Tag Archives: freestyle

Left-Handed Chronicles: 3

26 Jul

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.

Advertisements

Left-Handed Chronicles: 2 (Affection)

26 Jul

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

15 Jul

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

7 Jul

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

7 Jul

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