Best Drywall Poems
WALLPAPER
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Paper Thin
Cut down to any size,
Crumble, crop me wrong
Pull the insulation from my heart.
Never will I be "A Paper Doll!"
Thank you for calling me a "Friend!"
Thank you for wasting my "time!"
Enjoy the WALLPAPER display
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Layers and layers of lifeless brick
KEEPS EVERYTHING OUT!
Emotional poster boards of doubt
Envious fiberglass green never seen
Yuletide Carols warped around my energy
Merry and full of acrylic sh!t-
Hand full of putty maintains the makeup on my face
Arts and crafts display my inner fancy grace
Heavy installed Sheetrock so easily replaced
Tough paint chips away silently through the night
Rigid boards transform into fragile crystal light
The greatest illusion blinding reality
Smooth Tiger Skin, texture of orange simple peel
Beautiful mud swirl, L'Oreal.
Gypsum soft enough you want to touch
Dark walls of a thousand words
A plasterboard of discordant grey notes
Blots and clots of ink, enslave my skin
Colorless drywall, resilient to your charms
Printed designs of cleverly decorated lipstick
Morbid shadows underneath the ceiling veil
A double coat of Pacific Waterproof Blue-
Printing bags from -- YESTERDAY!
Plastered wounds of cement dry and roughens along the edge
A human-made barrier, not even God comes in.
by;PD
I sit here and i wonder , why i have my soul in my lap and this pen in my hand, i've earn my stripes they said, and the blood is not mine to keep, but as the rounds tumble to the ground i lose more and more of my self ,
i wake up to the sounds of automatic gun fire,this time ever so close, sweat drips from my body heavily, with only one choice , i move thru the rocket propelled venom that's spitting thru my walls, i hear there screams as i tumble this body into the night torwards there cries, evil breaks the sound barrier has it rockets passed my head into the crooked pictures on the wall, i arrive , there they are two children, in pure terror , screams you've never heard and never want to.
i can only take one ,reaching down, i scoop up a boy, he as well is drenched in sweat, tears ,snot, and drywall,
i exit the room crouched down i scream to my partner move! grab the girl!!
here arms are over her head covering it like the depleted uranium rounds wont pierce thru her skull as they pass thru the house , again another piece of venom passes by my head breaking the sound barrier , reminding me , i am all alone , i can not go back , i must move forward leaving them,
i run into the never ending darkness with a boy in my arms and his little hands grasp tightly around me, we run , stumble thru the darkness, to are savior , a porcelain bath tub we collapse inside and i pray for the machine gun fire to stop, screaming her name hoping to hear her voice still. i hear nothing .
i dont care if you like this poem ,story whatever you want to call it, and i dont care about spelling errors , or poets or poems, it was solely for my peace.
Peace In The Light
I live in a drywall box
Sitting alone staring at my clocks
With landscape art hanging all around me
Its no wonder inspiration has finally found me
One day my mind forced my hand to start writing
About my parents in Heaven still fighting
Knowing their bodies lie beneath the ground
But believing that is not where there to be found
One night I dreamt of a beautiful house
It was on a sunny hill where I saw cats playing cards with a mouse
There was a young woman sitting on a porch rail
She turned to me and asked why I looked so pale
She told me she did not die
She told me I no longer have to cry
Then all of a sudden I awoke
Asking myself... “Was Mom's death some kind of horrible joke”
The Wake…The Funeral…
The Burial Mass…The Grave
Mom's dream message proved to me
She had risen from her Coffin in the Cave
Sometimes I wonder if Mom and Dad are really dead
Or are they living in my head
Can our parents be more alive than we think
Could they be some kind of Supernatural Link
Some say this life is a trial
With certain emotions recorded in our Spiritual File
We all experience wonder, joy, sorrow and pain
Some days… it’s a challenge just to stay sane
I pray our parents watch over us from afar
I swear sometimes… Their sitting in my car
Maybe when we experience life’s emotions
Our Parents are there recording the commotion
I bet Mom sews all day
She probably still has no time to play
I bet Dad writes all day
Will my sons ever find their way
Someday I will tell everyone
That Heaven maybe closer than the Sun
And even though our parents may not be here
When we take our last breath there is nothing to fear
Because what seems like a very dark day
Is really a small price to pay
So the next time you hear a familiar voice in your head
It could be your parents telling you they are not really dead
And I thank… GOD… I no longer have to write
Because my parents have finally found Peace in the Light
And some day when it’s my turn to go home
I will show my parents this poem
Joseph Adam Elward
Hoo Ha or pee pee
Trouser or skirt
Football or Barbie
What can it hurt
Pink or blue
Stiletto or flat
Pantie or brief
Where are you at?
