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Literature Text
i am the stray hair
i pull out of my head
when i run my hand
through my kinks.
(and magically believe
that i am going bald.)
you know,
that thing that people
really don't enjoy
thinking about
because it gives off
the perception that they
are not good enough.
or something deep like that.
i pull out of my head
when i run my hand
through my kinks.
(and magically believe
that i am going bald.)
you know,
that thing that people
really don't enjoy
thinking about
because it gives off
the perception that they
are not good enough.
or something deep like that.
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Literature
Directionality
I kiss the forehead of another dream,
cast away for different lives--
all my fields of green
seen through shutters
of different lenses, different eyes
that belong to me a half-step left
of the one I stand mirroring today.
These reveries--
revered to me;
refused of me,
refused by me.
Reflections of things
confused with me,
things yet to be seen.
When I die,
will I look back at trails I've cast,
branching worn, winding over grass,
a tree of life carved in the earth
by my unknowing feet?
Even better,
can I linger
over every second maybe,
reveal lives all hidden to me as I rise,
rise past the sum of every choice
and every right-hand
Literature
The Ghost Of *You
*He comforts me in ways no one will never understand. When I am about to harm my already self-inflicted wounds, *he is there. Standing, at *his place near my door. Watching me, never saying a word and when I want to hurt myself I feel *his hand on my hand and I hear *his voice. Telling me, instructing me: "Don't. Go to bed." When I break down in anger and sadness falls down my cheeks, I feel *him around me, hugging me. I am healing from *his leaving and *he is doing *his best to be my bandages. *He is clotting my heart from bleeding out. I told *him last night, *he was standing by my bed and I cried and I told *him thank you. I told *him this
Literature
draptomania
they say he grows roses in the devil's garden
that he dances a clockwork vaudeville, a sinner's penance.
that he's a man of of dirty knees and sweaty palms,
howling a name that isn't mine. that he's
a special matter of calamity with a dormant heart and a lucent mind.
a hollow man, a transgression,
a bare and tremulous traveller
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more pseudo-philosophical, quasi-intellectual, uninventive minalism on the thing that makes my poetry either fantastic or disgusting?
i don't like lying to you guys so why start now? i am everything you see and everything i choose not to disclose so as to not cause discourse.
but i've disclosed essentially everything so, hello for those that are gonna stick around.
i don't like lying to you guys so why start now? i am everything you see and everything i choose not to disclose so as to not cause discourse.
but i've disclosed essentially everything so, hello for those that are gonna stick around.
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Comments4
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I feel that this poem could be better if it was given a bit more depth, a direction, and an overall setting. Just saying that as is, its too generic and open to interpretation (unless that was what you had intended). I think you've written a good poem, but I feel it could be better, if those improvements were provided.