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Mary Torrez Jan 2012
I remember your nervous doe-eyes
and uncertain grasps
like a new shriveled-pink baby
engulfed and overwhelmed
by the palpability of a realm
outside the womb

The canary of your hair
melded with the sand of your skin
and the rose of your lips
****** into an anxious
façade of a smile

It was as if
the contortion of your lips
was stenciled onto your taut canvas face
by a neglectful artist
and you wore the mar acquiescently
like a sketch unfinished

And I remember
kissing that imperfect smile
and being stricken by a heavy melancholy
that descended from my lips
to my chest
where it burrowed inexorably

Your limp hand fell from mine
and as my chest constricted
like a reptilian death penalty
I understood your nearly-smile
Trupoetry Nov 2017
I ran to the edge of Heaven today
Leaped from my bed and almost fell down a cliff
In a balled fist
I had a list
Your name was at the top of it
"Unfinished Business"
God says I have to keep living until you agree to die together
Isn't that why Marriage says Until Death do Us Part?
Yet you keep parting ways with me in the living
& No kidding besides my Fathers Death
You are the only memory that chokes me up
Like walking into a funeral late
Everyone there has already grieved
So you swallow, hard and quietly
The tears don't roll down your face
They bravely brace the fire escapes we call cheekbones
They know
That burning passion will create smoke in your eyes
Smoke in the eyes always creates water
Water helps things grow
& your heart has been dry for far too long

So today I took the last Birthday Card I ever sent you
Folded the sides of it down
Turned the corners of it upward

Got a running start from Earth
Launched it to the ******* the cliff in Heaven
She keeps reaching for me
Speaking to me
I need her to see

The Earth bound boy that makes Heaven worth the wait

The clouds in his hair
The wind in his laugh
Cools me in summer
Challenges me in winter
& scares me during my storms

He is all I've ever been
I know him
I owe him; a glimpse in the mirror
A ring around a rosie
A 1, 2 , 3 not it
A Happily EVer After
A you can do it Baby
AN I forgive you
Please forgive me
For laughing my real laugh
I know the snorting tickles you
I know you hate to be tickled

The plane never quite makes it to the cliff
Although intrigued by my love
She never quite gets the jist of it
& this stupid list
of Unfinished Business
Keeps auto correcting in your name...
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2017
when I turned eighteen
sadness filled my cups,
for carefree was now gone,
laying side by side
with all my companion figurines,
off to rest in a boy's toy chest
in a backyard cemetery hid,
certainty assured
all that I was, so far,
all that I will be,
uncalming coming forevermore,
unwilling borne upon
the newly time redesigned,
heavy load shoulders of adult responsibility

when I turned thirty,
sadder now by the means and meaning of accumulation,
having thrice now measured the length of a stick of life,
denominated as a decade,
wiser now that the children underfoot,
certainty assured,
would have to pay
bills of lading for cargoes,
not of their own choosing,
indeed, selected unwisely,
by men like me, and men before,
all too old or too gone,
to be prosecuted now for the
short sightedness of reckless timidity

when I turned fifty,
the shoulders slightly stooped and gently curved,
my gait and pace slowed by weight,
pockets laden with undesired memories,
unfinished arguments,
dreams that morphed and morted into
failed schemes that with the
certainty assured,
the tallied ache of known losses
will always weigh greater
than the
unknown of opportune

now with seventy,
so near, onrushing to the sounds
of old men and their noisy excuses
of babbling, ironical,
eerie similar to the parental smiling hushing
of a newborn's squeaking,
a youthful brook,
happily to an open sea arushing,
hurrying in the fullness of innocence to
it's demise

the line of sight to the horizon,
far shorter now than ere before,
with greater certainty assured,
that near my god than thee,
my sadness daren't hope to dissipate, nor lift
as once it did,
an early morn mist rising off the river, 
freshly sun burnished, then miracle banished,
sacrificing itself as a hopeful oracle of a new born day

recurring haunted words
like rest, best and tried,
the only legacy remaining to gift,
but one thing yet measures a comforts,
a red cross blanket round the shoulders thrown that with
certainty assured,
the marvy joy of life all in,
be our given right to err and learn wisdom at our own pace

