"thumped" poems
If you want my ex girlfriend, she's up for grabs.
But if you sleep with her, you will get the *****
It's possible that you may get ****** too.
Sleeping with her is a stupid thing to do.
I caught her in bed with my cousin and I thumped her.
She sleeps with a lot of men, that's why I dumped her.
I'm giving you valuable advice so you'd better listen to me.
If you ****** my ex girlfriend, you are sure to get an STD.
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 12:40 PM UTC
She sang the trot like she owned the narrative,
as if she was singing about her inner most secret.
-The lady who lost her lover
The place where she met him
The Place with the Camellia flower
It was a place of summer and ray bloomed
while it matched the radiance of the two Paramour
and a reminder of their internal chest thumped in unison
In the street where they first met she stood alone
fatigued with no more breath to give
Many nights shed her tears by the Camellia flowers
Now the flower leave crumbled
The petals showed it's red bruises
and falling like the tear drops
When will the lover come back to her
To the lonely Camellia Flower
When will he come back-
The song ends with a grasp
as this German lady song ends with her whisper
To the Korean Trot song of the past
To the song "Lady Camellia!"
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 11:33 PM UTC
I saw you today.
My heart thumped so fast like I can barely hold it.
I saw you today.
And I still feel everything like our story ended yesterday.
I saw you today.
There was no Hi or Hello along the way.
We pretended like one isnt existing.
We saw each other today.
I saw you today.
I like to stop and say Hi.
But chance wasnt given to me.
I felt like someone's pinching my heart.
I saw you today.
You looked more than fine.
Because I saw you today...
With her.
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 3:26 AM UTC
Harsh light falls on my fearful face
She stop thumped against my heart
Gliding night on crinkled tights
She worked and quirked her way in to me
Shoulders clinched as she spun her drift
She stomped trod on my soul
Set aloft in the ***** air
My eyes slopped their tears
Wet down her hair as she clenched
Lips dragged drug down my neck
Lamp lit light flung down and low
Fearful thoughts because I’ll crawl back
Fearsome thoughts as she works again.
cc1210
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 2:37 PM UTC
It seemed that out of battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which titanic wars had groined.
Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then ,as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall, -
By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.
With a thousand pains that vision's face was grained;
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.
'Strange friend,' I said, 'here is no cause to mourn.'
'None,' said that other, 'save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something had been left,
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled,
Or, discontent, boil ****** and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress.
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery,
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery:
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels,
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.
I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now...'
2.7k
talent
I peered upon the clouds
I drive through the ocean of talent
I sat on the stage
I sank the expresses of talent
I relish the cliff of talent
I consinder the lands of talent
I rush toward the cliff of talent
I stayed on the stage
the stage became me
the commander of talent thumped my spirit
in the end I withdrew.
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 7:02 PM UTC
There's folk on the news
on the tele tonight
and all of them
making me sad,
they're all of them
thumping on tubs tonight
and waving
American flags,
and it's not so much
the waving I mind,
or the sound
of tubs being thumped,
it's more the thought
that human kind
will thump them
for someone like Trump..
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 12:54 PM UTC
And I like to pretend...
I like to pretend that my
Thoughts mean nothing
That my heart's beat
Is drumming to something
I like to pretend that
The school bus
Wasn't
The first place that I
Learned to trust
I like to pretend that
This technology hasn't
Completely consumed me,
That I still have a chance
At saving or being saved,
That my soul
Isn't always running on
Empty
I like to pretend that
These skies can truly
Lift me into the clouds
That my pulse has never
Thumped so loud
That every night and
Every star isn't
Praying to tumble down
I like to pretend that
I'm a girl in a dress
Instead of the girl
In my head,
The one that's always
Swimming in a
Drug induced mess
I like to pretend that
These crayons make
Some type of valuable art
That my life hasn't
Been splattered on the
Walls from the start
I like to pretend..
