"sweatshirt" poems
His eyes are my escape route
They take me anywhere I wanna go
Which always leads right next to him
When he looks at me
I feel my soul become furious
Somebody has me bothered
I crave the scent of his cologne
When the smell of it on my sweatshirt
F A D E S away
The limited-time only reminder
that at one point
He was on top of me
And in that moment
I was all that mattered
to him
The anxiety that lurks through my body
Everytime I think of him
The feeling in my body
Everytime my brain remembers
a happy moment
With him
Or sincere moments
we shared
Two broken people
80/20
I broke my own heart
To give him pieces to fix his
20/80
My mind and what’s left of
my heart are at war
Because of him
Because of him, his smile
And his quirky laugh
that quench the desire
Of the simplicity of his existence;
My heart won’t let me be at peace
My mind tells me to let go
Reflecting on post trauma
Nothing is better than feeling
Wanted but safe
By the person you want the most
But nothing is worse than feeling
You’re not good enough for the person
You want most
Looking into his eyes again
Constantly searching for reassurance
And then suddenly
the source of happiness vanishes
you were only a distraction
While what was really wanted
Wasn’t accessible
allowing attachment
is unbelievably dangerous
But learning to let go
is worse
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 10:50 AM UTC
i'm laying on the floor watching YouTube videos
of veterans coming home to their pets
and i imagine you as a veteran
and me as the dog crying in your lap.
but if i'm honest with myself,
i'm the veteran coming home,
my heart is a dog,
and you're a cat in the corner who doesn't give a ****
i don't even need to tell you that love was the war.
love is always the war.
i just want to lick your face.
i want to paw at your chest after a long day.
i want to stretch and have you scratch the places i can't reach.
i don't understand the command "stay".
i am casting tiny spells where i pick lint off of your sweatshirt
and chew on my bottom lip while i look you in the eye.
but you are disenchanted.
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 11:05 PM UTC
I am not your tattered sweatshirt that you keep in the back of your closet,
The one you wear only when you get high.
I am not the too small pair of jeans that you keep around,
In hopes that one day you'll fit back into them.
I am not your ***** running shoes that you keep on a shelf in your room,
The one’s that make you sad every time you look at them because you did not win that race.
You will wear me with pride, or not at all
- R. H.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 5:09 PM UTC
There is a boy walking, maybe ten or eleven,
a skateboard under one arm,
his shirt branded with
THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID.
And I wonder, what did she say?
Did she say she liked his tricks
or his ratty sweatshirt?
Did he blush,
swishing his hair in response,
exuding confidence and cockiness, in the mean time remembering his mother,
calling out to him before he left the house.
Did she say “Son,
don’t forget your helmet!”
Even though he was already gone—
Or was she really a he,
who sat him down a few months ago and said
he’d be gone for awhile
that he’d see him soon—
it’s been six months—
and maybe, when the boy heard this, he ran out.
And maybe when he gets older maybe he will run out more often,
to hang out with those who are deemed to be
“the wrong crowd”
and he will be drunk and high,
stumbling under the streets,
above the lights,
hearing-but-not-hearing everything that she is telling him.
She is telling him the secrets of the universe.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 8:42 PM UTC
When we met for the first time,
You were dressed in black,
I knew that I liked you,
And that you liked me back.
And then on our first date you were dressed in blue,
It brought out your eyes,
Which were undoubtedly the things,
I loved most about you.
When you were sad,
You wore hats,
Because they made you feel hidden,
But, I think they made you look cute,
And so that's why you did it.
When you were happy you'd shine,
No matter what you wore,
But it was probably expensive,
From a high end store.
And that night I told you I Loved you,
For the first time,
You wore an ugly grey sweatshirt,
Because, well, that sweatshirt was mine.
You wore a black dress,
That night I said I wanted to die,
Then you went out with friends,
And with some other guy,
I told you "I hate this",
And you said I'm too emotional,
You wore that same black dress,
The next week to my funeral.
The next week,
And week after that,
I still saw you wearing it,
The one black dress ,
I said was my favorite.
