"riffs" poems - Hello Poetry

"riffs" poems

I can barely stand certain music now Each song holds a memory locked into it Multi-Love for instance It's fitting that I'm burning incense right now Because this song brings me back to December You were into hookah at that point The sweet and smoky scents danced around us As your sonos speakers Cascaded those guitar riffs into our ears I thought you were ecstasy But you became an addiction And like that smoke in my lungs You burned me instead

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Sep 2, 2018

Sep 2, 2018 at 8:35 AM UTC

I can barely stand certain music now Each song holds a memory locked into it Multi-Love for instance It's fitting that I'm burning incense right now Because this song brings me back to December You were into hookah at that point The sweet and smoky scents danced around us As your sonos speakers Cascaded those guitar riffs into our ears I thought you were ecstasy But you became an addiction And like that smoke in my lungs You burned me instead

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Beg sometimes please dripped pleasure a game of chess pieces, our bodies board, the cosmos River soft merging with adored gentle roughness, seductive riffs abound

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May 5, 2014

May 5, 2014 at 1:00 PM UTC

Beg sometimes please dripped pleasure a game of chess pieces, our bodies board, the cosmos River soft merging with adored gentle roughness, seductive riffs abound

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It’s early Friday afternoon and, over plates of greasy spoon dinner, the musician and the businessman repeat their weekly ritual. The businessman has his problems at home and spills his guts to his musician friend. “It’s been a real long time coming, but she’s still been such a bitter ***** They’ve met this way since their college days and nights spent studying the bottoms of whiskey bottles. And, as usual, the businessman’s hair sits sprawled on his head like a rag, and his tie is loosened. The musician doesn’t understand divorce: “You look like hell. You know, if you need a place to stay, Helen and I and the boy can always make some room for you.” They light a pair of cigarettes and wait for a waitress to kick them out. Into the haze of a Lower East Side crowd the musician and his band play his newest pieces, riffs on the happy swagger of the Duke. His critics— and he has many— write that his jazz sings the inescapable *********** of suffering through the life of every oblivious body, which makes the musician’s music sound more like the blues than jazz. But it’s jazz all the same and perhaps it was the intensity of the growling bass that shot spirits down the throats in the audience, reeling drunk in time to the beat of the musical suffering. The weekdays die and it is Friday again. He has a big view of midtown, the businessman, and though the window the falling sun horizons over his socked toes, parked on his desk in triumph over all those stockholders. It’s a pain to lose your family, but the businessman puts on a good face, and drinks. This Friday, the musician and the businessman are not in the mood for talking. But a scotch thrown down, and the two are tighter than thieves. The businessman complains of life at home and the musician’s eyes cross. That night, the musician skips his performance. His wife cries in their bed, shuddering with worry and asking him what makes him so distant? she asks— it’s a mystery even to himself. He is sweating whiskey— which suits him fine— and he spends his night on the bridge. One week later and it is Friday, finally. Today, the businessman will see his children at his former home for the last time for a handful of months at best. The musician has not been home for three days. He stays at a friend’s apartment, puts on his ***** blazer and a record of the Duke’s before he throws himself down the airshaft. The businessman jumps on the 5:44 out of town and calls his friend the musician to cancel their usual Friday meeting, but his phone keeps ringing, ringing, ringing, ringing, ringing.

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Apr 12, 2010

Apr 12, 2010 at 10:01 PM UTC

The Musician and the Businessman

It’s early Friday afternoon and, over plates of greasy spoon dinner, the musician and the businessman repeat their weekly ritual. The businessman has his problems at home and spills his guts to his musician friend. “It’s been a real long time coming, but she’s still been such a bitter ***** They’ve met this way since their college days and nights spent studying the bottoms of whiskey bottles. And, as usual, the businessman’s hair sits sprawled on his head like a rag, and his tie is loosened. The musician doesn’t understand divorce: “You look like hell. You know, if you need a place to stay, Helen and I and the boy can always make some room for you.” They light a pair of cigarettes and wait for a waitress to kick them out. Into the haze of a Lower East Side crowd the musician and his band play his newest pieces, riffs on the happy swagger of the Duke. His critics— and he has many— write that his jazz sings the inescapable *********** of suffering through the life of every oblivious body, which makes the musician’s music sound more like the blues than jazz. But it’s jazz all the same and perhaps it was the intensity of the growling bass that shot spirits down the throats in the audience, reeling drunk in time to the beat of the musical suffering. The weekdays die and it is Friday again. He has a big view of midtown, the businessman, and though the window the falling sun horizons over his socked toes, parked on his desk in triumph over all those stockholders. It’s a pain to lose your family, but the businessman puts on a good face, and drinks. This Friday, the musician and the businessman are not in the mood for talking. But a scotch thrown down, and the two are tighter than thieves. The businessman complains of life at home and the musician’s eyes cross. That night, the musician skips his performance. His wife cries in their bed, shuddering with worry and asking him what makes him so distant? she asks— it’s a mystery even to himself. He is sweating whiskey— which suits him fine— and he spends his night on the bridge. One week later and it is Friday, finally. Today, the businessman will see his children at his former home for the last time for a handful of months at best. The musician has not been home for three days. He stays at a friend’s apartment, puts on his ***** blazer and a record of the Duke’s before he throws himself down the airshaft. The businessman jumps on the 5:44 out of town and calls his friend the musician to cancel their usual Friday meeting, but his phone keeps ringing, ringing, ringing, ringing, ringing.

