"shrugs" poems
I like playing with words
Sometimes drinking coffee
I imagine I'm a ballerina drawing swords
To make my mind flee -
I need no drugs
But the little man in my coffee cup shrugs,
He whispers
'try some sativa'
I am stubborn
I pick him by his toes
And feed him to the bugs
'Viva!
The independent mind!' Says Shiva!
I'm now a samurai...
doing ballet moves.
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 1:12 AM UTC
Teetering on her baby legs
A newborn with a Solo cup
bombastic red with a few
undulating ribs
Held firmly in her hand
Is this her first or her third?
Somnambulant yet eager
And just a little out of place
In a foreign territory
On newly contested lands
She stumbles through a raucous crowd
Or was it just white noise?
She’s lost her companions
Somewhere
Although they could very well be close at hand
In the distance she can make out
Laughing faces
Bodies moving to and fro
Spilling forward, little messes
Throwing back cheap libation
She passes through a room and out the door
Into the out-of-doors
Someone following her unbeknownst
Watching her cautious, curious steps
And when she turns and sees the blur standing
She greets it
“Hail Fellow!”
Bouncing from variable to variable
Frequency to frequency
Confident and in command
Of a seemingly controlled chaos
He approaches smiling and holds out his hand
Anonymous
Having drawn her attention from the stars
That she could not find above
Leaning against the garage’s eastern wall
She takes it awkwardly
Tentative she smiles back reassured
Wobbling she returns standing alongside him
Or was she in front?
Purposeful and en route
Emboldened by his presence
And how the way was parted before her
Just by his being there.
By being so close.
She felt vaguely special
it showed in her half-smile
Cloaked in bangs
She held her head just a little bit higher
The co-conspiratorial glances
Met by boys eyes
And shes
Went unseen by the girl with the
Solo cup
One of tens upon tens upon tens
A coven would have known
It’s better not to
However.
She was shown a seat to rest
And her cup refilled
She takes a sip and smiles again
She takes another and then a gulp
That spills
He takes the cup away
And places it on the low table
Suggests she go to the restroom upstairs and get herself
Sorted
Embarrassed she is relieved for direction
Someone knows what’s going on
And his caring
Taking the time
His kind eyes
She’s usually alone
She waddles up the stairs to find
a toilet and a mirror
God she thinks
I look a mess
She tries to fix it
The hair
The eyes
The lips
The dress
The stomach
The *******
The thighs
She shrugs her shoulders at her reflection
Exhales and steps out again
To find him standing there
waiting for more.
She wants another cup.
She’s missing her cup.
I’ll get you the cup he says
In just a second.
Come.
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 3:53 PM UTC
Why does Sour Lemon shrug?
Sour Lemon thinks your sour lemons stink.
Why does Sour Lemon think your sour lemons stink?
Sour Lemon shrugs while Sour Lemon thinks.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 5:32 AM UTC
While yes, I have a résumé
It does no justice describing mé
So I'll leave this here for all to see
All I ask is please hire me
I'm great with sales
and communication
I can create tales
with no hesitation
Been fixing PCs since '99
Right after I broke all of mine
I don't do drugs
I don't cause fights
I won't give shrugs
to new insights
I can Photoshop best selling ads
and tell corny jokes just like most dads
I write HTML
and CSS
I can kinda spell
At least try my best
Started my first business in 5th grade
Profiting from the paper airplane trade
I'm a fast learner,
a problem solver,
a trust earner,
an idea causer,
a spreadsheet slayer,
a real team player
While I'm no photography guru
I've actually had a paid gig or two
Dove into video editing
way back when MySpace was a thing
Oh yeah. Plus I'm proficient with Microsoft Office.
