Hair ClipHair Clip6 years ago in Emotional More Like This
We enter the room and start the movie.
Groggy and tipsy I make myself comfortable by sprawling on my bed...
... ..... ... ..... ..... ...... ... ....
I look over at her, she's scrunched up in a ball, shivering slightly.
Concerned I say in a welcoming voice "why don't you lay here with me.
Common there's enough room."
"But friends don't do this.. do they" she replied shakily.
She loosens her body a little,
then I realise she doesn't let people get this close.
I am about to move away to give her some room when she kicks my leg with her foot.
Removing her head from between her unfolding legs, she addresses me with her eyes.
"I want to do something but I don't think its right.. If something was to happen.. you wouldn't hate me.. would you?"
Confound from her sentence I reply consolingly.
"Of course not"
With a tear in her eye she rolls over, enveloping me with her arms.
Her lips caress mine in an explosion of emotion.
I pause dumbfounded for a moment before slowly embracing her...
deepestdesiressomeday someone will kiss my sleepdeprived eyes - blackened from too many nightmares and too few dreams - and tell me my soul is made of fireflies and starlight.deepestdesires5 years ago in Emotional More Like This
FirefliesThese streetlamps become fireflies, comet-brightFireflies9 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
around my head. I find myself, a rose
between my teeth and promises pricking my
tongue, climbing your trellis. You and I both
know my reasons: I'll stand there in front of
you, strip to my bones for you, and print "love"
on your eyelids. What we knew before as
skin is a barrier, collarbones masts,
and your vertebrae and ribs are ladders.
Wide-eyed, we can synchronise our breathing
and the rhythms that our hearts are beating.
Tapping on your window, I lick letters
from the words on my lips. Through timid night
comes your shadow. The streetlights are spotlights.
Flush and Pale in PamplonaFlush and Pale in Pamplona10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
We have never seen a dawn
that has not died within an hour.
But here's one now,
and, unsure if it has lied or not,
I check your eyes:
The sun's still struggling to get inside,
the small bright spots of fingertips
tugging lightly at your lids.
And I, from a family of cowards,
am hesitant to wake you,
though not so much as to stop my lowered hand
from moving upwards,
stilling only when you start to stir
and stretch; and then exhale
in a way that makes me flush,
then pale, as I, too,
drift back to sleep,
to wait until the midday sun
has come and gone
and left us one.
The moon is out
and so are we, sitting, nestled
in the busy market, free
from the deaths of bulls
and those who claim them.
A man, old, weighted
by a wedding ring,
sells flowers for the women
of men in love. I am,
he says, a king, and you agree,
with daffodils to please your smile.
And here, we have no fear,
just the whispers in our mouths and ears
in the way we drink each other's beer.
We pause, quiet, and know then
the heart, foldsthe heart, folds11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The heart, is an origami fold.
Emotions spooling miles of thread
Dangle me from:
The apex of a leaf [with a thousand veins to spare]
Half a moon [still flooding oceans not with tungsten spots]
Window panes [broken of its glass holding together dirty fingerprints]
A Textual AnnealingA thousand thousand generationsA Textual Annealing4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
misinterpreting the lightning,
A tumult of attempts, many
mumblings while we burn - each time
most is lost, some survives.
At the whistle of illusion that awakens,
day drops dream on me. I am
thick with swerve: If there are giants
there is a world they walk on.
And for the final faith
to be an inversion: We are
the electricity lunging toward the sky.
Seven Reasons Why I Loved You.</b>Seven Reasons Why I Loved You.9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
are spent waxing lyrical and
kissing your eyelashes in the library,
you mouth the third knuckle on my right hand,
and memorize the hollow of my cheek.
tender kisses press like
afterthoughts and postscripts on my forehead:
surface tensionshe strides like a sea walker,surface tension4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
each step rippling outwards
in search of a kindred being.
this echolocation finds nothing-
angry waves crash her delicate signals
now as confused as her footsteps
balanced upon the water's skin.
she falters and begins to sink-
a dangerous game to play Jesus
and not know how to swim.
soft hands slap against the cold hard surface
as she flounders for a grasp on reality.
her belief keeps her afloat
the water stings her face,
evidence of struggle and suffering.
her figure frames a distorted self portrait
as she crawls back to her feet-
on the other side of sane.
OrangesOrangesOranges9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Thinking themselves thieves, they feed
on the ripe as the cart owner on the highway
fingers peels, rinds, forgotten leaves and listens
to the voices of his customers like moving cars.
To articulate herself she keeps the cream
in one hand and licks the rust off her
once black kettle. The tea is waiting
on the counter to be drowned as she says to him:
Let me live in my ashes.