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it's simple really, nostalgia is buried in a melody the same way humans are put in coffins-- deliberately heart-wrenching, a science. an old transistor radio climbs lazily in the background, buzzing, humming but then hear it-- blank stares as the road carries on, gradually, slow mascara rivulets kiss cheeks like the intimacy long forgotten only to come rushing back-- songs that we said were ours were never ours to have, an old familiar lyric that we claimed to spell destiny, auditory memories that taunt and torture: the chorus only instigates barbed thorns to lonesome hearts, major chords aren't happy, but cause discordance-- clenched fists on the steering wheel, you must pullover-- you can't pause or rewind, you can't stop-- yes, change the channel-- but the music still plays, and the riffs hang in your head, remembered and reminisced over static-- but nothing is white noise when the final notes linger on your auditory palette, the taste like the stare of a cold gravestone... but even colder still, the empty seat next to you.

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Jan 3, 2015

Jan 3, 2015 at 8:24 PM UTC

darling-iridescence

|| sound waves ||

it's simple really, nostalgia is buried in a melody the same way humans are put in coffins-- deliberately heart-wrenching, a science. an old transistor radio climbs lazily in the background, buzzing, humming but then hear it-- blank stares as the road carries on, gradually, slow mascara rivulets kiss cheeks like the intimacy long forgotten only to come rushing back-- songs that we said were ours were never ours to have, an old familiar lyric that we claimed to spell destiny, auditory memories that taunt and torture: the chorus only instigates barbed thorns to lonesome hearts, major chords aren't happy, but cause discordance-- clenched fists on the steering wheel, you must pullover-- you can't pause or rewind, you can't stop-- yes, change the channel-- but the music still plays, and the riffs hang in your head, remembered and reminisced over static-- but nothing is white noise when the final notes linger on your auditory palette, the taste like the stare of a cold gravestone... but even colder still, the empty seat next to you.

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Apathy Don’t tell me how to feel, when I feel like this; Don’t tell me that you’re happy, when I’m so depressed. Don’t sit there with your girlfriend, giving her a kiss; Because I just don’t care, about your life of bliss. I do not care for your sympathy, Because I live in a town called Apathy. The town of no-hopers and the town I’m in; The ****** little town called Apathy. So don’t sit there with a smile upon your face. Don’t dare utter those words: ‘The world is such an amazing place.’ Because I live in the rain and I feel like **** The sun never shines down on Apathy. So I do not care for your sympathy, Because I live in a town called Apathy. The town of no-hopers and the town I’m in; The ****** little town called Apathy. If you feel the same as me; Or you live in a town like Apathy. A town of losers; a town of **** Then come with me down to Apathy. Let’s take it over and change a few things. Let’s welcome only rockers and eject all the trendies. Let’s all sit down and smoke a spliff. Let’s drink tequila and rock a few riffs. I do not care for your sympathy, Because I live in a town, called Apathy. The town of no-hopers and the town I’m in; The ****** little town called Apathy… Yeah, I live in a town called Apathy, And it has become like home to me, For I never want to live outside Apathy, Because I only care about, the cool people and me. (C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.

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Apr 21, 2018

Apr 21, 2018 at 6:45 PM UTC

Apathy Don’t tell me how to feel, when I feel like this; Don’t tell me that you’re happy, when I’m so depressed. Don’t sit there with your girlfriend, giving her a kiss; Because I just don’t care, about your life of bliss. I do not care for your sympathy, Because I live in a town called Apathy. The town of no-hopers and the town I’m in; The ****** little town called Apathy. So don’t sit there with a smile upon your face. Don’t dare utter those words: ‘The world is such an amazing place.’ Because I live in the rain and I feel like **** The sun never shines down on Apathy. So I do not care for your sympathy, Because I live in a town called Apathy. The town of no-hopers and the town I’m in; The ****** little town called Apathy. If you feel the same as me; Or you live in a town like Apathy. A town of losers; a town of **** Then come with me down to Apathy. Let’s take it over and change a few things. Let’s welcome only rockers and eject all the trendies. Let’s all sit down and smoke a spliff. Let’s drink tequila and rock a few riffs. I do not care for your sympathy, Because I live in a town, called Apathy. The town of no-hopers and the town I’m in; The ****** little town called Apathy… Yeah, I live in a town called Apathy, And it has become like home to me, For I never want to live outside Apathy, Because I only care about, the cool people and me. (C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.