I like to pretend that
The air isn't what suffocates
That the death of expression
Isn't why my heart breaks
That my thoughts have
Always found a way
To halt earth quakes
I like to pretend that
I don't know how to rhyme
And that these stupid
******* words aren't
Eating up all my time
That everything I've
Ever imagined was real
Outside the brink of my mind
I like to pretend that
The lighter's flame at night
Wraps me in faux warmth
Cozy and tight
That I've never dreamed
Of dying in spite
I like to pretend
That this world is real
That no one has ever
Taken my soul to steal
Every ounce of happiness
Away,
So that I could never again
Learn how to feel
I like to pretend
Because I never let the child
Die inside my head
And I've never let mild
Attacks boil my blistering skin
And I've never done
Anything I couldn't love
After a while
I like to pretend
Because it's all that I have
Left
Because it's the only
Thing that I've
Kept
And out the door you
Stepped
So still I pretend
Because it keeps me
Well slept
Dec 13, 2010
Dec 13, 2010 at 5:00 PM UTC
It’s hard to intervene when people fight.
Recall being thumped for “bullying” a lad
Who’d harassed ME.
So hard to tell
Who’s right or wrong.
Who made the first jibe
Or struck the first blow?
The same with global conflicts too:
Irish Catholic or Protestant?
Israel or Palestine?
Communist Country or Capitalist?
The list goes on…
Best keep out of it if you can.
Do not make judgement,
Just mediate as best you can.
Preach fairness and conciliation:
Do your best to facilitate
Peace.
Paul Butters
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 4:33 AM UTC
It was a beautiful rainy day.The rains showered like blessings from the sky to mother earth.The drops drizzled over several stunning creations of God. The ***** frog winked in fright when the tiny drop thumped on its peeping head which it had kept out from its water world curious to know what's happening outside.The lazy ladybird hides itself in the rug of leaves it hopped and played till then.Little dusty leaves quivered with joy as they rejoiced and celebrated the long waited bath.
Far aloof,the village looked so spanking new than ever after it was wetted by the light rain.so modest,so composed,the radiating sun put itself out of sight making way to the pompous clouds.Besides all these petite feelings,the livid eagle gaped at the sky sniping for it had missed its daily glide over the rusty mountains.
All these tiny things shaped out the background,while the main subject remains undescribed yet.The big fat buffalo stands aright in tranquility as if nothing new happened.Its skin so tight,shining so bright,created a beautiful sight as the raindrops tapped on it pitter patter.Its horns like engraved artifacts mirrored each other and stood still amazed at their similarity.The momentary muddy puddle covered up its hooves.
And now comes the most interesting foreground of the picture. It’s the little cute boy!!! Small dark brown eyes...Umpteen hopes filled in them. He wore the most beautiful jewel on his face....it’s his smile gleaming with merriment. While his tiny hands held tight the wicker, his entire little body hid itself behind the huge gunny he wore to shield against the shower. He hopped over the small puddle creating beautiful waves and exquisite splashes.
And that forms the most beautiful picture about which my dad told me.The little boy is none other than my dad. :) :) .
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 7:19 AM UTC
I stood as still as I could.
Trying to hold in my breath, trying to turn invisible, trying to melt into the wall I steadied myself upon. My heartbeat thumped in my ears drowning out all other sounds.
Were my feet nailed to the floor by fascination? or was it disgust? The knot in my stomach laid no reliable argument to these rushing emotions.
My eyes followed his hands; the way he gripped her hips, the way his fingers traced her jaw. My eyes also followed his lips; how he pressed them almost reverently against the base of her clenched neck.
I watched as he inhaled her scent like he was being squeezed out of breath.
She struggled against his grip. Her eyebrows knit together in an unsightly frown. She halfheartedly pushed him off her weak body. It almost looked like she didn't want to resist, but her pride pulled her away from yielding. She was shaking, her form disheveled, yet it wouldn't sway him.
I felt a stinging in my eyes, that all familiar burning I experienced when I felt that twinge of paranoia. That burning paranoia that plagues me now, as my worst fears are embodied.
How could she easily dismiss him like that?
When I lay nights awake craving his skin, his breath, his words.
I have spiraled out of view, just a faceless backdrop in his hopeless love story.
How could a person hate and love so much at the same time?
It just goes to show that the world doesn't work that way, it works to crush you. All these emotions spurt out at once, as a lesson for all the lucky fools watching you.
