"tangibly" poems
Grace.
Let it fall like an ocean
Let it rip through the skies
Let it fill up my heart and pour out my eyes
Let it gravitate my soul
Let it make me feel whole
Let it remind me of why I live
Let it remind me of all that you give!
Grace
Let my heart be made still and let mine eyes be opened!
Let me remember that my ears
were made to listen
And my lips exist for a lot more than just kissin'
Let me remember that these hands simply cannot do it all
Cuz see I wasn't made for that
I wasn't made for that at all
Grace
I was made to live and when I say live I think I mean give
But then I quickly realize I can only give so much!
And there's only so many lives I can touch!
Well how can I love if I can't constantly give
And how can I live if I can't constantly love but
Where's the hope in the God above if I'm the one doin' all the work?
And that's when I remember I accomplish the most when I just let go
And let You grab hold
Grace
Well what were these hands made for if not feeding the poor?
And what are these heart-wrenching feelings of constantly wanting more?
Why do my bones ache and my soul quake at the thought
Of living for myself?
Why do I worry so much about putting the marginalized on the shelf?
Why do I worry
about a life that loves hell?
Well maybe all this
is an unidentified desire to glorify God personified in Jesus Christ crucified
Grace
And maybe my soul's been singin' songs to my saviour since the day I was born
And maybe my saviour's been singin' sweet lullabies to quench the fear in my eyes
Maybe not all is lost
Maybe hope and salvation really come without cost
WELL TRY AND TELL THAT TO THE MAN LIVIN' ON THE STREET WITH NOTHIN' TO EAT
an'
TELL THAT TO THE CHILD WHOSE FATHER GIVES HIM A DAILY BEATING
TELL THE MURDERER'S AND RAPISTS THAT THEY CAN GO FREE
TELL THEIR VICTIMS...
Tell them what?
Grace
Maybe it's time I remembered I don't have all the answers
Maybe it's time I remembered I am a speck of dust in a rolling beach of existence
Maybe it's time I look at what's right in front of me
And not strain my neck as far as the eye can see
Maybe it's time to focus on living and not just surviving
Maybe thriving looks more like trusting than trying
Maybe all the answers to my questions aren't really answers at all
Maybe it's alright that my walk sometimes feels like a crawl
Maybe 100% of the wrongs I do are all my fault
Grace
Maybe God's lookin' at me like a child set free
Maybe God's not lookin' at who I used to be
Maybe God's lookin' right past all the bitterness and apathy
Maybe God really does look at the heart
And maybe He's been holding mine from the very start
Maybe this is all going according to plan and if it's not well then maybe God's still using it to help me become a better man
Maybe it's time I stopped trying to figure all this out!
Grace
Let it be felt
Tangibly
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 8:56 PM UTC
so i get this idea sometimes
that you enjoy being coy
when it comes to me
to conjure momentary spectacle
& make me wonder
if you paint catharsis
on the doors of a home
you've never lived in
as a memory of our first night together
because i do, i remember you
beaming white on blue
speaking softer than any storm
i ever knew, i often think that maybe
you live that night in your mind
when your pillow is cold
& you can't sleep, it makes me wonder
if you do as i do, and rewrite three years fictionally beginning with a kiss somewhere
maybe a balcony or a quiet car
on the sand or in a sunlit grove close to your home but always a familiar scar on the maps we know we know by heart
i wonder if sometimes
the idea of me loving you is too real
and if it teems under your tongue
to stay observant but distantly intrigued
if by this distance you think it safe
to get a dog and pass time
on the couch with a journal & some wine
what i really wanna know is if your fingernails ever wish to have my skin under them
or if they would boast
about winning a war with my headboard
i wonder if you can imagine me
meeting your parents in your apartment & shaking your fathers hand
as a first of many calloused palm readings
and if you know that i trembled before them
how insignificant i had felt
to not know their daughter
in the way i had envisioned
how i picture such poignant moments
so tangibly sharp that sometimes
i replace my memories with little stories
i tell myself that i can't count on two hands
the number of times i've seen you
& that i don't feel like a crater
when i recollect our collisions
i want to know if you still find madness
in the words that have always been about you
i wanna know if your imagination of me
looks more like an anniversary or an obituary
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 12:59 AM UTC
Pearl swans shatter
the ice,
and glide swiftly through the
stars sparkling
on the mirror lake.
