"specialty" poems
Big **** The Head ********
was the head of all the ********* in the ******** Shed.
What made Big **** so skilled and keen
at dickheadedness was to be seen.
Big **** had a certain ******* flair,
for tugging at everyone's short and curly hair.
He never had an important specialty,
except for being a type-A personality.
His skills were near to nothing great.
He kinda looked like a backward ape,
with a necktie 20 years gone out of style,
and his middle-management bullshitty wiles;
"I'm better than any ******** here!"
He'd proclaim everyday with a prickish sneer.
So they put him on his own cocky shelf,
where he could reign all by himself,
and every ******** ***** or asshole-wanna-be,
would come to the ******** Shed just to see,
what they could achieve if they'd observe instead,
the ways and means of Big **** The Head ********
___________
Dedicated to every single uptight, middle-management, pain in the ****
you have ever had to work with or for.
Aug 8, 2010
Aug 8, 2010 at 1:07 PM UTC
Blonde hair, tight tanned body
Not usually my type but
You stir something in me down there.
You smile shyly,
Girl, you are going to get us into more trouble.
You don't seem to need much coaxing.
Down slides the red cocktail dress,
Your toned body freed.
Black lace ******* shielding heaven.
Soft lips on mine, feels so good
Supple ******* in the palm of my hand,
Pinching ***** ******* a specialty of mine.
Feeling you tremble underneath me
Floods my cup,
I cannot wait to taste you.
I feel your fingers slide
between my thighs,
As our tongues do ballet.
Going to gain our membership
to the sisterhood now.
Wet knuckle status.
We are top to toe,
Better access.
I am starving for you.
It wont take us long to reach Nirvana,
I get it now,
I would have burnt my bra if I ever wore one.
Your ****** and my mouth are a perfect match
I do not usually swing this way
but am honored to dip my toe in your pool.
Crying out you pull away.
That's not how I work,
You will leave complete or not at all
Aug 16, 2017
Aug 16, 2017 at 3:16 AM UTC
*An upscale lounge well known,
For its ambiance and specialty cocktail,
Which includes live entertainment dancers,
On stage, in fine detail.
While a glamorous female stood in front of the bar,
With a deep sea blue martini, in her right hand,
In an ice cold oversized snifter, dipped in sugar upon the rim,
Where she leisurely stands.
With a pink orchid,
And blue twisted glow stick, placed inside her drink,
Taking rhythmical steps,
Side by side, in sync.
Dressed in a strapless dress, slightly above her knee,
Nicely fitted, in shades of purple, green and teal,
Displaying a genuine soft look,
With such great appeal.
When a young man walked in,
And gazed into her seductive dark brown eyes,
Reaching out his hand,
Asking her to dance, as he passed by.
She was absolutely stunning,
With fair complexion, short black hair, a beautiful silhouette,
And a radiant smile, reliving her early days,
An unbelievable night, quite difficult to forget.
She appeared divine,
Upon the dance floor, mainly surrounded by youth,
Dancing salsa throughout the night,
And mixed melodies, near the DJ booth.*
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 3:36 AM UTC
To my Mom and Grandma, whom I love so dear,
It’s time to celebrate you on this great day of the year.
To have you both in my life, I truly am so blessed,
Some moms and grandmas might be great, but mine are actually the best.
…
There’s a reason why all our friends call my mother a saint,
She’ll take care of us through good times or bad with never a complaint.
Her sense of empathy astounds me, it’s a very special gift,
She’s always there to show support and give our spirits a lift.
She doesn’t take things for granted and shows amazing gratitude,
We all wish we had the ability to adopt her attitude.
Our road trips and vacations are memories I’ll always keep,
I still dream about them sometimes when I go to sleep.
…
Another blessing we all count is my amazing grandmother,
Her strength and good nature help bring us closer to each other.
She points us in a wholesome direction and gives us all her prayers,
So that when we get to Heaven we’ll have a row of reserved chairs.
