"whomever" poems
Tonight I missed a shot with nostalgia because of myself.
I've become such a slave to my phone that the flashing colours in the sky could not,
would not bother me.
Everything except for the device shining in my palms was blocked out like a voice I didn't want to hear in the first place,
Except I DID want to hear it.
I want know about everything that is happening around me without burying my face so deeply into Google to find the answers I'm searching for.
Nothing ever happens to me because I'm too busy in the comfort of my own home,
upon my own couch,
on my own phone worrying about the next Facebook status
and whether or not it will be entertaining
or in need of a dose of an opinion that is my own.
I recognize that I have my own personal "cell"-mate that will follow me wherever I go as long as I don't forget it on my kitchen counter.
I am shackled to my cellphone.
It takes me in handcuffs daily,
arresting me at my own free will.
A policemen of such small character,
yet so many brains.
And I already know my rights.
I already know my rights because I've researched them enough times with my mobile text book to have them memorized.
You have the right to post a status, anything you say can and will be taken out of context.
You have a right to an opinion, if you do not have an opinion one will be appointed to you by your desire to impress those whom share a friendship with you.
I am a servant to technology.
It's as though it is a part of my anatomy.
If it's not one item of electronics it's another and it has my full undivided attention.
As connected as we are, we have all become disconnected.
No one talks anymore.
Word of mouth has become word of texting.
Important pieces of information are shared via the internet because it's easier to get it out there all at once instead of saying it multiple times.
I sadly succumb to every chime I am beckoned with as it demands I answer whomever has interupted the surfing
and scrolling
and sharing
and liking
and commenting
and posting...
I put my phone down in disbelief.
Now tell me, "What's on your mind?"
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 12:07 AM UTC
it is my birthday.
but the world has long disowned me.
honestly--I ask--why do I bother?
as there must be something there for me--out in the viscera.
for I, am still here.
it is my birthday.
but the public has long shunned me.
faces thick as bedrock and eyes as dull as mint wrappers.
and they use sound to blind them.
it is my birthday.
and no one seems to help.
for it is not always happy to know,
you're one day closer into the arms of the cease-r.
it is my birthday.
and words rule no meaning.
for no one listens to me.
and no one hears what I'm hearing.
it is my birthday.
and my marrow weakens as I breath.
but bones sleep with welded lips 'neath the coat of earth.
and--with shame--I shall, too, be nothing but empty research.
it is my birthday.
and I force myself to nature.
O sand, is it true they pick you up and throw you in the wind?
O sea, is it true you get stuck in the mouths and stomachs of the young?
O hair, is it true you scream when the air beats you?
but I don't hear--and I know many.
it is my birthday.
and I breath false air.
is it true the ones that speak ill are on their death bed?
is it wrong I wish for them to speed up time?
is it wrong I point the reaper in their direction?
so I needn't worry of their illness spreading to mine.
it is my birthday.
and we are all gathered for tea.
the masochists sit by the sadists; that's the rule,
so the sadist may draw that ball-point pen deep along their slate skin--and whisper the names of forgotten authors,
so they may both moan with delicious harmony together--for two presents in one.
it is my birthday.
and the masochists ask me to join.
they write each other's eulogies
and revise--revise--'til there are none.
it is my birthday.
for now you know not,
of what I wish, but what I need,
a master.
for I am not one.
it is my birthday.
and not all wishes deem true,
for it seems no one cares of my words--my work--my blood--my tears--
a hymn to whomever it may concern--have you no mercy?
it is my birthday.
and I have not found them.
I have not found the right.
for only airless voices with no mouths, eyes that wish for many more, and souls that have lost time have found me.
and I am one of them.
and 'neath my heart,
I always will be.
for it is my birthday,
and wishes don't come true.
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 6:57 PM UTC
When I die,
I don't want to be buried.
I don't want a casket.
I don't want a tombstone.
I don't really want much of a funeral.
I simply want whomever desires
To say something about me
To do so
(Whether it's good, bad, or funny).
I want to be burned
In a cardboard box,
And as I'm being cremated,
I want someone
To read a poem that I have written
For that very occasion.
When I'm all turned to ashes,
I want them to put me
In a cheap little container
And throw my ashes into the wind.
Maybe over a field, a forest, or the ocean--
Whatever, so long as it's windy there.
Mostly,
I don't want my loved ones to have a
Specific place to visit me
Because
I want to be the one
Who visits my loved ones
So I can give them kisses
When the wind
Brushes their cheeks.
