"tiredly" poems
If we were the kind of friends who unironically
raised our glasses in toasts,
I would give one to the generation too comforted by the ease
of a honeybee in the plaintively nonexistent mind
of a tulip
To the generation, or at least its subset
that wrongly feels representative, who stumble drunkenly
or maybe just tiredly out of tents
to **** in the view of their friends, who are still at the fire
because the tent was too cold
To those who did raise their glasses in a toast
on New Year’s Eve at what felt, with the ball drop
not screening in luddite protest, enough like midnight.
Beginning with “dear friends” and a couple laughs;
concluding with “now let’s get ****** up” and
a couple more
To those who proceeded
as directed, clinking their shot-glasses
and swigging them back. If only because
they were not tulips.
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 12:09 AM UTC
don’t call me pretty
don’t call me sweet
i won’t be flattered –
it’s not what i need;
don’t call me beautiful
don’t call me hot
i won’t be flattered –
i know i’m not;
but then so what
it isn’t like I give a
****
beautiful won’t draw the stars
upon the night sky,
pretty won’t write you a poem
twenty lines long,
slam and bitter-sweet,
beautiful won’t inspire
another soul to love me,
pretty won’t immortalise
my swift and shining mind,
beautiful won’t taste like
coffee and cigarettes
when i kiss you on the
mouth,
pretty won’t make you
laugh with a coarse voice
at 3 a.m.
under the stars,
beautiful won’t make you
stay awake till dawn
reciting frost, then plath
and then bukowski,
pretty won’t make you
crave for my
mysteriously gentle touch,
beautiful won’t make
my absence sting and
leave a burning scar,
pretty won’t feed you
with homemade crusty
cake glazed with chocolate
and raspberries,
beautiful won’t make your
body ache when you
wake up and don’t find me
in bed,
pretty won’t make your
head hurt with all the
existential questions
i ask before i’ve even started
to drink,
beautiful won’t cuddle you
under the sound of
heavy metal screams,
pretty won’t soothe you
when you need to cry,
beautiful won’t dance with you
with no music,
pretty won’t hold your hand
like i will though it’s
december and i have no
mittens,
beautiful won’t win
wars for you,
pretty won’t stay up all
night long to marathon
lord of the rings with you
and then maybe star wars
and then read some marvel,
and then make up
asoiaf theories,
beautiful will steal a glance,
but I will steal your mind.
hot might earn you a body,
with other words
you will enter my heart.
pretty might be enough
for a one-night stand,
but i can make you
be hopelessly,
tiredly,
desperately
in love.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 10:00 AM UTC
So there's this girl; pretty, gorgeous and nice.
Her eyes crinkle when she smiles genuinely
and I hope she knows her beauty eventually.
Because she has a pure soul that can entice.
There's this girl, whose favorite color is blue.
Who stays up past midnight to finish a book
and then falls asleep in her own comfy nook.
Tiredly waking to a pale dawn covered in dew.
There's this girl, that takes up all of my time.
Who lights up my phone all hours of the day
and expects a paragrapth on the 28th of May.
So there's this girl, this girl that I call mine.
Aug 24, 2017
Aug 24, 2017 at 1:58 PM UTC
I saw you look over at me
My arm across your chest
Fingers tracing tiredly
I felt the breath you took
It hitched
I saw you pause when you looked
Right before kissing
My forehead
Your chest tightened
My senses were heightened
I and you know it to be true
That kiss means
I love you
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 3:22 AM UTC
you know? i'll stop being so empty sometimes. i'll fill myself with words, so they will be dripping down the carefully creased seams of my lips and dents in my cheeks. i am tired of margins and paragraphs to box in what i have to say. i'm ready to let things out like a destroyed dam barricading a swift, roaring feline river; distorted reflections of the day racing past. i am a goddess with dripping hair and naked skin, you can't stop me from feeling. i feel with my soul i feel i feel I FEEL and i am alive. i am the start of morning, i am red tinged and purple, i am the end of the afternoon, dark skinned and starry. i am everything that this universe is made up of, and i intend to be that way till the very earth splits my bones and drills my skull, and my skin droops tiredly to the ground. i am whole, and i am divine. i am eternal, like the dust scattered across the milkyway, and you can't stifle me.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 9:56 AM UTC
i light matches on non flammable things and start fires i
cannot extinguish, i start all consuming love and then tear it apart
viciously and tiredly and try to put back the pieces of my heart
in this sacred chest at the bottom of wherever my skeleton ends
because that is where it belongs, alone and protected
you were a cigarette i denied myself the pleasure of smoking you
were an old record player that i would dance to by myself
at 2 am just because and you were strawberry hill wine in the
middle of the park that tasted agonizingly sweet on my tongue
and scorched my throat into believing this was happiness
i still whisper your name whenever i drive by your house in prayer
that i will never see you again, you are still a ghost in the corner
of my mind and i have a feeling you will always be
(h.l.)
