"retract" poems
What if
I had fallen to my knees
On the cold parking lot concrete
Tears washing over my cheeks
And cries no one should ever have to hear
Bellowing out from beneath my ribs
Screaming at the sky
Looking up at your face
Forcing you
(and everyone else)
To see me in this godforsaken state
Of absolute chaos
Heartbreak
In it's rawest form
What if I had begged you to stay?
What if I'd told you I can't do this without you?
What if I'd told you how much I needed you
What if I did anything other than fighting back the tears
Maybe for myself, maybe for you,
Mostly for the crowd of people gathering
Saying their goodbyes
Anxiously looking around to bear witness to everyone else's reactions
And I didn't want to be that girl
That girl who falls to the ground
Kicking and screaming and crying and begging
But what if I was?
What if I was any girl other than the one I pretended to be that day
The one that held her tongue and kept her mouth shut because she knew the second she opened it to speak she would sob
The one that wrapped her arms around you for the last time,
and the one that let go
The one that couldn't bear to watch you walk away
So she kissed you goodbye
Got back in the car
And drove home
What if i wasn't that girl who didnt allow herself to completely fall apart until she was alone in the privacy of her own home?
What if instead I'd made a scene,
Doing what everything inside me so desperately wanted to
Grabbing hold of your hand and refusing to let go
Losing the facade of confidence
The charade of strength
But I'm not that girl
And I never will be
So each and every time you leave
I kiss you goodbye
I unclench my fists and retract my anchors
I untether my heart from it's human home
And I put on a brave face
Maybe for myself, maybe for you,
Or maybe
For that girl.
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 12:19 PM UTC
“I'm big, you're little.
I'm smart, you're dumb.
I'm right, you're wrong.”
This is what you've taught me,
but I've learned another way.
I try to be so peaceful,
I practice every day.
I've been through quite a lot,
And I've had to be so strong.
My message must have gotten lost,
been fighting for so long.
You raised me as a woman,
Yet you treat me like a man
The way that I'm reacting
often goes against my plan.
I'm trying to reach out and
you call it my excuse.
What you see as parenting,
Feels like abuse.
I feel very threatened and
begin to snap back;
I realize my mistake too late,
I try hard to retract.
I need some space to breathe,
I need a little air...
You get so worked up;
leaving no room for repair.
I try to walk away,
I try to be alone,
But you will never let it be
And that is set in stone.
I feel backed into a corner,
As though I have been trapped.
You push me all my life
And expect that I won't snap.
I am very agile,
But I am just a person.
I try to learn to bend
so the problem will not worsen.
You think that I'm rebellious
And full of disrespect
Whenever I'm defensive
As I am made upset.
I don't want to feel scared
And I don't want to feel pain,
Once you introduce those feelings
It can drive a girl insane.
I'm sorry that I haven't turned out
quite how you expected.
My problems are ignored
And my person feels rejected.
Expose me to the anger of
which I have been subjected...
I forget why I'm hurting and
I follow your objective.
The things that I'm saying
are just sitting in my head,
You may not remember them
as things that you once said.
I don't mean to preach and
I don't try to follow,
But your anger is so loud
That I find mine hard to swallow.
I'll leave if you need me to,
But that's not what i need.
I want to coexist with you,
I'm just not up to your speed.
I need love and I need patience,
But you have your own issues
And you cannot face this.
It's chalked down to
"He's old and he'll
never change his ways"
If this isn't an excuse,
I don't know what more to say.
You think that we are different,
but we are quite the same.
You don't see yourself in me
And I find that quite strange.
You say I make my problems
Into someone else's,
While doing just the same...
Am I the only one who is selfish?
I never mean to do or say
the things that I have
I wish that you could help me out,
but you are just my dad.
You are who you are,
no matter who it affects.
I just have to get over it,
as everyone expects.
I'll try not to be like you;
Try to avoid all of your habits.
The idea is in front of me,
I just can't seem to grab it.
