in your eyes
Precipitation down pouring between my thighs

those eyes

When clouds collide
The thunder transforms me.
My rib cage shatters.
Claws secured around your head
Fingers knotted in your dreads
Dragging you down, down
I want you to drown
I want you to struggle
To scream out in vain-
Your lips caress each syllable of my name
Like lightening.
Like lightening
The sunshine in your smile reminds me that
Naturally, the skys are blue
Meteorology eyes
Do you wonder too,
If the forecast will always be sunny?
Megan Aug 2014
Thunderclaps and lightning bolts
make the symphony of the night.

Tonight they play "3 o'Clock Rain,"
orchestrated by God himself.

All the stars sit in their balcony seats,
adorned in their dazzling regalia.

The moon man but peaks from behind his cloud curtain,
too shy to show his face to the earthly audience.

It is nature's lithe rolls and soft rumbling
that sing me to sleep tonight.
Midnight thunderstorms always calm me.
rainstorms fiercely bulge the waves
toss honeysuckle and bougainvilleas
blow their blossoms high
towards the rainbow
that in sunny moments
sparkles over volcanic hills
Reece Aug 2014

The road flies past underneath the tires of the car
and there's a hazy blur as the trees fly by
as fast as the regrets flitting across her mind
like so many white lines falling beneath the left wheels

She's never been to Chicago alone before
Yet she's felt alone in so many places
It was time for a new environment and new faces
and to drink greedily from Illinois skies

She plans to drink more air than alcohol for once
To be drunken in lust or contentment at a push
To feel and experience fully without substance
To be intoxicated on some profound emotion

She pulls up to the curb and kills the engine
so that time ceases to exist
Heart pounding, mouth dry, she steps onto the hot pavement
Every movement magnified in a Midwest summer meeting

Her ankles wobble over 3-inch heels with each step
stumbling like so many times before, but different this time
She takes a deep breath of her new-found independence
and takes the first steps into the welcoming light of the sun


It's funny how philosophical eyes can interpret the mundane
Every step an existential crisis under the surface
But even so, the days continue to come and go
as sure as the sun, blocked by clouds occasionally, but still there
like figures in the city, obscured by passing buses
You slash tires and try to blow the clouds away
because even big bad wolves run out of breath
A collaborative poem in two parts
written with
during a family road trip
on August 6, 2014
xoK Apr 2014
Why do the worms fiercely dig their way to the surface
During rainstorms
As though they're afraid to miss the spectacle?
Don't they know they will end up drowning
In pools of chilled sky-tears
And get stomped by careless and hurried feet?
Strewn across drenched brick and concrete walkways,
Yet each somehow alone in his own conquest.
Like the moth to the flame
And my eye to the sun.
lonely, soggy worms.
Janette Sep 2012
Hush, my heart, for something is done...

Watch for the night
to lay our vows
over the wild parable of gardens
and over the wet lessons of the moon,
that give us prophecy in whispers
of dream, elope, and leave,
the absence of still rooms,
soothing, the svelte lips
descending upon my neck
in the seance of evening,
you soak calla lilies
of our red earth oils
and ***,
and with them
draw me a nuptial bath,

unbind the taupe soles
I have kept with the grace
of a concubine, sold
into the dark alcoves,
beyond the value of reticence,
you find me in rainstorms,
and wrap me in the flesh

and fabric of your hands,
behind silk walls,
with the ardour of Rapunzel's deliverance,
let down over the clavicles,
as fists unclench
in their exhaustion,

baby roses quiver this night, I keep
in pecan skin and votive eyes,
dip the Fahrenheit of your glance,
as it strays over my lips, your tongue
whips of mustard weeds,
seed your voice, sinks
into the garden's cleavage

as its lit pink tapers
spill their desperate midnights
and abandoned mornings,

ache under the arthritic, thick cedar
addictions to the milkflower
of a presence painted in clay glyphs,
stay the sinew and ******
of my body, a madrigal
upon our Indian Summer bed,

bled in a chorus of cicadas....

