"voicebox" poems
It feels like tar on my tongue,
My mouth is dry and my throat burns-
Horrifying twists as my stomach churns.
Those words still come easy,
But my voicebox is chained and has to force them out.
Why do I let them out?
Those simple words will stay with me,
Floating about and polluting all I see
The memory of them rest easy,
Reminding me how bad I am.
I used to enjoy it,
Felt them to be necessary,
Natural,
Powerful,
And expressive.
But now their taste is bitter,
They are sickening and distasteful.
They offend me.
They whip at my ears and stab at my heart.
They are degrading.
I’ll sound like a hypocrite
I’ll sound entirely fake.
They are only words
But oh how they are foul.
I enjoy the taste of tar,
As it makes me unhappy to speak them.
I enjoy how it peels my skin,
As I do not want to be near them.
I adore how it destroys me,
Because it is that
Which builds me up.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 6:16 PM UTC
The following is based on a true story. This dude came into my work 3 years ago and literally did not possess the vocabulary to order his food. I don't know what his story is, but he inspired this piece.
"ill literacy"
He spoke in code
like birds perched
on branches
singing
unintelligible tunes
only they understand
I watched him
in silence
my voice boxed in
my voicebox in
shock
at the witnessing
of a mis-education
illiteracy
personified
another
foster child
of the SUSD system
just another
“unreachable” student
deemed
“just another”
<17%
of stocktonians
have college degrees
17%
such
a juvenile #
18%
leastwise
is more
adult-sounding
in front
of every high school
is a flag
red
white
blue
ring
----------
middle
----------
index
only
the “just anothers”
can read
between the lines
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 5:44 AM UTC
Chapter I
I once was young minded,
vulnerable with wide tooth grins
and fluttering words,
binding soft skin with liquid
metals - like gallium,
clustering in my ribbed fingertips and
letting love level in my lips.
I turned old the day I watched
rough bodies portraying the new style
of
***
on a vhs tape, and he
gave me a shaking milkshake to
turn off my developing
voicebox.
I always wore this barbie nightgown
that had tears from the nights before,
but that's ancient dust that folks
flip past in encyclopedias.
as he knelt down to tie my veins
together in little bows,
I untied after each loop was set in
my bones.
his acidic fingers braced my eight
year old metal frame,
so I broke the nuts and bolts since
I wanted to see if he was
a part of the human race,
I wanted to see if he could bleed
iron-richness that kept myself breathing.
Chapter II
he was beautiful.
his philosophy branched in
segments and he tasted of
earthy tones, but sometimes
he couldn't smile easy and
I felt his love only in acts of passion.
The football game stuttered in
pure vertigo,
as if my body was still
positioned in missionary.
he held me in concern, his arms
laced as protection from myself.
as a survivor, his words felt like
whiplash or lagging from too much
flying in the high altitude.
I needed to forget, float, forgive
and begin the process over again.
I would never see the shades of love
from anyone other than from him,
his words used to brand me.
Chapter III
I drank too much.
I wished on meteorites,
lead-filled, hoping they wouldn't
fall on the tent.
my luck was never strong enough.
I felt as if a wildfire was singeing
my dysfunctional limbs.
I wanted him off. now.
and my tongue was made of
parchment paper. crisped.
I woke up ten after nine.
my body repulsed me,
throwing up the last of poisonous
alcohol I left stranded the
night before.
I devoted that I will never sleep in
a tent again.
Chapter IV
I am finally free.
I still have energy in these
old bones,
and I want to put them
to good use.
so I'll walk for centuries to
find truth and trust.
I use my voice to tell myself
I am more profound than the
surface film those insignificants swept
on my skin.
I found my voice again.
Mar 31, 2011
Mar 31, 2011 at 4:51 PM UTC
Over the course of my tenure
I've noticed something about
These concrete walls and me.
Something's changed i n m e.
Over the course of these days
It has completely eaten away
My tongue . Cutting a w a y
Neatly and p a i n l e s s l y .
It even has a personality, I've
Nicknamed him C l e e t i s P.
However, instead of parasiti-
-zing my life. It u p - graded
Me. Replaced that uncouth T
Somewhat enlightened m e .
Above the soloists -no longer
"I" or "me"; but "us" and "we"
you see self-communality i n
"we". It's slimy-self now fun-
-ctions as o u r newest *****
A mouthpiece & a voicebox
It lives off of small drops o f
Blood from my tongue-stub
That won't ever, ever c l o t!
My business has a s e c r e t
I t s a y s t o m e :
Regardless of Earthly losses
Give y o u r everything to us
W e are your dearest bosses .
