"safes" poems
Caution you speak, I'm so sure of myself.
Low line cinema in my house.
Raiding my brain and running late for a train that doesn't even exist.
You can touch so much yet feel so little.
It's things like this, unspoken words.
The ground beneath my feet shrinks every time we meet.
Sooner or later Imma lose it all and finally fall.
Right left up into your arm chair,
Sitting cozy with my tea.
Sort through memories and open safes with my code only in my head can you think the way I think.
In misty visions the wizard casts his spells.
In daily shadows you stay until the night time hides your evil eye.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 12:17 AM UTC
Taking a new direction
I watched you burn
I turned from you
Natural selection exists even in love
Especially in love
In symbolism you were a dove
But doves are but mortal
They die,
And olive branches drop from their beaks as they cease to fly
Its funny.
I always wanted a piece of you but never knew why.
I think I knew I was too weak
So I would take a section of your heart when we parted ways
I still have it locked away to this day
In the most personal of safes
I think its why I still feel your kiss in the rain
It doesn't stop the pain
But it makes me feel again babe
So im giving you thanks
At your grave as you burn into pages
And on the paper youve become
Still as white as the dove you were
I draw you a map to the piece of your heart I took
Its in the spot of the piece of mine you still have
You just have to look
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 3:21 PM UTC
1.
Let's install some fail-safes
You have to convince yourself that this is really what you want
If you aren't gay, pretend you are
If you are gay, pretend you're not
I guarantee you will not fall in love
2.
Pick the sweetest person
Someone your parents will approve of
Someone who is so perfect for you that you just don't understand why you're sitting alone right now
If you're not voted cutest couple for the yearbook, you can't possibly be in love, right?
Too many people are watching
3.
Try to love them
Try to give yourself a textbook relationship
Go on dinner dates
And watch scary movies so you can cuddle up together
Argue about why you should definitely pay "because it's romantic"
Blow out the candle when she's not looking
4.
Stop taking off work on Friday nights
It was never going to work, anyway, so why bother getting attached?
When you realize that they love you,
And you are still sitting there alone, that's when your heart breaks
When you realize you can walk away and be unchanged
Because how could you possibly walk away from two entire years with another human being and not feel something
Your heart's going to break anyway, just because it didn't.
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 9:26 PM UTC
Speak with passion, never live a life of God with any fear
14 years is a fortnight of tears,
I go to sleep, just to see if your image still appears
My disassociation of my peers
Changed my way, but got stuck in my gears
If the ending is near, I die with no fears
The pain inside is a guiding light
I grip to every secret insecurities with all my might
Just to be judged by man that I'm not living right
My critics are angels in the light but devils in the musk of the night
I believe true vision doesn't come from just from our eyesight
I just love the thought of living more than if I'm going to die tonight
A man dies inside if he has no work, you can cut down the tree, but the roots are still in the dirt
Although, my father, your body rest easy in the midst of this earth
My success is only the trickle from the top of the product of your work.
Never see a limitation, only imagine the celebration
Conscience *********** of the mind of a people who were ostracized by our own nation
Memories of our time, often leaves my young mind so vacant
So I get on my knees, and thank God that you made him
I didn't know back then how precious is each day
From a sharecropper to a degree to from Penn State, life is only a code if you know how to crack safes.
One life you get, I promise I'll never waste it
Your no longer here, but thank you God that you made him.
Rest in peace, Mason Land Sr. The greatest grandfather a man could ever pray for.
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 1:19 PM UTC
Taking a new direction
I watched you burn
I turned from you
Natural selection exists even in love
Especially in love
In symbolism you were a dove
But doves are but mortal
They die,
And olive branches drop from their beaks as they cease to fly
It's funny.
I always wanted a piece of you but never knew why.
I think I knew I was too weak
So I would take a section of your heart when we parted ways
I still have it locked away to this day
In the most personal of safes
I think its why I still feel your kiss in the rain
It doesn't stop the pain
But it makes me feel again babe
So I'm giving you thanks
At your grave as you burn into pages
And on the paper you've become
Still as white as the dove you were
I draw you a map to the piece of your heart I took
Its in the spot of the piece of mine you still have
You just have to look
I got this fire that burns
Especially for you
When I can see you and hear you
My insides melt
Like nothing I've ever felt
It burns so good
Better than it should
I shouldn't be able to handle this heat
But for you babe,
I could handle anything
I'll never retreat
Never back down
Cause with you
I'm finally standing on solid ground
And I have looked,
At that spot where my heart was that you took
A piece of yours fits in there quite nicely
I think I've always had a little part
Of your beautifully broken heart
And I know you've had mine
For quite some time
Cause I've given you the key
You have the ultimate power over me
In retrospect, you've always had me
Maybe you didn't know it
But it seems to me
That fate has finally taken a turn
Given us the chance to live, love and watch it all burn.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 7:56 PM UTC
Velvet drops of smoky mirrors,
Soothing clouds in endless skies,
Fill my heart with warmth and shivers,
Joy and love like one it ties,
Sweet and sour, crisp or smooth,
Dropping by or running down,
Liquid safes that hold the truth,
As the walls surround the town,
Diamond curtains tie around,
See-through walls of melted mirrors,
Up side down I feel it bound,
To the sea and all its sailors,
Floating castles in the wind,
Ghostly dreams that come to be,
Huf and puf and they will swing,
Like the branches of a tree.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 11:00 PM UTC
sometimes, i miss being sick.
