"underlined" poems
I feel invisible
Yet you claim(ed) I am the air you breathe
And perhaps like air I am always present,
But presently forgotten
The heaviness of your hush is crushing me with empty blows
This silence leads me to wander down a path cloaked in a heavy mist
That whispers harsh truths such as:
Our hopeless, fictitious, drawn out infatuation is like
A library book that was checked out last March
You underlined and doggie-paged the first few chapters
And then left it on your shelf to collect dust all of April and May
I foolishly kept begging you to finish the book
Read the last sentence
Take time to skim over the epilogue
Please
Find your way to the back cover
I foolishly ignored your “I can’t”s
And now it’s late August and our love is long overdue,
In the opposite sense of what the phrase typically means
I write with angry lead because
I am too stubborn to admit I just filled a trash bin with tissues
And that the cuffed sleeves of my flannel
Are damp like grass’s morning dew
I have so much more to say,
Although I cannot find the words
To say anything more than
You should’ve written.
Because two weeks of nothing
Was enough for me to realize that you are just a passing breeze
Seldom present, presently becoming something of the past.
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 3:32 PM UTC
There's an awkward thrill I feel
like wicked-wet rabies –
Oh. Ah. Oh.
To gaze over photos of the woman I created.
With my warped perception,
saturating and cropping everything into delicious
oblivion.
I am the knife as well as the ingredients
that sauteed her together in a camera flash.
She sits hot like heaven.
And I want to
stare at her picture all day until she comes to life.
The woman I created, I hang up like perfected rotisserie
and fall in love with her accidentally every day.
Looking into those precisely underlined
tiger-sex eyes of startling navy. Knowing their true dullness.
Hissing at the free-swinging curls
and the hours behind them. Loving the lie.
The flowy top and sleek trousers gliding down lovely as Niagara
over chaffing chub; all hidden. And thighs; unshaven.
And that topical smile everyone likes to see, waiting to plummet
into suicide like a kite hanging in one tight second.
Her image is my greatest
False accomplishment.
I hang my portrait up on a wall of the internet
for people of the world to migrate to
the photo exhibit, my little show-off room.
They make offers and toss compliments
with their “I like this. I like this." nonsense.
They don't know that the girl in the portrait, she
isn't organic. They seem not to notice
that she is something of a chemical flower.
Her face is my face, only with whiteout poison-paste
smoothed over twice.
And they want to
stare at her picture all day until she comes to life.
Gazing upon her believed-to-be beauty, as I hang my paintbrush,
she bites her body still as a painting,
bruised and needled
into perfect frame. She cries
like Jesus Christ, as she is stared at, but not seen.
I am the artist as well as the object.
And the woman in the portrait is
nothing,
but dot after dot of manipulated color.
And we want to
stare at her picture all day until she comes to life.
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
Webster was much possessed by death
And saw the skull beneath the skin;
And breastless creatures under ground
Leaned backward with a lipless grin.
Daffodil bulbs instead of *****
Stared from the sockets of the eyes!
He knew that thought clings round dead limbs
Tightening its lusts and luxuries.
Donne, I suppose, was such another
Who found no substitute for sense,
To seize and clutch and penetrate;
Expert beyond experience,
He knew the anguish of the marrow
The ague of the skeleton;
No contact possible to flesh
Allayed the fever of the bone.
. . . . .
Grishkin is nice: her Russian eye
Is underlined for emphasis;
Uncorseted, her friendly bust
Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.
The couched Brazilian jaguar
Compels the scampering marmoset
With subtle effluence of cat;
Grishkin has a maisonette;
The sleek Brazilian jaguar
Does not in its arboreal gloom
Distil so rank a feline smell
As Grishkin in a drawing-room.
And even the Abstract Entities
Circumambulate her charm;
But our lot crawls between dry ribs
To keep our metaphysics warm.
