"width" poems
***** What are those?
creation of some great architect.
they vary in size, shape and dimension
also in weight, width and assimilation...
one touch takes you million stars away
heavenly bliss, on the earth nevertheless,
squeeze them to the delight,
hold them to their perfect shapes,
Hands in joy and trickling liquid SomePlaceElse..
moaning body, screaming someone's name,
dude! you are the luckiest, keep up the fame..
May 15, 2012
May 15, 2012 at 6:42 PM UTC
Lambs that learn to walk in snow
When their bleating clouds the air
Meet a vast unwelcome, know
Nothing but a sunless glare.
Newly stumbling to and fro
All they find, outside the fold,
Is a wretched width of cold.
As they wait beside the ewe,
Her fleeces wetly caked, there lies
Hidden round them, waiting too,
Earth's immeasureable surprise.
They could not grasp it if they knew,
What so soon will wake and grow
Utterly unlike the snow.
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Doctors say
Once you reach the age of maturity
You will cease to grow;
But how does that explain
The heights that I reach,
The expansion of my heart,
Or the width of my smile
When I'm wrapped in your arms?
It doesn't.
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 10:45 PM UTC
And there I saw the perfect bed.
Just the perfect size, height width everything I could have dreamt.
I imagined the perfect sleep in my perfect bed.
Never quite seeing home the same again.
It came equipped with sheets and blankets even a heated mattress.
This bed was better than anything I could have imagined.
I climbed her leg and slipped myself in her pocket.
I haven't slept this good in a long while
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 5:47 PM UTC
← ↕ →
U text me dis
I text U dat
She dissed my dis
I sent last Sat.
U LOL’ed
on down the list
I sexted sixth—
my 7th missed.
U banned my width
I booked your face
U twittered on—
She saved my space.
U scrolled me down
He tweeted smiles
We USB’ed,
recharging miles . . .
U giga-bit
encrypted files;
I saved as mine
and cached denials.
In digital
we re-erased,
then Skyped our souls
and interfaced.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 5:36 PM UTC
If you want my heart you must ask my curves for permission first.
Convince them you will be the one to adore them, no matter their width or depth.
Let your hands do the talking.
Touch me so soft I tremble and you break the code.
Only then will they allow my chest to open and my heart will be yours to keep.
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 12:46 AM UTC
Hi, my name is female.
I might not fold my hands the way she does
Or flip my hair the way that girl does.
Hi, my name is female.
The width and length I am shouldnt define if I'm qualified for Vogue.
The way I lick my lips may not be as attractive as the next female,
How my eyelashes flutter may not appeal to you.
Hi, my name is female and I like mashed potatoes and Thai coconut.
They say “eat less, its prettier. Where this, it shows more.”
Why?
I shouldn't have to balance myself on misleading scales that does nothing but swallow my pride up.
Hi my name is female.
Because one chicken breast is smaller than the other….it's not the same?
Because another person's peach is plumper than mine….its better?
They're still the same and we should treat them the same.
Words get thrown at us everyday and its expected of us to pick them up and change the way we are.
No.
Hi, my name is female and I shouldn't be talking this way just for a guy.
I shouldn't be crying for this guy,
I shouldn't be kissing up to this guy,
I shouldn't be changing for a guy,
I wasn't made for a guy.
Because I can't reach my toes like the next female, shouldn't mean a thing. Because my palms may ash more or my bones may creek more, shouldn't define how pretty I am.
Her hair may reach her elbows, her hair may touch her neck.
Her skin might love the sun, her skin might hate it.
Its still beautiful.
Hi, my name is female and I like mashed potatoes and Thai coconut.
Just because you may not like it, doesn't mean Its gross or Im repulsive..
One female can say, “I am” while the other girl across the street can say, “I is.”
“No I won't”
Or
“No I ain't”
I can still smile just like the next female,
I can hold a laugh,
Cough,
Sneeze,
Wink,
Eat like the next female.
We're all one conjoined masterpiece.
One cannot make me feel low of myself.
One will not tell me she's better than me.
One will not let me cry my eyes out.
Hi, my name is female and I have a name.
My name defines me.
I am beautiful just like the next girl who likes mashed potatoes and Thai coconut.
Embrace your beauty, honey. You're gonna have it forever.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 3:30 PM UTC
I have yet to find the exact
size, length, width, weight, height,
of my rusted trusty nail, which I lost.
Painted golden brown
and rough on the edges,
that old man pinned my door to the wall.
