"tailbone" poems
You ever wish that you were a wild animal?
Sounds a bit indecent, but reckoning the sense of freedom, order, and understandings
;then, you'll look at it through a bird's eye
Doesn't it seem like animals have no issues at finding their purposes?
They seem to know exactly what is it, in which what they are living for
Oppose to us humans, they seem to be less frightened by death
Do you think animals have religious beliefs?
Some divine stranger they must let control their life.
Or are they responsible enough themselves?
And/or only have faith in what it mean to live
...Just live
The things in which they used to do is still their tendencies today.
Give me one lion that don't hunt anymore?
One pack or tribe that is ran by female?
One chimpanzee who think swinging from trees is out of style?
One shark who think blood is disgusting?
I never met a gopher who wasn't hip enough, who didn't "dig"; digging wholes
Every cat I know rub their skull, ribs, backbone, tailbone and tail; in one motion against other creatures for what I figure as comfort.
Shepherd, Yorkshire, or hound; however, they all get on the mailman's nerves
Humans... We just seem lost
Not knowing where we belong
Steady trying to figure out right for wrong
Attitudes always going up or down
Need to much to crack a smile
The slightest ordeal can make us frown
A successful human is visioned as having access to the whole world
Do you ever see a honey bee left behind in a swarm?
Or a polar bear climbing a tree when it's warm?
Their world has no critics
No trends
No high expectations
Just eat, sleep, and ****
Is that it?
Or there's more to it?
Two separate lives
But I'm influenced
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 3:55 AM UTC
I know sometimes I sound like a black hole,
and my poems are only of unhappiness,
But i swear there are good days.
It's just that if I were to put the good days and the bad days on a seesaw,
The bad days would outweigh the good ones.
Their weight would keep them planted on the ground while the good days float 3 feet above with a smile on their face and a stupid halo around their head,
No fear of the word "fat" or worrying about taking up too much space,
And sometimes the bad days would get so low, they'd take their feet out from under them and hit absolute rock bottom,
Because what's the point of that support if it won't ever be good enough?
What's the point in living a life where nothing you do is ever good enough?
But the impact of the fall is so forceful that the bad days bounce back, Causing the good days to slam onto the ground while the bad days get just a sliver of what it's like to be in the limelight.
Sometimes the darkness needs to have their moment, even if it's only a millisecond long and they end up breaking their tailbone on the fall back.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that I seem to have a lot more bad days than good, but I swear I'm okay.
I find the strength to fight back and push the darkness upwards in attempt to save it from its bad reputation.
Turn it into art.
Offer it some adjectives and shiny words to make it feel better.
Share it proudly with the world to show that not every day is a good day.
That most of the time I am a mess
With a head consumed by a thick, dark, fog
Weighing me down so low that my thoughts are being dragged in the dirt on the playground as kids stomp all over me.
Giving me black and blues that only cause me to become darker.
But I will not let the bad days bring me down.
Instead I will bring the bad days up.
Because even the longest, darkest, tunnels have an opening.
Whether it be a small crack, or a staircase of light,
It is this darkness that gives me a purpose.
It is the darkness that gives me a light.
It is the darkness that gives me a voice.
Oct 22, 2016
Oct 22, 2016 at 3:21 PM UTC
No place for roleplay in this
illumined shrine of sanctified
skin and porcelain
where the most literal of lovers
whelm in the stainless steel
hot spring's silver stream
where the smoke screen of clothing
clashes with the steam cloud
rising like ironic bread
in Eden's kitchen
where a woman turns around
wrings and whips her satin
slope of hair around a shoulder
leaving to her man ideas
and a bar of soap that slithers
effortlessly in his palm
like a melted deck of cards
where a bubbled corner
is embedded in the small of her back
elevated from the tailbone
to the neck and lowered like the zipper
of the dress he parted not so long ago
where a jolt of urgency
accelerates an exercise in
the ski of soap around the junction
of the hips and outer buttocks
and a segue silently approved
by her arms hoisted to attend
to hair thought to be already
washed and conditioned
where the soap is shared by
both hands on the scaling of
her sudded sternum
presaging an unseen demand
from the beacons of progression
swelling in the wet heat
where a hand of soap and
hand of slide verifies the demand
of hands on her beaded *******
where he answers her swell
with his stiffness in the final feel
of mystery before a soft shift of
arms approximates a plea
for a frontal rinse
where hands return to ******
crowned chest sparking the advent
of eye contact all the while
where his ****** intensifies
in proportion to the eyes closed
in anticipation of their saturated mouths'
magnetic duet
where saliva and the cooling water mix
on their cameos of tongues slipping
through their lips in the midst of the mist
and where their towels hang in
