"shockingly" poems
Polite
Typical
Smiley
Daughter
Pointlessly
Trusting
School
District
Professor
Turns-blind-eye
Struggling
Drastically
Packets
Turn-to
Stacks
Deficient
Panic Attacks
Turn-to
Self
Destruction
Pulling
Teeth
Sick
Design
Plans
To
Stop
Discussing
Peace
To-her
Silence
Disturbs
People
Talked
She
Distracted
Passed
The
Snacks-to
Dinners
Pulled
The
Same
Dimensions
Pre-K
Then
Smaller
Didn't
Pause
Third-Grade
So
Dead
Parents
Though
She
Drowned
Piled
Thoughts
Suffocated-her
Dexterity
Patient
There
Suffering
Depression
Problems
To-many-to
Score
Dispute
Progress
That
Shockingly
Developed
Potentially
Taken-away-the
Suffering
Dramatically
Poor
Tiny
Sweet
Doll
Part
Traumatized
Sleep
Deprived
Phobic
though
Sixth grade
Doesn't
Play
Though
Six-Years-of
Death
Until... The little girl, learned she had,
Post
Traumatic
Stress
Disorder
and, school treating her badly is only one of her three traumatizing events.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 7:59 PM UTC
~
spontaneous men,
they say, are hard to find,
but me,
not in 100% agree
men-t
~
we, the early risers,
i.e. before she bestirs,
eyes still closed we shave,
with magic mouth wash green,
breathe dragon flames pepper-minty
go deep into planning-surprise mode,
so soon to be proving
ourselves in plenty
possession of
spontaneity
which, shockingly is just
the way she likes it...
~
P.S. Oh, what webs we weave when first we need
to get
laid...
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 11:39 AM UTC
And then I too
am part of the silence
that casts its post-sunset stillness
throughout this swamp white oak's great spread.
It seems as though even the hive of honeybees
and the nearby nest of baby birds
have stopped to admire
the feeling of the world
tilting on its axis; sinking through space.
We all gaze further upwards,
those bees and birds and I.
And nestled in the remaining twigs above,
is the shockingly finite dance
of the leaves... of the stars.
The shadows that hang from the top-most branches
cast their way down around me
and coat their way all over the ground, making it
easy to forget the height—
the ultimate suspension. Because
born within my skin
is a swamp white oak,
stretching its branches through the
grey matter in my mind,
over-taking and over-whelming.
At the end of it all is me:
a tiny little acorn laid
by an impossible evolution
of people into trees.
Every cell becomes leaf and
the heart a listening ear. Amongst
the chorus of the frogs,
the owls, the coyotes—
the chorus of the woods around—
is that shift
so revered.
The shift of the Earth.
The Earth tilting
on its axis.
It’s time to admit that the maps and
man’s little green boxes there,
are nothing but products
of a continually
diminishing temper... showing
that when this swamp white falls,
it won’t just be a wood
that’s finally left barren.
It won't just be a body
left emptied and charred.
Please, I think, as the bark gets flimsier
and flimsier
beneath my feet. As the wind gets fiercer
and fiercer
howling in my ears. *Please. Let this lone acorn
standing here
sprout into something.
Let a swamp white oak
be seen.*
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 6:27 PM UTC
The Butler Model of Tourism
I come back year after year
cracked black valise, busted zipper
spring-shot lobby divans drained of color,
to press crisp bills into Monte’s hand
come up for air from the tortoise shell
of his thread bare uniform, ease myself
down on a sagging mattress
wait for the clatter of ancient bones
his creaking cart and shuffling feet
to recede into absolute silence down
the dimly lit hall, broken only by a spate
of conversation between the couple
I can just make out in the water
stained fresco above the bed
two of them lost in a heated row
as if I couldn’t hear their bald appraisals
shockingly frank in this flocked walled room
with musty corners and milky windows
disagreeing only on the degree of my
progression through the dismal stages of
“The Butler Model of Tourism”
him making a half-hearted case for
Rejuvenation, the woman straddling
the thin line between Stagnation and Decline.
