"scrapped" poems
A beer can, phone book, a grapefruit
and an Advent wreath
with four candles
in its nest of greens
Two weeks
Two lit
Third one's the Pink
a life three quarters spent?
Next weekend
Saturday-- The Sabbath
falls in Hanukkah
“Blessed art thou, Lord our God
King of the universe
who dost create lights of fire...”
I'll light that third-- the pink one
like a barbarian wise woman
who traveled too far along life's way
to find a Jewish baby, wrapped in rags
...or, was it the old guy that night
lying in the street
outside a New England bar
“Oh Christ! Ya gotta be kidding me!”
Nope, He was there alright
Wallowing in the freezing slush
amid his helpless drunken cries
No cell phones then
Scrapped my pizza plans
On foot alone
waving in frustration
in the passing headlights
a turquoise, wind-crazed scarecrow
______
“Someone's gotta stop?
Someone has to help us, don't they?”
______
Now there are two beer cans
a grapefruit, and a phone book
beside the advent wreath
Third candle lit and leaning out
for hope along the way
Dec 15, 2017
Dec 15, 2017 at 3:05 PM UTC
The bin lorry had been.
I picked up a fragment
of our neighbours lives,
litter they must have scrapped.
We do not know them.
They're always moving on.
Urban Bedouin,
with a thousand and one
domestic tales untold.
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 11:28 AM UTC
Kindly tell the sun to look away
I don’t want to see my curtain sway
Indeed, because these fabricated joys
Are demolished by an obscure ray
Serve me breakfast while the day
Lies as cold as the dew I’ll drink
Now what to do is just obey
Before we are rued by fire’s blink
Put my hot tea beside the lake
Serve it dead and withered
The day is boiling and we’ll be late
For we are but a paper scrapped
The fireplace shall be planted
With torn thorns of brown and black
No rays of red will favor me
As long as the sun scorns at us
Wipe my mouth with torn fabric
It pains me so to be stained in red
That I long ago forsaken but now
Dripping down my crooked neck
For the ghost of you who preyed
On my solitary beat of ill and ****
For your revenant who feasted
On my will and half-eaten heart
For the glooms of your fairy
Schadenfreude upon my sorry
For the life I did not live
To the joy I took from you
Raise the cup and shatter it
Open the curtain and drain our life of lies
To the eye of the day and God’s pity
Serve my breakfast before I live
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 10:36 PM UTC
To my dearest monsters,
I hope this letter finds you on the brink of your doom, rotting away in your sinister cave. Because it's what evil like you deserves. To rot and woe, to know the pain of fading, before you fade away. Because your longevity is short lived, for most of you will die come first daylight.
I hope you know, there is no home for you here. But if you try and build one, It will be burnt down. Every scrapped cinder and discarded log crushed to black dust. The substance of your soul, you're made of cinders, burning away at the human you once were. And if no one else will stand against you, know I will. Don't mess with fresh fire, lest you get burn away too.
Sincerely, I.
Mar 10, 2025
Mar 10, 2025 at 9:48 PM UTC
I'm sorry that it's taken me so long to feel the impact of your absence
To see that you were taken by a substance
I'm sorry I was never there
Not once to wash away your fears
Nor tuck you in at night
Take away the fright
But the death I found lying sweetly in your eyes
Dug craters in my skin cells
Soft and precious little dents
I had to clean the blood away
Couldn't stand to see you there
So I scrapped and scrubbed
Until the thought of you had passed
But in this role, I was sickeningly miscast
And nothing could have stopped you
Not a single plead nor shriek
You left as fast as you had come
Without a cry nor squeak
And I could swear I saw you in the mirror
Walking hand in hand with death
But you did not look behind you
Not even at your ****
I'm sorry I didn't make it to the funeral
And I'm sorry I barely cried
I'm sorry that I let your sister see you while you died
I'm sorry that I blame you for my suffering
And that I'm still recovering
But most importantly
I'm sorry that I didn't save you
I'm sorry that it was too late
And I'm sorry I couldn't save you from the pain that drove you to your fate
That I couldn't take away your misery
Couldn't take away the evil
That you had to look for happiness inside a little needle
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 8:13 AM UTC
I'm cracking up
Like rotten eggs
Like seven years
Of ****** luck
Like old mosaics
Losing tiles
Spiderwebs
Across my windshield
Sending thoughts
Into the ether
Each one taking
Part of me
I'm cracking up
Like cheap ceramics
Broken, scrapped,
And then replaced.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC
I used to be hues of yellow,
Green, blue, purple, and red.
