"skater" poems - Hello Poetry

"skater" poems

An absence reversed Beheld Belonging Fuming lush greenery seemingly Between the frothing Soup and lather twinkling Speaking "Tradition may act dishonestly" All and sundry Trails along merrily For traditionally All is how it should be Belonging to one and only. Binding A trade between the thin lines A baking sheet made sprayed messy Artists in threes Shakers of mountains for invisible ease The truth is simply Things done traditionally All-in consuming historically. Flesh Released Is fresh Relief Hidden in the fabric's sleeve A gaping passage of air and breeze Racing electricity Breathtaking silk from worms And worms eaten by birds Tradition Sewing the dresses of Empress the third. Halt Her plea worth salt and sugar Still Like the skater's Minted odour Hope Distances the valleys low dipped to the everlasted rivers Where a time arrives for eternal celebration. The embellishments of Unwavered tradition.

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Oct 9, 2018

Oct 9, 2018 at 1:10 PM UTC

Tradition's all

An absence reversed Beheld Belonging Fuming lush greenery seemingly Between the frothing Soup and lather twinkling Speaking "Tradition may act dishonestly" All and sundry Trails along merrily For traditionally All is how it should be Belonging to one and only. Binding A trade between the thin lines A baking sheet made sprayed messy Artists in threes Shakers of mountains for invisible ease The truth is simply Things done traditionally All-in consuming historically. Flesh Released Is fresh Relief Hidden in the fabric's sleeve A gaping passage of air and breeze Racing electricity Breathtaking silk from worms And worms eaten by birds Tradition Sewing the dresses of Empress the third. Halt Her plea worth salt and sugar Still Like the skater's Minted odour Hope Distances the valleys low dipped to the everlasted rivers Where a time arrives for eternal celebration. The embellishments of Unwavered tradition.

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Bilang na ang aking maliligayang araw. dalawa na lang. Kung isasama yung pangakong panlilibre ng lomi ng mga kasamahan sa pabrika sa unang restday matapos ang endo- tatlo. At ganito pala ang feeling ng may taning. Para kang nasa nilulumot na aquarium na walang oxygen at goldfish kang kasama ng dalawang golden arowana. Hindi ka makahinga. Sa a kinse, matuloy man o hindi ang balitang super-bagyo Tapos na ang limang buwang kontrata. Matatapos na rin ba ang hindi naumpisahang pagsinta? Tulad ng paghahanap ng mga skater sa kanilang skate park, matatagpuan ko rin ba ang lakas loob at habambuhay na hindi na? Kaya naman kaninang tanghalian, wala akong kwentong maihain sa iyo. Parang habambuhay ko ngang uubusin yung inorder kong BBQ kanin at RC. Paano ko ba sasabihing baka isa na ito sa huling dalawang tanghalian na sabay tayong kakain? Paano ko ba sasabihin na sa maraming pagkakataon na sabay tayong kumakain, nagtitipid ako at hindi naman talaga ako nagugutom. Gusto lang kita makasama kasi parang gusto na kita. Pero tulad ng inililihim kong pagtatapos ng aking kontrata Hindi mo alam. Hindi mo alam na ikaw ang dahilan kung bakit masarap ang simoy ng hangin sa loob ng pabrika kahit wala naman talagang bintana at inuubong industrial fan lang ang meron tayo. Hindi mo alam kung anong kapanatagang nararamdaman ko tuwing sinasabihan mo akong mag-iingat ako tuwing uwian kahit ang totoo, hindi natin kakilala ang kaligtasan at kapanatagan sa pabrikang walang fire exit at benefits. Yun talaga yun, hindi mo alam. Pero alam mo naman sigurong salot talaga ang kontraktwalisasyon? At maramot talaga sa mga lovestory nating mga below-minimum-wage-earners at contractual workers ang sistema ng paggawa sa Pilipinas. Sa mga susunod na bukas, ikaw naman ang mag-e-endo. Baka mapunta ka sa Savemore na tadtad din ng kontraktwal. At masnatch ang numero mo at hindi na kita matatawagan. At ako, baka sa hirap humanap ng trabaho maisangla ko ang aking telepono. At isang monumentong singlaki ng Mall of Asia ang itatayo sa pagitan nating dalawa. Kasalanan ito ni Ernesto Hererra.

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Aug 2, 2015

Aug 2, 2015 at 12:53 PM UTC

Bilang na ang aking maliligayang araw. dalawa na lang. Kung isasama yung pangakong panlilibre ng lomi ng mga kasamahan sa pabrika sa unang restday matapos ang endo- tatlo. At ganito pala ang feeling ng may taning. Para kang nasa nilulumot na aquarium na walang oxygen at goldfish kang kasama ng dalawang golden arowana. Hindi ka makahinga. Sa a kinse, matuloy man o hindi ang balitang super-bagyo Tapos na ang limang buwang kontrata. Matatapos na rin ba ang hindi naumpisahang pagsinta? Tulad ng paghahanap ng mga skater sa kanilang skate park, matatagpuan ko rin ba ang lakas loob at habambuhay na hindi na? Kaya naman kaninang tanghalian, wala akong kwentong maihain sa iyo. Parang habambuhay ko ngang uubusin yung inorder kong BBQ kanin at RC. Paano ko ba sasabihing baka isa na ito sa huling dalawang tanghalian na sabay tayong kakain? Paano ko ba sasabihin na sa maraming pagkakataon na sabay tayong kumakain, nagtitipid ako at hindi naman talaga ako nagugutom. Gusto lang kita makasama kasi parang gusto na kita. Pero tulad ng inililihim kong pagtatapos ng aking kontrata Hindi mo alam. Hindi mo alam na ikaw ang dahilan kung bakit masarap ang simoy ng hangin sa loob ng pabrika kahit wala naman talagang bintana at inuubong industrial fan lang ang meron tayo. Hindi mo alam kung anong kapanatagang nararamdaman ko tuwing sinasabihan mo akong mag-iingat ako tuwing uwian kahit ang totoo, hindi natin kakilala ang kaligtasan at kapanatagan sa pabrikang walang fire exit at benefits. Yun talaga yun, hindi mo alam. Pero alam mo naman sigurong salot talaga ang kontraktwalisasyon? At maramot talaga sa mga lovestory nating mga below-minimum-wage-earners at contractual workers ang sistema ng paggawa sa Pilipinas. Sa mga susunod na bukas, ikaw naman ang mag-e-endo. Baka mapunta ka sa Savemore na tadtad din ng kontraktwal. At masnatch ang numero mo at hindi na kita matatawagan. At ako, baka sa hirap humanap ng trabaho maisangla ko ang aking telepono. At isang monumentong singlaki ng Mall of Asia ang itatayo sa pagitan nating dalawa. Kasalanan ito ni Ernesto Hererra.

