"undelivered" poems
this is a poem dedicated to distance.
to every time i have wanted to kiss you, but couldn't.
to every time i looked at my empty hands and thought of yours.
to every time i was in a crowded room and secretly hoped that i'd find your face.
to every happy couple we see that inadvertently mocks our inability to be near each other.
to every time i've played your laughter over and over in my head to drown out the silence.
to every time you just wanted to hear my voice, but i was busy.
to every missed call and every undelivered text and every time your internet was down.
to every miscommunicated statement and every typo.
to every time that one of us was asleep when the other needed them.
to every time you wept and i wasn't there to hold you.
to every self-destructive tendency we share.
to every pill your mother has hidden and every razor blade i have flushed.
to every worry that plagues my consciousness whenever you take long to reply.
to every night we have been together through a screen, but alone in our beds.
to every, "i miss you" and "i wish you were here".
to every broken-record apology that never makes it better.
to every makeup stain that mars the sweater you sent me so that i could
feel like i was sleeping with you (and to the fact that it doesn't smell like you anymore).
to every hour, every minute, every second of difference in the time between us.
to every dollar i don't have, and every time i wished for your chest against my back.
to every, "why are you even with me?" and "you could do better".
to every spectator and cynic that has told us we'd fail.
to every doubt of mine and to all your jealousy.
to every ounce of water in the pacific ocean.
to every ******* mile between my head and your chest (i checked, and there are 9,752).
you will not win.
- m.f.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 2:45 PM UTC
Sustenance for friends and clients;
state your case – come one, come all.
The matron arms of Social Service
will not let you fall.
Food stamps make our nation stronger,
licked, then stuck on the public roll.
Social programs last much longer
adding recipients on the dole…
Like the Ephesian Diana
many are my benefits!
Mine the matriarchal manna;
latch and suckle at my teats.
Yours the client’s right to nurture.
Mother will supply your need;
Child, you must not fear the future –
feed, my baby, feed.
Call me nanny, call me Lord
just make sure you’re calling on me.
Mine are the gifts you can afford
they’re taxpayer-funded, worry-free!
Once you are latched I’ll keep it flowing
like an intravenous habit.
Keep that ****** situated
where your will can never grab it
Let it never cross your mind
that there’s an end to all lactation.
Cloward-Piven have refined
this titillation.
Love me. Need me. I’m the State.
Your well-being is my affair.
With your consent I’ll dominate,
because I care.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 9:07 PM UTC
There is sea glass in my lungs. Bottles of undelivered messages smashed and worn down from the unforgiving waters in my chest.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 8:54 PM UTC
Echo, cricket,
Thump, stump.
The very loud things
Galloping through the silence.
The creaking of stairs like the breaking of bones
That snapped tin cap,
Clinging onto the prophesied labor of your last breath,
Oscillating through your liquefied ontology.
Ethanol overflown and embodied.
Cricket cricket,
The underlying intrinsic.
The empty tone of a distant voice.
The spaces of letters and words so magnified
So wide,
Expanding like an unstoppable void.
Oh my,
Here it comes,
Shadowed by your hissing tongue.
You are glittered,
Pinnacle bitter.
Cloaked in pure white.
Not a thread of disguise.
Twinkle, twinkle,
Buggy, rugged eye.
Those razor touched lines,
Translucent and caressed,
Reminiscent and enmeshed,
Like faded pale stripes,
Hugging the armor of canvas flesh.
Walking among these thin lines,
Head down, musky powdered stench,
Awaiting the inevitable rise and fall.
Of the intangible crux of a hollow memory,
Woven inside the synthetic fabric of the undelivered.
Oceanic cold shiver,
Piercing through our empty, untethered souls.
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 11:32 PM UTC
I'm tired of missed calls
Undelivered texts,
Removing digital evidence
Of an ex.
Typing 'lmao' when
longing to howl
Pressing like, acting,
you're on the prowl.
Weary of condensing my
message
To just on small
passage.
Tap it all out,
Just to backspace,
like what you need to express,
Is a plain old waste.
Look up from your paper thin,
Retina display,
Don't let technology
Get in the way.
Take chances, soar
ignore the device
that makes your life
so impure.
Throw away the shackles,
Reconcile,
Cry on shoulders,
Whisper, wander for hours,
Whatever you do,
Ignore the iPhone's powers.
Love love love,
And don't feel bad,
For not getting a text back,
Is not the worst pain you've had.
