"rooms" poems - Hello Poetry

"rooms" poems

Thank you ~ for a life not to trade blessings, in spades tight spaces behind laundry doors packed closets and open drawers gator tails, tarnished brass cracks in kitchen sliding glass wet towels, withering plants foundation filled with carpenter ants buckets piled with shoes and tags village clothes and saddlebags peeling paint and broken walls ****** seats in bathroom stalls clogged pantry frigid rooms table scribe and carbon fumes comfort capsules empty tanks broken limbs from children’s pranks **** finger double tongue long goodbyes and sidewalk dung cluster flies chavie’ clique accompanying the hypocrite cracked back and hidden smiles chalk on board with mr miles atomic wedgies closing doors wrotten eggs and open sores jaw jack nasty folk dinner calls for pig in poke penny pinchers double dip yellow mouth and silver tip brown nosers thick red tape paper cuts and pimple nape gallivants so out of norm the joy of life… in basic form

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Jan 14, 2017

Jan 14, 2017 at 2:03 PM UTC

cultivation of gratitude

Thank you ~ for a life not to trade blessings, in spades tight spaces behind laundry doors packed closets and open drawers gator tails, tarnished brass cracks in kitchen sliding glass wet towels, withering plants foundation filled with carpenter ants buckets piled with shoes and tags village clothes and saddlebags peeling paint and broken walls ****** seats in bathroom stalls clogged pantry frigid rooms table scribe and carbon fumes comfort capsules empty tanks broken limbs from children’s pranks **** finger double tongue long goodbyes and sidewalk dung cluster flies chavie’ clique accompanying the hypocrite cracked back and hidden smiles chalk on board with mr miles atomic wedgies closing doors wrotten eggs and open sores jaw jack nasty folk dinner calls for pig in poke penny pinchers double dip yellow mouth and silver tip brown nosers thick red tape paper cuts and pimple nape gallivants so out of norm the joy of life… in basic form

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Our parents are always telling us , you have to go to school, that you'll learn everything you need to know before you're ready for the big world, and that'll you need it to get into your dream job But now a days our education isn't about learning, its about passing Our education now isn't the same as it used to be It teaches us that if you're not at a certain grade level, you will not succeed That if you don't meet a certain criteria, maybe you're not for fit the course This education system doesn't teach us whats really important for the big world It doesn't teach us how to live, how to do taxes or how to survive It never taught us the living expenses or how to buy a home Never taught us what to expect once we leave for college or how to balance our schedules No. It only taught us homework, about a plant cell, about tangents and circumferences It taught us that homework is more important than family That it's more important than being a kid and having a life It taught us that if you spend time with loved once and didn't do your work, you're setting yourself up for failure They pile us with work it feels like we cant breath They never once thought of the other class assignments that must be due not even 24 hours later They make us memorise things that will no longer be important when we apply for a job We study for hours in hopes to pass that final test that we'll soon forget But what are we suppose to say when someone asks us how we're feeling? We were never taught that We never memorised an equation to help us find the answer We were only ever taught to keep our mouths shut and do our work Its quite funny what we learn in school now Things more than 80% of the students will never have to use let alone see again School was suppose to prepare us for our future For the job choice we pick Instead we meet and learned quadratics and plant cells We were taught homework is what your focus should always be on We were never taught about the future and what to do And most importantly We were never taught how to love ourselves and the things we should be greatful for They've turn us into sad, mindless robots that's are more concerned about grades and passing than whats going on with the family We lock ourselves in our rooms doing homework for 6 hours than talking to our mothers or fathers who wonder about us We were never taught the importance of family before it was too late Every single highschool student wishes they can turn back the clocks, but it'll never work We were taught the hard way that you don't really know what you have until its gone Something we weren't prepared for They never prepared us for the future Instead, we prepare our self for the possible failing outcome How are we suppose to make a living for ourselves when all we have learned was the stress over homework and family? The depression over a failed test or assignment? The lost feeling of the lost time? How are we suppose to love ourselves when all we do is put yourself down because of school? This education system never prepared us for anything Instead, this education system officially has broken all of us.

0

Jun 3, 2016

Jun 3, 2016 at 4:41 PM UTC

Our Broken Education System

Our parents are always telling us , you have to go to school, that you'll learn everything you need to know before you're ready for the big world, and that'll you need it to get into your dream job But now a days our education isn't about learning, its about passing Our education now isn't the same as it used to be It teaches us that if you're not at a certain grade level, you will not succeed That if you don't meet a certain criteria, maybe you're not for fit the course This education system doesn't teach us whats really important for the big world It doesn't teach us how to live, how to do taxes or how to survive It never taught us the living expenses or how to buy a home Never taught us what to expect once we leave for college or how to balance our schedules No. It only taught us homework, about a plant cell, about tangents and circumferences It taught us that homework is more important than family That it's more important than being a kid and having a life It taught us that if you spend time with loved once and didn't do your work, you're setting yourself up for failure They pile us with work it feels like we cant breath They never once thought of the other class assignments that must be due not even 24 hours later They make us memorise things that will no longer be important when we apply for a job We study for hours in hopes to pass that final test that we'll soon forget But what are we suppose to say when someone asks us how we're feeling? We were never taught that We never memorised an equation to help us find the answer We were only ever taught to keep our mouths shut and do our work Its quite funny what we learn in school now Things more than 80% of the students will never have to use let alone see again School was suppose to prepare us for our future For the job choice we pick Instead we meet and learned quadratics and plant cells We were taught homework is what your focus should always be on We were never taught about the future and what to do And most importantly We were never taught how to love ourselves and the things we should be greatful for They've turn us into sad, mindless robots that's are more concerned about grades and passing than whats going on with the family We lock ourselves in our rooms doing homework for 6 hours than talking to our mothers or fathers who wonder about us We were never taught the importance of family before it was too late Every single highschool student wishes they can turn back the clocks, but it'll never work We were taught the hard way that you don't really know what you have until its gone Something we weren't prepared for They never prepared us for the future Instead, we prepare our self for the possible failing outcome How are we suppose to make a living for ourselves when all we have learned was the stress over homework and family? The depression over a failed test or assignment? The lost feeling of the lost time? How are we suppose to love ourselves when all we do is put yourself down because of school? This education system never prepared us for anything Instead, this education system officially has broken all of us.

