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Morgan Mercury Oct 2013
I found you in the cracks of winter between puffing breaths of cold air like a dragon, on that cold Wednesday afternoon. I swore your eyes were the ocean, and I could see all the way to Europe. You held your books like a shield guarding your chest and you introduced yourself like a king.

We talked of Bukowski and Frost in between sips of lukewarm water. I fell in love with every pause you took and every time you blinked my heart beat increased. I was surprised you couldn't feel it from across the table.

You showed me the scars on your legs and arms you've gotten over the years. One from jumping off a roof into a pool. One randomly showing up when you woke up that morning. And one from that time you had a tumor removed from your chest. You told me don't feel sorry for you and don't feed you sympathy because you have been full for years.

We spent the next couple of months telling secrets. You told me I was the first person you have ever felt comfortable with in a long time. You kissed me so silently and slowly it was like breathing underwater. Forgive me if I sound selfish but I could not stay under the water any longer and I couldn't hold my breath for another second. I gave all my wishes and stars to you that night. I wrote poetry on your skin that we created when our hands touched.

We explored the mountains and ate picnics every Saturday afternoon. We ran from the rain as we saw the clouds roll in, we sat in the car and played truth or dare for an hour straight. I promised you I will love you until we're old and I'll have to feed you with a spoon until this action isn't anymore romantic but necessary instead.

It was a Tuesday at 2:35 in the morning when you were experiencing pain. I drove you to the hospital.

Our love was like a mother teaching a daughter how to slow dance for the first time; clumsy.
You didn't know how to hold me properly anymore because you were to busy holding medical bills in your hands. When I see these papers my mind loses focus and all those words form one big blur, and they become wet with warm teardrops smudging the news across the white crinkled paper. I turned off the tv that night and we actually looked at each other staring like we were both blank canvases and had painters block for the first time ever. That night you packed a suitcase and went away in a taxi. The hospital wasn't too far away but I couldn't bare to see you walk into that place again.

It was cold and it was Sunday. The doctors tried everything they could but it was already too big and eating you away. Old friends were always bitter when they weren't welcomed back but stormed in like a hurricane destroying everything the future has to hold. Your eyes were colorless and your hands were too fragile to hold anything. My heart was beating out of my chest and my palms were shaking. It felt like I was holding an earthquake.

You were only 21.

You had a warm heart and a beautiful brain. You were drained like rain-soaked up from the earth. I wished I could have taken you places and brought you flowers. But it was always too cold to go somewhere and all the flowers have disappeared away until next spring. For on now I'll just have to bring you back to life through words and hope not to cry. Another love is too far away to see and my vision is blurry but I don't want it to be clear. For I fear that I will once again become too selfish because I can't wait forever for you because death is miles away, and I'm not ready to see that side of my life. But when tomorrow starts without you I guess I'll just go home because, sweetheart, all the dust has disappeared.

Let us praise the time when we flew to Vegas one night because we were board. Praise the moment when we were so full of glee that time we won $20, and how we ignored that fact we lost $600. Praise the day our car broke down on the side of a mountain and so we finally got a chance to talk to each other and confess our problems. Praise that moment we meet on that frosty December. I hope your ghost waltzes at sunset with my shadow. I know it's only been a few years since we meet but for me, it was a lifetime of happiness.  Let it be known you are engraved into my brain and I'll always remember the time I saw you clutching books to your chest and puffing dragon breath.
just rambling
sweet leigh Jan 2014
Are you ******* crazy, he says
and I want to nod,
want to grin
want to peel back my lips and gnash my teeth like a wild thing,
want to jump on the table and scream.

I want to caterwaul,
want to close my eyes and keep them shut
I want to dig my nails into flesh and hear the tear.
No, my voice is quiet like a whisper,
hesitant and unsure.

I want that to be the wrong answer
but I don’t...
I want him to get angrier still
but I don’t...

I don’t want him red-eyed,
blood thirsty,
coming down upon me
but I do.

And when he grips my chin with slender fingers,
I want to sigh,
want to moan like a ***** in heat.
Like a ***** on the side of the road, full with ***,
sore with lust and ****-swollen.

When his hand slaps my bare bare skin,
stinging pink brightly under the force of my degradation.
My sweet humiliation,
leaving soft thick welts on my delicate limbs,
writhing helplessly in discomfort,
tears smudging old makeup and
I am weak,
I am ugly,
I am hurting and I am wrong,
impaired and imperfect,
and perhaps I am ******* crazy.
another random find from my notes
Jonny Angel Jun 2015
The first time I met Big Jim
was in my shop.
He walked in with a burning sage bundle,
waving it in circles above his head.
He told us he was smudging the place,
said it was sort of an
ancient cleansing ritual.
My partner told him he couldn't do that,
that it would ***** the customers,
probably wasn't good for business,
that he should put it out.
Jim just stood there
with the smoldering smudge bundle
in the middle of the store
looking dumbfounded
and sad.
I knew I was going to like the guy.
Tegan Apr 2014
a perfect half hour drive
with a perfect sunset keeping me high
and a perfect soundtrack buzzing
in my perfect battered car
down a perfect country lane
lined with green waves
and soft bluebells
smudging the hard lines of winter away
the air is still cold
but this evening is too perfect
to notice
or care
and i realise i have been driving
with a smile greeting stranger's stares.
Mike Jewett Feb 2015
Moonup, shades of sangria
hazed in mothwing

