"sickeningly" poems
I'm having tea with Life,
And his band of Disappointments.
They dine at my expense,
And they're a hungry bunch of guests.
Tea turned into Supper,
Where the Disappointments drank
My finest wine,
And Life wiped his cruel mouth
On my tablecloth.
You can't have supper without dessert,
So they ate up more of my
Food for thought.
And if you stay for dessert,
You may as well spend the night.
So they did
And burgled my pantry of hopes
For a midnight snack.
One night was lovely,
So Life cackled, "Why not stay two?"
And two turned to a week,
And a week turned into
My sickeningly merry guests
Moving into my dreams,
And inviting in Doubt,
To live with them too,
And of course
Pay no rent.
So I watch my chaotic household
Of a skull,
Where Life has made himself at home
And brought all of his friends.
I stare dully at my ruined
Dining room of thought,
Which they have dominated.
And look wearily for a spare idea
In my raided cupboards.
I've never been one
To evict friends,
So I suppose they're here to stay.
But learn a lesson from me,
And don't ever
Have Life over for tea.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 1:38 AM UTC
No, I don't want to get a tattoo with you,
I may not have a mark on you, but I'm covered in you.
Our past has brought with it a dizzying myriad of hardships,
Some by my hand, some by yours,
The only difference is I've changed,
And you still lie.
No, I don't want to get a tattoo with you,
Why would I share something so meaningful,
When you keep so many secrets,
Omit my existence to others,
And lie to my face?
No, I don't want to get a tattoo with you,
Because the idea of looking at my body,
And having a permanent memory of our lives,
Is a sickeningly sweet lie I cannot face.
No, I don't want to get a tattoo with you,
It'd be fake, just like our relationship with one another,
A lie we should've gave up on sooner.
No. I don't want to get a tattoo with you.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 1:27 PM UTC
take me down to a source
of flowing water
that moves constantly
without rest and yet complains
of nothing.
even frozen, you can see dull
faded silhouettes of fish and
plants writhing and trembling
under the surface.
take me somewhere with
earth that crumbles in my fingers
that holds the sickeningly attractive
stench of security and comfort.
i want you to bring me to a place
where sunlight filters and drips
down to our feet through countless
leaves that wave their jagged edges
'hello, hello' they say and our reply
is through our heads.
would you take me somewhere
i can wrap my arms around the
solid wood of a tree trunk and
know it will not recoil, but gently
caress me with arms tattooed with
foliage, and hold me close so i can
hear it's heart beat through my soul
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 3:39 PM UTC
I'm sorry that it's taken me so long to feel the impact of your absence
To see that you were taken by a substance
I'm sorry I was never there
Not once to wash away your fears
Nor tuck you in at night
Take away the fright
But the death I found lying sweetly in your eyes
Dug craters in my skin cells
Soft and precious little dents
I had to clean the blood away
Couldn't stand to see you there
So I scrapped and scrubbed
Until the thought of you had passed
But in this role, I was sickeningly miscast
And nothing could have stopped you
Not a single plead nor shriek
You left as fast as you had come
Without a cry nor squeak
And I could swear I saw you in the mirror
Walking hand in hand with death
But you did not look behind you
Not even at your ****
I'm sorry I didn't make it to the funeral
And I'm sorry I barely cried
I'm sorry that I let your sister see you while you died
I'm sorry that I blame you for my suffering
And that I'm still recovering
But most importantly
I'm sorry that I didn't save you
I'm sorry that it was too late
And I'm sorry I couldn't save you from the pain that drove you to your fate
That I couldn't take away your misery
Couldn't take away the evil
That you had to look for happiness inside a little needle
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 8:13 AM UTC
There was suddenly sun spilling all over,
and suddenly hyacinths everywhere.
I have watched everything change so slowly
that nothing ever seemed to move at all,
and in my obstinate blindness, I didn't notice
that the ground had thawed, never mind that it had begun
to bleed spring.
I have never seen spring.
