"washable" poems
Do you know that girl who smiles all day?
Do you know that girl who likes to play?
Do you know that girl who's outgoing?
Everyone knows her
Cause' she's socially flowing
That girl is the same girl who...
Cries at night
Dies at night
She hears the lies with ears
And with sight
Despite
The fact she's trying to be strong
For long
But the memories are brought bck
By RnB songs
Hs a hard surface
But she's soft inside
Gave up on love
Left her heart behind
There's a whispering voice
Acting as a reminder
Never failing to remind her
Insecurities fill her head
In her mind
She has the coldest bed
Her hunger for cuddling
Remains unfed
And her wrists are covered
With red
She hides her pain
With the fake smile
Thinks love is in the form of
Doggy styles
She thinks the pain is temporary
While
It is stored
In the medula oblingata file
Well...
I told her
I see through your pain
Let go cause' there is
A lot to gain
Whether sunny or rain
Whether washable
Or long term stain
Negativity starts to grow
It physically starts to show
Emotionally she starts to blow
She covers it up
That's the reason why
Nobody knows...
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 2:33 PM UTC
I paint myself with yellow paint.
Very bright,
very nice.
I run around in the daylight sun,
all bright and happy and cheerful,
all covered in yellow paint.
I see people looking.
I smile,
I wave.
The paint begins to chip.
The dark navy blue paint that is underneath begins to show.
People are looking.
I apply another coat of yellow paint,
along with a smile.
Bright, happy, cheerful.
I keep painting on the yellow paint,
coat upon coat.
The only thing I have to hide is the blue underneath.
At night the people stop looking.
I wash off the yellow.
Dark, sad, forlorn.
I am covered,
head to toe,
in the dark blue paint.
I am always covered by a shield of blue paint.
The yellow paint is washable,
but the blue is permanent.
The sun rises,
the people are looking.
Once again, I cover myself with yellow paint.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
mouth to mouth-
crystalline tiny cubes of light
into tasting pieces of acid and spill them all over
your black spaghetti straps
tugging at the bottom of your machine washable
dungeons
you purr words of inconsolation and inconsequence
stream-line savior
savour the swift
elongated tongues
of amateurs -
sky machines
sent to lick the blood right off my feet
and from the streets-
swimming into the soft-tailed waterfalls that spill over
cavernous eyes
Jun 28, 2012
Jun 28, 2012 at 3:34 AM UTC
*
A Ring master at the circus tent,
Once told his play mates,
to remove all washable make-ups
from their face; and to watch the
caged animals behind the tent,
The Scene behind the tent:
a strong lion looks so violent,
Embracing a silent tiger,
Sleeping cool so;
Both are in love in love.
Both nurture each other;
Later after months time
Gave birth to a Liger,
An animal born to a
Male lion and a Tigress !
*
BY
WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 12:21 AM UTC
Girl for sale: scars all over.
Nobody told me scars weren't washable.
Remember being happy? Yeah, me neither.
Called CPS again. No justice made.
Please stop staring at my arms!
You remember being friends? I do...
Do you love me? ...no reply...
My face is up here, stupid!
Tried writing poetry. Failed miserably.
Walking dog. Car. No more dog.
I was driving, and then I...
Where did I put my hope?
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 2:15 AM UTC
unblinking my vision
i pulled myself to your back
by the window-pane
day-rays were telling me you are veinous
delicate and feeble
you were legible
to me, its a bit bitter
as the pain by the pane
left a strain
over me
i know its washable
need to let go
have a nice day
beieng alianated again
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 1:43 AM UTC
She watches smoke curl from the mouth of a plastic gun
Careful now, or the toilet will run
Like the blood trickling down your leg
She said something about a square peg
Or was it a round hole?
Doesn’t matter, my bedroom is dull
And my brain is served fried
Since my favorite actor has died
I have too many magazines and too little space
I love the look of weddings with lace
I am a lamb of summer, my father said
I used to build sandcastles on my bed
Washable school glue stains my dress
As I stand in the pews in my Sunday’s best
Our laughter was loud and our mouths gaped
Her mouth was full with wedding cake
Tumbling out, like white fluffy *****
I looked and saw he was sitting right on it
One night I woke up and was lying in sweat
Turned and saw a boy I’d never met
I grew up and found myself in the same position
Starring at a shelf with my Barbies lined up,
Wearing those colorful gowns, all Special Edition
Apr 30, 2011
Apr 30, 2011 at 7:25 PM UTC
I was that boy bobbed in blonde hair
smiling for the world.
Catholic tie and attire draped on my corpse.
I once felt the beat of the sun
as I trotted to church in navy dress socks.
