"weepy" poems
Little house
Timeless street
Childhood garden
The scent of your preschool playground after a storm on a Wednesday in may
The ring of your parents' doorbell
The weepy feeling looking at childhood photos and knowing you'll never get those moments back
The melancholy moment you realize the book you're reading was your favorite bedtime story
The second the atmosphere shifts and you're suddenly thrown back to memories of your mothers embrace on a stormy night
The suffocating feeling of revisiting tales thinning at the ends as your recollection slowly fades
The slipping grip of what once was that will never be again, slowly turning faded and acid washed until its nothing but a feeling you cant put a name to
Nostalgia
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 7:12 AM UTC
‘To bed! To bed!’
Said Sleepy-head;
‘Tarry awhile,’ said Slow;
‘Put on the pan,’
Said Greedy Nan;
‘We'll sup before we go.’
(from Mother Goose)
They sat at the kitchen table as
The candle flickered low,
And Greedy Nan put on the pan
To indulge her sister, Slow,
While Sleepy Weepy Annabelle
Blotted her book with tears,
And thought of her Beau from long ago
Who she hadn’t seen for years.
‘Why doesn’t Roger notice me,
Why doesn’t Alan Dell?
I’m wearing the dress cut low for me
And I’ve hitched my skirt as well.
I’ve a pretty turn to my ankle, so
You’d think it would drive them wild.’
‘But men are a mystery,’ said Slow,
‘And Alan Dell’s a child.’
While over the pan stood Greedy Nan,
Was cracking a turkey’s egg,
A lump of yeast and a slice of beast
And a single spider’s leg.
With a wing of bat and an ounce of fat
And a toe of frog for the spell,
She needed to turn her sister off
From her crush on Alan Dell.
For Greedy Nan was the eldest girl
And would have to marry first,
The other two would wait in the queue
Or their fortunes be reversed,
The omelette sizzled, and in the pan
She added before they saw,
A piece of some Devil’s Trumpet plant
For the mating game meant war.
She sliced the omelette into half
And she served them up a piece,
‘Didn’t you want?’ said Annabelle
But Slow enjoyed the feast.
‘I’m not that terribly hungry now
I’ve cooked it up in the pan,
I think I’ll just have a slice of bread,’
Said the scheming Greedy Nan.
They finished up and they sat awhile,
And they mused about their fate,
‘If Greedy Nan isn’t married soon,
For us it will be too late.’
‘I’ve set my sights on a country squire,’
Said Nan, without a blink,
Lured them away from her secret fire
To confuse what they might think.
‘The room is woozy, spinning around,
I’d better get me to bed,’
Said Annabelle, while Slow with a frown
Saw Dwarves dancing in her head.
But Greedy Nan was cleaning the pan
To clear all signs of the spell,
Her back was turned to her sisters, spurned
For the sake of Alan Dell.
And when he came in the morning
Greedy Nan was sat by the door,
While Annabelle and her sister Slow
Were lying dead on the floor,
‘I didn’t mean it to **** them, Al,
It was only a simple spell,’
But as he cuffed and led her away
He frowned, did Alan Dell.
David Lewis Paget
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 8:01 PM UTC
It is the same sad December every time in Iraq, no change, no hope. Really sad thing.
--What I wrote in December 2017
You sit there, on that branch with my dream, but I cannot see your beauty because my eyes are soaked in the redness of December. I am a red man from the land of wars; my blood is shed and my soul is broken. No flowers here, no spring, only red December.( From " Red December" poem)
.
--What I wrote in December 2018
These streets have been made by the rough fingers of our December where the nights are weepy, and the moons are colorless. You can’t see anything here in December just violent and shameless faces. ( From " Stormy December" poem)
.
--What I wrote in December 2019
I freeze; but I do not freeze because the snow plays with my nose and cheeks, but rather because the New Year's tree has become red like the streets of my city and the New Year's party cups are full of tears of our mothers. ( From " Crazy December" poem)
Dec 17, 2019
Dec 17, 2019 at 3:58 AM UTC
No windows in my small house where the birds had been made of faint shadow and the rivers are laughing with tears. Our windy December has destroyed everything even my soul so I am now just a soulless apparition. Look at our trees; they are kneeling; the wind has stolen their dreams. I am a man from the south where everything is soft and bland, but the rigid hands of this windy December have scattered our girls’ woolgathering.