Sugar and spice
Snips and snails
Flip it over
Always comes up tails
Tough Tom
Nelly Nancy
All made up
But never fancy
Child of love
Love my child
Take it as it comes
Mild or wild
Understanding construct
And legislating depravity
Don't always side
With what we can see
Jane maybe John
And John maybe Jane
But knowing how to love
Is what keeps me sane.
General contractors
For gender construct
Put up drywall
Based on duct
But I want my house
Different from constraint
One that welcomes all
Free from social restraint.
Incense clings in the air
great clouds
stealing into dark corners
of stained wood and cold marble floors.
I watch the casket roll by
and memories take me.
Unwilling.
Here I knelt on red velvet cushions and confessed my darkest sins.
Mortal an venial.
Hats, white gloves strewn on benches -- hard as the dogma they taught.
My summer uniform
a red bow tie, seersucker pants, white bucks.
Why was Christ always in agony?
After we begged him for love, back at the apartment above Auburndale Plumbing Supply, a stream of aunts would come, hover around the stove, basting the roast, mashing potatoes.
They sang Irish ballads and "The Lion Sleeps Tonight."
The talk was of Jack and Jackie, American saints.
A Catholic in the White House ... finally.
My uncles downed red and white colored cans of Rheingold ...
talked of fishing trips,
concrete and drywall,
the ******* down South.
"Jesus. They're making trouble."
Uncle Dennis clipped open his silver lighter and lit a Lucky Strike.
We hushed when he spoke of the Battle of the Bulge ... Cuba ... Russia.
I fought off his embrace ... the smell of smoke and whiskey.
On the living room wall, the Sacred Heart dripped blood ... and made me wonder.
All these years in heaven, and Jesus was still looked sad.
Truculent trucks advert young minds; raging down roads breeding new gods as pompous, glitter covered idols carved from primordial blades of fear. Meanwhile pious pieces of magnesium stone get chiseled out of focus, branded by labels of complex empirical realities, numerically based shrines too impenetrable to worship. Help! Is the cry of objective cynics still rumbling in earthenware, readily retracing faint footsteps of Diogenes. Jumping in a wormhole of subjective garments to escape an ill-fitting, elementary pipe dream of unified ideals, gargled then spat from archetypal lips. Blowing away the dandelion fluff to catch a glimpse of act 1, scene 1; unrevised. Before curtains close the gap, leaving a thinning tightrope walk between me and we. Strutting back inside homes where a novelty Christ hangs on drywall masking punched holes of pain, wagging fingers pointing to his prescribed solvent, waiting for tomorrow to unlock today’s faith. When will they point at the mirror wading in dark nooks of conscience’s blurry frame? For he who searches, will seldom find peace beyond arms reach.
Depression
3 o’clock in the morning…
The sounds of bed frames hitting drywall,
The sounds of Chopin and Coltrane played
With a hint of sadness in tone.
Sounds of whores and pimps arguing;
“Where is the money, you whore?!”
“I don’t have the money!”
A sound of a slap to the face
A big hand crushing bone,
Blood everywhere
Red streaks on white walls.
