"stubs" poems - Hello Poetry

"stubs" poems

The Lioness is one of God's majestic creatures She is mighty ferocious fierce and brave Prides herself in her features While killing the antelope she has desperately crave The Lioness is filled with love Only as she watches her cubs With the lion her belove And protects them from the hard stubs The Lioness is not submissive She lets the lion become king for as long as she pleases Never permissive Until hell freezes The Lioness is the true queen of the pride No one dares challenges her If you do you will not slide You will only talk of blather If you hear her fearsome roar then take heed of this lore

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Jun 4, 2015

Jun 4, 2015 at 11:48 AM UTC

The Heart of a Lioness

The Lioness is one of God's majestic creatures She is mighty ferocious fierce and brave Prides herself in her features While killing the antelope she has desperately crave The Lioness is filled with love Only as she watches her cubs With the lion her belove And protects them from the hard stubs The Lioness is not submissive She lets the lion become king for as long as she pleases Never permissive Until hell freezes The Lioness is the true queen of the pride No one dares challenges her If you do you will not slide You will only talk of blather If you hear her fearsome roar then take heed of this lore

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the bus poets we are the modern day chimney sweeps, the ***** black faced coal miners of the city, digging up its grit, toasted with its spit, the gone and forgotten elevator operators, the anonymous substitutable, still yet glimpsed occasionally, grunts of urbanity provoking a surprised whaddya know! once like the bison and the buffalo, we were thousands, word workers roaming the cities, the intercity rural routes and the lithe greyhounds across the land of the brave, free in ways the founders wanted us to be us, the stubs and stuff, harder working poor and lower cases we were the bus poets, sitting always in the back of the bus, where the engines growls loudest, seated in the - the most overheated in winter time, so much so we nearly disrobed, and then come the summer, we were blasted with a joking hot reverie from the vents, but vent, no, we did not! no - we wrote and wrote of all we heard, passion overheated by currents within and without, recording and ordering the snatches and the soliloquies of the passengers, into poem swatches; the goings on passing by, the overheard histories, glimpsed in milliseconds, eternity preserved, inscribed in a cheap blue lined five & dime notebook, for all eternity what the eyes sighed and saw books ever passed onto the next generation in boxes from the supermarket, attic labeled, then forgotten beside the outgrown toys with our names writ indelible with the magic of black markers if you stumble upon a breathing scripter, let them be, just observe, as they, you, these movers and bus shakers, as they, observe you tell your children, you knew one in your youth, then take them to the attic retrieve your mother's and father's, teach your children how to read, how to see, the ways of their forefathers, the forsaken, the bus poets.

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Sep 29, 2017

Sep 29, 2017 at 7:53 AM UTC

the bus poets we are the modern day chimney sweeps, the ***** black faced coal miners of the city, digging up its grit, toasted with its spit, the gone and forgotten elevator operators, the anonymous substitutable, still yet glimpsed occasionally, grunts of urbanity provoking a surprised whaddya know! once like the bison and the buffalo, we were thousands, word workers roaming the cities, the intercity rural routes and the lithe greyhounds across the land of the brave, free in ways the founders wanted us to be us, the stubs and stuff, harder working poor and lower cases we were the bus poets, sitting always in the back of the bus, where the engines growls loudest, seated in the - the most overheated in winter time, so much so we nearly disrobed, and then come the summer, we were blasted with a joking hot reverie from the vents, but vent, no, we did not! no - we wrote and wrote of all we heard, passion overheated by currents within and without, recording and ordering the snatches and the soliloquies of the passengers, into poem swatches; the goings on passing by, the overheard histories, glimpsed in milliseconds, eternity preserved, inscribed in a cheap blue lined five & dime notebook, for all eternity what the eyes sighed and saw books ever passed onto the next generation in boxes from the supermarket, attic labeled, then forgotten beside the outgrown toys with our names writ indelible with the magic of black markers if you stumble upon a breathing scripter, let them be, just observe, as they, you, these movers and bus shakers, as they, observe you tell your children, you knew one in your youth, then take them to the attic retrieve your mother's and father's, teach your children how to read, how to see, the ways of their forefathers, the forsaken, the bus poets.

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What is going on with this ****** up superiority? Discriminating because I am some kind of cultural minority Acting like you trust me when the two of us are together But when your friends come around you run off to something better To all of society you pretend you're not smoking your **** When you roll your joint you're high just like me Eating dinner with your parents you talk like a ****** On the weekends, though, you give in to teenage urging If only you would take off that mask and see, That when it comes down to it you're no different than me. We breathe the same air, though yours may cost more And when we go to school we walk through the same doors Maybe your hair is more blond And your nails are a little cleaner, Or you play fancy sports, So you look a little leaner I don't have a credit card, or hang out at the country club I work for what I want And am proud of my pay stubs So, have some consideration, it's not really that tough We all know your life is easy, but some people have it rough. If only we could learn that empathy is the goal Maybe you could act like you actually have a soul.

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Apr 5, 2014

Apr 5, 2014 at 11:11 PM UTC

Clever Rhymes About Adversity

What is going on with this ****** up superiority? Discriminating because I am some kind of cultural minority Acting like you trust me when the two of us are together But when your friends come around you run off to something better To all of society you pretend you're not smoking your **** When you roll your joint you're high just like me Eating dinner with your parents you talk like a ****** On the weekends, though, you give in to teenage urging If only you would take off that mask and see, That when it comes down to it you're no different than me. We breathe the same air, though yours may cost more And when we go to school we walk through the same doors Maybe your hair is more blond And your nails are a little cleaner, Or you play fancy sports, So you look a little leaner I don't have a credit card, or hang out at the country club I work for what I want And am proud of my pay stubs So, have some consideration, it's not really that tough We all know your life is easy, but some people have it rough. If only we could learn that empathy is the goal Maybe you could act like you actually have a soul.

