"taps" poems - Hello Poetry

"taps" poems

I clash into my fabric, Like it's the waters of a bath. Behold the ripples from my fingers, Before I walked upon their path. Pills are skipping stones, That land at unsteady feet. I'm falling, or I'm drowning, Sleeping with torture underneath. With Carnations at the bedside, The yellow won't change my hue. For their inexplicit meanings, Are wrapped in dripping blue. And the taps rung through my head, Were the bath; now forming puddles. You asked how I had left, But you didn't notice the bubbles ---------------------------------------------------

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Jul 28, 2018

Jul 28, 2018 at 4:31 AM UTC

I clash into my fabric, Like it's the waters of a bath. Behold the ripples from my fingers, Before I walked upon their path. Pills are skipping stones, That land at unsteady feet. I'm falling, or I'm drowning, Sleeping with torture underneath. With Carnations at the bedside, The yellow won't change my hue. For their inexplicit meanings, Are wrapped in dripping blue. And the taps rung through my head, Were the bath; now forming puddles. You asked how I had left, But you didn't notice the bubbles ---------------------------------------------------

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Axes After whose stroke the wood rings, And the echoes! Echoes traveling Off from the center like horses. The sap Wells like tears, like the Water striving To re-establish its mirror Over the rock That drops and turns, A white skull, Eaten by weedy greens. Years later I Encounter them on the road---- Words dry and riderless, The indefatigable hoof-taps. While From the bottom of the pool, fixed stars Govern a life.

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Axes After whose stroke the wood rings, And the echoes! Echoes traveling Off from the center like horses. The sap Wells like tears, like the Water striving To re-establish its mirror Over the rock That drops and turns, A white skull, Eaten by weedy greens. Years later I Encounter them on the road---- Words dry and riderless, The indefatigable hoof-taps. While From the bottom of the pool, fixed stars Govern a life.

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I can hear the rain As it taps on my window And I think back to a time Where I'm laying in your bed With the same rain against your window And it shouldn't make me sad The fact that you're hearing the rain Against her window now But yet, it does

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Dec 28, 2014

Dec 28, 2014 at 1:26 AM UTC

rain rain go away

I can hear the rain As it taps on my window And I think back to a time Where I'm laying in your bed With the same rain against your window And it shouldn't make me sad The fact that you're hearing the rain Against her window now But yet, it does

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The bloom of the cut rose leaks into the water glass. She fixes breakfast. I sit thereabouts waiting. I trouble my coffee with a spoon. Her slippers scuff softly on the floor. Her dreaming slowly leaves her eyes. I rub my homely morning face. The finger of a tree taps the glass. It will not be admitted with the pale, newborn light. The world already goes its way. It minds if we are slow to follow. The street grumbles at my well-used robe. Matins bells predict a running out. We keep our peace longer than we should.

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Nov 9, 2012

Nov 9, 2012 at 8:50 AM UTC

The bloom of the cut rose leaks into the water glass. She fixes breakfast. I sit thereabouts waiting. I trouble my coffee with a spoon. Her slippers scuff softly on the floor. Her dreaming slowly leaves her eyes. I rub my homely morning face. The finger of a tree taps the glass. It will not be admitted with the pale, newborn light. The world already goes its way. It minds if we are slow to follow. The street grumbles at my well-used robe. Matins bells predict a running out. We keep our peace longer than we should.

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A bird rests its wings On the thin disfigured fingers of The trees branches Reaching ever so helplessly To pull the clouds from the sky And the breeze beats them to the stroke – The wrinkled eyes of the painter grin in an open field With a canvas the bristle has yet to caress Before rolling it up Like a chess mat Or a map He taps it shut like a telescope Departing for home where there is a woman waiting for him To inhale her sweet aroma To swallow the food she’s prepared To delicately draw the hair Falling over her face And tuck it behind her ear And whisper the words And brush her skin with quiet hand-language And he will not be beaten To the stroke (c) 2015

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Mar 25, 2015

Mar 25, 2015 at 6:05 PM UTC

christopher-gilman-scott

A bird rests its wings On the thin disfigured fingers of The trees branches Reaching ever so helplessly To pull the clouds from the sky And the breeze beats them to the stroke – The wrinkled eyes of the painter grin in an open field With a canvas the bristle has yet to caress Before rolling it up Like a chess mat Or a map He taps it shut like a telescope Departing for home where there is a woman waiting for him To inhale her sweet aroma To swallow the food she’s prepared To delicately draw the hair Falling over her face And tuck it behind her ear And whisper the words And brush her skin with quiet hand-language And he will not be beaten To the stroke (c) 2015

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a twig snaps beneath my shoe, the sudden sound shattering the calm atmosphere. sunlight dapples over my skin, rippling across my clothes, pooling in my cupped hands as if i were holding it. delicate leaves rustle overhead, my attention to the emerald glow above only broken by the hum of a bumblebee buzzing its way to yet another flower. trees, seemingly protective, surround me, their trunks a shelter for such a variety of creatures. sweet birdsong echoes above. a woodpecker taps a home somewhere to my left. a chipmunk skitters across my path and into the still ferns, causing them to shudder. the scent of soil, of leaves, of nature, floods me. i wonder about the world, about the mountains and about the sea. about my friends, my family, about strangers with lives just as complex and unknowing as my own. i ponder myself, my life, where will i go? what will i do? will it all be worth it? -l.s.

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Oct 13, 2018

Oct 13, 2018 at 11:43 AM UTC

a twig snaps beneath my shoe, the sudden sound shattering the calm atmosphere. sunlight dapples over my skin, rippling across my clothes, pooling in my cupped hands as if i were holding it. delicate leaves rustle overhead, my attention to the emerald glow above only broken by the hum of a bumblebee buzzing its way to yet another flower. trees, seemingly protective, surround me, their trunks a shelter for such a variety of creatures. sweet birdsong echoes above. a woodpecker taps a home somewhere to my left. a chipmunk skitters across my path and into the still ferns, causing them to shudder. the scent of soil, of leaves, of nature, floods me. i wonder about the world, about the mountains and about the sea. about my friends, my family, about strangers with lives just as complex and unknowing as my own. i ponder myself, my life, where will i go? what will i do? will it all be worth it? -l.s.