let the hymn be heard
over all these broken vows
and shattered pledges, speak
from the ruined marriage of flesh,
as I kneel in our earth,
in the sere, and seek in myself
that measure of peace, I know
is not there, without you,

to writhe in the throes
of exquisite anguish,

I give

my mouth in dream,
between your thighs
where the river runs fierce,
under the lithe sapling root
of my tongue, as it runs
the swift currents
and golden eddies
of inebriate skin, puckers
over the Inulin of the ****
and begins its swelling,
down the trellis of bones,
and the ******* of limbs
beneath the black monsoon
of the soul, as it perishes

in the engorged maw
of the split body, blades
of shoulders, soaked in the myrrh
of our rapture, fading
lifelines engraved on the back
of the hand you hold soft,
against me,

as my throat buries its moan
swallowed by your own, for solely
in you is it silenced, quelled
by the swells of song
you reign in the jugular
and soothe, a balm
for all my body, burning

its defiance, taken
to the limits of this,
our savage garden,
in the pilgrimage
to such lavish boundaries,
held abeyant, the cadence
of candles and solemn vows
sound the rhythm of our slow deaths,
writ in the lush psalm of the handsome earth,

our love, engulfed
in the wells of a sole desire,
I give you this,
my body's silkwhite harvest of faith,
driven fast with nails

into the exquisite wrists of the Christflesh,
shivering under the furtive delirium
of these, our fevers,
severed from body to body: twain,
that is now one ardent sorrow of flesh,
this is my body,
this is my blood,

I have given,
vows to bind our words, my love,
to the vigilance of night, that lives
and dies with the fall and rise of you breath,
one muslin depth,
relinquished to the white earth,
over an eternity of deliverance...
Riley Schatz Sep 2015
when i see you i see zinnias
your hair and your eyes and your rosy cheeks
grow tall and strong and flourish
and know that rainstorms will only make you stronger

i feel like Thumbelina
taking shelter under your leaf-umbrella
and watering you with my tears
in turn i will take care of you when you wilt
and shed many a tear-petal if you need to
(because it’s okay to be sad)

when i see you i see zinnias
your words and your smile and your lovely voice
grow tall and strong and flourish
and know that rainstorms will only make you stronger
a poem i wrote for a lovely friend
Jules May 2016
on days like this it seems
there is not much to write about.
my mind blurs most things over
and I have become used to nothing happening to me.

my heart is a reckless thing;
it either pounds itself against my ribcage,
haphazard, rushing, angry,
or beats too quietly,
a noiseless bleat, a silence.

on days like this I wonder
‘what exactly might be the point of me?’
and it is never a question I can answer.
(I leave even most poems unfinished.)

on days like this my body aches
like a tired machine, rusted out far too early,
far too quick,
and it begs me for sleep.

but for a day like this one—
for this one I breathe through it,
breathe deep and long and clean,
and declare for no one but myself that it will be enough.
it is not so unsurvivable.

on a day like this one I sit back,
listen to the rain hammer itself upon the streets,
listen to the thunder scream just outside my window,
watch the lightning try to be its own sun.

I breathe in and exhale hard.
even now I do not know what to write about.
but what does it matter.

I convince myself that this—
it is not so hard.
not so unsurvivable.

I check for my heartbeat, and it is quiet—
but it is constant.
it is there.
who exactly am i?
Kyle John Somer Oct 2012
Darlin’, they say you’ve got knives swimming through your heart beats.
That the blood flowing from your pin pricked fingertips to your mumbled fear lips
is dressed up angry, in bayonet holding coats of arms.
That your tiger tooth saber shaped blood is dragging its hands down your veins
slowly scratching in dates down walls of young membrane tombstones
shooting firing squad lines of pain as your body tears itself apart.
They’re saying that its only going to get worse from here.
With your pinstriped POW nerves vibrating like skyscrapers
as each pulse bleeds through you like a ten on the richter.