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 3:46 PM UTC
Nothing is a sadder sight to me
To see a business with empty windows
The blue building I pass by every day
With the once solid stairs only marked by a paint print
The man in the yellow jacket and the American flag shirt
Even though America is why he is walking on worn down shoes
320 on moffet, dilapidated apartments & hollow doorways
Nothing is a sadder sight to me
The blinking open sign that flickers, only welcoming ghosts
The boy who gets off the bus stop alone, walking by it without a glance
With his back pack strung tiredly over his shoulder
The universal feeling of not fitting in still fresh in his memory
The field of grass, deserted
A cemetery of parts & wheels & headlights & people's once dream machines
Nothing is a sadder sight to me
The lady who lives on 2nd near the sewer drainer
With hoards of stuffed animals waving from inside the windows
As she sits under the awning surrounded by them, smoking a cigarette with trembling fingers
The girl driving with her hands tightly gripping the steering wheel
Grinding her teeth as she watches the people she sees while on the road
Blinks slowly, as she knows home is where she is alone
But she'd rather see this road side sadness then the blank television screen
Nothing is a sadder sight to me
And she screams
As she crashes into a tree
The man in the yellow jacket turns his head
The boy's back pack falls to the ground
The women leaps up, her plush lifeless friends tumbling around her
The building are silent, remorseful
Nothing is a sadder sight to see
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 10:53 PM UTC
Walking through the town today
I thought I crossed you on the street
With your sand storm hair and empty eyes
And anxious vagabond feet.
Your pretty teeth were crooked
Like bricks forced under pressure
Your shoulders, they sagged tiredly
Your head hung with displeasure.
My heart leapt at the sight of you
And music filled my lungs
With a longing to sing with the loudest voice
All the songs 'til now left unsung.
But when your eyes met with mine,
You were just a man I did not know.
Just a man, like the man I once loved
One thousand cold Augusts ago.
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 8:34 PM UTC
a person on the metro, six stops from their destination
leafing through a brochure titled How
To Get Rich Quick -
sighing in disgust,
"I was never allowed to go on the metro
when I was young," boasts the woman
sitting beside them, an accessory of
The Scene. a prop
(voice is loud and nasally, and the person - five stops - considers moving)
quick smile, polite:
which means, go away. or, at the very least, don't talk quite
so loud
okay? okay?
a softcover Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary is under the seat, discarded,
Sharpie skidding through it (four stops) at every jolt
of the train.
this is normal, all trains are jerky sometimes, and the loud woman
expresses her concerns.
an old man, older than both people,
older than anything really - coughs.
wet coughs.
the person frowns, but quietly, so
the woman and man won't notice.
