"sutured" poems
Dear Depression,
I see you. We all see you. You're not very avoidable. Those slivers of light you try to enamor us with. How death seems so delicate when we talk of flowers and restful slumber- for all eternity. What the lights do not show; a grotesque, scaled abomination with a gluttonous appetite for happiness and life. I can't let you gnaw on anymore souls to leave nothing, but sunken eyes and bones. They do not belong to you nor were they yours to take. You're not welcome in the mind's of my friend's and family. Life is welcome in their heart's where joy can still be found. Don't find yourself slithering down our throat's anymore, in the empty stomachs or scars we have. The thoughts we think when you entice us are dangerous. You stole her. You stole him. You stole me. I can't recognize the stoic, numbed faces I gaze upon. You undo any progress ever done.
It's been so long since, I've heard them laugh or flashed a smile I meant. Still, your might looms over as you admire the damage you've caused. Next, feeling the audacity to sneer when we weep. Depression, you're a monster who causes nothing, but suffering. Those tears are not your's to season hopelessness with. You make the covers seem like the most comfortable coffin, you make our skin look as if we've fought thousands of wars. The sun an inconvenience with the days in reverse. We've tried to compromise, you are no friend. Just a foe.
Depression, there are so many things I want to do to you. You break my heart when all your captors don't believe they are worthy of love, but they are the ones I love most. I will break you like, you've broken us. My bare hands would reach into your chest, ripping the lungs out; stomp on them to preventing future sufferers. I would crush your heart in the palms of my hand's- praying for the sickness and terror to end. These innocent people you've robbed of life, love, happiness, opportunity and a soul. Will have their revenge. Your blood covers our skin and we bathe in the warmth of redemption as our thought's belong to us once more. We let the pain held inside escape our sutured lips, begging your soul to ascend back into the abyss never to return. Your bones are mine to assemble a castle for the broken to heal. Your skull resembles a crown honoring those who had given into the temptations of surrendering. We honor them.
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 9:29 AM UTC
How she sat there
with movement in her head.
A churning of learning
the ways to get ******
and slaughtered by
other people's
sons and daughters.
And how I sutured a gust
of her brain exhaust
into my chest, into my lungs--
I breathed her like I was
******* the end of a
tailpipe.
Her hands ran like busted tires
as she massaged my temples,
revving her voice,
my ears on her
suicide door lips.
There is no green light
in her red light country.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 2:20 PM UTC
The *** stood stars on end, so to,
whispered, “play with me,” and in
haste we fled. We explored,
discovered, and devised something
bright, half something else sinister,
notarized – black roots pinned a
pink-scorched Mohawk, and
reciprocated, my wild “Mao-Mao,”
or so she’d named the hair on my
arms. The moon endured whilst we
knifed each other with each and
every gasp and sutured wounds left
prior lovers. I’d only come across
her name near the end, “Xiaolian,”
though the tattoo ‘top her leg, told
me, “Lola.” Come what mothers
christen us innocent would be a
poems in and of themselves,
addendum, the delirium aged and the
dance of neon atop our waterfall
soaked bodies - epic.
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 8:22 AM UTC
My words are cutting themselves again;
razoring their loosely-sutured syllables,
deep as white-eyed bone.
The suave dipththongs butchered
to the cadence of bloodletting
in hemorrhagic oppositions.
Stapled-closed sentences, smeared with Iodine,
and subcutaneous sentence diagramming
for the retractable scalpel
swiveling along the edge,
of the well serrated cliche.
Once I pressed my wordy flesh
against the wrong side
of a paring knife, while paying no attention
and suddenly,
and without warning
it gave, like an over ripe peach
to the cleaver-
and after that, I was hooked.
Oct 31, 2011
Oct 31, 2011 at 11:05 PM UTC
If 20 plus years ago I had 2020 vision
Into the future would I make the same decision?
I married you feeling this could not be wrong
With 2020 vision would our love last long?
3 years into our life you chose another
I pleaded and begged while you stayed with your mother
You chose me because I fought with all my might
and stayed with me again, I got to hold you at night
If I had 2020 sight of what would take place
Would I do it again if that couldn’t be erased?
8 years in we said hello to our baby girl
It changed our hearts she is a pearl
She was perfect there is no other I would pick
Little did we know that our little one was so sick
If I had 2020 sight of what would happen
Would I change any of my actions?
11 years in we said hello to another
Our hearts expanded we wanted to smother
If I had 2020 sight then
Would I do it again?
