"recital" poems
My mother should be an author
She carves her soul into millions of pieces
Leaving it behind all of the family photos
When I see my mother
I see a woman
Who wants to hide her soul in a needle
Just so the screaming can stop in her mind,
These bottles are rattling in the living room
You see they have put shackles on her heart,
She can't love anymore
Without having ***** in her water bottle.
Where is she hiding her beer?
I feel like my mother is giving me a scavenger hunt
From the shards of glass that were left on the baseball fields
My mother used to take me to.
You know she always wasn't like this
She was strong minded and had a big heart
Tonight I will tell you the story of a woman
Who lost her soul to the Keystones to the Miller Lites
To the ****** Mary’s.
Let's rewind time
See how to **** the soul in ten years
10- I look into my mother's eyes and I start to cry
Because I'm looking at a woman who I don't know anymore
9- I refused to bail her out of jail again
Because I'm afraid her kidney will fail if she drinks again
8- My mother staggered into the theater and disrupted the whole play,
My cast mates turned to me and asked, isn't that your mother?
7- I had to hold my mothers hand
Because she was throwing up the cocktail of drugs and alcohol
6- Daddy had to get mom out of jail she was drinking again
5- My mother throws the bottle across the room
And told me the reason why she drinks is because I'm Autistic
4- My mother overslept for my piano recital,
I didn't think it was a big deal
But I remember she spent the whole night crying
With a wine glass in her hand.
3- Mommy I didn't know your prescription came in a needle
2- Mommy the prescription say 2 pills a day
why are you taking 6?
1- My mother went to the doctor
Found out that she has Rheumatoid Arthritis
I don't know what that means,
But I know she will still be strong right?
0- She took me to a Dodger game for my birthday.
I remember Sammy Sosa hitting a home run that game
She told me that the only person that can **** your soul is yourself
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC
He lives in a cold and empty house
Where lightbulbs hang from silver chains
And lonely ghosts live within
The cracking, creaking wooden walls
He leaves out his favorite books for them
And listens to footsteps beneath the floorboards
He plays piano,
a reclusive recital for empty rooms
And they keep each other's soft-spoken secrets
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 4:03 PM UTC
TRIGGER WARNING
They met at a dance recital.
His eerie blue eyes watched her, stalked her,
riveted by sinewy skin and the way her legs stretched and parted
skillfully, seductively: she knew how to captivate her audience.
They had mutual friends.
Her curiosity thirsted for more, for she had been taken
over by an empty lust, broken by another, but the way he spoke:
she felt as pretty as his charms sounded.
They went on a date.
He kissed her, pinched her, and spread those legs
that comprised his fantasies, not caring about the bruises he left
when he took off her lacey coverings, pinning her to the floor.
They learned more about each other.
She saw the empty, carnal look in his eyes, but her pleas
and shoves were not enough to lessen the weight of him, to push
his hands or his hips away, as he broke her over and over again.
They ended the night with a kiss.
He grabbed her face like a starving man grabs his first meal,
forcing an intimacy she could never get back, but he said,
“You liked it, didn’t you.”
They kept in touch.
She tried blocking his calls, his messages, asking her if she’d
come over to his place. Like the continuous force he prodded her with,
the pounding in her head beat out a thumping heart-line of no’s.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 12:21 PM UTC
Crescent orb radiates its crystalline sight,
languid lips coalesce like a tessellation,
the vexing vines wilder the incandescent-
glimmer but the burning impression remains.
Celestial bodies affixes a soliloquy amongst-
a halcyon tongue that revelate a rhapsodic-
episode.
Quiescent ambience rings a plethora of-
sentiments stinging on the mellifluous
lullaby. The lithe wildflower murmurs-
the euphonious recital of a sonnet that-
is unacquainted to the mind.
Luminous assemblies of fireflies retire-
behind the myriad of evergreen forest
as the insouciance wildflower approach.
Precocious primrose locked from the
scorching sensation of a wildflower
exhibited a lassitude facade like a -
waning lantern fiery on its final residues.
In the distant a wildflower and in
the presence, an idyllic primrose:
so scarce and so strange.