The sound of drunks walking gloomy streets,
Police and ambulance rush down burned out streets
Sirens wailing, crying out!
A child, six years old
Crying, “Momma! Momma!”
Shedding tears over his dying mother, lost her soul to the
Crack pipe.
Rest In Peace.
A sound of a .357 magnum revolver click
And a gunshot shakes the nerves of many,
And for a moment the sweet and peaceful silence.
“Dispatch, suicide on 46th street Hollywood Boulevard, Send the Corner. Over.”
Then the darkness sails over
And the entire cities are showered with tears from the heavens,
But no one weeps,
Not a single soul…
-10/2/13-
Broken mugs
And broken promises
A broken lamp
And broken knuckles
A broken TV
And a broken stack of plates
Broken drywall
And broken glasses
Broken bottles
And a broken door
This is a broken home
And my heart cannot break anymore
shivering teeth the ceiling’s descent,
the drunken spongy borders of
dim imagined soggy pulsing
images in foggy spots,
exhalation and the sound of exhalation,
sense as the center of dampening paper
surrounded by our soft cocooning breath.
the shrieks are streaked across the walls by
muffled crux-splatter and shuffled scuttle after
skin-wrinkling stink, under-curl shrinkwrap of
comatose redeye
paint-by-memories,
remembered
visions of
ambling backslides,
jigsawed backside horizon
intimating blackened soul,
so
the sky is falling
in so dark split shatter rift cracks
faded bleak paint streaks
bleeding watercolor from above,
cloud fog tops of toothy skyscrapers,
drip drop splatter plops on
closed eyes,
vacuum void pupils, and
fingernails that scratch attached to hands attached to sprawling nothing
named.
echoing
generating rank fragrant impact
sacks of poetry,
memory,
life
stacked by the door
filling cracked space gaps with
slick and sickening scattered sacks,
shattered patched mock-smokeless thoughts
collecting next to kitchen sinks,
grime and mold and
ants converging colonists,
the smell the heat it generates congeal to
melt the hipster
break the beatnik
and
politico and
preacher melt
the child father mother melt
the you the me
into
elemental blank drywall
cement smooth surface,
reflection of an etch-a-sketch,
cannibal intellect,
our scratching sounds
obscured through suture-milky selves,
imagined innocuous incestuous imagination,
the poem the poet are clown house mirrors
reflecting endless reflection reflecting endless
so endless
so stab the bleeding hearts of the
bleeding-heart poets,
**** abrasively the ******* of the
sensuous speaking spectacle
preformed performance
melt all it is
it’s all
it is and
all is
Walking Out on the Devil
Of course this is what I asked for.
Exactly what I wanted.
Some would say,
Even what I deserve.
I knew it would be hard.
Maybe not this hard.
I had expectations of emotional loss.
But I didn't think I would lose everything.
Walking away from you was akin
To walking out on the Devil.
I walked out of Hell
With my soul intact.
I left everything behind.
The hot heat of fights,
That warmed the house
From room to room.
Pillows that were once
Used to muffle cries or
Punches to my face
Lay unused now on the bed.
The pictures still hang on the walls.
They cover the holes
That angry fists hit
Through broken drywall.
Scars in a house,
That didn't heal.
Bruises on my body,
Nobody ever saw.
Today it is cold.
Bitter as the snow falls.
Unlike your hot temper,
And demon screaming.
I'm hungry and tired.
But telling myself
That this is still better
Than life with you.
I look inside the window,
Simply passing by.
You sit with her,
Your next victim.
I want to open the door.
Scream and cry at her,
To please run away.
But she is already lost.
Your hand is atop hers.
Your devil eyes are locked
On your target.
She laughs, innocent for now.
It is enough that
Your Hell let me go.
I made it out alive,
That I walked out on the Devil.
I'm convinced that she
Is doomed to her own fate,
Caught under your spell.
So I continue walking into the night.
I knew it would be hard.
