"roadmaps" poems - Hello Poetry

"roadmaps" poems

Big ears Small nose Frizzy hair Chubby thighs Flaws, Scars on legs Birthmarks on arms Small ***** Flaws, Flaws are nothing to be ashamed of They are our hidden roadmaps to places only we really know Embrace every flaw that covers your body They make you, you.

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May 25, 2015

May 25, 2015 at 4:41 PM UTC

Big ears Small nose Frizzy hair Chubby thighs Flaws, Scars on legs Birthmarks on arms Small ***** Flaws, Flaws are nothing to be ashamed of They are our hidden roadmaps to places only we really know Embrace every flaw that covers your body They make you, you.

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I pick up my pen again I want these words to be everything love letters apologizes confessions, daydreams plans? Or roadmaps, new contracts, to-do lists, like "stop falling down," or "try harder this time". I turn you over but you don't give me what I'm looking for, I'm looking for a place to dissolve this poison I'm searching in the dark for halos that don't exist I'm counting up nights of lost sleep, calculating the probability of our intertwined fingers as remedies melt off your tongue and run over cracks in the pavement, oozing sticky shower thoughts into our heads, like how did we end up here?,& how does the world end every night but go on spinning the next morning? I want this to be everything, the cure our futures, soft plans, collections of stitched together questions like how long does forever taste on your breath in the aftermath of all the anxiety you tend to consume? I want to pull the drapes on this thing and leave it to breathe in the dark, leave it under covers so these ailments don't seep around my doorframe and pull what is half-born into the light, let it be let it live let it cave in on itself and slowly rebuild. Chances come in handfuls, let the sun forget to practice her old game of never letting anyone rest; my fingers are warm & numb now and they remind me a little of how you look when you're half asleep they remind me why this is fragile, why this is broken why this can never last and I'm sitting in the passenger seat wondering how the soft things stretch out their wings in my lungs without killing me, but they're leaving their marks now, clawing up my throat; I close my eyes and give them to the open air. You don't know all of this; your eyelids are heavy and you're keeping track of who I am in little notepads & reminders, keeping track of the way we move and how likely we are to remember this moment in 5 years, because right now you want to capture it and tame it like a living thing. We are becoming dust molecules, we are burning, we are becoming quiet we don't leave footprints we don't leave traces we are heading toward the end of the world with our hands tucked into our pockets, we are headed toward the end of the world dissolving each others names on our tongues like sugar, we are headed toward the end of the world and when we get there, it starts again.

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Jun 11, 2018

Jun 11, 2018 at 5:34 PM UTC

why the world never ends

I pick up my pen again I want these words to be everything love letters apologizes confessions, daydreams plans? Or roadmaps, new contracts, to-do lists, like "stop falling down," or "try harder this time". I turn you over but you don't give me what I'm looking for, I'm looking for a place to dissolve this poison I'm searching in the dark for halos that don't exist I'm counting up nights of lost sleep, calculating the probability of our intertwined fingers as remedies melt off your tongue and run over cracks in the pavement, oozing sticky shower thoughts into our heads, like how did we end up here?,& how does the world end every night but go on spinning the next morning? I want this to be everything, the cure our futures, soft plans, collections of stitched together questions like how long does forever taste on your breath in the aftermath of all the anxiety you tend to consume? I want to pull the drapes on this thing and leave it to breathe in the dark, leave it under covers so these ailments don't seep around my doorframe and pull what is half-born into the light, let it be let it live let it cave in on itself and slowly rebuild. Chances come in handfuls, let the sun forget to practice her old game of never letting anyone rest; my fingers are warm & numb now and they remind me a little of how you look when you're half asleep they remind me why this is fragile, why this is broken why this can never last and I'm sitting in the passenger seat wondering how the soft things stretch out their wings in my lungs without killing me, but they're leaving their marks now, clawing up my throat; I close my eyes and give them to the open air. You don't know all of this; your eyelids are heavy and you're keeping track of who I am in little notepads & reminders, keeping track of the way we move and how likely we are to remember this moment in 5 years, because right now you want to capture it and tame it like a living thing. We are becoming dust molecules, we are burning, we are becoming quiet we don't leave footprints we don't leave traces we are heading toward the end of the world with our hands tucked into our pockets, we are headed toward the end of the world dissolving each others names on our tongues like sugar, we are headed toward the end of the world and when we get there, it starts again.

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On a slow train out of the Savannahs sudden exile, the sunlight swallows me, a calligraphy of days, hours, minuets, now inscribed on my limbs, syntax gives over to a dry, dry sound, and parched, the aftertaste of sloe gin inhabits my ribs, the lay of bones, a labyrinth of absence, and this velvet ache at my wrists, a pure burning, burning the memory red, words swell and crumble with a kiss, what absence, Soul of Winter, what absence is this, spreading over roadmaps, soliloquies, nights stretch into mornings, always mornings, as my fingertips pull daylight from an orange in dream alphabets that soon dwindle to vowels, the word, harbour, bends the old alder beyond what it can bear, so many ways, you say, to live like a prisoner, at home, the rooms are all windswept, reckless chairs overturned , abandoned in this, the evenings parable, love is no more than a syllable in a bottle of shattered blue glass, a poem written on the underside of a childs teacup, their jump ropes curl like adders at our feet, the thread from where I dangle in doorways and twilight, as I bide time, perilous over train tracks, your fingers trace tally marks along my vertebrae, the hollows darkening in a pathos of blue rheumatism, and in the carnivorous tremor of my body breaking like the spine of a book, the paper gone pink at the edges, like azaleas and bruises, erosion, after all is the altar of the body, and there are scars beneath my temple, and this ache, still, in my wrists, unbearable when it rains, ghosts inhabit my lungs, wrung from the silence of shut windows, eternal clotheslines and linen span for miles across the Savannah, and the early frost is at last, calling me home....

