"toothpicks" poems
This is not a metahpor,
oh no this is so so real,
this is the deliciousness,
oh for my meal,
to consist of the sweet delicacy
Oh I know you know it is true,
Let us fry a koala,
Not make it into stew.
It will be chewy and crunchy,
Oh leave the bones in,
They make the meat more tender,
And toothpicks more fun,
Let your girl make it for you,
And **** you clean while eating.
That is when you've reached heaven,
And the lust and gluttony therein.
If they try to stop you,
From stealing another koala,
Tell them it is your dinner,
And they are making you quite irate.
Beat them in the face,
And shoot their families down,
Nothing must stop you from eating,
Yet another fried koala,
One might even think its fate.
When you **** it out,
Don't fret or moan,
Take it like a man,
And bless the remains,
of the once fried koala,
As you flush it down down down.
Because another lies down under,
To quench your hunger,
Forever.
For Lexi.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 11:32 AM UTC
My elbow pops
Like the way the word
Snap dragon sounds
My freckles aren't constellations
They're reminders that I am not
Dark and ancient
Like my ******* father
My hair
FRIZZY
Like a pumpkin on fire
Voice
So sweet it makes me sick
And now all my teeth have fallen out
My throat swollen
A cave with an avalanche stuck inside
Dead bats
And stalactites like toothpicks
I don't need
Nails
Like tree bark
Hollow in all the right places
Scars
Like a record
Of the way I hurt myself
Put it on Repeat
Till it scratches
Cheeks like high school
Like humiliation
With four eyes perching
Not lucky clovers
And eyes glued on
With one glued on wrong
And knees that I'm constantly falling down on
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 12:58 AM UTC
Someone stole the last piece of my turkey sandwich.
I bet the ************ put some pepper on it.
I hope it was pepper from that
***** *** pepper-shaker that is no longer see-through.
That ******* left me with one poker-chip pickle slice and
Those pieces of potato chips that you
Have to spear with a fingertip to eat.
That son-of-a-bitch!
I am sure he put mustard on that last piece of turkey sandwich;
In that delicate delicatessen squiggly pattern that is all in the wrist.
-And, speaking of wrist, that ******* forged my signature perfectly.
He even put another Lone Star bottle on my tab then
Neatly arranged the bottle caps next to four toothpicks.
*That suave ************
To honor him, when I get home
I am going to smoke his ****
**** his girlfriend and take his ****
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 1:59 AM UTC
Cut me open, cover yourself in a blanket of skin.
It won't make I difference. I don't inhabit it anyway.
It is a shell.
It is a lifeless thing.
It is not me. It makes no decisions.
Split the differences in your own mind and do anything you wish.
Take away every doubt.
Leave it on the edge of a cliff. The rain will wash it down our throats.
A spoonful of sugar.
It is laced. Silk laces, pretty underthings ruined.
They were taken off.
Too many flowers to water with the fluids running from open wounds.
They will not grow. They are made of the plastic from leftover
Glass from a broken window. Portal to the soul
My eyes are not there anymore. Blindly
Stuttering, I cannot speak.
These arms lack bones.
They were buried long ago, burned to blackened
Charcoal. Draw a masterpiece, dear.
Stab my physical canvas with toothpicks and see visions.
Crystal trees growing from my ears, reaching into your voice box.
Sing for me.
Make me dance over the salt, gives me rashes on my legs, blue flame licking what is yours.
Turn the key in my bleeding back. Twist my spine and laugh, watch as I writhe in
Lust?
How am I supposed to know. My brain is nonexistent, just gears and crushed light bulbs.
There is no light.
I took a step two nights past, I didn't see.
A tusk ****** through my foot, breaking bones.
I admire the animals caged at the zoo. They were stronger than I was, before they were
Eliminated. They are dying, wilting.
I drew flowers on my nails to represent them. A memorial to the horrid truth of knowing about the robotics of life.
This is just a computer, ringing a high. No going backwards. The button doesn't work, the transformer blew, we have no power.
My data was deleted.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 11:44 AM UTC
There’s a place, where licorice vines have climbed,
Deep in the night, that only children can find;
Where leaves of waxed paper on trees are hung,
And what grows on the branches is sweet to the tongue.
Garlands of butterscotch, chocolate, and mint,
In their bright wrappers, sparkle, and glint;
Bubbling springs of sarsaparilla, through the valley are poured,
Washing sugar beaches with reeds of sour chord.
