"splotch" poems
My petals were withering,
The butterflies turned into wasps.
An oppressive silence-
Weighing down on my conscience
And the fingertips - used to drawing sunrises
-compelled to write eulogies instead.
Of Chapped lips and vacant eyes.
And how the autumn had caught up to us.
And I remembered,
With an aching guilt-
How I had not even played in the rain,
Not much, not at all.
My words had rusted,
My voice- cracked, and unfamiliar
Even to my own ears.
The summer long poems that I wrote in love
Were set ablaze,
To help me survive a winter
without you.
Oh, when I said our love would keep us warm
This is not exactly how i had it planned.
And you did not get to read even a word.
One always thinks they have time.
But we did not.
Not then, and definitely not now.
As a child, I grew up wanting a lot from myself
-even the world, if I were to be honest.
Somewhere along the line,
All I wanted was for this all to not hurt.
And somehow the polar opposites are more alike
Than I'd have thought.
'Cause you see, people who want a bit of everything
Are very close to wanting nothing in particular, not much.
And I wish I had learnt to differentiate
Of when to sharpen my sword and when to use my pen
Cause now I'm down to my last petal
And all you have is a blue splotch on your shirt.
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 8:47 AM UTC
Pained intake of breath
Hot air against my cheeks
You’re wrapping white cloth over my arms
I’m watching red seep in like ink bleeds
Faintly, behind a splotch of black
I see your eyes grow wet
And though I am barely holding on
I can feel the tremble in your fingers
And an echo of a voice
Calling my name
You’re desperately trying to push paper into the wound
And I’m feeling myself bleed out despite your efforts
You take me to a doctor but still I leak
Transfuse your own red into me
But it just leaves through my eyes and makes me feel weak
“What have you done to yourself?!” you cry
And I sigh through a fit of tears
You’re trying to take the pain out of me
And i'm disappointing you with every breath I take
Just like you cannot will another moon into existence
You cannot love someone out of an illness
Apr 19, 2022
Apr 19, 2022 at 10:24 AM UTC
a small teaspoon
of sweet brown sugar
sprinkled on her nose
her brown hair cascaded
down her back
her dark blue eyes gleamed
in generosity and beauty.
they grew,
beginning to splotch
everywhere upon her face.
some called her ugly,
despite her vibrant eyes
her long wavy hair,
others,
her mum, to be specific,
said she was amazing
and looked fantastic
and who wouldn’t want
‘beautiful’ freckles?
the insults didn’t stop,
they flew
at the girl with freckles
like peter pan
charging through the air
at top speeds.
as the girl with freckles
grew up,
she and they started to
accept the fact that
the shining sun created
gifted,
granted
her with
brown-sugar
freckles.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 12:44 AM UTC
When I think back to the past, my memories seem to blur together as if I have spent twenty one years on a non-stop merry-go-round. Ups and downs, too much to take in at once, the people you love only a splotch in your spinning, ever-changing field of vision. You wonder how long they’ll stay, leaning over the metal railing separating them from you; you wonder if they’ll call out to you until they become hoarse…but no one stays for long.
You think it’s fun and harmless until the carousel stops and you realize you’re the only one left. You clamber off the platform in a drunken stagger and wait for your mind, still caught up in the whimsical whir of charisma and carelessness, to catch up with reality. Eventually your thoughts slow and your vision steadies. Everything comes into focus. It seems eerily quiet compared to the cacophony of conversation and carnival music that was swirling and intertwining in the air just minutes ago.
Now there’s silence and you’re left to contemplate your past…and your future. This is the reality check, the wakeup call that sends so many adolescents into a panic; an early mid-life crisis if you will. Twenty one years spent so quickly, so carelessly…only eighty more to go.
And you can only wonder, “How will I waste those?”
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 10:08 PM UTC
Pride os a strong word
So many people use it
They have pride in their clithes
Their appearance
Their hair
Their homes.
However for me
Pride comes in some unusual forms.
