"teeters" poems
I found a place of solitude inside my mind,
Self reflection teeters on the line.
I speak my affirmations, shaping my manifestations,
Satisfaction on the road to attraction.
Through universal connection, I feel it rise,
Flowing gently through my consciousness.
I am your daughter, twin flame, friend,
Teacher or lover, it doesn’t matter
For we are all made of stardust and matter,
And that is the piece that truly matters.
Jun 8, 2021
Jun 8, 2021 at 12:43 PM UTC
I am never not surprised,
when someone else has the courage to look me in my eyes,
to tell me bald-faced lies,
that say I am too dramatized
as a white girl trying to equalize
and see the world before me rise
to say we're not satisfied
to say with honesty we despise
a government who seems to tyrannize
its citizens into fearing they be deprived
of food, water, and electricity. So they have to believe in the guise.
That we are a nation paralyzed.
By lies.
I am just a twenty two year old, Caucasian female
addicted to the idea I can help you see we will prevail.
Our nation teeters on the brink.
Help me save our souls,
Before they take us out like MLK, Lennon, JFK
All with a blink.
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 1:47 PM UTC
Not a day goes by that you don’t see me,
Sitting in my bed, alone.
I waste away.
You ignore my screams.
How apathetic can a caretaker be?
Water teeters on the edge of my nightstand,
Just outside my reach.
All I ask is one drop to wet my cracking lips.
Do you even care to end my pain?
You know that my weakness cannot last forever;
I will rise and strike you down,
Ridiculing, beating, forgetting you.
One day, you will be in that bed,
Crying,
Dying.
And I will be
Your apathetic caretaker.
Jun 19, 2012
Jun 19, 2012 at 6:40 PM UTC
.
*Light hits my retina
through the prism of a tear,
distorted faces pass
with images fragmented
inside out
and the smell of tallow
as a candle splutters,
falters and winks out
for the wick collapses cruel
like a hamstrung dancer.
The tear exits stage left
and rolls down the wings
of a thoughtless cheek,
teeters on the brink of catastrophe
and falls upon a blank page,
reviewing its brief life
as a lazy metaphor,
so I look at the remaining solitary candle
and grieve for the lost tear,
as an understudy takes its place.*
© Pagan Paul (28/05/19)
May 28, 2019
May 28, 2019 at 7:34 AM UTC
Never enough.
Never enough of anything.
It's always running low,
running out.
Money, energy, time.
The fuel gauge
threatens empty.
The bank balance
teeters and tips
into the red.
Almost out of smokes, and there's
one last shot
in the bottle.
The car tax expires
in two days.
You've been
exhausted
since forever.
You can't kid yourself
that you're young any more.
Clocks tick
just to **** with you.
It's dark, but
not as dark
as it gets.
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 4:26 AM UTC
oh what sustains this mind
a mind that teeters
on the edge of a spiral vertigo
that sways and rocks
in an unease of palpitations
attempting to escape
from the brutal insensitivity
of the granite faces that occupy the streets
a mind of hallucinated perceptions
with a constant stream of imagery
that finds a difficulty in the self negotiation,
the articulation of its inner geography
where a frightened availability of disturbance
in the vocabulary of its chemical graffiti
leaves speech vacated on the tongue
where eyes are pushed to see
a discord of sympathies for different dimensions
that has one disassociated, cut off from the immediate
living in an inner dialogue
of rebellious and unconventional preoccupations
a self alienation that heightens
the poetic colouring of the imagination
causes a ************ of the mind
that makes me cripplingly aware
of the abyss at the heart of my inner disquiet
makes my toes hover on the jagged edge of the world
yet I jump choosing discovery over societal dictum
to do rather than be
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 9:00 PM UTC
She has a heart that beats like the constant rolling of the waves
That kicks against her mother’s chest as to always assure her
“I am here, Mom”
Her mother hears,
while stretching out her swollen legs in the bath.
She has bones as fragile as a rose stem
Her eyes drooping like petals
She plucks her mother’s breast
With her sleepy mouth as to always assure her
“I need you, Mom”
She touches the buds
of her blossoming fingers to her mother’s heart,
stumbles with her pudgy little legs,
teeters, slips, crashes down to the floor
And still manages to avoid the cracks in the
Pavement,
on her mother’s aching back
As if to assure her
“I love you, Mom”
Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 4:50 PM UTC
These rushes called "crushes", a concept aptly titled
You can't let it crush you though, your perspective can be vital
Your mind begins to wander and stomach starts to flutter
Your tongue becomes tied which can lead to a stutter
Oftentimes you find that the feelings are one-sided
So you'll do anything you can to conceal and to hide it
While love can cloud judgment, a crush can bring haze
But seeing their face gets you through dreary spring days
It's amazing what a simple little crush can do for us
How when you listen to a love song, little angels sing the chorus
It teeters after "like" but totters before "love"
A seesaw, emotions that fit you like a glove
The thought of them, the sight of them sends you a frightening jolt
Cupid's Arrow hits with the force of a lightening bolt
Of energy, of excitement, an indictment on how you feel
It leaves a lasting scar, it seems that no one else can heal
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 8:31 PM UTC
Dedicated to Mike Evans & Wendell Griffin…for their great approach to the King of sports, Golf.
