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Archive for the tag “poet”

Polite Poetry 10

 Tuesday  is the Day  of Starvations

I used

to like

the rain.

It would lick

my face   like
Fido or

another stupid

dog name I guess

I was wrong.

Now the bullet

wounds show

from top

to bottom

and I bleed

past tense.
I think

it was raining

when I first gave in

to you and

when I first gave  you up

Or something

like that I guess
With all this

ringing

in my ears

its hard

god its

so hard

to remember

do I even

stupid

I guess

The hard

-est part

about walking

in the rain is

not  walking

alone but the

cold that

comes

later

.

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Polite Poetry 8

Breath in Breath out Breath

 

It so very Hard to breath

Inhale

When the world is so insistent

Exhale

On stealing your air

Relax

It is so very Hard to breath

Inhale

When the little blue monster

Exhale

Creeps into the lungs

Relax

It is so very Hard to breath

Relax?

When  you are Matilda

Exhale…

Stuck in the Chokey

No Inhale

But the  eyes are the   spikes

Wait, Relax

And that second too late is Mrs. Truchbull

With that ugly wart

Inhale

Peircing your minds eyesExhale

Suffocating Your SoulRelaxExhale

Emancipating The AirFrom  Your ChesRelaxt

While The Walls Oh The Walls Are Closing In

And Now the ParalyzingFearInBreath                            It Is SettInhaleing In Like A Mother StrangExhaleling Her Child                      BreathInI can’t Exhale see

BreathOut Of My Mind To A CanBreathdid  In WorldBreathinTheWorldTheChokeyBreathInTheWartTheEyeBreathOutIBreathCantBreathFeelBreathAnyBreathMore

                  Breath in Breath out Inhale Exhale, Breath in  Breath out Inhale Exhale, Breath in Breath Out Inhale Exhale, Breath in Breath out Inhale Exhale

And

Remember

To

Relax

it is very hard to breath

Still Roses

Oh wow. It has been a while. Those first weeks of college can be hectic.

Summer is the month of regret.

As I sat on the oven top stoop, with tear stains or sweat stains (To be honest I can tell the diffrence between the two anymore), I pricked my finger on a Rose stem. This Rose had seen better days in months of yester, for the few petals groping on the stem had decay to brown due to lack of water and nutrition.  The everwatching big brother of light had no mercy on the majestic flower.

I swatted away at  battalions of flies that seemed to stalk me like a pack of carrion birds. The insect vultures neither bit nor landed but waited with carnivorous expectations. The cacophonous buzz of nails on a chalkboard.

But the Rose, Oh the Rose!  This treasure, long lost to the nature that binds and separates us all, did not die alone though it did die in vain. As the barbed beauty rolled betwixt my frail fingers a hemophilliatic event occurred. A most grotesque humor can be found in the bleeding out of veins. We expect the dams  to break and Niagara falls to occur. Poseidon’s wrath is supposed to occur underneath that thin layer of skin.  All of the gods and the angels and the devils within these unholy celestial spheres are supposed to wage war for forty days and forty nights underneath the garb storms and over the tarp of earthquakes leaving no survivors nor space left to breath in the toxic air that they created.

But that does not happen. The blood slowly drips upon stoop, like a leaky faucet. And through no fault of the Rose (for I indeed am the one picked it its beauty and not the glistening pricks) the petals and and blood continues to helplessly fall until they mix together and become one.

And so I lay on the stoop in this horrid season of regret, with the eye of god blinding me. The blood, our blood, still falling  over itself with no hope of return to the way it once was.

And the the blood still falls to the stoop.

And the vultures still descend to feast.

And I still  sit

and

exist.

Polite Poetry seven

texture-designer-grey-fur

Grey Headed Soul

Grey hairs fill my soul

what was first simply weeds in a garden

is now an Amazon, blocking out the sum

The temples of my heart

Varicous veins older streaming as if they were the Nile Delta,

Telling tales of Ages long past hidden ‘twixt decpreit ribs.