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The pick All the stress that an orange has caused is painful. It is painful for the tree from which it came. Snatched away with promises of sweetness. A tree mostly green, engulfing Small speckles of that deceptive orange. It was such a bright colour – high hopes! Handpicked by a man only looking for the best, Choosing poorly not for the first time. The green leaves frantically try to reclaim what’s theirs. Branch after branch reaching out, trying to uproot him. Close, so close. But they are a sea apart, At least an apple has a core, a heart. The peel Now it is pilfered, the painful process begins, Never quite ending: disappointment beckons. To try and taste these orange juices You soldiers must bear the burden. Each soldier, a finger digging themselves Into the tough stressful shell. Fingernails stained with orange blood, Eyes blinded by the same tangy juices. It never slips off in one go Like a roomy balaclava, But crumbles like the remnants of a bombing. Brick by brick, orange by orange it crumbles. Now it is finally undone But neither tree nor man has won. The preparation The crust collapsed, but now It is time to untangle the web the mantle holds. First, a division – the separation of brothers Who served side by side at birth. Dissected by these soldiers Acting as a bomb squad, Searching for those hidden pips. Found, but not without casualties – Sticky fingers with no taps in sight. Once removed the web is untangled. Tired, he hopes that the stress will swiftly end Unaware that the sweetness was just pretend. The pain Finally the moment has arrived And illogical ceremonies commence. I fear the celebration is far too soon, For as white touches orange and tries So desperately to unite, The tartly taste slays the poor man’s buds: Igniting like petrol on his burning tongue. He wishes he could return that orange To the green tree to which it belongs, To return a bullet-sprayed windscreen is not an option. The orange, once bitten, enjoys its trance Latching on to those pained tingling taste buds. His orange, a disaster to undress: Bad taste – a foolish price for such a mess.

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Feb 14, 2011

Feb 14, 2011 at 12:06 PM UTC

The pick All the stress that an orange has caused is painful. It is painful for the tree from which it came. Snatched away with promises of sweetness. A tree mostly green, engulfing Small speckles of that deceptive orange. It was such a bright colour – high hopes! Handpicked by a man only looking for the best, Choosing poorly not for the first time. The green leaves frantically try to reclaim what’s theirs. Branch after branch reaching out, trying to uproot him. Close, so close. But they are a sea apart, At least an apple has a core, a heart. The peel Now it is pilfered, the painful process begins, Never quite ending: disappointment beckons. To try and taste these orange juices You soldiers must bear the burden. Each soldier, a finger digging themselves Into the tough stressful shell. Fingernails stained with orange blood, Eyes blinded by the same tangy juices. It never slips off in one go Like a roomy balaclava, But crumbles like the remnants of a bombing. Brick by brick, orange by orange it crumbles. Now it is finally undone But neither tree nor man has won. The preparation The crust collapsed, but now It is time to untangle the web the mantle holds. First, a division – the separation of brothers Who served side by side at birth. Dissected by these soldiers Acting as a bomb squad, Searching for those hidden pips. Found, but not without casualties – Sticky fingers with no taps in sight. Once removed the web is untangled. Tired, he hopes that the stress will swiftly end Unaware that the sweetness was just pretend. The pain Finally the moment has arrived And illogical ceremonies commence. I fear the celebration is far too soon, For as white touches orange and tries So desperately to unite, The tartly taste slays the poor man’s buds: Igniting like petrol on his burning tongue. He wishes he could return that orange To the green tree to which it belongs, To return a bullet-sprayed windscreen is not an option. The orange, once bitten, enjoys its trance Latching on to those pained tingling taste buds. His orange, a disaster to undress: Bad taste – a foolish price for such a mess.

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She walks down this path so many Mothers have walked before her, Crisp uniforms line the path..a heavy heart..Tears in her lap. An American Flag snaps to attention as if to say we know your pain Mother, but we don’t. Through this all, she carries on the pride and resolve despite an unthinkable loss. The twenty-one gun salute resonates through every city in America Reminding everyone to take a moment to honor this fallen son. On the 6 O’clock news Taps plays on every television. And we shake our head in disbelief. An unbroken line of Patriots that passed before him, Line the stairway to heaven to welcome their brother home. And a banner hangs in Moms living room window..Displaying one Gold, two blue stars “Lord please bring my boys home safely”, she prays I hope you’ll think of some of the reasons why our brave sons & daughters make the ultimate sacrifice…..Here are just a few…….. The American Flag Our military men and women Freedom Patriotism America the Beautiful Land of the Free Home of the Brave 4th of July Memorial Day The Bald Eagle Democracy Free Enterprise God Bless America!

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Apr 26, 2016

Apr 26, 2016 at 4:10 PM UTC

Gold Star Mother

She walks down this path so many Mothers have walked before her, Crisp uniforms line the path..a heavy heart..Tears in her lap. An American Flag snaps to attention as if to say we know your pain Mother, but we don’t. Through this all, she carries on the pride and resolve despite an unthinkable loss. The twenty-one gun salute resonates through every city in America Reminding everyone to take a moment to honor this fallen son. On the 6 O’clock news Taps plays on every television. And we shake our head in disbelief. An unbroken line of Patriots that passed before him, Line the stairway to heaven to welcome their brother home. And a banner hangs in Moms living room window..Displaying one Gold, two blue stars “Lord please bring my boys home safely”, she prays I hope you’ll think of some of the reasons why our brave sons & daughters make the ultimate sacrifice…..Here are just a few…….. The American Flag Our military men and women Freedom Patriotism America the Beautiful Land of the Free Home of the Brave 4th of July Memorial Day The Bald Eagle Democracy Free Enterprise God Bless America!

