"smearing" poems
This woman of blonde locks
slim body and perky *******
acne and ribcage and vertebrae
she gives me that look
drawn smile with teeth bared
heaving tummy and deep stare
into my eyes like, "Come on."
Like a run-on sentence I'll make
her come on my face all night
and all day the next day
Best *** we ever had,
we had on a naked mattress
after a Sunday doing nothing
This woman of five o'
clock shadow and travel size ****
loose skin from weight loss and a thick neck
she is me and look
at that lucky feel
smearing over my dark mug
like I just won the sweepstakes
Like a run-on sentence she'll run
She'll run, she'll run, run me till
we need an oasis
Best *** we ever had,
we had on a naked mattress
Squeeze your legs
Squeeze your legs
Squeeze your legs
Squeeze your legs
Squeeze your legs
Squeeze your legs,
Release them,
A baker's dozen
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 3:02 PM UTC
Year after year
purity of fire
is challenged by evil,
appeased with offerings
A full moon looks on
as winds stoke embers,
flare flames
to a flickering dance
Right in the center
of crimson blaze
sits Holika,
Prahlad in her lap -
her arms a circle of heat
White sparks fly from her hair,
eyes smolder in fury;
her mouth ***** in air,
engulfs rice and wheat
Wood chars,
coconuts splinter,
flowers singe
smearing earth with ash.
Year after year
faith survives.
Holika burns to death.
By Unknown
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 7:47 PM UTC
We are watching the clouds
bandage an incarnadine sky,
we are practicing our best knots,
weaving an army of tourniquets,
we are slow-dancing
barefoot on the edge
of a razor.
We are watching
a demolition derby
in the driving rain,
the smell of motor oil
mixing with gasoline,
the hard melancholy
of dying machines.
We are waltzing from room to room,
smearing our names on the floor,
we are keeping time to slow music,
bleeding out behind closed doors.
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 8:15 AM UTC
Gloomy morning attempts,
lazily an abstract,
on the damp canvas
eastern sky extends,
halfheartedly smearing,
dark monsoon clouds
along with some white and grey patches,
then slowly, warms up to a red mood;
as if by a second thought
adds full of flight of birds,
for an effect.
Avian splay, what a display!
The sun visibly gets pale,
upset being just a part of the picture,
unable to dominate, as his usual practice.
Not at all pleased at the emerging picture,
he sulks at the prospect,
of more dull, vain clouds rushing in,
spoiling the composition with their-
chance megalomaniacal dominance.
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 1:48 PM UTC
Damsel in this dress
is a damsel in distress she just using clothes to cover up the post traumatic stress,
but they barely cover anything--
her lady parts at best,
she attracts hood ****** but they barely give her thanks when she gobble up their ***** in her head is regret,
her past is her future so abuse is where she heads-- wears her heart on her sleeve so she empty in her chest
wearing make up just to make up for the confidence she lacks
and I admit I looked back when you walked by in that sun dress
I knew your name around the block bout how you ****** the meanest ****
the greatest *** and I imagined if I knew the words for access words to claim your assets dinner did I have to invest-- from a glance,
and at a simple glance back,
to advance the fact still remain man plans to slay that,
she knows it; the shades on her face tells poem how bright lies jaded minds and money bust her open so who's the poet--
but we judge off her appearance,
and lose our morals,
when she throw it back aren't we daring; but aren't we caring making compliments and swearing,
smearing make up on our ugly truth
conceal,
conceal,
concealer,
you a bad *****
another body is you willing?
but to her its more than *** its the embrace its not the feeling,
her innocence is safest and awakened when she feels it reminded of the time her boyfriend lied, as he took ***
In these predicaments she says its innocent;
he loves me,
that's after broken rib number 5 she says; he loves me,
that's after **** kit the doctor swab;
he says I'm worthy,
that's after black eye number 9;
he says he trust me,
he trust me,
he trust me,
He trust me,
He Trust me,
He Trust Me,
HE TRUST ME,
and he never means to hurt me.
