"restock" poems
Lights change from
RED BLUE YELLOW to WHITE.
Bass drums change the pace of our heart beats.
People are surrounding us like one whole mass, they are all the background, the way they dance sets the tone.
But through all this chaos I'm NOT alone.
I see a beautiful angel.
Her eyes like diamonds.
Her hair like roses.
Her smile like moonlight.
She calls my name through the crowd.
I only see her
& she only sees me.
I make way towards her, struggling through the dancing bodies.
When we meet, she takes hold of my hand.
Her skin is chilly.
Then our hands start melting like ice in someone's fist.
& suddenly were not at the Disco Party anymore.
Were indulged in light pink liquid which tastes so sweet.
Our feet are wrapped in white satin.
Our hands have become one.
& my heart is budding rapidly, it's a garden.
MY heart.
She is MY angel.
Finally I wake up to my alarm, time for work!
As I mop the bathroom floors & restock the toilet paper I think about the little angel who visited me in MY dreams & made life seem so wonderful.
We bonded for life in what felt like twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes of my like that changed how I felt about the world.
Ever since that day I moped with a smile & a twinkle in my eye.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 9:35 PM UTC
Woke up early like I always do, no matter what I'm going through I sit and contemplate my present situation, like is this life worth living or am I wasting it, I got plans for myself but with what I know, I know there's a possibility of removing it from the shelf of possibilities, sometimes I can't control myself, so I get ****** off let some shots off and restock, my life is just a ramble that needs to be reshocked like defibrillators to your live stock, cause global warming turned to climate change and they make it seem it's not an issue by keeping your mind invisibly encaged and your nose in the tissue, I've been changing, so when it comes to blaming there's no one to blame but the cats who put our work to shame, **** the industry it's why I live in infamy like the US has for practically an entire century, continuing forensically but fail to catch their own trace of criminology, instead blaming you for your ideology passed down from generations along with theology, some things are more believable like the inconceivable evil that's injected inside the bloodstreams of my people, makin them turn from people to machines, **** that I'd rather be trapped in Saturn's rings but sometimes it's hard to stop some things
- This world has been ruled, dominated, and conquered for thousands of years.. I think it's about time to let that **** lay to rest -
Man I've been living for quite some time, and all I've seen is the world go from a bright shine to a darkened shrine, but I guess that's what will happen when you're born into a world that's already fastened their seatbelts for a global blastin, end the nukes end the fed end the ************* who will leave us for dead while they happily sit in bed waiting for their master Satan to come in faster, the worlds a disaster but it can be fixed if everyone pitches in to dethrone their "masters", mathematical factors plotting out disasters cause they're done on purpose like previous stories remastered, some will ridicule me but it won't matter when they realize the truth that's been hidden educationally generationally, you're serviceably useful to the machine aka the system, but the system needs you, you don't need to listen
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 7:48 PM UTC
I looked into the mirror
I saw my true face for the first time.
For the distortion of "should be's" definitions...
"What I need to be's" definitions...
They were erased from my planning board.
Of my reinvention...
Television stars are "everybody's fools.."
As I listen to Amy Lee sing..
"People's entertainment" that my mind tricked me into having to imitate. Inadequate tools.
In my "wrecked toolbox" that I thought that I need to bring.
As I started to look at those "real" stars around me... Ones who selfeshly started to reeducate..
My mind to restock the tools in my once "wrecked" toolbox...
I saw what my face truly reflected..
A beautiful man mislead by needing to be "seen" as someone... A shining "star.'
I once shined just as bright until my insanity wrecked it.
Now that I've rebuild what I have destroyed...
I'm the new "man In the mirror.."
As I hear Michael Jackson sing "making the world very clearer."
Looking back at what things that I truly have achieved... I see a clearer image of my reflection in the mirror...
Images that are the "truer Me" and such are much more clearer.