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She calmly unlocks the front door as the wind flings the screen through wild tantrums. She droops down into her dusted rocker, pushing with her lavender heels to start the sway. Her sole taps softly, as the chair creaks onto fallen lacquer and the porch plays in discord through dancing lace. Interwoven hands lie atop her lap in a sea of navy with floral ships at its surface. Silver strands fall from her clouded bun and a few locks float past her sunken shoulders. With jaded eyes she looks at the corner to a poor table, where a cold candle peaks among a grassy field of melted wax riddled with burnt fuses. And near the candle, a dusted white hat remains anchored to the wooden surface. She can still smell the stale cigar smoke lingering in the room. “He’ll be here soon,” she thinks as her daze slowly sets in. The world seems quiet as she fills her eyes with sleep and the chair continues its march. Her hands unlock from their grasp and the screen door gently knocks.

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Mar 23, 2014

Mar 23, 2014 at 6:19 PM UTC

She calmly unlocks the front door as the wind flings the screen through wild tantrums. She droops down into her dusted rocker, pushing with her lavender heels to start the sway. Her sole taps softly, as the chair creaks onto fallen lacquer and the porch plays in discord through dancing lace. Interwoven hands lie atop her lap in a sea of navy with floral ships at its surface. Silver strands fall from her clouded bun and a few locks float past her sunken shoulders. With jaded eyes she looks at the corner to a poor table, where a cold candle peaks among a grassy field of melted wax riddled with burnt fuses. And near the candle, a dusted white hat remains anchored to the wooden surface. She can still smell the stale cigar smoke lingering in the room. “He’ll be here soon,” she thinks as her daze slowly sets in. The world seems quiet as she fills her eyes with sleep and the chair continues its march. Her hands unlock from their grasp and the screen door gently knocks.

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we're on a break, meaning we catharsis **** often in public places, often with an edge of violence, much like the session in the family restroom, here at Big Daddy's Bar-B-Que (travesty, travesty). still waiting for Em to to finish "tidying up." and the brisket is salty. or it's the leftovers from her forehead. she should have cut her fingernails. thinking of a way to hide the blood trails running wild on the back of my t-shirt. catharsis, she says. it's healthy, she says. Elvis croons over the arcane stereo system and a white-haired woman with gelatinous arms taps her fingers on the tabletop along to "Teddy Bear." the waitress keeps a hawk's eye on my half-empty/half-full glass of water. and I'm afraid to take a drink. here comes Em. she's an athlete. and we're on a break, meaning we don't see each other's parents. don't nod and listen. and don't say things like, "oh yeah, your sister Sarah. how's she?" hallelujah, hallelujah. Em played point guard in high school. her last official sporting endeavor. but twenty minutes ago she told me to look up a complicated position via iKamastutra on my phone because she's an athlete, and I'd be "amazed at what this machine [her body] can do." but I hate when she says **** like that. catering to an I'm-almost-certain-peg of my fantasy. harder, harder and before I finish, she insists on swallowing and it makes me uncomfortable but we're on break, and to argue would be a crucifixion to this "vacation." I think about Elvis. and wonder if any woman is still alive that swallowed his *** and when it's down to just one, does that mean anything? "well that was fun," Em says. her mascara wasted. the brisket is salty. I take a generous drink of water. I hear the sound of breaking glass. the waitress has busted a bottle of ketchup in her rush to refill my 2/3rds empty cup. "mazel tov," I say.

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Jan 31, 2013

Jan 31, 2013 at 7:57 PM UTC

we're on a break, meaning we catharsis **** often in public places, often with an edge of violence, much like the session in the family restroom, here at Big Daddy's Bar-B-Que (travesty, travesty). still waiting for Em to to finish "tidying up." and the brisket is salty. or it's the leftovers from her forehead. she should have cut her fingernails. thinking of a way to hide the blood trails running wild on the back of my t-shirt. catharsis, she says. it's healthy, she says. Elvis croons over the arcane stereo system and a white-haired woman with gelatinous arms taps her fingers on the tabletop along to "Teddy Bear." the waitress keeps a hawk's eye on my half-empty/half-full glass of water. and I'm afraid to take a drink. here comes Em. she's an athlete. and we're on a break, meaning we don't see each other's parents. don't nod and listen. and don't say things like, "oh yeah, your sister Sarah. how's she?" hallelujah, hallelujah. Em played point guard in high school. her last official sporting endeavor. but twenty minutes ago she told me to look up a complicated position via iKamastutra on my phone because she's an athlete, and I'd be "amazed at what this machine [her body] can do." but I hate when she says **** like that. catering to an I'm-almost-certain-peg of my fantasy. harder, harder and before I finish, she insists on swallowing and it makes me uncomfortable but we're on break, and to argue would be a crucifixion to this "vacation." I think about Elvis. and wonder if any woman is still alive that swallowed his *** and when it's down to just one, does that mean anything? "well that was fun," Em says. her mascara wasted. the brisket is salty. I take a generous drink of water. I hear the sound of breaking glass. the waitress has busted a bottle of ketchup in her rush to refill my 2/3rds empty cup. "mazel tov," I say.

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Sugar maple’s immature leaves bounce lively on the breeze Robins frolic through dandelions and freshly cut grass Brilliant brightness peeks through clouds warming my face Families of rabbits skip through budding yellow tulips Lavender lilacs dance with dogwood blossoms tickling my nose Baby woodpecker taps at the sycamore branch Fat bumblebees buzz from cherry bloom to zinnia bloom

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Aug 27, 2012

Aug 27, 2012 at 1:24 PM UTC

Spring’s Song

Sugar maple’s immature leaves bounce lively on the breeze Robins frolic through dandelions and freshly cut grass Brilliant brightness peeks through clouds warming my face Families of rabbits skip through budding yellow tulips Lavender lilacs dance with dogwood blossoms tickling my nose Baby woodpecker taps at the sycamore branch Fat bumblebees buzz from cherry bloom to zinnia bloom

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I'm Bailey. I sometimes forget to recycle. I'm from singing camels and trigonometry. From soap bubbles and yellow scarves, Irish hymns and Zucchini the ferret, piano keys, bluebonnet seeds, and DO NOT ENTER signs. From salt. I'm the color of hosed off sidewalk chalk. I'm all summer in a day. I'm a conglomeration of artistic thoughts that make me look more profound than I actually am. I'm your infinite playlist. I'm from elephant necklaces and rosemary bushes from high-heeled taps and Camelot threadless socks, shopping carts, and impromptu salons. I'm the fifth ninja turtle. I live where you laugh so hard you cry. I'm from carrots and ranch. I'm a happy cow from California, a fortune cookie with your enchilada, a drill team skirt over marching uniforms. I'm from unfinished crossword puzzles and forgotten dead languages from pixie dust and snapcracklepop from actually-it's-pronounced's, because-i-said-so's, and that's-not-my-name's. I am Nancy Drew with a Peter Pan complex. I come from honeysuckle candles and sunroofs of pickup trucks broken-down fences and peach salsa the second you step onstage. I'm from in between. I'm Bailey. I don't drive the speed limit. And I'm from you.

