"spelling" poems
i don't watch home movies
hate them
reason being because
when i was young
i was looking for a movie
my mother
had recorded for me
and accidentally
put one in the vcr
that i'm not sure
i was supposed to see
i know the obvious response
*"uh oh, ****
sorry to disappoint
they were only marked with dates
1991
on live television
montel williams asks my father
*"how can you just throw
your child away like a piece of trash?"*
1994
i spend so much time
in the emergency room
that my parents stop
penciling in growth marks
on the frame
of my bedroom door
i always thought
it was because they believed
i would never grow out
of this sickness
sometimes i believe
the reason that they
never bought me a dream catcher
was because they never thought
i'd live long enough
to see them come true
1996
i am eliminated
from a spelling bee
because i didn't know
the 'dad' is silent in 'family'
2013
before i got into poetry
i used to do standup
none of my jokes were funny
one of the other comics
tells me my skits are dry
sometimes sad
he says *"why don't you joke
about something like your family?"*
so i say
*"i never wore any sunblock
because i didn't want anything
to keep me from my father"*
i say *"what do you call christmas
without lights or heat?"*
before he has a chance
to answer
i say *"1997. better yet
why don't you
make like a dad and
leave"*
2014
every time we drive
past the hospital
my mother reminds me
how much it cost to save my life
like she'd rather
have her money back
she doesn't have to say
that sometimes she wishes
it was me who had died
instead of my brother
i can hear it in the way
she says "love you"
sometimes i imagine
that if i were to die
that she
would pick out a casket for a child
because she never loved
the person i became
yesterday i told my father
how close i'd been
to suicide lately
and he said
*"that's my boy,
livin on the edge.."*
and i can't remember
if i laughed
or cried
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 2:59 PM UTC
It's elementary, my dear
This bittersweet affection that I feel
From one boy to the next I grew
Ladder rungs of broken hearts
First grade
Blonde hair and disarming smile
Recess games and hallway passes
A note in a diary and minutes spent giggling
Never talking, always watching
Fourth grade
Glasses frame of brown hair and thin shoulders
Curious enigma to come and go
A bit more literate diary entrees
One year of crossed legs and shy smiles
Fifth grade
A growing tree of lean muscle and blue eyes
Short brown hair and a charming grin
Side by side on a rubber track
Gray skies and sweet goodbyes
A bright dance floor and a shattered heart
Miserable nights and heartbreak songs
Seventh grade
Long dark hair and chocolate eyes
This spring has brought a strange surprise
Wiry muscle and soft cheeks
Once admired, then adored
An ongoing thrum of sweet affection
Sidelong glances and gym class stares
New discoveries and quiet realization
Girl can love girl
Tenth grade
A firecracker packed with mysterious boys
And an enigmatic girl
A bomb in the summer sky
Spelling new names, new faces, new hearts
A whisper of 'I love you' at long last returned
Names carved on my ribs and pulling my lips
A tightened chest never felt so good
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 9:53 PM UTC
Above the caldera at Yellowstone,
a brittle soil-rock crust
caps a lake of liquid fire
with only fumaroles and roiling geysers
to slake its upward ******
A single heedless step is enough
to breech that mantle's fragile seal -
spelling death by fire
to any hapless soul
who fails to guard his steps.
Fragile calderas also roil
buried in dark crevices of our psyches -
brewed of failures, slights and fears
dissolved in fiery pools
of self-consuming misery.
To dress and salve our wounded souls
we plant fertile gardens of reconciliation
with beauty, trust and charity
and kneel to gods of grace and solace.
But a despot’s practiced eye
knows how to tap our fragile crusts,
releasing acrid lava flows
from pools where fear and rage reign hot,
and reason has no district.
Friends and siblings - my flesh and kin,
this world is ours to lose or save
so let us seal well our Sacred Calderas
from bitter foes that stalk us from within.