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Why go back when you can move forward? I face this question each day I breathe. It's not always so easy to answer. P T S D Post Traumatic Stress Disorder Keeps me looking back to my past behind my shoulder. P T S D Post Traumatic Stress Disorder Usually associated with our war heroes. The ones who can't leave the battlefield behind. I am not one of them. I am just an anxious a depressed in pain person. But I can't help that I have it. P T S D Post Traumatic Stress Disorder My battlefield was the school, the classrooms, the playground. The babysitter, the dark closets, the dark rooms, the basement. P T S D Post Traumatic Stress Disorder The anxiety the migraines the depression the fibro no sleep. All lead back to square one. The abuse by my peers by my teachers by my babysitter. P T S D Post Traumatic Stress Disorder Four easy letters Four simple words Lifetime in pain from those simple things from those not so simple things. P T S D Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

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Feb 4, 2015

Feb 4, 2015 at 12:12 AM UTC

notputtinganythinghere

Why go back when you can move forward? I face this question each day I breathe. It's not always so easy to answer. P T S D Post Traumatic Stress Disorder Keeps me looking back to my past behind my shoulder. P T S D Post Traumatic Stress Disorder Usually associated with our war heroes. The ones who can't leave the battlefield behind. I am not one of them. I am just an anxious a depressed in pain person. But I can't help that I have it. P T S D Post Traumatic Stress Disorder My battlefield was the school, the classrooms, the playground. The babysitter, the dark closets, the dark rooms, the basement. P T S D Post Traumatic Stress Disorder The anxiety the migraines the depression the fibro no sleep. All lead back to square one. The abuse by my peers by my teachers by my babysitter. P T S D Post Traumatic Stress Disorder Four easy letters Four simple words Lifetime in pain from those simple things from those not so simple things. P T S D Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

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Sunday sermons are spilling on the inner city streets through the green heaps and brown bags through the downtown whisperers and sage solitude souls Army bands prepare for march (their trench members filling packs with canister and cane) the high command and tricked militia head pinned quick on the look for splinter, lorry and skuttle Traffic patterns change at the COP connect camouflage bearers break formal stride battle men slip between colorful floats unsuspecting slumlords (vein pricked and weary) grin in their second suite dying rooms Twitching men and rubbernecks sit discreetly on the corner wall JJ and the chief revere a 21 gun salute holy rollers raise cheer (in a moment of silence) chess men hold steady with ivory cues Flames belt from the distant foundry streets come alive with crackle and dust members of the attic group glance down from their perch an elderly man in a straight jacket (happy in the now) sits solemnly with a cold reflective stare It’s not far from the steely mud holes from the flying fragments and sharp broken dreams from the arsenal digs and madmen (who quietly turned the ***** the ivy trellis and flowing white gown are a nocturne fit for this elevated rolling highland

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Apr 19, 2017

Apr 19, 2017 at 8:33 PM UTC

James Street Parade

Sunday sermons are spilling on the inner city streets through the green heaps and brown bags through the downtown whisperers and sage solitude souls Army bands prepare for march (their trench members filling packs with canister and cane) the high command and tricked militia head pinned quick on the look for splinter, lorry and skuttle Traffic patterns change at the COP connect camouflage bearers break formal stride battle men slip between colorful floats unsuspecting slumlords (vein pricked and weary) grin in their second suite dying rooms Twitching men and rubbernecks sit discreetly on the corner wall JJ and the chief revere a 21 gun salute holy rollers raise cheer (in a moment of silence) chess men hold steady with ivory cues Flames belt from the distant foundry streets come alive with crackle and dust members of the attic group glance down from their perch an elderly man in a straight jacket (happy in the now) sits solemnly with a cold reflective stare It’s not far from the steely mud holes from the flying fragments and sharp broken dreams from the arsenal digs and madmen (who quietly turned the ***** the ivy trellis and flowing white gown are a nocturne fit for this elevated rolling highland

Continue reading...

Oh, to be a poet one must be so emotional. Well, no. Not necessarily. We're only really capable of understanding feeling, investigating our emotions. It doesn't mean we cry all day, or pass nights in dark rooms moping. We have lives; come home from work or get in on a night bus back; it's from all this experience that we can draw out fact. From mundane to extraordinary we will become inspired. Our strength is versatility and life ignights our fires. So, we do not all have to be constricted to intensity -to ponder oh-so seriously on what it simply means 'to be'. We can be strong, flirty, or mean or to the brim with confidence. For, what does 'to be a poet' mean, if you cannot explore yourself?

0

Jun 13, 2018

Jun 13, 2018 at 11:53 AM UTC

Oh, to be a poet one must be so emotional. Well, no. Not necessarily. We're only really capable of understanding feeling, investigating our emotions. It doesn't mean we cry all day, or pass nights in dark rooms moping. We have lives; come home from work or get in on a night bus back; it's from all this experience that we can draw out fact. From mundane to extraordinary we will become inspired. Our strength is versatility and life ignights our fires. So, we do not all have to be constricted to intensity -to ponder oh-so seriously on what it simply means 'to be'. We can be strong, flirty, or mean or to the brim with confidence. For, what does 'to be a poet' mean, if you cannot explore yourself?

Continue reading...

In frames as large as rooms that face all ways And block the ends of streets with giant loaves, Screen graves with custard, cover slums with praise Of motor-oil and cuts of salmon, shine Perpetually these sharply-pictured groves Of how life should be. High above the gutter A silver knife sinks into golden butter, A glass of milk stands in a meadow, and Well-balanced families, in fine Midsummer weather, owe their smiles, their cars, Even their youth, to that small cube each hand Stretches towards. These, and the deep armchairs Aligned to cups at bedtime, radiant bars (Gas or electric), quarter-profile cats By slippers on warm mats, Reflect none of the rained-on streets and squares They dominate outdoors. Rather, they rise Serenely to proclaim pure crust, pure foam, Pure coldness to our live imperfect eyes That stare beyond this world, where nothing's made As new or washed quite clean, seeking the home All such inhabit. There, dark raftered pubs Are filled with white-clothed ones from tennis-clubs, And the boy puking his heart out in the Gents Just missed them, as the pensioner paid A halfpenny more for Granny Graveclothes' Tea To taste old age, and dying smokers sense Walking towards them through some dappled park As if on water that unfocused she No match lit up, nor drag ever brought near, Who now stands newly clear, Smiling, and recognising, and going dark.

