"wobbled" poems
stranded in
the beauty of her throat shunted
her preference
a short drop
in a bulwark twisting knot
a hanged ghastly pendent
her feet arching desperately in search of a floor
they will never find
obedient!
yet
her face
a hideous insubordination
she dissolves like tropical butter
a screaming silence
a falling prayer
shuddering
with downward sloping limbs
she
blue
hemorrhaging
eyes wobbled
bulging to break into paradise
tumbling
like a dizzied cyclops
as numb lipped jutting howls
turn cement
always willing to help
he scums
for her
in pulsing heaves
of beatific gush
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 10:46 AM UTC
Mum had been gone a couple of months, six I think… (An ordinary day, feeling hollow but doing OK) …when I realised I could get rid of the sofa.
I thought it was ugly, she thought it was a bargain. A sofa’s not a keepsake and it was certainly no heirloom. I’d not inflict it on my kids. I got rid.
If I could’ve had her back then? I would’ve done. Even if it meant keeping the sofa.
Redecorated. Bought a new telly. Spent frivolous amounts of cash on scatter cushions. She disliked scatter cushions. I thought they were cosy.
My little boy drew on one of the cushions. On purpose. I was about to smack the back of his legs… (Mum would have, she smacked me when I was little) … I stopped.
I never wanted to. Had known all along, somehow forgotten.
If I could’ve had her back then? I would’ve done. But she would not smack my children.
Mum had been gone a year… (Planting bulbs, feeling conspicuous carrying a shovel ‘round the churchyard) …and I missed her.
It was as hot as the day she died. There was no breeze up on that hill, no cloud. Beautiful views stretched right out to the sea.
My little boy had grown, he helped carry water and dig holes. My baby was learning to walk, she wobbled on uneven turf between the headstones. I wanted Mum to see.
If I could’ve had her back then? I would’ve done. No question.
Mum had been gone three years… (Bulbs were doing OK. There was nothing left to plant that rabbits wouldn't nibble) …and I realised it was time to move on.
I kept the ghosts quiet while agents showed people round. The house sold. We moved away. A warm, terraced place in a small town by the sea. Dad died.
Mum has been gone eight years and I miss her.
Looking out from the Downs across cliff-top and sea, the churchyard seems nothing more than a soft-grey fleck on the green edge of town.
If I could bring her back now? Everything’s changed.
Ghosts exist. They sit in empty chairs and speak kettle-whistle. Wishing us well.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 2:34 PM UTC
He almost let out a sigh of dismay,
Knowing this stint would be short lived.
The common sense in his head seemed to say,
"No one could be this lucky, don't have yourself deceived".
His wheels wobbled and shook; squeaked and wailed,
Under the collective weight of the two.
Screaming threats from worn bearings that ailed,
He did not want to appear weak so his legs pummelled on through.
The ease of cycling was only temporary
He pedalled harder to gain more speed.
Then the ground began to slope gently
His lungs felt like bursting as he pounded his iron steed.
The journey uphill had been more laborious than he had expected.
All the while, the beauty hadn't uttered a single word.
His mind had drifted off even though he was worn and ragged,
The thought of emerging as a couple seemed less than absurd.
The crest of the hill was a cool, long anticipated welcome.
He could finally ease up on the pedalling.
The view from there was nothing short of handsome,
The downhill would take charge and he could catch up on his breathing.
The wind met his face and whistled itself tuneless.
The bicycle rattled as it rolled down the uneven trail.
He felt a sense of flight, there was an air of calmness,
Almost had forgotten about the quiet guest on his tail.
At the bottom he thought he should check on his passenger,
He looked ahead as he addressed the lady.
When he had expected an almost immediate answer,
No response came, despite his calls for her repeatedly.
He pedalled with little effort as if there wasn't added weight
The bicycle slowed down to a clearing where it was dim.
Fatigue was setting in as the night stretched late
His curiosity won the battle and got the better of him.
He stopped his bicycle and maintained balance with his feet,
He twisted his torso so he could speak to his fare.
The moment he did so, his heart had almost ceased to beat,
To his horror, he found that the lady was no longer there...