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Jan 10, 2013

Jan 10, 2013 at 5:11 PM UTC

On a slow train out of the Savannahs sudden exile, the sunlight swallows me, a calligraphy of days, hours, minuets, now inscribed on my limbs, syntax gives over to a dry, dry sound, and parched, the aftertaste of sloe gin inhabits my ribs, the lay of bones, a labyrinth of absence, and this velvet ache at my wrists, a pure burning, burning the memory red, words swell and crumble with a kiss, what absence, Soul of Winter, what absence is this, spreading over roadmaps, soliloquies, nights stretch into mornings, always mornings, as my fingertips pull daylight from an orange in dream alphabets that soon dwindle to vowels, the word, harbour, bends the old alder beyond what it can bear, so many ways, you say, to live like a prisoner, at home, the rooms are all windswept, reckless chairs overturned , abandoned in this, the evenings parable, love is no more than a syllable in a bottle of shattered blue glass, a poem written on the underside of a childs teacup, their jump ropes curl like adders at our feet, the thread from where I dangle in doorways and twilight, as I bide time, perilous over train tracks, your fingers trace tally marks along my vertebrae, the hollows darkening in a pathos of blue rheumatism, and in the carnivorous tremor of my body breaking like the spine of a book, the paper gone pink at the edges, like azaleas and bruises, erosion, after all is the altar of the body, and there are scars beneath my temple, and this ache, still, in my wrists, unbearable when it rains, ghosts inhabit my lungs, wrung from the silence of shut windows, eternal clotheslines and linen span for miles across the Savannah, and the early frost is at last, calling me home....

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He woke up bathed in moonshine Sleepy Appalachian mountain eyes Fading autumn honey liquid gold Into the white background noise of reality He always did have one foot in, one foot out A ghost to those that he let see Physical boundaries ignored, retired Weary bones begged him to slip back into the comfort of oblivion But for him sleep was ever elusive, a tease Racing over lush valleys, dead seas and fertile plains His thoughts are boundless Synthesizing emotional code into poetic expression He must pull it all together somehow Beats and rhythms sparkle off the edge of his perception They rarely paused long enough to remember But he always did Calloused hands prove a life of grunt work His dreams had been so much more complex Weaving through the atmosphere, linking fully with the cosmos Lines whisper across his flesh Roadmaps ****** and impulsive Sensitively attuned to the pulsing energy around him Shaping it into flourished verse He is the sun I merely the moon

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May 12, 2012

May 12, 2012 at 11:37 AM UTC

He woke up bathed in moonshine Sleepy Appalachian mountain eyes Fading autumn honey liquid gold Into the white background noise of reality He always did have one foot in, one foot out A ghost to those that he let see Physical boundaries ignored, retired Weary bones begged him to slip back into the comfort of oblivion But for him sleep was ever elusive, a tease Racing over lush valleys, dead seas and fertile plains His thoughts are boundless Synthesizing emotional code into poetic expression He must pull it all together somehow Beats and rhythms sparkle off the edge of his perception They rarely paused long enough to remember But he always did Calloused hands prove a life of grunt work His dreams had been so much more complex Weaving through the atmosphere, linking fully with the cosmos Lines whisper across his flesh Roadmaps ****** and impulsive Sensitively attuned to the pulsing energy around him Shaping it into flourished verse He is the sun I merely the moon

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I don't love him but he's here and you aren't And he doesn't ******* hold my hand, all he does is **** me And god forbid that god forbids you from being near me Because when I see nothing but headlights and tire tread I think of salvation I will hold onto you tighter than my father when he came home and told me I'd hate him We don't speak anymore except about the time you were supposed to kiss me but instead I felt my jaw shatter And he still wishes his fist could've done the same to yours as a 16th birthday present for me But I guess you've never liked my voice so why would you wanna hear it My tongue falls back into my throat like words I've choked on in front of you If you came back, even as a dream, I would fill half a glass and let you decide if I'm emptier I have the audacity to think I meant something more to you than to your temper And I never needed a lighter to play with fire when baby, I had you I fear fences because the one in my front yard couldn't keep your voice out I'd gate off my mind but I'm sure I'd still fear January the 1st and I might even miss you I always loved your hands even when they were breaking me Even if they've made me flinch at a raised hand or a friendly pat on the back I ******* hated the roadmaps in your arms because they couldn't guide me out of your grasp I knew you were dangerous but I was excited by the fear of getting caught with you I told you, "I am too ******* young." And I felt more electricity in your fist hitting my cheekbones than I ever had in your lips Even when I lay my sorrowed mind on his silk sheets I cannot fall asleep anymore

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Nov 23, 2014

Nov 23, 2014 at 4:19 PM UTC

Indirect Contact

I don't love him but he's here and you aren't And he doesn't ******* hold my hand, all he does is **** me And god forbid that god forbids you from being near me Because when I see nothing but headlights and tire tread I think of salvation I will hold onto you tighter than my father when he came home and told me I'd hate him We don't speak anymore except about the time you were supposed to kiss me but instead I felt my jaw shatter And he still wishes his fist could've done the same to yours as a 16th birthday present for me But I guess you've never liked my voice so why would you wanna hear it My tongue falls back into my throat like words I've choked on in front of you If you came back, even as a dream, I would fill half a glass and let you decide if I'm emptier I have the audacity to think I meant something more to you than to your temper And I never needed a lighter to play with fire when baby, I had you I fear fences because the one in my front yard couldn't keep your voice out I'd gate off my mind but I'm sure I'd still fear January the 1st and I might even miss you I always loved your hands even when they were breaking me Even if they've made me flinch at a raised hand or a friendly pat on the back I ******* hated the roadmaps in your arms because they couldn't guide me out of your grasp I knew you were dangerous but I was excited by the fear of getting caught with you I told you, "I am too ******* young." And I felt more electricity in your fist hitting my cheekbones than I ever had in your lips Even when I lay my sorrowed mind on his silk sheets I cannot fall asleep anymore