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 1:00 PM UTC
When swirls of heavy air begin to
Curl up in the
Core of your
Throat and
To speak is a
Feat you
Don’t wish to
Endure
Because you
Fear a
Frog will
Leap out in place of
Thought-out
Words and you
Can’t risk that;
Can’t process the
Unspeakable,
No pun intended
So assume your worst about my
Desert-dry lips and my
Purple-bagged eyes and my
Shuffling trot.
But truth be told,
You know the feeling of
Tadpoles growing into
Bullfrogs
In the pit of your
Voicebox
And you avoid those people
At all costs
So the frog won’t leap
From my throat to yours,
Good luck.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 4:26 PM UTC
this is americana.
this is the sound of family get-togethers,
or the lack thereof.
the sound of awkward pleasantries
because we see each other
twice a year on the major
holidays. there are birthday cards
sent back and forth, necessary
games of monotonous tag and we
bleed our thoughts in between the
general conversations, we look
into each other's eyes and share thoughts
telepathically. we are not close,
but we are joined.
this is americana,
small town edition.
they call you family as
they look through your cupboards
for ***** dishes. they smile
and laugh with you as they dish
out gossip and revenge. they
stab a knife into your butcher-block
counter top. they sever your spinal
cord and make you a puppet, a
voicebox spitting out the message. they
make you their ***** and they call it
friendship.
this is americana.
grilling burgers and hot dogs
on the fourth of july, fireworks
across the town, city, nation.
you drive on interstates for miles
and miles and miles and every tree looks
the same even with mountains behind it,
until there's nothing but a great red
stretch of desert and you wonder if
the cactus really holds water, but the
honda civic or the minivan or the f-150
is going too fast to stop and find out.
you end up in a thousand starbucks,
a million mcdonalds, a billion little places
filled with a trillion little life forms
and you think about the way home smells,
how your mom made the home baked goods
when you were little but stopped as you
grew because not everything stays
golden.
this is americana.
united we stand, divided we
fall. we repeat a pledge from birth,
more often than we call for our parents
and before you learn what you're
promising. they say our nation is a
melting *** free of religion, discrimination
and hate. we see a different truth;
we still say "god" as we pledge to a bleeding
country; races of every color suffer, every
gender is beaten down by society, and
we are not allowed to define, to own
ourselves unless we're white, rich, "powerful".
americana is a genre, a taste, a sugar-coated
glimpse into promise and unbeatable dreams.
the truth is we're all in debt, we're being
drowned out by the wealthy, we're all falling
prey to the powers that be.
we are americana, and we are broken.
whatever you believe, let us pray
that there is a chance left to
heal.
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 5:17 PM UTC
When I write down your “nanananas” and “lalalas”
I cannot make it sound like a melody:
you have a voice
and I only have fingers that cannot play the harpsichord
feet that stumble over themselves, while yours
stumble over strings and vowels and pretty breaths.
I prayed to God just so he would tell me
how to explain the way you lace symphonies together
white drugs laced with a more dangerous one
you exhale vanilla and formaldehyde
and your hiccups win first prize.
You remind me that we are all healing but we cannot all
throw our bodies in Lynches River
or Lake Pontchartrain
because there are not enough black garbage bags.
You remind me
not to swallow cement
so I get filled up with ***** instead.
I hope that you do not drink too much water
to make room for pink milkshakes and doughnut holes
so honored to be inside you they
reach up and hold your voicebox like a shooting star,
I hope that you are selfish sometimes
like when I read my words just as you would sing them.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 3:38 PM UTC
Down
His
Throat
Her arm careered
Around
His
Larynx
Her fingers twirled
And
Ripped
Snatched
Yanked, pulled, vellicated
Down
the
Esophagus
went the voicebox
And into his gut, boiling over, bubbling with acid
Sarah
told
Bobby
That he overtalked
And she forced him to eat his words.
Jan 30, 2010
Jan 30, 2010 at 7:59 PM UTC
I write an evening by the
waterfront with candlelight
Freemasons paving the
boardwalk. In the
morning the newspaper
prints my biography and
I laugh cacophonously.
I stand in my treehouse
and scream a note of
finality. I learn how to
synchronize and mispronounce
waning and soon I
realize.
I have left my voicebox
in my other pants.
Ulysses sang the blues today
but the sirens had more soul.
"So wrap your head in a scarf,"
I say! "Paint your house grey
and your churches red."
Jesus sang the blues today
but the sinners had more heart.
Dare ye burn a cross or
run afoul or sob for the mountain?
Then name yourself an apostle
and head for the hills of your
heaven above.
I sang the blues today
but the liars-
The plane lands with a thunk.
I roll my window shade up.
Sand turns to grain and
rainbows to tornadoes.
I have arrived.
I go to the gun shop and empty
the cash register before it is
too late. My uncle calls from
prison to wish me a happy
Boxing Day. I rent an apartment,
a car, a television, a diploma.
