"untouch" poems
The weak breeze whispers nothing
The water screams sublime
His feet shift, teeter-totter
Deep breath, stand back, it’s time
Toes untouch the overpass
Soon he’s water bound
Eyes locked shut but peek to see
The view from halfway down
A little wind, a summer sun
A river rich and regal
A flood of fond endorphins
Brings a calm that knows no equal
You’re flying now
You see things much more clear than from the ground
It’s all okay, it would be
Were you not now halfway down
Thrash to break from gravity
What now could slow the drop
All I’d give for toes to touch
The safety back at top
But this is it, the deed is done
Silence drowns the sound
Before I leaped I should’ve seen
The view from halfway down
I really should’ve thought about
The view from halfway down
I wish I could’ve known about
The view from halfway down
Feb 11, 2020
Feb 11, 2020 at 9:53 AM UTC
You no longer cross my mind
I burned that bridge.
You took the wrong hand
and left.
This time my tears became mathematical, as I watched you walk away they drew 11 on my cheeks.
I knew this time you weren't coming back so like dividing a 7 with 3, I remained here.
Thinking about you, thinking about us
Thinking about that last day you came into my room and we ****** i mean it felt so real
I miss U
like I am reciting alphabets and skipped the 21th letter.
I miss you
What 4?
Like I was counting 1 2 3 5 and forgot a numeral.
May my feelings for you Rest In Peace, like our relationship was a funeral.
You were my Hat I couldn't get you off my head,
but now the sun is set, I don't need sun rays protection.
Like a lawyer can I make an objection,
You used to be my babe
now you're my 24th alphabet
X.
Like excuse me, did I date you? What was I thinking
Like Ex Curse you, I Hat you now get off my head.
I gave you my heart but you took my soul too,
Satan.
I gave you my Hut but you thought you were so High Class so You couldn't Stay.
I called you Rihanna, but you didn't Stay.
Just because I begged you not to leave, you thought I was a street kid
so like choosing not to go to the right direction you left me Standing there on the streets.
Now like a comrade who went exile can you please comeback and UNSAY you love
Comeback and UNHUG me
Comeback and UNKISS me
Comeback and UNLAY next to me on this bed
UNLAUGH at my jokes.
UNSMILE at me.
I want you to UNREAD that letter I wrote you
Comeback I want to UNTOUCH you
and UNMAKE love to you.
Unlove Me.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 11:47 AM UTC
It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,
The holy time is quiet as a Nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
The gentleness of heaven broods o’er the sea:
Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder—everlastingly.
Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,
If thou appear untouch’d by solemn thought,
Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
Thou liest in Abraham’s ***** all the year;
And worshipp’st at the Temple’s inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.
3.5k
She plunges into the hot water
and begins to scrub. Brush and
soap on skin. She wants him off
and out of her. Undo him from her.
Unkiss his kisses, untouch his touches.
She breathes in. She reeks, stinks
of him. He seems to have penetrated
every orifice on her body. She pushes
herself under the water, holds herself
there, opens her eyes even the sting
brings no purification. She sits up and
holds the sides of the bath. Calm down
she tells her shaking hands and legs
but they disobey and carry on like
disobedient children in play. She tries
to think of other things. Think of
somewhere nice, some time once
enjoyed, some pleasure once had,
sipping of the best wine, greedy
eating of caviar or grape. But no.
Everything is focused on him and
the **** She rubs and scrubs until
she’s red and raw. Stop stop her
inner voice screams. Nothing is
what it seems. He pushes his way
even into her every thought now.
He seeps into every pore. The water
fails to clean. She sits there naked,
undone, brush in hand, hair in a mess.
This is not real she says, but knows
it is, she in the bath, wet, raw, sore
and sullied. Yes that’s a word mother
would have used: sullied. Tainted,
tarnished, degraded or as Mother
would have said: dishonoured. She
focuses on each aspect of her flesh
as if seen for the first time. What
you focus on is your reality. Who said
that? Does it matter now? Dostoevsky?
