"strategically" poems
I saw you from across the gym and the second my eyes laid on you I knew I was never going to be the same.
Is it possible to fall in love with a stranger, because I think I just did.
Your posture resembled the self-confidence that filled your *****
Your hair a blonde hue that I have never been attracted to before.
How could it be, you already have a piece of me.
I couldn’t take my eyes off of you, you see.
For you were already starting to seep into me.
Maybe it was the idea that I can feel love like this, for someone I don’t even know.
Or maybe it is that I looked into your blue eyes from across the room and felt like I knew you.
My emotions were wired, and my thoughts gambled.
I had to remind myself how to walk and remember that staring in awe isn’t generally socially acceptable.
I can’t believe I just fell in love with a stranger.
You tossed the basketball with such grace, it sliding off your fingers so effortless. Your shoulders broad and your stamina grounded.
The way you slid across the floor so smoothly chasing after the ball that went perfectly into the net.
When the smile grew on your face as your friend shot the ball, my soul felt warm as I looked into the happiness of yours.
Your teeth, strategically placed by God’s fingers. Resembling how perfect we will all soon be.
I can’t believe this is me.
Falling in love with a stranger, what else is new.
The second I saw you I knew
My confidence was back and I began to come to life again.
So maybe you were an angel sent from God.
Teaching me that I still do have hope.
Showing me that my heart is still in enough pieces to love.
What ever the case and outcome of this, I feel happy.
I feel at peace that maybe, just maybe, someday I will lay eyes on someone and know they will embrace me for the rest of eternity.
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 3:09 AM UTC
PTSD is not something you get over.
It is when soldiers get tired of hearing their own shots fire
Into a purple horizon of nothingness.
It is when assault victims are scared of becoming a statistic
And their brokenness is suffocating
It is when fear compels the mind to change
And it willingly obliges.
PTSD is when the darkness of human nature becomes evident
It is when it's stronghold is suddenly
More prominent than the beauty in the world
It's brash fingers create a vacuum
That ***** the sanity from your mind
Until you wake up in the middle of the night screaming
"Don't shoot me!"
"Don't **** her!"
You see him and now he is with your little sister
Taking her into his Jeep
While you stand there, watching
Tied up because you can do nothing about it.
This has not happened
And probably never will
But you are crippled by paralyzing bouts of anxiety and guilt and fear
From which your mind cannot console you
You can no longer hide the loss
That this event, this person, this illness
Has placed strategically within you.
It is when you will do anything to get these memories to stop playing on repeat
An endless loop maybe ended by alcohol
Check
Cutting
Check.
Promiscuity
Check
Anything that will eliminate cycle of not knowing
Of reliving
If only for a short time
Even pretending you believe in God
Because it makes it seem like there is a reason for this confusion
But then you begin to question why God would do this to his child
So you digress into darkness once again
Left feeling unsure.
PTSD is when you stop repressing memories
And they come back so forcefully that they knock you to the ground
Leaving you bruised and ******
Leaving you lost.
PTSD is different from other sicknesses
Because you do not feel sick
You feel there
Like you are in his bed again
And his room smells like mushrooms
That is actually a field of grenades
Waiting to explode throughout your small body
You remember the tone of his words
Slipping from his lips as though they are snakes
Strangling me, leaving breath unable to escape
This is not sick
As you feel no symptoms
But an altered state of consciousness
You do not even realize you are disconnecting as it happens
But this is Hell
This is war
You are broken
And the worst part about it
Is that you must understand your triggers
Your dissociations
Before you can get better.
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
The sounding alarm starts the frenzy
I hurry myself to shower and dress
Slowing just for a moment
To strategically place fragrant surprises
For later explorations.
Accelerating with all urgency
I weave through the blockade of traffic
Risking it all to preserve
Each second, each minute, every moment of time
For my waiting infatuation
Flushes of excitement consume me
As I near my destination
I am overwhelmed with pulsating urges
As I search for a way to impress you
Show advanced appreciation
Welcomed with a sensual eagerness
Each of us knowing and wanting
I ask "Can I play you a tune?"
A Love song plays to a faintness
As you bring me to satisfaction
Then,
Ascending to kiss me softly
You wish me a good day at work.
Wiping excess from your chin
You smile and say "See you tomorrow."