Pride comes from text on a page,
And ugly ink splotch on a stark white dress
Pride comes from poetry
The elegant ways it dances from the poets mind as it plays its way across their lips or to their finger tips
Pride comes from new words
Never seen before combinations
New ideas and new arrangements
And endless sea with no boundaries but your own.
Pride comes from within me.
Pride in my poetry.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 12:08 AM UTC
What stories could journals tell?
What we forget
is that they are not just repositories of words
but also of thoughts,
feelings,
emotions
They are places in and of themselves
Saving these emotions,
stashing them away
so they can be discovered
at a later time.
But the true beauty of these journals
lies within discovery itself
A droplet of water will fall
further
down a curved surface
taking a pale tan color
like its surroundings
It will fall off the surface
Onto the fibers of the page below
Leaving a darkened splotch
More droplets will follow
More tears will follow
As twenty years from now
A thirty-five year old woman rediscovers
the girl she once was.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC
Her fingers were covered in corn.
the corn after chewing, broken
pierced, churned- it could spread as butter
thick on stale toast, if needed
"it's fine, don't you worry, we'll get you all cleaned up"
she stared indifferently
Strings dangled from her mouth, unswept
full of necessary greens ---"mhm there there, this will give
you so much energy" --- drags of breath,
half inhale half choke. nothing to look forward to,
not the next soaking glob, not the cursing woman
in the bathroom, not the spill of light to her eyes
Where are the ladles, Did you check on it? The key? Just moved, most the suitcases aren't there yet. Remember to bring the Did you check on it? pay attention. Have you seen my grand kids?
who are you?
Sunday's are for the active ones
The games down the hall are too far. Why worry with legs, if she could just adjust to the left
the world could sag into an ongoing dream- No demands, no games, no movement.
The nurses hair net had more presence than the splotch of gray against her peeling itchy scalp. Drool leaked from leather lips, dampening the collar of her two month sticky blouse. Arms curled and locked,displaying under the wax skin cranberry patches-
she never wiped them off. Always the soft murmer of
a snore, always the smell of unbrushed teeth and hampers.
"Did you touch those where don't touch me scott scott scott leave my things alone thevenin I need a stop lying I want to go scott, scott? scott. I can't remember any"
I said my name four times before she heard me, knew me
I fixed her pillow and my sister marked off the day on the calendar.
We told her about school, the marching band, each word
filled with forced enthusiasm. She bobbed her head in circles, lazily
rolling her eyes, the curtain shading the empty space. We spent 30 minutes precisely.
She was more than I realized.
I never knew she had horseback riding, violin playing days. She traveled and hiked. We could have been close. Unraveling with the mystery, I felt the lateness of my curiosity.
It was 30 minutes precisely, always.
We acted as strangers, reciting routine and wishing each other a happy day and a quiet love you
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 5:21 PM UTC
I arrived--
though I needn't a formal invite,
for you and I, we are two old friends.
Companions walking along
a similar trail.
The leaves distort and distress the
yellow and gleaming light of the
victorious Sun, who has once again
conquered Night and all
her iniquities.
Scents and colors fill the air,
pinks and reds and greens mix and match
and blend together, forming
a rich atmosphere of synesthetic remarkableness.
Each atom and molecule
of the wind
shivers and shakes atop their
invisible chariots,
perhaps the true location of Atlas
and those great, big hunks of
shoulders;
"Man, what a man."
Take it because you know you like it--
we are social creatures,
creatures of logic
of habit
creatures of horribly idiosyncratic and idle instinct,
rulers of fleshy bodies
which we hardly understand.
The Sun grimaces as it
retreats back to the negative air,
once again,
not to poke its radiant face out until
the next morning.
The Moon came shimmering out,
smiling furtively and compactly,
looking down like
my oldest confidante.
After all,
who else but our fair
Luna atop the stars
is the keeper of all our deepest
and most primal
secrets?
In the cover of her noxy cloak
we sin and hide,
pushing every secret under and between
the cracks in her space,
patching up time and
keeping dark and brooding Atlas
good company.
"You're one of the few great guys."
