"tos" poems
We are polar opposites
You are West, I am East
Our views always contradict
You have a sweet tooth, I don't like sweets
You are white, I am black
Not literally, but just in life view
Sometimes you're ***** white and I'm clear black
It varies from half empty to half full
You are an extravert
While I am an introvert
You like being surrounded by people
I'm fine being secluded in the darkest corner
You're frank and always true
I lie so no one will have a clue
But you always know what I hide
While I am oblivious if you're really fine
You are a cat-lover, I am a dog-lover
It rain cats and dogs when we're together
You sing the sweetest meow at my whimper
I happily wag my tail at your purr
We both like music though
But we listen to different genres
We never even shared on one earphone
So sometimes we just endure the silence
You are a sadist, I am a *********
You leave bite marks on my skin
Whenever you're overwhelmed
But I'm really fine with it
You like Vampire Diaries and Victoria's Secret
While I like TVXQ and anime
We'll never agree on a TV show
Now who's gonna hold the remote control?
You are a clean freak
I am not that very clean
You're probably next to Godliness
While I'm second to the last in that list
You are very hardworking, I am lazy
While you are being busy
I'm being a potato on the couch
"Sweep the floor.", you said as the broom flew on my face, "Ouch!"
I like food trips
But you are on a diet
You like to eat healthy
I like to eat anything but veggies
True, we don't have anything in common
Except for the dislike of the black part of the fish's meat
But we are familiar of our demons
And the how-tos for its defeat
Yes, we must be polar opposites
And yes, we're like magnets
Positive plus negative
To each other, we are attracted
I am salt, you are pepper
And we complement each other
We are each others' puzzle pieces
Completing each others' emptiness
We are yin and yang
We cannot live without either one
And most importantly, you and I
We rhyme
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC
Walkin' thru the grocery store section,
To that aisle, yeah, it's not just con-cession...
Turn every crunch into Hea-ven, -yeah
(Oh, you are...)
Crun-chee on the coldest day
Taste buds explode, every, 'kind-of-way'
Make me wanna savor every moment of cheese-y, slow-ly
You pleasure me, my taste, taste buds, you put it on!
Got the taste-y, know how to turn it on...
The way I nibble on a pair, a clutch of fried corn, not an ear...
I take it easy, baby, so we can last long!
Oh! you, you feel crunchy 'in-my-mouth,' salivated,
not full...
Mouth like tasting, like an,
an amazing plan
Feel your taste, my mouth a pulse-Oh!
Oh, yeah -Ya, ya me in store aisle,
so nor-mal
Tostitos and Doritos, I say No Mas!
And so, no chip will, will replace you!
Des Puh -CHEE-TOS!
Please respect, it's just Cheetos,
No, no, I don't want no Doritos!
No matter what you ask it's not Dorit-o-os!
Des Puh -CHEE-TOS!
Nothing taste quite like Cheetos,
No Tostitos, no Doritos, nor a burrito.
I sound Spanish or Latin when I end words in a -oh,
Oh, OH YEAH,
Oh-o...
When I end my words in 'O'
Sounds like I know
Something like, I'm not loco?
Cheetos brands, -favoritos
(Favorito, favorito, ba-by)
Morning I don't like to 'Eat-oh'
Breakfast, eggs or -gritos
Instead I woof, -the Cheetos!
And know I voted, twice for Obam-ma,
Didn't even have, -American Mom-ma!
Car tires, Yoko-hama...
Back to my Latin voice, now, Oh-o...
You say to get that face and taste -eh he bang-bang
You say why doesn't it explodo like me mi bang-bang?
For me those chips you know there is no other
No question, fill your mouth, tongue, smother
Yo no other makes me sing it so suave
Impressive crunchy, disputes 'saliv-eh'
Pass it to, pass it too, suave to cheese oh?
No want your Doritos, doritos, ha doritos
Put that bag back in front, me, I'll destroy ya
Stop being malicious or I'll destroy yah!
Pass it to, pass it too, suave cause it Cheetos,
No want your Doritos, doritos, ha doritos
You want friends you better break out cheesus
There's no other way now to please us!