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slave is someone who does not have authority over their own lives slave is someone subservient controlled dominated by somebody something slave works very hard for little or no pay slave is property of somebody something slave is someone forced to obey sycophant is someone servile who overly flatters more powerful individual for personal gain sycophant is bootlicker brown-noser fawner flunkey doormat lackey lap-dog yes-men parasite toad-eater (pause reposition) somebody possessed of excessive vanity may cultivate sycophant swarms side by side they stand clothed in black not quite similar the one slightly taller possibly because the other suffers poor posture perhaps they are related because in odd way they appear alike or of same ilk yet upon closer scrutiny it becomes apparent they have very little or nothing in common the taller one with troubled sad eyes the other smiling obsequiously the taller one more muscular ***** from working menial labor the other with curved spine slumped shoulders because of undue bowing and crouching while blowing smoke up other people’s ***** sadist is someone who attains ****** gratification by inflicting physical pain shame to other people sadist is someone who delights in excessive cruelty degradation to others ********* is someone who achieves ****** pleasure from being hurt humiliated abused dominated punished often self-inflicted ********* is someone who enjoys being harmed misused mistreated ignored by others sadomasochist is someone who gets ****** gratification by alternately or simultaneously enduring hurt causing pain to somebody else sadomasochist is combination of sadistic masochistic tendencies in someone who obtains ****** pleasure from inflicting submitting to pain cruelty sycophant slave snakes up leg of movie actress dictator who gains pain through pleasure 2000 miles from equator IED cell phone detonator sycophant dilettante ***** up to sadistic art critic or publishing editor on escalator while below on main floor of shopping mall ice rink figure skater pirouettes bows to nominator surreptitiously bribed by infiltrator mutilator

0

Feb 27, 2011

Feb 27, 2011 at 4:38 AM UTC

michael-reid-rubenstein

sycophant slave snakes up leg of movie actress dictator

slave is someone who does not have authority over their own lives slave is someone subservient controlled dominated by somebody something slave works very hard for little or no pay slave is property of somebody something slave is someone forced to obey sycophant is someone servile who overly flatters more powerful individual for personal gain sycophant is bootlicker brown-noser fawner flunkey doormat lackey lap-dog yes-men parasite toad-eater (pause reposition) somebody possessed of excessive vanity may cultivate sycophant swarms side by side they stand clothed in black not quite similar the one slightly taller possibly because the other suffers poor posture perhaps they are related because in odd way they appear alike or of same ilk yet upon closer scrutiny it becomes apparent they have very little or nothing in common the taller one with troubled sad eyes the other smiling obsequiously the taller one more muscular ***** from working menial labor the other with curved spine slumped shoulders because of undue bowing and crouching while blowing smoke up other people’s ***** sadist is someone who attains ****** gratification by inflicting physical pain shame to other people sadist is someone who delights in excessive cruelty degradation to others ********* is someone who achieves ****** pleasure from being hurt humiliated abused dominated punished often self-inflicted ********* is someone who enjoys being harmed misused mistreated ignored by others sadomasochist is someone who gets ****** gratification by alternately or simultaneously enduring hurt causing pain to somebody else sadomasochist is combination of sadistic masochistic tendencies in someone who obtains ****** pleasure from inflicting submitting to pain cruelty sycophant slave snakes up leg of movie actress dictator who gains pain through pleasure 2000 miles from equator IED cell phone detonator sycophant dilettante ***** up to sadistic art critic or publishing editor on escalator while below on main floor of shopping mall ice rink figure skater pirouettes bows to nominator surreptitiously bribed by infiltrator mutilator

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I don’t know why These feelings I feel Are so strong Stronger than raging seas During the thunderstorm that Is my attraction to her I wish I could look at her As just another pretty girl But I don’t think she can ever be Anything less than the ray of sun Shining through the darkest clouds Making my days better Every time I am graced by her Presence But why does she do this Steals my breath with a glance Leaving me gasping And begging for another look Mind making a mess of itself And a fool of me As words attempt to leave my mouth Hoping for even the smallest conversation But those conversations will be few And I know it this girl would never fall For this world so different from her own Tattooed Pierced Hopeless romantic Skater boy Is no match for This pure hearted flower But sometimes I hang on To the thought that maybe Just maybe That this opposit can attract But I know the graceful beauty Won’t be mine And I’ll be ok with that As long as I can call her A friend

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Nov 6, 2018

Nov 6, 2018 at 6:08 PM UTC

An unfamiliar feeling

I don’t know why These feelings I feel Are so strong Stronger than raging seas During the thunderstorm that Is my attraction to her I wish I could look at her As just another pretty girl But I don’t think she can ever be Anything less than the ray of sun Shining through the darkest clouds Making my days better Every time I am graced by her Presence But why does she do this Steals my breath with a glance Leaving me gasping And begging for another look Mind making a mess of itself And a fool of me As words attempt to leave my mouth Hoping for even the smallest conversation But those conversations will be few And I know it this girl would never fall For this world so different from her own Tattooed Pierced Hopeless romantic Skater boy Is no match for This pure hearted flower But sometimes I hang on To the thought that maybe Just maybe That this opposit can attract But I know the graceful beauty Won’t be mine And I’ll be ok with that As long as I can call her A friend

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Feminine poetry is the most alluring. The curvature of a woman's wrist around a pen is beautiful. Their faces are knit in concentration so intense, yet velvety smooth. Women are graceful- they glide along the page like an ice skater. Feminine poetry has an elegant air incomparable with their counterpart. There is darkness, but with darkness comes strength. Demons abound on their pages, bred from the hardships stretching through the millennia. Dark inspiration breeds radiating beauty.

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Jun 19, 2013

Jun 19, 2013 at 7:40 PM UTC

Feminine Poetry

Feminine poetry is the most alluring. The curvature of a woman's wrist around a pen is beautiful. Their faces are knit in concentration so intense, yet velvety smooth. Women are graceful- they glide along the page like an ice skater. Feminine poetry has an elegant air incomparable with their counterpart. There is darkness, but with darkness comes strength. Demons abound on their pages, bred from the hardships stretching through the millennia. Dark inspiration breeds radiating beauty.