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 12:00 AM UTC
Cola and Crown
Cola and Crown
Burns coming up
But, smooth going down
Cola and Crown
Cola and Crown
Burns coming up
But, smooth gong down
Sitting at the tavern
Needed courage
Drank four shots
Downed them in six seconds
Now, I didn't feel so hot
Stumbled to the dance floor
Room was spinning
So was I
Four shots in just six seconds
Felt like I was gonna die
Waitress pushed on by me
Saw that I had paid my dues
Four shots in just six seconds
I threw up on her new shoes
Cola and Crown
Cola and Crown
Burns coming up
But, smooth going down
Cola and Crown
Cola and Crown
Burns coming up
But, smooth gong down
She screamed and i just wobbled
Then she socked me with her tray
She gave me four shots in six seconds
Now, on the floor I lay
From now on when I'm drinking
I'm drinking beer, no matter what
I've got two black eyes to show me
Four in six ain't that hot
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 1:19 PM UTC
Round and baby smooth
Before the heavy lessons
Now more gold than globe
Earned geography
Topography in bruises
Ridged in blue and black
Fault lines and canyons
Shining yellow Kevlar-filled
Stronger in the cracks
But this recent dent
is a gut-aching crater
that wobbled my world
So, I wait for healing gold
And grow stronger from repair
Sep 8, 2025
Sep 8, 2025 at 3:01 AM UTC
Maybe my writing
Will improve
When strewn over
Blue lined graph paper,
Tiny boxes,
Coaxing out order,
Perhaps even
Clarifying boundaries
Between crazed truth,
And detrimental lies.
The grid putting
Poem in context,
Poem like graph,
Displaying
Levels of THC
Depression
Number of Kisses
Tears Cried
Outliers of secrets uttered.
Box and whisker plot
Displaying anxiety,
Skewed data toward extremes.
No.
Linear writing would
Reveal the chaos inside.
I can't fit the poems
To the squares.
A graph can't really cry
The way a person can.
There's a losing feeling
Etched in pen
On a harshly graded
Parcel of mathematical quizzing
That a poem has no place to
Instill in me.
And no one would
Be able to read my work
The way they tell you to show it.
My poems have no color coding.
Definition between data
Becomes hazy as
Layers of black are added
In empty,
All encompassing anger.
And I smoke while I write tonight,
Haze growing,
Lines wobbled,
And I may have put a poem
On a piece of graph paper
But it's nothing like the math homework
That stays in my backpack.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 12:10 PM UTC
Once there was a carnival.
It was exuberant and joyful,
With elephants and lions befriending the penguins and sea otters,
And little fairy-like acrobats leaping and zooming across tightropes,
As if they were walking on solid ground.
There was a faint smell of funnel cake and cotton candy and popcorn,
And the sound of people chatting animatedly about,
"Wasn't that act precious" or "oh, darling, look at that penguin! Isn't he cute?"
And then I got a little older.
And the carnival was still joyful, but something had changed.
The carnival had this joyful facade but it was hiding a darker exterior.
The elephants and lions were growing old, and the ringmaster,
Displeased with their best efforts,
Had started to hurt them.
The fairy-like acrobats had gotten injured over the years,
And wobbled a little bit here and there, with hints of hesitation
Perspiring on their foreheads.
The funnel cake and cotton candy and popcorn smell lingered still,
But it was almost as if people had grown tired of the taste,
And in the heat of the summer day,
The food had started to grow stale.
And then I got old.
The carnival had closed now.
Overgrown with weeds,
Stalls and tents covered in graffiti and muck,
It was now a gathering spot for children to make believe,
That they were the fairy acrobats who had once been so agile and captivating,
Or the animals that had struck terror and awe into toddler's hearts.
The carnival was gone,
but the children would run home to their grandmas and grandpas,
and they would tell them the story of how the lion was this close to biting off their nose,
and how one time the acrobat honestly did a front flip from a horse on to a bear onto a lion, and they were honest to God telling the absolute truth no matter what their spouse would say in the room next door.
The carnival was gone, but the stories would go on in a bittersweet never ending circle of intrigue and mystery and magic.
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 1:22 AM UTC
They were all looking at the bubbles then it popped.
“Argh! My eyes! Ma!”
“I told you, you’re not supposed to stare at the bubbles when it floats right on your eyes”
“But it’s beautiful and I see the mini-rainbows while it wobbles in the sky.”
The mother and the child went staring at the bubbles floating as they fly above the orange skies.
He blew another, carefully - eyes shining with excitement.
“Look, Mom! This one is bigger! I blew it slower than the other, this one will not pop.”
