word_eyes

Daddy's little girl had so much fun with her imaginary friends,

 

but everytime she got a new toy, she'd stop playing with one of them,

 

until she had so many toys, she just lost track of time,

 

she had so much to do now, they never crossed her mind,

 

 

so they vanished into her closet.

 

 

Daddy's little girl is so beautiful now, she's growing up, she's going out,

 

she's got so many new outfits, she threw her old toys out of the house,

 

all of her pretty dolls and the ditry brown bear with the missing eye;

 

the brown bear that her daddy gave her, when her mother died

 

she's got so many "real" friends now, she threw the imaginary ones away,

 

she has no faith in things you can not see, and she could use the closet space.

 

 

Daddy's little girl got a great paying job, a son, and a new husband,

 

she hasn't seen daddy in a while, because she was too busy for him,

 

she didn't write, she didn't call, she didn't know he passed away,

 

she couldn't make it to the funeral because she had to work that day.

 

A few years down the line she realized how unhappy she was,

 

thinking about the things she'd kept, compared to what she'd given up,

 

crying to herself, because her "friends" weren't there to listen,

 

when she moved away, she stopped contacting them

 

not even to say hello, or to tell them she was doing okay,

 

not a damn thing in the world, to fill the closet space.

thanks for the feedback... I've been working on this poem for a while. I liked it, but I found the same problems, I just didn't know what to do with it or how to improve it. I still don't know what to do with it. Some suggestions on how to re-word it would be helpful.

I was walking down the street, kicking a coke bottle

frustrated, I picked it up, and threw it against a wall,

I threw it so hard that I cracked every brick,

but the glass didn't break at all.

 

Even more frustrated, I threw it again,

so hard, the ground shook and set off 10 car alarms,

I had torn the C and E from the paper of the COKE label,

but I had done the bottle no harm.

 

By now I was pissed, so I picked it back up,

but this time I couldn't let go,

I ripped the rest of the label down,

and revealed the words, "DO NOT THROW!"

 

Amused a bit at the irony,

I said fine, I'll crush it slow

I sqeezed that bottle so damn hard

that 16 fingers broke.

 

A bit more withered now I'm sure,

I figured this was it,

I pulled the trigger 20 times,

and off bounced every bullet.

 

I give up, you win I said,

and I took the bottle home,

put a flower in it, and stood outside your window,

I was wrong.

 

You threw the flower to the ground

as if it didn't matter

one of your tears rolled down the glass,

and in my heart, it shattered.

 

I fell to my knees in agony,

and you cried as well,

placing your lips upon mine

as the bottle fixed itself.

 

You said "I forgive you, love,

but we just cannot be,

for what you tried to do to that bottle,

you have always done to me."

 

Realizing that I had lost,

what I never knew I needed,

I swallowed the bottle whole,

and we all fell to pieces.

amber girls, oh how they play

burned from neck to thigh

never asking how they got that way

or answering the curious eyes.

 

charcoal boys, oh how they swing

with chartruce men on their backs

as flamingo women point and snicker

they reflect and laugh.

 

Orange old ladies

clear faced strangers,

yellow bellied thieves

what if we were all the same,

with different lives to lead?

 

while gasping for air, I swallowed the sun

or

naked eyes shiver as the rain begins to dry

warmth and strength, touch and feel

a kiss that makes my body peel

a love forbidden, well, but wrong

cold and young, loved and gone

age and boundaries, one more night

fantasies and you, reality and I.

 

 

 

 

the "warmth and strenght thing was kind of hard by the way. I know I'm late in the game, but how about:

 

I drink until the water is too shallow for me to drown,

or

clean names on dirty bathroom walls.

Walk the path backwards in a straight line

jump downwards as high as you can

on your next birthday, give birth to your mother,

have the cow eat medium rare pieces of you.

 

Go back in time,

never regret.

 

Be the seed that grows after being watered by the rose,

and have your hair ripped from your scalp, when that flower falls in love,

be smoked by the same cigarrette that gave you cancer,

and give cancer to that same cigarrette.

 

Go back in time,

never regret.

 

Be shaved by your mustache and come back as stubble,

let difference conform into you,

let your blood be the ink that runs as the pen writes it's poems,

bury the gravedigger.