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The unmistakable sound of metal carving through ice, Armored gladiators move swiftly Wielding wooden weapons with curved blades As they chase a hard black disc. Bodies slam into the boards, The boisterous crowd masks the sounds of cracking bones. One team scores, then the other. The crowd cheers, and then they boo. Two competitors exchange words, Then fists. Seconds tick off the clock, Before they know it the game draws to a close. Sweat drips from every pore, Steam rises from the warriors' helmets. The game has not yet been decided, So extra time is needed. The purest form of competition, The first to score wins. A skater breaks away from the defense. He shoots, he scores, he goes home and waits for the chance to play again.

0

Jan 28, 2015

Jan 28, 2015 at 8:36 PM UTC

The unmistakable sound of metal carving through ice, Armored gladiators move swiftly Wielding wooden weapons with curved blades As they chase a hard black disc. Bodies slam into the boards, The boisterous crowd masks the sounds of cracking bones. One team scores, then the other. The crowd cheers, and then they boo. Two competitors exchange words, Then fists. Seconds tick off the clock, Before they know it the game draws to a close. Sweat drips from every pore, Steam rises from the warriors' helmets. The game has not yet been decided, So extra time is needed. The purest form of competition, The first to score wins. A skater breaks away from the defense. He shoots, he scores, he goes home and waits for the chance to play again.

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The casket was coming up, swaying and wobbling Like a novice skater’s layover spin, The workings proceeding apace, The stillness of the August heat Punctuated by disinterested growl of the backhoe, The occasional out-of-place jocularity by the excavators The creaky jingle of the chains holding the muddied box As it proceeded skyward in its clumsy poor-man’s Resurrection. The affair was being observed by an elderly couple, Old enough to be of no particular age. Their car had Carolina plates, But their inflections, their casually-tossed idioms They noted that ruefully The grass needs mowed) Marked them as natives. They’d returned (Last time, most likely, The wife uttered mournfully) To take their son with them; he’d drowned when was five? six? (The years will do that to a body, apparently) In Kinzua Creek some half-century ago, Back when little boys weren’t under a mandate To be safe from themselves, as it were. He was our boy! We’ve never forgotten him! The old man said, the words snapping off In a manner that spoke of something else altogether, How the whistle at the Montmorenci Went off at three and eleven for second shift, And your *** had better be there, As those were good jobs that didn’t wait for bereavement leave, Because there was always someone Just itching to take your spot on the line, And anyway life went on, At least in the sense that television screens went all to snow And tires went flat and fuses blew And eventually a dead child Is not always in the forefront of your thoughts, Only tiptoeing in when the Press ran a picture Of the Montmorenci Area Class of whenever, Or there was an item about some other family Who opened their front door To a grim sheriff’s deputy with his hat in his hand. Eventually, after some time And in defiance of both the odds and gravity, The casket was settled into the back Of the undertaker’s huge old black Caddy, And the couple cane-toddled back to their car, Following out the through the old spider-like gates And onto the main road. The brief procession fading from sight, Until there was nothing left to see Save the hillsides covered in old growth pine.

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Sep 21, 2018

Sep 21, 2018 at 11:00 AM UTC

the disinterment

The casket was coming up, swaying and wobbling Like a novice skater’s layover spin, The workings proceeding apace, The stillness of the August heat Punctuated by disinterested growl of the backhoe, The occasional out-of-place jocularity by the excavators The creaky jingle of the chains holding the muddied box As it proceeded skyward in its clumsy poor-man’s Resurrection. The affair was being observed by an elderly couple, Old enough to be of no particular age. Their car had Carolina plates, But their inflections, their casually-tossed idioms They noted that ruefully The grass needs mowed) Marked them as natives. They’d returned (Last time, most likely, The wife uttered mournfully) To take their son with them; he’d drowned when was five? six? (The years will do that to a body, apparently) In Kinzua Creek some half-century ago, Back when little boys weren’t under a mandate To be safe from themselves, as it were. He was our boy! We’ve never forgotten him! The old man said, the words snapping off In a manner that spoke of something else altogether, How the whistle at the Montmorenci Went off at three and eleven for second shift, And your *** had better be there, As those were good jobs that didn’t wait for bereavement leave, Because there was always someone Just itching to take your spot on the line, And anyway life went on, At least in the sense that television screens went all to snow And tires went flat and fuses blew And eventually a dead child Is not always in the forefront of your thoughts, Only tiptoeing in when the Press ran a picture Of the Montmorenci Area Class of whenever, Or there was an item about some other family Who opened their front door To a grim sheriff’s deputy with his hat in his hand. Eventually, after some time And in defiance of both the odds and gravity, The casket was settled into the back Of the undertaker’s huge old black Caddy, And the couple cane-toddled back to their car, Following out the through the old spider-like gates And onto the main road. The brief procession fading from sight, Until there was nothing left to see Save the hillsides covered in old growth pine.

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519 ’Twas warm—at first—like Us— Until there crept upon A Chill—like frost upon a Glass— Till all the scene—be gone. The Forehead copied Stone— The Fingers grew too cold To ache—and like a Skater’s Brook— The busy eyes—congealed— It straightened—that was all— It crowded Cold to Cold— It multiplied indifference— As Pride were all it could— And even when with Cords— ’Twas lowered, like a Weight— It made no Signal, nor demurred, But dropped like Adamant.

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3.1k

Emily Dickinson

Twas warm—at first—like Us

519 ’Twas warm—at first—like Us— Until there crept upon A Chill—like frost upon a Glass— Till all the scene—be gone. The Forehead copied Stone— The Fingers grew too cold To ache—and like a Skater’s Brook— The busy eyes—congealed— It straightened—that was all— It crowded Cold to Cold— It multiplied indifference— As Pride were all it could— And even when with Cords— ’Twas lowered, like a Weight— It made no Signal, nor demurred, But dropped like Adamant.