so here I freely confess
with wry, sly smile that we


proved ourselves to be
victims of our unintended tendencies,
successful in being

**all too human
Jan. 11, 2016
Sia Jane Nov 2013
The cracks appeared but
they were not like those
that you see as you walk
a pavement, chasing the
gaps that parted, each
cemented slab,
they were more like
shattered pieces of glass
that formed on a marble
floor as you threw down
the champagne flute
hurt, angered
passion rearing its head
a mixture of pleasure
and pain
relieving the numbness -
the pleasure
reliving the past -
the pain

Lipstick marked partial
pieces of glass, matching
the blood that began to
seep from her hand as
she collated the pieces
scarring the floor
droplets fell, she brought
her palm to the side
taking up the blood
into her parted lips
loosely letting go of
any glass in
the palm
of her
hand

On her knees she lifted
her body
slowly
he took his Prada shoe
kicking her
a blow to the stomach
knocking her
to the floor below
she missed the glass
table
by mere inches
saving her head from
a similar blow

As he walked
away,
he flicked his cigar
unfinished, on her
barely clothed body
and from a distance
spat and cursed in
his mother tongue
"Puttana!"
"Ti disprezzo!"

She kept her head down
her hair knotted in
the smashed glass,
picking the stem of the
hollow flute, she
threw it
flying through the air
hitting him,
to the shin
"*******!"

The words, pulsated
through the air
bouncing off all four
walls,
she held no regrets
she had become accustomed
to the repercussions of her
own counter attacks
she didn't even quiver

They had fallen
convicted criminals
of passion and pain
numbness
reality a daze
blood and fire
alight

Neither left the room
until the following
morning
whiskey bottles emptied
clothes disarrayed
blood on the walls

In this fight between
passion and pain
neither would leave,
abandon this disrupted
****** up ship

"Stay!"
the only word she
would murmur
when all was
said,
and done.

© Sia Jane
One of a few being edited - so this is a draft as I learn to edit my very unedited work ;)
ahmo Dec 2017
in previously dining with sultry, elegant fire*,
i was a gazelle with its neck bit to the bone-
breathing,
but not alive-
a fractured coffee table melted into a morbid pool of cheap, liquidized steel,
decimated via hazel iris communication and spilled wine.

my skin,
ablaze,
took the shape of your hip-bones,
outlined with red lace and childhood scurry-
a grey ghost changing weightless piano symphonies into expired canned goods,
dented to the severity of hairline fracture.

--

band aids eventually peel like browned, dampened leaves in the sorrowful days of autumn;
scar-ridden skin does not dance into the fading sun to never return,
but rather sits on skin like
wet newspaper
and whiskey breath;
it creeks a screech of attrition in your throat like an unhinged screen door,
the splinters down-pouring into esophageal tissue like ash.

re-dressing the wounds must not be a death sentence,
as the gauze is the clock-tower,
perched in the center of town,
striking noon.

it took far too many rotations around the axis to realize that a wounded, passionately bursting ***** behind a protruded rib-cage was not an expiring hourglass,
but that third degree burns could be the infinite list of ambiguous maps i've yet to navigate.

--

with the passage of ambivalent and nebulous suns,
i can now unravel the bloodied, endlessly flawed fabric to the newly optimistic idea of
her favorite peppermint tea,
her January habits of leaning on the sizzling pellet stove with sweatpants slightly too thin,
her perseverance of the books like a Nobel Prize winner.

but so help me,
if your are one more to pour gasoline on my dinner plate,
i will light the match myself before i allow you to complete the unfinished canvas of my curious skin.
Sora Mar 2014
Beat me, bruise me, leave me your pain.
Take from me then, the need to use a cane.
Stay close to me, keep me free
I want to walk tall and with pride
Stumbled and fell, is that enough to say I tried.
Let me wander, but please call me home
Beat me, bruise me, leave me your pain.
Let me walk away and I might just leave on the train
Release me although you may be weakened and torn
Please don't be rattled when you find-
a half empty dresser and unfinished bed in the morn
Isha Natsu Feb 2017
Someone once told me that I was "for keeps". I've never been a fan of any type of label, but I've wondered how he had shelved me in two words.

