"sniffling" poems
I don't care who said crying was overrated, who gave you the ******* right to control the tear ducts of another human .
A human shows emotion through tears , laughter , smiles. The human face has 24 different emotions yet the water stains on her cheeks was never stated as one .
The stains of mascara running down her cheeks , dripping on to neck , her nose sniffling up the excess embarrassment .
I told her to stop trying to be brave , she had to embrace each feeling as it came , I saw her chest heave up and down in a rapid movement so fast I couldn't keep count.
Her mouth was open , no sound came out , she looked like a fish out of water and person screaming but no sound .
Her hands started to shake her body soon followed next I held her close put her head in between the crook of my face and neck .
I felt the water dripping down my neck to my top I never said a word , never told her to stop.
Even though I just changed my sheets that day I never told her to man up because crying is a source of speech when words are not enough .
She had so much emotion and all she could do was mutter incoherent words ,I think it was " I'm sorry" .
Sorry for what I will never know , she never once asked me to let go and I never did .
For once in her life I gave her an embrace even though she refused because if she didn't feel my comfort I'm not sure what she would do .
I did it because when I need that embrace they all refused to give it , they told me to " **** it up" " be ******* brave" , I soon found comfort in smashing my fist against my bathroom mirror and throwing my mothers jewellery box outside in the rain .
I stopped and I jumped in the mud that had formed and that was when I promised myself , if another person needs my embrace no matter who it was , I sure as ******* hell will give it because crying alone is just no good.
It's no good that others can't see your pain , I encourage you to throw a fit and call names , call them all ******* ***** tell them how worthless they are that when you needed comfort he would rather go sit in the car .
I want you to scream , yell and shout with the tears streaming down your face , show them what expressing yourself is all about.
Darling don't ever hold your tears in , wearing mascara or not ,just always keep a tissue tucked in your sleeve, and wipe your eyes till they are raw with the courage that they need.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 6:10 PM UTC
the Himalayas rise
there is snow on the peaks
I watch it from my bed
I gaze and gaze at it
in the morning
as a little village girl goes by
sniffling with cold
I too am cold
it is chilly here in Tosh in May
but a young Israeli boy
took off his shirt
and stood on the fencepost of the guesthouse dancing
down was the deep green valley
all of us watched in admiration
the next day I went down to the waterfall
which from here is a beautiful whisper in the air
there are donkeys and a path
and pretty houses on the other side of the valley
and everywhere there are people smoking hash and relaxing
in the cafes and the guesthouses
it is almost like a pilgrimage smokers keep coming
and sit around smoking talking
I pull down my woollen cap my arms and back
feel the chill despite a thick sweater
despite a blanket and a four inch thick quilt
I roll my joints and smoke them alone
sometimes smoke them with others
I look at the hills and the valleys and the wooden houses
I look at the white peaks glowing in the sun
and talk about CCR and stained glass art with Michael from Norfolk
who’s going down the valley to another village for a party tonight
with his young Spanish friend
I talk about Bombay with Puneet and Manya from Kanpur
who’ve come here on a Bullet
Hash Heaven Manya says reading my mind as the joint passes on
to the four engineering interns from Delhi
and all the time I sip on ginger lemon honey
for my sore throat until on the last day it disappears
unlike the young Israeli girl’s pink laptop in a pink cover
found by the part time caretaker in the garden on a pink chair
she left behind last night because it was too dark
come again the guesthouse boys say to me as I pay them
what a scene I think how cool as I begin to leave the village
down the dung-clotted stone steps nodding to the smokers coming in.
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 11:13 PM UTC
Marissa Ann was a firecracker of a little girl.
For her, there was no fence too tall to climb, no bully too mean to face, no street too busy to cross.
She was all tangled hair and toothy grins.
And she'd yank the book right out of my hands and say, "Gabrielle, we have more important things to do than read."
In the jungle of our lives, Marissa was a lioness, queen of the pride.
I was a mouse not indigenous to these parts of the second grade.
The world was a terrifying place, and I had no problem cowering in the corner, knee-deep in a pile of Nancy Drew.
I tried to stay huddled behind my words, drowning in the ink, attempting to let the pages be my armor.
Marissa would not let me.
When I allowed bookshelves to be my shields, she came guns blazing, and kicked them all down, then stood me back up on my feet.
She'd grab my hand and pull me head first toward adventure.
Marissa was tough, and everyone knew it.
