"unsharpened" poems - Hello Poetry

I ***** stanzas - I spew literary clutter My poetry is aimless The words all muddled I write unsharpened The point pressed pointless A fire smoldering with no tinder The universe questions its existence

0

May 8, 2015

May 8, 2015 at 4:47 PM UTC

zakiy-zakaria

wordpuke

I ***** stanzas - I spew literary clutter My poetry is aimless The words all muddled I write unsharpened The point pressed pointless A fire smoldering with no tinder The universe questions its existence

8

You are blue Your companionship has long since gone away Your words come slowly if ever Your interjections have no meaning Your passion is a doused flame Your decisions are unfair You are bronze Your shine is lackluster Your potential is untapped Your enthusiasm is misdirected You are rust Your intellect is a-waste Your trust is broken Your mind is now clouded You are brown Your ear is unsharpened You coughs are unnatural Your friendship is valued even yet You are orange Your ethic is admirable Your company is comical Your life is my soaps You are yellow Your face is but fair Your skin has blemishes Your actions not so demure – but yet You are red Your actions are fuel for my fire Your intentions are good but the crafted hands left wanting You are Violet Your pain was great Your color is of love Your solid perseverance is for me You are White Your brilliance outshines mine Your patience burns as fast as light Your opinion flares as bright as magnesium Black is not found Deep down I have looked But came back wanting Is that naïve?

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Jun 30, 2013

Jun 30, 2013 at 5:59 PM UTC

steven-fried

Colors

You are blue Your companionship has long since gone away Your words come slowly if ever Your interjections have no meaning Your passion is a doused flame Your decisions are unfair You are bronze Your shine is lackluster Your potential is untapped Your enthusiasm is misdirected You are rust Your intellect is a-waste Your trust is broken Your mind is now clouded You are brown Your ear is unsharpened You coughs are unnatural Your friendship is valued even yet You are orange Your ethic is admirable Your company is comical Your life is my soaps You are yellow Your face is but fair Your skin has blemishes Your actions not so demure – but yet You are red Your actions are fuel for my fire Your intentions are good but the crafted hands left wanting You are Violet Your pain was great Your color is of love Your solid perseverance is for me You are White Your brilliance outshines mine Your patience burns as fast as light Your opinion flares as bright as magnesium Black is not found Deep down I have looked But came back wanting Is that naïve?

51

It's a Thursday night and I'm higher than I've been all week. The boy told me this was the good stuff (as he does every week) so I took it on faith that he was exaggerating. Two blows later and I can barely read the late Mr. Vizzini's words. My body feels warmer than it has since November of 2012, and my face is itchier than my last year in Boy Scouts, circa 2008. The walls of my room seems a lighter shade of purple than the have in years and my carpet is not as stained as it was this morning. Old Polaroids of my parents' wedding are tacked on my wall, and in those pictures my grandmother is the most beautiful women in the world. Thank God for muscle memory, and thank God for compulsive ************ and thank God unsharpened pencils, and thank God for everything else that my body knows how to do and everything that I can see in my room and put down in this poem. There is no purpose to this, but today I asked a friend of mine why she is always looking at the sky and she told me because if she looks at it long enough it isn't the sky at all. It is her and she can speak to herself and she can thank God for compulsive ************ and ****** science fiction literature.

0

Feb 21, 2014

Feb 21, 2014 at 1:43 AM UTC

jeremy-duff

Compulsive ************ and ****** Science Fiction Literature

It's a Thursday night and I'm higher than I've been all week. The boy told me this was the good stuff (as he does every week) so I took it on faith that he was exaggerating. Two blows later and I can barely read the late Mr. Vizzini's words. My body feels warmer than it has since November of 2012, and my face is itchier than my last year in Boy Scouts, circa 2008. The walls of my room seems a lighter shade of purple than the have in years and my carpet is not as stained as it was this morning. Old Polaroids of my parents' wedding are tacked on my wall, and in those pictures my grandmother is the most beautiful women in the world. Thank God for muscle memory, and thank God for compulsive ************ and thank God unsharpened pencils, and thank God for everything else that my body knows how to do and everything that I can see in my room and put down in this poem. There is no purpose to this, but today I asked a friend of mine why she is always looking at the sky and she told me because if she looks at it long enough it isn't the sky at all. It is her and she can speak to herself and she can thank God for compulsive ************ and ****** science fiction literature.

