"singeing" poems
I want to run.
Be free.
Be the little girl they see in me,
but plot-twist happen frequently,
opening your eyes to things you didn't see.
Burning the cheerful into your mind.
If only I didn't once leave that behind.
If I could return to those naive, fun days.
But fun was out and sad was in,
so I figured "well okay."
I dived right in,
singeing my skin,
turning me to the pit.
I was told,
"don't follow your instincts",
so I guess this is what I get.
Now I sit alone,
a pitiful lump of coal,
as a dog without bone,
or soccer ball with no goal.
I'm heading to "God knows where"
on a train called "Oopsy Days,"
and when I arrive,
they will all be amazed.
For I am the writer
who will give them a story,
for I am a lighter,
and my flame gives me glory.
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 8:28 PM UTC
don't waste your breath
telling me to get better, talk ***** to me
don't hold your breath
hoping i try to help myself.
if you're going to hold my neck
hold it a lot tighter than that,
don't forget to push down
on my windpipe with your palm,
we're wrapped up in these bedsheets
because i want you to hurt me.
i want to see the rope burn on my wrists glisten
where it's begun to tear away at my flesh
and i like to feel real tangible knots
when i'm tied up in self loathing.
i struggle to find the line between
lovesick and depressed or
being a ********* what's the big difference.
either way i wake up with bruised
blue lips and oxygen deprivation,
and fresh linens wet with singeing liquids,
and a pain in my stomach or lungs that means
i'm still breathing slightly.
i wanted you to **** me.
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 4:39 AM UTC
Dans le fond des forêts votre image me suit.
RACINE
There is a panther stalks me down:
One day I'll have my death of him;
His greed has set the woods aflame,
He prowls more lordly than the sun.
Most soft, most suavely glides that step,
Advancing always at my back;
From gaunt hemlock, rooks croak havoc:
The hunt is on, and sprung the trap.
Flayed by thorns I trek the rocks,
Haggard through the hot white noon.
Along red network of his veins
What fires run, what craving wakes?
Insatiate, he ransacks the land
Condemned by our ancestral fault,
Crying: blood, let blood be spilt;
Meat must glut his mouth's raw wound.
Keen the rending teeth and sweet
The singeing fury of his fur;
His kisses parch, each paw's a briar,
Doom consummates that appetite.
In the wake of this fierce cat,
Kindled like torches for his joy,
Charred and ravened women lie,
Become his starving body's bait.
Now hills hatch menace, spawning shade;
Midnight cloaks the sultry grove;
The black marauder, hauled by love
On fluent haunches, keeps my speed.
Behind snarled thickets of my eyes
Lurks the lithe one; in dreams' ambush
Bright those claws that mar the flesh
And hungry, hungry, those taut thighs.
His ardor snares me, lights the trees,
And I run flaring in my skin;
What lull, what cool can lap me in
When burns and brands that yellow gaze?
I hurl my heart to halt his pace,
To quench his thirst I squander blook;
He eats, and still his need seeks food,
Compels a total sacrifice.
His voice waylays me, spells a trance,
The gutted forest falls to ash;
Appalled by secret want, I rush
From such assault of radiance.
Entering the tower of my fears,
I shut my doors on that dark guilt,
I bolt the door, each door I bolt.
Blood quickens, gonging in my ears:
The panther's tread is on the stairs,
Coming up and up the stairs.
3k
Your voice is electricity
that shoots through my ears
and down my veins like
Frankenstein's Monster.
Reanimating the dead
cells and tissue with
surgical precision.
Arcing across my back
and shoulders singeing
hair follicles and chattering
decrepit teeth in my mouth
like dice in a cup.
Your voice is electricity
and it's clinging to my chest
like a defibrillator, sending
shockwave after shockwave
through my heart and soul.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 1:03 PM UTC
In lumbering night shadows,
between burns by branding irons
like cigarettes,
We blister talking toungues
and reveal the soft flesh
of ourselves.
So easily, our embers
make incense of our arms
and red, wet, wounds
pool beneath the wrist.