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18k

Essential Beauty

In frames as large as rooms that face all ways And block the ends of streets with giant loaves, Screen graves with custard, cover slums with praise Of motor-oil and cuts of salmon, shine Perpetually these sharply-pictured groves Of how life should be. High above the gutter A silver knife sinks into golden butter, A glass of milk stands in a meadow, and Well-balanced families, in fine Midsummer weather, owe their smiles, their cars, Even their youth, to that small cube each hand Stretches towards. These, and the deep armchairs Aligned to cups at bedtime, radiant bars (Gas or electric), quarter-profile cats By slippers on warm mats, Reflect none of the rained-on streets and squares They dominate outdoors. Rather, they rise Serenely to proclaim pure crust, pure foam, Pure coldness to our live imperfect eyes That stare beyond this world, where nothing's made As new or washed quite clean, seeking the home All such inhabit. There, dark raftered pubs Are filled with white-clothed ones from tennis-clubs, And the boy puking his heart out in the Gents Just missed them, as the pensioner paid A halfpenny more for Granny Graveclothes' Tea To taste old age, and dying smokers sense Walking towards them through some dappled park As if on water that unfocused she No match lit up, nor drag ever brought near, Who now stands newly clear, Smiling, and recognising, and going dark.

Continue reading...

while september cicadas were singing my neighbors to sleep i was up walking holes in my shoes over love once lost so many poems ago that the only thing i remember about the house at 38th & bluestone is that it reeked of alcohol and is as i'm sure of it still saturated in perfume and abandoned laughter but that's not the point give me a minute what i'm trying to say is i always thought god enjoyed watching things leave me it makes me wonder what was on his mind that night in september when i stooped to cough or tie my shoelaces i no longer remember why but i recall their trajectory the way gravity cradled my hands and brought them crashing back to earth like a 747 they landed inches away from a scrap of crumpled loose leaf folded in half like the smiles of my relatives on a holiday truce you see, lately i've been looking for scars in the newspaper i find myself checking the obituary for my former selves since the day i found your suicide letter maybe that's why i can never explain my obsession with history maybe archeology is just a funeral in reverse maybe hell is just rewinding home movies or watching confetti turn back into photographs i never told anyone the reason the doors to the gun cabinet in my family's house are locked not because they are afraid i will take my life but because sometimes i sing them birthday songs on the day you died it makes me think of how rooms only echo when they are empty *you know i never echoed until you died*

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Jun 6, 2014

Jun 6, 2014 at 2:56 AM UTC

while september cicadas were singing my neighbors to sleep i was up walking holes in my shoes over love once lost so many poems ago that the only thing i remember about the house at 38th & bluestone is that it reeked of alcohol and is as i'm sure of it still saturated in perfume and abandoned laughter but that's not the point give me a minute what i'm trying to say is i always thought god enjoyed watching things leave me it makes me wonder what was on his mind that night in september when i stooped to cough or tie my shoelaces i no longer remember why but i recall their trajectory the way gravity cradled my hands and brought them crashing back to earth like a 747 they landed inches away from a scrap of crumpled loose leaf folded in half like the smiles of my relatives on a holiday truce you see, lately i've been looking for scars in the newspaper i find myself checking the obituary for my former selves since the day i found your suicide letter maybe that's why i can never explain my obsession with history maybe archeology is just a funeral in reverse maybe hell is just rewinding home movies or watching confetti turn back into photographs i never told anyone the reason the doors to the gun cabinet in my family's house are locked not because they are afraid i will take my life but because sometimes i sing them birthday songs on the day you died it makes me think of how rooms only echo when they are empty *you know i never echoed until you died*

Continue reading...

The lashes gently flutter, over eyes of crystal blue I’m waiting so impatiently, to share the world with you. Your crawl has turned to walking, as winter turns to spring Every moment the blues eyes stare, there’s something new to bring. A smile as warm as summer’s sun and a touch as soft as air Makes a heart in distant rooms, wish that it could share. I hear your laugh and feel you near, when I dare to dream Sometimes blue eyed angels, are exactly as they seem. Your questions go unspoken as does your inner song But those who know of angels, know this won’t last long. Your words and songs will soon be heard, by all of us who care An angels’ voice will carry far and always there to share. You’ll grow and learn as days go by, giving as you get My little blue eyed angel, just hasn’t started yet. Soon your smile will be face to face, warming all you see I pray my blue eyed angel… that one of them is me.

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Sep 26, 2012

Sep 26, 2012 at 12:17 AM UTC

wayne-h-colegate

Blue Eyed Angel

The lashes gently flutter, over eyes of crystal blue I’m waiting so impatiently, to share the world with you. Your crawl has turned to walking, as winter turns to spring Every moment the blues eyes stare, there’s something new to bring. A smile as warm as summer’s sun and a touch as soft as air Makes a heart in distant rooms, wish that it could share. I hear your laugh and feel you near, when I dare to dream Sometimes blue eyed angels, are exactly as they seem. Your questions go unspoken as does your inner song But those who know of angels, know this won’t last long. Your words and songs will soon be heard, by all of us who care An angels’ voice will carry far and always there to share. You’ll grow and learn as days go by, giving as you get My little blue eyed angel, just hasn’t started yet. Soon your smile will be face to face, warming all you see I pray my blue eyed angel… that one of them is me.

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When gentle breezes turn into gale, remember that you will prevail. You may tear at these pages daily, in search of peace and tranquillity. Planting hope and scattering wishes, Spilling blood in smears and blemishes... Flying out of the dark on wings of birds. Bridging the rippling void through severed words. ***Seeking... Reaching... Imploring... Writing...*** Be not wary of eyes that speak. Be not afraid of mouths that leak. Know that our scribbles are only sacred to us. Emotions and thoughts we bind and truss. What we put forth, we owe it to ourselves... Bits of us we've kept hidden in the darkest rooms; atop the highest shelves. You... are wielder of your mighty pen. You... determine how far or long your words would span. Your words... They're precious gold. Many or little; be them new or old. So let drip your ink with little reservation... Let us grow from strength to strength as life teaches its lessons. Rise up and live on in these here pages, For here exist only freedom; not cages.