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 12:34 PM UTC
May 2013
Memorial day weekend
It was warm with promises of sun
Beautiful blue skies
And no cloud in sight
Seattle prepared for crowds
People swarming the Center
For folk music, food
Laughter and smiles shining bright
My leg, a bright red
I woke up
Burning hot with red seeping up my leg
Pain swarmed my back
Tears gathering
In corners of my eyes
As I was admitted
To the emergency room
Greeted with morphine, leaving me in a haze
*** induced haze
Lingering around the fountain
Families occupied the edge
Children running in and out
Collecting droplets of water
Along with sunburns
While groups of friends
Gathering in drum circles
Slow rhythmic thumping could be heard for miles
My son’s heartbeat
Thumped in my ears
I watched the fear
As he focused on the antibiotic drips
Invading my body
The days in clipped moments
Passing in and out
With each wave of fever
And the doctors
Tattooed my leg with sharpie
Artwork was only one thing
Found in the vendor alley
People flooded the booths
Snatching up
Brightly colored creations
As they headed to find
Dance troupes, bollywood
Inspired activities
With stomping feet, swaying arms
They placed the central line
Into my right arm
My body had clogged each IV
the doctors warned me
If the redness started
To show patterns of serrating
Then they would have to take my leg
Diazepam had me slurring out
I am fine, I am fine
Memorial Day
A time of remembrance
Services to be held
Events to commemorate
All the fallen
From a concert at Museum of Flight
To baseball game with Seattle Mariners
To appreciate, appreciate
It took ten days
For me to be released
May 2013, Memorial Day weekend
I would always remember
As the beginning
Of my growing struggle
With gradual loss of mobility
I am fine, I am fine
Nov 12, 2020
Nov 12, 2020 at 12:03 AM UTC
Someone smoked a pipe too long
and dark tufts filled the cyan expanse,
then they rumbled and thumped too loud
startling us below, enough to crane our neck
and look above.
They must have sneezed,
and excuse them please,
for the rushing wind could have stolen
their mumbled apology.
And amidst the puffy mist,
there could have been adrift,
a downy, now wet, handkerchief.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 1:42 PM UTC
~
There she was chasing a rabbit
with 1 am coffeecakes and weak tea
She didn’t notice I was watching
from the branches of an olive tree
A lone smile hidden amongst
swirling smoke rings in a foreign accent
To the gazebo she ran
with its straw grass tables
and pleated cushions in hibiscus
print fabric no one would sit on
My eyes followed her as she
darted around manicured boxwoods
and cherub statues spitting water
onto sleeping lily pads
She came upon a dandelion
and asked politely, “Pardon me,
but have you seen a…”
The **** interrupted,
“Didn’t, don’t do drama dreams
dancing deliriously down
donut distracted ditches”
“That’s dumb” she replied
with a giggle and a snort
This must be her fun, I think,
trying to catch a white ball of fur,
big, then small,
then smaller still like a
thimble seeking a thread,
when now she is stopped
in her ziggy zagging tracks
by a June bug singing,
“I see, I see, in front of me
Dessert, dessert, set out for free
A chocolate pie, a chocolate pie
in menus written on the sky”
Perplexed she climbed upon its back,
red leather shoulder pads
with black dots changing shapes,
ducking winged arches that
covered the vestibule they
soared through when a sharp turn
pitched her to the opposite side…
Landing with a thud,
her new dress now soiled
between the wrinkles in time
that had ticked away
on a clock faced sun named Ray
She cried carrot tears,
orange sherbet streams
on peach tone cheeks,
marmalade miseries
and mango miscues
piddling on her patent leather shoes,
ready to give up
When it appeared hopping happily,
jumping into her lap
and licking her face
She caressed its fur, removing
sticker burs and scratching
just the right spot, as its right rear leg
thumped with joy
Then lifting the bundled bunny
to her face, she kissed it tenderly
with wild cherry gloss lips,
or should I say…kissed me
for you see, all along, it was me
And you thought I was nothing more than a pretty smile…..
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 1:11 PM UTC
Someone special Della’s
mother told her. A Downs
with a lovely smile and
bright, slightly narrow eyes.