(they are well-practiced in the art of subtlety)
three stops. the woman leaves
but the smell lingers
and the dictionary, having slid back
one or two rows for effect
a flock of tourists board. kids in the seats
parents hanging tiredly to safety holds
(be still be quiet keep your hands to yourself, mandy
a little boy of six clinging to the person's jacket with
sticky warm fingers)
two stops, and the boy asks why they look so sad.
what they're reading.
they have perfected the art of silence
but little boys don't understand silence.
the mother hovers in the background
sneaking ***** looks at the person,
wax smudged smile going crooked at the edges
one stop,
the boy asks where they got their hair
(my head;
he is unimpressed)
he is kicking the lonely dictionary
providing it with company,
or maybe unaware.
they leave, and the mother hisses something at them as they pass -
clutches the boy's arm.
the dictionary has been stuck on the word spectral for three days,
and the train hums to life.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 9:28 AM UTC
Drenches half music blues
Paints my eyes his drips of two's
Like a software of compliance
Superior-what's inside
Interior-Inferior-Exterior
Calmness-Family-Bless
Providence--resilience
Anxiety you can tell
at a glance
In a state of anxiety
Nature calls cleansing
rinse
A world of society
Sacredly*
Tiredly
World
Inconsistent
What is at state?
No greener pasture
Present the future
Craziness high anxiety fire
More jobs to hire
Paints- birthstone- sapphire
Picture memories
to capture
Anxiety like sanity
Paints wellness next to
Godliness
Eyes weaken but your heart
Glistens*
Jun 22, 2023
Jun 22, 2023 at 5:04 PM UTC
i look at the bags beneath my eyes and i see a crime scene,
a restless heart made of shattered glass bottles
and shouted words sharp enough to cut through skin
and i wonder why anyone would choose
to love someone like me
you’re the kind of boy with electric lips,
the kind of boy who bleeds poetry
and you’re a crime scene just like me,
one that screams danger,
you set everything around you on fire
yet i wouldn’t mind being turned to ash by you
i’m a ticking bomb of interrupted love
and i worry that you’ll leave me,
that you’ll run away with my fleeting heart
still tiredly beating in your hands
and i’ll be forced to destroy everything around me
just because you couldn’t love a girl who couldn’t love herself
i fear the day i’ll wake up on the ground
realizing that i am just another painted face
in your pile of broken girls with expiration dates
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 3:45 PM UTC
I wish the first moment I met you,
Would resound forever.
Never needing food or sleep,
Just content in your presence.
The feeling of love and awe,
Beauty captured in a moment.
My desire is to go back,
To that very first day…
And if I may,
I think I’d kiss you,
If just to say,
I’m yours.
To see and smell you’re autumn hair,
Matching you’re hazel glazed eyes perfectly.
Felicity,
How delightfully,
You kiss me.
Bliss,
Thy name is,
Such sweet remiss.
First,
I will love you,
Then I will quench your thirst.
Then,
In half remembered ecstasy’s,
I will taste you when.
After,
Your chest will rise tiredly,
Stuggling for laughter.
Finally,
I will hug and cuddle you,
Showing that my love is not trivial.
When,
I wake from the dream,
I’ll still remember that you are a godsend.
I used to believe there was something wrong with me.
And then I met you.
I used to be sick with loneliness,
But you cured it with you’re faithfulness.
Whenever I looked into the dark, I saw empty shadows,
Now it is you that fills the gallows.
Before I met you I was dead but a live.
Now I’m in love and living my life.
Whereas before depression and anger were present,
Now it is only happiness and joy, in every second.
I write these to let out my emotions,
So that you may cry tears of elation.
I want to scream out you’re name and etch it on my heart,
Because it most certainly beats with you’re mark.
I am not the smartest or fastest or tallest or strongest.
But I put in the effort and I’ll work for your content.
I promise not to you hurt you, if you’ll promise the same,
Because in the end we are opposites but one in name.
Loving You,
Is so painful,
Too cliché,
And risqué…
Too dangerous,
Too incredulous,
Too out of bounds,
Too without grounds.
A soul mate,
A friend,
A lover,
A mother.
It’s coming to a close,
And all these words, and ideas and moans,
They are my own.
But they are more yours than mine,
Because I am nothing, if not on you’re vine.
Feed me and pet met and water me too,
Show me lots of love, and like an angel sent from above,
I will radiate my light on you.
It’s not much, for sure,
But it’s what I’ve got.
It’s added to you’re presence,
Your heavenly beauty.
I’ll leave you with one last thought,
Something that shall not be forgot.
You’re only young and you’re only alive once,
So make it the best, make it loved,
That’s what I’ve done, what I did,
When I found the one.