There was not a soul alive brave enough to pick on Marissa Ann.
But me? I was an easy target.
The other girls said I was "weird" with my enormous wire frames resting atop full cheeks, and my frayed jeans, a glowing reminder of my mother's lack of wealth.
I heard the whispers on the playground about the chubby girl who read, (can you believe it?), chapter books.
Brianna was a demon of a child.
She'd bat her pretty little eyelashes and everyone would melt.
She had the entire second grade class wrapped around her tiny little finger.
She'd corner me on the soccer field and do everything she could to remind me that I was different.
But one day at recess, she was nowhere to be found, until I made my way through winding halls, back to the warmth of our classroom.
There sat Marissa with a devilish glint in her eye, waving me over to sit in the desk beside her.
Behind us, a sniffling Brianna, looking forlornly at the teardrop stains on her pink lace skirt, her mouth pulled tight into a perfect straight line.
I looked back at Marissa with a curious glance, then intertwined her hand with my own.
The sound of stifled sobs behind us and the warmth of her skin on mine sealing an unspoken vow between two girls with puzzle piece fingertips that only fit each other.
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 2:21 AM UTC
Justin Bieber is no big deal
I’m not even sure he is real.
He started out as pretty decent
Have you seen anything recent?
He looks like a kid who is trying
To join the gang but is only crying;
Sitting on the sidelines sniffling.
Dressed up in gang stuff and everything.
Poor baby Justin, as rich as a king
Isn’t quite satisfied owning everything
Has to cover up his body with tattoos
Like all the real-life gang members do.
Wears a hat too big for him all sideways
Plays in the sandbox where big kids play.
Wants to look all gangster and rough
But looking like a lesbian makes it tough.
Poor Baby Biebs with his millions of fans
Three pairs of underwear and baggy pants
Grinning like he’s bashful, we know he’s not.
Far too often he has proved himself a snot.
Some of us were worried when he was a kid.
We worried nobody was careful of what he did.
So Baby Justin Bieber is a bit of a wreck
Sort of like the words crawling up his neck.
Justin Bieber makes the young girls scream.
They don’t care he’s not the angel he seems.
If only he would misbehave with them, they think.
They’d let him act the fool, smoke and stink.
Because, after all, when you’re a teen-aged star
It doesn’t really matter just how fake you are.
The thing is be to be fashionable the youthful way
And let them get a glimpse of you every day.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 5:36 AM UTC
there was no poem neath my pillow
no poem on my tongue, none from eye envisionaries, no dew gift from my grassy emissaries, parting residue of an unknowable finger touch
nothing stirring, the mother muses mushing their shushing noises,
only breathy quietude, an airy surround sound tissue,
the cadence of intermingled hearts, the mother and the child
two awakenings, one instantaneous, the other restless unhurried slow, but within an impatience to intersect,
the overlap is love stars crossing,
impatience weaponized to make
momma aware her companions refreshed status,
a needy for love’s suckling,
embrace of fresh baked smiles from hot heartedly hearth furnaces
thus a-born a new poem, a welcomed well coming, in words,
the alliance of alliterated words from the interlacing of the mother’s chest heaving and the sniffling joy of a five year old boy reimagining the dreams that crossed from mother to son, and back again, requiring composition and joint authorship of them
*the only and only true authentic authorship,
mother and child, their owned unique
duality of singularity*
Feb 7, 2019
Feb 7, 2019 at 2:30 PM UTC
heavy head, ****** and tired sleep echoes through my corridor head. love, a treasure, buried deep within my x-marked chest; i stuck blades of grass in a picture frame, because everything else went away: like the cleaning lady outside my door, vacuum like a pet dog, pawing at carpet, grooming it with its soft, snuffly nose. mess cleaned and she went away. vacuum like a pet dog, hip-hugging, man's best friend.
lines in the bathroom, lines out the back. waiting and shaking with a crazy laugh filled with warmth like a smile radiating from my muscles. powder leaves the plastic surface, like the cleanin lady outside my door, and her sniffling, snuffling vacuum-dog. ****** into a ten dollar bill, with a whimper and a sigh, the pup hops away with its owner, the cleaning lady off to brush along some other fool's corridors.
on the cold steel, the train slows down, a mile out from the station. up hill, down hill, steam choking carriage, searching for thrill in the click clack, crazy rails of a cool powder train. in the bathroom crushing pills to get you up hill, down hill, with a steam choked carriage and that cleaning lady outside my door, she brought that dog, and he was barking real loud, makin' a fool out of me, in the bathroom of that click clack, crazy powder train. hands scritch' scratchin' on the white sheets, until in a moment, it all crumbles to dust, ridin' on the wind's back, leaving like they all do, like the cleaning lady outside my door, and that pet vacuum-dog of hers.