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I want to go to a record store with you we can spend the little money we have left on The Smiths, The Rolling Stones, The Who, Pink Floyd for an hour or two we can be angsty teens in the 80s who drink cheap beer and steal our parents cars lets pretend were running away from home, from school, from everything we know I wanna lay on the floor of your apartment put a record on the turntable and hear that sweet crackle we'll listen to what we've bought and pretend we're watching the stars through the ceiling they'll dance to the beat like a laser show in our eyes while mind blowing guitar riffs and drum beats fill our spirits -kk

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Jul 21, 2014

Jul 21, 2014 at 2:40 AM UTC

I want to go to a record store with you

I want to go to a record store with you we can spend the little money we have left on The Smiths, The Rolling Stones, The Who, Pink Floyd for an hour or two we can be angsty teens in the 80s who drink cheap beer and steal our parents cars lets pretend were running away from home, from school, from everything we know I wanna lay on the floor of your apartment put a record on the turntable and hear that sweet crackle we'll listen to what we've bought and pretend we're watching the stars through the ceiling they'll dance to the beat like a laser show in our eyes while mind blowing guitar riffs and drum beats fill our spirits -kk

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Months have gone by and still you echo in my black hole, your lips still brushing mine in the wind that caresses my face, your voice whispering through the riffs and chords of songs, your body visible in the contours of trees, your face in the curves of the clouds, and looking up desperately at the night sky, I envision you glancing at the same stars, your soul having been imprinted permanently on the Earth's ceiling, so even when I close my eyes you linger in the corners of my mind, a universe of constellations and planets, galactic clusters of immortal memories and undying desires. Months have gone by as I continue to orbit around the memory of you, tilting onto your axis, spinning round and round as I try desperately to get back to you, but you're galaxies away.

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Mar 24, 2015

Mar 24, 2015 at 12:08 AM UTC

Months have gone by and still you echo in my black hole, your lips still brushing mine in the wind that caresses my face, your voice whispering through the riffs and chords of songs, your body visible in the contours of trees, your face in the curves of the clouds, and looking up desperately at the night sky, I envision you glancing at the same stars, your soul having been imprinted permanently on the Earth's ceiling, so even when I close my eyes you linger in the corners of my mind, a universe of constellations and planets, galactic clusters of immortal memories and undying desires. Months have gone by as I continue to orbit around the memory of you, tilting onto your axis, spinning round and round as I try desperately to get back to you, but you're galaxies away.

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O The Who belted out adolescent stress through edgy guitar riffs like they still had pimples long after they became famous. And me I I often forget that I'm I'm supposed to be becoming a Man or something like that. My hands are bleeding surely: my guitar pick isn't my fingers but soon I'll write these nonsensicals in blood. But nobody should scream out for that. Nobody should buy my words like rock-albums. Nobody should ask Who is he and Who am I because me I I often forget that I'm I'm supposed to be becoming a Man or something like that. While The Who O The Who belt out out adolescent stress through edgy guitar riffs like they still have pimples long after becoming famous like Who?

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Jul 23, 2015

Jul 23, 2015 at 2:24 PM UTC

O The Who belted out adolescent stress through edgy guitar riffs like they still had pimples long after they became famous. And me I I often forget that I'm I'm supposed to be becoming a Man or something like that. My hands are bleeding surely: my guitar pick isn't my fingers but soon I'll write these nonsensicals in blood. But nobody should scream out for that. Nobody should buy my words like rock-albums. Nobody should ask Who is he and Who am I because me I I often forget that I'm I'm supposed to be becoming a Man or something like that. While The Who O The Who belt out out adolescent stress through edgy guitar riffs like they still have pimples long after becoming famous like Who?

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silence except the soft piano riffs of classic 60's covers and the summer wind slipping past the parted windows as we drive through a different world where the daily countryside encapsulates and the sentinel stars coagulate into a calming blanket of condensation where serotonin and melatonin miscibles reign supreme silence except for the soft squeeze of my hand in hers the symphonized beat of two hearts stitched as one and the subtle sigh of mother nature's languid lullaby beneath the masked face of the full moon we drive through a different world and wonder how something so special can be a secret kept between only us

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Apr 15, 2017

Apr 15, 2017 at 11:27 PM UTC

Latenight Drives

silence except the soft piano riffs of classic 60's covers and the summer wind slipping past the parted windows as we drive through a different world where the daily countryside encapsulates and the sentinel stars coagulate into a calming blanket of condensation where serotonin and melatonin miscibles reign supreme silence except for the soft squeeze of my hand in hers the symphonized beat of two hearts stitched as one and the subtle sigh of mother nature's languid lullaby beneath the masked face of the full moon we drive through a different world and wonder how something so special can be a secret kept between only us

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If to you music is Euphoric Then to me you are music Like a needle in a groove My heart kicks like a drum Double petal Metal It's almost mental So good I'm off tempo Lost in an ocean of bass riffs Based Cought by your waves like a music castaway Overcame by your frequency I could change the station Hum a different tune But it would be no use I'm addicted As if hearing music for the first time All I can do is close my eyes Let my ears guide my wayward heart As I fall in love with you

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Sep 6, 2018

Sep 6, 2018 at 11:30 AM UTC

Declaration in C#sus2

If to you music is Euphoric Then to me you are music Like a needle in a groove My heart kicks like a drum Double petal Metal It's almost mental So good I'm off tempo Lost in an ocean of bass riffs Based Cought by your waves like a music castaway Overcame by your frequency I could change the station Hum a different tune But it would be no use I'm addicted As if hearing music for the first time All I can do is close my eyes Let my ears guide my wayward heart As I fall in love with you

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And honestly, At this moment All that's running through my head, Is rock n' roll, And near memories.. Cotton candy sky, And oxygen breeze. My droopy eyes Are that of relaxation, Not any earth-grown happiness. My slow heart beat is smooth sailing, Not candy-like pills. natural high So beautiful in a way, But darling.. Do you remember being high with me? High on life and love.. Together, Our hearts beating a irregular tune. But that's no longer, So I sit and listen to angry melodies, Screechy guitar riffs And lay here, High alone. Not nearly good as being high with you, I can no longer hear your heartbeat.. Nor mine..

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Jun 16, 2014

Jun 16, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC

Rock n roll high

And honestly, At this moment All that's running through my head, Is rock n' roll, And near memories.. Cotton candy sky, And oxygen breeze. My droopy eyes Are that of relaxation, Not any earth-grown happiness. My slow heart beat is smooth sailing, Not candy-like pills. natural high So beautiful in a way, But darling.. Do you remember being high with me? High on life and love.. Together, Our hearts beating a irregular tune. But that's no longer, So I sit and listen to angry melodies, Screechy guitar riffs And lay here, High alone. Not nearly good as being high with you, I can no longer hear your heartbeat.. Nor mine..

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Empty theatre, no sound. Spotlight on Marley. Smoke rises to da ceiling. The room fills witta rasta feelin' Dis is no baldhead. Dis is Marley, the great. Dreads as soft as silk. Riffs creamy like milk. I wanna watch fo' de rest of me life. Face 'gainst guitar as he wails. He paints da skies wit his sound. Catches me wit a reggae trap, I'm bound. Feels like just yesterday. He was on dis Earth. I feel his watch, from above. Flying tru da sky, like a reggae dove. Sun Is Shining Forever Loving Jah Get up, Stand up Stir It Up Redemption Song He wanted what he all did... One love... Just one...* *Plus, massive bluntz

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Dec 2, 2014

Dec 2, 2014 at 7:50 PM UTC

dertybeatzfromdastreetz

Empty theatre, no sound. Spotlight on Marley. Smoke rises to da ceiling. The room fills witta rasta feelin' Dis is no baldhead. Dis is Marley, the great. Dreads as soft as silk. Riffs creamy like milk. I wanna watch fo' de rest of me life. Face 'gainst guitar as he wails. He paints da skies wit his sound. Catches me wit a reggae trap, I'm bound. Feels like just yesterday. He was on dis Earth. I feel his watch, from above. Flying tru da sky, like a reggae dove. Sun Is Shining Forever Loving Jah Get up, Stand up Stir It Up Redemption Song He wanted what he all did... One love... Just one...* *Plus, massive bluntz

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Reality is cold, So am I. Soul headbangs, To the riffs of, a melodic death metal song. A Soul that dwells, In a lyrical coma. A blissful, escape route, Indeed!

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Nov 26, 2015

Nov 26, 2015 at 8:26 AM UTC

A blissful escape!

Reality is cold, So am I. Soul headbangs, To the riffs of, a melodic death metal song. A Soul that dwells, In a lyrical coma. A blissful, escape route, Indeed!

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There’s nothing special here Hearts are trampled by and by Lost looks go searching for lost loves There’s nothing special here Long thoughts and short lives Descending riffs rush by every day There’s nothing special here No tour bus stops for the lonely souls Smoke drifts wafting lazily Hazily the air never clears There’s nothing special here High times never made it through The door stays shut as often as not Slumped shouldered fools look down Frowns etched sketched amid the lines There’s nothing special here Just lost souls and hazy minds There’s nothing special here cc0111

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Jan 3, 2011

Jan 3, 2011 at 5:58 PM UTC

There's Nothing Special Here

There’s nothing special here Hearts are trampled by and by Lost looks go searching for lost loves There’s nothing special here Long thoughts and short lives Descending riffs rush by every day There’s nothing special here No tour bus stops for the lonely souls Smoke drifts wafting lazily Hazily the air never clears There’s nothing special here High times never made it through The door stays shut as often as not Slumped shouldered fools look down Frowns etched sketched amid the lines There’s nothing special here Just lost souls and hazy minds There’s nothing special here cc0111

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I am sore muscles, burned food, lit windows of houses I’ve seen while standing out in the cold, dead leaves underfoot, dreams of shoulder blades pushed against plaster and a lump in my throat, catching someone check their reflection when they think no one’s looking, running after an ice cream truck, airplanes crossing the sun, laughter shooting from the chest, vehicles racing along pavement, the tenderness of the air this morning, shadows stretching across snow, my gut fluttering when we’re alone together, poems I write in which nothing is true, the migration of birds, lights dimmed and all the music turned up, constellations of stars I will never know the names of, my thoughts chattering to no one, driving on ice with a pounding heart, dragonflies and thunderstorms with one ear-bud in, a head on a shoulder, hugs tight enough to hurt, swerving to avoid strangers in the street, poetry read on full eyes and an empty stomach, waking in the middle of the night to move through the house while everything’s soft and quiet, leaning into things with base violent passion, strawberries picked in August, things I want but will never have, that great numbing beauty, laying back on an unmade bed, laughing and sobbing like a ***** hurling rocks into the navy monotony of the ocean, electric jealousy, inhaling dust of old books, euphoric indie riffs, photographs pinned to walls, jogging to catch up with a new friend, spilled milk, a cool pillow at the end of every day, shifting seasons, happiness louder than bombs, lungs full of breath, affluxes of glitter in my eyes, a roar building in the space around me, love and love and love

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Apr 7, 2015

Apr 7, 2015 at 6:54 PM UTC

claire-mcculley

I am sore muscles, burned food, lit windows of houses I’ve seen while standing out in the cold, dead leaves underfoot, dreams of shoulder blades pushed against plaster and a lump in my throat, catching someone check their reflection when they think no one’s looking, running after an ice cream truck, airplanes crossing the sun, laughter shooting from the chest, vehicles racing along pavement, the tenderness of the air this morning, shadows stretching across snow, my gut fluttering when we’re alone together, poems I write in which nothing is true, the migration of birds, lights dimmed and all the music turned up, constellations of stars I will never know the names of, my thoughts chattering to no one, driving on ice with a pounding heart, dragonflies and thunderstorms with one ear-bud in, a head on a shoulder, hugs tight enough to hurt, swerving to avoid strangers in the street, poetry read on full eyes and an empty stomach, waking in the middle of the night to move through the house while everything’s soft and quiet, leaning into things with base violent passion, strawberries picked in August, things I want but will never have, that great numbing beauty, laying back on an unmade bed, laughing and sobbing like a ***** hurling rocks into the navy monotony of the ocean, electric jealousy, inhaling dust of old books, euphoric indie riffs, photographs pinned to walls, jogging to catch up with a new friend, spilled milk, a cool pillow at the end of every day, shifting seasons, happiness louder than bombs, lungs full of breath, affluxes of glitter in my eyes, a roar building in the space around me, love and love and love

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Sipping espresso, double affogato of course, topped with cream and Chatting with Miles, I saw Calliope sauntered in from the rain. Her dark mascara limped away from her crystal blue eyes As she waited for the barrister to turn his head. And when taking her cup, Somewhere between Bird’s schizophrenic riffs And Blakey's syncopation. I fell in love As I watched her lips purse and Blow casually at the lid, cooling the Fiery liquids inside but igniting mine. I decided to ask what brought her in from the Rain. My words queued in my throat as I stood To speak. My knees cracked, testifying to the years I stood on them. My heart tapped out a cadence as I strode Over to her table. I could smell spice and ginger of a perfume I knew so well. Her chestnut hair fell in damp tendrils across her forehead. Extending my hand with a napkin on the end I said, “ I would love if you joined Me for a biscotti.” With a sparkle in her eye her painted lips slid across her teeth, “I am waiting for a friend.” Walking away I sat dejected but not rejected because as she Conversed with him she peeked at me My Calliope And all was well. ~AD~

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Apr 2, 2010

Apr 2, 2010 at 2:48 PM UTC

Sipping espresso, double affogato of course, topped with cream and Chatting with Miles, I saw Calliope sauntered in from the rain. Her dark mascara limped away from her crystal blue eyes As she waited for the barrister to turn his head. And when taking her cup, Somewhere between Bird’s schizophrenic riffs And Blakey's syncopation. I fell in love As I watched her lips purse and Blow casually at the lid, cooling the Fiery liquids inside but igniting mine. I decided to ask what brought her in from the Rain. My words queued in my throat as I stood To speak. My knees cracked, testifying to the years I stood on them. My heart tapped out a cadence as I strode Over to her table. I could smell spice and ginger of a perfume I knew so well. Her chestnut hair fell in damp tendrils across her forehead. Extending my hand with a napkin on the end I said, “ I would love if you joined Me for a biscotti.” With a sparkle in her eye her painted lips slid across her teeth, “I am waiting for a friend.” Walking away I sat dejected but not rejected because as she Conversed with him she peeked at me My Calliope And all was well. ~AD~

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We were sitting in a restaurant Table set for two One of those single couple booths Perfect for me and you We spoke of money and I refused to let you pay for me Maybe I have too much pride But I’m not who your ex used to be The overhead lights reflected perfectly and I was sure that you were not a mistake Your ocean eyes vibrated my soul And then I spilled my milkshake Blood rushed to my face And I looked away in shame But then I heard you laughing And something in my heart changed Somehow you weren’t embarrassed Or uncomfortable with my lack of grace But instead that heart-shattering smile Was plastered across your gorgeous face And then you surprised me yet again As you opened up your soul out of the blue And though you spoke nonchalantly I knew those thoughts were haunting you I painted versions of your stories Across the walls of my mind as you spoke Memorizing the imagery and your feelings About your insufficient social support And while I know I can’t be everything for you I can try to be better than the last So you have somewhere safe to run When you need to escape your broken past Because although the table spanned miles between us And we were connected only by our fingertips I could feel our souls grazing one another As they tangled together in electric riffs At that very moment Staring into your eyes, gold and blue I felt the first real chance That I might truly love you

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Aug 21, 2017

Aug 21, 2017 at 3:42 PM UTC

We were sitting in a restaurant Table set for two One of those single couple booths Perfect for me and you We spoke of money and I refused to let you pay for me Maybe I have too much pride But I’m not who your ex used to be The overhead lights reflected perfectly and I was sure that you were not a mistake Your ocean eyes vibrated my soul And then I spilled my milkshake Blood rushed to my face And I looked away in shame But then I heard you laughing And something in my heart changed Somehow you weren’t embarrassed Or uncomfortable with my lack of grace But instead that heart-shattering smile Was plastered across your gorgeous face And then you surprised me yet again As you opened up your soul out of the blue And though you spoke nonchalantly I knew those thoughts were haunting you I painted versions of your stories Across the walls of my mind as you spoke Memorizing the imagery and your feelings About your insufficient social support And while I know I can’t be everything for you I can try to be better than the last So you have somewhere safe to run When you need to escape your broken past Because although the table spanned miles between us And we were connected only by our fingertips I could feel our souls grazing one another As they tangled together in electric riffs At that very moment Staring into your eyes, gold and blue I felt the first real chance That I might truly love you

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(papa) lead my music towards marshmallow dreams and woozy hearts he lay me down in a soft nest of clouds and propped my head up on a mushroom tucked me in with quilted blankets and goodnight kisses he stroked my nose until I succumbed to the whims of foreign lands and he turned the lanterns off he played me piano riffs and stroked the strings of my guitar warmed me and cloaked me in oceans of drowsy bliss and he'll read me dreams tonight

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Apr 21, 2013

Apr 21, 2013 at 6:57 AM UTC

(papa) lead my music towards marshmallow dreams and woozy hearts he lay me down in a soft nest of clouds and propped my head up on a mushroom tucked me in with quilted blankets and goodnight kisses he stroked my nose until I succumbed to the whims of foreign lands and he turned the lanterns off he played me piano riffs and stroked the strings of my guitar warmed me and cloaked me in oceans of drowsy bliss and he'll read me dreams tonight

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Today, I saw it all The way a nose perched, delicately Riffs moving, internally A puff of frustration causing hopelessness Two, one more than one A test of strength Procrastinated beginnings, never The last thread of hope, ready It should work It should

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Nov 4, 2012

Nov 4, 2012 at 10:34 PM UTC

Today, I saw it all The way a nose perched, delicately Riffs moving, internally A puff of frustration causing hopelessness Two, one more than one A test of strength Procrastinated beginnings, never The last thread of hope, ready It should work It should

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my eyes opened to find the thin lizard dawn gleaming after the gutter drank its' fill of the moon last night the tambourine buried in my lungs still vibrating like these walls papered with cheap roses last night i found comfort the only way i know how in situations like this beside a girl wearing a pretty ribbon twisted around her waist pomegranate lipstick wet clay & tragic glitter smeared across her eyelids we spent the night roped together by half-removed clothing & my fingers third knuckle deep counting the pulse of the heart of the universe while the wild fox barked on the hill outside & the mockingbirds played riffs in the lilac bushes her ******* ran tight around her shins & she sputtered the dark lyricism of bees twisting her tongue backwards around itself in my ear our bare bellies slapped together as my tongue found her tooth enamel & the trees formed a tight center loop to harness the sky for us & i held my breath waiting for her to breathe first i can feel her chest & plump **** now quietly throbbing against the tight young flesh of my back but when i roll over & see her eyes darting green like a thin ocean laser avoiding my dynamic gaze & her pouty mouth emitting a pink yawn i can tell she's unhappy & ashamed of me i tried to run my fingers through the butterscotch tumbleweed of her hair but she just popped her gum & sent me high stepping through the soft warm mud & chest high cattails of her driveway callow under the clouds stuck like gnats to the fly paper sky

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Oct 8, 2015

Oct 8, 2015 at 3:58 PM UTC

butterscotch tumbleweed

my eyes opened to find the thin lizard dawn gleaming after the gutter drank its' fill of the moon last night the tambourine buried in my lungs still vibrating like these walls papered with cheap roses last night i found comfort the only way i know how in situations like this beside a girl wearing a pretty ribbon twisted around her waist pomegranate lipstick wet clay & tragic glitter smeared across her eyelids we spent the night roped together by half-removed clothing & my fingers third knuckle deep counting the pulse of the heart of the universe while the wild fox barked on the hill outside & the mockingbirds played riffs in the lilac bushes her ******* ran tight around her shins & she sputtered the dark lyricism of bees twisting her tongue backwards around itself in my ear our bare bellies slapped together as my tongue found her tooth enamel & the trees formed a tight center loop to harness the sky for us & i held my breath waiting for her to breathe first i can feel her chest & plump **** now quietly throbbing against the tight young flesh of my back but when i roll over & see her eyes darting green like a thin ocean laser avoiding my dynamic gaze & her pouty mouth emitting a pink yawn i can tell she's unhappy & ashamed of me i tried to run my fingers through the butterscotch tumbleweed of her hair but she just popped her gum & sent me high stepping through the soft warm mud & chest high cattails of her driveway callow under the clouds stuck like gnats to the fly paper sky

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Tribute to my childhood hero Joni Mitchell The album covers beaten The player old and worn The needle barely tracking From all the scratches borne Upon the vinyl surfaces Of albums that were stored Unlocking wonderous worlds Of music I adored I would lie in cloistered darkness To hear a voice so sweet There I'd usher in the nighttime To worship at her feet Struck by earthy lyrics But somewhat strange Unearthly tunes To trace with disconnected fingers The most sensitive of wounds How sad that good songs Unsung heroes Like "Morning Morgantown" Wouldn't live forever To "buy your dreams a dollar down" Recall "Big Yellow Taxi"? You can rest assured I do! And "Ladies of the Canyon" And her epic album "Blue" Most folks recall a song Entitled "Both Sides Now" 'Bout clouds and love and life But they do not know Her poetic expression Unearthed deep jazzy riffs Elitism. Hypocrisy. And "Summer Lawns" that "Hissed" At the pinnacle of greatness Her album "Court and Spark" Will always be a touchstone For purity in art A deeply troubled woman At certain times in life Loving truely... deeply In the "Industry" meant strife A versatile genius Her lyrics resonate Fot the very thing that scarred her Also made her great --- At times I'd sit and ponder A self-inflicted crime But I would postpone the act To hear her one last time Her songs touched me so deeply Places only she could know With her voice to guide me I found a place to go She became my inspiration My metaphor. My muse. Joni Mitchell told my heart To write of its abuse I aspire to higher standards A perfection as it were And should my work be recognized I owe it all to her. Though endlessly I search For perfect sense of art It's brought on by INPERFECTION But a kind and loving heart. What I saw in her self portrait Was a humble, gentle face She was the greatest mentor a human life could grace SoulSurvivor (C) 10/14/2014 Rewritten (C) 7/17/2015

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Jul 18, 2015

Jul 18, 2015 at 1:07 AM UTC

Lady of the Canyon

Tribute to my childhood hero Joni Mitchell The album covers beaten The player old and worn The needle barely tracking From all the scratches borne Upon the vinyl surfaces Of albums that were stored Unlocking wonderous worlds Of music I adored I would lie in cloistered darkness To hear a voice so sweet There I'd usher in the nighttime To worship at her feet Struck by earthy lyrics But somewhat strange Unearthly tunes To trace with disconnected fingers The most sensitive of wounds How sad that good songs Unsung heroes Like "Morning Morgantown" Wouldn't live forever To "buy your dreams a dollar down" Recall "Big Yellow Taxi"? You can rest assured I do! And "Ladies of the Canyon" And her epic album "Blue" Most folks recall a song Entitled "Both Sides Now" 'Bout clouds and love and life But they do not know Her poetic expression Unearthed deep jazzy riffs Elitism. Hypocrisy. And "Summer Lawns" that "Hissed" At the pinnacle of greatness Her album "Court and Spark" Will always be a touchstone For purity in art A deeply troubled woman At certain times in life Loving truely... deeply In the "Industry" meant strife A versatile genius Her lyrics resonate Fot the very thing that scarred her Also made her great --- At times I'd sit and ponder A self-inflicted crime But I would postpone the act To hear her one last time Her songs touched me so deeply Places only she could know With her voice to guide me I found a place to go She became my inspiration My metaphor. My muse. Joni Mitchell told my heart To write of its abuse I aspire to higher standards A perfection as it were And should my work be recognized I owe it all to her. Though endlessly I search For perfect sense of art It's brought on by INPERFECTION But a kind and loving heart. What I saw in her self portrait Was a humble, gentle face She was the greatest mentor a human life could grace SoulSurvivor (C) 10/14/2014 Rewritten (C) 7/17/2015