Where did the time go-

Can time be lost

Or maybe father time simply grows old

outdated

with grey locks covering his ears and heart

And I-

I foolishly march on

with clippers in hand and dye in the other

Scrambling after the footprints of Gilgamesh

denying myself of the rite of passge of time

For a grey headed soul is not a signal for a last meal of sorrow and regret

but a message from the gods that It has only just begun.

Polite Poetry six

              

                            Ellie

The tiny pattering of feet fill her head

growing in intensity as the dream shrivels away

She lays outside letting the raindrops batter her porcelain frame

What happened to the balloon that would never allow her string to be tied down

the helium of life is gone and her string

oh that string that was tethered around my arm and lifted me up

it is wrapped around the leg of that chair.

the exhilarating cries anticipated has all but been replaced

replaced with the sobbing. the rain.

Tell me, what can this hopeless balloon vendor do

do without your laugh that was more precious than any amount of helium gas.

Tell me

How can I help you float above the falls?

I do not own any of the characters from Pixar’s Up. All rights go to Pixar, my heroes.  -Grant

Polite Poetry 5

The Best Meal

Silence is a dish best left in the heart

a non-perishable delicacy that is sweet to the lips and melodious to the ears

Like a finely made pot roast that induces warm memories of home and mom

it should be cooked slowly.

How quickly we are to chew our words without tasting the tenderness of the meat.

How quickly we are to spit out our food without understanding why it tastes so delicious

Oh!

We  discard that god given recipe as if it was rotten eggs

and not a meal that activates every tactile sensation in the body.

Taste

Smell

Understand

And Hush.

In time even the most harshest food critics must bow.

Polite Poetry 4

Tomorrow is Today

My eyes sing the poems of morrow while rejecting the lore of yesteryears

What need do I have for the bards of before when

the angels trumpet tommorrow loud and clear

If my aim be true-and true my aim is-

then I shall fire my silver arrow through the clouds of doubt and anxitey

Oh Hamlet!

If only thy knew the ecstacy of pure uninhibited passion

While you ponder eggshells and weigh the morality of chiken scratch upon a golden scale,

Real princes are marching towards their rightful destiny.

No! I shall not Hamlet about while soildors of good fortune lay a stake in my land

My mind is true(and truth lies in an active mind)

I shall not falter

I shall not quiver

I shall not bend to the unceasing tide that is warm and nostalgic to the mind

yet bitter and poisin to the heart

But yesterday-

What yesterday!?

Tomorrow is today is tomorrow is today

And those who do not keep forging a new path into tomorrow,

shal be left to suffocate in the feces known as regret

Tomorrow is today is tomorrow is today

Polite Poetry 3

Orange

I can’t be the only one wasting time

Trying so hard to find the perfect rhyme

Kissing tomorrow and killing today

Pretending that this path is the best and only way

Opening my eyes even though I am blind

and say right now that I  Oh nevermind

                 Oh Ignorant contemplation

              Oh Fearless Cowardice

           Oh tapped potential

We try so hard to match this with that

To make every head fit every hat

To make sweet love with rat

To take pride in every place we sat

To live as a Lion even though I am a  cat

To face the true terrifying fact

That-

Life does not always rhyme

 

Polite Poetry 2

I Keep my Glasses Dirty

I keep my glasses dirty

Memories of warm teddy bears and warmer lies fog the lenses.

The precipitation or pollution (At this point I could not care less which) polishes off my carefully selected illusion.

I keep. my glasses. dirty

I meander meticulously into half-truths,

enlightened euphemisms that

become sweet cacophony  to my ears

Never mind the fallacy

Never mind the falsehood

Never mind the fickle and muddled  mind.

I AM Odysseus for the truth

the truth is too much for my poor mortal eyes to behold.

I shrink away behind my

dirty dual lenses to hide from a dirty dual life.

my bespeckled bed time story that whispers sweet somethings to me.

I keep my glasses dirty

For I cannot bear to face a

clear candid world.

polite poetry

Euphemisms ( From father to son)

Your dear old bunny kicked the bucket

Your dear old bunny passed away

Your dear old bunny is in a better place

and there he wants to stay

your dear old bunny is six feet under

He found a soft dirt bed

 I hate to break it to you daddy

But my dear old bunny is dead.

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