The cold wind blew with the ruffling of the grass as if clapping.
The bubble wobbled and wobbled on the orange sky
Passed by the resting sun, magnifying its beauty, it glittered.
The boy’s eyes shimmered in excitement.
Pop!
“Not again!” the boy sighed in exasperation.”
He asked, “Where do bubbles go when they pop?”
She looked at him intently.
She smiled, “they become the clouds, like tiny bubbles watching over us.”
“Why would they watch over us?”
“For in time, they will know that the sun will burn our skin, then they will come as rain.”
“Well, let me make more bubbles, so we can play with You in the rain.”
Don’t Forget the Bubbles
Dec 4, 2019
Dec 4, 2019 at 3:38 AM UTC
My breath fogged your glasses
well...
someones glasses
hard to tell hard to see hard to care
so I whipped up a couple of blinks and pumped more blood
garden fresh cheeks
lace and sweet cherry knots
memorizing scripts in margarita swirls
same sentences--erased lines
spied the EXIT fall
crashed with a simple laugh
I laughed too
rows of lipstick stains and plastic strips
tripping over the way out
muttering punk sputtering prank
then they wobbled out the
ENTRANCE
and I ordered more foggy
glasses
Jul 5, 2012
Jul 5, 2012 at 10:34 PM UTC
Wobbling three legged tables
where the bearded bald men are
sitting upon the legs of standing chairs
while telling local tales heard abroad
recalled from memories long forgot
Like stories from a ******** genius's journal
read in public by the town's blind doctor
clearly translated by a girl who was mute
to a man listening with old deaf ears
Or the one of the parched fisherman drowning
who was seen from a distance by a nearsighted man
that sent his lame messenger running to get help
and was reeled in by the fish he had caught on his line.
But none were as simply complicated
as the one of the bearded bald men
whose sitting stools stood tall as they sat
and whose three legged table wobbled.
May 31, 2010
May 31, 2010 at 7:00 PM UTC
They crawl hands and knees!!!
Lacklustered fanatic's,
Groupies of needleshooter's and powder transits,
Their noses they wipe off fairied dust!!!
Their skin fragile and delirious!!!
A spoon to copper boil,
Eyeglasses to split the sun ,
Sticky fingers to stop and go..
Bloodied toast!!!
They cringe their pearlies,
And wobbled by to and fro waves,
Their here for today,
Gone for tomorrow!!!
A vein full of sorrows!!!
A hitch hiker of fertile roads,
Though,
Thy load leadeth one down to the pit!!
Within millipede's of Spit,
To drippeth the argot that slurreth them!!
Taketh thy hector out of thy baggage,
Thou serf of emptiness!!
For thy plentiness thou seeketh,
Lies beyond the ark,
Behind the purple shroud!!
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 9:12 PM UTC
Bluebell and Blossom were two little girls
One had straight hair the other curls
Their eyes were different shades of blue
And they both loved going to the zoo.
Bluebell liked the Panda bears with soft tummies
And lots of fur
Blossom's favourite was kangkeroo, she fed it leaves
And a chocolate chew.
They got on the red train and raced around
Faster and faster till they found
The cage with the Giraffes big and small
Sticking their heads through the open roof floor.
Back to the train then the pelican's van
Pink and prissy making a stand
Then the penguins joined in the fun
Lots of fishes for their tums.
Two little girls growing tired
Their feet wobbled, and heads bowed
Time for home with cake and cheese
And a drink of milk if you please.
For Evelyn and Florence
Love Grandma ***
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 3:43 PM UTC
It was me who took her by the hand to the moon,
she now says she is there on her own!
A girl on the moon that pretends she forgot,
everything happened before, in no time!
I held her gently by her waist and danced,
she couldn't match my speed, she wobbled,
still she pretended her status was single,
on the sly, she was waiting for the prince of the moon
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 11:58 AM UTC
What do my memories taste like? There lies on my tongue—
An atomic bomb:
a purported speck, with no chicken pox skin situated upon such.
I spat it out; I wobbled on and on, stomping the microscopic intensity into the sludge.
No one sees; how pleasant…
My shoe’s underside slit it— a paper cut broiled to the infinitude degree—
Preposterous conundrum! Slam!
I fulminate! I screech, the needy baby I am!
My guttural heave strews in the wind:
deformed limbs on the newer generations, an abysmal thread.