She had waited outside
the school grounds when
her mother drove up.
Sorry I’m late, her mother
said, got caught in the traffic.
Della frowned, her tongue
sitting on her lower lip.
Man said you sent him,
Della said. What man?
Man in a car. What man
in a car? Della looked at
her mother, puzzled.
Man in the car. What did
he say? Said you sent him
to pick me up. Called me
Dearie. But I’m Della.
Her mother got out of the
car and went and knelt
down beside her daughter.
You didn’t get in the car did you?
No he drove off fast when
Mrs Penbridge came over.
He said I was Dearie, but
I’m Della. Yes, you are. Not
Dearie. No not Dearie.
He smiled at me. You mustn’t
get in to a stranger’s car
unless I tell you it’s all right.
I didn’t get in. Good. He
drove off, Della said, lowering
her eyes to her new shoes.
He smiled. Yes, but that
doesn’t mean he was nice.
He seemed nice. Yes, but
men like that aren’t. Why?
Della looked at her mother.
Because he may have hurt you.
Why would he hurt me, I’m
special. Yes, you are special.
You are angry with me. No,
not with you. You’ve got
your angry voice. Not with
you. Seems angry with me.
Not you, the man. Why are
you angry with the man?
Because he may have taken
you away from me. Della
looked at her mother’s hair,
newly done. Where? Where
would he have taken me?
Away from me. Why?
Because he’s bad. Her
mother held Della to her
tightly. He didn’t look bad,
he had a nice smile. Nice
car, too. Blue. Nice blue.
Like a summer sky blue.
Never get in a stranger’s car.
Never. You are angry. Not
with you. Sounds angry.
But not with you. Not
with me? No, you are
special. Special. Yes.
Very special? Yes, very
special. Not to get in a
stranger’s car? No. Not in
a stranger’s car. I got in
your friend’s car the other day.
What friend? The man who
brings your groceries and
you and he talk and he makes
you laugh. Her mother stared.
When did you get in his car?
The other day. Why did you
get in his car? He said, you said.
Did he drive off with you? Yes.
The mother held Della out in
front of her. Where to? We
went to look at the ducks in
the pond. Why did you get
in the car? He said, you said.
But I didn’t tell him that.
He said, you said. Did he
touch you? Touch me? Did
he touch you anywhere?
He held my hand to go to
the ducks. Anywhere else?
He said I was special. You
are. Did he touch you anywhere?
My hand. Anywhere else?
No. Just my hand to feed
the ducks. What happened
after you saw the ducks?
He said I was special. Where
did he drive you? I thought
Mrs Rice was going to pick
you up that day? I went
with your friend. Did he
touch you? He held my hand.
Anywhere else? Della shook
her head. He said I was pretty
and had nice legs. Her mother’s
heart thumped. Am I pretty?
Yes you are, but he shouldn’t
have said so. Why not? He
didn’t mean it nicely. Why?
Because he shouldn’t tell
you that. Why? Because he’s
no right to say you’re pretty.
You say I’m pretty. I love you.
He said I was pretty and had
nice legs. Did he touch your legs?
No he just looked at them.
Nice legs he said and nice eyes.
Have I got nice legs and eyes?
Yes you have but he shouldn’t
say so. You’re angry again.
Not with you. Seems like me.
It’s not. Seems like. I’m not.
Seems like. Never get in his
car again. Della looked at
the sky. I won’t. It looked like rain.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 12:17 AM UTC
Miryam was sitting in the bar
of the base camp
outside Madrid
you sat next to her
on your second Bacardi
drawing on a smoke
she was sipping a glass
of white wine
where'd you get to last night?
she asked
thought you were going
to come to my tent?
thought your tent mate
would be there
you said
no we had a row
and she went to share
with Moaning Margaret
Miryam said
didn't know
you said
else I'd have come along
she sipped her wine
looking around the bar
spent a lonely night
she said
you exhaled smoke
and looked at her
taking in her frizzy
red hair
her eyes
her small tight ****
her tongue licking
the lips
I had that army guy
with me
you said
ex-army I should say
he got thrown out
why was that?
