"ticktocks" poems
Here I am
In this four-walled box
The door is open
But bound by locks
The key is present
But not at hand
If I could just reach it
But I don't think I can
At first
Anger resided, Sister Bitterness too
Then stark Coldness,
The winds of Biting Blues
When the walls
Began to fade a little
I outstretched my hand
T o reach for the key
Only to make it to the middle
My fingertips just scraping
On the nothingness of air
I pulled back fast
Fell back in the chair
For all I knew this was a halfhearted attempt
And rushing back came Anger and Contempt
Coldness and the winds of Biting Blues too
For, after all, nothing follows through.
The door remains open
But the locks still locked
The key still present
But not where I thought
For as Father Time ticktocks days away
I begin to think
"What's all this worth anyway?"
And again I try
To reach for the key
My eyes finding that all along
It's right in front of me
I reached out
A tentative hand
I met no obstacles
But barely hoped to land
I moved forward a few more steps
To bring me closer to my goal
The elusive but stationary key to my soul
This time cold metal and warm skin touch
I feel a small thrill
Fear or Excitement?
I can't tell much
But all too soon
Oh, when will I learn
That you have to want it
To feel the burn
For yet again
I left the right things unsaid
And felt the painful yet familiar shreds
Of Frustration and Anger
'Cause I can't or won't say
The words that will save all my days
So yet again
I face failure
But at the root of it I know
That part of me's holding back
Fearing to be accused of putting on a show
The fact that everything comes down to me
Should place me on the right track, I see
But I just can't ever seem to reach
The KEY
So very elusive, yet always stationary
As Father Time ticktocks the days into months
And anxieties creep too dangerously near
Again, I start to ponder and then fear
While seated in a four-walled box
The door is open but bound by locks
The key is present but not at hand
Will I ever reach it?
Please tell me if you believe I can.
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 10:55 PM UTC
Kept hearing the ticktocks,
It is time to start my little game
Eyed the prey as he talks,
Hope he still remembers my name
At the dusky street,
Where I started what is planned
Took him long to accept defeat,
Pinned him until he stopped struggling on
the land
Took my blade and stabbed his orbs
Oh, what disgusting views it absorb!
These pair of eyes, I despise
For it was used to spy on my sister's
thighs
His sinful hands, I chopped
He heard how my sister begged but he
never stopped
These hands that traveled my sister's
pearl,
This is what I had witnessed when I was a
little girl
Lastly, his little shaft
I slashed it in half
This little thing is the reason why we mourn,
For she slaughtered herself with a baby unborn
She had commited the unforgivable sin
For she was sexually abused at the age of
fifteen
I stood up to desert the venue,
My dear sister, I have venged for you
Feb 13, 2019
Feb 13, 2019 at 1:53 AM UTC
You know how it's like to look into his eyes?
---
It's like lying in an open field and stargazing at a vast night sky. I would trace his beauty with every twinkle, his soul laid bare. And when I get lucky enough, I'd see something of him new like a shooting star. He is too beautiful I couldn't look away. Yet he is too far I couldn't get a grab of him. I'm always in awe, yet always unsatisfied.
It's like drinking something so tasty, it quenches my thirst but leave me wanting for more. I could taste his mood at the moment, tasting another when time ticktocks to another time. It's very delicious, I'm afraid I couldn't make it last.
Maybe I've seen this coming. Like all stargazing will have to end when dawn is creeping out or like when I will about to have my last drop, I can only hope it lasted longer. I hope I hadn't tried. I hope there will be next time. I hope he feels the same as I am.
---
You know how it's like to look into his eyes? It's a joy and a pain at the same time.
And the best and worse part of it: the feeling lingers (sometimes very strongly, sometimes so sweetly , and sometimes just for a sec and sometimes for quite a while ) like a smell, like a song, like a book I've read. My heart always melts, my mind always reasons whenever I look at him.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 5:28 AM UTC
Some times are hard
Some times are chaotic
Some times are missed
Times are summed up
by events and people
measured by some ticktocks.
Sometimes hello leads
to tearful goodbyes
Sometimes hello is never
answered but by an echo
This is neither goodbye or
hello, really it is a wash.
Tears streaming,
sink full of soapy hot water,
Day dreaming,
...
Facebook, email, news, takes
me away from what I oughta
decide to do.
This not a goodbye to poetry,
this a hello to all things,
especially only writings.
So to stay true to me,
I will be writing free,
followed by edit-ting,
stories in my veins,
will be pumped from my
heart, life is easily wasted,
the bottle of red tasted,
spirit of distraction,
let me go.
You don't need me to change
your world, take those reins
but be aware writers, strange
as it seems, are targets of any
and all who are within range
to silence many.
This will always be a place
where words fill my small
space in the cloud, or word
spoken out loud.
I will write.
I will share.
I will wrestle on the spur of the
moment or transfer
my words from paper that cuts
till I bleed black,
sometimes
sometimes I read
sometimes I write
sometimes I find
the self.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 9:05 PM UTC
Am
looking at the ceiling
eyes are fixed on the
white rotating blades
turning around slowly
......oh so slowly
......the monotony
..........hypnotizes me
everything around me
every sound or action
is moving like a snail
the ticktocks of the clock
are droning
the water inside the kettle
is boiling without a sound, i think
thin slices of pork marinated
in soy sauce and lime...frying,
doesn't scare me...the fight between
heated oil and soy sauce
is not as noisy...not as violent
as it had been in the past mornings
i feel them all...slow and hushed
..........as a snowfall in winter
i am thinking of winter this early hour
...yet, it's summer...so hot and humid
...........hot coffee has failed to alter
.......the weary, and dreary airs
....of this early wednesday morning...
Sally
Copyright Feb. 21, 2018
rrab
Feb 20, 2018
Feb 20, 2018 at 3:44 PM UTC