"thumbed" poems
I am slowly learning to disregard the insatiable desire to be special. I think it began, the soft piano ballad of epiphanic freedom that danced in my head, when you mentioned that “Van Gogh was her thing” while I stood there in my overall dress, admiring his sunflowers at the art museum. And then again on South Street, while we thumbed through old records and I picked up Morrissey and you mentioned her name like it was stuck in your teeth. Each time, I felt a paintbrush on my cheeks, covering my skin in grey and fading me into a quiet, concealed background that hummed “everything you’ve ever loved has been loved before, and everything you are has already been,” on an endless loop. It echoed in your wrists that I stared at, walking (home) in the middle of the street, and I felt like a ghost moving forward in an eternal line, waiting to haunt anyone who thought I was worth it. But no one keeps my name folded in their wallet. Only girls who are able to carve their names into paintings and vinyl live in pockets and dust bunnies and bathroom mirrors. And so be it, that I am grey and humming in the background. I am forgotten Sundays and chipped fingernail polish and borrowed sheets. I’m the song you’ll get stuck in your head, but it will remind you of someone else. I am 2 in the afternoon, I am the last day of winter, I am a face on the sidewalk that won’t show up in your dreams. And I am everywhere, and I am nothing at all.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 12:34 PM UTC
THEME: INJUSTICE
A Duet by:
Hassan B. Hassan(Mr Sophy)
Opeyemi Fuad (Gemini)
❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤
👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇
An unsung warrior I am
One that serve his homeland
Now left to wallow in shame
Betrayed, with no treacle -
To my broken esteem
What an injustice!!
👈Gemini👉
We doff our hat to them
Rubbing and cleaning it with their hands
We attain them the power
But they all create new edition
No to injustice!!!
👈Mr sophy👉
Preserve the nation's flag
Yet, thrown into cell
Never to see the sun rise
merry-ing with Legless rats
An unproved innocence
Government's injustice
👈Gemini👉
The baby cry out when put to bed
The dog cry out when given birth to
But we all cry out when the molecule changed
But no reaction took place
Why?
Let Justice reign!
👈Mr sophy👉
I thumbed down, on the papers
Still, my worth doesn't count
I served the government
With my heart and soul on the platter
Staked to uphold their stand
But wronged, injustice!!
👈Gemini👉
We put down our lives to save theirs
Yet they flow us with their power
Oh!what an injustice
fox government with fox Power
Justice reign!!!
👈Mr sophy👉
Thou did nothing
Than bruise our humanity
And rub it on our fresh wound,
With pepper of your injustice
Oh, an insolence!!
Despite our sacred deeds
👈Gemini👉
Indigent we are today
richer we are tomorrow
They are to keep the flag flying
Yet they make the flag vapid
No to injustice!
No to fox government
Justice we want!!
👈Mr sophy👉
©Pen of a true Gemini ™
©Mr Sophy ™
Jun 19, 2020
Jun 19, 2020 at 4:38 PM UTC
1.MY MOTHER WOULD STAND IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR AND PAINT HER LIPS RED FOR A MAN WHO WASNT MY FATHER.
2.MY BEST FRIEND STOLE HER MOTHERS LIPSTICK TO IMPRESS A BOY AT SCHOOL AND THE NEXT DAY SHE CAME INTO CLASS WITH A FAT LIP.
3.THE BEAUTIFUL BOY FROM MY FIRST PERIOD CLASS FRESHMAN YEAR BROKE MY HEART WITH LIPSTICK STAINS CRAWLING UP HIS JAW.
4.THE INSULTS ON THE BATHROOM STALLS WERE WRITTEN IN BLOOD RED LIPSTICK.
5.MY GEOMETRY TEACHER USE TO SNEER AT ME WITH SCARLET LIPSTICK ON HER YELLOW TEETH.
6.THE GIRLS IN MY FAVORITE BOOKS ALWAYS MADE ME CRY. THIER RED LIPS STILL HAUNT ME.
7.WHENEVER I’D TAKE IT OFF MY LIPS WOULD STILL LOOK PINK AS IF YOU’D SPENT HOURS KISSING THEM.