Sep 27, 2010
Sep 27, 2010 at 11:21 AM UTC
Songs of Oregon: No. 1 “Gonna Make You Crazy, That Place”
nuts, crazy peeps
whomever wherever,
regardless of race creed color or gender (did I get ‘em all?)
current state of residence (geo-identified)
a poem - the very same recited,
as a disclaimer, a yellow finger wagging warning:
“Don’t go! If you go, you won’t come back”
now kids, I’m a veteran of foreign travel,
many continents, cold and hot, rivers and seas,
some living, some dead,
some so big they named it Endless,
been to the great cities, Swiss villages,
pyramids, climbed Masada,
danced on grapes (why can’t I recall where)
skied the Alps, trekked the Sinai Desert,
clubbed in Rio, and danced till morn,
on a certain Greek Isle that rhymes with Mickey’s Nose
even been to L.A and San Fran, left poorer
but in sync,
always came home
with my mind decently reshaped
me/ a product of gritty unpretty grime,
streets of normal humans
acting like normal escaped mad persons,
this brutal city island instilled a
layer of fat and smog neath my skin,
a kind of migrating duck-like survival kit,
came with a homing beacon included
the those of you who know me,
perhaps too well, ken we citified islanders
love our beaches (fire hydrants)
cherish our sun dappled blessings
upon on farms (window sill herb gardens)
and sunning settlements (rooftops)
they say our tap water is secretly bottled,
sold in places where the springs purportedly
run crystalline
though we don’t got no pinot, just sweet concord grape,
so sweet, the wine of children and street nodders,
needy for instant sugar highs
so as we new Yorkers proudly
say on our license plates,
prove it or stfup!
so a first hand investigation for which
the taxpayers won’t be charged even a lousy mill,
deemed necessary to put to rest this crazy claiming warning
“Don’t go! If you go, you won’t come back”
guessing must be something in the water and the wine
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 9:00 AM UTC
Surfing across the glaze of light
Multiverse into one, this universe shines bright
Condensed energy upon my sight
Mystery upon this 'life'
All is multiverse stitched into one universe
All universes stitched upon each other
Tension upon layer and layers
Heaven, Hell, reincarnation, all are bound by makers
One moves upon a series of 'matter' or vibrations after the shell is removed or gained
However rather low, high, negative, or positive energy, all is remained
Logic
A mere barrier designed and captivated by a mind
Grasping your vision, your perception, your multiverse
Either a hinder or power surge
Forming pieces of ones quilt to converge
A poisonous psychedelic
The rarity of an ancient relic
It is yours, whatever it may be
Hold close, as it is all you may have
As the 'universe' of the multiverse leans and meets according to so
Then raving within your conscious, you see a brighter glow
You pursue, you make the most
Using the now gleam to move upon the multiverse you hope to have
Doing all in reality in order to keep the spark alive
What seems to be drab
What seems to strive
All according to the beholder
We keep these lights seemingly closer
Whatever they maybe
Whomever they maybe
What has never begun to start will never be over
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 12:02 AM UTC
They say envy turns you green,
But for me, I disagree.
Envy is red,
The color of romance.
I envy your shirt,
It constantly gets to caress your body.
I envy your cigarettes,
Constantly at your lips.
I envy the words that you speak,
For they are much more beautiful than I.
I envy the ground you walk upon,
For I want to be the only thing pleading at your feet.
I envy your phone.
Constantly at your fingertips,
Caressing your cheek.
You speak into it,
And I hear "I love you."
I envy whomever lurks on the other side.
I envy your pillows,
Because I know you cuddle with them when I am not there.
I envy your necklace,
For it is constantly closer to your heart than I'll ever be.
I envy the medicine that you take,
For I want to be what takes your pain away.
You tell your tales,
And I am envious of your past.
Mostly because I am absent from your memories.
They say envy turns you green,
But for me, I disagree.
Envy has no color.
Only silhouettes.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 3:15 AM UTC
Sometimes I sit and wonder about the past.
I reflect and let it affect my present- my future-
It makes me wonder if I can ever really put it past me.
Sometimes- most times- I sit and think about what you did to me.
I was never this angry until I met you, I had never lost my temper over the slightest of issues.
My anger was locked in a cage, like a lion in a den, away from all walks of life, because it was too ferocious
too loud, too dangerous to let loose.
You made me feel like a lion.
You made me feel like a lion, but told me I was a butterfly.