a forgotten heap while he takes her
dripping body in his arms and
carries her to where the roleplay
will have to wait after all
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 12:35 PM UTC
sometimes you are with me when I bike
right in the middle of my eyes
you look through
as if recreating tides
sometimes you rise
stretch my tailbone
cross my neck all along
and silently whisper love and hate words
until you painfully adjust yourself towards a subtle opening
hidden under a golden crown
you tie us by secret subtle lines
as if a puppet-pendulum
anchored to a bluish-green star
somewhere far away
as far as a single jump-rope swing
which I may call home sometime
is that why you send me signs
while I listen
like that lady bird today …
perfectly matching to the colors of an eloquent orange brown pottery
by which geishas serve
a ceremonial rice bowl the labels tell
exhibited behind glass only
my silhouette
reflected in dim lights
becomes a dance of invisibility
hiding teardrops
along a museum corridor
covered with cherry blossoms
I ignore I say all the stupid signs
continue a play
with the luck bug
alight on my right side
observe its dotted natural beauty
forget all there is around me
oh yes she knows me
I farewell her over a giant photograph of a well respected lady
make it a living part of her brooch and dream away
if - maybe she’d be me
some lifetime ago
and you the lover
of our lingering sad story…
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 6:32 PM UTC
You better kiss me,
your mouth parted and lips
wrecking into the vagabond breath
that escapes from the center of what
I've been talking, and talking, and talking about
all the while you're trying to just shut me up.
So you better kiss me, kiss me
with your hands below my hips
pushing the skin from my bones
and pulling the sins from my mouth
just to spread them on our bodies.
We collide, half-inspired and arching
my back with your hands cupping the dimples
above my tailbone, jumping over my vertebrates,
reaching for my neck to press yourself, harder,
into me. Lights out, sheets to the end of the bed,
I sigh into your ears, XO. Again, and again, and again
gently until I'm bruised and ripened, soft,
pulsing on the verge, releasing our glow
crashing into you, kiss me, kiss me
you better kiss me.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 9:55 AM UTC
The naked truth about men is that they are ferocious creatures of the night, constantly preying on the lonely and the weak in hopes that they'll get laid and maybe rip a few hearts out in the process. They believe that if they consistently make the muscles in your face turn towards the sky that they can finally make your undergarments fall to the ground. The can stick their claws into the holes of your vertebrae and rip out the nerves wiring from your neck to your tailbone in one foul swoop. They will sink their teeth into your flesh and only tear at it inch by inch because they know you will become numb to them soon enough if they tear you apart too fast. But if they take their time to shred you to pieces inch by inch, the pain becomes almost as worse as the anticipation.
The naked truth about men is that once they've seen you naked they think they own you; body and soul. They begin to taunt you with things like love and dinners just to see you naked again. However, you must comprehend that once they see you naked, a part of them dies inside because there is nothing left to explore. Everything leading up to your nakedness is just the chase of getting you naked. Once the act is accomplished there is nothing else to chase, nothing else to acquire. The truth is that you will eventually become an old toy to the man that saw you naked. That man doesn't love you, he loves the sight of naked flesh against his own. That man doesn't love you, he loves the sound of tearing clothes. That man doesn't love you, he loves the taste of your soft skin in his mouth.
The naked truth about men is that this doesn't apply to every man, but a grand majority of them. The naked truth about men is that it is hard to figure out which man is a good one and which ones are there to throw you away in 4 months and 6 days. The naked truth about men is that only 1 out of 10 men look good naked. And the naked truth about men is that 10 out of 10 men will like you naked.
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 11:50 PM UTC
The need like a scream
Rings in and rattles out the skull
Echoing down the spine
From hairline to tailbone
While lips that long to touch a kiss
Trace simple lines of elegance
From blushing cheek to curvy hips
Exploring skin with tender tips
As wanting mouths begin to moan
While gasping breath on breath
They groan at the twist of sin
In silk on skin; like wild beasts
They roam
Apr 3, 2012
Apr 3, 2012 at 9:36 PM UTC
The first time I skipped a meal, I spent the night with a gnawing pain in the pit of my stomach.
The first time I cut myself, I threw up at the sight of my own blood.
The first time I made myself sick, I cried.
The first time is always the hardest, but it only gets easier after that.
Years down the road now,
I can see the beauty in what I've done.
The breath-taking wonder found in decay.
Tonight I sit on the pavement
outside my apartment.
My fingers curl around the
rusted chain-link fence.
Sharp edges of broken wire
left cuts not nearly deep enough
on my arms when I squeezed
through the hole next to me.
I don't live anymore than the metal at my back.
