"reattach" poems
The inescapable thought that forever meant till death.
The indefinite idea that two souls separated at form,
were awaiting to meet each other again and reattach in passing.
The aching realization slowly started to settle in.
Forever wasn't till death do us part.
Forever was the love that remained when two beings had been separated.
The idea and thought of the memory of love, lust and friendship were the only traits that would endure after passing.
But they move on.
Creating another forever that too will be cherished until death do they part.
A small forever was all that we needed,
to find a serene place where we felt like we belonged.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 4:48 PM UTC
I'm just a man.
I think things can be fixed.
My first aid kit contains
Super glue and duct tape.
Any box is a tool box to me;
I'll always look for the right
***** to reattach your self-
Esteem; the right clamps to hold
Your good days together. When
You cry, I want to open you up
Gently, lay out all your parts and
Find the leaking gasket.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 3:51 AM UTC
Your canvas backpack
carries books and
stories too heavy.
It is stained with
ink and coffee,
you're not sure how.
You toss is on the ground
and look for it
when it's under your bed.
You reattach it to
your shoulders
and the straps whine.
Let someone else carry it.
Just for a bit.
Just for a bit.
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 10:48 AM UTC
The thumping and darkness in the bowels of Irene
sit lugubriously on the edge of serenity
the pounding and the tears through all these years
languishing in turpitude and solace from her knowledge
unceremoniously, recklessly and without feeling
while listening to her tongue lashing and
harshness of her venomous and thoughtless words
cracking like a whip, “do you think I’m an idiot”
Not once but twice while searching through black clouds
of disappointment and destitution … no rhyme…no reason.
All due to confusing north from south and east from west
reality from fantasy as we all feel the sound of her thunder
Irene crashes on and above the banks of New Haven,
Guilford, Fairfield and the Housatonic
lapping and licking at the shores while throwing
her magnificent weight in her favor, and the swells explode
the question, “how can she possibly know the children”
Even though downgraded and ebbing
the uneven strength and fortitude asks the question
and all my determination fades in the wind.
Trees weakened as we begin to dig out and explore
power lines and internet down, hampering communication
flooded streets and nervous bridges impeached
yet Irene serves notice with an ace of her own
dressed in her sheer-like vest and turquoise ring
her hazel eye filled with scorn and distain
while brightness and candor follow her path
with her feline temperament scratched and clawed
the tears begin to taper amidst her howling breath.
Irene begins to move northward stoically away from me.
I’m not a victim so I pick what remains of my heart
and begin to reattach my churning stomach
with the threads of her words of disbelief
bringing the force she was most capable of exerting
as the storm continues her long, unforgiven journey
hatred and disdain replaced by disinterest and apathy
as the breath disappears, the light becomes brighter
and Hurricane Irene decides to leave Connecticut
impact in place, on the broken bows of the sturdy trees
perhaps she was right, after all was said and done.
Sep 11, 2011
Sep 11, 2011 at 2:43 PM UTC
From the age of 7 to yesterday
I wanted to be a magician
I wanted to saw people in half
And make friends with tigers
I wanted so badly
To own the smoke and mirrors
That distorted the world in front of me
It was in my blood
This house was built on rigged floorboards
I can fall from any height when the rug is pulled
And land safely
I am practiced in
Slight of hand
And slight of tongue
My voice is a distraction
Only convincing because of the
Way it builds
Causing whoever is listening
To expect something magical to happen
Hocus Pocus
It really is magic to think that time and time
Again
You’ll listen
And believe me
There is nothing up my sleeve
I am still trying to find stitches
Big enough to reattach the parts of you
I sawed away
And hammers big enough to smash the mirrors I used
To lie about the way we look when we’re together
And the smoke
So much smoke building
Like a fire that was never meant to be put out
There is a fire escape
Right behind the trap door
To this whole thing
You know my tricks
You know all my secrets
You’ve fanned through all the pages of my work
Just know
You can leave any time
Right over there
Next to my pens and my poetry
Past the loose floorboards
And the hanging body of my last assistant
Is the EXIT sign
Aug 20, 2011
Aug 20, 2011 at 7:57 PM UTC
Velcro its self could not reattach my love for you
You have clipped the strings that held my heart in place
I am detached
I am heartless
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 6:12 PM UTC
scurrying to the lavatory
frantically fumbling
belt unhooked
button fly, de-flied
hook thumbs against the skin
and drag the bottoms down mid-calf
feel the cool breeze on your
recently freed junk
bent at the knees ya’ll
and set gently
the plastic cap to the porcelain god
diligently protecting your **** cheeks
from the cold damp germ-laden white
doom tube….