I love you,
I miss you,
I'll leave it at that,
But, it's hard to see you from heaven,
When you keep wearing that hat.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 11:28 PM UTC
On our first date
At the movie theater
You told me your hands were cold
So I would hold them
And keep them warm
Now my hands are cold
And your presence lingers
In a scent
On my sweatshirt
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 11:30 PM UTC
it was the hooded-sweatshirt, sit-close-and-pretend-you’re-cold, bleacher-seat,
whiskey-and-coke homecoming that you never had when the leaves changed.
but the leaves changed anyway.
the damp grass smelling vaguely like your fireplace as the world got quieter,
your nose in your precalc and your foot tapping and how-many-years-left
of solo fridays, you counted the suburban stars but didn’t tell anybody
how ******* beautiful they were above your head, because they were yours.
when you wore your high school colors, you were cold for real. no pretense
in your shivering, no flutter in your abdomen because he wasn’t gonna talk to you,
and you didn’t really care, you shrugged. but the leaves changed anyway.
and you changed, slowly. grew taller and smarter and prettier and then the
remaining solo fridays shrank to none, and you left. big sweet snowdrifts turned to spring
and you shared whiskey-and-coke with the city, your stars dimmer but abdomen
finally fuller, and limbs warmer and no sweatshirt because you didn’t need one,
and hands all over to hold and feeling all three kinds of love at once.
and then the accidental homecoming, and the changing of the leaves
and the hooded-sweatshirt shivers and knowing you’re so much bigger now than the
suburban stars and the backward glances of the bleacher-seat kids, but the damp
grass still smells like your fireplace and suddenly you’re small again, just for a
second but god that second, you shiver and turn around again. you’re so much
bigger than this but homecoming, this whiskey-and-coke homecoming still isn't yours.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
old car, warm sweatshirt
"this is unreal," i said
garlic still lingers
in the air, soon mixed with
smoke
first time i've had fun like this
n.d
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 11:58 AM UTC
morning dew drops on your collar
impressing me with the zealous way the seasons drastically measure the moment it takes me
to reach forwards and brush it off
liquid winter falling onto a ***** cement
the initials 'F T' written jaggedly into the cold stone of asphalt
i wait for it to disappear, for the flicker of everything gone to fade from my vision
but it passes too quickly
i look back up and there's no one around
the street is empty and the capricious wind has ceased
a sucker for patterns i walk into a fabric store and feel my hand linger on the erratic linens
fingers paused on the peach organza sprawled like a pink bubblegum sea
and i am swept into the manic fantasies of wearing the sheer tissue-like textile into
the abdomen of your sweaty palm and sinking like a sticky sweet stripe
until you put your hand in your pocket and i spend a year inside melting
into the every thread and curve of your jean until it is nothing but disgusting sugar
everything i could be when i am hidden from sight in the dark caverns of denim pants
who knew the tongue in cheek joke would be nothing but my tongue in your mouth
touching all the way up your gums
find me sweltering beneath the uvula wondering if i could go back
to the time i found that girl with the mountain logo sweatshirt who whistled between her teeth and hummed all the reasons i should skin my knee and kiss the salty wound because there's no greater pleasure than knowing you don't have to wait for that morning dew drop to fall from their ******* collar
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 1:30 AM UTC
The rush
The grace
The feeling I get when I dance
My heart beating faster and faster and faster
Until everything falls silent
Its me
And the music
Just Me
And the rhythm
My heart is beating, my feet are moving
My head is spinning, I hit it
A switch turns on inside of me
I’m in it to win it now
I want that platinum, I want to make you proud of me
I want to be the dancer you want me to be
But ballet, thats not it.
You ruined this, you told me I wasn’t good enough
Point your toes,
lift your chin,
hold your leg higher
Do this, do that. Who cares?
Do I look like a prima ballerina to you?
I am not tall, I am not lanky
I am not skinny, I am not light
And I’m sorry but I have *****
You can push me,
Stretch me, pull me in all different directions
To do what?
Make me more flexible, more graceful, more
you
You have beaten me down with your words,
so much that the one thing I loved most in the world
has slowly been slipping away from me
Dance doesn’t define who I am,
It is who I am.
Dance is me
I am dance
I’m big ***** I have strong muscles
I’m not graceful, when you tell me to hit it hard,
I hit it with intensity, with power
Don’t ask me to prance around in a pink tutu.
I won’t.