Nov 2, 2018
Nov 2, 2018 at 2:17 AM UTC
She's hot, He's not
They've got nothing in common
He's out drinking away his problems
She's at home sitting on the bed crying
His seeing other girls
While she's all alone at home
And these two souls
Should be walking separate paths
Both hurt and ache inside
Both mentally troubled in their mind
This situation just doesn't feel right
They're Mr and Mrs's negativity
They've never got anything positive to say
They're emotionally drained every day
Trying to find a smile in these hard times
but in these dark days, it's hard to find a light
And this relationship breaking down
And karma always comes back around
They're gonna drown in the down down
They're Mr and Mrs's negativity
They've never got anything positive to say
She wants everything to be her way
He could care less what she has to say
He wants every girl in his sight
He has no feelings for his wife
She's staring at the clock
Counting down the minutes until he comes home
She wants him to herself
She's hurt, she really loves him
Be he really doesn't give a ****
What she's feeling in her heart
Her tortured soul will be the masterpiece of his art
They're Mr and Mrs's negativity
They've never got anything positive to say
They're emotionally drained every day
Trying to find a smile in these hard times
but in these dark days, it's hard to find a light
And this relationship breaking down
And karma always comes back around
They're gonna drown in the down down
They're Mr and Mrs's negativity
They've never got anything positive to say
He needs money for the bills
She's got thoughts of leaving him
She's got those initial kind of feelings
She still loves him so it's hard to leave
When he is everything she feels she needs
And she knows that she deserves better
She's finding the strength and courage
To walk out of that door and so
She tells him, he will lose everything
He shrugs it off and takes another swig of his drink
They're Mr and Mrs's negativity
They've never got anything positive to say
They're emotionally drained every day
Trying to find a smile in these hard times
but in these dark days, it's hard to find a light
And this relationship breaking down
And karma always comes back around
They're gonna drown in the down down
They're Mr and Mrs's negativity
They've never got anything positive to say
She's got the car packed
Ready to make a change
Find happiness and a future somewhere new
As she goes to walk out the door
He strikes her across the face
She falls to the floor
He raises his voice in anger
You will never leave me you, little *****
Tears run from her eyes bruised and beaten
Mascara streaming down her cheeks
So much weakness in her body
Can't find the strength to pick herself back up
She tries with all her might
But she's stuck lying on the floor
They're Mr and Mrs's negativity
They've never got anything positive to say
They're emotionally drained every day
Trying to find a smile in these hard times
but in these dark days, it's hard to find a light
And this relationship breaking down
And karma always comes back around
They're gonna drown in the down down
They're Mr and Mrs's negativity
They've never got anything positive to say
He's barely thinking straight
Alcohol overtakes his decisions
His eyes, now blurred vision
his sitting next to her on the floor
Too drunk to even stand, his limits
His at his end, he rips off her dress
he gives her every inch
That alcohol breath
She breathes it in, crying and afraid
She can't even think straight
How did it get to this stage
***** battered and bruised
The one she loved
Completely broke her trust
And now nothing will ever be the same
She'll be haunted by memories
for the rest of her days
They're Mr and Mrs's negativity
They've never got anything positive to say
They're emotionally drained every day
Trying to find a smile in these hard times
but in these dark days, it's hard to find a light
And this relationship breaking down
And karma always comes back around
They're gonna drown in the down down
They're Mr and Mrs's negativity
They've never got anything positive to say
©2017 Written By Benji James
Oct 10, 2017
Oct 10, 2017 at 7:56 AM UTC
The place was dangerous as hell; we had no business being there. It was a complex, composed of four immense structures, looming on the bluffs between Lake Michigan and a ghost town. I'm not sure which side of the fence brought forth more eeriness - the sight of four massive industrial skeletons was indeed an eerie one, but within the village that must endure it's haunting presence persists a dwindling heartbeat... and together they produced a heightened effect of slow decay - and that was what drew me in.
The place was magnificent day or night.
By day, we'd explore the groundworks while the light allowed us to admire the massive machinery, which by then had accumulated copious amounts of corrosion. All those dead giants, never to function again. In the spring time, beams of light would penetrate the ceiling above, caving in from years of stress sans stress tests. Even when the light was not shining through, one could make out where the beams have been because in their wake they left a trail of life. Up to that point in my life I thought that was the most beautiful scene I had ever seen - a thousand tons of old machinery, and a stubborn sunbeam poking through, incubating it's au natural industrialized chia pet.
By night, we would ascend to the rooftops of these four story horror stories and gaze up at the stars. Sometimes, when our ***** were feeling particularly swelled, we'd venture across the rooftops as if in some post-apocalyptic videogame. And sometimes when we were feeling a bit rebellious and artistic, we'd bring along some cans of spray paint and redecorate to our desire. Oh, and another reason the place reeked of death was surely due to it being a glue factory... wherein horses were killed in order to gain access to their foot-stuff. I was told by an unfortunate local that they'd bury the unwanted horse parts in big pits back behind the place... this man had told me that he fell into one while wandering around back there - nearly died trying to get out.
We knew the place was soon to be leveled, but we did not know when. Eventually I ended up moving out of state for a while, and alas, upon my return my childhood fascination was no more. shrugs... So it goes.