July, 2006, revised December, 2014, 2015 and 2018
Robert Charles Howard
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 12:40 AM UTC
I stood there,
Tall and proud,
Half yard behind
Death drop,
Vortex form at toes,
Put fish world in spin.
Crush moss trees with
Splashing feet.
One long gaze
Left to right,
Miles of pool and stream
Spelling poetry in cursive
Through eroded landscape.
Zip down,
Junk out.
Open gates of flesh tap
Muscle relax,
Fresh release
Of human nectar.
Light separation
Casting rainbow shimmer,
A dancing upright
Tower of liquid.
Gravity outstretch
Palm grip
And connect
Via web of
Golden pour,
Chaps eye to
Mother earth.
A converging
Of torrents,
Saturating transparent terrain
With saffron and lemon.
The taste in a frog's mouth
Of sweet ammonia.
Clench,
And donation over.
A momentary meld
Of man and nature.
Those few seconds
Putting context into me:
At one with the scenery,
An extension of environment,
A limb of creation.
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 8:15 AM UTC
Julie had never been one to partake in
Girly things, dollies and frills
Julie was one of those tomboy like girls
Who looked out for adventurous thrills
She loved riding bikes, down the hill at high speed
Screaming loud with her hands in the air
But Julie could not play in organized sports
Her mum said the cash wasn't there
She sat on the sidelines and watched all the games
To not play the game was a sin
But Julie Macado would spend her whole life
On the outside of things looking in.
She knew all the players on all of the teams
She wanted so badly to play
But Julie Macado would learn pretty fast
She was one of the have-nots that day
In gym she was better than all of the guys
She sank every shot that she tried
But organized sports was just out of her league
She was still sitting on the outside
Her friends that she played with said
"Go see the coach", maybe he'll let you join up
When she told her poor mother that that's what's she'd do
Her mother told her to shut up
"I've done my best girl, to give you a life"
"And charity...I'll never take"
"If you're gonna play then you'll pay your own way
"For you learn more when somethings at stake"
So Julie went out, hustled, working part time
Doing all that she could to make bucks
But, when she had enough money to finally join in
The season was done...and that *****
Even though she had shown she could be on the team
She was finished and did not begin
Poor Julie Macodo was still not on the team
She was still outside looking in
She worked all that summer making money galore
She'd be ready to sign up that fall
She had enough money to pay for herself
She was going to play basketball
Her mum lost her job in early July
The plant that she worked at had closed
Now she too was outside looking in at the others
They would move...that was what she supposed
Again Julie Macado would miss out again
All of her money she gave to her mom
She would be an outsider for all of her life
Never playing a game...'cept for fun
Even though she was better than all in her school
She would never be in looking out
Until that one day, when a man from Kentucky
Had come up to Freeling to scout
He'd heard of this girl, who could shoot from the floor
She had skills that he had seldom seen
He signed her on up to a four year free ride
It was all like a really good dream
He told her of how, he had gotten a letter
About a young girl ..that was her
It was written in crayon and a little bid blurry
And it stated out with a Dear Ser,
the spelling was bad, but he read it completely
It told of how Julie could play
But she had not school record, no history so
He set out to see the girl play
He contacted the school and he asked them for game films
They said she played only in gym
So he set out directly to see for himself
The decision would be up to him
Now, Julie Macado has realized her dream
Her life is all set to begin
She did it herself, with a note from her Mother
She was no longer out looking in.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 6:20 PM UTC
only an idiot like me, the rain poured down, my socks were wetted, and i looked at the pavement for glory, instead i found a £10 note and imagined my right shoe on my left leg, and my left shoe on my right leg... just to prove the luck.
it came from listening to rotting christ's kata
ton daimona...
i wrote the poem on two tesco receipts
numbering them no. 1 - .4,
it made sense to just give it a narrative...
the naturally apparent lisp of greek is due to...
lies between theta (θ) and phi (φ)...
check feta cheese... it might be less morbidly fermented...
that's why the greeks have a natural lisp...
it's theta and it's phi...
