"shrivels" poems
Though the first carried more miles, the second day of the hike was totally and unapologetically uphill.
When you ascend, hiking becomes the zen of endurance.
First, you are stripped of all the pleasures of hiking. Your excitement is boiled into lactic acid. Your love for the trail is baked, hardened and dehydrated into thoughts of laying down in the sun until the heat shrivels you into an unconscious raisin.
Try as you may to put on your “isn’t hiking just a slice of heaven?” face, strangers passing you on the downhill stride can only see your “PLEASE GOD, HELP ME OR ******* **** ME” face.
As much as hiking really is a small slice of heaven, there is no denying the living-death of taking 10 straight miles to the knees under the chaffing hell of a 50 pound sack in the relentless sun.
But when you’re back in an office, sitting on your cushy little ergonomic chair, you long for the sweat and the torture that forces your mind to the ankle deathtraps of mountain terrain. To the deep valley behind and below you, and the crystal basin at the foot of the granite Giants.
The worst thing you can do is ignore the pain—that makes it relentless. Instead you focus on the pain until you become it. The only thing left is the moment between each step, when you remember why you are here and what it is worth. Every time your foot touches dirt, it leaves twice the footprint. One on the mountain and another in your memory where you will safeguard the misery of your ascent and hold on for dear life. One day, when your knees are too weak and your body can no longer table your pack, all the pleasures and joys of the trail that you once thought dissipated in the steam of uphill toil will come rushing back with the magnified strength of every year between you and the present you once knew and respected enough to actually live.
And if you didn’t, if you let it only be pain to get through and not to focus or dwell on, then that is what it is and will always be. A dull memory of pain, dark and somber and incomplete.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 2:41 PM UTC
I do not fear death.
But I do fear wasting life.
I don't fear the pain
of my skin burning,
the emptiness
of my last breath,
the aching
of leaving the ones I love.
I do fear
the lack of scars etched into my skin.
I do fear
the emptiness
of my thoughts.
I do fear
the tears that I will never cry
of a broken heart.
I want to meet all the people of the world
and share our ridiculous stories
before my lips become silent.
I want to make mistakes
and learn to be right the next time
before I see the Devil.
I want to fall in love with the Earth,
with the people that walk on it,
with the mud that gets under my nails,
with the sunlight and rain that my skin soaks up
before my body shrivels into ashes
flowing in the wind.
When the comes that I should die
and I still have not lived
I should beg the Lord
Give me one more day
I beg you, please!
I wish to feel the sun bake my withered skin.
I wish to smell the bitterness of the sea.
I wish to see the stars dance at night.
and hear the laughter of children running by.
Let me live
for one day
and I'll let an infant take my place.
I do not fear losing life
I only fear losing a life a that never got to live.
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 1:33 AM UTC
So now the changed year’s turning wheel returns
And as a girl sails balanced in the wind,
And now before and now again behind
Stoops as it swoops, with cheek that laughs and burns,—
So Spring comes merry towards me now, but earns
No answering smile from me, whose life is twin’d
With the dead boughs that winter still must bind,
And whom to-day the Spring no more concerns.
Behold, this crocus is a withering flame;
This snowdrop, snow; this apple-blossom’s part
To breed the fruit that breeds the serpent’s art.
Nay, for these Spring-flowers, turn thy face from them,
Nor gaze till on the year’s last lily-stem
The white cup shrivels round the golden heart.
10.8k
So he threw all his chips on red
Thought only of what was in his head
Which turned out to be shots of dread
For his seeds planted in young women's garden bed
Without nary water or breaking bread
Or nary knowing the breaches of his and her homestead
So he rushed down stranger's alley shed
On a runaway, wrongheaded cocky sled
Through her banks, he crashed her spread
Like a raging, raging thoroughbred
Nary was a thought of a rubber glove on his dragonhead
For the buried absence of love was in his heart of lead
There's his wife at home tucking their kids in their bunkbed
While he flirted with the forbidden apple instead
It was this night that lives in infamy for others to read this dread
For the news broke of a married man impregnating a young coed
Accosting such teen to what now proves to be his deathbed
Yet if he unwinds his c(l)ock and placed his chips on black he wouldn't have bled
Petering out the ills in his marriage he would have been freed
Now he shrivels in a shameful battle of what went through his head
Logan Robertson
10/05/2018
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 10:10 AM UTC
Something inspires the only cow of late
To make no more of a wall than an open gate,
And think no more of wall-builders than fools.
