The pallor of my skin mocks me. I miss the sun’s feverish kisses On my brow until its touch burns. The pain means I am loved.
Mania
I go like a clockwork toy wound too tight Frantic and eager but sporadic and hysterical And I love and I love And I give and I give Until like like a well loved toy My skin is worn thin And my entrails spill out from the seams. And the pounding ratatatat tattoo of my heart whipped into frenzy is calmed by the panicked coda of my hyperventilations. We all have our lows.
No Rest For the Wicked
Inspiration rides the dregs of a late-night caffeine high, brain bubbles like a percolator on speed, firing synapses are the prodding pokers that keep me awake, inciting me to violent turns of phrases, penpoint picks at an itch long left unscratched. They say to hide one’s light under the bushel is a sin, and this must be my punishment. No rest for the wicked.
Knock Knock Jokes, or Writer’s Block Haiku
Knock Knock Jokes (Writer’s Block Haiku) knock knock- who’s there? what do you call a writer who never writes? a joke.
Death Throes
Morbid fascination kills me again and again. These are the death throes Of our potential. This is the not the martyrdom I try to tell myself it is. It is assisted suicide. Nor is it the first time- Reincarnation ad nauseam, Same me, different yous- Till nirvana: A state I cannot reach. It sickens me, The way I crave Your attentions. Like Tantalus I thirst And am never satisfied. You bloom perpetual While I fade like echoes. Jeweled fruit that fall From your lips Into my ears Sweet fruit, biting aftertaste, Like soured wine to the dying man, Leaves me…
Impotency
Stagnancy-bred frustration Angry at what I wanted to do but didn’t What I didn’t do but could have. Listlessness taints everything, Even my rage is impotent.
Carnival Poem I
(I’m not dead). Carnival Poem I The music whips you into mania And the sweat of the masses incites to ecstasy If religion is the opiate, This is the tonic. Sweet like cascadoo, Rush of power like cocaine, Addictive like morphine. We are the vessels The street is the vein Infecting all with Wuk-up-yuh-waist-osis And free-up-yuh-self-itis. It is a chronic epidemic Where the only cure Is to succumb to the disease; More riddim, More kaiso, More tempo.
Heart Burn
Hey guys, i’m not dead! I wrote a poem and everything. Read on for delicious teen angst. -.- Heartburn You are bad for my heart. Premature ventricular contractions, Unexpected palpitations, Chronic pain that no Clinically proven prescription can palliate, With prolonged burning from passions Long since passed. All you’d left was a hole, And I was defective. Recovery is slow, I’m still clogged with thoughts of you, But the heart is a muscle So I’m working it out to be stronger. Remission lulls into complacency, So relapse is swift, acutely reminding That chronic pain is persistent. It is a return…
Frustration
I’ve been feeling it so long I’ve forgotten it’s name. It comes and it goes, Like the tide With its ebbs and flows, Like the moon It waxes and wanes, It is never really gone, Just lingering behind sight, Lulling with monotony Like waves crashing Against the shore, Till I’m waist-deep In despair, waiting To cycle out.
Ode
*NOTE* this has been edited. and i’m much happier with the edit. Ode Your voice is sweet and slow like honey dripping off a spoon, And the way your lips caress each word; parting is such sweet sorrow. Your scent intoxicates my being With its murmurs of power, Hints of vice And the lingering notes of fixation. Your pendulum see saw hips hypnotize my eyes So I play right into your smile When our eyes meet, time moves poco rit, As you weave your spell on me And when we touch, the heat crescendos, my heart beats staccato allegro And…