Problem is my novel is too common,
I'll never share his name cause his name is not the problem,
he don't deserve my shine or fortune to be acknowledged:
Ms. ********** control your hatred, stedfast
my mind is changing-- stop judging demons,
Contrast.
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 10:06 PM UTC
A beautiful nation,
In the middle of the pacific ocean...
Filled with all races, its multi racial...
A paradise where the sun rises first...
Lots of people come as tourist or guests...
Sun shines brighter in the west...
Heat smearing enjoyed by rest...
With coconuts to quench your thirst...
You bet, we are the best...
Fiji as a small country with a big heart...
Welcoming people from all different castes...
With majority population of Fijians and Indians...
We are given the citizenry to be known as Fijians...
Hindi, English and Fijian are the spoken words...
Once you come you may never feel among odds...
Hot springs, hike place, wonderful beaches...
Friendly people and no dangerous creatures...
Waterfall, country rides, water dives and much more...
Am sure you would enjoy and not get bore...
This is my home, a paradise heaven on earth...
I seek nothing but to live here until my death...
©sim
Feb 7, 2018
Feb 7, 2018 at 11:36 PM UTC
There are coffee stains on my notebook.
soft brown plots colonize the corners,
Smearing the ink into almost unreadable scratches.
I love my daily coffee so much that I let it ruin my note book.
And like my morning coffee you have become a staple in my life.
A part of my routine,
Coffee, class, and then you.
And I do not write love poems.
The words never fit into my mouth right,
talking about love always felt like tossing marbles in my mouth,
blurry and unbalanced.
They never came out how I wanted.
But for you I'm willing to try,
I will fight my own tongue until I can tell you what I mean.
Until I can say that I haven't gone a day without coffee since the sixth grade,
and that the idea of going a day without you makes me sick.
Until you know that I will hold your hand like the handle of my favorite mug,
that I'll love any chip or crack you have.
And if you ever feel bitter,
Please know that I will be right here,
because I take my coffee black
And I'm not scared of being burned
But like my morning coffee you’ve started to leave stains on my sleeves,
my hands are tinted from all the times I’ve held yours,
and when I look down and see the small blotches,
I smile,
Because I think of you.
Jul 16, 2017
Jul 16, 2017 at 10:13 PM UTC
Her press on nails graced her sunken in cheek
Tracing the bone that seemed to cut like glass
Remembering days of endless driving
Her high heels out the window
The sun whispered sweet nothings
But no one knew how personal those were
And here she is
At the vanity of a ****** motel
Dusting powder across lesions that spattered her skin
****** patches on her skin
Just like holes in her skin
She cries
Removing the brown wig that she tossed for years
Brushing it in her hands
The tears held on as if they didn’t want to let go
Standing
She slips off her briefs
Gazing into the mirror
Horrified at the person staring back at her
Invisible bones now visible
Crevices and cavities too deep
Webs of veins that were colored too brightly
Wearing the anatomy of a man that was no longer there
A body not worth surgery
Wiping sweat off her forehead
Smearing her drawn on eyebrows
All she can hear is
“Your mother and I gave birth to a son named Raymond.
What happened?”
That name echoed in her head
Drawing pleads from her ears
She collapsed
Her thighs bruised from one too many needle-pricks
Tracing each hole with her finger
As if to draw out an answer
She
A forgotten woman
Who only tried to cope
Her t-shirts were too big
“Raymond, Your T-Cell count is too low”
A forgotten woman
Who only tried to cope
“Is this ‘cause you’re a ****** Raymond?”
A forgotten woman
Who only tried to cope
“Raymond, there is no cure for AIDS”
She wept
Mascara staining her pale face
Press on nails clutching her arms
Hugging herself
Because no one else was would
Rayon died alone
She was no longer forced to love from an infected vessel
To hurt from a torn home
To pray on laced knees
This hotel room became a mausoleum
Smelling of death and perfume
Rayon was a forgotten woman
Who only needed to cope
But exiled by a community of people
For loving too much
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 11:46 PM UTC
i am but a child with my eyes closed believing i am invisible
cloaked in my own curiosity
i tiptoe over sentences and ask about big words like
what does ************ mean?