The twilit sun roused my tiny frame,
smile dressed prim when day meant infinity.
I was a new born.
Isolation befriended me.
I used to crave for the corners of a stable room.
When I made friends
I forgot them at the school parking lot.
I played by myself when the other children turned to ghosts.
My blonde hair gleamed in the reflected glistening of the sun,
dripping to the floor like washable paint.
I forgot friends and I adapted to a new school.
I don’t make friends,
I fool ghosts to keep me from playing by myself.
The moon was bigger when I was four foot tall
and everyday was forever.
There used to be memories in those middle school class rooms,
there used to be living children.
I laughed because my hair had long since dulled in luster
and the universe finally noticed me in that corner.
The furniture migrated to newer houses,
but I haunted each one like it was my own.
My bones reached for the skies.
I painted masks under my skin.
And the universe bowed over me in that corner
where the shadows are too shy to answer
and gave me a special game to play.
I developed a sense of self under that cloud lit canopy.
Everyday swallowed into eternal.
I left friends at the door so I could walk to them.
The night licked the eve, and the universe gave me sickly.
High school wasn’t a fantasy,
I figured it out in my sleep.
The house looks best on new soil,
and the room’s never felt so expansive.
I trot along the tile,
universe at my every step,
it’s eyes already know mine.
I built a machine
or a demon to feign myself.
I had a smile that carried a soul in its arms.
I’ve never disowned that corner
where the world came to me.
I meet ghosts everyday,
the very few I invite home.
I’ve made love to philosophy and science before I counted the stars.
The universe ponders my shoulder
and gives me a glory to behold,
and a pencil to carry.
I used to be a boy of blonde hair and innocent grin
and day used to mean infinity.
I used to be the fragments of me.
Now I’m the boy that was me.
Oct 5, 2011
Oct 5, 2011 at 12:52 AM UTC
Me Being Me
Time is a wasting,
things I've been misplacing,
but still, I'm amazing.
Just playing possum,
love being gruesome,
but still, I'm awesome.
A bit ridiculous,
remaining anonymous,
but still, I'm fabulous.
At times very dramatic,
never enthusiastic,
but still, I'm fantastic.
Never ever cheerful,
down right dreadful,
but still, I'm wonderful.
Got no talent,
way to arrogant,
but still, I'm excellent.
Somewhat distant,
always very different,
but still, I'm brilliant.
Sometimes depressive,
a bit too excessive,
but still, I'm impressive.
No six pack abdominal,
mouth very washable,
but still, I'm phenomenal.
Always horrific,
never specific,
but still, I'm terrific.
Sometimes heartless,
live in total darkness,
but still, I'm marvelous.
I think you all get the point,
so go roll a big fat joint,
because like always, I never disappoint.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 8:11 PM UTC
Springing forth endlessly
Are the many sparks
Of My Sensational Impulses
In billion droplets
Splitter in drains
Countless as grains
So high as the rains
Un-Washable as stubborn stains
Day and Night
Wild exciting pains
Pump out a continuous
Sprayed supply jetted
Through the Ornamental
Structural source of my
Innumerable emotional feelings
Rooted in boundless
Ocean of passion
A River of emotion
You forever are the
Fountain of my Love
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 11:57 AM UTC
how do you become
comfortable with
the bogeyman when
he lives inside your
lungs and brain and heart?
how do you tell him
that your lungs must pump
that your brain don't work
that your heart can't beat?
do you pray to him?
write little notes that
say "please" and "thank you"?
do you beat him til
he gives in and goes?
do you hug him close?
does he know how dark
it is inside there?
can he even leave?
is he permanent?
is he washable?
can you scare him out?
can you swallow down
poison and force him
out of your soft parts?
can you cut him out
with scissors or blades?
can you smoke him out?
can you drink him out?
can you throw him up?
is he there because of you?
do you really want him gone?
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 4:55 PM UTC
Shallow skin and muttered secrets between breaths filled with fear, are what my dreams consist of. Bright moons during the day but my mistakes fill the craters. Feeling short; synonymous to TNT whilst strutting, looking for answers to questions I can't even comprehend. A smile is toothless that tells unrequited jokes to my tongue but its all a façade. The Scenes are covered by the curtain and the stage gets spit on when I walk through the door. Numbers of maybes and probablys are my friends on one hand. Blankets that aren't machine washable will forever smell like how your skin did that night. I am forced to sleep with your memory up my nose. My eyes want to jump out their sockets especially in the morning because they want to be forever closed. But closed is a trap. A trap because I see your bedroom ceiling and your mouth pursed next to my ear while I lay; moving slightly for hours. A trap because I see signs I should've acknowledged.
An unnoticeable I Love You.
