"straighter" poems
velcro wallet
was navy, i think
gray plastic zipper
grandma gave you
i had a locket
it had your picture inside
but you threw it away
because you looked like a rabbit
apparently
hair fluffed, eyes puffy
two teeth and two hours
of squirming on a photo booth
plastic coin pouch
small crayola blue
walmart sticker on a side
but it never made me smile
not like that piggy bank did
yard sale treasure
dinosaur-shaped
no smashing to withdrawl
our tooth fairy dollars and dust
still, you crammed stink bugs
down the long neck's back
now, a denim bag on my bed
rhinestoned one in the closet
and your wallet is
real leather, i think
has superheroes on it
rough and grungy
as the comic books in the attic
or, did you toss those too?
who needs a screwdriver
without a *****
that's all money was
just hardware we didn't have
much use for
but there is more than one way
to use a tool
so here, i'll paint it straighter
who needs a coffin without a corpse?
especially when we were
so full of life back then
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 9:13 PM UTC
I want a beard like Chris's beard
But I can't even grow hair on my chest
This may sound strange if not a bit weird
That I have a Chris beard full on man crush
I swear I'm not gay, why I'm even straighter than straight
You can call my house and ask my wife
She'll tell you I'm out back juggling chainsaws all day
And other manly things I do with my life
But with hair on my face there's not the slightest trace
Not a follicle will you even find
But with Chris's beard I think that it's clear
That sucker could grow over night
So yes, I want a beard like Chris's beard
And that is the straight up fact Jack
Cause with a beard like Chris's manly beard
I wouldn't have to put up with anyone's crap
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 10:12 PM UTC
Tired of the ways of men
Desperately I turned toward nature
I watched a butterfly ascend
Yet I'm a different nomenclature
Of a solemn glacier
Standing on my own
In an arctic cone
Not protected by the ozone
So I search for a new home
But can only find loans
My venture for my own real estate
Exposed me to the realest hate
I'm the roaming gnome
With a groaning tone
All alone
With a roaming phone
So I can't call home
My will I leave
When still I see
A killer bee
Filling me
Willingly
Its invasion's
Abrasions
Left a sensation
With a duration
Of unending inflation
On a descending station
Of no impending relation
I felt the nature
Of a desolate crater
When I met a great hater
Who told me to get straighter
So I could be a steel freighter
Carrying my load on my back
Without polluting the air
I decided to cut him some slack
Forgiving his impossible dare
I must gather grace
At a faster pace
To finish this race
Of a top notch
Hot crotch
Stopwatch
Ticking down
Into the ground
Without a sound
Or warning
Of acid rain forming
Until I see myself melting
From the savage belting
Of your death sting
You called the best thing
Like a divine blessing
Only seen after **********
Like a politician deflecting
For the constituents electing
To forego dissecting
The issue at hand
By not taking a stand
My world is crumbling
Because of you
And myself stumbling
In society's glue
As the sky is tumbling
I see I'll lose
Yet instead of rumbling
It's love I choose
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 1:21 PM UTC
While roses are so red,
While lilies are so white,
Shall a woman exalt her face
Because it gives delight?
She's not so sweet as a rose,
A lily's straighter than she,
And if she were as red or white
She'd be but one of three.
Whether she flush in love's summer
Or in its winter grow pale,
Whether she flaunt her beauty
Or hide it away in a veil,
Be she red or white,
And stand she ***** or bowed,
Time will win the race he runs with her
And hide her away in a shroud.
6.8k
I thought of killing myself because I am only a bricklayer
and you a woman who loves the man who runs a drug store.
I don't care like I used to; I lay bricks straighter than I
used to and I sing slower handling the trowel afternoons.
When the sun is in my eyes and the ladders are shaky and the
mortar boards go wrong, I think of you.