 

Go back in time,

never regret.

 

Fire your boss for being on time,

let the bullet pull the trigger so that we can say,

"people don't kill guns, guns kill guns."

Be your penis' erection, and never stay hard,

live the perfect life as the eye-shadow on your lipstick.

 

Go back in time,

never regret.

 

Never regret the life you lived

never regret the weight you gained

never regret the lies you told

never regret the people you hurt

never regret the friends you've lost

never regret the money you spent

never regret the tears you cried

never regret the arguments with your parents

never regret losing your job

never regret the baldspot

never regret lusting after your teacher

never regret being wrong

never regret not being able to go back in time,

regret the time you wasted not knowing that

regret is going back in time,

regret is the only way you could know that you've made a mistake,

the only way you could ever change

is by knowing that you can do something different, next time,

so that if you don't want to,

you'll never regret.

I am bleeding in my sleep

grieving in my dreams

screaming in my own insanity

It certainly was an accident that devestated the containment of death in its own cynical chamber

and deepened the sincerity of a sinner.

 

It certainly is the reason why I'm kneeling at your grave.

 

Captivated by a moment of youth

that by the perserverance of time

just won't swallow the past and let me be

rekindling my sorrow, my regret, my solitude, my sanctuary.

 

It replays in my head, that unforgiving night,

how we used the music as our guide to sobering the hours

and I let the moon be our map to security

playing for our ages

speeding for the adreniline

forgetting to slow down

we came across that bend of concrete that ungracefully claimed the life of you

three drunken souls

two survivors

one in a wheel chair

and me.

And we disguised our guilt with the reassurance that it could have been any one of us

we lay in our lies, masking the truth, referring to the fact that we collaborated and fabricated a sequence of events

and left your broken body on the side of the unlit road.

 

We paniced, and no one trully knew between us, if you died in my arms

or on the ground near the crumbling hill,

we just knew that neither one of us wanted to take the blame,

so we left you there,

we were too young to be mudereres; we were too scared to tell anyone.

 

We showed up at the funeral all dressed in black the next week,

as your family came over to console our sympathetic hearts

shaking our trembling hands, our sweaty palms.

And it was all fine until I arrived at your casket

and I noticed the friendship bracelet that I had made for you in the sixth grade

and I thought, "What a friend I am," just feeding you to the darkness,

handing you to the ruins,

knowing that this was our final hour

my best friend lay here; pale faced, blue lips

And I accomplished my tainted goal by locking the truth between my shame and not saying a word.

 

I couldn't even cry,

the motion-less expression on your face suggested all too much for me

and then my mind went blank and I could hardly feel the left side of my body

surely numb and leaning to the right to keep myself from completely fainting

and everyone in the spinning room circled me and began to look like you

slowly fading but staring back at me

as if they knew what I feared they'd find, caged in my brown eyes,

our stories, and the truth.

 

I wanted to strangle my own illusions.

 

I wanted to cry, but my passive tears belittled my existance

and began to play around with my suffering.

And I was annoyed with everything

even the thought of suicide could not comfort me.

 

The silence began to manipulate the situation

and I finally worked up the nerve to walk up to your mother

who was trapped within her own reality;

she would never see her child again

only the heading of your stone and the moss that grew six feet from your bed.

 

This was the only chance I would ever have to relieve my burdens

I could hear the heavy breathing of my nervous accomplice

as he trembled like a coward in the corner.

I reached out my hand to her

and again,

I selfishly said nothing

I just dropped your obituary at her feet.

 

And it is today that I confess,

at least to you if no one ese

tell me that you understand,

that I love you, and I miss you, and I never meant to hurt you,

If an apology could bring you back to me, I would be sorry a million times.

 

You do forgive me... Don't you?

Liquid sky

pouring down the yellow rain

against the purple pavement tonight,

broken angel,

a child with two unseeing eyes

searching for the places where she may have hidden sight,

dying man,

falls into withering hands,

victim of another man; his love,

obsessive fiend,

mother's favorite wasted scream

think of all the things she's given up.

No, dreams aren't the only things imaginary, look at us.

