"tiredest" poems
See, we hold secret meetings between our darknesses and hopes;
cry in heaves in our cars after midnight,
awake early to drink of a bitter cup:
coffee and whatever it accompanies,
these things, they keep my company,
cold tiles, cigarettes,
scriptures, fleas, and bedsheets.
I spread- divulge cavernous wants, these
tiny comforts, the tiredest songs,
the ones I still believe in.
I was told to turn my spirit to the Lord.
*** seemed like the closest metaphor.
I was told that making love was how you sinned:
to turn my soul to see the God inside me,
to turn my face to watch a man inside me--
they bear a heavy semblance.
But this is infinitely more than bone of bone and flesh of flesh,
this is the spirit of the ghosts that carve in rivers through my chest,
formless and void
like universe before language.
This God,
he hovered over my
smallest waters,
whispered requests that broke out in shouts,
and his words, not so different
than those of men who I have been with:
"Come before me. Let me come into you."
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 1:49 AM UTC
In the darkness the quiet is complete
for only in the snow does the world find sleep.
With thoughts as heavy as the air is cold,
trapped in every single secret never told.
Yet, love is love is love is love
worth so much more for all I am guilty of.
My minds lost in this perfect snow white deep
and none of these thoughts will ever bring me sleep.
Its with the sorest of muscles and tiredest of eyes
that I lift to watch another infinite sunrise.
I don't know who I am, or where to go, or how to be.
But this is all becomes hushed whispers when you're next to me.
If there ever was a definition of you and me,
it would look something like a mix of confusion and clarity.
And when you leave I'm left with all of you I miss,
which can only be consoled with your perfect kiss.
You're a snow angel, quiet and pure.
Full of love and uncertainly sure.
I hate to melt you for just a taste of serenity
but I'm so helplessly lost in this complete concinnity.
Feb 18, 2012
Feb 18, 2012 at 5:16 AM UTC
(Senryus)
If I don’t have
a hair-band on my wrist I
feel out of control.
When I was a kid
I thought teens were the coolest
people in the world.
Now I know that teens
are the tiredest, most stressed
people in the world.
How fun would it be
if ceiling fans could support
our weight - bye boredom.
Aug 27, 2020
Aug 27, 2020 at 6:43 AM UTC
every noteless music of this world is a song
exploding fracas in my smallest body lifting
burdened wings broken to stars falling 1x1
into my eye; sort of like the warmest rock
of green bluely visits all of me every days
it falls rising to up under my feet aloft it
i swallow winds breathtakingly sounds of
god touching all my atoms with his cooler
fingers strumming over the strings of each
incredible momentous tedium when i am
doing the dishes in the frailing hammer of
Summer's heat gorgeously nuzzling the lilies
popping up from the richness deeply soil
in the flower bed right next to the porch
droops amazingly the tiredest earth
Aug 5, 2011
Aug 5, 2011 at 1:04 PM UTC
*Sometimes it's like my demons are battling
But only at night when I'm my tiredest
Sometimes they keep me awake
And other times they force me to sleep*
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 1:53 PM UTC