But I don't even want you anymore.
What's a need anyways?
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 2:54 PM UTC
You broke me.
and you had me convinced
that the only way to piece me together
was by the glue
crafted by your empty compliments
and counterfeit love.
Where did i learn that you can heal a **** with a knife?
Probably where I learned that if something sounds true, it is.
The song named after you lulled me to a peaceful sleep.
My ears unfailingly grasped
the soothing rhythm,
the reassuring beat,
and the promising harmony;
but disregarded the ominous lyrics.
I shouldn't have been surprised when i woke,
tied up by the rope of your unfulfilled promises,
silenced by duct tape with the words "I didn't want to hurt you" written across it in washable ink,
and with a gun I had given to you for your protection aimed at my head.
I wish you would just shoot me with that gun already
It would hurt less than waiting
But you wont
You keep me at the perfect distance
to where you're comfortable
and I'm falling apart.
At first it hurt like the waves.
the crashing, overbearing waves
that were shaped something like your lips
when you said you needed time.
But now it hurts like a splinter.
the kind that you don't realize you have
until you return home from the wooden playground
and the excitement-induced adrenaline fades
and you realize what seemed like harmless satisfaction
sneakily left you with a burdensome wound.
the kind of splinter that you try to remove
and realize it hurts less to just let it sit there.
even though everyone says that
"if you just get past the pain of removing it, you'll be completely relieved."
all you can feel is the pain of the extraction
so you decide to do nothing
and let the lesser pain stay.
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 1:55 PM UTC
you're so vain
you think i would wait around
wondering aimlessly though life
unable to live on without the thought of you
you left me stranded on an island
where not one part of my life was clear of your traces
like your footprints were un-washable, tattooed, and stained
but now i have grown stronger
you are a distant memory
a faded image; a possible mirage
however, i do not regret you
i know those three years held a purpose
they changed me from a wild teen
to an actual human being
but the change did not come from you
it came through you, but from the inner depths of myself
you were my life jacket; but i have always known how to swim
you were my lifeline when things got rough;
but i never needed you.
I don't need a dish towel of a person
to keep me standing.
Jan 2, 2011
Jan 2, 2011 at 6:45 PM UTC
Scratched the stall
Yelled at me in sharpie
From some non-washable preacher
Spelling out the lives of others
Or dictating to me
My own existence
Below pen wielding atheists
Wittily drew back
(or else not so)
Scathing remarks
In hen pecked hand
My thoughts overwhelmed
enveloped
By the smell of *****
A wonder
As to who decided
They needed to drop
Yet another five pounds this morning
Scarred linoleum stairs up
With odd
Unpredictable faces
Like ink blot tests
Deciding upon sanity
Sighing I dig into my pockets
Grasping my own
Trusty ink fed sward
Adding in my sentiments
‘People without lives write on stalls’
Pondering for a moment
What others will think when they read this
As much as I am
I am not a vandal
It is as much art
As this
As much the same
Sinking feeling
That goes with the fact that
I just want
To be
Heard
I just want
To be
Me
Feb 5, 2011
Feb 5, 2011 at 6:21 PM UTC
or it breaks you,
life,
so they say,
this or that,
not both.
life?
it makes you
breakable,
grindeable,
unmaked
in maked up,
washable,
faded faces.
it makes you
unbreakable
broken-born ones,
blended
into crepuscules,
bent rainbows
to the absence of light.
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 5:47 PM UTC
*Blood.
Its stains the ground.
With a devils sign.
It has no need for a specified shape.
For the evil to be seen.
Just the splatter,
The pool,
The staining drop.
Of its sickling Scarlett hue.
It paints an un-washable picture.
On all colors that shine bright.
That is why the chilling color of black.
Is what I chose.
No evil can be seen,
When contrasted together.
Black is an invincible shade.
To to the devils touch.
For seen as blood.*
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 9:41 AM UTC
Moss green wallpaper splashes past my open deck,
swirling and shooting like a dulled electrical current.
The gray sky is dripping in anticipation and fermenting with the washable universe,
covering us in a soft embrace that nudges our edge to a wonderful glow.
Flowers reaching, leaves bursting, hearts opening to the beautiful possibility of
dance throughout the day,
one step, then another, then another, twirling upon buoyant beds of Earth until the sun sets and we retreat into a bed of peace.
Slumber, hold, touch and discover; settling down to a deep place of dreams and joy.
Yes….