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pencil-thin shoulders mess of dyed blonde hair and fake strawberry grins lost in movie ticket stubs stuck to crowded multi-coloured walls stuffed bears hidden under bedsprings, pent-up energy like carbonation in sugary soft drinks unsteady hands on composed aged shoulders, unsure feet find their way on moving slabs cleaning out bright blue backpacks filled with words forgotten on pages dried up like pens or discarded acquaintances discovering heart-shaped cardboard tokens of February infatuation pure unlike clandestine Friday nights, pounding nervous with blood in pink seashell ears

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Oct 17, 2012

Oct 17, 2012 at 7:27 PM UTC

pencil-thin shoulders mess of dyed blonde hair and fake strawberry grins lost in movie ticket stubs stuck to crowded multi-coloured walls stuffed bears hidden under bedsprings, pent-up energy like carbonation in sugary soft drinks unsteady hands on composed aged shoulders, unsure feet find their way on moving slabs cleaning out bright blue backpacks filled with words forgotten on pages dried up like pens or discarded acquaintances discovering heart-shaped cardboard tokens of February infatuation pure unlike clandestine Friday nights, pounding nervous with blood in pink seashell ears

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I am your biggest enemy That annoying disruptive archenemy I am the devil’s advocate The answer that can’t wait I am the, what if, that cannot That heart dropping second thought I am that itch you can’t reach That dreaded wedding speech I am the chair leg that stubs your toe The dreadful bad hair day photo I am the daily agonizing frustration But these moments give me this admiration To be happy and thankful for those times That make it worth wild to live a lifetime.

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Dec 2, 2015

Dec 2, 2015 at 11:59 AM UTC

brandon-amberger

Daily frustration

I am your biggest enemy That annoying disruptive archenemy I am the devil’s advocate The answer that can’t wait I am the, what if, that cannot That heart dropping second thought I am that itch you can’t reach That dreaded wedding speech I am the chair leg that stubs your toe The dreadful bad hair day photo I am the daily agonizing frustration But these moments give me this admiration To be happy and thankful for those times That make it worth wild to live a lifetime.

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Sunday morning, the air froze, the dahlias once bloomed angry, now they shiver and sigh. Autumn breeze, faint but still, the padded ghost-steps of your laugh, running wild, like vintage photographs; scattered Polaroids of my memory - a smile here, a grimace there. How the heat of emotions buries itself in the clothes of yesterday, How difficult it is to fetch from the seams. The needles only ***** at a faint feeling. I wonder; do you forget me as winter forgets the living? Because once an old man told me I had sad eyes Sunsets melt to chalky lines, like cigarette stubs, they died when you met her. These days only my fingers remember summer, I touch the hearts of others to warm them too. My voice wind chimes, the eulogy of the storm, when I breath your name I shudder... And listen- because I am in the echoes of her, of us.

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Feb 19, 2016

Feb 19, 2016 at 11:54 AM UTC

Never Stare At The Sun

Sunday morning, the air froze, the dahlias once bloomed angry, now they shiver and sigh. Autumn breeze, faint but still, the padded ghost-steps of your laugh, running wild, like vintage photographs; scattered Polaroids of my memory - a smile here, a grimace there. How the heat of emotions buries itself in the clothes of yesterday, How difficult it is to fetch from the seams. The needles only ***** at a faint feeling. I wonder; do you forget me as winter forgets the living? Because once an old man told me I had sad eyes Sunsets melt to chalky lines, like cigarette stubs, they died when you met her. These days only my fingers remember summer, I touch the hearts of others to warm them too. My voice wind chimes, the eulogy of the storm, when I breath your name I shudder... And listen- because I am in the echoes of her, of us.

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Perseus, Super, Greek hero, Trips, Stubs big toe, Cries, Mummy!

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Jun 14, 2014

Jun 14, 2014 at 4:42 PM UTC

Perseus, Super, Greek hero, Trips, Stubs big toe, Cries, Mummy!

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Neon Stella Artois lights and sly hellos It commenced as we were flew spinning Ticket stubs and ink -stains Oh, as our love flirted we both were seeking Brooklyn Subway stops and ***** clothes We perched by the equator but only when beginning Backwards flasks and ******* Then winter solstice was challenged by spring’s springing Strands of soft pearls and wishing wells We shivered the anxious touch of a faux July summer’s evening Empty bar stools and firelight It was still bitterly February but with the mockery of songbirds floating Two Thirty Seven A.M. and sea shells How can the world deceive us in this fashion: fools, we accept ever-knowing Buttered bread and hindsight Dawn will crash with frostbite and these daisies will pay the price of their beauty’s sinning Wine before noon and payphone bills Wind will eviscerate this moment for once you have touched the sun the ice is more than suffocating Dry heaving and ribbons We were only waiting then at the heart of a train station for the stretches of shadows to lengthen First drags of cigarettes and blue diet pills The glitter within the dew drops stolen from our tired eyes when our first summer was stolen Cheap motels and kitchens We could barely exchange syllables, our melodies quarreling, our blood had thinned Calendar pages and black lace ******* The euthanasia of the spring would have hung us too if we had breathed it in The Last calls and lollipops One can repose more gently in the absence of color than in the theft of sin Bitten manicured hands and autumn leaves We used to sleep in a room with wonders, windows, and blankets within Midnight whispers and rooftops It was the only place that could soften the swords in all this ruin ****** wrappers and painting supplies Today is cruel, it cannot be summer if the world doesn’t spin Happy hour cocktails and goodbyes

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Jan 26, 2013

Jan 26, 2013 at 2:16 PM UTC

Neon Stella Artois lights and sly hellos It commenced as we were flew spinning Ticket stubs and ink -stains Oh, as our love flirted we both were seeking Brooklyn Subway stops and ***** clothes We perched by the equator but only when beginning Backwards flasks and ******* Then winter solstice was challenged by spring’s springing Strands of soft pearls and wishing wells We shivered the anxious touch of a faux July summer’s evening Empty bar stools and firelight It was still bitterly February but with the mockery of songbirds floating Two Thirty Seven A.M. and sea shells How can the world deceive us in this fashion: fools, we accept ever-knowing Buttered bread and hindsight Dawn will crash with frostbite and these daisies will pay the price of their beauty’s sinning Wine before noon and payphone bills Wind will eviscerate this moment for once you have touched the sun the ice is more than suffocating Dry heaving and ribbons We were only waiting then at the heart of a train station for the stretches of shadows to lengthen First drags of cigarettes and blue diet pills The glitter within the dew drops stolen from our tired eyes when our first summer was stolen Cheap motels and kitchens We could barely exchange syllables, our melodies quarreling, our blood had thinned Calendar pages and black lace ******* The euthanasia of the spring would have hung us too if we had breathed it in The Last calls and lollipops One can repose more gently in the absence of color than in the theft of sin Bitten manicured hands and autumn leaves We used to sleep in a room with wonders, windows, and blankets within Midnight whispers and rooftops It was the only place that could soften the swords in all this ruin ****** wrappers and painting supplies Today is cruel, it cannot be summer if the world doesn’t spin Happy hour cocktails and goodbyes

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Old stripe-laced tiger moth of the Serengeti with your sugar-seeking tongue, Your powdered fang stubs into another ******* hartebeest of some bud.

