I was a kintsugi bitch

A dull, forgotten, broken pot

And then you fixed me up

.

You lined me with your own

dweomercrafted brand of gold

Lac, Mel, et Saccharum

.

And when you’d starve me for attention,

Fed me more from your breast

Til you filled me up

.

And then I’d look you in the eyes

Sugar broiling in the stomach

Am I pretty now

..

Lost, full, and quite ignored

When you had leapt onto the floor

And said we’ve got to go

.

I grabbed your hand and followed blind

My stomach churned I lagged behind

You were the love I know

.

You said we’re going to the sea

My dear you’ll spend a life with me

We’ll make the waves a home

.

And I smiled ear to ear

Cheeks were blushing like a deer

Am I pretty now

..

And then we made it to the bay

quickly climbed into a boat

They never have to know

.

We headed south for centuries

They cannot take the memories

I never hunger now

.

And after weeks of solitude

A stranger came into the view

There was another boat

.

My stomach burned, concerned,

Not a soul had stood astern

You produced a rope

..

You gave a gentle kiss

And slid the twine across my wrists

And tied them into knots

Dipped my legs into the water

Either hand tied either helm

Stretched into a cross

I looked up at you in fear

Just to see you’ve disappeared

I started crying out.

My stomach burned under the water

And the sun was getting hotter

And I’m all alone.

I pleased come to feed me

Don’t leave me weak, depleting

I got no response.

The fish were getting curious

Flies buzzed something furious

They knew what I did not

That if you leave out milk and honey

In the heat, in weather sunny,

It’ll start to rot.

.

Months had passed in sickly motion

Head leaned back, my eyes were open

I died long ago.

The bugs ate at my open mouth

My skin was yellow, wrought with drought

My throat housed a mold

The waters smelled of sulfate

As the serpents ate my stomach ache

My blood has washed away

The rope gave up on hope and

Threw my purple, molten corpse into the ocean

Am I pretty now?

.

.

.

i have no idea where i am
who i have been
i have the slightest glimpse into the present
a wavering image of a time long past
my soul sits on siain heights
above the fish and birds
where we know endless comfort
and a burning desire for wisdom
this version, far away from the peaks
that I am so accustomed to;
yet drawn to the body of man,
who screams in agony as he is raised to the heavens.

one day

i will die

one day

so will you.

the pictures on the wall

will end up in the trash

or old and tattered

in an attic.

our greatest of great-grandkids

won't know our faces or

how deeply we were saddened

to never see them grow

to never learn the world they know

to never speak their modern language

or watch the trees around them

grow.

for we'll be dead in the ground

and we'll never hear a sound

for what comes next ain't only silence

it ain't blood and it ain't violence

it just

ain't.

so for now we're killing time perhaps

we'll get laid or

learn to paint.

but in the end, it all goes out

into the trash

into the dust

and rest assured

into the ground.

.

if you choose to abuse me

i'd rather hear threats for ever than

hear no sound.

because if you're still here to hurt me

i can say that someone

stuck around.

.

.

.

before i'm buried in the ground.

THE EARTH keeps some vibration going
There in your heart, and that is you.
And if the people find you can fiddle,
Why, fiddle you must, for all your life.
What do you see, a harvest of clover?
Or a meadow to walk through to the river?
The wind’s in the corn; you rub your hands
For beeves hereafter ready for market;
Or else you hear the rustle of skirts
Like the girls when dancing at Little Grove.
To Cooney Potter a pillar of dust
Or whirling leaves meant ruinous drouth;
They looked to me like Red-Head Sammy
Stepping it off, to “Toor-a-Loor.”
How could I till my forty acres
Not to speak of getting more,
With a medley of horns, bassoons and piccolos
Stirred in my brain by crows and robins
And the creak of a wind-mill—only these?
And I never started to plow in my life
That some one did not stop in the road
And take me away to a dance or picnic.
I ended up with forty acres;
I ended up with a broken fiddle—
And a broken laugh, and a thousand memories,
And not a single regret.