she asked
he didn't say
you said
and you thought on the guy
and how he went on and on
about his mother's new boyfriend
and how he felt pushed out
and the army life
was getting him down
and he did something
whatever and got
thrown out
Miryam drained her glass
I'm going now
where to?
you asked
my tent
she said
been a long day
touring around Madrid
you stumped out
your cigarette ****
in the glass ashtray
are you coming?
she asked
you looked uncertain
you don't have to
she said
I can always
sleep alone again
what if your tent mate
comes back?
you asked
she won't
Miryam said
too much was said
you drained your glass
and put it down
on the bar top
now?
don't you want to go
to the disco
in the other bar
by base camp?
no I'm tired
she said
ok
you said
see you later
later?
she moaned
I want to go to the disco
you said
she shrugged her shoulders
and stormed off
out the bar
into the night air
you went outside
and she had gone
between tents
into the darkness
disco music thumped
from the other bar
across the way
sounds of laughter
and voices calling out
and Bill waving to you
from his tent
on his way
to the other bar
his long wavy hair
caught in the breeze
and jeans with holes
or tears in the knees
and you thinking
of Miryam
in her tent alone
no longer waiting
maybe fuming
getting undressed
wanting you
not wanting to rest
and back at your tent
the army guy
lying there
full of woe
waiting for your return
to tell his tale
of life that fate
had sent
walking to
the other bar
(with Bill)
you wished you'd gone
to Miryam's tent.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 9:33 AM UTC
He sang to me on the porch step.
I watched him whimper
hitting the last note.
It thumped,
and I wished I didn't hear it.
So soft
and ridged,
like rivers
stones,
and waterfalls.
Such a happy imagination
at first glance
and a sad and
seapy
way down.
Ears on fire
notes like water
my voice slacks
in such ways.
Feel it!
Believe in it!
for voices will not
stay!
Him singing
there
like songs
are not melodies.
Such a sad way to be.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 10:53 PM UTC
Janice you thought
prettier than Helen
more refined
whose voice
was softly spoken
as if her words
had been fresh baked
in an oven
in her mouth
and her hair fair
and well groomed
but Helen had
that down to earthiness
that brought her
closer to you
and something about
her thin framed
thick lens glasses
made her seem
more lovable
to your boyish world
and she stared at you
through them
and smiled
that shy smile
and said things
with a rough edge
as if she’d bounced
the words around
before she uttered them aloud
you can come to tea
and we’ll have bread and jam
and a big mug of tea
or if mum’s remembered
lemonade
she said at playtime
in the playground
out of hear shot
of the other boys
who kicked ball
or who swapped cards
or threw marbles
along the ground
or fought battles
with imaginary swords
or shot pretend bullets
from rat-a-tat guns
and she said
to entice you more
you can see my new doll
my dad brought back
from the store
ok
you said
sure
and she smiled
and her nose creased up
and her glasses moved
and some small place
in your chest thumped
like furniture being dropped
or a bed being bounced
in some small hotel
and you watched her
go off to play skip rope
that thin framed
thick lens glasses
working-class
school girl.
Apr 10, 2012
Apr 10, 2012 at 4:09 AM UTC
a mother caught a cheating husband.
a few minutes walk from their home in a high glass building.
from below she knew which apartment it would be
a green light shined from a Victorian lamp
which she had gifted the thieving *****
as she ascended, the start of that beating drum
thumped loudly with every step
through the empty corridors
she held her ear at every red frame
for his voice of treason
and on the seventy fifth floor
at the eight hundred eighty eighth door
she listened on
heard voices unthinkingly in love
her heart could not bare what her ears had heard
her joints and elbows contorted inward
towards her chest where she beat it madly with her fists
she slumped all the way home
plotting a demise for he and she
allowing malevolence to poison her good hearted soul
she thought of a way to get rid of them both
climbing an endless staircase dark and poorly lit
cries and tears of a joyless woman unrequited
passed her children without a momentary glance
not a wave goodbye
no more kisses goodnight
from the rooftop
passed the eight hundred eighty eighth door
she found her cure
she leapt as she stared out into the sky
and not a tear no more she will cry
Sep 9, 2011
Sep 9, 2011 at 12:42 PM UTC
The way things were when
sunlight started to terrorize the morning
and then eventually, the evening sky.
