"underage" poems
Anger, is the steaming red on her face
refusal creates in an instance;
jealousy is foaming green
profusion of colors in motion
takes this dance for them to upward
and downward turns,
or a sudden dissolution---
an intense ****** in unison.
Even in darkness he can see the
spasmodic ebbing waves
sleep is the banana plantation
where night wears translucent green
"nobody would see us here"
she whispers in his ears,
as if they are thieving sex,eyeing
the yellow banana she likes, to play with
Purple is the psychedelic color
smeared on horizon when
dreams repeatedly fly down
like night bats and happen
the way mind designs
we don't want to leave the scene
of the dream even when we know well
that the show for us is now over
we just want to hang around
like the dog, in the place
it got a juicy bone.
Yellow is the banana song
that's heard as wave after wave,
by the blind bat squadron
that roams with raw aggression,
for raids above the plantations
Unripe bananas show green fingers
to say "NO! we aren't ripe"
like coy underage virgins.
Then, they ripen, go yellow
some even bright red, inviting
who is blue here is the sky
and those bats who got
the bananas still raw green
Night decents on the banana land
as the white umbrella of sun
is snatched by the dark maiden.
Black is the bat's wing extending
and folding like lust, umbrella and the like.
He finds her shivering fingers like a serpent,
on the banana trunk slithering down,
as he dreams bats, banana, blue sky
and she slithering over him.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 5:50 AM UTC
The bright blue bottle hit me like a hint of death
on the breath of Spring.
I imagined it being tossed out a truck window
by underage teens fancying themselves clever
and mature and immortal
as if the earth had willed upon them
that her stolen treasure, Aluminum,
be returned or she’d cause their truck keys
disappear for all eternity.
I picked up the blue bottle
tried to feel resurrection
in a recycling sort of way
felt instead only the hollow emptiness
of mindless eternal reincarnation.
Winter had been long this year and lately
I fantasized resurrection more than usual
at a field where I stopped to listen to meadowlark and field sparrow calling for mates or alerting everyone to the sin of the blue bottle.
Several deer grazed the unseen first greens of Spring near skunk cabbage and coltsfoot.
At a small stream, I cupped my hand into the icy fast water and raised it to my lips, then splashed my face, then splashed some more, more,
then knelt, both knees at the streambed and submersed my face and head,
in self-inflicted baptism
for my own blue bottle sins,
opened my eyes, exhaled all my blue bubbles, for the longest of repentant moments,
pulled out of the water
gasping the holy Spring air
for dear life
and thereafter walked each step
in the garden of resurrection.
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 9:25 PM UTC
We never had enough when we were young.
We never needed much, but the exact amount was unknown.
We never got enough; toys food or clothes.
We didn't need that much, so "barely" was the most.
We never got enough of your time.
We didn't understand, the eldest not yet nine.
We didn't get enough, affection or warmth.
We never took for granted, but your time spent was short.
We didn't want more than enough, somehow understanding all you had.
We never asked for much: to play or share or cuddle.
We never got that, you liked to stay in your bubble.
We didn't ask for this, to be born, or brought into your life.
We didn't choose the love, or the lack thereof.
We didn't need the money, you hid away from us.
We had enough for us four, your greed was just because.
We had enough, We had enough, We had enough.
We had enough time, to learn proper affection.
We had enough vocabulary for simple conversation.
We had enough feelings, to know you didn't care.
We were not selfish, so why didn't you share?
Was it that we weren't enough, you needed a new man?
Was it that we weren't calm enough, it got out of hand?
Was it that you didn't have enough, of the finer things in life?
Was it that you didn't think enough, before becoming an underage wife?
Now we live out our lives, believing we aren't enough.
Now we live out our lives, always trying to be more, never being enough.
Now we live out our lives, working hard at enough.
Now we live out our lives, still not understanding the problem wasn't us.
