"tends" poems
The safest place is supposed to be my dreams
but it seems that's when the devil
tends to attack me most
Comforting warmth and sleepy slumber
disturbed by horrific fear
caught beneath my throat
and expelled in blood curdling
screams
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 7:28 AM UTC
I see a mirror
Of Love,
A promise fulfilled
By the power above
I see a mature woman
Who’s endless in worth
Who has dreams and goals
And a great purpose on Earth
I see a soul
That’ll hold me close
Keep me happy
And love me the most
When I look into your eyes
My search is complete
No more looking for love
No more girls to meet
When I look into your heart
I feel God’s grace and blessing
My prayers were answered
And there’s no more guessing
When I see you smile
Not a worry do I feel
Stress falls to the ground
And my anger tends to peel
When I see you happy
It feeds my spirit
I’d even ask if you liked my body
Just to even hear it
When I see your life
I see our great futures combined
Nothing but success, love, and peace
Fill my dreams and mind
When I see into your mind
I see your want to be great
And you’re off to a good start
Many girls are gonna hate
When I see into your love
It makes me write it down
Sing it to a crowd
Or preach it on a mound
And when you read this
Many emotions do you feel
But what I love the most
No worry about them being concealed
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 8:12 AM UTC
He has taken rake and shovel in hand,
Taking advantage of the light,
Rare in these climes this time of year,
Still welcomed, though rendered severe
By the sun's reluctant trudge above the horizon,
The type which, sauntering through a window pane
(Falling upon a crucifix anchored above a cradle
Or some ancient, gilded frame
Containing a photo of some grandparent's wedding day,
Exploding into full undifferentiated diffusion)
May possess a dram of warmth, albeit resigned, nostalgic
A bittersweet reminder of what has gone by
(And in the shade, the air is filled
With the portentous chill of what lies a few months hence)
But there nonetheless as he tends to those final farewells
From the trees bowing to December's inevitability,
The droppings not the Pollock-esque bursts of October
(Those having been collected and consigned
To the normal corner of the back lot)
But dreary brown-hued things, not welcomed by eye nor heart,
Simply corralled perfunctorily and dismissed.
One could contend that such activity is unnecessary,
The mere vanity of all endeavor,
As the snow will come soon, and steady as well,
Performing the seasonal, cyclical function in its own time,
But he soldiers on nonetheless, a unseen one-act nearly-farce,
Painstakingly raking and bending and scraping
To leave his patch of green uncovered for a little while
Until the locking time comes to seal the earth's secrets once more,
To be revealed to those
Who shall receive the teasing ministrations
Of the fickle, fitful March equinox.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 1:44 PM UTC
I sit at the bar of life
Looking forward to happy hour
Another beer
A solicited romance
Something
Even a bowl of peanuts that never came
How I yearn for conversation
Warmth
I can only dream
Seated a few chairs away
Is a rainbow haired hillbilly
Backpacking possums
Gees
Can you imagine
He said he lives under
The outskirts of ****** land
He smiles
I smile
I catch a bee from behind
As the bartendress walk by
My eyes look at her behind
And catch honey
My claim to fame
Oh how I wish I were a bee
And had somebody
Like the rainbow haired hillbilly
That tends under the outskirts of ****** land
I look over at him
He's always smiling
Maybe it has something to do
With playing a fiddle and finding music, finding new paths
Goats and milk
And backpacking possums
Or maybe its sublime
Oh, how I wish I could smile
Feel warmth
Sunshine
And look into her peering eyes
Logan Robertson
7/16/18
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 12:16 AM UTC
I took the left path where hydrangeas grew and sleepy primroses under woods, edged shady trees.
The empty stream ran quietly dry
With grass cuttings piling high.
If one peeped, one would find tiny creatures
To cast a sparkle here and there, a delight.
So on tip-toe, with sandels bent
Up high I reached to take
The plastic fairy as she twirled a pirouette
In a theatre made by chance.
Reflected in a silver mirror intwinned with ivy branch
A mottled foal tends his dreams and Chrismas robin chirps.
My brother took the right hand path where the trees grew fruit
Ripe berries from the gooseberry bush bulged their prickles.
