"stinted" poems
I need you
I need you like oxygen
Or food or water or sleep
Though I’ve made it through stinted periods without you
I always come crawling back in withdrawal
I could call you an addiction, but you aren’t; you’re a blessing
Like I needed the razor I kept in my hoodie pocket
You cut through life’s ******** the same way that blade did
But without bubbling blood up through my skin
The crawl space I used to cry in could never comfort me like you
You pry open my eyes to harsh, enlightening reality
That space was a blanket of blissful ignorance over necessary truth
I could call you an addiction, but you aren’t; you’re a blessing
I always come crawling back in withdrawal
After stinted periods without you
I’ve made it without food or water or sleep
I’ve made it without oxygen
But I need you
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 9:31 PM UTC
These times strike monied worldlings with dismay:
Even rich men, brave by nature, taint the air
With words of apprehension and despair:
While tens of thousands, thinking on the affray,
Men unto whom sufficient for the day
And minds not stinted or untilled are given,
Sound, healthy, children of the God of heaven,
Are cheerful as the rising sun in May.
What do we gather hence but firmer faith
That every gift of noble origin
Is breathed upon by Hope’s perpetual breath;
That virtue and the faculties within
Are vital,—and that riches are akin
To fear, to change, to cowardice, and death?
1.8k
Under my bed, hid
a tendered angel,
who had
broken wings,
and she was,
terrified to move
for all she knew
was to
fly.
She sat,
knees wrapped,
to her
chest, crystal tears,
dropping to
her pastel pink
woven
and embroidery
dress.
She looked,
glancing at me
saying she
swam,
in the pools
of her own
tears,
and that she
lost strength.
Her endeavours to
swim further,
were stinted,
she was forced
to be,
parsimonious
and so,
she closed her eyes
letting go.
When she woke,
she found herself,
in darkness, only
the moon lit,
her darkened
space,
phrenic activity
haunting her
mind.
As delicately as,
my body
allowed,
I lay flat down,
so not to scare, her
reaching out,
I collect broken glass,
shattered wings,
bleeding from her.
(The angel was called Rebelle Fleur, she allowed me to ever so carefully, take her from under the bed, and to hold her, with grace and elegance, she lifted her tiny frame, and stood, without her wings, and ever so softly whispered her name, asking me to help fix her wings, so she could once again fly and be free)
© Sia Jane
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 4:52 PM UTC
Blind in the dark, running forward with conviction
Certain of prediction to become truth,
My sight is limited - stinted - narrowed - tunneled. Words spell out fear.
Alone in the dark, running out of time,
Divine hope comes crashing and crumpling to a halt.
My mind tells me it's just fell deeds of fallacy,
But repetition turns into tendency.
Tendency to history.
History to human nature.
May 15, 2010
May 15, 2010 at 1:47 AM UTC
I don't possess the luxury to feel alive
This broken soul is daunted by mired ties
The shell that holds these withered bones and stinted cries
Stains rotten with guilt underneath
this tainted flesh; will ultimately be my surmise
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 8:16 PM UTC
Here,
Let me cut my skin,
Let my words flow from the wound
In stinted stanzas,
Faux sentences.
I can pour it all into these,
Heart, soul,
Body, mind,
And yet my words will echo into emptiness
Meaningless shouting into an indifferent sea of voices.
These words, they've all been written
These letters, used infinitely before
So here, my friend
Let me cut my skin,
And bleed my worthless words
Into your beautiful, elaborate mind.
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 7:15 PM UTC