Fit the Description
I guess I forgot passage 126 line D, in life’s little handbook.
The one stating never get out the car when pulled over
not even when trying to explain a shorted brake light due to a crack letting in rain.
Which makes the funniest sound when bouncing off a gun
A pling pling with each drop on steel
and you listen
not to the booming screams of “Get your fucking hands up”
“get your fucking hands up now”
“Just give me a reason, I’ll blow your fucking head off”
but to the pling pling.
I don’t see their faces
couldn’t tell you the eye color of the first man or the hair color of the sixth,
but I could pick their hands out in a photograph line up,
fingers clutching choking plastic grips
connected to tunnels that seem not to end
but they do, each holding little surprises
waiting to tear through my flesh and break my heart
whoever thought I’d be so popular.
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-And sleep comes easy-
you lie so postcard beautiful
in the not so dark of 2am
sprawled out in the car wreak of sleep
toes dim lit by the afterglow of infomercials.
you turn and twist,
and I follow each curve of blanket and skin
like passing taillights,
up the long leg of road to back to neck
disappearing under auburn-brown hair
that filters soft through fingertips
and smells the way orchids should smell
light and sweet. as your smile
flickering bright, so eyes closed I still see.
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Whisper to bind
she says on days like these
she’d rather be home playing hide and seek with waking
twisted and buried under a mole hill of white blanket
and even with her eyes closed
she’d feel the sun poking through blinds to whisper…
…whatever it is the sun whispers…on days like these
she’d rather be dreaming of transparent water
blue and green slowly mixing with the white sands
of a foreign paradise.
and the air, it would smell like the kiwi-mango lotion
that sits on her dresser. presently
days like these consist of her window watching
the sand birth mud,
wet and wetter and…
in the glass,
i can see her reflection.
personally, days like these
they don’t seem so bad
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Just pieces…
I don’t have a heart anymore, I just have pieces…
And those pieces are spread all over the floor of my feet,
I fell I crush them in every step I try to make to happiness,
I’m mistaken about what I think is right and wrong.
You tell me not to think anymore so my defenses went down and that is why I’m like an idiot thinking on the greatness of a love that don’t exist.
I don’t have a heart anymore I have pieces.
And those pieces are hurting people, with its cutting edges.
I whish I can froze those pieces so I don’t believe again somebody will make them a heart again…
I don’t have a heart anymore, I have pieces….
And nobody like pieces, they ask for a complete heart but I just have pieces,
And nobody want to help me make those pieces a heart again…
I don’t have a heart anymore…I still have some pieces, because the others are lost were given and wasted…
I don’t have a heart anymore. I just have pieces that nobody want…
Is like a hard puzzle that I want somebody to assemble but it seem complicated to them. But, is so easy to do…
I just have pieces of a puzzle but don’t want to give the clue to assemble it, because I need somebody to discover it..
I don’t have a heart anymore..
I have pieces and I need a hart again…
Love, love…
Peace, peace…
Feel, feel…
Pleasure, pleasure…
Sex, sex….
Just pleasure and sex, and reaffirmation is what every come to find and when they find they leave..
rate this poem:
Just pieces…
I don’t have a heart anymore, I just have pieces…
And those pieces are spread all over the floor of my feet,
I fell I crush them in every step I try to make to happiness,
I’m mistaken about what I think is right and wrong.
You tell me not to think anymore so my defenses went down and that is why I’m like an idiot thinking on the greatness of a love that don’t exist.
I don’t have a heart anymore I have pieces.
And those pieces are hurting people, with its cutting edges.
I whish I can froze those pieces so I don’t believe again somebody will make them a heart again…
I don’t have a heart anymore, I have pieces….
And nobody like pieces, they ask for a complete heart but I just have pieces,
And nobody want to help me make those pieces a heart again…
I don’t have a heart anymore…I still have some pieces, because the others are lost were given and wasted…
I don’t have a heart anymore. I just have pieces that nobody want…
Is like a hard puzzle that I want somebody to assemble but it seem complicated to them. But, is so easy to do…
I just have pieces of a puzzle but don’t want to give the clue to assemble it, because I need somebody to discover it..
I don’t have a heart anymore..