I've always loved this poem. To me, it's about a man, loved by many, that recognizes his responsibilities, but can't help but forgo them to go and have fun with friends and loved ones (in short, anyways). The first line, however, has always intrigued me, and I can never land on a meaning for it. I think it's basically saying that in your heart is your true character (your soul), and that will never change. Or maybe it's saying that everyone has that "vibration" in their heart that yearns for enjoyment. What do you think?

Longest piece to date?

Last night I saw a beast

four different heads with blackened eyes.

Not black in metaphor, but from

the blood that dried inside.

Each of seven legs was mangled

and the beast was blind

but she could fly.

.

Once upon a night so dreary,

and so dreadful I

came across a weathered bar

a woman stood inside.

She sat me at a table, there was

not a soul in sight

but I felt fine.

.

Then she brought a glass of dark with

something new inside.

Leaned in close and whispered to me

"Baby, close your eyes."

I parted my lips and drank as

her hand guided mine.

My guard resigned.

.

She said "I know a place where you can

truly feel alive.

Each one of your problems fall

defenseless by your side."

And she wrapped her arms around me

I contently sighed

as she took flight.

---

Her wretched and misshapen legs

held me close to her chest.

She let out her warning cries

i inhaled every breath.

Her claws were creeping out I

fell upon them like a bed.

I laid to rest.

.

I fell into a home so oddly

shallow and recessed.

The walls were made of rock,

a water drop fell on my head.

There was no single light,

the ceiling lowered as she led

me to her den.

.

As I looked around the room birthed

questions in my head.

So opposite the warmth that she

had first on me impressed...

She stroked my cheek, claws on my chin

my heart fluttered, digressed.

I was possessed.

.

She laid me on the floor and stood with

five legs for each end.

One aside my head and feet

another at my hands.

Then she gently laid a blanket

down over my head,

"Shall we commence?"

---

I still feel it so vividly

each night I fall asleep,

the fused infatuated fear I felt

at a monster's feet,

when that heinous eldritch horror

drained my blood from me,

took me for libation, prayed a tithe

she poured me out.

Her heart could call the kettle as it,

too, went black in drought

She bore her fangs and lowered,

took my body in her mouth.

She then carried me cliffside, like a dog

she threw me down.

My corpse then fell so far, on

impact, no audible sound.

The final earthly thing I heard,

her shriek, "The Gods are proud."

---

Now upon each night so dreary, she

crawls out to find

a source of poor, defenseless blood

that she can sacrifice.

She'll lure them in with gentle kisses

and sapphire eyes.

We all will die.

Epilogue.

On my way to death, I was met

with a choice instead.

I could end my life or help

ensure the gods were fed.

In the heat of fear and pain I

then nodded my head.

The halls of purgatory filled with

screams and smells of death,

as my eyes dried from the inside

and I then begat

five extra legs.

So what’s the deal with offices, amirite?

What if we gave a building full of adults enough money to get by. Oh, and also they have to drive 30-60 minutes to get here. And that time they spend on the way here? Yeah what if they just gave us that for free, and we made them pay for parking!

I know, I know, fantastic right? But listen, it’s not over yet. What if we also made the work pointlessly constrained to a particular 8-hour block in the day, five days a week so that they never have any personal time, even though this is all work they could get done in four hours a day and is fully capable of being completed on their own?

Fabulous!

——

So yeah, I don’t have free time. That means I’ve got a few half-ass pieces that I’ve been wanting to finish up for awhile.

Apparently bars are open today, so I’m gonna get sauced and get to it. Prepare for a small dump today. (Also I got some dummy minor news imma share in another post. Stay tuned if you want. Or don’t ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ all’s well.

Anyway here’s that piece now.

——-

I remember that time I forgot your

birthday

And that time was today

At 12:08 in the morning

And for a moment

I felt great.

.

My dear that was the first sign

That you were

Slipping on out of my mind

Today I’m sober in the morning

Feelin okay.