Supposedly bland, but then: a guzzling bleed from you and I gushes on and on; but oh, was it needed!
Listen to my writhing! Soak in my curdling roaring!
I am the mafia mastermind, but I plead to guilt!
The vandalism cannot be grated, but I will
revamp, spot clean, and hunt for a vaccine.
I cannot cure a scored scar, but rest assured:
I will endeavor to solidify the clot.
Aug 29, 2020
Aug 29, 2020 at 4:31 PM UTC
I had a moment of clarity
In my life
When I would wake up
From my night terrors
The train tracks outside my window
Wobbled louder than my sanity.
Yes you were there
Patrolling my dreams,
Sprinkling hatred
Over the innocence.
You were the fake ****
Who conducts lies
With your promises.
Your nails, nail the impression
That you practice
On voodoo dolls
Hanging in your soul.
Tearing each thread
Back to its spindle.
It cries.
Prying apart
Till frost vacates your heart
Into these dolls.
Look at you go!
Like Reptar,
You mustered the mightiest rawr
To scare everyone away.
Like reptar you are the toy,
Imagine that.
You see,
They use their imagination
To make you look like
What your faking to be.
Someone different.
You forced me
To lock you up in my dreams.
Murderous murders
Slaughtering anyone
Who mentions my name
So you can feed the meat
You store in the temple
Filled with thorns.
People say stick and stones
May break my bones
Yet your smile
Still shatters them to dust,
Stuck between your nails.
An inconvience.
That's what you would called it.
Hear ye hear ye
My apologies
For me not being clearly.
You must understand
My voice is a little drowned
By the lack of intelligence
You ponder about.
Especially when I glossed over the fact
That this is the poem
I've always want to throw down
Onto your trenches
On your forehead,
The gateway to the mind
Which conducted
The illist mistake
Thinking I'm not worth the time.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 2:56 PM UTC
My granny was only twelve years old
When she got her first tattoo
She was kind of a rebellious child
Back in nineteen twenty-two
She hid that thing for a little while
'Til her daddy finally got wise
He took that girl to the woodshed
With ****** in both of his eyes
He asked that girl, "What did you do,
Don't you know that's gotta be a sin?"
"Now look what you've done to your body,
Has your mama seen your skin?"
Now my granny was a stubborn child
She didn't listen to a word he said
She didn't hide the one she already had
But she got three more instead
Now as my granny got older, so did her skin
And her ink was droopy and sad
You'd think that woman would feel remorse
But I think she was almost glad
Now the art sunk down to her elbows
As it wobbled to and fro
The butterfly tats would take to flight
Everywhere Granny would go
Now another tat was a bloodshot eye
But now it was always winking
On the other arm was a battleship
But of course that thing was sinking
Well that's the story of my granny's art
She lived to be a hundred and two
The day she died it said "Rest in peace"
Not the gravestone, her last tattoo
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 4:45 PM UTC
Dedicated to Beverly & ?? [&c., &c., &c.]
[this poem contains multiple characters;
I didn't write any of it, but strangely, it's all true]
She was wearing black leather ankle boots
& torn fishnet stockings;
The top was black and sleeveless,
w/ fishnet covering her stomach
up to the frayed hem of the fabric of the shirt;
All around the room there was a buzz of voices,
all the people seeming a whirl of fishnet stockings,
bright makeup & colorful costumes;
Strutting across the stage removing fishnet stockings,
her long silky legs drawing all the attention;
She was wearing a black tank top,
red tartan mini-skirt w/ fishnet tights & black
leather, knee high boots; Her hair was long
& deep purple & her short skirt
revealed a shaved snooch & gorgeous legs clad in fishnet stockings;
The black fishnet top, and the tight t-shirt
with the skull on it were quite perfect for the occasion;
I opened my eyes and found myself staring up at the pair of legs
in knee high boots & red fishnet stockings
beneath a red and white schoolgirl skirt [the woman wearing them old
enough to be my grandmother]. PVC, fishnet,
rubber, Lycra, velvet & lace
were worked into corsets, coats & masks; Finally she settled on a black corset dress,
her skull necklace & black combat boots
that went up to her shin & black fishnet tights;
She stomped her way across the room,
grabbed me painfully by the arms
w/ her black fishnet sleeves
& ruffled collar shirt & planted a kiss on me;
she wore black fishnet stockings & stilettos
that wobbled underneath her feet as she stepped;
She then stepped into a long
black skirt, and w/out much effort,
managed to get into her black fishnet stockings;
I pulled out a black long dress,
black fishnet stockings & see-through undershirt;
but she was already dressed in a short denim skirt,
black fishnet stockings and high red sandals,
& she was wearing a blood red tank top,
black miniskirt & fishnet stockings;
She was fairly small, about 5 ft. even,
appearing only slightly tall in sling-back stilettos
& fishnet stockings w/ a red tube top
w/ black mesh on top of it;
I looked down at her short tartan skirt
& bare feet in fishnet stockings, her black nail polish
looking good, so was her ripped black tank top:
I gathered the long dress in one hand,
pulling the material up as far as her waist,
revealing the black fishnet stocking tops
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 1:33 AM UTC
Her back like a sunset sitting crouched in a cold tub,
terrified and disillusioned. I watch her from the doorway,
unable to paint over her purples, yellows, and blues.