Oye!
crunch
Des Puh -CHEE-TOS!
When I end my words in 'O'
Sounds like I know
I know...
Something like, I'm not TA-CO?
Cheetos brands, -'favor-AH-ri-tos'
(Favorito, favorito, ba-by)
Morning I don't like to eat no
Breakfast, eggs or -gritos
Instead I woof, -some Cheetos!
Des Puh -CHEE-TOS!
This is how we do it up in Long Island, boroughs,
No tacos, burritos and no churros
all we ever want is those Cheetos!
Ay-o no burrito
Pass it to, pass it too, suave to cheese oh?
No want your Doritos, doritos, ha doritos
Put that bag back in front, me, I'll destroy ya
Stop being malicious or I'll destroy yah!
Pass it to, pass it too, suave cause it Cheetos,
No want your Doritos, doritos, ha doritos
You want friends you better break out cheesus
There's no other way now to please us!
Des Puh -CHEE-TOS!
Des Puh -CHEE-TOS!
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 9:00 PM UTC
Some people call them toe-mae- tos.
They’re toe- mat -toes to other folk.
Monsanto has patented versions
that may poison us and leave us broke.
Their genetically modified brand
belongs neither on plates nor in cans.
Their health effects may include cancer
In some other countries they’re banned..
They are touted for being resistant
To herbicides, thus reducing toil-
But herbicide residue is persistent
How quickly it poisons the soil.
If farmers, each season, must purchase
Genetically modified seeds
Monsanto will corner the market
For supplying nutritional needs.
How many Monsanto execs
infiltrated the executive branch?
With so much political sway
Its no wonder that they get their way.
Jan 31, 2012
Jan 31, 2012 at 5:38 PM UTC
On Star Trek: TOS; what u'll often see
is an alien woman who can assume the
guise of any & every woman or an army
of beautiful duplicate women; these are
fembot prototypes; apart from feminist
Number One there are dominants & subs
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 8:30 PM UTC
Yo, para todo viaje
-siempre sobre la madera
de mi vagón de tercera-,
voy ligero de equipaje.
Si es de noche, porque no
acostumbro a dormir yo,
y de día, por mirar
los arbolitos pasar,
yo nunca duermo en el tren,
y, sin embargo, voy bien.
¡Este placer de alejarse!
Londres, Madrid, Ponferrada,
tan lindos... para marcharse.
Lo molesto es la llegada.
Luego, el tren, al caminar,
siempre nos hace soñar;
y casi, casi olvidamos
el jamelgo que montamos.
¡Oh, el pollino
que sabe bien el camino!
¿Dónde estamos?
¿Dónde todos nos bajamos?
¡Frente a mí va una monjita
tan bonita!
Tiene esa expresión serena
que a la pena
da una esperanza infinita.
Y yo pienso: Tú eres buena;
porque diste tus amores
a Jesús; porque no quieres
ser madre de pecadores.
Mas tú eres
maternal,
bendita entre las mujeres,
madrecita virginal.
Algo en tu rostro es divino
bajo tus cofias de lino.
Tus mejillas
-esas rosas amarillas-
fueron rosadas, y, luego,
ardió en tus entrañas fuego;
y hoy, esposa de la Cruz,
ya eres luz, y sólo luz...
¡Todas las mujeres bellas
fueran, como tú, doncellas
en un convento a encerrarse!...
¡Y la niña que yo quiero,
ay, preferirá casarse
con un mocito barbero!
El tren camina y camina,
y la máquina resuella,
y tose con tos ferina.
¡Vamos en una centella!
1.5k
El pie del niño aún no sabe que es pie,
y quiere ser mariposa o manzana.
Pero luego los vidrios y las piedras,
las calles, las escaleras,
y los caminos de la tierra dura
van enseñando al pie que no puede volar,
que no puede ser fruto redondo en una rama.
El pie del niño entonces
fue derrotado, cayó
en la batalla,
fue prisionero,
condenado a vivir en un zapato.
Poco a poco sin luz
fue conociendo el mundo a su manera,
sin conocer el otro pie, encerrado,
explorando la vida como un ciego.
