"slumped" poems
I can see Cecily's ****** bars.
Sammy can see them as well.
After he speaks
I keep catching him peek.
She knows that he sees, I can tell.
Bailey has smoked too much **** again.
He's dribbling over my shoes.
He acted all jokey
And tried out smoke me.
It went without saying he'd lose.
Tom's on the floor by the table.
We don't know if he's alive,
Hugging Joe's feet,
Who is slumped on the seat.
I don't think they're due to survive.
Chris had a couple of pills.
Ethan a tab or a few.
Toria's tweaking,
Max is just peaking,
Matt's throwing up in the loo.
I'm on the sofa while writing,
Louie beside me in tears.
We may have our issues
With drugs and their misuse,
But **** it, it gives me ideas.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 9:03 AM UTC
Once, long ago,
An old man took me into his shop
And showed me his snowglobe collection.
Every one, spotless,
No trace of dust lining the rims.
I paused to gaze,
No,
Marvel,
At each scene:
Two children ice skating,
A milkman driving his truck,
Ladies reading magazines while having their hair styled.
Every one, spotless,
Until I lightly shook one,
Just enough so the snow sprinkled
The ice skating children,
The driving milkman,
The reading ladies.
But each scene was still, frozen in time,
Still, perfect.
I slumped to the floor,
Heartbroken and tears trailing down my cheeks.
I wanted their life so bad,
But all I could do was marvel,
No,
Gaze,
And lightly sprinkle the tiny figurines.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 11:56 AM UTC
i come to you half mad
with desire
like slithers tongue
i wish
to have painfully stitched
to your silky ****
an act of desires supplication
my *** turned to poison
deprivations effulgent
obsidian flower salivating
your every smile
fleshy bells ringing
warping tintinnabulations
i am a starved incubus
drooling at your knees
behind me
a frothy junket of misdeeds
for loves sake
your feet the scent of lavender and salt
their shape evoking numberless poems
and begging adorations
your belly
a tender cauldron undulating
tummy ***** dancer
sacred **********
temple of worship
the site of your rounded bottom
naked red mouth calling
my sacred liturgy
your *****
velvet tulips for a tremulous kiss
I seed you a thousand times
a raging bludgeon
storming wounded gates Palisades
drenched and florid
fruit and milk ****
until jaws lock
and spire drops
turning me
to midnight cadaver
***** black hollows
a dark eyelid, blink-less
dead **** face down
a slumped snake
then soft dew
and cool ales
clear thickened muds saturation
lighten heat and peel
the warm palate
with agile caress
tender haunches wide and spiced
milk and butter thighs
her hair in mine
rushing river life
again i animate
an embryo id
dressed in fire
all vices and virtues
blood and sky
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 1:23 PM UTC
The beauty of comatose can only be seen through
the eyes of a wizard in a blizzard
strutting in garlic slippers,
or Christ with knees bent at the tabernacle
peeling bananas and kicking prayers
farther than eternity with each gapping second,
or like Basquiat slumped back to the wall,
with ounces of speedball dancing through his veins,
eating 80’s free-based fried chicken *******
as his eyelids paints beautiful nightmares of lemon flowers
and Bacchus bacon over a glycopyrrolate desert
of flagrant cuckold buffoonery.
Or like leprechauns burning chocolate ******* candles
on the mantle of Zion, sipping oatmeal sprinkled
with Staten Island malt liquor bacon.
or like Tupac reading the thoughts of Mother Shipton
through the daze of California cannabis
and hearing the ominous voice of Plutarch sing death assignments
from heaven to Assassins on horsebacks goggling ***** water
to wet the dry bones of their throats as they prepare to fulfill
the gospel of self-fulfilling prophecies of being fell by ***** bullets.
Or like sophisticated wallets of spice and kitchen characters in a bald head
cooking chemical kisses and 18 February nights under Moloch’s skin,
where constitutions are written in charcoal diaries with Egyptian ciphers and razors.