25

It's a somber feeling when the winds of autumn come slipping through the gaps under your front door. They sneak in, like the smell of unsharpened pencils, and slip on like new jeans bought for the new year. It is during autumn that life truly starts again. Summer's sleepless nights give way to the October winds that make you twirl and dance in your kitchen with windows wide open. It roses your cheeks with the mornings of November, warms your soul with the mouthfuls of coffee on the August nights when your books have not yet been creased. And as your highlight the texts and the memories of friends' faces lit by orange fires, remember that autumn is your season of purpose; Its winds promise the turning of new leaves; its day promise new adventures, And its chill will rattle your bones and awaken the sleeping siren that summer always leaves forgotten.

0

Aug 29, 2015

Aug 29, 2015 at 2:31 AM UTC

chasingshores

Practical Magic

It's a somber feeling when the winds of autumn come slipping through the gaps under your front door. They sneak in, like the smell of unsharpened pencils, and slip on like new jeans bought for the new year. It is during autumn that life truly starts again. Summer's sleepless nights give way to the October winds that make you twirl and dance in your kitchen with windows wide open. It roses your cheeks with the mornings of November, warms your soul with the mouthfuls of coffee on the August nights when your books have not yet been creased. And as your highlight the texts and the memories of friends' faces lit by orange fires, remember that autumn is your season of purpose; Its winds promise the turning of new leaves; its day promise new adventures, And its chill will rattle your bones and awaken the sleeping siren that summer always leaves forgotten.

22

from day one it was spoon feed ME and from then on it was bite the hand that feeds thee feed me fear eat me taste the blood sweat and tears a hearty meal of violence from the silent weeping when no one will fill the cup of silence for the thirsty to the unsharpened outspoken fork and knife a voice calling fill my stomach and serve me a three course meal for the needy pleasing but still hungry and demanding hand em the entire platter cause it don't matter a second helping isn't enough the server the waiter or the waiting on unsatisfied beings feed me something easy to digest so I can't rest easy seizing the cook the butcher or the maid mouths watering for the after taste.

0

Jan 26, 2014

Jan 26, 2014 at 6:51 PM UTC

alexis-9

The After Taste

from day one it was spoon feed ME and from then on it was bite the hand that feeds thee feed me fear eat me taste the blood sweat and tears a hearty meal of violence from the silent weeping when no one will fill the cup of silence for the thirsty to the unsharpened outspoken fork and knife a voice calling fill my stomach and serve me a three course meal for the needy pleasing but still hungry and demanding hand em the entire platter cause it don't matter a second helping isn't enough the server the waiter or the waiting on unsatisfied beings feed me something easy to digest so I can't rest easy seizing the cook the butcher or the maid mouths watering for the after taste.

46

She says throw out the dishes she says go to sleep she says we’re definitely getting older everyday you’re getting older everyday she says how does my skin look she says where is the moon she says no she says buy me a water, unlock the door for me, the bus is here she says I’m ten minutes late twenty fifteen thirty thirteen the astronaut is here and he’s about to leave without you goodbye rocket ship she says I’m a rocket ship she says you’ll never be a rocket ship she says your face is tarnished ruined like knives left unsharpened like blackberries creamed on the walls remember the deathwalls she says look at us we’re talking in rhythm now.

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Jan 11, 2014

Jan 11, 2014 at 10:47 PM UTC

loisa-f

UNLOCK THE FRONT DOOR

She says throw out the dishes she says go to sleep she says we’re definitely getting older everyday you’re getting older everyday she says how does my skin look she says where is the moon she says no she says buy me a water, unlock the door for me, the bus is here she says I’m ten minutes late twenty fifteen thirty thirteen the astronaut is here and he’s about to leave without you goodbye rocket ship she says I’m a rocket ship she says you’ll never be a rocket ship she says your face is tarnished ruined like knives left unsharpened like blackberries creamed on the walls remember the deathwalls she says look at us we’re talking in rhythm now.