Aquellas suaves uñas
de cuarzo, de racimo,
se endurecieron, se mudaron
en opaca substancia, en cuerno duro,
y los pequeños pétalos del niño
se aplastaron, se desequilibraron,
tomaron formas de reptil sin ojos,
cabezas triangulares de gusano.
Y luego encallecieron,
se cubrieron
con mínimos volcanes de la muerte,
inaceptables endurecimientos.
Pero este ciego anduvo
sin tregua, sin parar
hora tras hora,
el pie y el otro pie,
ahora de hombre
o de mujer,
arriba,
abajo,
por los campos, las minas,
los almacenes y tos ministerios,
atrás,
afuera, adentro,
adelante,
este pie trabajó con su zapato,
apenas tuvo tiempo
de estar desnudo en el amor o el sueño,
caminó, caminaron
hasta que el hombre entero se detuvo.
Y entonces a la tierra
bajó y no supo nada,
porque allí todo y todo estaba oscuro
no supo que había dejado de ser pie,
si lo enterraban para que volara
o para que pudiera
ser manzana.
1.5k
kafijas pupiņas
cita rūgtāka par citu
bet visas kopā tās sniedz aromātu -
manām nasīm nezināmu.
ieliekam tās kulītē
un aizsienam to cieši,
lai neizbirst
un nepazūd
kafijas dārgakmeņi
man tuvie
bet tai part laikā nezināmie.
tie mirgo kā zvaignzes debess malā
es nolieku tos zem kāršu nama
un gaidu līdz brīnumi notiks
un kafijas dārgakmeņi ailidos
kopā ar gājputniem uz siltajām zemēm
izkusīs pupiņas un iekritīs indijas okēnā
okeāns pārtaps par kafijas mājām
un aromāts sniegsies līdz manai dzimtenei
mani kafijas dārgakmeņi
liks man dzīvot un sapņot kafijā
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 10:58 AM UTC
A medida que nos aproximamos
las piedras se van dando mejor.
Desnudo, anacorético,
las ventanas idénticas entre sí,
como la vida de sus monjes,
el Escorial levanta sus muros de granito
por los que no treparán nunca los mandingas,
pues ni aún dentro de novecientos años.
hallarán una arruga donde hincar
sus pezuñas de azufre y pedernal.
Paradas en lo alto de las chimeneas,
las cigüeñas meditan la responsabilidad
de ser la única ornamentación del monasterio,
mientras el viento que reza en las rendijas
ahuyenta las tentaciones que amenazan
entrar por el tejado.
Cencerro de las piedras que pastan
en los alrededores,
las campanas de la iglesia
espantan a los ángeles
que viven en su torre
y suelen tomarlos de improviso,
haciéndoles perder alguna pluma
sobre el adoquinado de los patios.
¡Corredores donde el silencio tonifica
la robustez de las columnas!
¡Salas donde la austeridad es tan grande,
que basta una sonrisa de mujer
para que nos asedien los pecados de Bosch
y sólo se desbanden en retirada
al advertir que nuestro guía
es nuestro propio arcángel,
que se ha disfrazado de guardián!
Los visitantes,
la cabeza hundida entre los hombros
(así la Muerte no los podrá agarrar
como se agarra a un gato),
descienden a las tumbas y al pudridero,
y al salir,
perciben el esqueleto de la gente
con la misma facilidad
con que antes les distinguían la nariz.
Cuando una luna fantasmal
nieva su luz en las techumbres,
los ruidos de las inmediaciones
adquieren psicologías criminales,
y el silencio
alcanza tal intensidad,
que se camina
como si se entrara en un concierto,
y se contienen las ganas de toser
por temor a que el eco repita nuestra tos
hasta convencernos de que estamos tuberculosos.
¡Horas en que los perros se enloquecen de soledad
y en las que el miedo
hace girar las cabezas de las lechuzas y de los hombres,
quienes, al enfrentarnos,
se persignan bajo el embozo
por si nosotros fuéramos Satán!
1.3k
Relationship
You used to bring such longing for me.
Such hope.