I watch her trembling deer legs tumble over the linoleum
and all I can think of is that last thing he said to her as
she slipped away.
"How could we have disappointed each other this much?"
I was there, watching her petals wilt, her body slipping into
a vase for him every night in the bar as he looked at a simpering
Los Angeles girl over his beer glass.
Sometimes love comes in like the roll of a fresh spring breeze
over a mountain, sometimes it's like a knife twisting in your
gut, but sometimes love can make you believe he's worth
tearing yourself up.
I pulled her up from the bathtub, crumpled and wilted and tired
and heartbroken. I brushed away the tears and smudged eyes,
and let California's sunshine shimmer on her skin, I opened
all the windows in the world for her,
just to let the right love in, to sweep up the insecurities,
and only leave strength in its place,
and as she tried to thank me, I put my hand on her
heart and said, "You've got two eyes, two legs, two arms,
but only one heart. And someone out there has the pair."
I held her hand to my heart, "But that pair will stop beating
then moment you let yours stop."
And I watched her wash her face, and heal the bruises,
her smile returned and wobbled, and finally I stopped
looking into mirrors to remember what pounded so steadily
and so strongly in my chest.
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 1:11 PM UTC
My granny was only twelve years old
When she got her first tattoo
She was kind of a rebellious child
Back in nineteen twenty-two
She hid that thing for a little while
'Til her daddy finally got wise
He took that girl to the woodshed
With ****** in both of his eyes
He asked that girl, "What did you do,
Don't you know that's gotta be a sin?"
"Now look what you've done to your body,
Has your mama seen your skin?"
Now my granny was a stubborn child
She didn't listen to a word he said
She didn't hide the one she had
But she got three more instead
Now as my granny got older, so did her skin
And her ink was droopy and sad
You'd think that woman would feel remorse
But I think she was almost glad
Now the art sunk down to her elbows
As it wobbled to and fro
The butterfly tats would take to flight
Everywhere Granny would go
Now another tat was a bloodshot eye
But now it was always winking
On the other arm was a battleship
But of course that thing was sinking
Well that's the story of my granny's art
She lived to be a hundred and two
The day she died it said "Rest in peace"
Not the gravestone, her last tattoo
Oct 18, 2010
Oct 18, 2010 at 11:14 AM UTC
We are gathered here today in a space
cluttered with you and you who I’ve cried and tore
The voices that I’ve played in my auditory canal
When sentience has made me raw.
And our collective limbs have babbled through fields
or roved on roads of tyre
Watched mitosis play with our fingers
So our heads float to bricks that are higher
We are sewn together by memories
Shooting synapses bounce inbetween brains
The first time she wobbled a milk stone
The pink cardigan left on that train.
We will stretch out our patience to mountains
Nearly burst in our tallies to ten
But there’s always a rope shared between us
Always straw in our symbiotic den.
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 4:17 PM UTC
I typed the first line and it didn't come out write
Holy **** how do I even begin to right
This wasn't intentional
It was just my subliminal
Telling me, "Hey you drank to much last night!"
The first 2 lines were meant to be that way
Hangovers can fun, especially with wordplay
For once in my life, I left my typos untouched
And here's the story about how I drank too much
We started at home with a bottle of wine
Shared between the four of us, we were feeling fine
We got to the car
We didn't go to a bar
Instead we went to a friend of mine
His place was close, about 15 minutes away,
As soon as we got there, we were like "Heeeeyyyy!!"
