Parties; I don't want to get drunk and watch movies, but I want to plaster my lips on the face that is projected over mine, sloppily making out with an LCD system while the images on screen appear as rorschachs.
"Get out of the way! Up yours!" they scream as I slip tongue and twist my head.
I use intimate words as umbrella terms with kindergarten-grade exaggeration to at least get a grip on it.
"Love" can't describe everything, neither can "beauty", but ugly is a mean word and hate is an overreaction.
The world spins, that's the most I can accurately describe it.
"Words say little to the mind compared to space thundering with images and crammed with sounds."
twelfth poem written yesterday, didn't feel like posting.
Spoiler! :
Do I understand the kitsch of a dying adolescence, or does it not make sense like the Douglas Tigers Junior Varsity Basketball Trophy from 1998-99 that has been in my windowsill since our first kiss?
There are some things I can't properly articulate or comprehend; all the metaphors you've thrown my way I can only answer in drunken and fumbled reiterations of philosophical concepts.
The only coherence is the apology sitting in the back of my throat, and few other words not just in the situation.
OOOOOOooooouuuuuugaeeehhhhhgghhhhhhhh
That's a metaphor for a whale, presumably swimming or singing.
"Words say little to the mind compared to space thundering with images and crammed with sounds."
I have been writing daily, but I have a bunch of brain dabblings from dinner yesterday on my phone that I don't feel like posting and there's a new poem in the April Madness thread.
Cheers.
"Words say little to the mind compared to space thundering with images and crammed with sounds."
That is a metaphor for a whale, presumably swimming or sinning, but not beached.
Beached whales omit odors in a sixty mile radius, and while the sandcastle I've built smells like blood and fried chicken, nothing can be dead if it still has a beating heart.
Dipping fries in the foam of a root beer float, this is our way of reaching a fair trade agreement; if I concede to eels being natural tyrants in the hierarchy of the Sea Kingdom, you get to dress my paper with dastardly bastard loops that exclaims your excitement about the Seven Deadly Fins.
Beached whales, for example, commit gluttony and sloth for "eating too many beans", but if it had eaten its own heart, it would have committed suicide.
I'm feeling your wrath with a loving affliction, if my unenthused face says anything other than confusion and panic.
The whale's heart is still beating whether or not there's a gaping hole in the side of its body.
"Words say little to the mind compared to space thundering with images and crammed with sounds."
romantic theory states you can trace freckles on a skin to match a constellation, and the line that connects the freckle between your toes and the one on your index finger is reminiscent of a slide. a fun one.
"Words say little to the mind compared to space thundering with images and crammed with sounds."
seventeenth poem tagging @nikayla bc they said so and @Morrigan for their help
Spoiler! :
"show, don't tell when it comes to poetry"; my groin has this incomprable quirk: whenever it's room temperature, the birds and the bees swarm my bonnet and sweat rains down my face until I have the ability to focus on the plate of spaghetti in front of me instead of hormones.
It all started when I was 12, when I thought that I had erectile dysfunction. So I wrapped myself in sweat pants, turned off my phone, and took a whole bottle of viagara.
But, instead of a boner, it gave me a heart attack, and my body remained limp in the bathtub.
My hands go south whenever there's an itch to feel the only place where my heart mattered, yet I am still short of my ultimate goal and my prom date remains disappointed in the back seat.
"Words say little to the mind compared to space thundering with images and crammed with sounds."
All your lyrics are about anxiety and how it's basically a suicide bomber; you started playing the songs on your shitty CASIO keyboard, a terrorist synthesizer.
It acts as a personal soundtrack to all the drone strikes in the Middle East.
They capture the landscape almost perfectly, but fails to hold any actual weight, so you sit on your hands in Suburban Nevada and refuse to move
until the point the feces in your pants become pebbles.
"Words say little to the mind compared to space thundering with images and crammed with sounds."
back when i used to cut myself, i'd text tobin every hour, demanding he chauffeur me around downtown or to his house so i didn't obsess over wanting to break my own nose, shove ____ into traffic and see a semi-truck obbbbbbbliterate his bones.
i've stopped using capitals in my poetry because i no longer like sharp edges, plus ____**____ always capitalizes their words when they write about some faux-poetic lust for unrealistic love, and i vowed to myself that i won't become someone i hate.
i want to become afraid, i want to cry whenever you drink. i want everything you do to scare the living hell out of me because it makes my art better.
if i start scaring the hell out of myself, my art will return to sporadic diagonal lines instead of immature mind-blabber on a laptop screen.
"Words say little to the mind compared to space thundering with images and crammed with sounds."
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