motes. We wrap in
flannel, tartan Seattle

accompanied by smudging sticks.
Batteries never charged-

shock. Flatline.
You said no violets (you

mean it). Moondown takes
time- scores of swaying shadows
      to arc

the parsecs. Inherit starlight,
bank it, never blink; wet stones

in the noise of stars.
Mimi Jan 2012
I wonder how I got here, secluded in a grimy apartment filled with smoke. We drink gin and tonics with mint like it’s the ‘20s; we sit and talk pop culture because we know. Taj has somehow become the effective authority on all of these things, paid to social network and connected to Hollywood; he’s very skilled at playing to people’s wants. My Cadillac sits intent next to me markering in a recent drawing for his newest class. He’s already famous for his graffiti, one day I’ll bet you this extra credit project will be worth money. He drew me a fox for Christmas. Valentines day is coming up. He never tells me he loves me. Jack is watching me watch him out of the corner of his eye while putting on a new remix of an old song. He leans over and asks if I like it and I nod. I feel bubbled up with *** smoke, frozen in time and vaguely uncomfortable. I’d guess this is what it’s like to be “too high.” I want Caddy to notice, but it’s Jack that’s pushing my hair back and telling me to drink more water. It’s sweet. Despite his need to be seen as a womanizer, Jack respects Caddy too much to even try with me, he looks but he doesn’t put on any faces for me. Everyone thinks so hard about how they’re seen.
Jack says his New Year’s resolution is to do less *******, even though no one asked. Everyone hears but no one reacts. I try to keep moving my toes and stop shivering. Across from me Ky and Nate are reading the encyclopedia in open-mouthed awe. In a room full of intellectual up and comers I feel like Hemmingway did when he was my age, how all the minds gravitate to each other and sit in a ***** room by the beach and let the creativity go. Like Mary Shelly and the whole gang writing Frankenstein and Dracula in the same trip.  After a while I think Taj is going to make it, Jack will be a politician and Caddy will be lost and with another woman. Ky and Nate will still be smoking and reading the encyclopedia, all the way down to ‘z’. I am like my mother: attracting the company of smart successful men who pay her selective attention.
The door burst open and the cold air stayed in my pores after it was closed. Rodger invited himself over. It would have been all right but when Rodger is wasted he forgets his manners. In his animated state he managed to kick over Caddy’s favorite smoking piece, insult Jack and look at me a little too hard. His girlfriend had immediately passed out on the couch, but she never smiled or spoke to me anyway. Her head was cradled in the lap of a girl I hadn’t noticed. Her hair was perfect and her eyes shadowed, the liner and mascara smudging its way slowly onto her high cheekbones. She stared at me but didn’t speak. I tried to smile, but didn’t want to give away the champagne sensation covering my skin, still too up to speak. She had already formed her opinion of me, some young ******* the arm of an older boy. She was once in my position, I’m sure of it, we are the same kind of beautiful and empty eyed. That doesn’t stop her from judging, in the total of 15 seconds she looked at me. Her self is tamed and mine is wild still. Unintroduced and unnoticed by the men in the room, we have an understanding and a mutual dislike of each other, only to defend ourselves.
The room takes time to settle, a bowl has been packed for an entitled Rodger, and now that everyone is calm, Cad sits back down and puts his arm around me again. I lean into him, protected and anchored, whereas I had been floating or about to puke a minute ago. I don’t know what I said but Caddy seemed annoyed when he said “Just let it happen, embrace the feeling,” and so I kept quiet for ten minutes or so. The high was infected with guilt. Next time he looked at me-- it could have been an hour—I whispered, “I can’t” and finally he heard me, and stood up.
Cad came back into my vision with a glass of water and turned on Drive, prompting Rodger, Mrs. Rodger and my pretty enemy to leave. Ky and Nate had gone long before I could focus on noticing. Taj left for trivia night down at the bar and no doubt some girl; wrapped up in a cashmere scarf and cardigan he kissed my cheek before he went. Jack also took his graceful leave with the Rodger group to woo some girl who knew exactly what she was doing to herself. He did have a straight nosed charm, Jack. I could not blame this girl, one of many (I am embarrassed for her; I have been like this ******* many occasions).  
Taj had been sent the advanced copy of Drive in blu-ray, so we snuck it from his room and watched it that way (the only way Taj would see movies now, it is the future (for now)). Kavinsky came through Cad’s new speakers the boys had spent half an hour trying to wire earlier in the night. “They’re taking about you boy/but you’re still the same” crooned Lovefoxxx as Ryan Gosling cruised down a street, ****** intense in driving gloves. Gears shifting and motors growling are very ****, I tell Cadillac so into his ear, as he pulls me into his arms and covers me up with a blanket.
The movie was perfect, maybe because it made me feel less dizzy and sickguilty (Cad knew it would) and maybe because Ryan Gosling can wear a white satin jacket. I loved it, hardly noticing when the absent roommate Travis strolled in with Taj and tacos somewhere around 2am.  Colder as Caddy got up for a burrito, left me alone on the couch for the kitchen table. Registering Taj taking his place, playing with my curls and talking Hollywood to me. I’m staring over at Cad in his chair, he makes eye contact once or twice and I blow him a kiss before Taj repositions my head toward the television and my ear back where he can speak into it.
Eventually Cadillac taps Taj on the shoulder and motions for him to get up. With Cad back I can relax and I fall into sleep just as the movie ends. Taj and Trav have gone to their own beds and Cad leans over me, picks me up and takes me to bed knocking my elbow on the doorframe along the way. He apologizes and kisses my head but I am too tired to care. He lays me down on the bed with crimson sheets and takes off my boots but then sternly says, “Mimi, you are not a child.” and so I must get up and undress myself. He wraps me in a duvet missing its cover and his arms. I trust him long enough to fall asleep.


