My final project!
Kwyjibo
Posts: 662
Was due today here they are!
Withdrawal
Shaking off the shakes again,
with a Black hair from a Velvet dog.
Swimming with the combination spins.
A Crystal haze over a Palace’s river of gin,
covered with pine trees–lost in a fog.
I'm shaking off the shakes again.
The fifth day straight with Russian kings.
True potato flavor for an Irish slob.
Swimming with the combination spins.
Southern jail with worms if I win.
Slurping blue agave from a trough.
I'm shaking off the shakes again.
The desperate Captain snarls for my skin,
so off the plank I fall, and hit the water hard.
Swimming with the combination spins.
The cure was merely an illusion,
asleep in the backseat of the car.
So now I'm giving in to the shakes again.
Giving in to contemplation's spins.
Withdrawal
Shaking off the shakes again,
with a Black hair from a Velvet dog.
Swimming with the combination spins.
A Crystal haze over a Palace’s river of gin,
covered with pine trees–lost in a fog.
I'm shaking off the shakes again.
The fifth day straight with Russian kings.
True potato flavor for an Irish slob.
Swimming with the combination spins.
Southern jail with worms if I win.
Slurping blue agave from a trough.
I'm shaking off the shakes again.
The desperate Captain snarls for my skin,
so off the plank I fall, and hit the water hard.
Swimming with the combination spins.
The cure was merely an illusion,
asleep in the backseat of the car.
So now I'm giving in to the shakes again.
Giving in to contemplation's spins.
The most remarkable thing about you standing in the doorway, is that its you, and that you're standing in the doorway.
I write down good reasons to freeze to death in my spiral ring notebook. But in the long tresses of your hair--I am a babbling brook.
I write down good reasons to freeze to death in my spiral ring notebook. But in the long tresses of your hair--I am a babbling brook.
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I was thinking about that week
we spent together late last fall,
and the cotton floating from the trees
twisting in a hurricane around your slim frame.
You twirled beside me, and I swear
your feet never once touched the ground.
I remember that very first night,
with our faces side by side
on the cool, dusty tile floor.
I watched your chest heave
up and down, and felt your body
shivering, and knew I loved you.
The second night we managed a bed,
and when I awoke beside you in those
warm sheets, I saw your skin was still
moist with perspiration. The white linen
clung to your body, and you rose like
a goddess, and my God, I loved you.
Later in the week, the air cooled around us,
and my skin grew red and raw as your rubbed
the coarse snow all over my face. My hair
stuck like little sticks over my eyes, and the
snow clotted up in my nose. I couldn’t breathe,
and as I choked, I knew I loved you.
Distance has a way of making even those
simple, innocent pleasures seem complicated.
So I think I'd better come to Oregon again,
hopefully this spring. I’ll understand if you
won’t have me, but I really need to see you.
Lonely in Dream Town
I am lonely in dream town
with a gentle devil doing his rounds.
We’re swerving past the drunken bores
while smirking at the sound of the storm.
The big gong splash flies by my ear
He says “I’m your Huckleberry,”
In his sharp southern twang.
This orange obdurate moaning car
is a smoldering piece of eternal Hell.
And a frantic mother of Satan's son
Is playing in liquid, that is surely blood.
Ptarmigan feather, in his coarse hair
that shadows his red eyes like a veil.
We resume down the starlit street
and each night-light pops to greet
me with the darkness I deserve, and
for it my anonymity stays preserved.
I scratch the itch inside their Souls
with sweet, perfect, false dreams.
I write down good reasons to freeze to death in my spiral ring notebook. But in the long tresses of your hair--I am a babbling brook.
Cigarette smoke still clinging to his clothes.
Whiskey and vodka still burning in his throat.
He returns home–
Broken bottles all over the floor.
Picture frames shattered
from their all-out war.
As he rummages through the glass–
brown and stained with red–
He sees that old picture of them,
And the back of it said:
"take this with you and don't forget me
it will keep you warm, and you won't miss me
I will be in your heart forever, so be quiet and kiss me"
So he wipes off the grime,
and sticks it in his wallet,
next to a picture that would make her cry–
if she ever saw it.
He crawls into bed,
still wearing his clothes.
He’s wearing three layers,
but he’s still cold.
A light blinks off in the distance.
I write down good reasons to freeze to death in my spiral ring notebook. But in the long tresses of your hair--I am a babbling brook.
Brilliant moonlight shivered across the snow.
Rivers of footprints rippled from door to door,
imprints of children’s feet, only inches deep.