Just like the fence I am merely existing.
Months from now,
my kidneys will run
the risk of failing.
Already my teeth are
stained and eroded from
stomach acid.
My bones knock against
one another from shivering,
and the pavement underneatth
me chews at my tailbone.
When someone asks for a picture of me,
I give them the grainy photograph of the hole in the fence.
Just like it I am rusting. Breaking down piece by piece.
There is beauty in dying. In the natural course of slow decay.
When doctors ask me
why I did this to myself,
I will show them the scars
on my stomach.
I'll show them my
barren womb and
protruding rib bones.
I'll tell them that in trying to be perfect, I found what we're all really looking for.
I discovered that we're
born to die, and that
the beauty of life is
our slow descent into
the darkness of death.
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 11:41 PM UTC
I burnt my tongue a week ago--
Too much of scalding coffee and lies [on your part],
But I swallowed it with a couple of anti-depressants
I have forgotten how creamy, toffee powdered mocha tastes like and your lips,
They used to taste like macchiato, as time passed by,
Maple leaves drizzled autumn, burst into slashing icy winter,
Your lips started tasting like black coffee, like tar, most of the days it’s only a figure of speech,
Warning sign blinking all day long in my head, when I can’t hold it in my fingers,
When it’s escaping out of my grasp, ready to run, making space for the sugary vanilla layer
But then there are days, when you find your way back underneath my sheets,
My duvet, the only witness, sadly silent all too similar to my will power screaming inside my head,
And here are you fictious sentences, framed with such precise,
Knocking down all the walls I tried to built, leading to defeat,
Holding me chained like a slave.
All my fury fueled sentences burn like fire, vengeful riff of an electric guitar within my mind,
When your fingers encircle me, rough nibs of your lips on the nape of neck, palm tracing lies on my tailbone
All the fire drowns in crafted lies, ashes of my dignity scattered, a bleak watered down-
Note of a single string as the soundtrack of my misery.
I burnt my tongue last night--
Too much of your blazing skin and lies but I spitted it all out,
This brittle heart not so brittle anymore heated at 1,300*c, on the kiln again and again-
To form an everlasting nature.
Arteries have clotted, hatred burning bright within, lungs suffocating starving for oxygen and blood,
Like the dragon breathes fire, I’ll breathe out the scathing curses; and leave with my dignity intact
Barely responding to all your shameless deeds.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 11:40 AM UTC
Treating life as a means to an end
will only make your death come sooner
a chronological record of each broken tailbone
but I guess some people just like falling on their *****
Personally, I like growing my tails
using them to jump a little higher
maybe that’s just me, though.
Yet, if you’re always surrounded by the blackened earth
you might have to get your hands a bit *****
climbing from that unhandled abyss
just dont forget, master colombus, that the land of the free
is just a place in your memory
Now don’t go around waiting for me
I’ll come to you
scrambling through single-pixel tunnels
my expression is a blur shifting constantly
but dont you know, a black hole couldnt reverse my inertia
I’m bound to you with something stronger than gravity
I’m a sound wave on a direct path
I’m found without weight
you’re mine to find, can’t you feel my mind?
If you’re the waterfall, then I’m the river
taking each crash of your waves
it reminds me of this song I used to know
about how we’re expansive and massive
and surrounded by infinity
suppose that makes us nothing, just passive
So as the bright and shining moon,
you stay on your ellipse,
and I’ll drag the sun into you,
and maybe our collision will create something new
because in a universe thats collapsing anyways
lets take this synergy and carry through.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 8:09 PM UTC
I am at my best at early a.m. when I click
the radio on and listen to NPR
interviews of people from
countries like Scotland, Nigeria, and Italy;
not long ago I heard a Swede tell how
he pickles Harbor
seal meat, and a day ago a Mexican
who was shot through the tailbone
by a child with a .22 rifle
argued her country has pitiful
accommodations for
the handicapped.
Learning of the Swede, Mexican,
and slain seals liven me;
and then the sun rises.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 7:53 AM UTC
In all ways, I have lined up my scars and written them insincere apologies; each word — a mockery and a transgression carelessly thrown in the night. I have allowed dread to settle deeply between my collar bones: an arrow buried between antlers until it unsettles and chokes. I have sewn sadness into my skin, like a dainty, silk sundress; worn it to church and to the funeral mass of a little girl I had to **** She'll never know how much I mourned her, how on some nights, I still do. In all ways, I have looked at my skin, my fingers, and calves, and tailbone and saw a body that's never known gentleness or summertime souls or the gentle falling of the rain.
So after all of that, how, then, can I hold my heart now, without ever breaking it?