12

They said your name on the announcements this morning, but you weren't around to hear it. They spoke it just like anyone else would, but the tone they had was all wrong. The curves in the letters of your name -much like the curves of your hourglass figure- did not drip off the announcer's tongue like they should have. They were summoned from the front of their brain rather than the inkiest depths of their heart. They said your name flat, grim and thin like dull graphite. They read you prayer, but I'm not quite sure what it contained, because the moment they spoke your name on the announcements this morning, the floor rushed up and up and up until the crack of my head met the vanilla scrubbed tile. The room blurred and the room buzzed and the announcer continued to talk in his unsharpened pencil rasp, and I hoped and hoped and hoped some more that they played our song at your burial.

0

Sep 15, 2014

Sep 15, 2014 at 7:53 PM UTC

III

They Said Your Name On The Announcements This Morning

They said your name on the announcements this morning, but you weren't around to hear it. They spoke it just like anyone else would, but the tone they had was all wrong. The curves in the letters of your name -much like the curves of your hourglass figure- did not drip off the announcer's tongue like they should have. They were summoned from the front of their brain rather than the inkiest depths of their heart. They said your name flat, grim and thin like dull graphite. They read you prayer, but I'm not quite sure what it contained, because the moment they spoke your name on the announcements this morning, the floor rushed up and up and up until the crack of my head met the vanilla scrubbed tile. The room blurred and the room buzzed and the announcer continued to talk in his unsharpened pencil rasp, and I hoped and hoped and hoped some more that they played our song at your burial.

7

I.) Bodies of Open lakes are naked Their secrets, Rub like salt. How did one get here What seized the labour of hands. Do we deserve to know. Do we deserve to know the extent. Do we deserve to know the extent of our own subjugation. Knees meet dry earth. It's dry where we forget to water it Not that it needs water, Salt finds form In our negligence. Arid insincerity spoke of more. II.) To follow We left. We did not need to stay A dry sterile whisper kept us there With it's pleas for us to leave. The trust of invitation, Burnt holes in our wings. Untrust of warning, Had us leaving without our things I don't know which is better. A departure announced drew heed to soft cartilage. Unsharpened curfue split bone without piercing the skin. The expression of self. Callous wanderers knocked at no doors; to accept rejection. III.) Reintegration of being The want of murmurs in wanton misuse Kept us foraging for lust, For more, For inability in casualty. We waited for forest to arrive, Bare earth begged of no candour, Trees deny script. Unclenched hands greyed over context As purpose gave none where some was due. IV.) What the stars offered A quest unrelenting bends bark in fervour. Do we know why we left, Cold hands hock at swords needed to keep slight wrists in check. Or where we are going, Our aimless pacing finds direction in blind eyes and guided hearts. All the dust settled, buried in puddles like art. And the thunder was there The thunder never knelt But we listened To listen was the choice. A brief connection with the sky Through it's reproach It implored for something more, Only upon deaf ears. Was earth all there was to rain on? We thought, as the stars spat on us. Celestial offering in cleanse not spite. V.) Love Maybe that's why we left. To trascend our own ideas of love. Innocent foliage made the path harder to see, But easier to tread. Gentle arches hug mounds of green Like finger tips kissed by yonic flesh. To remember the conception in contact, Was to recognize our own affirmation And any word intended for the ears of the unknown. Blood is replaced where word is love. VI.) Relation to self To stay or leave was not the choice The distance from anything was illusory. The real choice, was acceptance of self. After the end of our disintegration, The dry heave, Leaving without hesitation; We are not without ourselves.