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Dec 22, 2009

Dec 22, 2009 at 6:08 PM UTC

I'm Bailey. I sometimes forget to recycle. I'm from singing camels and trigonometry. From soap bubbles and yellow scarves, Irish hymns and Zucchini the ferret, piano keys, bluebonnet seeds, and DO NOT ENTER signs. From salt. I'm the color of hosed off sidewalk chalk. I'm all summer in a day. I'm a conglomeration of artistic thoughts that make me look more profound than I actually am. I'm your infinite playlist. I'm from elephant necklaces and rosemary bushes from high-heeled taps and Camelot threadless socks, shopping carts, and impromptu salons. I'm the fifth ninja turtle. I live where you laugh so hard you cry. I'm from carrots and ranch. I'm a happy cow from California, a fortune cookie with your enchilada, a drill team skirt over marching uniforms. I'm from unfinished crossword puzzles and forgotten dead languages from pixie dust and snapcracklepop from actually-it's-pronounced's, because-i-said-so's, and that's-not-my-name's. I am Nancy Drew with a Peter Pan complex. I come from honeysuckle candles and sunroofs of pickup trucks broken-down fences and peach salsa the second you step onstage. I'm from in between. I'm Bailey. I don't drive the speed limit. And I'm from you.

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sweet Drive into the countryside Buy granny-green apples along the roadside Wave to jolly farm workers in verdant fields Smile and look up...greet the beautiful sky. ceiling of the heavens Share some (yellow) Lays in the car Pass the packet around, mmm..crunch crunch Feel the wind and see it, like sails...whip your hair Inhale sweet air, while cool music taps into ear. tranquil reaches Cannot hear the indiscriminate noises Cannot see the dust and dirt Will not touch the pulse of pain Can see only....pure sunshine. pure sunshine S T, 2 May 2013

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May 2, 2013

May 2, 2013 at 7:06 AM UTC

Long drive into the countryside

sweet Drive into the countryside Buy granny-green apples along the roadside Wave to jolly farm workers in verdant fields Smile and look up...greet the beautiful sky. ceiling of the heavens Share some (yellow) Lays in the car Pass the packet around, mmm..crunch crunch Feel the wind and see it, like sails...whip your hair Inhale sweet air, while cool music taps into ear. tranquil reaches Cannot hear the indiscriminate noises Cannot see the dust and dirt Will not touch the pulse of pain Can see only....pure sunshine. pure sunshine S T, 2 May 2013

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What once is now was My feet tread delicately over egg shells Balance on unsturdy tightropes My body's equilibrium thrown off My legs shake like an earthquake of emotion From outer to inner core, I see A slimmer of green light, my american dream I am the Great Gatsby Holding onto a bit of the past Desiring it to become the present To the future of mine Yet with soft words I am met with inevitable flames of anger A rage so powerful, so dangerous So provoking, prodding me like a cow The man I was born from Whom is supposed to defend me Is one that destroys me His words conform, turning into a wrecking ball Slam into my heart, destroying it Pieces fall down like pebbles tip, tipping against a lover's window Except it taps the windows of Satan Awakening unknown, terrifying horrors As bottles clink, can crash, alcohol splatters So does the confidence I once had mbm

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Sep 27, 2018

Sep 27, 2018 at 6:47 PM UTC

Tightropes and Egg Shells

What once is now was My feet tread delicately over egg shells Balance on unsturdy tightropes My body's equilibrium thrown off My legs shake like an earthquake of emotion From outer to inner core, I see A slimmer of green light, my american dream I am the Great Gatsby Holding onto a bit of the past Desiring it to become the present To the future of mine Yet with soft words I am met with inevitable flames of anger A rage so powerful, so dangerous So provoking, prodding me like a cow The man I was born from Whom is supposed to defend me Is one that destroys me His words conform, turning into a wrecking ball Slam into my heart, destroying it Pieces fall down like pebbles tip, tipping against a lover's window Except it taps the windows of Satan Awakening unknown, terrifying horrors As bottles clink, can crash, alcohol splatters So does the confidence I once had mbm

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I don't want smart. I want spontaneous. I don't want roses and a candle-lit dinner. I want drunken nights by the campfire. I don't want a boy that says 'I love you' Because I don't believe in love And, even if I did, I'm not emotionally capable of feeling it. I want a boy that's okay with that. I don't want a boy that showers me with compliments or a knight in shining armor. I don't want mushy love letters or romantic get aways. I don't want a boy who's looking for a wife because I don't believe in marriage. And I don't want a lover. I want a partner in crime. I want a boy with chaos flickering in his eyes. I want a boy who smiles a lot. I want contagious laughter. I want loud. I want steamy kisses where he presses my body into his and my skin tingles. I don't want late night phone calls or 'Good morning' texts. I want a boy that calls me out on my ******** I want a boy that pushes my buttons. I want a challenge. I don't want a boy that makes me feel pretty. I want a boy that makes me feel alive. I want a boy that taps on my window in the middle of the night And brings me on a starlit adventure. I don't want a boy that makes love. I want a boy that will **** me raw. And I want a boy that will let me pass out on him afterwards. And I want a boy that won't get offended if I move away in the middle of the night Because cuddling hurts my neck and his heartbeat is keeping me awake. I don't want a boy that holds hands. I want a boy that drives too fast. I don't want a boy that babies me. And I don't want a shoulder to cry on Because I'm not fragile And I can take care of myself. I want a boy that pushes me into oncoming sprinklers And doesn't hold anything back. I don't want a boy that's looking for forever because forever seems like a really long time. I want a boy that goes day by day. I don't want safe. I want to go fast. I want to live on the edge. I want exhilaration. I don't want to be wanted. I want to want.

