Long Cuticles Poems
Long Cuticles Poems. Below are the most popular long Cuticles by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cuticles poems by poem length and keyword.
self-harm was my only real friend since i was born
i didn’t know at first
who she was
but then i realized-when biting my fingernails started to hurt, but i didn’t stop.
then she changed-evolved
i didn’t know how to let my feelings out, so i turned to her
i still bit my nails, and it still hurt
but then i started taking out my anger on the objects around me, and myself.
and she’s still changing.
when i’m not biting my nails, im hitting myself.
when im not hitting myself, im biting my nails till my cuticles are bloody and red.
now, when i’m not pulling out my hair, im cutting
and when im not cutting, im pulling bald spots into my hair.
after all she’s don’t to me.
i still run back to her when it gets bad, over, and over again.
Lovely as I love you
Shove me, but it’s as lovely as I love you
Lovely, hug me, shove me
But it’s as lovely as I love you
If I hate me, would you still hate me?
What if no longer from my image you could rate me
I just want you to hate me
That way when we bicker and fight
At the end of the night, you may still be my wife
Climax is more depressing than Miramax
Send my hate this rose, send my love this fax
For life is based on facts
Murderers with a lovely axe
It’s true, it’s true, tomorrow it’s you
Just ask Peterson and OJ
It doesn’t really matter what some say
And some day in that forbidden casket I’ll lay
Beautiful is you
Next to your cuticles, what do I do?
Matter is everything
But for some reason matter is so much sadder
The tears after the laughter
This is my love poem, my passion
Maybe this time you will kick me above the groin
Why is our pastime something we mourn?
A sacred Identity is born
Tears of shame, responsibly worn
Maybe after tonight we’ll make up
And you’ll lay your head in my arms
And allow me to sooth you with my selfish charms
I love you, you hate me
Tomorrow I’ll hate you and you’ll love me
When he was young. I thought he was old. It never occurred to me that I might be wrong. That old wouldn’t show up for years and years, decades even. He wasn’t tall like my grandfather. But he wasn’t short either. He had a habit of biting his cuticles that I inherited and would be reluctant to give up until I found myself with dentures and the inability to truly bite through the meat of the cuticle. I don’t know if he discovered the same inconvenience when he started wearing dentures but feel like he must have. When he left my mother, back in 1977, I wasn’t devastated the way some children might have been. The devastation came when I found out that his leaving didn’t leave me with much of an option. I had to grow up and discover for myself – this world where I’d been a child, an only child at that. It wouldn’t take me long to realize that, without him at home, I had more liberty. I could ask for things and they would be given. I could stay overnight with friends without being hassled. I could do those things that he wouldn’t have allowed because he was more controlling than my mom. It was only when I got older, much older, that I would remember the days before he left without thinking to myself, I must have got that from him. The angry words, spoken before thinking. The jealousy that came in spurts. The dark side of myself. The side that was so unlike my mom, who was a reflection of grace itself. It would take me many years to whack away at those character traits that made me realize I was, like him, the “bad guy”. It would take me years, and he became old as I lived. In his old age, I could see that he wasn’t as big as I remembered him to be. He wasn’t as bad as I’d thought he was. I realized that he was just a child himself. A child, when I’d thought he was old. But when old finally showed itself, it came with such defeat that I knew he wasn’t as strong as I’d thought him to be, either. In fact, I could see he was quite weak. So weak. He’d put on that strength like a coat, just a coat to help him survive the storms. While inside, he’d felt feeble all along. Just like me.
tears never melted
the silence between our hearts
though years misjudged us
Lights catch random particles, drawing attention to the eye. Heart beats out of rythm. Smoke clouds magically appear as thoughts bluntly dissipate. Into thin air goes the brain, gliding down memory lane. Day brought Déjà vu, followed by awkward agitation. Fear drives choices, fueling the machine; misdirected. Procrastination leaves margin for error. Thoughts corrupt the already polluted mind.
Speaking thoughts out loud is a cause for concern but preoccupation leave us feeling trapped. Searching for a way out takes over all priority causing an over stimulated mind to lunge for relief.