Standing in front of the stove it was hot, but I am easily overheated. He came up behind me and said in my ear, “you’re lovely” watching me put the last piece of French toast on the large stack, getting ready to scramble eggs. He kissed my cheek. Then my neck and then my lips, taking me away from my cooking to be pulled against him, for a sweet short minute and went back to the living room with his friends. Jack had mysteriously reappeared in the night; he said he locked himself out of his apartment after leaving to see one of his girls. Taj just sat and blasted Radiohead over the new speakers, shouting something relevant at me. I scramble the eggs and make up plates, two pieces of toast each and a nice healthy pile of eggs. It is gone very quickly and no one says thank you, except for a smile from Caddy and a kiss on the forehead. It’s usually enough for me, knowing he likes to show me off to his friends. I sit down with my cup of coffee and plate, within a few minutes Cad suggests he takes me home. I resentfully take time to finish my coffee. But we are both busy and he is right, so I say goodbye to the boys and gather my things. We drive with the “best MC on the game these days” (so I am told) over the weak speakers of the car. Cad drives with his arm around me always. Cruising into my building’s parking lot I lean over for a kiss on my forehead, nose, lips. He says go, but his hand still sits on my shoulder so I stay for a little longer. “You’ll probably have to let go of me if it’s time for me to go Cad,” I say quietly, with a tentative smile on my face. He grins back and lifts his arm. I slide out of the suicide seat and smile at him, but he’s looking at the radio dials. Then my face. His eyes give him away, softened around the edges with affection. Maybe love, but he’d never say it and I refuse to say it until he does. I try not to think about it much as he drives away to smoke up again with his friends. I wonder if this is how it will always be, but then I realize our kind of “always” is only the next few months. I turned unsteadily and walked up the stairs to my empty room—dark and overheated smelling heavily of sugar and spice candles-- with the geese outside my window for company. I haven’t slept here for days.
Violet Oct 2014
she's always depressed
and for one reason
he's not here
and never will be
so her tears fall
smudging her mascara
and blinding her eyes
Rockie Jul 2015
Smudging blue and red
Across our cheeks
And down our noses
Lines pointing to our necks from our chins
We're ready to beat the crap
From our chests
And the bravery from the enemy
Our war paint is something to fear
As we wear it with pride
The Red and Blue
Oozes with greatness;
A title you'll never hold.
vircapio gale Jun 2012
from the plains drawings of smudging hands
and the palms of warriors
whose caves glittered in symbolic otherlands
flowing into yesteryears with shifting tones
abstracting melodies awry
in the songs of language growing,
from the blood of worldly pains
and passionscapes of grounded glees
which surge in transtemporal veins,

to the gifting of a poem;

cosmic movements
ever novel
in the constant flux of  fleshy presence
follow us in meaning—
every dot and cursive plane,
carries more than caligraphic feeling
beneath the graphing of our patient, formal, brainy gestures
(often blind to fools in Spring and better fates
of wholly kissing lovers over flower-oaths)
whose blindness in such sightly feeling,
graph so many moments black:
syntax, manner, unformed poems of wisdom’s grandeur;
stifled in the academic dust.

9:30 pm
above: praise gone awry. 12:52 pm
still, this universe expresses its possibility
through this minute verbia;
prolix trivia swinging by
the inquiries of existential mania
and the hope of solid, open value.

1:29 am
PJ Poesy Mar 2017
Calling up guttural
half moon mornings deepen
something throaty
An inarticulate song
That in between place
so nondescript

Hard plastic ashtray
with burnt smudgings
that cannot be completely cleaned
Though it has less permanence
knowing these types of moons
will come back around
and make themselves known again
Yet still, misunderstood

There is a measurement
of light and dark
and a visibility of
smudgings here
and over there
Opening vocal chords
to give it a sound
leaves just a gritty inner tone
WA West Oct 2018
Fibre optic cables,
clipped conversations,

partial strangers,
networked communications,

keyboard ambiance,
anxious remonstrations,

system failures,
nicotine meditations

smudging frames,
hierarchical mediation,

computerised bleeps,
opaque mechanisations,

brightening windows,
verbose inflections,

silks ties,
limited reverberations,

exaggerated flirtation,
bowel eliminations,

pointless days,
power imitations,

numeric values.
insurmountable situations,

digital bleeds
eventual discontinuation
I sit in front of my dressers mirror,
Stare at the plain adequate girl staring back at me,
Is she enough?
Can she walk out this door and hold her head up high?


And so I pull,
And tweak
And brush
And dry,

I look at the girl in the mirror again,
Her hair is done up,
Pretty and well kept,
But dead dry and limp because of damage,
And I can’t help but think it represents my inner self,

Though dead,
I look substantially better,
But is she enough?
This girl staring back at me?
Can she hold her head up high with the confidence of knowing what she wants?


And so I apply base,
Try to fix my uneven complexion and blemishes,
Eye shadow,
Then eye liner,

And again I stop to look at the girl,
She looks like women now,
As every feature is defined and highlighted,
Her complexion even,
Blemish free…

But is it enough,
This women staring back at me,
As the make up smudges and rubs off,
She’ll become the drab adequate girl underneath it all,

I can put on beautiful clothes,
Amazing jewellery,
But I remain the plain adequate girl that stares back at me,

With her sad eyes,
Set jaw,
Lips that barely ever quirk upwards with a hint of a smile,
That girl who’s cried so many eyeliner smudging tears,
That girl who fears,

No matter how much I do,
To hide her away,
Keep her from the world,
No matter how many layers of,
I try to mask her with,

She will come out,
As my clothes grow rumpled,
My jewellery loses its shine,
Its glow,
As my hair turns grey,
My make up smudges,
I become her again,

And is she enough?