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 9:47 AM UTC
I own a hula hoop
it's red with black and white racing pattens circling around the red
like something a person could use for a race
I own a hula hoop
shockingly i am not a little girl with pigtails who uses it
no i bought it at 19 at a fair
and people stared while i just didnt care
I own a hula hoop
not because it seems like a new age thing to do
or simply because its a good workout tool
no i own a hula hoop because i love the way it moves with me
i love the tricks and turns i can do with it
i own a hula hoop because it makes me feel in the moment
in turn with myself and my surroundings
it makes me want to buy another hula hoop
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 6:41 PM UTC
'Love is a drug'
it's a bit cliche at this point but its true
not in the sense of addiction or how harmful it can be
but in the sense of its effects
love changes people and it changes each one of us differently
for some, they become suave people with immense charms
for others, they become bumbling awkward masses that are plagued with a mentality and drive that makes them try too hard
it can slow you down
make you hyper aware
fill up every bit of you
from your toes to your hair
Love is a drug
it can make you do or think or say things you never thought you could
it's an oxymoron that turns you into everything you never were
it's every color and sound and feeling; it's everything at once
it's pure, it's evil, it hollows you out as it fills you up and gives the deepest sense of pleasure as it kills you and eats you from the inside out
Love is a beautiful thing, some might say life's greatest creation
maybe this is true, maybe it isn't but be careful
because its beauty makes so shockingly easy to overdose on when you're in it
Aug 18, 2017
Aug 18, 2017 at 2:22 PM UTC
Ahh-he-che'em ack-ahem. Sorry, let me clear my throat.
One day I set out galavanting, looking for a high.
I meandered to the ocean shore and set a lively stride.
My eyes were wet, my heart was light as I looked out at the splendor,
About that time I heard a rumble, a sudden yearning for a chicken tender.
I galloped to an eatery in hopes of a hearty meal,
But had a measly handful of coins, so I opted for a deal.
The only place I found tat would accept my sum of coins
For anything sufficient enough to satisfy my *****
Was a gritty place called Taco Bell, but it was my only choice.
The cashier was a voluptuous dame and my trousers became quite moist.
She said to me, "what will you have?", in a shockingly low-pitched voice.
I was taken aback for a moment, but stuttered, "a number six, I think".
"Comin' right up honey", he or she said with a wink.
I just smiled shyly and went to go fill up my drink.
My food was finally ready, but I was a bit wary,
I could't tell what was in my taco - squirrel, beef or canary.
My hunger pushed me through my fear and I finally took a bite,
Although skeptical at first, my taste buds did delight!
I had finally finished with my meal and was satisfied and full,
But down below my abdomen I felt a mighty pull.
I had no time I knew at once and dashed to find relief.
The single men's room was in sight, but who should be a thief?!
The cashier with the arousing bosoms had stolen my salvation...
As I stood there in that Taco Bell I felt a curious sensation.
When normally I could have held it, a complete bowel prostration.
While the **** was pouring out like a broken sink,
My mind started to wander and I couldn't help but think,
*If the women's room is out of order, I wonder which she/he has,
A set of both, a meat-locker or a **** and nads?*
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 4:35 PM UTC
a plain poem (the first time I came in you)
a plain poem, light and effervescent, a flim-flan tasting,
plein de absurde rimes, full of nonsensical rhymes,
a lattice of criss crossing pastry sugary lines, the ones,
cannot, struggle to deduce, induce, reduce
from my constipated vocabulary
oh well
~
*the first time I came in you,
entered, bidden welcome,
suffused a bridge between
the party of the first part,
the party of the second part,
sugar lightness airy nonsense,
two spirits dancing the singular
pas de deux of their finite lives,
a performance unbeatable,
unrepeatable,
lost to the perfection annals
Shockingly, Surprisingly, Summarily,
did not compose an ode,
don't mine a new vein of ore,
even write a plain poe poem
as best can recall,
at the candle melting of the
sealing wax of the deal,
gave an honest speech,
instantly falling fast asleep
with nary a grunted word
ever since l,
cannot write of plain love plainly,
so she makes me pay with a
new living elegant elegy daily,
a quatrain, what a pain,
this iambic panting meter
love poem writing
jeez louise,
how I wish could write of
roses red and violets blue,
get back to sleep,
oh well then,
back to work
got to make those sad moans,
hers, go away,
so please excuse me
near ten years later,
still paying the dues of the
initializing error of my way
she rumbles-mumbles in her
pre-awakening dream state,
so please excuse, got to go, think up
some implicated complicated
verses to soothe away
her simple poorly hidden anxieties
you see,
I am happy paying
on and on,
writing like the devil furious,
she is stirring, coffee soon,
cafe au lait
if you get my meaning,
but still cannot beat,
repeat, re-alive
that simple plain living poem notated,
when first I came in her*
<•;)
9/24/17 6:49am ~7:17am
Sep 24, 2017
Sep 24, 2017 at 7:29 AM UTC
She breathes out deeply
with worn out lungs, tired lips,
still expecting those couple hundred faceless friends to say something,
to even acknowledge her.