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 4:18 AM UTC
arson farson
larson? pio
leo trio el feo
angle fangle
his mite
is frite
scrap flap
trap slap hlap,
harun al rash
enter trash, mash
grate great
***** sheikh
eel feel meal really real
aeal steel molecular
trust bust, shrekular
even bush
shrugs off
the north tower.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 4:20 PM UTC
Taken, whisked, picked from the plug,
grass grows inside crack walled shrugs,
built by hand by a northern named man.
His dog lays still in the heather,
in the fog,
on the hill,
by the river;
resting in the bleak hill town, morning weather.
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 4:56 PM UTC
She rested a hand on my shoulder and smiled,
"Nice guys finish last."
My ****** expression remained the same while taking in
what left her tongue as her smile and hand soon left me.
She's going back to the other guy.
The 'bad boy'.
The kind of guy who won't consider her first,
the kind of guy who won't share how he's feeling first,
the kind of guy who lied to her, saying she was his first.
My shoulder, still warm from her hand, shrugs.
It, and the rest of me, know. I'm the guy who touches her the deepest,
I'm the guy who will do anything to see her warm, comforting smile,
I'm the guy who will wait for the bad boy to break her heart.
I'm the 'nice guy'.
She may come to me lastly, but in her heart,
I will finish first.
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 9:02 PM UTC
Her Masterpiece Is Her Story
Her paintbrush is a razor,
Her canvas, her wrists,
"I deserve the pain."
She shrugs and insists.
One day the brush will push down,
And it will cut so deep,
That this girl will fall
into an eternal sleep.
She doesn't remember how she started
What brought her interest to this,
How do you discover,
that cutting is your form of bliss?
No one would have guessed that she does it.
No one would have considered this one.
This girl is forever fighting a battle,
that she thinks the demons have won.
Her artwork is all over her,
Her beauty is on her thighs,
and if you look in her old trash,
you'll find her letters of goodbye.
Her masterpiece is quite disturbing,
Her masterpiece is a little gory,
Her artwork is her escape.
Let me tell you her story.
She compares herself to every person,
She is compared to each girl.
She thinks she's hideous,
And there's this boy that is her world.
She was bullied and picked on,
She was teased from head to toe,
Hard to believe that her best friend,
was her one and only foe.
Then later she disliked every little thing,
Her body, face and even her mind,
Soon she saw she was a failure,
and it was just in due time...
That this girl couldn't take it anymore
She'd decided she was done living this,
So one day she went home
and decided to end it.
Everyday for multiple days,
This girl would try to drown,
Hard to believe this girl at school,
never ever wore a frown.
Sometimes she'd just fall asleep crying,
Praying that she'd be enough,
Because she didn't want to leave her family.
She knew about their sweet love.
This girl found hope in small things eventually,
She soon would see this beautiful light,
and find a REAL best friend,
that helped her put up a fight.
Her masterpiece soon was leaving,
Her artwork was almost faded,
and it gave her a sick feeling,
the feeling of being jaded.
She found a boy that actually loved her,
And showed her love exists,
And this boy too had a masterpiece,
placed close to his wrists.
He related to her and she related to him.
She kissed his artwork and said he's not alone,
When she cut herself it hurt him,
Her masterpiece now wasn't just her own.
Her masterpiece effected others,
Her artwork wasn't just for herself,
She now had people,
who saw her cries for help.
And then her family found out,
So then they saw the art too,
to them they were just scars,
To her they were the truth.
She's trying to be okay now,
She thinks she might survive,
Even though they didn't think
to take away the knives.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 10:24 AM UTC
Pugsley snugs
on ugly rugs
and smugly shrugs
at Beak
But Beaky's peaking
and tweakily tweaking
while squeakily speaking
to Pink
And Pinky thinks
they're rinky *****
with stinky sinks
and ***** winks
Then Twiggy giggles
and jiggly wiggles
her wiggly jiggles
at Mister Higgles
And Mister Hig-g-l
Wait a second
Who's Mister Higgles?
'Undercover CBPP,' says he
(Crazy Bad Poem Police)
'Okay, let's break it up!
Enough of this stupid poem
Let's go, let's break it up!
Stay off bad poems people,
this stuff'll rot your
brain!"