I love going to visit grandma because she’ll take good care of me,
She’ll cook her delicious pasta and meatballs because that’s her specialty.
We’ll have a good laugh while we both sit and chat,
And she’ll always remind me if I’m ever being a brat.
…
There’s a good reason why Mother’s Day is a day for celebration,
Because my mother and my grandmother are a winning combination.
They really are two special gifts from the Big Man up above,
And from the bottom of my heart I can’t thank you enough for showering me with love.
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 3:02 PM UTC
Why would I listen?
To gain their recognition, follow their tradition?
I cant let them decide my mission, I am my own edition
Won't let them send me to prison
I see the risen of my ambition
I should use my cannon
And shoot a **** load of "Stay away" ammunition.
Won't let them take away my personality
Because that is my specialty
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 1:18 PM UTC
She's a woman of integrity,
She recognises her beauty,
And her specialty.
Knowing she's not perfect,
She reflects before she can react,
She may not be every mans desire,
But that doesn't matter because its not something to require,
Love and total attention from one is enough,
Lots of times she laughs,
At times she even bluffs,
When life gets rough,
She gets tough,
She's a survivor,
Her familys reviver.
She's a woman,
A woman of integrity.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 8:16 AM UTC
They call it a 'Class War"
They call it a "War of Liberation"
whilst its just another instance of white oppression
Childish, immature, mean and nasty underachievers
like the kid on the beach who kicks over others sandcastle
because they are better than the ******* castle he made
Like that that uncool dumb teen who scatters the board game
because he's now seen that he is losing and cannot win at all
like those ugly pimpled friends who would play gooseberry
and cock-blockers because they can't get nice dates of their own
like that bitter mad one who will spill ink over your white top
or new Trainers because he or she has old and ***** ones
They are all from the world of the sicko psychos and damaged
talent-less mean, envious, sad pathetic people going nowhere
If I can't make it, why should others do and be winners
They all graduate to the divisive politics of the ****** losers
Power is stopping progress and advancement because they are down
Power is bringing achievers and enterprise down they can's gain
Power is sabotaging all that is good because they are bad in all
Measly fetid minds they plot and conspire in gangrenous network
dolts, scums, unwashed losers and rejects of society, bottom feeders
Come join the Party, our specialty is chaos and disruption of winners
The pathetic jokes of the white West, losers in their own backyards
picks on an African who came from disadvantages to better them
better educated, more intelligent, cool and stylish in every way
pack full of potential, going places they can never go or reach
Our sick, mean spirited under-achievers, expert losers and scums
crawled on the war-path, riddled with envy, sick with jealousy
ruin his progress, oppose and disrupt a black man who doubles
efforts to achieve, what if losers try is given to them on a plate
What here is done for the greater good, what here is honorable
celebrated victories for psychos, racist underachievers I think not
peoples power? more sick, tormented, jealous n envious chicanery
anarchy jealousy, anarchy shame, anarchy racists, anarchy liars
One Single Black achiever demonstrates the inherent strength
and grace of our all our Ancestors against sick, persistent white oppression. That's the story here.
If its a fair war, why hide and go underground, why fight *****
May 17, 2019
May 17, 2019 at 7:40 AM UTC
My gorilla wears tennis shoes
He reads the paper and sings the blues
My gorilla, my gorilla
My gorilla, he's a sensitive guy
I took him out for a wedding, and man did he cry!
Tears all down his tie
Well, he can drive most greens from the back tees
But his putting brings him to his knees
My gorilla, my gorilla
My gorilla loves pork and beans
He rides a scooter in his cut-off jeans
My gorilla, my gorilla
He can make a mean souffle
He's great with omelets, but his specialty is flambe
So I eat one every day!
He's been working hard on a half pike
But his cannonball empties the pool
My gorilla, my gorilla
My gorilla is so much fun
He buys taquitos for everyone
My gorilla, my gorilla
My gorilla loves tequila with lime
He's taking classes at a school for mime
Cracks me up every time!