Here the streets are so raging, do you know why? I think you won’t know the story. These streets have been made by the rough fingers of our December where the nights are weepy, and the moons are colorless. You can’t see anything here in December just violent and shameless faces. Yes, our December has a veil but its stormy soul destroying our dreams. Our stormy December is strange and reckless, but we love it because we are strange and reckless like it.
Yes, December is not my friend, but I see its footprints and follow them. It fills my lung with wild air; yes, our December is crazy and has so attractive eastern eyes. You may see that bough, that leaf and that very small bird; you may see them but you wont know anything about their wild souls. Our wild December is unbelievable, and it can make amazing fairies from our vanished tales.
Jan 27, 2019
Jan 27, 2019 at 2:30 AM UTC
It's funny what you do to me, and I know funny.
I go up on stage and tell ****** jokes for a living,
and look super bad *** while doing it.
But now you've got my *** terrified. Paranoid to breathe because I'm afraid it will be my last
and you won't be there to see it.
Yes, it's cliche. But you do have me listening to love songs, you do have me putting on make up,
you do have me running up mountains so I can have a body you can enjoy while we make-
out in your car to Beyonce songs.
You once told me that I "was the more beautiful person to grace this Earth" but Lover, I see your
grace in everything on this Earth.
And snow makes me smile because you like to ski and I'm from Canada so my face hurts
frequently.
Trench mapped hands, a sign of how many battles you've fought and won, how many battles
you've fought and lost, how many times you've picked yourself up off the dirt, smiled at me
and said "I'm fine, are you okay?"
Honestly, I have no idea how the most flawed person in the world, a girl who leaves her wet
towels everywhere, a girl who puts her keys in the same place but manages to forget where
they are, a girl who plays Assassin's Creed for 3 hours without blinking and wears that like a
proud Metal Of Honor, how can that girl make the most perfect person in the work happy?
Answer? I have no clue, but you don't have to cheat on any test, because I'll stay. As long as you
want me to, I'll stay.
Here for you when you get weepy, or angry, or curious to see what we can do behind closed doors.
I won't say "I love you". Not because it's not true. Nothing could be more true. But if I say it, I'll cry,
You'll kiss me, and I can't guarantee what will happen to our clothes after that.
So instead, I'll keep making the "that's what she said" jokes, until you're reminded of snow, or
maps, or breathing.
And I have fallen so hard for you that stone boarders between countries couldn't stop your
gravitational pull.
And like willow tree roots growing into shorelines, I get wetter every time you hold me.
So, I'll send you Steven King length facebook messages everyday.
I'll ring up my phone bill to $500.
Light candles for 3 hour skype dinners.
Because, long distance relationships are hard, but not being able to call you "mine" is excruciating.
Because, it's funny what you do to me.
Because, I love funny.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 2:19 PM UTC
.
*O beautiful sunshine, may you beam
On a dishevelled soul as it may seem
Reach for the deepened crevices
Let light illuminate the darkness
O beautiful sunshine, may you bathe
Upon a weepy morn that wished you’d save
Let no mossful stone be left unturned
Let there be hope to those left spurned*
.
Nov 18, 2018
Nov 18, 2018 at 1:03 AM UTC
His eyes penetrate the mirror,
And the glass penetrates him back.
Tears rain down his cheeks,
And his semblance undergoes a crack.
His head hits the pillow,
His eyelashes flutter along to dreams.
Mother watches with weepy eyes,
Then sunlight through the window beams.
His heart flutters like a leaf in a breeze,
Excited by the man before his eyes.
For years he has struggled
With this affection he was taught to despise.
Even as his heart tells him what to do,
The boy continues to hide his truth.
It seems there is much to lose,
It seems a way to ruin his youth.
But the secret ails him—
A condition untreated.
Without exploration,
His heart remains defeated.
Destruction clasps onto him, an iron grip,
And his demons come alive.
He begins to hate himself,
Struggling to survive.
