The Blogtastic Blogfest That Is Getmeoutofthis.net!

Here’s a poem about my gut reactions and how fucking stupid and jealous they are. Not one of my best, but eh.

Spent Youth

I could never have
done
all that.
So clearly
clearly
it must be wrong.

Well, okay, sort of.


To Do

You still can't tell, no matter where you stand.

Welcome to March! I wrote a poem today. Is it good? …maybe? I’m unsure. Let me know. It’s about checking things.

This Way I Know

I'm tired of shells,
calcified hardness
that screams for a hammer.
I'm tired of prying
and squirming
and exhausting every method
to get a peek.
Yet the sun rises and falls
and once again I am there
wondering.
Once again I guess,
and take up arms
against the unyielding beauty
and once again
the pieces
are never enough.

It occurs to me after writing this that maybe this is more depressing than “Happy Valentine’s Day” love poem. But… emotions are emotions. I could write a million cookie-cutter greeting card love poems in no time flat. But that wouldn’t reflect how I feel.

I’m happy to keep waiting for you. I miss you. I love you, wuff. Happy Valentine’s Day.

Things Will Be Right

My placeholder functions.
It works, and I smile,
knowing it's close
to my desire,
but without you,
simply a preview
of what's to come
using only B-roll,
staying away from the action.

Today I felt the need to create. So I did. I’m unsure what I think about it. You let me know, hm?

Consumption

If I eat enough, I'll molt, shed layers of shit-stained cloaks and breathe, just breathe the clear air, trying to stand on my own power.

I’m exhausted. Not sleeping due to nerves and then working all day does that to you, I hear! But I still wrote a poem. I bet I’m going to look at it tomorrow and see all kinds of problems but, for now, here it is.

Flaws

When someone else turns the focus,
it injures the diaphragm.
Everything seems sharp,
ready to kill
with thousands of tiny punctures
and those brushed away trivials
linger before you,
for once,
a point of debate,
Admittedly,

Been awhile since I did one of these! Figured I should again. Here’s a poem about obsession.

Fangirl

My jaw will open and close
without a second thought
and my vocal chords
will strike a haunting tone
of facts nobody wants.
Obsessions jam marionette strings
deep into skulls
and tug them this way and that,
and soon you simply aren't aware
of the ridiculous dance
that fills up your day with high kicks
and twirls.
I was at one point rational,
a model citizen
who used intelligence
to grease the wheels
before I poured over tiny details
stomach churning
to absorb them all
with the desperate burn of acid,
molecules becoming cell walls
until, finally, it was me
who shouldn't be set off,
cued to go into a spiel
more annoying than factual,
she who needs to be ran from.

Started with the first two lines as a writing prompt, and this is where it went. No idea who it’s about or who the character speaking is. But that’s why it’s a draft, right?

More

You’re more than just
a fucked up piece of ass
sliced and preserved
for convenient serving.
No, the plating counts,
your movement,
slow brush of fingers
through exhaled breath,
scattering it across
bruised skin.
You move your chest,
inward and out,
in quick, heavy action.
You view like a desperate photographer
about to miss the moment.
You present yourself this way,
hurt, horny, hopeful
that someone will deem you relevant,
and I am tired of the act.
I can hear the click of tiny gears
deep inside your plan,
wound and working.
I can feel the way you’re always there
just when,
the small opening of weakness
I require for recharging,
and never else.
Setting the stage for a performance
normally takes stagehands
bustling about
swinging hammers.
You’ve done it alone,
like always.
You’re more.

So am I.

It’s not Thursday but I wrote a poem so DEAL WITH IT. I’m a poet! I write poems! Fuck yeah!

Inhibitions

In that tiny crack
in between consciousness and exhaustion
lies a different sort of person.
Active
with an ability to do what wants doing
instead of what needs.
Epoch of shackles
keeping me under
the glass ceiling of acceptability,
and she breaks through,
casing expelled behind her.
List of my wants gripped tightly
she makes her move,
mostly talking,
panting honesty
with the moment’s excitement.
Lacking censors,
reality is a vacuum,
movement frictionless.
Touch can shatter a personality
into useless slivers
that I find hard to ignore
as they dig into my skin
and remind me of what I’ve done.
Her skin is full of them,
a carapace,
and it just makes her smile more,
lips moving purely for current desires.
Taboo topics are unearthed,
shovel working furiously
during what time she has left
until finally,
with a thump of skull on floorboard,
she leaves.

I awake to find the deed done.
Rough, usually,
but I can sandpaper edges
to find a decent shape.
It’s a relief, mostly,
and as I run my fingertips
along the inset designs.
Leaving streaks of me
to paint the surface
as I leak from last night’s affairs,
I can’t help but think
of what I could accomplish
if she always existed
and who I’d be then.

Yes, Aesa, this is inspired by that conversation we had the other night. Heh.

Unreasonable Things I Want

I often want unreasonable things.
Example:

I think a company should make a show
where everyone is a character
with so much depth you could
jam your fist into them
and sink down to the shoulder,
but would also have
jamming of other things
into other things
in a character-appropriate
arousing manner.
Constant sexy would radiate
but not too sexy,
no need to be gratuitous,
but I just want to see
sex lives functioning
for people who deserve good ones,
a normal day ending
with a run-of-the-mill lay,
maybe some cuddling
before a cut to the morning.
I want to see lazy sex,
boring sex,
totally vanilla
between two people
who don’t look like they were stretched
in eager repetition
until they were proper,
softness, bulk, texture perfect
for sale.
Each lick of a pussy,
each cock filling a mouth,
would not be for the audience,
although filmed,
but would clearly be an act
for the participants,
a transfer of mutual respect and emotion
between eager conduits
that simply have so many electrons,
well,
they have to go somewhere.
I could watch,
maybe lick my lips hungrily,
but in general just be glad
that true happiness can exist
between two or three or a room full of people
in such a simple, overused act.
Like all fiction,
I will be reconfirmed in my belief
that endings like that can be happy.
I will feel safe in my knowledge
that love can be brewed
within a cauldron of pants and moans.