Well, he's looking cool in his "white face"
And his French beret looks oh so fine
My gorilla, my gorilla
Oh yeah...
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 4:46 PM UTC
When I was thirteen, I had a running coach.
He was short, lean, and muscular.
An Italian man
with a whistle hanging around his neck,
farmer's tan, and below his black widow's peak
sat silver aviators, propped upon his shiny beak.
I ran miles and miles a day, but,
no matter how much I'd run
he never followed. He always trusted me to
stride my roads and lift my knees high
during the kick at the end of the races
against myself.
"If you want to run
you gotta drop that baggage," he'd laugh
between sips from his water bottle
as he towered over little me,
panting and red. We both stood
tall under the blazing sun.
I couldn't comprehend exactly what he meant,
I mean, I told him,
"I have ultra-light, top-of-the-line shoes,
compression shorts and athletic toes,
a hairless chest for maximum speed,
sweat running rivers down my spine,
legs that never exhaust, and,
above all, Coach,
a spirit that can move mountains." His response,
silence and a smirk.
Who was he to teach me about running?
"You're weighing yourself down boy,
you gotta drop that baggage."
It was his motto for me
every time my time would increase,
because, you see, when running,
increase is bad. Except for hills.
I can still hear his voice in my head,
"Uphill, increase exertion."
He never ran with me, he just told me to go.
He showed me the route and I did as expected,
six days a week, sometimes three miles, sometimes ten,
day after day, again and again,
shoulders hunched and me out of breath,
"runners high," they called it.
I hated running, I hated my coach,
I didn't understand why
anyone would want run to anywhere.
Not now. Now, I love it.
It has become my hobby, a specialty
for when one grows up,
your body is built for it, and your mind
has been ready to run since junior high.
It starts as a seedling, when you're barely able to walk,
and by the time your cardiovascular system
has been assaulted by packs of tobacco
and rolled marijuana, it blooms green.
That's when you realize:
Running is easy.
And coaching?
Don't even get me started on how easy that is.
Aug 17, 2012
Aug 17, 2012 at 1:12 PM UTC
Just because it's suggested doesn't make it right.
In the hands of teachers, other staff.
What other purpose could this directly serve.
To defend our institutions.
To further endanger those around.
The knowledge instilled from book to teacher a different practice.
Now holstered, hidden in the drawer of a desk.
What goes through the mind of the victim that's been bullied.
What training can be set in place to stop the next bulletin.
Shooting across the screen.
The kid in 10th grade that carries the weight of the world.
Sitting all day staring out the window.
Mother in hospice.
A fragile thought swallowed by deafening silence.
It no longer becomes a listening session of encouragement.
The after school sessions of comfort sped up.
Another bulletin of hysteria fired across the screen.
Teacher student affair.
15 year old student found with 42 year old man.
When in reality she was seeking help due to a troubled home.
Afraid to sleep knowing the door would creep open.
Leaving her terrified to close her eyes. The relationship between step daughter and father without boundary.
Where's the specialty training for those who care.
The proper resources that extend beyond that of a pamphlet.
The dark skin kids that's made fun of because they look different.
Stereotyped as aggressive.
The dope boys, the baby mamas.
The light skin girl that's made to feel inferior because she turns red with every hit.
Her hair is longer than theirs so she wants to cut it.
Aggressively forgetting all the beauty she possesses.
The active shooter managing to make it pass the metal detectors.
Rallying the attention he didn't get at home.
