"stubbing" poems
Last weekend was “Parent’s” weekend at Yale. A time when parents are formally invited to visit. They have receptions and other events - but no potato-sack races (which is disappointing). My parents couldn’t come, they’ve never come to parent’s weekend, but Leong’s parents came again, from Macao, China, a 16,060-mile round trip.
There was a time when boys could tank my self-confidence with a word. When the male gaze seemed overpowering. I’d felt constantly evaluated - but I’ve evolved - somewhat. We’re going to a party. Lisa, Leong, Sunny, Anna and I - we’ve got our shine on and we’re drawing looks. Well, ok, Lisa’s drawing looks and I’m in the general frame.
Lisa sneezed, “The air quality’s bad tonight,” she announced, wiping her nose with a Kleenex.
“I don’t have any allergies,” I bragged. “Me neither,” Leong added.
“If you can breathe the air in China,” I said, “You’re golden.”
Leong laughed “Tài zhēnshí liǎo,” (Too true!) She agreed.
As we left the more street-lit part of the path, the moon, wandering in and out of the clouds, created moving shadows that peopled the darkness with phantoms. Was that impression the paranoia of fatigue? I haven’t been getting much sleep lately. Or maybe it’s October and Halloween’s just around the corner.
I was walking in the rear, nestled in the mingled scents of my roommates' perfumes that, like rare blossoms, enchanted and excited the child in me. I wasn’t paying attention, and I stubbed my toe on a misaligned sidewalk tile. Don’t you hate the gap between stubbing your toe and feeling the pain?
Oct 11, 2023
Oct 11, 2023 at 8:15 PM UTC
I was there
Beneath it all
Stubbing my nose
Catching my eyes
On the most soulful of gifts
There was a promenade
Then music
A chef in a tall white hat
Shouting at the top of his lungs
As cracked eggs
Desperately tried
To reimagine themselves
As whole again.
They did not wish to change.
I am a poem
And I am nothing
I am a man
And I am nothing
I am a before
Yet to embark
On an after
Could this be it?
I think of
What could have been
If I had done this
If I had done that
And switch
Paralyzed.
The horizon
Fades at dusk
And is reimagined
At dawn
How I wish
I were content
To be ok
With such a simple
Routine
Progress
Achievements
Recognition
Advancement
Awards
Realization
The ***** turns to tighten
To hold
Only to rust
Be forgotten
Put in the back of the pantry
Read from afar
The days of the sun
Are over
Darknesses lengths
Are upon us
Taste of the hubris of the moon
Its position is fixed
Such a fact, such a reserved space
Where will the moon go
But anywhere
But here?
And of us?
Where will our bones go?
Our me minds?
Our fleeting psyche?
The I is none other
But the billionth petal
Of a flaming sunflower
In a field
Surrounded by the identical
Taste ash
Mixed with honey
As the buzz of the bees
Fade.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 2:25 AM UTC
No one wrote a book
On how to queer up the world.
I’ve been waiting for Volume One
On how to hate your body effectively,
Because all of the brats who spit in my
Cherry eyes won’t tell me what I’m doing wrong
When I say “it doesn’t fit.
It never fits. Will I ever fit?”
Because we’re one binary and the other, and we don’t
Fit quite between, and we’re doomed to be melting
Snowflakes in schoolyards. We’re doomed to tears,
And standing awkwardly between ‘boy’ and ‘girl’ sections.
They opened up their doors to us, those who fit
Comfortably or not so comfortably in either of the two
Slots (like maybe this is a gameshow, and I didn’t pick
The right door?) but they promptly
Threw us out when we tried. And tried again.
And failed and cried and threw our hands in the air like
Children, misguided, in pain, stubbing our toes on the door
That says “real suffering.”