Put me in harem pants, and a baggy sweatshirt
Throw some beats down
And I’ll groove it
Pop it, slide it, lock it
Sharp sharp smooooooth
So many different moves,
Some don’t even have names
No Fouetté, or jeté
No relevé, or adagio
What do these even mean?
Do I look french to you?
I’d rather body roll
Chest pop
And just let my body do the talking
I don’t dance to impress you
I don’t dance to please your needs
I don’t dance for high scores
I dance to express the words I cannot speak
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 1:34 PM UTC
it's a friday night and i am sat at the top of the bleachers with three packs of maltesers i told the cashier were for my friends with a blurry grin and the hot chocolate in my hands lied. it's lukewarm and tastes of milk, not sweets, and the taste of it still taints my lips because i'm forcing myself to drink it anyways. the stars are yellow set against navy hues and they're blinking down at me.
there's announcers shouting something about the game occurring on the field but i'm not listening, never listening, never apathetic or empathic enough to want to. the music blares, cheers roar, announcers boom, the scoreboard flashes- it's cold enough to be huddled beneath blankets but i've only got a sweatshirt hiding my hands, hiding my fingers, hiding me. my ribs shiver and the ghosts in the spaces between them gather closer for a warmth that won't come. the moon says hello to me and i struggle to catch enough air to say it back.
my friends are nowhere to be found and i can't feel my fingertips and the flavor of lukewarm hot chocolate leaves me and i'm closing my eyes, shutting them tight, disconnecting.
there's suddenly no one here, just me and the blackness behind my eyelids. it's like i'm watching humans but never being one of them. maybe i'm meant to be an alien- maybe that one star blinking at me is a planet welcoming me home- maybe if i lay my lungs to rest they'll leave me be.
i can feel my heart giving up on me.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 9:03 PM UTC
they took my man off the street
the other day
he wore an L.A. Rams sweatshirt with
the sleeves cut
off
and under that
an army shirt
private first class
and he wore a green beret
walked very straight
he was black in brown walking shorts
hair dyed blonde
he never bothered anybody
he stole a few babies
and ran off cackling
but he always returned the infants
unharmed
he slept in the back of the
Love Parlor
the girls let him.
compassion is found in
strange places.
one day I didn't see him
then another.
I asked around.
my taxes are going to go up
again. the state's got to
house and feed
him. the cops took him
in. no
good.
4.3k
One morning, I decided to ask people what their favorite myth is. I asked them what myth did they think was the greatest, and the one that made a huge impact on them. The most interesting one, the myth that would keep you wanting for more. Some people said vampires, some people said dragons, some said the origin of the world, and of course, most of them said the famous Greek mythology. And I asked some, what myth do they think is the most unlikely thing to happen, what is the myth that will never be real? And I was taken aback when some said their favorite myth was **** culture, followed with laughter. As if it’s a myth, as if it’s fiction, as if it’s something that isn’t real.
**** culture is a myth. It’s not real. It’s not happening. Apparently, it’s just a work of fiction for some people. Apparently it is a myth when it’s happening everyday. It is a myth when you report it to them, and instead of asking “Are you okay?”, the first question they will ask is “What were you wearing?”. Because your skirt was the reason, your sleeveless top was the one that gave them permission. And when you told them you were wearing sweatshirt and pants, they will ask you “Were you drinking?”. When someone took away something that is yours without consent and you’ll be the one blamed. Because you were wearing shorts, because you were drinking, because you were just outside. *When we teach women everything about not getting ***** but we don’t teach men to simply not **** When our bodies are nothing to you but to objectify. When you see us and think the word sexualize.* When they asked you whether you said no or stop, and if you didn’t, you liked it. It was consensual. But you never said yes, and it’s not **** right? It is not real when people shame the victim, when the help people are giving you are words such as **** ***** and instead of calling you a survivor you will be known as “the girl who was asking for it”. *It is a work of fiction when nothing happens to the ****** or when some even refuse to call that person a ****** You will see headlines describing him as an athlete, as someone who has scholarship, any good thing but ****** *It is a myth when the ****** runs free, but the victim is still suffering and constantly being shamed. It is a myth when the world thinks men who are getting ***** are weak men, when they don’t think the consent of men are also important.* When people continue to joke about something that can ruin someone else’s life. Apparently all of these things aren’t real, these things aren’t happening.