The debate carries on across every wall except the right ones
Jul 13, 2018
Jul 13, 2018 at 11:33 AM UTC
The Holy Ones
I want to shove socks in my pants, so it looks like I have one of those Italian-line painting ***** I want to do it when I go to the grocery store so fourteen-year olds and thirty-year olds alike stare at my junk as it fills the stitches of my pelvic arena, I want to make eye contact with mothers and grandmothers, brothers and dads as they shift uncomfortably in those handicap battery powered carts that are reserved for the handicapped but are often only used by the near-morbidly obese, near because they’re not quite dead yet, morbid because they can’t help but imagining my **** sliding past their tongue and what it feels like as the tip pushes past their uvula and they gasp for air through their nose because they’ve never had a **** like this in their mouth before. This would be my **** **** This would have me making lists of adult film star names for film star jobs I’d never take because I’d be busy making lists of phone numbers, the college girls I’d have my pick of ******* and the mothers and grandmothers who I’d be happily turning away from while I select my own organic radishes from the produce department at the specialty market on Vine. This **** is better than a rolled up wrapped stack of hundreds or the leather jacket I had in high school, it’d be better than when I walked down Michigan Ave in Umbro Valentino donning a Parisian accent, I can see me having to buy new briefs just to make room for this **** And my own **** getting jealous of the girth I’d be faking it’d swell up, and in the middle of ordering my four-pump Vanilla Almond milk Latte from Starbucks my gray wool socks would fall to the floor, and up from the band of my Acne Jeans would bulge the tip, just the tip, like she said when I was in college, or just the tip like I said when I just needed to feel something other than how emotionally wrecked you made me feel when you told me not to touch you anymore. You ****** me up righteously. And still, 380 women later, I’m ****** up and I don’t have a single pair of socks to wear
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 1:34 AM UTC
The Riot Began on a Sunday Evening
My dearest kin, how deceiving
shout, scream, taunt
Shout. Scream. Taunt.
SHOUT! SCREAM! TAUNT!
Ablaze with yells
Bank money, In-laws from hell
Little draw-backs, taxes of life
It kills them, it murders every night.
It grew and grew
Drizzle to Hurricane
Dazed, bruised embrace
I, myself, a teenage girl of sixteen,
I remained curled in the comforter, cotton was my security.
Laying down by the side of shadow
I whimper and wonder
My tiny boy, my tiny love,
He remains as lonely as I
The bedroom is far from escape
I may be used to walking the desert alone
But my little love, he remains unknown.
And for that first night, millionth life,
I rise.
My movement ripples nothing
But my conscience gaping
Death mission death mission death mission
I refuse to sink.
Pitter patter against the stony floor
My footsteps whisper, but they do not stir.
My dearest kin, how deceiving...
I slip into his life, desiring to sooth his mind
"My love, my love," I coo.
He responds without further ado.
"Geetika?"
I desire a cry when I hear this soft, soft, kitten-like
My boy, my boy, my boy.
I prepare to face PTSD
But all I face is a dream within a nightmare.
"Did you know I got thousand points on fruit ninja this evening?"
I blink.
And blink.
He hasn't noticed a single thing!
They say his specialty is his curse
But I am thanful,
Because he has not heard!
My boy, my boy!
He remains oblivious
My dreamer, my dreamer!
Out of touch of reality,
My little baby.
Numbers and points and games engulf his mind
So consumed
So unaware
But I AM SO THANKFUL!
He hadn't noticed a single thing, my boy my boy, my dreamer...
Jul 5, 2012
Jul 5, 2012 at 4:35 AM UTC
The stylish kitchen
was where the chicken
had to be prepared
and couldn't be spared
by the good old chef
who was known as Jeff
on that fateful day
with the baking tray
placed in the oven
heated to govern
the cooking of which
was a dinner pitch
for that very night
with the stars so bright
in the sky above
everyone would love
who were invited
and be delighted
on that occasion
without persuasion
to share in some feast
not saying the least
that could've been said
if it was just bread
with a bowl of stew
for some hungry crew.
And so it happened
they were all fattened
by the food they ate
as they supped 'till late
and when the time came
the guests couldn't blame
the chef or the host
for the chicken roast
and the side dishes
which pleased the wishes
of all the guests there
who enjoyed the fare
with many a thanks
without any blanks
and there it ended
the night presented.
All the guests who came
did not leave the same
because of the food
eaten that was good.
-------------------
Sep 30, 2023
Sep 30, 2023 at 10:16 PM UTC
Weeaboo.