8.WHENEVER I THINK OF RED LIPS I THINK OF THE SCENE IN ****** WHERE HUMBERT IS ******* HIS LITTLE NYMPHET IN A DESPERATE ATTEMPT FOR HER TO STAY AND HER RED LIPSTICK IS SMEARED ON HER MOUTH AS SHE STARES UP GLASSILY AT THE CEILING
8.WHEN YOU FINALLY GOT OFF MY BROKEN BODY THAT NIGHT MY RED LIPSTICK WAS SMEARED ACROSS YOUR CHEEK. YOU PULLED ON YOUR PANTS AND ZIPPED YOURSELF UP . YOU THUMBED THE RED MESS ON YOUR CHEEK AND SMIRKED AT ME AND SAID. “GOD I LOVE THOSE RED LIPS"
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 12:13 AM UTC
So sleep doesn't come to me
But perhaps it has found you fine,
And that's fine.
I hope that you're fine
But my thoughts now unwind in confusion intertwined with illusion can I find what intrusion made you draw the line to place a sign and say to my face,
"This is over. Good luck in college, good luck in life, *** I will not be there tomorrow or tonight, corazon."
And you loved me yesterday,
And today is just yesterday with a different name
Does that mean your love was labelled
And now the label has been changed?
*** yesterday we spoke of what our futures held in store
For the both of us together, holding hands amidst the roar
And the dark of the unknown glazed with ice across the floor;
It was that; "Goodnight, kittycat;" what strange coincidence as my heart sang the night before
And now it's sore.
What a difference 24 hours makes;
Was it my mistakes? Or just the lake of tears and sorrow and how often your heart breaks?
*** I knew I really loved you when my first concern became,
"I hope that she's ******* alright!"
That thought drove me insane.
And there was no response,
The receiver remained on the hook.
Her cell-phone thumbed with call display,
But 'decline' is all it took.
She broke my heart with 1, 2, 3
and now questions seep my bones.
Making sleep impossible,
She could have picked up the phone
And said, "I'm sorry. I really am, you understand this is just as hard
For me as well, I really do love you,
I'm simply more than marred."
But silence was the answer that I got
With my shocked glance.
In my mind stirs feelings that perhaps there is a chance
In fact, a truth that there's no way I could have lost you yet.
Not like this,
Not this abyss
With such finality.
This was so much more than that
In my reality.
I hope you turn around and regain your sanity
Because I miss you and although I've made mistakes, I've realized
Real eyes realize real lies
And what we had was honest truth.
So before you give up on me and you
On both of us;
Please consider what you're giving up,
Because I trust
You'll figure all this out in time
And if space is what you want;
I understand,
But please don't forget of what we were,
I can wait, I just wish it weren't all such a blur.
I love you, and I'm still your waffle
I hope that you know that
And I can be your patient
Silent
Waiting kittycat.
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 2:53 AM UTC
I do not like this scene
or this chapter in my book
My fingers have failed me
as my thoughts evade me
I can’t write this for you
though you’ve done so much
You’ve written me into existence
and I want to edit myself out
It’s easier to put words
on a page that you can rip out
than to speak them to you
and watch the venom bleed
through the cracks of your tired skin
I’m so hurtful, like the edges
of dry, fresh cut paper—
sharp enough to cut,
too dull to scar—
only ever thumbed through
never perused—yearning to
be read and understood
and remembered
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 9:07 PM UTC
If you get it, you lost it.
I am here
(On this platform it is evident for your reading now)
I express myself
(Heads scratching, wondering what and how?)
I share pieces of me
(A defragmented glimpse of an experience deemed ‘worthwhile')
Callous, sensuality?
(Or a traitor in sheep cosplay?)
A dead-end hi-way?
Or this pawn from yesterday?
Here, your final say
This family we never asked
Amontillado without it's cask
Dry and cheery
Heart’s are bleary
We own this laborious task
My sins are scrollable, thumbed in haste,
Wrapped in ribbons of curated taste.
A gallery of masks, all timed just right,
My shadow dances in the ring light.
What of shame when shame gets likes?
What of thought when thought’s in spikes?
I weep in drafts, but post a grin—
The world won’t wait for the shape I’m in.
So brand the bruise, then sell the hue:
A wellness tip in sponsored blue.
This self I host in feedback’s cage—
A pet, a post, a digital page.
I bare my soul (or just its shell).
You’ll never know. I sell it well.
I logged on seeking something undefined,
A tether, maybe—some reciprocal ache.
But all I found were mirrors misaligned,
Each smile too wide, each word opaque.
The comments pile like leaves, not read.