Apr 28, 2017
Apr 28, 2017 at 8:08 AM UTC
An artist,
I’m scared to be left to my thinking atoms and nuclear cells
Why solder my raining thoughts to reality
In my head I can’t trust these clockworks
Rusted gears precariously tricking forward
Tensions unbalance on a pinched nerve ending
Hesitate I retract to others knowing what I don’t know
That once I start I might fail
I don’t do what I want to
I don’t speak when I want to
When I so desperately need to
Before I explode
Violently, into a void
Void of emotionless urges
An artist like me if I so believe I am
Doubtfully attempts to act in the face of thunder
Only to cowardly hide in a cat’s whisker
Inner bricking delays outer progress
Progress I provocatively flaunt to the alive bodies
While knowing the fallacious congrats is unwarranted
I don’t believe in magical rainbow kitten surprise wishes
But I won’t also hide my love
With the internal flame dimming
I want to act the part by flipping over the stones
For the mysteries hidden away
To see them crawling out
My untapped desires
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 6:34 PM UTC
Dogs take new friends abruptly and by smell,
Cats' meetings are neat, tactual, caressive.
Monkeys exchange their fleas before they speak.
Snakes, no doubt, coil by coil reach mutual knowledge.
We then, at first encounter, should be silent;
Not court the cortex but the epidermis;
Not work from inside out but outside in;
Discover each other's flesh, its scent and texture;
Familiarize the sinews and the nerve-ends,
The hands, the hair - before the inept lips open.
Instead of which we are resonant, explicit.
Our words like windows intercept our meaning.
Our four eyes fence and flinch and awkwardly
Wince into shadow, slide oblique to ambush.
Hands stir, retract. The pulse is insulated.
Blood is turned inwards, lonely; skin unhappy ...
While always under all, but interrupted,
Antennae stretch ... waver ... and almost ... touch.
7.1k
I am not myself in that
I cannot seem
To bring myself
To care, which
Not only
Feels wrong
But is also
Against everything
I believe in.
In not caring
I retract myself
From my surroundings
And disregard
Those around me
It's everything I
Go against, and
Is a recipe for
Hurt, but I
Cannot bring myself
To care.
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 9:21 AM UTC
How many times can I check facebook, check facebook check facebook?
Glance, browse stalk, stalk harder.
How many times can I watch a show on my computer?
Watched, finished, next episode next episode next episode-caught up
How many times can I get distracted, get distracted check emails—no new messages
Entertain me, distract me, disconnect
I want to be turned on standby, autopilot, you can think for me
Keep the walls of paper from burying me, suffocating me
Intellectually flat-line, a mental goodbye
Lose consciousness, fake my awake
Get lost, then found then actually find my way back to my workload
Attempt the task that terrifies
Look it in the eye,
Unafraid eager and tackle it down to the ground
One subject two three,
But the pile it looms over me, consumes me
I bit off more than I can chew
Teeth that don’t release, don’t retract
All I think of is how I should act
Attack, straight on? That’s the best bet
Nothing was ever accomplished by sitting down in fret
The stakes are just too high to try
A failed attempt changes impressions
Self-Conceptions
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 11:45 PM UTC
Now they want to come back,
Counter attack.
Reverberation of statements the mind wishes to retract.
A constant stream of this vivid waking dream,
Imagining a world painted with images,
Not scenes.
Screams.
They’re challenging again,
The force of which bonds the paper with the pen.
Again,
Hear their violent cries from below.
Cruelty,
Shame,
Each branded by the chain.
Ravenously searching for a new soul to tame.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 6:11 PM UTC
I watch your skin stretch and retract,
Like a rubber band,
The tan color of your shell.
I can see the outline of your ribs,
As your arms reach up toward the headboard of the bed.
Your toes point,
Like a ballerina.
And after twisting your body to each side,
You drape your soft skinned arm over my pale waist,
Pulling me in.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 11:50 AM UTC
But soft, what flatulence through yonder rancid window breaks. If it is the east, well then I’m heading west.
I wish I could recite this and I wouldn’t be talking about my life, but life is fair… just not for me. So I dive right in unfortunately. And I bask and I bask and I bask. Hold on, wait, please allow me to retract, as this occurs numerously within occupation. I firstly divide the **** cheeks, as if Moses dividing the seas. Like Jesus I break bread… anyways… my life is literally spent with my nose sandwiched between numerous people’s backsides. This brings me to my next point… I love my job… because I love people. My favorites are obese people because they suffocate me and for a brief moment I am without consciousness and have not a clue of my reality. The people I do it for the most though are the unstable people, you know?... the people with digestive problems that are so unstable they sometimes slip and instead of their body gas I am left with a face that looks like a diarrhea toilet. I am a poet though and therefore I hold onto the only significant job related poem that I’ve seen on our restroom walls… “Here I sit lonely hearted, came to **** but only farted.”
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 1:46 PM UTC
How many times can I check facebook, check facebook check facebook?