Darlin’  I’m dying to see you smile, but the washington rain is drowning you
and you're losing time for existing.
Shivering in that hospital bed as icicle cells freeze you to the bone.
You used to light up a room with all your bright sunflower laughter
but now your hands are cold like sad glaciers
pushing your shoulderblades under icy water
and all that seems to come out of your lips
are hospital bed nightmares and fluorescent smoke wishes.
Every morning your black coffee eyes brew up tears
they rain for hours.
but crying isn't dowsing this wildfire.
You’re trying to stay on your feet, but your ankle deep in gasoline.
Your breath is like a pendulum time keeper.
The white blood cell count like a stop watch for the grim reaper.
And you watch, eyes stinging, as you burn up from the inside out.
Temperature climbing mountains. Breaking ozones.
But they say you're on the decline.

Darlin’ I know they say you have bad blood.
They say that your heart won't gone on beating for a long time
and at night you cough up blood on your pillow creating a universe of helio constellations
but they don't know how hard you try.
I know right now london feels like its falling
Everything does.
Its ashes and ashes.
But like a pilot light supernova things can change.
Lets grab up fistfulls and fistfulls of ash in our shaking hands
and put them together
and let the weight of the world turn them to diamonds
and we can push them inside our nimble rib cages
and live a little bit longer


Can you hear me?

They asked me to speak at your funeral.
I talked about our weekend in the mountains
and how your laugh would bounce off the canyons in such beautiful frequencies.
I talked about how I met you
how my heart wouldn't stop feeling like avalanche symphonies.
And how you turned scarlet when I asked you your name.
I talked about your family, our friends,
how we would look at the stars for hours without letting our eyes breathe
because you thought the world of space.
I talked about your yellow rain boots and how you would always track the wilderness inside with you.
I talked about your fear of trains and thunderclaps and how in rainstorms you would curl up next to me and shake like an earthquake but you knew your were safe.

I talked about how much I loved you.
It started raining, I started breaking down.
And I talked about how hard you tried.

Darlin' they said you had bad blood.
That if we would have caught it sooner we could have saved you.

Darlin' I wish we had had more time.
I could have written you so many love letters.
Darlin' I wish we had had more time.

Death stole you away.

And signed your fate with a sickle cell pen of red ink.
Kimberly Weber Apr 2015
What felt like rain was really earth's tears of sorrow
Basko Jan 2014
Dorsovertical is what my head is in,
contradicted to each other like
the ocean between us
But you cheer me up
being the beautiful soul
you are.

I dont see how the the
rainstorms in the New World are,
but i sure know if its
your eyes that see it, then
its all beautiful

We went walking in the rain, the sun
grass, mud and gravel rocks and sometimes
But in that fog of the morning here
and that of the mid day there
We're lost to be found everyday
im glad we still talk

I know you dont like to be written about
by me, at least
please know though that i need
you to stay, so slowly the
melancholy of the day disappears
I need you to stay, in my words
Ameliorate Jul 2015
Manitoban Skies

Clouds are the mountains of the prairies
Towering cumulonimbus masses
Incredible backdrops across an otherwise plain blue sky
Warning call that rainstorms may approach
Vertical reminders of atmospheric instability
Jetted upwards into vast formations stretching miles and miles
Promises of unrelenting lighting and thunder
Cinematic sequences is country folk are lucky to view
Humidity in the summer, ah
What would we do without you?
Rolling clouds are a fair trade for the lack of rolling hills
Clouds are the mountains of the prairies.
Garrett Glenn Feb 2010
though skys manipulate woman
white winter wind drives ships beneath the gorgeous sun
lazy and smooth spring floods shine partly in luscious gardens
worshiping the Goddess is a dream
black forests spray weak frantic pictures on the moon
less delicate symphony's of whispers scream you and i together
delirious we smear your chocolate hair and honey skin
mad & drunk with love they beat time in a still summer
their music like rainstorms chain life & death in a shadowy eternity
what I want is to swim your void of sweet milk
leave you running atop mist and water sleeping by me
we sing chants by tongue painting a vision of true love
moan this essential language
in our bed sweat away all aching and sadness
cool light soars from blue petal to pink rose
these raw elaborate moments crush & shake most
up boy
go girl
under bare feet power beauty
As the title stats...I crafted this using a collection of fridge magnets over the course of four drunken nights visiting a Navy friend in Virgina Beach, VA with my twin brother.
Black and Blue Apr 2014
A wise man once told me that all people are like precious metals.
He told me this in different words than I will use, but I took this to heart.