Applause from ghosts, replies from ghosts.
I feed the feed, it feeds instead—
A hunger that consumes its hosts.
I draft a truth. I dress it twice.
Add polish. Then delete.
I write in blood, convert to nice,
Make trauma fit a beat.
No lesson left. No higher shelf.
Just one more version of myself.
Jun 10, 2025
Jun 10, 2025 at 10:16 PM UTC
Numbed dumbed thumbed
he returned home
to her *****
Charles touched her bumhole
but Diana shoved off his fumbling hand
he wanted to lick her *******
but she didn’t agree
the prince held her buttocks
slowly bumping into her
he slowly moved her bottom around
continuing to bump
but as the lady asked him to repeat this particular move
he left it alone
Apr 13, 2010
Apr 13, 2010 at 8:43 AM UTC
a harp has been strummed
a banjo picked
a heart has been numbed
a ****** flicked
a page has been thumbed
a sharp ice pick
a mouth has been gummed
a desiduous tick
a cigarette has been bummed
a virginal stick
a town has been slummed
a slippery ****
a ***** has been ******
a little *****
a lonely man jumped
a fall and a click
a crowd has been pumped
a comedy shtick
a mind has been stumped
a clever trick
Oct 5, 2011
Oct 5, 2011 at 2:50 PM UTC
From my new book, Poems of Ancient Rome and Greece, available in paperback on Amazon and Barnes & Noble, as well as eBook on Kindle, Nook, and Apple Books: https://www.amazon.com/Poems-Ancient-Greece-Christopher-Saitta/dp/B0DS6933HB?ref_=ast_author_dp
My mother the sea,
She woke my sandy eyes,
Just to tell me she had to leave,
Draw past the markets where the fish are sun-dried,
Snarled by the coral-rough hands of divers deep.
My mother the sea,
She left her running tab
Of the grocer’s choicest greens,
Thumbed the velamentous rinds and spiny scarola,
Her xylem and phloem are the slow moving cruciferousness of a breeze.
My mother the sea,
Charwoman of tides,
Who dips and delves upon her knees,
Who scrubs her brothel-coves with chamber lye,
Cyprian mistress of the salt-stained sheets.
I have looked for you, mother,
A scugnizzo amid the striped awnings of the marketplace
~ like sails to the sky ~
Where the fishmongers hawk their pride
Of conch, cavallo, and black sea bream.
I have looked for you, mother,
Walked sun-forged along the boardwalk,
Amid the neon-mascara of signs,
Hand-in-hand with only the ladyfingers of salt and vinegar fries,
Toward the crisp syllabub of pebbles and sand.
A beach is window-warmth spread free, cosmopolitan,
The longeur of eyes crushed in the glass-dust of cities.
And in the sputtering of the frosted spume of tides,
Held broken seashells in my hands like broken needles,
Heard the pump-click of the ventilator through your mask of sand.
My mother the sea,
A naked convalescent,
Whose ever-turnings have taken
A turn for the worse.
Who will know her by her death, who but me?
Jan 21, 2025
Jan 21, 2025 at 8:29 AM UTC
The poster girl of well-thumbed submission,
The American Nurses Association,
A narrow mouthed river in Oregon,
Charles Howard Hinton’s fourth dimension,
A track from Pixies Bossanova,
Antibodies,
Anorexia Nervosa.
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 7:30 PM UTC
My gut tells me secrets and
Guides me to answers.
It screams nausea like a
Air raid siren during war time.
My gut speaks to me and
Implores me to listen.
It never chides me when
I ignore its clarion call.
My gut is never wrong and
Sets me timely reminders.
It stores experience like a
Well thumbed user manual.
My gut is instinctive and
It helps me understand others.
Their motives and intentions;
Their weaknesses and strengths.
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 7:00 PM UTC
This poor girl, she completely had it coming!
Even I have to admit that the ending was stunning….
Ladies & Gentleman! Boys & Girls!
Pay close attention and the lessons are yours….
A casting call for a play that he advertised
Renee leaving her guard down stopped in and applied.
With compassion shown, He convinced her to stay for a while.
Renee, so naive, believed him because she loved the way that he made her smile.
Renee saw the sadness and pain that he could not disguise
She trusted his role, He will bring a tear to all of the audience’s eyes.