Mia.
Jul 8, 2010
Jul 8, 2010 at 8:38 PM UTC
my loose hair hides in the pockets of my clothes
calves and elbows jumbling tiredly along the gravel path
that leads to the road
that leads to the only quiet place
left in a city
the strands close their eyes individually so i can dress
the blinds are plastic
and it's too bright to nail a blanket over them
so i make pancakes
and sleep
blond hugs the black of my coat and declares illness
washington doesn't have a secretary of commonwealth
which means the question is blank
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 8:54 PM UTC
“Aren’t we just like curtains?” I say
“How?” you ask
Well, curtains
We never really appreciate them
Until they’re gone
Not until we feel the bustling heat
Penetrate our skins during summer
Or when we can no longer hide ourselves
From the light and the world around us
When we’re already too tired to deal
With anyone, really
Because we took off
Those **** curtains
We speak of lines that spell diamonds
Majestic cars and palaces
But we fail to realize how this ordinary object
Can make a whole difference whenever
We wake up in morning
Sitting in bed, tiredly remembering what
We were going to do today
A small choice, packed with a lot of meaning
Whether we want to stay inside
Or go out and meet the world
Serving as a doorway
To the possibilities each day brings
These curtains show us the days worth living (and hiding from, if that's what you want)
And if you don’t find that ordinariness beautiful
If you don't find those moments where we stand up and try to survive the long day ahead of us
Often just waiting to see those familiar curtains again amazing
Nor can you see how curtain-like we all actually are
Then try having no curtains for a day
And see what I mean
Jul 10, 2020
Jul 10, 2020 at 8:04 AM UTC
I am having trouble writing.
It is as if there is a wall of bulletproof glass separating me from the words that are dying to escape the metal cage they are kept in. I am the only one with a key sitting comfortably in the pockets of my jeans, but no matter how hard I pound my fists against the wall, I do not get any closer to quieting the agonizing screams emerging from the trap. They get louder, aching for liberation, tethering their syllables around the bars as they sit, confined within a reality I am desperate to free them from.
They are starving to live. I can see the outlines of their bones through the transparent letters that blanket their elastic limbs, each day growing more tired, forgetting the taste of hope every minute that passes. I can feel them collecting dust, shrinking down to fragile skeletons that have begun to lose meaning. What if one day I will no longer be able to see them? What if one day I have nothing left to save?
I am starving to live. I cannot feel love without a knife stuck wedged in the back of my throat reminding me that I have nothing to describe it with. I can give all of myself to the one who thankfully accepts it but my teeth chatter at the thought of having to apologize for stealing joy from the cookie jar. I am sorry for having no words to say sorry. They told me to tell you that they are sorry for their absence, but I do not know how to say this without them.
For now, I am waiting. The same way I do for Fridays, for your call, for my heartbeat to obey the speed limit, for time to run dry.
I will continue to wait
patiently, tiredly, averting my eyes to the hopes that maybe tomorrow, they will be small enough to squeeze through the bars and set me free.
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 4:12 PM UTC
*"History changes"
Said the old man,
Deep crows' feet lining his
Sunken in blue eyes, as he
Led us through a library.
And I think those old books agreed,
As they tiredly watched me
From their glass prison.*
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 8:34 PM UTC
He cranes tiredly over folds of parchment
As sunlight falls across his ashen features
And the restless night becomes lost
Within a sea of fading maps and broken compasses.
Worn pencils collect on hardwood like dust,
And discarded errors in calculation fall into the corners.
He stumbles weakly between varying levels of consciousness,
And exhaustion claims an inch more of his body
With each exasperated flutter of his eyelids.
