"worsened" poems
Dear Ronald Bilius Weasley
No matter what others say
I will always be your fan
You are such a marvellous character
Not perhaps, a perfect one
But a character with flaws
So real, and so beautiful
That we can totally relate to it
In your first year at Hogwarts
You played a game of chess
In such a magnificent manner
That even the Russians of the Muggle world
Could not have done any better
In your second year at Hogwarts
You faced your greatest fears
With a courage and nerve
That Godric Gryffindor would have been proud of
For the sake of your best mates
In your third year at Hogwarts
You almost ruined a friendship
For the sake of a rat and a broomstick
But you made amends for it
By standing up to a notorious murderer
That too with a broken leg
Again, for the sake of your best mate
In your fourth year at Hogwarts
Again, there was a misunderstanding
That threatened to derail a strong friendship
But you were there for Harry
When it truly mattered
There was also some ugly ****** jealousy
As your teenage hormones took centrestage
But at least you got an inkling
That you and Hermione
Were made for each other
In your fifth year at Hogwarts
There was a lot you had to put up with
The constant bullying of the Slytherins
Especially during Quidditch matches
The temper tantrums of your best friend
And finally, the evil Dolores Jane Umbridge
Initially, due to your nerves and insecurities
Your Quidditch performances went from bad to worse
But then, you finally showed us
The stuff you were made of
Saving goals left, right and centre
And to cap it all
You bravely fought a dozen Death Eaters
Yet again, for the sake of your best friend
Finally, we come to the war
Due to your never-ending insecurities
And anxiety for your family
Worsened by a dreadful locket
That contained a part of Voldemort's soul
You briefly deserted your best mates
But returned when it mattered the most
Even saving Harry's life in the process
And then, as you destroyed that darned locket
You finally conquered your fears
And transitioned successfully to manhood
Finally, during the Battle of Hogwarts
You showed us your sensitive side
A side that we had never seen before
As you displayed your concern for the house-elves
Precipitating your first kiss with Hermione
Later on, you lost your dear brother
But continued to soldier on bravely
Even standing up to Voldemort himself
Hence, dear Ronald Bilius Weasley
No matter what others say
I will always be your fan
Aug 9, 2020
Aug 9, 2020 at 9:28 AM UTC
bespeckled, blotched & blokey
feminine in aspects
only little ****** hair patches
two chins,
or rather a sloped one
the front evenly declining to the middle of the throat
a gradual slope from the tip, for juices to run if his manner and situation allowed him to be as casual and sloppy as his laziness chose,
torso without form, so there was no curvature on the buttocks or the fly region.
a mass
a blob of bulges on spindly legs
he leans on the wall
stubby in hand he balks
(he means jovial but unintentionally he vocalises mockery)
at the suggestion that the Pies will do better
& that Eddie is a clever man due for thanks, who has done his club well (apparently a straight Aussie arrow tried and true!)
the man ***** his head back & cackles
(the trebly popping bubbles of a gala crackle outwards as the man cackles)
& decides his arms need a rest,
(a long day of up and down they have had indeed, they deserve respect, or rest (or a benching))
so he places his beer down
on a sloped surface,
& therefore it slips down….
he sees it plummeting, he stretches toward it's tragic trajectory,
…..but he is too slow
it smashes
on his foot (the shards) the beer bottle it transfigures,
and the shards they impart their misery on his toes.
The shards they intrude on his relaxed state of wellbeing, they intrude on the security sanctioned within the casual footwear of a man at a barbecue; taking it easy.
he swears and hops, reaching in indignation for his bleeding toes
he holds the wound cursing; resisting the impulse to begin convulsive throws
(an oscar worthy performance from a usually suburbaly urbane individual)
the moisture feels degrading
(as it would within a man's pants)
the pain from the cuts it is worsened
by the smirking gazes of others about
he hobbles, disregarding his thong in the wreckage of the scene
off to retrieve a band aid
to mend his ego
and his foot
simultaneously
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 10:18 AM UTC
.........as the sun just went for his nap, I woke up disturbed; in the middle of turmoils, on the edge of disasters.........