We are mined from ***** places; these miners see the value that lies beneath our harsh surface.
We are plucked from our resting places, sent to great, large cities where we will be put over fire to burn out our impurities. 

We will go through pain and fire.
We will melt and be tortured.
We will cry and scream and we will suffer.
All of our repulsive imperfections will float to the top while this is happening.
To purify gold, it must be melted.
To purify silver, it must be melted. 

It must be melted and the rough **** that exists within and without these bits of precious metal must float to the top to be extracted. 
Sometimes, this process must happen multiple times.
Sometimes, we must use chemicals and medicines to make sure it happens properly.
To purify us, we must be melted.

These are our trials in life.
This fire represents our hardships.
This fire represents every life change that we don't want to happen, but must pull through.
This fire represents each truth that we don’t want to know, but have to accept.
This fire represents each person that walks in and out of our lives like rainstorms, pouring for hours and moments before disappearing on the wind, never to be seen again.
This fire represents each night we must spend alone, crying for someone to save us.
This fire is us.
This fire is self-preservation.
This fire doesn't last.
And after the fire is over, and our imperfections are drawn away from us, we are perfect.

Of course no one is ever perfect, but no metal is ever completely perfect; everything that glitters is not gold.

After the fire has died, and we have been poured into new molds, into new people, we are stronger.
With our disfigurements gone, our molecules bond tighter to form a stronger metal.
With our faults gone, we sparkle and shine for the world to see.

After we have been pulled from the ground, after the fire has died, after we have come out as stronger, prettier people, there is still a chance for staining. 
We may scuff and stain, we may grow new impurities, but then we must suffer fire again.

It is an ongoing process.
We are never perfected.
We are ever changing, yet we are solid as metal. 

A wise man once told me that I resembled gold, that everyone around me resembled gold. He once explained this to me in such a way that it changed my mind about hardship.
I now meet it with open arms.
If I couldn’t handle the fire, it wouldn’t burn for me.

A wise man once told me that eventually, when the fire was extinguished, I would be a stronger person.
A wise man once explained to me that I am not alone, that everyone must hurt to get stronger, and that I will emerge from the fire.
This man changed my life, and I hope that maybe I can change someone else’s life.
That maybe I can help scrape the imperfections from someone’s boiling surface. 

That maybe I can help myself become purer, by purifying some other gold or silver.

After all, at the end of the day, a wise man once told me we are all like precious metals:
We are all gold.
David Barr Dec 2013
Parental affiliations shroud the perimeters of sociological desperation. Like a gorgeous eye which cries in Gaelic rainstorms. Feel the texture of bracken, as she scrapes her tangible beauty against your pale and excited skin. But hold your breath, my ever-connected member of covenantal being. Do not let go of the tantric touch of spatial awareness.
kylie May 2014
pisces:** you paint the ocean on your eyelids so that when there are tears streaming down your face at 3:15 in the morning, it doesn't feel like you're crying and you feel like a monster because nobody likes the taste of salt water, but what you're forgetting is that salt helps heal wounds

aquarius: you don't wear sunscreen when you're drinking lemonade outside in the middle of an indian summer because you want to show people that you don't have a care in the world, but it's hard for anyone to see anything when you've constructed a barricade of repressed memories and locked yourself inside a closet full of skeletons