Tell me — how long can I hold my heart without ever breaking it?
Jan 26, 2021
Jan 26, 2021 at 10:35 PM UTC
this is how i'll let you go:
i'll open our photo albums for the last time, touch the yellow edges where your body ends, and not get drunk on what we could have been. i will wipe the coffee stains you left in perfect circles; sometimes, i pretend that they had the color of your eyes when the sunlight hits them. i will scrub your fingerprints off my spine; it's time for them to let me go too — slower, gentler than the way you did.
i will pass by your street, and not send you a bunch of paper rings engraved with all my overused metaphors. i will not hope you'll chase after me, wearing them over the promises we've broken, and over the promises we're yet to break. i will stay up late; midnights are somehow still for missing you, but i won't be writing anything. and we both know it kills me — not writing poems about you, when loving you and losing you are the closest things i ever got to call poetry.
instead, i'll hold on tight on every word that spills out of my mouth, seal them all in a trinket box buried in some place where we let romance die. i will fall asleep next to our cemeteries, wet from the rains we made; i might wake up at 3 am and not think of calling you. and i will wake up at 7 am, when it's still raining, and i will watch the early morning thunderstorms, and i won't wish you're back with it. i will sit there, free from the damp coffee stains and from the traces of your kiss. my tailbone will no longer recall the intricacy found in your fingerprints, and my eyes — they will have forgotten if yours were cobalt or turquoise or electric blue, 'cause darling, maybe it's too late to make you love me again, but it's not too late love myself.
Sep 24, 2019
Sep 24, 2019 at 7:46 AM UTC
Yesterday was rough, but today is gentler.
Today the fog tells me it's okay.
It seeps through the open window,
wraps itself in the curtains
and finally curls itself around me.
The peppermint air embraces
my ankles,
my knees,
my tailbone,
my shoulder blades.
It whispers, it tells me you are not far.
You remain in the breeze, just like me.
You haven't been scattered to the wind, you've become it.
In the morning you rise from my raspberry tea,
and you nestle above french toast in a pan,
you coil through the glass of my shower,
you perch on the front window of my car.
And before I drift to dreams,
you wander through the fan
and sink back into the basement,
you lightly brush the edge of the counter as I close the sliding door.
But, always, and forever
you linger just above my head
and whisper like the fog.
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 4:48 PM UTC
There's nothing so unnerving that turns my stomach more
Than insults to the purpose that you were crafted for
Believing you are useless and letting that sink in
Penetrates much more than just the layers of your skin
The thoughts that slept inside you were shaken from their sleep
And moved at the commandment you uttered through your teeth
So now they walk before you, directing every step
Gathering the people that swallow up your breath
Soon there'll be an army that marches on in lines
Connected at the tailbone, the bases of their spines
The coma they'd evaded was one that they induced
A spirit that convinced them that they were mass produced
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 1:54 PM UTC
Every time I
catch a glimpse of my reflection in a shop window I
have to check.
Legs. Still there, apparently.
Still thin even though I
ate lunch today.
Every time I
sit down on the toilet to *** I
have to check.
Tailbone. Still protrudes a little, apparently.
Still hasn’t disappeared, isn’t
buried under fat even though I
put milk in my coffee this morning.
Softly, gently
My hands explore my back, tracing up
along my spine because I
have to check.
I wonder if I look a bit like
a dinosaur illustration from a child’s encyclopaedia:
you know, the one with the triangular bump-y things
running along its back?
Stegosaurus! That’s the one!
(I had to Google it.)
I have to check.
Aug 23, 2017
Aug 23, 2017 at 10:23 AM UTC
blank save for the handprint
above the desk where some soul
lost their grip and left themselves.
soap so coarse it punctured skin
while water sprinkled out
to cause an incident.
down in the drain clogged
with hair where some soul yanked
itself so hard it forgot some strands.
a bald apparition with a broken tailbone
painted red and glazed like clay
locked in a furnace when it hoped,
from the covers before the alarm,
to float away...
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 8:29 AM UTC
The poor children
That's what we were called
Surrounded by drunks and drug addicts
Single mothers and their hordes of children
The future cleaning ladies and harbour workers
We sometimes watched the orphans
Wondering what would become of them
In our own world
We were richest of them all
While the mothers worked
Through sweat, tears and stress
There was always someone
To show a little kindness
"Those kids can come with us, we're neighbours"
This meant pizza for dinner
The summers were for exploring
Golden fields hiding rabbits and phaesants
Truthfully covering a dump yard of course
Trees were naturally for climbing
Move through the forest without touching the ground
A tailbone got injured here and there
No time to see a doctor, it will heal on it's own!