I've sought out its meaning. Maybe it was the same as how he was always proud of his vintage toy collection. I was there for his quartlery dose of nostalgia. The novelty of us was something that made him grin.

It could be how another liked to treasure letters from lovers past. Only to flood himself in regret. The names and faces garbled in the salt water.

I learned it was not the same as how my neighbour cut the thorns of the rosebushes, and left the buds for him to adore. He always kept the scissors by his bedside.

The only things I have managed to keep are my pinky promises, my drafts from two years ago, and my used bandaids. It's embarassing to recount how unmade, unfinished, and uncertain I've been.

But if I were to love you, I will not tell you you are worth keeping. Holding you would be selfish to the universe. I cannot possess your thoughts and your soul, your charm will pour itself from my grandmother's china. Pictures will not be taken. Maybe just one, to show my friends the uncanny resemblance you share with my favorite poet. I will unknowingly breathe you in, only to heave heavy sighs into your mouth.

We will thrive among white lies and speak about tomorrows with fistfuls of hourglass sand in our pockets. We will borrow light and pay in forms of miles we need to walk.

I have never wanted to be called a keeper, nor have I ever wanted to keep. The world can only afford to lend beautiful pieces of itself.
Jenn Coke Jan 2016
Written by me,
Written to you,
Written for us –

I am your poetess,
You are my poem,
We are living poetry.

I am your pen,
You are my words,
We are an incomplete manuscript.

I am your ink,
You are my pages,
We are an unfinished book.

I am your vessel,
You are my essence,
We are an ongoing story.

I will not stop writing,
You will not stop inspiring,
We will not stop creating –
it's ok Sep 2013
I begged for hope
I pleaded for mercy
But you said some things are better
When they find how to fall apart
I contemplated you and listed you off
But you said lists are better off unfinished
I begged for love
I pleaded for change
There’s more than I bargained for
You’ve turned out to have a broken bone
It took a place where your heart should be
I wanted love, change, mercy, and hope
But you spewed a ****** mess
You gave me hate, routine, ******, and sadness
For that I never saw your full potential
You shine bright with dull nostalgia
But you stabbed the ones you loved
You shine so bright
But your evil covers it up
You had shone so bright
But you all knew for the best
Rowan Carrick Feb 2011
I am the imbalance
The flaw
I am the ladder in the stocking
I am the beam in the floor that creaks
The wilted leaf of spinach hiding in the crisp salad bowl

I am the ballerina’s crooked back
The tiger’s unfinished stripe
The last, crustless piece of pie
That no one really wants
Someone polite will eat it
And he will feel unsatisfied
Wanting more

But I cannot give you the crust
And you will feel unsatisfied
And I will feel helpless
I am the spiderweb someone has walked through
I am the space under the door that lets the wind in
The bike whose chain has fallen off

I am the space between us.
Animesh Ganguly Nov 2016
Beneath hovering dust and unfinished structures,
stood a three-legged stool,
the refuge of an 8-year-old,
who holds a worn pencil,
and a torn notebook,
like sacred books of yore.

His hands move, but mind faster,
and with his wandering heart, wanders mine too,
to a decade back,
when I stood outside the same room,
the wall of which I'd been leaning against.

My study, which holds worlds,
camouflaged as books,
finished, unfinished,
and the ones that left me broken,
pulls me in, despite,
but at its doorstep, I must keep caution,
I must not enter again,
for in times of calling,
a promise had been made.

So as it goes,
I have kept my word,
but seems they have failed,
tip-toeing in my dreams,
queried and complained,
why did I leave, just like that?
one fine morning, and an abandoned hat?

And I wonder, do they not know?
That lay beside them,
a tiny little shelf too?
Next to myriad universes, waiting for my universe too?

The shelf stays still, like an empty lifeless canvas,
just as it was in the rains of '04,
just as it was in the winters of '05.

And yet all this while,
the one promise I have kept,
the promise is of betrayal,
that I will delude,
and be disloyal.

