Left-Handed Chronicles: 3

My regularity imposes itself on your most highly esteemed foot, twice or once I’ve been in danger of receiving from you  that dirty look, or have I mistook, from over that book, and admiring-ation for a disgruntled, hook-like shadowy smirk, plastered on a muddy red-eyed normality-embracing blank canvas…I took from your book about politics, that soot only need mentioning once to make moot a noble reputation, a pure discomplication, a kind word, backwards, and destroying reason for condescension—

That your eyes could speak less, and your heart more.
That your breath would create less condensation and be a lovely sensation to hear.
You’ve created the perfect environment for bacteria to fester in these temporal canals,
these sound channels,
these hearing animals,
these listening mammals.

Left-Handed Chronicles: 2 (Affection)

I am watching from my window sill fearing for my life.
Singing about my tired eyes, humming for my nose.

Watching and waiting, watching and waiting.

My garden is an eternity, a forever plastic spring. Softly hold my sweater babe, it’s chilly and I’m fickle, sweetie. And only touch my toes when I’m starving for it, but it’s always you and I alone know it. Heart!

Our simple mouths have always been awful at metaphor.
But our simple lips have never needed it.
But honey, sometimes I get so bored.

And I adorn my lips with it.
Sweet and sticky.
But syrup on me just feels so sickly.

Does it look it?

But now back to the cosmos….

Left-Handed Chronicles: 1

As I write on this bench, my legs grass’ floor, the thought occurs to me, of which I hasten to say more. This shaky thriller’s pen impedes me a bit, though with breath and experience, I may correct the tilt. Ho!, though, Woah! though, as I remember to meditate, but no, Oh, Lo, so, no one is at the gate; and I must refuse my breath it’s bait…for your’s and clarity’s sake.
I see shadows and suspicion, may well be by own natural disposition, paranoia my hateful friend, cousin to a neurotic affliction – A flick of the wrist, a glare of hers and his and my mind creates the competition – A step ‘pon a step, a creak or a click, my mind will generate a thousand boundless dystopic conclusions.

Because hop, skip,

hop, skip,

hop, skip,

pounce.

Hop, Sing

I hop, I sing, I skip-

I’m stuck.

I breathe fire, I’m free, I laugh, Haaaa-

-Ah! I gasp.

I’m exuberant and glorious! I’m shining, I’m the sun!

~

I’m cold.

and wet.

and scared.

I refuse to be bottled. I demand to be let free.

Writhing wrists, defiant fists….

I think we should be singing. Maybe….

I am transfixed. I am uncertain.

for an eternity I am uncertain.

even my death will be uncertain.

———————————————–

…With that said, I wish my poetry had more intelligence in it. But one step at a time, right? This is the first poem I’ve made in a while, after all. And I’ve never been a fan of poetry. Like a lot of modern poets or casual teenage poets who write it….hehe. Ah well. A lazier and easier way of expressing yourself while still being a bit interesting and creative in the delivery. Some mystery and hinting. Like how everything now is an inside-joke or an inside-thing. Which might also be okay, who knows. So many people.

smiling girl

Her smile would seem more charming

if she hadn’t so much substance

her teeth should gleam more, and her eyes less

she is in want of: a less hungry air, a lighter heart, and a more carefree disposition

because she is always, always quietly burning