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 2:18 AM UTC
Two frowns wait for the other to speak:
One long and melancholy,
The other expectant, so fraught and weak.
The boy looks to his dog as though to his lover:
“I wish I could give you everything you wanted;
Life only interferes.”
His mate saunters on, lays low
So he fears, in resignation,
“What is it that keeps your devotion so clear?”
She, silent, in anticipation
“I do not know,” he responded. “But it is not here.”
So the blank canvas continued to be:
His mate continued sniffling unknowingly.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 11:02 AM UTC
What is courage?
Is it a sharp breath before jumping off the edge?
Is it the tightness in your chest
That pulls you up when everyone else is sitting down?
Is it the burning heat in your eyes
That smolders and boils
As you gaze upon those who oppose you?
Is that courage?
Or is courage the defiant silence –
The silence that watches your nose bleed
In the foggy cracked mirror?
Is it the child who says, “I love you”
Between the sniffling and trembling?
Is courage allowing the tears to come
When there are people around to witness your suffering?
Is courage looking up?
Is courage focusing on the next step forward
Rather than the hundreds already taken?
Is courage doing what you believe is right
No matter how much your palms sweat
Or how much your knees shake
Or how much your stomach twists
Or how much your lips tremble
Or how much doubt you feel
That anything you do will change anything?
Is courage a lie?
Does Courage exist?
A dictionary says Courage is
“The quality of mind or spirit that enables a person to face difficulty, danger, pain, etc. without fear”
If that is truly what courage means,
Then there is no such thing.
Fear is not something that you can decide not to have.
Fear is deep.
Fear is psycological.
Fear is biological.
Fear is natural.
Fear is not a pebble in one’s brain that can be removed on a whim.
Fear can, however, be ignored.
Fear can be climbed over.
Fear can be conquered.
Facing a difficulty fully aware of the fear
Is what makes an action courageous.
Courage is speaking up
Acting out
Crying
Smiling
Holding back
Being silent
Knowing the punch is going to come
Knowing the insult is going to come
Knowing the tears are going to come
And the conflict
And the questions
And the darkness
And the thunder
And the criticism
And the judgement
And the violence
And the doubt,
Disbelief, and denial
And knowing that 3:30 AM comes around every single night
Regardless of whether or not you can sleep.
Courage is opening your eyes
Even when you don’t like what you see
Because you have to.
And you don’t have to just because somebody told you to
Or because you read it somewhere
Or heard it somewhere
Or saw it somewhere.
You have to because there’s substance in you.
There’s a third dimension to you.
You have to because that tightness in your chest
Isn’t something you control.
There is no Courage Switch.
You can’t cultivate courage.
Everyone has it but not everyone has seen it.
Not everyone has used it
But everyone can.
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 8:28 PM UTC
Tonight we’re aligned with the stars
I’m wearing Orion’s belt
You’re drinking in thirsty gulps from the big dipper
The little one’s in freckles on your chest
And now I can hear the wind chimes
On the porch
I can hear the leaves
Of the Bradford Pear
I can hear the cats and dogs and coyotes and deer and owls
Making nighttime noises
I can hear mom snoring in the house
For one of the last times
I can hear the trampoline springs creaking with age
And feel it bouncing and swaying under us
Like it did in its heyday
I can hear you sniffling, sister,
I can hear you crying
Your warm wet tears
Are drowning my ears
Like all those summers we did swim team
When I take your hand
It’s smaller than I remember
It’s Abby circa ‘99
Though you didn’t let me hold it then
And I never tried
Now our hair is curling in swirling halos
Around the same face
Mom’s face
We never did look like Dad
Now we’re gazing at the same stars
Under the same March sky
Thinking, saying, “God is good”
Saying, believing, “How can He not be?
When the sky looks like this”
Believing, knowing, that it’s true
Even while our hearts are rocks,
Our hands are clay,
Our minds are swarming
Teeming
Buzzing
Hives
But “God is good”
“How can He not be?