6.6k
~~~
“To exist is to change, to change is to mature, to mature is to go on creating oneself endlessly.” Henri Bergson
well in that case,
I’m either the most immature teen here,
or Rip Van Winkle
the re-creation process is six, nearly seven,
decades long (you thot days, ha, no way),
can’t recall the last name
I called myself
the delving, the researching, the forgetting,
the fifty first dates of no short term memory,
the checkdown, throwback Thursday of
did I write that?
no recollect, the pretense of
prehensile strength to touch
you and me simultaneously
might, could be true,
if you claim I authored it,
ok with me and all that
life taught me this,
the one who oft hangs around
very young kids
learns a lot,
and soon recognizes
maturity indeed endless
but not senseless
just a poem-of-the-day process
indeed
every sense says the minute difference
between this morning and this approaching midnight,
an opportunity to grow up, stand straighter, uprighter,
write down my failures one more time,
cause that is the sterling hallmark impressed upon
thyself, ourselves,
that is genuine maturity,
the courageous wisdom to start all over again
the clock has transgressed,
moving past
the 12:00am digits,
which for cause
makes me giddy,
it’s permission to write a new one,
of course,
maturely thinking I still got one within,
a newbie, an aged day-old brand new baby,
a poem,
of course
god bless, I’m all grown n’ growled up,
with wisdom to know I don’t got nada,
but own the immature youthful courage of maturity,
to keep on trying, endlessly,
being your obedient-servant
~~~
*p.s. this is kind of love poem of thanksgivings,
a love poem with no misgivings,
a thank you for the fragments of sharing -
hold so dear,
the best reason to mature,
the best reason to change,
the best reason to write
right now, here comes the mojo
my newest oldest friend,
reminding for the last and first time
that I’m all growed,
using the bigliest words I’ve known
to say baby, hey baby,
good night good morning
write us a poem,
a thank you note,
from one who blessedly forgets his name,
day in and year out*
For that guy,
you, that ancient kid,
That poet-in-retrograde
so rewrite the title, a refresh,
are you immature enough to write?
1:12am
~for the crew~
Apr 18, 2019
Apr 18, 2019 at 1:28 AM UTC
It's not simple
It's rusted nails breaking skin
Lightning flashes in a hurricane
The crack of a body hitting the pavement
It's the pinch of nails in your palms
The tremble of your legs when you think they're watching
The ache in your chest when your binding is too tight
But not tight enough
It's not a stormcloud, it's a typhoon
It's not a discomfort, it's torment
Its the steel beams in your chest snapping under pressure
Your skeleton crumbling so maybe your chest will be flat then
But all those rusted nails and steel beams
Heated by the fire and fury of passion
Remold into something new
Someone who can stand a bit straighter
Speak louder
Tip their chin up
And show the world who they are
Who he is.
Dysphoria is a skyscraper crumbling to ash
But it's also scraps of wreckage
Reminded into a safe haven
A place of rest
A place of comfort
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 9:21 PM UTC
Breathing in your smoke is like heaven to me,
Clearing out my lungs of such anxiety.
Your crutch and your dependence,
An endearing call of resplendence,
I think I loved you.
You make me nervous.
To the point where my brain stops,
And my mouth keeps running
Without any indication of where
the finish line is.
Where I begin to speak too fast and too quick
To know what I’ve said, and quite possibly
For you to even follow each word that
Pours out.
Yet Your heart was longing for another,
You and I were not meant to be lovers,
And We were not made for each other.
Oh, how sad times swept away the positive possibilities and the “what if?” worries,
I thought I could only hate the month of August,
It seems I now despise of July.
Stress melted away within my tears as I wept,
Sadness left the residue of itself on my pillow where I slept.
The sun bleeding through my curtains closed,
And yet my room turns an ill ridden shade of yellow.
I thought the outcome would leave me with a feeling of euphoria
Instead I look to my mirrored self, reflecting a state of body dysmorphia
I do not like the way that I look,
Comparing myself to her and your feelings I mistook.
Straighter teeth and an older complexion,
While I hide away, she only craves the attention.
You only knew her for a day and you still went away,
With her on holiday to a place so far, I can’t stay
In this state of mind any longer.