Swedish fish swim in soda geysers with bliss,
While fizzing pop-rocks spurt, spittle, and hiss.
Sunset clouds of cotton candy sweep past in the sky;
Trees sway in the delicious breeze that smells like apple pie.
Skies will rain down skittles, when there is a storm,
Pelting molasses window panes in a giant swarm;
Sour gummi worms are dug up, free to take,
In the grainy, nutmeg layers of the coffee cake.
Carmel creams, Mary Janes, Black Jacks, and Almond Joys,
Coconutties, Jawbreakers, Carmel Rolos and Long Boys--
All these grow, in lines straight as peppermint sticks,
Planted in brown sugar, on fields of cinnamon toothpicks;
But when the sun lets out its first ray,
The entire land just melts away
And children don’t remember where they’ve been,
That whole night asleep, but they wake with a grin;
And through the whole day, their dreams will entice,
Until they visit again, the Land of Sugar and Spice.
8/9/11
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 4:32 PM UTC
it's unnerving how easily a pair of eyes strip me down
and take away every layer of defense
I have built up over the years.
hey sweetie, why don't you come over here?
because I don't want to, because you're repulsive
and your voice is scary and I felt your eyes on me
from the instant I crossed the street and I was hoping
you wouldn't speak.
want me to show you a good time?
but I was having the best time before I knew you existed,
when I was still just a person walking home
and the silent threats you make hadn't made it to
the horizon of my mind
**** what you doing walking around with hips like those?*
hips like these belong to my mother and
her mother and all of the women that have come
before me. in my body I possess history and blood
so strong it was only ever spilled during times of war.
how dare you. attempt to take that strength and power and pride
away from me. don't you know that I am magic,
that my body exists as art only
I should be allowed to admire
who gave you permission to steal from god's temple?
[I still see the dark look in your eyes
when you said that to me, the emptiness of
your pupils haunt me. they say that you see
me as nothing more than a body, a corpse.
someone to walk over.
someone to conquer.
you licked your lips and winked, the
wrinkles in your skin were clear even in the dark
and I could see that your two front teeth were
missing, so now I can't stop having nightmares
you grabbing me and tearing me apart, using
the same legs you whistled at as toothpicks]
*why are you walking so ******* fast?*
because you are terrifying. because I know
despite how brittle your bones may appear
there is a large chance if you catch me I won't
escape. because the risk of not escaping is an
automatic death to me in every sense of
the word. because I have friends, and they have
told me how their bodies were pillaged at the
hands of men like you.
*who the **** do you think you are?*
I think I am an island and I wish you
wouldn't insist on being so intrusive.
**** you too, *****
I just want to go home. I just want to go home.
why can't you let me do that?
you're not even that pretty anyway
when I met up with my best friend
she hugged me
and said I smelled like vanilla,
that I got more beautiful over the summer,
and that boys are going to lose their minds
when they see me.
my mother shows me off
boastfully, brags about my small waist like it
is a trophy, tells all my family that I am
peligrosamente hermosa,
dangerously beautiful.
and I believed them until I met you.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 3:21 PM UTC
I am at the curly wolfe
Looking at the spruce trees
Behind them lies an army
of
Stout Little Soldiers
Drinking Lemongrass Tea
With Raspberry Tarts
They yell and squeal and raise their hats
Armed with tiny toothpicks
For to them I am a great blue giant
Peering through the Spruce
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 12:07 AM UTC
I see you
I've seen those eyes before
Drowning in patched-up paddle boats
With promises of tomorrow slipping down your face
Like saline shipwrecks fleeing harbor
And greeting the ocean floor with damaged handshakes
And now you're hopeless
Focused on could have been's and maybe one day's
Knowing one day
Swelled up storm clouds
Could slide through your cheek bones
Like sunshowers preventing your skyline parades
But I see you still searching for rainbows
Covering your face with two handfuls of imagination
Daydreaming of days where technicolor dreamcoats
Become wrapped around your soul
Like tuxedos for the bold
I've seen those arms before
Deafeated willow branches in the moonlight
Rebellious to rise upright
And now you're tired
Only fired up when your flesh
Converts to kindling on a campfire
Building sparks that shimmer for seconds
When your light deserves a lifetime
But I see you still inclined to shine brightly