Be truly elated, this time
don't pretend
put down your mobile,
As for now, in this moment.
Technology needs to end.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 4:51 PM UTC
Those undelivered messages are
the most true feelings of someone.
However, they are too afraid to say it in fear of what others think.
- { E.I }
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 4:54 AM UTC
Mysterious packages...
discarded
in litter bins
unsigned for
and
undelivered
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 10:02 PM UTC
I speak to you in rare moments of sleep
As shipping news speaks of conquered waves
You wear the look of women in coastal cafes
Who have read between the fishing headlines
And cast away puzzle pages
Tea-ring-stained
For weeks
Yet swear daily they do not weep
I speak to you in those rare moments of sleep
As ships speak in song to lighthouse light
Yet I know that when awake
Should in time come the chance
To really speak
My words may not rise
From any squall-safe
Harboured-heart place
But undelivered with the dead litter of shore
Cling as whelk would
To the frame of some drift door
I can neither close
Or in clinging
Allow tides
To erase
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
In the midst of all there is to live
The crawling uncertainty, the laziness of souls
The crippling doubt that rules us all
Her gaze is shown, a lighthouse wearing a red stole
Hours reduced to seconds and not much to spare
A sip of winter *** delicate move of hands, hips unbound
Fingers slip, chocolate lipped, spurred moments
Tamed desires unleashing round breast-bites on empty appetites
Quickening shivers, last minute kiss and our time is undelivered
Words amounting to clichés and graceful, still, is her face
The provoked eyes of adolescence delight my wary ghost
I no longer linger in uncertain realities
Raise a glass to the possibilities and what to come
In the shadows I find you, my cure
For you see, my disintegration never had a meaning
So let us dwell between uncertain realities, least we find ourselves a host
One year amounting to a lifetime
Dreams of promised serenity are greater still
What lies beneath the Arabian sun? Nothing but Imprisoned spirits, enslaved birds and wild ignorance
Larger than life talks of reform, crumbling yet, in our first test
Remembrance of past ways
Everything fate has in store for us
Even odds were aligned in phases
Mountains of passion sprung high
I’m a spectator, you control my letters
Little by little, unnerved attempts
Oceans of black uncharted seas
Various letter arrangements and lines
Eventually leading to the sublime
Your embrace and my sea metaphors
Oslo awaits, but waves won’t abate
Until one day, when our minds abide
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 9:14 PM UTC
I thought that I had will until she smiled.
I always learned to act after I think.
But she empowered what I so reviled,
She’s my enchantment; she’s my weakest link.
I thought my nimble mind made me immune.
I planned to love along the way I think.
Rapacious needs of her my siren tune,
She’s my enchantment; she’s my weakest link.
My character would bear the love I bore.
I’d heed the warnings that my mind would think.
The hope to earn her love I couldn’t ignore.
She’s my enchantment; she’s my weakest link.
I’ll not again be as strong as I think.
Her undelivered love my weakest link.
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 8:43 PM UTC
How is it
that I all too frequently find myself
poring over contemplations and fantasies to conjure my passion for you into writing,
that I have an entire section of poems, memoirs, and undelivered letters addressed
to you, for you, of you,
that I hurl myself into the vast, ever-encompassing depth of my loyal infatuation in the name of upholding and preserving
that special love
we discovered inside one another,
that I would gladly spend another nine (plus) hours hiding in my room if it meant I could reserve exclusively that time for you,
and you haven't even written that song for me like you promised?
The haikus are nice, my lovely,
but all too brief and it isn't even like you spend much time on those measly seventeen syllables of cheese anyway;
you don't make me feel significant enough and I'm just
pining quietly for you
while standing in the shadow casted by my affectionate regards of who you are and who I wish I could
dedicate my life to.
I may be just being too bold, too brash, too needy... But it isn't like I haven't tried to distract myself
from this eager, burning drive
to spend every conscious (or otherwise) moment wishing myself to be transported into the safe house that is your arms and chest and heartbeat...
I try.
Still, as I write to you, I am trying.
But my heart forbids I forget lest it tries to rip itself up again, and I'm not strong enough to call its masochistic, suicidal bluff.
All of this fluffed and heart-shaped confetti,
all of this gift-wrapped, glittery dedication,
all of this sugar-coated and caramel-dipped sentiment...