© Tina Thompson
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 2:46 PM UTC
Salt Lake City
Without the Salt
Just emptiness because they told me I couldn't have sugar
But that's one of my favorites
Why would I go without it?
I think people love to tell others
What to do
It empowers them strategically
It makes me wonder
What really is there for them to make such an act
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 2:26 PM UTC
Skinny *** Poem
(8/11/2014)
Every kid wants to be something when they grow up.
They picture perfect future families with puppies and kittens,
but for me something was missing.
I just wanted to be happy.
Maybe my vision wasn't so great though,
because 'happy' looked like it had 6 letters to me, and spelled 'skinny.'
People used to throw bricks at my glass house.
Shouting that I’d be skinny enough to slip through cracks.
Cracks of life,
cracks of struggle and strife,
cracks of everything not nice.
They'd tease me and say I looked like I smoked crack,
when I'd lose weight,
I'd gain it all back,
in the form of their extra hate.
But I didn't feel skinny on the inside.
Although I had skinny bones and skinny skin,
brittle enough to break within.
Under the pain of that pang
as their bricks shattered my glass house.
Tell me, have you ever been afraid of words?
Thoughts can be terrifying but once turned to spoken word,
that in turn will turn to shouted word,
that in turn will turn to incoherent nonsense.
Which starts a sensation of ear drums ripping,
being sawed in half immediately,
no time spent ticking,
by shrill shrieks and violent vocalizations.
As if a sound wave could burst your body parts faster,
no, more efficiently than a barrage of fists.
Because it will know exactly where to strike,
in fact, it will sneak through your solid surface,
into every single crevice,
knowing where the best place to hurt is.
All it takes is a whisper strategically said in your ear,
'skinny.' 'skinny.' 'skinny.'
I could feel it float away from me,
carried off by the wind.
As if a sound wave could carry an army of statements,
piled up and armed with bayonets of every decibel level,
ready and willing to siege each individual joint crack and muscle ache,
being pushed under imposed stiffness.
It will ooze out your pores, as if your fat face was an instrument amplifier.
They thrived on the thrill listening to my shrill shriek.
As I stepped on shards from my shattered glass house,
And stared into the million fractures,
each a broken reflection of the million me’s I could be.
But none of them skinny... enough,
skinny for everybody else,
but never for me.
I’d envision each day, blood drops staining my glass carpet.
Each ounce of that luscious red,
each day left my body filled with an ounce less of dread.
An ounce less to fit into a size small shirt,
and 30 inch waist Skinny jean.
My body became my own private ****** machine.
Every kid wants to be something when they grow up.
I just wanted to be happy, I mean skinny.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 5:07 AM UTC
Heartbreak is an inevitable thing.
I knew this. I knew that throughout the course of my early life, I would experience many heartbreaks.
You know, the ones where it wasn’t meant to be. Life designed to have these strategically planned heartbreaks so that you could grow, you could learn.
A pain so real, it is as though the pain is literally reconfiguring your insides as it moves through you; staying just long enough to shape you, but not long enough to become you.
Our hearts like a key getting resized and fitted for the next lock.
Getting so far into the lock before realizing it’s not a match, our heart, getting shaped and sized per each of these attempts. Shaping up until it finds the right lock; the day when your key fits and you know it’s a match – the feeling people refer to as “when you know, you know”.
Is it possible, however, to find your match- the lock that you are finally meant to open, but while turning the key something goes wrong?
What once was a perfect fit, now sits ajar. The answer: I don’t know.
I loved a man.
A perfect fit.
Our love was trusting, it was giving, it was deep, and strong, and passionate.
I loved this man with all of my being;
and he loved me back.
This man is dead.
That’s what breaking up with someone feels like, anyways.
It is as if they are dead.
You will no longer talk with them, share with them, kiss them, hug them, touch them, love them.
They will no longer hold you at night while you sleep.
They will no longer embrace you in the morning, kiss you when you wake.
It is as though they do not exist.
Not to you anyway; or you to them.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 9:38 PM UTC
This one is for the girls
For the girls who wake up at the crack of dawn
To stare down the standards of beauty built by a society
Who says that your bones are more beautiful than your curves
That your ****** has more value than your words
This one is for the girls who go through their day
Expected to only to smile
Only to say happy words
Even if their world inside is crashing around them.