When the sky looks like this”
When our mother is a fish
How can He not be?
We know:
“God is good.”
While we’re reading the Braille of the sky
Two foxes slink by
Now we dismount the trampoline and go inside
Where we hear Mom snoring
For one of the last times
Mar 19, 2012
Mar 19, 2012 at 3:40 PM UTC
A white rose, a gold casket, and a field were all you'd let yourself take in.
It was the fourth of October, 2008,
And you had stopped crying.
You were surrounded by those dressed in black, you yourself wearing a nice dress and his necklace.
Your brain was on high alert and yet you were calm, almost as if nothing fazed you.
Not the smell of the ground,
Freshly dug up in the cool, hard Earth of the autumn time,
Nor the sound of your own mother crying,
Allowing the tears to flow down her cheeks while she says a few words about her husband; now widowed.
A white rose, a gold casket, and a field were all you'd let yourself see,
The rest just a blur of movement and scenery.
You sensed the touch of your uncle's hands on your shoulders,
And could hear him sniffling,
Mourning the loss of his brother.
His grip was tight, almost as if he was afraid to lose you too; almost as if you were the only thing he had left of his dearly beloved brother.
You could taste the bitterness of the words your mom had said to you the day after he died: "daddy died", those words being repeated over and over again in your mind,
An infestation of thoughts and language.
A white rose, a gold casket, and a field,
The rose you were holding in your small, fragile hands;
The rose you were gripping so tight blood started pouring from your skin as the thorn punctured your tiny little fingers;
You did not notice, you did not choose to notice.
You threw the rose onto the casket as it was being lowered six feet under.
The casket with him in it.
His hair was brushed back, his black and white suit on, and his eyes firmly shut...forever.
It's done.
He's buried.
The field he's now buried in is covered in a thick fog, similar to that surrounding your mind.
And as the car arrives to take you back home,
You can almost hear the wind whispering for you to come back and visit and although you've finally left the scene,
All you can picture are a white rose, a gold casket, and a large, foggy field.
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 7:24 PM UTC
"I wish you were real."
She kept crying every night for days and for every restless, sleepless moment you could ever count. It felt like an eternity before this ever had to end.
She never knew that one day
she would wake up and realize that she's had it with all these damp cheeks, dried up tears, clogged nostrils, and sniffling pains.
She never knew that she would throw the very thing that meant the universe to her into the black hole, into the oblivion.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 11:07 AM UTC
"These days
I'll sit on corner stones
And count the time in quarter tones to ten, my friend
Don't confront me with my failures
I had not forgotten them"
Jackson Browne
<>
these days,
you can come by tween
the mostly soft warming cracking of Dawn,
and the early born-ing of
the first peek of a full grown
but yet
sleepy sunrise,
you'll find me siting on a
asshard dock,
two seagulls staring at the
human interloper,
alone with the threads in my
hardened head,
beating time in casual rhyme,
because that's what poets do,
to warm up their
tongues & toes,
clear their eyes
and
sniffling nose,
their partly opened,
party closed,
throats, eyes and
give up, sacrifice
the longest list of little lies,
that makes (forces) us to get up in the undimming earlies,
when it's just me, the gulls,
& the minnows poking around,
the fluke,
smarter but not wiser,
further out in deep water,
waiting to be caught
and
the cool blood barely flows,
until the rising orb warms
our fragility,
and we review the stories old,
that make us cold at night promising ourselves that
today you'll do that thing(s)
you've been putting off for years,
"Don't confront me with my failures"
Jackson pleads, but I concede,
thinking tell me them
one
mo' time,
make me unrighteous,
make me whole,
then take me,
holy displayed fully,
and the
first poem of the day,
will be my
confession total,
without reservation
and yet muse on
honor
something I thought I knew,
but needing a
closer examination
it might've been
dishonor
that was what
I was truly
knew
<>
Sunrise
July 5
'25
*sitting on the dock
by the bay,
would I*
lay down with a lie?