I stare at her long and hard,
I notice the high cheekbones,
The strong set features,
I realize this girl is only adequate,
Because she believes it,
Only plain because it’s all she’s ever been convinced to see,

With all her wear and tear,
She is beautiful.
And so I grab my make up remover,
Wipe away the mask suffocating me,
I shake my hair out to its full volume,
I remove the jewellery that’s cold against my warmth,

And I look at this plain adequate girl,
Not so plain and adequate anymore,
And I ask myself,
Is she enough?
Enough to face the world proudly as whom and what she is?
Is she?

Those sad eyes stare back at me with a new found spark,
Those set lips quirk up into a hint of a sly smile,
And she winks at me.

Aakriti Oct 2015
I was sitting at the Costa Café located in Indiranagar 12th Main road. To my right was the lane, sporadically disturbed by the wagons of sophisticated residents in the area. A Hollywood music puffed to the left of my ambience that comprised the café au lait hued interior, perfectly contrasted by the white Royal Genware Porcelain cutleries. It was a Sunday afternoon. The glass walls of the café were stained by the transparent drizzles of rain. I noticed my faded reflection on the glass wall. The eyes in the reflection held no sparkle. It was a pale face of a 32 year old adult, who has surrendered himself to Norns. Beards on the face was a sign of mental otiose. A good designation flavored with a terrific Pay Scale over the norms has filled the life with luxury. What more I need! I blinked. Tears occupied my vision to lubricate my eyes dried out of staring for long….
She entered into the Café with meek steps. She was wearing a bottle-green colored Patiala suit. Her head and upper body was veiled under a red Kashmiri stole. The veil was perhaps put on as a shelter against the drizzle. She seated opposite my position, three tables to my left. She slung her hand bag away on the opposite chair, removed the veil and threw it on the bag.

I skipped a heartbeat. I saw her after 11 cruel years. She looked fairer and chubbier. Her hair had grown longer; she managed to collect them into a neat plait, falling along her right shoulder touching her lap as she sat on the chair. A waiter came at her service. She bothered not to look at the menu and ordered a large Latte with a quick rise and drop of her eyes at the waiter. A streak of blue mascara made her eyes more stunning. However, those eyes have lost that magical grace. I remember her obsession for eye makeup. She used to imitate every step mentioned by the beauticians on YouTube. She had a rich collection of eyeliner, mascara, eye shadows and what not.  Her concentration during eye makeup was firm. When I had asked her why she put so much make up on eyes despite being a blessed beauty, she had always replied that the color on her eyes proves her chirpy soul of having me as her partner. Every time when she had cried in my arms after a storm of misunderstandings between us, she had pulled my shirt to bury her face within the hug, and ended up smudging her eye makeup over my shirt chest. She had conceded the smudging as the decay of her soul due to misunderstanding. I had always laughed at her childish theories and underestimated it for being absurd. Now that she had left my life, I realized she was never immature. Each small act of love and care for me was priceless. Her love theories held a deeper meaning that always hued her soul bright. But I was blind. I remained blindfolded by the silky rich aims. Neither could I see deep into her mesmerizing eyes, nor could I shelter inside her majestic heart. It was already very late. Her soul has already decayed along with the colors of her eyes. All that was left behind was a feeble streak of fate.

The waiter appeared to serve her order. This time she thanked him with raised eyes and a forced smile. She added some sugar to the coffee, stirred it and then cupped her palms around the coffee cup to soak in some warmth. I spotted a diamond ring in her left ring finger. A spark of reality exploded inside my core. To re-confirm, I looked at her hair parting on the forehead.  There was a small vermilion mark. She was married.

Suddenly the Hollywood music at the background became loud. I realized the café was crowded enough. The drizzles of rain had stopped and the sky was clear. I could see her reflection on the glass wall to my right. A long life has passed. I failed to catch hold of the most beautiful gift ever. The eminence of huge money earned is limited only to the conspicuous objects. I have already lost the angelic affection of the most beautiful girl I could ever imagine. A vacant chair opposite to me proved the destitution of my soul. Neither have I owned an engagement ring, nor a friend to lend an ear to listen to my mental adversity.  The greed to eat money has left me diseased. What do I have? I blinked. Tears occupied my vision to lubricate my eyes guilty of every moment ridiculed for disparaging the people who selflessly loved me.
A prose.
Glen Brunson Jun 2013
As cavemen with half-yard sticks
smudging soot on open rock
they hunch
over carcasses of donut boxes
(the wax paper skin folded,
use all parts of the animal)
and grunt in chorus.

stocks are down this quarter,
(anger of the Gods)

sacrifice to the sun,
perform the ancient gymnastic of
rain dancing while kissing up

let the blood ink river run
smooth and whole
pray our intake outgrows
our categorized expenses
let there be profit

(the vesper smoke stings
with the haunting of paygrades
and budget cuts)
Valsa George Apr 2017
Not many tensions,
nor any excitement
Life has ever been
a placidly flowing river!

Single and free!