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 5:43 AM UTC
MY DEAR HEART. STOP. IT HAS BEEN TOO LONG. STOP. YOU HAVE GROWN COLD WITH HURT. STOP. YOUR DRUM IS OFFBEAT. STOP. BUT REMEMBER WHEN YOU WERE YOUNG. STOP. YOU BURNED AND PUMPED MOLTEN GOLD AND WERE UNAFRAID. STOP. REMEMBER THOSE DAYS SO THEY MAY COME AGAIN. STOP. THIS PAIN IS NOTHING NEW. STOP. WE NEED IT TO FIND THE JOY WE LOST. STOP. YOU WERE MADE FOR LIVING. STOP. NEVER FORGET THIS. STOP. THE TIME HAS COME TO OPEN SHOP AGAIN. STOP. WE MUST DUST OFF OUR WARES AND RESTOCK THE SHELVES. STOP. I KNOW IT HURTS. STOP. IT IS MEANT TO HURT. STOP. THE HURT REMINDS US THAT WE ARE ALIVE. STOP. AND WE ARE ALIVE. STOP. COME AND FEEL THE SUN AGAIN. STOP. COME FIND ME. STOP. I WILL BE WAITING FOR YOU. STOP.
GIVE MY REGARDS TO THE LUNGS.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 5:10 PM UTC
If I could tell them the rocks I turn them to
When loud commotion start a hectic running war,
I grab, I throw, restock as the fighters do
Watching them hurl to the ground as mine beating, tore.
Where ever stepped on, these certain tiles will break,
One path is my home, God, I can not hold
Twisters and questions commence upon the shake
On ward! they call, where is the force to be bold?
No two sided blade as this was ever so fatal
Thus up pours the light blood from this narrow transaction
Bandage, if found my dear wanted Excalibur cradle
Rocks would soon fall and let my agony fraction
So come rubble, gather, and produce me mine sword
This one to mend cuts, a love of such needed rewards.
Apr 2, 2010
Apr 2, 2010 at 5:20 PM UTC
“Hey. I heard about this country we could visit.
Would you go, if it was with me?
Well what if I told you it was a bird country, and everything was made of feathers.
Yeah, ocean and desert colours, soft and sleek and it glimmers like a dream.
Songs? Yeah, it’s full of ‘em. In all resonances and all keys, some of them mimic but most of them are original pieces.
So, would you go with me?
Why?
Oh, I’m just bored I guess, just feeling stale I guess, just feeling like there’s something out there I want to see.
(I don’t say that I want to see it with you).
Oh, you mean, why with you.
Well
When we were in the park the other week you stopped to talk to that guy with a sulphur crested cockatoo on his shoulder and you smiled when it bopped its head when you said its name – Larry, wasn’t it?
And you laughed for the longest time after we invented an adventure history for him and the bird.
That he was a pirate sailing the oceans to gather the gold and jewels to win the hand of his beloved.
The bird sniffed the air and pointed towards islands of treasure and scratched maps onto the deck of the ship.
He was only in Sydney – we saw this by the harbour, didn't we? - Because his ship needed to restock.
It would be one of those old school wooden ones and it’d look real quaint and beautiful next to the metal ferries swooping in and out of Circular Quay, next to the titan cruise ships that take up half the harbour.
Remember that?
(If I thought it would work, I’d sail ships and become a jewel thief for you)
Oh, no, no baggage limit – bring all the poetry you want. They give paper for free on the plane, even.
We can buy seeds at the duty free. No, Not sure about pens. I’m bringing my ink set anyway.
Haha, yeah, I still calligraphy faces for people who’ve lost theirs.
(I could draw a book of you, though you don’t need it)
It’s a week round about trip.
Just us two, and animals that fly to and from our hands.
We can take bicycles and skate around the island and climb the dead volcano where gigantic nests hold eggs in warm rocking slumber.
(Perhaps we can be each other’s volcanoes and warm each other)
Oh, it’s casual, don’t bring your moleskines, just your two dollar notebooks. Weather will be light, so not more than a hundred pages.
So, does this mean you’ll come with me?
