"spackle" poems
You ask me how I can love you
You who is broken, and limping, and lame
I stop you before the tear can fall
Taking them from your eyes
And crying them out my own
I tell you the truth of absolute love
I tell you I wear no blinders
I see you as you are
I see your imperfections but we are all flawed
Those minute cracks in your soul
Trickle out pain in swirling hues of tender that highlight your heart
A heart you profess is black and stone
But it beats strong within my chest
Where I will nuture it and feed it with my own
I see all the nicks and bruises and breaks
They are not reasons to walk away
They are the very thing that makes you worthy
Your damage healed in stregnth
You are not broken
You are beautiful in all things
A tender heart that bleeds for others
That hates you for not being better...for me
Don't you know? Can't you see?
There is no better, you are as good as it gets
It is I who is unworthy
And in all your fear of being alone, you overlook the truth of who you are
of who I am when I am with you
You see beauty in every corner of derelict
You fill my cracks with your joy
To the point where you feel you run out, not even knowing you gave it away
You see in me what I am unable to see in myself
And because it is you who sees it I believe you
I see your cracks and spackle them with love
I see the scars and am thankful you survived the journey
And tomorrow, or next week next month or next year
When you have grown strong in my love
When the time comes that you realize I am naught but pieces duct taped together
When you see the truth of what I have always known
I will still love you
When you move on to brighter days and greener pastures
I will still love you
When you see that you are worthy of more than I am able to give you
I will still love you, as I do now
For I never learned how to unlove someone
And you have always been worthy
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 2:24 AM UTC
she touched up untended walls
all alone, no party assembled
attempting to create reactions
with her color selection
and inspire sunken eyes
with the antonym for
"you are worthless" and "no one cares"
...but the paint is peeling
and her motivation runs constant
as she prepares her endurance
to spackle and smooth grooved surfaces
prime marks and hide pitted edges
to place appropriate strokes adequately
and try a little color contrast
on previously blended door and window trim
...but the paint is peeling
now bubbles form and fall flakily at her feet
as a sleight of hand starts its mischief
of defacing the layers of her self-affirmation
with synonyms for the premature initiative she displayed
so, she drops her tools and starts peeling
removing the pain that is hindering her renewal
and covering the constant decay correctly
working toward a strengthened surface
that maintains its finish against the cruelest force
and accepts loving, touches
without turning them to criticism.
Jan 22, 2011
Jan 22, 2011 at 12:47 PM UTC
This one time...I was real happy.
All expectation had the correct tact,
had the correct sharpness,
the saturation levels were just so.
but then stuff happens
the stuffs what I'm afraid of.
not the movie reel anymore
I am no longer afraid to dance in light of passing frames on a movie screen,
or look at the actors straight in the eyes,
what happens is, the content, un-contents.
We urinate, we spew, we spackle, we *** we ****
we live all of life in two fiking seconds.
Thats alright,
Know one what whats right,
and thats why its right :)
So turn up the music to 50 volume on the sony.
crack a beer,
grind a little,
***** the amalgam of emotion, that is.
Emotion.
Waltz.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
Sometimes I get one of those nostalgic feelings rush through me whenever I get a whiff of fresh plaster or spackle. It reminds me of all those times my dad would have to patch up another hole in one of the walls. At one point he would only do it once a week. When you know that there’ll just be more the next day, why not wait a while and fix them all at the same time? Eventually he stopped fixing them altogether. I used to think it meant it was okay and that when I got angry enough I could just put a hole in the wall too and add to the collection of broken bits of my family. When my parents discovered the accumulation of chasms in my wall, my dad made me learn how to fix them because I was not allowed to react the same way as my brother. Needless to say, I rarely put my hand or foot through the walls after the first 2 times I had to fix them. I wish there was some way they could have managed to get my brother to fix the voids he’d created. Perhaps, he’d have learned how much the damage you inflict can affect those around you. I know I certainly did.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 12:09 AM UTC
Don't spackle the bowl you nasty troll. Did you think your mommy would clean it up? Ah ah ah...don't say a word just grab the brush before I make you drink from your cup.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 3:47 PM UTC
I am fond of "Spackle"
and all "ackle" words.
That makes him cackle
and it tickles my tackle
I scream like a grackle
and my ******* crackle
which raises some hackles.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 3:38 PM UTC
It couldn't have been me.
See, the direction the spackle protrudes.
A noisy neighbor? An angry boyfriend? I'll never know. I wasn't home.
I peer inside for a clue.
No! I can't see. I reel, blind, like a film left out in the sun.
But it's too late. My retinas.
Already scorched with a permanent copy of the meaningless image.
It's just a little hole. It wasn't too bright.
It was too deep.
Stretching forever into everything.