Hatred finds him during his adolescence—
Like a deadly blade wishing him dead.
To survive, he learns a simple truth—
His beliefs must be shed.
Now a cloak of happiness hangs from his shoulders—
His boyfriend is in his arms.
He has parted with society’s silly notions,
Of which only dealt him harm.
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 11:46 PM UTC
Sweet sing-song kisses take time to times forgotten. I’d compare you to semi-sweet chocolate chip cookies. giving me taste of worlds known not to be. I’d make you the sensual honey in the bee hive. so sweet, I can’t share you. You’re like the tall glass of lemonade on sweaty summer days. quenching my every desire. The binding touch of your lips is a prison I will most certainly enjoy. The words that you speak so softly makes my ears tingle. With you, I can float around galaxies. no gravity exists in this rotary revolution. If it isn’t too much trouble, I’d like to tell you how beautiful you are, how your eyes are more than windows to your soul, they show mine too. The amount of words I could write cannot scratch your diamond hard surface. If I could put poetry in motion, you’d be the ever-so sweet line that melts hearts like butter. I could use these hearts in semi-sweet chocolate chip cookies, with tastes of worlds only known to us. We can fly around galaxies, save a dying world and if there’s time, we could possibly fall in love. You would be my light at the end of a tunnel, casting small pieces of serenity. You could show me all the things I never thought beautiful, having all of there delightful smells and sounds cascade over me, dripping like raindrops. The ways you have shown me. bring me back in time to a history I perceived long lost. This place has sweet sing-song kisses that takes time to times forgotten. It makes me think of you like sensual honey in a bee hive, I’d go searching from flower to flower with weepy eyes of joy, knowing that no matter how far I’ve gone or where I’ve been, I can bring my discovered treasures back home. When I finally return to our loft so high about unforgiving soils, I would swarm you with hugs and kisses. I’d love you so undoubtedly, gods must kneel before its power. So when our final curtain closes, our show meets a lovely lullaby-style ending, we could ask the world, How does being GAY change love?
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 11:04 PM UTC
Weepy is my heart as it mourns hard this day
Muddled is my head with thoughts all amuck
Muffled is my voice with the words I try to say
Stifled are my screams as they try but all seem stuck.
Tense are my shoulders with the load that I bear
Wet are my eyes seeing everything so blurry
Heavy is my chest as it sighs and draws its air
Tired is this body with so much it attempts to carry.
Weak is my strength, fending off oh so feebly
Uncertain are my hopes to see the light at the end
Outstretched are my arms reaching and grabbing constantly
Tested is my resolve, how much further can it bend.
Lonely is my soul yearning greatly for it's other pair
Drunken are my senses, almost losing all control
Desperate is my being wanting love that's not here but there
Clouded is my future, totally obscured is my goal.
Two-sided are the fallen words I have listed before
Strained is my mind as I try to view the good
Mirrored are these feelings, they bear so much more
Enlightened is my will, I shan't mope and brood.
Relieved is my heart when I think of the other that beats
Serene is my head when I separate fear from fear
Loud is my voice as it clears for the love it greets
Redundant are my screams for I don't need them here.
Relaxed are my shoulders, still fueled to continue
Wide are my eyes for the sight they can't always see
Lifted is my chest for the love it wants to pursue
Upright is this body, to get to where it wants to be.
Rejuvenated is my strength when I accept that I am strong
Restored are my hopes, I'd still keep them alive
Faithful are my arms, still reaching for what they long
Strengthened is my resolve with plans it'll contrive.
Contented is my soul for the mate it has found
Heightened are my senses, embraced by feelings so keen
Centred is my being, keep my bearings on the ground
Bright is my future, in my dreams they have been.
Empty are the words for I won't let them linger
Focused is my mind; on my prize no matter how far
Embraced are these feelings for they only make me stronger
Steeled is my will; to be one with my love, angel and star...
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 5:27 AM UTC
Can’t reverse
The rain is weepy
Barrel chested
Sloshing whiskey
Slowly nothing
Only list the(e)
Inner conflict
Conviction twisting
Falls on a tune
Octoberishly
Denial, wild,
Nihilism
Old soul
With a child’s wisdom
shut me up
Just throttle it some
Chrysler family
Blame the pistons
courtroom counsels
Intermissions
We stand the trial
Of your own symptoms
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 11:35 PM UTC
Grandma’s old straw hat
rides low on her brow.