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Jun 6, 2019

Jun 6, 2019 at 10:55 PM UTC

To Yeats on the Roar of Your “Second Puberty”

Old stripe-laced tiger moth of the Serengeti with your sugar-seeking tongue, Your powdered fang stubs into another ******* hartebeest of some bud.

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Eat the fourth cookie. Bring back that fuzzy green sweater with lint ***** so stubborn that even the strongest lint roller couldn’t break the bond they have with the sweater. I know you pick your nose in public. You stutter every time I ask who lives on Mamaroneck Street. You have burping contests with yourself while you’re on the toilet. I don’t care how you clip your toenails on today’s newspaper. I still read it after you’re done. I love that you paint each nail in a different neon color, eat chocolate chips and green tea for breakfast, and salt your apples. You cry every time you watch Titanic. I agree Rose should’ve moved to the side and shared the plank with Jack. You rap to Baby Got Back fifty nine times in a row. I wish we danced to it more often. I wish you would tell me what you write in your red book. I know you pretend you’re Beyonce in concert while working out, and think Michael Buble wrote haven’t met you yet for you. I love that you keep the ticket stubs from every single movie we see in the tea jar under your bed. You smell of cologne every time you walk into the house. You don’t know how to whisper. You never have. You tell me you’ll be back by noon but don’t come back till 7 p.m. You use your knitting needles as chopsticks when we order sushi, And don’t stamp any of the letters you send your mom. Even though you have seven wallets, you keep all your money loose in your bag and throw away all the pennies in the trash. You pretend your belly-fat is a puppet that can talk and sing, And you flirt with the waiter for extra hot sauce. You hate it when I use your cell-phone And every night you kiss him goodnight at the train station.

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Dec 12, 2011

Dec 12, 2011 at 11:19 AM UTC

Eat the fourth cookie. Bring back that fuzzy green sweater with lint ***** so stubborn that even the strongest lint roller couldn’t break the bond they have with the sweater. I know you pick your nose in public. You stutter every time I ask who lives on Mamaroneck Street. You have burping contests with yourself while you’re on the toilet. I don’t care how you clip your toenails on today’s newspaper. I still read it after you’re done. I love that you paint each nail in a different neon color, eat chocolate chips and green tea for breakfast, and salt your apples. You cry every time you watch Titanic. I agree Rose should’ve moved to the side and shared the plank with Jack. You rap to Baby Got Back fifty nine times in a row. I wish we danced to it more often. I wish you would tell me what you write in your red book. I know you pretend you’re Beyonce in concert while working out, and think Michael Buble wrote haven’t met you yet for you. I love that you keep the ticket stubs from every single movie we see in the tea jar under your bed. You smell of cologne every time you walk into the house. You don’t know how to whisper. You never have. You tell me you’ll be back by noon but don’t come back till 7 p.m. You use your knitting needles as chopsticks when we order sushi, And don’t stamp any of the letters you send your mom. Even though you have seven wallets, you keep all your money loose in your bag and throw away all the pennies in the trash. You pretend your belly-fat is a puppet that can talk and sing, And you flirt with the waiter for extra hot sauce. You hate it when I use your cell-phone And every night you kiss him goodnight at the train station.

Continue reading...

The yellowed dome cracks upon the surface Of the moistened soil that stretches to make Their way, emphatically filling most base Space between dried stubs of flesh - never fake Fruitless fingers - cracking, brushing, but now Healing by comforting the path I pursue With the wake of the rooster. Home left warming behind, I gallantly Saunter toward more humid, fume-fed airs While leaving the thoughts that so quaintly Filled my head, forgot to ingrain, and failed, Allowing growth to myself. Sun hung, high-noon, the dew fades all too soon Creating a creaky concoction kept Together (of sounds) by bare breaking-bones Feet against gravel, dusty, rocky steps. Sky set so wearisome and pink, I fall To my knees in the midst of high terrain Marked by thin grasses and rolling hill plains; As I beg for mercy, not from this all- Endowed sight, but from God(s) who seem only To make this life right - I'll collapse further, My hands move mountainous dirt and holy Diadems of twig, while I decide - worth When shall I dig?

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Oct 24, 2012

Oct 24, 2012 at 10:09 AM UTC

The yellowed dome cracks upon the surface Of the moistened soil that stretches to make Their way, emphatically filling most base Space between dried stubs of flesh - never fake Fruitless fingers - cracking, brushing, but now Healing by comforting the path I pursue With the wake of the rooster. Home left warming behind, I gallantly Saunter toward more humid, fume-fed airs While leaving the thoughts that so quaintly Filled my head, forgot to ingrain, and failed, Allowing growth to myself. Sun hung, high-noon, the dew fades all too soon Creating a creaky concoction kept Together (of sounds) by bare breaking-bones Feet against gravel, dusty, rocky steps. Sky set so wearisome and pink, I fall To my knees in the midst of high terrain Marked by thin grasses and rolling hill plains; As I beg for mercy, not from this all- Endowed sight, but from God(s) who seem only To make this life right - I'll collapse further, My hands move mountainous dirt and holy Diadems of twig, while I decide - worth When shall I dig?

Continue reading...

A Woman of Many Words I am a Woman of Many Words I am drawn to all those places That words congregate: Libraries and bookstores Road signs and billboards Ticket stubs and subtitles Nametags and license plates Each one a journey driving inside me I am a Woman of Many Words I love the way the shapes feel in my mouth The skittle taste of syllables I am drawn to especially long words With their phonetic entities stretching out like tentacles to reach new corners of pronunciation Words like Bibliophile and flippant-irreverence Evanescent and Insouciance Mellifluous and Effervescent Mondegreen and Labyrinthine Words like Onomatopoeia and Tintinnabulation I appreciate their weight on my tongue The way my hands appreciate the thickness that is a fat book I am a Woman of Many Words I am attracted to their multitude The space their figures take up on a page The calligraphic punches Typed up by keys The carefully constructed Brush strokes Spouting What is sure to be, nonsense But I do enjoy the sound of nonsense in the morning I am a Woman of Many Words I cling to the lettered skyscrapers wherever I can find them Because the familiar scent of scribbles across parchment is comfort food for me I find them On the backs of cereal boxes And in Popsicle riddles In fortune cookies And alphabet soup From magnets on my fridge To junk food logos And I hold on to them for dear life For fear that silence should find me And leave me empty For fear it will take away the music of maracas Made by words Dancing the salsa inside me I am a Woman of Many Words because Words Answer my Questions, Soothe my fears, and Humor my Whims They are not always Right But they are always Constant They are not always Honest, in fact, Mostly They Lie But ever so often They tell such a Beautiful Lie That you wish it were true They sing from the rocks offering Escape from Terrifying, Suffocating, Mind numbing Silence that echoes off my skeleton I am afraid that silence will hollow out my insides and leave me abandoned with nothing between my Bow and Stern my Forecastle all torn up I am afraid of the skeleton inside me So I am a Woman of Many of Words For fear of silence And contempt for truth Because my words are sirens And my shipwreck is home here