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Feb 27, 2015

Feb 27, 2015 at 6:53 AM UTC

When gentle breezes turn into gale, remember that you will prevail. You may tear at these pages daily, in search of peace and tranquillity. Planting hope and scattering wishes, Spilling blood in smears and blemishes... Flying out of the dark on wings of birds. Bridging the rippling void through severed words. ***Seeking... Reaching... Imploring... Writing...*** Be not wary of eyes that speak. Be not afraid of mouths that leak. Know that our scribbles are only sacred to us. Emotions and thoughts we bind and truss. What we put forth, we owe it to ourselves... Bits of us we've kept hidden in the darkest rooms; atop the highest shelves. You... are wielder of your mighty pen. You... determine how far or long your words would span. Your words... They're precious gold. Many or little; be them new or old. So let drip your ink with little reservation... Let us grow from strength to strength as life teaches its lessons. Rise up and live on in these here pages, For here exist only freedom; not cages.

Continue reading...

Ellie. My name is Ellie. I want to be a writer. I want to be a star. I want to be free. I imagine myself riding on wide open roads, on the back of a motorcycle with a boy who is as much of a ghost as he is a person. I imagine myself dazed in rooms filled with a purple glow. I imagine pills, lust, liquor, leather. I want to live forever and I want to die young. My name is Ellie. I don’t know what home means; I don’t want to. I need people to love me. I will break all of their hearts. I imagine late nights in underground clubs… Marlboro, rock & roll, Howl by Allen Ginsberg–the bible. Tanqueray; falling down in a graveyard muttering in Romanian, hoping for salvation, but while I’m called an angel night after night I’ve got the devil in me. Rosewater runs through my veins, the blood has already been spilt. I won’t ever belong to anyone, not even myself. When you have the knowledge that nothing’s real it’s hard to do what’s expected of you. I relate to flowers a lot. They’re beautiful, but they don’t last. Sometimes no matter how hard you try to take care of them, they just run out of life. I think I ran out of life the day I was born. Everything is nothing. The gods don’t want you to know that, but that is the one truth.

0

Oct 26, 2015

Oct 26, 2015 at 1:43 PM UTC

Ellie. My name is Ellie. I want to be a writer. I want to be a star. I want to be free. I imagine myself riding on wide open roads, on the back of a motorcycle with a boy who is as much of a ghost as he is a person. I imagine myself dazed in rooms filled with a purple glow. I imagine pills, lust, liquor, leather. I want to live forever and I want to die young. My name is Ellie. I don’t know what home means; I don’t want to. I need people to love me. I will break all of their hearts. I imagine late nights in underground clubs… Marlboro, rock & roll, Howl by Allen Ginsberg–the bible. Tanqueray; falling down in a graveyard muttering in Romanian, hoping for salvation, but while I’m called an angel night after night I’ve got the devil in me. Rosewater runs through my veins, the blood has already been spilt. I won’t ever belong to anyone, not even myself. When you have the knowledge that nothing’s real it’s hard to do what’s expected of you. I relate to flowers a lot. They’re beautiful, but they don’t last. Sometimes no matter how hard you try to take care of them, they just run out of life. I think I ran out of life the day I was born. Everything is nothing. The gods don’t want you to know that, but that is the one truth.

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I am lonely, not lonely the choice up to now has been mine I will slip away (at will) into the recesses of small shops of empty rooms or quiet spaces to avoid her touch or his gaze or their judgement our subconscious desires. But all swallowed up deep in the belly of fog, of smoke a vast, impenetrable night sky suddenly the all-encompassing fear grips me washes over so suddenly I realize I have not lived at all that I am suddenly (forcibly) the only one left. Down a long, winding road that trudges on endlessly into the fading silhouette of trees and broken sidelines dim headlights I am lonely, not lonely.

0

Oct 22, 2014

Oct 22, 2014 at 6:29 PM UTC

I am lonely, not lonely.

I am lonely, not lonely the choice up to now has been mine I will slip away (at will) into the recesses of small shops of empty rooms or quiet spaces to avoid her touch or his gaze or their judgement our subconscious desires. But all swallowed up deep in the belly of fog, of smoke a vast, impenetrable night sky suddenly the all-encompassing fear grips me washes over so suddenly I realize I have not lived at all that I am suddenly (forcibly) the only one left. Down a long, winding road that trudges on endlessly into the fading silhouette of trees and broken sidelines dim headlights I am lonely, not lonely.

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her voice tripped over cobble stones drifted through waves her voice echoed in empty rooms cracked through walls her voice, stays knotted in her throat

0

Aug 13, 2014

Aug 13, 2014 at 5:49 PM UTC

her voice tripped over cobble stones drifted through waves her voice echoed in empty rooms cracked through walls her voice, stays knotted in her throat

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small cheap rooms where you walk down the hall to the bathroom can seem romantic to a young writer. even the rejection slips are amusing because you are sure that you are one of the best. but while sitting there looking across the room at the portable typer waiting for you on the table you are really in a sense insane as you wait for one more night to arrive to sit and type Immortal Words--but now you just sit and think about it on your first afternoon in a strange city. looking over at the door you almost expect a beautiful woman to walk in. being young helps get you through many senseless and terrible days. being old does too.

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14.2k

Charles Bukowski

small cheap rooms where you walk down the hall to the bathroom can seem romantic to a young writer. even the rejection slips are amusing because you are sure that you are one of the best. but while sitting there looking across the room at the portable typer waiting for you on the table you are really in a sense insane as you wait for one more night to arrive to sit and type Immortal Words--but now you just sit and think about it on your first afternoon in a strange city. looking over at the door you almost expect a beautiful woman to walk in. being young helps get you through many senseless and terrible days. being old does too.

Continue reading...