My mother told me don't ask for it
What is it?
How do I paint my nails red without smearing the Polish?
When i felt (becoming a woman) run down my legs along went my wonder, childlike
My body was now poetic in the way it wrote verses across the pad
Apr 18, 2019
Apr 18, 2019 at 10:42 AM UTC
I sought satisfaction in stupid sheepishly and shallow strides.
Scared subconsciously, I swallow and sustain substance for pseudo self esteem strengthening.
I seemed of in service to slumber and stinging sadness, shots sank like ships, submerging into the sea of my swarthy stomach in seconds.
I somewhat sympathies as a sailor, sweating, struggling and swimming in slipping sobriety saturated in my sulking style.
Scanning swarms of serial swindlers, striking sculptures stances of self-doubt.
I stammer in a storm of slurs, ******* down my safety, stopping myself at the stoop of the saloon I see a seductive silhouette staging the space.
She stroke my sight, standing sanguine in scarlet, soul sold in high heels.
The smoothest sculptures in seven square miles were subjugated into scree and I was ****** in submission.
Stubborn staggering suitors, stand shaking silently as she is stopped by sharks stalking and snarling sycophantics.
So straightforward in suggesting their secret starvation to strip sensations, seem by seem, like a sub-par **** cinema scene.
They step and speak short.
She smokes off, stranding the scree in smoldering slaughter.
Its sad this soul-less sanctuary soaking up sorrows.
So self inflicting, and so satisfyingly side splitting.
She sported her spurned, scorned off into sadistic solitude and stained sticky stigma, sobbing to sleep.
So spent from simple stocked, stored and supported senescence of ceremonial subjection of ****** status.
I savior my sincerity, and stretched out of this strange stadium of stooges.
So long scarlet sanguine I sang softly, as she stole my sight suspiciously in sync with hers.
Sacrificial seconds split from smearing stolidity to sharing a smile.
That's simple satisfaction, so I seen scripted in sitcoms and shows.
Supporting sapiens in stasis to see sappy stunners on screen, to stare snoopy, as stabs and slashes strike socially into socialites of so called sanity and sovereignty.
To sweetly pay salvage as slaves of soppy studio slander.
Such is this sorry Saturday night, I am solidified in sedation.
Dec 14, 2017
Dec 14, 2017 at 12:00 PM UTC
Odd flashes of light blurring everything
Uncomfortable in my skin
Hearts about to implode
with megatons behind it
Colors smearing together as I blink
Just one little pill
"to even you out."
"It'll make you happy again."
Make them happy is what it seems
Kick this habit
my happiness means nothing
you are in very serious trouble Muscles tightly constricted Hands turn from gods gifted tools to
useless mangled mounds of bone and flesh and just like that it seems to slow and sputter to a halt.
Nothing like was mentioned on the label.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 1:02 AM UTC
It's raining tonight
Smearing the light down the window
as though the paint hasn't dried on the night
It's raining...
Is it raining where you are?
I can feel the rain wet upon my face...
Many miles apart
You are in your eyrie alone and asleep,
I am imagining you there, me there, us together, tonight
It's raining...
Is it raining where you are?
I am hearing the rain, in my heart
The moon, the same moon
Stares down at me, and watches over you
I take comfort from the silver moonlight falling on us both
It's raining...
Is it raining where you are?
I'm seeing the rain illuminated by the moon, sparkling underfoot
Lonely, I'm lonely
Sitting here, awake, alone... longing.
I am imagining me there, you here, us together always
It's raining...
Is it raining where you are?
I love the smell of rain in the grass at night
Can I take the step toward you,
Out into the night?
Can I take the step to another life
That may mend or break my heart?
Can I take you from your life, make you step lightly into mine?
Can I live without you still?
It's raining...
Is it raining where you are?
I can taste the rain, salt upon my tongue....