Jul 6, 2025
Jul 6, 2025 at 2:52 PM UTC
we found him laying barely breathing
and now were sitting silently grieving
the information were receiving
seems to be so unpleasing
so cold hearted almost freezing
cant stop the sniffling constant sneezing
full of cries not only weezing
from the pain your death is leaving
Dec 23, 2010
Dec 23, 2010 at 7:28 PM UTC
I used to fall for her,
head over heels,
but somehow I let us,
get off on the wrong foot,
because I didn't put my best foot forward,
enough times to save face,
and it didn't take an army full of men and women,
in about face to know they set up there own fate.
but of all the wars best spy,
none have gotten the chance to spy on your eyes,
eyes of sparkles and love though light,
but you don't know that when I see you everything seems alright,
even though it will cost me an arm and a leg,
to get close to you and I'm greeted with a cold shoulder,
when I just want your open arms,
to be meant for me,
meant for just holding my body,
to hold not just our body's but souls closely,
but I have to keep my nose clean,
and stop my tears and sniffling,
I will start by keeping my chin up,
and playing my life by ear,
for I wasted all these years on you,
so I need to bid these thought of you "farewell"
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 11:19 AM UTC
He's drunk on cheap power and knowledge,
stolen from his father's wooden drawer.
Now he's taken too much, too soon.
He doesn't know where to put his hands,
slurring, his words, spilling as he stumbles.
With the ***** it comes up and out.
A force greater than he is prepared for.
His overeagerness was embarrassing, he and it are ignored.
Florid-faced and flushed, his shame and he retreat to suffer,
snuffed out, sniffling in the stuffy, stifling silence.
His nose, once up in the air, is now in the corner.
Now you know, baby,
learn to hold your liquor and your tongue.
Apr 6, 2011
Apr 6, 2011 at 11:02 PM UTC
I will
do just that
until i'm nothing
but art
something to be admired
would you like that?
would you like it?
do you like art?
canvas
paintbrush
paint
why are you crying about it?
Relax,
I have a towel, it won't
get on your
precious ******* clothes
don't call someone.
I
said
don't.
I'm fine
happens all the time
just shut up
help me clean.
why the ****
are you looking
at me
like that
like I'm disgusting
like I'm *******
gross..
****
it's just paint.
taste it
do you want to touch it?
the paint's running off the canvas, let me get that.
sorry.
not a lot of people get it
not a lot of people like it.
you like art, don't you?
do you like to paint?
I've been inside your backpack.
I've seen you in your hoodies.
I've seen it all.
don't look surprised.
the little lighter in the side?
i like it
i wanted to light myself on fire.
do you burn your art?
do you burn the canvas?
sometimes it's frustrating
so you want to ruin it.
sometimes it's okay
to ruin things.
Daddy ruined mommy
mommy ruined you.
let me see.
don't scream. let me.
let me ******* see.
you saw mine, it's only fair, right?
there.
there it is.
you've dug hard, yeah?
do you like it?
have you shown anyone else?
no?
they saw but you didn't want them to.
the other ones reacted awfully, huh?
you're lucky I'm here.
I'll love you regardless,
you're not a freak to me.
just a bit messy.
i like messy.
your blood tastes nice, yknow.
i want to open them wider.
watch it flow.
shut up.
stop crying.
stop.
no one cares.
there. not too bad.
I just want to see your insides.
i will know how you work.
is that okay?
I'll carve my name next
it would look pretty, right?
you do it, too,
on me.
we can just leave each other
little messages.
i love you,
y'know?
you don't have to worry anymore
we're gonna keep each other's secrets
sometimes art is a group project.
no one gets to see but me.
does it hurt?
you'll get used to it
you'll crave it.
just like i do.
stop sniffling,
you jumping will make me mess up.
you want to hurt.
not die, yet, right?
sometimes, when I'm alone
at night
or day
or anywhere
i paint little flowers.
little smiles
little words
little things
****
****
****
****
you do too,
i saw it on your thighs.
i saw the words.
did that say "hate?"
what do you hate.
tell me.
tell me it all.
I'm going to find out.
yknow.
I've been through some ****
we all have.
gotta cope some way.
clean yourself up
don't ******* touch me.
i say when you touch me.
i say.
you're so soft. just grab the brush.
grab the brush, do it.
I'm painting.
I'm painting.
we're gonna paint the sky, the stars.
nah, fuckin' with you.
we're drawin' grass right now.
see where that goes.
you look shocked.
stop looking.
you're cute when you're afraid.
relax, I'll live.
i wish someone would tell me it's
******* fine.
god do NOT ******* touch me.
I'll **** you.
I'm going to die alone.
I'll pretend that I'm fine with it.
I'll pretend that I'm not playing with the crippled canvas.
how much until it rips in half, i wonder.
sorry.
I'm sorry.