Even though I wanted to, I couldn't sleep; I couldn't cry out for company, for I had known long back that my words were weak...
There was some sleep in my eyes, some emptiness in my heart, and hunger in my soul...
The situation here was chaotic, people killing each other for the sake of some long lost freedom...
I wish I could turn back the clock,
and bring the wheels of time to a stop.
But time is obnoxious; then human lust for power,
and some frivolous ideologies about freedom,
make existence even more dangerous...
And when hope runs out, we become merely living dead creatures.... And such had the conditions worsened in this area, that all was lost...
Each night I slept without a single hope of seeing tomorrow's sunshine...
Each time I went out, I filled myself with the sight of my beloved ones, as if it is the final meeting with them...
So I couldn't find much difference between today and the other days....It seems like all was imprinted on me;
My birth, which brought me here;
My journey, which was neither much in favor,
nor much against my stable, yet conflicting mind;
and My end, which was too stubborn to accept me....
I was neglected by everyone, from everyone, and that's what solidified me...
"I hid my pains even from myself,
I revealed my pains only to myself..."
I was unaware of what I was headed to,
or whether I'd make it or not....that was unacceptable to all, I was unacceptable to all....
"My days are keeping on getting bad
My nights are keeping on getting worst,
I don't know the truths, just I guess I'm thirsty,
But unaware of what would quench my thirst..."
This area is a battlefield,
and my battle here is with the guerrilla force,
my battle here is with the terrorists....
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 12:51 PM UTC
*Times were perfect
they were kind and loving
You had a sparkle in your eye
That made the world bright with love
The distance was great
Yet it wasn't an issue till one day
You told me its hard
You want us closer
But to be friend is enough for now
The pain worsened the more we were friends
The ***** ups I did just made things worse
My love has grown stronger and stronger
Yet it is not enough
In order to get you back I must be by your side
Times are tough and greater still
I love you so much that time stands still
I see you there alone
No one by your side and I crave
That someone will be me again
This pain and misery is far to great
Yet I long your your touch
your kissing embrace
These nights without you have made me miserable
I just wish once you see my tears
These tears of love and pure of heart
They yearn for you to wipe them away
They look to you with a tortured soul
Leaking through the glistening light
They wish you would come back to wipe them away
Even if it is just one more time*
Jun 25, 2017
Jun 25, 2017 at 6:55 AM UTC
Hoobler Hobbler:
He brings only fatigue.
He is but just annoying,
He rarely does intrigue.
Even my brothers are
Extremely irritated so,
For they cannot do anything
Since he really cannot go
For even a strongman like old Mal
He cannot move this hefty tonne,
Both Adsel and Luke alike
Their words like an empty gun
Frank cannot do anything,
He just perches there to watch;
Mike and Blake hide in their hole
And Rooney's but a blotch
Oh this fascinating team
For once they really can't control;
This heavy weighted sleepyhead
Has just worsened this hellhole
Hoobler Hobbler:
It's not just the fatigue,
He also brings along chaos
But still doesn't intrigue
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 11:08 AM UTC
I remember the precise moment I stopped loving him.
We had gone out to dinner.
I was just getting back from the lady's room.
He looked up at me and smiled.
His eyes, I noticed, were dead and lifeless.
Not even a dull glimmer of light remained.
I blinked
thinking eyes would appear in the two gaping holes in his face.
They only grew deeper.
He looked at me quizzically.
Perhaps something in my expression had given me away.
I sat down beside him
avoiding looking at what had once been a pair of chlorine blue eyes.
It was as if something had changed in the time it took me to use the restroom.
When I left everything was normal.
But when I came back he was no longer the man I loved.
I denied it for a while,
dismissing it as a feeling that would pass just like indigestion.
But it never did.
It only worsened.
An unexplainable bitterness began to build up inside me.