3-2-2017 (unknown date of origin) Something's wrong... you don't belong here. I said, looking down at the pineapple on my pizza. I said, looking down at the ketchup on my macaroni. I said, looking down at the cream of mushroom soup on my meatloaf. He said, looking down at me and my boyfriend, holding hands in public. Like I'm a creep. I'm a ****** What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here. You see there's these things that we learn at the dinner table. When we're kids we have certain items served to us on our plates. Whatever doesn't end up there, isn't a part of the discussion. After all, they say if you don't have a seat at the table, you are likely to be on the menu. So, when ****** orientation and gender identity aren't seated at the table of childhood, they get served for the first time in unexpected places. Like an avante garde celebrity chef's designer meal, prepared for critiques by the food bloggers. They get served in college classroom debates or in dorm rooms with freshman roommates. They're on the menu in in some movies but served with a side of stereotypes and silly trope toppings. They get grinded into glitter dust sprinkled on the annual PRIDE Parades like an overly salty seasoning mix. They're on the menu in workplace diversity trainings, but too little too late - they get lost in the marginalized buffet. They get served at the oppression Olympics, or actually at the Olympics unwillingly by a journalist who only pretends to eat a well-balanced diet, but really has LGBT food allergies, if you know what I mean. In reality, these should be staple dishes consumed by commoners, consumed by you and me, consumed by children along with their healthy daily dose of broccoli and cauliflower, squash and zucchini, even eggplant. They should be in every ******* cookbook with pictures and all different kinds of recipes! I want every child to have gay on their dinner plate, lesbian lunch, gender nonconforming on the brunch menu, and bisexual breakfast. And everything in between in the queer spectrum served during snack breaks. I want every child to look down at their plate and see pineapple pizza and say, gee that looks great! I love all of the pizza toppings, no matter whether gay or nay. ... except for anchovies, of course.

0

Mar 2, 2017

Mar 2, 2017 at 4:28 AM UTC

Pineapple Pizza

3-2-2017 (unknown date of origin) Something's wrong... you don't belong here. I said, looking down at the pineapple on my pizza. I said, looking down at the ketchup on my macaroni. I said, looking down at the cream of mushroom soup on my meatloaf. He said, looking down at me and my boyfriend, holding hands in public. Like I'm a creep. I'm a ****** What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here. You see there's these things that we learn at the dinner table. When we're kids we have certain items served to us on our plates. Whatever doesn't end up there, isn't a part of the discussion. After all, they say if you don't have a seat at the table, you are likely to be on the menu. So, when ****** orientation and gender identity aren't seated at the table of childhood, they get served for the first time in unexpected places. Like an avante garde celebrity chef's designer meal, prepared for critiques by the food bloggers. They get served in college classroom debates or in dorm rooms with freshman roommates. They're on the menu in in some movies but served with a side of stereotypes and silly trope toppings. They get grinded into glitter dust sprinkled on the annual PRIDE Parades like an overly salty seasoning mix. They're on the menu in workplace diversity trainings, but too little too late - they get lost in the marginalized buffet. They get served at the oppression Olympics, or actually at the Olympics unwillingly by a journalist who only pretends to eat a well-balanced diet, but really has LGBT food allergies, if you know what I mean. In reality, these should be staple dishes consumed by commoners, consumed by you and me, consumed by children along with their healthy daily dose of broccoli and cauliflower, squash and zucchini, even eggplant. They should be in every ******* cookbook with pictures and all different kinds of recipes! I want every child to have gay on their dinner plate, lesbian lunch, gender nonconforming on the brunch menu, and bisexual breakfast. And everything in between in the queer spectrum served during snack breaks. I want every child to look down at their plate and see pineapple pizza and say, gee that looks great! I love all of the pizza toppings, no matter whether gay or nay. ... except for anchovies, of course.

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A musical trance seance under control by the hand of a shadow A "Du hast" to a "Loco" To a "beautiful people" A fraction of symphony, Sent by the gods of rock Spiderweb rooms an corridor covered with the entrance to darkness set in place with danger light's, Strobe lights, an a fog machine set on auto A haunted feel to a shack left cold an abandoned. Equipped with superior beings and extended solo's of 6 string guitar's along with drum's and distorted bass guitar, setting the rhythm for our soul's,Feeding threw 4 large kickers. This shadow was me Venom Decorated in crow face paint, Along with black attire to match my attitude People came and went and came again Supporting my and there craving for sublime sound But one, the one, my goddess, my angel of death came to my dwelling, she came with a message To indulge in my love But also to give me a message of misery To break me free of this chaotic world i was fixed in, with a bite to my fingertip the purified pressure was on She wore the same colors as I Only more dragged inline's More pain, More beauty than she could see I stared into her crystal corroded bloodshot eyes I seen deep within herself I saw pain, I saw hate for her fire, I saw hate from others I had seen everything and nothing I arose from my slumber to meet her in the darkness or mothers sleep To give mother a great vision, a great dream and it was this My angel of death, Meeting face to face, Eye to misery, Cure to disease, Beauty to ugly. The words rolled off her tongue like the greatest embrace to a lover Her words were sweet and seductive Sprinkled with tears of a suicidal mind and a scarred wrist. Then in a perfect moment are perfect tender love met with crying eyes and black lipstick. Within that moment i ingested her misery I took it and gave her what she deserved Beauty After the release of this lover's choice We met vision and from there i seen the truth I could never release her from this insanity Only pamper or even embrace it This timeless motion of misery will never stop ticking in my heart Not till it expires!

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Oct 14, 2014

Oct 14, 2014 at 10:33 AM UTC

The misery of an angel

A musical trance seance under control by the hand of a shadow A "Du hast" to a "Loco" To a "beautiful people" A fraction of symphony, Sent by the gods of rock Spiderweb rooms an corridor covered with the entrance to darkness set in place with danger light's, Strobe lights, an a fog machine set on auto A haunted feel to a shack left cold an abandoned. Equipped with superior beings and extended solo's of 6 string guitar's along with drum's and distorted bass guitar, setting the rhythm for our soul's,Feeding threw 4 large kickers. This shadow was me Venom Decorated in crow face paint, Along with black attire to match my attitude People came and went and came again Supporting my and there craving for sublime sound But one, the one, my goddess, my angel of death came to my dwelling, she came with a message To indulge in my love But also to give me a message of misery To break me free of this chaotic world i was fixed in, with a bite to my fingertip the purified pressure was on She wore the same colors as I Only more dragged inline's More pain, More beauty than she could see I stared into her crystal corroded bloodshot eyes I seen deep within herself I saw pain, I saw hate for her fire, I saw hate from others I had seen everything and nothing I arose from my slumber to meet her in the darkness or mothers sleep To give mother a great vision, a great dream and it was this My angel of death, Meeting face to face, Eye to misery, Cure to disease, Beauty to ugly. The words rolled off her tongue like the greatest embrace to a lover Her words were sweet and seductive Sprinkled with tears of a suicidal mind and a scarred wrist. Then in a perfect moment are perfect tender love met with crying eyes and black lipstick. Within that moment i ingested her misery I took it and gave her what she deserved Beauty After the release of this lover's choice We met vision and from there i seen the truth I could never release her from this insanity Only pamper or even embrace it This timeless motion of misery will never stop ticking in my heart Not till it expires!