I shift with discomfort,
and so does my sight,
the storyteller's out there,
his world alike.
Julian Jan 2015
i'm burying myself so deep
so that only your voice
your songs
would make me blossom back into the earth again

your words are musical notes
and our late night conversations,
always an unfinished symphony

i am in too deep
but somehow
you find my roots
and still sing to me
Kayleen Amato Apr 2017
There is a girl
Who always looks like shes waiting
For something or someone
And still to this day,
I take a seat and watch for magic
Perhaps day without night
There has got to be something good
Any normal person would have left already
But the rain pouring down
Tells me she is not to blame
Tells me she has unfinished business
She still belongs to the garden
Giant shiny green plants with teeth
Devour her back into their wrath
Where she incubates
She must prove she is ready
vircapio gale Nov 2012
he could play a frakkin' minuet
with his hands, this dude,
with perfect pitch and key --
and birdcalls of a timeless cult.
he'd hangglided in volcano rainbows,
had meathook *** from rafters.
reciting Shakespeare, conjured instant goosebumps, tears --
towering heartwise, intellect vast
whatever roles he played at night to model for our soul
we ripped the roof from off my fathers house, sublime,
wearing attic soot in all our pores,
asbestos grin contracting into mycophile hopes
flirting with the passing birds
in leaves and pizza parlors,
tanned and buff, shingle tar on shoulders, nails,
iron hard for her and her and her
the beating sun-breath coughing under mask
each tack an instant echo for the breeze
to take direction from a symbol core
no symbol ever truly held..
refreshing airs to bleed away the vanity,
yet halfway on the ladder there
an interrupting brag, my father's fascia beams
report card scores as if a better world they made
in money pitted recess taxing hidden filth- -
thank you,
Bach, to break up pride with existential high
new melodic rain to cover over thousands lost to sell,
settle dust,
handwind bard, aesthete
innovate human
you turn me on with tales of your amazing wife
bareshirt in your unfinished house, lusting eaves,
backyard grasshoppers on the counter,
****** as insect brains can be
to tilt their eyes with me at unreal fullness spectra-circle on a cloud
not possible the wholeness found
in wish fulfilling living roofs
of ecosystem awe and sunlamp bottles
here, and here,
under moss on backwoods skillion
or trussed on tree spread wide, open-hipped for skylove --
contentednesses missed the meaning now
of mother-art to birth anew the endless homes,
ecosophy's abundant cheer
laughter even in the nooks of dying nails
extemporaneous arcology of barefoot
ridgetop feardance raked in soffit shift
from gray to green
invulnerable vigor gained and gone
and grown again
from marginalia to universal veil
'happy evermore' no matter this or that
a swimming hole of naked sayings streamed,
inner wash of salt and sweat, an afterthought deluge
to challenge dormer crease-dive of a dogma drain
structured, learned pillage ivory still
though greensulated soon








.
arcology: a concept combining architecture and ecology as envisioned by Paolo Soleri.

greensulate: insulation made from mushrooms

'the endless house' is a light-maximizing design created by Friedrick Kiesler

'marginalia' and 'universal veil' refer to parts of a mushroom

'fascia, soffit, rake, truss, dormer' refer to parts of a roof; 'hipped' and 'skillion' are styles of roofs
not behind everything is my hand
not everything even I understand
I try to craft from chaos some order
leave some unfinished some on the border.

my home though cosmos I reside within
without being choosy about skin and sin
the good and the bad I have to take along
like I take in my stride all right and wrong.

if you have faith I make some sense
to the faithless I'm just nonsense
so made I'm no grudge can harbor
satan and angel find my favor.