I'm so sorry.
I'm so ******* sorry.
Nov 22, 2020
Nov 22, 2020 at 2:43 AM UTC
One hand,
On the left shoulder.
Comforting a shaking girl.
Shaking,
Sniffling,
Sobbing.
It means more than he could ever know.
It's not a hand,
It's just a show that someone knows her well enough to comfort her in the way she loves best.
Not a counselling session,
Not eloquent words,
Or condolences,
But simply the physical presence, the "being there".
She craves that,
Simple touch, no ulterior motives, no....
Nothing,
Save the being-there-ness.
He gives her that, simple love, no romance or anything,
Anything like that.
The warmth of his palm permeates to her soul, reminding her that someone is there, someone is caring quietly, praying, protecting her.
He may give terrible hugs, but he gives, he gives.
Mar 28, 2012
Mar 28, 2012 at 5:29 AM UTC
mechanical wonders are they!
the greatness of ever-changing plains
withered weathering willows which wallow in the wake of winds,
shriveling, sniffling, cynical twins.
solaris, the fantastical bringer of light!
oh how we lift our faces in your fruit-bearing gaze.
our thanks for extinguishing the inky blight, you have given us sight.
we miserable, entangled creatures in locks and chains,
at the mercy of the return of your fiery blaze.
we rely on Pandora’s final curiosity
and during times of ultimate crisis, we wish for you
and pray for catharsis.
but your sister…
luna, you wretched being, wrecker of sanity!
oh how you unravel the psyche, fibrous ends,
intertwining tapestries meticulously woven yet disassembled so quickly.
we are aghast at the horrors with which you plague us.
each stare through the mirror, reversed pools of vanity
freckles of light fall from their places
on weary onlookers’ shadowy faces
as they melt in the hysterics of your obscure domain.
finally a farewell, an intonation of speech:
“good-bye.”
discombobulated words, addressed to each;
for one sister revitalizes that which the other hath slain.
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 11:09 PM UTC
Going home to the country side for
The weekend, where
The snow is twice as
Deep and prestine.
I've promised my girl we'll put
Winter clothes on and trek through
The woods; play children.
Lay flat on our backs
On soft whiteness between naked
Trees, just listening to
Winds like the ghosts of whales
Swimming the skies singing;
Calling to the echos of
Their echos' echos.
Then, red cheeked and sniffling,
Brush January from ourselves,
Stump snow from boots, and head
Inside for hot showers.
Her wet hair slowly drying
By an open fire. Wine, and either
Music or just the whispers of
Winter playing with the ancient
Wood in the walls between
Silences.
Candle light catching the white
Flashes of flakes falling outside
Ice cornered window glass
In complete, quiet darkness.
She calls it camping in the cabin.
To me, it will
Always be
Home.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 12:41 PM UTC
*The water tosses saddles within the mist
Scribbling a mesmerizing sunshine of gold
The rest is in her head, as it tail spins
Cold ankle shivers, waking waves of snow
Easing the sniffling sipper's imprisonment
Beneath the bungalow*
Jan 8, 2017
Jan 8, 2017 at 2:20 PM UTC
Don’t panic anyone, the government has everything under control. In the meantime watch out for people with blood shooting out of their eyes, coughing, sniffling children and dogs with fevers.
Additionally do not approach any individual who is vomiting buckets of blood or any child who is crying and did not just fall down.
If you see men in spacesuits do NOT fire upon them, they are not aliens, they are from the government and they are there to help you.
If you see razor wire around your neighborhood do not attempt to climb it. Not only will it cut you badly, increasing your chance of infection, but it was put there by the government for your own protection.
Remember to stay calm and everything will be all right. Just do not lick anyone who appears ill, breathe in or out, touch the bottom of your shoes or drive with your windows rolled down.
This has been a public service announcement.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 8:31 AM UTC
I quite like
sitting cross legged
barefoot
in the passenger seat
of my mom's Honda.
When the air is humid and warm,
summer is rising out of the darkness that
encompassed me this winter,
and I was so distracted
I missed spring.
I like hearing
the audible gasp
in a movie theater
or
noses sniffling, tissues being exchanged by strangers
because
for once
I know that these people
are feeling the same way I am
and that I am not
alone.
I like hearing your quiet snores beside me
after we've fought
because you did not get mad enough to leave
and I'll work it all out tomorrow
I promise.