“I had rain sowed into the pockets of my sneakers and composed 1310 eulogies
at the basement of king David’s tower,” said the Kraftwerkian caricature,
as he dangles cigarettes in remembrance of Klaus Nomi and philosophizes on the proliferation
of poetic vandalism at urinals where modernism failed under the phosphorescence of coloration at the avenue of no trees where Picasso's "Guernica" **** Lies All.
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 6:01 PM UTC
Shopping outfashioned hunting and gathering,
Processed beats fresh,
Groceries replaced fruit trees,
Malls superceded forests,
Churches outnumbered temples,
Countries dissolved to territories,
Places devolved to areas,
Paths broke down into highways,
Commodity converted to currency,
Laborers submit to machinery,
Masters engage in humbug,
Apprentices reduced to students,
Knowledge downgraded to education,
And education is deducted to a show of grades,
While schools are the stages,
And the corporate world is the bigger runway,
With work slumped to employment,
Wisdom demoted to profession,
Where in jobs are the only future,
Careers are the only success,
Clicking and pressing buttons are skills,
Computers are correspondent to brains,
Information refers to news reports,
Intelligence means up-to-dateness,
Browsing is preferable to reading,
Studying is in demand more than learning,
Viewing things flashed on screens yields awareness,
Transportation is to traveling,
As buying is to the three basic needs,
And needs embody worldly possessions,
Worldly possessions define happiness,
Happiness is due to selfishness,
Selfishness is traced to the lack of love,
The lack of love draws from the lack of faith,
Because faith stands for religion,
And religion stands for membership,
Where politicians are the gods,
Celebrities are the preachers,
And the preachers are the enemies,
While networking is equal to friendship,
And connection equates to communication,
Experiences require photos,
Memories necessitate uploading,
Souvenirs can be downloaded,
Smartphones are substitute to pets,
Gadgets are toys,
Holding controllers is playing,
Watching TV is exploring the great outdoors,
Internet is recreation,
And technology is a way of life;
While humans are scientists,
Nature is a guinea pig,
And the earth is a laboratory,
Where prices are misidentified for worth,
Processes are miscalculated as progress,
Impoverishment is confused with improvement,
And getting more is mistaken as getting better;
And then we wonder why
Homes have become houses,
Family members have become boarders,
Nations are separate species
Composed of tired and hungry citizens,
Children are monsters
Who are biochemically rascals,
Teenagers are zombies
Whose adventures lead to delinquency,
Adults are robots
Who just clang when touched,
And life is not so simple
As how it is said to be.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 5:40 AM UTC
Here in America,
we improvise morgues
as needed.
in the cafeterias
or by the lockers,
near the ticket booths,
and at the altars.
We divvy up the dead.
Tally them
and report the number
like an answer.
13, 20, 49, 58, 6
Every death count
a timely national shock.
Almost as if
our well-televised
monthly tragedy
was ever anything less
than a game of roulette.
anything less than a matter of time
and time and time again.
Covering them each
with our bed sheets,
we try and stifle it.
Do our best to
staunch the the sights,
the noises,
(“just like chairs falling”)
the names
that keep bleeding out
onto our thoughts
and tongues,
Far too much and
too often
not to choke on.
Here in America,
we’ve learned that
horror is level-headed.
It is debatable.
It is pangless.
It seeps, deep to the core,
perverting with a silent smile.
the steady, feverish dread
weaving itself into the mundane.
the “god help us”
annulled by the
“respectfully disagreed”
the nightmare that lies
always just underneath,
and just out of mind,
Until it insinuates itself
Again and again...
Here, in America
We line the bodies,
death slumped, and
bled out on the pavement.
We arrange them-
Side by side.
