"scrunching" poems
she races through her mind, all the time
wondering
when?
where?
why?
how?
she sits in the shallows
sighing in her own drowned out howls
wondering
where?
she breathes in the dusty air
scrunching her hair
wondering
why?
but she looks to the sunset
flourishing in its beauty
secretly wishing she was of beauty
she wonders..
how?
she falls back
hoping to be of a catch
she hopes for the best
but expects the worse
because what is worse than what she hasn't already experienced?
she whispers,
I am a useless tinker.
I am delusional.
I am something yet, of nothing.
the wind..
it is what kisses against her cheek
and says,
you may be of the above,
but you are not anything less than a dove.
and I promise, you'll soon get the answer to when.
so please, do not clip your wings,
because who I am to have to caress?
or to softly brush the feathers on your back?
Because you do need an answer to how, correct?
well then let me show you how, and you will get your answer to when.
(m.s]
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 5:43 AM UTC
11-6-14
I saw my name on your contacts list
and wondered how many times your finger hovered over the "call" button.
---
I hope you, or at least someone
thinks at least some things about me are cute
the way my hair sticks up and then flops over when I try to fix it
and, when pinned up, the way it becomes gradually messier over the course of the day.
When I mouth the words to a song on the school bus,
scrunching my eyes and headbanging,
or when I spin around on my heels, and try to look graceful.
---
Frick, I shouldn't try to write about love, i'm just a thirteen-year-old girl
who grew up on the internet
and doesn't care about the ****** music she's listening to.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 7:27 PM UTC
You walk along the beach with the sand between and beneath your naked toes, the sun touching your skin, the slight breeze feeling your hair. You stop and stare at the sea, the sound of the waves on the shore, like an old man breathing and sighing. There are no ships today; the horizon is bare; empty. You remember walking along this beach with Giles, his hand in yours, the promises he made, the laughs you both had, the look in his eyes, that smile he had. You smile briefly, wipe your small hand across your lips, try to recall that kiss, gone. The sun is high in the sky, blue with hints of white in the horizon, the sea, the far off places long out of reach. If only I hadn’t found that **** letter, you muse darkly, breathing deeply, sensing the sea air, the sharpness of it, the chill on the lungs, if only you hadn’t seen the words of his betrayal, his words of love to another, her of all people, she who had befriended you. Lies. All of those lies, you muse, those bits of truth and lies together, the devil’s mix, the lying ***** him saying those things to her, and to you he says another, liars both of them. You walk on along the deserted beach, your toes scrunching into the sand, the grittiness between the toes, the sharpness underfoot. We made love over there, you tell yourself, indicating an area of rocks, a secret place you thought was yours and his, where he had uncovered you and under those stars, moon and evening breeze, had entered you. You close your eyes and wonder if he brought her here, made love to her in that place, did to her what he did to you. The possibility haunts you, hurts deeply, drives to walk closer to the edge of the sea and shore. You want the sea to take you; want the waves to swallow you up and spit you up some miles down the coast. A lifeless body, a floating bloated cadaver. But that takes a courage you lack, a courage you do not have, despite your hurt and pain, despite your inner anger. You wish you had not read the letter from his pocket, had not searched, had not seen it and opened up the envelope. If only you had remained in innocence of his betrayal, innocent of all that filth and lies. His words to you that morning, as he rose from bed, as his arms left your side, were so loving, so kind. Ceili, he said, Ceili, you are the morning of my day. Such words. Such words said. The sun is warm on your face, the breeze a little chillier now, the sea a bit wilder, the waves touching your feet, touching your toes. What price betrayal? What reward? You wander along the shore, the sea touching you as he had done, feeling your flesh, sensing your life blood, you stop, turn back, empty your mind, vacate, the you, the memory of loss, the life of betrayal.
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 3:51 PM UTC
Beech trees like cathedral pillars soar
To vaulted ceilings oozing dapple-green,
Where twinkling sunlight, filtering to the floor
Dilutes the dusky darkness in between.
A concert hall, acoustically tuned
To amplify each tremorous touch of stick
On wood, where silent magic is cocooned,
Responding to the scuffled tap and tick
From scrunching undergrowth, where dusty death
And dried decay seep back to nature’s store,
To resuscitate with pungent earthy breath
The spirit of the leafy forest floor.