We sat for time,
trying not to scab over;
smouldering our speech
with singeing ire.
Despite the heat,
we couldn’t help
but heal
as dawn cracked, and
in fire of the light,
with hammering heads,
we forged scars
for each other,
for each ever.
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 1:36 PM UTC
Flesh on flesh. Eyes watch eyes
Following fingers round curvatures. Caressing skin.
Skin on skin. Flesh in flesh.
A gin-sung-dream –
Silent utterances from the dark-side of a candlestick.
An unsung overture to Nature’s greatest gift
And Nature’s perfect curse.
Lips pursed open, speechless. Breathless.
Wide-white eyes scream STOP. blink. GO ON.
Glances flash between the flickers of candlelight ,
Meeting unknown looks in the black. Bodies
Embrace, writing words that have their own
Music. Heard only by its two composers.
Everywhere the other wishes to be –
Vivacity. Revelling in promiscuity.
Obscurity. Strangers share a warmth
As old as the ages.
A wafer-thin knife-edge of meaning.
Gin-song dreaming. An opaque tonic
For loneliness.
Hands in hands, heart fleeting.
The perfect curse of Man
In the stroking of skin.
Later, a vague sound of water, a towel
A drawer closing – a door latch clicks.
The world floods back.
Through the curtains,
Through the drainpipes
Your fleeting heart sheepishly returns,
Aching like a hangover.
Too much gin.
The momentary tonic wears off.
Heart in hand,
Hand to head.
Candlelit premonitions return.
Heated flesh. Arching backs.
Fingers through hair…
Salty fingers through oily hair and
Blood-red-wine lipstick smudges and
A singeing waxy smell makes you reel
To the window for air.
And there you are again,
In the middle of a city that knows you
More than your Alcoholic Lover,
A Melancholic Mother to all your needs,
Except the one you tried to soothe
A few hours back.
The one you pine for.
The one you lack.
Oh, this Humdrum City
Rushing you, with your heart in your hand, off your feet.
And your heart in the street
And the gin in your glass
Whenever you meet
Whoever it is that might
Make you complete…
A vague sound of water, a towel,
A candle extinguished, a door hinge creeks.
Wafer-thin. Flesh on flesh.
A belt buckle rings, a zip
A drawer closing, a door latch clicks.
The door latch clicks.
The door latch clicks.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 2:25 PM UTC
Crème brulee, a careless mind,
singeing, burning albeit caramelized
like a politician never normalized,
crawfish should never be apologetic
there's an avaricious food chain
in there somewhere,
gun shot without hardly knowing
right from wrong
conceal that powder trail
dig down to Bayou.
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 12:34 PM UTC
Chapter I
I once was young minded,
vulnerable with wide tooth grins
and fluttering words,
binding soft skin with liquid
metals - like gallium,
clustering in my ribbed fingertips and
letting love level in my lips.
I turned old the day I watched
rough bodies portraying the new style
of
***
on a vhs tape, and he
gave me a shaking milkshake to
turn off my developing
voicebox.
I always wore this barbie nightgown
that had tears from the nights before,
but that's ancient dust that folks
flip past in encyclopedias.
as he knelt down to tie my veins
together in little bows,
I untied after each loop was set in
my bones.
his acidic fingers braced my eight
year old metal frame,
so I broke the nuts and bolts since
I wanted to see if he was
a part of the human race,
I wanted to see if he could bleed
iron-richness that kept myself breathing.
Chapter II
he was beautiful.
his philosophy branched in
segments and he tasted of
earthy tones, but sometimes
he couldn't smile easy and
I felt his love only in acts of passion.
The football game stuttered in
pure vertigo,
as if my body was still
positioned in missionary.
he held me in concern, his arms
laced as protection from myself.
as a survivor, his words felt like
whiplash or lagging from too much
flying in the high altitude.
I needed to forget, float, forgive
and begin the process over again.
I would never see the shades of love
from anyone other than from him,
his words used to brand me.