Over differences,
never been any disputes
never had to consult,
nor seek consent

Single and free!

but doesn’t his house
with its cold, mildewed air
reflect his heart?
A house so full of things:
a hoard of well stacked books,
exquisitely carved Victorian furniture,
antique collection of curios,
ornate drapery

Yet so full of nothing!

The prim order of the house
never disturbed by naughty hands
nor shuffled by dusty feet
dirtying the Persian carpets
 or smudging the glistening floor

The well laid bed covers
never get creased
by the body’s desire
and Love’s tight embrace
and never, they bear
the fragrance of female scent!

Sometimes he would shake
from foot to crown
at a question hurled by
an unknown voice;

“Did you squander away your life?”

Then he recognizes….
he has been a lone traveler
ever walking through
a one way lane
that will wind off
with a few more steps!
If, by chance somewhere
a new track
branches out
he would no more be
a solitary *****!
There would be a companion
to hold hands!

Now it is too late!
This is the story of one of my friends who remain a chronic bachelor. In his young days he was too busy with umpteen activities. But now he regrets his decision as he is growing old and feeling lonely!
Tim Knight Jun 2013
I'm going home,
leaving the pack unknown and unsafe
and my eyes strafe, swoon and sigh at the holy display
of the pure 9-to-5,
walking away from her place of pay,  
to go home like me tonight.

A swift above carries on home,
food for its young carried between teeth and tongue.
A family walk from the local school,
with song being sung from the cooler two of the sons.
A car reverses nearly knocking and smudging the woman in blue;
a jacket atop a blouse, pristine shop-bought-new.

I remember her sunglasses.
I remember her eyes from behind her sunglasses.
I remember her staring me down through the lenses
melancholy and blue,
knowing that this was a passing
break-through affair. > always wants your submissions.
Zowie Georgia Jan 2012
Smudging me pure
the cloak melts from its core,
residues of past pains
liquidize into drains,
carrying my emptied tears.
Deepening in fluidity,
weightless in darkness,
rejoicing in its death,
washing away

Walking bare,
i'm raw and alive,
refining and authentic.
Soiled in a primitive state,
heart pounding
to the drum...

Crying for the sake of being,
present and feeling,
Light in ascension...
*Almost free
Simon Clark Aug 2012
Against the snow smudging the landscape,
Grey thick fur and spots of black,
Stocky build and small, round ears to keep it warm,
Against the backdrop of a delicate snow storm,
Quiet creature, no ability to roar,
The sweetest of faces I ever saw.
written in 2009
Clary Burn Feb 2016
I was gonna
cry over you
but then I
you're not
worth smudging
my eyeliner over.
Mariam A Oct 2010
I think Rain is the weary humanitarian.
She’s the voice of reason,drowning the world in throbbing anger with watercolours, smudging pavement and hesitant minds. Not tears, or sympathy, she’s yelling for us in pristine drops of impatience.
Wake up! What are you doing?!
She whispers so loud, she’ll tear us apart,ground swollen with her heartfelt anger. She hates us, really. She’ll erase us away,no laugh on her lips. Just the rat-a-tat of old typewriter keys and maleficent moisture.
Katherine Paist Jan 2013
So long as there’s society there’s much to haunt
and hate. So long as the world has its cages and
everything has proper place the future is no option
until the streets are dressed in flames with torn
pavement roaring as loud as the voices dancing

where nothing’s left empty–their bodies, the buildings–
all glowing, negating the inert night. And when
the walls turn to ashes, they’ll dance in a flurry
to kiss the ground as if smudging their past lives
off surviving maps.
blankpoems Jun 2013
I like to write my name on a piece of paper over and over again
until it's messy enough that I forget who I am

Erasing the edges, smudging it out until my identity is nothing but a fast blur;
something that could only be noticed if you were looking for it-
something you would probably be disturbed to find anyways

Like when you're driving and you see an animal on the side of the road
and you have to pull over because it's your third week of being a vegetarian
and you almost have to force yourself to cry about it, but not quite

Or when you're cleaning your room and you find that old wooden box
you put your earrings in when you were seven years old
and now you're almost triple the age you were at that time
and you find those earrings, but there's only one of each so you put on mismatched ones
and cry yourself to sleep because you're missing parts of you that you thought would
always be there

"Mama said there'll be days like this,
there'll be days like this, my mama said"

On the messy days I like to forget who I am and pretend I'm still who I used to be.
Sia Jane Feb 2014
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
Eleutheromania - the intense and irresistible desire for freedom.
I had in mind a story of a young girl, battling a cancer, but needing to just know what being sixteen is, and the connection she has with her little sister to help her live some of what her mother keeps her from.
tc Jul 2014
she sits alone gazing out into the distance
her feet dangling in the water, she questions her existence
and the clouds look like they could fall out of the sky and engulf her;
she says she's not afraid to die
she's afraid of being average but the beauty of her mind betrays this
and she doesn't want to be a burden
a waste
the tears falling from her eyes are smudging the freckles on her face

whilst she sits alone, she plays with her hands
she doesn't mean to cry as her lungs expand and the simple epiphany
that her body is doing all it can to maintain her life
provides a profound ability to view the world differently
she realises she'll never get to live it twice
and she picks up two daisies
one in each hand
and all that's in front of her now is outstretched land
all the while, her tears were drying and with them the sadness subsided
she smiles and is grateful for the time she gets
to witness the world's chaos and madness colliding -
she'd rather be a part of it and watch the sun rise each morning
than let it all go and never see a new day dawning

the stars may implode sometimes and even the sky sheds it's tears
but those stars were full of particles essential for new life
and that sky is home to the rainbow,
awe rife at the sight
every individual has their fears, regrets and may become disheartened or depressed
but we're all on this rock together and no one's alone in their distress

sometimes you have to hold your own hand to make it through
you're strong, you can do this, i believe in you
To clear his head
he strips dark and light,
smudging charcoal
across the white.