Today I looked through some old photos of us
and realized that I'd imagined those chlorine blue eyes of his
because he'd never had eyes of his own to begin with.
Funny howI was the one with the eyes and I was blind the whole time.
Maybe I should pluck my eyes out.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 8:22 PM UTC
There is no hope.
We walked in circles round the worm, its amorphous purpose lost on us. A sleek, black, rotting corpse, buried within skyscrapers and city streets. We could see no end to it. Everyone had done their best to avoid mention, even as traffic backed, markets stalled and entire city blocks went down.
The pier was bustling at noon. Sweet, burning, haze of smells. Business men wandered out for lunch, laughing to themselves as they secretly wondered how they’d pass the black mass. Children scurried round it, morbidly curious. Their parents would wring their hands, shooting sights at everything but the worm. A throng of oblivious teens skated into it and were knocked flat on their backs. A business man stepped over the moaning mass, eating a hot dog.
Three days passed and nothing had been done. The smell worsened.
The media continued their daily fluster. Weather. Sports. Local news. Farmer John had gotten pink eye again. They held awkward smiles in their teeth, and deadpan concern in their crows feet. His meat would be safe once cooked.
The government were curiously absent.
Conspiracists were already calling it Non-entity 012. The world worm. The dead god in the room.
If we close our eyes, will it disappear?
-- Anonymous Male. New York, USA.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 10:58 AM UTC
I stand alone with my shadow,
Developing larger on the floor.
Voices are heightened in these loosened hours,
I can feel my failures outside my door.
For is it fair to live in fear,
Consistently dreading numbed durations?
I still sense the pain of things that won't adhere,
And uneasy twinges of deserted sensations.
My apathy is back and it has worsened,
My eyes have widened because I know what comes next.
The flood of my trauma ends lack of emotion,
drowning me, sending me straight to my death-
Feb 22, 2019
Feb 22, 2019 at 12:40 AM UTC
kurwa? why did i include the word kurwa in the sentence? it's a conjunction: i / and.
sometimes you wonder why certain
consonants don't have applicable
diacritical marks...
for example the word: bydło /
cattle -
because that's what you say
of people who clearly, rather,
make language pristine when
doing ******** and sniffing up an ****
here... we find the b without the acute
stress.. bydło -
cattle, readied for the slaughterhouses;
nar kan haczyk na błazna!
idzie tuman! i zanim horongiew wron!
i wonder as to why they keep their
vocabulary freed from taboo and insistent on
herr censor -
oh right, 'cos it has to look
and sound "pretty", right?
**** 'em... i'll speak the worsened type
of peasant... i'll talk pheasant,
i'll talk peacock, and you do your little
**** should i care.
Oct 15, 2016
Oct 15, 2016 at 3:33 PM UTC
it’s just how it was.
and so things ended up the way they did.
we were quite a pair;
what with my impulsiveness and your rationality.
as i took a step back, each time i recognized the danger in your eyes, flickers unleashed.
this rendezvous meant meeting somewhere a little nearer than halfway,
not without leaving a breadcrumb trail of weariness.
see, we didn’t get around to the part of burning bridges-yellow and orange and blue flames standing tall. neither did we try dousing ourselves in gasoline just so it could stay alive, sparks like flirtatious moths attune to life.
all that we’ve resorted to was crossing the bridge and rightly so. for all we ever wanted was to learn the language the city lights spoke upon the ripples delving into atlantis’ reach. there wasn’t a need to get past the platform, plainly standing there already felt right.
this is what those weeks were all for. open-door kisses and treacherous things in the dark.
the laughing fits and slow dancing in your balcony at 2am, acoustics faint on your speakers were just ways we came up with in order to **** time.
things ended up the way they did.