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 7:37 AM UTC
Assert confidence in a convincing recital
Claim certainty that protection is binding
safety is paramount
a rehearsed amount
until she takes it on ethics
every truth is there to detect
A battle for reason
until potential yields to the objective
Loyalty isn't just imagination
Fate constructed in a noiseless dialogue
momentary eye contact
pencil hits paper
Smoke and vapor
Fire comes later
an unsurpassed honor
All the letters weve written
are a smear on the page of occasion
Resulting in endless treasure
Only to be rediscovered
When the omission is uncovered
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 4:41 AM UTC
Ornery odious ordinate ostensive opulence ornate optimal
Motivity meatus meticulous morsel moribund mendacity monstrance
Lucidity lingam loquacity longevous licentious lurid languishing
Votary volition verve venery vector vauntness vast
Talismanically telepathy tantamount terrestrial tellurian transition tractive
Idolatry -ics incus ictus ichor icon icky
Yogi yowl yore yoni yerk yenta yantra
Gimpy gesticulation genre gestational glitch genuflection grandiose
Dastardly douceur denouement denigrational deplorable despicable desperate
Paltry potentate portentous plagiaristic pandemic plenipotentiary plenary
Jouncy jocular jeopardy jettison jurisprudence jaunt juxtaposition
Ramify repartee radix recital rectitude rendition repertoire
Beastly bartizan bodacious belligerent brusque blatant blasphemously
Enmity exigency exacerbation extemporaneous edifice eulogy exoneration
Zoolatry zoomorphic zilch Zephyr zoic zygosity zealotry
Sultry solace subtlety substantiation suborn subliminal sensorium
Unity ultimatum usurping unfathomable uncanny unbridled unary
***** hornswoggle horizon huckster homogeny holistic heuristic
Nugatory notch nostrum notorious nihilism nimiety nimbus
Wrathy wreak wroth wrought wrest wrangle warranty
Artistry autonomy articulation agility acuity asperity acerbity
Keeky kangaroo court kowtow kobold kleptomania kinetics kinesiology
Xylography xenophile xerophilous xylophagous xylem xanadu xenobiotic
Critically credibility critique coercion conjugational conjunctive corporeal
Queasy quasi quantum quintessence quagmire quixotic quantify
Flighty flippant flamboyance faux pas fornicatious fictitious finite
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 5:31 AM UTC
From a young age I knew
there was a man and a woman out there, complete strangers,
who were, biologically, my grandparents.
I knew my chances of meeting them were exactly zero to none.
The parents who took my dad home that day were his parents
And that was done.
Before me sat a grandmother, and the spirit of a grandfather passed,
who loved me more than any stranger-grandparent ever could
who was there for every dance recital, every holiday, every mistake, every success
who, though I bore no resemblance, watched me grow right before her eyes
who swore the Easter bunny left treats at her house for me--
even when I was beyond the years of belief.
Always wearing a sweatsuit and gold stud earrings,
with an added neck-scarf and red lip for special occasions.
Telling tales of the "poor dear" animal she saw
Dead on the side of the road--
Sad enough, you'd think it was her own.
Church every Sunday and the shirt off her back,
Had you asked.
This woman I explain
Shares no blood, but, a surname.
I love her just the same
If not more
Than any grandmother
Genetics had in store.
She's a part of who I am,
though not in my DNA.
Nature versus Nurture:
Nurture wins again.
She taught me:
Strength, grace, humility, selflessness, generosity, and patience
Without sharing one biological thread
By example she lead
And I continue to follow
In her footsteps.