Trying to assign meaning to your life with two inspired limbs
That can freely build bridges or climb mountaintops
Clinging onto hope with sturdy fists
Exploring the peaks of your potential
I've seen those legs before
Tattered toothpicks on prom night
Frozen in stage fright on the dance floor
Pressing muted prayers with each footstep
Into creaky floorboards waiting for silence to ensue
And now you're nervous
You're certain those two left feet can't possibly find the rhythm
So your shoes are the victims of bashfulness
Fearing one false step will uproot your jitterbugs
And place them alongside the butterflies in your stomach
But I see you still owning your insecurities
Because you know you're alive just fine
I see you
You are who I envisioned you to be
I see you
Brushstrokes of imperfections shaded in perfectly
I see you
It's more than just your typical hello
It's a phrase for all of us to speak solely with our souls
It can make you feel at home at the center of your bones
When all your hope is lost and there's no where left to go
So when I greet you
Listen carefully
This is a reminder that your eyes can be thunderous
Your arms can be victorious
And your legs can be ambitious
Your presence is necessary for this discussion
And your essence is accepted here
Let me speak your spirit into existence
Seeing is believing
And believe me
I see you
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 3:26 PM UTC
They're Everywhere!, The Beautiful Badger Skins, All Of Your Things, To Conquer The Ant, Feces Feline, ****** Off Traffic, The Coloring Books, I'll Catch You With Nets, A Truce To Trance, Pale Nosed Girls, Jars In June, Fake Fight Fridays, Just Like Madeline, Cats And Dogs, The Poor And The Smiling, So She Says, No Strawberries Please, Bicycle Chase, Chickens Don't Fly, Behind The Shed, Cars In The 90's, Carl's Disease, Anthropomorphic Crush, A Cheer From The Waves, Bubbles Bubbles Bubbles, The Floorboards, Suitcase Joust, Beneath The Forest, Myspace Meltdown, Call Me On Tuesday, Take Me Out To Pho, Grave Of The Cameras, Toothpicks And Cigs, Wax On Wax Off, Bad Days For Good People, Burnt Bacon.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 11:27 PM UTC
i swear that rain,
tasted sweet from that sky,
as if kissed by the sun,
spun like cotton candy,
to melt on my tongue.
i swear the wind,
speaks more than silence,
the calls of the distance,
echo in its grasp.
i swear that smile,
seemed to stretch further then,
across your face,
when in my vicinity.
i swear the chill,
of winter, common,
burns now like icy toothpicks,
on skin.
i swear that grasp,
tight, never fleeting,
felt impenetrable,
a barricade to outside blows,
i swear the pain,
overfills the brim of comfort,
leaving one lost,
maps, compass in hand.
i swear that second,
of breath, in sync,
heartbeats, identical,
fingers, interlocked,
mouths, pressed together
with perfect pressure,
ticked slower than time
could allow.
i swear these hours,
of moments, recalled,
eyesight, scattered showers,
breath, short bursts,
concentration, struggling
to find continuity,
time's course runs slow,
just as before.
but i swear that rain
tasted sweet from that sky
as if kissed by the sun
spun like cotton candy
to melt on my tongue
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 4:49 PM UTC
A mere bite won’t satiate the shadow.
The smallest morsel can’t fill its appetite.
The hunger never ends and we’re precisely what it craves.
We shed a tear, the shadow sets the table.
We clench our fists; the shadow grips a fork.
We cower in fear; the shadow licks its lips …
Our dreams go great with wine,
and our hope is picked by toothpicks.
A portion of you is never enough.
It wants to pick you apart
piece by piece,
and leave your bones for the
dogs at his feet.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 2:59 PM UTC
The click of the finished record,
The shuffling from my rabbit's cage,
These sounds make me remember,
And then the depression seeps in.
You have made me stress and anxious.
I am balancing my life on toothpicks
Around you and past you.
The only truth is what you know.
The stubborn lies that you've,
Told yourself will bring you
Down forever, repeatedly,
Until you're drunk with fury at the world.
Flames of lost loved ones
Will constantly surround you
And cage you from the outside
Which is the only place you now want.
There, in this desperation,
You will know why I cried
Into your cold chest and tore
At your back with tired fingers.
You will realize, why I would
Constantly writing you pleads.
There, I was in your arms,
Begging you to please grow.
Grow as a human.
Become a calm mind.
Listen to wisdom.
And take joy in life.
Jul 19, 2010
Jul 19, 2010 at 7:16 AM UTC
In a land where you exchange Mao
In his different values,
And get meals on Lazy Susans,
The aroma of tea
Filling malls and subways,
And people—
Ask for a fork and a knife.