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Falen Acon: 1.THE NERD... He liked to read and was a straight A student and was very shy. (1 day relationship) 2. THE HOTTIE... He was in love with himself and he hogged the mirror. (5 day relationship) 3. THE **** He was to obsessed with football, basketball, track, and baseball and didn't pay me any attention and was to rough. (5 week relationship) 4. THE SKATER... He cheated on me pretty much the whole time we went out and he had angry issues. (2 week relationship) 5. THE GAMER... He played to many video games and was kind of forceful. (1 month relationship) 6.THE SMOKER... He smoked to much **** and ciggs and i smelt like it and i don't even smoke and he was way to touchy and he fought to much. (1 month relationship) Alexandria Christine Lund: Top 5 worst boyfriends/girlfriends: 1. The 2 timer- She whined to much and apparently had a boyfriend, she wanted *** and was totally indecisive. (5 days) 2. The Stoner- He spent his time doing drugs and only wanted *** (3 months) 3. The Wannabe- He always wanted something else because I didn't fit in, he always lied he made up excuses even cheated. (5 months off and on) 4. The Fighter- He kept bragging about the military and wanted to constantly fight. (2 months) 5. The Worst- He treated me like a game, I made sure he never won it. (2 weeks)

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Nov 14, 2013

Nov 14, 2013 at 12:17 PM UTC

Roll call for the worst 6 boyfriends she ever dated. :(

Falen Acon: 1.THE NERD... He liked to read and was a straight A student and was very shy. (1 day relationship) 2. THE HOTTIE... He was in love with himself and he hogged the mirror. (5 day relationship) 3. THE **** He was to obsessed with football, basketball, track, and baseball and didn't pay me any attention and was to rough. (5 week relationship) 4. THE SKATER... He cheated on me pretty much the whole time we went out and he had angry issues. (2 week relationship) 5. THE GAMER... He played to many video games and was kind of forceful. (1 month relationship) 6.THE SMOKER... He smoked to much **** and ciggs and i smelt like it and i don't even smoke and he was way to touchy and he fought to much. (1 month relationship) Alexandria Christine Lund: Top 5 worst boyfriends/girlfriends: 1. The 2 timer- She whined to much and apparently had a boyfriend, she wanted *** and was totally indecisive. (5 days) 2. The Stoner- He spent his time doing drugs and only wanted *** (3 months) 3. The Wannabe- He always wanted something else because I didn't fit in, he always lied he made up excuses even cheated. (5 months off and on) 4. The Fighter- He kept bragging about the military and wanted to constantly fight. (2 months) 5. The Worst- He treated me like a game, I made sure he never won it. (2 weeks)

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You only live once... More commenly known as YOLO God, I'm such a nerd...Did I actually just say that? ...well that's new... Anyways... Though the song actually doesn't serve this message much good, (but has the capacity to get stuck in my head ALL THE TIME) this message is quite true. I've been spending far too much time moping around about how my dreams never come true and a bunch of **** that means the world to me now and won't matter later.... I know this isn't poetry, but I wanted to get this out and write something that felt personal... Something that felt like me talking...almost... So I realized that we really do only live once (duh) and that I don't want to follow the standard little path we're all started on and brainwashed into thinking leads to success. I don't want to have a ton of money but hate what I do. Really, I'd rather just be happy. When I'm older, I want to look back at my life and be proud of myself. I want to look back and think that I lived a happy life. So I know I'm young. I know that 20 years from now I won't remember the cold winter night at 2:17 am that I wrote this. I won't remember why I had a crush on that one boy in 8th grade. But, I will remember being happy, or more commenly unhappy and I don't like being unhappy, no one does. Something's wrong and I think it's time to stop acting like it's not. So yeah, I'm young. I've got a long road behind me and an even longer one ahead. I've got a lot of choices and mistakes to make. I've got a lot of things to fix. I've got a pile of homework to catch up on, and a couple thousand ideas to write down. It used to be when I grow up, I want to be a doctor. An astronaut. A figure skater. A singer, A gymnast, A doctor, President, And so on, But at this point, I want to be happy.

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Dec 31, 2012

Dec 31, 2012 at 2:28 AM UTC

YOLO (a rant about life...)

You only live once... More commenly known as YOLO God, I'm such a nerd...Did I actually just say that? ...well that's new... Anyways... Though the song actually doesn't serve this message much good, (but has the capacity to get stuck in my head ALL THE TIME) this message is quite true. I've been spending far too much time moping around about how my dreams never come true and a bunch of **** that means the world to me now and won't matter later.... I know this isn't poetry, but I wanted to get this out and write something that felt personal... Something that felt like me talking...almost... So I realized that we really do only live once (duh) and that I don't want to follow the standard little path we're all started on and brainwashed into thinking leads to success. I don't want to have a ton of money but hate what I do. Really, I'd rather just be happy. When I'm older, I want to look back at my life and be proud of myself. I want to look back and think that I lived a happy life. So I know I'm young. I know that 20 years from now I won't remember the cold winter night at 2:17 am that I wrote this. I won't remember why I had a crush on that one boy in 8th grade. But, I will remember being happy, or more commenly unhappy and I don't like being unhappy, no one does. Something's wrong and I think it's time to stop acting like it's not. So yeah, I'm young. I've got a long road behind me and an even longer one ahead. I've got a lot of choices and mistakes to make. I've got a lot of things to fix. I've got a pile of homework to catch up on, and a couple thousand ideas to write down. It used to be when I grow up, I want to be a doctor. An astronaut. A figure skater. A singer, A gymnast, A doctor, President, And so on, But at this point, I want to be happy.

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I strut with confidence alongside her; she "fails" to acknowledge me I try to attain her attention with my friends; she continues to ignore us three? We decide of something else. We chose to go up to her and join her party Whilst remained fixed on her dress which was Sacramento and sparkly Bedazzled from her dress it seemed I was in the dreamworld I had somehow dreamed that she approached with a kiss and swirled. "Time to do it"I had repeated to myself. I grabbed her hand. I twirled her like a figure skater. Finally,I found out she or he was a transgender, so...later?

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Dec 20, 2014

Dec 20, 2014 at 1:13 PM UTC

I strut with confidence alongside her; she "fails" to acknowledge me I try to attain her attention with my friends; she continues to ignore us three? We decide of something else. We chose to go up to her and join her party Whilst remained fixed on her dress which was Sacramento and sparkly Bedazzled from her dress it seemed I was in the dreamworld I had somehow dreamed that she approached with a kiss and swirled. "Time to do it"I had repeated to myself. I grabbed her hand. I twirled her like a figure skater. Finally,I found out she or he was a transgender, so...later?

Continue reading...