0

May 16, 2016

May 16, 2016 at 8:11 PM UTC

dylan-halvorsen

About Relation

I.) Bodies of Open lakes are naked Their secrets, Rub like salt. How did one get here What seized the labour of hands. Do we deserve to know. Do we deserve to know the extent. Do we deserve to know the extent of our own subjugation. Knees meet dry earth. It's dry where we forget to water it Not that it needs water, Salt finds form In our negligence. Arid insincerity spoke of more. II.) To follow We left. We did not need to stay A dry sterile whisper kept us there With it's pleas for us to leave. The trust of invitation, Burnt holes in our wings. Untrust of warning, Had us leaving without our things I don't know which is better. A departure announced drew heed to soft cartilage. Unsharpened curfue split bone without piercing the skin. The expression of self. Callous wanderers knocked at no doors; to accept rejection. III.) Reintegration of being The want of murmurs in wanton misuse Kept us foraging for lust, For more, For inability in casualty. We waited for forest to arrive, Bare earth begged of no candour, Trees deny script. Unclenched hands greyed over context As purpose gave none where some was due. IV.) What the stars offered A quest unrelenting bends bark in fervour. Do we know why we left, Cold hands hock at swords needed to keep slight wrists in check. Or where we are going, Our aimless pacing finds direction in blind eyes and guided hearts. All the dust settled, buried in puddles like art. And the thunder was there The thunder never knelt But we listened To listen was the choice. A brief connection with the sky Through it's reproach It implored for something more, Only upon deaf ears. Was earth all there was to rain on? We thought, as the stars spat on us. Celestial offering in cleanse not spite. V.) Love Maybe that's why we left. To trascend our own ideas of love. Innocent foliage made the path harder to see, But easier to tread. Gentle arches hug mounds of green Like finger tips kissed by yonic flesh. To remember the conception in contact, Was to recognize our own affirmation And any word intended for the ears of the unknown. Blood is replaced where word is love. VI.) Relation to self To stay or leave was not the choice The distance from anything was illusory. The real choice, was acceptance of self. After the end of our disintegration, The dry heave, Leaving without hesitation; We are not without ourselves.

77

He treasured every inch of her skin As if he was responsible for putting together her body structure and curves Every detail was well thought, a result of numerous hours of unsharpened pencils and sketches He has done this before, maybe even to the point that every stroke became less and less meaningful When he wasn't preoccupied, leisure consisted of admiring buildings, edifices and towers that touched clouds and reached skies He contemplated and wondered if he would ever come up with a design, so great that it would represent perfection During nights when he would close his eyes, He imagined a bare lot with overgrown grass, enclosed with trees He pictured the process of construction, men moving back and forth, drenched in sweat, And heat that showered on them like hovering bees He never knew what perfection looked like, no matter how many times he would lie in bed at night with closed eyes But she came to him like an idea, an inspiration that walked through the door Yet he did not recognize that perfection looked beautiful in lavender Nor did he know that she loved soft rains and ice cream during winters He did not acknowledge such existence until she tore down her walls for him And she became his favorite sketch, a structure he would always keep building An assembly of the most appealing interior, countless hallways and staircases A concept that needed more explanation and could not be written, spoken or expressed as blueprints She became his favorite design, and a treasure he valued way more than any of his work He loved her. n.j.

0

Jul 25, 2015

Jul 25, 2015 at 7:02 AM UTC

psychotomimetic

The Architect

He treasured every inch of her skin As if he was responsible for putting together her body structure and curves Every detail was well thought, a result of numerous hours of unsharpened pencils and sketches He has done this before, maybe even to the point that every stroke became less and less meaningful When he wasn't preoccupied, leisure consisted of admiring buildings, edifices and towers that touched clouds and reached skies He contemplated and wondered if he would ever come up with a design, so great that it would represent perfection During nights when he would close his eyes, He imagined a bare lot with overgrown grass, enclosed with trees He pictured the process of construction, men moving back and forth, drenched in sweat, And heat that showered on them like hovering bees He never knew what perfection looked like, no matter how many times he would lie in bed at night with closed eyes But she came to him like an idea, an inspiration that walked through the door Yet he did not recognize that perfection looked beautiful in lavender Nor did he know that she loved soft rains and ice cream during winters He did not acknowledge such existence until she tore down her walls for him And she became his favorite sketch, a structure he would always keep building An assembly of the most appealing interior, countless hallways and staircases A concept that needed more explanation and could not be written, spoken or expressed as blueprints She became his favorite design, and a treasure he valued way more than any of his work He loved her. n.j.