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 3:14 AM UTC
couples spill from Cornucopia
caught, clutched, crunching
onto pavement as they slam
and the gravel ground scrunching
the force of their sudden landing
holes burnt through atmospheric rubble
new age, new kids, new scorn
a five-thousand-decade struggle
and singles sprout subtly
sporting secular ideals
throwing nuclear doubts and partitions
jealousy: frozen frosted steel
hearts in half and searching
they thaw eventually to the sway
the hallowed pairs light up red strings
to help them on their way
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 5:57 AM UTC
A thumb flicks repetitive across the screen.
Scrolling.
Images of faces, targeted ads and mundane art.
A random couple standing on the beach.
I pause for them.
His toad like appearance distorts my face,
One nostril scrunching up in displeasure at the belly that sticks out rounding into his chest so you can’t tell where his torso starts and ends, while a pair of swim trunks desperately attempt to cling to a skeletal waist.
Her body is normal aside from the concave stomach and the ***** that had clearly been poked at, flayed away, reshaped into an over exaggerated spherical shape.
Two figures clearly trying and failing to force their bodies to reject their aging fate, but they succeed in looking less human, and more like that of distorted dreams. Their skin is too dark, slicked up with oil, and all I can think of is when leather for skin became fashionable.
Their bodies are theirs to do as they please, but this new species of seal takes away the beauty of the water kissing the shore and I find the thought of these distorted figures mar my vision of the beach into a sour taste.
I can only assume its attention they want with the transaction they made: her youth for his money.
So tell me, is it not within my right to judge?
Is it?
I scold myself for being quick to judge with my eyes
though I cannot find myself to be sorry;
For they have clearly invested in their outwardly appearance.
For the sake of themselves or others who is to say?
But they parade through sand exposed, out on display.
Aug 31, 2021
Aug 31, 2021 at 11:34 PM UTC
you're sitting across from this sharp-tongued old lady at the breakfast table,
she has odd clothes, a double chin and boots that squeak.
You don't like her much, but she doesn't like you either.
It's a mutual annoyance.
You're sweating a little because she makes you nervous,
and you forgot to put on deodorant before leaving the house,
and she's scrunching her face up and sniffing loudly to let you know that she can smell you.
You watch her as she eats, slowly, as if she'd never eat again,
crumbs from her toast sprinkle her face, you want to reach out and brush them off for her,
but you're afraid that your fingers will melt into her butter-like skin.
The thought was real, and unconscious.
The sort of way a boys thoughts should always be, if you ever get one like that,
keep him in that state as long as you can.
Jul 28, 2010
Jul 28, 2010 at 11:11 AM UTC
_ cannot write what _ want to say,
_ cannot paint the image in _ mind.
Or the feelings bound inside with thickened ropes,
used to hold a steamer ship to dock,
with diameter of a sailor's mid-waist,
encrusted with salt from the ever pressing fault
pulling its weight down compressing faces to frown
scrunching together in depressing formation as a flock of gull feathers
incessantly wash ashore bringing round to the lessening image
that draws you back from the metaphorical,
analogical, imaginary
oceans edge,
to the starboard side of a deck on a steamer ship,
to the battered ropes
that suppress emotions under.
Under an ocean,
occasionally escaping through thimble-sized samples
freed from the depths to race upwards in streamlined-bubbles
to break the surface and burst
that released
category three, Hurricane Miriam
which harmed no one but herself
because though she roared at one-hundred twenty miles an hour,
no one took warning.
Because who would be wary of her,
when she didn't even break land,
she didn't even break surface,
didn't even break in,
even break through,
break her,
broken.
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 2:03 AM UTC
Have you ever seen ‘La Vie en Rose?’
The little sparrow runs from room to room
weeping for the dead love of her life.
Every cloud has a silver lining
and who cares about cancer when there’s music to consider?
Someone’s noisily nibbling nachos and scrunching sweet wrappers nearby.
No movies for us in a Cadillac at the big chill;
instead we watched the world slip past as we sat still.
The lake in the valley, sun drenched skin,
we lay, bellies to earth on soft grass.
A whisker as white as snow pushes through your chin demanding to be known,
I am in love with this hair.
I felt you might die too and I’d run from room to room
calling your name and you would not come.
The price of popcorn increases.