Such solace that,
Once I obtained the contents of your letters,
I could be happy.
I could be complete.
relationship
What a different relationship we have now.
relationship
GAH- **** Where did you come from??
I was just reading an article and there you were.
Sitting there.
Out of context of my constant thoughts, but I can't help but apply you.
I can't help but panic.
The word relationship. My new biggest fear.
The collection of the consonants and vowels that make up a vocalization for my soul anxieties.
Relationship
I cringe at thee.
Hours of pouring over videos, how-tos, books, guides, diy, people, you, me, him, her, them, we, us, future, communicate, self-love, expectations, desire, infidelity, falling in love, falling out of love, love, lust, true love, more self-love, thoughts, peace, gratitude, forever, temporary, fleeting, cheating, shame, truth, lies,
all in the ******* name of
Relationship
I could quit.
But how can you quit on someone
That is only eighteen years old
And has already based the foundation of their life on
you?
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 12:40 PM UTC
She is the living embodiment of the cliché,
The song where the male sub-lead
Returns from some second shift, some third drink
To find she has gone, leaving some scrap-paper note,
Hastily scribbled and wholly incomplete,
Some variation upon Don’t try and find me,
And so she is suitably unfound herself,
As she has given great thought to her froms,
But rather short shrift to her tos,
Finding herself north of the Thruway,
Looking for somewhere to spend the night
(The twin motors of adrenaline and anxiety running on fumes)
Happening upon, as if almost by some beneficent magic,
A Travelodge bordered by an expanse of cornfield
(Long since gone to seed, the stalks bowed and spent,
Waiting for the patently overdue cob harvester)
And after she is checked in and somewhat unpacked
(The bored, bemused woman who slumps about the front desk
Mercifully sparing with the small talk)
The skies, which had been late-October slate blur-gray,
Slightly malevolent but only implicit in their threats,
Open up in a cold and unwelcome drizzle,
And, whys and wherefores being things for a later date,
She runs outside and begins dancing in the parking lot,
Unseen and unremarked upon,
And even though the rain is cold, soaking, grim in portent
(The forecast dourly noting the possibility of wet snow,
Nattering that accumulation is possible at higher elevations.)
She is seemingly unaware and unconcerned
As to the upshot of this drenching,
Any whispers of the two or three other occupants of the motel,
Any judgments passed upon her mad danse pour un,
As she has passed beyond any notion of admonition.
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 12:34 PM UTC
Juanilla, por tus pies andan perdidos
más poetas que bancos, aunque hay tantos,
que tus paños lavando entre unos cantos
oscureció su nieve a los tendidos.
Virgilio no los tiene tan medidos,
las musas hacen con la envidia espantos;
que no hay picos de rosca en Todos Sa[n]tos
como tus dedos blancos y bruñidos.
Andar en puntos nunca lo recelas,
que no llegan a cuatro tus pies bellos,
ni por calzar penado te desvelas.
Que es tanta la belleza que hay en ellos,
que pueden ser zarcillos tus chinelas
con higas de cristal pe[n]dientes dellos.
1k
Mirrors
She's always liked mirrors.
Anything with a reflective surface, really. Something she could see herself with. Like the windows in the classroom, so she could turn her head and check if her name tag was slanted during lessons. Or the puddles of rainwater on the damp track, which she would glance at occsionally while running to see if her hair was in a mess. Sometimes, she would even discreetly use the grainy reverse camera on her phone in the bus, in case a pimple had popped up in school.
To her, they were a great friend. One that saved her from potentially embarrassing incidents. One that would point out tiny flaws that needed a bit of correcting. One that showed her best features, like the way her big hazel eyes always sparkled with enthusiasm.
Slowly, the mirror became a servant. A tool to help her see where the eyeliner was going. To make sure there was no lip gloss on her cheeks. A weak nod of confirmation, that she looked like the models in magazines. So close to perfection.
But never perfect.
That's what her mind would repeat to her, over and over again. Just look at the mirror, it would say.