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Nov 10, 2015

Nov 10, 2015 at 5:12 PM UTC

ladyofthepantomime

A Woman of Many Words

A Woman of Many Words I am a Woman of Many Words I am drawn to all those places That words congregate: Libraries and bookstores Road signs and billboards Ticket stubs and subtitles Nametags and license plates Each one a journey driving inside me I am a Woman of Many Words I love the way the shapes feel in my mouth The skittle taste of syllables I am drawn to especially long words With their phonetic entities stretching out like tentacles to reach new corners of pronunciation Words like Bibliophile and flippant-irreverence Evanescent and Insouciance Mellifluous and Effervescent Mondegreen and Labyrinthine Words like Onomatopoeia and Tintinnabulation I appreciate their weight on my tongue The way my hands appreciate the thickness that is a fat book I am a Woman of Many Words I am attracted to their multitude The space their figures take up on a page The calligraphic punches Typed up by keys The carefully constructed Brush strokes Spouting What is sure to be, nonsense But I do enjoy the sound of nonsense in the morning I am a Woman of Many Words I cling to the lettered skyscrapers wherever I can find them Because the familiar scent of scribbles across parchment is comfort food for me I find them On the backs of cereal boxes And in Popsicle riddles In fortune cookies And alphabet soup From magnets on my fridge To junk food logos And I hold on to them for dear life For fear that silence should find me And leave me empty For fear it will take away the music of maracas Made by words Dancing the salsa inside me I am a Woman of Many Words because Words Answer my Questions, Soothe my fears, and Humor my Whims They are not always Right But they are always Constant They are not always Honest, in fact, Mostly They Lie But ever so often They tell such a Beautiful Lie That you wish it were true They sing from the rocks offering Escape from Terrifying, Suffocating, Mind numbing Silence that echoes off my skeleton I am afraid that silence will hollow out my insides and leave me abandoned with nothing between my Bow and Stern my Forecastle all torn up I am afraid of the skeleton inside me So I am a Woman of Many of Words For fear of silence And contempt for truth Because my words are sirens And my shipwreck is home here

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Pulling her cardboard with a filthy, ragged string... she searches. No corner is her own. There is nowhere she belongs. Sometimes the cardboard catches a breeze, sails up to smack her in the back of her legs. But life has smacked her so many times - she does not notice anymore. There is little hope for a clean place, but dry sure would be nice. Her bones sing in the night air, a chorus of hungry wolves. The cough in her chest is thick with illness; her feet are crippled stubs. She can not remember if she is very old, or young as a chick. She wanders - sure of this... she is cold and hungry and has no place to rest her head.

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Jul 20, 2015

Jul 20, 2015 at 5:52 PM UTC

Pulling her cardboard with a filthy, ragged string... she searches. No corner is her own. There is nowhere she belongs. Sometimes the cardboard catches a breeze, sails up to smack her in the back of her legs. But life has smacked her so many times - she does not notice anymore. There is little hope for a clean place, but dry sure would be nice. Her bones sing in the night air, a chorus of hungry wolves. The cough in her chest is thick with illness; her feet are crippled stubs. She can not remember if she is very old, or young as a chick. She wanders - sure of this... she is cold and hungry and has no place to rest her head.

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in a town in which I've never been you light a cigarette and try to smoke me out of your mind while I sit here, my ashtray filled with pencil stubs from trying to write my arms around you I haven't slept since you left I've spent my nights searching for the sun for if I found it, I'd climb right on top so I could be with you in the morning but my mornings remain rivers after a storm memories flowing by like debris I can't reach them without falling in so I stand and watch them go its the watching I can't stand watching your hand slip from mine watching the wrong time convince us that we can't be together I feel helpless, hopeless these days hold me prisoner the hurt trying to torture remorse from my lips but I will never regret the days I spent with you when I was with you you looked at me like there was no past or future, only now you listened to me like I was Buddha preaching the Eightfold Path you spoke to me like I was memorizing your every word, cause I was you hugged me you held me you kissed me like I’m a boy you had a crush on became I’m a boy who loves you but here I’m a boy who misses you as the wind blew us together, the rain shall sweep us away and come fall we’ll be leaves of different colors i just want to tell you that for how forcefully my gut protests at the thought of letting you go I cannot hear its cries when I think of the time I spent with you you took my heart in your hands, you broke it in and stretched it out, and then you gave it back here, you said, it is ready

0

Jul 11, 2013

Jul 11, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC

in a town in which I've never been you light a cigarette and try to smoke me out of your mind while I sit here, my ashtray filled with pencil stubs from trying to write my arms around you I haven't slept since you left I've spent my nights searching for the sun for if I found it, I'd climb right on top so I could be with you in the morning but my mornings remain rivers after a storm memories flowing by like debris I can't reach them without falling in so I stand and watch them go its the watching I can't stand watching your hand slip from mine watching the wrong time convince us that we can't be together I feel helpless, hopeless these days hold me prisoner the hurt trying to torture remorse from my lips but I will never regret the days I spent with you when I was with you you looked at me like there was no past or future, only now you listened to me like I was Buddha preaching the Eightfold Path you spoke to me like I was memorizing your every word, cause I was you hugged me you held me you kissed me like I’m a boy you had a crush on became I’m a boy who loves you but here I’m a boy who misses you as the wind blew us together, the rain shall sweep us away and come fall we’ll be leaves of different colors i just want to tell you that for how forcefully my gut protests at the thought of letting you go I cannot hear its cries when I think of the time I spent with you you took my heart in your hands, you broke it in and stretched it out, and then you gave it back here, you said, it is ready

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I have a problem, you see. I own objects like blankets I cannot sleep without, Headphones 4 inches thick To cancel the noises that Wake up every nerve in my body That make me shake and bite my nails I own stubs for fingers With cuts and chewed skin. They run across my forehead To stop the thoughts from occurring. I count, Correct the other side When someone touches my skin. I make sure every first letter In the next line of poetry Is capitalized, Cause that's a rule. I agonize over small things Because as a kid, No one helped me. I was too nervous to play in the hose Or turn on the shower Because my family would drown. The ritual began even then. At 6 I could not play baseball Because in the outfield I would tic and make my nose bleed. I can't even breathe without Bothering this disease. One lung does not fill up like the other, And I get dizzy. I have a scar on my forehead From completing this ritual for years. I fear And feel. Why do I fall victim to this disease? God, I would pray but my hands can hardly Touch each other without the horrible feeling.