You were adding extra security to the cage while making me thinking you were trying your hardest to pry it open.
You forced me to believe that you, and only you, could ever love someone like me-
A lion- I mean butterfly.
I refer to you as my ex-girlfriend even though I can still feel your words caress my skin.
Even though every time I see a picture of you or hear your name my heart still skips a beat,
even though it still feels like I'm a lion, trapped in a cage, as if you still have a hold on me.
I still refer to you as an ex-girlfriend even though you never acted like it.
You told our friends that I was frail- too fragile to hold- too hard to love,
But before you, I was gorilla glass- protective and strong,
But you made me feel like a lion and told me I was a butterfly, so my default mode began to play second fiddle.
I don't think I want you back.
I'm starting to find happiness in others,
Solitude only comforts me when I can feel my anger- the lion within me, trying to break free from the cage.
I've met someone who tells me I'm a beautiful,
Someone who is trying to help me break free from the cage without tearing my claws off.
Who lets me know I am a lion, but I could be a butterfly, and that either or is okay.
I hope that whomever you decide is worthy to join the circus you've declared yourself the lion tamer of is strong enough to say no and walk away.
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 4:45 PM UTC
the early hours of the morning, when light has yet to show itself, and the streets are quiet.
2am is not for the happy people.
it is not for the lovers.
it is for the shadows that finally feel accepted.
it is for the poets, who are still up because their mind is filled with an unimaginable amount of words about someone they love.
it is for the broken-hearted who have been crying since 9pm.
it is for the people who love but are not loved.
it is for the one who finally feel like they can be whomever they want to be (or need to be) at 2am. and only 2am.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 1:52 AM UTC
As a young girl,
I was taught that I only needed 3 things in life to be happy.
First, I needed a husband. I needed his love and I needed him to take care of me. I also needed to make him happy so that he would never leave me.
Second, I needed a family. I was told having a family would be the greatest joy I’d ever experience and would keep me satisfied for the rest of my life.
Third, I needed a beautiful home that other people envied.
Well..
I grew up.
I experienced all these things
but yet,
I am more unhappy now than I have ever been.
My home feels less like a home,
and more like a prison.
because I am bound to it.
I am bound to that home,
simply because I am a woman and this is what women do, right?
Because my gender defines me and confines me to this one lifestyle.
After all,
this is what my mother and her mother did,
and they seemed content.
But why should this be it?
I don’t even know who I am!
Ask me what I do,
I’ll tell you
“nothing, I’m just a housewife”.
Ask me about myself,
and I’ll tell you about my family.
because I am not my own person.
I belong to the stigma that my gender should define who I am
and put boundaries on my capabilities.
That I am limited to certain tasks
and I cannot be anything more than I am expected to be.
I have created this illusion that I am satisfied
when I am not.
I am disappointed and I’m wondering if this is it.
Is this really what I am made for?
My life is like clockwork.
Everyday I go through the routines,
over and over,
silently praying for the day when I am free to be whomever I wish.
But for now,
I am nothing.
I am only a housewife.
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 9:04 PM UTC
*whomever,
we can all relate,
to quotes,
and each other,*
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 1:46 PM UTC
**** you.
**** you for being so far away
**** you for making me want you
I can say it certainly is not fair,
What is this, the ******* teacup ride?
I always hated the fair.
Fishing for plastic ducks and shooting impossible targets
Seems like a setup for failure to me.
**** you for making me take a look at myself in the mirror
And for making me ask questions
For making me lie
And for making me tell the truth.
Why can't things be easy?
Oh yeah, that's just not how it works around here.
**** you for making my imagination run wild.
For casting yourself in the movies my brain constantly films
And **** you for getting the cinematography just right.
I can't look away.
**** you because all I have is my imagination.
I can make you whomever I want you to be.
**** you for curling your hair and for having those lips
And for being comfortable with yourself around me
**** your small wrists and your quirky characteristics
Your eyeliner and your fingernails
**** your sparkling smile and your hips
And **** you for making me want you so bad.
**** me.
**** me for yearning.
**** me for learning
That it's not that simple,
That nothing is set in stone,
That people are confusing as hell.
**** me for taking the time to write this poem
**** how angry it's making me
And **** the fact that I'm writing it because of you.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
My ****** is tired.
Tired of having to explain why she wants to be left alone,
Tired of men thinking they are entitled to her simply because they buy her things,
Tired of women who shame and police her,
Tired of being commodified,
My ****** is just...tired.