your messages left unopened, my secrets i’ve bared onto your lips and your tongue was the ink you’ve etched yours with on my skin. for a while it meant more than that, we meant more than just a jet’s smoke trail of fleeting stars crash landing upon reality. we could only get to pretend for so long that the crash wouldn’t occur even as we’ve made an agreement that we’d still be alright and remain with an exchange of warm smiles and inviting eyes like the first encounter. but pretending could only sit so well in my chest but it can’t quite counteract this particular feeling rushing with intensity, an outrage that’s only worsened as those exchanges are kept.
so forgive me if i couldn’t keep contact, if all your calls go to voicemail-and i try not to listen to them but ultimately fail. the only compromise i aid to is to not reply.
that’s just how it was.
things ended up the way they did.
the passionate flames surrounded us keeping a close watch so they wouldn't engulf us
we were just bridge watchers content on not going beyond nor under
-“bridge watchers.”
May 2, 2022
May 2, 2022 at 10:18 AM UTC
The first attempt ended in nothingness. Ribbons flowed from the belly of mother hollow, and though they grasped at their own absence, their fingers broke like brittle leaves, returning to the mother’s flesh.
This was the birth of change.
The second attempt ended in madness. Shadows rose out of the nothingness in waves and cascaded into pools of being, but when being opened its eyes and saw its image, it let out a threshing scream.
This was the birth of separation.
The third attempt ended in lack. Fire poured from the cosmic maw and baked earth to blood; flesh gorged on itself, and pale figures gripped the edges of rivers, gaping at one another, unable to speak.
This was the birth of despair.
The last attempt ended in man; and nothing birthed after it.
Appended File
Source states the archaeologist was investigating the Mariana Trench. Strangely, he began displaying symptoms of decompression sickness on the descent. His state worsened, but, due to his insistence, the pilot continued the mission. The archaeologist began recounting, in “muddled and broken speech”, accounts of his wife and children. In interviews conducted after the incident, colleagues claim to have never met any persons matching such descriptions. Soon after, the archaeologist collapsed. The pilot recounts, in a shaken tone, “By all means he was out. Like—I called to him, you know.” When asked why he did not administer first aid, the pilot replied “I couldn’t st—he was out cold, I ******* swear. I didn’t notice it at first, moving my hand over his face, you know—staring into space. I grabbed the kit, turned back, and that’s when it hit me. His eyes weren’t glazed, they were fixed on me. Tracking me. Like—those weren’t his eyes, anymore.” When asked to expand on this, the pilot broke down and had to be escorted from the room. The archaeologist has yet to awaken from his coma. It should be noted his eyes are closed.
— 37, Male. Cairo, Egypt.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 8:36 PM UTC
We were warworn; you were weary with
my wild, wayward theories
and as I worried, so it worsened.
That's the way.
You were waygone from your wanderings;
I was waiting for you, always.
You were wolfish, but
I wanted you to stay.
Feb 4, 2011
Feb 4, 2011 at 3:46 PM UTC
Remember a time when you cared about me and my life,
when lights were dim and you lit wood on fire just for me,
before 10:40 p.m was too late to talk to me because you cared,
and now I'm scared, sitting on the edge of my bed afraid
like a cat set astray, I'm afraid of what might come by being alone
because being at home was everything you made me feel
and now the steel, the wood, the bricks are all disappearing
and the searing memory burnt into my mind is all that is present.
Please tell me , do you care enough to tell me you're okay,
tell me about your day, what you feel you have to say,
just the way things had once been. I'm tired and alone
waiting for a hello that probably won't come.
I crave the attention but I'm dying for the reminder that you
at least care about me.
Do you still remember me? The guy who's heart has been hurting
worsened by the simple objects in my room, because my room
is painted purple yet feels blue because I have mental images
that spans limitless, all of which I spent time with you
watched the tissue get discarded onto the floor as we cry our eyes out
from the cloud of movies where a man falls in love with a girl
who becomes his whole world only to have things fall apart
as dismembered hearts sit atop the shelf of books untouched, dust filled
because unwilled hearts chose to separate, and life is so much like nature
left and right danger, trust is a hill and mutual care & love is a mountain,
so very worth it but yet so very hard to climb.