capricorn: "i like holding your hands because they're warm," he tells you, but what happens when they're not? you want to peel back the layers of his skin until you see his lungs moving beneath his ribcage and you want to know if he can hold his breath for as long as atlas held the earth (maybe his lungs can hold your hands when he won't want to)

sagittarius: you get drunk off of cheap thrills and doing eighty-five down backroads while everyone else is asleep, but when it comes to letting people get close to you, you still need someone to hold your hand (maybe you can't trust yourself to trust others)

scorpio: you're telling him to kiss your neck when you really want him to kiss your mind, but you're so torn between being passionate and being psychological that maybe you don't know the difference

libra: according to others, you are the one who's supposed to be balanced and content, but right now you are struggling and you can't tell the difference between a love letter and a suicide note (it was hard for me to write this) (i love you a lot) (i'm sorry, baby)

virgo: you wear more makeup than necessary when you go out and you only wear black pants because they make your legs look smaller, but i want you to remember that you are a flower that was born in the midst of a drought and plucking your own petals until there's nothing left would be a real disappointment

leo: your hands are at your own throat because you are too generous and you have been taken for granted one too many times (ask your mother for advice and she will tell you to stop ripping yourself apart just to keep others whole)

cancer: there are rainstorms in your tear ducts and butterflies in your stomach and sometimes you feel like the earth will shatter beneath the gentle touch of your fingertips, but when you realize that nobody knows how to feel the way that you know how to feel, think of it as a good thing

gemini: you believe that soulmates are supposed to be your other half, but you should also consider that soulmates could be those who help you find the pieces you were looking for in others in yourself (patience — you will find yours soon)

taurus: you do things that you shouldn't do and you kiss boys that you shouldn't kiss and your shameless flirting with self destruction won't be ending any time soon (you let others love you to the point where you are too stubborn to love yourself)

aries: you light fires just to see how quickly you can put them out and you are always three steps ahead of the person next to you and sometimes you start fights just to see how long it takes for you to come out on top, but everyone can see that you would never hold someone else's heart just to have the opportunity to drop it
- astrology fascinates me and i haven't written in forever
- this poem was the inspiration for libra

He smelt like smoke
as he leaned away from me,
texting himself with my phone.

We left the campfire outside,
in our shoes by the door
our socks overlapped in a tangle of limbs.

In that leftover guest room,
on the bottom bunk of the microwaved bed,
I remembered why I thought I knew what love was.

He was tired and needed a nap,
I was restless and cold.
Trapped inside because of violent temperate rainstorms.

This boy owed me stubbed toes,
thorn ****** through my jeans,
nicknames and rubber soles.

This was the boy who had always smelt of smoke,
who knocked over dead trees for me,
who lied about being able to rock climb.

This was the boy who went swimming in the ocean
before summer had properly began
when it was still much too chilly.

I taught him a new card game,
he beat me at badminton.
We played capture the flag and threw pinecones.

We sold cookies on the side of the road,
ate dusty blackberries,
traded innuendos and bad jokes.

This was sea-urchin boy,
slug boy,
the boy with the bird's nest hair.

This boy grew taller,
dropped his voice like a used bus pass,
looked past the top of my head.

He laughed when i stepped in a mud puddle,
dared me to walk in bare feet.
This boy suddenly went mountain biking.

I talked extra loud, in hopes that he would overhear me,
offered him rootbeer straight from the can.
Ate pretzels and learned to read his mind.

We shared our childhoods like penny candies,
switching all the peach ones for strawberry.
we agreed these are the best years of our lives.

He layed beside me, underneath as many covers as we could find,
taking up too much space and he knew it.
my cartoon boy.

My hand-drawn boy,
With smoke coming out of his ears
moved away.

We didn't talk again
Dorothy A Oct 2011
Objective and Subjective decided to hang out together at the park one day, to get to know each other and to try to become friends. Soaking up the views, and watching the people go by, they just sat and relaxed on a park bench.

Subjective broke the ice, first, and said to Objective:

It is getting a bit nippy outside isn't it? I forgot to bring my sweater with me.