This one is for the girls
Who endure the side glances,
Because they don't fit into the cookie cutter
that has been so strategically built
By the media
To break down the strong mind of girls and to leave in them in a heap on the side of the road
So that the only time they feel beautiful
Is when they hear catcalls of the passers byers
Leaving them starving
Starving their body
starving their mind
Little by little killing the spirit that was once so strong inside them
And yet all concerns seem to be silenced
This one is for the girls who
Cut open the cookie cutter that has been created
To cut the independent woman down to size
Who carve out a door way in this cookie cutter
As a light to shine at the end of the tunnel
This one is for the girls
Who never lose hope
For the girls who refuse to allow their ****** to hold their entire self worth
This is for the girls who
Refuse to allow the mass media to tell them that they are not beautiful
For the girls who have become the shining star
For the girls who are still discovering their own strength as their wound heal
This is for the girls searching for hope in a dark place
Hoping to find stars in the sky that are close enough they can touch
This one is for the girls
Keep on going
Don't lose yourself in this world
Hold your head up high
And show them the strength of a woman.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 12:39 AM UTC
Like a drug taken for a quarter century, this writing doesn't help like it use to...
See,
I'm starting to feel like it's working against me
Holding me here in pain and misery
Cleverly disguised as creativity
I use to lie and say it was a way to get rid of all this negativity
But I've spilled so much blood and tears onto stationary
...and not even purely metaphorically...
I should be completely empty
Hell, I think I might be
I think it's moved onto draining my energy
Can I still call this writing therapy?
Is it healthy or does it keep me from a new me?
Holding tightly but in spite of me
Hiding a different side of a complex personality
A new level of maturity
Is it actually helping any?
Today it's hard to say, but maybe
Unfortunately, it's something I'm good at, a skill I enjoy and I don't have many
So I've begun to notice I look at it differently
It was suppose to help me let go of the painful unpleasantry held in many a memory
But it woke a part of my ego that I didn't know would grip so tightly
It might have been a mistake to rely on it so heavily
It's no longer moving along the story
No cautionary tales to learn from because they never become history
It becomes a bookmark that I don't use properly
I never move it to the page I left off on and now, I must admit openly, I'm doing it purposely
I keep the worst of me right next to me, close as a frienemy
All because I notice I DON'T write when I'm happy
And I like to write so I dance around emotions strategically
I don't know if it's anything worth saying but writing is calling and drawing me in closely
A ghostly presence that when I look closely I see my identity
It hasn't always been but is now a big part of me
But does it want all of me?
Can't say either way with any certainty
No AH-HA moment, no clarity, only a death grip on disparity
So I recklessly walk the line of happy and tragedy
Like a DUI test on the side of the freeway, drunken pageantry
Eyes closed usually
No thought of mine or anyone else's safety
Dangerously close to calamity
And I just worry
©2024
Jan 3, 2024
Jan 3, 2024 at 6:32 PM UTC
It's like we’re playing chess.
Moving strategically, testing boundaries,
all while watching each other’s expression.
We all know how this games ends…
The queen destroys you and steals your heart.
Dec 6, 2021
Dec 6, 2021 at 1:29 PM UTC
I am often under the impression that old fashioned street lamps
The ones with eight sided glass and black ornate poles
Are strategically placed by the city planning commissioner's office
To let me know the wardrobe is just a few dozen feet away
And it will take me away from this Narnia
If I just open the door
My phobia of opening doors gets worse every time I think I've finally found it
Only to walk right into the girls bathroom after lunch
On five alarm chili day at the cosmetology school in Little Korea Town
I don't like watering the plants
It makes me wonder why mother nature fell asleep on the job
But the plants are always telling me the rain can't get them inside my living room
So I started the fire that the insurance won't pay for
And the chemicals in the emergency sprinkler system killed the plants anyways
It also killed the fish
But the insurance adjuster wore gloves
So he's still alive
I would make a pretty ****** politician
I get upset at people who don't make sense
Though sometimes I don't make sense
I also have a bad habit of doing the wrong things for the right reasons
I have found Waldo three times
He says hi
Carmen Sandiego is in San Diego
Which makes that trip to Cairo a really bad piece of detective work
On a related note Al Gore is Captain Planet
And every time I hear a bug zapper
I think it is the bat from Fern Gully
But it is not
It's a bunch of dead moths in a box
Monkeys in a barrel
That's how my mind does things
Every time someone say "it is"
When "it's" would be acceptable
I remember The Land Before Time
"This is fun, it is, it is"
You are welcome
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 2:54 AM UTC
Girls are from Venus and boys,
from Mars - we are strategically apart though we are both
made of stars. There are 6 other parts
to our solar system listed if you listen in class. People are not transparent
glass, we are not to be seen through and reduced
to white or black or skinny or fat or boys or girls. There are 6 other planets,
ten trillion undiscovered worlds
of grey. It is okay
to be something else, you are still
something else.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 12:27 PM UTC
Belinda lived in a little white house,
With a little black kitten and a little gray mouse,
And a little yellow dog and a little red wagon,
And a realio, trulio, little pet dragon.