My ****** does not owe anyone ***
She will take up arms to protect her agency and have it recognised,
She will let whomever she chooses inside her,
She will most certainly not explain her decisions to a soul,
My ****** does not owe anyone ***
My ****** will not alter herself for a man's pleasure.
She defines beauty and serves other worldly aesthetics,
She is a queen who possesses the ability to make you see God with her warmth,
My ****** will not alter herself for a man's pleasure.
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 5:36 PM UTC
"Under a Mountain of green and a Sky of blue,
Lived a race trapped behind a Barrier forgotten after so many years,
Slowly their hatred over their predicament only grew,
Lost and Forgotten, Hurt but not Broken, some wept their last tears,
They heard them say, 'It's been four years since an Angel fell',
But the wary Traveler knew not what that meant,
It was up to the race to explain to the Traveler and tell,
Of a Tale long ago Dreamt,
Tale of a sun, and of a world Beyond,
Where two races once lived in Peace,
A world where both races could bond,
Where fighting could stop, where hatred would cease,
The Traveler knew then what to do,
To free these people of their Fear and Hate,
Some wished to help the Traveler, others where hesitant to,
This Traveler - however much they faced - promised there wouldn't be anyone they'd berate,
The Barrier was a force none had broken thus far,
But this Traveler - too kind, too determined - couldn't give up,
This Barrier they broke - an obstacle they hurdled like a highset bar,
The Race rejoiced for now all where free - even Jerry and that Annoying Pup,
This Traveler - who called themselves Frisk - was no more than a child,
Yet a new Ambassador had been set,
They told any and all that the journey had not been hard but mild,
This child was greeted with a smile by whomever they met,
'A new family born,
A past left to rot,
A new treaty sworn,
A kind present this lot!'
This child thought with a smile upon their lips,
As they moved forward with their friends,
A skeleton too smiles as out of sight he blips,
'there will be time later - he thought - for the kiddo and me to make amends'."
Continue Reset
Apr 9, 2018
Apr 9, 2018 at 7:29 PM UTC
Love saved my life
It wasn’t long ago
when I received the call
I remember it like yesterday
It was bed time
ready to crashed when the
township called
expressing my brother had expired
someone had took his life
shot him in the head
At that very moment
my entire life shattered
into a million pieces
nowhere to be found
Quickly I rushed to
the hospital in the
hope maybe he was
still breathing, still moving
but the outcome
was everything but that
Few days after
we’ve put him to rest
in his last resting place
he was only nineteen
Felt like a dream
refused to believed
i prayed to God
to not allowed it be true
when I awake
day dreaming
But sooner and later
you always always
have to wake up
Hatred strengthened
to a point
I was ready for war
with whomever involved
Strapped ready to fight
when I realized because
of my faith this wasn’t
the way for I’ll rot in hell
Not long after
depression kicked in
started hearing voices
all through my head
Voices
I didn’t recognized
whispering to me
It was time to joined him
meaning
my brother to a better place
I remember
I sat in my car
with my glock clacked back
against my temple
ready to pulled
the trigger
when my phone
vibrated and said
It was from love
I decided to answered
and told her my story
had no more desire
to live This was
my good bye
Then I started crying
and she cried along with me
and prayed with me
tell me to come home
she’ll make this better
she didn’t want to lose me
in a word
she was carrying my son
which I’ve heard
for the first time ever
It was at that moment
when my life started over
a clean slate at a new life
and still today
our love has
grown stronger
she showed me the
love I always needed
this woman is the
reason I did not drown
In my depression
In my sorrow
In my anger
Everyday she came
looking for me
I knew how blessed
I am to have her
in my life today
This is my reason
I care for those
Who haven’t find
love and have no one
to call their own
Because truly I truly
don’t know what
would I do today
without my wife
in my life for
She is my treasure
and the reason
this is my reason
I’ll always choose
Love
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 9:57 AM UTC
I am human. I am just like you.
There is nothing different between us.
But that’s where it gets complicated.
I am not the same as you. I am a different person
I have a different life. I have a different background
I have a different face.
I have a different past, and I have a different future.
If you look around yourself, this is true for all of the faces that surround you.
But we are the same, right?
We are all human; we are all part of the same earth
The same creation story. But that’s not true either.
Your creation story might be different than my creation story.
And your story might not accept me as a part of humanity.
I cannot change who I am. When I was born
I fell into a concept most of you didn’t.
The faces I first saw were so similar. Both bearded.
Short hair, tears running down their faces.
