.
Kick your feet, forward, back
Imagine through the orange-purple-blue
Street lamp clouds
Touch the sky, close your fingers
'Round a shiny, fire-balled star.
You're only on the ground so long.
.
.
My hair still damp and curled loosely
None too daintily
Winding its way along your pillows like flooded rivers
Into all the
grooves and niches, full of our secrets,
No one dared to look for.
.
I want a hug.
Not so much a hug as a cuddle.
A warm embrace,
Folding me into strong, warm arms.
Pressing me into a soft
Humming stomach.
I want to hear the gentle
tick-tick-tick
Of a heart as time,
lonely silences and
empty lines
Wander off the pavement
Crashing into the road.
I want to take five minutes of your time
And show you what caring feels like.
.dirt and disgust. by netherwinterdreams, literature
Literature
.dirt and disgust.
A few hours later and the teeth marks raise on my skin, begging to be remembered.
a bruise will form tomorrow, as back up, to leave a stain a little more green than usual
from the knots of jealousy twisting my tongue at feeling so damn inadequate.
and my hands smell of smoke as i cover my eyes
the indents of my palms filled with dirt
and disgust.
(maybe there's something in the back of your mind, and every so often it sees through your eyes, and uses a feeling you try to ignore, to rub out the life you struggled to draw.)
Thirty years from now
On a frosty November
Morning.
She set out with holes
Gaping wide holes in the toes of socks
Peeping-holes in thick coal boots
and
Dishevelled, dirty, swept back
Into a bun - hair
Curles wildly, this way, that
Loose strands picking fights
with eyelashes.
Yellow tinted fingers, long. Matching teeth,
Similar eyes
Barely green, barely grinning pushed
Into the pale water of a
Desolate, flesh-wrenching, taut, cheekboned
face.
Slanted, sloping, less-delicate, like
dying flowers,
Walk, waltz, as if fifty hangovers
All rolled into one
Morning.
Scraping rivers through ice-infested grass
So harsh, cr
.it all began with. by netherwinterdreams, literature
Literature
.it all began with.
.I.
Vile milk in a blue cup on the shelf
turning rotten like the apple on the desk.
Ash tray full of fragile grey dust
and still she's sat in the chair
by the window, looking.
.II.
When they stay they're incapable of throwing out their trash
It sits in the kitch like a smug cat
that finally ate the tuna.
So we decided
we don't invite them anymore.
.III.
When I was small we went to the fireworks
It was freezing and I shivered in my thin blue coat
Mother failed to notice.
She unwound her scarf
and place it round my sister's neck.
I was sick in bed the week after that.
.IV.
She took his hand and pulled him
.it all began with. by netherwinterdreams, literature
Literature
.it all began with.
.I.
Vile milk in a blue cup on the shelf
turning rotten like the apple on the desk.
Ash tray full of fragile grey dust
and still she's sat in the chair
by the window, looking.
.II.
When they stay they're incapable of throwing out their trash
It sits in the kitch like a smug cat
that finally ate the tuna.
So we decided
we don't invite them anymore.
.III.
When I was small we went to the fireworks
It was freezing and I shivered in my thin blue coat
Mother failed to notice.
She unwound her scarf
and place it round my sister's neck.
I was sick in bed the week after that.
.IV.
She took his hand and pulled him
Thirty years from now
On a frosty November
Morning.
She set out with holes
Gaping wide holes in the toes of socks
Peeping-holes in thick coal boots
and
Dishevelled, dirty, swept back
Into a bun - hair
Curles wildly, this way, that
Loose strands picking fights
with eyelashes.
Yellow tinted fingers, long. Matching teeth,
Similar eyes
Barely green, barely grinning pushed
Into the pale water of a
Desolate, flesh-wrenching, taut, cheekboned
face.
Slanted, sloping, less-delicate, like
dying flowers,
Walk, waltz, as if fifty hangovers
All rolled into one
Morning.
Scraping rivers through ice-infested grass
So harsh, cr
.dirt and disgust. by netherwinterdreams, literature
Literature
.dirt and disgust.
A few hours later and the teeth marks raise on my skin, begging to be remembered.
a bruise will form tomorrow, as back up, to leave a stain a little more green than usual
from the knots of jealousy twisting my tongue at feeling so damn inadequate.
and my hands smell of smoke as i cover my eyes
the indents of my palms filled with dirt
and disgust.
(maybe there's something in the back of your mind, and every so often it sees through your eyes, and uses a feeling you try to ignore, to rub out the life you struggled to draw.)
I want a hug.
Not so much a hug as a cuddle.
A warm embrace,
Folding me into strong, warm arms.
Pressing me into a soft
Humming stomach.
I want to hear the gentle
tick-tick-tick
Of a heart as time,
lonely silences and
empty lines
Wander off the pavement
Crashing into the road.
I want to take five minutes of your time
And show you what caring feels like.
.
My hair still damp and curled loosely
None too daintily
Winding its way along your pillows like flooded rivers
Into all the
grooves and niches, full of our secrets,
No one dared to look for.
.
.
Kick your feet, forward, back
Imagine through the orange-purple-blue
Street lamp clouds
Touch the sky, close your fingers
'Round a shiny, fire-balled star.
You're only on the ground so long.
.
I don't have time (as usual) to comment properly on anything specific, but your poetry is unusually intriguing to me. The shape of your thoughts may parallel some of my own. If you choose to share more in the future, I'll be grateful.