Because our suffering isn’t real to a world that encapsulates it in
So many words as symptoms for a
Common cold.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 4:20 AM UTC
It seems that there was this Small Group of Men and Women with "VERY MUCH" Knowledge. Many of their followers were of a Like Opinion,,that THEY YES, had much Knowledge. So, as they Sat around one day, Pondering , AS those with Great Knowledge would do: They came up with the IDEA to make Man and Woman with a NEW type of Body! "Where should we start First, they Queried?" "maybe if we changed the Elbow, BECAUSE people are Always Hitting their Funny-Bone!" "Maybe if we changed the Big and Little Toes, BECAUSE People are always Stubbing their Toes!" "Maybe if we changed their Eyes, BECAUSE People are always getting something in their eyes!" "Maybe if we changed their Fingers, BECAUSE People are always Jamming their Fingers!" "Maybe if we changed their Noses, BECAUSE People are Always stickin it where it shouldn't be!" "Maybe if we changed their Knees, BECAUSE People are Always Weak in the Knees!" "Maybe if we changed their Backs, BECAUSE People are always down in the Back!? "Maybe if we changed their Hearts, BECAUSE People always have Broken Hearts!" "Maybe if we changed their Ears, BECAUSE people are always not hearing!" "Maybe if we changed their Tongues, BECAUSE people are always Wagging them!" "Maybe if we changed their feet, BECAUSE People are always putting their Feet in their Mouths!" "Maybe if we changed their Mouths, BECAUSE people are always Spouting off at the Mouth!" "Maybe if we changed their Minds, BECAUSE People are always changing their Minds!" "Maybe if we changed their Smell, BECAUSE People are always saying ,Something Doesn't smell right !" "Maybe if we changed their NAMES, BECAUSE People are always trying to make a Name for Themselves!" "Maybe if we changed Their stomaches, BECAUSE People are Always saying* They Just Can't Stomach That!" "maybe if we changed their Hair, BECAUSE people are always Coloring or Losing it!" "Maybe if we changed the way they Walk, BECAUSE People are Always getting out of Line!" "Maybe if we changed the way they speak, BECAUSE People are Always speaking Out of Turn!" ,,,,,,,"MAYBE IF WE CHANGED",,,,,, SO, When the Itch in the middle of our Back really needs attention,,,, we Untie our hands from our Sides!
Sep 9, 2010
Sep 9, 2010 at 4:26 AM UTC
I am thankful for another day of breath,
Another day to get up, stretch my arms, and grab a pen,
Jot down a thought, a mismatched feeling, a strange sensation,
Pluck a note or two on the guitar, hammer a chord on the piano,
Sketch a funky thing on a piece of paper,
Talk to my family, reach out to a stranger,
Add a gift of hope, listen to some sound the wind carries,
Love like the next move the clock makes will be to run me through.
I am thankful to run here, there, dream mad, crazy, absurd things,
Conjure childish, stupid goals, reach for them, and hopefully catch them,
And praise even as I grab palm fulls of empty air.
I praise God Almighty especially as I grab palms full of empty air.
I am thankful for the moments of sitting across from Russian girls and not understanding them,
Admiring their beauty as they talk, one singing Madonna, the other speaking quickly,
And I am thankful for the moments of making a fool of myself and stubbing my toes as I walked away.
I am thankful for the audiences played for so infinitely much, the cheers, the times I was and am admired,
And I am thankful for the times I have been scoffed at, the times I was and am afraid.
I am thankful to God, dearly and bountifully, Lord knows, for everything and all things.
Things I don't deserve, things I shouldn't see or have, but things I cherish,
And things that I know are divine,
And in heaven, I owe God all things, but I want to have a hug.
From my Father in heaven, I want most of all, a hug.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 1:36 PM UTC
Pain pain go way
Never come back for another ache.
I’m too tired, messing with my mistake.
Pain pain go away!
Pain pain go away
I've been too weak for what you did.
Stubbing my heart, until it bleed.
Pain pain go away !
Pain pain go away!
I’ll never be deceived, your love is fake.
I’m too drained, black tears I cried.
Pain pain go way!
Pain pain go away
Never come back for another lie.
My heart is breaking, and soon will die.
Pain pain go away!
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 11:51 PM UTC
Do you remember begging our parents to let us be adults?