But how could one person even think that **** culture is a myth? That **** culture doesn’t exist? *It’s not like the trojan war, because it’s far more chaotic. It destroys and kills people. It lets bad people win and victims suffer. It’s not like vampires who don’t sleep and **** people’s blood, instead this is even more dangerous than vampires. This normalizes something dangerous, something horrible.* And the people who do it, who contribute to it, and who do nothing to stop it? Are worse than monsters in mythology. And why would we even call it a myth when we learn something good in myth? When myth teaches us something good in life? **** culture is not a myth, **** culture is happening everywhere. *When you turn on the television and see comedians joking about **** when people call the **** victim they know a **** when people don’t believe someone when ***** reports it to them, when until now, **** is still considered inevitable.* **** culture is not a myth, **** culture is real, **** culture is happening. And they say **** culture is part of the reality that we have to face, but what do we do to things that bring us no good? To things that damage our reality? *We do everything we can to stop them, to destroy them, to crush them. And that needs to happen to **** culture,* now.
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 5:26 AM UTC
you move me
the way
music moves you
the vibrations
on the chords
of your guitar
tell me how
your day went:
spilled lemonade
on your favorite sweatshirt
and 3 bonus points
on a clicker quiz
i'm not caught
in the essence of firsts
like 30 extra minutes
to kiss you in
real time
your dark features and
unfaltering movements
evolve like
the sounds of me loving
you
composed of your stiff-fingered
electricity and a continuation
of all the good
things
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 4:47 PM UTC
*You Held Me Tight In Your Arms,
The Night Air Nipping At Our Skin,
Our Breath Clouds Of Warmth,
Mixing Underneath The Stars*
"I Love You," You Said, Your Hands Meandering,
Up And Down My Spine,
Trying To Keep Me Warm,
In The Frosty Octobor Night
*Corn Stalks Gently Grazed Our Jeans,
You Held Me Close,
Perplexing The Lurking Demons,
Warming My Blood,
With Your Lips*
"I Love You Too," I Said Holding Your Shoulders
*You Wrapped Me In Your Arms,
Folding Our Souls Together,
Like An Ormagami Crane,
And You Kissed My Cheek,
Our Frozen Fingers Entwined*
"Don't Ever Leave Me," You Said Lovingly,
As You Burried Your Face Into My Neck,
And Kissed It Lightly
*I Lay My Head On Your Shoulder,
And The Goosebumps On My Skin Faded,
As My Body Enjoyed The Cold*
"I Won't" I Murmered,
*You Stared Into My Eyes,
And Pulled Me Closer,
Our Lips A Millimeter Away,
You Know What I Like*
I Felt Your Breath As You Asked,"What Would You Say If I Asked You To Marry Me?"
*Even Though It Was Only 2 Seconds,
The Space Imbetween That Question,
Felt Like Two Hours,
Honestly I Never Wanted That Moment To End*
"I Would Say Yes, Why?"
*I Could Feel Your Pulse Rise,
And Your Skin Start To Warm*
"Because Someday I'm Going To Ask You, And Give You A Diamond Ring, Almost As Beautiful As You"
*I Smiled
A Reflection To Yours
As We Sat Under
The Yellowish Cresent Moon*
"Then It's A Yes"
*I Laughed
My Annoying Kackly Laugh
The One You Love*
"Can I Kiss You?"
*My Eyebrows Lowered
In Sarcastic Annoyence
But I Giggled*
"Fine"
*As You Kissed Me
I Smiled*
"Please Take My Sweatshirt," You Begged Me
*I Noticed My Shivering Body
The Hairs On My Arms Rose
And My Fingers Felt
As If They Belonged To A Dead Person*
"Okay" I Reluctantly Said
*You Put Your Sweatshirt Over My Shoulders
And As You Cuddled Me Closer
And Kissed My Lips One Last Time
I Opened My Eyes
The Light From The Moon
Streaked Across My Face
Suddenly I Heard You Whisper
Goodnight
As We Stood On My Doorstep
Goodnight I Replied*
Oct 20, 2012
Oct 20, 2012 at 8:17 PM UTC
i.
the poem has a beginning exactly as you’d expect it:
pa in sweatshirt, ma with purse; the funny thing is
i never used to call them those names:
“pa,”
“ma,”
always found them too cowboy-ish,
too un-me, un-like
us: who held chopsticks before dinner time and shared
stories of how grandpa came over from china.
ii. (at the dinner table)
there is no symbolism here. there has been none
for a while now. this household eats and
eats in quiet. my grandmother is a poet but their
books all burned down
back in ’45 when mao stormed into fujian and
all her uncles could eloquent on was that
“the communists were coming!”