And so the mirror became a weapon of destruction she detested so much. It seemingly taunted her dry and frizzy locks, the excess fat around her waist, the dry flakes of skin on her lips. It was hard to avert her eyes from those tempting reflective surfaces. Even when she smashed her own mirror, not caring about the seven years of bad luck it would bring about, she was still able to see distorted bits of herself through the sharp-edged fragments.
It led her to sleepless nights, scouring the internet for beauty how-tos. It led to the pocket money she saved from skipping lunch, money she would use when sneaking to the shops to buy cheap drugstore mascara. It led to her becoming a follower of society, a follower of the trends, whatever was popular.
She became a mirror.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 4:43 AM UTC
This repetitious revery is fluffy and flowery but LOVE is REAL...
It's formed by us and fitted to our forms. By us. But its form is defined and real.
It may have started off as fluffy as the air we breathe, filled with light and butterflies. But now it's mostly solid. It fits to me and fits to you and it doesn't float away when you blow it. It has weight and substance.
I think real love is a practical thing. Love is a miner, not an artist. It works hard. It grafts. It digs deep into you. It gets ***** but it keeps going. It's honest and straightforward but at the end of the day it still wants a cuppa 'n' a cuddle wi' its Mrs.
Love does change. It grows... but like a bramble, not a rose. A rose gives up too easily. A bramble pushes through, even on hard ground. It works it's way into every nook and cranny until you feel totally loved. It may die back in a hard winter, but it always stays strong and true and bears enough fruit to make a good pie at the end of a hard day's graft down t' pit.
Love is a feeling but it's more than that.
It's knowing that when I'm a stress head, you're concerned but not stressed.
It's knowing I make you smile.
It's when you text me in a morning and say exactly what I say to you.
It's that even though we're miles apart and haven't got a *** to **** in, we still make do
It's when you watch me sleep... and don't complain about me snoring
It's knowing you want tos duck me as much as I want to duck you
And our kids...
Our kids get along. I think yours are ace and my kids like you.
But it's even more than that...
I don't feel scared now. Not now I've got you love. Not now I've got you.
Because I love you **
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 1:03 PM UTC
ever wonder what is going on
behind pretty ornate windows
or not pretty windows
sublime windows
ornately decorated
adorned with ivory lace
revealing perfection
with a keen eye to detail
limpid glass showcasing mistress in her den
sitting fancy in her pink chintz chaise
curled up with a book
her white persian sprawled
about her lap
licking her chops
ordinary windows
peeling blue paint
with smeared glass
lacking class
the home-keepers contending
important matters
bills piling up
whilst disaster pending
sitting in the kitchen contemplating
what ifs what nots and how tos
no matter the difference
windows tell the story
of what is.~~lorilynn
copyright~~*lorilynn 2010
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 4:10 PM UTC
Sobre las aguas,
sobre el desierto de las horas
pobladas sólo por el sol sin nombre y la noche sin rostro,
van los maderos tristes,
van los hierros, la sal y los carbones,
la flor del fuego, los aceites.
Con los maderos sollozantes,
con los despojos turbios y las verdes espumas,
van los hombres.
Los hombres con su tos, sus venenos lentísimos
y su sangre en destierro
de ese lugar de pinos, agua y rocas
desde su nacimiento señalado
como sepulcro suyo por la muerte.
Van los hombres partidos por la guerra,
empujados de sus tierras a otras,
hombres que sólo llevan ya a la muerte su diminuta muerte,
vagos semblantes sementeras,
deslavadas colinas y descuajados árboles.
La guerra los avienta,
campesinos de voces de naranja,
pechos de piedra, arroyos, torrenteras,
viejos hermosos como el silencio de altas torres,
torres aún en pie,
indefensa ternura hundida en las bodegas.
Al terrón cejijunto lo ablandaron sus manos,
sus anchos pies danzantes
alzaron los sonidos nupciales del viñedo,
la tierra estremecida bajo sus pies cantaba
como tambor o vientre delirante,
tal la pradera bajo los toros ciegos y violentos,
de huracanado luto rodeados.
A la borda acodados,
por los pasillos, la cubierta,
sacos de huesos o racimos negros.