Glance, browse stalk, stalk harder.
How many times can I watch a show on my computer?
Watched, finished, next episode next episode next episode-caught up
How many times can I get distracted, get distracted check emails—no new messages
Entertain me, distract me, disconnect
I want to be turned on standby, autopilot, you can think for me
Keeps the walls of paper from burying me, suffocating me
Intellectually flat-line, a mental goodbye
Lose consciousness, fake my awake
Get lost, then found then actually find my way back to my workload
Attempt the task that terrifies
Look it in the eye,
Unafraid eager and tackle it down to the ground
One subject two three,
But the pile it looms over me, consumes me
I bit off more than I can chew
Teeth that don’t release, don’t retract
All I think of is how I should act
Attack, straight on? That’s the best bet
Nothing was ever accomplished by sitting down in fret
The stakes are just too high to try
A failed attempt changes impressions
Self-Conceptions
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 3:45 PM UTC
lacking stability
rocking, winding, slipping
distracting inability
missing the step beneath your foot
crawling now, just a bit further
before you reach the edge of the bed
only to realize you aren't even home
retract, revise, retrace
attempt to find that peaceful place
forget to remember
remembering to forget
once you awake
realize that you were never asleep
Oct 28, 2011
Oct 28, 2011 at 2:11 AM UTC
Why Men Like to Load the Dishwasher
We are the artists of shape and configuration,
puzzle masters solving riddles of physics,
worshipers at the altar of labor saving devices,
this is a love poem of sorts, a Bazinga salutation,
to men and their undying love
for **** machines.
were it in my power
all cups would be handle-less,
the dishwasher time-space continuum
would be non-interrupted by black holes
where handles pointlessly protrude,
requiring endless rearrangement,
a soul destroying exercise.
bowls of any sort should have bottoms that retract.
indeed, the capacity increase, a visible fact,
is so enviro-friendly, eminently sensible,
that the loading for mechanical scrubbing
is deserved of a wing in the Smithsonian.
perhaps the budgeteers of Congress
should be tutored in this artistry,
how to make any limited resource,
better used.
the rub, as the bard would have writ,
is that this roaring tempest-tost,
our love for hard labor lost,
secret sacrificed behind a locked door,
of a Sanctum ********
is entirely due, all glory to,
the secret society of fairies who
hide-reside inside,
freeing us to write more poetry.
in so many ways that I cannot reveal,
less the other gender members squeal,
men live to love to load the dishwasher,
for the ingenuity challenge, and of course,
the side benefit of the excusing coverup,
"I helped clean up," a relationship saver,
proof positively that the dishwasher inventor,
was surely a brilliant woman
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 8:26 AM UTC
I never understood “made in God’s image” until I saw her.
Anyone who’s seen her has higher expectations for what heaven looks like.
We’re both sensitive enough to know what love feels like,
and reasonable enough to know that it can be broken.
The first time you use a new toothbrush is nothing like the first time you kiss a girl,
But I still love them both.
Her laugh is a paradox; an outsider would think she either just said the cleverest thing ever or she wishes she could retract it faster than it was said.
Only I know it’s simply because it’s beautiful. It’s easily my favorite language.
I have considered wearing a wiretap so I could go back and listen to all of our conversations again. And I hope that it picked up her heartbeat. She told me, it’s beating exactly like life should sound like.
She offers to iron any wrinkled clothes. I don’t have any. But I have a wrinkled heart.
I thought it was made into origami but it’s just a wadded ball that missed the wastebasket.
The way she dances to hip-hop shows her versatility,
yet you can tell she doesn’t do this every day; but she still dances.
I’m almost too nervous to hug her - knowing it will have to end.
Whenever I let go, I feel like I made a mistake.
Her voice trails off into silence,
like an hourglass that’s trying to hold itself together.
I like that “click-clack” of her boots.
It lets me know I’m next to someone really going places.
She goes to the mini mart with me even when she doesn't want to get anything,
besides more time together.