Her face is flecked with pomace and she drools
A cider syrup. Having tasted fruit,
She scorns a pasture withering to the root.
She runs from tree to tree where lie and sweeten.
The windfalls spiked with stubble and worm-eaten.
She leaves them bitten when she has to fly.
She bellows on a knoll against the sky.
Her udder shrivels and the milk goes dry.
4.6k
left brain, left brain
logical and literal
logarithms and lessons
long nights with little light
left brain sees the one
we love
and stays away
because it's the right thing to do
right brain, right brain
romantic and ridiculous
poetry and promises
dreams and darlings
yet to be killed
right brain sees the one
we love
and shrivels up dead
because being so close and so far
is too much for one to bear
when your heart is impaired
left brain, left brain
sees sights of soaring smiles
sees sights of somber sorrow
and squashes it with seas of cynicism
because left brain knows better
those people hurt us before-
why let them hurt us some more?
right brain, right brain
silly and sentimental
attaches arbitrary attributes
to objects of ominous obeisance
because right brain is impulsive
in this moment, they are everything
so they will always be everything-
right?
left brain, right brain
dynamic dichotomy
different and drastic
secure and stubborn
too strong-willed to back down
too lonely to break apart
disagree as we may
we know we might as well stay
for everyone in life needs a friend
and left brain and right brain
will be together until the end
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 8:08 PM UTC
My friends all seem to be noticed,
They have prom dates and boyfriends,
Their Social Media is ripe with new people every day.
They are popular.
I am but a shadow in their midst.
My family all seem to be fortunate,
With their big companies and job success,
And their test victories and general triumph.
They are successful.
I am but a disaster among them.
My community blossoms with life and fun,
But yet, it shrivels away under my touch,
For fear I bring tragedy upon all things I lay my fingers on.
So I stay in my shadows,
I accept my disasters.
I am but a ghost amid the world.
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 1:53 PM UTC
The skin is dry
The pull
The tug
The tear
The skin is dead
It sticks
It bleeds
It shrivels
The white teeth stained
With the blood and the pain
As the pink lips scab,
The skin pulled back
Blood drips
Tongue licks
Teeth rip
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 9:48 PM UTC
woman
you are
dazzle,
powdered
stomp of
colours,
mist dew
bright of
song,
melody
of a hum
when you
speak,
clear eyes
sparkle on
the surface,
delicate,
serene,
today you
said softly,
budge a little
in the path of
an evening sun,
it gets into my eyes,
you shall be
the death of me,
should I be left
with words and
rhyme,
these stiff
laces of device
I call poems,
of what use
are they,
you will
not be
here,
my heart
gnaws,
twists,
caught
in perils
of desire
oh garbage
words,
you are a
beggar's
lament
be away,
let me
gaze at
her while
time benignly
spins a top,
soon it
is bound
to topple
this alphabet
string,
pearl scatter
of a necklace,
be away,
verse,
futility,
to live in
a papered
world when
loveliness
shrivels
to another
lost moment,
be away,
illusion
let me see
it as it is
her yellow
dress,
gathering
light,
her terse
shades,
her yellow
dress
let
dreams
tarry a
little,
speckled,
hypnotized,
sunshine,
her
yellow
dress
shall be
the death
of me
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 11:08 AM UTC
My depression is a shape shifter
Some days it can be as big as a lion
And others it can be as small as a bee
On the good days I can feel happy and free like a weight has been lifted from god knows what
But on the bad days... god the bad days
It can feel like the world is against me, i wake up and my body tells me no. I go to school and avoid everyone because I know I will either hurt them or myself like I constantly do. it's not just physical pain either it's emotional pain that never stops like someone constant telling me I'm worthless.I'm ugly.
Why are you here?!? I ask myself
Why did god put me here just to torture me
And on these days a little bit inside of me shrivels up and dies
It's like smoking, the first time it's not that bad but after a while your lungs start collapsing, slowly dying inside of you without you knowing until it's too late to change it.