He spins the globe to his right with a lazy hand
And catches Africa with his finger
Wishing that he could’ve been anywhere but here
Because it is immeasurably heartbreaking
To have the entire world at your fingertips
And to have never seen any of it.
j.s.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 4:22 AM UTC
Petal falls alone
Stem tiredly
withers, stifled
Cry of pain
echoes
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 9:10 AM UTC
"yeah... i know who took my money too. that ***** pyper, it doesnt take a rocket scientist to figure it out she jumped up to defend herself as soon as i said something." Madison replied tiredly, taking a ciggarette out and lighting it as she sat on the her black canopy bed. a picture of marilyn monroe and kurt cobain hanging on her bedroom wall. "so, what are your plans for revenge?" Cassie raised an eyebrow. "i'm debating on whether i should put raid in her perfume bottle, or nair in her shampoo." Madison replied casualy as she stared out of her bedroom window. "isnt raid poisonus?" cassie questioned.
"yep." Madison shook her head and grinned.
"she is a cockroach, seems pretty fitting to me..." she continued.
"hmmm... what about, pepper spray in her face wash?" Cassie replied with her hand upon her chin.
"i think i like the way you think cassandra motts." Madison smiled sadisticly, an evil twinkle in her eye.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 4:43 PM UTC
I can see the pain breaking through his porcelain shell and billowing out of his lips. Now he's lying with his back against the cold tile floor & his arms wrapped around his stomach just to soothe the empty void growing beneath his skin. I breathe his name in my sleep. I dream about him behind the steering wheel, the reflection of his shoulders unfolding in the rear view. We exhale a layer of smoke into the lifeless air that hangs over my bed. I can feel my lungs giving in & leaning tiredly against my rib cage. He does the same & it makes my entire body ache. Have you ever thought about how much you missed someone while lying in their arms? The vacancy in his voice shatters the flood gates behind my eyes. I'm crushed by the blankness of his stare. I remember watching his face morph into a playground when he was laughing out loud, but no pill can resurrect that expression now. All that's left are twisted veins, and worn out organs floating in a sea of champagne. I rest here, waiting for the day they sink & he gets dragged away. I spent 18 years as a calendar hung between a set of revolving doors, apathetically watching people come and go with every season that changed beneath my feet but he unhooked me from that place and whispered life into my ear every night. Now I'm looking at his shaking hands, a light shade of blue & every inch of me is weakened by the knowledge that it's his turn to walk back through.
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 12:04 AM UTC
When, torpid, the sun begins to grey
In the outlines of clouds on the move
But in no hurry, autumn reaches for its full potential.
What leaves there could have been
Were shot away, we’d have paid them no mind, anyway.
There is a roughness tangled in your hair,
It’s best, I think, to let it be
And, instead, to view the wide expanse of beach,
Which marches into the frigid sea,
Debating with itself and at last achieving a landscape
Pure enough to match the temperature: 40 degrees F.
I can feel your hand stiffen and I
Too sense the tension in the afternoon,
A resistance to our huddled, timid presence; we’re nearly frozen in the process.
Drawing closer, hoods, tightening our jackets
Won’t do much to prevent the
Days from shortening and the hours’ agonizing stretching-
Out. It’s not time enough
To take in the red and white display
Which umbrella shades act out tiredly before us.
Then the waves, mischievous as ever,
Creep up the sand to ****** at our shoes
Before they swagger back to the sea. Love
Is lounging in the break, sopping wet
And fully-clothed—boots and all.
In the brief moments when our thoughts and talk collide, hours fit for memory
Flit us by. Hairy swathes of weedy dunegrass
Wilt with hindsight.
Please, slow. A rushed gaze and a blink are futility
At the shore; looking, here,
Is tenderer than you’d imagine.
Finalized versions of the day are worth one short glance,
But no more than that; you see
Too many things are
Strewn about these days; it is unclear who is
At fault for these mysteries, only that today,
At the boardwalk there are many brooding melancholies.
Silently, a hard wind licks the sand.
Feb 5, 2010
Feb 5, 2010 at 12:15 PM UTC
If every day I wake up is filled with new inspiration,
Shouldn't that be enough?
It seems this lack of motivation has left me feeling tired and numb
I think I'm worthless and dumb
Used to run with my imagination
Now I'm leashed and chained to a stump
This constant pacing in a circle has created a rut
That's been dug by my own hand
While I'm trying to understand
How the Sandman could forget about
Adding a stop at my house
On his midnight route.