.

Well well-butrin what a surprise

When it done

Come on back to my mind

Now it’s 12:09 in the morning

And ain’t shit changed.

.

And in those 60 seconds

Girl I swear

I learned a lesson -

Depression is a woman

With your name.

fotózás

i wonder what it must be like
to remember your life.

i wonder what it must be like
to record it with a flash.

i wonder what it must be like
to pass those memories down.

i wonder what it must be like
to be normal like that.

nyáj

in the shadows of a great unrest
stand hallowed halls
yet undisturbed by
collapse.

---

to be untouched by
revolution
is a lucky fate
for a place like this—
so stable in lives
and yet
always received
with such hostility.

oh, to be a church—
a great meeting hall
for those of
the faith—
is to be us,
the people of this place
who dare to
keep their fire alive.

we are but a
little congregation,
coming together
once in awhile.
giving praise to
what had been;
remembering what
our time had lost.

we bear upon our weary backs
a legacy
and hope one day
to restore it.

but
we must rest now,
and resign to our dreams
what could be again.

A free form poem.

You sing the devotion song and
your people drink from your font
of well-meant falsehoods.
They sway in the breeze,
roses ripe for cutting,
so you reap. And I deal with it.

Brain revolting, hands shaking, heart beating
Sweating, aching, freezing, creeping thoughts
that I'm not enough.
I'm a failure. I don't deserve it. What if this goes wrong?
"Sometimes it can take awhile to find the right combination of medications."
And I deal with it.

The blood in the streets is cleaned, pristine,
likewise the crimes of an otherwise good man.
Heads shake and hands pray,
repeating robotic platitudes, but I do
nothing.
And I deal with it.

The sun shines high and the wind blows cool.
Our future dances and plays in the light.
We watch and her skin is soft, her hair yet softer, and I hold her
against me.
This too shall pass, my gut twists in knots.
And I deal with it.

Dark nights, dark thoughts
in front of a washroom mirror.
Lightning thunders, they come and go.
Drinking my hopes to keep them gone,
I tell myself, "This isn't you," but it hurts and it's true and I can't stop the dreaming of passing this down
And I deal with it.

i intended to actually post these like three days ago but that didn't happen because it has to be super fucking late for me to even want to post these and unfortunately they've now aged sufficiently that i categorize them firmly in the "intensely mediocre" column with everything i ever do. unfortunate, tbh. anyways here's stuff:

bűnös

UP AGAINST THE WALL, MOTHERFUCKER—
or i'll shatter your bones
and crush your heart—
to dance with me is to dance
a fine line that wrenches two worlds apart

for on one side there is a hall of saints—
on the other
the brimstone of hell—
and to stay on the side of the hall of saints
is something you'd best do well.

and brave souls that dare toe the line—
that cross it
are mighty thin—
and their ranks are made of anarchists
who commit most grievous sin.

UP AGAINST THE WALL, MOTHERFUCKER—
state your allegiance
to the vaunted line—
or soon you too shall join the ranks
of those who deserve malign.

fáj

when i was seventeen
the panic attacks began.
the nightmares.
the violence. the violence. the violence.

violence is a funny little thing—
insidious, slithering in through one grate
and out the other.
it always begins with little things,
little fantasies in one ear and out the other.
dreams here and there, manufacturing terror and hurt.
invasive thoughts, marching to an intensifying drumbeat.
one offs.

it's not normal to
want to hurt so bad.
it's not normal to
want to cut yourself everywhere,
is it?
to feel those feelings,
to bear them like a cross shackled on your back?
to wish some days you could cut to the bone
even though you're afraid of blood?
to mutilate yourself until you can't feel anymore
even though you know those feelings are irrational?
to wish you could die violently, publicly
even though you're afraid of death?

violence isn't a very funny little thing—
terrifying, inescapable and ever recurring
one night after the other.
it was the little things once,
the little fantasies that used to be but now
consume the dreams, the
waking thoughts, becoming a great crescendo.
every day.

when i was nineteen
the panic attacks were normal.
the nightmares.
the violence.