May 21, 2018
May 21, 2018 at 2:17 AM UTC
we had been mopping
the kitchen floor all day
and the dirt never
stopped coming back
and earlier we had sprayed
the entire front porch
down with the garden hose
and now it was still wet
which made it feel as if
it had recently rained when in fact
the grass was a crunchy
brown carpet of regrets.
the night before we had
drunk orange smoothies
laced with lime and something
aged sleek and dark
(i think it must have been
the reason we couldn't
sleep that night
lay awake in my parents bed
and i told you why i
wouldn't go swimming
until the sun rose
the dog barked
the birds screamed
their morning songs
and my body stopped its
nightly spasms of fear.)
and the next evening
we put on a miranda lambert song
(the one we drank to
in your mother's van last winter)
sat on the wet
porch swing
and cracked open
our first beers
they were
really bad
i gagged
because it tasted
like carbonated
banana bread with
too much stale
baking soda
and we poured half of them
into the flower beds
the next morning
was sunday
and we had milk and muffins
in the kitchen with
simon and garfunkel
then went back out to the porch
drank iced coffee in the
eleven o'clock sunlight
and you said
"if this were a normal sunday
i would have been up at six
at church by eight
and done teaching my first
sunday school class by ten."
(is beer as much
of an acquired taste
as coffee is?
because i can't ever
remember not liking it
i used to think it was
bitter but i always
liked it anyway.)
i didn't say anything
because i didn't want to
say what was on the tip
of my tongue
that this kind of sunday
had become my normalcy
and our variety of saturday night
no longer felt like underage
drinking and more like
the way i was meant to be.
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 3:15 PM UTC
Whisky breath and
cold sweat stench
fill this room
as there are fewer hours
till work
than will sober me up.
One last cigarette
One more affirmation
To keep the promises
we will slumber past
their breaking point
Class can wait
Work can wait
Life waits for none
I wait
For life to
Become
More than cycle
Of light and dark
Of stagnant art
And stagnant words
That still drip
From the corners
Of my ethyl lubricated
Mouth.
That still pool in
Your soul as
You drift to sleep
Goodnights said to every
Underage youth now
Napping away
Morning rush.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 11:27 PM UTC
I'm not a writer trying to share a story,
I'm a survivor telling you a true story.
I'm not just a poet having fun and living,
I saw bad things when I was younger.
That was when things were harder.
when women and old people were helpless and young people were hopeless.
It was that time when good parents were powerless to protect their underage girls from **** and molestation at the hands of drugged-up child soldiers with bloodshot eyes.
I did something other boys were too scared to do,
I turned into a man
and took survival into my hands.
It was that time when men and women used the same place to bathe and go to the loo.
I saw many many hungry people
eating palm cabbage and wild grasses
malnourished children and dying people.
I saw hands chopped off with cutlasses.
I saw thousands of families separated
and fathers killed or incarcerated.
I saw silly young men pick up arms
and chopped off people's limbs
like hideous things were their aims.
I saw really bad things
and cried to God for wings
like an angel to fly away
because I saw no other way.
I saw people running to God
and getting murdered in his church.
I don't know, but he didn't say a word
It's like He just sat down and watch?
I saw bad things
I planned my escape from poverty,
from a war-torn country.
It was that time when your parents, who come from the same generation as I, were looking up to their mom's for breast milk.
It was that time when no one wore silk,
it was a time of fear,it was wartime.
It was that time when bullets determined eating time and bedtime.
It was that time when pretty boys had nothing in their wallets.
It was that time when PYJ ate dinner
and played gospel on his guitar like he was our savior and not a sinner.
© IvanBrooksPoetry
12/9/2018
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 1:06 AM UTC
I wake to the news of another lynching
As our boys scream Bleed Blue
And over the border, the Green Girls rejoice
And somewhere in Jharkhand
Two families mourn the death of their men
Cattle traders? Terrorists? Muslim?
With cloth stuffed in their throats
And arms tied behind
Hatred showing in the mob mentality
Another dark blot on our secular fabric
And I watch a short film, India, India
Of a young boy on Tuesday selling ganeshas at a temple
Another image of the same boy on a Friday
Selling taweez and chanting Ya Ali
Outside Mumbai’s Haji Ali
And on Sunday, the same boy singing the praises
of the Lord outside a church, selling amulets
And I smile
This is the India I love, the different faiths
The acceptance, the co-existence
As the morning drones on, I watch and participate
In the endless debates on Facebook and Twitter
Of people posing, taking sides, sounding pedantic
While they sit comfortably in their homes
Sipping ginger tea made by an underage maid
While their Labrador retriever is taken for a walk
By their Nepali driver and the Muslim cook smokes a bidi
In the garden with the Bihari maali where their son plays
But what will happen to the sons of the lynched cattle traders?
What will happen to the brothers of the women *****
What will happen to the mothers of the sons killed?
What will happen to the fathers of the unborn children
Killed for their mistake of being a girl child?