Jun 12, 2010
Jun 12, 2010 at 4:04 PM UTC
-on empty life and aimless power: a guy's
big party that happened without him
Laughed out loud this morning
happy, lightly, free,
softly stumbling down the stairs
- but really, god it isn't me.
Broken glass in the living
scrunching under my feet,
torn portraits, burnt letters,
melted bottles, boiling books
- hahaha, no, it wasn't me.
Went out, caught fire, blew up
- don't know for which cause.
Touched down on the balcony
- from the victims no applause.
Hot red footprints ten inch deep
- not mine, I was sound asleep.
Hmmm, fresh air,
can smell it through the window glass.
Who is this guy outside,
stretching out his arm to me?
Just wondering...
will they ever remove these bars,
so we can shake hands?
Jul 30, 2016
Jul 30, 2016 at 12:04 AM UTC
Can you imagine it?
Scrunching your forehead,
pursing your lips,
sealing tight your eyes,
pulling your head back and into you neck in anticipation,
And a bullet going through your temple.
Your hands are out to a T if you're a martyr,
Or in front of your face in cover if you're scared.
or one is held out to the side of your head holding the gun.
Imagine the initial split second of a piercing pain and then shattering of your skull like oxygen being pumped into your exploding bone marrow. The next split second feeling is very wet or very dry, like being submerged in water or sand and then being thrusted ten thousand feet under.
It's hard to imagine when I'm in my car listening to FM radio at a stoplight with a vanilla air freshener hanging from my rear view mirror.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 3:01 PM UTC
'I'm leaving the country.'
You muttered in spur,
Leaving me in stun.
Splashing cold water,
With a cold shoulder.
'Goodbye.'
Your gaze was freezing,
Never ending snow.
Dazing out of space,
Was where you left me.
'......'
Silence overtook,
No anger nor feels.
Never did I chase,
Over impossible.
'......'
Describing in words,
Was never enough.
Hollowness in depth,
Oblivion was near.
'......'
Decades was what took,
Strucking and ruining.
Squeezing me inside,
Scrunching me outside.
***Motions in slow,
the tears came rolling down.***
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 12:31 PM UTC
i've never understood
how someone could
miss the smell of my perfume,
the curls in my hair
crave the taste of my lips,
the touch of my skin
lie awake at night
unable to fall asleep without me in their arms
how someone
would know that i'm lactose intolerant
but that every saturday night,
i sneak off to the nearby icecream shop
and buy a chocolate cone with blueberry icecream
or that
whenever i writing poetry
i hate using capital "i"s
because i feel that makes me seem
too self important
how could someone bother to remember
all the little things i do
like hiding my face when i laugh
scrunching my nose when i write
and biting my bottom lip when i'm nervous
moreover,
how could they look at my
swollen lips
and then still dream of them at night?
i've spent my whole life
falling in love with the little things
like the freckle under your nose
& the way you look people in the eye when you speak to them
the way you always give up your seat when you see someone deserving
& the way you pronounce some words differently
(i really love how you say "hollow" and "obviously")
i've never found it odd how deeply i cherish these little things about you
i guess i just never thought
there'd be somebody
who'd fall in love
with me too
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 8:34 AM UTC
The lump in the throat,
Face scrunching,
The face narrowing,
Of pain
Of love and loss
Giving Grace a chance to roll down unimpeded.
Sep 2, 2024
Sep 2, 2024 at 11:16 PM UTC
No. You’re doing it all wrong. This is not how it’s done.
Why would you even… forget it, I’ll just have to show you.
Listen. When you look up into the sky, those aren’t clouds that you see. Who told you that? See that one, the one that’s a little puffy in the center and has a long end. Yes. That’s a whale. And the one next to it that looks like there’s a hole in the middle, that one is a doorway. That’s where lost things are sent to.
And no, those aren’t just shades. They are spy glasses. So when you wear them at night and look out the window, you get night vision. Go. Take a peek over into the neighbor’s yard. I’m sure I saw a gnome there just last night.
Now, what have I told you about our bed sheet? You need to stack some pillows underneath and get a torch. It’s our tent. And don’t peek outside. I think I just heard a bear scrunching around out there.
Oh and you must, I repeat you must get onto a higher surface when someone screams ‘the floor is lava’. I’m not kidding, lava is red hot, and it will burn you. Jump onto the very next thing you find that’s higher. I really don’t want to get burnt.