Now it's left hanging in the open
dangling in the wind
swaying with the broken rain,
my home
vulnerable,
a feasty treat,
like the first time Hansel and Gretel saw the witch's house.
I'm not afraid of the
teeth baring wolves
bloodcurdling hounds with red eyes
massive 10 foot hungry bears
that tower over you with outstretched paws
holding a steak knife and fork
its brown fur a bib.
No
I'm afraid of my house
zipping up its backpack
filled with all the canned goods
fresh water canteens from the well
and all the matches and firewood in the cellar
taking off during the night
when the moon is at its darkest,
leaving I,
to do the only thing left:
To pay the bright orange flames
to entertain me as
my wads of money lit up the
darkest night of the century
all because I couldn't replace my
*most dear, loved, precious
nail.*
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
Walk by numbers in
the Parisian palette ,
spreading the paint around
in a long line of lip red scarlet.
Pipette sized width following you
as you tread on stone, you’re new.
Sit with the trains and listen
to walls and notice small change,
loose change on the floors.
Passenger’s stare moves you from
carriage to carriage, regardless of UK, American baggage.
Surface again, the longest breath you’ve ever held
has escaped again into winter’s cold.
Steps climb and feet follow,
Anubis with a rifle watching over-
graffiti crowd control for the younger;
sad face, a smile face, Sacre Coeur white face.
Sink down along the track,
railway men hanging large and fat.
Tea for two with warm milk,
tea for two without the milk,
no tea- up and leave, tip with guilt.
**** kicker Paris scruffs her shoes
amongst the paint, the blues, the museum’s closed.
Again, we have to wait for the universe to align before we get to see her smile.
Wait, keep waiting, Mars is coming, revolving towards us.
Doors unlock and we enter a tide of tourist
and artist and the modernist futurist- lost in this department.
She sits there still, not smiling
Paris, without you no coffee would ever be deemed good.
Without you, I’d be lost and artless and heartless and broke.
Even when you take the covers from under me-
I’m still warm.
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 4:32 AM UTC
It seems like the cells in the spine of my body ache for another to fit against it.
Perhaps not a mirror image or unflawed symmetry,
but
rather just a presence.
Something beyond the lilt of a shadow and shallow breaths.
My fingertips unconsciously linger & idle on the place on my collarbone. Left side, a kiss's width from my chin.
Notice, the word, 'place?' I felt a tad bigger of a human, a bigger piece of this starry starry universe with you.
Eyelashes still flutter, giving way to soft gravity. Hoping your eyes would be reflected against mine again.
I am so very human
with & without
you.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 6:57 AM UTC
Regardless how precise the assay of their life,
Most men must remain an enigma;
Their motivation fired by inner strife
A polymorph for which no sigma,
Nor algebraic symbol will suffice.
No If and then which personality
To a course of action thus relates,
Nor can it be hypothesized conditionally,
The turmoil emotion intrinsically creates,
When alone they stare into death's reality.
Two dimensional is the biography of any man.
We see his length and width, never grasping depth,
Though fortune deems we live within his span.
Much like this into my life have crept
Those I love, yet may never understand.
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 12:11 PM UTC
the child recieves his paper
****** backward by the one in front
flip the three pages flippantly
one : intimidating . . two : boring
the third adorned unexpectedly
a longer -than seems can be usually- grown hair with a clump of green root
sprung out and slaughtered, down across the width; stuck above the questions beneath
how could he not have seen?
a pile so viscous and obscene?
does everyone else have one???
are they holding their disgust beneath?
he looked up at the teacher.
A look of vigilance his face bequeathed.
B ut now it sprung out almost pus like
a faint smile,
a teachers calm reprieve
he then leaned back on his chair in comfort
drooping his head back
his nostrils flared now toward the child
the hairs brustling from inside, all locked up in a ***** days remnants
all foul
and long
and dehydrated
like a swamp now sunned crisp; reeds on a stale bank
drawn in he felt uneasy
unable to cease to stare
incased inside the world that spawned
in the swamp that lay up there
in the cavernous orifices there
then he saw the teachers eyes, his gaze it
stuck on him, the teacher began to grin
further back his head leant
his eyes jaundiced
his teeth tanned
his face pale
his grin outstretched and thin
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 6:38 AM UTC
At the beginning of the date he wanted sushi,
I wanted a large pizza with extra cheese that sounded like, "No thanks, not hungry."
It was cold outside and it was raining
So naturally we opened up the window as far as it would go -
He quickly lit the panda candle near the window
as if the spark came straight from his fingers
And all I could think was, **** Even with the wind the candle is still lit. This is my guy."