Seeing her be the lighter to your cigarette;
The founding letters to the jumbled spaces in your alphabet.
I see I am only the ash that falls to the ground,
I am not within those letters which you finally found.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 6:25 AM UTC
Australia takes her pen in hand
To write a line to you,
To let you fellows understand
How proud we are of you.
From shearing shed and cattle run,
From Broome to Hobson's Bay,
Each native-born Australian son
Stands straighter up today.
The man who used to **** his drum",
On far-out Queensland runs
Is fighting side by side with some
Tasmanian farmer's sons.
The fisher-boys dropped sail and oar
To grimly stand the test,
Along that storm-swept Turkish shore,
With miners from the west.
The old state jealousies of yore
Are dead as Pharaoh's sow,
We're not State children any more —
We're all Australians now!
Our six-starred flag that used to fly
Half-shyly to the breeze,
Unknown where older nations ply
Their trade on foreign seas,
Flies out to meet the morning blue
With Vict'ry at the prow;
For that's the flag the Sydney flew,
The wide seas know it now!
The mettle that a race can show
Is proved with shot and steel,
And now we know what nations know
And feel what nations feel.
The honoured graves beneath the crest
Of Gaba Tepe hill
May hold our bravest and our best,
But we have brave men still.
With all our petty quarrels done,
Dissensions overthrown,
We have, through what you boys have done,
A history of our own.
Our old world diff'rences are dead,
Like weeds beneath the plough,
For English, Scotch, and Irish-bred,
They're all Australians now!
So now we'll toast the Third Brigade
That led Australia's van,
For never shall their glory fade
In minds Australian.
Fight on, fight on, unflinchingly,
Till right and justice reign.
Fight on, fight on, till Victory
Shall send you home again.
And with Australia's flag shall fly
A spray of wattle-bough
To symbolise our unity —
We're all Australians now.
3.5k
Travelling on the mystics road
I felt the energy decsending from the sky
Dont know where i must go
I just kept following the light
The stars were bright
The moon was clear
I knew this trip had to do with my destiny
Then i came to this river and i felt it whisper.
It said : walk away from all the lies if you'd like to continue your life
You've been fooled for so long it attracted you away from home
Theres so much stuff you've got to understand
Just make and follow the plan
They called you weird
They called you dumb
But in all the hands runs the same blood
Trust what you feel and leave the fake friends behind.
Walk into a straighter line.
Im the river of wisdom
Trust what i say
Come take a sip of me and from the sins stay away.
I approched slowly and drank from it
Fast i took the hint
What to do was clear to me
So i decided to come back home
Travelling the mystical road
Words of Harfouchism.
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 11:20 AM UTC
It is like some steampunk nightmare
Where working overtime is a racket
When what was time and a half pay
On the day I get my check, I make less;
Some kind of tax bracket scam thing
Where working extra hours put me
Into another category and increased
The tax they use to grease the wheels
Of a bloated government that hates me.
Maybe that dates me and it isn’t true;
That things have changed and it is
No longer arranged that way. And maybe
The way things became done was that
I got it all back as a refund. But isn’t that
Redundant, that I had to pay it to them
To use it like per diem for their games?
The shame is that I chafed and did nothing
Besides ******** and frothing at the mouth.
It’s not like I could go south to Ensenada,
Buy a piñata that looked like Mickey Mouse,
It was just that the house always wins.
But I have to pay for my tiny, mundane sins.
Why don’t they? Why does it go on and on
And then the money’s gone and I pay more
The next time some fat ***** of a politician
Begins a petition to increase their slice
And nicely reduce ours to a pittance
So low there is no admittance to a show
Or enough to replace a car that is a wreck?
The albatross around my neck gets larger
As it I move farther from the day it died
Even though I have tried standing up straighter.
It’s The Grand Guignol Theatre that life is
And the strife is to not let it get me down;
To be the happy clown and not the sad one
In a game that was begun to make me lose.