Whirl your hands about
And attempt to communicate
In Chinese dashes of silhouettes
In air, while speaking
In another language you
Know will be lost to unknowing,
To this fine dining.
See the toothpicks, plain
And humble, and smile.
It could have been the same
As those in the Philippines.
Stress your hearing a little,
You might catch them say,
“Mao welcomes his brothers
From the working class.”
Back home, the only welcome
The working class can provide
Are smiles and turo-turos,
Free karinderia water
And a toothpick for the day’s
Only meal, the aroma of hunger
Filling people.
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 12:15 AM UTC
Those words created a translucent fog on my vision
Against which I would judge every misty morning from that moment on
It was warm, but the robins wouldn't play their song
If only I could have known then
Basking in your radiation, I felt simple
Contained within a bottle of lemon juice
Sewn together with white wash threads upon the presentation table
And I felt whole
A lack of lacking that filled my filling
Satisfying the rumination, you could never trip
Haven't lied before, so my thought were undeniable
Still I remained liable
When I was made of sand and toothpicks
Simply molded by circumstance
I was supposed to stand on my own feet
Not wobble upon your stilts
You told me that from the start
But all I wanted was your heart
And all you wanted was my words
For temporary fulfillment
If only I had known then
When did I realize
Unfortunately, I don't know
But the edges of my cloud were still trimmed at your feet
So that you might reflect upon your selfishness and realize I was still there
I try not to disappear
As much as I am able
Since once upon a time I shall have the potion of immortal unity
That only lasts as long as we might
But it would be enough
Not for you
But for me
Dec 29, 2011
Dec 29, 2011 at 4:56 PM UTC
we start out in the middle of a spider's web, where doors surround us that lead
to grassy roads and rocky roads, difficult to maneuver through, but i've walked
on burning coals and left my fingers bleeding from scratching at your door like
a dog abandoned in the winter frost, because i felt more secure with the honors
of you destroying my house built out of marshmellows and toothpicks, and i
don't want you half empty or half full, i want you coloring inside and outside
the lines overflowing the spaces of my heart you occupied and called home,
but i'm responsible for raining on your parade and shattering your soul, but
even i know all these ways of binding you to myself with glue, duct tape, stitches,
gum, staples, paperclips, knots, can't keep under wraps for long, so i will let my
clouds swell with compassion you couldn't understand because you're the flashlight
in my haunted forest, shining a light on any ghosts that seem damaging to myself
because you've always been there to guide me back home and keep me from falling
from grace headfirst, but mother nature decides what sickening plot twist will destroy
us, and you know i can't control the disgusting weather but i wish i could.
- kra
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 9:48 PM UTC
Sometimes on the way out of Giant,
I'll spend some time freeing change
from the receipt-paper
bindle in my coat pocket
for one two-twist mystery prize
from a Folz machine.
Two quarters:
Enough for a sapphire ring and a cheap
laugh while I juggle coffee-cream cartons,
a sack of December oranges, Certs,
cinnamon mouthwash, a dented can
of green beans 'cause it's cheaper,
red toothpicks, Ziploc bags, a barbecue
chicken TV dinner, Noxzema, a 32-case
of Poland Spring water, a Valentine's
Hallmark card and envelope, a bottle
of pink grapefruit Perrier,
two quick picks for Cash 5,
gluten-free potato chips, garlic salt,
some cumin for $2.82, and a copy
of Vogue.
I strap my groceries in the passenger seat,
and see them sitting straight up as I had,
childishly marveling at the lush
maple leaves washing the windshield
edges in green, leaving helicopters
and dew trails.
She and I watched slug trails
beneath mustard streetlights glisten
like Berger Lake.
Bright as the last cigarette my grandma snuffed out in a smokeless ash tray.
Bright as the first line of road flares that separated me from a burning Taurus.
Bright as the quarter my grandpa gave me for the Folz machine in the Sylvania.
And bright as the emerald ring I showed him.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 3:27 PM UTC
..
….
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barometric tendrils
psuedo-random and hybrid sets
growing like ivy in the clutches of time
such a
chocking
but actualising
grasp
..huh? what?
oh yes! sorry, sorry
come in, come in,
..you know,
I too, once, like how you are now,
was here too
so
very
very
present.
Aha! Oh yes!
Permit me a mock stifled cry of ostentatious self derision,
'hee hee hee'
aaaaaahhh..