in english it's like chinese.... w & r...
something's rolling something's waving,
something's trigonometric...
harrison fowd was almost jonathan woss if i care...
the chinese in english debate with chin-chin-wanker
scissors piece of paper stone good luck on the handshake:
lost the price of interest being gained for excavation
purposes of dinosaur bones and inflation via the
ptertodactyl of the extended mohawk shave...
english dicionary makes me confused...
it places theta alongside the, than... but then
it's therapy... thermometer...
too many unique examples i'd have said...
that's the lisp there... sidelined phew and engaged in phew
in byzantine...
english linguistics is filled with too many "unique" examples
of expression... coupled with the celebrity culture...
i farted and a person took hold of a *** squeeze...
how's that?! english language in summary?
pleasing on the eye... but the spelling? a burden on the tongue.
i know that slavic linguistics would make enlgish that's written
ugly...
it wouldn't be pharmacology but farmacology...
then it made sense, i stopped asking the english dicta
written down, the greek θ wasn't a couple of th & etc...
a few athenains in death metal said it like i said it... the 2nd f...
it was απηθανoν - because it was simply athens - fern fence...
and not d... defence, or anything easily acquired as a prescription
of zee wee point of german scottish.
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
i.
Beset next to me
Coadjuvant to mine need's;
I couldst not asketh for more
Mine Reyna's all do I believeth.
ii.
She compasses me in Dwarf Daylilies
Her suntanned dermis is momentous;
Wallowed in her oversea's memories
A throne surpassing, Hari and Reyna scented.
iii.
In Luzon, the older part of the firma
Betwixt the Cordillera Region, see through pneuma's;
Hand-poke tool's, for me and mine dynasty amour'
To get tattoos, of her ancestry upon her own shore's.
iv.
Covered head to toe
By these inked protection's;
Spelling out the word's
Brandon and Jane's resurrection.
©Brandon nagley
©Earl Jane dedication/Reyna of mine soul
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 1:28 PM UTC
you can’t right the same poem twice
hell, yes I can
in pointy fact,
only got one,
which gets re-righted
morning noon and evening-tide
substitute a variant spelling
wright vs write vs right
and the meaning changes thrice
*the only thing i can’t not duplicate is those **** love poems
each unique and writ for the woman specific,
each love one, custom jiggered,
each poem, crafted, to her pulse
each poem, drafted, to her scent
none alike, and that’s why I believe
in the god who commanded "create her"
to make love poems in his way,
gave me millions of veins, an extra ribbing,
of inspiration to pray to...
my heart altered, modified, daily*
**** poems
**** love poems
**** love
Feb 2, 2018
Feb 2, 2018 at 10:18 PM UTC
Kiss and spell,
Well, really, do tell,
Witches need spelling,
In their caves, for dwelling,
Relax and have fun,
For super Sunday fun,
Only there's clouds,
But fun still allowed,
Witches need spelling,
in caves for dwelling,
In each coven of one,
Relax, and have fun!
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 3:34 PM UTC
Ears pressed cool against
glass tables and vinyl flooring
words score high drained slowly
slow like wasps caught in guttered draining
not like velvet names etched in casing, but weathered like bricked and beaten graffiti –
Waning like wax always melting
Tools: spelling and grammar – uncheck
Don’t fret too many gerunds grounding air suffocating hearing between the lines that past lower truths out straight in dirt and stinky face: eyes drawn with pensive staring
lines drawn global remains of words unused: boycott form because it isn’t daring.
Adopt sonar because it traces the smokestack between eaves drop
and scrap metal hearing like thorns prickled cut by cleaver.
Clink, clink, clank.
Unlatch cellar doors of images fixed in meaning: glances slanted
heads poked out behind legs enchanting ink under eyelids.
Clank, click, click.
Wishing: Sunday morning came to rest and the cat perched rest without the windowsill and the space between my legs lost meaning.
Forgetting: Painted houses haunting furniture misplaced, training lessons in memory fading.