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Jan 10, 2014

Jan 10, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC

I'm not looking for love.

I don't want smart. I want spontaneous. I don't want roses and a candle-lit dinner. I want drunken nights by the campfire. I don't want a boy that says 'I love you' Because I don't believe in love And, even if I did, I'm not emotionally capable of feeling it. I want a boy that's okay with that. I don't want a boy that showers me with compliments or a knight in shining armor. I don't want mushy love letters or romantic get aways. I don't want a boy who's looking for a wife because I don't believe in marriage. And I don't want a lover. I want a partner in crime. I want a boy with chaos flickering in his eyes. I want a boy who smiles a lot. I want contagious laughter. I want loud. I want steamy kisses where he presses my body into his and my skin tingles. I don't want late night phone calls or 'Good morning' texts. I want a boy that calls me out on my ******** I want a boy that pushes my buttons. I want a challenge. I don't want a boy that makes me feel pretty. I want a boy that makes me feel alive. I want a boy that taps on my window in the middle of the night And brings me on a starlit adventure. I don't want a boy that makes love. I want a boy that will **** me raw. And I want a boy that will let me pass out on him afterwards. And I want a boy that won't get offended if I move away in the middle of the night Because cuddling hurts my neck and his heartbeat is keeping me awake. I don't want a boy that holds hands. I want a boy that drives too fast. I don't want a boy that babies me. And I don't want a shoulder to cry on Because I'm not fragile And I can take care of myself. I want a boy that pushes me into oncoming sprinklers And doesn't hold anything back. I don't want a boy that's looking for forever because forever seems like a really long time. I want a boy that goes day by day. I don't want safe. I want to go fast. I want to live on the edge. I want exhilaration. I don't want to be wanted. I want to want.

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Bursting taps Like broken feet Crack, Droning a beat. Exclamations and hearts. Facebook Frankenstein: Nerves made senseless, By hyperbolic sentiments. Stripped as wires, Latex skin and a rib removed, Bringing the heart close to the keys. Orchestrated wires and pulleys Raising muscles like curtains. Brushing ***** bleached hair, Catching fingers like paper cuts. A hollow form, Designed in California, Approved in New Jersey, And made in some sweat shop. Flash your smile, Take your soma, Dream of MTV; You're the nightmare of my society.

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Jul 21, 2011

Jul 21, 2011 at 5:54 PM UTC

benjamin-woolley

Facebook Frankenstein

Bursting taps Like broken feet Crack, Droning a beat. Exclamations and hearts. Facebook Frankenstein: Nerves made senseless, By hyperbolic sentiments. Stripped as wires, Latex skin and a rib removed, Bringing the heart close to the keys. Orchestrated wires and pulleys Raising muscles like curtains. Brushing ***** bleached hair, Catching fingers like paper cuts. A hollow form, Designed in California, Approved in New Jersey, And made in some sweat shop. Flash your smile, Take your soma, Dream of MTV; You're the nightmare of my society.

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60 sunshines, 59 nightfalls till I face the day 40 topics held in to regurgitate, **** and span for the marker man to give a brother a break. Wait, I ain't done Got anxiety about two more chores in head Not to ***** and moan but ******* Getting tired of this **** What's the point to push if you don't know where to go Blindful blissful ignorance? They say, and you go. What subject? What ever is most respected. What job? What ever brings financial comfort. What about this? Nah, you ain't good at that. And so you sulk ever so distracted Hearing the drip drop taps, splat on to the sink. The metallic ting of the radiator reverberates as dormant inner silence sings. Forever more. A didactic sore for the ears, Apologies in advance, Though regardless you must hear it. Never run to please others Rather, focus and listen to the deep.

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Dec 10, 2017

Dec 10, 2017 at 3:15 PM UTC

Listen to the deep...to get out of the sh**!

60 sunshines, 59 nightfalls till I face the day 40 topics held in to regurgitate, **** and span for the marker man to give a brother a break. Wait, I ain't done Got anxiety about two more chores in head Not to ***** and moan but ******* Getting tired of this **** What's the point to push if you don't know where to go Blindful blissful ignorance? They say, and you go. What subject? What ever is most respected. What job? What ever brings financial comfort. What about this? Nah, you ain't good at that. And so you sulk ever so distracted Hearing the drip drop taps, splat on to the sink. The metallic ting of the radiator reverberates as dormant inner silence sings. Forever more. A didactic sore for the ears, Apologies in advance, Though regardless you must hear it. Never run to please others Rather, focus and listen to the deep.

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The jester dances For his king host, The king host asks the jester, What makes you different from most? The jester replies In an interesting manner, He bows forward And taps his head with a hammer, The king host laughs then tells the jester to go on, The king host then whispers to his queen, Is this jester a ***** The jester begins to dance As he says aloud, I am no more ***** Than wind is cloud The king host keeps silent With a puzzled look on his face, As the jester dances and hops All over the place, The jester begins to speak again, Oh people what you be? You are what you are And all that I see, For look at our king host, As I have perplexed his mind, With simple words that I spoke Not rude but kind, Oh look a bee! Look what I see! So close to me! So happily free! Oh king host be as this bee, Do not be thrown by a simple thing as me, Oh king host be kind and wise, For every man comes and dies, Oh king host finish your war, Win it with honor but fight no more, Oh king host know your lands, There is much to be offered from many hands, As for me the jester, I travel to the next king, And I travel with a smile As I dance and sing,

