"shakily" poems
I was proud of myself,
When I shakily took the blade
Away from my wrist
Because I couldn't stand it
If I started cutting again
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 2:45 PM UTC
I stare at you angrily,
After what you did, I cried for hours.
While you lie, cool as a cucumber, smiling right next to me,
In your birthday suit, I hate you much, brothers shouldn't touch sisters that way.
I sand up shakily, the pain shooting my core only increases as I drop to the floor with a cry, you chuckle as I start to crawl to the bathroom, slowly but surely I shut the door.
I lie in a bathtub, naked and in pain, I can't get my brothers hands and how he used them out of my head, I can't get rid of the feeling on my pale skin, I feel *****
I feel so *****
~ Kat Herondale.
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 10:53 PM UTC
You are my last cigarette.
The flimsy promise
I shakily whisper,
Whilst balancing you between my lips.
I try not to anxiously stare
As I strike the match, and
Ignite the fiery passion
That was once our love.
Forever committing,
To the hazy mirage,
That this will be the last time we meet.
You are my cancer.
The burning tar that
Slithers down my throat,
Nests in my lungs, and
Corrodes everything you touch.
Nothing more than
A relentless distraction,
You take my breath away, and
Replace it with ashes;
Invading my every thought with ease.
Oh, how I long to gently
Wrap you in my fingers, and
Press you cautiously against my lips.
I realize now, that our love
Is far from healthy.
Somehow,
You've become my disease.
You are my craving.
The subtle aroma that lingers
Around every corner.
Your taste; your warmth; your smell;
Biting my nails and tapping my fingers.
You are no where to be found,
And yet, I can't escape you.
They tell us we don't belong together;
In the end, I know it's for the best.
It might be hard now,
But eventually -- I hope.
I'll forget all about you.
You are my mistake.
The temptation outside the bar
In which every shot of tequila
Makes slightly more attractive.
Toxic desires hurl me at your doorstep,
Only vindicating my inability
To resist your familiar touch.
My thoughts race recklessly
Along a jagged terrain of
Joyful satisfaction, and
Regret-filled tears.
No longer in control,
I am at your mercy.
You are my last cigarette.
The déjà vu mocking
My consciousness, and
Nightmare haunting my slumber.
When I awake the next morning,
Cradled in your arms, silently staring
Into your arrogant, crooked grin.
I'll replay the words in my head
That I've come to know so well.
"You are my last cigarette."
And then I'll kiss you,
One last time.
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 4:29 PM UTC
I write a lot about things I don't understand.
I keep thinking that maybe if I write about them,
I'll be able to gain a better knowledge.
So far this has proved untrue.
I write a lot about love when all I really know is that it hurts.
I've been told by people (yes plural) that they either
don't know how to love or don't like love itself.
And quickly and shakily, and with an unstable mindset,
I am starting to think that what those people meant was not
"I don't know how to love", but "I don't know how to love you".
Not "I don't like love", but "I don't like the idea of love with you"
I am a blackhole of both unrequited love and endless bottles of
self destruction and I secretly like being perpetually alone.
I am a lover without a lover.
I am a writer, and writers are almost always broken.
If not broken, there are definitely surface cracks.
Take it from me.
My poems are all about love and you, and I don't quite understand.
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 8:28 PM UTC
I saw you withering
before me, like I felt the air in my diaphragm build up slow
then fall out shakily.
I saw my grandmother wince
put her hand to her mouth,
side-ways gripping this tiny Chaplain
who’s name I’d forgotten, the moment I heard it.
I saw my cousin staring deep into empty space, his nervousness illuminated
under harsh hospital light. My uncle’s red tie screaming in this room of too tired eyes,
wearing reddened faces from crying.
The fear of this reality bit at our ankles. We shifted in place, we talked about the Sox game. We dared each other to keep on pretending to carry on.
Through this blur,
I saw you underneath piles of tubes.
Lain upon the bed a shattered man
shoulder blades peeking upward and out in what was poised to be
an eternal shrug
head hung, eyes fluttering, only held up in increments of straining. Straining to be part of this conversation about nothing.
About your impending death.
Rounds of tears and silence
rounds of nurses coming
and going,
rounds of knowing
then suddenly,
not knowing.