Burnt!

You embraced me with your apple-pie grin
as I tumbled through the door caked in sun,
and the larks and the orioles who titter their King George
behind us are snuffed with the slam of the castle gate.
We are alone in the fragrant silence of our shared universe,
your heartbeat against my cheek nuzzles
like the murmur of some public radio presenter.
I float along helplessly like a kitten held by its scruff
until the slasher-scream of a Janet Leigh smoke detector,
brutally gored by the twirling swirling aerial dancers,
beckons you away to some Burning of Washington, 1814,
its desolation likewise impeded by a timely sprinkle.
In the black ash-pile is the monomania of the Cosmos,
circling like a hyena for any vulnerability
to consume everything it touches
so that we all might become dark and vacuous like it.
The cosmos and its baggage are swept away,
its might and vastness no match for a love as true as ours.

This was my attempt at writing a poem in the style of Pamela Miller, a feminist and often zany poet from my native Chicago.

Please let me know what you think.

Today I found a girl

Who was pretty nice

To me.

She made me stop and talk

And rest

and breathe.

She said your stomach growls,

Your legs

Are weak.

How’d you like to come

And sit

With me?

.

And my how time it flew

And passed

Us by.

Lunch turned into tea

Turned in-

to night.

The way her body curved

It shaped

My mind.

And then her laugh,

Her smile,

Her eyes.

.

Would you mind if I stayed

For an hour or two

Or three?

We could sit and talk

And laugh

And crawl between the sheets.

And maybe I can stay the night

Or two

Or three?

And you’ll hold onto me.

And we can spend forever

Cus talk

Is cheap.

And maybe nights will

Slowly carve a curve and crash on

Into weeks.

Maybe we’ll be cuddled

On the couch or sipping

Sex on the beach

Maybe I could stay

For life, just

You, and me.

i got fire in my blood

Wild Turkey and the nicotine

might just call my doctor

have him put me on amphetamines

driving past the memories

i'm pushing on 100 speed

crossing single-white lines

with a blade til my bones weak.

cold-brew hipster

gothboi fantasies

hard to think straight when

my thoughts are attacking me

here i let the voices out

inner demons writing rhapsodies

before i go and swing from

a noose and a dramatic tree

.

can't decide what i want between

freedom and consistency

i say i want it done

but i think i want her missing me

last week i bought a gun*

this week i went to therapy

when will i be free from all the

thermo-manic tendencies?

.

drowning in my bed

breathing wild turkey

i couldn't feel if i were dead,

but i like the way she hurts me

i've come to know the pain

it's like a second home to me

liquor novocaine

im falling from autonomy.

if mecca was a bedroom

girl you were a God to me

and laying here alone is

a wicked act of blasphemy.

never knew you were a snake

feeding hate from an apple tree

I'll chop it down, and build a tomb

so you can hold me,

as an effigy

(* didnt actually buy a gun. me no like. literally 0 plans to.)

short one. wrote it sober, so i couldn't (didn't?) really expand on it.

either way, just bought a bottle for the first time since shit happened but i don't plan on going too crazy this time.

then again, do i plan half the shit i do? or am i just constantly fumbling my way up through life.

either way here's some shit about math.

enjoy.

You said I was the one

But that was only when you managed

To get some rest, and breathe, and

Keep yourself from going rabid

But must of the time you

Wore your claws out like a savage

So if we’re being honest I‘m the

.08 on average.

i'm bored and entirely too fucking tired to still be up, so here's a thing i wrote in a little burst like an hour ago. see also enikő, the considerably longer weird shit i wrote in a similar burst.

I. űrrepülés
having once been the dreamer of many things,
having once been an eternal creator,
having seen the birth of great star systems and galaxies
and life itself
only to be snuffed out
with ignominy
i feel compelled to explain why i too must
inevitably follow them

hurt
is a funny little word. it seems so easy to come
to a common agreement on what it means and yet,
if i told you it hurt
would you really understand that?

would you understand the feeling
of hopelessness,
the vast indignities of having to see
your every piece of art,
your life's work
snuffed out
like the stars?