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 2:26 AM UTC
The floorboards have done their crying.
All the sticky flap-jack has been spent.
The sweetness, and energy of youth has run out
in the biscuit-tin we call our lives.
The times before this will always be missed.
But now is a time to freshen your face
with a cool, calm cloth.
Wipe off, those, your last of tears, and restock.
Now stand, the size of a cut on the tip of your finger,
in that vast empty tin.
Gaze up at the stars, and admire them
as they reflect around your box's silvery sides.
Or, at the witching hour, hear the flicker of a cigarette
burn in the silence of a leafy drive.
Keep that sound and let it echo, only for you,
in that spacious box.
And the next day, having worked hard,
You will look upon the world with another sense of beauty
- not just seeing the trees and fields in the afternoon sun.
That afternoon, your cup of coffee will taste the same as that very first time.
Its smell fused into your lungs, luring you to try.
Put that in your box too, and close the lid. Tight.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 2:17 PM UTC
There's a funny little rhyme
about sticks and stones.
As if broken bones could ever amount
to the words and hate filled "jokes"
directed at the outcasts.
Broken heartstrings bleeding the blues
as we try to empty ourselves and feel nothing at all,
don't you dare tell me that hurts less
than a broken bone.
As if depression and emptiness
can be healed by a simple first aid kit.
Every year bullies restock their arsenal
of pain inducing attempts at tearing people down.
If a kid breaks, and no one is there to hear it,
do they make a sound?
Or are they just washed out background noise
as the dismissed phrases like
"kids can be cruel" or "you know how kids can be"
are stuck on repeat?
We cannot allow that to happen.
For if you cannot see the beauty in yourself,
get a better mirror,
look a little closer,
stare a little longer.
There has to be something inside you
that made you keep trying
when everyone tried their hardest to get you to
quit.
Something that helped you put a cast
on that broken heart.
Something that resonated, deep within you that
they were wrong.
They have to be.
I mean, why else would we still be here?
We grew up cheering on the underdog,
because we see ourselves in them.
So you can sit there and recite
"names will never hurt me".
Of course they did.
But that's okay.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 3:21 AM UTC
today i threw away your first note to me
its been a month since you left
i no longer fear what i will see before i run away in darkness
but rather what i wont see as i
run towards it in the light
every one makes it seem like you can just move on
but have the ones making it seem that way ever been blindly thrown into an ocean of want with weights tied to their ankles?
you were my ******* in human form
every curve a line
every touch a sniff
its hard to hold back the urge of negative actions at the sight or memory of you
but at the same time i fight a war just as major as those actions with the opinion and set expectations of everyone else around me
i wish i could have realized the danger that was to come when i no longer loved you but rather the memories of you
im waiting to restock the empty shelves that align my insides
its been a month since they were filled
even though they were filled with stale expired items
id rather be stocked with useless things than be emptied completely
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 12:24 AM UTC
I wonder where would I be
If not for the Sharpie
To keep myself organized
Permanently
As I store my life in boxes
With short stories on top
So I'll know where to go
When I need to restock
I even Sharpie my name
On the tags of my clothes
So both my clothes and I know
By whom they are owned
Oh the Hollywood tragedy
If my pirated DVD's
Where not all color coded
By a rainbow array of Sharpie's
Plus they're the perfect party favors
With the overindulgent guest
For weeks they can look in the mirror
And see all the fun that they missed
There is nothing I like better
Than pulling out my permanent pen
And marking down forever
Whatever mood I'm in
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 8:34 AM UTC
I'm camping inside, I swear
The outside is such a mess everywhere
Wild creatures with guns and strict order
Supplies won't last; this will get much harder
I need to go out to refreshen and restock
But the world outside doesn't need the flock
It is peaceful, clean, ******* heaven without us
Once this is over, we'll ruin it by creating a messy fuzz
Maybe it isn't that bad to stay here instead of anywhere
I'll stay here even after this is over, I swear
Apr 4, 2020
Apr 4, 2020 at 6:01 AM UTC