Chapter III
I drank too much.
I wished on meteorites,
lead-filled, hoping they wouldn't
fall on the tent.
my luck was never strong enough.
I felt as if a wildfire was singeing
my dysfunctional limbs.
I wanted him off. now.
and my tongue was made of
parchment paper. crisped.
I woke up ten after nine.
my body repulsed me,
throwing up the last of poisonous
alcohol I left stranded the
night before.
I devoted that I will never sleep in
a tent again.
Chapter IV
I am finally free.
I still have energy in these
old bones,
and I want to put them
to good use.
so I'll walk for centuries to
find truth and trust.
I use my voice to tell myself
I am more profound than the
surface film those insignificants swept
on my skin.
I found my voice again.
Mar 31, 2011
Mar 31, 2011 at 4:51 PM UTC
The sadness that resides within me is gone;
there is hope etched on my every rib
that combusts my fuel of desire
to burn the negativity of this world!
Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 6:28 AM UTC
You feel it slowly at first
The singeing of sanguine-pumped pain
Piercing the remnants of a drained soul
Spreading through those past-haunted veins
You grasp & claw for something, anything
Maybe it’s hope, or just some fresh air
Something to save you from the agony
But still you drown in the depths of despair
....
Living in a maze of contemplation
All these things that I've become
This web of karma
I've weaved completely
Every which way my spiders run
Perhaps a pill or
Some sort of medication
Could help me find my poetic way
Yet I could never give in
To an indication
That I've nothing left to say
.....
Oct 26, 2018
Oct 26, 2018 at 9:45 AM UTC
I didn't believe in paper cuts
much like I didn't believe in love
until one day as I turned the pages
of a rather flimsy paperback
bound together
more so by the story it held
between its yellowing pages
than by its tattered spine
In my hurry to rush forward
with the other lives
I found myself so invested in
I felt a stinging burn pierce
the flimsiest part of my index finger
that seemed separated from the blood
(that was with such impertinence
bursting forth from my veins)
by the smallest stretch of skin
I watched the crimson pool
and drip reluctantly onto
the unsuspecting paper
and realised in that moment
you don't fall in love
you stumble into it, face-first
and feel the singeing burn afterward
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 2:19 AM UTC
a voltage feeds my mind
like that of a brief rainfall
where there is an asterisks
of insignificant social commentary
whose reality pertains
to disproportionate events
whose commission
makes a profession out of trivia
which is no more ******* durable
than accumulated dispersion of adrenalin
that of a psychophysical explorative
exploitation of unrealized
perpetual fermentation
that seethes with the singeing smell
that accompanies its lie
those demanding untruths
that lock each and everyone
in a burning prison of panic
a prism of unfocused
visionary liberation perhaps to some
the realization of the cosmos
that lives within the poets interior
a mighty roar of space
waiting to be filled
with visions of future worlds
of future social commentary
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 2:54 PM UTC
Once told of words, in worlds, waning with my will.
Old and trembling, emanating, the serrated slurs, serenading the sanctum of binary stars, singeing the seams of sleeves, and revealing the scars from afar.
Distant stars born, of the storm.
Whirling waywardly, in the wizardry of windless cities blowing away,
Wading into the wetland droughts of water houses, unsettling the doubts, anchored on land, in a flood of mans, love.
Drown
In the shallow nouns of, the haphazardly hallow, in the hollers of happiness, hugged in the hellish habitation of holograms dancing for the sun,
Long after the run, ... ended,
In the stunned patience, of forever.
Death is in the favor, of moving on.
Not am i gone
yet.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 12:46 AM UTC
In our graceful gray
I searched for entity golden.
You summoned me
with a silver smile
and a fervor lit so close,
****** vapors threatened to ignite
the embers which teased my core,
singeing a trail of teeny
hairs.
