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Ian Cairns Jan 2014
My Own Yellow Brick Road
I have these scars on my elbows
They're from a long time ago
And I never really appreciated their protrusion until now
Pretending to prefer unblemished skin
But when I was 10 and still believed in Superman
I had a tendency to ride my bike with stuntman speed
Forgetting about the frivolous concerns that consumed me
Hoping my kryptonite never crept up from underneath sidewalk bumps
Flipping my ambition over handlebars
Leaving the pieces of my reflections painted crimson along the asphalt
Scattered like hand-picked petals of an ill-advised ascetic
I am me, I am not, I am me, I am not
So I always wore my helmet as a precautionary measure
It contained my thoughts from running straight through my skull
And becoming neighbors with the pavement
But I never wore my elbow pads
They collected dust beside the waste bin
Replacing security for sincerity
I improved my flexibility while losing some skin
And that was a trade off I was willing to make at the time
I finally felt alive
I was invincible on my bicycle
The sidewalk my only bully
The summer breeze my only friend
And at the time I never realized what it meant to be vulnerable
But those bike rides were the closest I would get
I was fixated on fitting in around my classmates
Accumulating fake friends by
Ripping insincerities out of my esophagus
And stapling them to my forehead
I stole my own identity
Morphing my puzzle piece and jamming it into the jigsaw
Claiming to be the missing link everyone was searching for
But what am I searching for?

I was lost on my own yellow brick road
I had two left feet and no right way to go
I stopped dead in my tracks
Hoping the soles of my feet would soak in the golden stones while
Singing Dorothy's hymn like spoken sin
I just want to fit in
I just want to fit in
I just want to fit in
Wondering if that was loud enough for Oz to hear me
I didn't have any magic slippers
And this situation was twisting towards witchcraft
I'm not even sure Oz can help me
You see these requests were a tall order for a tiny man
Who wore masks just like me
Oz and I were anonymous
Oz and I were synonymous
Using smoke and mirror tactics to terrorize the innocent
When in reality we were only playing tricks on ourselves
Hiding behind perfectly sculpted ****** expressions
And make-believe manuscripts
Doing basic impressions of manufactured mannequins
Out in the real world
I really needed to speak with the Scarecrow
The Tinman, the Lion, and Dorothy too
And investigate their stresses with relentless pursuit

The Scarecrow would tell me
Wisdom is wasteful for those
Without a strong appetite for improvement
But sometimes common sense can lead
The most sensible person astray
The Tinman would tell me
Compassion is constructed for
Tender hands to hold
But sometimes empathy can leave
The most charitable person betrayed
The Lion would tell me
Courage can be critical in
Times of distress
But sometimes vulnerability can make
The most sensitive person brave
And Dorothy would tell me
Home is paradise
Wrapped in picket fences
But sometimes a terrifying trip can bring
The most wary person escape
And suddenly it would occur to me
That strengths are just solid scars
We have confidence to display on our sleeves
And perfection can only permeate the souls willing to recognize
That faults shine golden too
So from here on out I'm placing my masks alongside my elbow pads
Both collecting dust beside the waste bin
Replacing security for sincerity
Finally embracing the scars on my skin
Now that is a trade off I'm willing to make
Because I want to feel alive again
Continue reading...
emeraldine087 Jul 2013
Colorblind
Coffee. Desk. Ringing phone. Clacking keys.
This same pen. This same ******* pen,
that writes the same way—there is a thinning of the ink
in the curve of the E’s and the stroke of the Y’s
Endless stapling. I find myself gritting my teeth every time
as if I’m stapling my skin—or my hand. To my face.

The window behind me offers the same view
of the same skyline of the same ****** buildings!
Overcast, sunny, slight drizzle or deluge—
Doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but the rhythm of my heart
That is no different from the rhythm of my day.
I can’t even remember what happened yesterday. I just remember
The coffee. The desk. The ringing phone. The clacking keys.

At least this way, there’s no use fretting about tomorrow.
Because tomorrow—it’ll be that same pen. That same pathetic pen.