He renders me
with edges lines,
scratching bones
until they shine.

To unblur the mess
inside his head,
etching softly
while words unsaid.
Iskra Aug 2018
We were stumbling back to the car, late at night on aching feet,
Our worn out voices sounding raspy and weak
Makeup smudging on our eyelids and cheeks

Arms entangled, it started with you looping your arm through mine,
Then my hand found its way to your shoulder
And somehow we were holding hands again
It was all a blur.

Your words were slow and slurring
As if you were thinking through honey
For me not so,
my mind quick as ever to put my thoughts into words

Instead my insides felt fizzy
Your blurring remarks making me giggly.
“That’s a church”
You mutter faintly,
Waving a hand towards the Cathedral
Giggles escape from my mouth,
Growing into laughter
I try to make it sound dainty.

Perhaps the passerby thought we were drunk,
But we hadn’t had a sip of alcohol
You were drunk on tiredness and music
And I was high on dying love and music.
You never fail to confuse me, dear firefly.
But I’ll let it slide.
Just know that love isn’t something that dies overnight.
And your vegetables they are good for you
a plate of ash
ascends from the pile
falling seagulls
into the cliffs
smash their faces
smudging their
teeth and lipstick
against the rocks
Journey of Days May 2017
oh to believe in faeries
the tales they spin
delicately crafted from whimsy in a firelight dream state
smudging history across pages that age as soon as the ink dries
making light of fallen natures
embedding them in predictable formats
mining the torment of dark minds
laughing at torture
giving deviance form
is this your literary influence
the study in deceit upon which you model
threats are now negotiations
violence has morphed into a minor disagreement
trashing a life is a misunderstanding
in keeping with the theme, that wart on your nose
no, it is bigger than you think
and the carbuncles
still obvious by candlelight
and people will notice

for when people rewrite history over time and genuinely expect that nobody will notice the warts and carbuncles that decorate their faces
Mariya Timkovsky Dec 2013
I used to believe in the magic of eyelashes.
I would find one on my cheek
After rubbing my eyes "good morning."
I stared it down from my finger
As the words to make the wish
Would formulate in my mind,
Watching the long, thin hair
Like the slits of my mother's mistrustful eyes
When her cherry-colored face
Shakes with vigor opposite
My father, gaunt.
The wind gathered strength
Inside of me,
The eyelash would float away -
A black dandelion.
How many eyelashes does it take
To stop the stickiness
Rolling toward my chin?
One day I may find my eyes bare
With no way
To stop the blotches of ink from smudging
On the paper that I write on.
But that's if I still believed in the magic of eyelashes.
Mystery Girl Nov 2015
Last night I watched my own heart break
I watched as it slipped out of your hands
Fell to the concrete sidewalk right in front of me
Shattered, pieces scattering
Trying to hunt them all down as you walk away
Pretending nothing ever happened
I stoop down to carefully retrieve the tiny shards
Ouch.....I think one got me
Throw it in the box and keep going
My blood smudging a few pieces
Sighing as I double check for missed shrapnel
Doesn't look like there's any left
Head out on my not so merry way
I've been prepared for this
Pull out the super glue
Trying to figure out which piece is which
Where does this one go?
Ouch.....another one got me
Deeper this time
Pretend it never happened and keep working
Piecing together what's left of my heart
Finally placing the last piece
It looks nothing like my heart
Unless you stare for a few minutes
Then the recognition hits
This is it now
There's no going back to change it
I have to be extra careful
Might put it on a shelf
Display it as an example not to trust anyone
I find myself
at sixteen
twirling daisies
between my scarlet
painted fingers

with my lips
matching, fearful
of smudging, of
taking a glass
of water

that you desperately
need. Your dehydrated
mind playing tricks
with the lights

you do not see
your father, belt
wrapped around
his hand

his pants slowly
caving in to

and so do you
collapsing to
the bed, sheets
already ruffled

you are oblivious
to his weight and
yet you know, deep

that there is nothing sweet
about sixteen
Chloe M Teng Aug 2016
I saw you.

Squeezed between sentences,
In semi colons and calibre comas,
On page twenty six.

Smudging word after word
With vagueness,
And I lost track of the story.

Couldn't find a full stop,
Couldn't find you.

Help me.
TigerEyes Dec 2015
The station wagon bounced down a dusty road toward the farm house, and Phoebe, who had just turned fifteen  felt the pit of her stomach coil, and tighten with dread. Gazing out the window she locked eyes on a bored looking cow slowly chewing a mangled knot of grass. Phoebe wondered in that moment if even the cows were more depressed in Bismarck.

Her step-father, “The Glenner”, had been too cheap to fly her back home to Oregon from a summer camp in Minnesota, and had arranged for their local minister, Cru Hayward, to pick her up along with his daughter, Lizzie. Phoebe’s sun burned skin ached as she pealed it off the sticky back seat. The air conditioner had broken down in Fargo, and the eight of them were all squeezed in like a pack of cranky sardines.  

Phoebe was going to be spending the rest of her hellish summer with complete strangers in Bismarck, North Dakota on a wheat farm complete with cows, chickens, and one grey mare along with Lizzie’s six cousins.