Is this the India we want to grow up in?
Is this the India we want to have children in?
Is this the India we want to grow old in?
Wake up, my country, it is still dawn
The road is long and far and we have miles to walk
Towards peace and freedom and love
Towards acceptance and equality and oneness
Get off that sofa and make a difference
Participate, vote, empower, create, enable
It’s up to you whether our country goes this way or that
So, wake up, my country, it is still dawn
Wake up, my country, it is still dawn
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 7:57 AM UTC
America, she bleeds for a full week
fireworks, freedom, long sighs and holy nights
spend days with the couchless and meek
then light one up, sink between in her thick thighs
underage trickery, plastic cards
and daddies to sneak in clubs
lauv on the radio and fake love throbbing hard
forget ancient grudges, clean cars with new suds
party again, launching fire in the sky
avoid the cops and pray salvation
don't come around too soon, twilight and the sea
bug guts on my screen, drinking, repeat until the sun's return
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 4:28 AM UTC
I know what love tastes like
sort of like the warm berries on your lips
mixed with chlorine and
cheap pink perfume from a plastic spray bottle
like lukewarm coffee that was carried on a bike by a underage boy
it tastes like jealousy on the roof of my mouth
at the success and intelligence that sweats from him
like
pride that overwhelms me--a wave of warm sunshine
like a cold metal ring in my mouth (biting it nervously--the raw disruptive taste of metal waking my senses)
as I say goodbye for the day
(or week)
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 12:34 PM UTC
I say I'm a man
They say I'm underage
Does that make me a boy?
What is it that make them men?
So often I see greatness in expression
They say its real but I say its talk without action
I've learned to learn these things harder then others
My life is filled with compassion for others
I only fear that the reaction of others
Will smother me and the things that I mother
All the things these people have love for
Not loving there own mothers or fathers
So many fathers without children rather
Most of these children are without fathers
These men don't take care of they're flesh
Only using the 24 hours God gave them for themselves
So let my childhood pass me so I can show these men
That I've found in the few real men around me
They think of only my age and not of my brain
Trying to relate their lives to that of my own
Making my life out of experiences they've experienced
This is the mistake they've made not knowing
The things I know so many mistakes
Tho, I've learned from the ones I've made
These men aren't men through actions
That's the fact that I know
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 7:02 PM UTC
I feel the blood of slaves as I cut my wrists with diamond blades.
I bleed for them as they bleed for your earrings.
Your wedding rings. Your pointless things.
That platinum chain that hangs down to your waist encrusted with ice;
I hope it gets caught in your oversized rims while you're hanging your head out the window
Trying to spit some game at a pair of graceful underage prostitutes.
I hope it cuts your ******* head off right then and there.
And in that moment when the diamonds scatter across the pavement
In a mixture of your blood and their *****
I hope a meteor shower shines over Africa-
Bringing smiles to slaves in and out of graves-
As if they've just been told what had happened.
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 2:35 AM UTC
We are surrounded by shatter broken beer bottles, wine coolers gone to waste.
We've gone to war inside our own heads, pulling ourselves into corners and kitchens and couch cushions where all I can think is how pretty you look tonight
I can feel my heart beat to the technicolor rhythm of your butterfly gas leak eyes
"This music hurts my heart I want to leave now" is what you whisper to me under dropped basses and stepped dubs
"I know" is what I whisper back alongside the same sad forget-your-worries rhythm
So we leave, floating over alcohol puff swollen bodies left behind by unreliable boy-girlfriends sick of cleaning ***** out of the back of their pickup trucks
And we roll our sickly drunken souls to the Mcdonalds where they give you coffee to get rid of wasted smashed faces if you're underage and alcohol-laced
we sober up over cold coffee and scalding fries
We sober up,
But I get drunk on your candy stained mouth as you pour out lies you've never told anyone before
I want to let you know all my favourites, all my secrets, all my everythings
But I don't.
And after that pretty pretty night
where we sobered up
but I got drunk on you
The only time I see you
Is past someone else's head
As I smash my drunken lips to theirs.
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 9:32 PM UTC
Being underage is like living in the prohibition era
There's always a party going on somewhere
Golden girls with bobbed hair and flowing clothing
Bad boys over-age importing alcohol in.
The roaring under-20s
The tales of the Jazz age
There's always a dance to have
A friend to stick with
A boy to catch your eye.
