"scrunchies" poems
and suddenly i can see them, colours
like i've been so oblivious to their existence before.
i notice the yellow rim around my towels
and the redness of my lips,
the shampoo bottle is actually blue
and my scrunchies reflect deep purple.
like my eyes and my soul have become desensitised to the beauty surrounding my life.
A life full of colour.
I don't want to merely exist anymore,
I am happy to be alive.
Apr 21, 2021
Apr 21, 2021 at 7:32 AM UTC
My summer haze.
You exist
as salted scrunchies,
Freckled thighs,
Whiskey tongue.
You exist,
Right?
By Fall,
I know it to be true.
My autumn girl.
I look into her
tasting wet leaves,
pine and cinnamon.
Her body still
hot as August sun.
Fireplace feet,
wobbly knees under fleece.
Suddenly,
you are Christmas wine,
Snowflake tears.
Teeth never clattered,
Hands never cold.
I can’t see spring.
Perhaps that’s where it ends.
Maybe it never was.
Still,
I dream of you
And still,
I wonder
if you dream too.
Sep 28, 2021
Sep 28, 2021 at 2:34 PM UTC
Hold my hand dear Benjamin
don't let Professor Edwards
catch me in a dreamscape
challenging me off guard
as we sit in math class
hands clasped together
for when you knowingly
squeeze my hand tighter
scribbling with your right hand
the answer which is required
to be erased so as not caught out
but today as I look out
onto drifting clouded skies
I see the changes and I lose
myself in shapes and smoke
forging out homes, characters
stories into my past, present
and what could be in the future
nothing is taken from me, distracted
in an instant I'm Vivian Ward
racing around Hollywood
with my best friend Kit De Luca
who eats cold pizza for breakfast
and crawls the streets with me
hop scotching across the
Hollywood Walk of Fame,
five star terrazzo and brass stars, names of Hollywood greats
blonde, brunette elegance
Manolo's, mink coats,
jewelled necklines of emerald stones
we'd both dreamt as kids
Los Angeles; the City of Angels
we are the winged, we are the free
inhabiting the land of opportunity
the ladies of the night, grappling onto souls of kids, shared flat
with bunk beds and a closet filled
with 80's short tight spandex
leg warmers, faux gold earrings
bright coloured lingerie, leather bomber jackets, tutus...
oh and those perms and scrunchies
fake eye lashes, an 80's kid high as hell
being courted by an older wealthier man
living fast, dying young, a fugitive
of the land
broken
The silence I succumbed to
bruised by a cacophony of bells ringing
"never change Lou lou!"
he winked and smiled
packing his rucksack
leaving for the day.
© Sia Jane
“She was the amoureuse of all the novels, the heroine of all the plays, the vague “she” of all the poetry books.”
Gustave Flaubert, “Madame Bovary”
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 12:00 PM UTC
There are little folds on your neck
as you sleep
that look like hair scrunchies, I am a little girl
again though in a big man’s embrace.
You were born in the eighties
I am a child of the nineties, had a neopets
sugar daddy at age ten
and I think it could have been you, you, you
that painted my acara rainbow
told me it is okay
to be gay and straight at the same time.
I have not looked at a girl since you
nor remembered how their skirts felt rubbing
unfolding against my thigh.
I had not even said “yes”
to anyone before your big man embrace
because I thought that being silent
was the same
and I think Peter Pan stunted your maturity
so you could help me grow up
too.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 4:25 PM UTC
The sunset girls with warm smiles and sweet laughter. With ice cream, diamond earrings, diaries, romance movies under fluffy blankets, strawberry shortcake, lemonade made slightly too sour with a pink paper straw and perfect ice cubes.
The midnight girls with a wild side and messy hair. With perfect eyeliner, surprising laughs, black sketchbooks, late night ramen runs, stolen oversized sweatshirts, black cherries, fluffy socks under polished black combat boots tied in a neat little bow.
The sunrise girls with addicting voices and perfect high ponytails. With slogan t shirts, velvet scrunchies, red lip gloss, chocolate covered bananas, paintbrushes and easels, early morning hikes, coffee with creamer, foam, and probably too much sugar.
The sunshine girls with bright grins and kind eyes. With light blushes, sweatpants, rainbow sprinkles, nails painted, flower tattoos, peaches and cream, messy bangs, sketchbooks probably covered in stickers and crop tops just short enough to tease, paired with cute bralettes.