When hilling potatoes,
sweat rings the brim.
Twine provides a strap.
Sometimes, when a gust
tumbles past tomatoes
and green onions,
a calloused hand
pushes the hat back
to feel deliverance
from summer rays.
The brim shades a spot
two-feet wide over
thick-skinned Half Runners,
caresses long weepy
leaves of corn when she
brushes past, edges tattered
by forty years of okra stalk
shaving flesh and straw.
Ice water renews
her will under hat and sun;
as winds feign,
wrinkled fingers hold
fast to its lip, beating
hot air cool around a weary face.
When crickets serenade,
the hat becomes a bucket
for the day’s last peppers.
Today, a ‘For Sale’ sign greets;
the gate swings wide.
In the shed a plow sits idle
while the straw companion
hangs from a nail.
A swig of gas in the tiller,
brim shading my brow,
sweet soil tumbles over tines,
my sweat mixes with hers
under the garden hat.
© 2010 C.T. Bailey
Apr 9, 2011
Apr 9, 2011 at 7:24 PM UTC
The night gets darker
But not darker than my thoughts
My spirit is breaking
And it wants to escape my soul
I can't fight any longer
This battle that I always loose
.
Past is my enemy
It wants to burn my home
Future's bleak
I'm seeking an easy cure
I can't find you anymore
I wish you were here before
.
There's no escape
From this treacherous path
Which leads nowhere
There must be hope
For fools like me
But i can no longer see
.
My heart aches your presence
I need a saviour
To save me from myself
To confine my fears
But I can't find you anymore
I wish you were here before
.
But I was there for you
When your weepy eyes
Strayed for my shadow
I held your hand through
Those lonesome nights
Waiting for a flickering light
.
Now that you're gone
Memories burn my soul
I look for your presence
In strangers eyes
But I can't find you anymore
I wish you were here before
.
We'll meet again
We'll meet again
In cold November rain
In cold November rain
You'll ease the pain
You'll ease the pain
We'll meet again
We'll meet again
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 9:46 PM UTC
cyclic lingering
disconnected rambling
the same words rearanged
breathes shortening
impotent bargaining
the same pattern misbehaves
Ive always walked this way
hormonal litter cursed by anatomy
hyesteria
weepy futility
uncharacteristic of one so bold
the words of tongues
drag mud through wounds
a voided heart : not so
deep breaths
stand strong in misery
mindfulness, like a drug
disconnect and call it religion
pacing pacing pacing
thoughts;
I bleed for the words of others
For both praise and scheming lies
I wish to leave this haunted soul
but I
But I
but I ...what?
need to run?
to hide?
to hold my ground?
we'll see as it comes
a controlling women's worst nightmare
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 4:51 PM UTC
1 am
I spent this hour getting drunk texts from a friend
she's the weepy kinda drunk and her spelling mistakes didn't end
I mean she's a great person but the bottle sees the opposite
2am
Went to get a midnight snack
made myself a sandwich because obviously I don't get any a--
peanut butter and honey
yes it tasted yummy
3am
and I'm still lonely
I've been listening to sade and her voice got me chilled out and *****
Mulled over a **** Sunday addition
started to toss and turn
with alarming rhythm and precision
4am
finally went to sleep
dreamt of my gf laying beside me
me just holding her like a teddy bear in a warm embrace
her loving lips locked with mine in a tender embrace
I was sleepless in Chicago for several hours last night
it might've been the cold I have, but I woke up not feeling too bright
now it's 11 34 and I'm trying to nap
maybe tonight I won't fall into insomnias trap
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 12:37 PM UTC
Strange times. When I speak of caressing your mantic lungs
I don’t know what I mean, but I know
I would hurl you under proper circumstances.
Darling, one whisper falls from a tree silently
so as not to wake the ghosts from their siestas.