I never got invited to parties
That is, until I reached the roaring heights
Of high society
When for one night I was the focus of your attention
No other girl danced as much with you.
People were taking drags on long cigarettes
Noise everywhere, wild young hearts aflame
You caught my eye once more
And you looked at me the way all girls want to be looked at.
Our courage bubbled over, I gave you a kiss on the cheek
A Parisian end to the night
And I let you go off
Into the misty green light.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 7:42 PM UTC
good girls
are not supposed to
get angry
or raise their voices
when they argue
or argue at all
in the first place.
good girls
are not supposed to
wear ripped jeans
or tight shirts
or say the word ****
good girls
are not supposed to
even think about *******
and here I am,
having already used
the word ****
three times in this poem.
good girls
are not supposed to
get plastered
on school nights
or tipsy before classes
or listen to music
with the volume
cranked all the way up.
good girls
are not supposed to
know which windows
make the least noise
when they’re sneaking out
or know where they can
buy cheap alcohol underage
or know who they can kiss
and where to kiss them
to get what they want.
good girls
are supposed to
smile silently and be pure
and go to church
or wherever they pray
to cleanse their filthy souls.
good girls
are supposed
to believe in
and put their trust in
and have faith in a god.
good girls
are supposed to
expect this god to
keep them away from harm,
and to never learn how to
keep themselves safe
if this god fails to.
good girls
are not supposed to
act anything like me.
the only thing
I have ever truly
believed in is poetry.
I outgrew religion by
the time I turned seventeen,
long before then
if I’m being honest.
I never turned to prayer for
advice on how to live my life.
I never turned to anyone
but myself.
I only consulted the bible
when I needed inspiration
for some tragic poem.
good girls
are not supposed to
write poetry
the way that I
write poetry.
good girls
never speak of or write about
*** and drugs and violent minds
and suicide and more ***
and broken hearts.
good girls
don’t sing along to
the lyrics of sad songs
in front of open windows
just for the ******* sake of it.
but good girls
don’t realize that life is short
until it’s too late.
good girls don’t ever
get to feel alive.
a girl like me
who gets into trouble
and refuses to stay quiet
and causes a scene
everywhere she goes
is not a good girl.
a girl like me
might be too reckless
and die too young.
but a girl like me
will die with no regrets
and plenty of memories
and so many *******
stories to tell.
a girl like me
will live the life that
good girls dream of,
but never get to talk about.
Oct 17, 2020
Oct 17, 2020 at 12:31 PM UTC
Like so many
Lemmings
they rush to southern climes for
greener pastures
year round golf a
Slower pace
Cheaper prices and
Tropical temperatures
Leathery
Tanned
Unnaturally taut and
Sun-spotted
they crowd the local haunts and
Clog the highways.
At best they tolerate whoever is not
Pensioned or
Privileged
At worst they ban the
Underage
Unfortunates
from their gated communities
and social gatherings
The pendulum has swung from a time
when the Old were at the
Mercy of the Young
to the present
when Youth is
Oppressed by Senescence
Once democracy’s backbone they now wax
Conservative having obtained their
Slice of the pie
Now there is no pie
Mother Earth has been trampled to death and the
Toiling hands of those who
Stoke the fires of industry are
Blistered and discouraged
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 2:27 PM UTC
From poem #27 of THHT3
...We all know what’s going on,
The Young & The Restless could be a list that’s forever long,
of confessions composed as a set list but not sung,
we all know They are attracted to the Innocent & Young,
because in the twisted logic, of their perverted minds’ tongue,
they think by being with children, they’ll stay Forever Young,
it’s disgusting, & I’m so ashamed of the city I’m from,
that I’m not even having kids, nope not even one,
because I already feel bad enough for those already born,
wish I could warn every daughter & ever son,
& don’t get me wrong I’m not trying to single out Hollywood,
the problems are much more widespread just ask The Vatican,
or the over 800 Boy Scouts that say they were abused,
by the hands of those that were chose to lead as captains,
yeah man not much is mentioned but lots has sure happened,
lots of names go undisclosed in the drawers of the Pedo-Files,
Roman Polanski, R. Kelly, Brian Singer, Jeffery Epstein,
& those are just the ones that have been exposed,
we all know most crimes go untold,
& no please don’t take this the wrong way,
I’m not trying to say every celeb likes kids underage,
in fact most of those that act are kind, protect & fight back,
nor am I saying I always mean attraction in a ****** way,
I’m just saying I feel confused & it seems like everyone’s gay,
or at least strange & most don’t know how to behave,
& I want to care but these days who cares anyways,
I guess I don’t anymore, I just want to get away,
just want to escape, so I’m running away,
I’m leaving Neverland, never to return again,
I’m leaving Neverland, for real & forever man...