Oh, my fat and failing Atlas,
lover for the Night and
of my night,
you are a temporary stop on
my trail,
a brief twilight in my
life's journey.
The Sun creeps its
spindly, golden fingers under
the cloak of the Moon,
Night: the stitchings and
sewings of the sins of mortal men.
Playfully, the light stretches out,
first dancing along the stage of the horizon,
then inching closer,
desperate for living contact,
for the greatest warmth of
over 2 billion hearts
all beating at once--
perfectly,
in time.
Our world is a note on
this Cosmic sheet music;
you are barely a splotch on the sheet.
Our existence is the single beat
out of infinite others,
without a beginning but
possibly and end.
I know that
there will be twists in my path,
bending and curving to avoid the
stars' wrath and the Suns'
might,
but,
might it be
that our two trails
are simply
not meant to meet?
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 3:55 AM UTC
beholding
the tipping
Big Dipper,
with its
dangling
handle,
traverse a
midwinter
northern sky
rising
in concert
with a
steadfast
sword
wielding
Orion,
mooring
the southern
firmament,
I stand
atop a
splotch
of black
macadam,
straddling the
equidistant
expanse of
all
ascending
celestial
spheres
Music Selection
Charlie Parker
Estrellita
Oakland
1/23/15
jbm
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 10:27 AM UTC
Inspiration fails me,
my pen refuses to move from
its place on the page,
leaving a splotch the
size of the
thoughts I wish to write.
I wish I could fill
ten notebookes with my
sociopolitical nonsense
and whinings of every
trivial romance in my
young life.
I want to dry up pen after
pen, wake up
hungover from writing late
the night before,
cover each and every slip of
paper in alliterations
and onamonapias.
If only I could be a
real artist, one who
carries her notebook and
pen to libraries, coffee shops,
and movie theaters,
finding inspiration in ever
face and street corner.
But no.
I'm just sitting here,
pen in midair,
staring at a blank page.
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 3:59 PM UTC
I know you still can't breathe
And your ribs burn
But I love it
When I finish laughing first
Because for a moment
I am the insomniac
Enthralled by the lucid dreamer
(your eyelids flutter)
I am the Catholic
Entranced by the shameless drunk
(your hiccups slur)
And your giggles pop like
Bubble bath and boiled syrup
And everything is funny
Everything is spine-chillingly funneled
Your sprite and shrieks nosedive
Into my bloodstream
Spike my heartstrings
And your cheeks
Swell and splotch and squish
Into those sparkling eyes
Until they gush
And you try to stop it, but
Like gagging on lake water
You can't
Not until every sprinkle gets spewed
And baby, there is so much
So much beauty
Spawning inside of you
So much to share, and I starve for it
I soar with it
And for a moment
A dreamer stirs the city
A drunkard saves the world
The children stump the wisemen
As you shake the cobwebs
From your ribs
For one more second
Reality is fragile
Love is tangible
And nothing else is
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 1:12 AM UTC
You're special. All my life I considered myself to be a multicolored iridescent stroke of art in this world of pastels shades and fine lines. I knew right from the start that I wasn't a masterpiece presented by Picasso or Kahlo. I was a pretty splotch of sunny hues and velvety blues cleverly spilled over the black canvas.
To find me beautiful, it required a keen eye that was ready to overlook the dainty presentation of the works of Van Gogh. There exists a story of pain and insanity behind each work of his creativity. I am and will always be the scribbled I ink across the sheet. There is a piece of poetry within me, for the person who is patient enough to look through my messy facade. And to pick up the pen and write a sonnet across my heart.
Even with the multicolored spots I bleed the words of love and loss. The two most basic emotions that are often left unexplored.
My soul hummed the old school love songs that no one could ever recognize. Until the day I met you. Even in a room full of exquisite wonders you chose me. You whispered the lyrics to my favorite song and left me spellbound. With a lopsided smile you held out your hand and asked me for a dance, without any conscious effort I floated and there I was; held securely in the arms of the man who owns my heart.