May 15, 2012
May 15, 2012 at 7:37 AM UTC
Love me some more
pour your heart and i’ll pour in mine
you live near an airport
and i hear the low laboring growl
of some jets casting shadows over our heads
in bed with you in the afternoon
smearing the pink sunset
our low hanging blood keeping us
sleepy seedy and awaiting the frosty night
to come again
love me some more
let the gusts do their dance through
the windows
and let the towers of today fall
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 12:11 AM UTC
I.
Your comment came to me attached to an ad for condoms,
I was so tickled that I saved a picture of the screen,
So obvious a sign and one I was so glad to receive.
II.
When you were angry with me once,
Your message said, "I love you. But-"
I love you. Period. But.
A confession and an admission,
A statement of fact and then a feeling,
And I felt so bad but you loved me. But-,
And that was all I ever asked.
III.
I'm still writing poems to you all the time,
Smearing ink off the dry erase board
With the heel of my hand,
So I'll wake up hungover
With black palms and overlapping words
Mapped all over this white board.
In theory all of my feelings for you
Get washed away this way,
Every bottle of wine anew,
But in truth I whisper them in my sleep
And know them still at sunrise
Like it's a surprise after all these years
That I still love you
Like I do.
IV.
(It helps, doesn't it?)
((God, so much.))
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 9:37 PM UTC
I.
you never saw me in winter:
shearling fur and kettlebell boots
my outer crust cracking from one step outdoors.
I wear socks to bed
and smoke Belmonts to cover
my breath with toxins
instead of you.
II.
I never wear pants when I’m with you
mostly because I’m hoping to re-enact me walking
over the Millennium Bridge
in May.
if the wind pushed any further
up my skirts, it would force my lungs right out my throat.
my hotel room called for us
but you were on a plane to Norway
and I was in my head.
III.
the last time we had ***
you told me you’d finish me off first next time
but I’m always like your backup song for karaoke,
in case someone takes your first choice.
you never:
acknowledged that my rice was shaped like a heart
and yours like a star at dinner,
ask me what my tattoos mean,
but always ask me if I’m pregnant.
you’re a roll of film that needs be developed but
I keep smearing the edges with my fingers
and scanning the red light over myself.
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 4:43 PM UTC
To start your mornings with
blood on your hands
smearing across pages
is
incriminating
and inspiring
And you must know
if you were to slice open
my veins would also
spill black fountain ink
If you were to sever my tongue
my hands would speak
for me
Go ahead and gouge my eyes
I can still see
And when I die I desire
to be cut as a cadaver
All the words visible
under paper-white skin
so they will know, too.
I do not aspire to be a skeleton
with brittle bones
I want blood
to pour with every pinprick
of a pilot pen pressed
on a page
But blood makes people squirm
Blood makes people gag
so I intend to
leave this world
with a crime scene behind me.
Let them shake and shudder
for they know not
the life they’ve lost
They live in fear of papercuts
and I carve myself open
again and again
And I will continue to
until I bleed out
and my ink dries up
If it sounds violent it’s
because it has to be
The world could use a
few more bloodstains
Makes it more uncomfortable
Makes it more interesting.
Mar 8, 2021
Mar 8, 2021 at 3:54 PM UTC
"I wish we could have came into each other's lives
at a better time for me."
Because that's how things work.
It's all about timing,
and you ran the clock.
*** alarm,
wake up call.
I didn't even take my shoes off.
You talk so loud but you never say a thing.
Just push me against car doors
in the parking lot outside your apartment
with the lamppost's reflection blurring
on the rain covered pavement,
a ***** mirror
smearing our shadows together.
I yell but you only answer
with the breath from your open mouth
as you kiss the frustration out of me—
suffocation.
Your tongue speaks a language
only I thought I knew.
Turns out she did, too.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 12:33 PM UTC
I imagine you a bloodcurdling scene,
with your
avant-garde of conscious stream
slaying syntax
smearing words
like the battered wife
whose entity shadows identity.
and your rose is a rose is a rose is a rose
revolves a continuous, endless carousal
repeating controversies
without just end,
just being
oh, You voodoo Queen of rare success
how does this convince the modernist?
