Like Puzzle PiecesYou have nothing to fear.Like Puzzle Pieces1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
Feral remnants of doubt and shame have sought shelter with the lateness of the hour
But this is not the widest silence.
There have been longer stretches of time where we could have claimed relational death,
degeneration of connector cells and the cessation of contact,
but you figured moving forward could mean looking backwards...
So you threw sweet words across screens.
Pressed lonely doubts through invisible tubes.
Threatened to use the airwaves, but retracted.
where are your words now?
in the cellar
beneath the stairs.
Rhythmically pound sand in an attempt to beat away my half-composed versions of the future.
slather yourself in honey and climb a peach tree.
I can only hurt
the parts of you that I can see
and so far I've seen nothing, in comparison.
It's not my fault
that I'm an expert
at redirecting blood flow.
(You give up a few things
to make a relationship survive...)
Make The Bed.Beds get bigger in the absence of words.Make The Bed.1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
Things we thought we understood become jumbled.
Suddenly, the world is out of focus.
Remove the padding.
Deconstruct on a chemical level.
Love is --
Far above the highway,
gunpowder combusts and rains down on familiar ground.
I try to forget what we left tucked between the hills,
what we buried in the pine needles behind his house.
You blend together:
innumerable saturdays wrapped in the heat and the dark
where breath escaped between rupturing larynges;
an unfinished, unplanned, uncertain six hour road trip to rapture that lies dormant,
somewhere north of here in hay bales,
or hidden in the mountains.
Silence defines nothing.
and fill the mattress.
and let me forget.
My Favorite PartYou leave, and it's gone.My Favorite Part1 year ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
I wish you loved your birthmark
as much as I did.
Ripples.He threw the stone inRipples.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
but you felt the shockwaves.
She wrote 162 words
and in gentle spirals I feel warm.
There is something to be said for human interaction in kindness.
I know I said I hate people,
but she is not people.
I could count words exchanged on fingers and toes
but never in my life have I felt this strong
When you go through this alone
you learn how strong you are.
But when you walk through hell with arms linked, hands clasped
you learn how strong others can help you be:
"You are a beautiful and immensely talented artist."
"You are strong."
"You exude badassery through your very pores."
"Mornie alantie. Day shall come again."
"You will not be allowed to fall...very far because too many people still care about you..."
Because of you
I'm finally starting to believe.
Artist Day: androgenioArtist Day: androgenio2 years ago in Editorial More Like This
Artist Day: androgenio
* An escalation by Beau Cyphre *
NOW is the time 4 devARTist androgenio.
Show her all the love U got, stalk her gallery these days, appreciate her art by not just giving faves (it's a too easy thing to do, isn't it?) - try to find some uplifting words and comment on her works. I'm sure she'll really like it!
An Artist Day means much more than giving an artist just a one-day-span of attention, it's more like shining a spotlight on the beautiful work of an extraordinary artist. This spotlight reminds us of the wonderful things we're all capable of, and by giving the chosen artist real feedback we all show our love for the breathtaking moments that artist is sharing with us.
So enjoy your time exploring her gallery, and please give something back!
Rim.I am hereRim.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
because I do not know how not to be here.
I am a clock that never got wound up all the way.
A battery, always running low.
Something is definitely wrong.
Overdrawn.The air that night tasted like august under the stars.Overdrawn.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Those countless days we spent in the tall grass
eyes fluttering in wordless gratification:
carnal and beautiful and scared.
A rabbit jumped from the bush and we chased it to the tree line, i remember
and out beyond the field, nested quietly in the mountains, the sun bid us goodbye with gentle fingers...
When today that golden light is a birch rod to the throat and the humid smell of the country is so many tiny nails pressed into my skin...
And now I choke on words I shouldn't say:
a conversation we "shouldn't have had,"
contact we can't afford.
Her Notes I look now at words scribbled in old-fashioned number two pencil in the margins of the only physical thing of hers that I will ever have. I know it wasn't mechanical because of the way the edge of the lines blur and smudge, and her cursive isn't razor thin, never was. The curves arch gently together and stop. And then I wonder how long ago it was that she studied this same thing, this thing that I will probably never finish.Her Notes3 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
Her notes these are the things I am left with. The only piece of her that I can touch and taste and see. I have little pocket-sized notebooks half full of them, (We always seemed to lose them before we could finish one, but they all turned up again, somehow) always in a different color, and always in a different pen. Minor scales, arpeggio in the key of A. I remember that year I played Malegueña for the recital and couldn't remember t
Tell Me Where To FallThere is nothing worth keeping close, nothing you can hold that won't bite you somewhere, sometime.Tell Me Where To Fall3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Even your lucky pen will one day jump out of your hand and leave you stranded in a gridded wasteland.
So I challenge the worth of association and affection.
I challenge the alleged benefit of stepping out and slamming your fingers in the door.
That's not to say that I don't engage in things that will undoubtedly hurt me.
In fact, I indulge in masochistic activities with zeal and reckless abandon.
But it doesn't mean that I don't get tired of the games.
It doesn't mean I don't grow weary of the situation.
Looking at my face in the reflective glass of this machine I know the words don't fit.
Not that I don't mean what I say, but rather that I shouldn't be the one saying it.
I'm getting angry at a pin drop and a wisp of cloud stuck in the cieling tiles.
I'm confusing my contempt with the situation you've put me in with my contempt for him.
