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The Man and the MoonHer mouth corners hung themselves
and I began to wonder if that was the death of them.
A simple, quiet death;
without broken fingernails lining the walls
with the stripes of a despairing end.
I began to ache with the questioning in my heart
with the echoes reverberating in my capillaries
of her face scorching sunshine in her smile
right before it crumpled
and nothing was left but a frowning moon
set firm in its resignation to an upcoming eclipse.
Dandelion QueenI dream of the ocean;
that paper-thin line where
the current swallows the stars
and the water churns violet

(you tell me to be
quiet,

dandelion queen, we've
heard all these words before)

tonight
I will sleep heavy
and wake a few hours before dawn,
only to forget my name

my wave-weathered heart will cry,
I will cry (my biggest fear
is drowning in too many
of my own weighted words

you tell me to be
quiet
so I can hear the world breathe)

I want to go home
the scars on your shouldersthe scars on your shoulders
are braille to me, so that i
can read your skin, so that i
can know you better.

i like to listen to your heartbeat
and how it resounds differently
from mine, just so beautifully
like two songs played in tandem
to harmonise in rounds;

i like to hold your hands
and rub your back
so that maybe my love
can find its way through your pores
and seep into your blood
(never can i find the right words
to tell you just the way you feel to me)

and to think that and how i nearly missed you
makes me miss you more
every minute and mile we spend
elsewhere.
i can't sleep with another body
in my bed,
but sleeping without you
leav
He doesn't write poetry anymore.He doesn’t write poetry anymore,
even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasures
faded verses from his wife the way connoisseurs
savor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.
I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.

The record needle hits the groove wrong;
he stumbles over words that aren’t there,
rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore
and his confusion is strangely endearing.

But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,
poetic lines inserted between the daily grind
of character names and who said what;
voiceless boys in white a
Overgrown ColorsRed like blood on a rose.
White like bone and stars.
Black like reclusiveness.
Green like dead air.
Orange like the savage instinct.
Purity like a god's heart.
Red like thawing hatred.
White like a frozen, severe cry.
Black like the night's deprived shadows.
Green like the wind in the grass.
Orange like the light in the shadows.
Purity like the sun rising.
So discharging through the moon in a wheeze is like luminous white, dispersed red.
PocketLeftover religion in the pocket
Of my trenchcoat
A key that unlocks nothing
A penny, a scrap of paper
With half of your name
Written in black ink

A song that is usually in my head
In the shriveled carcass
Of a long-dead dream
In the pocket
Of my trenchcoat
With the lint
WindowsHere am I, repeated,
and beyond waits everything
but everything is more
than I can bear.

I am not built for altitude
nor looking far afield;
groves and granite-sided mountains
stop my gaze

like rest for every tired wing;
a cover in the coldest time
snugged up beneath my chin.

Windows nothing more,
but safe lies there behind them
as the chambered hours pass;

safe sleeps there behind them
on the soft side of the glass.
with thanks to frosttwo roads diverged in a soulless dawn
and you pull over,
idling on the shoulder of route 50.
it's a polaroid morning and
the world is as grainy
and sleep-heavy
as your eyes,
and one million miles
is not far enough.
it plays back, filmstrip,
blurred along the length of
optic nerves,
and here you are:
facing a choice between
on
and
out.
and this?
this loosejointed, hollowbodied
weightless ache--
this is what
gone
feels like.
Condemnedbeneath the beaten earth they lay,
their dreams condemned to ashes,
and our restless bodies stretch,
for forgiveness, for direction –

survivors of the abyss,
amidst wide-eye, silent soldiers –
so many dead, so many maimed,

how many graves are we standing on, today?
Pull Her Hair/Stare At The StarsThe ghosts have crashed their ship
on the other side of town,
you can see it from the second floor
all the way over here.
You can see the white clouds
rising from the wreck
and a nova of heat, a big bright
nova of warmth pulling the moths and wolves
out from the woods (with their noses up and searching).
You can smell the yearning like bees
leaving the hive, like the grizzly brown bears
on the jagged white mountains (concrete and imposing).
They call it fear,
but I see these ghosts
scrambling up into the sky
and I like to think it's
something different entirely.
SisterSister

A sister is like a soul mate;
Someone who is always there
to guide me through fate.

A sister is,
a part of childhood that I cannot erase;
A sister like you,
is one that I would never replace
because you always know how to
put a smile on my face.

I know I can depend on you
to always be there for me;
This is one hundred percent guaranteed!

I've had great memories with you
in the past;
and I hope there are many more
to come,
in the future.
Life, Death And A Pork Chop SandwichAll tangled up, hard to breathe
This steel cloud day that swirls
With heat and pounding hammers
I shake in my boots and cough up
Blood, rust and damaged flesh
Waiting for the second coming
Maybe next time around there'll be
Some chance for more than this

A twisted barbed wire halo
Wrapped tight around my skull
Blinding white light aura
Swarming with flies I'm flying
To pieces, thousands of shards
Cannot be brought back together
But I will remember the summer
Of my first Chevrolet in each bit

Gleaming bits of glass in the desert
Each reflecting a different moment
Still, now, enduring until the waves
Of a new ocean sweep them away
No pain
Riddle  My tears fall,

      like invisible

               diamonds.

 My heart beats,

      like soundless

               drums.

 Unwanted,

       because of the

             strings attached.

What am I?
A Night By the FireNo light,
The light sired by the night
All above whilst the day's delights
Now disappears from mortal sight.

Faded away is the sun's power,
Taking the stage now is night's sallow flower;
Now mortals may behold the stars and falling shower.

Set in a pit Nature's skyscraper ablaze
And revel in the emanating heat as you gaze,
Looking down on occasion when you hear a crack from the fire
And witness "fireflies" flying away from mother's blaze;
Dying shortly after but not lacking burning beauty do they desire!

I look out towards the teasing shore
And meditate as we sit upon her door,
Thinking on what my future has in store;
Who I am now and even
Pretty little things called words and dustif you weren't a hypocrite,
you'd be wrapped in the sweetest
perfumes
(learning
how to engulf the ocean
with your lungs
and think of how to cup it
in your hands
despite
your broken prayers and
still be beautiful)

dance with the gypsies
'till noon
(a quake in
your hips like the thrust
of continents
and the faultlines
emanating from
your spine,
but still
so, so graceful)

sing with the nymphs
in tune
(your voice,
it's growing old,
raspy even.
your throat's burning dry
like a monsoon
faltering in a desert,

and tones
still octaves
powerful)

be nestled in a king's arms
soon  
(oh, you precious
little thing.
how
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×

SandBox Days

:icontokyocarwash:

I miss those sandbox days,
When everything was simplistic.
When days felt as though they'd never end,
When Playgrounds were "The place to be."
Cool kids were determined
By the amount of crayons they had,
Our parents were our best friends,
And our father was our hero.
When boys had cooties
And heartbreaks were non-existent.
When Falling off our bikes
Were the worst thing we could think of.
When scrapes and bruises
Could be healed with a mother's kiss.
Friends were just what they were called,
And were determined by your personality,
And enemies were just petty rivalries
Your responsibilities
Consisted only of homework,
And nothing more.
Your alert to come home
came from your mother yelling
From the back door.
When Barbies and dinkies
Were the "it" things,
People didn't care about
What you were wearing.
Money was no object,
And we were so carefree
Lighthearted and curious.
Tears only fell
When we didn't get our toy
We wanted so badly.
We were SO anxious to grow up,
To become a "big kid,"
And to leave our childhood behind
In a cloud of dirt.
I guess what I'm saying is,
Where did it end?
Where did the simple days go?
When did life get so complicated?
I always thought being a teenager
Was SO basic, I could do
Whatever I wanted,
Rent and work
was the last thing on our mind,
Driving and freedom was the first.
But now, Looking back,
I realize that was my time
To be carefree and unleashed
But I didn't take advantage of that time.
I was too eager to just Grow up.

97

10 7 4
:icontokyocarwash:

SandBox Daysby ~TokyoCarWash

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My first Deviation :D <(^.^<)(>^.^)> Yay yay!
So this poem kind of talks about the simplicity of childhood and how we take it for granted when were going through it but miss it when their gone.
©2012-2013 ~TokyoCarWash
Category: Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

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Submitted on
July 7, 2012
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97
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:iconi-lost-my-way:
~I-Lost-My-Way Jul 11, 2012  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Beautiful!!! Well done! :clap:
Reply
:icontokyocarwash:
~TokyoCarWash Jul 12, 2012  Student General Artist
Thank you! and thanks for the favorite :)
Reply
:iconi-lost-my-way:
~I-Lost-My-Way Jul 12, 2012  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Welcome! :aww:
Reply
:iconxenyabromsson:
Mood: Adoration ~XenyaBromsson Jul 8, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
i've been thinking about doing a poem about this subject for awhile, but i could never figure out a way to make it sound right. you did such a great job about this though, that i'm really glad i didn't
:) i feel the same way
Reply
:icontokyocarwash:
~TokyoCarWash Jul 10, 2012  Student General Artist
Thank you VERY much! :)
Reply
:iconerco71:
~erco71 Jul 7, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
so true..:)
Reply
:icontokyocarwash:
~TokyoCarWash Jul 7, 2012  Student General Artist
It's so sad that its true
Reply
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