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 1:44 AM UTC
380
There is a flower that Bees prefer—
And Butterflies—desire—
To gain the Purple Democrat
The Humming Bird—aspire—
And Whatsoever Insect pass—
A Honey bear away
Proportioned to his several dearth
And her—capacity—
Her face be rounder than the Moon
And ruddier than the Gown
Or Orchis in the Pasture—
Or Rhododendron—worn—
She doth not wait for June—
Before the World be Green—
Her sturdy little Countenance
Against the Wind—be seen—
Contending with the Grass—
Near Kinsman to Herself—
For Privilege of Sod and Sun—
Sweet Litigants for Life—
And when the Hills be full—
And newer fashions blow—
Doth not retract a single spice
For pang of jealousy—
Her Public—be the Noon—
Her Providence—the Sun—
Her Progress—by the Bee—proclaimed—
In sovereign—Swerveless Tune—
The Bravest—of the Host—
Surrendering—the last—
Nor even of Defeat—aware—
What cancelled by the Frost—
4k
Standing at the Rijksmuseum
we find ourselves part of a lesson,
a lesson by a master in his craft.
Our company seven men
some look at us some look away
while Dr. Tulp, our eighth man
digs into the elefant in the room.
The cool body lies bare
like light were coming out of it
reflecting on the faces of the more curious,
leaving in shadows the uninterested ones.
The dead arm opened wide,
some lesson on tendons or bones.
Three hundred and fifty years
mute the master's words so clear
make the master's brushes so loud.
It was a time of studied ignorance,
of white collars on shallow knowledge
when my favourite of the Old Masters was born.
Retract.
Step back into our reality
observe the beatiful museum
for we are before one of its finest pieces.
But it's hard.
It ***** you in.
Something about the crepuscular glow of the body
makes you get stuck in it.
Observe the perfect composition,
the diverse faces.
It's like a photograph taken at a random instant
yet so deliberate,
so randomly deliberate,
so deliberatly random.
But step back,
look at the whole thing,
it's just
so
beautiful.
You could say it's just 3D
masterfully represented in 2D
but it is not,
there's something more to it.
Something you could call extradimensional.
It's like if the artist knew the algorithms our mind follows
and knew the exact input needed for the desired output,
beauty,
art,
even shock.
Let's move on to the next painting,
but don't let this image fade away,
let it rest,
let it click,
and let it grow
in you.
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 8:29 AM UTC
I abuse words verbally like my voice is Bobby and the dictionary Whitney/
Like a literary hyperbole properly arranged to explain this deranged brutality perfectly/
Force the English language to work for me like a particularly dark time in history/
Optimistically take the tongue twister trickery and aggressively attack a vocabulary vocally and personally/
Not physically but a barrage on your psyche, almost psychedelically/
Use words medically, like a surgeon I expertly plant thoughts whispered softly but assertively/
Moving letters like chess pawns to express thoughts masterfully and creatively/
Gruesomely grotesque but gorgeous thoughts written down beautifully/
You can't help but hear the perplexity of mythoticly placed words with comradery/
An oddity with the audacity to raise the bar and up the capacity/
Because what comes out of me has to be exactly what you see because it is me/
Not just a part of me but all of me/
I'm not a fallen tree sitting in the forest silently, quietly all by my lonely/
It's just the opposite actually and factually/
I will attack with a dialect so violent you violently retract causing you to react cowardly automatically/
I don't even have to lift a pinky, leave it stinky/
Let my words linger there in the air like **** smoke, thick and sticky/
Periodically come back to peek and see if you've figured out the mystery and found the key/
One that'll decipher decisively what it is that I've let out of me and spread to all humanity/
I could never have planned it, see, it had to happen naturally, organically if you will/
And not to build it up falsely but I honestly, back then, didn't have the ***** to let it out of me and it cost me considerably/
So now this mastery I hold of word delivery bestowed to me gets jotted down feverishly/
With an intensity equal to none inside of this ******* century, can't censor me/
Got a consistency that forces me to constantly cross the border of insanity repeatedly/
Time only to watch my talents as they literally wither away for all of eternity/
Such a tragedy to see such agony but please, no apology brought on by sympathy/
Just let me be as I drift farther out to sea to a place you'll never see/
To let these words mold me into someone you could never be/
©2018
Apr 6, 2018
Apr 6, 2018 at 4:00 AM UTC
Grant me forgiveness.
For my mouth had acted prematurely
and erred.
Acrid words my tongue can't retract.
My lips quiver,
pursed and scared.
Grant me relief.
For my ego had lunged.
Fueled emotions that strayed.
Sensible thoughts in mind
that my heart had betrayed.
Grant me strength and courage.
Let the next morn's sun,
illuminate the dark obstinacy of my heart.
Allow this bitter turbidity to pass.
So I could walk the hard road,
to a brand new start.
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 9:29 AM UTC
Upon the farthest bank of legend’s secret lake,
At the very edge of a summer day,
The last long corridors of light, retract.