20 years in you were diagnosed with cancer
5 surgeries later and chemo was the answer
Holding you hand while they pumped it in your veins
Crying with you as your hair fell out clogging the drain
2020 sight into the future would I still do this?
All the pain I could then miss.
Now it is the year 2020
My pain I’m feeling plenty
Knocking me to my knees
Because you said you no longer love me
A cut that cannot ever be sutured
If I had 2020 vision into the future
Would I do it again?
If you knew me then you would not have to guess
My answer to all of it is unequivocally yes
Defective Words
Jan 1, 2020
Jan 1, 2020 at 12:47 AM UTC
Parts of his existence:
_A vessel_; is a magic that flows through its veins— the color of my cheeks and the color of his madness
_A certainty_; all flesh and bone, sutured and bruised; we can be made of cracks, somehow.
and my heart, he had it all as black holes grew in my chest (_as if the vacancies could be filled by his existence_)
_for me, he is insatiable
as I was always heartless_.
May 29, 2022
May 29, 2022 at 5:16 AM UTC
Twenty-three and coming from my teens
I’ve developed along already categorized genes,
By those who think they know me,
When I’m only twenty-three with a molding mentality
I was once vicariously raised through parentally guided means
Socially slit by those that promised me prosperity if I was studious,
Taught the importance of individuality,
Yet forced to be obedient
Then indoctrinated with an educator’s prescription,
An addiction they picked up in a higher institution
I’m finding it hard to follow your lead, when you found nourishment in my youthful innocence,
Socially stitched through generationally fostered fixes
Notions that you could promise me providence,
I’ve been cradled in a crib riddled with termites
Time shows little sympathy for those who have yet to comprehend the promise of a six foot end,
Yet you trained me to believe you didn’t domesticate me
Despite being conceived in a place I was not well received,
You taught the importance of obedience
Yet I’m finding it hard to accept your ancestral credence,
When this place has been passed along bloodlines,
When my generationally guided grandparents' felt the final close of their eyes,
And left me a world pieced together by both atrocities and glimpses of humanity
I’m finding it hard to speak in a world with such narcissistic sympathies of the traditionally raised
Yet I’m socially sutured by the fact that I still breathe,
While being born in a place that once found stability through a slave trade,
A middle passage that led to a devious democracy
I’m so grateful we can mend what barbarians once began,
I’ve had time to age, enough to take the reins,
Though before we build our shrines of this age,
You can still pray for something beyond the grave,
Yet never forget how we've been stranded, left here to continue, or to fray,
To humanize a species that earth derived,
Or to let the braids of life untwine and give way,
During our generations' stay.
Apr 24, 2012
Apr 24, 2012 at 9:25 AM UTC
the hardest surgery is the one you perform on yourself.
Steady?
Ready?
No anesthesia but a chuckle of nervous humor
the first incision across your heart.
When you finish (many months later)
you put the scalpel down, wave weakly
to the clapping colleagues hugging each other in disbelief
from the observatory, sterile and eager
you give them a wan grin
and hope they've watched closely
so that now they know how...
how to do this.
At twenty-something, I was taught by Fear
who said nothing matters
and then at twenty-something-else I was taught by Faith
who said anything matters
And she wasn't the Sunday kind of Faith that you find
clasped between your palms, clasped like you're afraid
that if you let go the Faith will just tumble out and break.
No, she was the Faith that was bigger than God and so intimate
that sometimes I was the Faith, sometimes you were the Faith,
and sometimes the Faith was me.
So really, Faith doesn't have a name.
But Faith and Fear, they both breathe, they're each lung
and when I fill one, the other billows, after all
you need two to breathe.
And so then I, feeling bold, learned about Bravery.
I had heard about it in newspapers and history book indexes
and in our local volunteer firefighters.
Wondered if I could buy it.
Wondered how much it goes for.
But I couldn't find Brave until the moment I gave up on it
and said, ***** it, I'm so scared but I don't care anymore,
I'll just do it, Brave be ******
And surely enough, it was hiding beneath the tremors.
So really, Brave was the Siamese twin of I'll Just Do It.
which, by the way, wasn't in the glossary of this or any history book.
Everything changes, you know?
I'm changing, you're changing.
Oh, it storms me like the sea!
I secretly raise my glass to stasis, my faraway frenemy.
Don't tell the other Sagittarians, they'd exile me surely.
Change, letting go of my old faces
feels too close to dying,
feels too close to leaving you behind.
And I'm not ready to leave you behind.
Oh the West, keep your Mountains.