Feb 8, 2019
Feb 8, 2019 at 12:04 AM UTC
I looked for a corner,
somewhere quiet in the library.
how exciting, an e-mail with opportunities
from a professor who cares.
i want it, but I can't help but
feel a little sad,
wherever you are dad.
tough love.
scrunchies, a book of matches,
and crumbs from crackers
sit in my pockets.
laundry basket, mile high
way past the brim.
i wasn't kidding when I said
you'd find a bottle of whiskey
hiding in there.
and all I wanna do is get through
college, I think.
I want to be a strong woman,
for now,
a young lady.
flash-backs to all the fun times.
my hand writing drifts
in shapes
to the sound of
a music box.
the curtains created
pretty shadows that
danced upon my arms.
I tried to be cool,
reading the newspaper.
I wanted to look
oh, so serious.
I am a joker.
I am your equal.
Yeah, salty dog?
Which aspect?
Can I say these things in poems?
I read the words,
why can't I marry my cousin?
these things keep me from
my sleep.
sweet dreams, candy-man.
oh, canyon creek,
where shall I go?
a mind hole?
a gold mine in the
gutter of my mind?
blind.
thanks Conor,
for the milk thistle.
is it fair to choose what
we want to hear?
did they know that 2013
would be so strange?
Professor Coker
wants something typed,
******* i gotta go pick up my bike.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 1:22 PM UTC
You are the rose with fake petals
You are the diamonds worth less than lipsticks
You are the Converse with untied laces
You are the Svedka mixed with tears
You are the jacket that was thrifted,
You are the star with a light switch
You are the angel with foam wings,
You are the unseen thorn in the garden
You are the cigarette smoke that drifts
You are the needles in the dear sewing kit
You are the duchess of comfortable silence
You are the countess of disclusion
You are the sweetest pill in the box,
but the most bitter drink in the afternoon
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 10:24 PM UTC
What if I was the girl,
the girl who walks through life with ease.
What if I was the girl whose perfectly blonded hair
flew behind her,
just as her worries.
What if I was the girl whose stomach didn't budge
no matter how badly she wanted it.
What if I was the girl
whose skin was kissed so gently by the sun
that she couldn't dare being a blade to it.
What if I was the girl,
who people told that they love her.
What if I was the girl
who wore scrunchies up her wrist
not to hide the marks of a blade
but simply to push her hair out of her face.
What if I was the girl
who could stand to see
myself , bare, in the mirror.
What if I was the girl that people
not only wanted to love
but couldn't help but love.
What if I was the girl whose happiness came from
living her life,
not ending it.
But
I am not that girl.
So
I will be this girl.
So I will be this girl,
the girl who knows that her light will dim her darkness,
like the sun painting a blackened sky.
So I will be the girl
who knows that those men can't hurt me anymore.
So I will be this girl,
the girl who chooses to smile even though she has every reason to not.
So I will be this girl,
the girl who chooses not to run from her past
but to walk away from it .
So I will be this girl,
the girl who knows that her demons are merely written on her skin,
not a force to which she will give in.
So I will be this girl.
Aug 28, 2017
Aug 28, 2017 at 3:12 PM UTC
Greasy hair tied back
pink scrunchies haphazardly holding together the unbrushed strands
rosemary mint chapstick smeared between lips and lips and lips on lips
backseat bouncer, I'll leave when the dance is done
The same type of ***** this visual you get when you watch the sky turn in the AM
pink, blue, green, gold, gone
shoes off in hand, feet itch on concrete
to corner store barely open fifteen minutes
cherry coke slushies are so good at 7AM
how dare you preach to me calling me
"Honey, Baby Girl, Peach"
listen to me for a change
Im no lesser than you because I prefer to live like wind
with a here today gone tomorrow mindset
It wasn't love, this isn't love
wont answer your calls, at school a nod in the halls,
baby my motto is pitstops and pitfalls
a brief rest for restoration, then back to hopping barbed wire fences
I don't mean to be mean but this is the last you'll see of me for a long time
because Love isn't real and if it is she took it with her
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 1:56 AM UTC
She doesn't understand.
I'm not who she needs, I cannot save her.
my heart beats for her but her teary skies poor down and like Neptune's storms' sweeps away my love for her.
It fills me with rage
Makes me feel cynical
Her eyes tremble and her ankles ache, I ice every part of her body and kiss her tears away
but there's not a remedy for aching of the heart.