Loosen up, feeling good,
Back swing nice and smooth
Power stroke an easy glide
A solid thwack to move
That golf ball into orbit,
Disappearing into air,
Diminishing like angel dust
On a trajectory so fair.
Looking good, nice and straight
In parabolic curve
At apex point it hesitates,
No breezes cause a swerve
Plummeting to emerald grass
The ball bounces on the green
To travel in a perfect arc,
The best I’ve ever seen,
It teeters at the cup lip
To roll around the rim
And by the grace of God,
That golf ball vanishes within!
The day at once looks perfect
The morning light pristine,
The singing birds in trees
Throw brilliant shadows to the green.
I peer into the cup
To see my sweetest dimpled ball,
That darling Dunlop eight
Henceforth shall grace my trophy wall.
My name will feature on the cup
Atop the clubhouse shelf
And the bar room shout for all the boys
Should put a large dent in my wealth.
But the wonder, the wonder,
The spangled wonder of it all
Will have me grinning foolishly
Whenever I recall,
That magnificent stroke
Towards that iridescent green
When I scored a hole in one
And drank a toast to Golf and Queen.
Marshalg
@ the Bach
Mangere Bridge
12th January 2009
Jan 7, 2010
Jan 7, 2010 at 10:31 PM UTC
It's ever fickle with how it appears,
one moment you don't know it's there the next it shows up uninvited,
you know it supposed to bring you joy, make you laugh,
but it can be just as kind as it can be cruel.
It wont tell you when it shows up, it wont tell you when it leaves,
this two faced thing called Happiness,
it's something the world fears, something the world enjoys,
it hides in the shadows of others, openly lets itself be displayed on the faces of the rest.
it takes from you and you don't notice until it leaves,
leaving you feeling as depressed and as sad as before it arrived,
it teeters on the edge of welcoming and hated,
driving its steel knife further and further in as it watches you,
twisting and turning, writhing and rolling.
but if you've had enough of this thing, this....Happiness.
let it be known that as you take your final breathe,
say your final goodbye,
and wave your final wave,
know.
know that the world will not wave back.
it will never wave back.
Nov 10, 2019
Nov 10, 2019 at 11:31 PM UTC
there is heard an amplified distinction of sounds
smells of accelerated inner vertigo
a feeling of immanent death
the distillation of blood stains on the sheets
an impulse of volatilized emotion
that generates a different vocabulary
creates a fixation with a considered state
of inner concerns, entertains other dimensions
discovers with sinister undertones
that one is a figment, yes a figment
of someone else’s imagination
that you are a a fascinated but unfortunate escape
from a brutal insensitivity that sustains a mind
that teeters at the jagged edges of the world
for is it you… are is it who, an hallucinated perception
of the I, the we, the them and the me
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 10:33 PM UTC
One of the best days of my life,
teeters between first and second
like the moment you lose balance
and your body tenses
and sways back and forth until inner peace is found.
It was cold out
but we ran around outside anyways
in the dark night
in the glowing beems from the streetlights.
We sat on that bench that said
"Dedicated to Mark Xander"
or something like that.
We watched the sunset
pull the pinks and oranges out of the sky
below the surface of the Columbia.
You fell asleep in my lap,
as I ran my fingers through your hair,
for some reason you love that so much.
And I watched you,
you looked so peaceful.
A few minutes later
you woke up
and jumped
saying
"We're losing time!"
We ran up a few more blocks
to the downtown park
and sat by the man-made waterfall
that drizzled down from the clock tower.
Aspen trees bordered the square
already decked out in their flashing Christmas lights.
I love Christmas decorations,
did you plan this? I thought.
We traced the bricked earth with our toes
as we held hands on the bench.
The clock struck 8:00.
You stood up
and took my hand
and we kissed
as the giant bells sang to us,
beautifully.
It felt like a small promise...
that one day I'll hear those bells again
on our wedding day.
We pulled away and I looked into your eyes,
I could tell you thought
the same thing as I.
I don't remember much of the rest of the night.
My eye sight was blocked
from my clenched cheekbones
so big from smiling so wide.