7.2k
I have always been weary
of putting names in my poems
in fear that I will never be able to take
my confessions back
but when is a good day to tell you
that I have loved you in every lifetime
In the past we were entangled in each other
One life we were shooting stars
another we laid lazily in fields of wildflowers
a love too strong to explain through words
so we didn’t speak
instead you embodied the beauty of spring
a way to remind us of those April days
when nothing existed outside of each other
We hid our love behind buttercups and daisies
maybe that’s why I love to bring you flowers
to feel the flicker of a spark we shared
in a lifetime so long ago
In another lifetime we read quietly together
over coffee in smoky French cafe’s
we underlined passages
that we would read each other in secret
our love withstanding a time
when it was criminal to look at one another
with the type of love we shared
I don’t know if I have ever loved you loudly
there are no muscle memories
of me shouting your name from rooftops
or unapologetically holding your hand
without fear of repercussions
—even now I don’t know how to form the words
“I love you”
without looking around to see who’s listening
even after all this time I love you in secret
I still can’t put your name in my poems
but i promise in one of our lifetimes
I’ll write your name in every poem
and tell you that I’m in love with you out loud
someday the words
won’t feel stuck in my throat
but I hope that’s in a lifetime sooner than later
Mar 7, 2021
Mar 7, 2021 at 10:02 AM UTC
i took your **** and ran with it,
went miles into distance while you constantly clinged to the past
girl I'm tired of it.
How am I suppose to get in if he still has the original and I was givin the spare key,
I'm me and no where near him reason why you always keep runnin back lookin for a safe haven, but in reality sorry that ******** I ain't takin ,
must be mistaken,
I'm havin you second all the time I made you first,
like an unwelcomed tenet,
or low rank lieutenant,
I'm undermined, while hes underlined,
made into a bold figure,
but I stack real figures,
and don't make you feel bitter like this *****
Just don't mention why you quiver , I know the reason why you internally bleedin , stress in ya eyes swollen from the cries in the night, it ain't right.
but yet you fall back to him , then call me later? I gave you my words, last time was the last. So to bad if it didn't last, and both ends of the ties leave you to grieve and gravel on the gravel , yeah sit there and babble , yeah I ponder the river creeks for years
now im off the love boat, I skidattled , faught the more fishes in the sea with broken paddle promise not to commit unless it was suicide or a contract with a person I don't trust after marriage and can't truly settle with.
so the others who wanted me are shunned, and you ? Is of no concern to my conscience , my once brown poccahauntus who haunted
my nights , and Asian moon cake who left with the wrong shake wen I coulda move mountain cause I was the real earthquake to shake the floor beneath you and let you see the plummit to a deeper meaning. Thank for leavin.
Asmathic or not,
I remain breathing.
by Emmanuel Hernandez
aka
Linguist Musician aka Deep thought
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 6:31 AM UTC
Ease yourself in up to your waist
And grit your teeth against the cold.
Take a slow step deeper with searching toes;
Learn to wade again against the tide.
I have always preferred the land;
To stand where I can see a horizon's
Distance and not risk being
Enveloped by it.
My risk was his wish underlined
By a body of work. He's away now from a life
Made up of **** ups, and break ups,
And love, and changing lives.
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 10:39 AM UTC
What bad could happen to a boy of sixteen, walking through the woods trying to find a nice spot to smoke and read Slaughterhouse-Five?
But now that I'm thinking about it, Stephen King may or may not have written a book about this exact question, more or less.
And as everyone who has read The Gunslinger Volume Six: Song of Sussanah, knows, everything Stephen King writes happens. Stephen King is God, in this sense.
Nevertheless, I found a nice spot, next to a dried out creek bed, complete with a gallon bucket and the scent of lavender.
And so I sat, and rolled a couple cigarettes, and dove into the mind and time traveling of Billy Pilgrim.
Sitting there, on that bucket, old Kurt spoke to me.
The previous owner of this copy of Slaughterhouse-Five also spoke to me.
With highlights and underlines he allowed me into his mind and thought processes while reading this book.
He underlined every passage that had to do with the Tralfamadorians views on time and the coexistence of every moment.
Soon, it became dark and I could no longer read, having only one cigarette left, I headed home.
Fifteen minutes later I was home, and if Stephen King had written about this event he wrote it as it happened. With no harm and no foul.
And maybe I dislike him for that
and maybe I don't understand why he did that,
why he would wrote a boring tale of a boring boy going on a boring walk in some boring Northern California forest.
And this writing does not feel complete but the Pabst is starting to kick in so I think I'll leave this one alone for now.
And Stephen King **** it, I can't even think of a title for this piece of ****
Nevermind, I got it.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 11:13 PM UTC
generation d
generation depressed bold, underlined, size 12, arial
generation death is no longer a want it's a need, look at the eyebags this education chose to breed
generation dizzy this tequila doesn't burn as much as your name on the tip of my tongue does
generation dish your depression jokes on a platter, serve it warm, cold, frozen - whatever makes you laugh goes, right?
generation dobby is not a ******* free elf
generation dopamine, because honestly, where the **** is mine
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 9:18 AM UTC
I am a fragment
of a broken home,
parents that were
never meant for
one another
but tried their best
to love as if
they were.