Objective replied:

The daytime high will reach 67 degrees with a NW winds of 12 mph. Humidity is 68%. The weather is forcasted today for a 20% chance of rain, but it is not due until evening.

Subjective replied:

Yes, that is good to know...I guess. Now I know why I am cold. Hey, look over there on the right! Check out those roses! Boy oh boy! Did they ever come up colorful this year! I am getting a good whiff of them right now. Don't they smell like heaven?

Objective replied:  

I have never been to heaven, so I can not give you an accurate report. Roses, though, come from a thorn bearing shrub that typically produce fragrant flowers of various colors. Roses are native to north temperate regions. They are widely cultivated for unpractical reasons such as objects of adornment.

Subjective gave Objective a good sidelong glance like, Are you for real? There was a long period of silence as both appeared awkward in each other's company.

Subjective finally broke the silence and said:

The birds are really chirping up a storm today! Oh, I don't mind at all! They sure tweet nice and sweet! But these pigeons I can do without! I don't want them around me! You know what they say, don't you? Pigeons are just rats with wings!

Objective replied:

Actually, rainstorms are not caused by chirping of birds. Rain is produced when water is condensed into clouds from the water evaporation of oceans, lakes and rivers when the heat of the sun activates the process.  Furthermore, there is no such thing as a flying rodent. Even flying squirrels don't actually fly. Birds and rodents are two separate species that cannot produce offspring. Therefore, a rat with wings would be impossible.

Subjective was now beginning to get red in the face. Maybe this was a bad idea hanging out with Objective, after all. Could he really learn to understand him by getting to know him?

Both Objective and Subjective's attention was soon diverted by a tall, slender woman with blonde hair walking by. She now became the center of their focus. Wearing a form fitting blue dress, that came well above the knees, her shapely. long legs were quite appearant as she walked along in 5 inch, spiked heels.
Eagerly, Subjective whistled and said:

Wow! Would you get a look at her? What a knockout! Hey, Objective, I think you just saw heaven, after all!

Objective shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly and replied:

Beauty is said to be in the eye of the beholder. Back in history, it was the full figured woman who was upheld as a virtue of beauty. Her size represented a desired lifestyle of affluence. For example, in the Classical period of art, as well as the Rennaissance and Baroque periods, it was the more voluptuous female that was often the subject of an artist's rendering.

Now Subjective was really ready to blow smoke through his ears, like his blood pressure was going to go through the roof.  No way could he take this for much longer!

He replied:  

That's it! I tried! I did! I really did! But you know what? You are the most annoying being on the planet!

Objective looked stunned at Subjective's outburst of anger. So Subjective continued on in his verbal lashing.

He yelled out:

Yeah, you, Objective! You just don't get it, do you? You really get on my nerves! I can't stand being around you! It is so infuriating!

Objective was at a loss for word. He attempted to utter a reply but could not.    

Subjective added:

I got to get out of here before you drive me crazy! What are you anyway? A walking encyclopedia? A walking dictionary? For the love of Pete, talk like you're normal!!!

As Subjective was ready to storm off Objective meekly replied:

Inanimate objects, such as encyclopedias and dictionaries, cannot realistically have body limbs, nor can they function as living organisms....unless, of course, they are presentated in imaginery situations, such as cartoon figures in cinema, television, comic strips, or storybooks. Also,  I must tell you that I personally don't know anyone named Pete.......

Furious, Subjective got up and stomped off, muttering complaints to himself all the way down the street, leaving Objective sitting on the park bench, by himself. There Objective remained, wondering what he did that was so wrong.

THE MORAL of my LAME story is..........................