On the bad days I lie to everyone and say I'm fine
IM FINE!
Are you actually kidding me! Do you honestly believe that I'm fine?
Look at my arms and my legs
Do you not see them scars do you not see that my only way of me not killing myself is to control my physical pain because clearly my emotional pain is out of control.
On the bad days it's like a downwards spiral which I don't know when it will stop or if it ever will.
On the bad days I don't know if I will beat my battle I don't know if I will **** my demos
But I hope and I pray that one day. One day someone will see how actually messed up I am.
How can they not see it already!
It's not going to be until I try and **** myself that you or someone else will actually work it out!
I. Don't. Want. To. Be. Here.
I. Want. To. Die.
But then I don't
If that's my only way out I'll take it but I don't want to
Mum say " I just want you to be happy"
How! How can I be happy when most days I feel like there's no point, everyone hates me any way so what's the point!
You don't understand.
My depression is a shapeshifter.
I hope one day you will work it out
Jun 8, 2017
Jun 8, 2017 at 4:40 PM UTC
Springtime begins to prevail
The white blanket slowly shrivels
Lifting winter’s tattered veil
With a slow and sturdy swivel
Little purple ones sprout first
Followed by the dandelions
But until the lilac bushes burst
We’re still enduring frigid times
Their beauty brings warmth and light
To the wasteland winter left behind
Clearing the path for illuminated nights
Of the blazing, treasured, never-ending kind
The breeze whispers soft to the trees
Sweet summer air flows everywhere
The peepers chirp in splendid harmony
The sweltering sun seeps gold into my hair
The vines, the grass, the flowers; they flourish and they thrive
The delicate side of Mother Nature is so gorgeous, and so fair
She breathes us; gives us our homes, our food, our lives
But her harsher side can take life away with just one breath of her frigid air
She can devastate an entire town with her roaring winds
She trembles and buildings crumble, tearing people apart
Limb by limb
So treasure every moment of her beauty; but be well aware;
She will do what she must and cannot be forced to care
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 9:33 PM UTC
Divest me in lowest twang possible
You're a virus ov benevolence
Clod dockets and nightly shrivels
You're Ideology's ravaged havoc
All slates ov mind embellish at one time
Scandalmonger, a repetitive meddler
I am, you are, a beast like endeavor
Two noddy's going rabid
To divulge and disclose; we're savaged
Trek of dearth and surly in combined minds
Withered, wizened, burnished, refined.
Nov 19, 2010
Nov 19, 2010 at 4:27 PM UTC
My fingers bleed
as I scratch the inside of my skull.
Like cleaning out a pumpkin to carve,
removing pulp and fingernails,
and scattering seeds to be planted.
Vacant minded, a candle
placed and centered in my head,
illuminating my eyes
and putting color to my cheeks.
Tape measure stretched,
razor sharp snap back.
Graphite on pine.
Rusted teeth cut deep.
Being boxed in, yet waiting,
anticipating the metal nails to sing
as wood meets wood.
Plumes of smoke escape
the pine structure.
My candlelight depletes along
with oxygen. This containment
only serves to obfuscate while
holding a crowbar.
And the seeds planted above
linger in soil
marinated by wood chips.
All the while the vegetable
shrivels up and cries.
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 6:51 PM UTC
Delivered to us by an optimistic gentleman in a black Stetson cap
who spent his days waving village traffic down with an open hand,
it's been four years since you were sat on the bookshelf in Kath's house.
You stood proud, surveying the fine china made across the border
wrapped up in donated newspaper articles and pristine hand-me-downs,
while my inky fingers welcomed regulars who only ever looked around.
Each weekend we were greeted by bright smiles set in permanent shadow.
Sometimes I declined banknotes on the street for carrying dismantled tables.
I'm still searching for namesakes when perched on local stones above sea level.
Friends like Elvis were divisive figures due to their signature tobacco smells.
Under a green bus shelter, I laughed at his frown about a Midlands town.
Thinking about the rows of vacant church seats still leaves me cold
even now. As I watch needles drop onto rocks and a solitary shell,
your frame shrivels daily and bends you crooked like a question mark.
Oh, Eric - will I ever meet your father again to discuss your burial?