Nov 27, 2016
Nov 27, 2016 at 6:33 AM UTC
This poem is a response to one I wrote five years ago: https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2605739/in-which-i-am-brutally-honest-about-my-mother/
My eyes blaze with guilt,
and an outrage at being guilty.
No, at being wrong.
While I waited for the crows,
I was devoured by the chasm
between my father’s brows.
Felt my stomach drop
as I fell into the ground.
Even when I’m right,
I wish I were wrong.
But that’s just how it is to be the victim.
See, my mother was played with by god.
She’s quick to love only to be abandoned.
I remember her whispering to us,
in the middle of some nights
as if we were the daughters of Medusa.
My mother was hurt by god
She did not create sin but
she’s spent most of her life running with it.
Running from it,
running to it.
And I think at some point
she felt too distant to be worth it.
I thought I wanted to hate her,
but it’s impossible to deny her humanity and
to keep trying would only end in tragedy.
I know I’ve ignored her and
I know that worsened the distance.
I want to personally lay the burden
of how I love onto her shoulders,
tell her “You taught this to me.
I watched you love others from the mountains to the sea and I’m
sorry for the years I didn’t let you love me”.
But healing happened in a crockpot,
that wasn’t plugged in.
As a child, I felt so betrayed
because she was my favorite,
and yet I felt so alone
on nights when I couldn’t use her back
as my pillow.
I tried to understand the kaleidoscope of her broken pieces,
and yet I wish I persisted as I got older.
I thought I protected my peace,
and maybe I did,
but it took me ten years to warm up
my shoulder.
I was sad about the absence,
until I became mad and indignant.
A case of unrecognized bias.
By having two drug-addicted parents,
and a lot of black-and-white thinking,
One had leaves, so the other was poison.
Two different flowers in the same garden.
And in that garden,
I’m weeding out the past
and digging in the dirt using only my hands.
Creating stability and forgiveness at that.
Forgiveness for my mother, who has grown despite my doubt.
Forgiveness for my father, for dying
at the hands of the devil he couldn't live without.
I am perpetually digging even further for hope.
And there is always potential for hope.
Nov 12, 2023
Nov 12, 2023 at 3:38 AM UTC
My thirst for conversation has continued to impress me
Fills me with stories helping to shape another in my eyes
Met with friend for a mutual exchange of identity
An interview with questions directed; I asked first
Starting with the earliest formulation of conscious thought
Hers was the return of a sick father
She eagerly embraced him when he arrived home safely
Vividly describes the large red chair present
I transitioned to exchange of reflection most powerful
Searching for a single memory of hers that stood alone
Her face brightened, her eyes shining with nostalgia
Her dog’s name was Max
Max entered her life when she was one year old
On the celebration of her birth in fact
He was the runt of the pack, a ruby retriever
Grew to maturity and average size, with love
Max made his way into her writing in the classroom
His possible harm one of her first worries
He was a cherished family pet, she loved him with all her heart
Being a young child, sometimes she was too rough
Cancer took Max from this world at nine years of age
He was buried under a peach tree in the back yard
The peaches swollen and ripe make death turn to life
To this day they represent the sweetness of his soul
Her early years were full of stress at thought of parental separation
Subject to fickle fears and frozen emotions
Her true panic began in high school days
Developed into distinguishable attacks and episodes
There were never tangible reasons or focus points for fear
Racing thoughts, vertigo chills, imminent death
Creeping insanity and the dry, frustrating inability to swallow
Worsened as college approached and the familiar faded fast
Week one was worse than any panic period yet
Heart flutters, helplessness and disorienting dizzy spells
Friends were far away or had yet to be encountered
Sympathy for perceived insanity ran thin
These experiences require constant care and medication
Hospital visits and appointments with understanding ear
She shared her life with me through effect of anxiety
I shared in turn, but couldn’t help distraction
We did not record the interview so I took it upon myself
Documenting with equal force her story and my amazement
Dec 2, 2010
Dec 2, 2010 at 4:01 PM UTC
I'm like carbon.