Sometimes, I want to cry. Cry for my wasted hours—days—life.
Cry for those clouds in the horizon that looked no different
from the same clouds in the same horizon yesterday.
Cry for the slowly dulling reds and greens and purples
in the canvas of this miserable life.
Howl for the Wonders of the World,
the Must Watch Movies Before You Die,
the 1001 Books You Have to Read Before You’re Dead,
that I will never get to savor.

Grays and Blacks and Whites.
So monochromatic.
So very monotonous.

                                                    ­       At least, in the few nights that I dream…
                                                          ­                                   I dream in color.
#dreams #color #boredom #routine #monotony #routinarylife #boringlife
Continue reading...
Thalion Voronwë Aearion Nov 2013
Distraction
The memory is unbearable
I cringe as it rises from
my subconscious; haunting me
It plagues my mind
I need to find a distraction

Write, write, write, write
Stapling papers drawing forms;
Archiving documents.
I get on my 20 n get time alone.
The memory creeps up,
I can feel it as my mood keeps changing.

Distraction distraction distraction
Look at the cars speeding down the streets
The couples huddled close for warmth
Hmmm that's could have been us

*******

Your memory is creeping in
Everything I see reminds me of thee.

*You can only distract yourself for so long before you have to face the truth
#truth #distraction #write #scribe
Continue reading...
L T Winter Sep 2014
Cotton-Acre Acorn
--With antlers
Breaking; broken
We're all-
Wonder; wandering

Through the glass
Forest where trunks
Reflect regret--
And leaves cut mistakes
Into scars.

We are deer,
Eating barb-tailing
Grass.

But I'm sorry
Antibiotic acorns
Aren't working anymore.

My pupil's seep,
Mercury in return.

When that feeling--
Attaches bed-linen
To stapling sharks,
They begin birthing

'Acknowledgement'
Continue reading...
Mellow Ds Feb 2011
The Alliteration Song!
Anxiously awaiting atomic assimilation
Basing me on belligerent and boorish bastardization
Capsizing cargo with careful consideration as to
Deciding which day is decay's destination
Everyone embrace the elevated expiration
Forget my face and follow fabrication
Go to the gallows with grace and gravitation
He will hold you and hinder alienation

I, however, hold insignificance in interest
Justifiable jackhammers jacking fighter jets
Killing Californians who are kissing canvases
Lying without laughing and lighting cigarettes
My master makes me move my mundane mind
Never knowing next to nothing with nothing else inside
Overly offering operating override
Practicing patiently pulling peoples' pride

Quickly questioning quizzical quietness
Rationalizing raging reinventions ridiculous
Stapling this summer to my (still) sick subconscious
Traveling tunnelers trading tides for tiredness
Under the umbrella my undertow untangles
Violently vibrating like varying violin angles
Waiting with wandering whispers under the table
Xylophonist x-rays, excruciating fables

You yellow youngling, you who screams in my dreams
Zebras zoom by every single night, it seems
Let's chant my enchantments, the alliteration song!
And untie your tongue
So you don't take it wrong.
(c) Ryan Bowdish 2010-2011
Continue reading...
fireheart Aug 2021
Healing
Extinguished beneath the pressure of stifling darkness;
the blackness a behemoth caressing me with oil slick fingers.
Bound with shackles of my own forging,
chained to the dank confinement of shame with iron bracelets made up of every hurt I felt, each sting I’d inflicted.

Comforted by the weight of my own disease, dragging me down deeper into the depths of myself;
swarmed by demons cutting slices of me for their devouring.
Blistered fingers claw at the dirt, broken nails taking insignificant strongholds in the battle.
New shackles being forced into place where old ones were severed, cutting new wounds where old ones were healed.

Then, a searing light burns through the airless tomb where I lay,
my sweat still glistening in the after hours of my latest debasement.
Eyes burning, unaccustomed to the phosphorescent glow after years of stapling them shut to the vision of horror I became.
A new tsunami of dishonour throws me back, twisting my shackles tighter around bound limbs.