Most are missing things-
a hat, a piece of face.
one shoe, a dulled pencil
(fill in C)
phones
buzzing on the ground
lit up with unread messages
(“Please call me”)
They are missing-
an upcoming
7th birthday party,
(Star Wars themed)
They are missing-
their vacations.
their first dates.
their college applications.
job interviews.
kids.
fiancées.
Lined up lifeless,
they are missing
far too many things
to gather.
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 3:14 PM UTC
It was cold city night,
The hours with sounds dying,
It seemed life had escaped,
To the other side of the world,
I rocked for hours with my child in my hands,
I dreamt about her life to come,
Like I often did,
A little eased at the fever subsided.
As I slipped into the clutches of sweet slumber,
My head slumped down,
In what seemed like a blink of an eye,
My head swung up to search the sky,
Where the gold of the sun
Seemed to chase away the night,
But there was something not right,
The morning seemed to bring a sense of change,
Not of the good kind.
As I felt my child, burning up like the coming sun,
I hurried my way to the physician,
Like a saint he answered to my prayer,
Asked me to wait behind while he tried to cure my life,
I never realized until he gave me the handkerchief,
That with my baby I’d been crying,
Her cries echoing foul against my ears,
I’m hurting as much on my helplessness
To take care of my child,
Who is part of my flesh,
Part of my being on the verge of...
Part of my being that I brought to life.
I began to sing to my baby a lullaby,
“Don’t cry my child, I’m here right by you,
For you I sing this lullaby, so you may fall asleep.
In the moonshine, your face glows,
You look like the princess
A queen you’ll grow up into,
Leave me someday for your king,
But till then be with me always,
Even when you learn to walk,
My child, so I can fulfill your wishes,
So you’ll remember me always,
So I can protect you till your king comes,
So I can teach you to walk and run.
Don’t cry, you make me cry too,
Sleep now my child, tomorrow
We’ll begin anew, for you’re alright,
This discomfort will pass… Oh look!
It’s already morn, the sun shines bright!
I see you’d fallen asleep,
While I kept dreaming on,
Open your eyes my child,
A new day has come.
As I finish, I realize that you stopped crying,
But to my plea, you never opened your eyes.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 7:57 PM UTC
He slumped onto the barbedwire
thinking of the end in no man's land
his uniform grey with ash
his army colours now blind to all
From out of a trench he had dashed
but dying no hero by the call of a whistle
just a name in a thankless world war
that in a thousand more years
will have tragically so many tears
No Poppy will grow here
whilst the bombs and gunfire go on
this land will not settle
with killing machines of metal
So he is dying with his blood and pride
yet not in a land for butterflies
he looks at his loves stained photograph
in his last breath gasps, Poppy my Poppy
By Christis Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 6:38 PM UTC
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
Feb 27, 2011
Feb 27, 2011 at 4:38 AM UTC
One windy day the storm clouds came and blew the pages away. A book about presumptuous children who were lost in mediocrity. As the flickering reel of images flashes with burning waves, memories riddled with shame sunk into the ocean of flames. That is when the seducer of old cast his soul into me, into a river he fell, into the rivers of hell.
From page to page the pen runs red with ink, as we drift into the darkness will you remember me? The final chapter is left for you to read, I close my eyes and say your name, then conjure you a king. Next to a fire wrapped in a blanket a beautiful smile follows a kiss. A flickering light across her face, with poison on her lips. He slumped to the ground gasping for air, then death took his breath.
The serpent of false dreams forces men to crawl. A misplaced faith brings misery as kingdoms and nations fall. Into the burning windmill, the windmill of spinning dreams. As it burns a hole in your soul, will you believe what you see?
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 12:50 AM UTC
What can you say about Pennsylvania
in regard to New England except that
it is slightly less cold, and less rocky,
or rather that the rocks are different?
Redder, and gritty, and piled up here and there,
whether as glacial moraine or collapsed springhouse
is not easy to tell, so quickly
are human efforts bundled back into nature.