Dangling from hawthorn now a cowboy with a hat
Looking for his fellow Indian with the yellow back sack.
Sheep gather in a hollow, dark, protected from the sun
And Mr toad, now lost of paint, has turned a bit glum.
And so we leave our woodland friends and travel up the slope
Winding round the rose bed and goldfish where they float.
Then up we climb, the middle route, to jump the pruned clipped
Hedge.
The lawn divided in two halves, a contemporary taste.
Now we're nearly at that place where if one was to turn
Could see down across the land
To the sea and sand.
Of all the beauties that I've known
Nothing beats this Island home.
Love Mary x
My grandfather’s retirement bungalow was in Totland Isle of Wight.
It was named Innisfail meaning ‘Isle of Ireland’.
Behind, the garden led down to magical and delightful to children who came as visitors. My grandfather would prepare this woodland with some suitable surprises.
The garden and woodland deserved its own name and in retrospect
Is now named ‘Innislandia’ to suggest a separate, mysterious land.
Beyond the real world.
In the poem A Country Lane on page 8 the latched gate is the back gate to my grandparent’s garden and bungalow in Totland as above.
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 7:57 AM UTC
My Bipolar Disorder is a stout-bodied mammal with horns and cloven hooves.
There are two types of My Bipolar Disorder:
Domestic, and Mountain.
My Bipolar disorder typically spends its days grazing on grasses
My Bipolar Disorder will dig depressions in the ground to sleep, rest, and bathe in.
My Bipolar disorder is super social during the winter, and tends to go solo during the summer.
My Bipolar Disorders tail usually points up! (Unless it is frightened or sick)
My Bipolar Disorder is extremely Curious and Intelligent.
Once My bipolar disorder has discovered a weakness in its fence, it will exploit it repeatedly.
There are over 300 distinct breeds of My Bipolar Disorder.
Within' minutes of being born, my Bipolar Disorder is up and walking around.
My bipolar disorder used to live in the white house with Abraham Lincoln.
One day an ethiopian Herder walked in on My Bipolar Disorder liteally bouncing off of cliff walls because it just Discovered Coffee.
My Bipolar Disorder has four stomachs
The horns of My Bipolar Disorder are typically removed to reduce injury to humans.
My Bipolar disorder will explore anything new or unfamiliar in its surroundings, mainly with its mouth and tongue.
My bipolar disorder readily reverts to the wild if given the opportunity.
My Bipolar Disorder is more susceptible to Parasites and other infectious diseases when it is mismanaged.
My bipolar disorder has had a lingering connection with Satanism and pagan religions
My Bipolar Disorder is considered a "clean" animal by jewish dietary laws.
According to Zeus
As long as you leave it's bones whole,
My Bipolar disorder will keep coming back to life.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 1:19 PM UTC
this door exists,
stately and staunchly it stands,
disheartening and terrifying it remains.
the door is unlocked, yet cannot be opened,
for in it, a path in time...
one decision that can affect everything
[such as my choice to wear the necklace you adore,
which lead to you noticing me for the very first time,
or my idea to play you the song that you fell in love with,
which i can no longer listen to]
...for in this door, one path
is intimidatingly located.
every bone in my body,
every last muscle, tendon, ligament
each artery, each vein, each capillary
every single nerve,
even each microscopic cell,
implores me not to open this tempting door...
[it is almost as if my hand refuses to grasp the handle,
to unleash the unknown upon me,
the colossal chain of events that would ensue]
the immensity of the unfamiliar,
the unexplored,
tends to perturb me.
change is unnerving
and is almost as chilling
as an abandoned graveyard at midnight.
but i bring my mind back to the door,
yes! this preposterous door that i have contrived for myself.
why is the **** so easily turned?
why does it not put up somewhat of a fight,
at least jolt me suddenly,
as to frighten my curious heart?
it is a constant battle between my body
my mind
and my heart
as to which doors to open
and which ones to leave ever so steadfastly closed.
but never once has there been such a struggle
for them to reach an understanding.
somehow my heart,
[even though a fraction of me,
a fist, dripping in blood]
is prevailing for the moment.
my heart reaches for the handle,
attempts to unclose the door...