Two men sobbing tears of joy. Their daughter had been born.
The first two years of my life I thought that having two dads was normal.
Little did I know then, it was. But not the normal other people think of.
People think normal is a mom and a dad and two beautiful children.
I was never able to call anyone “mommy,” and I turned out perfectly fine.
My whole life I have been surrounded by men loving other men
And women loving other women etc. My best friend has two moms.
One day, when we were seven years old
Someone came up to us and said
“Hey, your dads should get married to your moms.”
I laughed then and walked away, but I never realized
How much that would hurt five minutes later.
Those words were like knives. They burned like fire.
I wanted to go back and yell at that kid.
His ignorance blinded me, and I could not speak.
His words didn’t leave my head and never have.
I like boys, yes, but guess what? I also like girls. And that’s normal.
I can love a boy, but I can also love a girl.
I have been telling myself this my entire life, and I realize that it’s true.
It’s who I am, and I can’t change it.
I don’t want to change it, because I am human
And you are human, and you can love whomever you want.
Apr 26, 2018
Apr 26, 2018 at 1:44 PM UTC
When I get too blue
I laugh at myself
pick up the leash
and take Mr. Brown to the dog park.
He shows me how
to be carefree
will jump and bark
drink a gallon of water
and lick whomever he chooses
without a worry in the world.
Everybody admires his *****
What kind of dog is that?
He’s a Rhodesian Ridgeback.
an African lion hound,
but he’s scared shitless of my cat.
what’s yours?
A Visla.
Looks like yours, only smaller.
Did you see that American Foxhound?
That s.o.b. can jump!
Yeah, too bad he can’t pay my mortgage.
The young photographer shows off
his brilliant Doberman’s latest trick –
a double backflip
catching the Frisbee ten feet high
landing on all fours.
The old lady with the blind daschund
says, “Oh, oh, isn’t he wonderful?”
She claps her hands in delight.
The canine Noah's arc show runs all day
with the entry of pugnacious Sharpeis
the arrogance of Poodles
the inscrutability of giant Malamutes.
the pride of leash-holders.
Gradually tree shadows darken the sawdust
and people start parading home,
the **** athletic girls with their boyfriends’ Shepherds
the slow old men with their greying Labradors
the lady real estate agents with their tiny Shih Tzus.
And then it’s silent
I’m the last one there
alone in the gathering dusk
still hearing echoes of joyful barks
realizing how funny it is
that so many people
look just like their dogs
but I don’t think about it,
I just marvel at all this joy.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 6:16 PM UTC
.
Henry VIII was a deluded monarch,
he could never have ruled the Earth,
for he hasn't seen his **** for years,
hiding beneath the bulk of his girth.
And wobbling onto the battle field
is not the behaviour fit for a King,
he would have to sit nursing his cysts
and hoping the ointments don't sting.
His eating excess was cause for concern
but his syphilis remained largely unseen,
and one really has to feel so sorry for
whomever it is that is currently Queen.
His penchant for young and younger Ladies
made him a stranger to baths and soap,
and his bed hopping antics to sire a son
bought him much trouble from the pope.
© Pagan Paul (09/12/18)
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 5:13 PM UTC
When I wear makeup
I feel unstoppable
courageous
beautiful.
so beautiful.
but I don't mean regular makeup,
mascara lipstick eyeliner blush etc,
I mean the kind that takes hours to apply,
transforming myself into hit characters
ghastly ghouls
alien creatures
minotaurs
ziggy stardust
I mean painting myself
with all the theatricality I can afford.
I feel like I can breath when I wear my makeup,
I feel okay and calm and like nothing can touch me
above all else I feel safe.
so safe
with that paint,
everybody's looking at the makeup
instead of me,
they admire and compliment the mask I've crafted
and it makes me happy to know
they can't see my plain pale face underneath,
the outrageous conception
has formed a shield
allowing me to step out in public
without being afraid to exist.
when I wear my makeup
I'm allowed to be whomever I please
and mingle-talk freely with all I want,
my makeup lets me be like everyone else.
The only downside is that not every week is spirit week,
my gentle skin is too irritated by even the most
hyper-allergenic makeup and acne protrudes
and at the end of it all I still have to wash it off,
watch my happy colors go down the sink drain,
the mask doesn't last forever,
and I'm left standing there the next day,
without my makeup
without my shield
and I feel so naked,
I feel incomplete and scared.