Jan 7, 2018
Jan 7, 2018 at 3:14 AM UTC
I try to explain the world--
the deeper meanings to my mumblings
all of it a frustrating mess,
an artist canvas splashed with too many colors--
that it becomes impossible to depict which is what.
Is that blue or is that aqua, I don't even know anymore.
When it comes to understanding my thoughts,
it becomes a psychotic break from reality--
where I imagine my fingernails scraping
chunks of flesh from my neck.
I plead for my hands to place themselves around my throat,
"Please suffocate yourself please just let me out"
Begging for someone to understand the mess,
that the khaki colored object actually means something.
Each splotch a representation of myself
every detail aligned to explain a greater idea.
As arguments end, they scribble deep within
a sketch book of sickening black ink;
Marks its place in the drippings of my thoughts,
making those colors lost in translation
so not even the painter knows how they feel.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 7:49 PM UTC
It's acold misty morning
The large grey cobblestones creating valleys by themselves
The old black lampposts casting the imaginings of light
The buildings shuffle between dark grey and black as if they were a depressed Chameleon
A man walks along this pathway
His dark black Brioni suit covered by the enveloping arms of his coat
The buttons undone as the coat ***** dramatically in the wind that isn't there
The outfit is completed with a black fedora which he wears upon his head
He walks down the pathway and passes a small man
With ragged clothes and a baggy hat
He barely notices the painter as he Iis consumed with his Own demons
The painter holds a brush in his right hand
An old thing with paint and chips on the wooden handle
The bristles are long
Not imacculate
But well used
In his left hand he holds his pallette
It has every colour imaginable
But only a small splotch of it
The painter walks behind the man with the fedora
And he painted
He painted galaxies on the cobblestones and valleys separating them
He painted patterns into the sidewalk and stories into the bricks
His style a rough painterly style
Jagged geometric lines creating organic spirals and waves
A Van Gogh style
Painfully wild strokes
That seem to contain the souls of suffering and pain
His flat yellows contrast to his vivid reds
Powerful imagery created by nothing but contrast
Emotions toyed with by jagged currants and swirls
The painter painted
Trying to catch up to the man with the fedora
Painting eruptions of beauty from the lampposts
And birds and flowers floating upon the air
As the fedora man's heels lifted paint was laid down in insane yellow
Driven insane by trying to catch up to this man
Driven insane by trying to show the man beauty
The painter ran out of paint
A masterpiece a mile long
Seen and admired by all who walked behind
But the artist had failed
His face Contorted as his emotional suffering manifested physically
His heart broke again as he realized that this man with the fedora wouldn't stop
He would live his whole life
Without seeing beauty
The painter was put in a nice jacket and a white padded room to live the rest of hus days
Forced to live in his misey....
His emotion....
His failure...
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 1:09 AM UTC
Don't call me a fool
just because I don't fit your bill.
I am made of mistakes
and ugly laughter.
I am a before,
a right now,
and a happy little after.
I am gritted teeth
and burnt roast beef
and tired eyes
and skinny lies
and bloated bellies
and tiny tellies.
I am shattered hearts
and missing parts
and miniskirts
and false new starts.
I am that one channel
your parents don't let you watch,
or a giant, messy void
called a black ink splotch.
I am peer pressure,
irresponsibility,
and midnight crises
pushed into a fleshbag
to walk around the world.
Don't control my life
just because you can't control
your own.
I have my own place in this world-
-a place called the throne.
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 9:45 AM UTC
Hello Pigment.
I missed your squish-
your fingers staining my favorite picture books.
I need your oily claws
your head-mashing whiff
the way you smile with toothy indifference
you climb over
all walls I orchestrate
and sit turgid
with bright Grandiose on my blanched skin.
my life is your palette,
you have moved in like a sloppy roommate
and your haphazard possessions drape the cabinets,
the chair,
the sink.
I love it.
you inhabit every vacancy
-a bulky mass of
magical “art”
and
no matter how much I mix your
complementary colors,
you appear
ever so bright.
please… don’t leave me open canvased.
splotch to me left and right
taint any negative space
barge in without
pusillanimous footsteps.
whip your camel hair bristles
all over my pages.
color me, pigment!