from The Hollywood Hills Trilogy vol. 3
I'm giving away 100 copies of my new book THHT3 for FREE right now on Instagram to the first 100 people that COMMENT and TAG a friend on my latest post. So go to my Instagram right now, @aaronlalux and tag someone in the comments so I can send you a digital copy of The Hollywood Hills Trilogy Vol 3 RIGHT NOW. No joke, for real, let's go! My instagram is @aaronlalux First 100 comments with tags ONLY. If you DON'T have Instagram just go directly to the Amazon page and leave a review of the book. If you review the book I'll also send you a copy for free, so there's TWO ways to get a free copy of my new book! Here's the Amazon Link: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07XJRBSKD
∆ LaLux ∆
Sep 11, 2019
Sep 11, 2019 at 1:50 AM UTC
Warning: This content may contain graphic descriptions, which may not be suitable for underage viewers if reading aloud.
Our bodies touch
as I embrace you tightly
I feel an overwhealming
warm sensation consuming
my entire body as I
run my fingers through
your long and beautiful hair.
I begin to kiss you lovingly
and passionately on the lips
to ultimately display
my affection for you
and feelings that
can''t be explained
even in the most
beloved words.
Sweet and soft kisses
on your neck are
to let you know that
I''m ready this time
to show you that
you are meant to
be mine and only mine
for now and forever.
I place my hand on
your leg slowly sliding
it up to your thigh
gently massaging your
inner thigh while
I bite into your neck
listening to your soft moans
and becoming more aroused
as more delightful thoughts
come into mind, on how
I can pleasure and satisfy you
mentally and sexually.
Excitement and the craving
for lust becomes addicting
and drives us both mad
with wild intentions to
make love to one another
I remove all of your clothing
along with mine as well,
I place you on the bed
I take it slowly once again
by kissing your body all over
my hands wonder all over you
massaging your legs,
massaging your thighs
then massaging your *******
I align your body with mine
carefully allowing myself
to go inside of you
because I value every
moment of our intiment pleasure
my hip movement corresponds to yours.
I whisper loving thoughts in your ear
on how my endless desire to
please you like you truely deserve
may not ever be fufilled.
I caress you
while you are in my lap
we exchange loving
and passionate wet kisses
I increase my speed
and exert more force
making myself go "harder" and
"faster" allowing you to feel
the warming sensations that
I once felt before flow
into you as well
I feel you tighten up around me
I notice that your legs and arms
are placed around my waist
clinging to me tightly
feeling safe and secure
in my arms
you wanting and encouraging me
to do whatever I please
as long as I don''t stop
I become driven by
my very own intentions
I feel the both of us
on the verge of climaxing.
Dec 19, 2020
Dec 19, 2020 at 9:27 AM UTC
i exist somewhere between the kick drum and the snare
i am the blood thundering in our veins
i am the rhythm that gives us life
i am the 375 nanometers of ultraviolet light shining down on you
i am the space between the notes and the silence before the drop
i am oscillation, reverberation, undulation of bassline
i am rattling ribcage from excess decibels
i am titinnitus waiting to strike.
3,4-methylenedioxy-N-methylamphetamine, Lysergic acid diethylamide, tetrahydrocannabinol, ethanol, benzoylmethylecgonine; choose your poison so that you may enjoy me better
i am the sweat that slicks our skin and keeps us cool
i am the longing look that leaps from eye to eye
i am mellifluous melody, motivator of movement, master of mind.
i am the sea of strangers you find yourself lost in, minimally clad bodies moving in ways you didn't know were possible.
i am the fire-poi spinner, the LED hula-hooper, the melbourne-shuffling madman, the obnoxious bro, the ancient hippie, the obviously underage girl, the idiot overdosing in the corner, and the person wearing more pony beads than clothes.
i am the rave.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 3:01 PM UTC
We are born not of flesh
carved from the visage of mother and father,
We are born of nebulae,
of a symphony in the snow and
the seeking of knowledge we never acquire.
We are birthed for
good.
We are grown in
evil.