In fall, the trees turn yellower-
hard maple, hickory, and oak
give way to tulip poplar, black walnut,
and locust. The woods are overgrown
with wild-grape vines, and with greenbrier
spreading its low net of anxious small claws.
In warm November, the mulching forest floor
smells like a rotting animal.
A genial pulpiness, in short: the sky
is soft with haze and paper-gray
even as the sun shines, and the rain
falls soft on the shoulders of farmers
while the children keep on playing,
their heads of hair beaded like spider webs.
A deep-dyed blur softens the bleak cities
whose people palaver in prolonged vowels.
There is a secret here, some death-defying joke
the eyes, the knuckles, the bellies imply-
a suet of consolation fetched straight
from the slaughterhouse and hung out
for chickadees to peck in the lee of the spruce,
where the husks of sunflower seeds
and the peace-signs of bird feet crowd
the snow that barely masks the still-green grass.
I knew that secret once, and have forgotten.
The death-defying secret-it rises
toward me like a dog's gaze, loving
but bewildered. When winter sits cold and black
slumped between its two polluted rivers,
warmth's shadow leans close to the wall
and gets the cement to deliver a kiss.
5.4k
I am with you
here in this place
scanning with cool
and radiant eyes
Causing silver haired women
to pantomime
The Thing Thats Wrong With Us:
their heads shake
and their thumbs waggle in the air
like worms.
Our thumbs irk them,
patience wearing
thin as their lips.
They are so sad for us,
for our murderous stupidity.
They know
what is wrong:
because our empty carcasses
litter their living rooms
the busses they ride
the classes they teach
slumped
in the seats where we left them.
Heidegger said
that attention creates access to the world,
And we've crept away to the edge
dangling our attentions over the inviting precipice
like the sorcerer's apprentice
unsure
of how it all takes place
but certain
of it’s awesome power.
The well overflows
and we are swept away
as the women look on
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 4:22 AM UTC
The scuff of sneakers, boots and flats form the solid and stable beat.
Add in the chuckles, silences and brief interruptions to create the varying and rhythm.
All that remains is what goes unsaid but is speeding around in your mind.
That man from Uzbekistan,
He was telling us how peace and non-violence starts with us,
With middle-schools, with teens, with future leaders
To all those who laugh, when I say violence is never the answer,
You're the ones I worry about
That man from Uzbekistan,
He was speaking to us about how the kids had a parliament in Uzbekistan
Those kids had a say in what their fate would be
Believe it or not,
But adults are not the only things to make up our society...
Infants, toddlers, 5th graders, 8th graders, 11th graders, seniors, the diseases make up us, us..
So maybe parents shelter us too much, or not at all.
And kids throw fits in the grocery store
While teenagers attempt to jump off the nearest bridge
This is our society..
But we're like those kids in Uzbekistan
We have a say in what our fate will be
That man from Uzbekistan,
He was sharing out how blessed he was to be living here in the United States
Even though he could live in a much more peaceful and welcoming society.
I have no idea how many years i will be,
Or what has to happen before we get the message across..
That's what's played out isn't acceptable
The American people,
Were baffled, devastated, overwhelmed
That all those stereotypes really were mixed within us.
Obama stood up in that room
With a shaky camera man, staring while he slumped and grieved
He addressed our nation,
Homeland,
Country
Community
Family
About Newtown,
Clackamas Town Center
No leader should ever be forced to speak about children dying long before there time was up
Or about average people ducking and diving from bullets
Gun Control is only a little layer
And that's the start of our restoration to end up being a peaceful, safe country
It begins with how youth are shown how to solve problems.
I'm willing to reach my hand out to every single state in this country
And if that means devoting everything I've got to making our restoration successful,
Then so be it..
No leader or person should be raising candles to the sky for little kids to see that they are missed.