My mother used to tell me of her dreams of being a figure skater. She made sure to start my brother and I early, so as soon as I could walk, I was on the ice. I wasn't bad... Nothing special, but potential was all I needed. I remember watching the big girls in their pretty, sparkly costumes jump and twist. I remember saying to myself "I wanna be like that." Sunday mornings flew by, each one becoming harder and harder, and soon I was offered a private instructor. At this point my mother had given me the choice to continue. Ten years old and well aware of my strengths and weeknesses, I quit. I wanted to go shopping on Sundays. I wanted to have play dates and eat ice cream. I didn't want to spend it in that freezing cold arena, working on something that I may or may not be good at. So I quit. Gave up. Occasionally I miss it and go back to that arena. I put on the bright, white 'big girl' skates that I used to look forward to growing into. Doing laps around the rink, I try to recall what I'd once known... Crossover, jump, spin, turn. Not as grand as they used to be... I see the little girls in the middle, they look about ten. They wear pretty little costumes and shiny white skates as they hop, spin, crossover, jump, effortlessly. I wonder about where I'd be if I'd continued... One of the girls falls out of her spin and lays there helplessly on the ice. She looks as if she's going to try again, but her face reads: I want to quit. She sighs and stands up. I skate over and tap her on the shoulder. "Don't give up. I promise, you'll regret it." I hop off of the ice and compare what I could've been to what I am.

0

Dec 24, 2012

Dec 24, 2012 at 7:46 PM UTC

My mother used to tell me of her dreams of being a figure skater. She made sure to start my brother and I early, so as soon as I could walk, I was on the ice. I wasn't bad... Nothing special, but potential was all I needed. I remember watching the big girls in their pretty, sparkly costumes jump and twist. I remember saying to myself "I wanna be like that." Sunday mornings flew by, each one becoming harder and harder, and soon I was offered a private instructor. At this point my mother had given me the choice to continue. Ten years old and well aware of my strengths and weeknesses, I quit. I wanted to go shopping on Sundays. I wanted to have play dates and eat ice cream. I didn't want to spend it in that freezing cold arena, working on something that I may or may not be good at. So I quit. Gave up. Occasionally I miss it and go back to that arena. I put on the bright, white 'big girl' skates that I used to look forward to growing into. Doing laps around the rink, I try to recall what I'd once known... Crossover, jump, spin, turn. Not as grand as they used to be... I see the little girls in the middle, they look about ten. They wear pretty little costumes and shiny white skates as they hop, spin, crossover, jump, effortlessly. I wonder about where I'd be if I'd continued... One of the girls falls out of her spin and lays there helplessly on the ice. She looks as if she's going to try again, but her face reads: I want to quit. She sighs and stands up. I skate over and tap her on the shoulder. "Don't give up. I promise, you'll regret it." I hop off of the ice and compare what I could've been to what I am.

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Sometimes I would walk through the halls, feeling nothing but anxiety. My mind would become flooded: What should I be doing… what should I be saying... what is everyone thinking? See- I used to float to the back of the room to the back of my mind where I escaped the world by reading. Nerdy. A loser. A freak. I was too intelligent for my age. It wasn’t COOL to get straight A’s. Then I advanced to the seventh grade, with no idea my life was about to change. I made a friend. Then Two. Then Three. A former unknown concept: “popularity”. Skater shoes, with laces you didn’t tie, pink backpacks, hair straight as a pin- Abercrombie- led me to a moment I still hate today: “Try some of this”. It wasn’t COOL if you said no. It was my first taste of intoxication, my first taste of escape- escape of my mind, the thoughts, The anxiety. The more I sipped, the more I let go. The drinks would become stronger, we raged every other night. Tolerances were creeping up high, control started waving goodbye to my mind. It wasn’t COOL to be sober. We laughed, we kid- called ourselves “alcoholics”. If only then I knew more, and the future I would soon endure because of the potion we poured and poured. It wasn’t COOL to be a lightweight. Some years later I bragged and I boasted, over the amount of liquor I could intake. “The only girl who could outdrink the boys”- the girl, I’d someday unrelated. She’d fallen for everything society had wanted to create. “Popularity”. Then came the day I knew would eventually arrive- the day of realization and what it meant to be alive. I no longer wanted to be COOL. Because with each drink, the value of life was swallowed- I never have felt quite that hollow. As if all the knowledge that once filled my mind vanished. I yearned for nothing but to go back to the days, when I was uncool and got straight A’s.

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Mar 4, 2015

Mar 4, 2015 at 3:52 PM UTC

Sometimes I would walk through the halls, feeling nothing but anxiety. My mind would become flooded: What should I be doing… what should I be saying... what is everyone thinking? See- I used to float to the back of the room to the back of my mind where I escaped the world by reading. Nerdy. A loser. A freak. I was too intelligent for my age. It wasn’t COOL to get straight A’s. Then I advanced to the seventh grade, with no idea my life was about to change. I made a friend. Then Two. Then Three. A former unknown concept: “popularity”. Skater shoes, with laces you didn’t tie, pink backpacks, hair straight as a pin- Abercrombie- led me to a moment I still hate today: “Try some of this”. It wasn’t COOL if you said no. It was my first taste of intoxication, my first taste of escape- escape of my mind, the thoughts, The anxiety. The more I sipped, the more I let go. The drinks would become stronger, we raged every other night. Tolerances were creeping up high, control started waving goodbye to my mind. It wasn’t COOL to be sober. We laughed, we kid- called ourselves “alcoholics”. If only then I knew more, and the future I would soon endure because of the potion we poured and poured. It wasn’t COOL to be a lightweight. Some years later I bragged and I boasted, over the amount of liquor I could intake. “The only girl who could outdrink the boys”- the girl, I’d someday unrelated. She’d fallen for everything society had wanted to create. “Popularity”. Then came the day I knew would eventually arrive- the day of realization and what it meant to be alive. I no longer wanted to be COOL. Because with each drink, the value of life was swallowed- I never have felt quite that hollow. As if all the knowledge that once filled my mind vanished. I yearned for nothing but to go back to the days, when I was uncool and got straight A’s.