©2011 Lyn
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 10:26 AM UTC
Regrets, they come in waves and break around his feet
And he begins to wonder who he might have been
Had roads diverged in different woods and fields
Not yellow or yet any colour still unseen
But clearer now by day than windless nights
Still nearer than the objects of his dreams
It'd rained late into the evening, and when the lights were shaded
Around the pool outside and with the windows shuttered
He'd thrown on loose clothes, flicked open an umbrella
While high outside the stars the lightning flashes muttered
Pulled open doors that led to the veranda
And moved outside once more with all his thoughts unuttered
The smoke, from fires on Java lies heavy on his senses
An omen of the time of year and of the past condition
He shrugs, ***** in the acidic nighttime odors
Reviving lives not lived but revealing his admission
That time beyond the present that mirrors every movement
Within, without, and yet again, the flicker of suspicion.
The pistol in his pocket, illegal not unloaded
A symbol of his state of mind and by his sole discretion
He kneels beside the water, deep-set and in the shadows
Lips forming wordlessly around the last confession
Images of where and what and who and why and whether
A portent of that final action, sensing and impression
The smoke from fires on Java lies heavy on the water
The reek of cordite mixing with the smell of burning grasses
Indignant birds protest the crack of one small set expulsion
The echo round the swimming pool reverberates and passes
Nothing more and nothing less and time and space and matter
Slick red upon the treacherous tiles, the shattered bloodied glasses.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 6:19 AM UTC
You ran & jumped & then slipped
Over Williams leg you tripped
Your ankle you broke
It is no joke
In blue plaster it is now zipped
But it's not all bad I say
You can still smile - don't dismay
I'll get rid of your shrugs
With plenty of hugs
And you can play Minecraft ALL day!!
(C) Pixievic
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 9:53 AM UTC
...
new moon
"just let me sleep,"
moon eaten
my absence upsets all.
Look at me, really look at me,
stare up at the belly of a loved sky,
watch fingers dipping into bowls of blood holding hope,
feeling around for a sliver,
of sweet milk,
of relief,
of anything;
new moon whispers
on the dead bodies left behind,
god sighs---
he knows;
"I am not the same"
waxing crescent
map out my wreckage,
my skeleton of poetry;
in the spines of books loved by mankind,
bury me there in a pages of flowers---
in the altitude of words;
read me with a hunger you have never known before,
over and over;
whenever it seems fit~
like the light of the moon is a cigarette.
smoking,
he's always smoking now.
god takes another drag;
he describes to me:
*"You could be my bible,
you book of blood"*
I can't stand smoke...
"I have no business in being your holy snakeskin."
first quarter
I've been searching for
solid ground, solid shadows,
a solid compromise;
I wanted a little more
than ordinary love from him so I
asked him where the static began,
for me it's below my bottom left rib
and found that it was also where the spiders started too.
Time, that quiet thing
obeys god, only
because it waits for no one
it loves
unzipping the law of alchemy,
cause ink flowered in my blood again;
I should thank time
it was this saving kind of grace;
always has been
god stroked my hair this time
and said quietly:
*"You see,
the saddest thing is realizing
that there's nothing more they can do for you"*
waxing gibbous
Oh, where's my love?
Is it in the fever I call happiness,
is it in the sword my mama raised me to be
Is it in the way
the moon tiptoes closer
when he says my name
in that beautiful way he does
or breaks my name
over his teeth like it's just
glass apples
God doesn't even look at me
he doesn't have to;
"Do you believe in angels?"
the wreckage answers him
"not lately"
full moon
And it begins again
I watch as he just looks away
and says it's fine
it hurts
god narrows his eyes but shrugs
"Pain had other plans for you."
I breathe out raggedly;
***"I guess,
if there's no key
then I'll just swallow the whole door."***
...
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 9:30 PM UTC
Death is not the final word.
Without ears, my father still listens,
still shrugs his shoulders
whenever I ask a question he doesn't want to answer.
I stand at the closet door, my hand on the ****
my hip leaning against the frame and ask him
what does he think about the war in Iraq
and how does he feel about his oldest daughter
getting married to a man she met on the Internet.
Without eyes, my father still looks around.
He sees what I am trying to do, sees that I
have grown less passive with his passing,
understands my need for answers only he can provide.
I imagine him drawing a breath, sensing
his lungs once again filling with air, his thoughts ballooning.
2.7k
Please don’t say not all men, when me too
becomes me three, me four, then twenty,
two thousand, too many for boy to be boys
or locker room talk.
We can’t talk away when men power grab
for things they have no right to touch,
with 140 characters insincere apologizes.