I'll save you from the bad man next door, I'll save you from the monster under you bed, but darling I can not save you from yourself.
stop digging your nails into your chest, you can't carve your heart out without dying,
carve yourself out of your casket instead.
sing to me the reasons why your eyes search for my hatred and cry when they find it.
i've told you time and time again that my cloudburst is no match for your hurricane.
no, this most certainly does not mean wait for me to cut you up with knives
no, this does not mean pack your records and leave
it means stay-stay at your own risk.
no, this is not a love letter, nor is this a letter reminding you to pick up your scrunchies on the way out of my chest.
I am not on my knees, nor am I cutting ties,
but baby i'm still feeling cold.
stop pounding nails into your chest,
put them in mine instead.
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 2:31 PM UTC
I'm the kind of odd
That drinks hot chocolate
When it's 90 degrees
And leaves the window open during thunderstorms
Or that does something
That is absolutely impossible
And then does it again
Because I swear I was so close
To getting it right
I keep talking to people,
Even if they've left the room
Sometimes,
I just talk at them
I like to paint my nails
Then paint over that
Then paint over that
I always tiptoe up the stairs
Even when it hurts
I like to waltz around the kitchen
And stare straight up at the sky
I turn off lights in rooms
As I walk out
Even when there are still people in it
I talk to myself while I take tests
And I love taking tests
I talk to myself before school
Loudly
I wear scrunchies on my wrist
Because when I don't
I don't even feel like I exist at all
I just need to be a little odd
Because I have to feel
something
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 8:39 PM UTC
At the LAUNDROMAT / the sign, all in Caps.
Time : Midnight at half past
It’s like a home for my home-girl
And that Chicano Youngblood
Cutie with his family duties /
in the lateness of tonight, doing laundry:
Folding his brothers’ Johns
His Tia’s Lacey skimpy's
Crumpled like tiny ****** / scrunchies.
He’s Methodical, his eyes don’t waver
From his work,
Tries to not notice mines
I feel like I’m in a rap video,
My chick being clocked by dark eyed,
She does not notice,
& while at tumble dry
I can’t quit ogling at ****
Hanes-shirt white,
Mr. homegrown boy / guy.
Headphone Speakers have his ears
Texting back at spam / females,
Smartphone shiny thick ‘uns
While I watch salivarily, licking lips
**** so Fine!
My muffled salutations—hot ****
He’s Adjusting himself front faced
my window to
Things that makes you go hmmm...
I feel I should somehow
Cater to these wiles inside
Aquiver / wrought / A high
Willowing / body admonishing
the vibrations of deep bass
like hard hip-hop rap beats from
Impalas riding way low,
Tinted windows vs. blind faith
Reality vs. perceptions from our
Fantasy / briefly close shuddering eyes
Awake not a dream spared.
(Hello there!)
Midnight at the Laudromat,
This is some reality at that!
Home grown boys
And drool drops / swimming in thought
From the corner of mouths
Words are *****
Past the late of moonless nights
In the neighborhood of Twain and
Corona beers (hold the virus)
We’re all marked by the streets
And the big empty inside us...
The hunger pangs,
Homeless outside chitchat on black
Skittering past
City Wildlife
At Midnight at the Laundromat.
Yes ****** &
Too **** at That
(In all caps.)
Apr 7, 2020
Apr 7, 2020 at 6:07 AM UTC
Hey baby
I put the kids to bed,
I got us Beautiful Darkness on 4K! But first We got to finish our sweet potato’s and mojitos
Only after I finish picking up your order from Sephora
And returning your Jessie Reyes shirt
Since it didn’t compliment
Your third Fenty bracelet like I thought
It would.
But
All the assorted scrunchies
And all these distorted thoughts
Match so well. They colorfully hold back
The chocolaty and scrumptious fullness
our perfect blend depicts.
Because there’s no HydroJug
Nor may the skies above
Contain this milky goodness of a mix.
My Peanut Butter Fudge
Turning you from a Tinder match
Was the ignition to the fire I needed
Churning you
From Mr. WhatsHisFace
Is the only type of disrespect I believe in...
Watching you.
do that.
Was like hanging,
His self esteem.
Watch me
Acquire a chess set
Just to hand you ALL the queens.
The once and the future king
Has nothing on our story.
Dec 18, 2019
Dec 18, 2019 at 4:47 AM UTC
i already have a kid
she steals my scrunchies
and knocks my **** over
she eats the feathers off of my dream catchers
and sleeps on my chest
she bites me all the time
and apologizes with dead crickets
she chews apart all of the wires in my house
and frequently gets her head stuck in cups
she's a little ****
but she's the best baby
(the only baby)
i could ever want
Sep 28, 2020
Sep 28, 2020 at 2:34 PM UTC