With the lack of transition, the image
Broken DownIt had been fifteen minutes and I was ready to give up. My place on the steps in front of the school was no longer shady and cool, and with the pre-summer sun bearing down on me I was convinced even walking in this heat would be better than just sitting there. Waiting, again for a person who was professional at not showing up.Broken Down3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I was angry at my sister for calling him. Angry at her for being concerned, for stepping in on my life. She worried about how much time I spent alone, never considering the fact that I preferred it that way and now I was sitting on the burning steps of my high school, textbooks growing slick with sweat in my arms, waiting once again for my father's beat up Subaru station wagon to pull up to the curb, windows rolled down and smoke rolling out of it visible waves.
By now most of the cars were gone. The rush of parents packing kids into silver mini-vans and students driving away in big red trucks and convertibles with the top down had ended, leaving a ghostly quiet
Miss...I miss your voiceMiss...3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
thick with drowsy,
early morning simplicity
hot and moist on the shell of my ear
Your rough fingertips
so full of hope, and trust
in the existance of a
so far not to be found
it's getting too long
I reach out to touch you
the side of your face
but you turn to smoke
and time rushes like it's afraid to lose itself
I look out the window
I guess I'm losing my mind because I miss....
Karma.The truth isKarma.1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
I have hoarded your words.
Made haphazard stacks on on the stairs,
on the grand piano
so I would not forget as well
or as thoroughly
as you have.
For now, new beds play host to the faded pages
of a notebook, the one I used to write letters to you
that I never sent, that spent so many years under the pillows.
Washed in the laundry, the ink leaves black stains on white sheets,
determined to exist,
There are ghosts beyond the shadow of the fabric.
In that place where poetry comes from,
they're counting the threads of our histories.
They intersected, I know they did:
You read it.
I wrote it down.
Flames lick the edges of the bound volume.
than leather --
But you knew that.
It burns faster.
I suppose you knew that too.
Things I Didn't Know I Had To Know.So maybeThings I Didn't Know I Had To Know.7 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
I hate him when he drinks
but love the way his hands forget to worry.
Your thoughts move slower
when you slog through an alcohol sewer:
across the back
of your loosened fingers.
Even eating fists
you cannot help but speak.
And then your hands liberate themselves from parade rest.
They snake around my shoulders,
trace the boundaries of my figure;
you cannot keep your mouth
from my mouth.
And I let you.
With your tongue tracing the outline of newly parted lips,
I can taste the hops and barley.
They are bitter.
I am bitter.
Somehow, it fits.
The Man That I Love.For the first time his handsThe Man That I Love.8 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
are wider than my hands.
The pads of his fingers tell stories across my wrists,
deeper lines than I've ever seen trap glittering minerals.
And despite his outward roughness,
he is softer still than the bunched fists that held me fast,
kept me for years in a harder bed than his.
He tends a wider history,
kneels among the rows and breathes life into the tired soil.
In the absence of rain, he draws from a deeper narrative:
I borrow the ladle and drink.
If I could, I'd bring him the world while he sleeps,
the fondest victim of his midnight whisper --
dreams we know,
years spent harvesting the fruit of the seed we sowed
when I was a child, when he was just a boy...
I wend myself around the stock and wait to put down roots.
We will grow beneath the same sun.
The garden gate is shut.
Read and Recite.Poetry is notRead and Recite.1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
pushed from the mouth
like a race
is the sound of the mind
stripping its gears, measured
by the opening
of a cranial trap door.
a single drop
in an ocean of pomegranate juice
(the refined palette
tastes the salt) --
Who knew words
bul-e-miIt's a purge, just a kiss;bul-e-mi1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
there's a moment of hesitation
but, oh god, how it never matters.
Because when you lean over
and the world buries at your feet
and the emptiness consumes you,
that cage tips.
You can grip the handles in an attempt to hang on
and dangle over the edge;
but that fear, it won't last forever
and soon there'll be a fall.
It's a purge, but try to resist;
there's no going back once you dip
and everything eventually slides.
Rattle, rattle, rattle.
Every cage has a lock,
but sometimes, you're the one with the key.
Go ahead and toss it through the bars,
because that latch can fall open
and there's always room to spill.
It's metallic, the taste of vanity,
but the drive spurns doubt.
They say hope breeds eternal misery;
you can say goodbye, hello to the new.
whispers of touchdo you know why it's so hardwhispers of touch3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
for me to let go of you?
for me to let my fingertips
trail off of your hands
it's not because we're hidden
and i don't know the next time
i'll be able to see you like that
but because there will come a time
when i'll have to let go
and it's coming too soon for me to bear
Sisters' LamentSisters' Lament4 years ago in Visual & Found Poetry More Like This
Must we wait in vain
'til we see you again?
This distance between us,
it seems to know
Spring has left
summer is almost gone.
A deafening quiet
has descended our hearts,
and a kind of wretched madness
sought grateful solace
within our wandering minds.
Desolation now sits
patiently at the door
to our desperately searching souls.
you must know this?
Do you not feel as we do
sense our need, share our pain?
We beg of you,
please come back to us.
As the sun
slips away from our days.
must our hopes and dreams
for all of our tomorrows.
how can life ever be
all that it should be?
Daddy, don't give up on us.
We still love you.
A. M. Young (Please respect copyright)
note 26aforgive her;note 26a11 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
forget her; take
her to your
tornadoi woke up to harsh windstornado2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
summer rain beyond my door
licking the walls, begging
to get in. i opened them,
onto the flesh of earth
before the ether
whipped its tail 'round my earthen home
twisting and turning like my body
but everyone was gone.
goldenankles tied to the bed,golden2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i want you here
to hear the bones crack
as you turn me over,
let my front side bake
‘neath the rays
of the asphyxiated
making my skin bleach