Renee took the role from His story to heart. Meanwhile; she did not notice her own life began to fall
She cried for Him to help her, but he said he was too busy preparing for the Masquerade Ball.
There she goes again! Renee is following her heart, has she COMPLETELY forgot?
This is where I had to step in to protect her and show her the plot!
I have warned Renee in the past so I reminded her
When you start to care, history show’s it is your heart you despair!
I thumbed through the script & there He wrote on the last page….
At the end of his story, Renee ended up alone on the stage.
A ****** up tragedy for Renee’s character,
She put a dagger to her heart and her blood poured on the floor.
When Renee read this scene, she did not know what to do…
So I yelled at Him….
“SHE FINALLY LOVED AGAIN! SHE TRUSTED HER HEART WITH YOU!”
She insisted on believing Him…. God! This girl does not have a clue!
I had to stop her from this mistake, so I grabbed her and choked her until she turned blue.
I have kept her hidden, That is, until today,
Bound, gagged, & tied, because she cannot take the pain when she gives her heart away.
Sadly, we all know how this story will end…
I killed her so Renee’s heart would start to mend.
She fought me so hard; this girl said she knew love,
Nevertheless, I knew she could not handle it, so I watched her soul rise above.
**** Love, **** Hope, **** Trust and **** YOU!
Renee’s Dying words were “But my love for him was true!”
THE END
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 1:08 AM UTC
There was a light,
shining on the ground,
just up the road a piece,
but there was a tree
a little bit closer.
The tree moved
so that I thought
someone was walking to me
and I was thrilled
and irritated
and I smiled because
I wouldn't be alone.
I didn't want to be alone,
but a person would
want to talk.
I didn't want to be alone -
I wanted to be left alone.
I needed another sobbing heart,
a different unnecessary mind,
to be there,
but only to be there.
There's a medicine in
just being with a person,
and I smiled.
Irritated, I smiled,
but there was no one;
no one was walking
toward me or away.
So I thumbed my nose
and spat at the breeze
for having let myself be fooled.
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 12:41 AM UTC
The libraries and bookstores of the world
Are stocked with pleasantries:
Prim, proper, peach juice-oozing volumes
That made the grade.
These books are all well and good,
And are not unworthy of examination,
Simply because they were deemed so
By a jury of your peers.
Make note, however,
Of the myopia inherent
In limiting yourself
To the savoury.
Observe:
Past the shelves of
Well-lit,
Worn-covered
Thoroughly thumbed delicacies,
There is more to be seen.
Do not hesitate to approach the shelves
Wreathed in thorns and security tape
And kept under dim bulbs.
The books that lurk there
Are sealed tight
And wear jackets plastered in sludge:
Sludge laid thick by heavy-handed brushstrokes.
Prying open the padlock
Will sometimes reveal
Further grime coagulated upon the pages.
Further prying, however,
Will split open tomes
Scrawled with fractures of light,
Lending to the eye
An illumination unique
To such tarred works.
Do not fear these banned books,
These veiled wonders,
For they contain pure, unscreened scrawlings
Soulfully wrought upon simple scraps of paper.
It is within these that truth can be found.
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 7:58 AM UTC
The Riddle
One of you has seen my face.
One of you knows where I live.
Stuff. Important stuff,
like the locale of
my hidey-holes.
My email and my
cell disclosed
soon to be
on sale on eBay
for a trifling sum.
So now I must
disburse to parts
more remote,
reappear in a
nouveau identity.
Just a necessary precaution.
Moreover, methinks
you have grown
tired of my waning voice,
waxing ineloquently,
opining too frequently.
feel like a
thick wooly straw
welcome mat,
edges unravelling,
grown raggedy,
roundabout the edges,
or like a
paperback book,
tho well thumbed,
nonetheless,
consigned to the
bye-bye
discard box.
riddle me,
me be the riddle,
when I scribe
under a new
Nom de Plume.
will you recognize,
my signature
hid amidst the
restless words that
still need a home?
are my poems
worthy of a
second glance,
do you predispose
your attentions on
your favorites only,
the newbies squeaking
ignored and unattended,
whose ranks I have
now rejoined?
did you ever meet
a poem
you did not like?
did you ever greet
a poet
with palms
outwardly raised,
saying, no mas,
had enough,
no time for you
and your
clouded clarifications?
need you.
need you to judge me,
without the saddlebags of
predisposition and imposition.
if you need me
just give me a
loud holler
in my sleepy hollow.
tho sadly my
country road,
has listening posts
on the telephone wires,
I will know, when.
you call,
your voice,
I will come,
if you ask,
always.