He lies to them before they go to bed

they die amongst the living,

and sleep amongst the dead,

children shouldn't play with severed heads

not knowing that the bodies lye behind what their parents' said.

No, dreams aren't the only things imaginary, look at us.

I'm trying to start something. You know how words like "Fo shizzle" traveled across the country? yeah, I want to spark a new phrase or whatever I'm going for.

There is no u in like

but there is an I

and I like u

so that should count

and counting involves numbers,

so can I have yours?

It seems you've stolen more from me

than I could ever take

I cannot be a crutch for you

the more you lean, the more I break,

I tried so hard to help you

I never left you alone

I never took a friend from you,

they all left on their own,

as did I eventually

when my pain became your hobby,

you became predictable,

as if your mood was photocopied,

I never meant to hurt you,

I said I'd never leave,

I've always stood beside you,

you started leaving me.

But still I tried to follow

until the distance was too great,

I waited in your shadow

like a good little mistake,

We used to fight this battle

with ammunition in our guns,

but when the war began

we both dropped arms and tried to run,

we did this to ourselves,

you, made me not care

I, made you forget

that I can't always be there,

I said I needed space

I never said goodbye

years carry us to waste

but true friends never die,

I just wanted you to see that throughout this storm,

every time you fell

I picked you up and carried on,

but then my back got weak

and I had to put you down,

then I watched you walk away

leaving me for dead on the ground,

letting me drown in your dust

like I drowned in your "Pity me" stories

so this is just another time

that you weren't there for me,

but still I pick myself up,

and dust of the sand,

run to catch up

and hold your backstabbing hand,

but you've unmasked yourself this time,

I 'm not sure if it's really you

pushing my hand away,

knowing you'll regret it soon.

Who do you think I am?

Who do you think you are?

that I have to drop my life beneath yours

so if you fall, I get the scars,

this time is the last

you were never worth the struggle,

if you still refuse to give a damn,

then, f@#% you.

We learned standards of beauty from supermodels and Hitler

Discrimination= women not getting equal pay for equal work

how to lie= watching our mother's put on makeup

avoid our problems= caller I.D.

Confidence= Old Navy Commercials

How to love= repetetive episodes of Barney and living as a child of divorcing parents

We learned how to steal from having empty pockets and everything else having a pricetag

Independence= Our parents getting jobs and leaving us at home with 20 dollars to order pizza

Feel uncomfortable= minorities being followed around in the 7-11

Injustice and guilt= the rabitt not getting any trix

self destruction= somewhere between "nigger" and "nigga"

how to listen= everyone who has something to say owning a gun.

how to obey= the first fist to the face.

we stopped caring about the difference between right and wrong when we found out that Santa Clause wasn't real.

we learned how to need, when we learned how to want,

but where did we learn how to think for ourselves?

A dark frost where I stand

a cold celcius, degree of who I am

broken temperature has me frozen to that feeling of alone,

so far below sub-zero, that no one will ever know.

 

Lost, in this black hole, I am swallowed

no cure for distanced nobodies, no candle lit path to follow

get me out of this bottle, or I'll break it with my wrists,

so far below sub-zero, that no one will ever find it.

 

I can hear the music, thudding against the ground

and then the silence when they all get tired of the sound

I used to live up there, way before I was knocked down

trying to fit in, now, so far below sub-zero, that I actaually fitted out.

 

Ice cycles string from my bloody eyes when I try,

to move, to stumble, to crawl a little closer to the light,

2 inches away from society finally hearing my screams

so far below sub-zero, that their feet continue passing.

 

Hell is not made of fire, but the sting of glaciers burn,

I was trapped beneathe one once, until I cracked the frozen skin from my bones,

the flesh was ripped from my torsoe, and to my mass of solid tears, it dried

so far below sub-zero, until I realized I could fly.

 

And with my wings, I traveled miles to reach the humid air,

I took a deep breath and hard look around, and found nobody there,

remembering how betrayed I felt, by myself in that pit,

so many below sub-zero now, that I could never fit.

 

So here I am, above them all, fianally where I wanted to be,

my feet on solid ground, but once again, no one beside me,

alone is such a sadder place, no matter where you go,

so far above sub-zero, that I miss being below.