I feel burdened when see the mankind
finding in everything my hidden hand
not realizing if only I had a magic wand
would have made this world an unblemished land.
Ella Artemis May 2015
The inferno, the chaos
It's coming
These memories flooding
Into my head
These thoughts, overwhelming
Gradually destroying
The sanity I have left
All this because of what I've said

The crying, the howling
I can hear them too well
There's no time for trying
They're impossible to repel

The tears, they fall
So did my hope
It's over, after all
Those times of joy
Not one worth to recall

Then, footsteps resound
Amidst the killing silence outside
Peace, I found
As gentle hands wiped my tears
Still, I did not know
Whether to rejoice
Or to listen to that voice

'Choose wisely' were the words
That woman left, unheard
Until now, as my lips trembled
And there I remembered
This place was where I promised
That although all I have has vanished
I swore, I'd try not to leave things unfinished

Ignore the voice
It is your choice
The thing you sought
Cannot be bought

The inferno, the chaos
It's coming
These memories flooding
I hold on to them tightly
Making sure I'm not forgetting
The promise I made
To the angel within
I am afraid
Yet strong, unrelenting
vermin Jan 2012
[one]

love is:
a recipe without quantities, the pages all torn out and set back at random
here you are, take it, put the pieces back together
with no frame of reference
no identifying features
each part has innumerable intricate delicate machinery
that you will break, clumsily.
because you have no idea how to use it
and if you break  it
you can neverever put it together right.
it will always be half unfinished
a line with the ending word
- minused
cut
dropped

forgotten or misused
lied to and abused
abandoned or pursued

[two]

this betrayed feeling can't begin to cover
the dismay when reeling from a bitter lover
in disarray fleeing from a sinful tether
bells gently pealing to mourn a death letter
unencumbered kneeling before a cement header
diving, graceless, screaming descent forever

praying without hope to a remorseless deity
something like asking a black hole for salvation
like looking into the mirror and seeing the Void
staring out at you with those self-loathing eyes
and knowing why you let that Beast reside

cupping in your hands the black foam that runneth over
glass teeth disintegrating in a holocaust skull
chewing up love like the last morsel of gristle
drunken tales told to bewitch the last symbol
but you're not bold enough to release the animal

so it rages inside
terrified
alive
cage-eyed
wild
the treaty for your freedom is in your peaceful kingdom
find it and flee from all the things you've become
sit down to rest your weary in the warmer season
but the fear will always find you
when the bravery has lost its reason
Etsapwera Jul 2015
For the past nine or so years,
he weaves a blanket. Night after night,
he incorporates thread after thread
of caresses and warm words. For the
blanket's purpose is to dispel all
forms of darkness, real and imagined,
to combat the mosters under the bed
and inside one's head, to imitate
a canopy of stars.

Night after night, he hands me the
unfinished blanket. It is soft and
warm. And though I still sleep with
the light on, the blanket is enough
to remind me that the ticking of the
clock is sometimes similar to the
beating of two hearts.
Malika Amatya Jun 2015
As an unfinished story,
Or a painting with no colour.
As the mystery of a mystery,
Or the whole puzzle.
Like the warm morning sunlight,
On your face.
Or the heart chilling cold,
And the heavy rain.
As a silence unheard,
Or the words unsaid.
May be a forgotten love story,
Or as an endured pain.

I want to be remembered ;
Like someone you almost had,
But lost somehow over again.
All i want is to be remembered,
Every now and then.
Always like a beginning,
Which never had an end.
Sanjukta Nag Sep 2015
You are my unsaid words.
I am your unfinished thoughts.

Striving together in synthesis,
To form the poetry of life.
Malika Amatya Jun 2015
"I went through my old notebook
One after other,the pages were a surprise.
There were cross marks all over
As if the words were,all lies.

I smiled over every crosses
But then my heart felt sad.
Because I could not remember,
What did i want to write,So bad?

Just like my unfinished poems,
Are some unread books.
Few unsaid words,And the final looks.
The tears unrubbed,
And smiles unlaughed,
Few hugs unembraced
And memories uncarved.

There is a pain,And lies a pleasure
In some unquestioned questions,
And those unanswered answers.