Under the right pressure I'll turn into diamond.
But if exceeded I'll break,
Forever worsened.
Jul 3, 2019
Jul 3, 2019 at 9:49 AM UTC
Dear Departed Friend
Ten years ago today
A good friend passed away
It's not so much he died
But the circumstances at play
I found him lying dead
In a red pool of his blood
He handled his inner demons
The best way that he could
His pain had been released
And was laid to rest in peace
But leaving in his wake
No answers could we reach
He wasn't in poor health
Never asked for any help
He was always in good spirits
Held the aces he was dealt
His demeanor never worsened
He was a very well liked person
Always offering a hand
Kindness, he was well versed in
It was just the man he was
He smiled just because
Always looking out for others
But he did like a good buzz
He could put away his liquor
A tolerance that never quivered
But even he surpassed his limits
And with gun in hand he pulled the trigger
A disturbing revelation
For his loved ones in the end
A discerning final memory
Of my dear departed friend
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 1:37 AM UTC
Before the actual birth, I tried to convince myself
there could be no room for fear. That in fact, the
only way I was going to get through this and come
out smelling like a rose was to keep my wits about
me, focus on my breathing and counting, and to
push when I felt the need to push.
When the labor pains worsened I forgot all prior
convincing, edged out of that window to stand on
the ledge of fear. Trying to push this baby through
the birth canal was like trying to push a blimp
through the Washburn Tunnel. All the preparatory
lessons flew off that ledge like birds to the wind.
As the sun rose over Houston, the rays of dawn
crept through the hospital blinds, bringing with
them the first cry of my newborn nine pound,
fourteen ounce son, affirming that old adage that
everything is bigger in Texas. And, as my eyes
lit on the dozen yellow roses you had sent me,
the thought that if I was going to come out of this
smelling like a rose, the yellow rose of Texas
was the one I’d want to be.
Nov 12, 2011
Nov 12, 2011 at 7:22 PM UTC
~
so obvious the mistake
the ordered disorganization
the summation of a man's life
in an ampersand -
a logogram connection
tween two words,
finally, properly sequenced
error then trial, then error then trial
perception - my life is an endless trial
punctuated and worsened,
periodically pierced
by errors
made of your own free (not really) choosing
*"whenever confronted by a fork in my road,
I always chose wrongly"*
and aye, here's the rub
the same mistake made repeatedly
example prime:
falling in love is just another way of saying
gonna end badly
and you constant cravenly confess
to yourself the ending unbecoming cause
you can read the handwriting on the wall
for your specialty is
only love poetry for dummies
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 9:31 AM UTC
I'm that boy who she wants as her toy,
But alas, I am defective as I'm a man now & not a boy,
So the kid got bored of trying to mould me.
She got bored of listening to wise advice,
Perhaps I was wrong on my part too in the end,
So no use ensuing the blame-game now.
I just accept it now,
I was born defective,
Accident just worsened me.
But if you sit calmly and think of it,
All the injury to my brain can heal,
Not the injury to my heart under a veil.
Broken, assaulted & assassinated,
I am time & again due to my errors,
I don't blame anyone for defects I made.