Splatter, Paint.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 2:24 AM UTC
rest in peace, armadillo pancake.
you died swiftly, thank goodness
at the hand of my left wheel
tail still attached
the plates of your back folded into you like wings.
farewell, my ridged armadillo splotch.
i think of you every time i dodge your smudge of color
and every time one of your brothers wanders by
walking clueless into the same predicament
stunned into pancake-hood forever.
alas.
rest in peace, my flat friend.
you will not be forgotten.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 11:46 PM UTC
The night you told me I didn’t put stars in your eyes anymore was the night
I didn’t see any stars myself. I thought we were written in constellations but that was more hopes
of my own then fate. Yes, I was upset. But I wasn’t in love. And that’s why it didn’t hurt.
I never lied when I said there was a moment when I thought we were some type of forever.
Do you remember the time when you were out by the lake of New Hampshire with the most gorgeous sunrise,
and you told me all you could think about was how much better it’d be if I was there to see it too?
I told you it didn’t matter but when I woke up the next morning, I felt detached from where I was.
There’s a part of me that wishes I saw that sunrise too.
But that’s just how it is.
All I have is stories of “has been”s and “could’ve been”s. A collection of “almost” and never seen sunrises—
the memories carefully stacked on top of each other, organized and filed away, collecting dust.
Somewhere I still think we exist though, an eternal splotch of sunshine and mutual caring, some place where our love didn’t hurt.
Somewhere there’s a lace wedding veil and a matching tux that were actually worn. Somewhere there’s the unfinished scrapbook I put together that has more pages added to it. Somewhere there’s a collection of passports from all the road trips we should’ve taken.
Somewhere out there, we are the type of forever I intended us to be.
Somewhere, in a little cabin in New Hampshire, surrounded by evergreens and daffodils,
there’s a little girl with the same name as my favorite movie character
with your hazel eyes and my dark hair.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 8:16 AM UTC
There’s something about the bleeding of
a pen through paper and on to
the other side
It gives me
a sense of permanency
Trying hard to stay put
it bleeds for its home
A mother hoping so much
to hold on. Leaves a
mark on their children
A tattoo of trauma
Leaves a mark on your
children
A love so sweet it’s tattoo
permanent mark my skin
with your presence on my
shoulder; permanent
A hope so sweet, I hope it’s
permanent
Bleed through my skin, leave a
splotch like pen to a paper
marking home reminding
you of its permanence
Jul 22, 2021
Jul 22, 2021 at 4:53 PM UTC
A living skin, a skein of green briars
where a half-hinged door is wagged by the wind
Good-natured god, decay’s stigmata-stained spires
nettles paint the stairs splotch patterned, olive skinned
Glass window shards grab a slip of silk curtain
pick-pocket beetles engrave brute luck broadside
Chimney thrushes cabined in ash are certain
cynicism’s growing sums are rectified
Blue jays opine time’s cuckoo clock mocking
worms ply enormous copses, scrawl casts of clay
Autumn gusts and rains whirl detritus stocking
flung colors Pollocked, clutter’s chaos array
Hours dissolve the acorns and soft seeds scatter
as grasses grown tall have turned light yellow
architecture’s flourishes are picked off
crumbled valuables filched and turned to dirt
tumult’s passages dug the driveway’s trough
carrion feeders pull black quills from their shirt
slugs smear a rainbow trail and mice scurry
collapsed walls fall to the slush of leaf slurry
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 1:15 AM UTC
Long and endless nights,
Of blood, sweat, tears, and charcoal.
Melting into smile.
Haven't slept in days,
If I could I'm sure I would,
Cigarettes will do.
Paradox in hand,
I form an open window,
Illusive, by fLaw.
Golden lights are on,
Check. Chronic aches and pains. Check.
Perfectionism...
Check. Coffee is my blood,
A running joke amongst us slaves,
We might die without.