Dreaming: Sounds dipped in vegetable oil, Van Morrison in teething states caring.
Still lost without my last breathe wondering…
Mar 2, 2011
Mar 2, 2011 at 1:31 PM UTC
Do you know what *****
Not being good at everything.
I sat down at the piano
To practice for the umpteenth time
Millions of thoughts rush through my head:
My form *****
I can't hit the right notes
My fingers don't want to work together
I can barely read the music
I will never be able to do this
I ****
I was born to believe that I needed to be the best
At everything I did
To please my parents
And get the recognition I deserved.
The truthful "well done" from my mother.
But there came a time where getting A's is all they expected from me
So when I would get above and beyond 100 percents
I got nothing
No well done, no good job.
Yet my brother who would narrowly pass his spelling tests
Would get commended for his work.
Pushing myself harder and harder to be the best
Every second of every day
Has lead me to be unhappy whenever something isn't to the level I think it should be.
I know that perfection is impossible
And that you can't be good at everything.
But every time I fail
It feels like I'm dying a little inside.
Frustration. Anger. Depression.
I can barely hold it all together.
This pressure to be perfect may seem unbearable,
But it's my way of life.
Without it, I have no idea who I would be.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 10:31 PM UTC
Sometimes we wish
We were Americans
We would have aced the Spelling B's
Been athletes on scholarships
Or won beauty pageants
Our institutions would compete
And we would win prizes
For accomplishments
If we were Americans
We would thrive with competition
We would live the American Dream
And be rich and famous
I just know it
Sometimes we just wish
Our Scandinavian system favoured people with our talents
Our lack of compromise
More
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 7:31 AM UTC
If only things were as easy as 1,2,3
A,B,C
Like elementary
Arithmetic and spelling
Simple science
Gym was always stunning
Recess was revered
The swings were sacred
Writing on the jungle gym
Laughing
Running off with friends to play
Being enchanted by the smell of coffee and trees
Magic every second you breathe
Simply because you were somewhere you weren't supposed to be
Close your eyes
Now what do you see?
Darkness?
Dots of color?
Phantoms of light?
Remember when you saw dragons
Wizards
Whole worlds enchanting
When you walked people said it seemed like you were dancing
Remember when you were happy?
There was no worry about what to do
What are you going to be?
You had your whole life
Figure out what to do
Well what now?
What's your plan?
Too bad
Too late
It's not elementary
None of your dreams can come true
You're completely *******
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 12:45 AM UTC
(you do you, baby boo, i know moms
who rather write poetry and spend five
bucks on their kids’ mouths lolol)
always the act of forgetting the people
behind the screen, when you blame me
like mingling with lanceheaded dreams
delivering pointless blows spelling it
like im incomplete unless i bring all of
myself to the table alone
& the room’s clean, and the kitchen’s clean
the birds sing and the sunlight’s cold and bright
seems like everything’s where it’s supposed
to be when you’re not around
now what a paradox that is
Mar 20, 2018
Mar 20, 2018 at 12:23 PM UTC
Especially when the October wind
With frosty fingers punishes my hair,
Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire
And cast a shadow crab upon the land,
By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds,
Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks,
My busy heart who shudders as she talks
Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.
Shut, too, in a tower of words, I mark
On the horizon walking like the trees
The wordy shapes of women, and the rows
Of the star-gestured children in the park.
Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches,
Some of the oaken voices, from the roots
Of many a thorny shire tell you notes,
Some let me make you of the water's speeches.
Behind a post of ferns the wagging clock
Tells me the hour's word, the neural meaning
Flies on the shafted disk, declaims the morning
And tells the windy weather in the ****
Some let me make you of the meadow's signs;
The signal grass that tells me all I know
Breaks with the wormy winter through the eye.
Some let me tell you of the raven's sins.
Especially when the October wind
(Some let me make you of autumnal spells,
The spider-tongued, and the loud hill of Wales)
With fists of turnips punishes the land,
Some let me make of you the heartless words.