If only for a little longer.
I've excised my soul again and again
transplanted and sutured
but there's just no time.
Even with these visions from under the knife-
there's just no time to heal
before I'm laid on the table again.
*Faith hold me-
Fear teach me
so I can...*
Steady.
Please- stay with me.
Ready?
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 12:04 PM UTC
rooster crow.
goat horns clash.
sudden sutured glow
for what is left
of
this
soul,
comes forward
into thought.
soon i'll know
what it feels like to find roots;
or i won't,
idk.
afternoon slow
blue sky flies
off the tips of treetops;
old-growths,
ancienter than dragon bone femur,
scraping aged skylines.
im
earthing
in
my
mind.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 3:18 PM UTC
you are so ****** in the head.
they say "crazy can't see crazy"
but, baby, i looked you dead in the eyes,
and man, someone stirred your brain with a fork.
cerebellum penetrated by tines.
amygdala spooned into their mouths like lukewarm soup.
sliced a knife straight through your hypothalamus.
left the rest to swirl around in that thick skull of yours.
you're used goods, they told me.
you passed your expiration date.
a little too ripe around the edges.
i could see that.
you asked people to palpate your skin,
like checking cantaloupe.
you spit out your seeds in between
inhaling smoke and ******* down liquor.
she warned me that you were a wild one.
rebellion and fierce independence.
all lions and tigers and bears,
sutured together with wolfish teeth
and hyena laughter.
forever breaking out of cages
and biting the hands that fed you.
now if only you could see it too.
or if only i'd saw it earlier.
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 8:35 PM UTC
The lowly amber circles attune
on the savanna grass of Serengeti
as the glow penetrates our tent
where the hungry hyenas nudge
At the dawn of four thirty
when dew recollects on the green
and the lioness pawn are grounded
at the lawn where we once laid
You are possessive and protective
rejective and a handsome danger
hypnotized by spells of the acacia trees
dancing under the thousand stars
As I unlearn the memoirs of the past
within the decorative adventures
where the world was ours to hold
in shades of deep blue and reds
Float baby, stow on the highways
where we changed to hues of black
with beautiful stacked memories
in the wild chasing the leopards
Flow baby, stroll on the railways
where we felt a million tunes
tracking hunts and ******* rants
cautious of the predatory play
Fight baby, sew the sutured heart
where once a love was a lullaby
at the drop of the Kilimanjaro
unfreed from all the carry-ons
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 3:48 PM UTC
My heart is perpetually broken
And the wounds cannot he sutured
The pieces are strings of gossamer, and I a flimsy sheet
I smile at the world but I wonder, why this task befell unto me
To write till I die I will follow, the path that was set for me
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 4:03 PM UTC
She was afraid of anyone ever seeing her naked, because then they would know;
they would know all of the brokenness and all of the things that she was afraid of and every mistake she had ever made. They would be able to see the insecurities she held like glass in her crosshatched palms and the lies she lived in the sutured remnants of her torso, a thousand stitches of regret sown haphazardly along her sagittal plane.
And they would know that this decimated shell housed her disfigured soul;
The ultimate humiliation.
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 5:44 AM UTC
they do not speak
mouths sutured shut
their words, thoughts, appear on their skin
like some curious cuneiform, deciphered not
by those who wield the scurrilous scalpels
that maimed them
they do not speak
though their screams appear
as a rapacious rash of cocky consonants,
their whispers as smooth vowels
on their exposed hides
they do not speak
but hear the flapping of butterflies’ wings
the blinking of a dead dogs’ eyes
and the sound stars made
upon colossal collapse
they do not speak
but emit eerie odors in fecund olfactory code
“lesser beasts” read with feral snouts
and see on the breached breaths
the silenced try
to conceal
they do not speak
though they see the mocking mouths of their captors
and their words that fly through the air
slicing through these mutes, as if
they were never there
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 11:17 PM UTC
Cloud of smoke rising above
Revelation of joyous tranquility
A stir within the belly stiffening
A grafitti smiled, you lived within
A mouth stitched, heart un-sutured
Constrained by the apathy you bear
Consolidated in tethered pastures
A stare of silence vigorously imbues
A pleasure to meet your selfish leisures
Hear the voices rattling in throned castles
Run encircling the failed soul games
Good luck from one, another, a mother
I was bred as a hybrid alien, a predictor
Take these words and run, jog on
Your palms saturated with energy
Leave the magic and gallop with horses
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 8:48 AM UTC
The walls drip yellow.