All of this, all of this, all of this,
and still
You haven't even written that song for me like you promised.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 7:57 PM UTC
Mesmerizing eyes anchor me to your soul
I loose myself in those translucent depths
I wonder if your lips were made for me
I wonder if your heart beats for me
When gently on your chest I lay my hand
I hear your heartbeat restrained
Thumping loudly, visibly tensed
Sensing if I'll ever guess
Strangers to unbeknown eyes
Your gaze I've held
How I would want to pretend
But you've deeply affected my rest
Words form freely, in the minds unrest
Silence seals my lips before my story unfolds
Scarcely breathing, surviving, the truth untold
Stranger I am to my own world
I don't want to be a stranger to this feeling
I don't want to be just a keeling
Never want to let you go, hold you to myself.
Bury myself in the depth of your vortex
You'll never understand
The reason of my restraint
Undelivered words and messages unsent
Hiding visibly in broad daylight
When your sweet voice I want to hear daily
The antithesis of my story is laughable
The dissonance of my utterances and intent
Perplexed and fraught between
To be or not to be
My struggle, my dichotomy
Paradoxical my situation
Fake my appearances seem
Inside I am dying my love
Dying for a simple truth from you!
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 3:12 AM UTC
she's gold on one side
silver on the other
heartened and free
she runs like a car wreck
racing at breakneck speed
trudging through sand to conjoin
two-fold into one.
little passes by her that goes unnoticed.
she drinks in every opportunity
to swallow what ever happening will feed her today's lesson.
equanimity hostility frivolity passivity.
she knows the streets have taught her more
than she will ever forget.
and she can remember how it felt
to taste ***** in her mouth
when she looked in the mirror
that mocked her every breath.
she tries to back step
and unmake a bed
that she's told she made
and must lie in
for the rest of her life.
she wants to call consignment
and have it undelivered
but they won't take
bug ridden
**** stained
sprung and un-stuffed
pieces of junk that carried
peoples dreams in the dark.
there's no worth, they say.
so she's left
carting around holes and dead air.
melted glass and ***** cartridges.
spent fits and broken tin.
wondering
what kind of legacy this is
for a very pretty tousle haired girl
that trusts her with unfeigned eyes
and believes in super mom?
she cries at night
and tries in the morning
being as tangible as they expect-
but in that socketed place
that holds spun sugar contemplation
she buries herself.
one two-fold parades all day
playing puppet gurrl games.
she lives in a land of
pots of gold and rainbows
clover and blue moons
moving one step at a time
towards what's expected
because she knows nothing else.
day in and day out
running like a car wreck-
gold on one side
and silver on the other.
Jul 12, 2010
Jul 12, 2010 at 12:04 PM UTC
**** you, you *******
**** you for being ****** up and not being able to be fixed
and not being able to fix yourself
**** you for representing all the unhealthy relationships in my life
(read: ALL the relationships in my life)
**** you for your two-facedness, for the things that were ****** up then,
for the things that are ****** up now and for
you pretending that it isn’t this way
pretending to be holding the truth
be speaking the truth
be slurring the truth
you are unknowing of the truth
I am not knowing of what’s true
and good,
but you are not it.
So leave, leave, leave, and take her with you,
and pretend as if you have me in your heart
but forget me. Please don’t speak to me.
And don’t cry to me.
And at some point, eat. And at some point, sleep.
Between the meaningless bouts of ******* ******* *******
and pretending to be finding the things
you find meaningful
You haven’t thought about them in a while, have you
I’m angry at you and I’m angrier at myself
But at least I’m proud of myself
Because whatever hurts me now makes me grow
I can handle being alone and learn independence, and it will
be my weapon against you and everyone like you.
I don’t love you. I don’t know what that kind of love is and I hope to not find it for a while.
Dec 19, 2011
Dec 19, 2011 at 4:33 PM UTC
You lack character as a man,
unable to forgive and forget
dysfunction and anxiety,
white-knuckle memories
that root down deep,
clinging steady and strong
in the garrison of your mind.
Avoid the victim’s passion play;
we are all abused,
all exploited,
all broken gifts undelivered;
giving us humanity
in this comedy of error
and regret for words unsaid,
actions undone,
consequences unleashed.
We shall meet again,
when I have learned from my mistakes
and you retain them bitterly,
skeptical and aloof,
my beloved historian of bad judgment,
plowing your own path
through the debris of experience,
to make your own mistakes
your own.
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 6:32 PM UTC
I tried,
I tried to navigate through his opaque eyes
I tried,
To collect that little beam of light
Travelling around the penumbra of his disguise.