Your robe has holes I can’t write of. I can fathom
getting there, what that might entail, wrapping,
as I am prone to, my fingers around your furry pincers
while I wait for you to read my rights to the ceiling fan
who whirls above our renovated combustions like the glowering
eye of our Lord upon the teary-eyed wicked.
I am not looking to escape through the window, darling.
I am diving for your diamond-in-the-rough, peeling off barnacles,
making moustaches of seaweed. You threw it into that ocean-
sized trough in which you drown lizards as way of
stress-release. I don’t know what I’ll do next.
The poor man. You give me your hand,
darling, and your robe, your robe is shiny like a pubescent star,
and it shimmies like a wagon piecing itself apart, as you
piece yourself apart, starting with your smile, which was always more
like a photograph of a dune in a textbook.
You give me your hand. It is a blue egg
dusted with microorganisms. I sprinkle it with our fragrance,
what’s left of it. I wish happiness upon your sleep-life, doldrums
upon your late-night haunting. I am tired and these
machines are so convenient, bringing me on all-expenses-
paid visits to the site of your burial. Or is it your sister’s?
I quote, my heart is like a walled onion.
The poor man is tired. It is not 1904 anymore.
You are not smiling anymore, darling, but you give me your hand.
You give it in a basket with parsley and cheese
and cut-outs from The Waterlogged God.
You give it almost grudgingly but I will keep it.
You tell me you’ve been dreaming again of train stations.
I wonder what that means.
I wonder about your eyes.
There are many spiders inside the wall, and along it,
and on the chandelier’s fingers, and inside the spiders.
I quote, a dream is worth a thousand dustpans, but you,
darling, are worth so much more than dustpans.
But I grow weepy, as stated. What do those dark blue lines mean?
Your fingers, darling, smell of a dark cloud in an electrical storm.
Your palm is a circus. Your nails ticket stubs.
That one’s from the alligator show. You dislocated your
throat. I had a plan. If you stare into someone’s eyes for
more than six seconds, you’ll want to lick them.
May 25, 2010
May 25, 2010 at 8:20 PM UTC
Swingy with my e-pe-tay
This is the dance of wewe gay
I shove it in and lunk it out
Along your butt-crack do I spout
THis is the sound, sound is of pepe
I shook forlorn out of my wewe
all the drips of ural seepy
so that no more weepy when i pepe in my bed
Aug 16, 2011
Aug 16, 2011 at 11:56 PM UTC
1
**I like your light makeup,
mangled logic that never
served its intended purpose,
the svelte figure that creates
an awareness indelible on proportion,
and the intelligence you have
to keep it just as petite
all through the years
the out law male chauvinist, that lurks in me is pleased,
lopsided analysis of contemporary affairs
you make, allows me
to intervene, put you back to the track.
I dig the coiffure that makes the birds think,
its their nest, newly built.
Your purple prose I learned to like,
as it gets more and more evocative.
Syrupy songs you write, and sing
used to get one bored easily
no more, your emotions now are
more rooted and move me very much.
you know better than any one, how much I love bitter concoctions you cook.
2
But then
I realize that the cadence you create is unique,
you look life at its *** and frown,
your poems though rare, show plenty of evidence
of quirky charm, which I like.
Your weepy stories and convoluted plots too
I learned to like, all these are just habits, right?
They bear a stamp of your originality I can vouch,
love your starry eyes when each is filled with admiration,
for me in those special moments,
when I pull you out of quagmires
time after time.
3
I can't take eyes off your face,
exuding such innocence,
that vouches your genuineness,
each time that assures me that
you cannot ever be bad,
unless you want to portray
yourself that way cleverly.
Though not my cup of tea,
I love the gizmo culture you love,
your craze for computer games,
(though bit bizarre at this age!)
I enjoy it and get fascinated when you go too far.
You love to make love in the dark,
I later learned to appreciate its tactile advantages,
and encouraged you unleash the panther in you, on me
though I love to do it with lights on
so that we can see the rainbow
the moment it spreads on ,
till it dissipates and we dive deep in to sleep.
4
You touched my depth in a way different,
made it possible to love the woman you are-
the way you are, I love it
because, you are unique,with all imperfections
together we are complete.**
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 2:18 PM UTC
I became jealous of my friend;
He hung around the intersections
Just a bit too long.