It was romantic and slow and I was a **** fool,
****** in
Feeling like I'm falling after four days.
A little conversation and some food later, I could suddenly make out the width and length of his eyelashes -
"Oh **** He's leaning in."
His hand surfed the curves and waves of my hip,
My entire body felt like a magnet towards his and
Having felt it all
I chalked it up to friendship
While thinking and dreaming of my "friend" wondering how
How could I have been such a fool?
I broke his heart and mine too.
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 10:45 PM UTC
Mirror, mirror, on the wall, tell me what suits,
Soft natural highlights, or strong punk roots?
Auburn red or beach blonde hair,
Brunette with greens, or short blunt rare?
Mermaid midnight old balayage blues,
Grey ombré curled with lilac hues?
Lemon yellow paint or neon spice,
Purple color that matches my hazel eyes!
Tousled, textured, twirled and twined,
We could take it to the front, or let it all behind.
Black hair with beautiful mahogany dye,
Fringes looking pretty every day passing by.
Straight hair with an asymmetrical bob,
Lips painted red, formal and hot.
Tie buns and bows with colorful clips,
Grow pink hair long, till they reach my hips.
Fish tail braid like a Boho chic,
All pastel shades spread, across the width.
Blonde and bright, they are in my sight,
Soon to be a celebrity, wearing them uptight.
Burgundy wine perm, crazy long,
Every hair color has a song.
There are chances that they may look all wrong,
But hey! I'm not scared to just play along!
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC
In 2019,
I want more.
Want more sunrises
More rolling out of bed with a purpose
More afternoons curled in a love seat
I want a garden
inside me and in my backyard
More friends
More nuzzles from dogs
More oceans
More allowance to make mistakes
After all, you were brave enough to try.
More stillness
More belly laughs
More love letters
More sway in my hips
Cool breeze on my lips
More looking in the mirror to see my smile
not the width of my thighs
More finding shapes in the clouds
More moments that leave me breathless
More life
All the painfully messy beautifully chaotic morsels
dripping from my chin
In 2019,
I want more.
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 11:00 AM UTC
~for the one who will know it was written for her~
muddy verb and adjective,
muddling and muddled
have you ever seen a pas de deux/deluxe,
one dancer, proscriptive,
and her partner, prescriptive?
the stage, of course,
exactly the width of your head,
from ear to shining ear
this couple o’muses dance en concert,
though their very natures are anti-logarithmic,
the value of their exponential activity is a
descriptive nomenclature
I am overly abstruse this Saturday morn,
mushing mathematics and ballet, verbal word games
as is my wont wanted,
everyone sleeping while I rise at 6am,
doing ablutions, seeking absolution,
pulling weeds from our respective gardens,
answering old friends I have yet to meet,
to whom I answer,
“still here, though long time no see,”
which is of course hysterical funny, inherently contradictory,
as the brain grasps well my
Red and Dead Sea brain cells, a splitting motif
muddling and muddled,
proscribed from getting on transport,
to deliver to you the proper healing prescriptive,
as if I had in my possess to diagnosis and correctly assess
even though one of my many passport names,
a requirement, to visit,
this inter-netting ether, that both combines and separates,
permits me safe passage,
over the historical lineage of borderlines of land and sea,
to deliver this message,
to you
woman
*I am here, waiting patiently, though long time
no see
like ever,
absentia, dementia,
both self-censure:
here, then, my cadenza,
dedicated solely soulfully for you,
as the sabbath sun rises over the East River,
saying, laughing unto me,
“still here, though long time no see,”
for though I cannot look upon her,
my sun, my sun, my son,
yet she, as well,
is everywhere-inside of me,
warmly illuminating
my muddled mind*
Mar 23, 2019
Mar 23, 2019 at 7:57 AM UTC
lines,
the curves of your neck, your eyelashes that flutter.
color,
the brown in your eyes, the barely there pink of your chapped lips.
texture,
the bumps on your cheeks, the smoothness of your hands.
space,
the width of your shoulders, the space between your eyebrows.
shape,
the way your shadow looks as the spotlight's on you.
van gogh, da vinci, munch, and michelangelo,
they'd all be ashamed,
for they could never make art in the form of you.