Of course,
she doesn't know what gives her the right to deserve their attention,
neither does she understand the concept that she,
like others,
happens just to be another face upon faces.
A penny amongst pennies
thrown carelessly into a pool of broken wishes.
Yet, despite the impression her cold experienced smile
still brushing the innocent minds of her
so called 'friends'
would happen to give.
She is, still wishing.
And it's the wish, the one day,
the just maybe that makes all the difference.
See that's the beauty of a wish,
it's something with no value,
it can not be swapped,
sold nor created.
And thus it's such that an acknowledgment,
a simple 'Hello',
can still be held as a wish,
despite it's shockingly slim chances of happening
without
actual. social. intervention.
Why are we wishing?
Mar 6, 2012
Mar 6, 2012 at 5:42 PM UTC
When you know
that you will never
have a kiss from them again
it hurts.
No more body touches
that are warm and make you sparkle.
Glittery eyes
that are all red
from purple heaven.
I need it
and can't get it.
I hate him.
This isn't for him
it's my emotions
drizzling down my brain.
But that warmth
it is something else.
It's a nice glass of pulp free
pineapple juice made with love.
So when it was all inclusive
there were shockingly many non-inclusive things.
The same for him,
he could be all inclusive
while being just like the hotel.
His body became a hotel for me,
and now i'm missing a vacation.
Jun 19, 2019
Jun 19, 2019 at 7:55 PM UTC
~~~
Happy Hanukkah Brother Nat!
~~~
*this poem is not for young lovers,
seasoned soldiers of the heartfelt only need apply,
give me my merry mercy-naries to save me
from criminal holiday insouciance,
shoot me with the rounds of caring,
that come so fast
and last as long as I can
nod and wink...*
~~~
used to drink inspiration
from Manhattan sidewalk rain riveted cracks,
turn half overheard street conversation snatches
into half decent poems by Nat(chez),
professors turning phrases, upbringing a brain ratcheting,
choreographers, dancing in body and spirit and word,
in summation, a thief of opportunity...
these days, the pattern prevailing,
the El Niño de Natalino,
is drawing up works
from the wealth of messages and comments,
my troubadours, my y'all youse guys, share,
so as I compose,
not knowing where this goes,
I'm just simple knowing,
that a heartfelt reach out,
addressed as
Happy Hanukkah Brother Nat!
deserves the recognition of its sweet intent,
in a lyric all its own,
like a traditional festival
Hanukkah jelly donut (true1)
t'is the seasonal affectation of salutations
all commencing with happy,
never struck me as anything deeper
than surficial superficial,
but this time its textual emendation -
the inclusion of genuine brotherly love,
loops, Humpty Dumpty cracks and swoops,
and here I am fastening word combos,
when the clickty clack of the clock
says uh-uh, poem in the making,
natural verbal child birthing, sleep hours docked,
and here I am,
begetting instead of shushing
a day-older brain to get-thee-to-a-hideaway...
*this poem is not for young lovers,
seasoned soldiers of the heartfelt only need apply,
give me my mercy-naries to save me
from criminal holiday insouciance,
shoot me with the rounds of caring,
that come so fast
and last as long as I can
nod and wink...*
sooner than later it will be the Fourth,
and in my eyes a day-deserving of a fireworks spectacular,
though the month matters not,
the sentiments of brotherhood and live love,
independent and freely given,
deserves enhanced ignition recognition
and herein supplied...
you had me at the greeting so fleeting,
then ask my advice,
is there to be had a greater compliment,
so my mien and demeanor are now modified
an oath sworn, till the infamous 31st,
every passerby and child
will be bequeathed a shockingly rowdy,
Happy and Merry,
sincerity coated
and tinged with you know what...
~~~
Dec. 3, 2015
nyc
11:12 pm
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC
With eyes of black obsidian
And eagle's beak of nose
Black turban of the Taliban
Worn everywhere he goes,
Warrior of God's mountainside
Mujaheddin, known by name,
Pashto is his verbal tongue
And Allah's quest, his fame.
Razored knife in braided belt
Long"Jezail"musket points to sky,
A gimlet glint to garnet gaze
One thoughtless move , you die.
Gliding fast from rock to rock
Gazelle like in his easy grace,
Silent as an adder's strike
Assassin black with turbaned face.
For centuries invaders came
To vanquish this stark land,
Persians,Romans, Russians
And British redcoats tried their hand.