Feeling cold and alone.
Leaving everything familiar,
And seeing the Devil with fresh prey.
I never understood her decent into
that maze of jumbled thought
and just
who she was hearing
between the walls of drywall
she would start laughing
as if someone had told her the funniest joke
and then silence
as if someone where whispering between
the echos of her mind
and suddenly
a word salad would emerge
in full flight
I used to worry that it was catching
this state of being
it haunted my days and made my nights
a worrisome blanket
that I wrapped myself in
as a type of vertigo would overtake me
and I found myself
tenaciously grabbing
for reassurance of sanity
in a most
insane
world
To dig for life’s blood to flourish from seed
Roots are driven deep and cling to life in need,
Burst through in glory where none can survive
The drywall a challenge a world don’t deprive,
A drop of moisture from lips so sweet
Can life surge as root and moisture meet?
You the one to give the love
I flower my seed carried up above,
The craggy wall no more lay stark
My flower engaged within your heart.
To dig for life’s blood to flourish from seed
Roots are driven deep and cling to life in need
entered Craig Cornish
flower in the crannied wall contest
8/3/2020
I've found that
happiness
and despair
are close siblings
who tussle and feud
over playthings
like me
you
and that poor chap
who offed himself
down the hall.
I'm staring at
the same cracked
grout-grey drywall,
musing on his fate.
Maybe he's
enjoying the void.
Perhaps he's stretched
out on a pitch white
beach of infinity,
catching some rays
from the imploded
neon-black sun,
hurtling a few
inches farther away
each year.
Trees scream:
night birds cry.
Power lines hum
like locusts.
In my sleeplessness
I float on still air.
My skin is stucco.
The heart lies dormant.
From this window
roof tops stand
in hazy moonlight.
They metastasize
and I grow smaller.
My hair is shake,
my fingernails, tile.
The outside calls.
Leaves, be my ears.
Return me
from my structure.
But I am mute;
I no longer speak
that language.
I converse
in drywall
and plaster,
have learned
to function
on the moon.
I was born to be the dark horse...the underdog.
But, I'm nowhere near endearing enough for people to root for me.
Some look at me pitifully like I'm a blind puppy, others see me as a disease, and still others try to trip me to see my face covered in mud.
Judas and I share the same blood, and the same unfortunate taste in friends, those with a messiah complex.
The kind that abuse loyalty as an asset, an entitlement, a death sentence.
Inside my chest, at the heart of it all, is a screwed up little house and in that house my heart hangs like an old chandelier swaying and tinkling in the anemic light of old dusty curtains.
My love is a pair of tennis shoes thrown over a power line, their shadows forms a heart on the dirty asphalt, in front of the house with all of the ghosts,
with the dead yard and the corpses of ill-fated kick balls and soccer balls impaled on over grown rose bushes.
My body is that tired house.
Sagging windows, crooked doors, the beams shudder like the people that cross the street to avoid me.
All the crucifixes hang sideways above the doorways, nails piercing the drywall like a tetanus filled stigmata.
Locked in, I watch from behind a filthy window, I'm nothing but a shadow, a wraith, no evil, just waiting.
I'm a story to make children behave at the grocery store.
I'm the face of decay, forgotten and wishing for a second change, bold enough to hope for a FAIR chance,
misunderstood because I wear my ghosts like wallpaper.
It's tempting to hide them, but the walls will still moan with their weight.
History can be buried, but never erased,
It can be changed by the winners, but the truth lives on the tongues of sinners.
When we fear them, we pretend not to hear them.
Many seek peace at the expense of truth and history.
We are the victims of fairytales.
The witches cottage
The queen with the poison apple
The hunstman with his axe..whose heart is in the box?
The all live within my walls, even darkness needs a home.
Because light needs are worthy adversary.
For good to exist, it must stand on adversities vanquished shoulders.
There is no dawn without first a howling moon.
I am the moon.
I am a screwed up little house.