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Ex oh ex oh ex oh we’ve got nothing in common.
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The Poetry Project - Day 10
Headlights
Second hand Nikes
slap against
cracking concrete.
Fingernails scrape
brown grass,
a forehead rests
on ground
slanting towards water
reflecting
eight hundred
headlights.
We’re gasping
for breath choked
by a heart
beating
the endless
tik tok
of an unseen clock.
Dirt smells
like the souls of people
long dead.
How was your run?
Fine
(means I know
what you’ll say).
Stop looking up honey
they’re only
stars. -
The Poetry Project - Day 9
Girl in the Tower
My maid’s blue eyes
brimmed with pity
as she surveyed
the shattered remains
of the vase I’d been painting.
She sat down a tray
carrying my morning meal
and made a hasty exit.
I wanted to tell her
that in the broken
pieces she’d find
Apollo’s smirking face.
Hell is looking down
on calm city streets
seeing only
a city on fire. -
(via: fashionsociety)
Posted on February 8, 2012 via with 616 notes
Source: fashionsociety
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The Poetry Project - Day 8
Rain
Colors intensified
by a water speckled windshield.
Sincere confessions tumble
from tongues twisting,
shaping unfamiliar phrases
for the first, not last, time
as white and black toes
shatter reflected streetlights
into hundreds of little stars.
Cold fingers squeezed
several hours of precipitation
from a faded pink hoodie
and longish brown hair.
On nights like this
my eyes are drawn upward,
I get lost in searching
for traces of the girl
in the zebra print rain boots. -
Posted on February 5, 2012 via With or Without You with 2,118 notes
Source: lightupmyworld-712
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The Poetry Project - Day 7
A Thesaurus Named Betsy
Candle flame shudders
and the smoke it leaves
(on the glass) will turn
your fingers black.
Grocery shopping
with mom they tied
a red Smiths balloon
around her minuscule wrist.
What are you thinking?
Shoulders touch, hands
occupied holding a book,
two sets of feet rest
on swirling golden planets
woven in faded blue carpet.
Fingertips interlace
as silent steps
mark new snow. -
The Poetry Project - Day 6
Rooftops
We executed our mission with
enthusiasm and skill
comparable to dinner cooking
attempts made by an
overexcited seven year old girl
Collin’s hands were cold,
my muddy boots slipped
on the ladder.
Sarah’s legs folded,
like a life-size
jean-clad grasshopper.
She hugged me and whispered
“Just so you know
there’s a cop behind you,”
as Jessie, a dancer,
landed on his feet. -