The heart is drained that, spelling in the scurry
Of chemic blood, warned of the coming fury.
By the sea's side hear the dark-vowelled birds.
5.5k
Heard a hip-hop anthem today
BOSS
“Michelle Obama… purse so heavy… getting Oprah dollars…”
A rhythmic dance beat spelling out
Confidence
And
Respect
A baller banner of pride
Flung to the ceiling, waving
Women’s independence
Black women’s power
I see it…
But
Is an album adorned with 5 sultry females
Clad only in a man’s shirt and high heels
Singing show me the money
Sold to the club scene to inspire ***** shaking
And Yeager bomb throwing
So we forget the work week challenges
Relationship pains
And
Embrace vicariously our entitlements
HELPFUL?
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 3:02 PM UTC
Worlds physical? Or worlds mental?
It makes all the difference.
Without the sciences it wouldn't matter either way
The last time I was taken from earth without moving?
Excepting when reading, with math.
Tesselations and fractals and numbers
Numbers have a flow all their own
Without numbers, meter and rhyme couldn't be
Even now, without numbers this discussion could not be held
Even now this typing is numbers
It may not look it, but its all ones and zeroes
The angle and curvature of every letter defines language
I say nay my friend, nay
I never spoke the words declaring math and science the crown of humanity
And the words stating english its clothes
They are important, both in their own way,
But think of this: you cannot do math
Nor calculate the distance from venus to the
Andromodean galaxy without math
But think also of this: communication may exist without english
Numerical codes and codexes and letters written entirely in numbers or symbols
Do exist
I dare not refute the value of english, but do you argue the language or the study?
The study can be done away with and easily
Put to rest, as it had to be created
The language too was created and came from
Some mother language
But we always had math.
Does not even an ape know that an even split
To a banana is half?
Apes have no words as we think of them
But still, they do not have english
They don't have a grammar and spelling system nor manner of speaking,
They communicate perfectly well, even without words
But how are they to place value on objects without math?
Even some crude understanding of value
Is math
A banana must be worth less than two, no?
English resides on emotion and feeling, whereas math and numbers rest upon fact
How does one win an arguement without numbers?
Even now you use them.
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 12:26 PM UTC
MA KING AME-RICA GRATE AGIN
( for Brian )
"Your mum's an alien..an...
ha ha ha ha alien!"
the children chant
and taunt.
I see through tears
their sneers and hated
etched upon
their features
like a mask they
could/couldn't take off.
It is like a thousand years ago
all over again.
The Age of the thing
called Trump
when humans were both
orange and stupid.
Now we have computers
built into each whorl
facts at our fingertips
with just a finger snap
we can call up what used to be
called videos
of the Trump thing
teaching humans how to hate.
I, unlike my sisters
am not green
except for
a slight greenish
hue every now
and then.
I am more the chameleon
and can blend in.
I have the necessary arms
and the obligatory number of eyes.
Only my mum and sisters
look like a lurid 1950's comic
"THEY CAME FROM OUTER SPACE!"
yet earth would not be
here if aliens( us )had not come
to save them from themselves
back when earth had entered
the Age of Dictators
as the history apps.
quaintly put it
Now is come again
the hateful hate
ma king Ame-rica
grate again
like a mind
grinding its teeth.
I'm sorry am
the English no good
and the spelling as well
we will
have to hide behind
our mind walls
that we had to build
to keep humans out.
My mother taking me
lovingly in her tentacles
stroking me and drying my eyes
and making tea
With a snap of my fingers
I bring up my favourite video
and a Kermit hologram
floats before my face
"It's not that easy bein' green!"
and I singalong like any human being
"...when green is all there is to be."
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 5:10 AM UTC
You can see it already: chalks and ochers;
Country crossed with a thousand furrow-lines;
Ground-level rooftops hidden by the shrubbery;
Sporadic haystacks standing on the grass;
Smoky old rooftops tarnishing the landscape;
A river (not Cayster or Ganges, though:
A feeble Norman salt-infested watercourse);
On the right, to the north, bizarre terrain
All angular--you'd think a shovel did it.