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 2:51 AM UTC
Finite fictitious fornicatious faux pas flamboyance flippant flighty
Quantify quixotic quagmire quintessence quantum quasi queasy
Corporeal conjunctive conjugational coercion critique credibility critically
Xenobiotic xanadu xylem xylophagous xerophilous xenophile xylography
Kinesiology kinetics kleptomania kobold kowtow kangaroo court keeky
Acerbity asperity acuity agility articulation autonomy artistry
Warranty wrangle wrest wrought wroth wreak wrathy
Nimbus nimiety nihilism notorious nostrum notch nugatory
Heuristic holistic homogeny huckster horizon hornswoggle *****
Unary unbridled uncanny unfathomable usurping ultimatum unity
Sensorium subliminal suborn substantiation subtlety solace sultry
Zealotry zygosity zoic Zephyr zilch zoomorphic zoolatry
Exoneration eulogy edifice extemporaneous exaserbational exigency enmity
Blasphemously blatant brusque belligerent bodacious bartizan beastly
Repertoire rendition rectitude recital radix repartee ramify
Juxtaposition jaunt jurisprudence jettison jeopardy jocular jouncy
Plenary plenipotentiary pandemic plagiaristic portentous potentate paltry
Desperate despicable deplorable denigrational denouement douceur dastardly
Grandiose genuflection glitch gestational genre gesticulation gimpy
Yantra yenta yerk yoni yore yowl yogi
Icky icon ichor ictus incus -ics idolatry
Tractive transition tellurian terrestrial tantamount telepathy talismanically
Vast vauntness vector venery verve volition votary
Languishing lurid licentious longevous loquacity lingam lucidity
Monstrance mendacity moribund morsel meticulous meatus motivity
Optimal ornate opulence ostensive ordinate odious ornery
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 5:48 AM UTC
My school work has prevented
Me from being able to do
Any yoga lately
And I feel like crap
A long day of school over
Then volleyball. Piano lessons
Or voice lessons
Or a recital Or an audition or a festival
(Which I should be having fun with
But I don't because all I can think about
Is the work
I have afterwards.)
I finish late at night
Try to cram in some social medias
I go to bed wicked late.
Then no time to even be clean
Until today I swear I hadn't taken
A shower in at least 3 days
And in the morning
In so tired I can't even
Get ready on time and I'm late for school
Or miss the bus
Or have to Sprint to the bus
There's no time to do my yoga
Or anything else for that matter
Because of school
And it goes like this again
Everyday during the week...
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 10:39 PM UTC
What exactly does closure feel like?
I'm not really sure because
the days I felt my first heartache
like a bullet to my chest
I cried for a week straight then got over it-
I had so many friends, I never cared to love again.
I was never really sure how to close the open door
the day my grandma died my mind went blank.
So I drank away the pain until the images
of her cancer ridden body faded away.
How do you cope when at the same time
you see your grandmother die
you remember these horrors
from your childhood of someone ripping away
your innocence.
I haven't been the same since.
So now what's left?
I have left the one I love
with a heavy heart
and no closure to console me.
I just feel as if I am drifting
slowly and without a lifeboat
no paddle in merky waters
with a windstorm that won't quit.
But I feel at peace
like the calm before the storm
that realizes it will be sunny one day again soon.
So how will closure console this empty soul?
I've never really felt that feeling before.
Closure is a ******* step child to me-
just an extra sock that can't find a match.
A newly lit match burning out too fast
never to be used again.
A bowl filled with resin
when all you need is one ******* hit.
Closure is a seesaw with no one at the other end to help-
you're on your own adventure
and you only venture from the usual path.
It's a road you walk alone-
barefoot upon rocks that have been shaped from struggle.
Closure is the progression into solitude.
So how do I get closure from you?
How do these hands feel okay again
not holding on to yours-
how does my bed feel whole again
without you next to me.
I'm not sure quite yet-
but one day I will see.
Closure is an empty room
before a dance recital
it's a preconcert soundcheck
and everyday anxiety.
The nights are worse than the days
and I've come to grips with feeling this way.
I hope one day to feel okay.
I know one day I will feel okay-
because today, I feel pretty okay.
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 12:25 PM UTC
you say i love you
like it was some kind of recitation
and i was fool enough to listen till the end of the recital
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 11:08 AM UTC
I need you.
These words are true,
but it's hard for me to put them in a sentence.
I can't say them out loud because that would mean that I depend on you.
I want to get to know you.
But I forget that I can't get close to someone who's never there.
I wish I could go to ball games with you.
I wish I could have looked out into the audience in the middle
of a recital and see your face in the crowd.
I wish I could see the same look on your face that they do.
You always look so proud when you talk to them, talk about them
and even when you look at them.
Especially when you talk about the one that got away.
You praise her. Even after everything that's happened you're still proud of her.
I wish I had that.
I wish I could see that radiating smile of yours and know that it's for me too.
For something that I've done that you were so unbelievably proud of.
I know I'm not yours, not really.
I know that you're trying your best. I understand that it's not easy with three kids in the house.
I also know that it's harder because I'm older than she was when you first got her,
and I'm older than the kids are now.
I try to make you proud, I really do.
I study for every test and hand in every homework assignment.