Owning this geeky word was not something I immediately understood.
Coming from a school where geeks were castaways,
with Otaku and weeb being even worse terms than that.
But now she, who loves video games, and cartoons
- a geek herself, dare I say, -
calls me a not only a weeaboo,
a term revered here,
but a failed one.
Many references I lack to see,
My circle of watched media is constrained,
me being the picky geek that I may be.
The simple act of putting on fluffy ears that I deem kawaii,
She takes as the action of a 'furry'.
I rarely see memes, something that not only geeks look at,
but social media as well,
yet she acts as though it lies within the domain of otakus.
Saying ohauyo, tadima, or even simply arigato,
gives me a snide reply of, "freaking weeb"
Making pebbles into boulders is her specialty.
Oct 25, 2016
Oct 25, 2016 at 8:49 PM UTC
obsessed dexterity, less than steadily
resident of a dreadful destiny
festering breath, resting readily
weaponry of a four legged legacy
blessed be the death of pleasantry
presently pressed, a lesser pedigree
a specialty of a deadly heredity
expressed regression, distressed longevity
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 11:14 PM UTC
The blind Parisian has never seen the tower, or the lights that illuminate his city of birth
The deaf Italian never heard the opera, or Core 'ngrato from a Tuscany street corner
I never looked into your eyes and saw the cosmos
I am distracted by the power of corporate America
The unflinching pacifist still stands atop a suit of armour with his arms outstretched
and Syria rejoices as the stench of liberty matches gun powder and familial genocide
Oh western world, have you forgotten your past so soon?
Explain to the deaf man how her voice sounds
or
Explain the colour spectrum to a blind child
and then deny the tears that water your cheek
Tell the dyslexic that words are meaningless for it gives him comfort
and turn your back on the monetary religion of which we are indoctrinated
Take your ******* industry and bring it to it's submissive knees
Your weapons too, they are a disgrace
Empathy is universal
Love is blind
[Cliche]
[Cliche]
End.
A return, or a refrain, addendum to the ideas thenceforth
It's enough to leave a man crying in his coffee, Starbucks specialty
**** your poets, burn your books and gouge your eyes
This world is not broken, we are.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 12:45 PM UTC
I've been collecting ear wax
Since the belly button lint dust fire went bad
I lost all my dignity in that fiasco
So ear wax is all that I have left
Believe you me, it's not easy
Coming up with another scheme
After burning the whole town down to the ground
To get a single soul to look or even listen to me
But that fateful day that I dug deep
And pulled a replica of the Eiffel Tower out of my ear
I knew that fame and fortune lay before me
My time had arrived, my time was here
Who should I call first over my artful discovery
The Post? The Enquirer? The Times?
No I would call The Museum Of Modern Art in NYC
For the Art World would soon be mine
I knew I had to ratchet it up a notch
One piece of ear wax art might be a fluke
So I got out my brush...the Q-tip
And removed a portrait of John Wayne AKA The Duke
Since I live in a hippie commune in the woods
Little furry creatures would always stop by
To gaze upon the artful process
Squirrels can be the best of critics...no lie!
Which gave me the idea with all the left over ear wax
I sculptured a mini-amusement park with mini-arcades
And charged the woodland creatures nuts and berries
Which helped feed the hippies with whom I stay
It wasn't long after that I received the letter
Stating that art had a need for me
I've become known as The Andy Warhol of The Art World
With abstract ear wax being my specialty
Now I go to all the major "Who Does"
Where everybody knows my name
As I create masterpieces right before their eyes
Just don't hold it to close to the flame
Who would have ever thought that ear wax
Would be the perfect medium
To jet propel this Simpleton
To Art World stardom and beyond
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 8:25 AM UTC
I have a special interest in telling about my colonoscopy.
The doc cheerful, secure in his specialty, colon cancer being
the second leading cause of cancer death after lung tumors.
They can snip the precancerous polyps right out of you during the test.