In something that stays,But is gone.
In poems like this,Which is never a complete one.
Barton D Smock Sep 2013
beauty is the beginning of beauty.  a man and a woman wait together for a stripper.  you know the man like an intimate thought.  like a toddler covered head-to-toe in blue body paint stepping in front of a blue door.  the woman is an unfinished stranger whose son comes home to be with war and whose husband rests until laziness subsides.  the man is aware he’s the devil and this makes him god.  the woman is unaware she’s the devil and this makes it easy.  the stripper is watching a horror film and it makes her want to have a child.  she decorates her home then tries to remember moving a muscle.  the blood you don’t see is fake.
Simon Oct 2019
Words are less important when there actually never together as one whole. Only a statement for something without thought. Coating different contents rationalizing the formulations of single added words. Words with single letter’s acting like separate components. Vibrating together like energy forming a magnetized exterior. Exposure to something higher than one letter keeping itself away from a fully fleshed out identity. Components away from fully established words, begin to understand faults of all sizes. Are they meant to form into a component beyond its state of letters? Or one single letter meant to form into a better juxtaposition? Cramming letters into words won’t make beneficial glances toward what’s really sounding each component out. Cramming is immature. Full of delicacies. Giving identity to something without time on its hand. The subject of time, will create the illusion of success. Something adopting without fair point involved. An unestablished, unfinished, uncredited maneuvering of stating the obvious blemish in formulations. Formulations become dotted without pattern. Pattern begins to separate juxtapositions away from the vibrations holding it together. Magnetized exterior becomes less wanted for survival. Survival intriguing sense of believe. Believe on the sidelines, acting as a stand-in for potential in-between gaps that focuses blemishes without identity. Formulations become less respected with time swallowing up (describing factors). (Describing factors) becomes less taunted by its own grip. Letting go the seriousness it’s been influenced to act upon. How does anything make sense without (describing factors)? Easy! Don’t think, by feeling. Just act on what you feel. Like instinct is more then words. More then single components. Something auto piloting in-between maneuvers. Juxtapositions lingering as the pattern forming a basin of after thoughts. Instead of thinking words haft to be orchestrated by volumes of thought alone. Fanciness will only make sense with a heart on (overflow)! Full to the brim with nasty, prolific, and incorrigible symptoms in the complexes. The complexes without undesirability, if it’s without merit when honing its balance fruitfully. A heart on (overflow) dumps all the rigid symptoms all over the complexes. Diverting thought for feeling. Feeling revving up different letters in the components that drive its formation proudly. Time swerves around every bend. Prompting the localized fissures of spaces without the muck invading it’s practices. Components of different formations attach the letters to the already imprinted silhouette of magnetized exteriors. Something clicking without measured volume. An instinct rush’s past visuals becoming unkempt and untamed. Never taunted by logic sounding too bland for everyday practices. The heart now empties to a crisp! Shows its formulation as a cauldron that assists the formulations of pure emotion. Emotion being the final victor of formulating words acting as components. Why haven’t we described anything about words acting as components, instead of letters acting as words instead? Simply because you follow a simple manual meant for visuals without thought. What does this imply? It doesn’t. You haft to find a center under the hood of your own (writer’s bug). A bug fueling an (instinctive formulator). One not ruled by thoughts. But by feeling. Feeling coats the improvising stature of a heart on (overflow)! Polishing the cauldron repeating the nasty, prolific, and incorrigible. Undesirably feeling balance rescue your merits without rut blocking visuals by thought. Thought ignores speculation. Taking all pride from feeling. Feeling knows all. As it doesn’t take brain power to figure out regular stimuli taming time before thought has even interpreted details alone. Everything’s been described. BON VOYAGE! To the ones spreading out repeated processes never redeemed by thought alone. Except I deceivingly left out the most important part. What happened to the rest of the fully stacked, brim cauldron of hearts content? It’s necessary when it’s never necessary. Cryptic locals understanding the bad details from the good, are everything wrapped into one bundle. I never said components have to be the littlest fraction in the complex. Describing components not ready for its magnetized exterior that’s already suited to formulation. The (overflow) is secretly the instance of formulation. The (emptying to a crisp), is cleansing every detail in question. Showing components without time attached by statistics. Free to roam willingly. An identity for labeling attires by feeling alone. Thought never abstracting components in a round up of early formulation. Existing close ties in magnetized colours harnessed to each letter in the bunch. Colours surging like a rope hanging on for dear life! Like a soulless thread never understanding what close encounters with the capability is all about. Colours interpreting the non eligible into understanding alone. Except only one (overflow) happened. And another in repeat. And another! Cleansing each component to form into words. Words repeating the constant process of joining into more words. Words acting as single components back to back. An endless cycle of repeating formulations. PS… Are you a letter waiting for it’s other components trying to gain single passage to identity? One rule complicates the (overflow). Do not overflow the heart to a crisp, before it hasn’t even dumped the full brim yet! It will collapse in on itself. Manufacturing a vocabulary too rotten to tell who’s free. Or who’s making up diagrams in the after claims of thoughts distinctly different then what overflow’s the opposite of brimming fully. Or who’s truly still trapped in a fixated rush of thoughts!
Letters full of too much clutter! Vocabulary giving tangled up letters a bad impression to there formulations. Letters as (single components), should be free thinking components.
Cynthia Aug 2018
My poems don't have a sentence.
They're vague, unfinished, unclear.
And they certainly don't address the reader,
For that would be unprofessional, dear.