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Sep 15, 2010

Sep 15, 2010 at 12:26 AM UTC

The jester dances For his king host, The king host asks the jester, What makes you different from most? The jester replies In an interesting manner, He bows forward And taps his head with a hammer, The king host laughs then tells the jester to go on, The king host then whispers to his queen, Is this jester a ***** The jester begins to dance As he says aloud, I am no more ***** Than wind is cloud The king host keeps silent With a puzzled look on his face, As the jester dances and hops All over the place, The jester begins to speak again, Oh people what you be? You are what you are And all that I see, For look at our king host, As I have perplexed his mind, With simple words that I spoke Not rude but kind, Oh look a bee! Look what I see! So close to me! So happily free! Oh king host be as this bee, Do not be thrown by a simple thing as me, Oh king host be kind and wise, For every man comes and dies, Oh king host finish your war, Win it with honor but fight no more, Oh king host know your lands, There is much to be offered from many hands, As for me the jester, I travel to the next king, And I travel with a smile As I dance and sing,

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Angie works the alleys that reek of greasy sausages and **** where beer-bellied men appear and vanish into doorway varnish of invisible rooms, spitting on their own doorsteps, stubby fingers running over stained vests and wire wool guts. Harry lives out yonder where plastic bags’ ballet shoes are made of glue; he is sharing a hit with a dreadlocked kid, just another invisible face, a phantom-surfer nurse, to assist him in chasing the ultimate high on highway number twenty-two. Invisible, hairy hands hold her down; Angie has to swallow, she can feel the pulsating vein of a softening **** over her tongue and swollen lips – she gives it a good old slap against her cheek, grabs the package, and makes sure no one follows. Harry’s clawing at a face in that place where reality floats between the tip of the needle and the desperate edge of chemical dependency - his little angel taps him on the shoulder; he turns around, and stabs her in the throat.

0

Feb 5, 2011

Feb 5, 2011 at 11:32 PM UTC

ramonez-ramirez

The Ballad of 'Heroin' Harry and 'Amsterdam' Angie and the Invisible People

Angie works the alleys that reek of greasy sausages and **** where beer-bellied men appear and vanish into doorway varnish of invisible rooms, spitting on their own doorsteps, stubby fingers running over stained vests and wire wool guts. Harry lives out yonder where plastic bags’ ballet shoes are made of glue; he is sharing a hit with a dreadlocked kid, just another invisible face, a phantom-surfer nurse, to assist him in chasing the ultimate high on highway number twenty-two. Invisible, hairy hands hold her down; Angie has to swallow, she can feel the pulsating vein of a softening **** over her tongue and swollen lips – she gives it a good old slap against her cheek, grabs the package, and makes sure no one follows. Harry’s clawing at a face in that place where reality floats between the tip of the needle and the desperate edge of chemical dependency - his little angel taps him on the shoulder; he turns around, and stabs her in the throat.

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Ko Ko to Go Go a prelude to a kiss dance with Chubby Checker lift a slo gin fizz Head bobs to Be Bop flip the B Side now mellowtune in monotone two ears for stereo wow! Wonderment of Duke and Miles swinging kool birthin boplicity urban crush the hipsters rush jazz joints cross the city Firery sax emote a clash strain ears of credulity Lester leaps creative heat nips harden on my ******* Max taps exotic wax Django's quick pickin finger snaps flip my lid lips deliciously sippin Eurozone a Zen zone a blue infinitive smokin big peeps dig don pink wigs fat spliffs hot token My new suede shoes walks west end blues Pop's cornet got me tippin his open blast first to last I like cornbread, barbecue and fine home jazz cookin jbm Oakland 3/12/10

0

Nov 6, 2011

Nov 6, 2011 at 6:41 PM UTC

james-bradley-mccallum

Ko Ko to Go Go a prelude to a kiss dance with Chubby Checker lift a slo gin fizz Head bobs to Be Bop flip the B Side now mellowtune in monotone two ears for stereo wow! Wonderment of Duke and Miles swinging kool birthin boplicity urban crush the hipsters rush jazz joints cross the city Firery sax emote a clash strain ears of credulity Lester leaps creative heat nips harden on my ******* Max taps exotic wax Django's quick pickin finger snaps flip my lid lips deliciously sippin Eurozone a Zen zone a blue infinitive smokin big peeps dig don pink wigs fat spliffs hot token My new suede shoes walks west end blues Pop's cornet got me tippin his open blast first to last I like cornbread, barbecue and fine home jazz cookin jbm Oakland 3/12/10

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I Half of the fellow father as he doubles His sea-sucked Adam in the hollow hulk, Half of the fellow mother as she dabbles To-morrow's diver in her ***** milk, Bisected shadows on the thunder's bone Bolt for the salt unborn. The fellow half was frozen as it bubbled Corrosive spring out of the iceberg's crop, The fellow seed and shadow as it babbled The swing of milk was tufted in the pap, For half of love was planted in the lost, And the unplanted ghost. The broken halves are fellowed in a ******* The crutch that marrow taps upon their sleep, Limp in the street of sea, among the rabble Of tide-tongued heads and bladders in the deep, And stake the sleepers in the savage grave That the vampire laugh. The patchwork halves were cloven as they scudded The wild pigs' wood, and slime upon the trees, ******* the dark, kissed on the cyanide, And loosed the braiding adders from their hairs, Rotating halves are horning as they drill The arterial angel. What colour is glory? death's feather? tremble The halves that pierce the pin's point in the air, And ***** the thumb-stained heaven through the thimble. The ghost is dumb that stammered in the straw, The ghost that hatched his havoc as he flew Blinds their cloud-tracking eye. II My world is pyramid. The padded mummer Weeps on the desert ochre and the salt Incising summer. My Egypt's armour buckling in its sheet, I scrape through resin to a starry bone And a blood parhelion. My world is cypress, and an English valley. I piece my flesh that rattled on the yards Red in an Austrian volley. I hear, through dead men's drums, the riddled lads, ******** their bowels from a hill of bones, Cry Eloi to the guns. My grave is watered by the crossing Jordan. The Arctic scut, and basin of the South, Drip on my dead house garden. Who seek me landward, marking in my mouth The straws of Asia, lose me as I turn Through the Atlantic corn. The fellow halves that, cloven as they swivel On casting tides, are tangled in the shells, Bearding the unborn devil, Bleed from my burning fork and smell my heels. The tongue's of heaven gossip as I glide Binding my angel's hood. Who blows death's feather? What glory is colour? I blow the stammel feather in the vein. The **** is glory in a working pallor. My clay unsuckled and my salt unborn, The secret child, I sift about the sea Dry in the half-tracked thigh.

