I saw their funerals.
Plath.
Sexton.
And somewhere near the back,
mine.
Not my body—
not yet.
But something softer,
more urgent,
more invisible.
The girl
who wrote like them
just to feel seen—
she’s in the box too.
I saw her hair
was finally unbrushed.
Her hands no longer gripped a pen—
they were just hands now.
And no one cried,
because no one knew
she had been dying
this whole time
in silence.
I stood there,
dry-eyed.
Because I knew
this grief
was not for mourning—
but for releasing.
And still,
something in me wept
like a ghost
watching its own
unfinished life.
Categories:
unbrushed, dark,
Form: Free verse
Peter had to fly,
was that just last night?
I have attachment issues.
I hate saying goodbye
- it always makes me cry
an embarrassing tear or two.
Holidays go so fast
relativity’s been proven at last!
Fourteen days of leisure
of sordid intertwined pleasures
on days free of study pressures.
This morning i was in despair
splayed out on an uncomfortable chair
with tangled, unbrushed hair
wearing faded PowerPuff underwear
bored, and wishing Peter was there.
Categories:
unbrushed, boyfriend, humor, parents, paris,
Form: Rhyme
World at times is a spring of mirth
And at times a root of melancholiness,
Gaiety and ruth are ineluctable quirk of nature
Where it leaves no beings unbrushed.
Bight trice would shimmer some days
And putrid flash would strike at times,
Discern that's a puissant canon of nature.
When grievance mounts the golden throne,
When relation twists into tears,
When desires wrench into agony,
Never hell bent to confide suicide
For those troubles proceed the incredible comforts that follows
Alike the precession of hell heretofore the heaven.
Whenever melancholic flash haunts you
And coerce you to confide suicide,
Think no other than thy indulgent mother
Who lugged you almost a year in her belly
And who raise you up, with vacant scars
Physically and mentally, all well sound.
She never raise you up, to entertain thy death unnatural and astound,
She just raise you to live a life
And amend world into a ameliorate place to dwell in,
Life is a precious douceur of God
And thy mother is a God in human form,
So let's say no to suicide in all tastes of life.
---
Categories:
unbrushed, suicide,
Form: Free verse
Ceaseless demands
each one a folly
To which I respond
my answers jolly
Lesson time
Minds are weary
Endless chopping
Meals so healthy
Shopping ordered
Food a plenty
Excursion time
To burn the energy
Fall from tree
call emergency
Lost child
Panic temporary
Sibling bickering
I Chide impatiently
Bath time soon
Wet and slippery
Brushing teeth
No help from me
Each to sleep,
Cuddling frenzy
Stealthily creep
To bed with mummy
Waking together
Hour so early
Getting dressed
Uniform ready
Breakfast now
Clothes grubby
An hour to spare
Time to go crazy
I love to join in
Childish levity
Forget the time
Need to be hasty
Unbrushed hair
That’s got sticky
Scramble for bags
For each activity
Unkempt they go
To school so happy.
T`was all in a day, but a day long gone.
Though in that house
Shadows of our former selves,
Forever shall live on.
William kekaula all in a day 09/09/2020
Categories:
unbrushed, children,
Form: Rhyme
Digital dose of pixels, my world of intrigue
where a front camera flashes my pretty face
Shares a picture-perfect life of travel, friends, love
like supermodels patronize, in thousands of poses.
Naive wishes sulking ,"It's still not good enough"
navigate a cluttered gallery of clicks in mobile.
As self-kissing pouts get lost in a vortex of emptiness,
a never ending portal of glued fixation stays alive.
Virtual images tampered away from reality
easy to delete memories, not so exciting enough.
Don't the eyes look so piercing?
Eyebrows a bit too crooked ?
Unbrushed hair needed some more dye?
Oh! the smile is not so well-seasoned.
Charm and poise plain okay, no aura, no style.
I edit and crop using sepia tone filters
Spontaneous magic touches on a tangible screen
emanates infinite snaps of photoshop beauty.
As I keep taking selfie after selfie after selfie....
A revelation to proclaim," I am in love with me"!
Dated 30th January 2020
Sponsor John Hamilton
Contest : Eight word challenge 1 2020 |
1. Spontaneous 2. Tangible 3. Patronize 4. Revelation 5. Portal 6. Navigate
7. Fixation 8. Intrigue
Categories:
unbrushed, addiction, feelings, social,
Form: Free verse
It must be a muss
This tousled up nest
My mess with no fuss
Untidy, unkept
Shabby and ragged
Rough I confess
A random done gust
Just there with no sense
They’re tangled and knotted
Dreaded, complex
Strands shoot across
In tattered up threads
Interlocking and snarled
Entangled like mesh
Disordered, slipshod
Disheveled I guess
Springing curls go untouched
They sway and adjust
Kinked flinging strings
Frayed and unbrushed
Then carelessly tossed
And tied with the rest
Sloppy I trust
Is how it looks best
So it must be a muss
This tousled up nest
So much of a plus
Yes, it must be a muss.