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Nov 20, 2018

Nov 20, 2018 at 10:33 PM UTC

OBSESSIVE COMPULSIVE DISORDER - The Slam Confessions pt.1

I have a problem, you see. I own objects like blankets I cannot sleep without, Headphones 4 inches thick To cancel the noises that Wake up every nerve in my body That make me shake and bite my nails I own stubs for fingers With cuts and chewed skin. They run across my forehead To stop the thoughts from occurring. I count, Correct the other side When someone touches my skin. I make sure every first letter In the next line of poetry Is capitalized, Cause that's a rule. I agonize over small things Because as a kid, No one helped me. I was too nervous to play in the hose Or turn on the shower Because my family would drown. The ritual began even then. At 6 I could not play baseball Because in the outfield I would tic and make my nose bleed. I can't even breathe without Bothering this disease. One lung does not fill up like the other, And I get dizzy. I have a scar on my forehead From completing this ritual for years. I fear And feel. Why do I fall victim to this disease? God, I would pray but my hands can hardly Touch each other without the horrible feeling.

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Strange times. When I speak of caressing your mantic lungs I don’t know what I mean, but I know I would hurl you under proper circumstances. Darling, one whisper falls from a tree silently so as not to wake the ghosts from their siestas. Your robe has holes I can’t write of. I can fathom getting there, what that might entail, wrapping, as I am prone to, my fingers around your furry pincers while I wait for you to read my rights to the ceiling fan who whirls above our renovated combustions like the glowering eye of our Lord upon the teary-eyed wicked. I am not looking to escape through the window, darling. I am diving for your diamond-in-the-rough, peeling off barnacles, making moustaches of seaweed. You threw it into that ocean- sized trough in which you drown lizards as way of stress-release. I don’t know what I’ll do next. The poor man. You give me your hand, darling, and your robe, your robe is shiny like a pubescent star, and it shimmies like a wagon piecing itself apart, as you piece yourself apart, starting with your smile, which was always more like a photograph of a dune in a textbook. You give me your hand. It is a blue egg dusted with microorganisms. I sprinkle it with our fragrance, what’s left of it. I wish happiness upon your sleep-life, doldrums upon your late-night haunting. I am tired and these machines are so convenient, bringing me on all-expenses- paid visits to the site of your burial. Or is it your sister’s? I quote, my heart is like a walled onion. The poor man is tired. It is not 1904 anymore. You are not smiling anymore, darling, but you give me your hand. You give it in a basket with parsley and cheese and cut-outs from The Waterlogged God. You give it almost grudgingly but I will keep it. You tell me you’ve been dreaming again of train stations. I wonder what that means. I wonder about your eyes. There are many spiders inside the wall, and along it, and on the chandelier’s fingers, and inside the spiders. I quote, a dream is worth a thousand dustpans, but you, darling, are worth so much more than dustpans. But I grow weepy, as stated. What do those dark blue lines mean? Your fingers, darling, smell of a dark cloud in an electrical storm. Your palm is a circus. Your nails ticket stubs. That one’s from the alligator show. You dislocated your throat. I had a plan. If you stare into someone’s eyes for more than six seconds, you’ll want to lick them.

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May 25, 2010

May 25, 2010 at 8:20 PM UTC

My Life as Heiress to Your Throne, Darling

Strange times. When I speak of caressing your mantic lungs I don’t know what I mean, but I know I would hurl you under proper circumstances. Darling, one whisper falls from a tree silently so as not to wake the ghosts from their siestas. Your robe has holes I can’t write of. I can fathom getting there, what that might entail, wrapping, as I am prone to, my fingers around your furry pincers while I wait for you to read my rights to the ceiling fan who whirls above our renovated combustions like the glowering eye of our Lord upon the teary-eyed wicked. I am not looking to escape through the window, darling. I am diving for your diamond-in-the-rough, peeling off barnacles, making moustaches of seaweed. You threw it into that ocean- sized trough in which you drown lizards as way of stress-release. I don’t know what I’ll do next. The poor man. You give me your hand, darling, and your robe, your robe is shiny like a pubescent star, and it shimmies like a wagon piecing itself apart, as you piece yourself apart, starting with your smile, which was always more like a photograph of a dune in a textbook. You give me your hand. It is a blue egg dusted with microorganisms. I sprinkle it with our fragrance, what’s left of it. I wish happiness upon your sleep-life, doldrums upon your late-night haunting. I am tired and these machines are so convenient, bringing me on all-expenses- paid visits to the site of your burial. Or is it your sister’s? I quote, my heart is like a walled onion. The poor man is tired. It is not 1904 anymore. You are not smiling anymore, darling, but you give me your hand. You give it in a basket with parsley and cheese and cut-outs from The Waterlogged God. You give it almost grudgingly but I will keep it. You tell me you’ve been dreaming again of train stations. I wonder what that means. I wonder about your eyes. There are many spiders inside the wall, and along it, and on the chandelier’s fingers, and inside the spiders. I quote, a dream is worth a thousand dustpans, but you, darling, are worth so much more than dustpans. But I grow weepy, as stated. What do those dark blue lines mean? Your fingers, darling, smell of a dark cloud in an electrical storm. Your palm is a circus. Your nails ticket stubs. That one’s from the alligator show. You dislocated your throat. I had a plan. If you stare into someone’s eyes for more than six seconds, you’ll want to lick them.