yet, with the best of its ability,
withstanding my strong-willed
and obstinate heart,
my powerful body and commanding mind
overcome this hostile takeover,
and the door remains shut.
it is my body,
my skillful mouth,
my soft, rose lips,
my elegant tongue,
and my vocal chords...
all of these pieces must
contrive the words,
conceive the change,
which will unveil the path that will forever alter us...
slowly, opening the door.
being as in love with you as i am,
i will not let you slip away from my arms right now.
but when we are not together
[*i wish you’d have been there,
i needed you there*]
i stare at this humbling door.
if i wait too long, i’ll forever lose you;
for it is you who will make this choice for me,
opening your own door, fearless and dauntless.
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 2:40 AM UTC
The robin wakes to magnificent streaks of color across the sky,
But was too busy hunting worms to notice what was up high
She flies through emerald trees dancing in the slight breeze,
But dismissed it as nothing different than what she normally sees
She tends to her vibrant blue eggs as they get ready to hatch,
But fails to notice the importance of the batch
She sinks into the nest in the moonlight, just shutting her eyes,
But wait, what is way up in the sky?
Why, it is a shooting star, glistening and shimmering high above,
She smiles and is suddenly overwhelmed with God's love
In that moment, she realized that life had a meaning,
It was so much more than the hunting, working and cleaning,
It was meant to teach slowly through every new opportunity,
Until one day she and God will have complete unity.
Nov 8, 2016
Nov 8, 2016 at 12:39 PM UTC
What if love became so overwhelming, such an inextinguishable force that its true purpose betrayed itself completely?
To the point that even the utterance of those three powerful words, that at a different junction had held such promise, now left a distinct taste of uncertainty on the lips and a ringing of insanity in the ear drum. What else does one say when the most pure form of expression and commitment echo with distain and regret?
Even as I slide into introspection, diving deep to the point of no return, there seems to be no logical path, no penance for the monster I have created. Through my own autonomous actions and neglect I have reached this dark place. Perhaps I indulged beyond a point where thoughts and actions have boundaries. A broken compass , spinning without meaning. All indicators in tact, every cog and point in place, magnetism lost to exaggerated memories, fears and regrets.
Self delusion is a drink that is best served with company. With companionship the mind tends to believe its own meddling. Delusions are mistaken for truth and biased opinions blur with reality.
All roads lead to pain. Every so often a spark jumps to the surface of my consciousness. A pin ***** exclaiming hope. It’s a glitch of my own creation. The belief in happy endings and love prevailing. That love is more powerful than any disappointment, mistake or breech in trust. My reality had been resurfaced and augmented by the media. Love stories are just that. Stories. A wave of manufactured hope, washing over the beach of the human psyche. Every grain of sand is washed back to the sea just as it has arrived.
Happiness, a flame burning on a tiny wick. Enjoy the heat while it lasts for it is going to be a cold winter. And the power is out.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 3:19 PM UTC
Liquid courage to numb the pain.
Intoxicated to forget.
Offbeat blood, sent from heart to vein.
Returns with a guest, she just met.
She closes up, leaves the bar clean.
To her apartment, around three.
In bed she lays, counting some sheep,
That mock her, thinking she will sleep.
She hears the crickets’ lonely beat.
Reminding her of creeps she meets.
Sometimes they have a potential start.
But never truly go that far.
Each night dealt with some other cards.
But slowly starts to build up guard.
She puts less time in her makeup.
But drunks continue to pick up.
She joins in shots, hopes to pass out.
But in her head she hears the shouts.
Her heart’s hunger for real love.
Her clouded thoughts rise above.
A newly turned insomniac.
No longer sleeping on her back.
Till curtains peek with starry eyes.
So bright, leaves a forceful rise.
Her sobs like strings of violin.
A void no liquor can fill in.
Despite how much she tries to drown.
The aches resonate with shrill sounds.
Another night, still found no one.
A man enters, two drinks and done.
She questions him, “What is the rush?”
Always pulled into a quick crush.
But never really tends to last.
As he mumbles about his past.
A bartender, like therapist.
As alcohol reveals the gist.
Now drunk and loud, he starts to shout.
Before his crash, he raises doubt.
He talks about, the best he lost.
Always at home, waits for the toss.