Now I am free and live to feel the sun on my skin, no longer translucent and sallow.
Each sound and sensation sending ripples of pleasure through my soul, but still
I limp, and my wrists are scarred.
#religion #shame #guilt #exvangelical
Continue reading...
GM Jan 2017
"I'm Fine"
i'm constantly piecing myself together
rebuilding and remodeling
gluing, stitching, and stapling
myself back together
so i don't easily fall apart
as i did once before

GM
Continue reading...
JWolfeB Feb 2015
Created
This time I broke my heart
Giving us a chance to be together once more
Lacing
Weaving
Quilting
Stapling
Creating a stained glass temple
Beauty created through cut palms
Melding
Forming
Fitting
Polish the tainted glass windows of my soul
Bring me clarity in crystalline fractures
Kaleidoscope
Transparent
Allow your parts to hold my heart together
Creating this bombshell heart
Outright
Continue reading...
neo May 2014
Camel's Cave of Glory
One  fateful day in a cave made of rock,

lived a camel named Humphrey Cornelius Tawk.

His **** was supreme, his fur was quite green,

sitting on a throne in that cave made of rock.

He huffed and he puffed, and he snorted in displeasure

as he looked upon his vast mountain of treasure.

"Oh, huff!" he exclaimed at the cup that's brand-new,

"Oh no" he said loudly "It just will not do."

Humphrey Cornelius just wanted more,

He wanted more 'till it covered the floor,

and it reached to the sky and it touched lands of lore.

No he'd never be happy 'till it stretched to the moon,

and became more majestic than the greatest sand dunes.

And so he sat waiting on his meager stack,

until someone brought him the treasure he lacked.

And he waited, and waited, and waited some more,

and the pile continued to sit by the door.

Then realization dawned in his head,

this waiting he was doing was as good as stapling bread!

So the camel known as Humphrey Cornelius Tawk,

looked out of the cave, and he began to walk.
(shamelessly posts old dumb poems)
Continue reading...
Tie Nicks Feb 2014
Keeping covers
Keeping the covers over your
eyes in the morning never hides
the true darkness.
You still have butterflies in your
veins you know.
Or possibly moths,
you've always thought they were beautiful.
Pretty maybe.
Stapling the black curtains to
the wall will never
have the same effect of your
mother standing over you
saying how she wished she
could understand why you 
were so in love with death
and you wished your body were
mountains so people could
glue their eyes to you as
the sun said goodbye
behind your head.
That was your funeral. 
You still walk around and leave 
fingerprints like the coffee stains
on my teeth.
You just so happen to leave
scales everywhere you step.
Leaving the same line from your bedroom to the bathroom
where you've probably shattered
the mirror with how your heart
felt like crushing your chest plate
but settled.
you spent so much time on looking
out of windows you became one,
knowin there is a fire burning
inside of you but your biggest 
fear is never being consumed by it.
I love you and everything so much
right now
and it's still not enough.
T.L
I wrote this at 8:30 AM so I'm sorry if it makes little to no sense.
Continue reading...
Kurt Schneider Jul 2015
The morning flyers
Man needs to reconsider his place in the universe. Upon my morning awakening, while enjoying a cup of coffee(another one of man's creations although albeit simply refined and utilized by us), I closed my eyes and heard not the sounds of nature, as one might assume would be the ideal, but the sound of a pneumatic air-pressure nailgun stapling shingles on a roof. Then, in sequence following that in a crescendo of sound I heard the distant lawnmower native to this local urban habitat, feeding on grasses. This was only soon to be followed by the wind-like sound of nearby automobiles slowly passing by. All of this muffling the sounds of the morning flyers (winged creatures of an inferior design unknown to us) presenting their songs, but falling on deaf ears . That's when I realized we are a product and slave of our own creations, when we should be a slave (or close sibling rather) to creations unbeknownst to us.
#morningflyers #unbeknownst
Continue reading...
Eli Smith Jun 2014
Ten Years Old
A little girl,
Ten years old,
Who knew nothing of *** or ****
But that didn’t matter
When he picked her out.
It wasn’t because of her nonexistent figure,
Or her my little pony tank tops,
It was because of what he saw in her eyes,
The first time he touched her.
As she winced and couldn’t meet his eyes,
He knew right then and there she would never be strong enough to stand up for herself
So that boy,
Two years older,
Thought it was okay
To steal her innocence.
A ten year old girl
Buying a pregnancy test from the gas station,
Paying the clerk a little extra,
So that he doesn’t tell her mom,
Burying it deep in her pocket,
Until she gets home.
Feeling criminal for her deceitfulness,
Paying with the money,
She had saved in her piggy bank for an American Girl Doll.
The one she would never get,
Because she was more worried about being touched again,
Than being a little girl.
She sold all of her toys,
To buy those bras that hook in the front,
Hoping that he would be too stupid to figure out what had happened
And stop doing it.
A ten year old girl,
So afraid of love,
That she beats up on the other kids
So that they will stay away
And won’t hurt her.
A ten year old girl,
Coming home from school with bruises on her chest,
Because his friends helped him grab her.
Terrified that her mother will see,
And that she will get in trouble,
So she spends all the money she has left,
On makeup,
So that nothing looks wrong.
A ten year old girl,
In fifth grade,
Stapling her bras for the sense of security,
Until she realizes she is only helping his game.
And she can’t understand why he laughs when she cries.
She cannot understand why he laughs when she begs him to stop.
A ten year old girl,
Thanking God she wasn’t pregnant.
A ten year old girl,
With cuts on her wrists,
Because she didn’t have anyone to go to.
The brightness and curiosity of her eyes drained,
Resembling an ocean without water.
Shaking as her father touches her,
Hugs her,
But she can’t tell him why
So he blames it on himself.
She can’t explain why she turns up the music,
To drown out her heart wrenching sobs as she gives up her last piece of life.
A ten year old girl,
With a suicide note in one hand,
A bottle of pills in the other.
A ten year old girl,
With nowhere to go,
Because of what he saw in her eyes.
Continue reading...
Xavier Paolo Josh Mandreza Mar 2013
THE GREATEST GIFT OF ALL
The Greatest Gift of All
Comes from our Helper,
Our Heavenly Father.