II. űrlény
you can't play god
with the people in your life,
but that never stopped me from trying,
from creating those great star systems
that people care about.
from creating life where there is none.

and that never stopped me from failing,
and the stars becoming great cataclysms—
black holes destroying the life around them
without regard for its beauty.

you might say it is callous
to try to move the heavens and the earth
and to die when they don't arrange the right way,
but,
i would rather die than be that hurt person again
watching the stars go out one by one.

In the shadows

Like a ghost you hide

In the single most foreign

Corners of my mind

Therapy and pills still

Can’t subside the angelic choir

Of your pretty lies

Promises you made,

The bones I broke

You once took my breath

And now I choke

Jesus let me breathe

Is there hope for me?

.

Now I desire

The obscure

All that reminds

Of being yours

Your oils, poison

My waters, pure

Your love is cancer

There is no cure.

.

I watched my grandfather take his final breaths as he kissed my head and you held my hand. Not two months later you foresaw our end, and decided not to keep me, even as a friend.

And now you’re off, marriage in the plans. I pray your time falls like the sand and hits the bottom of every glass as fast as it can.

I have no home. I’m lost and cold. You promised me a home would grow. We got a dog, and had planned for more. Mouth of this world, a fish at shore you took my breath and killed me slow.

I’m suicidal, I have no hope. I’ve not a gun, don’t have a rope. The only reason I’ve not a note, I’d end it all, I’d end it all.

---

I just want to feel pretty.

Pretty loved and pretty free

But for now I keep to getting

Pretty drunk, it isn’t cheap

But I can afford it/‘s kinda sweet

Too bad you’re not round

To drink with me.

I’d fill the bottle

We’d watch the office

Instead I scar

Until I am solid

An ugly rock

A useless object

I’ll break my stones

And build a coffin

And die in your name

Die in your name.

tw: self-harm; suicide; lost love.

i hit my cigarette

like an abuser hits her wife

because i'm a fucking coward

to afraid to take his life

i've felt love before

i beg it through the strife

but i only find a heart

at the wrong side of a blunt and useless knife

.

and it's only mine

at least there's proof

that i can feel

when blood protrudes.

but that's not "work appropriate"

so i get tattoos

what a shame i can't get paid to die.

i got a job

i got on meds

i got a car

still wanting death.

still here at night

alone in my bed

still hear her voice

ring in my head

“why do you look like i abused you?”

.

i bought a bottle

i bought some cards

can’t kill my thoughts

my god it’s hard

just make it stop

“i don’t think i love you anymore.”

.

anxiety’s

taken over me

every interaction

i worry

did i act weird?

what do they think?

i guarantee

they laugh at me

can’t beat it all

can’t bear it all.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.
.

.

don’t want to live

don’t want to die

i fantasize

(that) it’ll be alright

she’ll cuddle close

and hold me night

and pet my head

and kill the fright

i can’t escape

don’t want to fight

god let me die

god let me die

Pretty.

Pretty good.

Pretty cool.

Pretty smart.

Pretty cute.

Pretty kind.

Pretty eyes.

Pretty warm.

Pretty witty.

Pretty artistic.

Pretty talented.

Pretty cultured.

Pretty traveled.

Pretty-faced.

Pretty loved.

But fuck me,

Life’s pretty hard.

@cadadr's 4 word poetry challenge is one of my favorite Tildes threads to read through on account of the many clever and thoughtful responses, so I figured I'd try to kick off another one. This one is a little more conceptually involved, but I think it still has the potential to be a good time like the last one.

Rather than going with a strict word or line count, instead I am creating a restriction based around personification:

Challenge:
Your poem must:

• Be written from the point of view of an inanimate object
• Give the object personality/emotion
• NOT name the object, so that people have to infer it from what you've written

An example might be an automatic door that is bored to tears from opening and closing ad nauseum. Or maybe a watering can that is excited to tend to its garden.