Also, I saw what you did last night. You didn’t wish on that shooting star. And I know you think you’re too old for this, and that wishing on a meteor, as you like to call it, is absurd, but I would like to remind you, mister, wishes do come true.
So don’t let the magic inside you die.
Wish on that star and let your imagination run wild.
You will only get to be this old, once in your life.
Dec 18, 2017
Dec 18, 2017 at 2:36 PM UTC
pulling petals
off the moon
scrunching judgments
into the waste-bin
exchanged for
a beauteous collage
my floral planet
spins
*with a sweeter
forgiveness*
..
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 6:58 AM UTC
Sometimes I get this ache
In the pit of my stomach
But deeper somehow
It pulls me down to it
Like a scrunching up carpet
Folding in what I am
Getting stronger and deeper each pull
It'll reach my throat
I'll feel like I need to *****
You are a part of me
Festered in that pit deeper than my gut
The part of me only you can touch
But it pulls me night and night again
When you are not there
It pulls and I let it consume me
I just let it ****
No amount of your clothes helps
Only you wrapped around me will
That is when I know that I miss you
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 10:39 PM UTC
The white walls smell like sick
the clean kind of sick and
I don't want to be here.
"We are going to see him now"
"Alright" scrunching up my face
The elevator dinged, I pulled my sleeves
down over my hands
"They can't come in"
"Why?"
"They must be 16"
"But they might ever see him again"
"Thats the policy"
I pulled up my hood and walked away
Shrugged away their goodbyes
"Come on lets go"
"Alright" I took her hand
and we left to wait in the overly plush waiting room,
watching a TV with nothing on,
and looking out a picture window
at the concrete roof of the building below.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 5:21 PM UTC
i have no other means to see,
only through the intervening vacuities
of the word — out in the field
there seems to be no end seething
to the very beginning;
these words now
appear limbless yet still make
their way deftly, scrunching
against the wall enough to toss the
body out of sleep.
i have nothing to offer
only my despair
and in this, myself, have seen all
too pristinely without a sensible trace
of fear or a mitigated feeling
i am all words and no conversing,
addled by the thoroughness of it,
ample warmth of a makeshift fire
thwarting the involuntary shadow there,
hiding behind the renegade
of thought or a portentous rearing
of imagination's hearth:
i am all words, no other than this alone—
having achieved this noble sense of
swift perpetuity, no other means to
this end than the poetry of impetus.
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 4:47 AM UTC
*I
am not made of stone,
even if
the way I exist says the opposite.
I
am not made of wax,
even if
the tears that fall disagrees.
I
am not made of paper,
even if
the scrunching of my soul yells otherwise.
I
am human,
even if
the chaos inside my head challenges that.
A little broken,
a little flawed.*
Jul 24, 2017
Jul 24, 2017 at 3:59 PM UTC
Shame on you
screeched the teacher
as she spotted him
scrunching up his crisp packet
and dropping it carefully
on to the pavement outside school.
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 2:17 AM UTC
i think i could make it a habit,
black clove cigars
and puffing in and out poison to pass the time
(at least make me a little bonier)
and one day i'll strap a flask to my thigh
and practice taking sips without scrunching up my nose at the taste.
For some reason, self-destructive tendencies are appealing
which makes me a ******* *******
and an idiot
but as long as i'm entertained
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 1:46 AM UTC
opia- the intensity of looking someone in the eye, which can feel simultaneously invasive and vulnerable
i squint, my eyes scrunching until i can only see through a slits of my eyelids.
i see your blue eyes staring back at me. neither squinting nor widening
“this staring contest is too much. i can not win” i state.
i continue starting.
your mouth moves. gliding from smile to a sly smirk.
“you’re right. you can’t win, i’m the best at this game”
you reach across the table placing your soft palms against my cheeks.
holding my face in your hands as if i were a little child.
oh your hands are so warm
and so soft that i can’t help but opening my eyes.
my gaze rises and soon our eyes are at the same level.
your eyes are dark blue
almost as if they were made of the water from the deepest parts of the ocean.
there is mystery behind those eyes
and i know that if i stare too long
i will turn to stone and become captive in your stare.
but no
i’m like a blind woman in love with medusa.
the more i gravitate towards you
the deeper i fall into your eyes.
deep dark blue eyes
dipping into my baby blue soul
stripping me of all my inhibitions.
i guess
you’ve won the staring contest.
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 8:41 PM UTC