Sep 12, 2020
Sep 12, 2020 at 11:16 AM UTC
if life were really a tree,
mine would be cold,
dead from the frost
the leaves would have fallen
no hint of gold left on there surface
no love
no care
for this tree stands shorter than the rest
its breaths short
quivering in the silent wind
the trunk shrivels,
its bark turned grey
ashy remains through fire
it has burnt its unending river
of scarlet as its trunk is sliced to pieces
all you do is stand and watch
you watch them tear the tree apart
its beauty being lost each second that ticks by
If life were really a tree
you,
are my Tree Surgeon.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 4:58 PM UTC
There’s a lagoon in my head separated from the fierce ocean of confidence by a low sandbank.
The sand dawdles to diminish its size, with melancholy waves halting its ruckus,
Water was never that loquacious, only cooing hastily on the salty air
Quaint grains of mushy rutabaga make it hard to finagle,
Because the sirens beautiful song entices me to sink
So I flounce hysterically, unable to calm my mind.
Her fair face freckled with sand gleams with odes of despair,
Adding to the mournful steps of the receding tide.
Waters once at a healthy level, wisp the fresh sea foam away.
Jagged rocks now poke out from the depths,
The vibrancy of her seaweed hair messy and curly, shrivels.
The timid sand portrays such reserve in its frantic company,
The waves crash on cue with such force,
Predictability is only her turquoise concealment
Ephemeral brine absorbed by desire,
Encapsulated by the beige powder,
That cannot dissolve.
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 11:14 AM UTC
Hard squirming in my stomach
overpowers.
Missed a pill by a few
hours.
Hope it doesn't seed,
hope it starts to bleed,
shrivels up and sours.
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 11:41 AM UTC
When she looks back,
A small teen believed
he was the happiest milestone
that's ever been marked
in her journey of life.
She treated him like a dying man.
She cherished every second,
laughed at every word,
loved every part of him
entirely every moment she could.
Her brain would plant
beautiful flowers
and they became nourished by
a simple thought of him.
He did not show efforts
to create a new garden.
Malnutrition problems.
She was over blossoming
beautiful bouquets.
And gave them to the poison.
Time passes by,
she tried to be her again.
The thought of him always lingered
and it achieved all it needs.
Questioning herself, lack of confidence.
Day after day pass by,
She doesn’t know what she wants
lost in the ways of the world.
Her brain participates in ways to burry
the negative feelings to succeed
at only feeling good.
She’s stuck, the pain overbears her.
Fatigue, sadness, lack of motivation
all tag along, alone with nothing better to do. Weighing her down in the world while he is living like one normally does.
6 years later. She’s asked about her first love.
When she's thinking about him,
her brain shrivels up
like a flower would when it's cold.
She try to protect herself, “Debatably a waste of time but also glad it happened.” She answers.
Growth is in pain, she acknowledges.
She thinks of her previous pain
only to find the root of sadness
to be able to change.
She lets go. She loves herself. She is beautiful. She feels like she is worth the world and deserving of a loving guy.
She notices that her maturity was key.
She lives life for her every day. Not for a boy, not for her school, grades, parents. SHE LIVES FOR HERSELF.
Her peace became important. She realized, feelings of hers are real. She is allowed to feel. Her emotions have power.
Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 10:30 PM UTC
They came in search of incredible sun,
seduced by cicadas and an easy time;
extraneous baggage with nothing to declare.
Two days in:
Sister Rose shrivels on her browning stem;
survives on lettuce leaves and cheap wine.
Pitiable by design, knowing perfectly
she's past her beauty max.
At her feet:
The blue pool cups cured hide
of idle heat-crazed beast
unleashed from his computer belt-
a doughboy moulded to his insubstantial boat-
afloat for fourteen days!
Entwined-
my crazy brother reclines with his latest lover
to share 'delightful' elderflower champagne
through a single straw,
****** together by their eyes.
And in the shade:
mother sits it out in floral silk,
sustained by seventy deniers
and her would-have-liked ideals-
the shadow of a lattice grill tatooed across her brow.
Then as the just deserts arrive,
and darted looks are handed round,
I glower at the heat - crazed ground
and muse- 'it's time to go,'
........but they would never forgive me..