Air between our shoulders; thousands of frozen flecks.
Never did we say a word, as we blindly walked to fate,
nor could I look at you. The air froze my every word.
Everywhere they dropped and shattered. Word after word
splintering on the sidewalk, unsoftened by the snow.
And with our destination fast approaching, our fate
would soon be known. When we finally reach your door,
will I have anything to say? Will I be only a silent fleck
of snow to be brushed away? Or will our kiss be deep?
violently I want to shake you–to break from this deep
spell of silence. Yet my steps remain rigid, no word
can yet release our frozen forward motion. Each fleck
we squash seems to doom us to forever walk in snow.
And every time we pass some friendly old oak door,
I think about how close we are to the terrible fate.
Saturday I’ll leave this place, and my fate
is never to return. Always I’ll remember this deep
snow and the creeping sense of dread, and your door.
This perfect shining moment was not ruined by words,
It was ruined by their utter disappearance, as if they were snow
melting into nothingness, and my love in every fleck.
I can feel my heart disintegrating into fleck upon fleck,
and I know that this bitter end cannot be my fate.
Some expression can be found, in these walls of snow.
My lips start to move, only frozen mist escapes to the deep
night sky. A groan freezes in my throat, but still no word
is released. We’re there at last and I move to block the door.
I cannot move, but I cannot speak. An ice statue at your door!
You reach up and wipe the precious fleck
of frozen tear! But still, we can’t seem to say a word!
It seems we’re doomed to stand here forever! It is our fate!
Suddenly you step so close and you kiss me, softly, then deep
and with power! And there we stand, eternally lost in falling snow!
We freeze there at your door, ice statues embracing their fate.
But into your eye falls a single fleck, and you disappear into some deep
dream. I’m trapped forever with no word, lost in the innumerable walls of snow.
I write down good reasons to freeze to death in my spiral ring notebook. But in the long tresses of your hair--I am a babbling brook.
Dark smudges on the walls
Beckoning my every thought
to form some face or figurine.
This place has everything
from dark flannel forest sheets,
to light flowery quilts you stitched for me.
Clothes scattered all about.
Shed hairs curl on the ground.
Wet towels, and grindings of your teeth.
The cold air–it filters in
from cracks in the window sill.
We’re kept warm by only body heat.
Your mirror on the wall
stands six and a half feet tall.
You speak in rhyme your wicked deeds.
You tell it everything
of apples and of queens.
My God! The mirror is me!
Please, please, do me no harm,
and I’ll try not to look appalled,
when I swear you’re the fairest of them all
Addiction
I'm still and quiet and I think
That he can’t see me.
But the tireless hunter is licking
His chops with greed
As I skip through the trees.
And now his sight is right on me.
I can sense its presence, and a shudder
Shoots up my spine. My knees buckle
When his bullet hits my leg.
And addiction sucks me into the ground.
Snowflakes fall on my desperate lips.
My tongue flicks out one last time.
It runs on up to wet my nose–my last taste.
The white powder I loved so much.
The sick indulgence I always knew
Would blow up in my face.
I write down good reasons to freeze to death in my spiral ring notebook. But in the long tresses of your hair--I am a babbling brook.
Walking on the pavement in the summer heat.
Young and barefoot with yellow calloused feet.
When I come upon a mass of black feathers,
Picking apart some child’s favorite pet.
My eyes fill with hate for the corvine cowards.
I am ready to chase them from their feasting circle.
I envision a charge and a triumphant victory shout,
But something holds my skin to the sizzling pavement.
Even as evil black beasts, they feel the power of hunger;
Even as they pluck out the bits of remaining fur and collar.
I decide they are an anomaly in the cycle of life–
But they are still part of it, and must deserve their share.
But I can’t remove the image from my youthful mind,
Of a tiny child when he finds his mangled friend,
And the tears in his eyes as his mother tries to describe
The way things happen, when a little kitty dies.
So I run at the wicked black birds, and they mostly scatter–
And the baby black birds go hungry.
I write down good reasons to freeze to death in my spiral ring notebook. But in the long tresses of your hair--I am a babbling brook.
I wish I could write poems like this, is this your profession ?
it only makes today worse.
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
thank you Anna Falk and bibliobella for taking the time to look them over.
I'm glad you liked that poem Anna, it is very personal.
I wish it were my profression, maybe someday it will be, right now I'm a college student, and writing is my major.
I write down good reasons to freeze to death in my spiral ring notebook. But in the long tresses of your hair--I am a babbling brook.