21

I had a dream recently, where you were ******* me, and it was so ******* hilarious, because you were awful. before waves, I used to imagine you being the one to anchor me until the chains ripped my skin to bone. before sun rays, I used to think you were the only one who could make my flesh burn and peel and never ever heal. before alcohol, I used to get foolishly drunk on you. and you. and you. i was a hunk of fish being hacked away by a unsharpened butcher knife. the hunks and guts splattered all over the apron. you used to say i was beautiful, and i guess i can’t believe it anymore because you ripped my spine out only to place the bones wrong and walking has never felt the same. this dream never made sense, like the rest of them, i swim through them with too much salt in my lungs and the ocean keeps trying to drown. Drown. Drown. Me. see you again, in a dream, in a wave, in a lie. the thing is, i sort of want you inside, but i only know you’ll crash.break.rip.stomp. and my skin is already mangled

0

Apr 4, 2013

Apr 4, 2013 at 11:10 AM UTC

amber-s

sea sick

I had a dream recently, where you were ******* me, and it was so ******* hilarious, because you were awful. before waves, I used to imagine you being the one to anchor me until the chains ripped my skin to bone. before sun rays, I used to think you were the only one who could make my flesh burn and peel and never ever heal. before alcohol, I used to get foolishly drunk on you. and you. and you. i was a hunk of fish being hacked away by a unsharpened butcher knife. the hunks and guts splattered all over the apron. you used to say i was beautiful, and i guess i can’t believe it anymore because you ripped my spine out only to place the bones wrong and walking has never felt the same. this dream never made sense, like the rest of them, i swim through them with too much salt in my lungs and the ocean keeps trying to drown. Drown. Drown. Me. see you again, in a dream, in a wave, in a lie. the thing is, i sort of want you inside, but i only know you’ll crash.break.rip.stomp. and my skin is already mangled

27

A new adonias we weep for A miiddle aged life tooken From us by a disturbed Hairy trigger We flood the rows And watch anger Linger behind stained glass But forgivenesses message Dwells in the holy mans heart All the worlds unsharpened charcoal Cant sketch the scene on his deck When the bullet missed the dart board And landed inside his precious Life breathing chest In here we are safe In here a wishing well of endless Purified water from our sadness Cant ressurect our friend frank rossiter Few fathers experience lost sons Few mothers watch their sons Explain to strangers why adonias Cant be here anymore To watch the running Pigskin at the state foot ball game

0

Sep 4, 2013

Sep 4, 2013 at 8:11 PM UTC

michael-parish

A new adonias (my friend who got shot with out a reason)

A new adonias we weep for A miiddle aged life tooken From us by a disturbed Hairy trigger We flood the rows And watch anger Linger behind stained glass But forgivenesses message Dwells in the holy mans heart All the worlds unsharpened charcoal Cant sketch the scene on his deck When the bullet missed the dart board And landed inside his precious Life breathing chest In here we are safe In here a wishing well of endless Purified water from our sadness Cant ressurect our friend frank rossiter Few fathers experience lost sons Few mothers watch their sons Explain to strangers why adonias Cant be here anymore To watch the running Pigskin at the state foot ball game

24

my friend read my poems and said "wheres your point"? The truth ***** I realized I have no point. I read robert lowell, I have john berrymens dream songs. He seemed disconnected, I read my journal, All my secrets confused him. We all start out ****** But we all end in happiness. No matter what I read. My point leaves, I cant find my True meaning of meanings. Hes rite my points a dull unsharpened pencil But with work ill be a poet. Im a delussional dream. Please show me Every moment I failed at Writing. Its a necassary evil I needed to feel.

0

Sep 21, 2013

Sep 21, 2013 at 8:10 AM UTC

michael-parish

Untitled

my friend read my poems and said "wheres your point"? The truth ***** I realized I have no point. I read robert lowell, I have john berrymens dream songs. He seemed disconnected, I read my journal, All my secrets confused him. We all start out ****** But we all end in happiness. No matter what I read. My point leaves, I cant find my True meaning of meanings. Hes rite my points a dull unsharpened pencil But with work ill be a poet. Im a delussional dream. Please show me Every moment I failed at Writing. Its a necassary evil I needed to feel.