And recently the Yankees
Came with automated war,
To find themselves engulfed
And fleeing for the exit door.
Inexorable Afghanistan
Has bleached their bones as one
Vendetta for the insult
While there's air to breath and gun.
Like Shah Massoud, the warlords
Descend from mountain cave
To slaughter all who venture
Be they terrified or brave.
Tribally disconnected
From Islamabad to Kabul,
Tajik versus Pashtun
Versus Koranic Islam's rule.
No prisoners are taken,
The women always use their knives
And ravines echo shockingly
As tortured slowly lose their lives.
But the sunsets are glorious
Valley mists by morning rise
And row by row of fractured peaks
Rise in grandeur to blue skies.
And the children croon to goat herds
As they graze high meadow's green
And above the taloned goshawk glides
Ever watchful and unseen.
Hulks of Russian gun ships
Litter valleys and the plain
And the ghosts of many nations
Walk these dusty roads of shame.
For the legacy of the Afghans
Is a ****** litany of war
And the road to their tomorrow
Is paved with promises of more.
Marshalg
Wanganui
30 December 2009.
www.worthyofpublishing.com
www.hellopoetry.com
Jan 3, 2010
Jan 3, 2010 at 9:15 PM UTC
I want an after dinner poem
Because they are so delicious
A poem on a pillow
And one after I do the dishes
I want a poem for breakfast
Cause they are so mentally nutritious
But most of all
I want you in my poetry
Because you are the best
Poem I could read
Form in figure fitting perfectly
Moving and talking to me
You are poetry in motion
You are artistry in thought
You are the queen of my desire
Because you make my poems
Shockingly hot
So write me a love poem
A poem of love lost
A poem of philosophy
Of such sweet sophistry
And what you have gained
And all that it cost
Give me a biographical picture
Or a nature walk
I want a poem
That is the truth of you
And in exchange
I will give you the poetry of names
And call you humanity
Jun 16, 2017
Jun 16, 2017 at 9:50 AM UTC
Know that I know
Failure is unstoppable
The situation is never unlosable
Trust me,
I'm already the biggest loser you know
How did I get over here?
Where do I go from there?
I don't know
How deep can shallow go?
That's probably something you should know
Terminal velocity, terminal illness, hospitality's critical
There's only so fast shit'll flow
Don't you worry though
I'll find the lowest low
Thee frequency is what's incredible
Watch me make the possible impossible
The predictable shockingly unpredictable
Knowing is half the battle
A cartoon told me so
Still waiting for it to help slow the fall though
©2024
May 17, 2024
May 17, 2024 at 6:58 PM UTC
You’re the reason why I wake up - immediately look at my phone every morning,
And the reason why I don’t get up
You’re also the reason why I stay up late all night wondering if you ever think about me,
the same way that I do about you every single night.
You’re the reason why I randomly laugh at random places - shockingly look at people because they’re wondering why I’m laughing and possibly expect that I’m crazy,
And the reason why I secretly cry from all the distressing words you say.
You’re the reason why I write,
And the reason why I don’t.
You’re the reason why I believe in myself that i can do good at everything and,
also the reason why I discourage myself.
You’re the reason why I’m happy,
but also the reason why I’m sad.
You’re the reason why I sing in the shower feeling like I’m in my own concert,
and also the reason why I drown myself in the water.
You’re the reason why I’m strong and,
also the reason why I can’t carry on.
You’re the reason why I’m allergic to cliché, all the lovey dovey type of love, and all the stupid fantasies.
You’re the reason why I play and,
the reason why I frozenly stare at the keys.
You’re the reason why I pass a day with a smile clipping butterflies in my stomach and,
also the reason why I scream at the top of my lungs, wanting the whole world to hear it.
You’re the reason why my heart isn’t longingly staying from its natural beat and,
also the reason why I can’t breathe.
You’re the reason why I’m in my right mind,
but also the reason why I’m demented, unstable and confused.
You’re the reason why I feel like I’m home - somehow fine and,
also the reason why I feel lost at most time.
You’re the reason why I stare at white walls and making unbelievable scenes in my head,
and also the reason why I keep myself busy to keep you off my mind.
You’re the reason why I think I make the right decisions,
but also the reason why I’m drowning from all the mistakes that I’ve done and you, pouring it into me.
You’re the reason why I take medicines to keep myself healthy and also,
the reason why I run away and fill tons of alcohol in my kidney.
You’re the reason why I’m understanding and patient.