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**under my skin high tension wires they crackle and singe the hair on my arms burning inside making roadmaps on my throat and belly leading nowhere the words are singing an a cappella high note bursting my eardrums shattering glass the fragments shimmer and filter out into the ionosphere hang there to rival the aurora borialis the words are singing their song of mermaids their siren song i crash on the rocks i tear the paper with a rudderless ship and the words skitter off the page like lizards** soulsurvivor (c) 6/6/2015

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Jun 6, 2015

Jun 6, 2015 at 2:49 PM UTC

the words are singing

**under my skin high tension wires they crackle and singe the hair on my arms burning inside making roadmaps on my throat and belly leading nowhere the words are singing an a cappella high note bursting my eardrums shattering glass the fragments shimmer and filter out into the ionosphere hang there to rival the aurora borialis the words are singing their song of mermaids their siren song i crash on the rocks i tear the paper with a rudderless ship and the words skitter off the page like lizards** soulsurvivor (c) 6/6/2015

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Everything is happening so quickly so many negatives surpassing the insignificant glimpse of positives that never seem to suffice, there’s always this light at the end of the tunnel that everyone speaks of, yet i continue to see darkness; a journey down this long tunnel brings no illumination but only a continuance of nihility, the damp walls seem to bring the chill humidity closer and closer with each step, the droplets echo the narrowing, flickering lights dissipate at passing, the gag sparking stench of sewage and ***** make the voyage to light even more unbearable than the previous hesitant inching towards the so called spoken about bearability of life, sudden scintillations of light bring sight of russet, worn doors, consecutively placed, discoloured of crimson roadkill, I open the first door and see a woman tied and bound, gag in throat, beads of sweat turning the white gag to watered milk, the dirt beneath her nails entwines with skin and blood dredged by her own fingertips, to front is a tray of what seems like torture tools *intrigued, I slam the door and avoid a kiss from Judas* The next door, I open and see a man sitting facing the corner, wrapped in a flickering fan, staring at a wall of carvings of ticks and dashes, to see arms of cuts and gashes, with a tray next to him comprised of razors and knives he sits picking at skin of bruises and hives, tempted to grab the tool and corrode self, with the reflection of whats within, I slam the door and avoid Finally the third door eagerly stares to me with anticipation boiling veins, I press my ear to foreshadow, I hear a cries; a man of hatred and a woman of pain I open the door and find a bottle of whiskey I take a swig and feel as if Judas kissed me, Within the third door; walls with peepholes to confirm the calls on the left I see the sliding knife over-panting roadmaps of russet to the neck of the bound woman, the screams are deafening, they present a vibration, stuttering thoughts, and releasing the fixation, prompting the admiration to view the second door, I see myself, in door 2 tremors and convulsions seeing blood expel every vein as the verticals halt oxygen to the brain Departure brings me to the abysmal realm of society where the burden of negativity proves to provide no proof towards what differs between the endless, narrow tunnel-visioned cesspool of bone marrow and psychosis driven visions and the narrow pathed voyage of life.

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Oct 25, 2015

Oct 25, 2015 at 1:37 PM UTC

The Voyage To The Light Is Anything But Easy°

Everything is happening so quickly so many negatives surpassing the insignificant glimpse of positives that never seem to suffice, there’s always this light at the end of the tunnel that everyone speaks of, yet i continue to see darkness; a journey down this long tunnel brings no illumination but only a continuance of nihility, the damp walls seem to bring the chill humidity closer and closer with each step, the droplets echo the narrowing, flickering lights dissipate at passing, the gag sparking stench of sewage and ***** make the voyage to light even more unbearable than the previous hesitant inching towards the so called spoken about bearability of life, sudden scintillations of light bring sight of russet, worn doors, consecutively placed, discoloured of crimson roadkill, I open the first door and see a woman tied and bound, gag in throat, beads of sweat turning the white gag to watered milk, the dirt beneath her nails entwines with skin and blood dredged by her own fingertips, to front is a tray of what seems like torture tools *intrigued, I slam the door and avoid a kiss from Judas* The next door, I open and see a man sitting facing the corner, wrapped in a flickering fan, staring at a wall of carvings of ticks and dashes, to see arms of cuts and gashes, with a tray next to him comprised of razors and knives he sits picking at skin of bruises and hives, tempted to grab the tool and corrode self, with the reflection of whats within, I slam the door and avoid Finally the third door eagerly stares to me with anticipation boiling veins, I press my ear to foreshadow, I hear a cries; a man of hatred and a woman of pain I open the door and find a bottle of whiskey I take a swig and feel as if Judas kissed me, Within the third door; walls with peepholes to confirm the calls on the left I see the sliding knife over-panting roadmaps of russet to the neck of the bound woman, the screams are deafening, they present a vibration, stuttering thoughts, and releasing the fixation, prompting the admiration to view the second door, I see myself, in door 2 tremors and convulsions seeing blood expel every vein as the verticals halt oxygen to the brain Departure brings me to the abysmal realm of society where the burden of negativity proves to provide no proof towards what differs between the endless, narrow tunnel-visioned cesspool of bone marrow and psychosis driven visions and the narrow pathed voyage of life.