The car door swung open, and a large man wearing blood stained overalls with extremely bushy eye brows lunged toward them, “Why I wrecken’ it’s been goin’ on five years, Cru! Bout’ time you come home with the kids to work the farm.” He took an oily handkerchief out of his back pocket, and wiped the dripping sweat from his brows; appearing out of breath at the same time. Phoebe took note of how “Bushy Brows” had replaced the word “work” instead of “visit”, and suddenly felt as though a chicken feather was caught in the back of her throat. Cru Hayward looked stiff, and managed to put out his hand to shake Vern’s, but instead was pulled in tightly, and given a bear hug smudging the wet chicken blood on Vern’s overalls directly onto his brothers white Oxford shirt.

As Phoebe entered the farm-house a variety of scents wafted through the steamy air. Lizzie’s Aunt Doodie was nervously leaning over the kitchen sink peeling a large stack of potatoes so high they were beginning to topple off the counter one after another. An extremely obese cat  sat by her feet pushing them across the floor with as little energy possible.  Standing on a small foot stool in front of an old-fashioned *** belly stove stood, Trina, a small child around the age of five who was busy feeding a dog the size of a small pony. She appeared to be in her own unsupervised world; busily shoving strips of steaming barbecued  chicken from a platter into its wet slobbery mouth, and then licking her fingers.

Phoebe glanced into the nearby living room, and noticed the walls were decorated with handmade plaques quoting scriptures from the Bible along with various cheap prints of Jesus; like the kind you’d buy at a church fair. Small miniature figurines decorated the home throughout. An open bible lay on the arm chair of a tattered recliner.  Feeling self-conscious, and out of place, Phoebe tried to hide in one corner as she watched Lizzie hugging her Aunt Doodie’s belly wearing  a hand-made sweat shirt with “Elvis” on the front. Gospel music was playing loudly from the living room. Phoebe mumbled under her breath,  "Where's the donation jar?” Aunt Doodie’s eyes narrowed when she looked at Phoebe, “Did you say something, Dear? What’s your name?” Phoebe managed to croak out her name, and say she was just talking to herself.” Aunt Doodie gave her a wry smile, “Why you’ll have plenty of time to talk to yourself tomorrow in the wheat fields when we get you up to work at 4 a.m., Missy.” Her snarled lips faded, and she continued talking to Lizzie smiling big, “Now where were we, Lizzie darling?”

Phoebe already hated it there. It had been less than five minutes since she arrived. She began to think if she had a money left in her suit cases to take a bus home. She frantically dug in her front jeans pocket, and pulled out a piece of lint, and a dime.  

Lizzie’s cousin’s all stumbled into the kitchen wearing clothing that looked as though it had passed through several millenniums of “Goodwill Store’s” in the 1970’s. Their straw hats hung low over their  eyes, and  Lizzie could tell they were ******.  Lizzie’s cousins had all been stamped out by the same cookie cutter mold like twins. Their ages ranged from seventeen to thirteen, to age five. Trina the youngest being no doubt an accident.  Marty, the oldest at seventeen, wearing a ripped Metallica shirt was the first to speak, “Lizzie look at you! Why you all but growed up on us. I bet you’s the most popular girl in school with that pretty face of yours”. Marty was handsome in a Emelio Estevez actor kind of  way. Phoebe couldn’t help but lick his beautifully sculpted arms, and chest with her eyes; but when he caught her staring she quickly looked down at her shoes. She felt her face burning with embarrassment.

Aunt Doodie turned around swiftly on her bare heal with a large milk pail in her hands. "I'll be back girls. I'm out to the barn to milk the cow for supper. Don't break anything."
Twila was sixteen with black eye liner under her eyes, and red lipstick. She suddenly leapt onto Lizzie from behind, and covered her eyes while wrapping her large chicken fried steak fed legs around her. Her hair was curly, and extremely frizzy like it had not seen a comb in it for several years.  Twila whispered, “Hey Lizzie, who’s your dweebie friend? Don’t look like she can smile much. Maybe our cat got her tongue. She looks like one of those uptight city girls!” Lizzie couldn’t hold onto Twila any longer, and tried to drop her down gently. A loud “thud” bounced the floors as she fell. The inside of a nearby china closet rattled as she hit the floor forcing a glass plate to fall, and break. “Ahh  ****! That’s mama’s favorite platter.” Twila looked straight into Phoebe’s eyes, “We’ll just have to blame it on you, Phoebe. You just keep your mouth shut about it!” Ignoring that Twila had just accused her of breaking a platter Phoebe heard Lizzie mumble, “Oh, this here is my friend from home. We both went to summer camp in Minnesota together, and we’re her ride back home to Oregon.” Phoebe at this point was already imagining a large pig shaped nose on Twila's face; and not the kind that was cute. Twila glared, “Looks like you in lots of trouble now city girl”, and walked away with her cousins leaving her to stand alone in the decorated gospel room near the kitchen.