He used to slump around
In the corners of my eyes
And I didn't notice him when he'd frown--
We didn't notice him--until he hung around
That intersection for longer than we'd care to think.
I became jealous
Because he vanished
Right to that street corner
When he thought
No one would care but the coroner,
Right to the asphalt that received him--
Soft,
As I hoped my own
Last moments
Would be.
When I saw him,
Mama said he was sleeping.
He looked like he was,
But the lights were dim;
His arm cradled his head
The way he used to sleep
On his desk, in class
And for all I knew,
He was.
They said he was driving
Like he was late for something,
Like had he not been driving
Exactly 65.32 miles per hour
He'd have been late,
And it was only afterwards
That he'd figured out that he was
Right on time.
And when he arrived, his car blossomed into
A beautiful metal flower, and when it fully bloomed
He was the fruit
Which fell.
And all I could do was recruit the strength
I'd left at home on accident by the drain
The same one that ****** him into that downward cyclone,
Confused him and made him believe he was alone--
Not to just think or to have a hunch,
But to really believe it
To the point where he needed to expunge
Himself.
No.
No, no, no.
Not like this.
And so, now, I sit at the intersection
Chucking rocks with my weepy hand
At my grayish concrete reflection
Trying to see if he'll come around again.
I'm still
And still kind of mad within
Because life's not fair,
I'm jealous because he found the answer
And left us all to figure it out
On shards of glass
Pieces of metal
and intersections,
Which too long
He hung about.
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 12:43 AM UTC
Oh how I long
to fall asleep soundly.
Turn off the light,
flick the switch
and dream.
I dream alright.
My dreams are so far from reality
I can't bare it.
I know alcohol
can make you weepy,
but the willow with it's reaching branches,
that droops so sadly,
is teetotal.
My pillow
is my confidant.
I silently sob into it's
soggy material,
stuffing corners of duvet in to my mouth
to stifle,
s t i f l e,
the sound.
The taste of salt runs down the creases of my cheeks
and in to my mouth,
taking me back to days at the seaside,
fish and chips.
I finally tumble in to a fitful sleep
thinking of the ocean.
But it swallows me whole.
And I'm drowning.
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 11:00 AM UTC
Itching, itching
in unending irritation,
eyes puffy and leaking,
spilling salt
over molten cheeks -
bed-bound and awfully weak.
I cannot stand it;
I am a shell, broken
my pieces are very light
and punctured - not watertight -
I let in a virus,
vicious, with the waves
I languish; only
a withered cord tying me
to life.
For in a few weepy blinks
I might die.
It comes to me as no surprise
this disease -
please, it speaks no lies,
it eats my brain
just like some blind child
that’s starved and so senselessly wild.
No memory, no hesitation,
this is me - alive,
afloat with those ****** bubbles,
those parasites
that gloat and bruise my concentration -
wreak hell upon my mind.
So see me, here,
flattened,
by the potion of alienation
I am pie-eyed, senseless;
a study for your contemplation.
Aug 31, 2012
Aug 31, 2012 at 7:07 AM UTC
i simultaneously long for life and death
i want to **** myself, but don't want to die
i want to disappear into a nothingness
i want to float up into the sky
(but maybe that's just a teenager thing)
in crowds, i get panicked and weepy
alone, i suffocate on the floor
i belong to no person or thing or place
and i fall to pieces behind that bedroom door
(but maybe that's just a teenager thing)
sometimes, i'm just teeming with emotion
the pain and the love and the best and the worst
all of the feelings get twisted together
until i'm sure that i'm going to burst
(but maybe that's just a teenager thing)
on the contrary, sometimes i feel numb
i'm immune to the pain of this place
i can't feel the good or the bad or ugly
it's amazing what you can hide behind a happy face
(but maybe that's just a teenager thing)
i constantly feel like i'm empty
and that i've got nothing left to give
i feel like i'm broken and done for
and that there's no reason for me to live
(but maybe that's just a teenager thing)
i write suicide notes in my free time
and count the number of ways i could do it
and hide pills away in the drawers of my dresser
like my own little "how-to" death kit
(but maybe that's just a teenager thing)
i keep razors and knives in my bookcase
i have methodically placed lines on my wrist
i long for the pain and the blood that it brings
i flirt with the demon of death, and then give it a kiss
(but maybe that's just a teenager thing)
i live in a world of pain and anxiety
in constant fear of the people that i'm supposed to love
i think that i want to die, but what is want is to be free
depression's the cage, and i am the dove
but i guess that must be a teenager thing.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 8:29 PM UTC
What can i serve today for a lovely miss
Humanity and you mister World?