My thoughts are scattered and
my words ring through my head,
but these blues shan't get to
me any longer.
The truth, I decide, is overrated.
I study metaphysics, pataphysics,
and I am going to be sick. Our
hero reads Hopkins and takes
another shot.
Today I stay in bed
and count the cracks
in the ceiling.
May 5, 2011
May 5, 2011 at 1:09 AM UTC
Poetry is my voicebox
Instead of translating
Sounds into wavelengths
It transalates my
Thoughts into strings
Of fragile and delicate letters
Held together only by the weak thoughts of my mind
Barely heard through the clutter
And chaos
The jumbled fragments of dreams
All cracked from the emotions
That I've held in too long
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 7:54 AM UTC
Things That Don't Typically Evoke Poetry #3 Poem
4/28/2014
Oh mailbox.
If only you had a voicebox.
You could bark like a dog.
Scare off that suspicious mailman named Bob.
Or yell at the kids playing in my yard.
You wouldn't have to try very hard.
To be good at your job.
Because I'd stop by to say hello everyday.
Just to know that I could receive my new news.
In a more interesting kind of way.
Oh mailbox, the things you would say.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 5:23 AM UTC
When everything became straight, dead lines, your heartbeat (the sound I call home) for example, I began to wonder.
I wonder about all the words you were going to say.
What other thoughts did and would you have had. Were they dyed a pretty hue, a blush of pink or inky blue?
Now, does your voice pretend not exist in your voicebox.
Because, your throw your back laughter is still in the wink of the smile, I will crinkle someday.
The dips and curves of your voice snuggle close against the ragged and rough edges of my mind.
It will do, it will have to do.
Beneath my closed eyelids, my heartbeat flutters and hiccups for, I still remember the night your lips lightly pressed on the the left rib of my ribcage.
As much as it is hard to admit, a sliver of my being lives for you.
And perhaps, that is the greatest love anyone could imagine.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 7:51 AM UTC
You like to pretend there's no poetry in you
while you are
...drifting, drifting, drifting...
as it were.
Creative forces weave their way through your soft hair,
out through your voicebox,
down through your hands.
Doubt swims about
in your freshly trodden mind,
however.
But a voice I do hear
in soothing baritone swells.
Strong hands that do heal
straight from a good heart alone.
Your courage speaks louder than both, I feel,
and the poetry exists-
in the fern colored Seven Seas that are your eyes.
Glistens like a sharp needle
which pierces sharply through my own delicate skin.
Apr 8, 2010
Apr 8, 2010 at 7:13 AM UTC
she's been different since the flame in her eyes got snuffed out;
they say it's heartbreak but i think a better word is hibernation.
she lights up and ***** smoke into her deepest, darkest corners
but it's not quite the same as a fire in her own hearth.
and maybe the whiskey burns her throat the same way
the words she spit to defend her ideas did
but sparks haven't flown from her voicebox in a long time.
god **** she gave a whole new meaning to carrying a torch for that boy
but now her life is going up in flames.
and wouldn't you think, after that, those substance burns
would be a hell of a lot less dangerous than going supernova.
eventually, every wildfire burns itself out.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 1:26 AM UTC
when we met
i told you
that i liked to spill my insides
all over the paper
and you told me
that you liked to fix things.
take them apart
just to rebuild
and i fell asleep thinking about
if your brows scrunch together
when you are fixing your mother's hard drive
or if your tongue refuses to rest
comfortably in your mouth
when you are focusing.
i never thought that
you would break me apart
and lay out my insides
all over your bedroom floor
just so you could try to fix me up
with tape and glue and whispered sentiments
but by the time i had figured it out
you had already taken my voicebox
placed it under your mattress like
a trophy that you could pull out
and show off to your friends.
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 10:18 AM UTC
i do not trust my mind anymore
the sockets of my eyes
contain a thousand burning suns
and the voicebox in my throat
traps white noise
but the cranium i possess
is merely a container
of pandora's worst nightmare
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 10:36 PM UTC
Today, tiredness
has strapped itself
to my ankle bones.
I'm walking upstairs
with adult weight,
dragging eyelids open,
nudging consciousness
still lying in the road -
desperate to drive along
that towering bridge
and back into
last nite, the strokes
of three, four and five
passed me knowingly
like a former lover.
Grudges were embedded
long before the peak.
There were teeth marks
left in breeze blocks,
street signs stolen
as the town went under.
Down a park slide,
we deep-dived life.
Climbed theatre roofs
to discuss our plays.
Threw our shoes,
plus socks, in frost,
before settling on home.
American video calls.
Empty cereal bowls.
Maybe six or seven
goodnight smokes
with a slumped hug,
voicebox croaked
during the final tokes
and I'm under covers -
today, tomorrow.