20

You have never been definite. Your infinite definitions, each contradicting their precedent. A dull, double-edged sword, unsharpened, unsheathed, guided through my chest by naïve empathy. You are perfection with intrinsic flaws-- I drown in the furious rapids of your teary waterfalls. I could venture on my own, avoid you altogether, but risk losing the essence that keeps my soul tethered. If you are love, you are an empty prison. Empty cells, empty halls, plain white walls, motives hidden. So what am I feeling? Is this pain or affection knocking loudly on my conscience and interrupting my healing?

0

Mar 6, 2019

Mar 6, 2019 at 2:48 PM UTC

KeatonB

What Are You?

You have never been definite. Your infinite definitions, each contradicting their precedent. A dull, double-edged sword, unsharpened, unsheathed, guided through my chest by naïve empathy. You are perfection with intrinsic flaws-- I drown in the furious rapids of your teary waterfalls. I could venture on my own, avoid you altogether, but risk losing the essence that keeps my soul tethered. If you are love, you are an empty prison. Empty cells, empty halls, plain white walls, motives hidden. So what am I feeling? Is this pain or affection knocking loudly on my conscience and interrupting my healing?

23

my friend read my poems and said "wheres your point"? The truth ***** I realized I have no point. I read robert lowell, I have john berrymens dream songs. He seemed disconnected, I read my journal, All my secrets confused him. We all start out ****** But we all end in happiness. No matter what I read. My point leaves, I cant find my True meaning of meanings. Hes rite my points a dull unsharpened pencil But with work ill be a poet. Im a delussional dream. Please show me Every moment I failed at Writing. Its a necassary evil I needed to feel.

0

Sep 21, 2013

Sep 21, 2013 at 8:10 AM UTC

michael-parish

Untitled

my friend read my poems and said "wheres your point"? The truth ***** I realized I have no point. I read robert lowell, I have john berrymens dream songs. He seemed disconnected, I read my journal, All my secrets confused him. We all start out ****** But we all end in happiness. No matter what I read. My point leaves, I cant find my True meaning of meanings. Hes rite my points a dull unsharpened pencil But with work ill be a poet. Im a delussional dream. Please show me Every moment I failed at Writing. Its a necassary evil I needed to feel.

20

A tree stares in disbelief at an axe with an unsharpened edge Unsure if its fate is to be beaten rather than chopped to death before giving birth to tables and chairs A pavement recoils in disgust that weeds and not roses sprout from its crevices Indignant at the unfairness of it all Even the pictures painted by words scrawled on anguished walls seem to have something to say While I’m lost in thought on a park bench trying to make sense of masked lockdown/murdering/rioting days

0

Jul 4, 2020

Jul 4, 2020 at 7:56 AM UTC

vivian-zems

Observations During Lunchtime

A tree stares in disbelief at an axe with an unsharpened edge Unsure if its fate is to be beaten rather than chopped to death before giving birth to tables and chairs A pavement recoils in disgust that weeds and not roses sprout from its crevices Indignant at the unfairness of it all Even the pictures painted by words scrawled on anguished walls seem to have something to say While I’m lost in thought on a park bench trying to make sense of masked lockdown/murdering/rioting days

16

I shall compare myself to an unsharpened pencil Brimming with potential to sketchingly write. Yet, All of it unconveyed, Encompassed in my receptacle— So long as I remain unsharpened.

0

Jul 19, 2018

Jul 19, 2018 at 2:11 PM UTC

Dostoevsky

Unsharpened

I shall compare myself to an unsharpened pencil Brimming with potential to sketchingly write. Yet, All of it unconveyed, Encompassed in my receptacle— So long as I remain unsharpened.

7

Sometimes I like looking at the world without my specs on... Like the world is a painting that had an accident with water. Undefined lines. Unexplained sides. Unsharpened edges. And Unseen emotions. Smudged together like a make-up artist working in a hurry.. Like world is a canvas for an apprentice. Unmade faces. Undisturbed innocence. Unclear visions. And unsolved equations.

0

Mar 18, 2019

Mar 18, 2019 at 1:20 AM UTC

Gulishta

Blurred lines.