i miss the feeling of my sharp ankles on the cold scale. the scale has been hidden from my judgemental eyes.
i miss the automatic caloric calculator, the blinding neon-sign. it's still there, always and impossible to ignore, like television subtitles. but i eat anyway.
i miss the feeling of my jeans becoming baggier around pencil legs. yesterday i had to go to american eagle to buy the same pair of ripped jeans, two sizes larger than what i was a year ago.
i miss the blue polka-dot Tupperware in the farthest corner of my closet that i used to erase the shame of feeling full. i can't have containers anywhere in my bedroom.
i miss the feeling of drinking so much water that my body becomes a shallow pool that my insides float in. i have a limit on the amount of fluids i can consume in a day.
i miss walking into a meal knowing exactly how to eliminate all of it, without question. now when i do behaviors i feel the shame of my whole family in my chest.
i miss karaoke nights. i can't sing any of the songs i did in the hospital. it just feels wrong.
i miss sitting in a circle of other sick girls and forgetting, for a moment. they're in different places all over the world, enjoying life as recovered anorexics.
i miss staying up late talking to my roommate and questioning whether recovery is worth it, or even possible. she's in california with her girlfriend, enjoying being alive.
i miss licking salt of ice cubes. everything is locked into safes.
but mostly, i miss you. you're gone.
.
Jan 6, 2020
Jan 6, 2020 at 1:54 PM UTC
As the crow drowns
Insidious profound friend
End of candor
End of the end
Rose roots and runic worm trails
Fail-safes left unattended
Unmended vain tatters
What matters?
What truly matters?
Dreams of red in ribbons
Seething bloodlust and dead intent
No rest for the wrested
Nov 4, 2011
Nov 4, 2011 at 3:51 AM UTC
Society, the town
People, the house
Everyone sees what lies outside
The flowers in the garden
The toys that scatter our yard
The white picket fences that border, just on the edge of society
However,we let them inside
We let them in eventually
As we show them who we are
The paint that colors our walls
The books that lie on our shelves
The songs that are constantly playing
On the rate occasion we let someone in
They get a very slight glance of our deepest thought
Our deepest thoughts, the ones kept hidden behind the heaviest of safes
The deepest thoughts that never witness the light of day
The thoughts kept hidden under lock and key
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 4:53 PM UTC
His tales of a place he once called home, now reduced to ruins and smolder, carry a weight he has become accustomed to straining the muscles of his back against. He keeps postcards in his wallet, folded and creased in the center to the point of perforation, pulls them out when he is homesick or when anyone asks about his origins, always tucks them back into the pocket with more spite than he cares to portray. Most observers simply nod their head, "how beautiful it is," –was– "you're lucky to have been a part of it." He smiles, the genuine kind of smile that takes precise attention to detail and years of practice to counterfeit, says "I know." Some bold and curious or ignorant and inconsiderate listeners poke their furrowed brows into his upturned palms, ask him, "did you see the fire?" They want to know –must know– if he could smell the smoke from the next town over, if he could see the sky illuminated in the distance, the red hue seeping into the blue-black night, they want to know how big it was, a house fire or a holocaust, if he tried to put it out or if he stood idle, looked for faces in the flames, if it left anything but charred floorboards and fireproof safes, the combinations written on scraps of paper now insignificant. You can see him fuming from across the room, his face illuminated, the red hue dripping down his neck, his voice becomes victim, tries to keep it steady but you can see losses on his tongue, he trails off into silence, leaves nothing but stubbed toes and sentiments, "I'm sorry I asked." When he talks about the people he knows –knew– there, he always starts with a chuckle, a little grin as if something had just reminded him of them, they were all kids back then, his eyes turn child again while he talks about how they played in the storm drains and then he snaps them shut, remembers the cigarette butts, remembers the lighters they bought at the drug store, how they had loved to see things burn until they couldn't stop it. He talks about this place he used to call home, doesn't know what to call it anymore.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 11:24 PM UTC
what you got in your pockets?