Propped up by a tank of air, a bag of liquid, a ton of pillows and the slow-burning will to live.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 9:10 PM UTC
I took the ink blot test
and responded to each blot
with the first thing to come to mind
for the first blot,
I answered:
a headless angel of death.
this was a bad answer.
for the second blot,
I said:
high five with legs chopped off.
this was a bad answer.
for the third blot,
I wrote:
the face of gluttony
this was a bad answer
for the fourth blot
I shakily stated:
I see a mountain of agony
and at the bottom
are two pilgrims
of hope
and ability
carrying the burden of man between them.
this was the first thing to pop into my head.
and it was a bad answer.
it was supposed to show what I think of my father.
I certainly had a lot to say.
but nobody I asked really knew how to interpret that.
so for now,
I am just crazy.
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 1:02 AM UTC
when i was 13,
"if your friends jumped
off a cliff would you?"
was an effortless,
"no"
because when i was 13
the cliff was a tall,
intimidating
piece of land
with a neon sign that said
"impending doom"
lit up at the edge,
but now im 20
and the cliff
comes in glass bottles
and the cliff
comes in thick syringes
and the cliff
is drawn beneath
my skin
in india ink
and down below it,
i can see my home town
and i can hear the patient voices
of the kids i grew up with
that never got out,
shakily shouting
"come down here;
it's easier at the bottom"
and if im being honest
im stumbling toward it
with an alarming
lack of fear
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 12:31 AM UTC
I know you
like the last step
in a staircase:
enshrouded in darkness.
I slowly stretch a brave leg across
the unknown dimensions;
do I relieve myself
with another familiar step?
Or do I brace myself
for the cold, naked floor?
Do I leave the routine journey
to step into a world extrinsic?
What will happen if I dare be brave;
will my foot sink through the transparent tier
to tumble aimlessly through the void,
screaming curses at my misplaced courage?
I just don't know anymore;
balancing my leg in the still air--
the temptation to pirouette
shakily and ascend anxiously.
To escalate the last step,
I find to be much easier;
My strength carries me forwards
as the light receives me warmly.
But down below,
in the shadows' taunting musings,
I cannot put faces to the voices
that call me into their reckless abandon.
I know you
like the last step
in a staircase,
faceless amorphous Guile;
your voice... indelible.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 12:33 AM UTC
it's almost as if she were calling to me,
begging me to venture from the barren prairie
to the tantalizing surf,
to wholly submerge into her; to escape from my sorrows,
to inundate myself with the delicacy of her frigid surface.
i could hear her, muttering my name from across the meadow.
slowly, i was growing aware of how minute i had become,
standing in this immense field alone.
i felt the aching, and the longing for amity scrabble its way up my spine.
my legs begin to take strides, my entire body follows en suite.
my fingers shakily unbutton my blouse, tossing it somewhere within the paddock.
it was as if my body had a mind of its own, and was spellbound.
my boots are off before i can comprehend what is happening to me.
and suddenly, im unclothed,
my feet digging into the sand beneath me.
my ears ring as my brain swims and i can't focus;
all i hear are her exquisite murmurs, chanting my name
until it's no longer recognizable.
the ringing in my ears swells, roaring until my brain aches and my vision grows more and more white until im underwater,
covering my ears and screaming for the chaos to subside.
and it does. my **** body is submerged into her breathtaking sea.
never have i felt more at peace.
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 7:25 AM UTC
I awoke
from sleep
nightmares, enforced by you
sweat,
cold,
I turn over and try to fall
fall back
asleep
an impossibility, a futile attempt
there's a full dining room's worth
plates,
spinning plates, in my head
they never stop, always spinning
till one wobbles, balance falters,
and just as you'd expect they fall
one
after another
crashing
another
but there's always one
one left,
still spinning, shakily
waiting for the mess to be cleaned up
where'd that little fairy go?
the one who used to follow you around..
who is gonna clean up this mess
NO!
No, I cleaned up after you long enough!
even a maid receives a paycheck, compensation
I was just a slave
a slave to you, a slave to my mind
the trickery and contortion, you'd think I was a gymnast,
of Olympic Gold proportions!
I was a lap dog, following you around,
eating what ever you gave me,
begging for more
please sir, more?
more abuse,
more deception,
more than just friends
more than just a use,
for a good time
for who?
I worked so hard at trying
trying to make you love me
trying to make you see
obvious oblivion,
I get it!
You're blind!
hopefully
you must be,
Have you even seen some of these women?
those one night roll arounds
you're just so polite
waiting till the morning to push them out
out the door,
and you will, oh how they know you will,
but still you'll call them
those disposable women
you'll call because you know it's free
because you know they want you to
if only you were good enough to have one for every day
of the week -
you know, those ones
the ones you equated me too!