Play hide and seek
Race each other on bikes
I always cheated
Where that stream really lead to, we never found out
But by that very stream we built
From planks and nails
Isolated with candlewax
A little cottage
Every day after school
No one knew where all the nails and candles had gone to
And how the community wood supply seemed to vanish
"Only the good planks" because we had standarts
Who would've noticed the little ones when the grass grew so high
It was our little secret
Naturally the road workers took it down
"Unsafe structure" someone said
A whole summer lay in ruins before us
The toolboxes were quietly returned to their rightful owners
Bored as we were, we gave it another shot
This time supported by a tree
We'd hoist ourselves up with a robe
That was taken down too
We felt sorry for the tree!
But winter's close
That meant snow castles
Never wondering what might happen
If the structure collapsed on us
The tunnels lead to nowhere and everywhere
The mothers were working
Who would stop us
But when our mum was home
All kids were invited for dinner
Us and 12 others
Future cleaning ladies and harbour workers
Blissfully unaware
What lengths the mothers went to, to feed us
I've never been poor in my life.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 3:05 PM UTC
Typical male banter of which you think you are exempt- but you are not.
Like the chick on the couch who plays the dumb blond, you are part of the culture.
Like an unnoticed concussion, you stain our brains with blackened thoughts of ideal bodies and insecurities.
You reek of stale laughter and wasted physique as you try to preserve your **** strap membership card with failing qualifications.
Since your hot wives have stretch marks and wrinkles around their forced smiles you play your fantasy league ; padding your stats with disingenuous gestures of matrimony.
With a stiff spine, we humor your talents the way your mother did- her icy tailbone under Friday night lights and forgiving disposition for missed curfews.
You draw from those years like a cactus in the rainforest.
- soft soil - lacking roots and obviously out of place.
From above- you are an anomaly among the vines, masking your Cialis induced shaft by standing among real wood.
I hope you get cut down soon, all of you - turned into something better - like paper or a changing table for the sons we will raise to be disqualified from your clubs.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 1:57 PM UTC
You’re A Cool Girl
but there is a point
this weird point where i have feelings
i've been used and walked on
i can usually expect it
after your hand on the bottom of my soft-hole sweater
above my tailbone
your winking eyes
feeling like a princess (that i've never been)
you pulled my chair out
we had *****
in the dark
you pushed me over and kissed my mouth
I Love That You Exist
and then you left
without a third thought
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 2:44 PM UTC
Feet fall under
Never in front
That right knee straight
No music
Steps softly snapping
Toes stretching to grab more sock.
I pace to be reminded
Sore hips tingle for
That aging runner's personal stretch
No medal of honour
A purple heart.
Work day morning shower
Then sweat at work an hour
Daddy why is he running?
Faster than walking.
Didn't care to explain
The airy chant of
Restlessness and frustration
Exhaled with the most
Commanding push
Posture long since ruined
So tuck that tailbone
Head back
Your neck had better hurt
This is you at your best
A familial love
And the same lack of visits.
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 4:13 PM UTC
Black striped knee-highs in your old photographs
Black knee-highs on me
Your face blurs under the breaths you take
Lips, skin, absorb, kiss, breath
His rough hands ghost over my shoulder blades
Her eyes are scorch marks on your hips
As you're pulling me into your mouth I can't help
Teasing behind an earlobe, trailing along your jawbone on my way
Remembering memory foam, imprinted on my tailbone, precarious
Beneath the divet of his thighs
And she's on you, in you, around you,
He's with me, caressing, wanting
Their scents linger within the sheets
Your scent lingers on my tongue
And I dip my head to shut them up
Shut them up - "I'm so glad I don't hate you"
"I'm so glad you don't hate me"
And I know they've won.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 5:12 AM UTC
As the bird dipped his wings into the stream
The womb will freeze
He sighs under the hollow sun
The blue bones turn and shift
Remnants of the cord upturned and gray
As he crawls gathering strings
With shivers his tailbone is contorted
A putrid button descending down
Motionless melting lungs fading remains
Silently the limbs lay
The feathers spread dancing with pain
As the suffering begins
He reflects the time regretting what could of been
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 11:32 PM UTC
We always dreamed of
boarding that plane
and running away
to some old countryside in Europe
and you’d sell your poetry
to printing presses and
I’d play my songs
in shopping streets,
and boy, were we clueless
that a year later,
you’ll be running your fingers
down his spine to his tailbone,
as if they are the spaces
between the horizontal lines of your paper,
and I’ll be running high
on caffeine and regrets
and playing new songs about you —
new songs
you’ll never hear.
Jul 19, 2019
Jul 19, 2019 at 7:36 AM UTC