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It still smells like human iron in your pool. There's a crack in the concrete where the bullet stopped. It still smells like human iron by the side of your pool, there's a stain. I still can't find where that bullet went. I always thought that your "love" of the higher life was overrated. Nobody ever talked about how great it is to be rich as much as you did. Even though you talked about it so quietly, most of the time. You spoke a lot about Daisies. I'm more of a Lillie type of person. There are a lot of people in New York, Gatsby. Too many people in New York. New York only needed you, Gatsby, but it looks like New York didn't want you anymore. That's not sad though, is it? Carraway's book is like gold. I bookmarked eight of my favorite pages in it with yellow cigarettes. I'm too afraid to smoke them. When your old mansion was bought I expected to see you as a ghost in it, you weren't there. That green light across the bay isn't there anymore, it's red now. I believe I'm sleeping in the same bedroom you once did. You aren't one of those ghosts that haunt a house, you haunt a human concept of want. I wish I'd never bought your house. I'm going to tear this place down. Along with Nick's old place next door. The memories here in these empty, furniture filled rooms, are unbearable at best. Of course they're not my memories, but I'd be a familiar person to you if you knew me. I smash and break things, and then retreat back into my money and vast carelessness. Farewell Jay Gatsby.

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Mar 13, 2014

Mar 13, 2014 at 3:01 PM UTC

An open letter to Jay Gatsby (The Great Gatsby)

It still smells like human iron in your pool. There's a crack in the concrete where the bullet stopped. It still smells like human iron by the side of your pool, there's a stain. I still can't find where that bullet went. I always thought that your "love" of the higher life was overrated. Nobody ever talked about how great it is to be rich as much as you did. Even though you talked about it so quietly, most of the time. You spoke a lot about Daisies. I'm more of a Lillie type of person. There are a lot of people in New York, Gatsby. Too many people in New York. New York only needed you, Gatsby, but it looks like New York didn't want you anymore. That's not sad though, is it? Carraway's book is like gold. I bookmarked eight of my favorite pages in it with yellow cigarettes. I'm too afraid to smoke them. When your old mansion was bought I expected to see you as a ghost in it, you weren't there. That green light across the bay isn't there anymore, it's red now. I believe I'm sleeping in the same bedroom you once did. You aren't one of those ghosts that haunt a house, you haunt a human concept of want. I wish I'd never bought your house. I'm going to tear this place down. Along with Nick's old place next door. The memories here in these empty, furniture filled rooms, are unbearable at best. Of course they're not my memories, but I'd be a familiar person to you if you knew me. I smash and break things, and then retreat back into my money and vast carelessness. Farewell Jay Gatsby.

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2002: today i kicked the door to history off it's hinges my jealous frame: still too proud to say a word it seems my folks forgot to pencil in growth marks cause they thought their boy would never grow out of small breath ******* dead, years now buried and i bare his name too many syllables for my father to go back fish & play football to stand in the yard and play catch 1994: my mom, the bombshell in retrospect broke her back in her sleep a thousand times since the stairwell in 87' she still sits for spills post nuclear about settling now from the couch she's a weather report spouting nonsense that makes my father grow grey, crack remotes & slam doors to dark rooms abandoning ship for "cheers" & "scienfeld" while my mother sometimes forgets and sets his place at the table and my appetite is abducted by family photos my mother says things like "go see your brother today" -- Johnny's long gone don't you remember? we buried him the day your smile died 2014: you are inches from me ********* a stray hair caught in the fabric of your coat the last remnants of a dog we laid to rest last week and here we are in the hospital again people don't shake like dogs finality is found in the eyes of humans passing archways into shallow rooms where plague and prayer are the only songs sung round the stagnant clocks it makes me wonder if the clipboards cry over being the last thing someone ever writes on take a number, have a seat stay a while i am back, 7 years old & there are different doors now they buried the ones you kicked in that night in '92 when my lungs were filled with holy water you never stopped smoking i never grew out of asthma

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Mar 26, 2014

Mar 26, 2014 at 12:39 PM UTC

it's the little wars that **** us

2002: today i kicked the door to history off it's hinges my jealous frame: still too proud to say a word it seems my folks forgot to pencil in growth marks cause they thought their boy would never grow out of small breath ******* dead, years now buried and i bare his name too many syllables for my father to go back fish & play football to stand in the yard and play catch 1994: my mom, the bombshell in retrospect broke her back in her sleep a thousand times since the stairwell in 87' she still sits for spills post nuclear about settling now from the couch she's a weather report spouting nonsense that makes my father grow grey, crack remotes & slam doors to dark rooms abandoning ship for "cheers" & "scienfeld" while my mother sometimes forgets and sets his place at the table and my appetite is abducted by family photos my mother says things like "go see your brother today" -- Johnny's long gone don't you remember? we buried him the day your smile died 2014: you are inches from me ********* a stray hair caught in the fabric of your coat the last remnants of a dog we laid to rest last week and here we are in the hospital again people don't shake like dogs finality is found in the eyes of humans passing archways into shallow rooms where plague and prayer are the only songs sung round the stagnant clocks it makes me wonder if the clipboards cry over being the last thing someone ever writes on take a number, have a seat stay a while i am back, 7 years old & there are different doors now they buried the ones you kicked in that night in '92 when my lungs were filled with holy water you never stopped smoking i never grew out of asthma

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It was three am and, we were still up talking- laughing at inappropriate jokes with tired voices and sleep blending into the whites of our eyes like paint being mixed before an artist creates her masterpiece. By the window, I sat, staring at the moon and it’s perfect figure, so round and complex with ridges only where meant to be. My mind was searching like a lost child for an answer to my happiness, my mind was searching for a reason to be unhappy, but each time it would fail then try again. By the fifth time searching, I finally realized that this was what it was like to be ok. This was how it felt to be living for more than sleep at night and empty rooms. This is what it feels like when the stars are aligned, and everything is still. Tonight the moon asked me how I was feeling and for the first time in forever I said I was doing quite alright.