But,
a friend of mine you'll always be
so long as it pays off for you
a few amazing hours
naked
together, alone
a drinking buddy when the regulars are out of town
a gram here, a joint there
an easement of your guilt
for allowing yourself to lie
right through your teeth
to the face of an adoring fan
to use, abuse and get what you can
from your supposed life long friend!
you should have been more careful though
for you smell nothing like a rose
you wreak
your stench so vile
you slop your sludge of a personality
right across my face
before twisting the knife in my back
then pretend like none of it exists
extinct
though that would imply that it once existed
which you've stated
for certain
it does
not.
Nov 20, 2010
Nov 20, 2010 at 9:46 PM UTC
An irrational animal gets high
From the ravenous pump of its own tongue,
Nursing wounds of a disease untreated.
His fat meat skulks through marbled corridors
Around eyes that assign value to worth,
Fixated on transactions to be paid.
The ring and flash of victory courses
Through his silken veins and opens his mouth
To swallow the pride of the defeated
Reflection in a puddle of his own
Drool, clinging shakily from toothless dogs,
Addicted to the peak and crash of trade.
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 12:41 PM UTC
Now we are standing in the attic,
gazing face to face.
What you said awhile back was different,
which left my mind caught in a haze.
Last time I was about to confess my feelings,
but you gallantly pushed me away.
I stormed down weeping,
hoping you'd stop me and ask me to stay.
Now we're back at the same position,
but really not quite the same.
You profess that you didn't meant your words,
and so your love you excitedly proclaim.
I have always wanted for you to say this,
now my own heart has been torn to two.
I shakily told you it's too late,
I'm already engaged to someone new.
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 9:19 AM UTC
i wait
and i
wait
and i
wait
for you to respond
and i watch you
and i think
wow
is he going
to say something
that he means
for once?
then you open your
meaningless
chasm
smile
shakily
tell me
goodnight
and that you love me
as an after thought...
sometimes i think our life consists of
the antics
of
an after-thought
theatre troupe
oh well
i guess i love you too
in a meaningless
sort of way
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 3:56 AM UTC
Whole again.
The lady is entire.
Amazed by the skill of a fellow artist.
The art of dentistry.
The morning crept in shakily.
She is a coward, the lady.
Petrified of dental work.
Dentist is a perfect ****
It's what he does his field of work.
He, the dentist, a genius touch,
I bet he can't write a poem or line.
That position is mine.
For him, an exception maybe invoices.
A choice I made.
I'm glad I paid.
I made the most worthwhile choices.
It didn't hurt a bit.
I didn't feel a thing.
Thank you dentist, see you soon!
(c) Livvi
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 8:14 AM UTC
I don't like ponds
I can't stand the distrust in koi,
Or the bitter mess of plants on the surface-
Sometimes leaves sink past its edge into the faded water.
Their resemblance of shakily build reasons
For people pursuing careers they don't like
laps like waves with every change in environment.
All the same
I don't like people.
I can never shake your sadness
and the delicate mess of hair daintily reaching past your shoulders - a fallen-apart fishtail braid.
why did you become a bus-driver when the world is full of waves
and every change in environment comes a new person entirely.
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 2:48 PM UTC
They say home is where the heart is
But, when your heart is torn in two..
Where is home then?
Where are you supposed to go?
Do you just stand there shakily at the crossroads
Miserable with absolute no clue which path is meant for you?
The "home" you're stalled at now could very well bring you all that happiness you've been longing for
And the "home" you keep glaring at might just be a uncomfortable comfort you can't let go of..
But, desperately need to
This is the unknown
With no end in sight, just a circle of demanding questions and icy tears on your cheeks
And in the meantime your heart is homeless....
My heart is homeless
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 10:04 AM UTC
Red bits flew into the air as my heart let go of the pieces that were so numerous
that to count them would be like trying to count each and every gray hair on your head.
The pressure that it had held grew too heavy to carry.
Each piece carried a part of me that I had collected with love and each piece shaped me
and each piece kept me from freezing over like you did and your father did and his father probably did.
You didn't fill much but you were buried somewhere underneath all of the others, in the smallest part that I clung onto, desperately hoping that somewhere inside of your cold body there was a place of warmth that held a piece of me, too.
I kept hoping and wanting even if it was tiny like my little sister's toes, your second daughter's toes, when she came into this world and fit into the palm of your hands.
I thought that maybe one day your eyes would show it and your mouth would express the love that I wished a piece of your insides contained and I held onto this idea for a long time.
I carried the wish from when I missed the ball too many times to run and my hands shakily filled in "b" when it was supposed to be "c" and your angry words tumbled out of your mouth and made themselves comfortable in my bones.