She cheers him up, when in a rut.
He gets up again, “That **** mutt!
To see her hurt, curled up in bed.
I held her paw, up till her death.”
The next night, slept pretty early.
He was perfect, brown hair curly.
Her eyes were lost, but not with lust.
Enjoyed his smells, delicious must.
A piece of her, became a part.
Happy to save his sinking heart.
Rescued him, he slept on her rug.
Named Milo, her three-legged dog.
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 12:12 PM UTC
The keeper of illumination
Aye, the keeper of the light
Safety first, his fascination
Dusk to evening through the night.
Aye, the keeper of the light,
Every season, every day
Dusk to evening, through the night
He tends the beacon, shows the way.
Every season, every day
Climbs thirteen flights of thirteen stairs
He tends the beacon, shows the way
The Fresnel lantern he prepares.
Climbs thirteen flights of thirteen stairs
Skyward, toward the landing high
The Fresnel lantern he prepares
Lighthouse beacon must not die.
Skyward, toward the landing high
Strike the match, produce the spark
Lighthouse beacon must not die.
Guides ships safely through the dark.
Strike the match, produce the spark
Safety first, his fascination
Guides ships safely through the dark
The keeper of illumination.
Phil Lindsey 6/25/15
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 9:29 AM UTC
The man of deeds who lacks the word
is simple, stupid and absurd.
He works and struggles all the day
for nothing more than mindless pay.
He loves the rich and thinks them smart
for gaining through their lack of heart.
He loves his boundaries; worships rules;
considers those who break them fools.
His mind is closed; his world is small;
he has no words to think at all.
His conversation tends to stink
because he never learned to think.
His only drive is buying more;
he's little but a Hoople *****
He does and does and that's enough,
if he can just keep buying stuff.
He never questions what he's told;
he's just a thing that's bought and sold.
And when it is his time to die;
he'll lack the words to wonder why.
- mce
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 9:58 AM UTC
The human mind is an interesting thing
Mine is very
As it tends to wander
I mean
Explore
I have been told by an authority
My wife
That she's never seen one like it
Although how she can see a mind
I don't know
She has seen a lot in her life
Both with and before me
She was a Travel Agent
She's been to Turkey
I like turkey
I made an interesting stuffing for turkey once
It was during my time in the seafood retail business
In a fish market
It, the stuffing I mean, had shrimp, scallops and crayfish in it
My wife didn't like it much, she's of Irish heritage
She's been to Ireland too
Twice
Once in college and once with her family
Ireland is where Delorian made his cars in the 1980s
Before he was arrested for trafficking in *******
I have not been to Ireland
I have been to France, Belgium and England
I stayed in Waterloo Belgium for two weeks
In the 80's
When I was 25
Waterloo is where Napoleon was finally vanquished
Beaten by an Englishman
They have a monument, the lion, on top of a big hill there
I had to climb it twice
The first time I forgot my camera
I got a new camera recently
A Pentax
I have had several since Waterloo
The camera hasn't been anywhere interesting
Just my back yard
I use it to take pictures of birds
At our feeder
In the big maple tree
On the ground
There is even a turkey that comes in our yard
My wife's been to Turkey
She was a Travel Agent
Jul 28, 2012
Jul 28, 2012 at 11:11 AM UTC
#teamara
As in the nub of the remains of crayola crayon that’s been used to color in so many smiling cartoon suns on a piece of paper-
Her favorite color is yellow.
And I don’t mean a wimpy *** pastel yellow or sometimes a pale yellow
I mean her favorite color is bright *** yellow.
Like Pikachu yellow.
Like she’s almost nineteen but she’s still willing to play Gameboy Pokemon yellow.
There’s something innocent yet corny kind of yellow about her.