relax, don’t push too hard
this is a natural as the rain
buzzing bees
but more like a waterfall
after a flood
debri passes
logs fall
mud and grime
crash down
down
down
reach over and begin to gather your specified amount
of toilet tissue
go ahead, don’t be scared
be sure to cover your hand skin
we don’t want a poo finger
then
wipe!
wipe, again
wipe until there’s nothing left to wipe
we all want a clean bootyhole
don’t we?
grab up those trousers
or elegant gown
and reattach or fasten
the button, zipper, or belt
straighten your gear in the mirror
and wash
wash
wash
we don’t want a poo finger
do we?
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 2:26 PM UTC
she is a charcoal sketch.
she is dark,
jagged at the edges, rough.
she is only a first draft--
soon the pencil marks will be erased
and the best is yet to come.
not only is she a watercolor painting--
pastels bleeding together until
you can't find where
each emotion stops and starts--
but also the dark Sharpie lines
etched in arcs on said painting,
a beautiful composition of
daydream and nightmare.
she is cracked clay.
she crumbles easily, powder
breaking off from her sculpture
in such a way that
no amount of glue will ever reattach.
she may be broken and
cracked in all the wrong places but
sometimes imperfections add beauty
to an otherwise ordinary masterpiece.
Mar 24, 2018
Mar 24, 2018 at 10:12 AM UTC
i just want the road to feel real again
i want to feel the cold of the snow and weep
i want to sob, hard
and reattach.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 9:21 PM UTC
a new poem (words, words, words but another drug), bolt upright, uplight, reattach yourself to the liquid of the music,
soothe the irritation, slowdown the shaking hand,
give god or his creatures, the nocturnes and sonatas,
a chance to restore the pounding of the chest to a leveling
equanimity
to no avail, the sleep angels have fled from the
forest fires in the chest, and the helicopters must quench
with the commence of dropping clouds of wet words,
when, when will I be released from a life that has no
easements
words, words, words but another drug, a habit that gives
everything but a temporary state, every poem nothing but
another her, another lady puncture in my restless body,
another juncture, where all your choices are the way of
error
the high will last, shorter each one, but the track will exist
for all the time, a token of human foolishness, the more is
the inevitability of the ending, writ, drawn a little closer,
and comes with a hand written spongy-apology begging for
existing
in his notes, motes, dust mites of titles, single verses,
elegies, essays half written, passing thots claiming to
want to be wannabes, this appears and it's a perfect
ending
there is no security in poetry, only the unresolvable
man in his perfect certainty, never was, nevermore, n'ere will be never, and one poet walks a razor's edge, that is his three tenses struggling for mutual coexistence, one of
a calming beauty, a dark glory, a perfect closing, choosing
a final solution, a belief in relief, that simultaneously
engraves, erases, and
equates
another new poem fissures to the surface, and the palpable
is a magician's illusion, a trick, a feat of dismemberment,
an excise of a piece, a drink, a Tennessee whiskey of him,
an emission that never gains remission status, all this fakery,
a new poem (words, words, words but another drug),
excellent, worthless and self-
effacing
{|||}
3:48am-5:46am
Sep 24, 2017
Sep 24, 2017 at 5:56 AM UTC
I melt like ice on a hot plate
Like a candle to a flame
All I know is pain
Though it now sits as an unforgettable stain
The receptors were never meant too sustain
The onslaught like constant rain
Proving to be too much to maintain
I now feel nothing,
Teetering on the cusp of insane
Not unfamiliar terrain
I recognize fears domain
Spent a lot of time on that plane
Where a single step forward is a strain
And one look back can reattach the chain
Scars from a dangerous brain
Are the only parts of the original me that remain
If need be,
Look for my face in the wood grain
©2024
Jul 23, 2024
Jul 23, 2024 at 3:47 PM UTC
Your hypocritical mind is un-ignorable
I’m below it holding light towards it
I don’t want it growing or rainbow-ing out of your body
Find it please, its making me cringe
Be rid of it
Don’t look down on others
Or bellow their flaws
Laughing at them won’t reattach your lost pride
Doing as they did to you will not conquer
Fight your ever oozing, flowing, growing sickening **** of forgets
Remember things you say
Don’t mock or pout at others who say the same things
Think of how you shouldn’t do as inferiors do
But do not highlight your superior-ism
Not that you even are
And you’re blind of the fact you’re conceited
You would only deny it if told
Your immaturity is spiking up through my back
And cutting me—slicing me open
But I don’t want the blood to drip in your eyes
I don’t want you to realize through the liquid of mine
But realize through somebody else
I can’t break it to you
The ice you’ve frozen is too thick for me to melt
And you need to crack it yourself
Feb 25, 2011
Feb 25, 2011 at 10:31 AM UTC
I should use a saw
to cut a path
around the spot I stand.