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 6:51 AM UTC
I think I'm a porcelain doll that fell off the shelf
I need someone to pick me up and dust me off,
Straighten out my arms and legs
Maybe they'll repaint my eyes
Something dull, grey with a dull finish
I think they'll take away my red dress
Replace it with something Victorian and lady-like
They'll force shoes on my feet
I don't really know where I went wrong... Maybe
They wanted calligraphy instead Comic Sans
They wanted the hundred instead of the ninety-nine
They wanted to name me something simple, like a number
I wanted to be named after the wildflowers on my old dress
If I drew them on my arm, they would wash them off with a scratchy sponge and harsh words
I wanted my walls to be yellow but they made them white,
Sat me on a shelf I couldn't reach
With my legs crossed and my spine straight
When a mother came in to buy a doll for her daughter,
She chose me
Because I am an example of a lady
Lifeless pale skin
And shoes that would break my ankles if I could stand
But they didn't teach me to stand by myself
They told me that I had to be held
My mouth opens only when somebody wants me to speak
My eyes close when you tip me backwards
When I tell someone how I was forced into submission, they say
"No! You were manufactured that way."
I have a number printed on my back, just like everybody else
No matter how hard I try to rub the ink off
The only marks that rub off are the ones I make
They gave me one pen and said,
"Don't worry! It's washable."
As if I were afraid of the impact I might have with a permanent marker
As if I were afraid of having my voice heard
My voice wouldn't be graceful
I couldn't put a child to sleep using lullabies
But I could start a revolution with a single sentence
As if I were afraid of a revolution
Maybe it would crack my perfect skin
All of the hairline fractures he painted over would become chasms or even tattoos
My Victorian dress would catch fire and become red again for a second
Just before turning black
Something bold
Maybe the grey would chip off of my eyes and somehow-
They'd be green again
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 10:06 AM UTC
Maybe my heart burns because I can feel all of the bleach that you are pouring on me
Trying to scrub me of your memory
Like I was a stain on your life
A mark in your history you were trying to forget
You wrote I love you on a broken window with washable maker
And we expected it to survive the storm
We were like a house flooding from the foundation
Kitchen sink shower faucet
All running
Leaking regret over our eyes
While we stood still letting each other drown.
Our sheets tangled up in each other's bedrooms.
Leaving our hearts in each other's chest.
To emotionally invested to leave.
Even though this Broken home of a relationship was killing us.
A slow silent beautiful death.
Like the way the water made our pictures bleed.
Like our memories were weeping or each other.
Pulling out the ink.
Ripping out each and every piece of you out of my smile like teeth
like tearing off the photos of us from the walls of our home
Water up to our necks.
Shallow enough to convince us that we could still be okay
Water slips in our mouths.
Like all of the, I’m sorrys
All of the, I love you’s
It pours into our lungs
Knocking out the air in our chests.
Just like every fight ripped out our breath.
Floating in our personal ocean.
Encompassed with broken walls full of your face.
Full of all the waltzes of our words.
We are ghosts suspended in the memory of love.
Refusing to accept that we were floating in an ocean of things that we are incapable of breathing
Pictures and sheets.
Hearts and oxygen
Orbiting around us.
While we silently give up like the most beautiful tragedy.
Like a house slowly flooded.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 2:45 AM UTC
Emotional breakthrough
Strains at my insides,
Physical and mental fatigue
On a roller-coaster ride,
Lost, wandering souls
In a bookstore at night,
Rampage through the writings
Of love, death and fright,
Titles blend
They all become one,
The moon will give in
To the rising sun.
Mood altering chemicals
Endogenous dreams,
My heart cries in agony
A nightmare of screams,
Who would pursue
Such consummate pain,
It may appear washable
But always leaves a stain,
And after a while
The background just fades,
Personality tinted
By several gray shades.
Thank goodness the sun
Rises each day,
Because the night of the soul
Can hold the heart-song at bay,
Squelch the fires of love
And the passions of pleasure,
Effectively burying
The beauty you treasure.
Jul 14, 2023
Jul 14, 2023 at 1:55 AM UTC
A Take Away from the Take Away Steak Fingers
King Henry II: Forks?
Thomas Becket: Yes, from Florence. New little invention. It's for pronging meat and carrying it to the mouth. It saves you dirtying your fingers.
*King Henry II: But then you ***** the fork.*
Thomas Becket: Yes, but it's washable.
King Henry II: So are your fingers. I don't see the point.
-Becket, 1964
Encapsulated in bivalves of foam
As bottom feeders in the fast-food chain
Small fragments of a poor dead cow, chopped, shaped
And formed into cow fingers that are not
For it behooves the diner thus to know
That cows haven’t any fingers at all
But the dear diner does, and digitally
Renders the cow fingers as nutrition
And that is all there is about cow fingers -
Not a topic on which the gourmet lingers
Jan 14, 2018
Jan 14, 2018 at 4:19 PM UTC