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 empty and bitter.
I am killed softly
By the words you never speak.
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 of the now-expected,
Unexpected palpitations:
You are still bad for my heart.
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 the blood plays fortissimo in my ears.