I'll set myself afloat
make my own deserted island
and never reattach myself
to the world
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 6:20 PM UTC
This is a poem,
This is a poem like other poems,
But this poem I dedicate to you,
And it's not a single certain somebody,
But to all of those you's,
Those you's whose dreams are just on the edge of coming true,
You see these are the you's that need to keep on going,
No matter how much life hurts you,
And with each passing day you begin to lose hope of any virtue,
You see, the you's have to keep going, have to keep on writing,
They have to keep searching,
The have to just keep breathing, no matter the pain that each inhale and exhale take,
Just don't let it break you,
You see these you's see suffer, not in vain,
But for their brilliant brains, that are like sparkling diamonds amongst the bitter cold coals that lay dead,
They are the ones who are worth it, they are the ones who see happiness, rather then ever having it,
They put it in place of something else,
The you's put up walls because their heart has already been broken,
And they won't let you in,
See they hold back everything,
For such a silly thing, like maybe hope, or healing, or if they are really crazy love,
Or maybe just someone to pay them a small bit of attention,
See these you's see the world through their own eyes,
Their own ways,
And they won't let them touch you,
And if someone whose special ruins it for them,
Well that would perhaps **** everything,
But they wouldn't die,
They learn to somehow survive
So that's what you'll do,
You pick up the pieces they broke off and reattach,
Soon you'll be good as new
And continue chasing those silly butterflies
No matter how far away from home they fly,
I hope to God, that you's like you will still try
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 9:24 PM UTC
Reminding me of my horrors
You make sure I'm aware
I'm no perfect person
The thought I can't bare
Emotionally detach
While I reattach myself to you
Pulling away from this tug of war
Almost will have to do
Pressure is on to decide
Whether to put love aside
Keep loving without receiving
And drowning my pride
I'll be waiting patiently where I'm at
Until you choose to get rid of me
Keep in mind what I'm offering
Alone seems just too soon to be
Chest clenching anxiety
Who are you staring at now?
While chasing after your attention
I'm crazed, searching around
All I ever want is your love
Why do I need your presents to survive
When your around I'm dying
But then your touch brings me alive
What it is you do to me
In no words could I explain
All this blood my wounds have shed
I'm the only person I can blame
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 5:34 PM UTC
i thought that growing up
i would look back on all that i've seen
and see you standing right next to me-
yet
to my dismay
i am again standing in the gap-
trapped
inside.
i thought that growing up
we'd be closer than before
closer than closed doors-
yet i slam
that door shut
every day-
and i beg you
to go
away.
who am i today
who am i today
who is i going to be
and where will that lead i?
will i be another symphony
is i just another expressed belief?
what does i believe-
oh i
what do you see and why
do you see oh i
the way you do
and why
do i oh i
still follow
you-
if i isnt me
than is me just another empty space
that i left behind
in the aftermath of
finding out who i is?
-me is just an empty lot
waiting for i to reattach to the host
-empty walls now make me i's empty ghost.
i isn't who i should be
not me
not me
not me's position to be choosing personality-
than who is the rhymer and the writer!
the pen and ink!
who are the author and who are the book!
who are they!
who are the shadows that haunt my mind!
who are the shadows of glory divine-
who are the devine
and they still make me question why
but i'm still learning tonight
and maybe tomorrow will be my last fight
with that angel underneath heaven's ladder
and i will finally get the rest i need
for it's tiring
fighting with angels
knowing that you can't win
but knowing they won't let you lose-
for i truly want to lose for once
and figure out that death isn't worth it-
and figure out that i had a greater purpose.