So that's the foreground. An old chapel adds
Its antique spire, and gathers alongside it
A few gnarled elms with grumpy silhouettes;
Seemingly tired of all the frisky breezes,
They carp at every gust that stirs them up.
At one side of my house a big wheelbarrow
Is rusting; and before me lies the vast
Horizon, all its notches filled with ocean blue;
***** and hens spread their gildings, and converse
Beneath my window; and the rooftop attics,
Now and then, toss me songs in dialect.
In my lane dwells a patriarchal rope-maker;
The old man makes his wheel run loud, and goes
Retrograde, hemp wreathed tightly round the midriff.
I like these waters where the wild gale scuds;
All day the country tempts me to go strolling;
The little village urchins, book in hand,
Envy me, at the schoolmaster's (my lodging),
As a big schoolboy sneaking a day off.
The air is pure, the sky smiles; there's a constant
Soft noise of children spelling things aloud.
The waters flow; a linnet flies; and I say: "Thank you!
Thank you, Almighty God!"--So, then, I live:
Peacefully, hour by hour, with little fuss, I shed
My days, and think of you, my lady fair!
I hear the children chattering; and I see, at times,
Sailing across the high seas in its pride,
Over the gables of the tranquil village,
Some winged ship which is traveling far away,
Flying across the ocean, hounded by all the winds.
Lately it slept in port beside the quay.
Nothing has kept it from the jealous sea-surge:
No tears of relatives, nor fears of wives,
Nor reefs dimly reflected in the waters,
Nor importunity of sinister birds.
4.4k
i know a boy
who sits behind me
always tapping his pen
tapping
and tapping
fingertips spelling
i am anxious
i know a boy
who walks me to class
looks at me before I leave
his foot keeps
tapping
and tapping
and I keep waiting
for him to tell me goodbye
so I can go to class
i know a boy
who cannot stop
like a car alarm on
christmas morning
like police sirens
underwater
a boy
afraid of the pause
the rest, the wait, the halt
the slow motion of eyes meeting,
elbows accidentally touching
words becoming deep breaths,
hesitating instead
I know a boy
who is still a child
and over and over,
i loved him "still"
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 11:01 PM UTC
Above the caldera at Yellowstone,
a brittle soil-rock crust
caps a lake of liquid fire
with only fumaroles and roiling geysers
to stay its upward ******
One errant step is all it takes
to breach that mantle's fragile seal -
spelling death by fire
to any hapless wanderer
who fails to guard his path.
Fragile calderas also roil
buried in darkest hollows of our psyches -
brewed of failures, slights and fears
dissolved in molten pools
of self-consuming misery.
To dress and salve our wounds
we sow gardens of reconciliation within
with beauty, trust and reason
and bow to gods of grace and solace.
But a despot’s studied eye
knows just how to tap our fragile crusts,
releasing acrid lava flows
from pools where fear and rage reign hot
and reason has no district.
Sisters and brothers of our flesh I pray
we find a holy and transforming alchemy
to convert our heat to light
and shield our sacred calderas
from enemies that stalk us from within.
July, 2006, revised December, 2014, 2015 and 2018
Robert Charles Howard
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 12:30 PM UTC
To relate,
to imagine something similar
to what is being shown,
to imagine what it might be like.
A metaphorical meaning is like
being a shadow
that tries to relate to a star.
A poem with metaphorical meaning
is written with more effort, research, and a deeper understanding
of language.
I have written more metaphorical
poems than average poetry.
I work harder on metaphorical
meaning than I would with basic techniques. I love a challenge
so that's why you see more metaphorical poems
written by me.
I have researched many languages
and meanings to words,
my techniques for writing
reflect my efforts.
I am a writer who writes with imagery and metaphor so often that
I am known to be an eccentric writer.