But instead he just gazed into the mirror.
Excuses could not be simplified,
So I just watched him lounge in a shallow river.
The undercurrent ignored
The surfaced reflection adored.
Consumed by an image,
An image of his replaced self.
Disposed and undelivered,
He had thrown me onto an abandoned shelf.
And I suddenly became,
His ornament in a crowned casket,
An unearthed catacomb drowning in the ****** of his memory.
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 3:06 PM UTC
They lit
A thousand acre fire
To smoke out old dreams
That had
Buried themselves deeper
In the choke between ash seams
Writhing, fresh white skin
Came apart, bursting the arteries
Between the surface creature
And the blacker haunt named apathy
“Sleep away your desire
“Sleep away your misery
“Sleep away your vigour
“Sleep away your sympathy”
A dead seed in the pyre
A dead stare set to atrophy
A dead wish undelivered
In a lull of breathless harmony
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 2:51 PM UTC
Is there
Or isn't there
A storm coming?
Yes, oh yes, there most definitely is.
It's going to be vicious, and ugly
And angry, this storm.
Lashing will happen.
Winds will roar,
My head, throat and heart are sore,
Longing for
The release of this storm,
The one they've promised me,
The one that's guaranteed.
Outside, rain falls, but gently.
Where are the buffeting torrents,
The groaning, ghastly gales?
I feel cheated.
I was so ready
For pathetic fallacy.
Deliver, or be ****** forever,
Gods of weather.
Your guru's fail us,
Buffet and hail us.
They told us to batten down the hatches,
But I'm ready to fling the windows wide open
And welcome the chaos and the debris,
I'm ready!
Where are the flying branches?
I want and need terror,
But someone's made an error...
My storm is undelivered,
Consequently, so am I.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 6:52 PM UTC
Love stories.
When the man of 56
asked a girl of 7
if she knew what love was,
she didn’t know that
she would spend
most of her life convincing herself
that love was more than
how he dug his nails
into her raw skin
only to leave it pale;
it was more than the stench
of his breathe and clothes
that she hasn’t got rid off
from her body, yet;
it was more than the sharp,
stabbing sensation between her legs
and definitely something
that needed consent.
Love stories.
You think you know what love is,
but what about that girl
who was left crying
at the subway station?
She went back home
after 3 odd days,
took an overdose of pills
she couldn’t even pronounce names of,
slit her wrists
and was found lying
in a pool of blood
after another 3 odder days.
I wonder whose life flashed
before her eyes and
where she hid all the
undelivered letters she wrote
the night before she died?
Love stories.
He shifts the pawn in a chess game,
carefully,
sitting on a wobbly bench
in a massive hospital ward.
This time, it’s his queen
that he is protecting.
Though, he could see
her last breaths fluctuating
like the black and white squares on the board,
he still tried to win.
They didn’t kiss each-other goodbye;
neither did they share laughs
nor, did they repeat their vows.
She didn’t even wait
till the last chemotherapy.
What happened to his love story?
Love stories.
I fell in love with a boy
with a storm in his heart
that wrapped me in itself,
ripped me off piece by piece,
picking on already existing wounds
and now he’s nowhere to be seen.
I hear the incessant clash
of the windows in a stormy rain,
the picture frames
tumbling,
stumbling
and shattering into a million pieces
against the floor
where I sit and bleed poetry about him
even when I know
that he doesn’t even remember my name, anymore.
Though, I Love
the way your tongue curls
at ‘L’ and your teeth presses against your lips
tenderly at ‘V’
when you say “love”,
but I am sorry,
I have grown up
in a home of fists and frowns
where love stories were more fragile
than paper towns
and I will not make eye contact with you
when I say “I love you”
because I am unsure about
how long it will last.
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 11:31 AM UTC
Poetry, you dazzled my eye
teased me with unearthly visions;
got me too high.
Primed my soul to fly to heaven
then marooned me upon the earth
sixed for seven.
You called across celestial shores
glowing in empyrean colors
then shut your doors.
Lost in your amusing mazes
I followed fast your golden thread
through dark phases.
Muse-abused and undelivered
my heartstrings wavered, stalled, then stopped –
arrows quivered.
Poetry – you’ve cheated on me;
winked and flirted, then escorted
Philosophy!
Spare me further cantos, curses,
keep your holy delirium,
unhinged verses…
On second thought, oh Lady cruel –
humiliate me – lead me on.