Who, with Great Mercy
Bore His Only Son, the Divine Fruit
To redeem us from the Fires of Sin
And the Smoke of Anarchy.


Shining from the Son,
There are other Great Gifts given
On-the-Run
And each of them Play a certain Role in Life
While others could reimburse their fife.


Love,
The most Important
Which always keeps Constant
To the Heart.
Taping two People; Then stapling the Many
To God's Unbiased Paper.
A Work of Art.
Continue reading...
Margrethe H K Oct 2014
Letters from New York
My mother wore wigs and drank bourbon on Sundays
while my father worked across the street

I'd watch him from my bedroom window
sewing, stapling
hammering out frustrations I couldn't name

I called my sister David
because I wanted a brother
and a different family

My mother called my father Jesus
because she said he thought he was perfect

"Jesus, cut the grass."
"Jesus, take out the trash."
"Jesus, just ******* do it."

I'm grown up now
my name isn't Stupid Girl anymore
I've inherited my mother's rage
and my father's heavy sighs

Dark days I find myself thinking
my finger tracing the rim of a shot glass
you can't outgrow
what you're made of

And I feel inside of me
the breaking of glass

My sister writes me long letters from New York
she signs them all
love, David
Continue reading...
Abhi Sep 2017
Skipping Sunrise
You and I have fantasised
About too many golden sunrises
And yet we always sleep through dawn
Always wake up seconds too late
When grandeur has faded into familiarity

Our bodies are bruised
From all the invisible rocks we have hurled at each other
Our lungs tired from breathing toxic air
Our ankles sore from dragging chains
My fingers are covered in papercuts
From the edge in your voice

We have handcuffed each other
And put leashes around our necks
Confining each other to this birdcage house
Afraid to be the one that has to watch
The other fly free

Yesterday I tried to find the movie stub
From our first date
And instead found my pockets
Stuffed with fist-fulls of receipts
For things neither of us bought

Like the black hole in our bed
That occupies centre stage in our polka dot bedsheets
It swallows the words we speak
And refuses to let them echo
How many conversations have we drowned
With alcohol and tears
How many keys have we thrown away
To lie in a mound ten feet tall
Keys that could have opened the doors
To our secret stash of confessions and apologies
That could have saved us
On the nights that you wrap your arms around me
I can feel your body curving along the edge of the hole
Trying not to fall through
Determined to maintain miles between us
Even though I can feel your breath on my neck