Sep 7, 2017
Sep 7, 2017 at 12:15 AM UTC
And I love you
Everyday
Even when the floods wash away humanity
I will love you
When the air turns poisonous and steals it from our lungs
You will still take away my breath
When the grounds open up and eat all the vanity we created
Your beauty will shine bright as the only thing that ever mattered
When the cruel fires turn to ash all emotion and care
Your touch will reignite my own unwavering love for you
When darkness will turn out the individuality of our souls
Yours will break apart and merge with my own
Pumping back the memories I almost forgot
I love you till the end of time
And till the universe rips itself apart
I love you when new life slowly sparks up
Atoms joining in a billion year pilgrimage
Till we finally find our bodies and reattach our souls
Strengthen the bond
And our love will revive the unbroken promise
And live on infinitely
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 1:31 AM UTC
A nine-eleven call goes out at midnight,
It's serious: A writer of poems
At such and such street, has a word
Stuck in his throat.
Stuck in his craw; he can't get it out.
He can neither finish the poem or even
Make a lick of sense right now.
What to do?
The medical experts confer over the two-way:
I've seen this condition before, one says, wary,
I think I would use the jaws of life.
That takes too long, said another.
I have a carpenters saw in my bag
I keep on hand for just such occurrences.
Though rare, it does happen.
We will just remove the head, push the word
Out of the way and reattach the head.
Believe me it is much faster in the long run
Otherwise it could progress on to
Editors re-writes, poetry readings,
Deadlines, and who wants all that?
Poets really just want to write.
The others are in agreement.
Now they'll be able to get right to work
Without hesitating, which is the kiss of death
In crisis situations.
In asylums, they employ lobotomies
To the same result.
For the rest of us, there are the interminable
Religious sermons and services.
Mar 30, 2010
Mar 30, 2010 at 8:14 PM UTC
By AB , FA & SP
AB :
Living life on Roses to make a trip on the way to
Salvation,
I'm losing my head and my consciousness is
Shifting in and out of existence,
My mind is now gone,
I'm on my own,
On my lonesome,
It's the time of the month when my emotions
start to elevate,
What is there to love when it makes you put a
Gun to your head,
What is there to love when it rather abandons
You instead,
Making daily rounds for heartbreak,
I'm on round 16 and I'm still not turning over
In a grave,
FA:
Standiing tall...
Nothing is dragging me down
anymore.
No more insecurities Learned how
to love myself Forgave my father and mother
Apologized to everyone else.
Staying positive all the time And realizing
everything happens for a reason.
No longer blind,
I see the world differently.
........ I guess its true,
Demons have good in them too,
SP:
They put a gun to my head and said this was
the end But I laughed in their face and just
rose again Because at that moment I realized
this where my life was meant to begin And all
the pain that coursed through my veins were
just meaningless distraction So allow me to just
detach these evil contraptions That were
created by the men who attempted to trap this
And by this I mean me The beast that remains unseen
Because he is living free in the land that
Was thought to be dream,
But no,
Positive energy is a real thing and it flows through
Me like something you wouldn't believe and with
That I end my meaningful rambling but before I
Go, allow me to reattach your sanity.
May 28, 2016
May 28, 2016 at 3:56 PM UTC
it's the middle of the night,
and i feel so empty that
not even the thought of you
will make me feel better.
not even the thought of you
will put my burned bones
together and reattach them
with elmer's glue.
because that's what always
happened in the past,
but you're not here next
to me, and i've forgotten
what it felt like when
you hugged me the
first time.
i'm sitting here in
the same spot on the couch
feeling empty
and thinking about you.
i wish you would come
here because i don't like
having broken bones and
tears that don't go anywhere.
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 9:06 PM UTC
A man who drives like he’s mad
A mirage in the summer,
And a ghost in the winter.
The air is epileptic with heat
Going on like a rippling curtain
I let go, and reattach myself
I am here, maybe there
Somehow, I grew this bitterness
Ashamed I let myself submerge
Whole hearted and light headed
Into this handsome revolution.
My lips are a clean slate,
Perhaps I have returned.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 7:44 PM UTC
Repenting past lives
confirming aching anxieties
these tarnished memories
are beginning to stir.
Their perfumed ashes
choking out
asphyxiating
dulling the senses.
When a leaf departs
and lands amongst the others
it is futile to attempt
to reattach it to a tree.
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 4:17 AM UTC