With the sky as my soul
Feeling vibrant and bold
Like the stories I spun in my head.
A girl made of stars
Is bound to burn out
If her light can no longer be fed.
Learned the rules, learned the game,
Then I scrapped my old ways,
Sinking in water that I used to tread.
Your face was a charcoal portrait,
So I touched it to just see you smile.
But I smudged you all up and I’m covered in gray,
And the light, it retreats when I’m in the sun’s rays,
And I feel like the night everyone wishes was day—
But I take a deep breath.
And I find that old spark.
Just to realize that it never even went away.
May 13, 2024
May 13, 2024 at 2:14 PM UTC
Helen sends me scraps of poems for repair. "Shreds of lettuce," she calls them. I fool around with them in my role as Poetry Doctor (see my banner photo). In her extended absence, I will post our convolutions. While the final product is mine, the vision, the imagery, the notion of the poem is all hers and therein lies the true authorship.
From Helen, Dec 2
Here is the last of the salad,
dressing not required...
savoir-faire [?sævw???f??
Upon a plate
of deliciousness
the lettuce
is usually
pushed to the side
to wilt
and be scrapped
into an
Industrial bin
were we all begin
as fodder for worms
turning garbage
into words
Nourishing
nothing
but our own pride
bon appétit
Helen
---------------
The Human Word Salad
Now it is dressed....
all poems, no exception,
the bad, the exceptional,
all begin
in an
industrial bin.
wormwood,
wormword
the ancestors,
feast on the scraps,
garbage letters discarded,
the wilts of alpha lettuce,
the word waste of the
every day beta jabber,
plate pushed-aside decorations,
all but none, bystanders
and they
turn them into words,
though inedible, incapable,
of nourishing life individually,
yet their recycled deliciousness,
unquestioned.
when
each sole word,
re-birthed in the compost
of the delivery room of that bin,
meet in the maternity ward
of our minds
words wed,
poems form,
and all the true nourishment
the world needs
begins anew.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
I happen to live in Central Indian-
Forests, I collect wood and honey
And have no idea about English woods
And Manchester clothes, I belong
To the soil, I’m anti national?
I live on concessions, subsidies
And support, And You call me-
‘Dark skinned untouchable’; today
I don’t have bells over my neck
I’m proud of me, I’m anti national?
I always spoke of empowerment,
Marx and Che run my blood and
I’m a utopian reality to you
But you cannot ignore my voice
I’m not outdated, I’m anti national?
I believe in ‘being human’ above all-
Traits, I live beyond geographies
And I cannot stand war and bloodshed
You brand me as an activist, I’m
Just humane, I’m anti national?
I do not belong to the 80% of our
Country’s population, but I’m as
Much a patriot as you, My God
Is same as yours, How am I an
Alien? I’m anti national?
I don’t believe in the power and safety
You claim with a nuclear reaction.
I see only explosions and devastation
I want my children to be safe, I love
The world, I’m anti national?
I don’t like vegetables, I eat meat-
Since birth. I will not force-feed you,
I respect your choice and I expect you
To be tolerant to what I cook-
At my home, I’m anti national?
I’m not Pakistani but I love them
As much I love an American or an
European. After all, we share
Our borders. I want to settle all
Disputes, I’m anti national?
I married a man outside my tribe,
Love didn’t notice his 'official tribe',
Our children are a mixed tribe
And we celebrate life as it is,
We’re human-tribe, I’m anti national?
I stand with them with rainbow flags,
They deserve justice as much as you
And me. Give me one valid reason to
Call them unnatural? I want S377
To be scrapped, I’m anti national?
I celebrate my country’s diversity,
I don’t need your certificate to prove
My patriotism! This is India, I stand
With my constitution and its democracy
And I give a **** about what you think!