Our living room is covered with pictures of strangers
Because we are afraid of stapling our own faces to the walls
Afraid of calling this prison a home
Afraid of making what had started out as temporary
A permanent affair
So instead we crawl from day to day
Skipping each sunrise as it comes
#love #sunrise #chained
Continue reading...
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2017
a very wonderful image in my head
primarily because of daylight, and younger brother's
song: evil and harm; and last night.

you know what i keeping conjuring in my head?
     stapling the cheat's *kippah of a pope,
to his head... and then tugging him by it through
the streets of rome...
                  i'm way past jokes,
     i'd literally staple the hierarchical to old alec baldwin's
head, and then tow him, drag him... through
                the streets of rome...
                                 i mean... you make the pope a saint?
well... that's a first, why would popes be saints
          if they can't decide upon being a pope, emeritus?
pope ratzinger (benedict XVI) is the only saint...
                 with what grace! with what grace he settled
for a nunnery!
                      **** me!        but he's not considered a saint!
that's awful, really, that's absolute filth!
    oh yeah... double point: the pope's "kippah"
                                                    (so called) -
               like these fake jews ruling over us with an iron
grip?           ever notice the ****** on the top of it?
     no? never noticed the ****** on the "kippah"?
                        it's not even a ******* kippah by then,
but a....
                                                 béret français:
and if you're into linguistics, try these alternatives:
               bə'rā (bé    ray)       thrą'sé
                                            bé'ré            φρąsay -
parle poo?
                                qui, parle poo, anglais - on-a-glare...
with! with! with a glare!
                                  oh ******* 'ell...
                          the french aesthetic for spelling: λoγoς...
and then the actual pronounciation, i.e. the φoνoς?
                                                         miles apart!
they're not as bad as the english, but they're ******* worse
than king arthur's sons.
       the comparison?   you see an aeroplane in the sky...
and then you sort of see the shoom five miles back...
                    you have to remember two languages...
the french and the english are naturally "bilingual" -
               it's not that you say one thing and mean another,
you have to ******* write one thing, and say another:
      so the λoγoς is the aeroplane... and the shoom?
                             that's the φoνoς... or the once fabled television
static being the remnants of the big bang.... well, isn't
that an ingenious name for the beginning of everything...
     big... bang...     and a ******* firecracker whilé you're at it.
so yeah, if you never experienced an asiatic invasion
   akin to a mongol horde... you will not have clear, distinct
syllable distinctions...  you'll be like a vampire saying:
   blah, blah blah, blah.... or bleh bleh bleh, bleh;
minus the hatch? hetch? hay't'ch?       blá, blá blá....
                                              alt. blé blé blé, blé.  
considering style though? reading heidegger
     is, seriosuly, sometimes akin to
                                       watching liberace play the trombone;
all those italics and non-footnote dittoes...
       a bit like watching an apple balancing on a watermelon
                                          and calling it tango.
Continue reading...
lucidwaking Jun 2021
Emotions, such ghastly things
It's a strange thing to feel something
After being dormant for so many years.
At this point, I thought my only emotion was stress.
I guess I was wrong after all.

I haven't gotten used to feeling things.
It's uncomfortable
To admit to having emotions.
I clam up when I want to say "I love you,"
And my hands get clammy when I want to hold your own.
I have so many feelings pressing against my insides,
Trying to break out and get free.
For some reason, it feels like pushing through a brick wall
Just to tell you how I feel.

I don't know why I'm this way with my feelings.
Is it because of past betrayals?
Or maybe anxiety,
Stapling my tongue to the roof of my mouth?
I can't really say,
But whatever it is, I want it to be gone.
I want to stop holding back my love for you,
And let it flourish - unbridled and free.
If anyone deserves to have my love,
It's you.

You, who refuses to leave,
Even when I'm breaking.
You, who holds me in your arms
Even when I've set myself on fire.
You, who has a smile
That brings me back to life.
You,
Whom I cherish with all my heart.

