head throbbing, i lay on the bathroom floor, half-dressed. this is when i am at my rawest. this is when i am aching. only time can heal these wounds, this wretched flu. i can't look into the light, so i leave them off. i can't keep down breakfast, so i don't. i can taste the blood in the back of my mouth, and i think that this is how famine tastes. i've thrown up in the bathroom sink three times this morning, and it won't be the last.
Semi-attempt at a humorous poem, different from the usual style I do. Tagging @birk since they had a bit of an interest in it. To note, this poem is also based off a song called Bukowski by Modest Mouse.
reap what you sow - Number Seventy-seven
If April showers bring May flowers, then why have only wrinkles appeared on these earthy hands? I have sat and waited and sat in this shower for hours, waited while wading in the shallow water for something to bloom. I watched televangelists talk on the television yesterday afternoon, and wondered who could be so foolish while I bound the tongue of the envelope with my own and crammed it into the mailbox. I planted the seed, a crumbled and torn Andrew Jackson kissed with coral blue number two semi-gloss lipstick. If April showers bring May flowers, then June debt brings July regret.
petals scatter across the earth, as you, naive in your youth, fill your pockets with them. i'd tell you they're dead weight, but i want you to live a little longer.
I roam the hallways at midnight, a phantom. Standing idle at the refrigerator, I bring the jug to pale lips. I leave it out for mother to chide me for in the morning. I learn the expense of milk.
I loved you once. I find it a little hard to believe that. I watched you float adrift out into the solar system, and now, you're too far away for me to reach.
I loved you once. I still do, but I won't ever admit that to you.
I loved you once upon a time where you loved me back, hard to believe, I know. You were a fox, silent and sly and slender and you had sanguine hair when I last saw you.
I loved you once, I still do.
infatuation - Number Eighty-one (April 28)
i can't stop thinking about you i can't stop thinking about i can't stop thinking i can't stop i can't i--
love you but don't want to admit it, but when i get closer i can't commit.
words, they stop in the back of my throat, my tongue a set of traintracks and your name is sitting on the tip. the precipice. the cliff where i fall into you, skydiving. is it called head over heels because i am supposed to dive headfirst into you? is that why?
i-- i can't i can't stop i can't stop thinking i can't stop thinking about i can't stop thinking about you.
Nikayla, you're like incredibly close to 100 poems! I am still really impressed that you got to 60 let alone 83 so far. Poem 81's formatting compliments the content so much, it's like a thought repeating but also morphing into this consuming cycle of the same thought over and over again. Switching up the common saying of "April Showers..." in poem 77 was clever too "June debt brings July regret".
you should know i am a time traveler & there is no season as achingly temporary as now
this journey, our journey, it could have been through a vast and bucolic meadow. rhea, you don't know me, and i don't know you, but do you want to try and find out?
your name is so soft and lightweight, a feather left behind by a bird.
i can't seem to get it off my lips, so i may as well get used to the taste.
our hearts could detonate at the same time, grenades in our youth, our limbs dynamite when we become adults.
i can't get your name off of my lips. i may as well get used to the taste.
i can't get your heart off of my mind. i may as well get used to your face.
There is only one success: to be able to spend your life in your own way, and not to give others absurd maddening claims upon it. — Christopher Darlington Morley
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