I'll be riddling
in plain sight,
if you have the taste
for and of me,
you will find me
soon enough.
HOWEVER,
in emergencies
all you need dial,
my digital signature,
911 and
ask for the
Poetry Hotline.
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 11:23 PM UTC
The ants feasted upon the rotting fruit
As the Bluebirds soared high
Sweet Turtledoves and Monarch butterflies
could be seen in the fermenting toxicity
and I thumbed through the *******
curiously
In fear and breathless
With a sickening touch of insanity
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 12:52 AM UTC
Two posts emerged on my Facebook,
And sorry I could not peruse both
And be one user, long I stood
And scrolled down one as far as I could
To where it went into a long blockquote;
Then read the other, as just as shared,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was classy and about footwear;
Though as for that the likes there
Had rated them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
I believe with no comments written back.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever tap back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two posts emerged on my Facebook, and I—
I read the one less thumbed-up by,
And that has made all the difference.
Aug 25, 2020
Aug 25, 2020 at 5:59 PM UTC
The census is a gun
and every ten years for a bit of fun
someone
pulls the trigger.
The body count gets bigger all the time because once a decade's far from fine,we all know that we want a little more
but just who is keeping tabs on us and what's the score?
If you're more than willing to fill in and tick the boxes one by one
we'll carry on the same and be just a figure getting bigger
reviewed by counters
mounted in the book
and taken down
looked and read
underlining, numbered in red ink and thumbed,fed into ,computerised until algorithms
drip from and dot the eyes with postscripts slipped upon the page which mention dates of birth and gender
this is the age of the want to know
and we're being counted
like sheep we go through turnstiles,smiling,clicking,sickening in the need to feed the ever growing need for information,technology will be the death of me and in a census yet to come
or when my numbers up
I will be done
shot full of holes the census gun is indiscriminate but there's no fun or sense in that,they'll tamper with the workings,lay them flat and reassemble parts until we're part of some vast assembly
in a Wembley stadium,the gun's the game
we'll be numbered until the final whistle blows and someone goes to tally up the score
and in the counting they'll count more and more
as if in some final lunacy
the lunatic accountants see there's numbers coming out of their ears
and say,
'thank God it's only once every ten years'
Data will as data does and do
and who would count the countless where the few are many and any mistake means you have to start again.
Censuses
another pain and millions more
and someone will come knocking on your door to give you forms and envelopes
all hope's lost
so be counted and don't count the cost
let the ones who get paid for this
kiss their sanity
goodbye.
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 11:38 PM UTC
I'm sorry
Sorry I couldn't save us
Save myself
Save you
I'm sorry
I guess I'm not your saviour
Wasn't prepared
A little scared
And I tried
Oh I tried
You held the gun
Pressed it to my chest
Thumbed the hammer
I hadn't the strength
I couldn't fight anymore
So I raised my hands in surrender
And all I heard was the shot ring out
And all I felt
Was disappointment
As I hit the floor
And all I saw was red
And I guess my body bled
But all I felt was disappointment
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 9:36 PM UTC
The devil walked into a store
Eying the clearance rack.
He made eye contact with the cashier
Walking towards the half priced jackets
Flannels & boots.
At that moment he saw something that
became his whole world.
His fingers wild with excitement
passing through all the colors
The hangers clanging against metal feverishly
to find that they didn't have his size.
He thumbed back through the sizes
as though something would have changed
Checking then double checking.
He asked the cashier if they had anymore
in the back,
much to his dismay
to receive the same answer.
He saw a cardigan in his size but hated the way
it looked.
Flapping the hood up and down.
He circled the store
Looking up & down the isles.
Until he noticed the buttons.
Those big wooden buttons
Memories of a different time & place
How fast time slips away.
All that's left;
Shoes to match
Jan 3, 2020
Jan 3, 2020 at 11:10 PM UTC
Now we're addicts looking for the hook
Starring into the sun
To be sold to a higher calling
Its the cog that drives us, defines us, binds us
The rhythm that we carelessly slap with our toes
on paved sidewalk stereotyping others
with ineptitude for rhythm.