Tara Sep 2018
Physically I live here
My veins weave through the house
My limbs dig into the sheets
My voice lingers through each room,
yet I barely feel my own presence

Spiritually I’m on another planet
My heart races with the stars
My soul showers in rainstorms
My eyes dance with galaxies,
but my mind wimpers for a better tomorrow

It’s a choice,
to stay in my own head,
I’ve found solace in my daydreams
discovered a world beyond mine,
but I can never stay there for too long

I get lost in the thought of another life,
because I can’t seem to come to peace with mine
I climb the tallest trees
Just to get close to the sky,
so maybe I could spread my wings and fly
Chris Voss Mar 2011
Katherine writes songs about wheat fields and her father’s blisters
From the four-by-six closet beneath the staircase.
Aaron doesn’t write anymore.

Katherine draws music notes to record
The tune of footsteps and creaking oak,
While Aaron feels the rough grain of maple window frames
And avoids his reflection in the double-paned glass.

Katherine holds tight to her pen
Like a man who’s lived a good life holds on to his final breath.
Aaron, he never found it that hard to exhale.

Katherine knows love like she knows the Sun,
While Aaron, who once flew wax-winged,
Stopped studying mythology
And found trust in extinguished light bulbs.

Katherine draws stick figures in the collected dust
Of cracked-cloth book covers
And embraces every particle that kisses her fingerprint.
Aaron wears black leather gloves
Like a desensitizing second-skin.
But they both close their eyes
When the wind brushes their cheeks.

When Katherine cries it’s wet and sloppy
And when it’s over she usually giggles
At the feeling of being human.
Aaron’s eyes are desert moons;
If he believed in a god he’d pray for rainstorms,
But instead he picks tumble weeds from his teeth
With the ribcage he found when the vultures were through.

Katherine webs outlines with plot twists and foreshadows
While Aaron knows some stories
Are made up as they’re written.

Katherine collects crushed asphalt from both sides of divided highways
And mixes it with ****** wax to varnish her innocence.
Aaron drives the back-roads and keeps one eye on the rearview mirror.
He finds solace in sharp turns.

Tonight, Katherine curls her toes as she writes a song about
loving up until your very last breath
And caresses her lips.
Aaron chews on his and slides open the window.
They both recall the taste of someone else’s skin from the salt in the air.
Katherine’s candle flickers and pops when she moves
Her hand through the light to cast stories on the wall.
Aaron crawls down the shadowed side of hallways
And feels the grey grow in his hair as he starts up the staircase.

Step by step by step by
each breath is
step by step
loved a little bit less
An all but silent cacophony of creaking oak.

Katherine etches a treble clef but her pupils dilate
When she senses the unfamiliar feeling of a second heartbeat.
With stitched silk stockings
she tip-toes up the same song.
Aaron hears music for the first time in so long
And turns to see where goose bumps come from.

Katherine crescendos at the top of the stairs and
Stares into two full, bright desert moons.
Aaron finds it hard to let go of the breath it takes to say,
“Don’t be afraid.”
Katherine tumbles like fingers down piano keys,
But for a split-second in the moment their eyes met
They both forgot the weight of loneliness.
C. Voss (2010)
Daniel Mashburn Sep 2014
Ever since you told me
"I've been losing sleep"
I just want you to know
I've prayed for rainstorms twice a week

And I know you never listen
And I know you won't care
And I know you don't believe in love
And probably never will

I know you never listen
Please tell me that you're listening
I've loved you just enough for this to end up in a tragedy.

But I can't help but wonder
If there's anything else there
Besides a girl with a broken heart
And a head full of despair

And if she wants someone to save her
If she wants someone to care
Then she can always come to me
Cause I'll always be there
I always knew I was made of stone,
hardened and scarred by the weather
But with the very weather that tarnished the surface,
The slow erosion is made visible with patience.
These rainstorms eroded and shaped me,
Stripped me down bare and brought an evolution.
Somewhere between the thunder and lightning of the mattress
And the downpour of our hands intertwined
And the gale-force winds of the miles between us,
I cracked.
CharlesC Aug 2013
a withdrawal
cycle of life..
cycling since
primordial times..
afternoon rainstorms
that rain from
earthly stimulation
now her flow
interrupted impure..
is now time
for fracturing
or for
joining and
prompted by article
Kabbalah and Fracking Don't Mix
Rabbi David Seidenberg
angele Feb 2019
she told me my writing is sad
too depressing to read
why don't i just write about happy things?