They tried to
hold it together
for us kids
but life could never
be what we wanted
it to be.
I am a fragment
of my demons,
the voice
in my head
that tells me
over and over again,
"you're not enough."
There are some days
where that voice
feels greater
than my own
and I almost want to
give in.
I am a fragment
of failed relationships.
You told me I was
"too much."
It felt like daggers
in my chest
and suddenly
I couldn't breathe.
Since then,
I have always felt
I've needed to hold
myself back
and not drown in love.
I am a fragment
of the hell I've
been through.
It wasn't easy
to get to where
I am today.
My journey was
a little ragged,
not a straight shot...
but I'm still
standing tall and
going through
this thing we call
life.
I'm a fragment
of the songs
I've played
over and over again.
Some to block out
the pain,
the tears.
Others to reach
a state of nostalgia,
in an attempt
to go back to moments
I wished to relive.
I am a fragment
of those I surround
myself with.
The constant encouragement,
the kind words,
the shoulders to lean on,
the ability to understand
why I'm like this.
Where would I be
without it?
I am a fragment
of the books I've read.
The lines I underlined
to come back to again,
the characters I saw
a piece of myself in,
the events I read about
that hit home
a little too hard.
I am a fragment
of my flaws,
my mistakes,
my imperfections.
They've eaten me alive
for most of my life
but I am beginning
to come to terms
with them.
I am seeing
the beauty I once
refused to see
within them.
I am a fragment
of my emotions.
They were always
valid and real
despite those who
tried to convince me
otherwise.
The smiles and laughs
were just as significant
as the screams and tears.
I tell myself,
"you were never crazy...
you were just figuring
yourself out."
I am a fragment
of love.
Those that I loved,
those that never
loved me.
The times that
love evoked
happiness,
the times that
love caused me
pain.
It's all the same
when you think
about it.
It was all for,
love.
I am a fragment
of the woman
I was and
the woman I am.
I didn't always
love myself like this
but god, I'm glad I
now do...
because this is something
that can never be
taken away from me.
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 12:51 PM UTC
funhouse of self-reflection,
i indulge in your distraction,
make the best of every one of my heart's contractions,
to scintillate, to shine, to epitomize a refraction
that is all mine.
a start's best contender
to finish, always inclined.
for the heart's say is that gold is always underlined.
glitter of shimmer, of glistening hues.
what creator could produce formations as iridescent as you?
but coruscation of shadows, perpetually anew:
why do you always crack my mirror and skew?
mirror, mirror.
mirror of my mind:
tell me where it is that all my secrets hide?
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 11:17 AM UTC
You need a spark inside the mind,
That makes you stop and take the time
To read the signs in between the lines.
You need a spark inside the mind.
You need a spark to lead a team,
To chase a common goal or dream,
Invision things never before seen,
You need that spark to get a ring.
You need a spark to have chemistry,
Or the relationship may be history.
Though the future is a mystery,
You need the spark for chemistry.
You need a spark for love to be kind,
The meaning of life is underlined,
You want that spark that ignited the first fire of mankind,
But that's a treasure hard to find.
Mar 9, 2010
Mar 9, 2010 at 6:53 PM UTC
I heard we
ran out of papers
so you ran up
around the walls
of this house-
thoughts scribbling
on them like the paint
we could not decide upon;
like a troubled mentalist
looking for solace
the sound of your pen
against the walls-
how they went from
flowing to screeching-
hands now bleeding
blue
heart; you reached the
porch where you underlined
your first steps and her last;
the bedroom a serenade
between the sheets some-
times a lie tucked away
underneath;
there are fractured stories
in the woodwork finally
seeping out.
You are making the
ceiling cry in the eulogic living room; the kitchen
is a mess of lonely dinners.
You left the library for the last.
This was where you began a
passion never ending
fantasy; open up
the curtains.
The world will one day
listen to the way
a little scribble went
to a house
and came back
a masterpiece.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 12:26 AM UTC
Time is a mysterious thing. One we think too little or too much about as if it was either an extraneous concept or a recognizable one but never simply an acquaintance. We fear to gaze in to its dark eyes for fear of what we’ll see in its untamed structure. Perhaps we fear the absolute freedoms of it in how all its courses are never underlined by incongruous moments such as once that hunt our very existence. Or maybe we’re jealous of how youthful it stays while we slowly deteriorate to our graves as it watches with indifference.