My teacup is ridden
with thoughts driven
from buzzing and Queens.
They claim glory.
A skyscraper tastier
than dew from street sewer
with gray, AM haze
as people jut sides
to climb, slip snidely
atop, cut voices in lies,
rushed by without flicker,
a thought for
ever-blackened drop
of dark roasted, cig-toasted
coffee drowned by a cup.
So, taste it now,
your lips of grounds
in café chair
on dirtied walk
is unaware
of rays in sky
and earth below
and earth below
the pounding thump
that make World go.
Grabbed honey-stuck tips
from a table of glass
and sweet, sutured lips
from ignorance.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 8:14 AM UTC
Forth and back so on and so forth
Madness masking more madness
When a narcissist cries. . .
Big, fat, salty
Crocodile tears of self love
For you to appreciate their
Sensitivity
So insightful through the most insidious of manipulations
Unaware, blissfully, so blissfully you stay unaware
In some emotional waiting room
Preparing for an appointment
That was never made
Not for you anyway
You're just the vessel
My ride to the store
Paradoxically
To the narcopath. . .
Self love is
Self loathing
Self loathing's
Self love
Those who crave pity
Must first devour all of their own
Then starve at too young an age
From loving themselves
Much too much
Behind a shattered enough stage
A mess at the start
Even cats need learn their own claws
Professional confidence from something
Re-sewn, sutured, glued, reassembled
From pure disaster into smooth alabaster
Sharp at the edges, dangerous
This insightful love of the narcopath
Fierce now unbroken
Statuesque
Whole and all powerful
Distorted fully to experience zero reality
Floating among humans
In irrelevant situations
A deep love shared for the glory
Of one
With the strength
Of one thousand suns
Be careful
Those little emo black holes, ha,
They'll swallow your *** whole
Apr 4, 2018
Apr 4, 2018 at 8:19 PM UTC
Aggressive stood the silhouette
Distant in the night.
Sutured to her shadow
A dark and haunting plight.
Forgotten was the hour
Desolation bereaved.
Consumed by her fears
A beast was conceived.
What's worse then battle
Is one fought alone.
When the lights are all on
But nobody's home.
When the demon that lurks
Is one that's detached.
Mindful yet careless
Improperly miss matched.
The void spreads like cancer
A concrete defeat.
Becoming the snake pit
By tripping over her feet.
Saved by good intentions
But just for a moment.
See, with actions and consequences
You just have to own it.
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 5:30 PM UTC
I know not what to say
Or see
As your tardy empathy
Breathes along my sutured neck.
Your lushness of waves hath borne
Golden glimmers of fragrance too sweet
That nerve endings fray.
Smirk so softly into my soul
Your pheromonal whispers
So that dreams may weep syrup,
So may my cheeks dew with sugar.
Lusher are your fallacies
Than your twirled smirks of incandescence;
Lusher are your maladies
Than your smoldered iridescent kisses.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 10:33 PM UTC
Amid wind and thunder, a coming storm,
a September coat rests silently upon my shoulders.
Leaves descend from the bending giants above me,
and still I sit here.
A flurry of passenger-filled cars sets the park spinning underneath me.
These people, they'll all be arriving somewhere soon, but, for now,
they flood my consciousness with homes decorated in aged photographs,
and still I sit here.
They're going there, those places that fill them whole,
with those people that lovingly adorn their company.
Though I don't accept it, I have people like that too,
and still I sit here.
My mind meanders the gravel path to a duck effortlessly afloat on the pond.
Doesn't she have somewhere to fly to too? To South? To warmth?
Maybe she enjoys the safety of my company, and so she contemplates herself,
and still I sit here.
Her wings involuntarily flutter from the assaulting gusts, until,
finally, she gives in. Her wings spread and beat against the water below her,
she's off toward clearer skies, not a thought on her mind, who could blame her,
and still I sit here.
As the sky opens up, drops and drenching, a chill sets inside me
starting with the ears and the fingers and the toes.
It creeps up my arms and legs, it violently spikes my brain
and still I sit here.
We all know where it finally stabs. Yes, you know it,
you've experienced it before. I howl uncontrollably in chorus with the breeze.
There's not a soul around, just the singing towers rooted around me,
and still I sit here.
At home my dinner awaits, it's steaming hot, it begs to be eaten,
but all this sutured heart can do is think about is that **** bird.