She’s beautiful like yellow jirasol petals
She’s intricate as yellow thread woven in a Rasta Dom
She’s yellow like gold and Africa
She’s sweet like pineapples and delicate like daffodils
I still don’t know why her favorite color is yellow
Maybe it has to do with her fascination of Asian men…
I mean! ...with the continent of Asia
She thinks she’s more like pink Japanese cherry blossom trees in the summer
But I know she’s truly yellow petals on Paolo Verde trees blowing in the wind spreading around Tucson
A metaphor for her love
She’s yellow like the color in the middle of my pride rainbow- She supports me
She’s yellow like the big painted sun at the hospital with a big grin
I wonder why nobody smiles at hospitals
The place where life is easily given as taken
Where we are reminded that our health is sometimes taken for granted
Other than that great big yellow sun
She is the only that radiates yellow and smiles
In waiting rooms, she seems like she’s the calmest
Even though she’s the only one going through surgery
She’s so beautiful on the inside her body can’t even take it
She doesn’t deserve scions or scalpels to even be considered touching her bronze skin
I wish instead they would strip down the color yellow from my life
And give it to her to make her smile so bright that even word “cancer” would cease to exist
But still. Even through pain and hardships
She still smiles. Not only is she yellow when she’s happy
She tends to radiate yellow even when she’s gloomy
When I’m upset, her aura has way of rubbing off on mine
And I get insight to why her favorite color is yellow
*** she’s the kind of yellow that represents strength
She’s yellow like tall forts made from gold bars
She’s yellow like flames that roll of her tongue when she spits fire
She’s yellow like a crayola-crayon… except she can’t be broken
From her, I’m learning
That even when you’re hurting
You can still shine bright like your favorite color.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 3:55 PM UTC
The Moon has a gentle light, which he gifts the Earth,
It could be compared to how you talk to a child;
Careful, soft and in a sweet manner
His light doesn't hurt me, which is what I adore,
Therefore, is it bad that I tend to lose myself in his gaze ?
When he rises over me, in a clear, registered pace ?
Without a sound I let go of all troubles, all pain,
As the clouds open and it has stopped to rain,
Many people do want to be the sun to brighten up anothers day,
But not me, this is not something for me to say.
I wish to be alike the moon, brighten up your darkest of times,
And be here, to illuminate tomorrows very way
Tug you into a delicate embrace, like his light tends to do
And be here for you, till I have to rest too.
Even in the coldest of nights, the moon manages to warm my heart
And manages my heart not to just fall apart
Tonight again I will enjoy his light,
After all, I hope he does not leave my sight
~ Umi
Feb 1, 2018
Feb 1, 2018 at 1:58 PM UTC
Come,
have a seat here
Join my picnic
by the hills of despair
Watch the gentle waves of tragedy
slowly
silently
roll onto the sea of tranquility
Would you like a cup of sadness?
you can add a spoonful of hope
that might carry all that bitterness
down the slippery slope
Or would you rather a sip of ignorance
this time hope
you should cheat
Pass along the seasoning of confidence
which is just as saccharine sweet
May I offer you a plate of loneliness?
But make sure to drown that in time
’cause we all know that time can heal
everything, oh yes how divine!
If you find loneliness becoming tasteless
Here, try some soft-baked sarcasm
infused with aged enthusiasm
with a heavy dose of doubt
If the flavour isn’t enough
than try a new diversion
maybe a pinch of hostility
or a light dressing of suspicion?
Whichever you prefer
you better make your decision
When you really need a change
try some passive aggressive conceit
then add fate into the mix
Of course!
We know how it tends to dismiss
the pungent smell of amusement
the fragrant taste of love
Oh how
it reminds you of innocence
or even the lack thereof
Do you really have to go?
Please do join me again
this solitary life gets tedious So
promise me you’ll come visit when
you need someone to wake you
from the beautiful lies they spin
when they almost seem to convince you
that's when you’ll come again
I insist.
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 2:26 AM UTC
*Mothers day, to me
is just, another memory,
gone to waste.*
A day to stop and pause
and remember a lost cause,
only to move on, again.
Because to me, mothers day
is "my mother left me" day,
so, not a joyous occasion.
And try as I may, to hear
the words, "but another is near"
it's just not the same.
Because while I found another home,
my heart still tends to roam,
to other places.
And my thoughts just can't forget
about the life that I didn't get,
no matter how bleak.
But still I try to push past,
and make the smile last,
even if it's fake.
Because I know that someone loves me,
even if she did not birth me,
and now I call Her Mom.