Interesting... I love your word choice. I'm curious to know where the number 61 is in all of this. The number in spirit, placed into the poem made me think of the sorrow age brings; that feeling of alone. When I read this poem, I thought about an old man, around 61 and in a wheelchair, stairing out of the window of an old folks home. The only thing he has to look forward to, is that every morning, the birds chirp, and sometimes, the shadow of his son casts over the ground; but never his son. I thought about that road he wished to be on, being to see his family one last time. Little does he know, at the end of the highway, there is a dead end. Literally though, since the number wasn't incorperated, I saw it as someone who barely gets by.... Like... poverty. Unless you're walking under a street light, you can rarely see your shadow at night. Like, this person struggles, doing for themselves, trying to survive, and no one notices them, no one see's that this person is in need of help, yet still they're not helpless.... At any rate, good poem. Do me a favor, tell me what you meant it to be.

Ghosts knock every now and then

the spirits of forgotten friends

gathered at your doorstep

but never invited in.

You feel the patterns of their breath

as hair rises from your neck

they watch you closely knowing

you could never speak again.

I winged this entire poem just now because I'm tired but I can't sleep, so bare with me. It's not as thought up and strict as my other poems, but I think I like this better. Experimenting is a good thing anyway.

There are footprints at the bottom of my shot glass

There is lipstick on my canibus leaf

My ink pen busted over my job application to Denny's

I've stained my lungs with cigarrette flavored coffee.

 

There is a roach baked into my apple pie

There is a naked man in my tampon box

I am fashionably late for a party that I was never invited to

my fish refuse to drink from the water bottle.

 

My car broke down, and I don't even own one yet

someone busted the lock on my glass door

I was under the impression that if you supersize your meals, you become a super model

I robbed a bank, and my roomate has a gambling problem.

 

You know, I was a girl scout... now I way 200 pounds

I haven't slept in 14 days, because I'm afraid of the dark, but light bothers me...

Life is full of suprises... I can't wait until tomorrow,

It's my birthday...

It can't be any worse than finding out that my mom was a stripper this morning.

She wakes up to an eroded reflection every morning

deep sea diving in her face with acidic medications

slaughtering the intruders, squeezing them like a mother on her child's first day of pre-school.

They'd splatter onto the mirror like a spray painter's rage against the walls and street signs in a nameless neighborhood,

She just doesn't know, she will never be as beautiful as she is.

 

She would smear it with a pieceof toilet tissue, crumble the paper,

and leave it on top of the bathroom sink to throw itself away.

It would stay there, stalking her as she bends to retrieve her makeup kit

cementing over her face with counter top cuopons,

bolting over her brown eyes with sorrow blue push pins,

mapping out her eyebrows with thick oil-like pencils,

she just doesn't know, she will never be as beautiful as she is.

 

The lines in her cheeks are replicants of wrinkles, and why?

so young, only seventeen, I think,

so old on the inside, so dead to society.

She just wants to fit in, and if it means shoving her middle and pointer fingers

down her throat before and after meals, then so be it.

Thin, pale, and fragile girl, 20 pounds of nothing,

rib cage trying to escape the cold indoors.

 

Still padding your bra so that the boys will notice you,

because they don't,

not like they used to.

 

They need more of what you don't have, and you can't give it to them,

is that why you give them "LOVE" in exchange for compliments?

is that why you're trying to hide that bulge in your belly?

 

because you didn't know,

you were beautiful just the way you were.

Depression is one of the most complicated entities to capture. It forms its own life within, and almost like a black hole, sucks the life out of you. So your body feels numb and weak, but your mind is restless, contemplating every wrong, forcing your eyes open to the dark surroundings. You, my friend, speak as if you are lonely. You are a very atriculate poet, and it may seem that your only comfort is your writing, but trust me, there is more to life than what keeps you awake; such as the good dreams we miss staying awake.

Personal tag: I wrote this because I am against the no child left behind policy. It's just an excuse to take money away from the schools, but what it does, is take special education programs away from people who need it.