Sometimes I like looking at the world without my specs on... Like the world is a painting that had an accident with water. Undefined lines. Unexplained sides. Unsharpened edges. And Unseen emotions. Smudged together like a make-up artist working in a hurry.. Like world is a canvas for an apprentice. Unmade faces. Undisturbed innocence. Unclear visions. And unsolved equations.

12

The cold end of a knife is a hail storm— a biting reminder of why one cut runs deeper than disaster. How loud, each thundering heartbeat! How silent, the fall of a thousand fears. When your body is inside the eye of a storm long enough for each howl to cut through everything, then you’ll know how to breathe out without bleeding. When you’re free of all the things you have seen, come outside— the wind is a dance of good things. Soft, unsharpened things. Things that do not ask to be survived.

0

May 18, 2025

May 18, 2025 at 12:09 AM UTC

vitae

Soft Exit

The cold end of a knife is a hail storm— a biting reminder of why one cut runs deeper than disaster. How loud, each thundering heartbeat! How silent, the fall of a thousand fears. When your body is inside the eye of a storm long enough for each howl to cut through everything, then you’ll know how to breathe out without bleeding. When you’re free of all the things you have seen, come outside— the wind is a dance of good things. Soft, unsharpened things. Things that do not ask to be survived.

24

I wish that I could show my feelings through more than just shallow, pointless lies and the false statements that my mouth proclaims that don’t matter. The story my eyes are screaming, breaking through the walls of an unsharpened pencil into the words on cheap paper, and baring myself to the world through the songs my heart sings when my fingers brush across the skin of another, more intricate individual. And the exhalation of smoke from my tired lungs explains much more than my mind could ever force my mouth to spill.

0

Mar 25, 2015

Mar 25, 2015 at 12:10 PM UTC

collin-daniel

Exposure

I wish that I could show my feelings through more than just shallow, pointless lies and the false statements that my mouth proclaims that don’t matter. The story my eyes are screaming, breaking through the walls of an unsharpened pencil into the words on cheap paper, and baring myself to the world through the songs my heart sings when my fingers brush across the skin of another, more intricate individual. And the exhalation of smoke from my tired lungs explains much more than my mind could ever force my mouth to spill.

21

Like a wilted plant I was caught in a ceramic *** painted like a spider web You were my love and the band of my existence Saying that isn't enough when I mean to say you were a ballet dancer and a poppy seed bagel and a brand new bottle of nail polish a champion of industry and and unsharpened pencil I have a picture we took together its your blurry childhood hand snatching at the camera I clicked the button and flash there it was a stuck moment in time a time of playful zoo days and class field trips Together we were a couple of culture shock cuties and sadgirl themes making a red wine grin You were a love and You were my artist but your friend caught my eye

0

Mar 29, 2016

Mar 29, 2016 at 10:44 AM UTC

trash

Your Friend Caught My Eye

Like a wilted plant I was caught in a ceramic *** painted like a spider web You were my love and the band of my existence Saying that isn't enough when I mean to say you were a ballet dancer and a poppy seed bagel and a brand new bottle of nail polish a champion of industry and and unsharpened pencil I have a picture we took together its your blurry childhood hand snatching at the camera I clicked the button and flash there it was a stuck moment in time a time of playful zoo days and class field trips Together we were a couple of culture shock cuties and sadgirl themes making a red wine grin You were a love and You were my artist but your friend caught my eye

13

I call it Nirvana... The feeling of wholeness Feeling Intact, entire and unsharpened. The feeling a thirteen year old boy gets after making it to a desired team. Being wrapped up in the mist of Joy and bliss The feeling a warrior gets after winning a battle Nirvana is feeling free and composed in your solitude.

0

Jan 26, 2018

Jan 26, 2018 at 1:45 PM UTC

golden-sunflower

Nirvana

I call it Nirvana... The feeling of wholeness Feeling Intact, entire and unsharpened. The feeling a thirteen year old boy gets after making it to a desired team. Being wrapped up in the mist of Joy and bliss The feeling a warrior gets after winning a battle Nirvana is feeling free and composed in your solitude.

7