The Idiot, that book. Who cares who
said what. The water is no longer hot.
He is still on skin and in orifice in spite
of the rubs and scrubs and tears and curses.
No longer the innocent, no more the
sipping of wine or eating of grape.
Just him and memory of the ****
Jul 6, 2012
Jul 6, 2012 at 1:52 AM UTC
Thou Power! who hast ruled me through Infancy’s days,
Young offspring of Fancy, ’tis time we should part;
Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays,
The coldest effusion which springs from my heart.
This ***** responsive to rapture no more,
Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing;
The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar,
Are wafted far distant on Apathy’s wing.
Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre,
Yet even these themes are departed for ever;
No more beam the eyes which my dream could inspire,
My visions are flown, to return,—alas, never!
When drain’d is the nectar which gladdens the bowl,
How vain is the effort delight to prolong!
When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul,
What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song?
Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone,
Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign?
Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown?
Ah, no! for those hours can no longer be mine.
Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to love?
Ah, surely Affection ennobles the strain!
But how can my numbers in sympathy move,
When I scarcely can hope to behold them again?
Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done,
And raise my loud harp to the fame of my Sires?
For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone!
For Heroes’ exploits how unequal my fires!
Untouch’d, then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast—
’Tis hush’d; and my feeble endeavours are o’er;
And those who have heard it will pardon the past,
When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate no more.
And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot,
Since early affection and love is o’ercast:
Oh! blest had my Fate been, and happy my lot,
Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the last.
Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne’er meet;
If our songs have been languid, they surely are few:
Let us hope that the present at least will be sweet—
The present—which seals our eternal Adieu.
1.6k
There’s not a nook within this solemn Pass,
But were an apt confessional for one
Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,
That Life is but a tale of morning grass
Wither’d at eve. From scenes of art which chase
That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes
Feed it ’mid Nature’s old felicities,
Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass
Untouch’d, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest,
If from a golden perch of aspen spray
(October’s workmanship to rival May)
The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast
That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay,
Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!
1.5k
Some say
you are easy enough
to be forgotten
as you look like
the most unknown man
they never see.
Some say
you are the most beautiful creature
I should stay away
as I am the old man
with a young soul
live in wild love.
Some say
the lost is nothing
and people are always like a flower
and you are really hard to pick all,
they come and go,
nobody can untouch.
Sep 24, 2021
Sep 24, 2021 at 5:32 AM UTC
If you could only unsee the things you wish you never saw.
If you could only unhear the things you wish they’d never said.
If you could only unsing the song you knew you didn’t mean.
If you could only unlove the ones who hurt you like there never was.
If you could only untouch the souls of the people you moved.
If you could only unsmell the scents you’d otherwise never forget.
If you could only untaste those lips upon your own.
If I could only pretend not to be..
Jun 8, 2010
Jun 8, 2010 at 4:53 PM UTC
Xenia has never felt so low,
Xenia has bathed and scrubbed,
but still feels unclean.
She wants him unsexed
from her body
his kisses removed
from lips and skin,
and those places within.
She wants to wash him away,
watch all aspects of him ,
drain down the plughole
with a big slurp,
feel her flesh tingle
with cleanness,
but she still senses him there
on skin, in hair, in her memory,
he’s still there.
Xenia wants
to unkiss his kisses,
untouch his touches,
his caresses. She sits and broods,
thinks of past times,
of him and those days,
those deeds done.
Xenia wants to be reborn,
be as new, be unaware
he existed or exists,
how long and big
her want to happen
and not lists.
She recalls
his blows, his punches
to out of the way places
(he never hits faces)
his cruel torments,
foul words,
poking finger,
poke poke poke,
the endless
taunting joke.
She feels so unclean,
so tainted, so used,
so undone.
There’s a bird singing
from outside her window,
a church bell rings,
from next door
a baby cries.