There are crumbs
on a camera lens
and fingerprints
smudged on mirrors
hidden behind a face.
I'm not coherent,
feeling anything
but God, this Sunday.
Sep 8, 2020
Sep 8, 2020 at 4:27 PM UTC
there was a short sweet wait before the worry.
why do i miss you when youre next to me?
i try to fight
you take me back:
warm plaster walls and obtrusive matter. a mirror made from bolts and metal sheets, the taste of ensure. bathroom wall etchings, comfortable silence and silence that isn't so safe. hiding your hurt in the hallway and bleeding it out after bedtime.
i deflate-
i combust.
why do you make me feel like this?
i try speaking to you, but im just pulling the string
on your back
that connects
to the voicebox,
you say sorry in the way you always do.
i memorized your automated response.
i'm thinking i can't do this anymore.
Apr 30, 2021
Apr 30, 2021 at 3:08 PM UTC
I want to scream at the top of my lungs
But sadness is a quiet song
And my lungs are weak from shallow breaths
And my racing heart gets no rest
Silence can be just as profound
But not when your veins course with sound
And voices whisper in your ear
Sometimes you need to hear more than an echo
The world needs to hear what I feel
So I can be sure that's it's real
Because even the words I put down in ink
Don't hold the power of what I speak
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 2:57 PM UTC
I envy some birds, only the ones that can soar.
They have time.
To see, to be. They are the wind.
I envy the wind, silent, overwhelming, in control with no words.
Everyone goes with the wind, they have no choice. No voice no box, no voicebox, no locks.
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 2:09 PM UTC
too many nights i spend out here
to gaze at the stars & navy blue sky
the darkness calls but i do not hear
the moon's brightness sights me & summons me to fly
and i give in
she grabs my neck with great care
my voicebox is grounded as if i spoke into a tin
canned she 's very quick with the hands her fingers swerve delicately as i stare
pay attention as she measures the contours of my body with her palms
with each glide & slide each line parallels
then with the tip of her finger she flawlessly navigates my thoughts
down came the sweat of bliss pleasure
our bodies connected like electrical currents
my blood circulation active like radioactive shockwaves (its_lukay)
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 4:21 AM UTC
too many nights i spend out here
to gaze at the stars & navy blue sky
the darkness calls but i do not hear
the moon's brightness sights me & summons me to fly
and i give in
she grabs my neck with great care
my voicebox is grounded as if i spoke into a tin
canned she 's very quick with the hands her fingers swerve delicately as i stare
pay attention as she measures the contours of my body with her palms
with each glide & slide each line parallels
then with the tip of her finger she flawlessly navigates my thoughts
down came the sweat of bliss pleasure
our bodies connected like electrical currents
my blood circulation active like radioactive shockwaves
(xx_raphael)
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 1:22 PM UTC
the boy keeps quiet about his room. his toys gather for bully scenes. his toys even have a graveyard. when one goes missing, he believes in an angel. his mother hides her applause from his father like a tracking device. the three live together at different times in a pre-existing broken home with two chimneys. forest the boy thinks is the forgotten back of a forest creature. when in the room he is quiet about, the boy grooms each wall to be a window for one day and for when that one day comes. my girlfriend grieves in public to tell me how his mother and father were not long ago so lovely and so accused. he was the only boy who couldn’t see a crow without seeing through it. could be he’s the blood in her voicebox.
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 1:09 PM UTC
I struggle to voice my thoughts,
each consonant lost somewhere;
stuck between my lips and throat,
each intended syllable lies dormant
and waiting.
Even when I pass the threshold of speech
all that comes out is a jumble of pleasantries
constructed by my forefathers,
their forefathers
and those before them.
For now, I am bound to my pen,
the inky tears have stained my skin
and I am still standing.
The thick fog which obscures my voicebox
can't obstruct the flow in which my thoughts spill
violently onto the page.
Mar 4, 2019
Mar 4, 2019 at 12:24 PM UTC
There isn't a word for this slimy cold;
Weighted and dense.
******* heat.
Like smoking a menthol,
Chilling lungs as they're caked in black soot.
Heavy.
He asked me why I kept *******
(the soot).
He asked me why I kept working myself to death.
He asked me why I wouldn't use my words,
Only my body to shut his mouth.
And how could I tell him,
There isn't anything to say.
My words have been replaced with soot.
My voicebox is just an ashtray.
It's killed everything.
It's eaten everything.
The monster is back.
And more insidious than ever.
A chill goes down my spine as wind dances
Into the space between my ears and into my hollow chest,
Filling in the clean spaces between the ashen viscera.
I'm afraid I'm dead.
I'm so cold and hollow.
My eyes scream 'vacancy'
Because I can't contort my mouth
Into anything intelligible
Nor force audible syllables through my throat.
I'm sorry.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 9:05 PM UTC