A hole of infinite choices.
I realize now, that I wasn't looking in.
I was looking out.
And he, on the other side, was looking in.
Mar 6, 2019
Mar 6, 2019 at 4:09 PM UTC
You ask me how I can love you
You who is broken, and limping, and lame
I stop you before the tear can fall
Taking them from your eyes
And crying them out my own
I tell you the truth of absolute love
I tell you I wear no blinders
I see you as you are
I see your imperfections but we are all flawed
Those minute cracks in your soul
Trickle out pain in swirling hues of tender that highlight your heart
A heart you profess is black and stone
But it beats strong within my chest
Where I will nuture it and feed it with my own
I see all the nicks and bruises and breaks
They are not reasons to walk away
They are the very thing that makes you worthy
Your damage healed in stregnth
You are not broken
You are beautiful in all things
A tender heart that bleeds for others
That hates you for not being better...for me
Don't you know? Can't you see?
There is no better, you are as good as it gets
It is I who is unworthy
And in all your fear of being alone, you overlook the truth of who you are
of who I am when I am with you
You see beauty in every corner of derelict
You fill my cracks with your joy
To the point where you feel you run out, not even knowing you gave it away
You see in me what I am unable to see in myself
And because it is you who sees it I believe you
I see your cracks and spackle them with love
I see the scars and am thankful you survived the journey
And tomorrow, or next week, next month, or next year
When you have grown strong in my love
When the time comes that you realize I am naught but pieces duct taped together
I will still love you
When you see the truth of what I have always known
I will still love you
When you move on to brighter days and greener pastures
I will still love you
When you see that you are worthy of more than I am able to give you
I will still love you, as I do now
For I never learned how to unlove someone
And you have always been worthy
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 1:57 AM UTC
Hum-D, Some-D,
sat alone on a wall,
Hum-D, Some-D,
had a very
hard fall,
and all the King's forces,
and all the Queen's friends
just couldn't paste, tape, glue, *****
nail, seal, spackle, buckle,
bandage, bandaid, bubble-gum
or even sew,
D back together again
at all.
Aug 8, 2010
Aug 8, 2010 at 2:39 AM UTC
Spackle and fresh paint,
But the holes in the walls are still there,
Like the holes in my heart are still here.
I have learned to take your fist
And kiss it with my nose.
Will I miss your “tough love” when you finally go?
Spirits ripped from small walking corpses,
This house is filled with ghosts.
I’m so ******* tired of waking with a scream in my throat.
Dec 7, 2010
Dec 7, 2010 at 12:16 PM UTC
This morning
I woke up
and
told Melissa we wouldn’t
make it past three months.
We're at month two,
and I can feel it.
Either I’d drop her, or she’d
drop me, but either way
“we don’t have staying power,
and there’s no point
in either of us
pretending like we’re grown ups
who can just power through things
out of sheer complacency”.
I wasn’t looking at her.
Just up
at the spackle and a spinning fan.
It’s so hot in here,
that we sleep on top of the covers
sweating little puddles of skin
into the comforter.
Nightly,
we mash those deposits of dried salt
deep into the mattress
with our sloughing bodies
to get stuck
and form
tiny caves of skin and boredom in the springs.
She rolled away from me
swirling off a cloud
of stale, watermelon shampoo
And reached
With a tightly domed deltoid
towards the blue milk crate
where her purse sat.
She rummaged in there,
her back muscles working
like a landslide of flesh.
She finally dropped the purse,
after an effort of five minutes,
and I heard the successful flick
of a lighter.
She started
puffing and chugging down smoke
As she laid on her side.
My eyes watered
in the bluish smog,
and as the fan turned
raining down peices of our own skin
in a dusty, undetectable cloud of particulates
I could just see her,
out of the corner of my eye,
Shifting the weight of her body
from her deltoid
to her trapezius.
Nov 20, 2011
Nov 20, 2011 at 11:39 PM UTC
A trowel and an infinite supply of spackle. Leave me to work, friends. I perceive your cracks, everyone, every one. Canyons, hairline crevices, they trace your backs like rain down windowsills. I've never quite been able to predict where the fissure will turn.
A trowel and an infinite supply of patience. Leave me to my duty, friends. Let me fill in your fractures, I can saturate them to their basin with reparations, reconciliations. I will breathe forgiveness, companionship, love, whatever you need onto my mendings, they will harden. Paint over them what shades you will, I’ll hold your hand as you hold the brush.
A trowel and an infinite supply of compassion. Leave me to my compulsion, friends. Maintain my repairs, I beg of you. You let them become brittle and they flake off of your faces like paper Mache masks. You, let the paint fade. Your work, our work, to fix the fissures, it’s crumbling through your fingers, outstretched, dumbfounded you stare. Pick up the trowel and spackle your own canyons. Spread the fleeting putty across your faces till your eyes cry dust when you blink.