I await the scores so I can run home and tell you what they are.
After telling you the news you always have the same stern look on your face.
I feel as if I'm never good enough.
I even got a job and am trying to learn the value of money.
I try to be smart. Sometimes you say I'm not,
and just to prove you wrong I try to impress you by telling you useless facts.
But it still doesn't seem to be good enough.
Is it because I'm too boring, too loud, too girly, too lazy, or because I spend too much time on tumblr?
Is it because I don't look like the rest of you?
Is it because... I'm nothing like she was?
I know that she was your baby girl.
I know that you'll always hold a special place for her in your heart.
But I was second. Doesn't that count for something?
Maybe you actually are proud of me.
Maybe I'm just over analyzing this like I do everything else.
Maybe...
Just maybe.
But I've still never seen it.
I've never seen that radiating smile that they've all seen...
Oh how I'd **** to see it.
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 7:42 PM UTC
you sat on the piano bench
and i sat on the floor
we talked about our fathers
we shared our lonely childhoods
broken bones, broken hearts
i decided i could listen to your voice for hours
you told me you wanted to be a pianist
and i offered to teach you guitar
i played stevie nicks for you
and you said you didn't sing
but your voice is beautiful
and i wish you'd sing for me
you told me about the songs you like
and i went home and made a playlist
it's four months later and i have every song memorized
in alphabetical order
you told me you didn't believe in love
but i know real love and i know forced "love"
and i know i've loved you since that day in september
when you told me i had beautiful handwriting
and i'll never forget how you looked at me
instead of the paper
when the words drifted through the stuffy third-floor air
and i didn't even know your name
so for now i listen to your songs on repeat
and look forward to tomorrow
i just wish i'd kissed you
that evening of the recital
on that ****** piano bench
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 11:45 PM UTC
I had once herd a tale of both gooblins and goblins
that hide by the house on the hill full of robins
where no cats would lie
not a feline in site
in that case nor a horse and toboggan
If when the sun set
by your luck you'd have met
a most suddenly sense, you'll most likely regret
to inform that the norm is is most vital
a chorus recital while sleeping, the feeling is seeping
of course, he fears for the reaping
To come?
Is it done?
has it happened?
No third party captions
his captor
a mind full of rapture
to hear ever after
a rapping, a tapping
his own hands just clapping
the door doesn't move
but the grooves in the wall are expanding
these dreams so demanding
Demented dimensions
his body retention of fear and the queer
have him panting
gasps without asking
a sublime such as this
and the temperance of bliss
have the curtains been called
or is it all but a miss
guided ventures of vengeance
His soul but a remnance of courage
is left in the depths
and before us he slept
such a man who believes
in trees where the robins at ease
do enjoy such a breeze
That breath air in the room
where he lay quite awake
Till his wake
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 12:15 AM UTC
This spiteful poem has no title.
That doesn't mean it's not entitled to a title
it just means, it hasn't got one.
It's not in any way vital to title
a poem is it?
Without a title, would a rival thieve
the poem?
Without a title, it means there is no
subject matter. Does that matter?
I guess at a recital a title helps,
it introduces the poem to an audience.
Let's face it, the poem is not going to get
suicidal if I don't give it a title!
It's not going to go all homicidal, suicidal,
or self harm.
Will it sue me for libel?
Am I being frightful?
I think it's delightful that this poem
has no title.
Maybe, what I should have titled this poem, was
"Poet being idle".
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
i played my recital piece
for a man and his daughter
and the man told me
"there's hope in that piece"
and it got me thinking
that maybe
just maybe
if i can find the hope in my music
i can find
hope
in
me
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC
In the name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful.