He asked me if I could spare some change. I stood silently aboev him as he straddled the ground with his "wounded in Vietnam" poster. There was a tattered straw hat with 2 wrinkled dollars and about 46 dingy pennies inside of it. He held his guitar with his black veins pulstaing as he strummed down the G note. There were scabbing holes riding up his bicep, and I began to wonder if the wounds were really from the war in Asia, or the personal battles of America. I assumed that he had never left this corner; let alone this continent. I almost tossed in the three quarters that I had to buy my reduced school lunch and chocolate chip cookies, but I walked away thinking; I have the change you want, but not the change you need. The further away I got from him, the more he crossed my mind. My thoughts became black and white flashes of his life; black, a torn sleeve tightly knotted above his elbow. White, a used branch of poisons being forced into his upper arm. Black, his blood boiling as it rushes from his heart. White, the sheet police used the next week to cover his decaying cadaver. Every step I took, his life flashed before my eyes. I didn't have to walk away from him, I just walked through the cemetary. A lot of people are intimidated by the thought of death, but not me. I am a child who dared not gasp watching my father's lungs splatter across the glass of our peep hole. There, my father shot down on our porch, the bullet now lodged in our door, as drops of red rain tangled in the squares of our screen. Why fear the inevitable? That's like fearing a thought provoked by a question. YOu're bound to think about what someone asks you, even if you don't respond. THe only thing about walking through a cemetary at 6:46 at the piss of dawn, is that, though there are hundreds of people below you, there is no one beside you, but as unsettling as silence is, and as uncomforting as the thought of feeling alone in a crowd is, I was not nervous nor tempted to turn back. This was the first time that I had actually walked through the graveyard, but I walk passed it every morning on my way to school. The entrance to the resting place had always facinated me; it was like a wooden alter, as if these people were married to eternity. I entered and stood underneath it for a while, circling it with my hand on one of the beams. I stopped and picked the flowers from some random ghosts' stone, and I dropped it over the ground of that nameless homeless guy. Rest in peace, God knows you didn't live in it. I ran my finger over the engraving; it just said "Unknown." That saddened me, knowing that someone lived with nothing to live, or die for. I realized that I was going to be late for school, but I didn't care. I kept my head down and reached into my pockets. I found exactly three quarters and I put them on top of his tombstone in a perfect line, with all of the heasds facing up. I finally understood the minute of silence.

Your eyes are promising

like the first raindrop of spring

and I bloom each time you cry

but crumble more when each tear dries

and I stay alive in sand,

the dirt you keep within your hands

and I live this death for you

because that's what a friend should do,

beautiful girl, why cry?

it is for your joy, I die

every time you smile, I rise

In your palm where no lies lye

as you hold me steady to your breath

and pluck my petals through the stress

while I watch you cry these days,

it is for your love, I fade...

I took the question out of the riddle

to fix the puzzle

and became puzzled

by the answer being a piece

never ment to fit.

They march us by the thousands,

we're masked so that those who are not up to par remain annonymous

we're gagged; overdosed with facts provided by teh gavernment

and we're shot in the face with a standardized double barrel assumption

of failure, every time we miss a question.

 

All survivors will be separated

pass: proficient will remain where they are

pass: advanced will be released and re-introduced as a "someone" in society

and fail: does not meet criteria, will be handcuffed to a desk in the basement

of an abandoned library and forced to watch their dreams be chained to a cinder block, burned, and buried alive,

they will be labeled as "hopeless,"

and released into the same society as the advanced population,

and pegged with stones until they understand, or pretend to be "normal,"

with such precision, that no one could differnciate between the geniuses and

the idiots.

 

They will all then be regathered, placed in a box, and given the exact same test,

until every random nobody, got the exact same number of questions right, and no questions wrong.

 

Mentally, they would be seperated; those who guessed, and those

who actually knew,

but physically, they would all appear the same.

 

It would finally be an appropriate time to let them think for themselves

they would finally comprehend, they will finally be standardized.

Finally, education has found a solution that works for everyone,

finally, we have an alternative for students with learning disabilities,

ignoring them, until they feel so abandoned,

that they forget they are stupid.

Roses in marbles that never quite bloom

dying of thirst in a watery room

drinking the path that I've laid to find

my way back to who I left behind

running in circles, I couldn't quite see

the path that I lost, led back to me.