I am not confused. I see it, but it seems
Even in dreams I get no kind of relief
From a governmental thief with immunity;
The pillages with impunity and teases
That he does what he pleases. Neener, neener
What in hell could possibly be meaner?
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 6:32 AM UTC
Death showed me how to dress.
it says "not that one, these shoes rather, somewhat less dynamic and somewhat more meek, more
modesty, less certainty."
Death showed me not to wear hoodies, to keep my head revealed, to wear light hues
rather than dull in light of the fact that I am sufficiently dim as of now
to purchase a belt for some jeans I possess, even better, to not wear pants,
death showed me how to do my hair, it says "less curl, more typical, straighter, longer,
more slender," it consumes my scalp and gives me a brush and says "isn't it decent to run your
fingers through it now,"
Death showed me who to like, what music to tune in to, how to keep individuals agreeable,
instructions to walk; "don't limp, straight shoulders, however remain littler than them,"
it showed me my vocabulary, the majority of the enormous words that gain me honors, for example, 'verbalize,'
'dislike whatever remains of them,' 'a great one,'
Death is continually instructing me to be less, less American, more African , an appreciated expansion, a
token, to reveal myself and strip myself of any weapons, any dangers
Death is a x-beam machine, and says in the event that I do anything incorrectly, it will come
as though I'm not kicking the bucket to myself as of now
Death says "what an opportunity to be alive."
since in this nation, Black is imperceptible
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 12:56 PM UTC
My father was carved from a mountain,
his features were etched from the stone,
but like all mountains my father will crumble,
he was in need of an heir to his throne.
My brother was forged of hot iron,
no straighter a path could he walk,
he draws all his strength from the mountain,
his veins run deep through the rock.
My brother was grown in the forest,
so vivid, alive and in sync,
he draws all his strength from the ocean,
his roots thrive on the water they drink.
My mother was born of the ocean,
like a flower she bloomed from the sea,
but when the tide overcame the mountain,
all that remained on the shore was me.
I was born of my father and mother,
I crawled from the ocean and stone,
and when my father finally crumbles,
his two heirs will inherit his throne.
I will travel to nations of bloodshed,
I will not let my death go to waste,
I will lay down my life in the desert,
to keep my fathers throne safe.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 3:59 AM UTC
I pull up to the stop
Sign and side-blow a little smoke
Out of the window.
Wait for the last burn
Of the cigarette
Then turn to green.
One glance in the mirror
And there’s a young woman
In a Tesla with long brown
Curly hair and bright red lips.
Singing like A Walmart movie star.
**** me now sighs.
We pretend to not play mirror lick.
2 minutes trinkets.
Though I sit up a little straighter
Suddenly self wrongsciouss
And then notice
That my hair is sticking
Up just like a who from whoreville
Ah **** it.
And she lets a smile out on bail
Though I think it’s probably
At the old man waiting to cross
With way too many Christmas bags
of shopping.
And we drive on this endless
Highway of hooks and tumours, one night stands
And one life stands
And pretty moments and heartbreaks and rebounds.
And winning lottery tickets.
And Cuban cigars.
And our hearts call room service
In dive motels.
And then we find someone to laugh with.
and my car is ****
And my hair is going silver
And I hit 40 like an uppercut.
And all of us patch up the cracks
And take the pins out of other peoples voodoo dolls
And dance with what we have.
And do our best to punch above
And throw a trick still.
Like everything was beautiful once
And now even if we fade just into accolades.
We wear a A lucky shirt
A new pair of shoes hung up on the telephone wires
A revenge dress to help undress
The bitterness
A little blue that changes colours
Sometimes
As we drive away
No more a stranger
Than we ever were before.
Nov 18, 2023
Nov 18, 2023 at 8:01 AM UTC
Her voice poors out of her mouth
She is able to stand on that stage and share her talent
She is talented
That voice is thick and strong and loud enough to reach hundreds of ears
That voice is smooth and gentle and soft enough to please hundreds of hearts
What good is a second-rate piano player compared to a voice like that?