Bequeathing dusk his brief dominion
Over dreams and magic quests.
And there, upon the mind’s most distant shore
The ephemeral figure of an almost forgotten boy
Stood waiting for Excalibur to rise.
© James Rainsford 2010
Nov 14, 2010
Nov 14, 2010 at 8:47 AM UTC
Sweltering insurgencies of electric power chords
Tribal reverberations of skin-stretched drum boards
Rolling and filling; syncopating the noise
Of the tit-less toys
The dick-less boys
Enraptured in the music
The anthem
Of invidious phantoms
My eyes hurt inside and
I want to pull them out and
Scrape out the gunk and rust
that’s behind my self-indulgent perseverance
so I can cry
for the first time in years…
Wrapping my hands around his slender torso
Licking away the paint, the dripping ooze; more so
Than hastening my ****** and mordant urges
To bite what emerges
And my mouth purges
The obelisk from underneath
The iron-pierced jester
The voracious molester
My hand tightens as I grip
his throat tighter and
I want to squeeze until his eyes pop
from his sockets and
laugh until I puke against the walls,
watching the ****** fluids mix
like an execrable marinara sauce…
I turned thirty while still being sixteen
The vivid beauty of the world was only in dreams
But none of mine, none that I can recall
Many years have passed since I took the oral fall
Where no one saw
Intransigent need to live
For the snake in my veins hungered for more
So many had their way
until I was limp and sore.
Defamatory fingers of mire and strife
Probing and stretching
My insides
And devilishly comforting
With limpid ambrosia
That’s infected by bilious worms and maggots covered in icing
And fruit
Amatory gauntlets fastened and secured over
Handless limbs that retract under matriculated frictions
That fracture, crack, morph, distort
Emphasize, marginalize
Rationalize, desensitize
Acts of *********** evasion, moral drainage;
Pieces, bits, chunks, sections, portions, servings;
Arms, legs, eyes, tongues, fingers, toes,
Love, lust, infatuation
Adoration
Boys, girls, women, men,
Angels, demons, monsters, humans
Creators, gods, titans, divas
All extended and limited from the minds that worship
Sanctify, mesmerize, glorify, rectify
While humans eat more, love more, **** more
Than the angels, demons, monsters, and titans
We ponder and cherish
Nevermore, for me
Ever lore, for all
Crows surround
And chaos found.
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 11:11 PM UTC
Behind my sternum, exists a void.
Made long ago on this voyage.
Trail and error; attempting remedies
From school, to art, to melodies
Continue to spirits, and Buddha
All these attempts: futile
Confusion, anger, melancholy
They say, "look in to find it's seed"
But how would they react
If they heard what I retract.
That I've looked introspectively,
From sphenoid to chest cavity
And found nothing but a void
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 2:54 AM UTC
The media are the management,
the fear factory controlling British minds,
people afraid to fight, not willing to stand tall,
state their place, hold their ground.
They are happy to fall back,
retract their opinions, never react.
The media cast stereotypes,
negative images and cynical thoughts.
Destroying the trust in men and women alike.
Brainwashed, is what you think yours?
Or are your thoughts manufactured?
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 6:09 AM UTC
As fridge-rator to beer in the head between the ears adorned with flashy widgets with which to trap the hoes he hopes that he can pull into his poles. His gravity whips wide so hands find and feel up erthing that gots the tail, he wants to rail so hands out he walks and tilts to one side and back holding his glass. Two fingers limp around the rim, dipping his fingertips into the juice like he wants to dip into you, pinkies as he holds your head forcing you to **** like you want his come as much as he wants to come. Then when done zips up, runs out, ***** sayonara", switch rerun mode without emotion. He floatin. He floatin. He gloatin.
Head on the couch back making tired, one eye open scoping everyone's glow as they move, when up he comes sittin in my face, spittin what he thinks I want him to say, I'm like, **** guy control that tongue, you spray like that always I'm afraid I won't take that wild **** as tool is to you as to yo ***** Right ******* ****** spittin harder in the lean up perhaps the lead up to fist flung to react. "Man you too loose, I gotta tell you, I've got just what you do." "Your uh ****** Man watch ya flavor of language, I got just enough ****** left to get hard and stomp you, heel first in boots bought to stomp, pre-emptive to deal with the bullwhip effect where first you droolin to **** me, then retract like a bowstring because my ***** resembles a **** "What you want, ***** You wan **** this **** for real?" (For real?) He floatin. He floatin. He floatin the room, he ghosting.