You’re the reason why I’m still walking on my own feet and,
also the reason why I’m falling apart nearly on my knees.
You’re the reason why I stay,
and also the reason why I want to leave.
You’re the reason why I want you.
Yes, I do, blame you.
Because look what I have become,
I’m such a fool for you.
But darling, I really do,
want you.
You’re the reason I crave
and the reason why I cave.
You’re the reason why I have these walls and
the reason why it’ll slowly fall.
You’re the reason why I’m writing this long piece of crap with whole bunch of ‘you’re’s and ‘why’s.
I wonder…
Have I ever been your 'reason why’s?
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 1:07 PM UTC
The fifth poem I put on HP; few* read it so I resubmit as Lost In Space III.
I tinkered with it slightly... O yeah, based on a true story....
Multi-tasking your body
Kissing your eyes,
Sense the tipsiness of your
Trembling lashes,
Drinking a poem from
My poetry birthing place.
Between kisses and rapido exhales,
Stutter and lisp
Uttered word-wisps,
Shockingly bad love poem stories.
Right hand strokes thy chest,
sensing/sending heartbeats upon my palm to the
Forever keep part of my
Treasury memory chest.
All the while my left finger
Catalogues, indexes.
It, mesmerized, it memorizes,
The curvatures of thy face
To be stored in the
Never-forget, always-place.
My tongue restless to participate
Goes wherever it feels like,
For the tongue is the only body part
With a mind of its own,
And enjoys getting into
What it calls, the best kind of trouble.
My eyes, my eyes, see only the
Totality of this moment.
When mastery of multi-tasking
Is the single best poem this man ever
Penned with his entirety,
Of which not word survived
For its unspoken silence was its glory....
May 19th
Laguna Niguel, Ca.
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 1:52 PM UTC
They say that love is blind
The truth is just, love is pure.
She is patient, she is kind,
She’s unrefined and yet, demure.
Through her looking glass she sees
Spots of flaws and marks of pain
Why do you cry so much, darling?
How can I never make you feel that way again?
Love should know that beauty fades,
She should know that looks are weak
But love cannot be easily stuck in place
Not all who claim to find can truly seek.
Are you the measure of the man?
So wonderful in writing
But is your face too faithless
Shockingly unbeguiling.
Is love so shallow that she can’t see
How you give her the world?
But is it her prerogative to be
After those who make the heart twirl?
Will love be another one with a seven
With plenty of zeros to his name?
How does her nature suffer
When it is love you seek to tame?
Aug 10, 2021
Aug 10, 2021 at 6:01 PM UTC
I was hitchhiking in the cold
Cold so intense that I knew I could die
A car pulled over and I got in
I thanked the driver profusely
“It was the least I could do” he said
As I thawed into survivor's awe
I noticed the man was playing music I loved
He asked me casually about my life
And told me about his
“Why don't you drive for awhile?” he asked
“It's the least I can do” I playfully replied
He fell right to sleep
In a nimbus I drove and drove
The car purred and its leather grew softer and softer
I lost track of time
Near his destination, he dropped me off at a bus station
My bus arrived as he pulled away
Its seats were hard and small
The bus driver was a shockingly large woman
“So you got here in one piece” she said
She grinned, her teeth were huge and perfect
And then she pointed at the grin
“Addiction!” she roared “All Aboard!”
Aug 10, 2012
Aug 10, 2012 at 3:37 AM UTC
Rebellion – for too long the status quo,
is, in our day, a predictable show.
Antichrist irony, absurdity
shockingly daring incongruity
no longer shock the bourgeois, you know…
Alone in the temple of glass with a rock,
you’re out of traditional symbols to mock.
Surrealists did it much better than you –
and it meant a lot more in ’32.
You chew your cud on the cattle-wagon
overused shock-tactics (moo ! ) now draggin’
(or herding) aboard the iconoclast train
(b)lowing through boxcars your bovine refrain:
“to, um – make people think…” Oh Lord, how uncouth.
Nihilist narcissus – tell me, what’s Truth?
Must creative always be subversive?
I discern, in your frenzied discursive,
a dull and predictable lack of life.
While you brandish that plastic butter knife
I seem to note, in your constant ******
dearth of artistic ability. Must
bohemian acolytes (some yawning)
ever be deer in the headlights, fawning
before the ironic gesture? It’s sad;
the bitter is sweet but the art is bad…
They circle hors d’oeuvres on opening night
like moths around white wine in candlelight,
cerebrating in a modernist void:
contemporary aesthetes, overjoyed
to know once more that life has no meaning;
the planet is doomed; that kings are queening;
that chic just arrived, escorting philosophy
(Forgive us, Duchamp, for all this monstrosity).