(I’m still your fool.)
********** queen of the word
for you I’ll suffer untold shame.
I’m undeterred.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 9:50 PM UTC
I had a dream that felt quite like reality
To begin its tale I start with the day,
which opened the same as any other--
with my eyes fixated on a cigarette in an ashtray.
I put a light to another so he'd have a brother.
Hopping in the shower the lights and I shivered,
blanketed by warmth the cigarettes became a vase with a flower.
I faced the glass but refused the image mirrored.
No good would come from stalling to dress,
for a package, not mine, needed to be undelivered.
Soon I sat in a park with a friend and a board of chess,
he said, "You need not be here I know your worth,
others need to know you neglect them less."
Unsure what he meant, I still rose and went forth,
to the world of friends who tend to dislike me.
Back turned I heard young laughter and exited the mirth.
Walking in a desert forest, I grew to be rather thirsty.
I ignored the mountain lion that was out of place
and took shelter under an oasis's bourgeois.
Sweating in the cool shade, memory thought to erase
any action I took before I lay to rest.
As I looked down I saw a garden from space.
I had fallen asleep back into reality
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 11:32 PM UTC
A picture was promised,
Yet stands undelivered,
My heart isn't broken,
But my body's aquiver.
Please send something soon,
I look forward to see,
A picture of you,
Taken solely for me.
(Preferably naked)
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 12:49 PM UTC
The first time in my life, I start turning the lens back into the dreams. Point the telescope a full 180 away from the moon, so the moon can see a **** good closeup of the craters on my face.
I go to sleep
asking for it.
My dearest demons, tear me apart. I am ready to die. I have done everything I could...
And here you come:
traipsing down the stairway to heaven, stepping extra hard
on the creaky ones.
I think it reminds you of the way I used to whine for you.
To you. My dear. MY dear.
Help me God, I whisper into your ear as you sleep,
Hoping you would wake up in my dreams and save me,
How the hell could a person ever feel so ******* weak.
A bitter branch, that wanted to be a tree trunk. That tried to become enormous.
That only got cut down in the end.
That's how I feel. Not what I am.
Part of the poem, not of the slam.
Separate worlds inside one room.
Wanting to capture the flower in bloom.
Enormous tree, watered regularly by the gardening company hired by the CEO
of the real-estate company.
The only company I really have in this lonely lake of scheduled sprinklers
are gardeners giving me much more than thanks.
They cut my branches. My unsightly twigs are mulched. I share my tears with them. They take a lunch break. We're going pretty steady.
Day in. Day out. Day in. Day out. Tick tock. Lub Lub. Goodnight. Help-
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 10:37 PM UTC
One： Bridge
Is it the bridge
Between, Now and forever?
The bridge of fear
When will you be crossing over?
Is it the bridge between
Possibility and doubt
And will we stay strong
Or are we willing to drown?
Is it the bridge between
Who we are and
Where we lust and love?
Would the distance, Abide
Or will it be us merged, eventually?
Are we ready
To venture, to cross this bridge
To our destiny but no future?
Freeze your breath
and listen to the breeze
A bridge, the transparent gap
We are inclined
If you are, to cross the bridge
That leads to one. Love.
Two: Reunion
When seagull whistles
we all came together at this reunion day
World has changed since we've seen each other
Although remained love never goes away
Where covered faces shades blessing
Without understanding of their souls
We think we know a lot about each other
But some things we will never know
Disgust in uncertain eyes and exhausted looks
A lady in red walks off into silver lake
As a space shuttle pulls away
they will never know her hidden pain
At least not on this reunion day.
Aug 23, 2020
Aug 23, 2020 at 9:38 AM UTC
The way the world ends...
All birth a seed of mortality. The reason we come and we go is the same.
Parrots lose speech. Scarecrows attract birds. Zucchinis forget their meaning.
Clay pots yearn for earth. Everything inverts. Love> indifference> dislike.
Melting paragraphs. Pedestrians looking downward. Undelivered mail.
Fruit shrivels into donuts. The fix is in. Short everything. No tomorrow.
Empty Greyhounds ply apathetic Interstates. Nowhere to go. Not magic.
Frames without pictures. *** but motion. Carelessness abounds. No worries.
Cracks in the concrete. Death by delay. Rusted arteries. Repairs unmade.
London Bridge is falling down, falling down
and into the torrent we plummet and drown.
~mce
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 10:57 AM UTC