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Condensation left, the window blind smudging with a bare hand the panes allow sight, to the restlessness of the trees and the blustering leaves rain forming puddles Seeing him wave, from across the street with, board in hand smiling upwards, glancing the butterflies kick and twist "Meadow, Meadow.." "Shush, I know, he's outside!" Her little sister was always part of, the games too she knew their ma, would never allow Meadow out barely allowed, away from sight, overprotective eyes Cady patiently waited, beside the park gate, as always as he watched his girl, run freedom and beauty in her eyes, a manifestation of the name she was graced with Indigo jeans, bleeding into the rain, as she splashes through, puddles reflecting her love, as he smiles with bright eyes, embracing her sweet sixteen kisses, connect Racing through the field, kids crazy in love, sketching names into hollowed out trees, drinking beer, sparking a doobie, last nights skater smoking session, come undone Hours pass, dark skies blacken street lights lead, a pathway home, laughter echoes she's to climb the tree, crawl in through the window slightly parted for her return Great escapes, all well and good, falling drunk and high, left her misunderstood, no way back in home, she calls "Skylar, can you let me in!" "Coming now.." Their kiss lingered, Cady pulled away, and waved looking back as his skate board took him back down the street, home "You love him Meadow!" "Skylar, I really do." © Sia Jane

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Feb 8, 2014

Feb 8, 2014 at 4:26 PM UTC

Condensation left, the window blind smudging with a bare hand the panes allow sight, to the restlessness of the trees and the blustering leaves rain forming puddles Seeing him wave, from across the street with, board in hand smiling upwards, glancing the butterflies kick and twist "Meadow, Meadow.." "Shush, I know, he's outside!" Her little sister was always part of, the games too she knew their ma, would never allow Meadow out barely allowed, away from sight, overprotective eyes Cady patiently waited, beside the park gate, as always as he watched his girl, run freedom and beauty in her eyes, a manifestation of the name she was graced with Indigo jeans, bleeding into the rain, as she splashes through, puddles reflecting her love, as he smiles with bright eyes, embracing her sweet sixteen kisses, connect Racing through the field, kids crazy in love, sketching names into hollowed out trees, drinking beer, sparking a doobie, last nights skater smoking session, come undone Hours pass, dark skies blacken street lights lead, a pathway home, laughter echoes she's to climb the tree, crawl in through the window slightly parted for her return Great escapes, all well and good, falling drunk and high, left her misunderstood, no way back in home, she calls "Skylar, can you let me in!" "Coming now.." Their kiss lingered, Cady pulled away, and waved looking back as his skate board took him back down the street, home "You love him Meadow!" "Skylar, I really do." © Sia Jane

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Your words glide Over my Heart like a Skater skates On ice lakes. Slowly you Wear me down; Carve your words Onto my Heart with blades. One time you Will cut through And fall in Through the crack That you made. You will try To climb out, But you are Stuck in the Void with me. Now you'll know Just the harm That a few Words can cause. Can't you tell?

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Oct 22, 2019

Oct 22, 2019 at 3:10 AM UTC

Your words glide Over my Heart like a Skater skates On ice lakes. Slowly you Wear me down; Carve your words Onto my Heart with blades. One time you Will cut through And fall in Through the crack That you made. You will try To climb out, But you are Stuck in the Void with me. Now you'll know Just the harm That a few Words can cause. Can't you tell?

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It is fragile It is us Teetering on broken glass Figure skater pointed blade As we draw our figure eights Figure eight is what it seems It is inverted infinity Infinity is a new life But from birth we live to die Figure skater lies in wait Till the day last grace is said Figure skater life in traipse Figure skater draws last eight Though the funambulists unite Figure skater falls from grace Charting vulnerable territory Thinking glass will never break Then the grand tribune arrives Figure eight is half a piece And I never fully understood the gravity of life Until I watched somebody leave

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Feb 24, 2014

Feb 24, 2014 at 5:39 AM UTC

It is fragile It is us Teetering on broken glass Figure skater pointed blade As we draw our figure eights Figure eight is what it seems It is inverted infinity Infinity is a new life But from birth we live to die Figure skater lies in wait Till the day last grace is said Figure skater life in traipse Figure skater draws last eight Though the funambulists unite Figure skater falls from grace Charting vulnerable territory Thinking glass will never break Then the grand tribune arrives Figure eight is half a piece And I never fully understood the gravity of life Until I watched somebody leave

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Maybe someday I will be good at writing and good at skating and good at studying and good at loving you. Maybe then I won't have to live in this ****** town, in this ****** two bedroom rut. I won't have to live off of minimum wage, and 9 to 5 every God **** day except for Wensdays. Maybe some day I can make you happy. I might quit smoking and I might start listening to happy music. **** I might even be happy. you might even be happy. what a plot twist that would be. But for now, I know I cannot change where I am. I am a ****** skater and a ****** lover. I work at a ****** job and make ****** pay. The only thing not ****** in my life is you and you have your bad days. I imagine a day when people will give me money for doing things I like. Maybe for skating or writing or singing or just being me. Other people do that. People make fortunes by doing that **** Maybe if I did that I would be happy. **** maybe even you would be happy. someday.

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Aug 5, 2012

Aug 5, 2012 at 3:41 AM UTC

Maybe someday I will be good at writing and good at skating and good at studying and good at loving you. Maybe then I won't have to live in this ****** town, in this ****** two bedroom rut. I won't have to live off of minimum wage, and 9 to 5 every God **** day except for Wensdays. Maybe some day I can make you happy. I might quit smoking and I might start listening to happy music. **** I might even be happy. you might even be happy. what a plot twist that would be. But for now, I know I cannot change where I am. I am a ****** skater and a ****** lover. I work at a ****** job and make ****** pay. The only thing not ****** in my life is you and you have your bad days. I imagine a day when people will give me money for doing things I like. Maybe for skating or writing or singing or just being me. Other people do that. People make fortunes by doing that **** Maybe if I did that I would be happy. **** maybe even you would be happy. someday.