************************************ ****************
1. I do call to witness the Resurrection Day;
2. And I do call to witness the self-reproaching spirit: (Eschew Evil) .
3. Does man think that We cannot assemble his bones?
4. Nay, We are able to put together in perfect order the very tips of his fingers.
5. But man wishes to do wrong (even) in the time in front of him.
6. He questions: 'When is the Day of Resurrection? '
7. At length, when the sight is dazed,
8. And the moon is buried in darkness.
9. And the sun and moon are joined together, -
10. That Day will Man say: 'Where is the refuge? '
11. By no means! No place of safety!
12. Before thy Lord (alone) , that Day will be the place of rest.
13. That Day will Man be told (all) that he put forward, and all that he put back.
14. Nay, man will be evidence against himself,
15. Even though he were to put up his excuses.
16. Move not thy tongue concerning the (Qur'an) to make haste therewith.
17. It is for Us to collect it and to promulgate it:
18. But when We have promulgated it, follow thou its recital (as promulgated) :
19. Nay more, it is for Us to explain it (and make it clear) :
20. Nay, (ye men!) but ye love the fleeting life,
21. And leave alone the Hereafter.
22. Some faces, that Day, will beam (in brightness and beauty) : -
23. Looking towards their Lord;
24. And some faces, that Day, will be sad and dismal,
25. In the thought that some back-breaking calamity was about to be inflicted on them;
26. Yea, when (the soul) reaches to the collar-bone (in its exit) ,
27. And there will be a cry, 'Who is a magician (to restore him) ? '
28. And he will conclude that it was (the Time) of Parting;
29. And one leg will be joined with another:
30. That Day the Drive will be (all) to thy Lord!
31. So he gave nothing in charity, nor did he pray! -
32. But on the contrary, he rejected Truth and turned away!
33. Then did he stalk to his family in full conceit!
34. Woe to thee, (O men!) , yea, woe!
35. Again, Woe to thee, (O men!) , yea, woe!
36. Does man think that he will be left uncontrolled, (without purpose) ?
37. Was he not a drop of ***** emitted (in lowly form) ?
38. Then did he become a leech-like clot; then did ((Allah)) make and fashion (him) in due proportion.
39. And of him He made two sexes, male and female.
40. Has not He, (the same) , the power to give life to the dead?
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 2:58 AM UTC
we were alone in the dark behind those pitch black curtains and I silently watch you play the piano.
even though it was dim and I could hardly make your face, I could see you beaming with a smile, surprised because you still remember the recital your teacher taught you six years ago.
you're just a boy who spends most of his weekends in lounges and bars, playing pool and shooting endless smoke rings from your mouth like a thousand secrets.
tossing bottles of cheap alcohol, causing it to spill out like unspoken words pouring out of your tired mouth.
but when I'm sitting beside you, watching you pound away on the piano, I don't see you as the guy who picked a fight with a tattooed guy in the club.
instead, I let the notes of the piano capture my emotions and I can't help but wonder if you play the guitar or maybe the drums, too.
I so badly want to talk to you, but I prefer to stay as strangers.
I like it better when I don't know you, some things are just better left unknown and I prefer to stay curious and interested.
I'd rather watch you giggle to yourself as your fingers slipped in between a recital.
I'd rather exchange shy smiles and glances in the hallway.
now don't get me wrong, I so badly want to talk to you, but I can't articulate my thoughts when those playful fingers are tracing secrets into my thighs.
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 7:48 AM UTC
You were the Barbie jeep engineer.
You were the 5-card pinochle player.
You were the gripe to do the dishes.
You were the patient mall bench sitter.
You were Elvis Presley records and
paper backed crime novels.
You were my new antivirus software.
You were the chatter in the middle of an
NCIS episode.
You were the "It's okay, sweetie" on the
other end of the phone.
You were the voice of every bathtime storybook.
You were the baking soda on my first wasp sting.
You were the green Ford Escort parked
outside my middle school every afternoon.
You were the loudest clap at my graduation.
You were the sticky caramel corn crumbs in the
living room that held the place together.
You were the laughter
You were the toolkit when my pictures hung crooked.
You were the cornerback baker, the pecan pie maker,
dance recital seat saver and the road trip driver.
You were the puppy-dog pill-giver and the
broken heart mender.
You were the church goer and the goodness seeker.
You were the black-haired teaser and the
very best secret keeper.
You were a prideful wig wearer and
wheelchair rider.
You were a cancer fighter.
You were my first call.
You still are.
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 4:43 PM UTC
In my vicinity there is
A garden so green
Monsoons
Winters and
Summers
All do agree
A walking track
Joggers track
Yoga corner
A gymming area along the track
Everyone seems to be enjoying
Early morning enthusiasts
and
Late bloomers all love the place
A poetry recital Corner
An occasional artist
Capturing the beauty of the place
Conversations of the Elderly
Reliving memories from
Back in the day
The children in the play area
Going Merry-go-round
And sliding , happy and gay
With
A canopy of trees
Sheltering the track
Come Summers
The trees bearing flowers in bloom
Purple orange pink
And
Most special of All
A yellow so Mellow
(Indian Laburnum)
Leaving no trace of green
Cascading in delicate blooms
With
A granite seat placed
Beneath
A feeling so divine
A favourite of mine !!