Quickly fixed by applying temporary bandages to hide emotions can't shake waking up feeling regrets and projecting anger. Dwelling on the past, medicating anguish, inevitable anxieties begin forming conclusions with little rationality. Left with a bitter taste from nibbling on our own cuticles.
Excuse me, while I hold tight onto my crutches. Self consciously, I'm lead into the bathroom. Overly critical; analyzing myself; the correct answers lose gravity. As if to be rotating on the axis of the universe, I surrender to myself with the power of my own beliefs. Chalking it up as the simple result of over-stimulation.
Written: February 07, 2024
___________________________________
It appears as if
the world has been
coated by a wave of
deceitful dictums,
where faked reality
appears to be popular,
an appeal of mimicry shines
even most brilliantly.
Anathema to blisters
induced by prickly nettle;
an artwork mustered
quivering feathers
that cascade over
the ivory cuticles
nestled in molten
mascarpone.
Pearlescent opal stone,
a glimpse of the
azure sky,
a shattered spirit,
hollering.
Deeper within her
skeletal corpulence
an artist grumbles
vehemently,
leaping into the air
while emitting a strained
sonorous tone,
primal image vanishes
and equestrian adulation
is insufficient,
an ersatz nest of swans
brimming with an
ethereal dawn.
Soprano with a
whimsical quality
slightly etched in
matte black tone
diploid remnants are
a flawless fleck of
fascinating fear,
Hollow echoes chant
hymns hail cherubs, and
croon carcass lullabies
Rakish Requiem for
an unreciprocated
magnificent opus
swiftly spanning
pinewood spots, on the
cusp of giving way.
As the impresario
sags on the ladder,
the opera curtains
are drawn closer,
a soothing melody
numbs her fingers
in the process.
Mozart pianissimo is
playing as Requiem strolls
across the stage,
yet, he pulls it off
and fulfills the
task precisely.
Etchings of sequence
on my flesh, conduct
an extraordinary
ballet of life,
raving smooth calm
with melodic verses
that breathe vitality.
I have been riding on the same waves for a hundred years
I have been telling the same tales for more than fifty years
One generation has passed another has come and this
old dry biscuit is still sitting in my chair. The dogs have bitten it, the kittens have dragged it, and the old stinking biscuit is jumping from chair to chair leaving a terrible stench in the atmosphere. Its white hair is sticking in the air and its black moon faced surface is as hard as rock, with eyes bulging like demons from the disdained pack.It watches me and silently sucks the daylight out of the primitive crops. This aged old biscuit has done its time, but it continues to steal and take what is mine. It is living off my energy and everyday it spreads its toxic waste on the younger crops, to blighted their growth and fill their cuticles with false hope.I wonder how much longer this biscuit will last? it is as stubborn as my dry ass. The dry old biscuit is irritating and its aroma is disgusting. My patience is running out and sometimes it makes me want to shout. It deceives the cats and dogs and it tells my brother that he is not tall.It moves subtle around with a sharp edge that will take a more than a hundred men to bend and just about fifty six women to control. The biscuit is not fit and it is babbling along to show off its terrible wits. It cannot stand up straight and I detest the looks in its face. It moans and groans at nights when it faces the spiritual light. This biscuits have a bad taste so throw it out of your pantry before it is too late. Don’t mix the old biscuits with the other biscuits or the mildew will blow up right into your face. The sun is hot, the moon is bright and something is going to eclipse at midnight. Beware of the shooting stars, and watch out for unman drone; the satellites are in close range to suck the energy out of you and leave you lame. I have been waiting for this day to past when the old biscuit is rolled away at last, and I will reclaim my chair and breathe fresh air. The eclipse is coming and I hope that you are ready.
Written: February 13, 2023
____________________________________________
An anathema for,
pilose nettle burns,
an art form of unstable feathers,
tropes across the ivory cuticles.
Melted mascarpone in a figurine,
pearlescent obsidian,
hooping sapped spirit,
sight of the blue sky.
within her boneless flesh,
the artist grumbles severely,
in a strained, velvety voice,
jumping into the air.