I like feeling
the kick drum resound in my heart
at concerts
because I can feel it
and it is there
and I may have to get away from the crowd
but it is still music,
it is still passion
I am still there.
I like when you've just cut your hair
and I know you hate it
because you must have told me a thousand times
how they ******* messed it up
and **** you are so angry
but I am distracted
because I am seeing your eyes
for the first time;
and they are a jungle
and I am tangled up in your branches.
I like crying over trivial things
like movies and books and the way you looked before you got onto the plane,
because that means that I am not caught up
in the urge to drag a razor across my skin
or all the things that I have held myself back from.
I like unfocusing my eyes
and clearing my thoughts
so all I can hear is music
and not drown in my own thoughts
for once.
I like falling in love
with someone I cannot have
because the fear of rejection
is not there
and I can love wholly
and completely
because he will never know me
and this makes me feel content.
I like being unextraordinary
and leaving no mark on this town
except for maybe
an empty soda can on the stage of the park and
crushed, unlit cigarettes
because
it will be easier for me to get away
and no one will remember me
or the way I liked the weird things.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 11:15 PM UTC
Inside of your head
Every little detailed memory and picture
Float about the wandering waters of you personality
I see flashes of you spray across the waves
What used to be you
You've changed now
The happiness that used to be so vibrant is now as dull as the blade you've used one too many times
It's quite when I see it
your happiness
It's naked and sniffling in the corner
As soon as your happiness sees me it widens it's cloudy eyes.
"Do you need help?" I say with a small step forward
Surprise flashed on its face
Before draining away
I see it happening agin
Your pride is stepping up
It begins to pick at it's already chewed nails-just like you do when your lying
It looks up at me and plasterers on a faux smile and says with a trembling confidence
"I'm fine"
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 12:16 AM UTC
He kissed me tight
Enough to know he could be mine
We mixed cheese with the wine
He glorified himself the whole night
And somewhere down the line
He started to cry...
I'm not sure why he fell apart
So I held his head close to my heart
I let him listen to the beat
Hoping it'll help him fall asleep
But he laid awake with his tears hitting the ground
No noise, his sniffling was the only sound
He tried to explain
Quickly, I stopped him from the detailed pain
I knew what was going on
But how was I supposed to go on
We sat in the silence
Letting out hearts reminisce
Laying on the floor were a pair of red heels
That's when it all began to feel real
I slowly tiptoed to the kitchen counter
And each second my heart pounded louder
I grabbed the biggest knife
Slightly holding it to my right side
He sat up staring me in my eyes
But I couldn't let him go, he's the love of my life
My hands got sweaty & knees grew weak
I raised my right hand & he started to shriek
Scream, screech, squeal
If I can't have him nobody will
His blood splattered all over me
But I kept stabbing until he couldn't ******* breathe
What did he expect,
I told him I love him to death
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 10:34 PM UTC
We were up all thru out the terrible night
sniffling like ******* addicts
like sick little youth 1930's depression oh the Great
our fat lips hung like dying mosquitoes in the coming brothel of winter and her long scorched dress
that I inflamed with my Vietnam stolen lover zippo of gasoline
in a Sober frenzy of jealousy
now her Glare is angled narrowly at lust
tobacco
coughing up and down side ways in dreams as if I were a butterfly addicted to cigars
we were up all thru out the night
counting our skin cells
watching the television laugh at our faces
He sobbed “how the orange metallic streets
bent to our theatrical emotions on 12th street”
oh the glory of our thoughts and touch was ransom
was devil
was god
was god watching in his leather seat?
Wearing his glasses
reading the Bible?
Or does he read Russian Literature
or does he only read Latin
I and I were up all last night
guessing Morphine
using the Sister's pay-phone copper to connect with silly 3 eyed hipster hookers
their eyes wide and green with white salt like a ***** lake
that you stumble upon drunkardly with a laughing Angel
High on Cough Syrup and mortality
amused
exhilarated
passion-ated by this new opportunity for Adventure's drawback which is death or Boredom
MY innocents
is deteriorating with Age
like the alcoholic richness of 100 year old Wine
sadly
money monday
didn't go to church
hope that lady with wisdom in her hands forgives me
then I ate
now I starve
clutching at the windows
painting a boy staring at me
wondering if I were real
As I wonder if his thoughts are my own
We were up all night
translating the moon's shadows and hiccups into finger paintings and strep throat.
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC