Pier
This pier is beautifully battered
by forceful waves
and gentle tides
I sit
and gaze towards the cove
At sailboats painted white
like the linen curtains in that cottage by the beach
Rowboats rock rhythmically
Motors leak fuel puddle rainbows
My hands caress
Splintering wood boards and rusty nails
Which in time may decay further
A layer of crystalized salt thickening
Storm by storm
At night I prefer the horizon’s view
Black glassy water
Lapping, splashing, knotted silence
I see the geometric skyline
And the glittery city lights
Miles in the distance
Behind the island’s silhouette
I wonder if I could swim there
okay going to record myself reciting my nyu rap
********embarrassing myself like a pro*********
uncertainty
in this world
of yes’s and no’s
possibly’s
and maybe so’s
might’s and if’s
abundant too
should I?
could they?
can we?
would you?
uncertain we are,
that is for sure-
except for that,
and nothing more.
Mean
If you’re
Selectively satanic
Generally judgmental
Or even
Mercilessly menacing
Your craftsmanship of cruelty
Painfully prods
Somebody’s cerebral sanctity
Demonically demonstrating
Heretical human behavior
You apathetic antichrist of acceptance
a poem i wrote for poetry class about my terrible throwed experience
Ballad of a Lesson Learned
The night was still young
and so weren’t we.
Our hopes very high
the train we could see.
Running through rain,
there was no need.
We should have walked,
slowed down our speed.
Then with a crash,
a kick, and some cracks,
there went my phone
under the tracks.
Was that sign?
We should leave now.
But no let’s keep going
And have fun somehow…
Well wasn’t that dumb.
An imbecilic decision.
The blinding expectation,
an unrealistic vision.
It will be great!
A magnificent time!
Dancing, and music!
Boys in their prime!
BUT NO, JUST NO!
IT COULD NOT HAVE BEEN WORSE!
SHALL I EVEN CONTINUE?
WRITE ONE MORE VERSE?
Well here it goes then,
I’ll tell you the tale
of the girls who went to Throwed,
an 18 plus club and one giant FAIL.
Horribly packed,
standing outside,
freezing rain,
diminishing pride.
The great wall of china,
was the length of the line.
Are we finally in?
au revoir $15 dollars of mine.
Poorly lit room,
loud heavy bass,
close touchy dance moves,
give me some space!
20 minutes had passed,
and we could not take more.
Through glow sticks and sweat
we flew to the door.
“Had enough already?”
the security guard inquired.
“YES WE’RE FINE,”
I responded, expired.
Let freedom ring!
We made it out alive!
Even 5 more minutes,
and we would never survive.
Dunkin Donuts?
Yes please.
I’ve been walking through puddles
right up to my knees.
One coffee, a muffin,
and two hours later,
our train could be boarded,
transportive savior.
A lesson was learned
that December night,
stay out of clubs,
until 21 is in sight.
Rossiya
Dachas far north survive Siberia
sables tread on solid gley
frozen respiration
sniffle in dry ice
bayans sadly play
minor key songs
individuals longing for a banya
lapping okroshka from a spoon
romanticize on
sunny bliss and sevruga
many versts away
drawing Kazakhs
from desolation
Meanwhile back in the kremlin
the colorless atmosphere
is broken by
twisting, swirling, stripes
of emerald, lapis, saffron
cherry Red Square
beautiful Basil turrets
sbiten is served, steaming
palace czars with pavlova
and pelmeni
preside from a cozy distance
chests of ushankas
and superfluous stoles
in the closet
the hopeless zaum of a muzhik
begs in the criminal cold
cracked gloveless palms
carrying Kopecks
found between cobblestones
dropped by drinkers
whose vodka vision
and conniving druzhinas
convinced them to dance the troika
-a poem i wrote about a month ago, with the incorporation of common Russian words, message me if you are curious as to what any of them mean!
personal version of Shakespear’s Sonnet V
from freshmen year, we had to take it and make the lines our own without losing the original meaning
The long time that it took to create your beauty,
The lovely appearance that attracts the eyes of many,
Will taunt the tormentors equally
And this unfair beauty will continue to exceed:
For your energy shall lead your youthful years on
Into hideous years of old age and trap him there
Your hair checked with white and passionate nature quite gone
Your beauty becomes hidden and bare;
Your younger self is no longer present
Now a prisoner pent in memories and photos
Vanity and beauty did not coincide
And there is now no remembrance of what it used to be.
But flowers, refined, though they meet their age as well,
Lose only their beauty, while they remain just as sweet.
Pantoum for a Child and their Instrument
(a poem i found from all this 7th grade writing i did in la class…it’s a pantoum so it follows a special pattern and it had to go with a painting we found in an art book *below*)
Not playing for anyone else
Rather to their own delight
Stirring up musical spells
Sharps and flats become twilight
Rather to their own delight
Do they shape and sculpt the sounds
Sharps and flats become twilight
The keys a new foreground
Do they shape and sculpt the sounds
To concoct a frothy tune
The keys a new foreground
Where songs may dawn jejune
To concoct a frothy tune
Stirring up musical spells
Where songs may dawn jejune
Not playing for anyone else
i wrote a poem
but i need to write an imagery poem for tomorrow
wah fucked oh well theres this one anyway
Rossiya
Dachas far north survive Siberia
sables tread on solid gley
frozen respiration
sniffle in dry ice
bayans sadly play
minor key songs
individuals longing for a banya
lapping okroshka from a spoon
romanticize on
sunny bliss and sevruga
many versts away
draw Kazakhs
from desolation
Meanwhile back in the kremlin
the colorless atmosphere
is broken by
twisting, swirling, stripes
of lime green, electric blue
cherry Red Square
beautiful Basil turrets
sbiten is served, steaming
palace czars with pavlova
and pelmeni
preside from a cozy distance
chests of ushankas
and superfluous stoles
in the closet
the hopeless zaum of a muzhik
begs in the criminal cold
cracked gloveless palms
carrying Kopecks
found between cobblestones
dropped by drinkers
whose vodka vision
and conniving druzhinas
convinced them to dance the troika
Poem i wrote in 6th grade that i just found
it’s called Dragon (and reminder i was in 6th grade so it does suck a bit)
Dragon, with eyes of flame
There is much power you could claim
Resting in your eerie cave
Do you not dare to act?
Underneath those glittering scales
All muscle, skin, and bone,
Is there something you posses
Such as a heart of gold?
And yes you may heave swirls of fire
And combat braves knights and kings.
But inside, you cannot hide,
The gentleness of thee.
Can you soar through the sky
While looking so serene?
A sunbeam glistening of your wings
With a bright, radiant gleam.
Can you pace the forest through,
And still not cause a breath of smoke?
Your head trimming the canopy
Acting so tranquil, not one creature could provoke
You may seem a harrowing thing
Nothing that deserves to live.
But the children see, that, yes thee,
Does have a heart of gold.
Dragon, with eyes of charm
There is much power you could claim.
Now reveling with the children
Do you wish to play another game?
When I Feel Lonely
I don’t know
I want to have reassurance
that I am not actually alone.
Sometimes I am lonely
mentally
emotionally
but not physically because I am with other people.
It’s just
I feel lonely because
I don’t feel like I belong.
Sometimes I actually am alone.
But surprisingly
I am rarely every lonely
when I am by myself.
In fact
writing this
I have suddenly realized,
I am never truly lonely
when alone.
I am only ever lonely
while surrounded by people,
depending on the people of course.
Is this sad?
Probably.
But I can’t explain it
therefore
here is an instance
In which
I may
feel lonely.
[poem I wrote in poetry today given the prompt “When I feel lonely…”]
sharp inhalation
when you go to wipe your nose
and find it is bloody
you wake up in the morning and
everybody
is
gone.
you take another step
at the top of the stairs
your
foot falls.
something crunches
in your red jello.
you rest the curler
too close to your ear and
singe
the
tip.
you shut off the lights
because you are sure you can make it
the last three feet
to the door
but your hand that expects the knob
grabs
air
and you plunge forward
into an
uncomfortable
void.
Meow
The rhythmic lapping of a cat’s
tongue in his water bowl.
The tinkling sound of his brown
pebbled food in the ceramic dish.
The quiet but forceful crunch
of purina between his fangs.
Then he licks himself soft
And takes a long nap.