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 9:37 AM UTC
I do not like my state of mind;
I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn's recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the gentlest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I'd be arrested.
I am not sick, I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me any more.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men....
I'm due to fall in love again.
2.1k
“into the women-coloured twilight”
from Post Impressions (VI) by E. E. *******
*there is a woman here who seeded in a ‘darling,’
awhile ago, thinking it passed unnoticed
but wax polished and jewelry bag separate kept
placed in a soft Etsy silken purse
suitable for holding precious iou’s,
vision her in the fields picking up the fragrance
of bulbs from soil, now scented upon a working woman's gloves,
arrival timed, in the woman-colored twilight of e.e.’s woman,
knowing she will be both prepared and unprepared,
perhaps for my recital, certainly, my comings unexpected*
she knows I come with no singularity or multi-purpose,
except to complete this poem with proper decorum,
decorum properly undefined, but how many fictitious poems
scribbled in between the living days, in plastic bags to keep,
till a grounded definition is someday procured
April 2019
Apr 23, 2019
Apr 23, 2019 at 7:47 PM UTC
Why am I so angry?......
What the **** do you think your doing?!
Take your eyes off of your phone for two seconds and take a look around you... Take your focus off the church for one minute and look at the people around you....
Your gaining all the wrong people and pushing away the ones that have always been for you....
I guess that's why I'm so angry..
I got a txt from you today:
"I really do care about your life grace. Just Don't leave me in the dust" - Dad
Don't leave me in the dust????
ARE YOU ******* KIDDING ME?!?!
Yeah sure your one to talk dad....
"I don't just push people away for no reason"- Grace
Your a ******* joke.
C'mon dad werent you the one that taught me to be there for eachother??
I'm so tired of being the only one that's there for somebody in this relationship...
Going to all your shows, even your practices ... ****
You can't even come to one GOD **** SHOW!!! You never came to one swim meet..
Not one dance recital...
Not one talent show....
Not one...
Then you have the nerve to tell me not to leave you in the dust???!!!!!
I can't even believe you...
You were there before but now your given up before you even have the chance to try....
No dad you left me in the dust along time ago... And I was the ONE person that stood there with you through it all!!! I was there when everyone turned against you... I agreed with you when everyone else found reasons to disagree...
ALL I EVER WANTED WAS TO BE LIKE YOU, DAD!!!!
....but now?
God **** I'm not so sure......
I always stood next to you...
No matter how much you never came through...
But now?
I'm so gone.
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 11:21 PM UTC
molten i woke
to your understated
outro song
crowded at the corpse door
with the curtains drawn
and only briefly wishing
phantom pain
on endless vigils
for a swollen soul
sealed the crypt
your moonlit recital ceased
to no applause
Jan 21, 2018
Jan 21, 2018 at 12:24 PM UTC
We used to be so honest,
so pure,
so oblivious
and full of life.
Our love became the definition of sunrise awes,
the sweet smell of fresh rain,
the echo of a child's laugh and
the first flight of a newborn bird.
We became the melancholy
of naive endeavours
wrapped in raw emotions.
Our love was real; factual, in fact and
I refuse to believe any less.
But that has all dissolved now;
disintegrated with the wind,
set with the sun,
thundered the clouds
with fearful flashes of dangerous light
and whimpered every soul
who has lost something they've loved.
We are no longer built on sweet smiles
or tempted impulses;
we are the epitome of sulking stares
and avoiding glances.
We are civil, but we are also tense.
We are the tightness of our muscles
in this predicament of uncertainty.
And that is what we've become:
completely and utterly uncertain,
which is quite contradictory
to the confidence of our emotions
trailing back to the months before.
We are touch, but be are also sight and scent.
We are all the senses masked by sweet pride.
We are a tempest of emotions
dancing to the rhythm
of our eternally thriving hearts.
And though we are inevitably wrong,
moving to different beats of similar drums,
our recital of pirouettes has managed
to create something beautiful.
- g.d.
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 4:21 PM UTC