Nov 28, 2016
Nov 28, 2016 at 1:13 AM UTC
something stirred and alive came forth
out of my own heart it spoke
*all creation is of equalities
sister brother relations
here is truth*
not to let it pass untested
i made an agreement
with belief
*blade of summer grass
teach me
dust speck
gold starshine
water droplet
prisms
fortuitous spider
i hear your messages*
spider moved in her sun-sparkled circle
she threw me spider kisses
but when i gave her kisses back
some voice came booming
*humanity is the golden crown
of god's achievement*
and the spirit of these words then took flight,
transversed my landscape,
crossed an ocean's width of time
and dropped under the waves
with the natural weight
its distorted truth
practices of superiority
of ********** of killing exploitation
rose from the collective--
flashed their white lightening
but struck counter--
diluting dissolving disarming
greediness and favoritism
manipulation and lies
expectation of privilege
so called divine right
a voice it came again
so that greater love
may have heard itself
*all creation is conscious
all is alive all are equal*
*none is better or worse
than another*
remember this
to practice
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 3:48 PM UTC
I exhale.
As I fade from this life, I’ll float into the next and to eternity. I am so deeply enveloped in this world that I dissolve into all the others. My body will decompose, and I will exist again as a new collection of atoms.
I suppose through delusional, philosophical excuse I am connected to this world. And I suppose that stardust constellates and buries themselves in my bones. So I must grow in dimensions greater than height, width, and length.
But the veins of this new world are thin wires of cables and in complex codes and formulas are sent to and received by another motherless machine. Although, I’d rather break these wires and create a spark that can be felt rather than seen.
Let me ignite a craving under the continents and satisfy a spark that cannot be replicated by plastic or manipulated into energy. Let me feel the pressure of the world and the thick atmosphere that caves my posture. Let me once more feel by the fibers of kings and commoners that lace through my veins.
The world is deteriorating and has been left so deprived of life’s ecstasy that it is now hollow and I can only hear my own echoes.
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 9:58 PM UTC
I
I learnt this week
that time and distance
can be friends to memory
their respective lengths
only wet and sharpen
the edge of love
but for us dear friend
we hold hard to hope
that we may
one day soon
share the present
and live each moment
in each other's heart.
II
Hearing you on Holkham beach
- whose soul is greater than the ocean
whose spirit stronger than the sea -
did I doubt for a moment
that you, though buffeted
by a cold east wind
would never age for me,
nor fade, nor die.
Nor you for me (she said)
Goodbye, my love,
a thousand times goodbye.
Write me well (she said)
and turned and ran.
III
The Reedham ferry was but a river's width
and yet I stood at the water's brink
and watched the reeds quiver in the wind,
watched the rain splatter on the puddled path.
All around to the human eye
this valley, a plain of grassland
broken only by reed-fringed pools,
was a gentle, unpeopled, easy place.
The absence of relief left
no fixed frame of reference.
Places apart from one another
would concertina and merge.
Tempted to cross I waved a no
to the ferryman in his quayside hut
then turned and walked quickly
back down the long, low road.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 6:29 PM UTC
There are those who
despise tight spaces
who hate confinement
at least in their own basement
There's some truth
I concur
I need room
not some gloomy tomb
still there are some
who are confined
by the dust below
and the clouds above
they desire
the width of the equator
and claim
the height to the stars
but in the end
with all man as a subject
with majestic skyscrapers
and treasuries filled to the brim
their death creates borders
implodes skyscrapers
and loots the coffers
alas, as they started
in incubators
they remain claustrophobic
in coffins
the world is not enough
because we are not enough
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 2:57 PM UTC
953
A Door just opened on a street—
I—lost—was passing by—
An instant’s Width of Warmth disclosed—
And Wealth—and Company.
The Door as instant shut—And I—
I—lost—was passing by—
Lost doubly—but by contrast—most—
Informing—misery—
3.2k
From citron-bower be her bed,
cut from branch of tree a-flower,
fashioned for her maidenhead.
From Lydian apples, sweet of hue,
cut the width of board and lathe,
carve the feet from myrtle-wood.
Let the palings of her bed
be quince and box-wood overlaid
with the scented bark of yew.
That all the wood in blossoming,
may calm her heart and cool her blood,
for losing of her maidenhood.
3.1k
I am not my body.
The width of my arms do not translate how big my soul is.
I may look like a twig fallen from Charlie Brown's Christmas tree
But inside, I'm a galaxy expanding like space itself.
You are not your body.
You are not your concrete imperfections.
Nothing physical could ever represent your true appearance.
The next time that you're with someone,
Close your eyes and look at them.
And see their true form in your mind.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 6:46 PM UTC