I have pieces and I need a hart again…
Love, love…
Peace, peace…
Feel, feel…
Pleasure, pleasure…
Sex, sex….
Just pleasure and sex, and reaffirmation is what every come to find and when they find they leave..
rate this poem:
Just pieces…
I don’t have a heart anymore, I just have pieces…
And those pieces are spread all over the floor of my feet,
I fell I crush them in every step I try to make to happiness,
I’m mistaken about what I think is right and wrong.
You tell me not to think anymore so my defenses went down and that is why I’m like an idiot thinking on the greatness of a love that don’t exist.
I don’t have a heart anymore I have pieces.
And those pieces are hurting people, with its cutting edges.
I whish I can froze those pieces so I don’t believe again somebody will make them a heart again…
I don’t have a heart anymore, I have pieces….
And nobody like pieces, they ask for a complete heart but I just have pieces,
And nobody want to help me make those pieces a heart again…
I don’t have a heart anymore…I still have some pieces, because the others are lost were given and wasted…
I don’t have a heart anymore. I just have pieces that nobody want…
Is like a hard puzzle that I want somebody to assemble but it seem complicated to them. But, is so easy to do…
I just have pieces of a puzzle but don’t want to give the clue to assemble it, because I need somebody to discover it..
I don’t have a heart anymore..
I have pieces and I need a hart again…
Love, love…
Peace, peace…
Feel, feel…
Pleasure, pleasure…
Sex, sex….
Just pleasure and sex, and reaffirmation is what every come to find and when they find they leave..
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noisy words and a torn shirt…
there was a man
who lived in his head
wore a crooked hat
that was colored red
he wandered all day trying to capture
phrases that made sense,
but caught himself while hopping a fence
perhaps a little dense.
his shirt was now torn;
dropped to the ground on the place
where he was born;
like a thorn a storm
overhead took form
and rained words that shattered on
the ground
making a funny collage of sound.
he looked down and what he found
was a bold faced “ignore”
and wondered what it was for
became so confused he was sore
turned dizzy and fell on a pointy “before”
believing his pain followed the clue
back to the fence from where this madness grew
avoided a hungry italicized “sense”
that reminded him of the past tense
gathered a few “pieces” and “wholes”, and put them
in his pocket
like a rocket he climbed over the fence
made sure to avoid “reason”
and landed safely right next to a floating “treason”
perhaps it was because of his torn shirt
or maybe its cause he was too much of a flirt
that he took off his crooked hat
and bowed to a dancing mouse and
singing bat
ignoring his pain from before
and trying to make sense of
all those pieces and wholes
he forgot the reason for his supposed treason
changed the season and began anew
making many a stew of words
and sounds
mixed the lost and founds of phrases
with ignored lunar phases
whistled a tune
left the room
and opened his eyes
o.k where do i begin?
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Magnetic Poetry
Philosophy majors:
blow off graduating.
No job will take us.
***
What a college night!
Easy smoke and beer.
Which way up?
***
Must:
Read more.
Learn less.
Talk art & time.
Long to understand.
Do good.
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Cliff diving
Where’s my fiancé
Oh, she
drove
off
a
cliff.
it happens, I’m ok
have your fun while it last right
it was fun she was fun
not the end, all drama
yelling and hurt, tied up
emotionally, not the good bondage way
with the red licorice like in year 1 and 2
not 3, all drama
I’m ok, it happens
I don’t miss, well sometimes
she had this smile….and her eyes
and lips….I don’t miss her
I’m ok, and better off
no more crutch, independent, young, prime of life
alone? No
I don’t feel it, never
I bought fish
2 of ‘em, yesterday
she liked fish
but it happens
driving off cliffs and all
and I’m ok
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Dreams sneak up
The little one that looks so much like me
All ears and grin
She’s created an Everest of sheets on the floor
And bounces higher than any 2yr old should
grasping stratosphere
before somersaulting into the womb of polly-blend
surfacing for air—- her laughter echoes softly against the walls
and tip toes down the hallway. Into the kitchen. Out the door.
And the little one all ears and grin, still swimming in cloth
Speaks her speak. A native tongue I’ve long forgot.
But I imagine it goes something like “je t’aime, je t’aime ”
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