Reveal yourself with an object,
let the subtext talk in a million ways.
What you got hiding,
and what does it say?
What you
keep
close,
exposes
emotion.
Your devotion to the object chosen,
is outspoken in a delicate gaze.
Theres a million ways you can spend that minimum wage,
Or a rainy day,
is just a rain
drop away.
And you could save me from the cold with your ignorance.
And i could pickpocket your soul in the holes of indifference.
But,
What’s the difference anyway.
Keep safe on your daily ways
keep safes, keeps the evil away;
I’ll keep you in my pocket until laundry day,
forget about you'
watching the world go round in bubbles and soap screens.
We got the same jeans (genes),
baby,
We got the same dreams,
baby.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 3:58 PM UTC
Soap.
Apologies.
Roll over and take pictures of me.
Roll over and feel a fork in my neck.
Oh so this is morning.
I'll eat you raw.
I love you too.
Basking within the sticks and stones.
Salon.
After the saline.
Now how does that sound?
I want you to follow.
Blindly.
Watch the moth's escape.
A twist of a doorknob.
But we watch.
I grit my teeth. Explain to you these are burns and wound marks.
One or the other and I discover.
Explain to you it needn't be thy way
Ate quickly and explained quicker.
Setting things on the ground is a tricky dive.
One sees the water. And the water sees it again.
So break it. And destroy your poise.
Waiting waiting and laying under the stars with two eyes.
My one and my other.
See now?
See I've grown.
Sleeping in safes. Becoming responsible to avoid the count of clicks and the flicks of wrists.
Speaking of...
Speaking out loud.
Speaking alone I guess.
I'll watch my cigarette disappear and hope a clone is born.
Now. Now now now.
Everyone's dead.
He said he watched the stars watch over you.
Stammering but now pointing.
Stars fall. And even that became an example of me doing wrong.
Is this silence?
Don't hold your breath baby. Use it because there is that chemical I'm lacking from you.
Is this silence?
No it is me just being alone.
We don't do this or that and when we do, it becomes that it wasn't this or that.
Nov 2, 2016
Nov 2, 2016 at 7:30 PM UTC
Fail safes, like preventive measures;
What percentile are you willing to lose?
You will lose them all.
Don't arrest you family
To the error of your decisions,
Take my advice
And don't take anyone with you.
Feb 15, 2025
Feb 15, 2025 at 4:02 AM UTC
i hate exclusive writing websites, it feels more about eyeing a clock of readers and favourites and keep safes than anything to do with progress; also the stuff that gets the worthwhile attention for a digestive system inquiring about an alt. diet is, in fact: well, some write for waitresses and bartenders, those who like language just as it is... obediently, instruction manual of a narrative, the: "it will never happen to me so i can feel cosy;" but some hate the way language is crafted for reason as mentioned prior: and bypass the waitresses and bartenders for a nitrogen meal with a whiskey sour.
ever play shadow ching chang wollah?
you loose the paper stone and scissors,
and you end up
imagining you're on the long haul
of drugs doing a 12h acid ******
not the mile high business class
of a 15minute ******* quickie,
you're next to the ****** teenagers
drinking away as the marathon man,
anyway, with this shadow ching chang wolah,
you loose the paper stone and scissors
on the jesse james draw;
what you get is a creepy spider,
a parkinson's flashlight dropped in a ghost
house reminiscent of a heartbeat,
a rabbit, that old classic,
and the laughed at crescendo of a crow
using two hands! messerschmitt the hands do!
*or like i end every arguments with my father: father, you're a brilliant exponent of bad faith, brimming-full with negations, but i rather your bad faith than the anti-existentialist cartesian good faith with pascal's twinkle: brimming-full with contradictions due to the coupling of thought to doubt; and i'm old enough to read these old leather chair **** books for a wrinkles' worth of tear, otherwise why would we send these idiots en-route 180º from the sciences and productivity? it's interesting this, the post-cartesian experiment: but it makes people annoying, i deny, therefore i think, makes it great to boil an egg and not think of a better solipsism. but i laugh it off: i could have been a proper drug dealer for psychiatrists, but i ended up being a proper theory synthesiser. but you know that denial breeds no faith as doubt does, well it does, faith-in-itself, which makes the self a keener protagonist, which is not really beneficial to slump and ride two thousand kilometres at four miles per hour.*
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 7:20 PM UTC
A look Un regard
I keep receiving Je recois
two in the 2 dans ma poitrine
chest
rapists violeurs
have invented ont invente
new ways de nouvelles facons
of being d'etne assassines
murdered
I hope they J'espere qu'ils ouvrent
open their leur
gun safes coffres d'amunition
or hang ou pende
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 9:09 PM UTC
Whenever I allow myself to think of love, my mind runs
To the chambers where secret memories are stored,
In sealed chests, on high unreachable shelves, deterring me
From opening, dreaded Pandora boxes, stripped of hope.