She closes her eyes,
something within her
hunches up and dies.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 2:45 AM UTC
Two hours have gone by
Three minutes have shedtheir last sixty seconds and
you continue to ignore the blinking light
that shows you
I need you
I want you
I love you
There was little said as
I departed to venture to a place
I knew was to be unhappy.
You stood there and carried an unmoved face
And I wished that underneath that untouch facade,
You ached for me to leap to your arms
Kiss you softly and hold your hand
that so perfectly fit with mine.
But both you and I know that this such things never were thought
that such things never appeared in you mind
That I am a lonely wisher
Who wishes on what should be hers.
Jul 15, 2011
Jul 15, 2011 at 7:52 PM UTC
unkiss me for all those times we kissed,
untouch me for all those times we touched,
unsay the words of tender and passion,
unlove me and now forget.
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 3:39 AM UTC
touch
untouch
dripping like a tap that you can’t quite tighten,
that existential drip that worms it’s way into your every day sounds,
like a clock tick that renders you unable to sleep when the repeat disappears,
like sleeping in a strangers house in somebody else’s skin.
that zip that never zips, a constant vulnerability,
one that parades as a security but prays on the mind in the small hours,
one that drips and drips and ticks and ticks and decays and decays,
and decays into a pulsating mass holding a shattered visage of the man behind the man behind the mask.
it drips drips drips and ticks ticks ticks and decays and decays and decays like a stuck clock,
like a broken mechanism,
like a stuck record that repeats, repeats, repeats,
it drips like a clock,
and ticks like a tap,
it decays like the mask behind the man.
Nov 17, 2017
Nov 17, 2017 at 6:59 PM UTC
she was insane
slowly losing her mind
Her eyes were dark with the lust of insanity
she was desperate for something to **** her,
something toxic and poisonous to enter her bloodstream
A kiss
or even
a regret
all she knew is that she wanted to feel pain
she wanted to know what it would feel like
to have her heart ripped out of her chest
she already knew that pain though
she wanted to know what it would feel like to die while living
she already had died though
And there would have been no other way
To bring life back into her
the way she had always known it before
Because she was insane
And that was all she was ever going to be
never to undo
and never to untouch the bitterness that lingered through her bones
that made her insane
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 9:21 AM UTC
The weak breeze whispers nothing
the water screams sublime.
His feet shift, teeter-totter
deep breaths, stand back, it’s time.
Toes untouch the overpass
soon he’s water-bound.
Eyes locked shut but peek to see
the view from halfway down.
A little wind, a summer sun
a river rich and regal.
A flood of fond endorphins
brings a calm that knows no equal.
You’re flying now, you see things
much more clear than from the ground.
It's all okay, or it would be
were you not now halfway down.
Thrash to break from gravity
what now could slow the drop?
All I’d give for toes to touch
the safety back at top.
But this is it, the deed is done
silence drowns the sound.
Before I leaped I should've seen
the view from halfway down.
I really should’ve thought about
the view from halfway down.
I wish I could've known about
the view from halfway down—
Apr 6, 2025
Apr 6, 2025 at 11:18 PM UTC
you taught her what love was,
then left,
she would never be the same again
s.v
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 3:53 AM UTC
Jean Baptise Clamence said ‘…in all things we are merely” in a way” ‘.
I possess nothing, but what’s in my heart.
But what am I to love? – the cherub morning, my sovereign hands-the sea?
How to love, how to love anything?
Turn to my silence voice of a voice.
Here whisper of you, I have been waiting.
In me you have inspired countries. Strange
devastating realms of cold lands, wet fogs
and steaming lakes.
I am full of canals and you are no where.
You do not even know, that I speak of you..
I am swarming with your absence and you
do not how do you not know my name
or that it asks of you.
Here and elsewhere, littered. Partments.
Untouch my hand that you ungloved so impetuously.
I cannot place it.
You have inspired the only light in me for miles.
And here I am, talking to myself again-
My eyes become jeweled, the colour of dead leaves.
Yet still you will not choose me.
Fog of smokey neon.
At any rate, you run a great risk.
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 2:36 AM UTC