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 9:21 AM UTC
They say I’m darkness
Scowl carved into marble face
Blue veins twisting in wrists
Rainy day eyes
And fingers made for pianos and cigarettes
They say I’m misery
Black clothing on pale skin
Nails filed into knives
Lip caught between teeth
Family vacations in cemeteries
He said I’m not the type of girl people look twice at
Forgettable like a forest fire
Beautiful like a dead baby bird
He was trying to be romantic
They say I’m lonely
Poor girl
Always alone
Smile and join us
We need a charity project
They say I’m pity
Brows perpetually furrowed
Lungs perpetually constricting
Sweaty palms glued to walls
They have the nerve to fee sorry for me
Someone once told me
I looked like a tornado
Ripping through the hallways at school
A natural disaster
Racking up a body count
I wonder how many people I’ve made cry
They say I’m intimidation
This noose around my neck scares them
A fashion statement
With my fangs bared and a stare that can ****
I walk
They say I’m music
The sound of high heels on pavement
A broken string on a violin
An angel that was never taught
How to play the harp
Shattered halo at its feet
They say I’m pain
Menstrual cramps squeezing the life out
Of a thirteen year old girl
Blood on underwear
Blood under fingernails
Blood running down thighs
They say I am blood
A gory mess
Scars like tattoos
Scrapped knees like badges
They say I’m darkness
A shadow
Engulfing the world
They need me
To appreciate the light
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 7:20 PM UTC
Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. Let me start by saying that there's no need for the exchange of pleasantries, no introductions are necessary, I'm just here to verbally deliver a quick update memo on the progress being made daily. I know you're all busy people so I'll try to be brief and get though this quickly yet thoroughly. There will also be no time for questions at the end. Let's begin...
I've reconstructed the way I think and see, scrapped the old me
The lies the devil sold me, told me I was a nobody and I bought into it completely
It forcibly held me down, face to the ground and from that angle everything is ugly
Tears slowly crawled down my cheeks to their final resting point, silently they turn the dirt muddy
But see, I went from a tragedy to a medical anomaly as I reversed the lobotomy
With the regrowth of the proper anatomy I ultimately but unnaturally went from an mental amputee to winning endurance marathons easily
It's amazing how quickly road blocks turn to speed bumps, almost instantly
They may slow me down but getting over them is no longer a problem for me
Eventually they will transform entirely into simple mile markers that I pass by on the daily
This path, this new journey will get me to the place I was suppose to be originally
Finally, after thirty years I'm looking forward to seeing some new scenery, being a part of this life changing movie
And with me I've got my two favorite people, Logan and Apphia respectively
They bring out the best in me, their love and belief in me drives me
They make me wanna be the best me I can be and opened my eyes to my true destiny
See, I thought life would be the death of me but truth be told it's a blessing bestowed to me
The rebirth metaphorically into this new family has restored my faith in humanity
I'm not used to this smile I feel on me, this is crazy, this must be what it feels like to be happy
©2018
Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 12:47 AM UTC
To be a woman:
To be a woman is to bleed.
From between our legs, as young as nine, when the only worry in our young minds should be about scraped knees from riding bikes and scooters, the visceral meaning of womanhood begins to leak through the soft cotton amour of childhood.
The impending doom of what could be warded off by a child's imagination has cracked and no longer can be repaired.
This is the fate of a woman.
From that day we bleed.
Shoving gauze of soft smiles and politeness into bullet holes bore into our bodies by men.
Anything to stop the bleeding and remain a fragment of the person we once were.
We’re blithe in the presence of grown men that become aroused to the notion of humiliating us.
We try to feign ignorance and keep a straight face in times of turbulence to maintain modesty.
Our nails embedded into our palms, we bleed.
And a storm has formed.
Through the storm we seek the same refugee we watched our mothers seek. Always thinking that the outcome will be different.
This one is not the same.
We’re not our mothers.
Our love is different.
It’s respected.
It’s mutual…
as long as you’re the one doing the laundry and the cooking and the cleaning and you pay your half and you look after the child that you nearly bled out for.
Nurturing, tending, cooking and cleaning and ‘whoops’ watch the knife…
bleeding.
Always bleeding.
It’s equal love though, isn’t it?
It’s what you wanted, right?
When you bore two children and you’re raising three, that’s what you wanted. That’s what you bled for.
That’s what you bled for?
Who has he bled for?
He walks into the kitchen, boots scuffing the linoleum on the way.
Dumping the scrapped leftovers of love you gave him in the early out of the morning into the trash and tossing the containers into the sink.
He pats the heads of the people he pretends make him whole and goes to the shower to rinse off the 10 hour shift of hard labor that didn't involve his family.
You don’t expect a kiss at this point because you learned that asking for what you deserve could come with a broken orbital socket.
So you let your heart bleed.
You bleed it into your kids.