In all honesty, I have never lived
in any sort of weather –
only the starched, air-conditioned bedroom
in my parents' sickeningly stereotypical suburban concoction
of a house, where nothing –
not the dusty closed blinds or even
a blade of grass – ever moved at all.
Here, there are magnolia trees that move,
swaying in soft rhythm.
They have peeled themselves like vinyl stickers off
the backs of my windowpanes, and they really are
alive. I know because they wave to me
in flurries of dip-dyed pink petals –
like a good diaphragm-laugh,
or maybe like a good cry.
I have never laughed,
or cried.
But I cry at everything now –
now that I see it is all alive.
It must be what happens when you start living
alone – growing pains –
I imagine the hyacinths must get growing pains, too,
from exploding like purple fireworks
out of the frozen soil in
no time at all.
Apr 17, 2021
Apr 17, 2021 at 1:31 AM UTC
on beds of fragrant sights
through charms of sourest deeds
it rains away all spring
all when my heart bleeds
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i know not who i'll be
or what i really am
an immemorial soul
in nimbler storms which swam
among the crowd of flowers
so sickeningly sweet
would lie the boldest aphids
upon the roses feed
my feathers trod on winds
challenge His modest grace
through marching fleet of life
in ****** shadows laid
with semblance of a calm
in grooves of wilderness
in arms of ecstasy
which life stands to confess
but how shall these two feet
embark a lonely trip
perhaps find love so still
as dew on roses' lip
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
in faintest of moonlights
on dewy grasses seen
inscribed upon my palm
is meaning of my being.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 8:20 AM UTC
I’ve a general practitioner, a psychiatrist and a psychologist
(who’s leaving but I’ll panic about that later)
I’m on 4 different psych meds
Adderall, XR 25mg P.O.
(So I can be motivated, focus and concentrate), Daily
Klonopin, 0.5mg P.O.
(For panic attacks, social anxiety, generalized anxiety), As needed
(Translation:Constantly)
Buspirone, 10mg P.O. (For depression and generalized anxiety),
3 times daily – Useless
Remeron, 15mg P.O. (For depression, anxiety and insomnia),
Daily, at night – Only helps you sleep
Even with all that, I can barely get out of bed in the morning,
coffee’s no help
I can’t really sleep much, waking times a night,
sleeping restlessly if at all
Going to class is a nerve wracking nightmare – as is going out –
but I do it anyways
A panic attack surrounded by people is better than
solitary madness and cabin fever
Like a slave, to a handful of bitter little pills just barely keeping you afloat, unable to hack it alone
While everyone else seemingly can push on through life without them
Falling behind, despite the stupid little pills
Watching as the world goes on around you, spinning sickeningly
While you wish desperately to be normal,
with a million colliding thoughts in your head
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 9:23 PM UTC
oh.have.the.heart.to.welcome.a.stranded.soul
1.
If you’re given the jolly gift of a green ribbon
Would you use it as a link to answers
Or to hang your pretty neck?
2.
If a tree has been yearning to the sky for more than sixty years
Would you now stub out your ciggie in its folds
Or embrace its giving energy?
3.
If such books have been written many millennia ago – saying a multitude
Would you shut your ears to debate and follow blindly
Or respectfully ask bold questions?
4.
If a man kneels repentant in the dust to wipe your shoes
Would you offer a hand up
Or trample on his fingers and spit on his bent head?
5.
If the insipid cashier annoys your sensibilities
Do you leave it unattended
And later sickeningly vent and shout at the wrong one at home?
6.
If a once-beautiful cat lies dead in the road
Would you let your rapid wheels contribute to its messy mince
Or do the ***** job of humanely scooping away its remains?
7.
If a powerful dream comes mayhap to honour you
Would you ignore its seemingly-confusing message
Or follow its signals (in a maze) to certain life-enhancing enrichment?
8.
If constant calamity touches your being on stretched resources
Would you keep popping those three sublinguals with alarming ease
Or try to surrender and accept the pain under arborescent canopies?