Oh look, upon your left eyelid. A fracture. A trowel. Leave me to my love, friends.
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 11:59 AM UTC
I have been a fool, made plenty of mistakes
Even had a few foundation breaks
Through it all I've filled the cracks
My heart has spackle from all the attacks
Unconditional love I now understand
It has made me become a better man
Though I have never felt my fathers love
I'm not the one to push and shove
I became strong cause he said I was weak
Now I'm standing here at my poets peak
Trying to make sense and understand
How did I become this poetic man?
A broken boy just like a toy
I must fix you, so I can deploy
All the wisdom and knowledge through life I gained
To stop the vicious cycle and break the chain
For now...I am a father too...
I can feel you now in the things I do
I stop the wrong and do what's right
To allow myself to sleep at night
You had no father! I understand....
You had no idea how to create a man
Its OK, from all your pain I still learned...
To be the best father from my pain I earned
As I sit back and watch my daughters climb
They are gracefully crossing many finish lines
Filling up my heart, A Papa So Proud
WHICH IS WHY I SPEAK THIS POEM OUT LOUD!
I rebuilt myself from all the damage done
Now I bloom like a flower in the morning sun
Becoming exactly what I was created to be
To break the cycle and give my family unity......
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 10:05 AM UTC
We place our wishes
in the canines
of spackle.
Above us the teeth
wait
to be broken.
While we watch
the Dog Whisperer
breaking
mustangs,
I wrap my arm
around the eternal flatness
of your shoulder.
We say nothing,
we don't even whisper
as our dreams fall around us,
in an automatic spray.
I get on the coffee table,
to fix the fan.
You arc your neck
around me,
like a diamondback
you coil until you feel the heat
of the tv in your eyes,
on your cheeks,
on your lips.
As you watch Cesar
more than me,
I dust our dreams off
of the fan.
I am a sculpture
that you must break your neck to get around
as I fidget with the monkey wrench.
There is nothing eternal,
we burn our love
like shoots of wheat,
so much beige grass
extending over your shoulder
into forever.
What kind of dogs
are we?
The ones that no longer
know the plains
of each others' fur,
the fire in our teeth,
the sun of each others' eyes,
the rain of our lips.
There is too much heat between us,
too much dryness now,
not enough calcium raining
from basalt clouds.
What I'm trying to say,
is that I do not explode
like a force of nature,
I am rock.
Mar 6, 2012
Mar 6, 2012 at 10:21 PM UTC
I'm from sawdust and spackle,
Nails and hammers and wood stain.
I am from watching my dad
Building
And creating.
I'm from Legos, building
Alongside my dad.
I'm from reading,
Harry Potter and Eragon
And Goosebumps.
I'm from books,
Piles,
Covering the TV.
I am from music,
Practicing and rehearsing and dancing.
I am from the sing-song of strings
And the plinking of the keys.
I am from the rhythms in my veins.
From following in
My sister's
Footsteps.
I am from me.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 7:30 PM UTC
What are you thinking?
What are you made of?
You brush against me, it's like steel
what is it, to live in a body made of granite?
Your expression so down
In the afternoon, come to think of it
in the morning, too
Why? You tell me nothing
The power, you must be a blank to me
I see you eye so many women
Their ******* make you hot, I see in a meeting
Their long hair, like your daughters
When they hold it up, and sway towards you
As they pontificate, arching their backs
in your direction
Showing you their feminine articles on their chests
As your eyes zoom in
You are wicked, little man
You can't hide it. Never learned.
Mouth moves, like a baby wanting a meal
You are aging
Painting your "girls" rooms
While your wife wrings her hands
The girls have grown and don't come home
Will they come if you spackle?
What drives you?
Little man, with power over me
I imagine, myself covered in oil
Doing a dance before you
Seeing what it's like to be naked for your
emptiness
Oh, power, that I don't have
Oh, little man, that is what I want
That power, not what lies behind your eyes
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 9:59 PM UTC
It’s just spackle.
Cracks start
And you keep cleaning it out
And filling it up
With new brands
But it cracks again
Because it’s just spackle
And so it’s gonna crack
Because the house shifts
When it rains
When it blows
In the sun
Nothing stays the same
So spackle cracks
And that hole
Needs filling.
I’m tired of brands;
Seems there ought to
Be a Carpenter
Who’ll fix the holes
For good.
Jan 15, 2010
Jan 15, 2010 at 3:47 AM UTC
The world is now a medley
Contradictions, paradoxes, and catch-22s
Values and morals broken
by Tolerance
And this is incidentally overly-permissive
her secret is...