You let them know that they are loved.
You pretend that everything is okay.
You go to work, you come home, you bleed and you bleed and you bleed.
Hopeful that your daughter doesn’t see.
Mar 8, 2025
Mar 8, 2025 at 6:27 PM UTC
I know you've got a heart of gold and emotions that run along your sleeves
but lately,
you're better with a bottle and some scrapped knees.
You're introverted
A minuet ******
But it's not the the skin you bare
Or the the way you touch
It's the way you've given up
You grew into the buildings
And buried yourself inside
between a mattress and ***** sheets
They won't save you
No, my beautiful raggedy Anne
No, they'll turn that heart of gold to stone
They'll paint your face with prophecies-
Little indecencies
You'll be ripped from some ***** banks magazine
A pin up doll
Such a perfectly decayed dream
I want to cut the string that holds you up
Hit the ground running-
Remove your mind from others hands and
Fight
Let bad blood filter into the streets and watch the acquainted burn into the night
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 11:59 PM UTC
How are you not to be damaged,
When the one that you think is supposed to love,
Doesn't really love you.
I mean it feels like there is supposed to be some sort of unwritten rule somewhere
That states if you have a a kid you must love them.
I'm not just talking about muttering those three little words.
That can be scribbled on paper, or typed in an email.
I'm talking about a deep rooted, carved in your heart, can be felt from across the world, no mistaking, pure and sacrificial love.
Tangible love, seen, and felt, and heard.
No I don't need money from you.
I would prefer to feel like I'm worth knowing
Rather than the feeling of my forgiveness being bought.
See how am I supposed to feel that others in life will like me,
If my own parent doesn't care to even know me.
Yes the world is a wonderful place and I understand the feeling of being caged.
So wouldn't it have been better in the beginning if you had never even made the effort?
So that when you decided that the world was worth more
and that I was just an anchor to a place you didn't care for.
Wouldn't it have been easier for me,
Instead of feeling like I was a piece of trash tossed over your shoulder missing the waste basket because you didn't even care to look as you threw it.
Not even put in a rightful place, left to wonder is it something I did wrong?
Only to grow up and find out it was much worse
it wasn't anything I did, it is the simple fact that I wasn't enough.
Wasn't enough for you, to much work to wipe off my ***** face.
Wasn't enough for you to pick up and kiss the ****** knee that I scrapped.
Wasn't enough for you to watch me as I grew, to give me advice on making life's toughest decisions.
Wasn't enough for you to see that although it was good for you to escape the cage from which you felt confined to,
you didn't realize that I had followed you in, and on your way out without so much as a backwards glance, you locked me in.
Maybe I got it wrong.
Maybe there shouldn't be some unwritten rule that makes you love your children.
Because there shouldn't be anything that makes you love.
Maybe I just need to realize that some people are loved and others just aren't.
Some people are capable of loving.
Some are only capable of hurting those who have a twisted look on life
Thinking that by just being someone's own flesh and blood qualifies to being loved.
Only to be taught the truth.
It doesn't.
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 2:09 PM UTC
I've scrapped the first
fifteen versions of a poem
I don't want to write or
maybe I want to write it but I'm
afraid I won't like it or
am I just afraid of what I might
say,
of what my subconscious will
convey?
Ink drying up like dried blood
while the blood in my veins
pulsates and my
head throbs as I try to decipher
how much of what has happened
to me is actually because
of me.
Is it me?
Are my experiences mine because
I made them so,
or did I happen to just
stumble into the darkness?
A sour mashup of
self-love and self-loathing,
it's like I have two minds intertwined
double-analyzing double helix
radioactive brain DNA
Am I great? Am I awful?
Am I even worthy of such extremes?
Where are all the adjectives to
describe me?
Can I write about it if
it changes daily?
Is it possible to know yourself perfectly and
also not at all?
Questions generating more
questions,
hypothesizing Eye
must seek before
I find.
Oct 4, 2017
Oct 4, 2017 at 12:00 AM UTC
you're the boxspring billionaire of feel-good
saving up your love for a rainy year,
scrounging and saving every fleeting smile and shallow kiss and
miserly, hunched over with the weight of your own suffering and despair,
each scrapped-together pile of crumpled-from-your-pockets shreds of I.O.U.s and featherlight touches.
too afraid to leap and risk, you'll never grow or invest your affections into the stocks of Lisa and George LLC, or Francis and Kelly Inc.
so your love is bound to crumble into fragile dust, the fruits of your labours withering into mouldy piles of seed, stem, and flesh.
the could-have-been and might-have-grown dying, before even living to flourish and erupt into glorious blooms of the strikingly ethereal and otherworldy.
but not for you, not ever for you.
you're the boxspring billionaire of feel-good
and you'll burn before planting your love.
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 12:34 PM UTC
Don’t believe the sign
that is clawed from another’s cave
of a silly heart, onto some door
in some beautiful garden on a special day.
That scraped shine, that which
opens wide the view for you
and you remember as a sharp, etched
slowly focusing glaze on your time
was probably made with some key
of some fool who regrets it now, no doubt,
as you do.
Nor should you believe another’s photograph of it
and take it as yours, or the same,
and think that this is what you were going
to write your book about, one day, all along.
That book was full of naïve wonders
and melodies you paid too much attention to, anyway.
So just allow what you love the most
to be scrapped and substituted.
Words are just words, you see.
So what do you believe?
The motionless things of a winter walk, I suppose.
They are the kindest.
They know not to talk to you, not to say anything
you could possible believe.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 5:54 PM UTC
I sat there like a museum of moments,
a mosaic of emotions
as she dissected my personas
and did an autopsy of my past.
Memories climbed my spine
from the forgotten attics in my heart
with every question, she asked.
But my tongue was a drought
and my voice box was a rust box,
as the child in me
was bullied into quietude.
My edgy, messy and raw memories
molded my perception,
rewrote my interpretation
and deepened my experience.
There was underlying vengeance
as the layers of fabricated scabs were scrapped
to disclose the deeply entrenched, tender emotional scars.
As the present, struck a cord
my limbs would turn into cement
as the echo would bring me back
to the endless street of time
and I would be dragged
through open wounds within me.
The pain would seep in the nooks
and crannies of my soul.
At every jibe and remark
one more part of my flesh
would be chiseled away.
The sky would join in my sorrow
as the clouds gathered like sheep
summoned by a shepherd
and then we would begin to weep
our unresolved issues
onto tissues.
I revisited the bathrooms
that became sanctuary in high school
with its gossip soaked walls
and tear-stained countertops.
I dream of the people
that have lost their way in my memory;
a fabrication of nostalgia.
But the tranquility of waves,
can’t even erase the memories of their wrongdoings.
My past engraved itself
into my muscle memory
ingrained its teachings
and matured my sensibility.
The dim shadows that would creep
And the blues that I would pour
are becoming budding flowers in my chest.
Weaving from the same web
I was entangled in
building from the same sorrows
I was drowning in.
I began connecting,
understanding its stem
stitching my memories.
I write for my younger self
who felt silenced and erased by the world.
I shape all the tainted pieces of memories
into art and paint shades of my past
as each is soaked in a memory.
I craft subconscious relief,
breathing memories
into 6 alphabets
that were strung into paragraphs,
beginnings and end.
I reached out to corners
to bring out
sunrises and sunsets
and reignite dying embers
as I de-spell the damage that silently reverterbrates through generation.
I find home in my skin
and love myself, whole;
Shadows, crevice and all.
Jul 24, 2019
Jul 24, 2019 at 8:34 AM UTC
as promised, a tip for and to nolly
•<>•
“Everybody is identical in their secret unspoken belief that way deep down they are different from everyone else.”
David Foster Wallace
•<>•
it is as if I've been stripped bare and their is no air or
barrel handy,
bankrupted by exposure of my less-than-clean ***** secret,
scrapped from under my tongue, my genuine creativity,
it is no different than yours or hers or anybody else, but
"I need to believe," he screeches, "say it ain't so!"
time again to tally up the wins and losses,
check the standings, the numerical columns,
nope, wasn't selected to be MVP or even loved by the
algorithmic ridiculous secret sauce
"poem of the day" blah blah blah
bottom line: "You’re Pretty Normal"
comfort or consternation, exhalations of relief,
or just another nail in the shutting of
your depression coffin calculation
this no longer unspoken arrogance undressed
brings me to a quiet place,
where you are welcome to sit beside,
this puzzle together, nuzzled,
perhaps more soluble
they don't make Advil for the mind,
so read the good ones,
and be reminded of this
your published spoken courageous poetry need satisfy
only you, and no one more
*in there lies the rub, the vive la difference, we identically different,
no longer a secret,
every poem is the difference you make*
August 2017
in the sunroom,
Shelter Island
<•>
BONUS POEM!!!