Her skirt will always be longer, more flirty
Her teeth with always be straighter, tucked further away with the pensive look she has
It is my love for Victor Hugo against her love for Victor Hugo
My love for Broadway versus her love for Broadway
But all I have is 10 stubby fingers to tickle the worn Baldwin in my living room
She has that voice in a room full of red velvet seats
It is my interest in Kristin Chenoweth against her interest in Kristin Chenoweth
We both like to read
We both like the theatre
We both like you
But what can compare to a voice like that?
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 10:03 PM UTC
I looked in the mirror this morning,
And there was a little tiny change,
An older look to my eyes,
My smile was foreign and strange.
My posture was straighter and taller,
My cheeks were thinner and slim.
I'm changing right before my eyes,
And every day I'm at the whim
of Whoever decides what I'll be
When I'm an adult someday.
When make believe no longer appeals to me,
And I've forgotten how to play.
So what I want to say to this elusive Whoever,
what I want to ask of this woman,
Is "Are all these changes the real me?
And is the real me who I am?"
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 10:32 PM UTC
trembling, she buttoned up each catch to hide the melody burned into her skin
my ramona
set free too long ago
a song sent to be heard only in twilight
your face has new lines — none of which sing
these are straighter, without rhythm
you have been reconstructed into a sketch
a new art claims your body
a new artist claims your body
why do you let your canvas have such a possessive audience?
beauty leaks from your ballads
you are not a pen stroke
my ramona
a.m.
Aug 8, 2017
Aug 8, 2017 at 3:08 AM UTC
I hardly breathe under a hodgepodge
of starched and creased clothes
my heart beats pell-mell
every time clocks take a halt
dragging one second behind
when batteries are low
(could this be a deviation towards red light?)
with straighter and longer fingers
I bow down worshiping
in front of the rising sun
the nunnery pelargonium
the red silk bookmark
forgotten inside the Book of Job
(rose hips will bloom upon my grave)
the empty space on my front
from where a star fell down
still burns with pride
I’m guilty like the deer youth
putting its muzzle damp with love
in the palm of his future hunter
(maybe time doesn’t roll on like a river)
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 2:50 PM UTC
white hands are magnetically attracted to my tresses
the way they bounce when i'm running to the bus stop
how it curls from the top to the bottom.
when i tell people what i am
they nod and say,
"no wonder you have that hair."
i wake up in the morning conscious of my existence
the whiteness of my father's father is not present in my skin
but it is there in the way i talk on the phone,
"ain't" and "finna" tucked neatly into the corners of my teeth.
when my boss sees me for the first time in person,
they will part their mouth slightly and say,
"you're so unique."
the latinos at school are lighter than me
their hair is straighter than mine
and their spanish is much more polished.
when they heard my first grammar mistake
they frowned and said,
"oh great, another ******* coconut."
i will die an oxymoron, a paradox
a cultural clusterfuck who doesn't know what a border is.
i will die undefined, unknown, as a variable in a math problem
written by the hands of a white man
who thought everything could be solved
if it was done his way.
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 11:36 AM UTC
The summer rain comes drumming
in a ballad upon my skin
washing away an old life
a life plagued with sin
I walk a little straighter
with my head again held high
Insted of it bowing low
to who ever passes by
Now I am unafraid
of who I am today
and I feel fear of the past
slowly slip away
you no longer blight my dreams
that caused me strife
and caused me misery
I moved on with my life
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 10:00 PM UTC
The urban legend going round the mummy club
A woman
On a tube
Breastfeeding her baby, 5 months old, under her t shirt.
Not **** out
No feminist flags waving
No brazen cocky smile.
Just a hungry baby and a mother made by nature
And some milk
"Put em away Love", slurs an ugly man halfway down the carriage.
The other passengers are divided.
Some sink deeper into their headphones, under their broadsheets.
The others are ready for revolution, sit up straighter and plan an attack phrase or a protective move.
But this is what she's been waiting for since she so triumphantly became a successful, proud breastfeeder.