Yet sometimes the endeavour to reminisce overwhelming
Feelings I struggle to repress, commands me to climb the stairs,
Unclose the safes of the unspoken, as I forbid tears
From pouring, out of clouded eyes, still loving.
You are there, with your roguish smile, chivalric deportment,
Statuesque poise, Michelangelo’s David, I compared, giddily
Gazing at your tragic features as if you were, the one
And only whom I could ever love, desire, crave, forgive.
Suddenly though not unexpectedly, intrudes the scolding guardian
Of remembrances, treating me as an impostor in my own mind,
A thief of frames concealed, yelling at me as you used to, reminding me
Of reality, your swinging lunatic humours, mercilessly lashing me with words.
Scars time will never heal, they lie when they say it will,
It has no power over what we were, nor can it erase even the slightest
Faintest flare of what we felt. Whenever I allow myself to think of love,
I still think of you, but that’s the maximum I consent to do.
Jul 31, 2017
Jul 31, 2017 at 4:46 AM UTC
What a tremble she brings
She breaks up the ground beneath
her like a harrow
Come forth my way and lock your stare in the empty safes of my gaze
Place your most valuables here
Let me be your keeper
Come forth my way
Lessen the vastness of your distance
Every step you take,
Turns my patience turns into persistence
What a quake she makes
She slopes me off the ground I stand on
I slip away, defiant of the
gravity that rules me
The sky has won its battle before me
Look at me, an astronaut to your space
Stuck in an orbit when your
body comes to place.
In my attempt to escape the earth indefinitely, it does not return me easily.
Though, I wish your presence would keep me up there, your absence
drives the earth to pull me
with all its might
As I incinerate into the atmosphere as a result to its fight.
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 4:05 AM UTC
We act like it's our life
Everyday
We become less human everyday
We know what we're taught
We act like it's our life
And empty hands and empty ends
And empty goals
And emptiness
We hear what we're told
We act like it's our love
Everyday
We become less human everyday
We do as we must
We act like it's our life
And empty coffers and empty safes
And empty pockets
And emptiness
We act like it's our truth
Everyday
We become less human everyday
And if you could never die for it
You would never live
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 11:28 PM UTC
there is something so tragic about a blank face and a ***** mirror. about 3 a.m eyes and our own fingers, mapping the parts of us we hate. there is something so damaging about resurfacing old ideas while juggling target practice with the wooden box kept bundled under piles of wrinkled clothes, stowed away in our dressers like safes, holding sharp things we would never touch on other days.
how can one relearn the idea of sleep?
because melatonin only worked once and benzodiazepines only kept us asleep long enough to dream about the bad things we avoided falling asleep for.
3 a.m feels like dry eyes and grown-out nails, bitten down until brittle. 3 a.m feels like a bed we are too afraid to crawl into and our own eyes we are too afraid to stare at. 3 a.m feels like a cold, creaking tiled floor, muffled from our fragile steps we took over it.
3 a.m feels like fear and sounds like the repeated notion of grinding teeth instead destroyed skin.
i keep studying the stain on the ceiling as though it were a separate universe. I keep willing it to take me away. outside, it's raining, without leaving a sound or smell behind, just flooded window wells and a distant ringing in my ears.
& praying used to be words i sung inside my head as though they could sing me towards some kind of promised refuge, but they never offered me anything except more of what i was already left with -
fear, constant fear, that things don't change, they just reshape themselves into shadows, into 3 a.m night lights and closed mouths that never stopped trembling.
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 6:27 PM UTC
One minute to midnight
all the InterContinental's are fuelled
fingers hover over the switch
palms are sweating
all the safes are opened
the codes confirmed
But the only time we will know of it
is when death falls from the sky.
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 10:28 AM UTC
Our ancestors owned plantations
and had owned hundreds
they had ocean cruising vessels
and stocks and liveries
worth millions in city banks and safes
now we are reduced
shamed disgraced and humbled for
reds are not the new black
and fashion has changed from flouncy drills
to distressed pale genes
all stained threadbare torn raggedly and faded
like pages from old history books
Jul 31, 2021
Jul 31, 2021 at 7:18 PM UTC