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 10:57 AM UTC
heart shaped kisses
really miss my mistress.
drowning in a sea of loneliness i call my home
might be better than sitting on a plastic throne.
but if she's here too then that's perfect for me
because she's one of a kind- extraordinary.
i imagine she kisses like a rattlesnake
addicting and deadly but i don't think she's the type to compensate.
i'd never make her do such a thing
only mostly for the fear that she’d never act the same.
because when she hangs over my hips tighter than my belt
i get the most intense feelings i've ever felt.
i’m starting to think she’s engraved in my bones
and if she leaves i’ll have to go with her because i have to go wherever my collagen goes.
i imagine she cries the way stars fall from the sky
beautifully and mesmerizing when they speed down her chin and make you want to die die die.
she tends to bring the end to make the beginning more livid
god i love her
heart shaped kisses
i just really really really miss my mistress.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 9:19 AM UTC
My mother grew up in a small town
and she married in a small town
and she lived in a small town
and she passed away here.
And our neighbours came with their casseroles
And the florist gave my family her best violets
And there was a discount on the casket.
My sister grew up in a small town
and she married in a small town
and she lived in a small town
And she works at the high school as an English teacher.
And she takes her kids to the park every Saturday,
And her car never uses more than a liter a month
And there is always a booth for her family at Sal's Diner.
My brother grew up in a small town
and he never did marry
but he never did leave.
So now he lives in this small town.
And he only ever takes his job as a deputy seriously
And every Sunday he tends to his geraniums,
And there is never any mail in his mailbox
And his coffee order has always been the same.
I grew up in a small town
and nothing ever changed
and so I left.
And I will never manage to travel to all the bus stops
And my barista never ever remembers my face
And the librarian is stern, always, instead of friendly
And there is never ever a dull moment
In this little world I've created in my big town.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 6:43 AM UTC
She tends her cactus garden,
beads of perspiration,
works with a maniacal absorption.
One of many visitors she receives
yet looking at each other's eyes
dawned this quick realization;
similar maniacal obsession and passion.
A tornado she was, self created,
in her swirl uprooted
many huge trees, even tombstones
by the sheer force unleashed,
with her poetic flourish.
Love of a crazy woman
with effervescent creative surge,
is a magical portion
brewed by a witch ,
in her forbidden rituals, night after dark night.
Injured by conjugal lust, unrequited
prompted to walk the garden path
holding hands of lovers, one after the other,
who took her to wilderness, deeper and deeper
and at the end to a blind alley,
life was a tribal dance,
from where return was impossible.
She never had to apologize to her mate,
who for all the world to see, remained with her
till he went behind the curtain.
Imagine a life, a walk
through a cactus garden,where sharp thorns would nip,
searing pain and bleeding has its moments of exhilaration.
Life pulsated wildly for her on such notions,
(There were many who walked with her for each adventure)
They met, poetry flowed like wine,
she had a rare warmth seen in women of such creative combinations,
she feared nothing, but her truth made many squirm.
Midnight dances of her and her friends gypsy bunch,
attained such fame.But all ended in a great betrayal,
she was deep down a naive woman,
craving for love, to immerse in it.
On occasions she would change identities
at will, she was one but many
there wasn't any one like her before or after.
They would walk through the witch's cactus patch,
somnambulists reciting poems,
when they are together, in private,
cactus spine criss- crossed his skin
her nail wrote poems on the back
of the lover of the moment,
each one bled like soldiers in combat.
One monsoon night brought
everything to an end,
the cactus garden was trampled by
big grey wolves, the journey
met with an abrupt end.
What is she, cactus herself,
vampire, witch, lover indefatigable,
with the heart of a lion?
Erotomaniacal poetic surge,
yet a fantasy in flesh and blood?
**They buried her
in a cactus garden away from town
not even ten people arrived to mourn,
not even all her lovers, had time that afternoon.
Her songs of pain, pierced hearts and they
still shed tears,
cactus garden, it was---
the metaphor perfected by her life and death.**
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 12:44 PM UTC
wear gloves on your hands,
leaving your eyes free to speculate
and your mind to record
the life of the plant;
and the life of the one who nurtures and tends
follow-from the fallow soil
to my edible plated consumption,
from the baby bud nipping
to sharp crack shot at picking,
to my tongue licking
both your produce and you
you may feed me poems
when the real harvesting is done,
grown in your own private plot,
from you, my good fellow,
follow with love delivered to
my expecting fallow-soul,
awaiting your seeding me,
and I,
you...