It’s time to man up and speak out and say
that being a gentleman is more than chairs and doors.
It’s less bro fists, shrugs and awkward laughs.
Instead, it is not cool bro, and really man you know better.
Because we know better, we know what goes on behind
closed doors, and only dealing with it when the doors are open
is not a solution but a symptom of the problem.
Being a nice guy does not give you access to her thighs.
Compliments don’t allow you to pass judgements
and what she wears, where she goes and what she does
does not mean a free pass.
If this culture thinks silence is permission
than I will be loud until no one has to say me too.
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 11:35 PM UTC
--------------------
When red ran from the sand.
From the depths, rose a creature quite old.
Solemn and slow, not a care to be bold
It anchored itself, and gave no expression
The strength of its shell, shook in depressions
Tall extensions: its lifeblood, its protection.
Found scattered, on its shell, in cert’n sections.
The pride of Madagascar—the creature by name—
Are Rosewood and Ebony now mangled and maimed.
--------------------
When red ran from his hand.
Trees are felled, and the humans displace:
Lemurs are losing, they can’t find their space.
Hear the creature wail, its shell echoes with grief—
The sounds of its guests, find little relief.
For its pride is valued, and cut for a price
Hard decisions made—it is life’s device.
Wooden splinters bite back trading flesh to save flesh.
Living masses are caught in our culture’s great mesh.
---------------------
When red in hand and land.
Oceans to flood, new depths to behold
Our desires to fill, balk: “Don’t let them fold!”
She tires of our, meandering session;
Beating-out paths, to varied oppressions.
Laugh at the onslaught, of one great convection!
As humans propel, in that direction…
In all this, Gaia shrugs, naked-apes are to blame.
Fruiting, of hand and land, need-be one and the same!
---------------------
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 12:30 PM UTC
Profound profanity, he says, is the key to germination.
But why, I say, would one ever want to procreate?
For the experience, he says, which is about the journey and not the destination.
I can understand this,
it's like riding a bike
a stationary bike
that goes nowhere but see, you're going! Going and going.
I do see
and so does he
so what do we do?
Not a whole lot, just sit and talk of trains and temperature and how pirates walk.
He likes to do litmus tests of our saliva and hang them in the windows for all to see
that we are not acidic, but on acid, and sometimes a bit base in nature,
like the trees and the crysanthimums and corinthian columns in Greece.
We traveled to Greece, once, on our stationary bike
it was beautiful and real and there was much salt in the air-
they grow olives and fish in the trees
and their water is just teeming with rust.
We put our rust on buttered toast like cinnamon and munched at the oxidized metal,
crunching like captains and cheesin like goats
just a random bunch of fools with our silver and tenticals and suction cups of steel.
We are like robots, fighting crime and boredom with music and shrugs
because frankly my dear we don't give a ram or an aries or any other kind of anything.
We simply do not
because we will not, and refuse, above all else, to sleep without a star in the sky.
May 18, 2012
May 18, 2012 at 7:28 PM UTC
He puts it out there, the Schrödinger’s cat of invitations.
Now, I’m irritated. “I TOLD you I don’t have time for.. involvement.”
“But you have to eat - so eat with ME,” he shrugs. “You can build a friendship with someone and still have freedom.” His observation was casual, as though it were unrelated to anything between us. He seemed to have the intuition that I’d balk if pressed.
“You’re subversive.” I said. “Why me? There are prettier girls, more agreeable, fun girls. I feel like I’m on the edge here,” I look around to indicate the room, the environment, the university. “And I can be a complete as-hole.”
He looked a little offended, “You’re interesting, I like what I know about you and, yeah, we can all be as-holes - we’re in a pool of “A” types, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“What do you KNOW about me?” I ask.
“I’ve read some of your writings,” he looked thoughtful, “I may know a little about how you think, It’s unusual.. interesting.”
I’m shocked and I squirm, “You looked me up?”
“I looked you up.” he nodded, “to be sure you’re not an axe murderer.”
“How much did you read?” I asked, wheedling, my inner-writer engaging.
“Tell you at dinner - YOU name the date and time,” he smiled.
“My idea of “dinner” is walking to a dining hall, picking up a bag of food, bringing it back here and taking ten minutes to eat it between chapters,” I warned.
“I have a meal card,” he says, jiggling his student lanyard.
“We’ll see.” I said. “Have you talked to anyone else about my writing?”
“No,” he answered, “Why?”