I'm aware
That because of you, I'll get better over time.
You keep finding cracks in my brick wall,
And bodyslam into them enough to create holes.
One day, thankfully, it's going to fall,
But I don't want you to do it all on your own.
I'll take a hammer to it from the other side,
And beat the **** out of my emotional barrier.

My emotions...
I never thought I'd be able
To set the ghastly things free.
I welcome critiques and feedback! Thanks
#freeverse #freeform #emotions #ghastly #anxiety #love
Continue reading...
Eloi Jun 2018
Edward
Edward,

I see
           You
Withered
Rope torn neck
Blood shot eyes
             You
With Rotten fingers
With a Chelsea cut smile
         And you
With your insides spilled on the ground
        Purple neck
Bruised
And a chair that was high
And a ceiling that held you at your weakest moment
You wanted to bruise your immortality
You wanted to fly
Look at me now
Dying for you
Cut
Cut and cut
And ridged sides
And blood soaked sheets


And I see you
Dead
Dead dead
Dead
Seeing something new
You
With a black tongue
Oozing from your mouth
Blood and gauze
Barbed wire stapling you to me
And I’m cut
Bleeding from every pore
Every seem
And I cut
My wrist
My thigh
And still you are
Dead
Dead
Dead
And I wish too to be
Dead,
Dead,
Dead.

I see
You
Teeth dangling from your gums on strings
And sewn up eyes
And peeling skin
Flaking ash over me
Burning me
Plaguing me with sores
War torn face
****** creature
Worm infested
And mildew
Drenched with blood
Spilled
From me
From my wrist
And
You
At 18
With dead eyes
And dead skin
And a dead body
And me
At 16
Dying body
Bleeding wrist
Broken soul
Smouldering in your fire.
All
Dead,
Dead,
Dead.
Continue reading...
Lucas Mar 2019
Dripper&slide
hollow Rd. ---parallel to sunbeams
and tall flowers.

dreams about lazy statements
seen like tracers filling the gap of eye and ear. lazybones, glue like marrow stapling body to bedcover; I eat.
(lighter?)

blue brick yellow. firebox baby. 'Darlin' yur a honeycomb.'

Windowbird. I eat.

Higher. (lighter?)
Continue reading...
Lyndsey May 2019
Head in Hands.
I find myself here again
head in heads
starring at the emptiness behind closed eyes.
The world around me falls silent to the storm thundering inside.

Why am I here again?
Feeling so helpless, drained
with 24 hours in the day I devote 23 to everyone else.
To anyone who needs me
to everyone who needs me.
Everyone does not include myself,

I seek solace in between heartbeats and sighs.
I gather myself in dark corners,
moments alone as someone looks away.
I force my voice up to a chipper tone,
and cement a smile on my face.
I remind myself that this is not the end,
an ironic thought that should be comforting,
but makes my soul weary,

Here I am again
head in hands
stapling my will back into place
like a worn pack of papers, thumbed through too often, too harshly.
A whisper of a sigh
hold it together again
the day marches on,
and so to must I.
From time to time my heart is on my sleeve.
#exhaustion #anxiety #depression
Continue reading...
Colleen Harrington May 2015
Untitled
I will always be that girl
the one who took your heart
I took it and tore it apart
and here I am
needing it stitched back together
while im still stapling myself
Continue reading...
tiyaja cianni Apr 2022
goals
to think that i would never be the best version of myself.

here i am, the better version of me, yet still very tired.

to set a goal, to become the newness that i strive for will most definitely be the thing that hold me back.
to know that i am the me that is pinning the soul down and stapling it to the ground is the factor that i choose to ignore.

then again, i strive for unlimited greatness
with passion and enlightenment, again, for the better

i want to be hollowed out and put together with every soft feeling and brave movements tired to me once again

i want to be the better me,
the me with the big smile
or the crazy mind filled with things i have yet to explore
and the promise that i will one day be
- as i've said-
the best version of myself.

i want to be the light in the dark again
with bright eyes and no regrets
nothing to fear and nowhere to run,
for i am in this body and will never leave
due to a karmic cycle of what i must learn
so again, i will dream
to be
the best version of me
Continue reading...
m Jan 2022
sometimes, a poem is
every string in a knitting wheel,
  all color and texture and progress.