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it's the emotional strip-tease, the tingling, depressions hand on your thighs, his skin is soothing enough but his nails curve red moons into those pretty little girl tights. they **** you so well, anxieties got a mean eye, for the girls with insecurities, they're the most fun, swallowing back their screams, saving them for the bedroom at night. you find them in the morning teasing the pill bottle, they got a will to live stuck in their throat. doctors say there's a heartbeat but no heart. all their red dresses over the floor, the first of many warning signs, red dresses to funerals, red dresses to slide down the underbelly of dissatisfaction. they sleep without love, exhaling demons on the balcony, until they burn like stubs in their eyes.

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Jul 29, 2016

Jul 29, 2016 at 9:01 AM UTC

you look saddest in red

it's the emotional strip-tease, the tingling, depressions hand on your thighs, his skin is soothing enough but his nails curve red moons into those pretty little girl tights. they **** you so well, anxieties got a mean eye, for the girls with insecurities, they're the most fun, swallowing back their screams, saving them for the bedroom at night. you find them in the morning teasing the pill bottle, they got a will to live stuck in their throat. doctors say there's a heartbeat but no heart. all their red dresses over the floor, the first of many warning signs, red dresses to funerals, red dresses to slide down the underbelly of dissatisfaction. they sleep without love, exhaling demons on the balcony, until they burn like stubs in their eyes.

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My internal landscape was once a wetland. Grasses and herbaceous plants sprout from the ventricles of my heart. My rib is a birch tree, a deciduous hard wood crowned with thin leaves. My veins are wild ravines. Inside it is the torrent of rain water that keeps me alive. My heart is a beating water lily, eternally blooming on the lake of my blood. I was a sullen mist, and I loved it that way. But they mistook my solitude for loneliness, the crowd, the clever engineers. So they loaded sands on their trucks, sacks after sacks. They opened me up, covered my wetland, and built a city inside me. They paved roads. They constructed buildings. They opened cafes and pubs and restaurants. They turned on their neon lights. A rave party is inside me at night, and they won't stop until I am filled with cigarette stubs and empty bottles and used issues and half-eaten plates -- litters and grime that I have to clean every morning of my life. My gutter is overflowing and they call this happiness. I call this wreckage. I moved close to the bed, pulled the sheet and laid down. I tried to remember my by-gone world -- my birch trees, my herbaceous plants, my wild ravines, my water lily -- before I was converted into a rattling shell called Happiness. You wrapped your arms around me and press your face on small of my back. My spine was a hard wood once, and every October it shed its golden leaves. "What do you want?" you asked. The neon lights and the avalanche of noise from everywhere drowned my thoughts, and all I can do for my defense is curl my mutiliated body. "Love me until the end of everything," I whispered. "And understand that this is not a plea." This is a burning desire to have my wetland back.

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Feb 18, 2017

Feb 18, 2017 at 12:13 PM UTC

lacus-crystalthorn

My internal landscape was once a wetland. Grasses and herbaceous plants sprout from the ventricles of my heart. My rib is a birch tree, a deciduous hard wood crowned with thin leaves. My veins are wild ravines. Inside it is the torrent of rain water that keeps me alive. My heart is a beating water lily, eternally blooming on the lake of my blood. I was a sullen mist, and I loved it that way. But they mistook my solitude for loneliness, the crowd, the clever engineers. So they loaded sands on their trucks, sacks after sacks. They opened me up, covered my wetland, and built a city inside me. They paved roads. They constructed buildings. They opened cafes and pubs and restaurants. They turned on their neon lights. A rave party is inside me at night, and they won't stop until I am filled with cigarette stubs and empty bottles and used issues and half-eaten plates -- litters and grime that I have to clean every morning of my life. My gutter is overflowing and they call this happiness. I call this wreckage. I moved close to the bed, pulled the sheet and laid down. I tried to remember my by-gone world -- my birch trees, my herbaceous plants, my wild ravines, my water lily -- before I was converted into a rattling shell called Happiness. You wrapped your arms around me and press your face on small of my back. My spine was a hard wood once, and every October it shed its golden leaves. "What do you want?" you asked. The neon lights and the avalanche of noise from everywhere drowned my thoughts, and all I can do for my defense is curl my mutiliated body. "Love me until the end of everything," I whispered. "And understand that this is not a plea." This is a burning desire to have my wetland back.

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I keep old movie stubs in my pockets Polaroids Concert tickets Loose mints Half pieces of gum And the fortunes from cookies I ate at my favorite chinese restaurant The one nestled between a church and a thrift shop I keep an abundance Of miscellaneous items I like the reminders Remembering What was important to me at the time And even though I keep these things I am not a hoarder I am a collector Of memories Of moments Of past that I refuse to let go of I hold on Much longer than I should Fold every sweet second Into the palm of my hand And save them for later Saving the sun for overcast days Saving light For nights when the darkness is too much It is my memories That keep me alive But the same ones Could very well Be the death of me I am a collector Of both things good and bad I hold on Much longer than I should But happiness Does not have an expiration date And there is always reason To reflect To smile At a piece of paper A picture A note Something Anything That once held significance People change Locations change Life Changes But inanimate objects Stand still even when time does not I am a collector And I am attempting to preserve The fading.

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Aug 27, 2014

Aug 27, 2014 at 11:10 PM UTC

I keep old movie stubs in my pockets Polaroids Concert tickets Loose mints Half pieces of gum And the fortunes from cookies I ate at my favorite chinese restaurant The one nestled between a church and a thrift shop I keep an abundance Of miscellaneous items I like the reminders Remembering What was important to me at the time And even though I keep these things I am not a hoarder I am a collector Of memories Of moments Of past that I refuse to let go of I hold on Much longer than I should Fold every sweet second Into the palm of my hand And save them for later Saving the sun for overcast days Saving light For nights when the darkness is too much It is my memories That keep me alive But the same ones Could very well Be the death of me I am a collector Of both things good and bad I hold on Much longer than I should But happiness Does not have an expiration date And there is always reason To reflect To smile At a piece of paper A picture A note Something Anything That once held significance People change Locations change Life Changes But inanimate objects Stand still even when time does not I am a collector And I am attempting to preserve The fading.