I brought it with me until your lips refused to speak the words that I wanted to hear.
All I wanted to hear was that you loved me and when the sound of those three words didn't escape your mouth and never reached my ears and my mind and my heart and my soul, I let go.
I let go of this desire, this need, as I filled my blanket cocoon when I was supposed to be making you proud- you hate that, when I lay there; useless
I let go of it as my mind refused to think of your face and as my heart turned a little bit colder when your small piece that remained to warm me left just like everyone always does;
even when they say they won't, even when they say they are certain that they love me. They just don't.
It always happens.
I let go of you just like you let go of all your pieces and I should have known that this hoping and this wishing and this dreaming would be for nothing,
because the love that I was looking for, the love that I had been searching for my entire childhood had been long gone.
And I'm so sorry, my lungs are screaming out apologies and regrets along with words of bitterness because I can't help but be angry for all of these disappointments that hit me day after day hour after hour minute after minute.
I'm trying not to let them heard; it's not like you've had any empathy or shared a hint of understanding.
Did they ever even exist? Do you even care?
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 1:47 PM UTC
This is the bottom.
For months, I have felt this hollow tunnel inside of me. It has been the only constant for a while. Like a wind tunnel on fire.
Steadily I have felt worse in ways I never imagined. Each morning has been harder to get out of bed; I genuinely can't remember a day that didn't start with me bent over the toilet. Yet I stand, shakily. Sometimes covered in ***** - and I clean myself up.
I get in my car. And I drive to work.
I am empty inside. I have no story. I have no melody.
I am untitled.
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 5:07 PM UTC
I tread on the tightrope
Suspended between thinking too little
And thinking too much
I balance precariously
Tiptoeing towards optimism
But humanity sways me
And I shakily creep
Towards despair
The costume chafes
There is not enough chalk on my shoe
The lights are too bright
And a pearly bead of self-awareness
Trickles past my temple
And drips on the dirt baseness
A thousand feet below
And yet--
The crowd smiles
And gasps
And cheers
And claps
And I am reminded
That everything
Is a show
So I smile
And I bow
With a flourish
And I soak in the adoration
And try to forget
That the struggle repeats
Each night
In each town
But the show can
And does
Go on
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 5:41 PM UTC
When we first said hello
It was unforgettable
It was awkward
It was real and magical
I looked at you
You stared back
We moved closer
And shakily uttered the first words
The first beguiling words of our relationship
Then we walked away
I looked back and waved
You were already staring
When we last bid farewell
It was unforgettable
It was awkward
It was real and detrimental
I was looking for you
You gazed at me
We moved closer
And shakily uttered the last words
The last agonizing words of our relationship
I looked back and hoped
...But you didn't
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 2:57 PM UTC
Where has she gone?
All the others are in line,
Mother bear knows.
Three there,
Two here,
One down,
But she is missing.
An inquiry goes through
Over channels
Fierce and loud
Because one isn’t lining up
And it’s that one.
“Tariq is down, hold on” she says
Fervidly praying, breathing heavy
And there she is.
Anywhere but where she should be.
So easy to find, far too easy.
Swearing, scolding
No time for kindness,
Lost, another child lost
And another may be lost,
The most precious one here.
Scathing scoldings go ignored
Too naive, too proud
A child hoping to **** death
Though she calls that barbaric.
Reformed, remade, reborn
But never killed.
And there’s another,
Another cub but not hers
Carelessly walking on,
Not aware of the foe in his midst.
Of her child, the fool.
But she notices, thank God,
But she freezes up, **** God.
Frozen, still, just as feared.
No gun in hand
Shaking, shivering,
Breathing so hard.
“Don’t hesitate,”
The cry goes through
But this too is ignored.
A gun in hand at last
But unused, unfired
Shakily held with weak grip.
Yet a shot rings out.
Another notch for the rifle
And another cub protected,
The most precious one.
He’s fallen and she’s fallen
Him in death, her in shock,
And again the cry is made
“Don’t hesitate”,
And again it fails.
For she’s truly a cub,
Naive child hoping, praying
Failing.
The mother rushes out
Cursing and pushing away curses
“We need her, Morrison” she says.
“I need her,” she does not.
Out from hiding,
Rushing, running, and, yes,
Praying.
Still so shaken,
Still too still.
She is grabbed,
Pulled, tugged,
Yanked up to her feet
And dragged away,
Hastily hidden.
Harsh words hurriedly spoken
As she is ****** down.
Not in anger but in fear
And tears flow
And the words stop.