And fingers that we caress in passing
each lip fragment truth talking deliberate dunce
pretending to be further seeking the void
To be true of the void. Truth in the void
But in fact finds nothing more
than the torn, callused tips
Lost in a nightmare daydream
weak-spell walking.
Who find themselves winded in middle journey
across open ocean plane infinite starring.
Sublime line of silver. No haze thumbed-pressed
opaque steam cloud on the horizon.
ready to land in open stretch in forever
wild stillness cured of all mental illness
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 9:00 PM UTC
the horse rummages on the track
and the victory is owned by the ****
soon sleep will engulf my body
like the oblivious quietude of Aokigahara-jukai.
things and their semblance of utmost care.
light begins to burst
and there is little left to see,
wide-eyed, crunched by the efficacy of aches.
taking all to the very heart of hurt
as gamblers wager,
and coming back with the sound of completeness:
a man is a man in his chronology of defeat -
left torn by madness,
a cornered beast pressed against the woods.
the moon plays its lyre, white-washed,
sound wading in the very source of quiet,
hauled out of the Sun, its mother.
this hound stalks the world
with woebegone legs, a reflection of the entire world fractured
by a singular shot at the end.
i hear the guttural snarl of engine
unwavering in its limitations. say, at first light, all exists to paint darkness quicker
than any obfuscated conclusion -- hiding in
itself, its mood for squalors.
the mud dug deep for bones
pared from the slaughter of midnight,
hiding them to mask my defeat:
everything around me sparkles with
the vigor of frailty, all the same.
the nights are too long, scarce as froth
from an opened mouth left flat,
a dry gin bottle.
i imagine sad armies dissolving in pale moonlight, and crosses thumbed down to the snaking hiss of its nondescript prayer.
gears gnash like teeth in anger
of you in your young clothes, the pace of cars
hurrying back to homes.
i remember the splintered wood burning
the last in the round kiln of the Red Lion.
the upholstery of night is the twilight's
catharsis. the coast of dread widens like
the vernal metamorphosis of a young ********** in Gibraltar,
come in, come in with undecided ******
you can hear the fall coalesce with the levitation of ember, landing like feet blunt
on the asphalt beside desolate bicycles
in seedy parks.
the surreal tabulation of analogue repetitions:
death's myriad, in all corners screaming
the countenance rebel, against the floored masses.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 7:55 AM UTC
An old curiosity shop
a lost world depository
dark dusty as pharaoh's tomb
worming squirming carefully through
where 'Breakages Must Be Paid For'.
Stopped clocks claiming time is up
sofas trailing their entrails
peeved pictures offered for their frames
and bureaux bursting with bumf.
Rummaging through dank passages
searching inner chamber book stocks
classic novels at six old pence
thumbed pages bought for improvement.
Nelson Collins Clear Type Press
Dent and Everyman in distress
Dumas Dickens and Conan Doyle
countless cultural references.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 6:28 AM UTC
A fortnight ago an Algerian masseuse anointed each note of my joints,
spread thumbed cursive over my shoulders and
back around to my chest;
she spelt out how I'd be shivering now knowing you were leaving.
And last week you led me to an acupuncturist where he said,
Rob Frost had quit his job on point duty to become a receptionist instead.
I knew it was ******** by the way you barked in the background.
I knew it was wrong from the rumble through the stud wall,
sound of timpani, of gusto's drawl ringing in my ears:
the resonance of windfall if saved 'in the best ISA for years!'
This has been the best February since records began
and I thank you for being a friend.
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 2:31 PM UTC
I thought I knew love
Through and through like a well-thumbed book
My favourite movie on repeat that I know all the words too
In most parts
I play out tragedies
So beautifully painful a feeling cannot describe
The author hanging a fountain pen
Above my head
Ready to strike out any happiness
I thought I knew myself
From the back of my hand to my palm
All intricate lines crossing
Running alongside
Reaching out
So beautifully carved within my skin
The maker unhappy with his work
Frustrated
Ready to squish and start again
I thought I knew life
From its coincidental existence
To its many choices and turns
My empathy harms me here
A big heart
Has no place in a world
So beautifully ugly, with the human race and our endeavours
That there must be something
To hold onto
Something to live for
And I’ve suddenly found it.
Everything.
All.
In a flash of spirit and soul I understand love, myself and above all life.
In my existence there’s only you, and you alone.
That’s all we need.
All I need.
All others need.
Unconditional love
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 6:13 AM UTC