Lick my lips, cept it's not a tongue. For this purpose it's strobe lights, in light show, and like snow, black and white between sheets of plastic TV screen on get settled into my flow, rip back and forth like prongs on a fork on your ******* blindfolded and scolded right angle, bent like an L-shape repenting for **** by taking the ****** flash cards, held up on headboards, trying to teach you metrics and standards lacking in you to tune you into the lifestream, no empathy and no tact to show, remember this hell well while you sail through life preying, I'm praying and making marks in meat coats. But he floatin. He floatin. He gloatin.
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC
There was a boy who loved a girl
And that girl adored that boy
The boy was happy and loved himself
The girl was full of self hatred and couldn't feel any joy
He didn't understand why she hated herself, couldn't she see he loved her even if she was depressed?
She couldn't understand why he liked her, couldn't he see she was a mess?
"You're such a narcissist." She'd laugh but she was secretly jealous
And she wondered how it felt to like yourself
She was amazed at how he always seemed to overestimate her abilities
He was stunned at how she always seemed to underestimate herself
She knew he deserved better though and tried to retract
But they were too in love and this is proof that
Opposites really do attract
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 11:40 AM UTC
self-sacrificed suffering
this life burns into nothing.
abstract obstructions
my hands are full,
cleaning, moving,
legs sore
and voice changing tones,
laughing is more persistent.
don't be nervous:
retract all motions blocked by the feeling of it.
lack of control, the situation needs to build itself
and all you have to do is live it.
communication codes:
call me esoteric emily,
leave me up in trees
I'll throw apples down for you to eat.
you feel like stones,
cement, hard-laced fruit loops,
and the morning after, and the year
after year after year
that
will
follow.
something smooth to rhyme to,
you're building fences for me to jump,
I'll leave you to mind them.
your eyes were my eyes, and it felt natural.
something you showed me that took advantage
of the bounds that tie and rebound and break,
something similar to a run on sentence.
sarcastic similes
arcane knowledge seeping through my eyelids.
now I'm forced by my own self-will to tell you everything.
there are more forces than that,
I'll learn to respect them in silence
rather than saying that I don't believe in them.
doesn't mean I'll get on my knees and pray,
just means I might want something.
seemingly mean
from the things that seem
to tunnel
underneath
your garbage,
your sinking
thoughts
combined
with
circumstantial
evidence
led me to believe in the beauty I swore was gone.
thankfully all suffering passes no sooner than happiness does.
Aug 12, 2012
Aug 12, 2012 at 1:53 AM UTC
my god, you embody admirable beauty
you replenish all the good when my world is crashing
with waves so persistent these rocks must remember
the importance they leave when the tide begins to fall
i'm dying to know, has this sand always been so white?
i find peace in the piles my car is collecting
i beam at the worlds these rocks are collecting
communal homes, no fighting; just beauty
my pale limbs get lost in sand so white
shortly revealing themselves as waves come crashing
sometimes i stand on that rugged pier and i fall
awaiting the swallow of the sea, forgetting what i shouldn't remember
here, the wind is always changing, it will never remember
these impeding worries I've been collecting
it may not be strong enough to catch my fall
but it floods my lungs with beauty
for a moment i feel this high is crashing
a seagull grooms his messy feathers, searching for the white
i tell the gull he's beautiful, despite his lack of white
he distracts me from what i shouldn't remember
in taking flight, i envy his crashing
colliding with the water at such height, i grasp the shells I've been collecting
i notice the tide receding from its path, revealing more beauty
tripping over sand, i race to the pier for one last fall
i attempt to leave but the oceans current begs for another fall
the powdery sand on shore grabs me by the ankles and i'm glowing white
i am flattered by this playful behavior, i'm grateful for its beauty
with you, my dear, my peace of mind is all you must remember
rest assured i will never abandon the memories we are collecting
for it is you, i run to when my world is crashing
i swiftly dodge the sudden rain so violently crashing
in a dreamy state, i observe the drops as they fall
still, my shoes are soaked from where water insisted on collecting
in my rear view i see the sand converts to mud and is no longer white
it doesn't matter though, its not the way i'll remember
a storm could never retract genuine beauty
recounting the days moments, drenched in beauty, i feel my body crashing
time is limited when trying to remember as my eyelids fall
white sand is all i see and i'm buried beneath the pillows I've been collecting
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 1:36 AM UTC