Twilight falls to the night
and the air
creates glistening
twisted crystals which climb
up the trees and freeze
the antique summer remnants.
The spindled sprigs of silver
birches drape their lustre
wantonly, forming long
ripples in a lengthy cascade.
Then the darkness retreats as
the pale blue haze of dawn approaches
where the robin's breath
sighs tangibly on the air.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 2:34 PM UTC
#
*The finest meaning of 'Wholeness'..
Is shown most fully within the intertwining
in to the pivotally and most necessary
healing of both body and mind..
In that
the perfect expression of Spirit here on Earth
can only happen through the physical--
You "feel" the Receptives and/or the Urgings
from deep within you (your flesh wrapped spirit),
That are only brought out into the light of day (made known)
the moment your very tangible fingers touch the keyboard..
Or up close..
the tangibly-heard sound your very voice-tones,
Created by your so very tangible vocal cords-- made unique
by how deeply infused your spirit is into that
beautiful mind and body of yours..
By your ever-renewed
and continual choice to heal.
Within that beautiful union, the Sensings and Respondings
of the body bring impulses into the spirit..
touching deeper, the Core--
The "Image" of Perfect, Absolute Being
placed deeply into each and every one of us..
by the very nature of Love's Ache--
Residing within the center of this Universe..
(and all other Universes).. both known..
and those also yet to be..
..An Image placed, as to be a Plumb-line,
and also a Never-ending Cinematic placement of the View
onto (and within) the inner-wall linings
of both mind and spirit..
..Seen in greater and greater "less dimly-lit" degrees,
based solely on how far we commit ourselves along,
and in to, the healing process.
In its finest form, through healing,
the things we take in.. through feeling;
and then express back out..
from both mind, and body's untethered Unfolding,
..Becomes closer and closer
to the very Expression of God's own heart,
..Therefore smashing through, and gorgeously undoing
the ever- quenching.. ever-diluting nature of Subjectivity, itself.
Hmm..
The "taking in" and then The Tremblings, of your body's
unavoidable responses are the very thing most 'maverick loners'
like me need most from another in this world,
if we are to continue on in our mission with any kind of strength..
(along with its much desperately-needed resolve).
If, within the "taking in" process.. the beautifully feeling
Receivers such as yourself, were to be overcome
to the point of release~ all alone.. on the edge of your bed..
isn't that a very understandable and nearly unavoidable
and also so very very tangible part of the process also..
--In itself
above and outside of all human (and Heavenly) judgement?
Carry on, sweet Angel..
and so gorgeously continue to be who you are.
Those that can see.. see (and feel) most clearly.*
I see you.
#
Aug 12, 2023
Aug 12, 2023 at 8:19 PM UTC
I wish, most of all, to have had a tangibly physical notebook to write all this in. instead I use the 'note' function of my smartphone, smoke a cigarette. busy on forward, it's Pandora.
one of those acid-high coffee overbouts, feeling the brain compress inside the skull. for an hour. for a few.
some man in tattered-all's gets angry when I state I have no quarter. like I'm lying when I say it, and must be lying because my pants aren't worn like his. bus and car alike ghost past, the monastic rise of the local music conservatory pokes at the skyline, straight at the overcast.
I toss "If on a winter's night" by Italo Calvino atop the third step of the church stairs leading to the church doors, the Seventh Day Adventist Church, Where we meet Jesus. I begin to write this poem, huddled atop my cellphone as if I were in silent debate with a lover, only sitting to make a point.
to the left is a McDonald's flying a McDonald's flag. A man with a thoughtless white ball-cap and a thoughtful tattoo walks past with a McDonald's dollar drink in his right hand, pointing his arms in opposite directions to illustrate the dimensions of something he wants. "See?" he says to the woman he walks with, her face scabbed over with acne scars.
my eyes are tunnel-visioned to the screen every time I follow a thought, or the glancing past of a passer-by like the woman with the black scarf, black hair, black sweater, grey pants, black shoes.
the orange 'don't walk' sign pulses 7 times, and then sticks, as if waiting for a high-five.