I long for Hudson River School sunsets
Old Dutch Masters, religious art, portraits,
Red, green, or black propaganda-art? NO !
The view does not merit the price of the show.
I’m dada-ed to death, beyond the surreal.
Conceptual gimmicks have failed to conceal
your want of ability, values, and faith
In the book you despise it is written: “thus saith
the fool in his heart: that there is no God…”
You: Postmodern Art – to the firing squad!
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:57 PM UTC
I've spent the past hour fervently pondering selfishness, sacrifice, closeness of family,
economy, future, past, the importance of the present, knowledge, education, laziness, friendship,
culture or the lack thereof, loneliness, lines drawn that we might cross, the subjectivity of those lines,
right, wrong, hope, misery, pain, fear, happiness and the pursuit of happiness, contentment, and the most shockingly simple, yet overwhelmingly accurate statement describing the combined existence of them all: life is complex.
I feel like some poetic injustice rests in that statement.
Jan 25, 2012
Jan 25, 2012 at 6:15 AM UTC
I see a deer,
by a cold babbling,
partly frozen brook,
he's taking a quenching needed drink.
He looks my way,
& gives me a wise,
careful long stare,
with a curious look,
& sweetly wistful wink,
I look up to the twilight sky,
then he's just...
g
o
n
e
.
.
.
.
In just a single momentary silent blink.
I stop a moment,
sigh
I stop to appreciate,
watch & thank him,
as I sit on a mossy frozen log,
to stop,
- to think,
I hear a sound,
my heart,
hitting bottom,
as I feel it just..
S
I
N
K
G...
O...
N...
E... ,
A shockingly loud-
B L A S T
A single gunshot,
wound,
I'm the one bleeding,
Oh no!
and now I'm the charge of this leaking,
& all of this unholy ink.
Cherie Nolan © 2016
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 4:48 PM UTC
When I reflect upon, the most pain ridden..chest tightening, disturbed memories...they nearly cause my heart to cease from beating.
Yet, I cannot conjure up the strength to cry.
I've poured out the regrets, the torment, the sleepless nights and panic attacks that have induced vomit...to the point of self paralization.
I've drank and inhaled..to the point of near death..attempting to numb..in a frantic frenzy to run, hide, drown or bury, the torturous memories.
I do all of this... To sober up... And realize...that it's still There.
I'm standing at the base of a pile of life's stench ridden...dark, gloomy, shockingly disgusting memories.
They are stacked as high as I can see..to the proverbial sky. Fuming...as if a train wreck had just occurred.
Yet...I'm still here.
Simply standing.
Arms loosely draped to my sides..shoulders back..lungs still taking in every breath..heart calmly beating.
I gaze up at the wreckage.. Aware that I will have to pick through every portion...and last foul piece of agony, affliction and wounded heart scraps.
I will have to learn from the life altering chaoses and saturate any ounce of joy...then move forward.
Allowing this past to remain...to cease to direct my future...and slowly disinegrate into the soils.
HOPE; The feeling that what is wanted can be had.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 1:20 AM UTC
Uno, dos, tres,
here we ****** go again.
Mexican blood running through a Texan accent,
yet playing the same old game.
All credit for our first kiss goes to *****
but the second, now that was fate.
You happen to pick up the phone,
when I called that night, quite late.
Weeks later bumping into you at Morrisons,
and on the way back in the bus?
I don't spend my time looking into crystal *****
but, coincidence much?
Cuatro, cinco, seis,
where on earth did you learn to Sext... (text)?
Mr. Polite to Mr. Passionate,
leaving me on the edge not knowing what to expect next.
The hearty deep laugh followed by
shockingly ****** expertise,
and I'm hypnotized by that shower gel,
which makes your body smell like rich Earl Grey tea.
With eyes glued to those macho tattoos,
and *** flowing through my brain,
straddling you was ecstatic,
wearing not a lot more than a gold chain.
Siete, ocho, nueve,
when it ended why did you stay?
You held me,
and was still there the next day.
You hugged me,
in that warm, tight, protective kind of way,
and kept messaging back,
even after you went away.
Now all this has left me confused,
frankly I'm utterly bemused.
How ****** up am I to suspect
'being treated well' as a twisted ruse?
Diez,
hope this isn't the beginning of an end.
'Cause if you hadn't noticed,
I'm already a bit of a mess.
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 8:37 PM UTC