Now the name of the little black kitten was Ink,
And the little gray mouse, she called her Blink,
And the little yellow dog was sharp as Mustard,
But the dragon was a coward, and she called him Custard.
Custard the dragon had big sharp teeth,
And spikes on top of him and scales underneath,
Mouth like a fireplace, chimney for a nose,
And realio, trulio, daggers on his toes.
Belinda was as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chased lions down the stairs,
Mustard was as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard cried for a nice safe cage.
Belinda tickled him, she tickled him unmerciful,
Ink, Blink and Mustard, they rudely called him Percival,
They all sat laughing in the little red wagon
At the realio, trulio, cowardly dragon.
Belinda giggled till she shook the house,
And Blink said Week! , which is giggling for a mouse,
Ink and Mustard rudely asked his age,
When Custard cried for a nice safe cage.
Suddenly, suddenly they heard a nasty sound,
And Mustard growled, and they all looked around.
Meowch! cried Ink, and Ooh! cried Belinda,
For there was a pirate, climbing in the winda.
Pistol in his left hand, pistol in his right,
And he held in his teeth a cutlass bright,
His beard was black, one leg was wood;
It was clear that the pirate meant no good.
Belinda paled, and she cried, Help! Help!
But Mustard fled with a terrified yelp,
Ink trickled down to the bottom of the household,
And little mouse Blink strategically mouseholed.
But up jumped Custard, snorting like an engine,
Clashed his tail like irons in a dungeon,
With a clatter and a clank and a jangling squirm
He went at the pirate like a robin at a worm.
The pirate gaped at Belinda's dragon,
And gulped some grog from his pocket flagon,
He fired two bullets but they didn't hit,
And Custard gobbled him, every bit.
Belinda embraced him, Mustard licked him,
No one mourned for his pirate victim
Ink and Blink in glee did gyrate
Around the dragon that ate the pyrate.
But presently up spoke little dog Mustard,
I'd been twice as brave if I hadn't been flustered.
And up spoke Ink and up spoke Blink,
We'd have been three times as brave, we think,
And Custard said, I quite agree
That everybody is braver than me.
Belinda still lives in her little white house,
With her little black kitten and her little gray mouse,
And her little yellow dog and her little red wagon,
And her realio, trulio, little pet dragon.
Belinda is as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chase lions down the stairs,
Mustard is as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard keeps crying for a nice safe cage.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 5:15 AM UTC
Trophies for last place,
And a Holiday for every weekend.
A taste of this and that...
OF Italy and Ireland and Asia and Germany
and every township in the county,
and 3 collective Miles of
Portable Toilets,
Strategically Positioned
throughout each event.
cause there is going to be a Lot of ****
Hooray for whatever we are celebrating this weekend.
Whichever one of the 30 different Woodstocks
Or week long Music Festivals
That exist only so
the Hippest of Hipsters
can congratulate each other
on how Indie they are.
Ya know, it's happy hour somewhere...
Why not party
All Day, Everyday?
Devalue the weekend
Like we have thanksgiving
And New Years.
A Five Kay For the Common Cold,
And We'll even give trophies for last place.
Cause we're all winners here.
and we're all hungry.
And What represents your heritage better than
Pizza or sauerkraut or General Tso's
And endless flowing barrels of refreshing, Ice cold, Domestically brewed and Nationally brand recognized Alcoholic Beverages?
IT's The Great Dumb Down, Charlie Brown!!!
A symptom of the Universe
If there ever was one.
Mass anesthesia to keep us all content
With our collective mediocrities,
our Forfeit Potential,
Our Day Job that doesn't pay very well,
But kind has benefits.
So we stay on.
In fear of nothing better.
It makes feel important.
Like Wheel of Fortune makes us feel smart.