Prima picture goes away,
with feeble equine acclaim,
the nest of the forlorn swan,
embracing an ethereal dawn.
Whimsical soprano,
barely etched in matte black,
diploid remains,
a flawless fleck of fascinating fright.
Rakish Requiem for an,
unrequited magnum opus,
rushing on pinewood stains,
on the cusp of collapse.
As she droops on the ladder,
the impresario draws the
opera curtains closer,
while soothing music,
numbs her toes.
When Requiem strolls,
across the stage to the tune of
Mozart pianissimo,
he manages to pull off,
fulfills a task with accuracy.
2nd place contest winner
O, Valencia's prized possession,
perfected in your prime,
to pluck you without resistance
from a beaming, bowing branch...
Gravity's gentle transaction
would roll like attraction into my open palm.
To feel your textured tenderness within an easy grip,
senses saturated with sun kissed sleekness...
How juicy you must be underneath your polished peel.
Tenderness is just one press away
from these longing lips.
Digging in, cuticles' thirst would be quenched
like a manicure's pleasure.
The citrus mist would burst beneath your flesh
with the sound of captive release, freedom's sigh.
Fragrant as orange blossoms under active inhales,
sweet as honey perfumery,
tantalizing taste buds would smoothly
squeeze your ethereal pulp upon them,
dripping with delectable desire fulfilled.
Seamless in freshness, unblemished,
each bite would be a lover's delight,
binding beauty, external with internal
in this connoisseur's lifelong find.
2-18-2020
How often do shadows cry
And if they do
This means like us
they feel to
How often do whereabouts
dispose of their founders
The emptied hands pivoted gruesome
To only expire before you lose them
This is why my eyes cry
Late night movies
Midnight hours, how do you spend them
When letters feel “ no need to reply”
To where do we send them
A curious mind in eye sight
A figure taunted
The difference in people is
“Don’t let your personality dye”
Flesh wounds appear the same
Determination’s found in change
Could you spare me some change
A course of new events
Hand prints on the face of cement
Try not to take life out of context
“I’ll be home soon”
Read his final text
History is somewhat of a vex
Sort of a temporary fix
A day, a age, that some of us miss
How do you become a person
Or exhibit the features of everyday people
Minus the wars, the battles, the ether
Trouble awaits
For those of us who refute
Similar choices brought
About in this place of being
Bloggers are subsequent to ignorance
Just the lack of reading
Express’s the true meaning of being for real
The objective to live and protect yourself
Minus the kill
Sometimes glory comes as a steal
Did you think love was beautiful
Black coffee, cigarette buds
A raspy voice
from a figurine with seductive cuticles
A slice of pie
Banana’s and caramel
On top of our lie
Apart of me is fiction
And some of you is true
A journal
Do you commit yourself to unfulfilled comments
Did you dust your hands off
Wash your face
and forget to accept the necessary compliments
If I’m shady
then you weren’t around
Too far gone, dancing in the sun
Musically
you love the violin
Sympathetically
you can’t sing without the gin
I am in many rooms trapped with death
Or waiting for death to get there
Like this one time. It was a salon
My nails were done neon blue
With heena flowers
With a splash running down to the tips
It was really beautiful; you should have seen
Next was my cuticles
She did one
I am going to die anyways
I mattered, all sad
I guess I am afraid
But I got away
I keep getting away
Death locked the doors
but a window was opened
I guess my time is yet
I just need to say my best goodbyes
There is no cheating death
Especially when outside is not safe
It's the reflections; I think the waves betray me
Because every time I see my face, I know he is near to take me
Do you think it is a frequency attached to silver?
When I use a spoon is how he finds me
I will try to keep everything dark.
Until I have seen you one last time
I will miss you most
maybe I will not get to goodbye
So fare thee well
You made my life less dark
You have kept me alive this far
But I need to be kept alive
that is what hurts
It is the sad part
I should have gone long ago
So when it happens know I am so glad
Fare Thee Well
I will miss you most.