“the communists were coming!”
and instead of poems took with them their
children, and their gold to pawn
and their clothes on their muddy
mortar-stained backs
and the japanese
iii.
my grandfather now comes twice a week to the
hospital for chemotherapy. it is a nice hospital.
good view of the cleanest part of our *****
city. there are lights and white folks now. two things
my dad said did not used to be there. they
used to be spanish. they tilled
our rice fields and spent the money on living rooms
with lots and lots of space to sleep. we on the other hand,
worked. he claims.
your grandfather and his grandfather and i
iv.
awake every sunday morning at precisely 8:30.
made to go down to the temple in kalesas
and told to fetch the office paper for
noontime reading. see we weren’t spoiled: grew
up just next to the pasig river which back in
the 70s did not smell as bad as sin only
sweatshirts
and the sweat we soaked them in we reeled along
steamed fish heads and chopsticks for picking at them with
and bowls of rice we never really ate with spoons.
v. (back at the dinner table)
i listen to my mom and dad
sweat profusely in the evening heat only we can have here
he in his sweatshirt and she
with her golden purse,
preparing to leave - a wedding party awaits -
an jacket draped over his shirt just like grandfather used to do it
in a sense,
but gripping the chopsticks delicately for all us
to see:
“pa,”
“ma,”
v.
it is not cowboys that give us our names.
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 11:55 AM UTC
Pumpkin spice and apples
Tease my nostrils as
The fuzz on my sweatshirt
Tickles my cold skin
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 4:14 PM UTC
when i was 7 i cracked my head open with glass
and blood covered my head
i didn't go to the hospital
i didn't even tell anyone
i never saw the glass really coming
it happened in just a split second
i hardly even felt it
it stung
but i was too worried about the glass
and how i was going to clean it
before my parents came home
my mom always liked to keep her house clean
so i had to pick it up
when i was 13
my best friend had her first heartbreak
i was doing homework
because i was so behind
but she called me crying
and asked if she could come over
i held her for two hours
while she sobbed into my sweatshirt
and when she left
i didn't even get a thank you
i try so hard to make everyone feel content and happy
then sit in my room
and wonder why i'm so sad
but it's because
all i do is bleed for people
and they never even hand me a bandaid
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 11:57 PM UTC
Your the reason I stay up at night,
and look up at the stars that shine so bright.
I wonder if your sitting up in bed thinking of me too,
I wish I could read your mind, I wish I knew.
I wish you would hold me tight,
as we walk under the moonlight.
I wish I could wear your sweatshirt,
and hold your heart so it don't hurt.
I know I'd love you till the end,
and I would be your best friend.
I would never leave you behind,
and you'd always have a place in my mind.
Someday I will tell you how much you mean to me,
but till then I will keep my feelings under Lock and Key.
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 12:36 AM UTC
People making jokes about my birthday.
Banging teeth when kissing.
Eggplant.
Walking to school in the cold without a sweatshirt.
Being too cold and losing feeling in any body parts.
Kissing someone with ****** hair. It hurts.
Saggy knees.
Stretch lines.
Homophobia in any way, shape, or form whatsoever.
Boys whose hallway swag gets in the way of my getting to class on time.
Having to wait until he and I can be together.
Period cramps.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 9:58 PM UTC
she whispers. "hey."
"hm?"
"you're my boulder."
he chuckles. "what?"
"you're my boulder. you're
stronger than a rock. you're
the one who keeps me
from losing myself. you're
the one who keeps me
grounded. you are my boulder."
he grimaces. "but if i'm a boulder
then i'd crush you...i would
hurt you."
she laughs quietly. "well then, you're
a gentle boulder. soft and fluffy and
all that stuff."
he stifles a laugh. "so do i just have
a bunch of fluffy green moss
growing on me?"
she nods. "you're
my big, gentle, sweet, moss-covered
boulder."
he smirks. "well...
then i guess you're
my pebble."
she looks into his eyes. "how so?"