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 12:05 PM UTC
The horizon of the city shadowed the stars
arrayed across the windshield in the calm of the evening.
His lips grazed my shoulder when he spoke
his breath was warm on my neck.
He enveloped my whole body
though his arms were sprawled along the seat.
Words exchanged while the eyes relinquished their talents in the darkness
enhancing the touch
the whispers
"kiss my neck."
It was as if the music was from within our souls
pounding through each movement
like the blood pumping ardently through our systems.
Every impulse was impregnated with dubstep
the heat of our bodies was the friction of the melody.
**We were the music
a drug, a stimulant.
Ecstasy**
Rapt in the haze,
the world dissolved
smearing florid patterns over the windows.
When,
in a kaleidoscopic prism,
he was tangible
yet abstract
in the euphoria,
when we were both present
and far gone,
when
the music
and our bodies
were the only reality,
thats when I understood
absolute
untainted
blissful
happiness.
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 12:49 AM UTC
Accent of my deceiver,
Scent of that liar,
Something that I once acquired,
Before despising the sight of her,
Tail I tugged,
Before you sliced me at the throat,
Warmth of another’s bed,
You are no longer plaguing my head,
Feeding into the thoughts I bred,
The fears I cultivated,
Despite decades before my timely death,
A weakling at one point in life,
When a robber wields a knife,
When a priest lays his hands upon a victim,
Even the evangelical fall,
Even the strong-willed think of letting their throat slouch,
You are only human,
I’m more than you’ll ever be!
Take a seat boy
Before I bury your skull,
Beneath my heel and off my feet,
I’ll be there to hold your hand,
While your heart begins to cease,
I’ll be there, when you can no longer speaking,
As you stare towards the sky then to me,
I’ll be there to keep eye contact,
For you see the smirk,
Smearing across my face,
For you to feel my grip tightening,
As your breathes continue fading,
And right before you realize,
Right before what lies ahead,
Specifically for you,
Is an eternal darkness, reserved for,
The wickedest of souls,
Oh how I yearn to watch you decay,
Counting down the days,
Till that moment when I’ll find you on the forest floor,
before comforting you too insure you die alone,
Payback for everything,
We are all the victims,
The guilty!
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 12:31 AM UTC
Gripping dripping smearing love.
Over your eyes!!!
Over your ovaries, where babies, your clutch.
There's no time to nest,
Resist!
Resist
,
be the diode, resistor to heart plunge.
Plug up the sewer.
(more like a catacomb)
My heart's in the ****** cake.
The smell, Cytotoxic invades chemical response conformation.
We; bitten, by fangs of silicon,
the world takes us away from ivy
grown homes,
torn then seamed up jack o' lanterns always smiling orange.
Have you ever grown up from being 11?
It's the saddest thing you've seen.
You see a fledgling,
altricial,
awkward,
gawk/cock,
turn from a boy
to a lady.
Plump. Or . Musculate.
Slowly they regenerate their lady parts.
Regardless of gender.
Have you seen them bleed?
Some bleed white tears that burn the urethra.
Some, never grow up.
Transmogrified they call it.
Never to be beautiful again.
Angst entangles, ensues, makes doubt
pubescence is for flowers and hairs.
Namesake.
5th Grade.
Curious formation, curious nature
It's as if we are stalagmites of the future,
We decorate walls or cave ceilings to perform our correct action.
Too bad our self image is always garbled, confused by our refraction.
NEVER GRADUATE COLLEGE.
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 5:25 PM UTC
You are still outside
of the roadside convenience stand
offering apathy
for a price
the tag for clearing bad memories
can be considered expensive
smearing everything in view
the confusion is
narcotic
getting hooked is like fishing down
at the pier
the pier you have thought of
throwing yourself over
time and time again
the clockwork is a revolving temptation
that reminds you
your days are numbered
and you’re not very good at math
so dig the change out of your pockets
scavenging for a fix
throw away the receipt
and pick up your feet because
“I’m giving up” isn’t worth it’s 4 syllables
so sell it
and purchase
“I’m not done yet.”
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 3:29 PM UTC