When our favorite thing to do was dress up and play make believe.
Drinking meant chocolate milk and artificial fruity drinks.
Getting wasted meant falling off your bike.
When the only pain we knew was stubbing a toe…
Or scraping our knees from the fall.
Getting high wasn’t a term where we blew smoke out of our mouths,
it was seeing who could jump or swing the highest.
When “taking one for the team” meant helping your teammates,
not making a girls night a little bit better.
When kissing was just kissing and you got cooties,
Not STDs and aids from going too far.
And the protection we wore,
was helmets on our heads to prevent concussions…
not a newborn.
When wearing makeup was fun,
and a way to express yourself…
Or wearing your favorite skirt made you feel cute,
not like a ****
When we didn’t know what drugs were,
just knew that the creamy pink liquid made us feel better.
When boyfriends and girlfriends were described as,
“My friend thats a boy….”
“Or my girl……….. Friend.”
When sleepovers were strictly sleepovers,
not an excuse to get in bed with your best friend…
Who you recently discovered feelings for.
The only wars we knew were card games
And our worst enemies were our siblings.
Dad’s shoulders were our thrones and mum was our hero.
How about that time when we all wanted so badly to grow up?
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 8:09 AM UTC
Pack it up, pack it in
don't throw my bolts there creating a din.
I won't ever battle you, that would be a sin.
Never will I stack up,
cos you just knocked me down again.
Trying to act higher,
with you and your godly crew.
But I'm the lord of the dead,
come on get your tombs up,
I raise the dead, can I have some hands up.
I have two minions, no there not yellow.
Pain is his name.
Getting splinters in your **** cheek,
stubbing your toe once again,
jump around, jump around
his confusion will get you down.
Then we panic,
who likes a bit of disco.
But he'll move your keys
just so you jump around, jump around
lateness is his merry go round.
I'll serve you up on the river of sticks,
If your coins ain't legit,
Throwing your cheap **** off the boat.
You get a special place for being tight-fisted ..
I've got more schemes, than any other villain,
copyrighted some cos others trying to steal um..
Tried to get Hercules on my side, but he was a
goody, goody, with piercing blue eyes..
I tried to ride his horse but it threw me off,
Slightly embarrassed by blue hair went off..
Yes I 'm bald and I wear a flaming blue wig,
but I'm a millennia old, and no sunlight down here.
You think Zeus locks are real,
More like Clouds that with a deceitful blow,
have his head looking like a shiny chrome dome .
My name is Hades and I'm king of the underworld,
I'll never rise to the top,
But I'll see you on the other side, enjoy it up top.
Apr 19, 2020
Apr 19, 2020 at 8:35 AM UTC
walk a mile in my shoes
there's a trip line at every step
you'll slip in the puddles
of the tears I've wept
walk a mile in my shoes
with soles that are worn thin
every little pebble
feels like a stone within
walk a mile in my shoes
every corner is a stubbing toe
feel the gravity's power
only then you'll know
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 11:17 AM UTC
High heeled inabitions
stamped their want
upon my back...
as she walked all over me,
her toes
stubbing out my *****
like a discarded cigerette...
causing searing pain
giving sincere pleasure.
Eyes bound could not see her
gagged mouth could not taste her
but I could feel her
tap dancing new tattoos
upon my calloused hands...
each graceful step
another movement
in her ballet of belittlement.
How I had begged
to play the lead.
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 3:27 PM UTC
nothing has ever given me a rush quite like leaving,
like sitting in an airport moments away from getting on a plane.
i’m a little scared of heights,
in the way that they make my heart go racing
and i don’t like feeling my pulse leave my chest,
but i’ve always loved leaning over the edge.
i’m scared of heights in the way that i’m scared of planes:
i love the concept and the purpose and the view,
but nothing scares me like going into airplane bathrooms,
when i haven’t slept in two hours too many
and the mirrors are like a funhouse from a scary movie.
airplane bathrooms are like a portal into the past,
except this time i can see every crack and fissure
and misplaced hair in the outline of who i’m trying to be.