"you're my pebble. you're
small but not easy to break. you're
seemingly fragile but you're
stronger than you look. you're
part of me and you're
the one who can either break me
or make me whole. you are my pebble."
she smiles
and he wraps his soft green sweatshirt
that he's wearing
around her
shoulders. "mine."
she murmurs. "my boulder."
he whispers. "my pebble."
and finally,
both of them
are found
as they gaze at the stars
and into each other's eyes.
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 10:53 AM UTC
Loving you feels like home
like a fireplace I never took the time to sit in front of
like this warmth is a newness I am just now experiencing for the first time
like I don't even know how to be cold anymore
loving you looks like a sunday morning
or a tuesday
like a bed with tangled sheets
like the glow of sunrise crawling in through cracks in the blinds
like the dent in the mattress of a body
yours fitting perfectly parallel to mine
like the mess of human we are
poured together between silk and skin
reaching for a touch to remind us that this
is real
like I have never seen eyes look at me the way yours do
loving you sounds like the loud of my laughter
unbound in its arrival
like the calm of silence
like I could build a fort out of it
like blowing out the candle in the corner of the room
and how comfort stays still even in darkness
loving you tastes like the corners of my lips stretching outward
like the habit of a smile forming
like a permanent sweetness on the tongue
like a craving I could never lose
Loving you smells like my sweatshirt
like your face buried in my neck,
my own pressed against the soft of your chest
like how knowing your morning breath is a privilege
loving you is like a poem without ending
like I never want to write ours
so I wont
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 11:45 PM UTC
Corsages
Pressed shirts
Flirty butterflies
Not me.
Just your sweatshirt
Slow music
Missing you.
Gorgeous smile
We chose your shirt today
All eyes on you.
Girls staring
How could they not
I would be too.
But what they don't know
Is the curve of your neck
The rise and fall of your chest
The flutter of your eyelids
The slight smile on your lips
As you fall asleep.
The beauty that I have memorized
That only I get to see
Tonight
And every night after.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 1:26 AM UTC
As a little girl, my mother and father would drive around while smoking in the car, with the window rolled down, as I would roll up the ends of my sleeves clenching them towards my nose to be rid of the smell I have never liked.
I believed that when my parents would smoke around me, I was a smoker too. I had had the scent of a smoker too. But when I was with you, it was different.
That night, not caring how much I hated those sticks of paper as a child, I would watch you put it in your mouth and on your lips, inhaling it until you couldn't any further. I silently sat in the backseat admiring how you would slowly inhale and exhale the toxic fumes it gave off.
That night, I went home.
I walked in through my back door.
I slid my shoes off and tiptoed toward my bedroom.
I passed my parents' room, witnessing them sound asleep next to each other, peacefully.
I took off my old grey sweatshirt and inhaled slowly, the smell of your secondhand smoke, and smiled.
Because it was yours.
I hated those sticks of paper full of toxic fumes.
I hated the smell of those sticks of paper full of toxic fumes.
Now, myself, I am one of those sticks of paper full of toxic fumes.
We both have touched your pink, chapped lips, got used, and are now thrown away.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 2:38 AM UTC
Sometimes it feels like you're walking around on tiptoe as not to disturb the glass beneath your feet
Broken edges, sharp shards of memories and the life that once was
Shoes mask the familiar feel of the ground, confuse your feet, and throw them off path
Barefoot and
Not so free
Hobble around, try to regain your balance whilst staying upright
Don't look down, feel around for the soft areas
A blind man, navigating through a minefield
What are the chances of getting through safely?
When it rains more glass you grab at your threadbare sweatshirt that is trying so hard to protect you
Your innocent, now scarred white flesh glistens against the storm of needles that ***** your skin
At what point do you decide to stop caring?
At what point do you take off the jacket that's not been doing much for you anyways and just give yourself to the battle?
Sacrificial living or
Sacrificial dying
Sacrificial being
At what point do you blow up?
I'm trying to understand this way of walking
But I stomp around on heavy feet
My feet are calloused and sore
I'm barefoot and free
I've blown off my limbs but what's a little blood to stop the war?
My scars have faded
I gave myself to the storm
Yet I'm still breathing
I've not died though I've walked many a mile on
Tiptoe back when I thought it was wise
To walk on shattered glass
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 3:26 AM UTC