And I took all of this in at a Lebanese Luncheon
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 11:58 PM UTC
poor, slumped over and broken strangers
for a penny, share their paltry stories, one by one
snippets and scatters of half-truths and fables,
so raunchy they'd make Aesop blush.
don't deprive me of your salacious souls.
rented sea views with mirrors and doors,
unlocked drawers and white ***** floors,
with freshly dead ***** in claw-footed tubs.
rich luxury rich luxury rich luxury rich luxury
does that second home taste too sweet?
ears swallowed by bubble bath suds
head underwater, eyelids crushed and
stinging from the acrid chemical perfume;
drinking the bathwater in an unclean tub,
tasting notes of freesias and ***** green-blue.
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 4:57 PM UTC
Somewhere along the line
it feels like I lost my poetry.
But I've always had a deep affinity of childhood curious-gaze with the light of a passing car slicing through a slumped drapery in the dead of a powerless October night
like a fumbling mouse with night-vision, glassy eyed, walk, walk, walk
run, run, run
scurry-rubber like an imperial humvee of red-carpet glamor.
Somewhere along the line
the freeze of a less-than-bourgeoise temperature never felt close to Antarctic
until the ring of a cell-phone became my national anthem
and the complacent all-eternity-and-everything-we-are-and-more reflective one-eye of a laptop became my national flag
I waived it with surrender calling to all nation states that 'I don't give a sweet ****
entertain me.'
watching politics like sports and sports like politics I couldn't help but hear the old Native inside of me scream in suffocated final breaths so I turned up the volume to drown him out
and when I wished to return to his comforting embrace, I found he had drown to death
so all I could do was stand over his wading body in the river of my mind and lax my shoulders in defeat.
I rang the midnight church bell of 'send new message' to tell the world that didn't care
the shaman is dead.
all they said was
'finally, the shaman is dead.'
I nodded, laughed, locked the bathroom door
and cried until the river ran dry
the shamans body so far down creek I could pretend to forget he had ever existed
the ache inside became a masked anonymity with the glare of Dorian Gray
I shrugged and said, 'I could never make time anyways'
and fell right back into my sleepy routine with another cup of coffee.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 10:06 PM UTC
A simple bottle,
Cheap chunky plastic,
Designer garbage.
Empty of its liquid energy.
Glossy label parrying the flash,
Glaring retrieval of light.
Sickly bold orange cap,
Impudently tight,
Defending the blanched carpet below.
Moment of fragility,
Suspended on the humid waves of air,
Eternity in an insubstantial moment.
It wafts away from his fingers,
Plastic given wings,
Fixed by his steely eyes,
A forced arc,
Stretching to the ceiling.
Focused intensity.
An infinite gap looms
Instants before the catch.
He didn’t notice the stray,
A camera pointed his way,
Capturing this moment,
Making it magical.
Clarity is threatened by obscurity,
People pressing in,
Bending the frame.
Time is lost,
Too much wasted on boredom,
And playing catch with yourself.
Spine lax, body slumped.
Interruptions and distractions surround.
His face vivid in the mix,
Lost in the wash of faces,
So much like his,
Flushed by the same blood.
His unwavering gaze
Holds the emptiness in shackles.
Second of silence in the crushing sound,
Relentless muttering rumble,
The voices of family,
So constantly buzzing.
Jumbled tumbling voices.
A peanut gallery seeking constant attention.
The camera congeals the moment,
Silencing the mass.
In the absence the bottle and the boy
Infinitely alone,
Endlessly still.
Oct 20, 2012
Oct 20, 2012 at 10:33 PM UTC
I laughed in places
Where Laughter was not asked for,
In granite market towns
Beneath refugee palm trees shivering.
Running from giant hands
That were covered in car wash fluids,
The back of children's heads imprinted
On their palms.
I laughed during disciplinary procedures,
Before authority figures
With cornflakes in their red beards
And my laughter crept over the edges of their flowerbeds
And the grass laughed with me.
I laughed at funerals,
The sounds of horses beyond the churchyard
And a messenger ran down the aisle
panting and exhausted,
He had a message for my laughter
' Quick you must come at once'.