Nolly's Haiku #17/#70
with good knowing that
distress and forethought,
are its mother and father
that this poetic output but a derivative
of your unique self,
see,
maybe, you be
maybe
just wise enough
to curse the birth of poem at age seventeen
but just wait Nolly,
till you are seven tens, and poetry's folly,
make you even more practiced in cursing,
still asking, why
and getting the sendoff, kiss off,
of the one true answer,
nobody knows
so scribble a life time when you start at 17
and when the ripe and wizened answers in your old age
have yet to arrive
*then you can call yourself an accursed
wizened but wise'ed old poet*
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 12:03 PM UTC
There were no blossoms,
No sprouts to be seen,
I saw no birds nor meadows,
Just stared at you without sin.
I felt no time with you.
All was warm and calm.
I caressed your cheek,
Drawing just a little hint.
You gave me a book,
A book about your life,
You wanted me there
As I want you in mine.
No words were scrapped,
No space out from bliss,
I hold you in my arms, and your lips
I should have kissed.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 10:41 PM UTC
My days seem to be longing someone.
My mornings feel like
I can't go back to anything anymore that I wanted before.
I've been writing about how I feel about a lot of things lately, I dont really know how to organize them.
I feel like meditation has really kept me from punching holes in the wall lately.
I feel like tripping has kept me from overthinking real situations, it's been a while though.
I've been keeping it natural.
There's so much more to everything, I feel like meaning is so expensive these days.
I've lost the concept of options.
These numbers are useless.
I've noticed the moment something catches a persons eye they pull out their phone instead of cherishing at the moment.
Swear words are becoming part of our culture now.
Your memory is worth more.
I'll doubt you if you're material.
Flexing thoughts and not what makes them that way with $20 on social media.
I was just playing around with perception, nothing serious.
I tried committing suicide in social media, but people worry too much and start hitting up my phone.
Funny how if you don't respond to a text they automatically think something is wrong.
Acceptance shouldn't be this easy, but all of a sudden it is for me.
Lately everything seems so spiritual, I'm glad I'm not overthinking things to a negative perspective.
Weekly tests just to give my mom some reassurance.
Trust is on it's way along with a motor.
I scrapped my knees, and this is really weird.
Can't really open up anymore, ears just hear and careness is absent.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 12:39 AM UTC
*That minty sweet stuff
You polish and clean
Eradicate decay
With compounds of fluorine
Like toothpaste
You're a necessity
Each morning and night
You're so very important
For that toothy grin, wide and bright
Like toothpaste
You're squeezed tight
Swabbed and scrapped about
Against yellow enamel
Determined to white it out
Like toothpaste
You're medicine
More for an aesthetic cause
Caught between a hard place
And a locked jaw
Like toothpaste
One day, you're all but gone
And just like toothpaste
You wake to find
You have been replaced*
Jan 27, 2018
Jan 27, 2018 at 8:32 AM UTC
A dull doll faced mug
Glinted by unknown light
Dried a drip of ancient drink
Dripped down quite
Hands clasped tight around
A mug of occult confession
Eyes teared as such
A sorrowful expression
Dappled light through glass
Chair scrapped along floor
Spotted plastic tablecloth
Shut tight wooden door
Homemade woollen tea cosy
Lumps of bricked sugar
Kettle whistling dolefully
Clicking stained cooker
Futile arms waving
Closed taught eyes
Sigh of calming thoughts
"Please, no more lies"
Apr 24, 2018
Apr 24, 2018 at 1:12 PM UTC
I spent the morning tossing a Frisbee, and my worries along with it.
I soon found myself swinging to the sound of
forgetfulness and nostalgia.
My childhood memories danced at my feet,
but with out stretched arms,
only my fingertips graced their excellence.
The touch sent the memories of crawdad fishing and tree forts
tingling up my spine.
The me I used to be
boiled in my blood.
When wet grass and free time were enough.
When I wore scrapped elbows as jewelry and the fresh wood scent
decorated my body as perfume.
Back when my dog was my best friend and I had yet to realize
that wasn’t okay.
“Ignorance is bliss,” they chime.
I know.
I don’t want bliss. I want life. Brutally beautiful, if you let it.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 8:41 AM UTC