9.
If an old woman suffers a stroke in the heart of festivity
Would you refrain from visits while sending easy bouquets and fruit-baskets
Or take the time to help her struggling steps to the toilet?
10.
If the moon shines tonight on your wretched suffering
Would you hurl silent abuse and curse its half-light
Or glance up to catch perchance the echo of your deepest wishes in the air around ...?
*you.can’t.honestly.say.that.it.matters.not
for.it.touches.you.too*
S T, 16 July 2013
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 12:52 PM UTC
The faint smell of the watery sugar
is barely noticed. The starfruit's fragrance
swept away into faint nothingness
at the hands of the tropical winds of Hawaii.
Hanging onto the tree, the fruit once sour and bitter
undergoes a seemingly emotional transformation.
The sun's sweet-tempered fingers are secretly and appealingly molding it.
It learns to be sweet instead of sour,
our taste buds tingling with the power to taste,
but being held closely like bloodhounds on a leash.
It brings an exotic originality to the table.
The Vietnamese fable, blah-blah-bitty-blah its unknown.
It's skin kissed by golden rays,
and the once green fades
into a sweet banana yellow.
on the inside, it still knows its roots,
it still knows the sliminess of negativity,
and on the inside it holds tan pellets shaped just like tear drops,
embraced within its boogers of its old bitter soul.
Droplets of water drip-drop down
off the waxy fruit, and it lays silently on a freckled
black marble counter. Sweating sickeningly after a cold shower,
its cool glistening skin signals its execution.
Soon enough the executioner arrives,
the sharp shining blade blinding
with bright lines of reflected light.
No, it wasn't nearly as crisp and sugary as an apple,
nor was it even as sweet and citrusy as an orange,
and yet, it was a little bit of both.
The little stars stuck somewhere in-between,
alone in the galaxy of oranges and apples.
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 2:58 AM UTC
the rose petal writings
of a young girl;
sickeningly sweet,
light as air,
only to wither and
die.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 2:21 AM UTC
I'm a scapegoat, sacrificed
for all the slang and slander;
the sinister sinners scar me, sickeningly.
I'm bathing in this sombreness;
my appetite is spoiled by the solemn wind.
The future is sullied by those savages;
now my outlook is sullen.
I'm squirming, succumbing
to the suffocation.
My body and heart separate,
and tomorrow you can plan my sepulture.
Jun 7, 2011
Jun 7, 2011 at 7:16 PM UTC
With her black eyeglass frames and sensible heels,
the psychiatrist is a contrived portrait of neutrality.
The timer on her desk ticks sickeningly,
counting off the missed opportunities for revelation
that pass with each minute.
I ask her if she has considered a Victorian fainting couch,
she does not smile.
I make cheap cracks about diet ads and the plight of the modern anorexic,
she scribbles something on a legal pad-
from where I sit, the only legible word is "questionable".
She is not describing herself,
yet I can think of nothing more dubious
than being paid to listen to another's tedium.
I spend one hour each week with my hired companion,
and she, in turn,
spends her time relaying information
to another army entirely,
sending reports to the other doctors,
leaking statements to my family.
She is the informant, and I,
the gullible sap who believes in
"conditional confidentiality".
I pretend I know nothing of the arrangement,
and try to speed time by imagining alternate realities.
I picture her as a talking doll-
A string protrudes from her back;
when pulled, a mechanical voice says
"I see", or occasionally,
"How do you feel about that?"
I stifle a laugh,
and glance over at her glazed expression-
there isn't much of a difference.