No dicen nada, callan,
oyen a sus mujeres (brujas
de afiladas miradas alfileres,
llenas de secretos ya secos como añosos armarios,
historias que se sacan del pecho entre suspiros)
contar con voz rugosa
las minucias terribles de la guerra.
Los hombres son la espuma de la tierra,
la flor del llanto, el fruto de la sangre;
hijos de la ternura son de llanto,
son de piedra y estrella, son de sol,
son planetas que cantan mientras viven.
¿No hay agua, llanto, oh ramo
de soles apagados?
Los hombres son la espuma de la tierra.
Hijos de la ternura son de llanto
y renacen del llanto, diluviales,
y se esparcen por siglos como campos.
Bebe del agua de la muerte,
bebe del agua sin memoria, deja tu nombre,
olvídate de ti, bebe del agua,
el agua de los muertos ya sin nombre,
el agua de los pobres.
En esas aguas sin facciones
también está tu rostro.
Allí te reconoces y recobras,
allí pierdes tu nombre,
allí ganas tu nombre
y el poder de nombrarlos con su nombre más cierto.
943
A need that twists
cabled and gripping
To be needed.
A war between
"I shouldn'ts" and "but I have tos"
Where am I in all of this?
The identity of a woman
with ten thousand strong hearts
and breaths
All of it deflated by another
Who appears to need oxygen MORE
Need need need
Kneed Kneed Kneed
until I'm contorted into a
better reflection of yourself.
Unrecognizable am I
I look like the surface of correspondence
Here I am!
Always.
I am
The soul mate
to your dreams and
descriptors and
hurt and
tears and
all that you've ever wanted to change in your life.
And you'll swear on all that you stand for
that we are closer than anyone you've ever known
But if you were to recite one fact about me
The room would be quiet and empty.
A need to be needed.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 11:40 PM UTC
I have examined the concept of eternity
It does and does not go
Put more plainly
A battle of tos and fros
***** headed cosmos
***** strings strung into dark matter
Woven wormholes
Like to have seen you all here before
Forgive me if I'm not surprised
Forgive me if I'm not moved
By anything but the struggle to comprehend
The actual effort to collide with thoughts
The manifestation of compassion
When there is so much blackness
******* on blackness
It's a miracle anything survives at all
It's a god **** error of probability
That a few muscles can upturn lips
To a smile or a kiss
A ******* travesty of galactic proportions
That light was allowed to break the curve
Speed into my eyes
Blasphemous tears
So beautiful
Wretched waste of a soul
Touch your forehead
And be blessed
Touch your heart
And be God
Touch the earth
And be gone
Blahblahblah
Bah baggum gom baggum
Waste of waggum wu
Shocckou ta cocmutu
Quasaratus ben voyutan
Vesu ta eturnas u ves obsidas
Obsidas yet obsidas
That's what she said.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 11:17 PM UTC
we're whipping through the backroads
without seat belts, kicking up the dust--
the Sangre De Cristos looming with chalky
crowns above the hills, riddled with fence
posts and battered lean-tos, homes with
green shingles and matching john deere
tractors--the mountains, the mountains.
you go around every corner like it's a straightaway
I still see you smiling at me through locked doors
cradling me like a baby bird and hoping I might
throw caution out when all around your heart
there's these warning signs on big yellow placards
glinting in the night.
there are a dozen thoughts, all equally crippling--
staggered images of you squinting up at me on
the hill above the barn in that wrinkled white t-shirt,
a gray murdoch's hat pushed high up on your forehead,
hip cocked out with your hands twitching at your sides
rubbing brake fluid between your fingers
brooke, it is pointless to you. That's so obvious to me.
they tell you to stay down when shot, play dead when
in danger, but i've been seeking solace in your neck
trying to keep myself from telling you that I love you, feeling
it at the back of my lips ready to spill over, overcome
by your gentleness, asking God *why, why can't I just
love him?*
it's so obvious to you? that i've spent a month telling myself that it's okay, that you're right, that you're harmless, that things can work
out, so pointless goes on ringing in my ears, clattering down the
airways into my heart where i love you still hangs loosely by a
thread, or maybe a rope, maybe an industrial wire ready to bring
the house down with its weight, a marble for each day, a stone, a
boulder.
county road 255 seems a whole lot shorter,
I'm preoccupied with the dry shrubs the color of verdigris, the color
of your laugh, how i can't see through the tangle of my own emotions, how i really do want you to be the one, the one person that just happens to be right--it's so obvious, you said.
so obvious.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 4:15 PM UTC
While I lay in his arms
I'm as happy as can be
Well, atleast that's how it seems.
