E
everstrange
Guest
Original poster
I've been kinda wondering how people would respond to my poetry & I welcome any and all advice.
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TWINE
I love the cold and the brisk
the quiet filled with voices
floating around minds.
I love the fluffy twinkies
and the big bowls of pudding,
scraping of the silverware.
I love the thought of rain
snuggled up by the fire,
paper-cuts slicing into my fingers.
I love the strangeness of it all--
the weird moments of inspirations
filtering into my vision.
but I love all these things
on sad days
when i'm loneliest.
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Blank page, blank stares.
I decided to decorate the walls
with the paint of your bed sheets,
a safe haven among godless trinkets.
Handprint by handprint
I won your glazed over eyes
heard you moan the sound of color
and utter of the sight of music
to and from the veins
flowing through the house.
I followed the trail of grit to
your hands slackened in immobilization.
I moved when you could not
I sung the harmonies when you could
just to find lifeless persons occupying
the inches of your twitching, trembling.
I gazed under the flickering lights
upon empty spaces filled with bones,
black hole suns.
Prick by prick
I lost bits of my torso and limbs,
almost a loss of self in the chime
of a hasty bell-tower crumbling down.
I saw the exhaled breaths of exasperation
the fury of fists, the terror of the walls
the ground, the objects you beheld.
You were not yourself as I never was.
They took you away
beyond the peeling, exposed frames;
I did not cry, but I did mourn
not for you, not for me but
for the forgiveness of our realities.
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TWINE
I love the cold and the brisk
the quiet filled with voices
floating around minds.
I love the fluffy twinkies
and the big bowls of pudding,
scraping of the silverware.
I love the thought of rain
snuggled up by the fire,
paper-cuts slicing into my fingers.
I love the strangeness of it all--
the weird moments of inspirations
filtering into my vision.
but I love all these things
on sad days
when i'm loneliest.
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I remember when I lost my mind
Blank page, blank stares.
I decided to decorate the walls
with the paint of your bed sheets,
a safe haven among godless trinkets.
Handprint by handprint
I won your glazed over eyes
heard you moan the sound of color
and utter of the sight of music
to and from the veins
flowing through the house.
I followed the trail of grit to
your hands slackened in immobilization.
I moved when you could not
I sung the harmonies when you could
just to find lifeless persons occupying
the inches of your twitching, trembling.
I gazed under the flickering lights
upon empty spaces filled with bones,
black hole suns.
Prick by prick
I lost bits of my torso and limbs,
almost a loss of self in the chime
of a hasty bell-tower crumbling down.
I saw the exhaled breaths of exasperation
the fury of fists, the terror of the walls
the ground, the objects you beheld.
You were not yourself as I never was.
They took you away
beyond the peeling, exposed frames;
I did not cry, but I did mourn
not for you, not for me but
for the forgiveness of our realities.
It is too perfect, too clean here.
The people show their teeth
as if they mean to show something
other than your twisted laughter raging.
Their teeth become jagged in my dreams
while their neat seams sow me together
into their little melancholic tower princess.
Rooms of useless frills and desires
where every hair of mine gleams in precision
reflecting the color of far-fetched gold,
not of weighed-down, violated hay.
I crawled into the corner of all corners
laid my head down to close my worn lids.
It's blank here, not white, not of color
Just blank.
A mind of no minds.
The place of the mighty kings.
My mighty kings
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Withdrawn
The day is clichéd: beautiful, sunny, and
wonderful. But what importance does that hold
to me? What should I seek to find in the reflection of the
blacktop? That's all I see. The blacktop and its dirt. Its cracks,
its breaks, its lumps, and its discolorations. The weeds growing
out of its gaps reaching for the sky. The sun is worthless to me, a
reminder of another decade wasted. I have seen the sun more than
any of you. I've seen it hang in the sky crying it's tears, blowing the
clouded thoughts away from him. I used to revel in the woodchucks
and string his babies into a yellow daisy crown. I was his princess for
the day, foraging down the leafy hills, through the concrete forest and
into the trimmed fields for his children. I found them, every single
one of them, but I wanted the best one for my crown. And in my
greed, he casted me out into the night. Alone. For what's its
worth—at least to me—I never thought he'd be capable;
I always thought it would be me, the rebel child to
leave—that the child of garlands would
never be forced to find peace with
the blacktop and all the sun's reminders of his earthly heaven.
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Grammar's End
A. rolls around my tongue
a speck of black
—or is it red?—
concentrated points of life
bleeding together into
a fine dot ending my line.
(A Grammar's death.)
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