Our lives nothing more
than the squealing of wheels
as they spin in our
sempiternal filth,
a footprint in the dust since God said
"Let there be fear and malice".
Faces of dead, liquored men,
shovels in our piracy
digging for hidden treasure in the graveyard.
So we crawl in the holes and
cover each other up.
Insulting the demons who pull us through,
blessing them
with good tidings.
We go at our passing, to face the Devil.
God as our jury,
your hamartia plays witness.
I am driven only by my fantasy of tomorrow.
What a way to live.
What a way to die.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 5:11 PM UTC
There Is Something Impossibly Impulsive About The Body We Wore.
Like A Costume On Stage, Every Change Felt Like A Quick One.
We Were Ripping Layers Of Cotton and Silk, Away.
Never Naked, Just Feeling Like Maybe You Might Of Left With A Little Less Than What You Came With.
We Stood Back-lit, Like Stage Props.
Held Frozen By Spot Lights, Unable To Reach Out And Touch Each Other.
Afraid.
Like We Might Break One Another.
The Ridged Lines, Hard Pallor Skeleton, Like Road maps, Through Broadway, And The Whites Of Our Eyes.
We Were A Balcony Away, Dusty Velvet And Aged Satin.
Palms Prints, Like Sheer Silk Gloves, Elbow Deep In Our Own Self Obsession, A Hallway Of Mirrors, One Thousand Watt Bulbs.
A Cast And Crew of Only You.
We’d Turn Down The House Lights, Dim The Emptiness Behind Our Eyelids, A Box Office Value, Of The Number Of Souls You Couldn't Keep Captive.
Always Realizing You Were Alone, An Underage Tragedy, Ad Libbing Our Way Through The Only Auditions That Mattered, The Ones We Needed To Make Something More Of The Masks We Wore.
There’d Be A Black Out, Long Enough For You To Get Your Bearings.
Realize This All Didn't Have To Be An Act.
There Would Always Be Red Glowing Exit Signs, Easy Outs.
But We’d Learn That You Can’t Be The Understudy In Your Own Life.
There Would Be The Curtain, A Dozen Gold Tassels, To Raise.
Break The Fourth Wall, And Divide Your Insides Apart.
Draw A Line, A Call For Places, A Dress Rehearsal, A Last Chance To Get This Right.
You’d Come To The Sound Stage Reaction.
You’re More Than A Performance.
A No Longer Tried And True Type Cast.
Please Take A Bow, Darling.
Make This Stage Worthy, Standing Ovation,
Say It.
Over rehearsed,
Side Scripted Lines,
Welcome To The Masquerade.
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 4:56 PM UTC
A complicated conception.
Devastate my childhood. Corruption defiles ghetto neighborhoods.
Law enforcement never does what they should. Hopeless, sick, enraging, & shameless where I stood.
Probation violations they definately would. Patrolling *** offenders because they could.
No one in the system of courts cares or understood.
They don't believe my words, go unheard.
My tears are not a faucet to turn off & on.
Our trauma & sadness was real.
My feelings they can not feel.
My underage *** is illegal not for any pervert to steal.
© Harmony Sapphire . All rights reserved,
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 1:51 PM UTC
You're breaking on your camera hand. Haven't got a leg to stand on.
You tell me
you're making me a colour with your shorthand.
Dropping parts of your mind behind you and I can't pick them up, I can't follow you round anymore.
Kid, you're shaking on the stage again
explain that you can't write this down anymore
and that everything inside your head is a storm.
And I just can't tell you.
I don't have the guts to tell you
that I still smell him on my hair on days when I don't think about you now.
But I can't tell you what I'm thinking
like how you're so wrapped up in your own broken strings that you're not getting me right anymore.
You're not getting me right anymore.
These things I lost down in my chest:
how you made this body your chalkboard fourteen days before we even spoke,
and I don't know what you're leaving with. I can't find the words to leave you with.
Tornado hands. Texas lungs. How this world made you a storyline.
You're an underage drunk on a school night.
Stop dropping yourself I can't hold you up anymore.
This is not a hold up.
This is you forgetting to ask about yourself.
Here are all the letters I never sent you
take them out of me, stop making me write you down I can't write you down anymore please scratch yourself out.
You once asked me if I felt it when you woke up in the middle of the night across all those miles, I told you:
you're a church bell in a hurricane
stuck under all the folded over pages I left you with, and I'm leaving you on a Sunday,
just like all those characters you left sawn off.