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Jul 5, 2018

Jul 5, 2018 at 3:08 PM UTC

I had a conversation with the moon last night

It was three am and, we were still up talking- laughing at inappropriate jokes with tired voices and sleep blending into the whites of our eyes like paint being mixed before an artist creates her masterpiece. By the window, I sat, staring at the moon and it’s perfect figure, so round and complex with ridges only where meant to be. My mind was searching like a lost child for an answer to my happiness, my mind was searching for a reason to be unhappy, but each time it would fail then try again. By the fifth time searching, I finally realized that this was what it was like to be ok. This was how it felt to be living for more than sleep at night and empty rooms. This is what it feels like when the stars are aligned, and everything is still. Tonight the moon asked me how I was feeling and for the first time in forever I said I was doing quite alright.

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In the old house up the hills - Yes, the one that gives you chills Whenever you walk by its fence - Lives someone who, no offense, Looks like she'd puts kids on grill. Children, puppies, all she'd **** For food. Lady who, probably, likes to Know the places each kid hikes to. There she, later in the day, Waits for village kids to stray. Some will die and some live on. Who? That really depens on Her mood. Some say that she used to snitch, Others say that she's a witch! Nobody was ever in The house whose walls are made of skin. Nobody would ever dare To set their foot on the porch where She stood. They'll never know that her kitchen Smelled like flowers, most bewitchin', They won't see her paintings, neat, Her living room where you could meet A fire giving warm embrace. And alongside her fireplace The wood. Now, if you got in, you'd stare on stinky fish bowls, everywhere, whose cloudy water calls for changing, and rooms in need of rearranging. But since you never really tried, No one knows the lady died. Yes she's dead for good.

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Nov 11, 2015

Nov 11, 2015 at 1:07 AM UTC

In the old house up the hills - Yes, the one that gives you chills Whenever you walk by its fence - Lives someone who, no offense, Looks like she'd puts kids on grill. Children, puppies, all she'd **** For food. Lady who, probably, likes to Know the places each kid hikes to. There she, later in the day, Waits for village kids to stray. Some will die and some live on. Who? That really depens on Her mood. Some say that she used to snitch, Others say that she's a witch! Nobody was ever in The house whose walls are made of skin. Nobody would ever dare To set their foot on the porch where She stood. They'll never know that her kitchen Smelled like flowers, most bewitchin', They won't see her paintings, neat, Her living room where you could meet A fire giving warm embrace. And alongside her fireplace The wood. Now, if you got in, you'd stare on stinky fish bowls, everywhere, whose cloudy water calls for changing, and rooms in need of rearranging. But since you never really tried, No one knows the lady died. Yes she's dead for good.

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In these darkened rooms, where I spend oppresive days, I pace to and fro to find the windows. -- When a window opens, it will be a consolation. -- But the windows cannot be found, or I cannot find them. And maybe it is best that I do not find them. Maybe the light will be a new tyranny. Who knows what new things it will reveal.

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10k

Constantine P. Cavafy

In these darkened rooms, where I spend oppresive days, I pace to and fro to find the windows. -- When a window opens, it will be a consolation. -- But the windows cannot be found, or I cannot find them. And maybe it is best that I do not find them. Maybe the light will be a new tyranny. Who knows what new things it will reveal.

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Everything is so tight. Jeans, leggings, dresses, shirts, skirts, jackets and summer wear is even worse and more revealing with crop tops, shorts, and even shorter skirts and dresses. How are we all able to breathe? Victorian fashion had corsets and those made them faint! So why does the fashion have to be tight? Don't get me wrong, I do like skinny jeans, and tight shirts and dresses I am a girl after all, we all give in to the status quo of fashion at times. But, sizes are even smaller now than they were before. I haven't gained or lost weight, my waist size hasn't changed, nothing has. Except for the clothes. Are we trying to make women smaller and thinner by just shrinking the clothes? It should not be ¨Survival of the fittest¨ in the dressing rooms. That isn't cool. Also, why are the pants so short? I have long legs, okay, and because my waist size matches someone who is smaller than me then that must mean that I am short according to clothes. Therefore I have difficulty finding pants that fit my waist and my legs. I am not blind to my surroundings. Every single girl Goes. Through. This. We all have shopping woes, some worse than others. We all gain uncomfortable experiences whether it be from something not fitting, or from the attention on the streets that we get for wearing it. Then of course, don't forget the media! Remember all those pictures of perfect people being shoved down our throats strangling us until we accept the fact that we should be just like them. Suffocation is the latest fashion, and we are expected to wear it well.

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Jan 18, 2015

Jan 18, 2015 at 6:46 PM UTC

Suffocation is the Latest Fashion

Everything is so tight. Jeans, leggings, dresses, shirts, skirts, jackets and summer wear is even worse and more revealing with crop tops, shorts, and even shorter skirts and dresses. How are we all able to breathe? Victorian fashion had corsets and those made them faint! So why does the fashion have to be tight? Don't get me wrong, I do like skinny jeans, and tight shirts and dresses I am a girl after all, we all give in to the status quo of fashion at times. But, sizes are even smaller now than they were before. I haven't gained or lost weight, my waist size hasn't changed, nothing has. Except for the clothes. Are we trying to make women smaller and thinner by just shrinking the clothes? It should not be ¨Survival of the fittest¨ in the dressing rooms. That isn't cool. Also, why are the pants so short? I have long legs, okay, and because my waist size matches someone who is smaller than me then that must mean that I am short according to clothes. Therefore I have difficulty finding pants that fit my waist and my legs. I am not blind to my surroundings. Every single girl Goes. Through. This. We all have shopping woes, some worse than others. We all gain uncomfortable experiences whether it be from something not fitting, or from the attention on the streets that we get for wearing it. Then of course, don't forget the media! Remember all those pictures of perfect people being shoved down our throats strangling us until we accept the fact that we should be just like them. Suffocation is the latest fashion, and we are expected to wear it well.