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She took the train for the first time To go spend a few weeks with her daddy In the summer before she started second grade. Her suitcase had pink light up wheels on it And was full of her best summer dresses and pictures She drew with his name scrawled on the back. She cried at the station because she didn't want to go, And slept the whole way there. She took the train again, in high school Accompanied by a group of friends Going to the city for the weekend to see a baseball game. She didn't bring any luggage, But came back with arms full of plastic shopping bags. She cried because her mother didn't understand That 16 is too old for a curfew, And smoked cigarettes the whole way there. She took the train, once more, Her freshman year of college. She went to visit her best friend at school. Her duffle bag was full of flimsy bikinis and Sartre. She didn't cry this time, until on her way back When she realized that something had been lost somewhere along the way, And that she was too old now to ever know what it was. She took the train, again, for the last time. The summer before her second year of college; She said she wasn't going anywhere in particular. She bought a ticket for Sacramento, and left it in the car. This time, her suitcase was full of heavy rocks, And made her tilt a little to the left as she dragged it down the ramp. She began to cry at the station, for the death of someone she used to know. And, seconds before the train left, She flung herself onto the rusted tracks, Leaving behind nothing Except a couple of ticket stubs and a poem titled "Somewhere".

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Jul 15, 2013

Jul 15, 2013 at 12:04 PM UTC

She took the train for the first time To go spend a few weeks with her daddy In the summer before she started second grade. Her suitcase had pink light up wheels on it And was full of her best summer dresses and pictures She drew with his name scrawled on the back. She cried at the station because she didn't want to go, And slept the whole way there. She took the train again, in high school Accompanied by a group of friends Going to the city for the weekend to see a baseball game. She didn't bring any luggage, But came back with arms full of plastic shopping bags. She cried because her mother didn't understand That 16 is too old for a curfew, And smoked cigarettes the whole way there. She took the train, once more, Her freshman year of college. She went to visit her best friend at school. Her duffle bag was full of flimsy bikinis and Sartre. She didn't cry this time, until on her way back When she realized that something had been lost somewhere along the way, And that she was too old now to ever know what it was. She took the train, again, for the last time. The summer before her second year of college; She said she wasn't going anywhere in particular. She bought a ticket for Sacramento, and left it in the car. This time, her suitcase was full of heavy rocks, And made her tilt a little to the left as she dragged it down the ramp. She began to cry at the station, for the death of someone she used to know. And, seconds before the train left, She flung herself onto the rusted tracks, Leaving behind nothing Except a couple of ticket stubs and a poem titled "Somewhere".

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There's a room somewhere, locked fast behind an unassuming door looming grey-brown at the end of a misshapen corridor. Inside, the relics of a time lost in time to time. A mitt, engraved with the counterfeit signature of a ballplayer whose name once rang a bell, smelling of adolescent sweat, still dusted with sandlot crumbs, a reminder of those ground ***** that sped by too fast to field, those fly ***** just out of reach, suspended in a June twilight lost to time. Ribbons and awards and certificates, signed by leaders of puny regimes paved and repaved over, proof of a world before this, an era of (now) perceived achievement, legitimized, glorified by Old English type printed on recyclable stock paper. Ticket stubs from blockbuster flops, receipts of a linear plotline: Drama, comedy, a budding romance - Temporarily amusing on such a spacious screen but ultimately unfulfilling; the plot peters towards the end. Lost in time the boy cries out with no one left to answer but the man who, as quietly as he entered it, exits the room, as always, leaving the door just ajar, enough to muffle the shrieks of a little boy chasing an invisible horizon.

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Oct 23, 2012

Oct 23, 2012 at 8:46 PM UTC

There's a room somewhere

There's a room somewhere, locked fast behind an unassuming door looming grey-brown at the end of a misshapen corridor. Inside, the relics of a time lost in time to time. A mitt, engraved with the counterfeit signature of a ballplayer whose name once rang a bell, smelling of adolescent sweat, still dusted with sandlot crumbs, a reminder of those ground ***** that sped by too fast to field, those fly ***** just out of reach, suspended in a June twilight lost to time. Ribbons and awards and certificates, signed by leaders of puny regimes paved and repaved over, proof of a world before this, an era of (now) perceived achievement, legitimized, glorified by Old English type printed on recyclable stock paper. Ticket stubs from blockbuster flops, receipts of a linear plotline: Drama, comedy, a budding romance - Temporarily amusing on such a spacious screen but ultimately unfulfilling; the plot peters towards the end. Lost in time the boy cries out with no one left to answer but the man who, as quietly as he entered it, exits the room, as always, leaving the door just ajar, enough to muffle the shrieks of a little boy chasing an invisible horizon.

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"my day will be different today" she declares, when she sees herself hidden in in a passing spending and breaking broken drive-by scribbled-pretend, urgent poem, stumbled upon by a heavenly calculated accident gladdened, saddened. now dressed to the nines, that piece of me, wherever it be, the parade ground, where the words and letters assemble, where the firemen train, adding logs, love, accursed ego, to the hearth, steady on burning, to practice putting out the ohms and uh-uh's of electrical resistance that your response, a shiny knife of a self-reflecting observation has...ho ** ** sparkling stabbing mirror this one, a simple script, a written pyramid, built by an Israelite, who by command, perforce mustn't but does write prophecies that may or may not come to being, poem pyramids, surely none will not survive Darius's desert sandstorms ravaging kisses of time's forgetting but your simple complementation fits inside quite nicely, for its simplicity, because it is a provocation stabbing piercing a self-questioning, of why to write I need pen paper and ink, and don't forget those stupid teardrops in the clear vial the Zola j'accuse of every poet, even the gone-ones, looking down at highest bar in poetry! did I really do that? even for a brief moment, a nanosecond, me words modify the entire continental shelf that another writer occupies, change its axis, the rate of spin, the angle of another's solitary human's day nah all i did was read (all) her poetry, imaging imaginng a life so foreign, putting me inside of thee, and let my stubs, the remains of worn fingers do the rest so I guess it could be true what you wrote, but about me "my day will be different today" and why I practice this wonderfully ridiculous craft, cause the pay is so **** good 10:36am

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Sep 30, 2017

Sep 30, 2017 at 10:56 AM UTC

my day will be different today

"my day will be different today" she declares, when she sees herself hidden in in a passing spending and breaking broken drive-by scribbled-pretend, urgent poem, stumbled upon by a heavenly calculated accident gladdened, saddened. now dressed to the nines, that piece of me, wherever it be, the parade ground, where the words and letters assemble, where the firemen train, adding logs, love, accursed ego, to the hearth, steady on burning, to practice putting out the ohms and uh-uh's of electrical resistance that your response, a shiny knife of a self-reflecting observation has...ho ** ** sparkling stabbing mirror this one, a simple script, a written pyramid, built by an Israelite, who by command, perforce mustn't but does write prophecies that may or may not come to being, poem pyramids, surely none will not survive Darius's desert sandstorms ravaging kisses of time's forgetting but your simple complementation fits inside quite nicely, for its simplicity, because it is a provocation stabbing piercing a self-questioning, of why to write I need pen paper and ink, and don't forget those stupid teardrops in the clear vial the Zola j'accuse of every poet, even the gone-ones, looking down at highest bar in poetry! did I really do that? even for a brief moment, a nanosecond, me words modify the entire continental shelf that another writer occupies, change its axis, the rate of spin, the angle of another's solitary human's day nah all i did was read (all) her poetry, imaging imaginng a life so foreign, putting me inside of thee, and let my stubs, the remains of worn fingers do the rest so I guess it could be true what you wrote, but about me "my day will be different today" and why I practice this wonderfully ridiculous craft, cause the pay is so **** good 10:36am

