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traces of being Jan 2017
a storyteller's perspective, steppin' off the ordinary edge, into the unknown

An unsent letter lay on the rustic log cabin floor
A cold wind musta’ blown through the cracks the light comes in,
where it laid fallen, half *** crumbled, yet never a wadded ball;
never an unspoken thrown paper stone,  a befallen regret was all.
Silently atilt and leaning against the canted wall's slant
behind the gathered dust a squeaky hinged burl wood door

A timeworn tarnished copper wind up clock roosted,
an old lip smirched coffee cup time stood still;
an empty bottle of gin sat near the bed post headboard
where the ink stains and blotted spillings let the memories in.
Stained pages torn and bent like fallen paper wings
returned to the unread sender … postage due,   south a heaven sent ―

A sullied envelope, gnawed and mouse chewed,
for a nest of new beginnings ―     
                                                          just read:                   Lydia  ...  
                                ... followed by a scribbled empty heart               

The time aged brown tattered tablet paper left behind
stifled like the unread heart it holds upon the threadbare pages
of smudged tear’s ache and spilled gin

The weathered rock hearth fireplace filled with spent ashes,
hand rolled cigarette butts, traces of an aching lament;
scratched up old vinyl records lay ***** and tired out,
from a time of sweeter fallen fences, a musical bliss, and
a lost angel's abandoned red slinky party dress,  
aside a busted off black velvet high-heel stuck sullied
in a hollow knothole in the ancient barn-wood floor
a sparkly pearl pink jewel entangled in a spider web

An unsent letter lay on the rustic cabin floor
A cold wind musta’ blown through the cracks the light gets in

The final unread words silently said:

                               "We lost our way,
                                  it all went wrong,
                                  it all turned bad"

                             ..."This is the outcome when someone you love  
                                  up and throws you away"

                             ...“I’ll reach out from the inside
                                  I’ll rise up again and do without”

                             ..."You went out into the world
                                  with an untamed hankerin’ ―
                                  like a carefree restless gypsy breeze
                                                                 and come back worlds apart"


The Unsent Letter,  
                          just whispered words to the dust in the wind
                                                            ­                        in quivering ink:

                             ..."how can I ever unremember you...?
                                  a thrown stone sinks wordlessly as a rock...,
                                  an old wood bucket with a rotten hole the heart,
                                  fallen forgotten, rock bottom as an empty well"


                                        just signed:   ...   ❤  August


                          *January 1st, 2017 ... august ... wild is the wind  ♡
postscript: trying to write outside my comfort zone box
                  this storyteller's perspective, steppin' off the edge the unknown
                  i did have fun from behind the incarnation of a caricature's eyes
                  some say "it's always about the writer"...what say you(?)!
.
Madeline Nov 2011
pining and finger-twisting;
watch me weak with wanting you.
your golden-haired laughter,
and your soft-crinkling eyes
  do they read the words behind me
    (three of them, overused but
   achingly true)?
haven't you heard?
well, i won't spoil it, but
they're spilling over, so i'd
brace yourself, if i were

you.
Christina Gillam May 2010
Hail unrequitted love,
ancient poetic rite of passage.

The bullet-burn of countless ant bites
knawing, devouring at young and tender flesh
empties soup-bowl eyes of suppose'd might,
a ringing scream sprawls out of each biological mesh.

You have never felt anything this full-of-feeling.


Never have you been so overcome
with nausea that you have no out
but to *****.


You have no choice but to cry:
Yet your sacred spillings prompt
your pen to fly.
Those saying they gave all gave nothing. 

No one knows she's crying for me. 

With trashhbags spilling from their pockets, the children weep as the men enter their silent temple. 

With potatoes in their hands and bricks on their heads, the women wait for the husbands. 

As priests they exit. All normal patterns again. 

I will separate these teeth from your heart as you scan my newest story. 

I've lost your wonder. Why everything is the same as it was remains a mystery. 

Why these eyes, this heart of mine, why not hers?

Hate simmers. Nothing cooks below. 

One more tin of cream. One more song repressed. A wife with her matchbook terrors. Skin pale, coupons clipped to save heart the extraneous cost. 

Out of the door the lesbians begin their drinking games. 

Smile of mine tell me more meets the eye. Look at the hearts and the pressing of its meats. 

Rearrange the peelings. 

Masculinity transmits over the air. I use this time to soften my bellly. 

The noose catches fire. His tears dousing the freedom. 

First date at theater. Curtain call, begin Love's Final Act. 

The death of you in pieces against rocks. 

Reading for signs of traumatized marrow assuming it is not. 

Warnings of obsession and secrecy as I pollute the sabretooth's mouth. 

My vacation shortened. Flying and seeing the dreams of next time whipping past. 

Coarse hair on my tongue. Trails of you when I speak. 

When will you fade? Love is dead. Let it pass. 

The figure and the ridge shake me. Alone counting how the years have not healed this scar. 

A day. And then a night erased from memory. 

While he speaks I'm told to stop sending letters. 

May the lines become thinner. The hush universal. 

A quiet time. Seen in the sun for the first time. 

Continue reading of deeds snared by Karma. 

Restore yourself for my benefit. 



And so this is the poison she poured into my ears:

 whisper whisper kiss. 


Of the poison what is there holding the vials together?

Machine cut squares knowing the curves of her *******. 

Pressed, brushed to perfection. Where is the warmth beyond the warmth?

Not the glow of nocturnal furnaces. The pressing of skin to the belly of coals. 

Only a mask hiding tears from the public eye. 

It is what you seek. 