(Wow, you can spell?!)...
Dwindling returns in a world of Beige and Pastels
And the Muted Grays of limestone concrete.
We Accept less and we Get less and we accept less and we Get less
And On And on and on,
till we hit that lowest common cultural denominator,
where your race is what food you eat,
And we all qualify for the special Olympics.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
Dark limitless halls
Chair wobbling,
sitting strategically
Not dead
Nor alive
In the middle comprised
Scattered thoughts
Hate, frustration, paranoia
Confining
Self -reliance
Life of defiance
"Why must I suffer,"
ready to die
Creation made for a different environment
A voice whispering,
"Look up there is a sky"
Baffled, she now remembers her grace
A new place
A world
Universe in the making
The black was only the beginning
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 5:55 PM UTC
**Casting the line over glass like waters,
Float coming to rest on the unseen bond of air.
The lure of the insect so irresistible,
we watch with a fisherman's stare.
Hour upon hour sitting and staring into space,
Umbrella positioned strategically over head.
The rain mercilessly poring onto the water,
Soaks the fisherman he wonders why he is not in bed.
The line moves; slowly jerking ,
Then more as the fish takes a bite.
The fisherman takes a strong hold,
He is ready for the fight.
The spool whizzes round and round,
Faster And faster as it spins and takes it's toll .
The fisherman holds; and pulls in the line,
As the fish really takes control.
At last the fisherman lands him,
A ten pound-er really, "for sure"
His buddies in the pub do believe him,
As his tiddler flounders on the shore.**
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 11:34 AM UTC
Rotating bodies, confusion of sound
Negative imagery holding us down
Social delusion, clearly constructed
Human condition, morals corrupted
Trapped in reaction, lawlessness, war
Dissatisfaction from bowels to core
Devils technology, strategy for
Human mythologies, urban folklore
Sick of psychology, counterfeit cure
Wicked theology robbing the poor
Scheme demonology mislead the pure
Strict and strategically, studying war
Light shown in darkness, image exposed
Few can see through the new emperor's clothes
Lustful this hussle turns humans to hoes
When the blind lead the blind
Just more trouble and woes
It's the mind that they chose
It's designed to stay closed
Standards of jokers, court just a logic
Sick looking cosmics, from schoolyards to college
Primitive man with civilised knowledge
System collapse and he still won't acknowledge
God is the saviour, studies behaviour
Trying to fix the mind that he gave ya
Stiff-necked scholars on prescription meds
Wishing their problems were all in their heads
Moral dilemma, pride is the root
Misguided from youth, heart divided from truth
Egyptians and Grecians, spiritually dead
Imperially led, by the gods in their head
Motives and thoughts
Industrial wealth
Global economy, in for itself
Heart full of madness, covered with kind
Pleasure designed to take over your mind
Furnished in godliness, painted in good
This talented priesthood got real saints misunderstood
While classes in government, set up the veil
And cultivate minds for more mythical tales
Typical Hollywood follies good girl
While vice and corruption take over the world
Motives and thoughts
Check your motives and thoughts
Blind with the wickedness deep in your heart
Modern day wickedness is all you've been taught
Lied to your neighbours, so you get ahead
Modern day trickery is all you've been fed
Motives and thoughts
Check your motives and thoughts
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 7:52 AM UTC
I lie strategically in place
Innocent framework fused
With royal carapace
Frail and allknowing fingers clenched and intertwined,
Mimicking the honest silver circuit in the night sky
As candid as the shore
Each slumbered and delicate breath
Vitally delivered from those sublime lips
Both damp and potent
I get a candied wind of
An accidental consolation
To my crippling worry
Sorrowful, I am, my love
For eavesdropping, but
My reveries are your keepsakes
And I,
Watching you sleep, carefully
In A placid coma, caging waves of covenants
And exhaling tokens of a life once dreamt of
I envisage the unvarnished truth,
your marrow as my sustentation,
Your veins, My lifeline
Where each filament of platinum and sorrel remain entangled and sprawled in forever, impeccably
And how drawn out and vexing
My intervals of lingering for you
Have been
And then you leak a sigh in a dream
And exhale a veil of whispers
Directly to my ribcage
And I simper, cradling you tighter
So you can breathe my craving,
My contented tribute
To my one veritable sentiment.