In trying to come up with a model I decided to channel a resentful milk carton:

It's fine
I get it
You don't have to justify yourself
Lots of better things have come around
Since you first chose me

Just know that I'm still here
If you need me
Waiting for that blissful moment
Where you light up my world
And take me in your hand
And make me feel like I'm flying
Before you lower me down
In a lover's embrace

It's fine
I get it
Until then I'll sit here
In the cold, cold dark
Trying not to go sour
Next to the slowly molding cheese
And forgotten grapes

It's far from perfect but hopefully it gives you an idea of what the assignment can look like. While I saved my "reveal" to the end, don't feel obligated to use that tactic unless you want to. You don't have to hide the identity of your object, just don't name the object outright in the poem.

Feel free to make your poem as long or short as you wish. Feel free to make it as meaningful or silly as you want. Above all else, have fun!

If you need help with ideas or just want the challenge of writing to a randomly selected specification, you can use this noun generator for objects and this adjective generator for sentiments.

In Feudal Japan
Kaze no Tsuyoi Nioi
Tea Party Ninja

Assassin of Joy
Bringer of His Mighty Wind
Most Fetid of Stench

For a Tidy Fee
Kaze no Tsuyoi Nioi
Would Disturb Your Foes

Piercing Defenses
Buddha Alone Knew His Tread
In and Out, Unseen

But Never Un-Smelt
Kaze no Tsuyoi Nioi
Bearing Bowels Most Foul

there have been quite a few discussions on poetry on here and more than a few people post it from time to time, but i don't think anybody's asked this question recently if at all on this site, so let me be the first to do that.

alternative/bonus question for those of you who can't pick a singular poem: who is your favorite poet in general?

(also just to be clear, non-anglophone poetry/poets are of course welcome for the answer here. don't feel limited or obligated to confine yourself just to english poetry because most of the people here are anglophones)

This isn’t what I want it to be. I’ve just had too many to care.

Most days I don’t need any to not care.

Yet I smile at them; servers and baristas.

Try hard, smile, look happy.

Maybe they’ll think you’re cute.

You arrogant shit.

“Sisyphus!

Arrogant twat,

How shall you pay

For the sins you’ve wrought?

I’ll hang your dreams

In delicate swathe

And leave you to work

Forever for naught.

.

Sisyphus!

You “god” among men

I’ll number your days

Count them by hand

While you work, serve

Slave to my end

Your bones will strain

And bend.

.

Sisyphus!

You represent

The whole that is wrong

With the common man

I’ll make you sweat,

And I’ll make you beg

(That) one day you’ll be free

Again!”

.

Dear Sisyphus,

I know your soul.

Your struggle is mine

And we share the goal

That work, work, will come

To an end

And we’ll live again

As free men.

.

Sisyphus,

I hear your cries –

Your yelps of pain

In the dead of night

When your muscles strain

And your mind ain’t right

My brother

Your pain is mine!

.

Gods above –!

Rescue me!

.

Sisyphus!

I’m you, incarnate.

I do my work and

Sing my songs in

Hope the gods will

Hear my plea

And one day

set me free.

.

I am he!

I aloud decree,

assuming Sisyphus’

identity.

I live his plight,

beg myself free

that I’ll find a

love for me.

.

SISYPHUS.

THIS IS YOUR WROUGHT.

YOUR MERIT THE PAIN,

THIS DAY YOU’VE SOUGHT.

YOU KNOW YOUR SINS

AND NOW YOU BEG

THAT YOU MAY FRESH BEGIN

.

THE GODS WILL REMEMBER

SINS IN DECEMBER;

DRAG YOUR SOUL DOWN

DEEP TO THE EMBER.

YOU AS THE KINDLE

YOU AND YOUR KINFOLK

FOREVER LIGHT OUR WAY.