I reach into my backpack for a cigarette.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC
My body quivers,
the tips of my fingers
pulsating wildly,
beads of sweat collecting
on my furrowed brow,
teeth sinking into
my bottom lip,
breathing in sharp
heaves of breath,
echoing the fast-paced
pulse of my enthusiastically
beating heart,
limbs tingling,
lower extremities losing feeling
as my body becomes absorbed
in the ecstasy
to which it succumbs
as, in one last swift, graceful movement
you make me explode,
my mind orgasming in the
crazy sensation we have
created in the simple
exchange of our
encapsulating dialogue,
reawakening my addiction,
my yearning,
my craving
for another round
of conversation,
rapture unlike
any other I've felt,
in tangibly feeling nothing but your soul
and your words.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 9:46 AM UTC
When she saunters
in a two piece bikini,
without making
any pug marks
even on soft sand,
"Which one color
adds more firepower
to her allure
enhanced figure?"
is a question
never heard aloud,
all the same,there
hovers in the thick air,
quite tangibly.
Even with all the intimate
knowledge on her at hand,
it is still too difficult
to suggest, as she moves
with the deadly confidence
of a sleek armored car,
every one that appears on
the line of fire along
the 180 degree curve
sure would go down,
that's a daily occurrence.
But if on a bikini in white
she would be seen on the beach
absolutely mysterious she looks
the decision on this is unanimous!
how does one know this?
-a stunned silence every time
happens is the clinching proof.
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 11:56 AM UTC
This is my diary
of the world,
a trillion million
copies of the one,
digital diamonds,
faceted and mirrored,
dispersed on binary winds,
encoded, decrypted.
It is the proof of my love,
tangibly viewed,
empty
handed
txt
4
u
(-_-)
now i am forever
hardened
hewn
cut
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 1:26 PM UTC
She sits silently
Shellacked, superglued sans sound.
Cornered, Christine clenches
Claws covering cowardice
Comfort.
Taut tongue tangibly taciturn
Turns, transforms til truly torpid.
Silence caused transformation.
She is now an armchair.
Jun 16, 2010
Jun 16, 2010 at 5:27 PM UTC
Downtown lights glow through an avenue of trees
The dark haired girl sits outside on her balcony again.
Inhaling the cold blue air
And Tangibly
Hot city concrete mingles with night rain on a ***** pavement.
I stalk the streets
Headphones jammed in, jazz floating around in my head,
The girl turns and blows smoke at me, adjusting her radio,
pulling the hem of her shorts down.
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 5:03 PM UTC
Let us contemplate the superiority of striking presumption, as it seeks to pontificate the order of architectural allegiance.
Oh, Grand Master of Greco-Roman antiquity, I bow before the sacred volumes of legal pronouncement where unseen rituals tangibly assert their authority over those who seek to embrace the ancient pathways of knowledge.
As the degrees of freedom transcend the definition of a mere mathematical concept, we must never forget the formulations of our Hellenistic forefathers who chiselled the shape of the Order into the annals of the future.
As we give thanks to Set, we acknowledge the blindfolded ceremonies of sibling homicide which encourage wisdom in this circular lodge of self-binding.
Harpocrates is our God of silence who gained sustenance from feminine anatomical structures – and we are like Isis who has been impregnated by Osiris.
So, as we cast our gaze beyond the rites of this ****** union, let us acknowledge those ***** masonry structures of obelisk stability.
Have you been born yet?
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC
"Little lass with the pink parasol,
standing by the sea
where your face was forgotten
and your dress dirtied,
what can you tell me of the wind?
Have you noticed its paws
tugging at your parasol
and how it dances 'round your tip-toes
and freezes your eyelids
with icicle pins?
How it shields your drinking sight
from sunlight
by raising a blind of your hair?
Or
have you instead chosen to count the peaks on the waves?
How each pinch in the watery fabric
pistons up and down
in the oceanic mattress
with the nature sporadic
of a mad stellar twinkling.
What treasures belch age and air bubbles
under the surface
of a fingertip's breadth?
Of such sweet gems and precious metal
surely are the gifts of its deepest depths daring.
It has been counting the times you've dipped your nose under,
under fear of the fathom's fingers
finding your face to be pretty,
and withdrawing.
You'll catch cold, lass.
Standing by the sea so often; always.
At the least you will go mad
at the infinite sound of roaring laps
against the shore
and the gales born of sea and sky
scrubbing memories of stillness from your mind.
Little lass with the pink parasol,
what do you hope to find
standing here by thesea?"
I asked her.
She was silent.
And I heard every word her own,
though uttered tangibly
by winds of local overcast atmospheres.