I wish to give time a gender so it fulfils all my assumptions of it. Perhaps it’s a women, gentle and eloquent; with a heart that grounds the most feral of things. Her touch is knowledge and wisdom but also all things unknown. She is sculpted like the goddess praised while her love burns oceans from existence yet she watches alone from a distance quite unreachable. Lonely everlasting. Nonetheless her soul is cruel and unforgiving; her betrayal unexpected. Her expectations to high that even the most eligible of men would not dare attempt such a futile conquest for to even try would be to fail. However her compulsion is too powerful to disregard so no man sits ideal.
Perhaps it’s a man with a will that is ironclad. His grips too powerful for even the greatest of empires to resist so all chose to bend for fear of breaking. He rules like he makes love, with intensity that shatters all the women underneath him but they still come back for more for his touch, his magic stroke. Non who have been touched by him have ever resisted or those who have were swallowed by the tide that was his fury. Yet his heart is gold and he cares more than he expects as his gifts last eternity and from the sweetness of it, just a moment.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 3:25 AM UTC
SANDMAN
Can you see them?-lookin' for me to be them,
lookin' for my warmth to breath life to them,
the hollow men,yes men,fallow men,come follow men,
no heart no mind-mindsick and eyeblind,
sheep talkin' like wolves that I find,
most despicable-Dis-gusting unpredictable,
following the wind as it blows on their wick they're all
candles in the strong wind gutterin',
snipes from a distance yeah they're all utterin'
Great threats from great hollow chests,
that up close-don't stand inspection,
empty vessels-makin great noise,
hard men behind keyboards hands -poised,
with the poisoned pen ready to dip in the deep well,
of hatred they bring from deep hell's,
inside,a void,avoid if you can please employ-
aversion tactics needed,don't need it,
vampyres that need pyres,yellow they bleed it
Yellow right down to the backbone believe it...
CHORUS
*the hollow men,yes men,fallow men,come follow men,
Yes men Hollow men come follow men
Yes Men-Shallow men come follow men, the hollow men,
The hollow men,yes men,fallow men,come follow men,
Yes men Fallow men come follow men
Yes Men-Shallow men come follow then
while I tell you bout the Hollow men*
JAY
Yeah, **** right I can see them.
Trolls in holes. I'm willin' to bleed 'em.
Society's detritis,
..delighted by the slightest sign of weakness.
Bleakness of their lives underlined by the lies they employ..
.. in their contrived..
..cyber sphere.
Scavengin' on carrion.
Peckin' at the carcass. Behind the veil of anonymity.
Sit in darkness as they hammer out calamity.
No nobility or amity. Cyber-highway poison.
I got the remedy.
Hollow husks skulk and lust..
..for coat-tails to ride on. Soon turn to dust.
Rusting hulks their disgusting bulk decaying on the shore.
Soon to be forgotten.
The Yes Men, the Hollow Men, the fallow men.
The everything is borrowed men.
The no tomorrow men.
The follow slowly to the gallows men.
*The Hollow Men, Yes men, fallow men, come follow men.
Yes men, shallow men, come follow men.
Yes men, Hollow Men.
Never follow them. The Hollow Men.
The Hollow Men, Yes men, fallow men, come follow men.
Yes men, shallow men, deal in sorrow men.
Yes men. Don't ever follow them.
A fool strolls to the gallows man.*
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 2:15 PM UTC
i fell in love with you
once
long ago
with my eyes closed
and the dream-screen drawn
we danced
like music notes across their barred landscape
we danced
the loveliest late-night lullaby
you became my hiding place
lilac and lace linens
stretched over a lumpy matress
my indiana jones
waiting patently and poetically
in a long-lost temple of slumber
you come back to me in waves
softly and subtly
while i'm half awake
you're kissing the broken down shorelines of an insomniacs holiday
i wish i could keep you
like an empty bottle in the window-sill
or a heart arrhythmia
this lonely romantics cardiovascular waltz
let me snag you up from my dream-dust
and stitch you to my sole like a lost boys shadow
let me find you in my reality
tip-toeing over an underlined paragraph
of a beer stained paper-back
i'll find you
someday
after a long-over-due nights sleep
perhaps in the guitar strings
or type-writer keys
or at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey in the ever-humming freezer
be mine
evasive valentine
i'll even let you hide in the curls of my hair
or under my fingernails
i'll keep you
if you'll let me
just don't forget me
come sun-up
when you gallup away
from my sub-conscious escape
take my heart-rate with you
tucked into your breast-pocket
like a floral handkercheif
or a photogaraph taped to the dash
come back
to the grey matter kingdom
tucked behind my eyelashes
i'll meet you in the idiosyncrasies of my synapses
writing love stories that never once happened
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 12:56 PM UTC
For all the goodness this screen provides;
for its instant gratification;
for the evolved digital relay of self-published creativity;
for the immediate responses and comments
from half a world away.
