old poems, poetry

five.

Itchy fingers. Black mail. Dooms day? Maybe.

     Ponytails, curly ones

     they dangle in front of me like spaghetti noodles.

Remember those panties you had when you were little?

The pink ones with the ruffles on the back?

You loved them, remember? 

Please remember. Please.

 

Well anyways I threw them out 

with yesterdays garbage.

sorry.

They were tired. 

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old poems, poetry

eight.

futuristic heartbeats will sound more like police sirens, i think.

the hair on the back of my neck won’t relax when I feel your eyes on me,

they must not understand how in love I am… though, don’t you think?

I wish she would stop talking,

I wish she would stop talking.

my intentions. (guilty).

her voice is too quiet to be heard, I don’t want to hear it.

off with her head.

 

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old poems, poetry

three.

Many miles, downhill blues.

I have a material home to lay in,

the windows show me shadowed mountains.

Hungry for… I’ve lost it…

I’m going out West for those open spaces

those sweet touches 

of air, and on and on.

Over and over I loose my concentration

and then I have to start over.

But its nice anyhow…

I feel you from underneath my covers, tucked away there;

its necessary i guess.

Talking is old news, I think we should start humming,

maybe

we would remember then.

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old poems, poetry

four.

un-heard of consequences,

remixed remains of wicked

reminders,

heart-felt exaggerations re-peat-

ing on big sreens,

unsympathetic foot-shifting on broken cement sidewalks,

re-writing history into easily

stored bite-sized

packages,

buttering toast with switch-

blades, re-painting used up

spaces, using popsicle-

sticks as building-blocks,

wiping-

ing off sideways smiles to re-

create symmetry, floating down

stream on sarcastic

glimpses… waiting for

a moment… 

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