It's an exotic way of expression.
It helps my readers
to relate to what I am thinking.
Also, it is how my brain sees
the world.
I was not born with language
like most people are,
I am an autistic person.
I don't have a natural language
in my mind, I have learned how
to express myself through writing because of my handicap.
I am not perfect but
I try to improve myself
by learning and practice.
I am still learning not to criticize myself too much. I am never a good judge so I try not to think about it
too much. I analyze everything so
I think it's good for me to try
not to analyze my writing
as often as possible.
I end up changing my work
until it turns into something completely different than
it started out if I do.
I want people to see the effort
and time I give my poetry,
so I do my best to show it.
I am always happy to do
something new and challenging.
My grammar and spelling
has improved because
I am willing to take feedback.
I love it when people are honest
and tell me if I made a mistake because I can learn from
the mistake.
To grow and develop you need
a plan and a place to go
when you need space.
I have learned this and
I believe that is what helps me
to improve.
Metaphorically speaking,
I am like a leaf I change with the seasons and I am willing to grow
within a tight space.
I love being with other
leafs like myself.
That's why I join communities
like this one.
Thank you, Hello Poetry.
© 2018 By Amanda Shelton
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 3:39 PM UTC
A dying girl
hung her heavy head
over a carpet
aged to smoker's gray.
She collapsed on a floor
covered in crumpled clothes,
stripped off and
tossed aside.
She knelt beside
a bed that once held
goodnight kisses and
rosy morning cheeks,
now full of tears that
dawn turned to braille,
spelling slow defeat
beneath mourning fingers.
Pulling her curly hair
taut in tired fists,
she freed every bit
swiftly from her scalp and
nicked her tender skin with
tiny rusted blades until
there was nothing left
but raw flesh.
She caught a thief
moving in the mirror
with body bags
beneath her eyes:
a ghostly girl,
a stolen soul,
a blank mask,
a hood of bone.
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 12:07 AM UTC
I read him one of my poems
He complemented my mechanics
And although part of me laughed
Wondering how he heard me breathe the commas
Heard my spelling bee winner's letter placement
Still
The notion stuck
Steadfast
Push-pinned in my memory
In the neglected space where kind gestures live
I told him how I appreciated it
I should've told him
Boy no no
You don't understand
My mechanics need fixing
No not my grammar boy
I should've told him to volunteer
Sweet boy
I know hands are easier to work with than words
Touch me with both
Shhhh sweet boy
Fix me with your good nature
Let it wash over me
Wash away my grime
You needn't a good speaking voice
But a good intention
Warming arms
To thaw me
Couldn't hurt
But sweet boy
Too bad
We all grow sick of licorice
And I broke you
Like the mantelpiece momma told me not to play around
I broke you
For a less sweet boy
With a politician tongue
And words soaked in muddy motives
I broke you
Hardened you
Into a less sweet boy
With a polititia- err
Salesman tongue
And words soaked in muddy motives
I left you
Gone with the wind
You were the Rett
In the search for my Ashley
But he broke me
Like the soldiers countenance heading to combat
He left me
Wondering
Where all the sweet boys could have gone
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 11:11 AM UTC
i'm always trying to describe
the wrong things, aren't i?
describing your voice
when it's the words that matter
outlining your face
when it's the smile that really shatters
upon my eyes
trying to write this feeling down
when it's the reasons that are really
important to me
and i guess that's when i realize
i've been avoiding penning this fear
afraid of the reasons, of the causes
that led me here
and this feeling?
it's nothing more than a consequence
or so i tell myself
as i step carefully over
the dark puddles
and onto the hard cement, looking
for the yellow lines
that will tell me where to go
left or right?
right or wrong?
i've been describing the wrong things
i know that now, and i have
each scene played out
in black and white
while the real meaning is lost
in the spaces between the letters
and the missing punctuation
gathers itself into the sky
spelling out the word i am afraid of
fear
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 11:20 AM UTC