I really was pitiful back then.
seeing you there now, I feel oh so whimsical and overcome
with
ahem
sorry.
..dank and musty cellars,
hashish and a can of beans.
(baked, not fried, -we were really naive enough to believe that?- )
had it all back then though, didn't we?
By which I mean we had nothing,
but the conviction
that obligation was something that actually meant something
rather than a Cryptocurrency in a Ponzi scheme,
(with a slice of lemon)
confidence intervals stockpiled in the stocks of confidence men.
Derivative markets
oh, so very much so
so very
derivative
idiomatic
and *******
asinine.
..Still, it does harken to its era, doesn't it?
'detached and disposable.'
toothpicks
limbs
ideals
all that
goodness!
I was supposed to be offering advice, wasn't I?
Interpolate up some mediated conjecture.
But the kids can look after themselves just fine, can't they?
So our fiscal policy seems to think;
'I wager we shear up the youth
to buy shares in implementing youth wages.'
sorry, I guess it's an antiquated complaint,
“think of the children!” , they say?
Can't they see,
the whole **** market's aimed at the proto-teens??
we do it all for them the little snots.
laissez faire welfare
hedge or double down?
A shrubbery?
Or a bacon butty with bread as ****** chicken and cheese?
(I just vomited in my mouth a little,
(how pastiche))
See, and people ask why I’m trapped in the past;
the future's got me car sick.
and honestly
we're just brimming with history
(the scourge of post-modernity)
like a black moss spewed on the walls
Poisoning visions and Rheumatic fever
tearing up our lovely
lovely
pacified
pay and display
psuedo
proto
posterity
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Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 3:33 AM UTC
I am unraveling webs in the scathing sentence of intolerable desire,
A prison of prints and pictures barred by beautiful blondes,
Rigid, icy, spaced by invisible thoughts between them,
Rows hypnotizing one after the other, belly-dancing while they wear their smiles.
They break from their line formations with socket wrenches in their right hands, coaxial cables in their left hands,
And they slink and slide and slowly salsa to my mattress against the wall
As they adjust and tighten their wrenches upon each of my arteries, and feed their coaxial cables into my ears.
Their strawberry perfumes force me to note new appetites in my concrete lungs.
They melt into me, and I melt into them, and we roll into a clay figurine against the plaster wall.
Their hair burns red now, or brunette, or perhaps all the colors of a rainbow of self-inflicted hypocrisy,
And their breath is exhaling like ceilings fans, softly and slowly, out of my lungs,
And I can no longer distinguish which of us is the other anymore, nor do I really want to.
We are a cosmosis;
We are cosmetology unstable, madly desired, and awry,
In an osmosis of imagined consummation.
We are beauty in its ugliest truth.
Eventually, we dissipate, disgusted from transformation,
And I scuttle up the wall, a brown recluse,
And the brunetteblonderedheadsilkskinned keep their cosmosis,
Walking as a ball of arms and legs on six foot-tall toothpicks to separate and reform their bars again.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 3:48 PM UTC
Sometimes there is nothing to do, when all there is to do is wait.
Action would be overt
stepping on toes of brewing events.
When missed connections collide silently, the pieces fit somewhere else they'd rather be
Doing of nothing can seem daunting and wrong
like trying to open cans with toothpicks facing a starving crowd of 5 year olds
but when the recent turn of events has requested a movement
out of the fast lane,
to not comply would be foolish
something is germinating
hard work in the past is ruminating
and manifesting
a future.
The way we've shaped our habitat,
less than an instant seems too long.
It is a curious succession of feelings
when all there is to do is wait -
longing fades first,
to an epiphany of what is attachment
then,
the new years celebration of relinquishment
after,
a rising to the surface from the bottom of a body of water with eyes wide open
hands free of shopping bags or luggage
and a slightly confused sensation of nowhere
not longing
not not longing
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 6:09 AM UTC
Papier-mâché skin held up by toothpick bones.
Composed of dainty flowers,
Paired with eggshell tiptoes
Used for skipping and prancing –
Prim, proper, polished
And petite, satin-gloved hands
To scrub the dishes with
Till unblemished to mirror you back, from inside out –
Purged, chaste, elegant.
Fragile.
But papier-mâché has layers of depth and
Skin thicker than at surface it seems.
Toothpicks can pick up the pieces
Of each hiccup or calamity,
Regardless of how small
And despite their size they’re not weak at all,
But, piercing.