Ignite me and marvel alone. 

Explain my scars to me in final excitement. 

On one shoulder I collect the rain. My other brings the spillings. The pool at my feet dries, gathers flies. 

My eyes never closed. My muscles began to shiver and this is all that can be said of last year. 


This year will be dosed heavy with dreams. 


The telephones will soon empty thief wife's of our conversations. 

New dust and **** will cover the bricks our hands feathered over. 

Plates we consumed our dreams on will break, become clean and discarded with the closing of cafe doors. 

You dying and older. Increasing desire. Your basket full of fruit. Your soil toiled in the night. Roots taken, their precious hollows filled. 

Damaged Boardwalk. Mussels cracked, pearl less by design or circumstance. 

Fake both hope and love. Slip away in the pilings of some Ferrari. 

The ash of your candle. Where is it now?

So close to the sea. Yet these stains remain. 

Burn or transgress. Your stones sink in my heart. 

An open letter since birth. 

The barge floats. The operators celebrate the river's damming. 


May you hear my tears in your happy silence.


Just a leaf in the sidewalk. Talks of saplings vanished in the processing. 

Here together in the colder air. 

Forgetful muse, run. Steal their wrestling's warmth. 

The swell beckons. We've yet to share this drink. 

Taste yourself on this raw plate. Fight and move away mediocrity. 


Few lover's sons left. 


Pick your battles from the bag with your boots and that picture of the lion escaping its cage whilst I fell into yours. 

Is there anything else or is this less than what you wanted?

Rude for noting your thinning soles and the leather's scars.

Hard to consider compensation for this blood you've been given. Diseased congealing life force. 

Awake and celebrating with me the people you've left. On this shore, this glimpse of Hell. 

Tossing and turning farther away from refuge. 

Mildewing pamphlets of my red and white memories. All the paintings we're without. 

Hack off my feet and keep me close. I float. Your hauntings with delusions of bliss. 

This is foolish, my pride in the envelope and later the shells. 

Every beacon a reminder to swim farther. Sirens witness my solace.  

Choking back wallows and whispers.

May Neptune weep as I fail in his righteousness. 


Into God's own heart I nestle. Finding rest eternally. 


Young Dracula, stop circling and take me.
*******.
Jack Feb 2014
Wildflower yearnings, un-blooming and restless
longing for nothing but sunshine and meadows,
spring mist’d spillings on clover leaf lawns,
weeded temptations dot soon Sunday drives
as tiger lilies line the shoulders calling
in nectar’d phrase and orange sherbet wishes

Her Earth sleeps beneath cold canvas mornings,
foggy breath seeps from shiver’d mouths,
footprints like smiles disappear in tandem,
bundled decency falls to the way side
as foul speak through chattering teeth
vibrate in angst against her endless winter

Still she smiles knowing what rests within,
stuffed in her springtime pocket
of seedlings and smiles, close to her they wait
Squirming for release and peering over edges,
listening for that call of warm temp delight,
tiny parachutes at the ready

Gray skies peer down, frowning on what will become,
sensing they too shall once again hide,
pushed aside by blue sky dreams,
warm breeze’d sonnets sung in harmony,
butterfly dance cards filled…once more
her winter pocket will take inventory

Sighing, she ponders in snow flake tricklings,
grinning at giggles of April anticipation,
flipping another calendar page,
staring out over the stark white landscape
and whispering a promise to all…
“Spring will be here soon”
Chandana saige May 2021
Now the time and I are wasted
hell no, I'm trying to be good enough
to save your ******* respect
**** I'm not ready to disprove it
The world minds me when I saw your fault
I dont wanna lie to the lier
even I'm bad but acting be nice to you all
nothing is permanent
not even my heart
you wanna see the ****
so take my soul away
every one looks like innocent ****
no one helps you though
your bamboos are spreading
but let it be in legal
so unethical loyalty
I'm so dizzy
I'm a drunken yard you can spill your ****
and leave like nothing happened
cause your matter doesn't matter
my poor heart.
Life
Gigi Tiji Sep 2014
deflated dimples
frosted frowns
crusty clowns
and crispy crowns
boiled biddings
cuddle puddles
and fearful fillings
spoiled spillings
double trouble
secret spitting
crepuscular vapor
nicotine taper
look in the mirror
meet your maker
long walk faker
tick tock taker
flow of consciousness
Babydozxy Jun 2018
Drowning into a pile of seeds that won't grow anymore,
A strive to my darkness underneath my irrelevant human flesh,
It feeds on rotting blood and my insides,
It Tries to **** out it's Poisonious venom from my bones,
The heavy snaps make it worse as it's letting noise shout,

To conceal my messy spillings,
Wanting you to tell me what to do,
Listening to you In evolves silver and red floor mess,

Crying out and selfishness has to come to mind,

Then where are my magic beans,
Why aren't they moving forward

I poured out so much water,
For you,
Only for you to grow
To photosynthesise
To rise

And your not moving
Your empty
Like the rest of me

Fascinating how I am not surprised
T R S Sep 2019
I dug a deep hole
to hold up a fence post today.

Held up with hardened mud
Was a re-bar
maze of cringes and shudders.

Concrete.
In stolen, steely kindred, killmonger, kinds of
courtship killings.

Let me make sure
that all my heart-spillings
is anything but truth.

Shove off,
and behoove
who should, whenever
they would
make a mind a sinful ocean-built
souls assuaged and sure of notions
held near the hilt
of our poison-bit dagger.

Lagging. And lacking
in age.
It's just a turn.
A turn of the page,
of the story of long-lived life.

— The End —