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My Evil Twin, so set to sin Grabbed me without explanation Took me to town, Eyes set on degradation Beds to be in, sins to sin Blackened soul with no retort *** "between her and I" treated like sport My Evil Twin, so set to sin Left me long ago So here I'm left, her and I So little left to show Bottles on the floor ****** fornication We've taken roadmaps of each other To every route we know of (And some we created) My Evil Twin, so set to sin Just a made up brother

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Feb 15, 2013

Feb 15, 2013 at 3:03 PM UTC

My Evil Twin, so set to sin Grabbed me without explanation Took me to town, Eyes set on degradation Beds to be in, sins to sin Blackened soul with no retort *** "between her and I" treated like sport My Evil Twin, so set to sin Left me long ago So here I'm left, her and I So little left to show Bottles on the floor ****** fornication We've taken roadmaps of each other To every route we know of (And some we created) My Evil Twin, so set to sin Just a made up brother

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You move closer to me like we're two tectonic plates But I am Antarctica; frozen and endlessly distancing myself from you And the sun. You are Africa; cracked and sweltering We are so far apart and you think you can understand me; You can't read me like the atlas on your bookshelf; There are no roadmaps to understand my brain. (a.m.c.)

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May 5, 2014

May 5, 2014 at 1:09 AM UTC

You move closer to me like we're two tectonic plates But I am Antarctica; frozen and endlessly distancing myself from you And the sun. You are Africa; cracked and sweltering We are so far apart and you think you can understand me; You can't read me like the atlas on your bookshelf; There are no roadmaps to understand my brain. (a.m.c.)

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Everyday I'm trying so hard to like my favorite things for reasons having nothing to do with you. Today when I decided to drive on the meandering border of Walloon Lake, Wildwood Harbor rd, The canopied trees flashing shadows of squirrels peaking through paws reminded me of every motorcycle ride I accompanied you on. Holding tight to your chiseled stomach, hands cupping your belly button through your sweatshirt pockets, you would maneuver your mobile machinery through every dip and dive, garnishing curves with streamline, flawless breaking and acceleration. I would lean into your spine, imagining the path of your lower back as the map of our road ahead, each bump and curvature a flawless representation of reality, the living moment. Something sensual existed about the way you and I forged a relationship on pavement, riding the asphalt the same way your bending fingers rode my thighs. And every time I choose to drive our road with my less than aerodynamic Marquis, each stomach flip from the unsuspected slopes transports me to lazy mornings- Naked and alone in any way imaginable. Purity and solitude, truth, the end of it. So I turned onto M-75 trying to forget every reason that I love Wildwood Harbor for you, and only remember the reasons I love it for me, but couldn't find any worthy of space. You made everything so memorable.

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May 28, 2015

May 28, 2015 at 4:37 PM UTC

Everyday I'm trying so hard to like my favorite things for reasons having nothing to do with you. Today when I decided to drive on the meandering border of Walloon Lake, Wildwood Harbor rd, The canopied trees flashing shadows of squirrels peaking through paws reminded me of every motorcycle ride I accompanied you on. Holding tight to your chiseled stomach, hands cupping your belly button through your sweatshirt pockets, you would maneuver your mobile machinery through every dip and dive, garnishing curves with streamline, flawless breaking and acceleration. I would lean into your spine, imagining the path of your lower back as the map of our road ahead, each bump and curvature a flawless representation of reality, the living moment. Something sensual existed about the way you and I forged a relationship on pavement, riding the asphalt the same way your bending fingers rode my thighs. And every time I choose to drive our road with my less than aerodynamic Marquis, each stomach flip from the unsuspected slopes transports me to lazy mornings- Naked and alone in any way imaginable. Purity and solitude, truth, the end of it. So I turned onto M-75 trying to forget every reason that I love Wildwood Harbor for you, and only remember the reasons I love it for me, but couldn't find any worthy of space. You made everything so memorable.

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Good morning radiance It seems that we’ve found ourselves In the midst of another day apart Testing my patience The distance it weighs in As we spend yet another day apart The border and boundaries That separate us sounding as one Are meant to be crossed Wearing our scars As if badges of honor The roadmaps to our hearts Only show that we’re farther Then we ever should have been But it can all start again All we need is a time and a place to begin It gets so repetitive It ends and begins again But at this point the ending Is far from my mind The truth that you find In these statements is all for you Many things lack fact But every word here is true Good evening glorious The sun has come and gone again It hides behind the earth And it takes all of our secrets with it So let’s go back To where we were at Those years ago When life was so simple Living in proximity The vibes all tearing into me Our heartbeats have grown soft it seems And on that note we take our leave To disappear, to never see The sun rise and set the scene For just another wasted day As our emotions rot away To turn to dust, as If to say I ride on winds of pestilence And desecrate the best of ‘em Don’t feel special when you go Because the battle isn’t won by knowing alone

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Dec 28, 2010

Dec 28, 2010 at 2:51 PM UTC

Good morning radiance It seems that we’ve found ourselves In the midst of another day apart Testing my patience The distance it weighs in As we spend yet another day apart The border and boundaries That separate us sounding as one Are meant to be crossed Wearing our scars As if badges of honor The roadmaps to our hearts Only show that we’re farther Then we ever should have been But it can all start again All we need is a time and a place to begin It gets so repetitive It ends and begins again But at this point the ending Is far from my mind The truth that you find In these statements is all for you Many things lack fact But every word here is true Good evening glorious The sun has come and gone again It hides behind the earth And it takes all of our secrets with it So let’s go back To where we were at Those years ago When life was so simple Living in proximity The vibes all tearing into me Our heartbeats have grown soft it seems And on that note we take our leave To disappear, to never see The sun rise and set the scene For just another wasted day As our emotions rot away To turn to dust, as If to say I ride on winds of pestilence And desecrate the best of ‘em Don’t feel special when you go Because the battle isn’t won by knowing alone

