Edward Scissor Handstongues slipping in the dark
between the ears
is all i know of your story
so, i'll cry with you tonight
we'll lose ourselves in the stars
within the branches of the pink dogwoods
because we cannot touch
i watched them massacre you
from behind a pexi-glass screen
as anger pulsed an elevating pain in my ears
so, lie next to me tonight
you'll lose yourself with my amnesia kisses
because you've never touched
DrumlineHis dishwater blonde hair hangs in his face; not dingy or stringy. Just gelled into place. Or, maybe, Abbott's hair just falls that way over his green eyes. Either way, I'm not fascinated with the boy's hair-- it's his hands that I watch. Subconciously they move to along with the base line I'm strumming on the seam of my blue jeans-- trying to match the breathing tempo I've set for him. With my pick-- a paperclip stolen from our English teacher-- I repeat over and over. His beautiful green eyes are glazed, it's his ears that are trained on my thigh, his drumsticks-- long, slender, and pale laquered lengths held with a lover's palm-- tapping away a silent beat on the desk.Drumline5 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
"Abbott!" some intruder pops the flimsy bubble of our world of tabs and music notes. I scrowl, embrassed, and return my gaze to the window.
i miss the bearable summermiss the bearable summeri miss the bearable summer4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
of childhood spent in barefeet
and making mud-cities for dinosaurs
and never picking enough cups of blackberries
to stain the inside of a baking pan
as purple as our heat-cracked lips
i miss the bearable summer
of mornings making electric-blue play-dough snowmen
and finding dirt-frogs under garden hedge logs
of going on walk-abouts to get the mail
excavating for indian arrowheads
and pretending that tree-roots are fossils
i miss the bearable summer
that we would have spent reclaiming our innocent youth
i am so sorry.
PercussionHeartbeat pounds to the beat of drums,Percussion7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Feet keep time, ears tell mind, that this music is way too fast,
Cymbals clash, mallets bash, against the heads of drums,
The world seems to spin, as the band begins, and joins the percussion line,
Suddenly the music stops, signaling the end of the song,
Please tell me why, it feels so wrong, when the sounds of the pumping drums are gone?
hills as peoplewho spokehills as people5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in the broke
the gray streets
of former wind
framed & faded
eyes closed to the night
to build a better black
a deeper darkness
evermorehe was aevermore5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
before she could
learn the truth
within her heart,
that will not
Poetswe are fickle and petty creaturesPoets6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
drowning in our whiskey and cigarettes
our occasional dabble in mary-jane
as long as sunlight warms our back
and we smell of pen ink and notebook spirals
my mother, 40, and unhappily married
gives me advice on dating
-i'm already having an affair-
heaven knows this boy has my sexual attention
but, it is word-smithing that has me
When I was in a cultWe always drank hibiscus and mint teaWhen I was in a cult5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
out of chipped porcelain teacups,
their gaily dancing Elizabethan women
faded into forgotten smiles.
When I was in a cult
the elderly women wore their
blue-vein war paint proudly
and spoke in grunts and rough hand gestures.
Certain words were banned
for our protection:
but we didnt need them anyway.
When I was in a cult
my eyes were innocent and hair plaited
like my sisters, mothers, aunts.
My fingers were tree bark,
the ants my freckles,
and the sky was my only friend.
When I was in a cult,
no matter there I went,
I was home.
BlurI always knew I had something to live for. I saw the blood from your pores and the shoes you were wearing. They kept me standing when I felt like falling, and left my feet bruised and broken. Youd push me down and watch me spring right back up, like a garden rake with the leaves still in its prongs. Your leaves are in my toes too, and your mud on my knees and elbows. It doesnt come off.Blur5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
You never asked permission because you knew I would run. You just wiped my tears and hugged me too tight, and I snapped right in two. You said you didnt want to break me, but you did. I left you crying, just like you left me. I wonder if the sun shines between your prison bars the way it shines on my skin, leaving me burnt. I put your rags on my shoulders when I take a shower, to stop the pain.
I pulled off my fingernails but the dirt stayed on my fingers. I clenched my teeth and stood in too-hot water, and scrubbed my skin with rusty Brillo pads and bleach, but I never got
#BandGeeks Monthly Newsletter #1: Band Camp:icontransparentplz:What do you have in mind when we say "Band Camp"? Nervous, scared? Excited? Is this your first year? Second, third, last? () Whether this is your first time going or your last time there, band camp is always going to be that one place that isn't so easy to get through.#BandGeeks Monthly Newsletter #1: Band Camp1 year ago in Personal More Like This
:icontransparentplz:We know how you feel because we've been there many times, especially when your field commander, drum major, and band director yell at you for everything. It's a pain when you don't have enough water and sunblock to survive those hot days of summer. And don't get us started about memorizing music (that dreaded parade music from hell!) and getting down all your marching skills--all in one summer.
:icontransparentplzefore you even consider quitting, we have some advice to give you about surviving one of the most toughest places that your marching band will ever take you. It won't be bad, we promise!
twisted sheetsI wait through a dreary morning;twisted sheets5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
waiting for your pressed hand
over my shoulder.
I don't expect you.
I wanted you to arrive;
for conversation and coffee.
I need to tell you how unhealthy I am,
how the only time I move is to go
to the bathroom.
I do not know how I refuse to shower.
It has become a custom, a culture,
a language, the art of resistance
since you've been absent.
I miss your errant smiles. The way
you hold a penny in your left hand
when you write with your right.
I'm exhausted from lying in bed.
The house seems unfamiliar.
Used to be alive;
feeling a sensation I can
no longer describe.