she said i write as though it's always raining outside
and i told her when it rains
it pours

and when the sun and rainbows are out
there is nothing left of my shattered soul to pour

until another rainstorm.
katie Feb 2016
last night the world slipped in
quietly through my window;
police sirens, car alarms,
church bells, rainstorms
collecting in a pool
on my bedroom floor,
coffee cups clinked and
kettles boiled,
babies were born and
ashes were thrown
and though I was tired
I stayed up all night listening;
the collective madness
of the world
lulled me back to sleep
and i woke with its bitter
sweet taste on my tongue;
craving more.
Hayleigh May 2014
There are a million and one,
rainstorms, tucked neatly into those tearducts
enveloped in those beautiful eyes of yours,
didn't anyone ever tell you, love,
its okay to cry.
So let those rainstorms fall,
lace your cheeks and tumble gently over your pursed lips.
There's beauty in the break down,
There's beauty in this,
Moment of vulnerability,
And there will be clarity,
Once your storms have been exhausted,
And the sun will rise again,
In those eyes.
So darling sit and pull yourself close,
Let those liquid droplets,
Drown you in your clothes,
For i promise you will float.
Pull your knees in tight,
Cuddle up in your own embrace,
And allow those weighty storms,
To trickle down your face.
Feel free to whimper and maybe ask why,
Sweetheart, its perfectly okay to be hurt, be vulnerable, to cry.
Arya Night Mar 25
Beware of the girl who like rainstorms
The girl who’s thought are only
Quieted by the roll of thunder
The girl who find peace in
Deafening noise
The girls who’s eyes trap
lighting and keep it as her own.
The girl who laughs while
the heavens tremble
Beware of the girl who likes rainstorms
Because she feels at home in the storm
And find power in the chaos
I’ve always love listening to thunder storms. It’s help me whenever I feel powerless.
CH Gorrie Nov 2012
for Barton Smock

to see the flooding lake I crawl
through the thicket

I imagined
being the devil’s
as a child

a lake
I first called
       *blue prison

but now

after swimming
lessons grandmother

squatting arsonists occupy
the town’s church

during weeknights
I am one of four who knows

When it burns
I'll steal the stoup

I dream rarely and only in naps


I try restraining
fantasies of
faceless women

rainstorms brake
the lake’s edges,
muddy the bankside flowers,
leave the canal sullied

looking on, I
Alisha Mcleod Nov 2015
I know nothing of calm here
I worship entropy in the dark-
and everyone knows i'm full of it

full of missing you
and your bittersweet smile
and im so into it

full of bones aching and shaking during the night and
intensely adoring you
so intense that
my hands shake whenever i try to hole someone else
with fear of loving another

even the skies know it
they pour and pour
but nothing, nothing at all
beats the feeling of missing you and adoring you both so fiercely
so saturated with our rainstorms
that i wonder how we haven't drowned out yet

I guess thats what missing you felt like-
a storm that could hold it all

lil poem from a while back
Robert Zanfad Apr 2013
he took my last quarter and dime,
pocket lint, the missing *****
of something I’d meant to reassemble
if I’d remembered or had time

then wandered off
rubbing shoulders with the sidewalk preacher
searching for signs of end times in rainstorms
or faint rumbles of passing traffic,
holding high his Good News
in a half-folded forecast for tomorrow;

this exodus -
across a patch of crabgrass
following a diagonal path of earth foot-worn
into a thin gray line defining the shortest distance
from his concrete corner to the door of the liquor store
justified a sacrifice of hours, the cold lies told:

lost wallet,
old mother,
car just out of gas

practiced to passersby or filling station patrons,
their rumpled tithes
reborn into an afternoon sermon
wrapped tight in brown paper
still warm with silent echoes of amen

— The End —