My chest thumped at a glacial pace.
A slow hibernating thaw.
Those days I slept quite easily
whilst my mind ran away with the time.
Taking time with clowns & thieves alike.
Sponges indeed, sponges after all.
You crept in one night, hanging moons beneath your eyes.
I had exploded.
I closed.
On the loom, black lace then white cotton.
In my room, a screaming then a humming.
Cigarettes scattered the floor like sacrifices to some distant deity.
Who must have heard my prayers.
Something about all your silence
threw blankets on my lungs
and off my bed.
In your youth,
I feel soft.
Joy, I want more
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 11:12 AM UTC
On late the by-lanes one night,
unusual spot I green, a bottle
like any, but for words, may be,
on the label printed:
'Old wine. Hamlin. Best before: the future'
Scarred, the mouth, to fire
a rocket used, ringing in a day
when celebrating, a hero,
Goliaths thumped by a David new.
Hope, on the horizon, the word rising.
Threw it away, almost I, when
reversed comes, rolled up a parchment,
by ash burned, from the ******* a part:
a mix strange of clippings and retort.
Marked, astonished, the date, I: was it
from today, even of TV, a listings part;
'...mesmerized by the language of hope';
'Parks fill up as people gather to celebrate';
'Our democracy is alive and how'.
Of proportions messianic, news frothing
how new born, a leader is. Familiar all :
myself now, from one such, returning.
But curious, written, the words indeed:
*'Monuments wear and rivers thin,
as boatmen sing the evening song,
miracle-workers and peddlers of
honey and mead, pipers at the gates
of dawn, not men of mettle and deed'*
Of a piper, suddenly, as in a fantasy
a song, and heard I, helpless, wails
of mothers, a hundred .
Strained, to read, further my eye,
when tore up the piece;
Broke up green, a bottle on the street.
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 2:16 PM UTC
Isolated I stood at the shadowed corner
illuminated only by the street lamp
across the decrepit road.
Deafeningly silent I sat perched
at the bench awaiting my vessel
to deliver me.
Coyly he drifted into my universe
wearing a cloak and a smile
that would charm a Queen's guard.
Stiff like a board I stared at him
existing at a medium between
the end and the beginning.
Puzzled I was at a loss of how
to approach this drifter and his
exceedingly charming demeanor.
Thunderously my heart thumped
waiting anxiously for my vessel
that could not come soon enough.
Do I dare succumb?
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 2:19 PM UTC
what
would you say, if
on your very last day
they got your order wrong, at McDonald’s
and when you told the pimpled faced nihilist
you asked for no pickles on your Big Mac (!)
he stared at you through two gray sockets
that floated on his face, like the eyes
of time
what
would you think, if
on your very last day
conjoined twins were born in Siberia
and one would be deaf , the other left
to listen for both for eternity, and feel
the black swell of loneliness,
even with blood of a brother
coursing through his veins
what
would you do, if
on your very last day
you could buy more time
to create useless rhyme
and it would only cost…
ten cents
what
would you know, if
during the veil of night, your heart
skipped a few beats, then thumped
a final time, while you were still dreaming
of a dance, under a gleaming sun,
and cherished daylight
never to come
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 10:01 PM UTC
I wrote another neat bundle of words
Knotted them with coarse string
Smoothed the slick label over the bow
And licked my lips in guilt.
My heart has never thumped so hollowly in my chest.
Will you forgive me?
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 11:30 PM UTC
You have been only once on my bed
Now I can’t get that image out of my head
I can’t find sleep nor desire to eat
I feel like a freak
I’m writing all these poems
Just to forget
The feelings that I have
For you just being an amazing friend
I couldn’t stop staring
At your lushes pierced lips
Your gorgeous blue eyes
That was a winners price
The noises you made
Girl, they made me suffocate
My heart thumped, vision blurred
I never wanted to kiss you so bad
The hug at the end
Where you wickedly smiled
Knowing I adored you
I knew I was being a hopeless child
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 6:23 PM UTC