In the wet soil 'neath my tarred heels
did a coolness rise,
finding my lungs dry and welcoming.
The horizon joined grey and blue
and she was eyeing the vanishing point.
My eyes joined hers in trek
and I found infinity.
Nothing was visible along the skyline.
Meaning anything was beyond it.
Nothing was visible beneath the tide.
Meaning anything was under it.
The wind suggested transparency
but a secretless wind is merely still air.
She said nothing
and I understood;
the sea seems larger
when you are close enough to be kissed by the waves
because you forget that the whole world is behind you.
I am right now
standing by the sea.
The little lass with the pink parasol.
She is here, too.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 11:01 PM UTC
I am Sewn through eternity with the thread of forever and the needle of always.
If this that I have for you could be expressed tangibly, we would need a bigger universe – for it will not fit in its small infinity.
If this that i have for you could be expressed in words, I would need a bigger vocabulary.
If this that i have for you could be expressed to the fullest extent in any way, shape, or form, it would take a lifetime of infinitive seconds,minutes,hours, and days to tell this that is my love for you.
Mar 11, 2010
Mar 11, 2010 at 5:07 PM UTC
Abbreviations are obscure.
Aren't they?
But I bow my head in certain familiarity with the letters: A.S.A.P.
We have been here before, in yesteryear, today, and eternity.
It is plumbed in the unfathomable depths of what we call "space".
The diversity of experience is tangibly present.
I don't know about you - but I can just about cut a slice of it and eat it, right where I stand.
Talk about having your cake and eating it!
That is likened to the freedom of a bird of prey, as she surfs the thermals of the Great Expanse.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:23 PM UTC
fragile and self absorbed I've spent a lot of time kneeling
but I've come to find honesty in admitting fear in the new things I'm feeling
there's something about moons and stars being beautiful but out of reach
that I've always found appealing
and I have drown in all my futile pursuits chasing whales into the ocean
but never with my written words, those pros are a dreamers innate commotion
emotional, combustible, percussive, explosions
I've survived a lot of falls and put my heart back together with duct tape
but somehow living always gives me just a little less than it takes
so my words now are few and chosen carefully
and my actions are my attempts at explaining those tangibly
every valentine's bouquet I'm sending
all the anniversary dollars I'm spending
each minute a loving ear I'm lending
but if two people are truly in love, there can be no happy
ending
Hemingway, that's from Snows of Kilimanjaro
an elegant reminder that we've one less day together with every new tomorrow
so I try and explain old emotions as best I know how
if only I could have known in those times the truths I know now
redundant, I'm a record with a deep scratch
tired, I'm the head of a burnt match
useless, I'm a diamond necklace with a missing clasp
bitter, and perpetuating the despair, never letting go of the holes unpatched
hopeful, I'm a dog kicked that keeps coming back
I've survived a lot of falls and put my heart back together with duct tape
but somehow living always gives back just a little less than it takes
I can see that in the wrinkles carving roads in my face by the mile
and I noticed that there's more lines where I scowl than where I smile
duct tape and regrets I've spent a lot of time kneeling
it's probably time to apolgize and stop reeling
but eating my own words sounds uncomfortably filling
so I guess I've said a lot of things that I'll never have the chance for repealing
somehow I've always sensed it since I was very young
that I would always be looking back as I rocketed forward
humming the songs that were already sung
reading old greeting card’s they've forgotten and feeling tortured
fragile and self absorbed I've got a lotta duct tape
survived a lot of falls without becoming fake
but somehow living always gives me
a little less than it takes
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 11:17 PM UTC
Outside, the air gets warmer; the sun shines again.
Inside feels as cold and dark as a stormy winter's night.
Outside, trees are budding, flowers are blooming, birds are singing; there is life all around.
Inside feels dead, dreary, desolate; but wait... Movement!
Turmoil. Confusion. Creativity colliding with concrete walls in heart and mind.
Must beak free; express tangibly.
Frustration builds as passions tarry behind steel doors.
Outside, spring is in the air, and creatures awake from slumber.
Inside, a bound heart cries out, "God save me!"