Phoebe wondered if she landed in some kind of Twilight Zone episode that had not been written yet. She decided to go for a walk all alone on the wheat farm until someone called after her for supper. Phoebe was lonely but she was lonely at home with her mom, and step-father too. They always left her to fend for herself, and her mother rarely spoke to her.  Phoebe felt as though it was like living with two ghosts you can hear; but can't see.  Besides, she had decided that this summer would be spent working on her writing. She had always wanted to be an author, after all, she had always noticed everything.
Her thought was broken when she heard someone say, “That sister Twila of mine is mean as a snake. Don’t pay no attention to her. To this day I feel like I must have been adopted. Hi, my name’s Shawna.” Shawna had a beautiful face, and was tall for her age. She stood about 5’8 with long blond hair making her look almost like a mermaid with her fair complexion. “My twin sister, Shaylynn, went into town to rent a movie for us all to watch tonight. We ain’t got internet. I think she said “Back To The Future” was finally available, or maybe it was “Jurassic Park”. Have you met Joel yet? He’s about your age. He’s always hanging around the bowling alley with them local boys. Don't know what they even have to say to one n' other. It's not like anything ever happens in this town.” Shawna seemed like the nicest out of all of Lizzie’s cousins as she reached out to give her a hug. Phoebe smiled politely saying, "If you don't mind I think I'm going to go for a walk. I think I need some air" while waving a quick goodbye.

When she returned from her walk she opened her journal to page one, and this is when it all began to get very interesting.

My Summer In Bismarck & Other Quirky Observations

by, Phoebe Snow

August 7th, 2015

The horizon seems to encircle this entire small farm as if someone drew with an orange crayon around it like a child would on paper, or perhaps with white chalk on the sidewalk. Everywhere I look it seems flat; and at night the moon hangs so low in the sky with the brightest stars next to it than I think I've ever seen in my fifteen years of life. Lizzie's Aunt, and Uncle, and all her cousins talk funny too. It's like they stretch out their "o's" when they speak. Kind of like hearing a bike tire that's going flat with a pin hole in it. It seems forever for it to finally run out of air; and sometimes you just want it over with as fast as possible. That's how they talk. I'm always finishing their sentences in my head ten minutes ago. These people seem so foreign, and yet I know them like a story.

Journal entry: August 16th, 2015

Marty has come into my room. He is standing in the doorway with  his chest pushed out. He is seventeen, and I am fifteen. I know what he wants by the gleam in his eyes. I won't give it to him.

I got up from my bed, and closed the door on his feet. Silently. I left the scent of coconut oil on my body drift toward him. An invitation; but not yet.
This story is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
WGA - copyright 2015
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Krisselle S. Cosgrove November 27th, 2015

This is the start of a novel. Thank goodness for starts.
Jon Tobias Nov 2011
Ugly started the moment air filled lungs

Making breath

That finally became wails

Hollering heavy and hollow

Into an already upside down world

Something completely ugly made us

Unless beautiful is unto perfect

And perfect is unto unique

And unique

Is the pattern of pock marks

A bitter snowflake reminder

Of the days my blemished face has bled enough

A broken pattern of scars

From the cancer

And first suicide attempts

And tattoos

That remind us

Whatever is left behind

And is still standing

Is permanent

Including me

Beauty is unto statues crumbling

Still standing

Despite times blunt chisel tip

Let’s be broken down to perfection

Because there’s all this beauty inside

Inside awkward snowflake patterns

Of nervous breath

Making my voice break

During the days when I need to be the most confident

Like when I finally tell you

I love you

And mean it

This messed up mound of flesh

Was given life for a reason

Even if it is just to love

Whoever is around to be loved

I can do that

Despite the hand tremors

And broken toothed smiles

And bitter snowflake reminders

Of ****** up fingerprints

Smudging everything

I touch

I can do that

Because this

This is as beautiful as any of us are going to get

And I am cool with that
Sophie Herzing Apr 2013
So let me ask you then
how many nights I have spent lying on my kitchen floor like this
praying to a piece of paper that I find a way to make this all come out right?
And while I'm lying there have you tasted
the emptiness that settles on my lips as I count the stars on my fingertips
begging a soul I don't recognize any more to come and carry me?
Have you ever tried to hold something that heavy?
You don't make it far before you're dragging your feet
around a promise nobody had to make, but was clear

It was clear that you loved me more than I
always knew you did.

So let me ask you then
how I spend the time I don't have on fixations like that
hallucinating that I see your feet by my door or your name on my telephone?
And while I'm smudging my eyes from the minute reminder
that I waited longer than me and the god that holds me now knew I should have
I turn to the clock that haunts me.
Have you ever tried to feel how long that is?
You don't realize it until you're twenty-five staring the same blue-eyed problem in the face,
that grew from the memory you have of him as a kid you tossed through,
and you're wondering how you managed to scrape through with the amount of dignity
you gaze at in the reflection of the mirror.

I know that you love me more than I
always knew you did.

So let me ask you then
how come we aren't better than this?
How come it's 12:28 in the morning and I'm waiting on a call I'm never going to get?
How come we bank through changes with a common hand in hand,
but we can't make it through to see the sunrise?
How come we aren't better than a vulnerable night, a couple drinks, a wish
between the sheets of a bed with no destination that somehow
we'd wind up back in the fragmented places we've been?

How come we always want more, but we can't have it now?

How come you won't have me now?

When I know that you love me more than I
always knew you did.
L T Winter Jan 2015
-Elixir of drinking
Revolving on anecdotal-- songs
Smudging dialect with faceless
Smoke and

--Tree stamp magnates
Break silicon fingers
Becomes a possibility.

On precise though incisions
Through mice; made gagging

Those frogs that sleep backwards,
-Wingless for the flies

We are comatose rising.
Liz And Lilacs Mar 2017
I've started keeping my poetry to myself
written in a leather journal
that feels smooth and safe under my fingers
in ink most often black
but sometimes paper cut too deep red
and sometimes the color of tears
which is to say invisible but crinkled
the horizontal guidelines smudging their colors.
And these poems I write privately
are not my best work
but I love them all the more
than anything I've published.

— The End —