i don’t like airplanes in the sense that time doesn’t exist,
that where you’re landing is different from where you were beginning,
that i can sleep for seven hours only to find out
that i’m two hours behind where i lifted off.
i’m scared of missing things, i guess.
i don’t like airplanes in the way that i’m scared of what lies ahead:
because i really like going,
and i really like getting there,
but landings make my ears hurt like hell and
takeoffs make my stomach churn.
i know where i am and i think i have a vague sense of where i want to be,
i know when i’m real and when i’m dreaming,
but it’s the in between that loses me.
i’m scared of the dark,
but differently than heights or flying,
because that’s just a loss of time.
i’m scared of the dark because it’s a loss of everything.
if you can’t see it then how can it exist until you’re
bumping your knees on coffee tables and stubbing your toes on walls
and the cat’s eyes are reflecting light from nowhere
and you’re waiting for the claws.
i’m scared of the dark because the dark is uncertainty
hiding all the truths that we want to believe,
because the dark is all the spots ahead of us that aren’t set in concrete,
because the dark is deep and suffocating,
because i don’t like not being able to see.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 5:36 PM UTC
i walk a line
some where between listening to myself
and listening to God...
if i truly believed i'd burn in hell
i suppose i wouldn't smoke that chronic i bought
and if i truly believed i'd burn in hell
i'd probably do my homework,
stop saying "fuck"and make sure to not flirt with men that weren't mine
picture this weekend scene;
saturday night, basement
drink in hand
smoke inhaled as clean and clear as everyday air
i would tell that nice boy
with the lip ring and name that starts with a "b"that i was taken by a special man
and ... and..excuses....
let them go let them roll as smooth as bacardi straight from the handle
bought at the local CVS by a bought-off ***
i guess i'm a girl that believes in hell on a bad day
when all bad things
poverty, homelessness, grandma's cancer and stubbing your toe
comes in the form of your dorm roommate
drunk at two am hollering and arranging the mini fridge,
when all the bad things feel as though they affect you directly
and if i truly believed i'd burn in hell
i'd be the girl that appreciated that remembers there's a merciful God
twenty-four seven always
but realitywho forgets
that life is a mystery
i write and it flows
and i know that these words are exaggerated because my conscious knows
i never miss a lecture, and is faithful to the one beautiful boythat actually gives a **** the day after
i'm the girlthat smokes a bowl
and worries about her soul
picture this weekend scene:
alone with a man
gorgeous and caring as could ever be
frozen lake front
wrapped in his arms,
perfect any teen girl couldn't want anything more
but unhappiness rests in me
it rests in his arms, sure neglected for a day or two
but this girls knows
clearity in mind strength through living empirically
and if i truly believe'd i'd go to heaven
i'd stop letting my worries write these ****** *** poems
Feb 25, 2010
Feb 25, 2010 at 1:06 PM UTC
Transferring action lit by dim candlelight
Forming sentences by the wind
A tall tale underneath painted purple bed sheets
Mysteries of life and the gatekeeper's lazy hand
A transference of love through the page
Bringing images by words and meter
Peter tempting Gabriel two times or more
Contracts ripped in half by two lover's quarrel
Necessary are these hours
Staring far into the stars
Nodding not into sleep, for
That
Is too easy
I nod for the scent of freshly shampooed wet hair
Or the glance of the eye downward from shyness
A tell that all is not stable, though both are quite able
To take what they will if they wanted if they could
An annoyance
Like the ***** of a finger on a rose petal
Ironic
Like stubbing one's toe
On your recently bought golden toilet bowl
Fresh are you, fruit of the Mid west
The snow in your hair never melts
Consequence beseeches you, fair angel
My heart is but a spool of yarn, fallen and tangled
Quick, in first gear
To the rear go the spears
Holy water pipes and
Misinformed volcanoes are but a wish
To see destruction
On what we familial souls
Claiming belief in what we love
What does one need other then
A room with a key and lock?