I laughed during marital feuds,
Laughter rising out of its own body
above broken guitars and dried up bonsai,
Above all the things I said
That contradict me now.
I laughed during serious films,
The tulips drooping on top of the T.V.
The sun slumped against the door,
Behind heavy curtains
I mistook for pigs on hooks.
I laughed over exercise books,
Above algebra and history
Behind impossible bra straps
That appeared out of acne and ink flicked backs.
I laughed at the swimming pool
Hiding birthmarks like stains,
Drowning above the water saying
'I am a fish I must get back in!'.
I laughed in surgeries among migraines
and told my mother that robots were taking over,
in the same rooms where they removed my brothers' verucas
And I saw the doctors small blade
escape through the window.
I laughed during friends confessions,
In between the silences of repeated songs
While pantomime dames walked past windows
make-up running in black and yellow rain.
I'm laughing while making coffee in a campervan,
I'm laughing because its a monday morning,
Because everyone else is busy,
Because we have an oil lamp from a pound-shop
Burning beneath the sound of rain on the roof,
Because the radio's silent…..
And because sausages are best done slowly.
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 11:05 AM UTC
Infested, impaled, slaughtered meat, and brimstone candy
Slumped on a throne with a pirate's dagger under a skeleton key
Drowning children in a gaping gutter of godless servitude
Putrid streams dripping puddles under the disemboweled
Drink the fornicating disease, backmasking a kaleidoscope clown
Forget me not as my ship docks, I will surely help you drown
Aug 28, 2021
Aug 28, 2021 at 4:43 AM UTC
Through water and sand, stands you.
Spring breaking at you feet
Your breath flicking the pages of a street paper
A black crown of nightingales at your head
Entwined in leaves and wheat trickling down stones in dew-morning light and thrones in brambles of blackberry pie
Rooted to firewood and sheer bliss of kissed moonlight
Where herons christen Stars before black velvet blanket
Bridled by Rosemary and time, caught with Mary in a dark corner
Slumped behind priest less ivy, we permeate the air and through blue blooded command and gnashing of teeth, slants me
Outside the ramshackle cwtch I the hangmedown barks of woods, kneels you.
And stopped around cockles and foundling sparrows, sings the epitaph of a fallen barbarian.
Still through desert and carcass, lies you.
JWS
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 7:29 AM UTC
Purple
Yellow
Orange
I was thinking of so many things
While the sun was painting a backdrop
I wished to hold onto that order
Purple
Yellow
Orange
As if nothing else mattered
Purple
Yellow
Orange
I was in the mountains again
But now the birds sang
And my ankles were boney
Wobbling against the war-zone of stones
Purple
Yellow
Orange
The snow wasn't stuck to the grass anymore
But melting away
lone piles of it slumped against, wasted rocks
That the mountain had decided to toss away
Purple
Yellow
Orange
I wished to stay here
up on the hill,
watching the sun shimmy down through its peaks.
Purple
Yellow
Orange
Like the way I lined up my socks
Sometimes the purple ones mate would go missing
It's pair left to sit lonely in the sock drawer
Purple
Yellow
Orange
I walked the hill alone
My stomach empty, my head in control
The sun seemed to dangle in the sky,
as if held up by one string
Waiting for the world to blink asleep
But the birds kept chirping
Purple
Yellow
Orange
I know how the sun feels
I feel strung up as well
My subconscious pulling the strings
While I'm only left to follow
Purple
Yellow
Orange
The mountains make me miss the sea
I miss the beach
Take me back, back
to when we walked the waterfront,
salty ocean air cutting through the heat.
Purple
Yellow
Orange
Maybe I should've jumped
when you told me we could escape
"We could go far, into the sea," you told me.
I think that's when i realized,
Purple,
Yellow
and Orange
are nothing like the waves
of
Blue
and Green.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 11:36 AM UTC
Love is like a disease it spreads.