Mar 4, 2010
Mar 4, 2010 at 10:37 PM UTC
Kailasa mountain peaks
composed completely of clouds
hover mystically across the
mauve purple horizon
I stare dreamily out the car window
this celestial impression arouses
a sacred memory that has haunted
my consciousness
since I first alighted 12,000 feet above
sea level onto the blessed Himalayan
mountain range
I don’t think there is any place
like this on earth
glaciers hang like huge crystal malas
around majestic white bluffs
the air ripples, tingles tangibly with spirits of
Sages, Saints and other sublime beings
ethereal cathedral bells ring brightly
in the crisp altitude
The road climbing from Badrinath
to Vishnu’s auspicious Footprint
continues ascending
to the very threshold of Heaven
everything is just so luminous
even the breath filling our lungs
shimmers
As I travel back in time to that holy place
I know a part of me still sits in padmasana
aloft those Godly hills
through the melting snows
spring rains and summer monsoons
lost in supreme bliss
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 2:02 AM UTC
Why is it so, Oh why is it so
That the owners of capital
Inevitably grow
To be possessors of everything
Strategically placed,
Solidly, tangibly
Gunmetal faced?
Owners of newspapers
Head of TV,
Masters of radio
Commercial and free.
Dispensers of policy
Spreaders of gloss,
Keep movers informed
Keep fools at a loss.
Like a puppeteer General
Manipulate strings
Of artillery thunder
And stratosphere wings.
Subliminal ownership
Military wise
Guarantees power
And fortifies ties.
Holding the cards
In Congressional spheres
Ensures positive influence
To leadership ears.
Holding sway
In the ship of state
Commands control
Of those who rate.
Power to publish,
Power to spin,
Manipulative power
To politically win.
Power to generate
Mountains of wealth,
Marauding powers
Of infinite stealth.
Solidly, tangibly
Gunmetal faced,
Owners of capital
Strategically placed.
Controllers of influence
Puller of strings,
Powerful Anchors
...Societal Kings.
Marshalg
@theGate
Mangere Bridge
23 March 2009
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 12:53 AM UTC
I'm standing in the center of a bar and
I hate everyone
The whisky is sour and my make-up is a mess
Cherry blossom storms mix my feelings of you in early-morning dreams
We hurt one another in humble self-defense
Our young needs make our feverish bodies tremble
I've drowned my sorrow and slept around, if not in body tangibly in mind
You kiss pretty girls to erase my scribbled cursive name from your memory
Yet your hand placed in mine was real and
Syncopation of hearts aren't easily ruptured
The city lights glow dim in primal sympathy for the broken gestures of love
Wounds itch when they heal and
Sometimes writing is not enough
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
Love is a terrible thing.
A horrid and invisible thing.
The one thing that defies the human
Fear of the unknown
Oh but we want to know it.
We want to see it to hold it
So badly that over the millions of years
Of both our and its existence
We have died for it, killed for it
Begged and sobbed on our hands and knees for it
This invisible force of good feelings and warmth
That we think circles tangibly around us-
Swims and ebbs around our fellow man
Connecting us all and touching the lucky ones
But it isn’t enough.
We want to see it.
We want love to take a form we can mimic
And hold forever
So over the years we have thrown things at it.
Hoping love could somehow catch it
Be consumed by it, covered in it
Its illusive form reveled to us finally
With our clever trick
Writers douse it with ink
Artists with paint
Bakers with flour
Churches with gospels and white ropes
And smartest of all
Teenagers, who throw at it their own bodies
Hoping to trap it somewhere
Between both of their naked beings
Those teenagers who don’t have anything else to offer it yet
Nothing to throw at it
Nothing to lose in it yet
Still thinking love isn’t a terrible thing.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 4:10 PM UTC
Wasn't so much afterthoughts
but rather the act itself;
that myoclonic movement
An involuntary reflex of sorts.
Prisoner to human conditions
conserving oneself with
The illusion of individualism
A Perceived idea of what is natural
An erroneous concept of right and wrong.
Blaming the sky for rain and storm
Instead of hiding under shelter.
Punishing clueless planet earth
Our thoughtless pollution of her the seas
Man and man at war
Setting off bombs just for kicks.
The errs was much more than just
you could taste its bitter like venom;
Blisters from a flame or the sting of a slap.
Tangibly intangible were the sins we did.
Sometimes we knew what
We couldn't be held accountable for
Being not the kind frowned upon,
We did it in such abundance.
But it wasn't their fault,
.
.
.
or was it...
Mar 17, 2022
Mar 17, 2022 at 3:16 AM UTC
It was like removing an arm
Severing flesh and bone,
Sawing down through ligament
Until the muscles shown.