These men and women who flock
To shiny office and cloud piercing cathedrals
Are mere coffins ***** and metal
Lost in flight
Reaching for a moon that does not wish
To house us
Another night passes.
The dawn is quick to rise.
Mornings moon disappears
From sight behind the trees
And the marble fountain made
For the phantom of petty monarchy.
And though the phrase
Is spoken in a nightingales song
Does not mean that a razor doth hide
Underneath the tip of the
Very same tongue
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 2:29 AM UTC
My childhood
was stubbing toes on pool railings
while trying not to drown
four foot tall, six feet under.
I sat by houseplants
on cold tile.
I lost my teeth to salt water taffy.
My parakeet was named
after a character on Full House
who had frizzy hair
and did not have her mama either.
One day,
she broke her beak.
It was my fault, I brought the
blood to my face as I would salve
to apologize
but it was far too late.
Daddy set her free while I slept.
I would rush to the
school supply aisle in Kroger
for pens and pencils
and bought Barbie dolls to glide
against the bayou’s surface.
Later, Katrina came
to sink everything I ever touched.
I thought
about the black men and their
saxophones downtown
how I wanted to replace the reeds
so badly
to hear New Orleans jazz
one final time before we moved.
The whole time
my sister was made of sage.
My brother slept on my Powerpuff
Girl sheets so often that
I kept my ******* in another room.
And I thought that
mothers came from fireplaces
because mine
hid her liquor in there sometimes.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 8:13 PM UTC
there's something about
'shit'
not scatological.
the edge.
the sacred,
bitter, hit.
deliberate.
of someone saying it,
spitting the
syllable-
while wearing a stolen
black leather jacket
and red lipstick
stubbing a cigarette
and cursing sideways at
'men and their...'
back handedness.
from an artist's mouth...
maybe a woman's...
but the taste
it's like metal
it always cuts-
just right.
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 10:11 PM UTC
between poems,
an old curmudgeon,
am me-he,
thorny gray stubbled face
available for
knife sharpening and
tongue lashing
cranky and cantankerous,
bad tempered,
ill mannered, me-he,
until they slip me a
paper aspirin
place before me a clean sheet
Presto Chango,
the ole man displaced,
(the boy who remembers to forget,)
in his heart~place, installed,
though the
briar and the thorn
never from his visage depart,
just briefly, Red Sea parted
kiss me surprised,
stumbling about in the
wee of the rambunctious hours,
stubbing me eyes upon
a poetess, a kindred soul
who claims my pointy moniker that
earned I,
only after years
of indentured servitude,
Briar Thornly,
so unnaturally misnamed,
yet she of but,
few and the tenderest years
rights me up
with young words
her poems sweet treats, sweet eats,
departing me delightfully unfairly from
my grumpy good graces,
look below if you dare risking,
a hazardous glancing upon her works,
if you like to, grrrrr, smile
*Déjà vu
Oh to write or not to write.
My mind says I don't have a choice.
Love has made a home in my heart.
I suffer not being able to
open the door to my inspiration.
I toss a paper ball into the trash.
Chapters of my life turn into dust.
I bury those words in my mind.
Words that I used to think
were wrapped up in true meaning.
A break could **** my block but
my pencil spins out of control.
I'll conquer all of those lost attempts.
Piano's and violins phase in and out.
Wheels of creativity turning in caution.
The clock sounds gong,gong,gone.
Inspiration died at the start of a vacation.
On the page there was the suicide of passion.
The ghost of my muse will soon reappear.
My emotions need to break free from
the shelter of my imagination.
I"ll write till the dawn of poetry.^*
read her poetry till dawn
or face my thorny faced
muse,
and perhaps now you understand,
at last comprehend,
**a rose by any other name
would smell as sweet as a
thorn**
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 3:21 PM UTC
A most deceiving mask
A coiled contemplation
A look of despair and woe
The grimace of pain
The coming of rain
The stubbing of a toe
My sweet love
I am ready to confess to every sin
The rumbling of the gut
The raising of the ****
The flatulence's raucous din
But lo!