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 11:59 AM UTC
The day was ghostly pale on which this tragic tale unfolds
The wind blew icy gasps of breath on crimson leaves of gold
What eerie silence sings among the blackened air so weary
What anticipation grows in frozen ground so dreary
From a sky of slate grey wonder
No weeping rain to cry
On heart heavy fog did all time wait
For the little girl to die
The charcoal paint upon her eyes leaks down her face of white
Her heart pours pain from scarlet lips
It aches this mournful night
The time ticks by
Bleeds aches from mortal wounds inside
Until her eyes of blue run dry
Until at last her soul is bare
Exists no hopeful song to care
At last she sees through drowning eyes
The melody of doleful sighs
From somewhere screams a blade of magic
To end this life of love so tragic
At last she knows what she must do
To **** these withered pearls of rue
Upon an ancient oaken desk
A melancholy knife does rest
And through two bleeding eyes of grief
The metal cursed with blessed relief
Lays waiting like some treasured key
The one last chance to set her free
No longer the girl in candlelight dim
Would weep for her lost thoughts of him
No longer would she endure the pain
That worsened with each dying rain
No longer would she have to stay
To bear her heart for one more day
And never had she felt such bliss
When thinking what joy would be this
For the day was ghostly pale outside
And she was tired of having to hide
Then once more the clock did chime
She hears it for the one last time
For a moment it pounds inside her ears
She stiffens with her deadly fears
Her fingers wrap around the knife
The stone cold steel to take her life
She stabs it deep into her heart
The last pain felt from the world she’ll part
And then with shaking hands of bone
The young girl dies there, all alone.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 3:04 AM UTC
You used to disappear for months at a time
I was too young to understand but I did anyways
You hurt me like you hurt yourself
The difference is I remember
As children we were sad and tragic misfits
Hell bent on escape of some kind
You used to try to jump out of second story windows
Enough to break eternal but not to close your mind
I found you once trembling in the kitchen
In your pocket was a handful of capsules
Ran for help and with reinforcements recommitted you
You told me I could stop you now but there would be a tomorrow
Your depression worsened and school became your nemesis
You singlehandedly proved how cruel and evil children can be to others
A victim of your instability and chemical imbalance
A social untouchable, they kicked you and you scampered under the porch
The progression across the spectrum of moods made you manic
I could handle you when you had lost hope, but you became unpredictable
Needing everyone’s help, you couldn’t bear to act alone
Always making scenes we were bashful when in crowds
I picked you up after class and you showed me your self-assigned art project
Your room was filled with them, scribbles on the walls
Poetry and carved incantations and letters
Just the way you were when you lived in the hospital
I will always remember when I was first allowed to visit
Your expression dull, eyes dead and voice hoarse but constant
Your babble was brilliant even though you spoke in tongues
Drew me equations, diagrams, promises and master plans
I keep them still and hope that you will make no replications
Reminder of the horror that goes into reparations
Dec 14, 2010
Dec 14, 2010 at 3:34 PM UTC
Sitting with my chest tight
Trying not to fight the feeling you buried beneath my ribs
Sore lungs from screaming too long
Like a song that was torn apart and thrown together again
You were the bridge in my lyrical masterpiece
But that's broken now
I wish I could tell you how you stole my heart and ripped it in half
No I'm not mad, I'm disappointed
Disappointed in myself, because I thought I was stronger
Thought I could hold my head up longer
Keep my nose above water
But my feet can't even touch bottom
You were one of the butterflies i held in my stomach
Tiny creatures that only caused panic and worsened my nerves
Nerves that tore my fingernails till they bled
Nerves that kept me from resting my head at night
And raising it the next morning
I'm not depressed but its hard to be happy
The emotions I display are lacking
Only because I'd rather say nothing than regret thrashing you with my words
It might be nice to give you a piece of my mind
Gift wrap it and tie it with a ribbon
Throw it into the world and hope it finds it's way to you
I don't know what to do
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 8:56 PM UTC
It's 8:00 and we have our whole lives ahead of us
Life is silly
I suppose this is who I am for the time being, it will pass
As everything does
So judge away, I'll play the defendant
Bang your gavel and give me the sentence
It's only a life time
It won't mean a thing in your eyes
There's you , then there's me
That's just it
That's all we need to know
To each their own
The quietness, silent only because they cannot scream for help forever
I think the nitroglycerin worsened my cough
Mother's face has been shot off
But father doesn't cry
His crippling soft lies
So I take my over stuffed overnight bag and leave
Eons later, The Wolf, The Coyote and The Raven come
And then all was well in the western hemisphere
All fires dissipated and they all began to rebuild, this time stronger than before
-Tommy Johnson
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 12:58 PM UTC