My poems don't have a meaning.
They're meant to be read and understood.
And they certainly don't have a title.
Yes, guidance is not at all good.

|
|
\/

Commas and them old fullstops.
Questions? Hah! What do they even do?
Exclamations? What silly ideas!
My poems don't need you!

Yes, my poems never rhyme.
For what use will it lend?
Yes, my poems never hold ironic lies.
And of course, they'll never end.
This was really fun to write
Bailey B Sep 2010
I tiptoe hence from
crack to crack in the
asphalt of our parking lot
trying not to hit the yardlines like
we did in marching band
practice, carefully, steadily
with six steps to a stripe
six-to-five six-to-five
left right left

and I'm trying not to notice
that the trees, their leaves are
turning now to the colors of
the hairs upon my head

copper
and ash
blonde brownish
honey
and the sweetest of
auburn
on my left
right left

and I'm not doing a very good job
of not noticing these things
like how I pretend not to notice how
you smile when I'm not looking but
you are, you're smiling, you're
looking at me and perhaps catching
glimpse of the rainbow of follicles
emerging from my scalp

which is great and all, but still it
makes me nervous makes me jittery
pocketwatch in my ribcage
tickticktick

I scuff my foot across the yellow
paint of parking spaces and joke that
we would have pretty children
because that's always been a topic
that's one of those half-joking, half-not
topics that all
boy and girl friends have even if
they aren't boyfriends or girlfriends they're
just friends, it's still a tender subject
and today I'm feeling
brave except for when I
trip over a word and widen my
eyeballs in embarrassment
until they can see the very
tips of my eyelashes and I
feel very odd indeed
because I realize no one thinks of that
except of course for
six-to-five six-to-five

and I've mapped out my life in bottle caps
and those pepperminty things you
can only find at wedding receptions

and I ****** them in a jar until I stir
them into prophecy and they tell me
if you were another boy if you had a signet
for a seal and possibly a stallion or at
very least a cloak
or a practicality for inventions more useful
than those of divinities
but you aren't no you aren't

and in another life were you a
nine-to-five nine-to-five
and in another time you could've passed
and we could laugh our days away by
the fires and read Whitman to our
Siamese and drape ourselves with kaleidoscope
quilts in lavish armchairs and just
breathed

honey, honey for your toast

breathe, don't cry
crying is for
the weak

and in another life I could've smiled
without abandon I could've
let your fingers brush my jawline let
you read over my shoulder and occasionally
turn the pages for me and I
could've seen our future and let you tell
me I was beautiful and possibly loved you
...but I can't love you.
This is not another life.
this is mine I tiptoe fragilely
from crack to crack and breath to
breath to keep myself from falling off
the edge and so I murmur quietly in my brain

ash blonde brown auburn burgundy and
six-to-five
yes, six-to-five
and let me close my eyes to blink

you tell me
you're not foolish enough to tell me
what you really think
and you laugh and I tell you I'm stopping this
train
of thought before it derails itself and causes those
catastrophes where thousands die
of head-on collisions and
butterfly feelings
and stricken-through unfinished

like I'm in a game of hide
and seek but you're pretending
not to know where I am hiding
so I can be the last one
left
right left

so I halt myself at six-to-five
and let you kiss me anyway

you don't know that in those
few choice words
you've given myself away
the dead bird Feb 2016
a forgotten cardboard box in the garage
filled with your childhood toys
after the basement flooded
my edges are soaked and moldy
and when you pick me up
I will break
and my stuffing will fall out.