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3.9k

My World Is Pyramid

I Half of the fellow father as he doubles His sea-sucked Adam in the hollow hulk, Half of the fellow mother as she dabbles To-morrow's diver in her ***** milk, Bisected shadows on the thunder's bone Bolt for the salt unborn. The fellow half was frozen as it bubbled Corrosive spring out of the iceberg's crop, The fellow seed and shadow as it babbled The swing of milk was tufted in the pap, For half of love was planted in the lost, And the unplanted ghost. The broken halves are fellowed in a ******* The crutch that marrow taps upon their sleep, Limp in the street of sea, among the rabble Of tide-tongued heads and bladders in the deep, And stake the sleepers in the savage grave That the vampire laugh. The patchwork halves were cloven as they scudded The wild pigs' wood, and slime upon the trees, ******* the dark, kissed on the cyanide, And loosed the braiding adders from their hairs, Rotating halves are horning as they drill The arterial angel. What colour is glory? death's feather? tremble The halves that pierce the pin's point in the air, And ***** the thumb-stained heaven through the thimble. The ghost is dumb that stammered in the straw, The ghost that hatched his havoc as he flew Blinds their cloud-tracking eye. II My world is pyramid. The padded mummer Weeps on the desert ochre and the salt Incising summer. My Egypt's armour buckling in its sheet, I scrape through resin to a starry bone And a blood parhelion. My world is cypress, and an English valley. I piece my flesh that rattled on the yards Red in an Austrian volley. I hear, through dead men's drums, the riddled lads, ******** their bowels from a hill of bones, Cry Eloi to the guns. My grave is watered by the crossing Jordan. The Arctic scut, and basin of the South, Drip on my dead house garden. Who seek me landward, marking in my mouth The straws of Asia, lose me as I turn Through the Atlantic corn. The fellow halves that, cloven as they swivel On casting tides, are tangled in the shells, Bearding the unborn devil, Bleed from my burning fork and smell my heels. The tongue's of heaven gossip as I glide Binding my angel's hood. Who blows death's feather? What glory is colour? I blow the stammel feather in the vein. The **** is glory in a working pallor. My clay unsuckled and my salt unborn, The secret child, I sift about the sea Dry in the half-tracked thigh.

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All I wanted was a cigarette. We weren't allowed to smoke. He knew where to go. We swept sidewalks together. Raked sand together. Talked about life together. His window was across from mine. I think he saw me changing once. Maybe more than once. He was getting dishonorably discharged. I didn't think he was a good man. I didn't think he was a bad one, either. It had been two weeks since I landed in Monterey. I only wanted a cigarette. He knew where to go. I bought the Southern Comfort and bottom shelf gin. He carried them with him to his room. I didn't think anything of it. We raked sand together. We ate lunch together. We watched movies together. We sat on a makeshift bench by the ditch by the installation fence. We drank and smoked and laughed. I taught him Farsi and he taught me Russian. Russian for "hello" and "goodbye." Russian for "This is allowed." Russian for "This is not allowed." I think he saw me changing once. He tried to kiss me on the cheek. I told him no, my boyfriend wouldn't like that very much. We smoked some more. We drank some more. We laughed some more. It was 2130. I had to be in my room by 2200. He said not to worry, I'd be back in time. I insisted and tried to leave. I fell to the ground. He didn't help me up. I only wanted a cigarette. He kissed me on the mouth. I did not kiss him back. I was immobile. Paralyzed. Drugged? He kissed me again. And again. And again. I did not kiss him back. I had a boyfriend. All I wanted was to smoke and drink and laugh. He grabbed me by the ankles. Pulled me over the ditch behind the army barracks by the installation fence. I could hear soldiers coming back to their rooms. I was paralyzed. I always thought I would fight. Fend him off with car keys stuffed between my fingers. I looked up at the tree branches above me, my watch said 2147. That was the last time I prayed to God. There were leaves in my hair and dirt on my arms. There was something less than a man between my legs. It looked at me with hate in its eyes. We swept sidewalks together. God kicked back and swigged a PBR while I was ***** behind the army barracks, over the ditch by the installation fence. He helped me up. I couldn't stand on my own. How sweet. I vomited by a tree. I was disgusted with myself and him and God. I wanted to drown in Southern Comfort and bottom shelf gin. He walked me to my barracks building. How sweet. I made it to my room by 2200. All the girls watched me stumble down the hallway. I was so violently alone. Taps wailed outside the window. I left my hat by the bench by the ditch by the installation fence. He brought it to me the next morning. How sweet.

