SheFallsSoftly

November must be American because it seems to feel it has the right to encroach upon December’s rightful place.

All of this is going to come back someday and bite me on the ass, I think…. What can you expect from anyone but to do what it takes? It’s not that I’m cut throat… I’m just… ingenuitive.

Wings clear and veined

Slick like fat skimmed off soup
Too small to fly
Attached to dirt-colored skin
Fat hands
No words
But I loved him.
I imagined clipping wings
Like pulling off a dead spider’s legs
They wouldn’t take you anywhere…
But just in case.

Those words (tattooed on delicate skin, a part of the body favored by him) have been my mantra for so long that i’ve forgotten when exactly i chose them… And yet there it is, like aimless liquid i move too quick to quite fit where i am. I move, invisible, it’s the leaves rustling, water rippling that leaves me seen.
I was just a child then, i say now, just sixteen and scared of so much feeling. So i followed a different course, came to this wide flat plane where i thought i’d be still, but blew round and round like a dust devil…
but where does He come in? He; the ex for whom i mourn profusely. Simply put, once he did, and now he doesn’t.
when, not so long back, an act of whimsy led me back to him (not He) my hands were bound, but upon returning I’ve found ( in and through him) not just wind, but skin… Like a spirit testing possessed bodies I movedcand surged and found connection, but that skin… Well, I left it with him. Disembodied now, noncorporeal before, missing what I never knew I didn’t have.
how do I love?
constantly.
with the passion and terror of some broken god
who, on nights like these, reminds wind of skin
in hopes of comfort, but only brings longing.
it hurts.
give more to me.

I write that she looks up
And where her face should
Move elegantly arched
Along with my pen,
Nothing moves.
“She steps forward,”
I write. She sits.
“She smiles,”
I write. She stares.
“She laughs,”
I write. She’s still.
I lift her from under the arms
All dead weight,
And move with her.
I tuck in her elbows,
Lift up her chest.
She walks on my feet,
I, unseen,
guide her arms
Hoping that the swing
Is convincing.
My attempt
To wear her body
Like a glove
Leaves her joints all clacking
Gracelessly slack,
Violently erect…
She looks unnatural
And I feel less human
for guiding her.
Do the arms swing
left with left
or left with right
when walking?
Second-guessing,
I stumble through
Kicking and cursing
And push her off of me.

Oh god. This is gonna suck. A Ya- Du is a Burmese form of poetry which consists of up to three stanzas of five lines. The first four lines of a stanza have four syllables each, but the fifth line can have 5, 7, 9 , or 11 syllables.

The form uses climbing rhyme. The rhyme is required on the fourth, third, and second syllables of both the first three lines and the last three lines.
e.g.:

—A
–A-
-A-B
–B-
-B—

My body’s numb.
Muscles dumb, hands
all thumb; no grace.
I may race to
Disgrace of my skin.

That sounds so stupid I’m not even going to do another stanza.

Waka is a type of Japanese poem that goes 5-7 5-7 5-7 5-7-7

 

"Well, I used to dance."

I say this maybe once a day.

"Yes, I used to dance."

Only four words hold such hurt.

What is this movement

Whose absence burns so deeply?

My body searches for

A rhythm, dances, shows me

Who I am… Shows that I am.

I am such a lazy bitch. Tankas are 5-7-5-7-7 syllables.

So, let’s be honest
Love poetry is awful.
It’s always contrite,
Contrived, cliche, ugly, and
I want to write it about you.

So I fight the urges
To wax poetic, suppress
The sonnets and haiku.
I won’t write about your eyes
Like oceans, skin like coco.

Instead I write of
Politics, religion, things fit
For a girl as smart
As I am. In my head I
Compare you to summer rain.

Do you see what you’ve
Reduced me to? Metaphor
A child would call used.
I can’t discuss your skin, soft
Your breath, soft, all of you, soft.

I have no way to
Say these things I think of you.
I’m too smart to
Say what I think, too dumb to
Think something more beautiful.

Beautiful like you
When you arch your back, like you
When you look down at
Me, like you when you smile, touch
My face, kiss me soft, like you.

I can’t allow this.
I can’t let you twist my tongue
From cryptic/graceful
To obsessive/obvious
I’m better than this, I swear.

There’s only one way
To prove myself. Set down the
Pen, and live through your
Kiss. Poetry is living
Sweetly romantic like this.

Spoetry is poetry that is composed primarily of spam email messages. Done as a haiku <3.

Does your cell have juice? 

How much do you want in your

account? Be bigger.

Okay, so Rictameter is another syllable-counting-type-poem-thingy.
Line 1-2 syllables (same as line 9)
2-4
3-6
4-8
5-10
6-8
7-6
8-4
9-2 (same as line 1)

Beauty
Doesn’t know me,
Doesn’t show me a thing.
Beauty doesn’t listen, doesn’t care.
Beauty can be so mean. So can you, girl.
But the way you walk, it whispers low
The way i should follow
To behold your
Beauty.

A fractal poem with a point, but not a point. Comprenez vous?

But I knew it would end up like this
But I knew it
I knew that it would end

Imagining white face, mouth wide, back arched
I no longer wish to wish such things
(Why might the blind man cover up his ears?)
Why should I covet cowardice?
I do not miss that climbing cloud.

I do not hope to hope these things
I’m really only honest in my poetry
But I don’t write much anymore.
Three tinkling words tumble
Grow gasping gone, go!
How long I hoped to hear.

I do not hope to end this end
November was the month in
Panties coloured as Eve’s kiss
And mother’s bustier
Breath billows on the burning
Caught up in the meaning of means and
Ending ends, endearing incendiary
enceinte enclosed
All sealed with a kiss
And a tear
Alone.

I do not end to start these things
Small lost body swishes sexy
Soft cold feet, no socks
Open door, it’s winter out
Hot blush, lurid gaze
I do not hope to start these things
I do not hope to know
I do not wish to show these things
I do not wish to go
Illa est forma mei
Posses futare me
Petesve discedere?
Vita longissima est
Et verum, vitia graciosa est.

A monostich is a poem that is clever and is only one line long… It’s hard.

Office Humor

What is the sound of one man laughing?

–

First date

A little liquor in the system lubricates the bad decisions