For its space saving mastery.
I long to hold all your words, verses and rhymes intimately
within glossy or plain protective coat of hard card
Your spine dunked in the cup of palm
headcap to tail resting in crux of arm
or nestled like a lover upon lap.
I could take you to bed.
I want to thumb through your pages
Pages once mashed and pulped and pressed to dry.
I long to feel the weight of words physically
to smell the freshness along each hinge crease,
and caress the texture.
To return to those most fond
charactered with dogear
underlined with ballpoint
and pencilled margin notes.
Even the mild smudge of finger tip dirt
when I simply could not wait to picking you up before washing.
If only this screen was a page
One of millions ever changing
I could hold all your work close
and fall asleep with your words
waiting in rest beside me
always
beside
me....
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 4:00 PM UTC
i see the neutral colors,
they sing not of glory,
they brag not over history.
there is no mischief in their eyes;
nor any hostility for what they are not,
but they do speak,
through various petals of flowers
and many shapes of dream-making,
through my walls and bricks
of heart or cement.
on how many days, here,
did i bring thee the joy,
where upon i shall rest
in peace and auburn sunshine?
help me with no more promises,
but, bring me a man of truth.
i see not any relief
for my shattered self-belief.
i kiss my destiny and attempt
to move on a path underlined.
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 2:33 AM UTC
In between me and you
There are volumes untold
We the bookends
Kept the stories within,
Pop up books
And color by numbers,
There's still crayon splatters
Across the pages,
Folded corners
And still wet edges,
Wilted bookmarks
And underlined sentences,
Highlighted passages
And crossed out paragraphs,
Pressed in between some layers
Are dry roses and leaves,
Memories that left the letters smeared,
And though our stories may finish
And remain unpublished,
I just want to tell you
Our love was volumes
With no bookends...
© okpoet
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 3:14 AM UTC
a large room,
no, a really,
unimaginably
large room,
with a typewriter
in the center
-
the words
“free yourself”
are already spoken,
and underlined,
in the center
of the page
-
there is no blinking cursor,
no glowing white field
-
an iron sight
holds the paper down
so you can
torture or nurture
or shun or ****** it
with both
precision and accuracy
-
careful though,
you can drift
beyond the walls of your
supposedly
big room
in the length of a page
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 2:26 PM UTC
Nothing I write can put forth the right attitude to this situation that keeps getting written about
I could shout at the clouds that world is not enough
But will that help
Will anything help this distasteful look to the side like I don't matter
Might as well shatter what's left of my bones in which have detached only themselves
From feeling anymore pain than they've already felt
You have brought the sadness in me to new heights
Climbing to the top isn't as fun the second time
Twice
I'm just your shadow
Hollow with emptiness that you fill me up with
Just another day in the life of me and my best friend
I've got the glass half empty kind of view on life
As it were underlined in white
My sight still not the best
I'm as short as I was in grade school
But that didn't seemed to matter as much back then
So many words we would say about how we were together
Different than the others
Perfect
We can live forever
Those words must not mean anything since you seemed to forget them more and more
I'm sorry if you're bored I'll try to be different more exciting
Unlike the sediment that keeps decomposing around me
I just miss you
I miss the way we would talk about
Anything
And it kills me to never see you alone without your phone and your other half that think that she owns
You
Were just a forgotten verse In the chorus of you and her
So then there's me
Cursed with a thousand hearts to roam the sea alone
Never shown which way to go
I just keep writing till I find my other muse
To invest the rest of my time in
Before this becomes a bruise
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 11:31 AM UTC
He said I'll love you till I die
She told him you'll forget in time
But as the years went slowly by.
She still preyed upon his mind.
He kept her picture on his wall.
Went half crazy,now and then.
But he still loved her through it all.