Deep down, though,
I know I wish he was you
But there is not a thing I can do
You moved on
Cut me off
Left me behind
Believe me, if I could,
I would press "rewind"
Go back to the way it was
When I still had your trust
There one thing I have to blame
As always, it is lust.
I miss the days I spent with you
The nights on the phone
when I talked to you
You made my days so much brighter
And better
So I'm just sitting here wallowing
Writing this letter
You left me, you forgot me,
I fell for you
And I shattered
But then again, I guess the past
Doesn't even matter
But it still hurts
Knowing you're gone forever
But maybe one day
There will be
A change in the weather
If that day ever comes,
And I cross your mind
remember it was your decision to leave me behind.
No, I'm not angry,
I'm just full of pain
I'm trying tos see the sunshine
But I'm stuck in the rain
I now know to keep my guard up
And never let it down
I swear to ******* god
No one will ever find a way around
Because you taught me that trust
Is hard to find
And wounds and scars and broken hearts
Are impossible to bind
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 9:35 AM UTC
dreaming that you are flying
while falling
off a cliff
wild
witty
wishes
waiting
for Wednesday
testing the temperature
tainting archives of how-tos
to stop analyzing how green
a tree should sheen
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 1:14 AM UTC
If I could write a new forever
I'd lie beneath the ceiling splashed with
the glow-in-the-dark stars that you sighed
before you ever knew me but
when I was poised to make you known
I'd fly forever in flames and soar set
in your fire to warm my cold hands
(so strange that you like my cold hands on your chest --
so strange that I used to
never like chest hair, but you laugh my
never used tos away into smoke)
I'd crack my glass heart
to stay beautifully fragile but you'd cut away
my fragiles from beautifuls
(so strange that you like my cold hands on your chest
so strange that you see me and like me at all
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 12:47 AM UTC
I can't wait to get away, she thought
Not answering to anything except the wind.
Ice-cream for breakfast, jumping on the bed.
No "have-tos" all day without end.
Step aside obstruction
Drown me in discovery
Recreate who I'm to be
A ballad of anonymity
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 8:10 AM UTC
I’ve said only half-jokingly
I’m a slow learner
of life lessons.
I was wondering about snails
if they learn as slowly as they move
but does our species
ever learn
really absorb
even the basic how-tos
of saving ourselves and our planet?
I might never sate my appetite
for ice cream, tenderloin, or fried fish
but sometimes
it’s hard to empty myself
and make room
for the other fella’s little world
or for God.
Mar 21, 2023
Mar 21, 2023 at 12:12 PM UTC
Something in me tries to blame
The lack of guidance that i had
Da lack of advice from a dad
I only act right when she's sad
It shouldnt reach that point.
Reachin low emotions frequently
Theres no longa anything she need in me
No reason to be pleasin me
Truth is so hard to ingest
I make it so hard to invest
Ive really putya to the test
Ive hardened you in da chest
They tell you that our kid isn't the glue
Why you with him? If you always blue
Even you wish dat u ****** knew
Im no longa why you get up
But im alway why you fed up
Im Surprised you havent let up
I made yo attitude become so bitter
Brought the worst up out you
I wanna fix this, ya i really do!
I been watching how-tos
But waiting on a broken record
Isnt worth anotha ounce
Inbox fulla otha cats
Who always trynna pounce
So I know the end is near
That's the way the game go
No needa live fear
But ayo listen to dis
Da OG told me
Boy, she just anotha fish
But she aint bitin yo bait/
So don't be trippin *****
If she ain't fighting dont say/
Sep 22, 2017
Sep 22, 2017 at 1:19 PM UTC