We played a drinking game, called 'ride a bus'
And soon enough, I felt like I was on an actual bus
My head started to spin, my chest felt heavy
I hurried to the bathroom feeling very dizzy
I looked into the mirror
I felt this glooming fear
I thought to myself, "Oh **** come out already"
And out it came, the wine from before
Just when I thought it was over, and then came more
The punishment I get, for not eating before I drink
Is hurling up everything into the sink
So cleaned myself up, and the sink as well
I wobbled around, I think I almost fell
Someone asked me, "Did you throw up?"
I don't remember who, but I was like... "YUP!"
We got to the car, and reached home safely
I crawled into bed, and I slept like a baby
I woke up this morning, 6.30am, actually
I cleaned up the car, where I threw up unintentionally
Thanks for the party guys, I had a blast
And surely enough, it won't be our last
The next time we drink
Or when our glasses clink
I'll make sure I don't drink it too fast
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 7:27 PM UTC
It feels as if I've been lost in this flea market for years
Skimming over every item, dismissing each and every one for their slight imperfections
Once I happened upon a lovely little stool
It was quaint and simple and as I sat upon it I felt I must have it
I finally had my brilliant find, my wonderful little flea market triumph
But it wobbled under my weight I noticed a scratch on the surface
So I let out a sigh as lifted myself off the imperfect beauty, and I continued my search
It is only now that I have found it,
My perfect bargain item!
A porcelain figure so beautiful I can't imagine why it hasn't been snatched up
It seems to be glowing
Beckoning me to join it in its glass enclosure
I approach the wrinkled fellow who sits beside the case and inquire of the price
For that little figure whose beckoning has become impossible to ignore
He flashes a nearly toothless grin and bids me come closer with a trembling wrinkled finger
He smells of cigars and moth ***** and he rasps
"You know, young lady, the most beautiful of things are the hardest to hold on to
and the quickest to be lost."
He gestures to the glass enclosure where my figure
My perfect porcelain figure
Sits no more
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 9:48 PM UTC
A teacher died at our school today
and tears dropped from black lined eyes
the chapel was full of
somber human creatures
praying without noise
sniffles thundered the heavy silence
everywhere I looked were red
swollen glossy eyes
and blank
pained expressions of sorrow
water fell down on ripe grass
cascaded down cheeks
and spilled off of noses
choked voices cracked liked fractured bones
the priests voice wobbled
a loose stool leg
as he recalled visiting her in the hospital
stranding strongly at the podium
tales of her existence bloomed out of mouths
and watery laughter could be heard
from the classrooms
I
a lowerclassman
watched indifferent
yet silent
embracing my older friends silently
as they cried
we came together as a family
to remember a wonderful woman
Mrs. Hansen
may you rest in peace
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 10:04 PM UTC
On
Days
Like this
When the deep blue skies
Shed their clouds
And made love to the horizons
Shall
We lay
On bedrocks
And lash our feet
Into plunge pools
And
Watch
Vuluptuous waterfalls
Walk elegantly down rocky staircases
And
Make
Mockery
Of the blue pants
The waters wore
There
The thunders
Will leer through the skies
And try to catch a glimpse
Of our foul acts
And
Even become
A parodist of her cuddly winks
And
There again
Become a beggary
Of my artistry,when I wove her eyebrows
With flowers
Moments
Like this,the rainbows stun with brilliance
And the umbra and penumbra
Will glare resentfully
Then
She will
Treasure me
All her secrets,dreams and fears
On the ***** of my tongue
I
Remember clearly
Like the romance played
By the moons at mars
When she said"without you,its hard to survive"and blush
And
I had tell her
All the tales of love from Adam
Yet
How sad!
When time gulp
Beautiful memories in haste
Like a drunkard
I had died six times
Till she came and breath life
Into me one more time
Yet
Today,I wobbled solo
To these environs like a jittered cheetath
Truly,I had been cheater
O,
How I wish
I can wash her off me
Her touches,her tastes and her smells
But someway I'm cowed
I might drown,and lose all hopes
Of beholding her sight one more time
I
Have no peace
And all prayers
For solace suspend
Beneath impervious clouds
Now and then
Will I starve silly
At motile moons and stars
With a little hope of her sight one more time
I'm caged in her absence,yet I lay in no cage
Am wholly buried yet I lay in no pit
Cheats
©Historian E.Lexano
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 4:53 AM UTC