I wish every week was spirit week,
and that my skin was tough,
so that I could paint my face every day
so I wouldn't have to be afraid.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 7:37 PM UTC
Forbidden Fruit,
Oh yes, an acquired taste,
One I have sampled, hmm,
So long, this was denied me,
And now, the taste is good:
So, so very good; ah.
I indulged myself further,
Using hands to explore,
Becoming explored myself,
And how I enjoyed.
Oh yes, truly fulfilled,
Until I became quite dizzy,
Lost in abundant sweetness,
Things turned around,
Until up was down,
Until it was I, being consumed.
The world tilted, slipped away.
My mind woozy, cossetted,
My senses swimming, whirling,
With slowly falling blossom.
Reason floated away, danced,
With soft petals in the breeze,
Twirling among scented flowers,
And I discovered the truth.
Whomever claimed, stated,
That forbidden fruit, so juicy,
Is bad and to be avoided,
Can never have tasted,
Forbidden fruit.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 3:59 PM UTC
Yes, But Do You Know You Deserve the World
Through the sunshine and the rainbows,
through the dark and stormy nights,
your light shone the brightest,
and whomever it touched, it lit their world.
And in that light, do you know
you deserve the yellow of the sunflower below?
Your gleeful smile thawed the frost in the air,
rushing into me and all around me—
like the fresh breath of air on a winter morning,
like drops of water slipping through a cracked rock,
carrying beauty in an ethereal glow.
And maybe you don’t see it,
you changed me and the world around you.
Your words carried a voice of reason,
filled with warmth and understanding—
sometimes childish and playful,
but always fiercely protective,
like the sunflower guarding its yellow.
So I tell you again,
your eyes shine bright like the stars above
Your radiant smile took the blue out of my day,
set butterflies to dance in the world’s wake
Even when your cries dampened the world below,
in my eyes you still appear so beautifully yellow,
since the day I first saw your glow.
Sep 17, 2025
Sep 17, 2025 at 3:55 PM UTC
I am
With whomever I speak
Wherever I sleep
I am
Every form of season
Rain, snow, falling leaves, heat
I am
Not bound by culture or belief
For whatever I was
It is only truth I seek
I am
Every color of reason
Suffering and meek
I am
Travails and travels
Loneliness
Unique
I am
Someone to meet
Bowing to my host
Sharing a heartbeat
I am
Restless
Every man a brother
It is you who I keep
I am
The moon that never sets
Circling, reflecting, holding
Secrets that make me weep
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 5:42 PM UTC
There is not much more than lunch of your poor soul's gut. That which has hidden your chase,
Be it the same flurry you face, or the chaste, widowed band of loons
Supplicate snail-movements, while wading through the stiff lagoon.
Everything must, while the fissures grow grumpy.
While the dust settles inwards and the cracks fill with stuffing.
The particle stands stiff, while each nursery cries.
A pitter-patter of rain drops lurch the birds forwards towards flight.
Say the gumption to roost was the dork lit and idling,
Each abortion towards space, kept the rocket from flying,
Like the cannonball sneering, or the whistle of men
The trial and tribulations of the miserly pens.
If be swore the moors, concrete beds shuffle the snores.
Unlike any trumpet of nose notes or horns.
How each curious grumbler failed the ewe of his flock.
Lil' crock lodgers counting sleep of each lot.
Who can practice commands, width that makes up a strake
In the morning the weir-men quaff each tea of their tastes.
Then comes to the rind, the hands each guided by eyes.
Stumps the bard of his nightshade in imported glass vials.
Show whomever the pleasure, the happy hell once began
Because under each gambit is the king of a lamb.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:10 AM UTC
I was broken.
Shattered remains of what I used to be.
Random misaligned pieces, sprawled all over the floor, crushed more by whomever would walk over them.
And then you came.
And you saw.
Each piece you knew was a part of something greater.
"Something beautiful," you said.
You helped me pick up the pieces, ignoring the cuts on your hands.
You kept me safe, so noone else would hurt me.
You found a broken girl, but you saw Kintsugi.
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 10:08 PM UTC
I'm done, I can't stand life anymore... I can't sit around watching my life fly away, and there being nothing I can do to fix it, because I've already thrown the rope too far way for me to grab it again. School has no value to me anymore. I don't want to be in this town I'm supposed to call "home"... I don't want to be anywhere. If you things I've written before were bad, here's the worst thing, I have and I am contemplating suicide... There I've finally admitted it to the world... Now you can go and tell everyone how sick and ****** in the head I am...
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 8:55 AM UTC