The very infrastructure
The basis of normalcy is
not just broken down
But warped altogether
Shabby Spackle cracks reveal CHANGE
Ephemeral periods to lick wounds
That are, indeed, a fallacy
And the dogs howl for convalescence
Imagine the point of no return,
where light can only remain an idea
for the overwhelming pitch black veil enveloping you
Faces distant blur as shadows creep contemptuously
Through a place only light should know
The gateway to the soul has been breached!
Defaced, sold.
With a guaranteed price tag!
Because...?
Silence
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 11:31 PM UTC
and the grass was ******* green
and the land unfolded into an ancient
suicide pact
it thanked us.
like a kettle that spits hot when it pours-
like a ring finger that shrivels in the cold-
like plastic that splits open at the seams-
like a goblin's sabbath-
like blood where it belongs-
like rust-
like any sky seeking a wall to shine on.
inside of a room/
but what they don't understand is that i am
cool.
and under a strawberry duress-
honey-drop guns fell down to the earth
drinking me.
i
found you there
hiding under an old chair leg. in an indentation left in the rug-
long since the table gets thrown
away
and the world gets remade again,
and i took the old bodies and hid them.
and in the end again,
(you are choking)
i met you there
under all the promise of a yandere moon.
gleaming pale as your voice yet faltering into the
shadows grovelling at your feet.
wanting to peel off its ugly skin.
standing dumb
in the absence of news.
and
her
hands fluttered as he crumbled through the door
she smiled like a ballpoint scrawled down the spackle of the front
hall
the landing creaked as you crept.
we wanted to wade down the hairy stairs and outside-
see the the stars whipping out their **** down at us
from above
.
you touched your arm
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 7:03 PM UTC
The raven
descended
last night.
Flapping black wings
opened up a hole in my ceiling.
Spackle rained
in drips
of sweat.
The raven opened its beak,
laid down
and spread its wings on my chest.
A black man
was shot to death
on a clear day.
With his hands up
and nothing in his
spread fists
they still shot him.
The raven came to comfort me in the loudness
of a coughing,
suppressed cry.
Jan 1, 2012
Jan 1, 2012 at 9:31 PM UTC
I thought about leaving you today
while spackling a bathtub.
Melissa’s patches were smooth and shined
in the husky light of rotting bathroom windows,
mine were rough, and sagged like a skin
on face in months before death.
My favorite part of that job was cleaning up afterward,
putting everything back in its place,
sweeping up the dust and closing the door behind you.
Your favorite part was tearing down the old,
digging your chisel into the wall,
and watching the pieces rain down on the painter’s paper.
They would fall with thwacks
thwack thwack like rain on umbrellas
heard through a second story window.
Mar 17, 2011
Mar 17, 2011 at 8:07 PM UTC
i miss your stupid sneakers covered in stupid plaster and spackle.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 2:37 AM UTC
Overthink
Overthought
What am I
To get over?
She is the real Durden
Everything that I am not
But an apple turnover,
Spickle and spackle
Listen to the crinkle
And the crackle,
What plays the mind
If the records
No longer spin,
Retreat retreat retreat
On repeat
No baffle
To this wiffle
Waffles in the AM,
Pockets empty
There is nothing to collect
Unemployed dreams
I question the sparkle,
The sweet of the sprinkles
This life long ago wrecked...
APAD16 - 006 © okpoet
Jul 16, 2016
Jul 16, 2016 at 3:41 PM UTC
if I could hold my breath
and become the spackle on the wall
I would
if I could paint myself into the background noise
I would
yet somehow
sans any concurrence
I am dragged into the spotlight
notions of wonder and gold dancing beyond my eyelids
I'm told I'll be glitter and gold and all things good
but to hang as a portrait on the wall
aye, I would.
May 7, 2021
May 7, 2021 at 9:42 PM UTC
Your crescent eyes look at me moist like a marshy pond.
All the pain and beauty those eyes have ingested glossy and confused.
"I'm a **** up" you say as you drop the news.
You search so desperately to find a title to straighten your spine and give your story a purpose your flesh cannot find.
You are tremendous, a testament of life. Your eyes are a chasm of brooding emotion, utterly human.
I know how ravenously you claw and peck at the festering flesh of others searching for the nectar the cloying sweetness you miss within yourself.
But you are the golden honey ***
You mistake the swarming bees for tasteless wasps.
You are horribly misconstrued.
The boys that bask themselves in synthetic sugar are simply hiding their innards of soot and poo.
I forgive you, but this doesn't matter.
You must find the golden honey gleaming behind the spackle of false propaganda you call your marrow.
You are complete.
There is nothing dead inside you, things simply need tended to.
You are human, please never forget.
**** up is simply the veil you wear to hide this fact.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 2:38 PM UTC