"sanded" poems
i told the girls at work about
time spent with jane.
they seemed awfully excited
for me.
maybe they could smell
that jane is new,
but familiar
like a car bought
used. she is barely driven
though. i still drive over
the skids i left from
trying to stop
too quick. you can see
my tread worn out like
sanded wood.
or maybe they could
smell the hope like dew on
the morning grass.
fresh but dangerous.
waiting
to trip me with my eyes
set ahead but not infront.
theyll leave the wire
right where they
got me the last time.
it would be an honor
to be fooled
by something so sweet
to the touch. it almost feels
alien
to not be so upset
by the way the weather
dictates my evenings.
i do not FEEL like i used to.
my love and guilt
helix and weave like code.
i would only kiss you now,
if it brought back the one i poisoned.
i live in a farm upstate now
like a dead house dog.
if ive really moved on
know that i did the impossible
we'll be better off for it.
and if things never work out with
jane, you best pray
someone loves me when im dead
cause they sure as hell
dont love me
now.
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 12:28 AM UTC
Hey you love me right?
Let me send you something
Let me intrude into your thoughts
When I am not there
See my naked body flash before you on that tiny screen
Did you get it?
Let me send another and another and another
Until all you can do is bleed from your cheeks
Until that pit in your stomach begins to tighten
Until you want that sweet, sweet sorrow filled ecstasy only I can provide
Now I can stand before you
The nudes I sent were sanded down
I was the epitome of what a **** really is
Not one stray hair visible
Not one, single intrusion
But here I am
Rough bumps, bones sticking out, intrusive hairs
But when I am not a **** I am your girl
So sail across the sea that dips down in the hollow of my back
Hike your way up mountains made of thighs
Let me show you something
Put your fingers in
Everything feels so soft and warm right?
Now take them away from me
Lick the lust from between your fingers
Does it taste like vanilla and caramel?
Make me yours
But you can’t
Or is it that you won’t?
You may even refuse to
So a **** can cause chaos on a sun filled day?
But honey I am a thunderstorm
I sanded myself down
I became a **** all for you
So what happens when my own fingers trace my hip bones?
When I climb the mountains?
Can you be jealous of something you never even had?
*** now please’ flashed at you
My teeth seem to rip into my own lust
Yet all you want are my nudes
You don’t want me fully and entirely
Is It alright for me to sink my own teeth in?
Until nudes and lust come flowing out
Oh but wait, they will wrap around you completely
Because my nudes and lust will always come back to you
So you love me right?
Let me send you something
Another **** appears
And another
And another
And another
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 10:49 PM UTC
My mind could not conjure up the notion that the word, the name, meant something. A-n-n-a. I looked. I looked: she stared back the same. Unknowing, unfamiliar. I wanted to remember, I wanted to.
7 a.m, in the crawlspace underneath the house, flashlight grasped in my hand, sweat from my forehead plastering my hair against it. It smelled like dust. I inched forward on my stomach, writhing as a worm. My body seizing against dirt and webs. I yelled out her name. Just to see. Just to test if my mouth still knew how to speak.
Anna.
Anna.
There. In the corner. I flicked my light against a box with tape on the side and her name written on over it in marker. I whispered it to make sure. Anna. One more time. Anna. I sunk my face into the ground. My breath, soft from my lips but coarse in form, disrupt the filth, made me cough. I crawled over to her with ease, as if the bones in my body were pushing me, the muscles guiding me; these pulsing veins, telling me.
When I opened the box, the first thing I saw was her, smiling back at me in the form of a memory. July 1996, our wedding framed around sanded wood, with splinters etching at the sides, aching for a hold on them. And I cradled her, despite this. Despite my skin giving in.
Anna.
I almost forgot.
My head was hurting again. I blamed it on the suffocating of the casket underground enveloping me, not the staples buried into the skin of my skull, not the remembrance that underneath piles of dirt, her body was just a stack of old bones with only a stone to tag her as proof she was once living.
Anna. My Anna. I cradled the picture against my chest. I clung to her.
My light began to flicker, a spider crawled across my finger. Anna was diminishing, like a ghost, like a gentle sweep of navigating headlights turning a corner, creeping away, and suddenly gone.
Anna. A-n-n-a. I shut my eyes. I could finally remember.
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 5:04 PM UTC
I saw the smooth hands of children grow calloused,
sanded by the empty hopes
that the cold has whittled down and sharpened into crucifixion nails.
Dragging their feet through broken glass and street waste, one shoe one sock,
I thought they were just urban children, or the ones
in malaria countries. But I see them stagger now, older, defeated
baring their bodies and chewing on their brains, teaching the little ones
how to polish shoes and hide in alleys that smell like **** and assault.
That one looks like me, his guardian about my size, so I pull my coat closer.
I recognize him from school in the smell of unwashed hair and the gurgle of
A self-digesting gut, nothing to soak up the acid that burns his throat.
I watched the world ******* them into hunched shoulders and boney legs
that have forgotten how to hug and run, trapping them in a constant state of shuffling
to the music of moans and cries for help. They come together in an urchin clan underneath bridges and on the exit ramps of highways.
Prophets of the future clutching at signs about war and veterans, the bad economy and the children they can’t feed.
Ten dollars to the one with the mut. Offer him a smoke.
Politicians act like clean-up crews, counting them like statistics;
This one is gone, the one on Brown street died,
We got rid of the one looking for cans in the student neighborhood.
Charity elevates them into a an opportunity—
A little money to the unfortunate is like bleach for your soul. Just enough
to get the smell of affair out of your hair, or to clean up the poison in your veins.
God helps the outcasts; five dollars ought to do it.
I shudder at our similarities. Brown hair, brown eyes, smart.
His sign ignores no rules of grammar and deserve credit for its precise calligraphy,
The dog at his side is ***** and worn like the stuffed toy
I covet from the nights in my crib—the same. He is a victim of people, I am a victim of people
Both someone’s child, both like dogs.
I watch as he turns into a younger man, and then an old man, and then a woman,
A child with no shoes and crucified hands, the boy in my class with eyes that devour.
I walk home, wondering what kind of charity will save me from myself.
And that is the problem.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 12:10 AM UTC
Tonight my gums ache
Because of the sin of 2:41 am
And the cigarettes I stole from you
After we drank the red wine
Your father exclaimed was royal
And originally drank by Paraguay princes.
I returned home dizzy with fatigue
And empty of joy and sorrow
Apathetic because I am not engaged
So I thumb my phone book to find
Anyone who will talk or kiss
Me numb, tonight.
I can't sleep after because the box fan is purring
And the October air is not
Devoid of Magnolia scent and hope
So I lay in my bed with crumbs
Sticking to my stretch marked hips
Taunting me even beneath the barracks of my sheets.
I saw no sky-moon when you left
So I smoked another Camel Crush
On the back porch watching you leave
Once our lips sanded the sin permanent
Into our raw faces and pulsing fingers
Smacking "joyful joyful-be filled! Filled!"
I barricade pillows against the concrete headrest
That my inherited mattress sleeps on
So the cold has to try harder, tonight
Even though your lips felt dry
and your sighs left ghosts exhaling
In my mind and neck and *****
This is how I justify sleep tonight:
An attempt to evade sins damnation
And my nature that, by Tuesday,
Will be able to paint over
The deep white lies you tongue
Painted across my prickled body.
Come, rest and restore my soul
To its belief that words are sharp
Though the imprints of your nails
And the burgundy couch fabric
Left on my body and on my soul
Are eulogized by the alarm clock set for 702am.
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 1:48 PM UTC
He recently shared something with me about holding hands. Everything written in the piece was true. From the start, his hands have made me feel safe, nurtured, needed, adored, wanted, and healed.
See, I rarely let anyone touch me before. Human touch was not something I craved until him. I didn’t know how much I needed it until I wanted it, but he did.
As he reached for my hand yesterday , as he does countless times, I began to notice things on a deeper level. I saw the structural beauty and strength of his hands; his skin color, his beautiful fingers, the veins, the hair pattern. I reflected on how many keystrokes they typed and words they’ve written. I thought of how many times they played the sax and played video games with skill and passion.
Then, I remembered this past year. Those hands created a beautiful room for me in his home. Those hands literally moved ALL my physical belongings exclusively on their own. They held my hair as I was sick with my head over his toilet. They actually mopped up my cats’ ***** when it was overflowing at my old house.
They have painted, caulked, sawed, sanded, created, recreated, cooked amazing meals, chopped countless veggies, cut every piece of meat he served me, taught me to use his PS4 controller, dried my hair, colored my hair, massaged away my pain, and given me love I didn’t know existed and more.
His hands have been blistered, scraped, calloused, cut, pricked, sore and he doesn’t complain; they never stop giving nor does he.
And I’m so grateful and honored to be the one whose hand he holds forever...
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 4:55 PM UTC
Sanded down,
handed down
heirlooms
for boardrooms.
Directors prospecting for
antique positions,
commission based,
cyanide laced contracts,
small print that annihilates,
dilating the pupils ,restrictive
and
pencils that scribble out names in
a ledger.
Forever indebted,
a debit individual.
All residual profit
reinvested,
future proofed
heirlooms.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 1:48 PM UTC
i read that astronauts
can tell from outer
space which cities are
newly built because
electricians are making
streetlights out of
sodium vapor now as
opposed to mercury,
so now road outlines
glow orange
and newer cities tend
to be more geometrically
planned, all straight
edges and such, while
older cities are made up
of frantic curves and
corners
and i wonder if i look
to you like i have been
worn and used, am i
frenzied and dull, or
am i new? maybe my
jagged lines have
been sanded and smoothed
maybe
i still
glow
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
She told me to
"Imagine a safe place",
a quiet place, somewhere to go
when the fog is at my feet.
But everywhere I went was
crowded with doubt
and a lingering loitering
presence on my shoulder,
come out from the fog to
hurl accusations and taunt.
I can only assume
it's a he on my shoulder,
an enigma,
my father's doppelganger
come to dredge my mind
of all the **** he dished out
when I was a child,
and feed it back to me again.
I tell her I'll need more tools
and stronger ideas.
So she gives me a seat at
the head of the table
where my ****** committee meets,
and a gavel to establish order
or bash in their brains.
She arms my dreams
with weapons and courage,
gives me REM when I'm wide awake.
We fashion a furnace of love,
hot enough to vaporize the
cold darkness pouring into my gut,
customized with levers and pulleys
to push and to pull in the fight.
We tally
Alpha and Beta waves,
trained and retrained,
hard coded messages
sanded smooth by repetition.
*Through it all I give too,
and what I give is all I can give,
it is the warmth of what enslaves me,
and the thought of letting it go….
Well.... lets not go there right now.*
In the long run I'm not sure that
any of it will be enough,
I am weakened by the war.
But occasionally there
are shiny spots that simmer,
You see,
I may have found that place,
the place she first told me to find
way back at the beginning,
the place to feel safe, although
it isn't really a place per se.
If it were true
I could finally ascend to
where no fog can go.
Where my father's voice
cannot be heard,
nor the ghosts I grew
up with.
A place of love and honesty,
where my furnace would sit idle in awe.
There is a picture of us
on our bedroom wall.
It is the perfect depiction of
all that is safe for me.
I look at your smile
and I see peace.
Nothing can penetrate
your radiance,
you are everything
I've never had,
double layered and
impenetrable
by all of it.
By all of the ****
I am learning to go there
when the fog is at my feet,
and the ghosts are in my ear.
When the accusations come
I can escape there with you,
and together we can drown them out
if only for a little while.
Apr 5, 2019
Apr 5, 2019 at 1:39 PM UTC
Enter Pygmalion
Sculptor of my flesh
Firm hands of a man
Desirous of himself
Ego outstripping
Lust driving
Hard stone chipped
The night sounding
Like an uneven clock
Tic tic tic with nary a toc
And the outer shell of my existence
Slowly fades
Chunks and
White marble dust
Removed to find my bust
My curves
My lips
My stony eyes
Fake garbs
With hard wrinkles
My shoulders sanded to perfection
Carefully crafted collarbone
Body finally fully formed
The master Artisan
Find his own enslavement
Obsession with his own creation
Thus all other loves pale in comparison
Perhaps that is the curse or fate
Of all true Artists
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 11:43 AM UTC
Oh fair enough are sky and plain,
But I know fairer far:
Those are as beautiful again
That in the water are;
The pools and rivers wash so clean
The trees and clouds and air,
The like on earth has never seen,
And oh that I were there.
These are the thoughts I often think
As I stand gazing down
In act upon the cressy brink
To strip and dive and drown;
But in the golden-sanded brooks
And azure meres I spy
A silly lad that longs and looks
And wishes he were I.
2.3k
the little tree
took root from
an acorn nut.
the years passed,
she watched the loggers
come and go.
taking her friends
and family off
on the big beds
of the timber trucks.
year after year,
season after season,
there she stood,
winter, fall, spring, and summer,
one slow grow.
first she was short,
barely a spurt,
then she branched out,
and up and up and up.
the trees stood
all around her,
so serious,
oh so silent company.
however,
never a mean word nor
loud shout was ever heard.
never any other music
but for that of the birds,
and the wind and the sun
and
the creatures walking the
woodland floor,
those traveling through to
far distant exotic lands.
at least she never heard
“girl, you are some fat tree.”
or was the target of any joke,
“when you sit around the house,
you sit AROUND the house.”
nor any
“you gotta do something with them leaves,
they are looking like a rat’s nest.
Oh i see, it IS a squirrel’s nest.”
or for a stray bump or large hideous growth
no one ever said,
“you better go get that removed,
that's one ugly lump!"
years and years passed,
her soul inside,
couldn’t be heard,
not a word.
then one day,
the fellows came through,
looking and measuring,
measuring and looking,
out came the chainsaw.
eyes alighting on she,
on all of her
tall, majestic beauty.
with swift, quick work
she fell,
down,
to the earth.
loaded on the flatbed,
chains wrapped securely around,
engine roared to life,
and she took off,
racing into the darkening night.
she knew tears did fall
as forests thinned
and were laid bare,
but all she could think,
all she could say,
was
“so long suckers!
i’ll see you on broadway one day!”
and so it became true,
her dream of yore,
it was finally in,
Radio City Music Hall,
she landed as the floor.
night after night
to her lasting delight
tap dancers tapped
making her sing
bringing out the music
in she
so previously
imprisoned inside,
for so long.
sanded and polished
varnished and cleaned,
her secret inner beauty
finally brought to life,
finally brought into the light.
she beamed and sighed,
every time a new star
stepped on to her,
to her extreme delight.
any day or night,
when every eye of
the house,
every one of the audience
was riveted on she.
oh what a thrill
when the Radio City Rockettes
did finally come out,
for only for she
could they dance
so straight,
so evenly.
Sometimes i look
at the woods laid bare.
my heart drops low
so sad i feel,
a tear spills out.
then i recall,
the tale of this tree,
the little acorn nut,
how a trip to
a city,
made her so
lastingly
happy &
so very
pretty!
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 3:04 PM UTC
blue, the words stick to me like glue and your name is stuck to me too. i once flew but i have broken my wings and landed on a blue sanded beach. every time i close my eyes there is blue and its all i knew…… but then there was you. while i feel like there is internal pressure looking for an escape the blow would decimate. i have become used to the blue and it WAS all i knew but then i met you. when i close my eyes UESED to see was blue but now i see you. I’m not sure if what i feel is real but I’m not about to end all that could get me off this bent blue hell. there is nothing more that i would rather do than leave pain and stress behind in the blue sand. before i leave this blue hell i need to know if this is true or fake and only time will tell. i won’t dismiss this possible miracle but my sanity depends on the nature of this life.
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 7:24 PM UTC
Say we'll dance with gypsies,
Even if its a lie
Tell me that we'll stand on a river bank,
And watch the otters play by
Say we'll lay in a golden hay field,
In the spring month of May
Whispering sweet sonnets,
Till our voices fade away
Tell me that someday we'll parachute,
Out of a soaring plane
Say you'll love me always,
Till the universe goes insane
Tell me someday we'll make love,
On a white sanded beach
Say you'll stay beside me,
Forever in my reach
Say we'll lay on a blanket,
Staring up at the stars and moon
Tell me these dreams will last forever,
That they won't end so soon
Please, tell me one last, beautiful lie,
I promise I'll believe
Tell me that you love me,
And my embrace, you'll never leave
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 6:29 PM UTC
Glistening snow-white tips
Polished, sanded, draped with
the finest of tapestry silks.
Blessed with splendor, splendid splits
Crevasses, curves both shallow and steep
deep slopes stretching from mountain peaks.
Lustrous caves lurking, smirking as black crows write their prose
nose-deep in the blinding snow, with their ***** little paws.
Puffin, stay wary of blizzards and storms
deafening. Creaking floorboards of ice sheets
slip from beneath its tiny red toes
no edge to cling to, nor air to latch onto with its wings
a red stain left at the bottom of the pit.
Blizzards' lay a new layer of fresh snow
covering the deep scars of warmth
carved into the mounds of ice
splashed with red paint
Stained for millennia to come
Melancholy; the artist behind the painting.
Hollow breaks in serial layers of ice
Seeping black, oozing onto the ocean floor
Not floating, bloating, or staying,
Drowning.
Inside,
etched into the lining, a thousand silent words
Melting with each new sunrise,
in which ray's they bathe
Wash from meaning
drop.
by.
drop.
May 9, 2021
May 9, 2021 at 5:47 PM UTC
Jumping over the dark mahogany railroad ties that my father laid down as a barrier, I entered my favorite place. Bare toes and rough feet of my 9 year old self burrowed with joy into the wood chips that cushioned my kingdom.
The entire area smelt of damp, rich wood, always freshened by the honeysuckles sweet scent from their lazy seats on their wooden fence in the background.
My castle was wooden as well, 6 carefully and lovingly sanded steps up onto the throne where I could watch all I reigned: my dog, the four railroad ties barricading the wood shavings from spilling into the soft green grass, I could see my family inside, my house not but a quick dash away.
As the sun set, down the wooden slid and back onto the damp ground I would return inside. Smelling of bark, honey, and innocence.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 12:38 PM UTC
The gate is hidden in ivy, thick
Ropes, both alive and dead
Providing trellis for new growth, always
Leaving room for the gate. Arched
Top of weathered oak, so keenly
Shadowed underneath, one key to
The secret of my secret garden
Never Locked,
No Need,
No one goes there but me.
The doorway cut in hollow blocks
Some turned up, others down
A mosaic of solids and holes;
Triangle holes where small breaths
Of citrus air sneak past, to scent
And blend with vine and flower
Large and small, brilliant shades,
Fresh turned earth,
Nostrils full,
With sweet privacy.
Walls, much taller than my head
Surround the inner area
One north; a mass of solid stone,
One south; holding the gate in its arms,
One west, staying the evenings sun
One east, open every other stone
With the beams of Sol cutting through
Giving life,
Living Light,
Make my garden alive.
Well worn bricks in connecting
Circles, still damp at noon
From dawns' quick cleanings.
My feet in soft soles, never disturbing
By tick or clacking a fear in
The blue-jays and redbirds
Perched on the ancient carved stones
Worshipful,
Quiet though singing,
Singing for me.
The oak bench, painted only
With rains of many seasons
Polished seat and back, smooth as
Sanded, with the fabric of trousers and shirts
My body reclined in respite,
A few hours, a few minutes
Stolen from the demands of others,
Everyday demanding,
Draining the quiet,
Chipping at the walls of my garden.
A damp perspiration
Slips down the inside of my shirt,
My face is washed in the afternoon sun
Alone, finally alone, pulling useless weeds
Impeccable manicure, attempting perfection.
Maniacal fervor must find a place,
A place where one can think,
A place of my own,
of my making,
My secret garden.
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 10:48 PM UTC
We agreed it was the
********** of life searching
on our hands and knees
as meteors burnt up
in the atmosphere
discovering new through
burnt ashes and falling
in love too fast while
the child in us screams
where's the fresh cement
of unbeaten path? Silly
scowls sit with little lips.
Abduction he swore! They
probed picked his brain .
Meanings change when the lights
start to flash
and your senses are hollow
gelatin mix. Remembers not how
they got to be but
where it used to go
He said purgatory got him here
because he told them he
didn't want to wait.
Moses had to wait for
thirty years and millions
of lives. His naked ghost,
hair whiter, than artificial
light when he said
“it was in the naked catacomb
when the walls fully dressed, in purple's
nobility, while not forgetting to grab all
the beggars' begging.
the leak was quick not slow
and the air pumped itself.
Athena looked down and cried at
the misery. She pleaded for no flood, she
couldn’t persuade God.
Crumbling steal and birds of fire
brought upon the sand
that got stuck in the mouths. Grains from
different dunes all on one spoon
Does not mix all to well just like
how Noah placed the Lions
beside the Zebras in an empty place.
Mayans mark their skies as
Cats will their lives. They don't worry until
they're down to one, down to one
grain of sanded rice that's supposed to
feed the entire world but won't suffice until
someone sees at last.
Better too late than never, as they'll often say.”
Jun 19, 2012
Jun 19, 2012 at 1:33 PM UTC
I
the corners of a room
where walls shake hands
paints meet but never bleed
or stretch across the angles in uniformity
illusions that my palms see through
as they move to flatten the creases
making little triangles between them and the cobwebs’ Eden
like unfolding my bed on the couch
the only comforter here after the lamps say Goodnight
before I tuck them in
and the colours give in
blend
II
my makeshift mattress made specifically
measured feet to face ashamed in wake
protruding shoulders sanded at the edges
obtusely protracting the day into a never-planned night shift
midnights
where the hard-numbers and for-sures fall for the vicious
vacuum’s seductions
a Succubus, is the lady moon
for a mind weary and wary of
absolutes
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 3:06 AM UTC
Don’t worry, I turned off my heart.
I disconnected its valves and
tapped my foot to its last beat.
I repainted the walls of its chambers
a nice neutral color that would
really brighten up the space.
No trace of love.
No trail of grief.
You wouldn’t even be able to tell
that it belonged to someone else.
I spackled the holes left behind,
plastered its cracks, sanded its nicks.
Refinished the worn floors where
too many games have been played.
With any luck, interested buyers
won’t look too closely.
“This one’s got some good bones,”
they’ll say, and marvel at its potential.
I marvel at its potential.
For now though, I’ll turn it off.
I’ll turn it off, if only for me.
Sep 22, 2025
Sep 22, 2025 at 7:00 PM UTC
-when he began transforming his guest room...for me.
-our first Christmas after he moved me home and created our mantle from my old place.
-all over him after his days of doing carpentry with his Dad this spring.
- his scent I crave each day when he returns to our haven after a day of work.
-all over him again last Saturday as he sanded an antique cabinet for me.
I’ll never tire of the scent of sawdust. The scent is etched into my olfactory memories as one so sweet- blood sweat, tears and sawdust.
He puts all of himself into us.
For me and to me, he is love.
And I’ll never tire of the scent of sawdust.
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 5:16 PM UTC
A poem is like
A piece of wood.
It can be ripped,
Chopped,
Shaped,
Sanded for smoothness.
Sometimes you nail it;
And it can stick like glue.
You can drill a hole
Right through it,
It might bore one
Through you.
It can get under your skin.
But when it's cut
Against the grain,
It should be read again.
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 2:05 PM UTC
I once had
my sweet little girl ask me...
Daddy?
Yes dear?
Is the little man in the snow-globe, is he happy?
She looked up at me with bright blue eyes,
eyes so deep they were bottomless oceans.
I could stare into them forever.
I took my rough, calloused hands that were sanded with age,
into the gentle palm of her own.
"How could I ever tell her?" he thought
with a gaze so lovingly at her.
Clutching the snow-globe ever so tightly,
she shook it twice so that light, beautiful snow-flakes
gush in all directions, inundating the glass city..
I smiled, and told my darling:
Don't worry sweetheart,
it is only trapped in a perfect world.
She didn't seem to understand.
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 8:52 AM UTC
I am a beat, I am a clock,
I am a rhythm of some sort;
I’m a carrier on a mission;
The byproduct of an invention;
A battery that is being charged
And depleted low and large.
I am a ball, I am a cell,
I am the will of higher selves;
I’m a layer of the kernel,
Flying on seat "57L";
I’m a letter that was sent to mail,
Set outbound when rings the bell.
I am a curve, I am twirl,
I am sustained motion still unfurled;
I’m necessity in the system;
Of absorption I am the emblem;
I’m a branch of fractal downward;
Of struggles past I ain't no award.
I am a beast, I am a fork,
I am a breach through inert soil;
I’m a head of the hydra snake;
Consolation in all of mistakes;
I’m the blood of the wounded,
The brain of memories faded.
I am a blink, I am a cause,
I am the storm after the pause;
I’m the pity for the angered;
Whose duties have been tempered.
I'm the eye that's about to drool
And the tooth that's bound to fool.
I am silver when I am gold,
Yes I am pale when I grow bold,
Like an etching on a clean surface
I'll be sanded just to be varnished;
I'm the most certain of prediction,
Foreseeable beyond provision.
I am ludicrous, I am lukewarm,
I am commitment amidst cold wars;
I’m the frontier around the form
And the earth that drowns the worm;
Of victory I am some defeat,
Accomplishment left incomplete.
I am a meter, I am a yard,
I am pain that causes no harm;
I'm the scepter of the peasant,
The suffering in the pleasant;
I'm everything that's ever been said,
All that's forgotten once it's been read.
I am a sin, yes I am sought,
I am a child yet to be mourned;
I’m resistance to the inevitable,
Recurrence of the unstable;
I’m the distance of departures,
The first minutes of final hours.
I am a beat, I am a clock,
I am a rhythm of some sort;
I’m a carrier on a mission,
The byproduct of an invention;
A battery that is being charged
And depleted low and large.
Jul 14, 2019
Jul 14, 2019 at 1:26 PM UTC