But that ***** would probably just cram the entire **** bag
Of Sleeping Powder down my throat,
Sit comfortably at the foot of my bed
And laugh as I choke
On all the sleep he's been selfishly keeping for weeks
And I can't decide if he's doing me a favor every night
Or if his revenge is keeping me up
Until the first sign of light
While I lie awake exhausted and hating my life.
See, the Sandman is full of animosity and anger and spite.
He skips over my house while I plead
Just a pinch of sand in my eyes,
One night of half decent sleep,
I can feel myself going insane
And the Sandman's to blame.
That grudge holding monster will only have it one of two ways:
Either I fall asleep for good or he'll keep me awake.
So I choose the latter, I won't allow myself to fall apart
And I know that we're so much more than just the sum of our parts
But my mother keeps telling me I've got a heart so huge
It'll swallow me entirely
And if I can't put the pieces together from the start
I'll never see the big picture in its entirety.
I'm a black or white thinker,
Wandering through the gray areas tiredly
I don't understand the in between
And I'm still starving for sleep
Eyelids heavy, I've been dying to dream.
I need a plan.
I'll climb to my roof, I'm making a stand
With revenge in my gut and a rifle in my hands,
Wide eyed
The only thing on my mind
Is the relief I'll finally feel when I shoot that Sandman out of the sky.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 4:19 PM UTC
My mind is erratic,
changing easily with age,
the changes seem subtle,
but that's not quite the case.
I once felt such anger,
such pointless,
wandering,
misguided hate,
but now that feels distant,
I am far from the same.
The world seems a silly place,
so many of my grievances seem tiring,
I suppose it's not worth it,
wasting my days,
the fight is important,
but who knows who I am when I change?
Resignation feels the empty space in my brain,
tiredly painted with white and grey,
blood coursing through it delaying ruin,
but I can feel it coming,
and somehow that quiets my rage.
I can do a little,
and that's what I'll do,
make misfits feel normal,
if just today,
I knew how they felt and can use that,
that vague sensation of pain and decay,
maybe I'll make something better,
work towards making their lenses less opaque,
though I can't do much,
I'll do it right now,
I'll start today.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 2:32 AM UTC
I cherish your voice
Like the last drop of coffee
On a restless morning.
I wish it was us raining
Falling and melting together
As the sky's tears do.
I long to be the song
Circling tiredly through your head
When you lay down at night to sleep.
I'd give up three meals
If every time I ate
I dined on the warmth of your lips.
I wish to be steaming water
Rolling over your skin
Making you sigh with satisfaction.
I want to be the towel
That kills the cold air
Right when you leave the shower.
We will be the clock
That ticks to forever
For time is no challenging measure.
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 7:03 PM UTC
An old friend sleeps
somewhere you've not been.
He may be seeing
awful things
or lovely ones. Of course,
you've no discernment,
for you dwell outside
his sphere now and outside
his dreams; for that matter,
you cannot sleep at all.
When his body gives
the sudden ****
you tiredly await--
when he falls
from the hammock
and breaks his arm,
will you reprimand him
for his fault?
Yet, could not you have told him
when he asked
for your advice
those years ago
that you doubted him
in the first place? that
his ambition frightened
you? that high-up hammocks
are beds for the foolish
more often than not?
Through the pain
of malbent joint and forced
awakening next to you
where you've watched
from the ground,
will he learn only then?
What if he reprimands
you, then, upon consciousness--
what then? Or what if it's his spine
he damages, and Something Goes
Very Wrong, and he cannot speak,
but it is in the misery of his eyes
that you can hear him declaring,
"You could have spared me this!"
--what then?
Or what will you say
if he never comes down
at all? And when? How, even,
will you know that he has woken?
--that he's happy? --that he wishes
you had come with him,
hopes that you might yet?
An old friend sleeps--
or seems to sleep--
somewhere you've not been,
and as you ask yourself,
"What became of him?"
he looks to you
from his high perch
and also aches to know--
as someone below you
asks of you;
and someone beneath him
and someone beneath him
and someone beneath him...
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 2:01 AM UTC