All I can remember, was that we
were the happiest people on earth.
It's been almost a year since that day,
and we still remember
and embrace
that one Sunday
as the best days of our life.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 12:11 AM UTC
The kid’s quiet
then she teeters in,
all glamour and glitz.
The Ritz is asking,
Mademoiselle, for your
curtain call dress,
a glitterball gown,
dragging by your feet—
oh, but her shoes!
Duty bound cardinal
red swim in the eye
like the carpet you
ought to premiere on.
It matches the lipstick
rub, your lips a yolk
as though you had drawn
over the lines, a smear
having caught the pearl
shawl around your neck.
Those your grandmother
passed down, you say?
She would be so proud.
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 2:37 PM UTC
I used to think I kept you like a secret.
Is it a secret if no one knows it’s being kept?
Maybe I’ll never know, but
if I did have the chops to say it out loud,
I’d tell them that
I have dreams about that plane ride.
I’d take the 6AM flight just so
the colors of the sunrise would
chase me for a thousand miles.
I’d sip my hot coffee
with too much cream at
my window seat and
make small talk with
the older woman seated beside me.
She has a kind face and
takes this flight often to visit her
son and his family.
(He relocated for work,
but couldn’t pass up the salary.)
She’d ask if I’m coming or going.
“I’m not sure yet,” I’d reply, and
offer to buy her a drink,
as I revel in and relive
every crumb of our story with her.
It’s a good one, I think.
(And she thinks so too.)
She places her hand on mine, and,
with the sincerest of smiles,
wishes me well on my adventure.
She’s always there, and I like her.
I dream that baggage claim is
a ghost town, but I
recognize your eyes beyond the carousel
before I recognize my own blue suitcase.
Sometimes you have flowers in your hand,
but you always have a hug.
There’s excitement and understanding in it—
a relief that teeters on tears
and lips that waited for so long
to whisper, “Finally.”
And I feel so safe and found.
I’m at home
in a place I’ve never been before—
in arms that have never held me.
My blue suitcase— still circling.
I laugh, and I can’t wait to tell you
that I dream of you in color.
I quickly give you instructions
on how to find me again
in case we get lost.
I tell you dream flights are cheaper
if you’re in bed before 9PM.
I don’t know if you hear me,
but before I can ask,
I’m awake.
I’m alone.
You’re my secret again.
The secret I’ve never told.
BWI direct to XNA.
Aug 28, 2025
Aug 28, 2025 at 10:15 PM UTC
A cry assails my window
a child has a broken heart,
life is harsh and she's afraid,
mother said a harsh word
she fell down, the world
too big, too cruel
she wails,
drops her bottle,
she wails
stumps her toe,
she wails
her favorite doll ruined,
she wails,
palms bruised and scratched
she wails
and no one hesitates.
Father walks too far ahead
she teeters to stand,
her wails carried on the wind
no one picks her up,
she must learn to endure
life's obstacles,
she gains footing and
stands , bursts forward
on wobbling legs,
Father turns and smiles
waits to dust her off,
takes her hand,
and the world begins
again.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 7:07 PM UTC
Counterpart opposite
and depleted by measures of time.
Time no longer counted upon
And its hands that measures the distance
All
one, two, three
of
them
Watches closely with intuition
as
the
minutes
go
bye.
Resolute is absent and the balance of His nature
Is unstable.
Both have grown feeble, lacking interest.
Burdened down by the weight of unevenness
Absalom has risen above the absence of the absolute
leading to a labyrinth.
.
Mystified by the maze,
He
Sits,
counting backwards,
rotating on an unhinged alignment,
expounding the injury of His inventiveness.
In another dimension of Himself, all one, two, three of them
Helios is staggered as Cupid, The God of Dark Love’s
Bow
is broken.
Now
His
equilibrium
is
faltered by the parallels between its thoughts.
Wanting love’s incarceration corrupted no more
He teeters on a stool in attempt to reverse suicide
yet the ensuing ideology of procrastination’s pride
has detoured His dilemma
However in their misfortune,
Love,
hoping to be reincarnate into another lifetime, dissolves in its delusion.
Time, in its barrenness discreetly measures the depletion and void,
and
the hands
all one, two, three of Him sits opposite
Being His
Counter in
Part
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 8:06 AM UTC
you're maybe atoms)but)oh how nicely they are
supplely arranged in a neat package of *******
thighs hips divinely springing with soreness
hurting to be sick with lips
A
Disease you
like an incriminate of life want to ******
your pert body on my love sword
A
Blade
you like to put in your mouth unlike (sharper
than) a razor upon which teeters my senses
febrile bulging festering with you
A
sickly with needing for pain girl
(if you want i'll hurt you like
how you like to be hurt
)
A
Sort of almost
pain which if
you do it right
feels so much
better
Apr 3, 2012
Apr 3, 2012 at 5:43 PM UTC
A stack of unread books
teeters, hovers
over the squeezed tube
of triple antibiotic gel
resting on my nightstand,
lying right next
to the empty cup of white monkey,
sitting on a Heineken coaster.