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Where did the innocence go? Doves turned to ravens, Juicesboxes turned to bottles, Toxic beverages leaving poisoned bodies to roam these streets, Possessing personalities of ******** Suckers turned to joints, The high replaced the feeling of love, Which could propel you to places beyond any hallucination, Virgins mimicked, giggled at, Wide eyed stares penetrate their skin as they stroll on streets, Whispers fill rooms as their sealed bodies strut, Jealous viewers stand, shattered, With no purity to share with their loved ones. Thinking their assets can be displayed for the public to adjudicate, Maybe we're to young to know about love, We're young, yes we are. But what good is a young nation, With poisoned , broken youth. What good is a nation with no future leaders. So I'm asking, where did the innocence go? Tell me so I can know. So I can replace the demons that lurk in these infants, With the innocence that should gleam, From their flesh.

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May 26, 2014

May 26, 2014 at 2:00 PM UTC

Where did the innocence go? Doves turned to ravens, Juicesboxes turned to bottles, Toxic beverages leaving poisoned bodies to roam these streets, Possessing personalities of ******** Suckers turned to joints, The high replaced the feeling of love, Which could propel you to places beyond any hallucination, Virgins mimicked, giggled at, Wide eyed stares penetrate their skin as they stroll on streets, Whispers fill rooms as their sealed bodies strut, Jealous viewers stand, shattered, With no purity to share with their loved ones. Thinking their assets can be displayed for the public to adjudicate, Maybe we're to young to know about love, We're young, yes we are. But what good is a young nation, With poisoned , broken youth. What good is a nation with no future leaders. So I'm asking, where did the innocence go? Tell me so I can know. So I can replace the demons that lurk in these infants, With the innocence that should gleam, From their flesh.

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one day i was talking to my little sister. she asks me if i was ever depressed. i tell her yes. her eyes widen and her lips are mouthing 'why?' 'babe, i'm transgender.' 'is that it?' so i begin to explain to her the things i feel. i tell her how everyday i can't wait to get home and slice open this body i don't know with a razor from a convenience store. i tell her i don't know how to act like a girl for mom and dad, but apparently i do a **** good job because they don't notice i'm not. i tell her that for fourteen years i've wanted to cut my hair short and never have to wear a skirt to church again. i tell her about the pain and fear of going into a public bathroom. i tell her about the looks the kids at school give me and the shoves from behind about the **** binders and the locker rooms. i tell her that i don't know what they want me to be, and if i can be it. i tell her all i want is to be called 'he' and feel like they mean it. she pauses and gives me a look that says even though she's too young to understand, she does. 'i've always wanted a brother.'

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Apr 25, 2012

Apr 25, 2012 at 8:16 PM UTC

I'm Transgender.

one day i was talking to my little sister. she asks me if i was ever depressed. i tell her yes. her eyes widen and her lips are mouthing 'why?' 'babe, i'm transgender.' 'is that it?' so i begin to explain to her the things i feel. i tell her how everyday i can't wait to get home and slice open this body i don't know with a razor from a convenience store. i tell her i don't know how to act like a girl for mom and dad, but apparently i do a **** good job because they don't notice i'm not. i tell her that for fourteen years i've wanted to cut my hair short and never have to wear a skirt to church again. i tell her about the pain and fear of going into a public bathroom. i tell her about the looks the kids at school give me and the shoves from behind about the **** binders and the locker rooms. i tell her that i don't know what they want me to be, and if i can be it. i tell her all i want is to be called 'he' and feel like they mean it. she pauses and gives me a look that says even though she's too young to understand, she does. 'i've always wanted a brother.'

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. •they'd come at night• these footsteps are never light• always heavy and running ar- ound•...they are annoy- ingly creepy..., these aw- ful sounds•every night, after eleven without fail•into rooms, us they would tail• making a din overhead •when all should be quiet inste- ad•like barefooted children i would *** ume...•wandering and exploring into every ro- om•...could they come wilfully•from the cou- ple who live above me•i very much doubt so•bec- ause this much i know...•that the neigh- bour up- stairs, they're old•frail and meek; never bold•they'd re- tire early•after late, ne- ver a party•now... there the feet go again•drivi- ng me almost insane• on my ceiling now, they're pacing• they know i kn- ow and they are playing•these invisible feet•ne- ver would we meet•one thing for sure•this is not a friv- olous tour•determined to tell•that they exist as well•nothing i'm certain but it is clear •i think they really like it here...• •i don't think they're leavi- ng•they're bent on staying...•

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Feb 12, 2015

Feb 12, 2015 at 8:48 AM UTC

. •they'd come at night• these footsteps are never light• always heavy and running ar- ound•...they are annoy- ingly creepy..., these aw- ful sounds•every night, after eleven without fail•into rooms, us they would tail• making a din overhead •when all should be quiet inste- ad•like barefooted children i would *** ume...•wandering and exploring into every ro- om•...could they come wilfully•from the cou- ple who live above me•i very much doubt so•bec- ause this much i know...•that the neigh- bour up- stairs, they're old•frail and meek; never bold•they'd re- tire early•after late, ne- ver a party•now... there the feet go again•drivi- ng me almost insane• on my ceiling now, they're pacing• they know i kn- ow and they are playing•these invisible feet•ne- ver would we meet•one thing for sure•this is not a friv- olous tour•determined to tell•that they exist as well•nothing i'm certain but it is clear •i think they really like it here...• •i don't think they're leavi- ng•they're bent on staying...•

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Memories crying, screaming to be heard. Try as I might to bury these amidst busy days, still they rise from the backyard of my mind haunting my dreams, making youth a nightmarish memory. Empty rooms cry out in agonizing silence. White ghosts float on lifeless bodies with the same question; why? Anxious moments still taunt just beyond of safety. The sickness that gave birth to this still clouds the mind. So long ago, a lifetime to make peace, still lucid moments of torment making March an anniversary dirge. It makes no sense to cry for those gone, for mortals spent in tragedy, yet every year I try to understand once again, why?

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Aug 22, 2012

Aug 22, 2012 at 12:22 PM UTC

IN MEMORY OF MARCH, 1963

Memories crying, screaming to be heard. Try as I might to bury these amidst busy days, still they rise from the backyard of my mind haunting my dreams, making youth a nightmarish memory. Empty rooms cry out in agonizing silence. White ghosts float on lifeless bodies with the same question; why? Anxious moments still taunt just beyond of safety. The sickness that gave birth to this still clouds the mind. So long ago, a lifetime to make peace, still lucid moments of torment making March an anniversary dirge. It makes no sense to cry for those gone, for mortals spent in tragedy, yet every year I try to understand once again, why?

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