Eee...
Hm!
I would like to see the menu, please!
Oh, yes, the menu ... just a moment. . .
Darling, I would love to have
Weatherwise Mushrooms with Weepy weightless Asparagoses
served with those fantastic moral dips.
They are phenomenal!
And you know what:
The other day lady Greedy ordered light lush - a delightful dish. . . and after having this goergous revelation of supreme tastes. . . she was becoming slimer and slicker. . .and thinner. . . she had enjoyed it so much! It was incredible! Her skin became purer, translucent, laced with
amazingly glistening diamonds and then. . .
she. . . can you believe that! just dissappeared into thin air
saying with blissful tears within her eyes:
Humanity - I have never told you, that in fact. . . I have always loved you more than your luscious husband. . . you are a real darling. . .
sweetie pie. . . so long. . .
I'll miss you tremendously!!!
And pufffff. . . she was gone! Can you imagine that!?!
And luscious... why on Earth, would she use such a word?
Strange:
And you, honey?
What will you have?
Are you listening to me!?
Hm... just let me see the **** menu. . . first!
Planty of food in this fancy restaurant - and I'm starving to death!
Where is this wannabe waiter - Forgods sake!
We are waiting him for ages. . .
There!
Well - here you go madam. . . menu
sir. . .
I recommend to you - our daily
well-bread tacos for starters
served with authentically homegrown
veggy
wellbeing
mixed with well-beloved
well-coocked main course
: : : :
We have also some excellent
well Vintage wine
of trust, year 5195. . .
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 10:21 AM UTC
I like to visualize my death
not as a grand moment
fraught with TV-script intimations
at sudden illumination
while I’m encircled by a non-weepy
sprinkling of the usual types:
one surviving relative
curious to see what I’ve got
left to inherit; one forgotten
friend dubious I hadn’t
died quite some time ago;
and one vengeful stranger
anxious for the shock
when I hear her unmask.
No, I envision my death simply
as the lonely release
of a hardly noticeable puff,
its minute droplets lifting
to mix with every other
ever breathed, and to bid adieu
to my residue of befuddling
puddles flecked by unresolved wants.
Jul 12, 2010
Jul 12, 2010 at 2:32 PM UTC
Stagnancy living
in colorless morning.
sunflower sunshine disconsolate
the rooster sings
eulogies and clamored verses
ringing alarm bells in cockcrow
cough drone weary eyes
dew-tied memories of
reverie weepy
aching legs and chest pains
cotton cozied pills crashing
underneath plastic caps
prescription taps
Tylenol Benzedrine
relapse body thinning
cities wearing
ergonomic tragedies
encircling business quarter
daffodil rooftops
steady rain descending onto
varnished sidewalks.
Addicts pirouette dazzled the
hazed-minds dreaming of
Aprils and consistent harmonious
ecstasy visions stampeded
by the brickwork flickered with
lamplight demons overcast this illusory Babylon
trembling flesh retreats into the shadows it came
and nightmares remain similar to days before and after.
Recycled horrors lightning flash abhorrent death
whether they be wearing black suits or black robes
scythe or satchel the wide eyes scour gaunt alleys
for fixes to fix the monotonous life bewitched
with false material variety anxiety deity
Desecration City express way to depression
oppressed people hide away in simultaneous acts of
camouflaging fireballs
spiraling into decadence.
Diamond days few and far between
communal woe reverberates through skins
and skeletons in opening of top story windows
during Winter. Despite the fragrance chaos,
pandemic paranoia,
extinguishing elation,
All bodies continue to be
alone.
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 8:47 PM UTC