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skater kids doing flip tricks motion of a jelly fish they glide they move faster then space and time in thier minds there rulers of this city and how they make it look so pretty they tremble with excitment carvin there names into history twish twish the sound of there shoe laces rubbin the pavement they roll front and center spray paint cans in hand tag there names across the land bandanas cover there faces they leap the staircases they are merely a imagination swoop in grab a few cases drink while they ride taking pictures of the night sky with no camera but plenty of eyes oh how they move the wind carries them in a silent groove how do we understand this nature of kids kicking and pushing into a future full of trial and error they have there own flavor a taste of danger aromas of marijuana lingure in the crisp air the wind flows through thier hair they have not one care they have there own melody metal clinking wheels scrapping car horns screaming as they come flying into traffic because that gap could've been tragic when they land it they know that it was some kid of magic they kick on pushing wheels creaking like floor boards in the attic tired they ride till the sun brings its shine when all there wonders can be seen by any traveling eye

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Dec 7, 2010

Dec 7, 2010 at 7:00 PM UTC

skater kids doing flip tricks motion of a jelly fish they glide they move faster then space and time in thier minds there rulers of this city and how they make it look so pretty they tremble with excitment carvin there names into history twish twish the sound of there shoe laces rubbin the pavement they roll front and center spray paint cans in hand tag there names across the land bandanas cover there faces they leap the staircases they are merely a imagination swoop in grab a few cases drink while they ride taking pictures of the night sky with no camera but plenty of eyes oh how they move the wind carries them in a silent groove how do we understand this nature of kids kicking and pushing into a future full of trial and error they have there own flavor a taste of danger aromas of marijuana lingure in the crisp air the wind flows through thier hair they have not one care they have there own melody metal clinking wheels scrapping car horns screaming as they come flying into traffic because that gap could've been tragic when they land it they know that it was some kid of magic they kick on pushing wheels creaking like floor boards in the attic tired they ride till the sun brings its shine when all there wonders can be seen by any traveling eye

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You,with those vintage glasses on. Right across the road with your cousins selling skater clothes with smiles and laughter. I catch your eyes while I was reading but I tried to avoid my mind from imagining. Your brother came up to me and he introduced me to you. We shared emotions and talked about dreams. Days go by,we kept on talking but then,it feels like you're abandoning me. It's as though I am such a burden to you. We fought because I get tired. But I guess it's my fault too. For declaring "we're just friends,right?"

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Jan 19, 2014

Jan 19, 2014 at 4:27 AM UTC

You,with those vintage glasses on. Right across the road with your cousins selling skater clothes with smiles and laughter. I catch your eyes while I was reading but I tried to avoid my mind from imagining. Your brother came up to me and he introduced me to you. We shared emotions and talked about dreams. Days go by,we kept on talking but then,it feels like you're abandoning me. It's as though I am such a burden to you. We fought because I get tired. But I guess it's my fault too. For declaring "we're just friends,right?"

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All my friends they smoke this things And handed me a Chesterfield King- Jawbreaker from Bivouac Lyrics I tried to memorize with my friends, while ******* on the syrup crusted mouths of glass coke bottles. Singing loud and off key. On the side of a Ralphs in the stagnant summer swelter. The soundtrack song when being a punk skater was a profitable venture, and landing a kick flip was an achievable wet dream. When we could play Lane’s boom box just loud enough to drown out the whimpering from our sprained ankles and scraped up knees that left the sidewalks on Foothill blvd. so ****** The music we were hearing now, was way beyond Sunday school. It was the sound of the sixth period bell, and rushing to Jeff’s backyard to smoke his dads cigarettes. As we got older We tried to quit the smokes and forget the lyrics. But sometimes we’d still proposition people on the side of that Ralphs to buy us cigarettes. When we succeeded We’d sing that old song coughing, hissing, and wheezing. -Kevin Theal

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Jun 14, 2010

Jun 14, 2010 at 5:08 PM UTC

Kick Flips and Cancer Sticks

All my friends they smoke this things And handed me a Chesterfield King- Jawbreaker from Bivouac Lyrics I tried to memorize with my friends, while ******* on the syrup crusted mouths of glass coke bottles. Singing loud and off key. On the side of a Ralphs in the stagnant summer swelter. The soundtrack song when being a punk skater was a profitable venture, and landing a kick flip was an achievable wet dream. When we could play Lane’s boom box just loud enough to drown out the whimpering from our sprained ankles and scraped up knees that left the sidewalks on Foothill blvd. so ****** The music we were hearing now, was way beyond Sunday school. It was the sound of the sixth period bell, and rushing to Jeff’s backyard to smoke his dads cigarettes. As we got older We tried to quit the smokes and forget the lyrics. But sometimes we’d still proposition people on the side of that Ralphs to buy us cigarettes. When we succeeded We’d sing that old song coughing, hissing, and wheezing. -Kevin Theal

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Hey there Skater girl You got me all twirled up inside When you made those turns I get goosebumps When you swerve right by me I'm pretty sure it was you And not the evening chill And yes it was late The lampposts were on And the traffic lights Out of sight Why should anyone Tell you when to stop or go You were an unchained thing You had the road all for yourself And I had that night To see you scribble in your strides You did ballet, not on thin ice, But on rough pavements For life was not always A smooth and clear ground It can be a lonely Concrete street It can be you right now Free and astound With me in the distance At first glance It'll seem like You're free-rolling But I know It's really art In its abstract form The solid, rigid sound of wheels Scraping ground Is tranquilizing To our left is a quiet parking lot And at the right, a multipurpose home While I'm sitting on grass In a suit Please don't mind me And keep on skating Skater girl Doodle me a way Map me a dance With the tracks of your skates In this fast-rolling world

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Jul 13, 2016

Jul 13, 2016 at 8:01 AM UTC

ChadMartinZNatividad

Hey there Skater girl You got me all twirled up inside When you made those turns I get goosebumps When you swerve right by me I'm pretty sure it was you And not the evening chill And yes it was late The lampposts were on And the traffic lights Out of sight Why should anyone Tell you when to stop or go You were an unchained thing You had the road all for yourself And I had that night To see you scribble in your strides You did ballet, not on thin ice, But on rough pavements For life was not always A smooth and clear ground It can be a lonely Concrete street It can be you right now Free and astound With me in the distance At first glance It'll seem like You're free-rolling But I know It's really art In its abstract form The solid, rigid sound of wheels Scraping ground Is tranquilizing To our left is a quiet parking lot And at the right, a multipurpose home While I'm sitting on grass In a suit Please don't mind me And keep on skating Skater girl Doodle me a way Map me a dance With the tracks of your skates In this fast-rolling world

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High Times In Harvey Taylor. Part I: Weave Check. Gurl, you better check, check, check yo' weave and yourself. Before, you let those sticky fingers of yours give a just because you bought me dinner, hand job. And get stuck with the wrong **** You know what I'm preaching? Amen & Ahhh Harerujah. After all, Purgatory is a place for people who commit acts of pladjurism . Praise Jesus, amen, Um, Whatever you say Man, just pass me that joint and we'll be ight. Kush, blueberry & purple. Grand-Daddy will be there too. I've got a keiffe covered doctors letter, swimming deep inside the middle of my eighter. Later Skater.