Humor's important
Now, because I'm already
Two-far and long-gone.
Far-along the shores
Of distant kingdoms wreckage.
Lost within again,
Shattered and washed up
Into mountains of peril,
And treasures turned dust,
Aftermath beheld
In retrospect, I should have,
Could have would have dones.
All within a shape.
I finish my drink and sit,
Dusty nose n ****
I want to give up,
Whispering Sith Professor,
Harks of homeworks past.
Birds in the distance,
Crickets lost within the night,
Still life in mid-flight.
Still life is my life,
Satan is the only way,
Jazz is close second.
Fellow holograms,
This is not an SOS,
This is a farmhouse.
…....
Jk, pls send help.
I fear if I keep going,
I may never stop.
I may not want to...
These are my last words before
I return to dust;
If anyone has
The heart to come and unwind,
Brains from my behind.
A cuppa tea, or,
A splotch of green to withhold
Things from coming apart,
If anyone wants
To comfort such who in
Nothingness departs,
I'm with Descartes,
In storms of bleeding hearts, a
Pupil of Fine Arts.
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 11:30 PM UTC
If the ceilings dripped
liquid metal
and the scratchy rose-print sheets
bit out for our bodies,
we wouldn't know a thing.
If God jumped into bed
and tried to cram in between us,
there wouldn't be enough room.
In the deep night,
all the stars could come down shattering into knife light,
It would be perfect.
All the asteroids
could warp the earth into a bowl
of milk, and splotch
the solar system into a giant cow,
but we could not join in the teet-mashing mayhem;
there's nothing pure here,
and our fingers hunger for bad places,
instead of ushering in the good.
I do not know what we will do,
but the world is falling apart.
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 9:34 AM UTC
I wonder how long it will take me to be whole.
You might think that this sounds odd or possibly vain, but it is a thought that torments me constantly as I am driving home in the wee hours of the morning.
I'm tired of being captured by the picture that others have of me, as I am more than a nervous disposition and a small frame.
Everyday I go through the motions, yet everyone I experience seems to see right through me. I am only a temporary splotch of paint that will be covered up on their canvas of convenience.
I finally reached my breaking point, and as I stood there with tears leaking through my closed eyes, you asked me if I was okay and at first I didn't even hear your voice.
I try to keep my emotions under control, but I have come to accept the fact that humans can only hold in so many different feelings before they explode.
You saw the small crumble of my body and mind, watched all of my colors pour out of me, and yet you stayed.
I am entirely grateful.
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 3:48 AM UTC
A small splotch of ink,
Staining pristine white paper,
Describing beauty.
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 12:13 AM UTC
I’m counting the freckles on my skin.
I’m tracing the coffee-splotch birthmark on my stomach.
I’m biting my nails and cracking my knuckles and
thinking about the Old House.
I think it’s sort of funny how in an entire life,
with all its seconds and all its moments, and
all its memories, only some things really stick.
There used to be a time where I prided myself
on my apparently “flawless” memory; I forget
things all the time. Like
my mother’s voice
my father’s face
my grandmother’s eye color.
I fear that I’ve forgotten the most
important parts of my childhood.
I remember daddy’s race cars,
mommy’s wine, the time my sister
slammed the van door on my head, and the
time I kicked the bathroom entrance.
Last week I opened the photo albums from
under my mother’s bed and I’ve
already forgotten all the things that I
finally figured out that I forgot.
Sitting on the floor, surrounded by one-hour
Walgreens prints, I started to pick open a
wound that I did not even know was there.
My dog’s ashes are still hidden, a copy
of my mother’s Will is still missing, and last
year my step father found prepackaged
“emergency escape bags” in our basement
along with $250 cash inside the
cogs of our whirlpool.
I’ve heard stories of how my mother
kept documented journals of my father, but I’ve
never had the guts to ask for them.
I’m beginning to wonder what kind of people
my parents really were. I’m beginning to wonder
just how much of my childhood
I’ve forgotten
and how much of it
I’ve lost.
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 9:11 PM UTC