This is not a measly prairie wind
That passes lazily through the tall grass
This is a grinning of the devil
A demon's carefully constructed bevel
A hell fire that rips from your ***
From what I thought was my own fault
To cause you such a look
Twas' a stalk of broccoli
A sprout of Brussels
A miscalculation by the cook
So white knuckle my dear
Hold tight for life
As your intestines come trembling out
Whatever you ate
My succulent date
Is making your **** shout
But bless the heavens
And all that is eternal
That this has come to pass
What I thought was the end
The loss of my friend
Was just a spot of gas.
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 1:10 PM UTC
Been off stubbing repeatedly,
my toes,
on the raggedy twisted
sidewalks of a sinking city, not mine,
where here, my own metaphor,
is being hand delivered,
to me, for me, by me
too many cayenne creole paroles,
none of them getting me any freer
none, as of yet,
making me a free parolee
been off studying some
of what I cannot yet do,
parole in libertà,
a language cosmopolitan
of creation, via creative writing
remolding all of the dix senses
been drawn and french quartered,
drilled down, found no unknown
solace deep bedrock grown,
so doing a redistricting of the map personal,
exposing my gardens, my Doric columns,
to any passerby with the
audacity so sheer to look me
in the face direct and say
laissez le bon temps rouler!
looking to liberate my words,
looking for liberty in my words,
in a different melting *** where here
I am a semi-low semi-free
person of color called
Old Fashioned White,
looking for a seasonal hurricane
to move me along,
push me to write in a new style,
developing cayenne words
smothered in jazz à la mode
multi-flirting with multi-fluency,
searching for Experimental
mellifluous words
stolenlen from, and built upon
a thousand years of languages,
river wide delivering its mountain deep
cargo of silt, a city of words, upon it built,
just like the great Mississippi,
changing course every one
thousand years
my mouth, a river opening wide,
catching both salty and fresh,
god's love delivering,
doing the best I can,
writing real fracking poetry for poetry's sake,
not text messages of asstags
kissing nobody's ads of sad dead #hashtags,
following nobody noticeably,
but thrusting your good stuff into my orifices,
most pleasurably deep
but never parrying,
I am a poet social only in this:
my devotion to my crew
stronger every day
for and
of that particular poetry,
I can write better than anyone,
so big,
sooooooooo easy,
and that's, Steve, Bala, y'all,
how and what I'm doing
and by the way,
Putain Zang Tumb Tumb
you could look it up
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 9:32 PM UTC
You Gonna be Cursed, Ain't Nothing You Can Do...
*Dedicated to those who understand
That if you look at life askew,
Then your head will likely be
******* on straight and your
Poetry will set you free
And help me too, stay that way*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
**You are refrained, restrained,
Unconsciously, the wire inserted right thru
Your eyes when wide awake and
You sucker, oblivious, clueless are...**
When older you'll blah blah blah,
Understand, realize,
Cause you will be accursed
With cautionary tales,
Wisdom from cowardly fools,
Familiar with the stupor of life,
a/k/a, experience,
Symptom but one, over-caution.
With the caution that comes from
Stubbing your toe, losing your job oh no,
Getting ****** the night before before,
The most important day of whatever more,
Marrying the wrong woman cause,
You can't find the one with secret sauce
Enlivening your boredom with a secret whoredom
To anything but her, you, a not-so-secret serf.
Go the safe school,
Or pretend you're a rebel with pink streaks,
But that's b.s. too, self deluding
Real rebels only come one way,
Demeanor modest, keep your eyes on the
Quiet ones who run around happy when raining.
Cockeyed, squint, then you'll see it straight,
***** you, experience,
You take so much more than you give,
But most of us ***** don't know it till is
Gad **** way too late.
Preaching cause I am the fool
Biggest, sacrificed 30 years of misery
Afraid to apple cart, slept alone for decades,
Till I found the right one who before you,
Here, have embraced, repeatedly.