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 8:52 PM UTC
His long fingers clenched into their palms
His dark eyes were black with intent
Every elongated pause was an intricate harmony
gracefully accompanying the words
that tumbled from his cracked lips
He heightened himself and leaned in earnestly
Feverish want spilling into his rich voice
revealing the fear that had bloomed in his ribcage over the years
Fear that snaked up his throat and caught there
restricting his temperament
Fear that rose from knowledge of failure
Failure indeed lurked sickeningly
In the frosty air
In the purple autumn shadows
In the smell of hot cement
In the satiny pearl petals of the dogwood his mother had planted
He was a single smooth stone in an endless riverbed
Shaped by
the restlessness that flooded him
the desire that washed over him
the nostalgia that swept around him
Frantic to break out of the flow that was accepted by the crowds
Desperate for the peace that surpasses understanding
And in that moment
his finite experience and crooked path
meant less to her than the last of the cigarette she proceeded to flick into the breeze
Outweighed by her faith in the lighthearted boy trapped inside this troubled man's body
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 8:33 PM UTC
I can feel it.
It's constantly perched on my shoulders.
Breathing down my neck
Icy fingers dragging down my cheek
Sickeningly sweet
I don't let myself dwell on it for long.
But when I do...
When I face the inevitable, I know
There's nowhere I can run
Sep 21, 2025
Sep 21, 2025 at 8:29 PM UTC
there are good souls in this world
shrouded in weathered skin
dry and cracked
with scowls hung upon their face
balancing on the scars of their brow
just as there are bad souls in this world
hiding under plush skin
their faces adorned with kind eyes and
cherry red lips made for kissing
or spitting with rage
picture a gorgeous brunette
with fair skin, bold eyebrows
and her hair in a subtle
yet nineteen-thirties style updo
wearing a red chiffon summer dress
the sun beats down on her
as she glistens with light perspiration
espresso in-hand cigarette in the other
her pale soft skin no match for
the thirty degree heat outside
of this café she nonchalantly finds herself
she is the epitome of carefree beauty
she kicked her lovers dog outside this morning
exiling him to a six hour long toilet break
after she "forgot" she had let him out
before leaving to go shopping
whilst her feller finished his shift
because the dog is old and smelly
and gets almost as much attention as her
she even saw his pensioner neighbour
struggling to take the bins out
as she walked to her car
and laughed rather than help
because she always
thought Mary was a no good Jew
she even called her Mrs. Goldstein
"Have a nice day Mrs. Goldstein."
but Mary's surname is Cohen
picture this beautiful girl a siren
leading good men astray
she can get any man she wants
and plucks only the finest
most succulent
I mean successful
and well put together men
from gardens of bachelors
maturing in the hardships of city life
she has plenty choice but she's fickle
you see, her man has to be almost perfect
for it to be as enjoyable as possible
to watch his life unravel and unfold
into everything he wanted it not to be
achievable only through toxic beauty
her joy is venom soaked insides
of lovers caught in a sultry web
of lies, ambition and ***
she loves a scandal
or a text sent to the wrong person
and she has everything to hide
but does nothing to do so
she gets by just fine
being beautiful and sickening
and sickeningly beautiful
you know the sort
she is a bad, bad girl
Feb 1, 2021
Feb 1, 2021 at 9:07 PM UTC
a swindler, sneaky yet gentle,
disguised as an island in the Mediterranean,
i think i may have left my heart there
in the pale limestone and the hissing
accents and the sun oozing into my skin
i wonder if there grows a garden of hearts,
from tourists wandering stumbling
onto late night buses on the coastlines
whose hearts have found a second home
under the limestone ribs
a botanical garden of our blood pumping organs,
what would it say on my description?
a gentle harvest, grown with 5 days
and mitski's pink in the night
and the waitress's soft smile
on the lantern lit streets of valletta
now i'm home, heartless, and yet
sickeningly longing for you,
a thief, a monster, to steal it again
Jun 17, 2019
Jun 17, 2019 at 10:15 AM UTC
why is there a line
between living wholly
and holding on to scraps
of grieving our futures
why am i grieving a life
i haven't lived yet?
or why aren't i filling it
with the kindness of years
well lived? when you realize
your own mortality, does it bite
you as hard as it bites me?
you won't talk about it though.
none of us will.