.

SISYPHUS.

“IMMACULATE.”

WHAT A SHAME YOU’LL FIND

COME END YOUR FATE

WHEN THE TRUTH REVEALS

YOUR LOVE IS FAKE.

are you so thirsty

you would drink your own blood?

do you feel so dirty

that you bathe in wet mud?

are you so alone

that you make talk with yourself?

are you so afraid

that you, your own friends, repel?

.

would you clean your skin with acid

just to feel pure within your casket?

would you feed on rot and mold

in attempt to feed your soul?

are you so cold, your blankets worn,

you'd set your home ablaze for warmth?

do you so fear the words you'll hear

you'll drive metal spears into your ears?

.

are you so broken

and without any help

you would crack your own skull

and find some gold to smelt

in hopes you leave your corpse

a void kintsugi shell?

if not; then why, dear brain,

do you want to burn yourself

Apologies for the spam. This may be the last one today; worst-case there's only one more coming.

I see you, pretty home,

with your couch, your floor, and kitchen.

I see your sign there, hoping

that I might call and visit.

I want to tour your space

and dream of how I'd fill it.

What chair, what bed, what rug,

and if it could home a kitten.

.

I can see a career

that let's me furnish you to 9.

I faintly feel a hope

that one day you might be mine.

I teeter on a plan

that I could start, if energized

that would lead me to you

if I could try, and all went right.

.

A fireplace in cold,

you'd stay lit, always, in orange.

the warmest of colors

keeps my mind free of contortion.

Your firm, solid structure

Keeps me confident, supported.

What a beautiful dream;

I hope, one day, to afford it.

Is it self-inflating to label one's own work as graphic? (It is kinda graphic, clickbait title aside.)

This doesn't even really capture the right imagery I was trying to go for.

Might just have to re-write this idea into a completely different piece, I'm not sure. (mfw literally "felt creative idk might delete later")

The "ball" was supposed to really be a watermelon, because we've all seen that YouTube video where they explode a watermelon with rubber bands, but I didn't leave myself enough space to develop that transition from ball to melon properly. (Brand new sentence?)

Why am I even posting this if I feel its unfinished?

Who knows.

Anyway let's get to the thing here it is vvvvvvvvv

slip.

twist.

smack.

10 rubber bands on a ball

all hold each other taut

the inception of a toy

that will quick be left for naught

but brings a momentary joy - its only cause.

.

work.

stoa.

sweat.

hustle on, man, that's your call

you gotta love your boss.

it's the struggle of a boy.

that you never would be caught

while feeling tears or overwhelm - lest you be mocked.

.

smack.

stretch.

strain.

100 rubber bands slap

starting slightly straining

its appearances are coy,

the ball slowly rolls to stop.

picked up and bounced against the floor - it doesn't pop.

.

work.

stare.

grind.

expectations are my all.

you dream of taking off -

escape makes you overjoyed

daily grind just puts your off.

your brain it strains against the skull - stressing nonstop.

.

pop

waste

spill

500 rubber bands smack

crushing and constraining

such a carnage to enjoy

they start rolling out the mops.

the ball explodes onto the floor - as if a prop

.

rip

slice

tear.

my fists crash into the walls.

my skin, just rip it off

rip out the bone, leave me void

naked muscle growing moss.

wrap rubber bands around my head until it pops.

What a beautiful night
the stars are out
like tiny pinprick holes in the sky
illuminating our soft gray subtle shadows
as we chat about life and random fluff
and the moon shines through your dress
    making it
            transparent

Back to my car
a night full of passion.
Come the morning: I stop and reflect.
What could my life have been?
If I had missed all this,
            this artifice and sin?
For you are only silicone,
your dress a splotchy sheet
The stars are a cheap plastic disco ball
I bought it from goodwill for 97¢.
My car's no more than a fluorescent-stained couch.

Alas, alas for me
I must do better—yes, I will!
(I steel my resolve)
(I know what I must do)
(my heart, it pains me so!
For you have been so good to me, and thus I will repay you?)