sometimes, a poem is
  stapling Time to the floor
  hoping, as it hops out the window,
  it leaves you the tear of its train.
Continue reading...
Scott Gunnion Oct 2018
Cul de Sac
Life is not a grassy maze
It is a cul de sac
Masked as a labyrinth

A rich tapestry of bitterness that promises Pandora
***** you in and then delivers
Nothing but bones
Misleading, all along

It is a tragedy,
This travesty
An infinite loop that bends you reticent and
Makes-of you- a fool

Nobody sees that I am forced to play monochrome  
I try to make them see
Try to make them hear me
But do they see me?

Do they hear me?
Whichever guise I take
I am debased
My blueprints shrivelled

They tell me I’m no jazz musician and
That my graphic novel is a work of fiction  

But God challenges me to be the best
That’s why he obstructs me
Wraps my voice in barb wire and makes me

Strive

Why he makes me stand on yellow pages
And like Icarus, reach for the sun

The burden of want strangles these lungs
Restricting me
Stapling my wings to the fringes
Forcing me to the less than I ought to be

Oh this omnibus !
I stroke the Queen’s Nose and want for Bernard’s Watch

And It only curdles,
This urge
To grab the map and wrap it in verse
Introduce colour to a puddle
And watch it blunted by the current

As I’m stuck  running semicircles
Whilst the earth does a full turn

End
This poem was written with an acquaintance in mind. This person wants so much to be recognised as being a talented artist despite being completely barren of talent. In this poem, the protagonist has been told that they're no jazz musician and that their graphic novel is misconstrued as fiction. There is a hint of despair to the flow of this poem and I wanted to capture the pain and turmoil of what it must be like to want something so much only to have it brutally elude you for so long.
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Ellie Belanger May 2023
#477
You will lay yourself into me like so much brickwork,
building and sealing each hard-fired thought and feeling,
stapling old wounds shut with smiles and glittering eyes,
your lips stealing into mine, welcome thieves.
I would like to resist you,
to turn my shoulder and laugh; not cruelly,
but with self-assurance that this is all just play.
But when you place your hand against my face and pull me close,
and I feel the warmth of you against the warmth of me,
the truth of it all spills across my soul,
leaving bright stains of gold that shimmer in the new day's dawn.
Yes, all things new. Yes, all things old.
Yes, all things you and I.
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Lawrence Hall Jun 2022
To Please Her Man
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                             To Please Her Man

She underwent the stomach-stapling knife
To please her man, to tighten her tummy and cheeks
While in recovery she bled out her life
He married his girlfriend within a few weeks
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John Edward Smallshaw Jul 2019
Tommy robbers
his is the tomorrow that Jack built.

Slash and burn, rotate a half turn, repeat for effect and leave no stone unturned

A government that fails to see that to be popular it has to be
fair.
police the police that police the poor but only if you can find them,
cop shops closing all the time, bandits having a grand old time doing the things that bandits do , which is generally doing me and doing you too.

Poundland.

lala going gaga but no beds at these hospitals unless you're super ******' Bupa
or as crazy as a box of tuna and quite frankly
Jack don't give a flying frig if you think you're Pugwash on the Black Pig, he's building us a certain death by barcoding our every breath and stapling our ears to walls,
Yes, old Jack has got us by the mobile phone which is just the same as by the ***** but can apply and does to all and sundry.

Plainly and
in clear view behind your back they're mothballing you
to wheel you out, exhibit A
the title from
a Broadway play.

I'm shelling peas.
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Cait Nov 2020
A House
I pick out all the pretty colors just for you. Wear them on my sleeve, bright and shining.
I grew a heart just for you. Just for them.
I grew a heart with their help. Watered it, nurtured it, watched it blossom.

I held on to what I could when the storm came through. In the moving, in the chaos, lost what was planted.
I felt nothing but loose strings and empty bottles, rolling through the house. Built up around the wreckage, pulling in the walls, stapling the floorboards.

From afar it still looks like a house. But it’s built on corks and bottle caps that I hide the   number of. In its center sits the space that remind of which I cannot mend.
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— The End —