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Mar 28, 2012

Mar 28, 2012 at 9:43 PM UTC

High Times in Harvey Taylor! Part I!

High Times In Harvey Taylor. Part I: Weave Check. Gurl, you better check, check, check yo' weave and yourself. Before, you let those sticky fingers of yours give a just because you bought me dinner, hand job. And get stuck with the wrong **** You know what I'm preaching? Amen & Ahhh Harerujah. After all, Purgatory is a place for people who commit acts of pladjurism . Praise Jesus, amen, Um, Whatever you say Man, just pass me that joint and we'll be ight. Kush, blueberry & purple. Grand-Daddy will be there too. I've got a keiffe covered doctors letter, swimming deep inside the middle of my eighter. Later Skater.

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being poetic sometimes just comes to you naturally. the words flow through you onto the paper in a beautiful rythmic way and they paint an emotional landscape of thoughts and feelings but then someone sees it finds all the flaws all the things that made you feel it was yours that made you feel unique ruined. you feel exposed, hurt, scared. you hide from yourself you won't let your muse out for fear of having your art distroyed altered and corrupted. so you change you pick up a brush you dip it in the paint and you let the flow begin again. your strokes are thrown at the canvas where you feel the anger, your strokes become detailed and gentle when you feel happiness or calm emotions. but then someone sees it they see only the flaws they tear it apart and you along with it. where the lines are jagged from your anger and disappointment they only see uneveness and imperfection. where the shading is uneven from the sadness and the pain they only see imperfection they can't see what precious beauty lay deep inside the painting and the use there words to hurt you to make you feel like you were wrong like your not doing good enough. so you swear never to touch a brush again you will never let yourself flow with emotions like that ever again you tell yourself. but then you change you learn to play the piano you learn to make your fingers glide across the keys in the same was a figure skater glides across the ice. and with each key stroke you heart beats a note that flows out through the piano like blood through your vains. it feels natual it feels good it makes you feel alive you let go. everything comes out everything you feel and think flows through your fingers the notes of your heart beat expressed through the notes of the piano. the feel of the ivory on your finger tips becomes unnoticable you beome one with the flow of the music your heart beats in time with the rhythm of you soul of your music. and then someone hears it they come in and they take a seat and for a while they listen then they stand up and without a word they leave the room and you continue to play you let your flow continue you pay no mind to the person who just left the room. they return they have brought people with them and they sit quitely and say nothing. you stop playing you stand nod to each aknowlegeing their presense and then leave because the music wasn't for them it wasn't for them to judge even though as you leave you hear the people talk about how amazing they felt you were you no longer care they approval or disapproval means nothing its no longer about your art being good or being acceptable its about being...

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Jan 1, 2010

Jan 1, 2010 at 4:16 PM UTC

raymond-dc-hedges

being poetic sometimes just comes to you naturally. the words flow through you onto the paper in a beautiful rythmic way and they paint an emotional landscape of thoughts and feelings but then someone sees it finds all the flaws all the things that made you feel it was yours that made you feel unique ruined. you feel exposed, hurt, scared. you hide from yourself you won't let your muse out for fear of having your art distroyed altered and corrupted. so you change you pick up a brush you dip it in the paint and you let the flow begin again. your strokes are thrown at the canvas where you feel the anger, your strokes become detailed and gentle when you feel happiness or calm emotions. but then someone sees it they see only the flaws they tear it apart and you along with it. where the lines are jagged from your anger and disappointment they only see uneveness and imperfection. where the shading is uneven from the sadness and the pain they only see imperfection they can't see what precious beauty lay deep inside the painting and the use there words to hurt you to make you feel like you were wrong like your not doing good enough. so you swear never to touch a brush again you will never let yourself flow with emotions like that ever again you tell yourself. but then you change you learn to play the piano you learn to make your fingers glide across the keys in the same was a figure skater glides across the ice. and with each key stroke you heart beats a note that flows out through the piano like blood through your vains. it feels natual it feels good it makes you feel alive you let go. everything comes out everything you feel and think flows through your fingers the notes of your heart beat expressed through the notes of the piano. the feel of the ivory on your finger tips becomes unnoticable you beome one with the flow of the music your heart beats in time with the rhythm of you soul of your music. and then someone hears it they come in and they take a seat and for a while they listen then they stand up and without a word they leave the room and you continue to play you let your flow continue you pay no mind to the person who just left the room. they return they have brought people with them and they sit quitely and say nothing. you stop playing you stand nod to each aknowlegeing their presense and then leave because the music wasn't for them it wasn't for them to judge even though as you leave you hear the people talk about how amazing they felt you were you no longer care they approval or disapproval means nothing its no longer about your art being good or being acceptable its about being...

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My dream.... My dream is an elusive mistress as I seem to consistently miss it It's a constantly running wonderland rabbit To be frank, I need to stop splitting hares about it Anyway, I wanna become a skater, or sedated I'm not sure which. Nah I'm just kidding I have a desire to command concrete Either with inline blades or a four wheeled board, Whichever I can pick up first And whichever I can allow to inspire and enhance my verse A skating poet huh? I like it

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Sep 29, 2015

Sep 29, 2015 at 11:03 PM UTC

neroameealucard

My dream.... My dream is an elusive mistress as I seem to consistently miss it It's a constantly running wonderland rabbit To be frank, I need to stop splitting hares about it Anyway, I wanna become a skater, or sedated I'm not sure which. Nah I'm just kidding I have a desire to command concrete Either with inline blades or a four wheeled board, Whichever I can pick up first And whichever I can allow to inspire and enhance my verse A skating poet huh? I like it

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The light dances on the sea’s waves like those little skater bugs that hop on a pond. The jitter of tiny lights reminds me of a time that I was fainting; the same specks of glitter shimmering in front of my eyes as I tumbled onto the bed in a cold sweat, mother at my side with a damp, white flannel. But now, as I watch the same twinkling flashes surfing the tide, in the warmth of the sun, they seem not to be as intimidating.

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Mar 7, 2018

Mar 7, 2018 at 12:33 PM UTC

The light dances on the sea’s waves like those little skater bugs that hop on a pond. The jitter of tiny lights reminds me of a time that I was fainting; the same specks of glitter shimmering in front of my eyes as I tumbled onto the bed in a cold sweat, mother at my side with a damp, white flannel. But now, as I watch the same twinkling flashes surfing the tide, in the warmth of the sun, they seem not to be as intimidating.

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