Her echolalia says: scissors, sliver as the image
of diseased pigeon wings echoes on her eyelids.
Twenty years of echolalia.
There is a boy who lives in his own palms,
collecting teeth from the children who fight.
At six o'clock he wonders what he is going to do
with the rest of his life knowing:
Words are not worth the time.
He will wake up one day with crushed petals
in his teeth from his mother's prized gardenias.
The gardenias tell the silent boy's mother
stories of noise and white noise. They slip
her nightmares like a
BetrayalTake a moment to breathe.Betrayal6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Count your heartbeats
It's times like these when your heart opens,
When you take down your rusty fences and stretch out among the fields of yellow grass that encroach on the blue, blue sky.
And your heart lies exposed,
Before it starts to beat slowly again,
Risking a thorn that might pierce its outer skin,
While silently hoping that such a thorn will come along.
Try to relax.
Now get ready.
Something big is going to happen.
Your heart will betray you, as you lie unprotected in the grass.
It will welcome the thorn that so mercilessly spills your blood and empties your soul onto the damp earth beneath you. Whether out of malice or boredom, your heart will tell all your secrets and reveal all your thoughts, yet it will warp them so they are grotesquely disfigured when they finally reach another soul. Your own heart will betray you.
Now count your heartbeats again.
Orangesmorning lifts to the smellOranges9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
he enters her eyes, a
stranger waving away
her dreams, which are thick and rough-skinned as the
carpet beneath her soles
she is getting up,
clinging to the up
is a quiet fruit that she'd
rather not peel
WinterdustWhen Kamui is seven, he finds his father sitting in a chair in a stark, bare room with his head in his hands. An old nurse passes him at the doorway, dressed in white with a clipboard under her arm. She takes a moment to kneel down and ruffle Kamui's messy, uncombed hair; her smile is sad, and Kamui doesn't understand.Winterdust3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
There are other people in the room, too. Their low murmurs make his father's shoulders shake and Kamui sees a white sheet pulled over his mother's face, before a bundle wrapped in white (white white white) is placed gently into his father's arms. His father's cheeks are damp and mottled, but he looks down at the bundle and smiles, just like the nurse. He looks up and sees Kamui still hovering at the doorway, and beckons him over.
Kamui peers into the folds of fabric. He sees a chubby brown face with clear gray eyes (kind of like his?) staring back at him, quietly, and Kamui still doesn't quite get it but he knows enough to be unnerved anyway.
graffitiFor him, love was always lower-casedgraffiti6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and all that passed were days misplaced
Time as a tale that may as well
have happened for someone else
She had actions like
drafting masterpieces in
Along the way,
they met and made
in each others' phrases
a place for words
to shape and change,
to engage and exclaim!
carving out with ampersands
a little solace within
a place for faces
so much closer together
than ever found in
and run-on sentences.
seven things.01.seven things.6 years ago in Biography & Memoir More Like This
you taste like honey and
you left the memory of rotten oranges
in my mouth.
i don't ever want to see you again.
you bore me.
you are too busy playing games with people's hearts
and tossing them up in the air so you can let them crash down.
you are too busy plucking flowers and eyebrows,
running away from the boy you love and
fucking the guy you hate.
you are too busy screwing up people's minds
to be an interesting friend.
the day we met started out like a car crash.
and you didn't make it any better.
i'll be carrying you on my back for a long time,
brown eyes red smile
sinner with your cherry lies.
i think you deserve to dance with the butterflies.
i like your curly hair and your smile and i think
you're the best out of all of them.
start running, honey. start running quick,
before their poison starts killing you from the inside.
i love you more than i love the stars.
you were sitting in my lap and i was reading you a book
and we were laughing. your skin was warm
The ArtistI walked into the pagesThe Artist5 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
of that place you used to dance,
The pages of forgiveness,
understanding and romance.
I danced to love so softly,
to anger in a rush..
I danced so you could hold me,
and never loved so much.
The pages, stained in ink and soul-
I found you in them;
And when you left,
they kept me whole, though
I had lost a friend.
In you I found a will to dance,
and when you chose to go,
I knew no end so lonesome,
and I may never know.
You held me for a moment,
and as we danced, I knew
the sorrow and the wonder-
the everything of you;
With you I formed a world,
and now, I gather dust;
You left me and your pages,
as any artist must.
not enoughanger smoulders like a demonnot enough5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
heaven's tears have long since fallen
the woods are home not just to the owls
but to such a darkness, too far from fowl
we try to keep a happy face
try to condense emotion's bitter taste
the fog has lifted from our eyes
we now lie in a world that is dead and dry
feel the skin along your face
now lift it off, you're agony now knows it's place
drifting to a song anew
i can say i once tried to love you..