So when read your heartbreak hotel songs,
So weary-laden, no future foreseen,
Think of this, the only pain,
This heart break of failed love
Y'all write of, so oft,
Is the chiefest exception to this curse.
Live and love are one and the sane,
Love lose pain love again, dangerously,
Do it over and over, unstintingly,
Get experienced, but never cautious,
Fail, fail, never cease to be edgy.
**In this endless struggle stay involved,
No pause button, no recess,
For when the love accident happens,
There are no words I possess to
Adequate communicate,
The euphoria of having thrown caution
In the garbage can, next to its ******* cousin,
Experience.**
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 6:55 PM UTC
I'm off to see Jenny
she's keeping well,
just worried about her bunion
but she's a brave lass.
The way she cares for one and all
and carries her mascara,
with dreams of being a brunette.
not forgetting her penchant for wearing worn designer shoes -
she insists on taking to Bournemoth despite
stubbing her toe nails,
to no ones avail.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 2:19 PM UTC
STOP THESE FEELINGS
Feeling trapped with no where to go
I wish I had feelings of happiness to show
Depressed, anxious and raging, too
Some may ask, “what else is new?”
They say time heals all wounds
A cliché like “the man in the moon”
I may try to let it all go
But it still feels as badly as stubbing my big toe
Work through your problems they say
I have been trying that every **** day
Stay positive and keep going straight
As if that can stop it at a faster rate
Journaling, poetry and prayer help on the days
In which I feel the likes of rot and decay
Escaping this world seems the only way out
For some people it always seems the quickest route
I dream of finally finding everlasting peace
But the suicidal thoughts need to cease
I have to remember God has a plan
I’ve got to stay here just as long as I can
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 2:54 AM UTC
Felt so sticky
I got up in the middle of the night
With swollen eyes and swollen resentment
To hum restless music
And change my sheets
I imagine the scene
Where I'll stand, stubbing out
An old cigarette on grey gravel
With the toes of my shoes
And finally dig my nails into
That sweet and thoughtful persona of yours
That lets me eat your mistakes
And the restless music buzzes through the gravel
Outside the hookah bar we go to
To pretend like we're sitting still
We stand in silence for the song to end
But restless music never seems to end
Weeks later, I'll sit up nights
And tell myself I was nothing but sweet to you
Nothing!
Sprawl out nights
And stick to my sheets
And absorb restless music
And nothing ever seems to end
Apr 11, 2010
Apr 11, 2010 at 3:10 PM UTC
Some people think they know what pain is.
I'll tell you what pain is.
Pain is accidentally using your astringent instead of your eye makeup remover.
Pain is stepping on a lego barefoot.
Pain is stubbing your pinky toe on the same table leg for the 50th time.
Pain is taking responsibility for something that wasn't your fault simply because you're an "adult."
Pain is shedding a tear for the close friend who committed suicide over a year ago.
Pain is thinking about the last look of recognition before your grandfather's death.
Pain is feeling like you can never be honest with anyone about what you are truly feeling.
Pain is the fear that you may not ever find "the one."
Pain is caring too much for people who will never love you.
Pain is realizing that everything you believed in might be false.
Pain is knowing that the people you trusted have lied to you.
Pain is understanding that they were only doing what they thought was right.
This is my pain.
What's yours?
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 2:03 AM UTC
We look at a dot .Not knowingThat there's a whole communityLiving on itBut maybe some other creatureLooks down on earthAnd sees a dot .The top of a bald man's head ________Oh so smoothTiny organisms trek for centuriesTo climb over the huge hills /\/\/\/\/\/\/Which are his hair We climb Mt. Everest /\/\/\/\/\/\/And cheer Another creature Walks over it smoothly __________Not even stubbing a toe We're hugeThe pupil of our eyes can fitBillions of miniscule living things We're tinySmall than a grain of sandIt all depends on Which side of the binoculars you're looking throughIt all depends onYour perspective . <----home to a community me----------------->. /\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\ ________________Which is the bald man's head? Which is the hilly land?
Mar 1, 2010
Mar 1, 2010 at 4:19 PM UTC