it's a cycle of awareness
i've barely spoken to you because you
are being reminded day in, day out
that breathing is optional to your body
i am sickeningly aware that
my dosage is wrong
and my blood is pounding in my kidneys
and behind my eyes
you're having a series of bad days
i wonder if your body screams like mine
or if the pain ties you in knots
but i know you don't talk about it.
none of us do.
we pretend we're not sick
and that the ringing in our ears
or the bubbling behind our teeth
doesn't mean anything
"it's fine, i'm used to it"
it's not fine.
it is the ultimate self-denial,
the breakdown of our bodies
things we choose to forget
when you chose me,
you chose somebody who knows pain
somebody who is also afraid
and would sometimes rather give up
but you now know someone else
who is grieving.
are you grieving?
i heard that grief
is just love with
no place to go
and life is one of the greatest loves
through life i can love
no matter how my body
wants to take it from me.
Dec 28, 2018
Dec 28, 2018 at 1:51 AM UTC
flaming
lightening and thunder
storming
sickeningly twisting and turning
hailstorm, hurricane in my heart
in my gut
burning
cooling down with the rain, dripping
slowly calming the flames
tears and rain, rain and tears
smoke then steam
sulfur, metal, steam
red, sulfur, flames
fire
in my soul, in my mind
red-hot, heat
purple, black, blue
ache
rain and tears, tears and rain
slowly calming the flames
waves
crashing, then receding
crashing, receding
slowly receding, drifting
away
drifting away
Jun 23, 2011
Jun 23, 2011 at 1:19 PM UTC
Drip
Drip
Drip...
Goes the blood from the blade
Splat
Splat
Splat...
Goes the blood on the floor
Squeak
Squeak
Squeak...
Goes the mouse on the floor
Sniff
Sniff
Sniff...
Goes the mouse to the blood
Lick
Lick
Lick...
Goes the mouse to thw blood
Choke
Choke
Choke...
Goes the mouse on the floor
Fall
Fall
Fall...
Goes the mouse on the floor
Die!
Die!
Die...?
Goes the mouse on the floor
Ha
Ha
Ha...
Goes me :)
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 12:42 PM UTC
Lust can be the cruelest thing
It tricks you
Mind ***** you
The weak lust can give you
That wild, filthy,
Animalistic ***
The kind where two bodies
Are so defiled
There is no turning back
And scars remain as evidence.
The strongest lust
The most dangerous,
Turns on you
It ravages you,
Engulfs you completely
And pushes you
Towards that dark corner
It takes your hands and arms
From shielding your face and
Forces your eyes open
It takes your bodies for the ride of their lives
The one they most feared
Now it engulfs you both
Wrapping around you
No longer forcing you
You willingly, sickeningly
Look into each other's minds
And that lust,
That cruel lust swirls around you
Changing into the other
Four lettered 'L' word
Filled with more sins
Than both your bodies
Could ever create together
And that one that will drown you
Into inevitable destruction.
Your bodies: ******
Your minds: ******
And now your hearts:
Forever unfixable.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 12:46 PM UTC
Burnt out kinda beautiful
Shy and sickeningly sweet
Eyes downcast in fear
An enticing little treat
I like to take them scared
And show them to be alive
So I can take it all away
I live to make them cry
I want to cut them up inside
With a twist of my worded knife
Make them beg for the air they breath
I want every inch of their life
It's just the way I love them
How I feel good with time
Make them realize they need me
And when they leave me I die
Nobody deserves my love
For it's an acquired taste
But I fell for everyone of them
Especially her burnt out beauty of a face
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 10:17 AM UTC
Words glob like honey
Stuck to the roof of my mouth
Sickeningly unspoken
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 10:08 PM UTC
How long has it been since there was a sound?
Nothing changes, even the moon is constant.
Darkness envelopes me whole, not even a single star in this artificial sky.
A little part deep inside wonders,
Can I lay here until I fall asleep?
Madness sickeningly clungs to my throat,
It scratches and bites it until I can scream no more.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 10:48 PM UTC