Scowling the bear sits,
Fearing even now in the den.
Quiet falls
Deafening, painful.
Jack shut off,
Others mollified,
And she does not speak.
Only watches,
Watching, eyeing on hatefully,
Glaring as Mother carves another.
One more life, one more line
And she doesn’t understand.
Only judges quick and fast,
Ever the idealist.
And that stings more than death’s threat.
Nov 15, 2017
Nov 15, 2017 at 12:10 PM UTC
Although I long to be held so tight
I see stars; and your arms at night
Could hold my pieces together
Could patch the cracks, keep me
Afloat and standing, shakily
I cannot ask you for forever.
Do not hold me like I want
You'll cut yourself on my hipbones
The razors; my chest would bruise
You as you try to fix me now
Do not love me; I'd pull you down
I could not ask you to lose.
I long for your arms, I miss
You giving me life with your kiss
Breathing fresh air into my lungs
Expelling the poison I hide within
I'll burn you, hurt you, if I begin
To steal your life just to be young.
Although you want to save my soul
And piece me into something whole
Do not caress me as I crave
I'll ruin you; my bones are sharp
There's a hole in my stuttering heart
Maybe we should go our separate ways.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 6:21 PM UTC
Walking through a tunnel,
a cage,
barbed wire linking.
Scream, scream,
ache through the air,
matching voice to wind as it tosses white pine needles
through your hair, around your face,
leaves scratching dry pavement,
mixing with chinese takeout cartons
and Dunkin Donuts straws.
Everything seems heavy
boots, head, belly,
gravity strengthens and
your legs strain.
They watch you zooming by comfortable and spiteful and angry
oblivious,
curious.
Each breath forces itself shakily from your lungs and your heart beats quick and your arms strain against the bag on your shoulders and all you want to do is
RUN run run feel things disappear behind your back feel your hair lift off your neck feel feet hit pavement and muscles flex, feel your body pushing through air and emptiness, pushing forward with a goal to get somewhere. RUN but your boots are too heavy and your eyes weigh you down as they stare at your feet as you walk, as you walk,
as you walk.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 6:57 AM UTC
It seems as if everyday I struggle to love myself. It goes beyond the normal, everyday insecurities; it feels as if I need to hurt myself, to tear away this ugliness and hurt.
I look in mirrors and hate the reflection I see. I want to shatter and break away this distorted image staring back at me. I can’t look at myself without sadness and hate creeping into my lungs, without breathing so shakily because I’m trying to hold back my anger and disgust. I can’t look people in the eyes, it would be so easily for them to see the scarred and overly-large eyed lost girl that I am. Somedays I don’t know who I am at times other than an ugly girl with no hope.
Somedays, I feel okay. I feel as if I can get through the day with a bit of pride, and other days-like today- I want to ******* scream and claw and away at the loathing I feel inside.
Somedays, I just want to be beautiful and loved
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 8:25 PM UTC
We sat anxious and low
in your bedroom cupboard
beleaguered by hollow briefcases
and stifling musty winter clothes.
Holding our cigarettes like a crucifix
hunched over the ashtray
basking in the lonely timid light
you yanked into life
with the tug of a frail string.
I was ready to speak existentially
ready to be immortalized
by the blinding flash of the ancient pictor
black and white
candid but purposeful.
Locked into my eyes
lingering in their intensity
my artistic mystery.
I was suddenly pulled from my disillusionment
as my wishful banter was silenced
by your stern hush
preferring a whisper so your
parents didn't hear.
I watched you take a drag
like a glass of water
in the middle of the desert
so desperate, so agonizing.
I watched you shakily tap
tiny flakes of your soul
into the ashtray
your eyes distant, mournful.
It was irreversible;
my childlike fantasy
of aesthetic in the smoke
on my breath--
not from frigid temperatures
but adolescent guilty pleasures
coveted forbidden treasures--
to turn into the ashes
I watched my friend flick
routinely into the tray.
"This is not James Dean," I realized.
This is not somber-eyed bedecked
in worn leather jacket
leaning against a cool brick wall.
"Neither is this 'A Hard Day's Night.'"
This is not Ringo smiling amiably
shaking his head with cigarette
bouncing and dainty on his lips.
This is huddled in my best friend's
cramped cupboard
watching him surrender himself
to a caustic lord who scorches his life
away
in every drag that burns between
his cracking lips
in every ash flicked from
his shaking fingers.
I watched the smoke envelop his weary body
I watched the ashes eulogize his fading spirit
I watched him bid farewell with his tired eyes
I watched him disappear.
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 1:41 AM UTC