And I seal it all in the midst,
Of a drifted and slumbered and deathless
Kiss.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 7:24 PM UTC
I'll know it's love when I am wedged between a line of cars on a busy street in the middle of a commute
listening to the radio and thinking about what food I have leftover in my fridge
or what the weather's going to be like tomorrow
this is when I'll know.
it'll happen suddenly
randomly,
an earthquake in the center of my Tuesday
somewhat of a surprise
like walking through a haunted house knowingly
the shock is inevitable but expected
or it might hit me
like a lightning bolt on a day with a vacant sky
like a bus when I cross the intersection without looking
okay
maybe not that violently
maybe it will be subtle
like the moon's descent into crescent form over time
like the evolution of freckles on skin from sun
quiet in its arrival but still apparent
it could occur to me loudly
almost like a revelation
but more like an understanding that has been building for months
growing inside this body of mine
I often bury feelings in my stomach
feeding them subconsciously until they become too full to cover with ease
love will come to me like a secret I have been hiding for weeks
pouring out like a confession I never wanted to give
I like to say that falling hard is a habit I've overcome by now
but I would be lying if I did
To say
that love makes itself known visibly
from the exact minute we meet someone
is not exact truth
but you'll know when it does
creeping out strategically into your routine,
love will settle in your bone marrow until it has formed into a disease
see I'll know it's love
when I go to search my wallet for parking meter change and I only find your name
when the empty in my bed grows too big for just my body
when every ring a cellphone hums reminds me of your laugh
when the onset of cold makes me miss the comfort of your holding
when I start to wonder what a life never knowing you would be like
when I can't remember how I ever survived on this earth without you
I'll know it then
and I'm not sure when that will be
It could be the last thing I think of as I fall sleep
or at 3:47 in the morning
I can't promise I'll be ready
or that I'll be waiting patient
love will come to me like a fear I've been afraid to say admit I have
but I will tackle it head on
welcoming with open arms
say hey, what's up, hello
I've got this
it might not be obvious
but I have been practicing my entire life
for this exact moment
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 2:32 PM UTC
Lonely
In the corner
Staring into an abyss
of pointless options
And all the edges
in the world
Aren't sharp enough
to cut through
The concrete wall
surrounding her heart
Cold
In a crowded room
Searching for an empathetic face
She sees the smiles
filling the empty space
And it seems
that no amount of joy
Is real enough
to take the fears place
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 6:58 PM UTC
I saw her from a distance
observing quietly
unassuming and innocent.
Not a sound or
even a verbal cue.
A shadow amongst others
fading in the background
quiet and still.
All seeing, all knowing,
yet not seen or known.
She savored solitude, seclusion.
Gazing over, eyes lock.
A prompt stare at her feet.
Slyly, strategically, stealthily,
I make my move
through the mass,
an over populated room
of senseless chatter.
Drawing nearer to the
lovely, lone, lady leaning
against the brick wall,
the ways finally part.
Much to my chagrin,
she’s vanished without
even a faint whisper.
Until we meet again.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 5:00 PM UTC
*you're haunting me still
why?
vibrations from your exit still lingering in my bones
they crack and quake
grating against themselves
why aren't they healing?
these wounds that I have been so persistently nursing
why can I not mend myself of this?