Categories:
unbrushed, beauty, fun, hair, self,
Form: Rhyme
When my mind is lost
I'll ask her then
To take my hand
And slowly bend
To the sounds we make
When we're alone
To dance with me
On floors of stone
From saddened gaze
I'll brush her hair
And braid the mess
I find there
When my mind is lost
I'll tell her then
To take my love
And slowly end
The time we have
To be alone
To let me go
On my way back home
Her saddened gaze
Her unbrushed hair
The braided mess
That finds us there
When my mind is lost
Categories:
unbrushed, loss, love,
Form: Rhyme
“Seriously,” the comedienne rasps: “can we talk about coffee?!”
The palms of my feet grind the beans in my sleep.
My bathrobe ties dangle, my hair’s unbrushed.
Can of spinach don’t do much, but caffeine aroma lifts me up.
The tilt wand opens my eyes, i can barely see through the slats
Sweet savory cream kisses my Olive Oil lips, Popeye laughs,
“A-gah-gah-gah-gah-gah!”
After two gallons, the pull cord opens the theatrical blinds, full strength.
Kim Rodrigues © 2017
Popeye and Olive Oil are cartoon characters created by Elzie Crisler Segar
Categories:
unbrushed, drink, humor, morning,
Form: Free verse
My mother had a box of perfumes that she wore, each one had a different thing it was for
The best days were the ones when she chose the yellow bottle that smelled like rose
When she wore it she was always beaming, with good times and joy she was teeming
If she smelt of violets then you knew, that day she was feeling quite terribly blue
She'd wear something vanilla if rushed, makeup not done and hair still unbrushed
When feeling particularly young, on her skin the smell of cotton candy sung
She'd smell of baby powder when she was feeling older, her face a dangerous smolder
She was going to get things done if she smelled like fresh pine and sun
The day or the mood you could always tell just from the way my mother smelled
Categories:
unbrushed, mom,
Form: Rhyme
She
brought with her
roasted chicken.
I opened my mouth and
shut it.
Her
sweetest lips
come to kiss mine
as her white teeth was so
unbrushed.
With
nudity
she gained my lust.
Which causes me to run
away.
Her
present worth
a great value.
Knowing fully she is
a whore
Categories:
unbrushed, funny love,
Form: Cinqku
By Fatmir Terziu
What could I tell a Londoner about the Fatherland? The adverts
Are copies of the unscrupulous inscriptions in tombstones,
Just as we are copies of the bestial goods,
Of our egoistic laughable thoughts,
Like fortune-telling using broken coffee-cups
which contain pieces of the phantasmagoric fates of our fear,
The yellow pages of history.
What could I draw to the attention of a Londoner,
The early flight of the sleeping thoughts,
I pity the forgotten contemplation,
I fear the future views,
The never-formed ideas stir my soul,
Six hundred years have I been drinking from the sea of thought.
I shrink in spirit, shy away from walking the streets,
Hide amongst the whispers,
The adverts of the land, adverts for the Father-land,
Advice about unbrushed teeth,
Instructions about uncut nails,
Adverts for baby nappies, adverts for Mercedes,
Adverts for slimming pills, packets for slimming belts,
What could I say about the Fatherland to a Londoner...
Categories:
unbrushed, art,
Form: Free verse
My mouth is closed shut like a zipper cemented onto a pair of light blue jeans.
You don’t have to worry,
Your secret’s safe with me.
I won’t open my lips.
I’ll leave my teeth unbrushed,
But please forgive me when I say I must eat.
My secret is safe with you,
But you don’t know how hard it was to tear out my heart and store it in a box for you.
I’m mad at myself.
I’m mad that I can’t tell you how I feel.
I’m mad at our lips for never touching.
I’m mad at my mouth for never saying those three words.
I’m mad at God,
Because he made me so sentimental and kind- that I don’t resemble your average guy.
I’m mad at you for being so drop dead gorgeous.
And I’m furious with my heart because it never beats rhythmically when you’re around.
My lips are shut,
Your secret is safe.
Our love
Is nonexistent.
Categories:
unbrushed, love,
Form: Lyric
The best words I've ever said stayed
in my head, the people are fine, dogs
walking too.
The water glitters, the gulls make gull sounds.
I thought I had secrets but
God knows there's none to
be found. I'm as wide as any
book, smaller than the ants too.
I'm on my way to places
that welcome you in
dirty underwear, unbrushed
teeth and dandruff in your
hair. I haven't seen my face
in a long time, it's no longer
really there.
Categories:
unbrushed, introspection, life
Form: Prose Poetry