Hatred is an itch when you keep
Scratching it. It Fester an kills you.
When i think about the things I've said.
Feelings I felt. I melt inside.
It turns my in sides out.
My heart combust
An I hate myself.
Why are I not enough.
Denial will have you walk for miles.
Sorrow is a sweet after taste of a sucker punch of truth.
Loneliness is only a symptom.
An that to will pass.
I am a enigma of feeling. I cry when the rain falls to hard. When the wind blows in the wrong directions. I'm poetic. I'm also a stepping stone. The men I've let erase my soul an rewrite my blueprint. The salty tears I cry are almost symbiotic. Another symptom. Like a sonnet short an sweet. Running in a circle walking a fine line. Waiting to leap. Is it a crime to work 9 to 9. Roller coaster emotinal train wreck. An I think to myself who will love me.
I bare myself to the pit an it asks me if I'll jump. I reply not today. Slumped down I step closer to the edge. I reenact self destructive behaviors daily. Am I considered an addict. I seek validation from namless phantoms. I named them my self conscious. Are you listening my beating heart gets louder. I order cream an chowder. Sips slow on estacy. Love an lust sleep next to me. I'm smothered in one while I'm blocked to the other. Exits are closed off I think where is my mother. I shudder remembering I'm alone.
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 7:59 AM UTC
Click. Click. Click.
Up down, up down, up down.
On, off. On, off. On, off.
Florescent flicker. Light to dark.
Do I really want to see that face in the mirror?
Not tonight.
Click. Down. Off.
Black.
Slumped down on the floor.
There's an icy breeze through the window.
But my face is hot. Burning.
The hair on my arms is up. Attentive.
Seems they're the only ones.
Keep a hushed voice.
It feels like a whisper could wake the world.
It's shaken mine before. A second time wouldn't be surprising.
Black ink on my face. Track marks, so to speak.
Every breath is a catalyst for the next wave.
If I breathe to calm myself, it acts defiantly, and I cry harder.
There's an earthquake in my body. Shaking, trembling.
It rattles my heart.
If it's quiet, it's like it never happened.
Pull the blanket over me. A towel, actually, but it'll do.
It's like I've taken ten years away, stepped back into size four shoes.
I'm hiding under my covers.
In the black.
In the silence.
One, two, three...
Watch out for Mr. Boogeyman.
See, how it works is, if I can't see him, he can't see me.
If you never see me cry, I'm never sad.
If you never see me hurt, I'm never in pain.
Click. Up. On.
Light.
Open your eyes and look in the mirror.
Hello
Mr. Boogeyman.
Click.
Aug 13, 2010
Aug 13, 2010 at 12:51 PM UTC
There’s nothing special here
Hearts are trampled by and by
Lost looks go searching for lost loves
There’s nothing special here
Long thoughts and short lives
Descending riffs rush by every day
There’s nothing special here
No tour bus stops for the lonely souls
Smoke drifts wafting lazily
Hazily the air never clears
There’s nothing special here
High times never made it through
The door stays shut as often as not
Slumped shouldered fools look down
Frowns etched sketched amid the lines
There’s nothing special here
Just lost souls and hazy minds
There’s nothing special here
cc0111
Jan 3, 2011
Jan 3, 2011 at 5:58 PM UTC
i usually try
to start work
at 09:00
but today
a streak of sun
across the middle
of the floor
was so appealing
i had to lie
stretched out
and splayed
in that pool
of warmth
within seconds
of being down
the dog nosed
at my ear
and slumped
at my side
his chin resting
on my arm
perhaps
seeking closeness
the comfort of
my presence
or maybe
simply protesting
a hint that he wished
to stretch out
where i was lay
as clouds crept
across the sky
to steal our sunlight
he shifted his weight
let out a deep-lunged sigh
but stayed at my side
Apr 13, 2023
Apr 13, 2023 at 11:46 AM UTC