And I just want to ask you how many times I have to break myself apart before I piece back whole, and I realise
that we've got nothing left going for us anymore.
Your chipped teeth under my tongue telling me "stop apologising for yourself,"
ripping the keys off a typewriter just take everything I've got.
You can have my apologies love.
You can have my best friend sitting on the tracks.
You can take me whole, take me home.
You're a boarded window, nothing disclosed,
"get away from me".
Candlelight through the gaps on a Saturday night in December.
We're home alone again.
Home alone again.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 8:12 AM UTC
It's been almost a year since the apprehension.
Almost a year since they grabbed me off the highway
With their assumptions and lies.
Guilty until proven innocent is how they view you on the street.
It might be a different story in the courtroom,
However,
Out on the desolate interstate there's not much one can do
To keep them from infiltrating your right to privacy.
What is privacy anyway? Does it even exist anymore?
A few simple clicks can open up one's entire life;
Locations, relatives, work history, criminal record.
And on the highway,
All it takes is a few simple lies;
*Do you know how fast you were going?
What's that smell? Please step out of the car, sir.*
And shortly thereafter I was on my way to the lovely
Tooele County Detention Center.
I was afraid at first...
Never having been to jail before.
But I think what I feared the most was having to face my parents.
I knew full well how disappointed they'd be.
I knew full well how they'd do everything in their power to get me out,
Despite the fact I was comfortable and relatively safe.
Nothing could prepare me for the onset of tears I could literally see over the phone...
And I haven't seen them since...
My parents, that is.
I think about how much of a burden I've been on them over the years...
Racking up piles of juvenile offenses;
Underage consumption of alcohol;
Underage possession of marijuana;
Underage possession of tobacco;
Operating without a license;
Operating while suspended;
You can't park here, you ******* idiot - give us your stupid money.
What is there to be proud of in that?
Is this how I repay the people who brought me into this world?
Yet they bear no grudge--
Only love.
Perhaps I should reconsider my line of work...
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 8:41 PM UTC
All I’m beginning to feel is pain. My mind is buzzing and throbbing because I’ve shoved it out of sight. My chest aches from a diet of fried foods and breathing toxic conversation. My ears sting from biting criticisms my parents present of: homosexuals, the homeless, drug addicts, hippies, and myself. Ten days trapped, with no escape but my mind. I should have prepared better; brought armor and weapons, but nothing cuts through the opinions of the ignorant. Nothing can expose the lies they’ve fed themselves.
My mother loves “people watching” she says, but only from a safe distance. Far enough to see the grit, but not the despair.
My father is fickle, brooding and American. He can’t look foreigners in the eye and scoffs at language barriers.
Together they make assumptions: drug addict, idiot, fornicators, harlot, thief, terrorist, local, wealthy, foreign. Maybe they’re right to assume the negative; maybe they’re right when they say all the homeless are drug addicts. I hope not, I maintain faith, faith in the beauty of life, in the inherent differences we all possess, not in a God they say, says no to: liars, and ***** and prostitutes, and druggies, and the tattooed, I run, from them and their prayers, and arrogance and conclusions.
Smite me, parents, your darlingdaughter.
I’ve been all of those.
I lie to you, hide my true self, to spare you.
I’ve smoked ***
I’ve drank underage.
I’ve been a ****
I’ve been called a **********
I’ve loved the idea that love is real, whether you’re gay or straight.
You **** my faith, force in your ideals and chain me to a cross you’ve built yourselves of hypocrisy, of hate, of misunderstanding, of fear, of criticism. I struggle to get free. Defend my principles, play “devil’s advocate,” when you know as well as I, I’m not playing. I’ll prove it, be more than you’ll allow, do more than you want.
I’ll find more love than your Christianity-tainted mind can fathom.
I’ll explore the depths of the mind you’ll never know.
I’ll remember the love you made me forget.
I’ll make love to men without a ring on our fingers, and feel no remorse.
I’ll tattoo my body, to show the world the beauty of my mind.
I’ll buy a Koran because I see its beauty.
I’ll attempt to understand others.
I’ll give to the homeless, even if they’re drug addicts.
I’ll love everyone that’s real, because I can. Because it’s more important than God or war or assumptions or generalizations, or patriotism.
You think I’m rebelling?
No. no. no. I’m just living.
Aug 13, 2010
Aug 13, 2010 at 8:36 PM UTC