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DID I see a crucifix in your eyes and nails and Roman soldiers and a dusk Golgotha? Did I see Mary, the changed woman, washing the feet of all men, clean as new grass when the old grass burns? Did I see moths in your eyes, lost moths, with a flutter of wings that meant: we can never come again. Did I see No Man's Land in your eyes and men with lost faces, lost loves, and you among the stubs crying? Did I see you in the red death jazz of war losing moths among lost faces, speaking to the stubs who asked you to speak of songs and God and dancing, of bananas, northern lights or Jesus, any hummingbird of thought whatever flying away from the red death jazz of war? Did I see your hand make a useless gesture trying to say with a code of five fingers something the tongue only stutters? did I see a dusk Golgotha?

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1.5k

Crimson Changes People

DID I see a crucifix in your eyes and nails and Roman soldiers and a dusk Golgotha? Did I see Mary, the changed woman, washing the feet of all men, clean as new grass when the old grass burns? Did I see moths in your eyes, lost moths, with a flutter of wings that meant: we can never come again. Did I see No Man's Land in your eyes and men with lost faces, lost loves, and you among the stubs crying? Did I see you in the red death jazz of war losing moths among lost faces, speaking to the stubs who asked you to speak of songs and God and dancing, of bananas, northern lights or Jesus, any hummingbird of thought whatever flying away from the red death jazz of war? Did I see your hand make a useless gesture trying to say with a code of five fingers something the tongue only stutters? did I see a dusk Golgotha?

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Do you ever feel like you're trapped? You know - stuck somewhere or in something? Doesn't it feel horrible, doesn't it make you mad? Isn't the best feeling in the world; that feeling that washes over you when you finally step out of the darkness and into the light - freedom? What if, like me, a rather unfortunate soul, the darkness - is the twisted corners and walkways of your mind? There is no escape from your mind. From the deceiving thoughts. The conniving feelings. The cannabilism of life itself. The pain that enfolds you; embraces you; lovingly with cold hard passionate hate. The burning embers of hate spilling from the eyes of rage and the ruthless, cold slap of the slithering tongue. While others dream of clouds and fairy dust, cotton candy and summer romances - you smother your face in a pillow and cringe at every sound, you chew at stubs of ****** finger nails and gently caress the scars that possess your arms. For you, sleep is a rare luxury - one that comes when your crowded mind is finally at rest, those precious seconds of freedom and peace. Though troubled soul; it does not last long. For the demons find a way through the peace and once more they are at war. So you will seek the comfort of others. Who will pretend to understand what you feel - and take you for all you have and with it; they will disappear. From then you will have trust issues and be skeptical and pessimistic of every thing good that comes your way and eventually, broken soul nothing good will come any more and you shall be left alone - to face the demons again. It will drive you mad withered soul and, you will begin to claw at the very skin you feel trapped in. You will furiously claw and tear at your flesh craving the sweet release of freedom - and it will be painful, pale soul and it will not come quick. You will lay still in surrender and with every seeping drop of madness that adds to your angry red sea you now drown in - you will become numb, your eyelids will begin to flutter and close then with a small sigh from your battered lips you will be lead into euphoria.

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Jul 22, 2013

Jul 22, 2013 at 3:15 PM UTC

schanze-tomlinson

Do you ever feel like you're trapped? You know - stuck somewhere or in something? Doesn't it feel horrible, doesn't it make you mad? Isn't the best feeling in the world; that feeling that washes over you when you finally step out of the darkness and into the light - freedom? What if, like me, a rather unfortunate soul, the darkness - is the twisted corners and walkways of your mind? There is no escape from your mind. From the deceiving thoughts. The conniving feelings. The cannabilism of life itself. The pain that enfolds you; embraces you; lovingly with cold hard passionate hate. The burning embers of hate spilling from the eyes of rage and the ruthless, cold slap of the slithering tongue. While others dream of clouds and fairy dust, cotton candy and summer romances - you smother your face in a pillow and cringe at every sound, you chew at stubs of ****** finger nails and gently caress the scars that possess your arms. For you, sleep is a rare luxury - one that comes when your crowded mind is finally at rest, those precious seconds of freedom and peace. Though troubled soul; it does not last long. For the demons find a way through the peace and once more they are at war. So you will seek the comfort of others. Who will pretend to understand what you feel - and take you for all you have and with it; they will disappear. From then you will have trust issues and be skeptical and pessimistic of every thing good that comes your way and eventually, broken soul nothing good will come any more and you shall be left alone - to face the demons again. It will drive you mad withered soul and, you will begin to claw at the very skin you feel trapped in. You will furiously claw and tear at your flesh craving the sweet release of freedom - and it will be painful, pale soul and it will not come quick. You will lay still in surrender and with every seeping drop of madness that adds to your angry red sea you now drown in - you will become numb, your eyelids will begin to flutter and close then with a small sigh from your battered lips you will be lead into euphoria.

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Brown eyes, liquid dark, step inside no struggle, just quiet, look around what have you entered. Inside the silence echoes, but you can see the shards all over the ground mirror, shattered, blood pooling around your feet look at your hands. Fingerless stubs stop picking up the pieces? Choices Life choices Liquid brown eyes, they hide laughter is it real, or cold, fake, something to be afraid of?

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Oct 22, 2012

Oct 22, 2012 at 3:02 PM UTC

samhain-longquiet

Brown eyes, liquid dark, step inside no struggle, just quiet, look around what have you entered. Inside the silence echoes, but you can see the shards all over the ground mirror, shattered, blood pooling around your feet look at your hands. Fingerless stubs stop picking up the pieces? Choices Life choices Liquid brown eyes, they hide laughter is it real, or cold, fake, something to be afraid of?

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