I should be going now, it's time to leave that soaked bench,
and still I sit here.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 6:23 PM UTC
I designed on a string from my ❤️ to yours
the twists and loops of yesterday
Celtic rings in tactile squares
a monochromatic dream sequence
in patchwork futures of sutured memories
large squares of Bay Bridge yesterdays
smaller ones on seagulls' wings
I'm still working on a future
every stitch in time lost and loved
it smells like me...
a gift to wrap the long and lonely nights in love
where months of me are woven into miles
that tether my ❤️ to yours
I'd hoped to be done by your birthday
it lies unfinished
a bin of fragmented dreams...
...maybe I'll finish by Christmas
just to feel close to the ghost of you
Nov 5, 2023
Nov 5, 2023 at 1:21 PM UTC
Take each memory
Tell one close to you,
The Story
The tongue will muscle the details
Don't muzzle the truth, or it all fails,
Travel in time isn't for the massess,
The past is the past but by telling it now
The Story passes
the test of time, and makes it to the future
wounds might not be healed, but sutured,
history local or global or private were and are
sustained by the verbal record, a spoken treasure,
Like a DeLorean car,
words tied to synaspses, flash pictures, smells and action,
make movies for some, tales for others, that did not sanction,
the telling of the story,
minute paper pieces,
microscopic chemical reactions
recaptures
laughs,
tears of joy, many of sadness,
and the events, surrounded by the madness
of the days,
so if this the case save Time Travel to books and fiction,
or quiz history and historians, and was the truth told
after all, forever after, but lean in close and whisper in
my ear, I will listen through your tears, take me Travelling,...
One Day.
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 11:43 PM UTC
There is an entire world
that you do not belong in.
Their dreams seem distant,
their hearts of stone,
their smiles withered;
upon them shines a different sun.
You reach out,
but are unseen.
Did they do so, too?
Why, they did of course,
with upraised words most unbefitting,
they reached out as well
to you.
What good, however?
Between us, a chasm.
And those that,
much to your surprise,
did jump it -
did not jump to treat with you,
but as you,
to linger.
You linger still,
as do your hopes.
You do not in vain
hope for this different world
of peace and understanding
of gaps sutured shut
with meaningful intention.
But your words
are misaligned.
And you are, to all,
foreign,
of malice,
greed
and hatred.
You do not dream in vain,
but for now, you don't belong.
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 7:58 AM UTC
She was gorgeous misery framed
in makeshift bandage corsets
cinched with fall from grace
sutured lace to save face
Her battered life rife with strife
covered in the mock elegance of
a broken wing dress as
the frenzies
in her enigmatic
mascara trail of tears glare
soften slow burn devotions
hastening their hopeless necromantic
insurrection
He was a fatal attractive
midnight black feathered wraith
Modeling trouble need scar heart genes
and a bleedwork tainted warshirt
earned by tethering himself to a mistake on
countless battlefields
his enemies' rancorous fear resonates
in a crippled ripple
across stillbirth waters
With his outspoken outrage accented
by photographic violence
knowledge of immoral history charm and
disguised threat lodge wisdom
luring her into
their surprised allegory demise
In the here and now we find
uncaring torture chamber musicians
singing in the black ground
as these two scar-crossed lovers entangle
in a shotgun wedding
and machine gun funeral
Knowing from the start
it would always be
the two of them
together as one
against the old world
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 12:54 PM UTC
When we find ourselves
bewitched
by the once-again
betwixt a barest bare
season (of not-there)
and the rock-hard
reason (for there-is), let’s
Place the lemon-sour wedge,
where it can be tasted
with expectantly peppered
peeks and the snowy soft pines
for a gifted we we’ve been
too white-elephant
wary to unwrap.
There’s a transplant
future. We pretended
it (to-be
forever sutured to our bristly back-
then), and it meets the it
it was beneath a scrub-brush
Christmas tree we’ve stowed
Carelessly in the cramped space
where our sameness
lets crawl the other. Tinseled,
pre-assembled, past-
their-prime-time specialty
brands of static
clinginess have diminished,
But not-enough,
as the persistence of any-man
attraction shows,
would if it could bring
Whitman’s samplers
of sentimentality
to cuddly bear on a leftover
Choice (What’s-next,
warmed over and over). We
will stick to it,
fuzzy ornaments
on the crackly loud, paper-
thin present. We didn’t give
up but we did give away
Boxed-up angels
in exchange for one red-ribbon
day, its frilly bow tying us
so tightly to
the pressed-down rule
of our highest of highly
evolved thumbs.
Nov 22, 2010
Nov 22, 2010 at 5:51 AM UTC