I'll squeeze the slippery of my venom,
and cut out my forked tongue,
and blind out my yellow snake eyes,
same color as a hellish demon.......
I don't even desire my being,
I was only once so beautiful,
a maker's disaster of a beast
locked away in this attic,
only my dreams can be wonderful..
September where have you been?
The June days burnt my smooth skin,
in July it was hot and I needed extra sun screen.
August was fun pool time with us all-in.
Finally lovely September to break-in,
with many wonderful holidays to begin.
The sun caressing our skin
summer days come to an abrupt end
~ lingering sweetness turning to memories
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
Pig Skin
(NFL)
September 17th, 1920
Canton Ohio City
January 15th, 1967
Very first Super Bowl
Green Bay Packers (won)
Kansas City Chiefs
It’s another football season in September
Rugged pig skin
Noisy crowds
Everyone is over paid
But it’s always entertaining
Beyond greed
Who’s your favorite team?
Everyone's always being traded
Don’t forget to buy some beer
Watch the game from home
No Crowd No Chaos
Start on the 50 yard line
Everyone is on their feet
Touch down
What about those Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders
Don’t forget snacks and hot dogs
Rouge on old grey skin
lustre trying to conceal
yet exposes flaws
You in rain get wet,
I’m soaked to skin by beauty--
Yours, just looking at
And marvel at scene I see--
How rain makes you so pretty.
_____________________
Tanka (Senryu + couplet) | 14.08.2025 | rain, beauty
The bark peels back like old skin—
Mine, yours, the cinnamon scrolls
Of what we shed to live. August
Bleaches the world to bone, the bark’s faint spice
Rising in the noon glare,
Heat tasting of salt and sand. And still this Crape crowns
Itself with Myrtle fire. Still—
I cannot explain what breaks in me. Still I press my cheek
Against its flaking flesh, feel
The pulse beneath—magenta,
White, pink, the deep red
Of what I've never
Bled for anyone.
Each blossom a small fist
Opening with the muted pop
Of summer rain on dry earth. Each petal, tissue-thin
As the lies I've told myself
About enduring. The Eastern Shore sun
Has made this tree what survival
Looks like: stubborn—
Beautiful, built for the burning
Seasons that strip us
To what we are. Winter comes,
And I am learning
How to be naked—
These mottled limbs
My teachers, conductors' hands
Mid-gesture, never finished
With their fierce music
Of staying alive. Of reaching
Up through the killing
Cold, brittle air ringing
With the clink of frozen twigs toward something
Green promises I cannot fathom—yet still I know
Lives in the light returning.
On a whim of a moment
Time's skin as it shown it's
Forever will be a limit
Bursting out from with in it
A mask of the revealed
Letting in what was concealed
My soul shown through my eyes
To truth about what lies
I joust against the facts
And carry what it lacks
Burned into the skin
Always looking from within
If beauty is but skin deep,
I prevailed upon her to construe,
'Does it lie in the eye of the beholder
or, of the two which one is true?'
For we can't judge the book
by the cover, with but one look,
as what's inside truly counts
far much more than that.
And tho' to me she bemoaned,
'I am big-boned'
I've yet to see a skeleton which looks fat.
It clung like ivy, patient, green with hunger —
wrapped itself around every beam,
crept beneath shingles,
rooted in the cellar’s damp breath.
I mistook it for the house itself —
fed it rain, fed it dust,
let it climb my windows
and press its leaves to the glass
until I could no longer see daylight.
But rot loosens quietly.
One morning the vines lay slack,
detached in their own weight,
as if my silence was permission
for them to fall away.
Now the walls breathe unchoked,
bare brick catching sun like raw skin.
Floorboards sing with sudden emptiness.
The air is new — thin, sharp —
a future echoing through cleared rooms.
I walk barefoot through debris,
lighter than I have ever been.
For the first time
I do not flinch at my own footsteps.
my skin doesn't fit me.
it looks like it does from afar
but its all gooey and
it doesn't hug me in all the right ways.
but then again is it like that
for everyone or are my senses undeceiving?
is it tailored for everyone but
me?
or is it imposter syndrome and its just my
desire to be
diFferent"
i will know once i'm inside the skin of
another
until then i will feel unsolved and lost
never forgiving my flesh for being a
bad
foundation.
Touch me
where I do not tremble.
Make of me a scent
without a name.
Let sound become
what breath once was
before it learned to speak.
Let the tongue
forget
its hunger.
Listen to me
with the skin of thought.
I seek no salvation,
only time
that vibrates
beneath the skin.
I blame it for the pain
As i try and understand its secrets
As it’s forms and folds wraps itself around me
Its supposed to protect the me from the world
But I cannot make sense of the curved markings painted across it
im supposed to take care of it
keep it smooth
perfect for the picture
but i am ashamed
of what its become
loud
and hidden
this side
of my skin
Each scar has a name, etched into my skin—
White lines barely visible on my pale arms.
There’s one for every heartbreak I ever got,
One for each battle I silently fought,
One for all the wrongdoings I had,
For every time my thoughts turned bad.
Each scar holds a memory, a ghost from the past,
Every cut done silently, hidden away after every tragedy.
The lines on my arms fade each day,
But the memories behind them refuse to go away.
Maybe these scars are signs of a warrior,
Signs of strength and resilience,
Marks of my unwavering diligence.
I don’t want the scars to fade—
Maybe I’ll fade with them,
The signs of power,
The signs of a survivor
Slipping quietly away.
My scars are a part of me;
Without them, who will I be?
Just someone who went through hardship
With nothing left to show for it.
His mind was an abyss
Of emotions
And endless questions
Of the world around him
He wasn't much of a speaker
But he was definitely a thinker
His mind was a safe place
Where he could speak freely
Without being harmed
He hated the outside world
He was scared if he stepped outside
He was afraid the racists might strike
So instead he would hide
In the comfort of the inside
He focused on his survival
And to him that meant control
Even if his mental health took a toll
This fear for a black person was normal
Living life shouldn't be a struggle
But he wasn't even safe in his home
In his dreams his fears wouldn't leave him alone
And when he woke up he was haunted by the nightmares he had come to known
He was also scared to leave his family alone
He was extremely afraid of the unknown
Which led to his need for control
This is what the system does
It instills fear in us
Until our minds have turned to the darkness
And their hatred consumes us
Until we are a shell of what was
And that is one of the ways they kill us
Related Poems