At first the doc gave me the statistics but having paid 25 bucks for this
interview
I decided to make him explain the science. He was most comfortable
describing the physical architecture of adenomatous v. hyperplastic
polyps
but what about cell structure I said. He was vague about genes and
hormones,
I could have been chatting with an Electrolux salesman.
I wasn’t worried although my *** was burning.
Everybody dies, everybody, even Whitman and Emerson, so I browse
models for dying—
mine are middlebrow, saddlebow—John Wayne in The Shootist, Paul
Newman in Hombre—or hagiography
Plath her head stuck in an oven, Hemingway who ate his shotgun.
Anyway I was upbeat flirting with the nurse, a muse who has seen it all
before,
acting tough, which isn’t actually an act
you do your prep and say your prayers.
I thought I’d be in and out **** as you probably already know
the prep for this procedure is worthy of Gandhi. A day of fasting,
clear fluids only, and constant voiding.
You arrive at the hospital one spiritual chicken.
I reflected it can’t hurt, lose a little weight, remember who you are
without so much **** and flesh between you and the natural world.
Snipping polyps is like taking electrons to a lower quantum energy level,
nearer the nucleus, with fasting and ****** abstinence.
The art of total presence and abstinence, dependence on the Other for
future existence.
May 15, 2024
May 15, 2024 at 7:09 AM UTC
Toasted inner thigh
glazed in our honey and sweat
was always your specialty
12:21 AM
28/9/19
Sep 27, 2019
Sep 27, 2019 at 10:21 AM UTC
I never wonder what it would be like for me to not have my disease
But I do wonder what it would be like to be someone without it
What it would be like to not miss school to see a doctor whose specialty my classmates can't even spell
What it would be like not to take a pill every morning
What it would be like to not face the repercussions of not taking my pill one morning
What it would be like not to pay for the Synthroid
What it would be like to not know anything about it
I think it would be quite ordinary
I think I would be weaker for it
not being able to endure the symptoms
I think I would have less initiative
Not having to take my pill for myself at a young age
I think I would be less curious
Not wanting to know more about myself
I think I'm better off for it
I know more about myself
I know more about the world around me
I know more about perseverance
I know more about medicine
I know more about budgeting
I know more about individuality
I would never want for me to not have my disease
I'm a better person for it
Feb 20, 2019
Feb 20, 2019 at 9:10 PM UTC
Taking it slow
was never really your specialty.
First date, you showed up late
hurried up and grabbed my hand,
had me kissing you within a second.
You always wanted to do
what was next, what was coming
you didn't like waiting, stalling, playing it safe
you were reckless, restless
had me loving you within a week.
People called us *****
and I mean
I guess we were a little *****
but I just like to turn out the lights
and explore with you.
People called us stupid,
and I mean
I guess we were a little stupid,
but I just like to make things interesting
keep things young like we're supposed to be.
People didn't really get it,
they were criticizing somethin'
they didn't understand.
We were just crazy about each other,
and didn't want to waste any time.
We were seventeen,
just trying to stay "young, wild, and free."