My electric blanket
is plugged in,
set on #2, while
my head rests
on stacked pillows,
a cool breeze floats over me.
Bastet keeps me company on papyrus
along with the raised canine
under the glow-painted
Milky Way, where
I weave stories,
minglings of half-truths
& real fantasies.
I get tired of loving the hand
& use my finger to
spread some if it
in verse, wondering
why my head buzzes me so,
or if a single soul can relate
to such an asylum,
my sanctuary.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 3:20 AM UTC
The world is unexploded,
but its waters are contaminated
with the chemicals of a war-plagued nation
which stain their tongues black and bleach their knuckles,
and combust into a strengthening desire for a legacy
of their homeland that now teeters.
Each belief grinds friction into the desert sand, refusing limitation.
Inevitable Invasion
No merciful maps or keys towards clarity were left
by their loyal armies;
nor were any heart-strong soldiers.
Through the forts of debris and shields of ash,
we could not find the killed or the injured,
only smell the salty decay of each victim.
He limped through the rippling mirage,
spitting eroding dirt and
flexing his bloodied weapons.
"I heard the victory anthem,"
he said.
"The enemies are dreaming."
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 9:05 PM UTC
the slow smoke gloats and motes of atoms matter
dappled in the dingy blue of wintry twilight, frozen swollen
with white ash sunlight and long shadows, noodling in the canopies
of our vast wilderness. in the back room.
my rocking chair grinds an arc on a single point beneath me.
i teeter on the minuscule reminiscence, much -
as a wave teeters
on the moon's
whim.
i rejoice.
and deny.
i long for gone remedies, while pondering
what plagues my faith -
in the Mist...
what troubles the blight elan
of my ignorance.
and
at the door, i find you sleeping
on god's dime.
and i dream with
you.
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 10:25 AM UTC
This twisting writhing maze
of innocence in confusion
distorted by the hands of time
stripped of all emotion.
The hands that beg for life
hold guns, and knives, and weapons.
This world that's breaking day by day
through the arrogance of actions.
Eternity hangs by a thread
and it's breaking from the ignorance,
while the whole world teeters on a scale
that's tipping in the balance.
Nations are starving.
Wars being fought.
Pestilence.
Famine.
Death.
Hatred building and guiding cultures
with every shallow breath.
People are preaching.
People are judging.
People should hang their heads.
Can't we try loving?
Or try accepting?
How many more will go dead??
Difference of color, or beliefs, or thought..
lead to anger and hatred and war.
Nation's are bombing,
people are dying,
but what are we really fighting for?
Where is the love?
Where is the peace?
Where is care for your fellow man?
The whole world is sitting,
no one is moving,
when will someone please take a stand??
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 4:10 AM UTC
My body shudders from pain within
It aches with a terrible longing for her single minded attention
I desperately need a sign to show me what direction to proceed
Awakened is my heart from an enduring slumber
Every peek craves an enormous quantity of binding passion
It deeply begs my head to put forth so much more effort
But the chemical balance teeters unevenly to adequately persuade a definite decision
Quickly forcing such strong emotions upon her without completely figuring the facts
Would certainly be a huge mistake that could end all chances forever
Corresponding steps is what process my head finds fit
But patience pounds on my bones with an eager so full of hope that it bulges
It dangerously insists on bursting to create a mocking display of dependency
And as this war amid strikingly nudges points that accompany each side's view
The very outcome for each debate is the same
With equivalent factors on the scale a pandemonium of inconsequential arguments collide into tidal waves
That crash onto the surface and expire before any effect takes place
Because all at once the realization of the absurdity hits like bricks
Finally a conclusion is contrived
No matter the path that is taken
This war isn't between the confined parts that lie within my bones
It's dispersed all throughout my surroundings
And contrary to reason there are no possible ways to win
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 10:12 PM UTC
Cigarette in the Sunday sun
Its cold despite its overbearing presence
the overbearing presence of
planes overhead,
dogs barking,
screaming children loosed from morning service,
grinding steel wheels on a rail road track,
cat calls,
coughing,
laughing,
cussing,
imagined smiling.
The world spins,
tips,
teeters,
and I dance on its edge
songs strangling my lungs.
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 7:36 PM UTC