"stompers" poems
My shoelaces flap side to side like one of those car-dealership inflatables arms-
My veiny stompers pump puddles of pure procrastination from perceptive sprinting-
Underneath the tune-buds, I cannot hear my sneakers scraping the scrap rocks of gravel-
To my left- a hooting owl habitats itself in a hushed game of charades-
To my right- a slick tree frog flies freely from a lofty leaf and lands in the lagoon-
Elapsed images of elastic languages fill my mind with everlasting wisdom-
Entertained by the watercolors, my canvas curdles and secedes the state of mind-
Pressing harder- the curtain continues to close as I chase the condescending daylight-
Pressing softer- the tuner in my temple turns into a terrorizing shriek from my tibia-
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 3:41 PM UTC
She glows red inside.
Until the mountain's roar begins.
The trees tremble beneath her sighs,
knowing the tide will soon rise
within her belly.
The core of all ideas of sin
subsisting only by whats within;
yet the cralwers and the stompers
the choppers and the bleeeders
the wanters the criers
the screamers and the needers
have the plastic vision
they make the skilless incision
into our lives
with old blunt knives.
Shes going to blow eventually
theres no stopping whats beneath
it will all melt suddenly.
It rumbles and it stores
waiting no more
no more
let it outpour
downpour
now
bow
down
to
her.
Anger.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 6:27 PM UTC
This bitter endgame theory
is the remnant of us
tightly clutched in a loose collection
of dulled hidden blades I kept in
empty sugar pill bottles
for moments such as these
My shallow breath slowing
showing
nothing left but hesitation marks manifesto readings
to stave off never lasting mob stompers
losing control of thought criminal empires
All is lost with wounds swabbed in hopes of growing cultures
not inundated by murderland vultures
cackling that doomsday clock apocalyptic-talk
as they pick apart failed crop circles
The past is in the past but remains so tense
as you stand revolted by wretched plans
while wrenching cold calculating razors from my hand
because being allowed to touch seemed so unattainable to me
in the first place
and now that you're gone
I
am
so
scar struck.
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 6:31 PM UTC
When I look through transparent windows
I view over creation
My eyes fill the colors
The colors fill my tiring, laboring days
Boxes stack up with struggles
Papers written without ink
are wiped away by the puddles
and the foot stompers on the streets
Strength carries away my fading nightmares
The good fight
needs the seeds to plant
Out of the soil and roots is our sword and shield
Could we grow an extra tongue
to speak Truth more boldly
Or an extra ear
to hear over each echoing mountain?
Maybe we need a staff
when we walk through deserts and scorpions
Or we need a bay
so we land on shore and not wander away
The gnashing of teeth on chains
is heard like a siren
and can be seen like smoke
Seven days without learning makes one weak
How can I travel
to another galaxy
if I do not have a rope
to link myself back to home?
My rope is strung on a moon
and I fall into space
Finding only the map of the universe
I realize my home is there as well
We have never been to
where creation was never created
back home where I slowly walk
The trees can tell their stories of creation
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 1:07 PM UTC