I did it, threw you in the trash;
I'll hire a human whore tomorrow

You know they’ve got poetry on Spotify? That’s some cool shit. Ended up following John Cooper Clarke into a rabbit hole of other British poets.

Decided to bite and try writing a bit of poetry for poetry’s sake.

Anyway. ‘Ere go. “June.”

I thought your voice was music

And your beauty - work of art.

I found your jokes amusing,

Ponygirl, a golden heart.

Your company, a journey

Which I never could depart

I really felt I loved you,

Well, I did once, at the start.

.

See, music can be different

Some songs good, and others crap.

Some begin melodically,

Then get crashing in a snap.

Starting subtle violins,

Then it blares with metal scrap

They lure you malevolent

Some music is a trap.

.

Some artists Donatello,

Others Jackson Pollock.

Some art goes well with wine,

Some turns you alcoholic.

Some is deep and intricate,

Some is purely bollocks

Can’t call this a masterpiece

I’m not sure what to call it.

.

Thought your lips were pure cuisine

And your beauty - work of art.

I never thought the kitchen

Would have mold and rot at heart.

The oven sent asunder

All the counters ripped apart

You’re a diner with one dish,

And it’s a dry and sour tart.

Light it up

hit the stage

hit the dance floor.

Fight enough

start a riot

there's a chance for

love to grow

for the hate

to transform

Feeling these

knots in my head

am I deformed?

.

Feel like my

head, my heart,

a rock show.

Is this peace

or pain, I

do not know.

I can't close

my eyes and

the clock's slow

Pray I'll

kill myself

in Chicago

.

My head pounds

bass drum

memories of,

days when you

and I meshed

and we made love.

Wish that I

went and bought you

all your makeup.

Maybe some money's

all we needed

to makeup

.

Feel like my

head, my heart,

a rock show.

Is this peace

or pain, I

do not know.

I can't close

my eyes and

the clock's slow

Pray I'll

kill myself

in Chicago

.

With hate your

voice went shrill

you went cold.

Who's this girl

beside me

don't know.

Wake up in

the morning pain

or comfort?

All your screaming

I wanna go

Van Gogh

.

Feel like my

head, my heart,

a rock show.

Is this peace

or pain, I

do not know.

I can't close

my eyes and

the clock's slow

Pray I'll

kill myself

in Chicago

Father God

I've got a favor

to ask of you.

.

It is said

you can justify

the hell I knew.

.

So now I raise

my tired eyes

to the morning blue.

.

God above,

I've got a favor

to ask of you.

.

If I don't wake up

dead in the morning

could you stand by me

if just for a moment

give pause to the pain

put a break to the moaning

while I'm stuck in this mind

and I just can't control it.

.

If you're gonna drag me out

of my bed in the morning

then I ask I wake in

a place I feel at home and

I can pour a little brown, light

a green, and get to hoping

that I'll find good work,

good love, and consoling.

.

Ya Allah

Ana mish aerif

Ana riyeh feyn.

.

My head

is clouded, dark

and the sky is grey.

.

I've found

I hate the sun,

and dance in the rain.

.

And at night,

I close my eyes,

dream of the grave.

.

If you're gonna drag me out

of my bed in the morning

then I ask I wake in

a place I feel at home and

I can pour a little brown, light

a green, and get to hoping

that I'll find good work,

good love, and consoling.

raindrop

on the tongue

of the parched, de-

flated beach ball

in the hands of the young, lit

cig 'tween the fingers

of a nun,

one sin's never gonna be enough

fuck the prose

words will never be enough.

the writing's on the walls

but you can't read it

you aren't here

i need a sign you

can't ignore or a call

you're bound to hear

.

the words just aren't enough

on their own

to pull my heart strings

i can't find peace

without my blood

on guitar strings.

.

the words are going cold

the poetry has not a heartbeat.

i need to take the stage

and pray to god that they can't see me.