“Please don’t, I have to think about it.” I say. As far as I know, no one I know in RL has read me - it’s an odd feeling - like maybe he got ahold of my diary. I haven’t worried over the fact that someone I’m in physical proximity to could look me up. That all this stuff is actually out there.
“Don’t think my misgivings can be cajoled away,” I say, “no more talking.”
He chucked but we got back to studying.
Nov 16, 2021
Nov 16, 2021 at 10:21 PM UTC
The hills burn
Smokey cloud
Over the valley
Wind whipping up
Sparks of misty droplets
Through the windows
Of the house next door
Shadows genuflect
On the asphalt before
The streetlight
Thick foliage shrugs
Its burly shoulders
Smells of wet
Sage on the mountain
Gently the spring
Has closed the
Throat of thunder
I close my eyes
But no lightning makes
Its traces behind my lids
Summer waits...
SoulSurvivor
(C) 4/7/2016
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 10:29 PM UTC
I've come to know the
hospital well
the stale smells
the nurses names and stories
the hand sanitizer
the countless quiet
nervous
elevator rides
stuff like that
I could even write a full review
of the cafeteria food
should this hospital
have it's own newspaper.
There's been too many sad days
but I find myself laughing
as she shows off her blonde
extravagant wig
The doctors and nurses
Fall in love with her
her energy
her aura
As most people do
They laugh with her
And cry with her
And hope with her
People come in
They say
things will be fine
things will get better
My mom grows weary
She's heard this since stage two
They say
keep up the fight
But seen as a fight
Her getting sicker only implies
she is not fighting hard enough
that she is losing
nothing can **** hope quicker
but she shrugs it off
She doesn't need some
greeting card or nylon balloons
or some
half-assed healer
or some gurus blowing
smoke from burning sage
She needs authenticity
connection
meaning
She needs to be told things are awful
And probably won't get better
She needs complete vulnerability
on both ends
She needs real
Which is hard to find
in a lot of places
and faces
and words
an hour with her though
she would get it out of you
the 'you' that you didn't even know
she touched lives beyond
whatever I ever imagined capable
There are many ways
I wish to be like her
but most
is to be able to smile
as real
and transparent
as she did
when I am about to die.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 2:25 PM UTC
Paris sits at a heart-shaped table, her lamplight eyes dimming for the morning. She pumps a tube of mascara, yawning.
“Oi!”
Paris jumps, troubled by the noise. “Oh no. Not you.” She says, blusher brush poised.
London doffs his rooftops like ten million battered bowlers.
“Nice to see you too. Not a morning girl, eh?”
Paris shakes her lovely head in a flurry of churchbells. “For you mon cher, there’s no right time of day.”
(The Channel chuckles, unsettling ships, as Dover reclines in her cloud of talc and giggles like a tickled bluebird.)
London utters a swearword. “You don’t like me, do you?”
“You’re not fit to lick my shoe.” Paris scowls, adjusting the Eiffel Tower until it sits slap-bang in the middle of her head like a crown.
“What hard work you are!” London howls, slamming a fist into the Serpentine.
Calais shrugs his trees, bored. “Mon dieu – get a room.”
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 9:53 AM UTC
Apathy
is a disease;
it spreads and
appears to be incurable.
Symptoms include
laziness and
recklessness and
shoulder shrugs and
dropping grades.
It's a lack of
caring for
everything and
it's a lack of
effort for
things previously exciting.
In high school,
it's senioritis.
In real life,
it's laziness.
To me,
it's a desperate cry
for help,
for motivation,
for attention, and
for love.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 12:42 AM UTC
at the edge of humanity’s consciousness
a river flows through guitar chords of thoughts,
rocks and
stones caught in its
winding depths
the river drags seafoam upstream
gently claiming it
as if that which it touches is it’s own
and always has been
the foam only shrugs shyly,
an awkward smile slipping over its face,
that adds salt
in pinches
turning to idle sugars
-would anything-
the river responds to the projected call of a sand dollar
one that waters could never have dreamed of holding
so serenely
and it’s
like the world is beginning
all over again
that’s how it
should
feel
the sand dollar answers in sweet
sincerity
lightly clinging to
the pull of the waves
and it would be perfect if not
for
-have happened-
heaven’s reeds are
the root of heartache
and they drift down the Lithe
pulling everything
angelically
destructive
-if I didn’t-
-reach out-
-my hand?-
Mar 4, 2019
Mar 4, 2019 at 10:43 AM UTC