0

Apr 22, 2013

Apr 22, 2013 at 8:38 PM UTC

All I wanted was a cigarette. We weren't allowed to smoke. He knew where to go. We swept sidewalks together. Raked sand together. Talked about life together. His window was across from mine. I think he saw me changing once. Maybe more than once. He was getting dishonorably discharged. I didn't think he was a good man. I didn't think he was a bad one, either. It had been two weeks since I landed in Monterey. I only wanted a cigarette. He knew where to go. I bought the Southern Comfort and bottom shelf gin. He carried them with him to his room. I didn't think anything of it. We raked sand together. We ate lunch together. We watched movies together. We sat on a makeshift bench by the ditch by the installation fence. We drank and smoked and laughed. I taught him Farsi and he taught me Russian. Russian for "hello" and "goodbye." Russian for "This is allowed." Russian for "This is not allowed." I think he saw me changing once. He tried to kiss me on the cheek. I told him no, my boyfriend wouldn't like that very much. We smoked some more. We drank some more. We laughed some more. It was 2130. I had to be in my room by 2200. He said not to worry, I'd be back in time. I insisted and tried to leave. I fell to the ground. He didn't help me up. I only wanted a cigarette. He kissed me on the mouth. I did not kiss him back. I was immobile. Paralyzed. Drugged? He kissed me again. And again. And again. I did not kiss him back. I had a boyfriend. All I wanted was to smoke and drink and laugh. He grabbed me by the ankles. Pulled me over the ditch behind the army barracks by the installation fence. I could hear soldiers coming back to their rooms. I was paralyzed. I always thought I would fight. Fend him off with car keys stuffed between my fingers. I looked up at the tree branches above me, my watch said 2147. That was the last time I prayed to God. There were leaves in my hair and dirt on my arms. There was something less than a man between my legs. It looked at me with hate in its eyes. We swept sidewalks together. God kicked back and swigged a PBR while I was ***** behind the army barracks, over the ditch by the installation fence. He helped me up. I couldn't stand on my own. How sweet. I vomited by a tree. I was disgusted with myself and him and God. I wanted to drown in Southern Comfort and bottom shelf gin. He walked me to my barracks building. How sweet. I made it to my room by 2200. All the girls watched me stumble down the hallway. I was so violently alone. Taps wailed outside the window. I left my hat by the bench by the ditch by the installation fence. He brought it to me the next morning. How sweet.

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complexity is your beauty simplicity your mystery interdependence sustains you once upon a time we dipped bowls into your waters and brought up draughts of life now Skipjacks go fathoms deep into endless depletion charting entangled dead zones broadening into a sea of inertness your delicate eco-essence tips toward oblivion effluvia farmers layer mechanized blankets of nitrates on your sunset shores weaving green tendrils of algae blooms strangling the entanglements of all links in your miraculous food chain the EPA proscribes a Jenny Craig pollution diet to halt the slaughter in oxygen challenged dead zones where rockfish are garroted, oysters get drilled by screwworms and azure tinted soft shell ***** dance soft shoe taps lifting a tinny chorus of sad Piedmont Blues the flat-lining watersheds voiceless warnings tremble rocking the purged nests of screaming ospreys in vocal protest of a sinking Tangier Isle anointing it’s tombstones of unvisited cemeteries with multicolored guano fitting alkaline tributes to the lost inhabitants and forgotten languages sinking into the brine of gray brackish tides Delmarva’s fine intra-continental balance skewed by the oozing industrial swill of Frank Perdue chicken farms ruling the roost of sanctioned sustainability tinging clear watersheds of finger lakes set in splints to repair dislocations and complex compound fractures that may never heal again Music Selection: Taj Mahal: Fishin Blues jbm Oakland 6/7/12

0

Feb 19, 2013

Feb 19, 2013 at 8:36 AM UTC

james-bradley-mccallum

complexity is your beauty simplicity your mystery interdependence sustains you once upon a time we dipped bowls into your waters and brought up draughts of life now Skipjacks go fathoms deep into endless depletion charting entangled dead zones broadening into a sea of inertness your delicate eco-essence tips toward oblivion effluvia farmers layer mechanized blankets of nitrates on your sunset shores weaving green tendrils of algae blooms strangling the entanglements of all links in your miraculous food chain the EPA proscribes a Jenny Craig pollution diet to halt the slaughter in oxygen challenged dead zones where rockfish are garroted, oysters get drilled by screwworms and azure tinted soft shell ***** dance soft shoe taps lifting a tinny chorus of sad Piedmont Blues the flat-lining watersheds voiceless warnings tremble rocking the purged nests of screaming ospreys in vocal protest of a sinking Tangier Isle anointing it’s tombstones of unvisited cemeteries with multicolored guano fitting alkaline tributes to the lost inhabitants and forgotten languages sinking into the brine of gray brackish tides Delmarva’s fine intra-continental balance skewed by the oozing industrial swill of Frank Perdue chicken farms ruling the roost of sanctioned sustainability tinging clear watersheds of finger lakes set in splints to repair dislocations and complex compound fractures that may never heal again Music Selection: Taj Mahal: Fishin Blues jbm Oakland 6/7/12

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In high-school chemistry classrooms across the country, you are forced to memorize all of the different lab equipment. They never tell you to memorize the constellation of freckles spattered across the bridge of your lab partner's nose, but you do it anyways. You learn about Marie Curie and radioactive decay, but you find you are more interested in the way his smile starts small and grows to light a fire in your cheeks. You blame it on the Bunsen burner. You study polyatomic ions and how they act as a single unit, and it reminds you of how he winks at you right before quizzes and you find you can't focus on anything at all. You blame it on the lack of breakfast. You test over periodic trends and ionization energy, but all you can think of at night is the way he taps his fingers and maybe it's why you can't sleep at night. You blame it on a restless mind. In high-school chemistry classrooms across the country, you are forced to be careful when handling Erlenmeyer flasks. They never tell other students to be careful when handling your heart. They never tell you how much easier it is to clean up the mess from a shattered beaker than it is to clean up the mess from your shattered heart.

0

Oct 25, 2015

Oct 25, 2015 at 4:06 PM UTC

hypotheticalpersonality

Chemistry Class

In high-school chemistry classrooms across the country, you are forced to memorize all of the different lab equipment. They never tell you to memorize the constellation of freckles spattered across the bridge of your lab partner's nose, but you do it anyways. You learn about Marie Curie and radioactive decay, but you find you are more interested in the way his smile starts small and grows to light a fire in your cheeks. You blame it on the Bunsen burner. You study polyatomic ions and how they act as a single unit, and it reminds you of how he winks at you right before quizzes and you find you can't focus on anything at all. You blame it on the lack of breakfast. You test over periodic trends and ionization energy, but all you can think of at night is the way he taps his fingers and maybe it's why you can't sleep at night. You blame it on a restless mind. In high-school chemistry classrooms across the country, you are forced to be careful when handling Erlenmeyer flasks. They never tell other students to be careful when handling your heart. They never tell you how much easier it is to clean up the mess from a shattered beaker than it is to clean up the mess from your shattered heart.

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