the needle is too dull
the thread is fraying
alone in this room
with your ghost still sitting next to me
gently touching my hand, laying its head in my lap to play with its hair
smiling
laughing
a perception
not the reality
I keep my heart in a box under the bed
next to treasured memories of a memory
I want to burn it all
I want to give it back to you
I want to keep it
it makes me sick
when its dark I wish to travel to far away mystical places
dance among the stars on cotton candy roller skates
yet all I get is you
your face
fetal position, clenched jaws, toss and turn
tortured still
in a state meant for rest
dream catchers strategically placed
they're meant to save me from you
ward off and expel YOU
yet my soldiers of the night
my dream wardens
they're no match for the slyness of you
you slip through as if made of air and elegance
replaying all your proudest moments of my misery
ive never felt such indifference toward someone
I want you gone
out of my head
I wish I could peel you from my skin
wring you from my marrow
shed the skin of this serpent's memory
wake to a new day
finally feeling good
finally feeling anything
finally feeling*
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 12:21 AM UTC
"Write hard and clear about what hurts." -- Ernest Hemingway
It hurts that my grandmother might not be around for my wedding
It hurts that my grandfather may be, but may not remember it
It hurts that I live so far my from people I love
It hurts knowing they will hurt when I tell them I want to move clear across the country
It hurts that I am stuck here, facing people I would rather avoid
It hurts that a place I called home has turned on me
It hurts more that I may be imagining they have turned on me
It hurts to think I may have disappointed the first person to give me a chance
It hurts that people I once called friends will speak so bitterly about me
It hurts that, ten months later, I so strongly miss someone who melds perfectly with us
It hurts that she would rather run than even attempt to see what it's like
It hurts that she may act so calm, as if nothing happened
It hurts that her facade is so strong, while mine crumbles at the sight of her
It hurts that the longer we go on, the more we risk becoming "that creepy older couple"
It hurts that it hurts him, when I still speak of wanting another
It hurts that I would not be complete without one or the other
It hurts that so many friends are married, and growing families
It hurts that I will have to defend my own choices in growing mine
It hurts that I must defend my family to my family
It hurts that so many people work the job that pays the bills, and the job they really love
It hurts that the job I love must be revealed strategically
It hurts that who I am must be revealed strategically
It hurts anticipating the hurt that will come from that judgement
It hurts when I try to broaden my horizons, and I can see the hurt in my best friend's eyes
It hurts watching people not fulfill their full potential
It hurts watching people work so hard, but still gain so little
It hurts working so hard in my job, becoming so tired that my joy, my passion falls by the wayside
It hurts that we work so hard for things that do not truly comfort us
It hurts that we take so little for granted
It hurts that we take so many for granted
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 10:48 PM UTC
Interconnected webs of string,
strategically woven and knotted,
and adorned with beautifully painted beads.
Some way, somehow,
this hand-crafted creation
is said to hold captive
all nightmares that had ever dawned on me.
What an immaculate thing
this could turn out to be,
if it were to play its part,
even when we are not asleep.
Because truth is,
the real demons that we have,
are not only those that appear in our nightmares,
but rather the ones we fight
day to day.
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 2:13 AM UTC
Strategically I situated myself
So my like end would repel you,
Like magnets, I move when you do.
Whirling about in a silly little waltz,
Every step you take towards me
Leaves no change in our proximity.
Until one day I will let myself go,
Allow our poles to situate themselves out,
Resulting in my North to your South.
There is nothing more that we
Can possibly do
This force something ingrained in me, and in you.
It can't be controlled.
It's a scientific fact.
Just something that happens: Opposites attract.
Oct 14, 2011
Oct 14, 2011 at 12:27 PM UTC
Union and Grand
I moved into this house less than a year ago
and already three gun related murders have occurred
within a three block radius; two of them involving children.
I'm not making this **** up.
Those numbers wouldn't be anything exciting for a population
hitting upwards of the millions,
but this is not a big city.
This is the heartland.
-
The city paid for a series of strategically placed dead ends,
forced turns, and surveillance equipment to be installed
in the area of about a mile surrounding my house.
No wonder they call this place "The Trap".
They keep changing the maze,
and studying us like rats.
-
They had a make-do memorial for the little girl who got shot.
They attached her stuffed animals, cards, and photos to a utility pole
on the corner of Union and Grand. The city had it taken down.
Some kind of city ordinance
from some dusty tome at the town hall.
Kids killing kids, and the shots keep firing.
-
Now don't get me wrong, I'm not what'd you call an activist.
But when bloodshed occurs within eye shot of where you sleep,
you start to get a little irked.
These kids have as much potential as me, and twice as much grit.
Their teachers barely even know their names,
let alone what it's like to be deprived of privilege.
-
I'll stomp this concrete until my feet break.
This labyrinth is my constant reminder and reality check.
I am here, and you are there.
This connection is suspended on silver threads and I am your puppet.
Mold me into your angst driven dreamboat.
Because tomorrow, I'm just going to wake up here. Tyler.
-
This soul has been folded seven times
and I grow tired of this reality.
There was a time when I could scream loud enough to wake the dead.
I guess I'm showing the symptoms
of an accidental child
with a tongue that only tastes art as bitter protest.
-
I'd tear my face off
to know if this is really getting through to you.
The face in the photo is that of the goat; the false idol and deceiver.
A Knight of Pentacles, selling you gold plated garbage.
Odin-kin.
You always feel like I have a secret to keep; my fist is in the air.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 3:05 AM UTC