I inhaled your
exhale;
***
curled around my tongue
like smoke
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 2:55 PM UTC
the pyre of my soul
incinerates my interior
as I watch our flames burn
relentlessly from my lips
like the words that removed
love from around my heart
who would have believed
your whispers would burn
like the sun; singeing my
entirety with venomous
blisters flung with displeasure
bafflement sears...
there's no more emotions,
forgiveness is shamefaced
a misdirection of affections
your misunderstanding
leaves me naked in this
moment, heated in affront
this second fore, nothing
matters anymore
inner abashed turmoil...
roils like a cauldron upon
a campfire, its embered particles
I breathe and ingest for naught
in whimpering gasps
wanting to desecrate that
smirk rising upon your
handsome features; a look
I once found to be endearing
once in awhile
that you took away, too...
your total disdain; dousing
our flame of eternal love of
all that beheld us in God's
light; which, now leaves me
awash in bile, dazed, open-mouth
stares from dimming eyes
is all that looks upon my beauty
with such pain; makes me want
to scream, take me
want me, love me as once
before
re-ignite our flame...
those thoughtful embers are
undirected words drenched upon
an uncaring mind, directing
my soul and heart towards
the moon and the burn of stars
that light up the sky of my
heart and mind as if I could
have altered the course
of your bitterness, until
I can no longer sigh in want
of your love
thoughts of me gone asunder...
filling my lungs with silent
animosity towards all that you
stand for, my only want now
is for you to stay away from me,
allowing me to live in solitude
inside the hunger that pours
like stinging tears from my eyes,
let me be without changing
the sound of love still singing
within my heart
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 3:22 AM UTC
Predecessor of the morning hour
Bleeding through the gilded fringes that hang aloft in the wood
Breeze withheld its embraced dower
Humid casements held where I stood
The singeing lash did not come
Caged o’er the ridge
Melancholia, and the sky did shun
Ebon armada sent all the cavalry
Halberdiers and lancers, to contend a bitter rivalry
The brooding cataract washed
And I could only run
Towards pale shades and curtain rods
Towards uncertain suns
On the backs of Titans, the shoulder of Atlas my flight took rest
Before I, the ashen dome expands.
As though at my behest
And through the slaughter, the fray(!)
A presence of the light of day
Through the flush pillars
And fell beasts of rain
The bones of its enemies
Could be seen
Naked, exposed by eye so tiny and wan
Dispersed, did they
Frightened by valor of dawn
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 4:24 PM UTC
The summer endured with a kiss:
He was the worst thing that I could have loved.
Bulldog called him the Straightened Arrow,
because **** like him get all the ladies"*
with his curls that turned like a surfer's dream.
But in order to not be, Arrow had to bend.
Because a bent arrow never flies far.
He would pity me with his hands in mine
late in the nights spent buried in his bed.
We shared our secrets and our stories,
our ******* nightmares and our souls.
Through the sage and past the shack
he took me down the beaten trails
to where he swore no one had been before.
The sun was an actor and the train tunnel's arch our seats.
The play progressed from Act Noon 'til Act 6:00.
We sat on the overlook singeing our lungs,
flicking cigarettes onto the occasional train.
The stench of tar, then a nuisance, is memorial to this day.
And once, on the artificial cliff where no man had been
on a day when the sun, tinged terribly red
by the burning of a forest I would now never know
had played its most powerful sunset,
Arrow kissed me.
His lips
were as soft
as sheer air.
That was the day I learned to hate theatre
and the day I first loved a poison.
He was the only boy who ever kissed me because he liked me,
and not because I like boys and you like boys and we both like boys, too.
Because he didn't.
Throughout the summer I walked with him and his girls through the sage
and past the shack to that vaulting arch hung above the tracks
where I watched him kiss them fast, kiss them sweetly,
I noticed how he never kissed them the way he kissed me.
His lips never looked so soft as they did that evening, and the sun never set so right.
And the summer went on.
Mar 5, 2012
Mar 5, 2012 at 9:26 PM UTC
I spit words like fire from a blow torch
Flames singeing the air like they singe your soul.
I whisper words like secrets from hushed voices
Murmurs fill the silence like crushing water to a sinking ship.