Existential CrisesThere was an odd feeling that washed over her on Saturday mornings. She sat dazed between unfinished paintings, white canvases with specks of reality, and piles of unorganized papers; they seemed to magically grow and multiply as if by an imaginary stroke of the hand. Some were bills she always forgot to pay, or letters from Dylan that always ended up, with the envelope still tightly shut, in the trash. You can read a person's personality, right to its gritty core, simply by examning their trash. She had Ding-Dong wrappers, ice-cream containers, sketches of people and people that were no-longer, and a rotting carton of orange juice with a long-past expiry date, sitting solemnly with only each other for company. The letters that occasionally found their way to the heap of undesired items would recite their lyrics in a monotonous tone, while the decaying remains of food would "ooh" and "ahh", absorbing each syllable, decomposing the crumpled paper.Existential Crises8 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
She moved out of her childhood home two
My Illusive DeliriumMy Illusive Delirium10 years ago in Teen More Like This
Waking up, I see your face; it's the first thing that I saw before I fell into a deep sleep the previous night. You're sitting on the edge of my bed with your dark chocolate hair swept to the side and your emerald green eyes resting softly on my sleepy form. You're sitting on the edge of my bed watching me rub the sleep from eyes, but I know you're not really there.
"Did I ever tell you that you snore?" he comments, shifting slightly. When he moved, the sheets over my body tugged slightly. "I mean, like, freight-train loud snoring. It's insane...your nose does this weird little twitching thing, and then your mouth--"
I hate it when he mentions my mouth.
"You're still here, eh?" I inquire as I sit up, not caring that the thin strap of my shirt fell off of my shoulder.
"Of course," he replies. "Where else would I be?" Not waiting for a reply from me, he comments, "You should eat some breakfast. It's not good for you to skip it."
"I hate you," I murmur.
And I mean it. I really, really do.
sticks and stones.broken people like to write poems about how they are broken.sticks and stones.5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
they like to turn people into words because no one's heart
has ever been punctured by parentheses, but by god it's not
for lack of trying. in a poem, broken people can have hangnails
and they never have to brush their hair because the tangles
symbolize the time they lost their virginity and there are no mirrors
unless they write about one and force themselves to look into it.
broken people also like to use cliche metaphors
but that is okay because when you are broken
sometimes cliche metaphors are all you have left.
"i am a rose and you think i'm beautiful so you
keep ramming me into your eye, thorn first."
"i am uncut grass and you roll around in me,
joyful, shaking, but when you stop to catch
your breath and look at your forearms you
see that they're covered in hundreds of tiny cuts."
"i am a dandelion. i don't know why but goddamnit
i am tender and damaged and i've already written
a poem where i've mentioned turning into
reali swear to Godreal10 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
that i love mine as much as
you love yours and that
if i could find the words to say it,
i would. if i could
find the perfect words, if i could just
close my eyes and instead of thinking
i love him i love him i love him
think of something poetic and real and un-cliché,
just for a second,
i would. but
i am-he is-we are poetic,
BattlefieldIt's probably sick that I have such an addiction to you, but I can't find it in myself to care. Your attention is something that I bathe in. I let it run under skin and catch between vertebrae, warm and heavy. It is the coat you cannot put over my shoulders, the wisp of hair you cannot brush from my face, the question you cannot answer.Battlefield5 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
My spine has become a staircase for you, molded by the treading of your continuous feet. It's becoming soft and it's caving in, and the butterfly nerves in my fingers just can't stand you anymore. They're itching to make you fly away. I never used to think thoughts like these, thoughts that I would be ashamed to confess. But, damn, when it comes to you? I have nothing left to hide.
Your skin went flaxen some days ago, your hair mussed, your fingers calloused and dry. I think I'm the only one who noticed. But when your fireworks erupt, I will be there to watch the sparks fade.
THREE DAYS FROM NOWfor Daniela Jara's 20th birthday on 6.21.04THREE DAYS FROM NOW11 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
three days from now
she will rise up to the playground of angels
fighter jets and zeppelins
burst open the door
translate her body into an equation
of one–hundred twenty pounds moving
nine–point–eight meters per second per second
and tumble from heaven
because she wants to taste the sky
on her birthday
this is the part of the poem
where I should drop metaphors
about falling in love with her
or how she's already fallen from heaven once
or something about shooting stars
or glass ceilings
but this isn't a love poem
I said I would fall alongside her
stretch out fingers to find her
falling ninety miles an hour
doesn't scare me nearly
as much as forgetting her touch
the romantic in me said
if her parachute does not open,
I will not open mine
instead, I would rather impress myself
emboss myself into the earth
next to her
so that the soil remembers me following her
until the crater I create
speaks poetry without my body there