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 11:07 PM UTC
I find comfort in the static of the record player humming,
the crackling of vinyl against its holding
your arms tucked tight around the curve of my spine
and waking up to the corners of your lips widening
this is a sunday morning
that I could relive
7 days a week
this is a feeling
I am near terrified of
but in a way that I need to be
see,
I have never been one for writing love poems
and when it comes to writing love
good endings aren't my specialty
I'm not one for spilling vulnerability
to then have to clean up the mess
after it goes without catching
I'm not the best at predicting future
and letting go
is an art form I am still mastering
I have never been one for writing love poems
especially not for those
who don't stick around
long enough to hear them
but for you
I am willing
to take the risk
to set aside hesitation
for the chance of lasting
to sacrifice my fear of heights
for the possibility of a smooth landing
I don't know you well
but I know you enough
to know you're exactly what I want
so I'll talk about your smile
how your dimples have quickly become
my favorite half moon to stare at
or the way you look at me
like a single star
in the middle of a busy Los Angeles sky
being enfolded in your grasp
feels like sun peeking through grey
how lightness makes itself known
even in the midst of rain
I want my skin
to find a home in your palms
and my laugh
an echo in the crook of your neck
for routine
to settle on the map of your body
from collarbone to knuckle to wrist
making a transparent dent in each earlobe
to be missed by my lips
to crave the caress of my hands
when they have other obligations
and I'll hope
that I can waste
as much time with you
as I intend to
although I'm sure
that any time we spent together
would be anything but wasted
I hope
that we can stretch these two nights into two hundred
weaving a weekend into something we can wrap ourselves in
this is me saying a prayer
the only way I know how to
I have never been one for writing love poems
but for you
it is all I want to do
to listen to the silence
and from it
form a symphony
to take this coincidence
and call it fate
to give out all of my honesty
and hope that you stay
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 2:23 PM UTC
tiara
you call your cuts failures
and your blood a testament
to all the times you didn’t succeed
but living is an art
and you are clearly an artist
so don’t tell me there’s no reason why
you are still alive.
when the cops came
you swam through a crack haze
to the window
and jumped
i wasn’t there but i can see it so vividly now
you thought you’d land like a cat
but your legs gave out and snapped like popsicle sticks
you shrugged off the pain
and choked on blood
as you dragged yourself across the lawn
there was a warrant for your arrest
you decided to give up
and wait for them to find you
collapsing in on yourself on a moment’s notice
is your specialty.
laugh about the man who cheats on you
dream about stabbing his ex-girlfriend
tonight i will not give you knives girl
you know the world is a harsh place
learn to navigate it with no razors.
you are not a crown
to be worn by others
you like to make sure people know
you are a tiara
and you will weigh heavy on their heads.
tell me you are stupid
say the methamphetimes made craters in your brain
as you peer at me over your physics textbook
that you call light reading.
lament about the classes you failed
as you strap jigsaw puzzles together
with the scarred arms you carry
the split skin you once opened
out in the open.
are you calling me stupid
by playing this lying game?
tiara
you are all cat eyes
a frail body with an endless appetite
we both secretly derive joy from the money i spent
slipping you candy bars
and the flowers i left by your door
that you dried between the pages of books.
you have not been outside since december
i want to bring you more than flowers
i want to bring you grass and dirt, trees and roots,
birds and mice and worms
i want to give you life
i want you to run your fingers through it lovingly.
you shoulder pain so indifferently
i want to make you cry
for more beautiful things
i want to grab your tender wrists
and fill them with the sunlight.
when i left i hugged you so tight
you said you’d see me
all the big plans you had
i knew you were lying again
i know you cried that night.
tiara i love you
you are someone who needs to
bear the weight of those words
not the pain of never hearing them.
that is what you needed to hear
why did i never say it.
Apr 30, 2012
Apr 30, 2012 at 3:22 PM UTC
Every day we're told
of our specialty-
Individuality.
We're all different
not sensible-
Incomprehensible.
To see another mind
even marginal-
Impossible.
But the more I look.
deep down
Around
we're really all
the same-
even in name.
Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 5:15 AM UTC
I hate the fact I love u
I threw a way a girl, just to get back with u
I wish I paid attention to what my friends said you would do
You left me in the dark
Alone and fragile
Lets be friends lets just be friends
That's what you said to me
Broke my heart,not for the first time
I wish i dropped my handset
And didn't reply to your texts
After collecting your items
I should of let you walk away
Instead, instead I asked you to stay
Everytime i look at you
I fall in love again
I hate the fact i love you
I hate the fact i love you
I should of let you disappear
Instead your in my mind, but your never here.
I'm scared, I fear your next move
Can we just be friends
I want more, I want more
Did u plan this all along
Foolish behavior was always my specialty
I'm torturing myself
Don't even bother giving sympathy
I'm a danger to myself
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 6:46 PM UTC