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these troubled thoughts this collection of disquiets like dry bones gathering dust their lifeless forms encrusted with the fine thin black ink her diary of desperate longings written on each bone like magic runes like roadmaps to dark kingdoms she keeps the bones in a wooden box behind the concreate wall with burning incense to mask the smell of fear unfounded in these the enlightened years but illustrated neatly in comic book fashion by her masked superhero natural appearances just that little somthing dangerouse in the steel glint of her grey eyes these troubled thoughts are loud in my mind broadcast to all who are not too blind to see like the garish sound of transistor radio just off a station of cheap music these dark feelings run like knives down my spine the seep into my own bones which are also handwritten chapters of her diary of self deceptions and denials i manufacture a vehicle of escapism in the words i tap out on my kindle but it rings hollow in the face of her beautiful decay of her own disquiet tears unable to shake free of these dark feelings i throw the dry bones in the sea and listen as she demands that i drown the remainder of my unkind words with them we finally stand hand in hand at the edge of the world watching the dry bones sail into the crisp dawn like a sailboat making for spain

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Jan 20, 2014

Jan 20, 2014 at 8:44 AM UTC

mark-john-junor-1

these troubled thoughts this collection of disquiets like dry bones gathering dust their lifeless forms encrusted with the fine thin black ink her diary of desperate longings written on each bone like magic runes like roadmaps to dark kingdoms she keeps the bones in a wooden box behind the concreate wall with burning incense to mask the smell of fear unfounded in these the enlightened years but illustrated neatly in comic book fashion by her masked superhero natural appearances just that little somthing dangerouse in the steel glint of her grey eyes these troubled thoughts are loud in my mind broadcast to all who are not too blind to see like the garish sound of transistor radio just off a station of cheap music these dark feelings run like knives down my spine the seep into my own bones which are also handwritten chapters of her diary of self deceptions and denials i manufacture a vehicle of escapism in the words i tap out on my kindle but it rings hollow in the face of her beautiful decay of her own disquiet tears unable to shake free of these dark feelings i throw the dry bones in the sea and listen as she demands that i drown the remainder of my unkind words with them we finally stand hand in hand at the edge of the world watching the dry bones sail into the crisp dawn like a sailboat making for spain

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I play six clicks to you, like I used to look for Jesus on Wikipedia, when I find my weary fingers wandering into my healing wounds again, digging the cursor across bruises and sutures to links so you won't show up in my search bar. I can play pretend too, like all the college students haunting the streets, moving straight faced and dead eyed past the homeless people holding their heads and fighting their hunger. Your newly pierced nose sniffs out my high blood pressure, sweaty nervousness, and ***** haired demeanor; the shivering mourning dove perched atop rubble sings out shaky poems to your roommate. You've walked into a new room and I'm standing in the hallway, trying to figure out which closed door I'll find you behind, pulling each one open in turn only to hear another swing shut in some Scooby-Doo style pursuit. I keep your memory in my pocket, a tattered pin-up photograph, to pull out and glance at occasionally with glazed over eyes and a drool dripping mouth. How does the other side of your bed feel, so full and pumping blood? We both jumped in after eating, but you keep swimming and I find myself on the shoreline once more, grabbing for a towel, trying to push the water from my own lungs. A pair of tan underwear lives in my dresser, splattered with stains from the **** you keep in your backpack. I still wear them, and I can't help but think of you.

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Apr 10, 2015

Apr 10, 2015 at 2:36 PM UTC

I play six clicks to you, like I used to look for Jesus on Wikipedia, when I find my weary fingers wandering into my healing wounds again, digging the cursor across bruises and sutures to links so you won't show up in my search bar. I can play pretend too, like all the college students haunting the streets, moving straight faced and dead eyed past the homeless people holding their heads and fighting their hunger. Your newly pierced nose sniffs out my high blood pressure, sweaty nervousness, and ***** haired demeanor; the shivering mourning dove perched atop rubble sings out shaky poems to your roommate. You've walked into a new room and I'm standing in the hallway, trying to figure out which closed door I'll find you behind, pulling each one open in turn only to hear another swing shut in some Scooby-Doo style pursuit. I keep your memory in my pocket, a tattered pin-up photograph, to pull out and glance at occasionally with glazed over eyes and a drool dripping mouth. How does the other side of your bed feel, so full and pumping blood? We both jumped in after eating, but you keep swimming and I find myself on the shoreline once more, grabbing for a towel, trying to push the water from my own lungs. A pair of tan underwear lives in my dresser, splattered with stains from the **** you keep in your backpack. I still wear them, and I can't help but think of you.

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It does not matter if you wake up one mile away, or fifty hours, or if the entire globe separates the soles of our feet. My eyes have memorized the language of your love, the glowing warmth of your arms that is able to be felt through a static telephone call, a letter sleeping patiently inside an envelope, promises sent shooting through the indigo heavens. I will always be with you-- the rises and runs of your heartbeat pounding inside your head, the rush of wine-colored blood through translucent blue veins, I will be as close as skin meets soul, as sweat mingles with tears. The ridges of your hands are roadmaps I will follow until my heels grow calloused and blistered, and when the sky darkens, your brown eyes will become a compass that will point in the direction of our dreams. We go, but love cannot. We change, but love does not. We hold, and love holds with us. I will love you all over again in the morning and we will always be together-- distance breaking nothing, our faces shining in the same light of tomorrow’s sun.

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Nov 15, 2016

Nov 15, 2016 at 8:03 AM UTC

It does not matter if you wake up one mile away, or fifty hours, or if the entire globe separates the soles of our feet. My eyes have memorized the language of your love, the glowing warmth of your arms that is able to be felt through a static telephone call, a letter sleeping patiently inside an envelope, promises sent shooting through the indigo heavens. I will always be with you-- the rises and runs of your heartbeat pounding inside your head, the rush of wine-colored blood through translucent blue veins, I will be as close as skin meets soul, as sweat mingles with tears. The ridges of your hands are roadmaps I will follow until my heels grow calloused and blistered, and when the sky darkens, your brown eyes will become a compass that will point in the direction of our dreams. We go, but love cannot. We change, but love does not. We hold, and love holds with us. I will love you all over again in the morning and we will always be together-- distance breaking nothing, our faces shining in the same light of tomorrow’s sun.

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I sit bundled up in the hard wicker chair, staring at the cold, bleak world around me. My only comfort, some old worn slippers and a scratchy knit cap. I feel freezing droplets of water kiss my face as they pass by with sudden, angry gusts of air. The smell is not one of fresh clean earth and new beginnings. It is tired and weary and hopeless. It’s lost causes and missed opportunities. It’s me and it’s you and it’s the people already asleep. Shadows of the dormant and unforgiving dance upon the walls of every building that surrounds me. They are much too large and look so out of place, but I do not care about this. They are there, and that is all I need to know. I sense that everything is hidden. I think not from the tears of the earth, but from the insecurities the envelop their hearts and unconscious. They feel the unwanted pull of vulnerability and escape to a safe place. To the arms of boyfriends they don’t really love and jobs they outgrew a decade ago. To a bottle of gin and roadmaps unused. The pounding of the water grows to an accelerated pace, pulls me away from this cage, and forces me to look into my own eyes for the first time. I strip off each layer of clothing I have on and run out into this downpour of life, with nothing on my shoulders except flesh. I breathe in the heady scent of water hitting pavement, and lift my hands upward. With the first drop of water that hits my tongue, I fall to my knees and smile. I am clean.

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Sep 19, 2010

Sep 19, 2010 at 11:51 AM UTC

I sit bundled up in the hard wicker chair, staring at the cold, bleak world around me. My only comfort, some old worn slippers and a scratchy knit cap. I feel freezing droplets of water kiss my face as they pass by with sudden, angry gusts of air. The smell is not one of fresh clean earth and new beginnings. It is tired and weary and hopeless. It’s lost causes and missed opportunities. It’s me and it’s you and it’s the people already asleep. Shadows of the dormant and unforgiving dance upon the walls of every building that surrounds me. They are much too large and look so out of place, but I do not care about this. They are there, and that is all I need to know. I sense that everything is hidden. I think not from the tears of the earth, but from the insecurities the envelop their hearts and unconscious. They feel the unwanted pull of vulnerability and escape to a safe place. To the arms of boyfriends they don’t really love and jobs they outgrew a decade ago. To a bottle of gin and roadmaps unused. The pounding of the water grows to an accelerated pace, pulls me away from this cage, and forces me to look into my own eyes for the first time. I strip off each layer of clothing I have on and run out into this downpour of life, with nothing on my shoulders except flesh. I breathe in the heady scent of water hitting pavement, and lift my hands upward. With the first drop of water that hits my tongue, I fall to my knees and smile. I am clean.

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I yearn to feel your tree bark arms the moss settling in-between your ribs, puddles of rain water gathering above your collarbones I wonder if you smell like dogwood or lilacs or overgrown grass the wrinkles on the backs of my hands are starting to look like roadmaps all pointing to you, even though I don't know where "you" is somewhere drying up underneath the sand brittle bones and cactus hearts I have mustered through futile attempts at growing a garden with someone else the plants never bloom or die with the first breathe they take But I have cleared out this space in my backyard for you It may just be an empty graveyard overflowing with dirt and ghosts that haunt me when I am weak but it is for you and me so we can grow

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May 5, 2013

May 5, 2013 at 8:28 PM UTC

you give me something to think about

I yearn to feel your tree bark arms the moss settling in-between your ribs, puddles of rain water gathering above your collarbones I wonder if you smell like dogwood or lilacs or overgrown grass the wrinkles on the backs of my hands are starting to look like roadmaps all pointing to you, even though I don't know where "you" is somewhere drying up underneath the sand brittle bones and cactus hearts I have mustered through futile attempts at growing a garden with someone else the plants never bloom or die with the first breathe they take But I have cleared out this space in my backyard for you It may just be an empty graveyard overflowing with dirt and ghosts that haunt me when I am weak but it is for you and me so we can grow

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... under my skin High tension wires They crackle, singeing The hairs on my arms and Burning roadmaps On my throat and belly The words are singing... ... an acappella high note Searing the eardrums Breaking the crystal While the rose lies wet on the table Fragments spark the Ionosphere Hanging to rival the Aurora Borialis The words are singing... Their siren song I wreck on the rocks I tear the page with rudderless penmanship The words are singing... And they skitter off The page like lizards SøułSurvivør (C) 6/8/2017

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Jun 7, 2017

Jun 7, 2017 at 5:46 AM UTC

The words are singing...

... under my skin High tension wires They crackle, singeing The hairs on my arms and Burning roadmaps On my throat and belly The words are singing... ... an acappella high note Searing the eardrums Breaking the crystal While the rose lies wet on the table Fragments spark the Ionosphere Hanging to rival the Aurora Borialis The words are singing... Their siren song I wreck on the rocks I tear the page with rudderless penmanship The words are singing... And they skitter off The page like lizards SøułSurvivør (C) 6/8/2017

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I saw you in the night as you drank your coffee. Sipping down caffeine like you were taking in gasoline Wishing for that fuel to take you a few hundred miles farther than this. I’m sorry that your addiction could not take you farther Across this country of methamphetamine addicts and alcoholics; I should know, My nicotine has never gotten me farther than another cigarette And my lungs can only line themselves with what we pave our roads with; They say “Thank you, for smoking.” It feels good sometimes To know That even though both my grandfathers have died due to this addiction That I carry a legacy, a legend, A map to where my blood has been going Living through tradition like it was not something forgotten by our siblings, Parents, Even our friends. It’s like we’ve fallen deeper into preservation Putting no chemicals into our lungs, but plenty into our stomachs- I wonder how we justify it. I guess it’s cheap can serve as satisfactory, But I can still remember being a child and hearing: “Erik, nothing in this life is free. Do not be cheap.” I’m sorry that the maps still show that New York is three thousand miles away from Oregon I cannot rewrite them and manipulate the ways in which we travel Take Minnesota and place it next to Montana Or Florida I’m sorry that it seems we are still children sipping on Coca Cola on the docks of Lake O’Dowd Or teenagers still smoking **** in Kenwood park Or like we are still college kids Not doing our homework So we may drink Pabst. I am only twenty years old, But I can already see how the paths are only highways towards the destinations we wish we could reach- Yet sometimes cannot. We are only children, Wishing to be older, to find We wish we could still be younger, only to wish we could live forever, To wish we could still be mortal To wish this was not inconsequential I am only twenty years old, But I can see that we are already lost. If you would trust me, enough, to lay your hand in mine I’ll find the best drawn highway on this barely marked map And take us to the end. You can take your coffee. I just may take my cigarettes.

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Feb 20, 2012

Feb 20, 2012 at 2:05 PM UTC

Addicts Looking at Roadmaps

I saw you in the night as you drank your coffee. Sipping down caffeine like you were taking in gasoline Wishing for that fuel to take you a few hundred miles farther than this. I’m sorry that your addiction could not take you farther Across this country of methamphetamine addicts and alcoholics; I should know, My nicotine has never gotten me farther than another cigarette And my lungs can only line themselves with what we pave our roads with; They say “Thank you, for smoking.” It feels good sometimes To know That even though both my grandfathers have died due to this addiction That I carry a legacy, a legend, A map to where my blood has been going Living through tradition like it was not something forgotten by our siblings, Parents, Even our friends. It’s like we’ve fallen deeper into preservation Putting no chemicals into our lungs, but plenty into our stomachs- I wonder how we justify it. I guess it’s cheap can serve as satisfactory, But I can still remember being a child and hearing: “Erik, nothing in this life is free. Do not be cheap.” I’m sorry that the maps still show that New York is three thousand miles away from Oregon I cannot rewrite them and manipulate the ways in which we travel Take Minnesota and place it next to Montana Or Florida I’m sorry that it seems we are still children sipping on Coca Cola on the docks of Lake O’Dowd Or teenagers still smoking **** in Kenwood park Or like we are still college kids Not doing our homework So we may drink Pabst. I am only twenty years old, But I can already see how the paths are only highways towards the destinations we wish we could reach- Yet sometimes cannot. We are only children, Wishing to be older, to find We wish we could still be younger, only to wish we could live forever, To wish we could still be mortal To wish this was not inconsequential I am only twenty years old, But I can see that we are already lost. If you would trust me, enough, to lay your hand in mine I’ll find the best drawn highway on this barely marked map And take us to the end. You can take your coffee. I just may take my cigarettes.

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she has thumb prints from where the I-told-you-so took hold of the roadmaps on her hips between the sweat and the bass he could barely tell that her pulse was exploding beneath her skin and all of the closed mouth kissing made her feel slightly less young as if she could outgrow this the salt-soaked-pillow-case-mornings the way cheap eyeliner smudges into a perfect 2am shadow that lasts til noon as if she could outgrow mac-n-cheese and pancakes absorbing the residual wine that her body has learned to hold when she can't feel her lips anymore because not even tiger striped hips can stifle the hope that bubbles up to her shoulders when the guy with strong hands and a fickle heart and an I-told-you-so-smile sends lightening up her spine.

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Dec 26, 2014

Dec 26, 2014 at 5:01 PM UTC

she has thumb prints from where the I-told-you-so took hold of the roadmaps on her hips between the sweat and the bass he could barely tell that her pulse was exploding beneath her skin and all of the closed mouth kissing made her feel slightly less young as if she could outgrow this the salt-soaked-pillow-case-mornings the way cheap eyeliner smudges into a perfect 2am shadow that lasts til noon as if she could outgrow mac-n-cheese and pancakes absorbing the residual wine that her body has learned to hold when she can't feel her lips anymore because not even tiger striped hips can stifle the hope that bubbles up to her shoulders when the guy with strong hands and a fickle heart and an I-told-you-so-smile sends lightening up her spine.

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I imagined myself leaving someday. Trading plains for seas, exchanging something loved for something unknown. And maybe it's the fear of quietly whispering goodbye that unsettles me. Maybe it's the inevitable end of familiarity, like the sun's western descent after a day that should not end. And when it does, we all pack our bags and say farewell. Eventually, I will trace new roadmaps on the back of my hands; I will find the familiar creaks in the floorboards. And when the sun sets, someone will leave a light on for me.

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Dec 22, 2016

Dec 22, 2016 at 11:19 AM UTC

Donald-nicholas

Of Quietly Whispering Goodbye

I imagined myself leaving someday. Trading plains for seas, exchanging something loved for something unknown. And maybe it's the fear of quietly whispering goodbye that unsettles me. Maybe it's the inevitable end of familiarity, like the sun's western descent after a day that should not end. And when it does, we all pack our bags and say farewell. Eventually, I will trace new roadmaps on the back of my hands; I will find the familiar creaks in the floorboards. And when the sun sets, someone will leave a light on for me.