I sing words like colorful birds from dense forests
Sweet melodies ringing like church bells from churches.
I rhyme words like nursery school teachers
Tee’s and two’s and me’s and you’s.
I laugh words like children from ***** playgrounds
Giggles chiming in the rays of swollen sunlight.
I scream words like angry sirens saving the ******
Flickering blue and red lights like beacons of hope.
I gossip words like filthy false rumors circulating the grapevine
Untrue words that hurt like a right hook to the jaw.
I flirt words like coy like touches to your open heart
Persuading you with my talented charm.
I concede words like hidden meanings in secret code
Like unwritten rules and unspoken feelings.
I brave words with harsh undertones like I’m bitter
Saying exactly what I think and feel, no holding back.
My voice is strong,
My voice is true,
My voice is my own, and I will let it be heard.
Aug 6, 2011
Aug 6, 2011 at 9:21 PM UTC
I'm November nights' sleepless eyes,
And Saturday's heavy rain,
I feel broken and I can't remember why.
A deep breath, it might ease my anguish.
Across that town,
(that I set on fire),
Is something stronger than melancholy.
I try to reach it but it's too distant.
I'm an illusion you can't deem real.
I'm only mist,
Your hand will never,
Close around mine.
You cry like a boy,
When you hear I've lost my breaths,
In 1678's winter snowstorm.
The autumn of 1857,
Seems like cracking branches,
And you and me inexistent,
Trapped in something,
We can't seem to remember.
It has no name, that phobia.
I can't breathe, I can't remember,
Where I've left my lungs.
I can't feel, I don't know,
Where I've dropped my heart.
My eyes can't trace,
The shape of your face.
You're a blurred image,
I've crafted with my own hands.
Nothing makes sense.
Maybe I'm insane.
Desperate, so desperate,
To feel, to touch an entity,
That could be bigger than life.
But I'm a breathing vacuum.
The sensation in my fingers,
Is singeing me with so much life,
It's almost unbearable.
I'm running, bolting, wavering,
Stumbling, swaying, trembling.
I'm dying, dreaming, wondering,
I'm falling in love.
I'm falling over and over and over.
But I'm only falling.
I've never known what's it like,
To get up.
I'm falling into a rift valley,
With sleepy eyes.
I'm falling again.
But this time I'm falling asleep.
I might wake up.
Someday I might.
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 6:47 PM UTC
... under my skin
High tension wires
They crackle, singeing
The hairs on my arms and
Burning roadmaps
On my throat and belly
The words are singing...
... an acappella high note
Searing the eardrums
Breaking the crystal
While the rose lies
wet on the table
Fragments spark the
Ionosphere
Hanging to rival the
Aurora Borialis
The words are singing...
Their siren song
I wreck on the rocks
I tear the page with
rudderless penmanship
The words are singing...
And they skitter off
The page like
lizards
SøułSurvivør
(C) 6/8/2017
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 5:46 AM UTC
Grey days require colourful thinking
Bouncing energy is felt
as usual with most people's faces drawn in wonder
Why do we speak out of turn?
When those that know nothing are hungry for love
How many times do we waste our actions
We never think of where we are going
And if we might care for those that suffer
Though the lack of comfort is undisclosed
We should know what this leads to
Not pretty but to a crescent of shame
Not liking definite lessons of our pathetic existence.
Singeing ones hair on a dancing candle can mean only one thing
The flaying arms of outrageous and careless action
Spells veritable acquiescence in the days events
Notice your body
Watch the curves on the numbers on the weighing machine
Scales are for dragons, lizards and fish, not you
Don't be sure that tomorrow your heart won't be aching
For the fresh winds that drag you sideways into
A superfluous distant horizon and grateful solitude
In my life I've had stirring moments but
I realise that every time I wake
My greatest achievement is still to come
Nonetheless I am delighted that I have made it
Perhaps from which eventually all my life will be judged
No word remembered, no action recalled
But the marks I've made on my canvases will tell all
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 9:28 AM UTC