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And i would listen to paramore to find those words i relate to And i would turn the volume up to numb the pain The drums rock my mind In tune with my heartbeat As i scream out the lyrics Those words i yearn to tell you With the strums and guitar riffs Which my heartstrings play out I keep paramore on play To express and numb it all more

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Sep 12, 2014

Sep 12, 2014 at 9:25 AM UTC

And i would listen to paramore to find those words i relate to And i would turn the volume up to numb the pain The drums rock my mind In tune with my heartbeat As i scream out the lyrics Those words i yearn to tell you With the strums and guitar riffs Which my heartstrings play out I keep paramore on play To express and numb it all more

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there would be blank canvasses empty words silently echoing the pages of poems not written of narrative never revealed from muses overwhelming spirits overflowing onto sugar coated melodies woven into lyrics that pester and harass and permeate the sacred space of minds there would be blank canvasses empty words of delicate curves or hips, wide like sandy beaches immortalized by brush strokes or camera shutters empty panels of superhero legends forgotten there would be blank canvasses, empty words of no church praises hollered over holy rollin piano riffs but most definitely, most importantly, there would be blank canvasses, empty words and hands that never itched to craft golden scrolls onto the haggard loose leaves residing in sharpie stained notebooks and great wisdoms never told which ****** great minds moves great minds with melodious lyricism which haunts souls taunts souls with the burning questions of shoes and ships and ceiling wax there would be pens never emptied dry cultivating piles of paper ***** with half *** rhymes, rhythms, and washed up metaphors muses would never possess individuals sleeplessly seeking to fill up forests worth of leaves after suffering from the doldrums of writers block blank canvasses, empty words in a world without art

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Apr 22, 2013

Apr 22, 2013 at 2:18 PM UTC

curlie-fries-mcgee

Blank Canvasses, Empty Words

there would be blank canvasses empty words silently echoing the pages of poems not written of narrative never revealed from muses overwhelming spirits overflowing onto sugar coated melodies woven into lyrics that pester and harass and permeate the sacred space of minds there would be blank canvasses empty words of delicate curves or hips, wide like sandy beaches immortalized by brush strokes or camera shutters empty panels of superhero legends forgotten there would be blank canvasses, empty words of no church praises hollered over holy rollin piano riffs but most definitely, most importantly, there would be blank canvasses, empty words and hands that never itched to craft golden scrolls onto the haggard loose leaves residing in sharpie stained notebooks and great wisdoms never told which ****** great minds moves great minds with melodious lyricism which haunts souls taunts souls with the burning questions of shoes and ships and ceiling wax there would be pens never emptied dry cultivating piles of paper ***** with half *** rhymes, rhythms, and washed up metaphors muses would never possess individuals sleeplessly seeking to fill up forests worth of leaves after suffering from the doldrums of writers block blank canvasses, empty words in a world without art

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when people ask me 'what type of poetry do you like?' i tell them that i like real poetry not fake meaningless poetry with technical words that i don't even know. i tell them poetry has to have EMOTION and it doesn't have to make sense. it doesn't have to rhyme, either. poetry should be raw. it should be written when you don't think you have anything to write about like that time you were lying in bed and thought of a single word planted onto paper to create a whole stanza, and then five stanzas. find poetry in music. in the low guitar riffs and the drum beat. find it in the lyrics and the vocals. find words in trees. in lights. in a bottle of nail polish. in your first love and your last laugh. find poetry when you fall and a stranger helps you up. find it in a busker at the train station. find it when you give that busker some money and find it when you see that the busker appreciates you. find poetry in poetry.

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Sep 7, 2013

Sep 7, 2013 at 10:37 PM UTC

when people ask me 'what type of poetry do you like?' i tell them that i like real poetry not fake meaningless poetry with technical words that i don't even know. i tell them poetry has to have EMOTION and it doesn't have to make sense. it doesn't have to rhyme, either. poetry should be raw. it should be written when you don't think you have anything to write about like that time you were lying in bed and thought of a single word planted onto paper to create a whole stanza, and then five stanzas. find poetry in music. in the low guitar riffs and the drum beat. find it in the lyrics and the vocals. find words in trees. in lights. in a bottle of nail polish. in your first love and your last laugh. find poetry when you fall and a stranger helps you up. find it in a busker at the train station. find it when you give that busker some money and find it when you see that the busker appreciates you. find poetry in poetry.

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