I felt the weakness pull me down;
A riptide of lost blood.
Swirling in the undertow,
Yet hiding from the flood.
Alone, the other arm groped
The space its twin had been,
Fingers only closed on air
Around the phantom limb.
Gone and yet still here with me
In everything I do.
Feel as though it never left
Though in my heart, I knew.
And though this piece, this part of me
Is never coming back
I feel it still, so tangibly
As I stay the track.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 12:30 PM UTC
The coldness of my unleashed disinhibitions have gracefully succumbed to the wisdom of cosmological forces, despite my ravenous salivations for all that is vehemently forbidden.
As I bark inside the relief of this solitary pound of articulated and socialised liberty, like an expression of abstract artistry within an ethical mudslide; I continue to teeter upon geographical tightropes which span unforgiving terrains across the ancient divides of propriety, where the baron plains of deuterocanonical origin are populated by restless spirits with gnashing teeth.
So, if they could ever be personified, I could easily butcher a myriad of depravities which tangibly characterise my inner Astarte and Ishtar demons – although, such an event would have to occur after we have engaged in a myriad of abominations where raunchy and indulgent copulations shamefully expose our brazen wantonness to animalistic inclinations.
Never offer to tie me down.
Restriction diametrically opposes my socially skilled yet nomadic being, as it sojourns across a psychedelic array of vibrant gardens, and weaves through present pathways which are timeless in their being.
It just is.
That is the essence of ontology.
Can we ever effectively contemplate the philosophies of predetermination and predestination?
As I am not dichotomous in my thinking, there is a legitimate place for being an omnivore within the walls of our societal fabric.
Although I radically accept that of which I do not approve, the psychology of ambivalence has led me to raise questions around the validity of horticulture.
My clock has melted down the flamboyance of those multicolored mountainsides of being and nothingness.
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 1:20 AM UTC
i did always say that perms don’t make good poetry; especially yours because honestly most of the time it was vaguely flat and misshapen. then again that was one of the first things you said to me; ‘in defence of the perm’.
that and a self-inflicted proclamation regarding your narcissistic disposition, so really all the signs were there; it could be compared rather dramatically to a romanticised act of self-harm.
as in, you didn’t really want to be loved or fixed but that didn’t stop me from trying; as in, part of me thought that by stitching up your wounds and healing your scars i could also fix myself.
self-sabotage of the highest degree.
getting tangled up in someone else’s string is a dangerous affair, rarely do you ask permission; you throw yourself into their mess in the tangibly desperate hope that two negatives might make a positive.
that, in between all of the crying and pills and messy ******* filled nights; between the hazy afternoons wrapped up in borrowed sheets and sweat. that somewhere deep within it all there would be a flash of mutual comfort and understanding.
the kind of “let’s be a mess together and try and fix it all” thing that only actually exists in coming of age movies surrounded by cigarette smoke and electric house parties.
it’s a terrifying and debilitating thing to fall in love with the idea of what could have been; their potential. people don’t fall for the extremes and absolutes; they fall in love with the details,
we lose ourselves and find each other in the details.
you will fall for the way he always licks his bottom lip slightly before he kisses you or the way he is so painfully cynical and innocently hopeful all at once.
it’ll be the small circles he’ll trace along the back of your hand with his thumb and the way that you’ll know you’re getting in too deep but will feel powerless in the face of it all.
so, you lie back like the pavement is sand and he is the waves that crash mercilessly down on you again and again and again.
the tide will change but the bruising will never stop,
his touch,
his words will never be soft enough, at least not for you.
the next girl that tries; i wish you luck and i promise it’ll be worth it because maybe
perms do make alright poetry after all.
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 11:51 AM UTC
I'm not here,
nor there,
not truly tangibly anywhere.
As transparency slithers about my veins,
i'm phantom,
silent deathly.
Eyes carry and lurch black holes
to quicken about the pupils.
It's the faceless death that paces about you,
rests against your blooming breath sitting next to you.
If I cradled the malfunctions,
misplaced to mutilated insides
about my criss crossed shoulders,
wingless back of blades,
death will but flutter in resemblance
against my skulls frame.
Transperce,
unravel about the living,
wings of dust reel,
I phantom of deathly....
a faceless orphan forget me.
Gods got no place for the dying ghostly.
Aug 28, 2011
Aug 28, 2011 at 12:20 AM UTC