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 12:00 PM UTC
You
use to
comment on how
cold my hands always
were, back when you had
them to hold. I guess when
your heart is of ice, it tends
to somehow show Even in the
small ways, like the heart-to-hand
ice flow.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 6:51 PM UTC
Written December 1, 2015
"I feel like I'm having the same conversation with guys
Hi's turn into Bye's
lies in turn make me cry
How am I supposed to summarize all of this into one line?
I'm trying.
'Babe' and "Baby, you're the one'
But have you heard, that one means none when you're blind sided and reminded that there is other's who you'd rather be with?
And you realize, your words are myths, spitting out the syllables you just want me to hear
Pet names are nothing but music to our ears
The day-to-day conversations from dawn to dusk are intriguing
But when you really look deeply, they're just words with no meaning
A lonely tactic, a feen for something more
Until the conversation closes, for I was a bore
From here it's the same love story, the way it always tends to end
I'll get the last word, press send, and then pretend as if your lack of response doesn't hurt me,
although it's killing me inside
Then I wish upon 11:11 for you to at least come to a compromise
You'll come around the bend again, and I'll try and act strong
But strong just isn't strong enough, I've missed you way too long
The story then repeats itself, a fairy tale no one enjoys
Welcome to your 'happily ever after'
when talking to a **** boy."
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 1:57 PM UTC
Cobalt. Gunmetal. Pastel. Powder. Forget-me-not.
Out of all the blues,
She has the eye color with no name
The eye color that is slowly driving me insane.
Who gave her the right?
To have something so beautiful
I see blue everywhere;
In paintings, photographs—even the air
There are no crayons that can capture it
Not even color codes on computers can match her eyes
Her eyes are the space between the rippling depths of the ocean and the shards of reflected sky
They are the eyes that squint a bit as she smirks because she thinks she's sly
No matter how much I glance to the left during lunch
The color escapes my mind and simply becomes a concept
In my thoughts frustration likes to roam
If it weren't for the non-existent green, her eyes would look like sea foam
But here is no green—
Only hundred year old glaciers, rivers, and stormy skies
I don't even know what blue is anymore
As angering as they are, her eyes are still something I adore
I'm tempted to just ask her what color they are,
But that would mean that I don't pay attention
To do so would be like mistaking a stranger for your dad
Everyone will become apprehensive and think that I have gone mad
Her placid gaze tends to bore through my shell
I feel vulnerable— like she can see my dilapidated soul
But I know that she means no harm;
She is amiable and full of charm
Who knew blue could mean so much
And still be convoluted?
Blue washes the shore with the push and pull of the tides
Blue has managed to stain my thoughts and dye my insides
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 10:33 AM UTC
I was thirteen when I broke my wrist for the first time,
Miming Cinderella Man's fists as they jabbed faster than jets through the sky.
He was blue collar, blue jeans, blue bruises and blue eyes;
Waiting for his chance, and then taking it by the blind-side,
He taught me the meaning of a left hook to life and coming back from behind.
I was raised on Cinderella.
She was thirteen when daddy read her the tale that first time,
and she grew up wishing to be Cinderella, miming her words and her stride,
She wore blue dresses, smoked blue crystals, cried blue tears with blue eyes;
Waiting to be saved by a prince with blood bluer than money could buy,
Cinderella taught her to sit back and wait for her princely perfect guy,
She was raised on Cinderella.
We were raised on Cinderella,
We were twenty and change when we locked blue and green eyes,
Mine had darkened to green by that eye-locking time,
Life tends to darken things; It's just how it goes, and when mine
took that hue, things were no longer so blue.
Because even though we were both raised on Cinderella,
Princesses and Paupers don't find love; When they do it isn't "true"
Because no blue crystal smoked could cloak the pain and disguise;
No fairytale magic can hold back real tears from real eyes.
My Cinderella was a prize fighter;
Her Cinderella was the prize,
but the stories are different, and in the end, both are lies.
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 4:03 PM UTC