Hoping that she'd come back again.
He kept some letters by his bed.
Dated 1962. He had underlined in red.
Every single I LOVE YOU.
I went to see him just today.
Oh but I didn't see no tears.
All dressed up to go away.
First time I'd seen him smile in years.
He stopped loving her today. They placed a wreath upon his door.
And soon they'l carry him away. He stopped loving her today.
You know,she came to see him one last time.
Aw and we all wondered if she would.
And it kept running through my mind ."This time he's over her for good".
He stopped loving her today. They placed a wreath upon his door.
And soon they'l carry him away.
He stopped loving her today.
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 1:19 PM UTC
i built myself a home in your chest
a safe haven, a tightly wrapped package
and you evicted me
i looked at you through my camera lens and saw all the beauty
my eyes had failed to pick up on
the fabric of your soul
the smooth skin of your hands,
twirling your hair in your fingers,
you are beautiful
you are literature
words on a page, kept consistent through years of handwritten notes
passed back and forth between quiet children,
i highlighted my favorite parts of you, and underlined the parts that stood out to me
a well-read novel, dog-eared and leafed through,
i memorized your body,
smiling warmly when you put my emotions into words
i don’t read anymore.
we shared cigarettes together in my car,
letting all the words we were too afraid to speak
leave our mouths in the form of smoke,
leaving only the stale smell of burnt tobacco,
to remember you by
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 12:23 PM UTC
It’s been highlighted, underlined, written on the side of my shoe: do not awaken love until it so desires.
It is to love then, not to me or to you, that I owe an apology
Because when they told me love hurts— I invited it to knock me down.
I think you try to talk to me because I knew you best and you like that,
But every time I offered you a tissue you took it as a chance to cut into mine,
And I let you to chip away a shade of my hue with every slice,
Changing the gradient and adding cracks to the contour of my soul.
Every time I slid my skin off for you it was under artificial light,
Painting the yellow pigment of my skin shades of black and blue instead of allowing me to stay golden because shiny wasn’t the right color,
You didn’t need to see your reflection the truth wasn’t interesting to you.
You didn’t take my honor you ignored its existence,
I made love to you without making you love me,
That’s why it’s so funny that now you don’t play hard to get,
you play hard to get rid of.
Realizing I deserved better changed everything,
You had nothing to offer but your own confusion and version of the world,
But I have my own now,
And I’ve colored it to be absent of your blacks and blues.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 12:06 AM UTC
foggy mornings,
we're tangled in sheets
two puffs of smoke,
three kisses on cheeks
i haven't felt this happy in weeks
she smelled like my favorite book,
with bunny eared corners and
underlined regret
her woodpine smile,
will take me a while
to
forget
she likes to scare you,
with tickles and feelings
a horror that conquers
creaking in the crack of darkness or
darkness
or
darkness
her eyes shine like Union Terminal
and her tye-dye smiles
are opaque
and clear
but my dear,
and my god,
and my God,
she is beautiful
she's the simple succulent,
no need for water
or commitment
but pleasing and
familiar
she's a polaroid picture
of the Queen City
and **** is she witty
she's the only girl
who mocks Lana
and gets away with it
she calls you "honey,"
in her perfumed sheets
with a snowy exterior
on the busy streets
because from carmel apples
to frosted sidewalks,
she asks questions
and questions and questions
and she has a
glace that leaves cuts
on your heart and
a sway that rips your
control
apart
but monsters are people too,
and we could fall from grace together
monsters are people too,
and right now i'll endure
this
weather
i don't care about titles anymore
i don't care about length anymore
i care about guitar vibratons
and laughing on foggy mornings
and a puff of smoke and a kiss
on the cheek
and do you know why?
because
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 6:41 PM UTC
1. Sometimes I have conversations with you in my head – “you said there was nothing here” (blue biro)
2. Do you think of me at all? (black pen)
3. You better apologize (black pen, “you didn’t” is added later in blue biro, underlined)
4. I think I’m in a better place (faded blue biro)
5. I hate this (big letters, blue pen, scratched in)
6. I miss you, you idiots (pink pen)
7. I miss you, you idiots (the ‘s’ of idiots crossed out with blue pen)
8. I miss you, you idiot (crossed out entirely, two lines)
9. Why didn’t you notice (pink pen)
10. Do you think you matter to me? (blue biro)
11. I am done with you (black pen, capitals, scratched in)
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 12:53 PM UTC