May 16, 2010
May 16, 2010 at 5:10 AM UTC
A pipe -- deferred
The American Dream
Shrivels
Raisin in the
Sun
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 9:32 PM UTC
I.
I wear the stern face of my ancestors,
the apron-clad Scandinavian matriarchs
who built me from rock and bone.
My husband, my good friends, my family, my colleagues
all affectionately name me "intimidating."
They say:
"You're the strong one."
"We'll send you to win the battle."
"They should have known not to cross you."
They name me fighter,
mouthpiece,
leader,
and stand like tin men in legions at my back.
I am obliged to march on;
I cannot remember a time
when my feet have rested.
My banner waves in the northwest wind
and I hold it, dutifully,
fearing its inevitable fall
as my arms shake.
II.
My arms
shake.
Wind camouflages
this constant trembling: the
fabric of my
flag
whips and ripples and any
falter
in its course
is blamed on the wind, but
veins shrink - skin
shrivels - muscles
shake - I am no Atlas,
my
breath slows
sharpens
stops -
III.
I am a dry sand-castle:
one touch will obliterate me.
I am the brittle leaf on concrete:
one shoe will shred me.
I am dandelion spores on a plain:
one gust will erase me.
IV.
In my chest beats the soft heart of my ancestors,
the ruddy-cheeked Scandinavian matriarchs
who built me from soft earth and azaleas.
So name me weakling,
broken-down,
dependent;
give voice to all of me.
Lift this banner,
and give rest to my weary shoulders.
Hold me in your arms
when I need to collapse.
V.
At times,
even a general must be carried by her soldiers.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 11:10 PM UTC
There is a heartfelt flower,
genuine and beating.
It yearns and reaches
and curls up inside,
fluttering at every touch,
of those real and affectionate.
There is a heartfelt flower,
genuine and bleeding.
It bleeds and spills
and twists up inside,
weeping drops of red,
all crumpled and stained.
There is a heartfelt flower,
genuine and wilting.
It drains and ebbs
and shrivels up inside,
turning into empty bones,
cast aside and torn apart.
There is a heartfelt flower,
genuine and withered.
If only they could see it
during its full bloom.
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 6:46 PM UTC
You have a gift,
my lovely monster.
I get to own you in the dead hours of night,
all mine and rough and ravenous for pounding blood
and heated touches.
Words are putty in your claws,
my lovely shadow, chasing my body, so close.
They are malleable, leaky,
drizzling sweetness and love in sugary promises.
They crack apart when I reach to see if they are real.
Days are completed journeys, changing sides of your heart,
my lovely animal.
Softened heart melting in my fingers, wrapping my body one day
and bruised and brittle red glass leaving blood marks
painting crude patterns and ruptured brutal bursts on beaten skin.
She just doesn’t know how beautiful she is…
Through anything, I need to hear it, I need to be here…
You make me feel like I never have before…
I love you and I need you right now…
My body wants to wrap around you, when the shadows return
to rest along my lonely cold walls.
I devour your words, hungry and lustful, tempting,
the juice and hope of them leaves gloss on my lips.
I remind myself dazed and sleepily to lock your words in today’s box.
They can be shelved; raised and at once forgotten among the other
treasures you give me.
Each day is a new box my dearest monster.
I cradle and store your words like delicate porcelain,
only usable for one single day.
Only clean for one slim moment.
Right now I curl beneath you,
the smell of you stains my skin and littered clothes.
You breathe on me.
Your words are crashing noise; they ring and slice the air,
my head splits and my eyes weep salty remnants of your words.
Cleansed and rid of the filth you breathe into them,
your tongue that slithers through my parted lips, scorching my throat.
Your hands cold and threatening,
I can taste the dusty feelings you shed, like dead skin
flaking away its layers.
The words you mouth just spread ash around me, circles my body
like a dead hearth.
You never meant them.
They cover the frightening parts of you I can finally see-
Rip.
Seams exposed and blood making its slow passage to the floor.
I feel its sticky pool beneath me, my back lies wet and limp in your hand.
A husk bleeding out.
Lead me on and take what’s yours.
My heart. It hurts. It shrivels in the wake of your betrayal.
Stung and stopped,
you crawl off your prey.
Leaving it to be scavenged in the dark to come.
My lovely monster.
Come back.
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 10:24 PM UTC