With a wet plucking noise she pulls her baby from the ****** where he was so contentedly feeding, where his warm little head was halfway to milky coma dreamland.
And she holds him aloft, her grip is confident and full. No one is afraid she will drop him, but he does not want to be there.
And in the stark light of the carriage, arms and legs chilly and free in the air he begins to flail them about. His voice throws out mews to every window of the carriage, turning into scratchy shouts as his protest gets stronger.
Until the baby, in a blue furry jumper, little bear ears for cute effect, is screaming.
Red faced, and with tonsils and tongue vibrating in the storm of his voice.
Arms and legs swimming frantically, looking for the bank of the river where warm mummy sits.
And over the storm, mummy looks over at the swaying, squinting man and shouts,
"WOULD YOU PREFER THIS?"
In one movement she cradles the yelling blue cub, shushing and quietly speaking to him as only a mother can, offering her ****** to his mouth until his round fuzzy head is bobbing and his mouth quietly busy resuming his meal.
"Or this? " She looks over at him.
The man mutters to himself and looks away. At the next stop he gets off the train, tripping down the step onto the platform.
The mother releases the challenge in one large breath.
She looks up at the two young men sat in front of her.
They are smiling, staring in awe. Choking and speechless one of them starts to applaud her.
Clapping her and shaking his head, his mate joins in.
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 6:01 PM UTC
I'm filling up
like a landfill
my heart is starting to feel
like an anvil
And I'm starting to think that maybe,
Maybe this world's not meant for me
or me for it
or us for each other like in a
"mutual" break up
which is an idiom,
because love is never quite
symmetrical.
See, love is like a heart drawn by a
fifth grader.
It's never quite the same
on either side
and if you ever told them they were wrong
for drawing it that way
you lied.
Because that:
lop sided
sloppy
hunched over heart,
that:
innocent
delicate
Beautiful heart,
Is exactly what love is.
When we're older,
we learn to draw straighter lines
to hide our shaking hands.
Don't let them know you're nervous.
We learn to whisper what we don't want heard,
To make silent our thoughts,
in public.
Fights were meant for closed doors and walls
that are never quite thick enough
to keep words that hard, from breaking them down.
Even the fights,
that you fought against someone
who looks much too like you.
When, then, can I open my mind like a book
for only them to read.
When can I open my chest like a puzzle box
for them to put together.
When can I apologize for having before,
what I only ever wanted with them?
I just didnt know it yet.
I am a fifth graders heart
that beats five times heavier
than healthy.
Being colored in
with too deep a red.
I'm filling up
like a landfill.
My heart has reached a
stand still.
And I'm starting to think that maybe,
Maybe a square peg can find comfort
in a round hole.
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 2:24 AM UTC
1.Sight
Beauty looks like protruding bones
Photoshop, and makeup to cover tired eyes
Girls in magazines who emanate elegance
Even though the perfect girls are only a guise
That's what beauty looks like
2. Hearing
Beauty sounds like that girl you hardly know saying *** you've lost so much weight!"
You feel happy for a split second even though you don't see it
It's standing up a little straighter when hearing someone call, "You look really great."
But the voices still say "It's not enough."
That's what beauty sounds like
3. Taste
Beauty tastes like diet coke, since it's the only thing you'll drink
Tastes like bile and the salty tears running down your cheeks
After you just puked
It tastes like binging food that you bought really cheap
That's what beauty tastes like
4. Smell
Beauty smells like febreze mixed with *****
In a pathetic attempt to hide what you just did
It smells like a million foods vying for your attention
But keeping self control even though you want to quit
That's what beauty smells like
5. Touch
Beauty feels like running your hands across your collar bone
Because it gives you the illusion you're thin
It feels like your stomach releasing an overdue groan
Because you've been eating as if there is a famine
It feels like grabbing the fat on your body while your mind complains
Beauty is feeling the knife in your back reminding you
"Beauty is pain."
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 2:15 PM UTC