the unfinished scarf I started to knit
when I was eight
and quickly disposed of
for something more entertaining

the dry, crusted ****
from my sister's dog that
consistently, and unfaillingly
is on one of my favorite shirts
whenever I come home.

the moldy cup of orange juice
that sat on the top of my dresser
at my dad's for maybe two months
when I was 12
that I was too disgusted
to clean and wash down the drain
so it just sat
until finally I just opened my window
and threw it as far as I could
letting
nature make something of my trash.

my best friend when I was 14
told me she didn't want to be friends with me
because her mom thought I was a ****
and because
I ate her french fries
without asking.
earlier that year she wet the bed
when she was sleeping over my house.
I didn't make fun of her for it.

the sheets with her ***** stain on them that I threw into the wash.

the paper towels I used to soak up her ****.
my continuation/reply to one of my favorite poems by Sam Pink.
titled
"A PARTIAL LIST OF THINGS I FEEL LIKE RIGHT NOW"
from his book of poetry
I Want to Clone Myself then **** the Clone and Eat It

I really like when he does these list things. They are my favorite. tried to encorperate my own writing style to it.

Also for real buy his stuff or at least check out more of his work. He is my favorite poet and is really cool. Yeah. Long note but props go to him.
Irah Joyce Dec 2015
I was whole before you came,
mightier than an animal with a mane.
hated by many unlike a celebrity full of fame,
and then you came.
Showered me with compliments without a shame
made me feel like i'm your greatest gain.
But one day I was so close to being insane
because you stopped calling me babe
and acted as if you didn't know my name.
you closed all the window pane,
left me like an unfinished game.
Now, i'm a just broken pieces of pain.
People dissolve feelings dissolve
I'll dissolve this city will dissolve
Those people with liquor
Those people with sticky lips
While with other sit and sip
They claim it is ichor
That runs through their veins
Liquor is just a chain
That grips their brains
At night into false blissfulness
But when sober they know sinfulness
People dissolve feelings dissolve
When will I dissolve
Will i dissolve before i find resolve
Will i feel unfinished in life
And left like a ***** knife
For sinners
To eat with over dinner
Malia Jan 2024
I’m made out of colors
Colored outside of the lines.
You say I’m a masterpiece
But I’m so unfinished.
So full of empty spaces.
But maybe
One day I won’t be.
Awesome Annie Nov 2016
Scribbled notes on napkins, unfinished verses slightly askew. I put it all down in pen, to capture a small part of you.

Have a told you lately that I adore you? How the sound of your voice can drive me wild? You're the man I've  always dreamed of, ever since I was a child.

You shine so bright you steal my breath, like rays of sun I feel your glow. You somehow have come to be, the only thing I wish to know.

I never did deserve you, I once knelt to pray towards fading night. Holding onto fallen stars, I wished with all my might.

My hand is missing from yours, I feel the space where your fingers should be. I want to give you everything, but all I have is me.
Jeremy Myers Apr 2012
Can you please just be the one
so I can just be done
searching the world around
with my head all in the clouds
and  my feet on the ground

can you please just tell me me you love me
so I can stop looking around
with every word we say
every breath we take
every late night we stay awake
makes my heart race
and gives me a feeling I can not replace

Is it love baby is it love?
Is this the past sent from above.
Does it lead us to the promise land where we can live hand in hand.
Daniel Apr 2022
There is nothing I'd rather do
than to just stay here.
Bu my hand has been forced
Now I must disappear.

Vanishing into the ether
Gone before your heart will notice
There's no shade of my soul you haven't ravaged
But I must go, I must. I MUST.

4.20.20
throwback to the year of twenty

— The End —