Those eggshells shield and yield
The precious prosper of young.
Who’s to say you’re no cactus,
And not just some flimsy petal –
But you can bet you’re just as sweet.
We are composed of the iron
That presses your clothes.
Nip
Like the scorching tea served
On china platters.
Our rosé lips are pursed
Not to kiss, or gloss for backwards fairytales
‘Prince Charming’ turned frogs
But in revolt.
And revolt we will.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 5:16 PM UTC
NI SAHII
Nimekuwa silent for a while waka-confuse kuhang boots na a short break,huwezi nipata bar no wonder bars zangu ziko so-bar,black supremacy... Niko na connection na maraga ndio maana akanipea hii ko-r-ti,ni poet petty siku hizi na-weigh content si value ya suti,apart from kutema visiriaz,nacheza guitar na at times isukutti,kaa ni kisima,si unajua obvious hii_ sii_kuti,
Daily na hood niite mya-hoodie,ni due to public demand so sikuwa na budi,nilipretend kunguru ndio nipate hizo white collar jobs,na nikasema sitadiss king rabbit ndio unispot kaka,aty petty ameomoka?,si aitane basi sherehe ya kukata na shoka,kaa ni breko naamkia konyangi,na hii dry spell uko sure hunyongangi?.
Hii class kila mtu huchoma tuko high class,heri uko mnakula vako,huku kumekauka kuliko kichwa ya babu owino,dawa ya wivu nakuandikia eno,situmii smartphone natumia phone smart,only call sina time ya kuchat,ambia smart joker jokes zake huwa joked smart,
Walisema sikio la kufa halisikii dawa,acha nijaribu tena MARA MOJA, thanks to corona for the first time mluhya anaoga mkono na si ugali anakula,na petty unatema hata mtu haezi sema,ni venye alikuwa na vinyasa mbili so nikamwomba sho-r-t_moja,na petty pieces zako huniacha in pieces,hizo ndio comments nareply,juz for teases,
Na kama corona shida zangu huwezi zicough out kwa public,natumia mouth piece ya scimo na Leo hatubongi za mitaro na toothpicks,na kuna chizi flani ananukia colon na hii corona huwezi sema kwa mama mboga iko loan,na kama ni lyrics nauza hii itabidi umechomoa mita,na before niachilie mic,kumbuka sonko alisema social distance ni ya one metre,sihang suspenders kwa shoulders, nikiwa hustle nahang guitar,hio time short nimespend apa nilikuwa na blessings za mama no wonder sijastammer,kama nimekubamba scratch kwa tenje uniseti stage ndio home na sijaplan...kuhama.
-P€TT¥PO€T✍️
©️2020.
Sep 10, 2020
Sep 10, 2020 at 5:29 PM UTC
Treading on toothpicks
thinking about tomorrow
time teases
tired tadpoles
trying to transform
trains transporting
transparent travellers
to tall tin trees
typed at Teatime
ty Tismee T
Tetit?
Time: To-o-to TM
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 5:18 PM UTC
Nothing will break the stone
even if you and I aren't alone
your legs are toothpicks yet
your ribs remain the same
you'll live forever i bet
at least in the love game.
With your hair down to your hips
and my eyes on your lips
you can say we are both blind
but at any time you can just leave me behind
because while you have somebody to fall upon
my support is gone.
I would rather have no eyes and know the truth
than have them to see the lies.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 12:59 AM UTC
A voice,
I was familiar with
Previously, deviously
Reaching out
For more of what she had
Before
May 31, 2023
May 31, 2023 at 10:41 PM UTC
Modern and Contemporary Poetry
takes up most of the passenger seat.
Pages' edges ruffled like the balled-up polo I'm wearing. *Tommy Hilfiger'd
be rolling in his millions.* Twenty minutes till work's screen door crashes on the frame twice before settling. Three salad plates, a skillet, and two jars of unsweetened tea condensate
on the metal counter. They soak dinner bills and paper towel coasters.
The front door vacuum seals behind sandal families reeking of Chlorine
and hairspray. Beachy look. Three more families crowd in behind them, taking turns sifting through the hostess desk peppermints for discarded toothpicks. Reservations for 7:00 come in at 6:50 and demand a table. They're just like the mints packed tightly
in the lobby, but there are a few patient ones at the bottom. They're the ones that inspire stanzas in Modern and Contemporary Poetry, the college textbook waiting on my passenger seat. Three more hours.
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 10:59 AM UTC