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1:52, Saturday afternoon Aunt and grandma chatting through sips of tea About a poor couple, light perished so swiftly Now-cold bodies riddled with ****** I thought quietly to myself: Did they die contently? In each other's arms? Or did those arms instead grip At the fading sensation of skin Begging not to let go, As the euphoria turned to pain As death crept into their bones? It's times like this, during thoughts of these, When my mind leaves the room And travels towards thoughts of us And how if I had to die, I'd die in your arms Or in bed, with our bodies almost touching, Smiling at the lightning that dances in the spaces between us, Can you feel it? And at that moment of collapse When my lungs stop rising I'll draw in my last breath of you That darling smell of yours, indescribable. So I must ask, Could that couple have possibly felt What we can feel when we lay in the dark, When I trace roadmaps onto your body, When your warm breath paints words Around the nape of my neck? I don't know. I don't care. It's easily just as deadly. But there's nowhere I'd rather be Than addicted to you At 1:52 On a Saturday afternoon.

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Feb 9, 2015

Feb 9, 2015 at 6:56 PM UTC

Addicted to Each Other

1:52, Saturday afternoon Aunt and grandma chatting through sips of tea About a poor couple, light perished so swiftly Now-cold bodies riddled with ****** I thought quietly to myself: Did they die contently? In each other's arms? Or did those arms instead grip At the fading sensation of skin Begging not to let go, As the euphoria turned to pain As death crept into their bones? It's times like this, during thoughts of these, When my mind leaves the room And travels towards thoughts of us And how if I had to die, I'd die in your arms Or in bed, with our bodies almost touching, Smiling at the lightning that dances in the spaces between us, Can you feel it? And at that moment of collapse When my lungs stop rising I'll draw in my last breath of you That darling smell of yours, indescribable. So I must ask, Could that couple have possibly felt What we can feel when we lay in the dark, When I trace roadmaps onto your body, When your warm breath paints words Around the nape of my neck? I don't know. I don't care. It's easily just as deadly. But there's nowhere I'd rather be Than addicted to you At 1:52 On a Saturday afternoon.

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That Smell Lynyrd Skynyrd For Courts Music Challenge The stench it fills the nocturne air Of wicked thoughts and fevered chains With needles polished none to share In search of risen stoic veins To seep within the bloodstream deep And paint a picture filled with lies Now drains what sanity you keep On roadmaps built of bloodshot eyes This strength you take from solaced fear Where chemicals now come to play A weakness coincides your tears As every moment fades away Back alley streets of littered death When life it bids a dark farewell Oh how the banishment of breath And echoes crying oh that smell

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Apr 6, 2015

Apr 6, 2015 at 7:16 PM UTC

That Smell (For Court's Music Challenge)

That Smell Lynyrd Skynyrd For Courts Music Challenge The stench it fills the nocturne air Of wicked thoughts and fevered chains With needles polished none to share In search of risen stoic veins To seep within the bloodstream deep And paint a picture filled with lies Now drains what sanity you keep On roadmaps built of bloodshot eyes This strength you take from solaced fear Where chemicals now come to play A weakness coincides your tears As every moment fades away Back alley streets of littered death When life it bids a dark farewell Oh how the banishment of breath And echoes crying oh that smell

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Battered veins Eyelids lying heavy Roadmaps of syringes Son of morpheus, Who are you to be? From what land did you fall? Behind your faith Is a tortured paradise Peel back the skin see the damage done Repair whatever is left My aim will stay true You belong to gods With names I do not know Oh Child of the night Who sprouted like the moon

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Apr 9, 2015

Apr 9, 2015 at 11:26 PM UTC

Mother Superior

Battered veins Eyelids lying heavy Roadmaps of syringes Son of morpheus, Who are you to be? From what land did you fall? Behind your faith Is a tortured paradise Peel back the skin see the damage done Repair whatever is left My aim will stay true You belong to gods With names I do not know Oh Child of the night Who sprouted like the moon

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My technoscribbles haven't all cachet; A mother hen on Friday farts an egg. Even a swill of parlance has a say When maple roadmaps varicose a leg. A skinnydipping nakedest remote Viewer that loons a dreaming skims a pond Fractals a nascent green and gleimous note Hanging athwart with someone's else's blonde. Take heart. The fish have lungs and breathe the air Of a new day when everyfish can *** With or without a whiff of underwear, Though salty tears are sweetest 'neath the sea. Milfs are a pack of pickleballing hots Playing to win a plate of tater tots. *

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Aug 3, 2024

Aug 3, 2024 at 7:18 PM UTC

My technoscribbles haven't all cachet; A mother hen on Friday farts an egg. Even a swill of parlance has a say When maple roadmaps varicose a leg. A skinnydipping nakedest remote Viewer that loons a dreaming skims a pond Fractals a nascent green and gleimous note Hanging athwart with someone's else's blonde. Take heart. The fish have lungs and breathe the air Of a new day when everyfish can *** With or without a whiff of underwear, Though salty tears are sweetest 'neath the sea. Milfs are a pack of pickleballing hots Playing to win a plate of tater tots. *

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you see women like roadmaps, wanna know how far they can get you before you leave them crumpled on the floor of some gas station you’ll never see again in your life. you think i’ll help you find your way, but i’m too lost myself. i know you’re trying to figure out where you’re going, but my veins won’t mark your path; my lips won’t take you anywhere. my heart’s not a compass as much as it is an alarm clock, but i know you’d be gone long before morning anyway.

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Aug 28, 2013

Aug 28, 2013 at 10:58 PM UTC

you see women like roadmaps, wanna know how far they can get you before you leave them crumpled on the floor of some gas station you’ll never see again in your life. you think i’ll help you find your way, but i’m too lost myself. i know you’re trying to figure out where you’re going, but my veins won’t mark your path; my lips won’t take you anywhere. my heart’s not a compass as much as it is an alarm clock, but i know you’d be gone long before morning anyway.

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