more.bad.poetry

where awkward private thoughts become public knowledge.


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One Night

Stars that glow like lanterns
Of travelers in the sky
Moving dream to dream.

Blushed pink lips invite
The softest kiss of your life
If you mind the thorns.

Dark clouds, day is night
Small feet echo over stone
Rushing to stay dry.

All that he could see
Was the dew drops in her hair,
Her smeared mascara.

Halfway across town
He longed for the scent of her;
Stale smoke and lilacs.

She stood a statue
And watched the birds dive, her breath held
Scared they were goners.

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Jukebox Girl

Push that quarter in, now –
Push it way down deep;
My songs are so ethereal,
But always come dirt cheap.

Someone touch my buttons, now,
Someone make me spin;
I’m that something fun to do
After six shots with your friends.

I’m the kind of thing you remember
Sometime later the next day,
Just some sort of hazy cloud
Of good times in your brain

I go quiet, I sit still,
Sadness in the dark until
Darkness brings them all back in –
Just a quarter, push it in.


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Trouble

Trouble with a different face
I’d still know you any place
It seems we’re destined to cross paths
Time and time again

I never even think your name
And still you find me, just the same
I can’t say that I’m glad to see you
Don’t care how you’ve been

And here we go now, one more time
Aching just to call you mine
Swiftly brushing the past aside
To feel you on my skin.


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Touch

She stared at the intricate designs on the handles of the scissors; tilted her wrist up and down slowly to feel their weight.  Her hand, holding onto them rather loosely, dropped towards her side as she sighed and closed her eyes; the fire popped and crackled.

Sitting on the couch, straight backed and proper even with no one else in the room, she began to brush out her hair.  Her arm moved slowly and she could feel every strand being gently pushed into place by each firm yet motherly bristle.  Now, relaxed and foggy-headed, she once again closed her eyes and allowed her neck to remember the feel of his perfect lips just barely grazing the pale skin on her neck, and the way he’d breathe and it would roll across her skin like fog over the ocean.  The memory snaked up her spine and ended in a chill.

Memories like sparklers shined only for a few moments before losing their light and leaving her suddenly dark and chilled.  Her eyes opened and she focused on her task as she carefully split her hair into three sections and began to braid.

Careful not to leave any loose, she remembered without meaning to the way his fingers would drift through her hair and down to her waist.  He would lean closer and inhale the scent before tilting  her head up for a kiss as he brushed it out of her face. Sometimes he would emerge grinning with a long maple strand of hair clinging to the stubble on his cheek.

In one movement she had the braid finished and the scissors back in her hand.  The braid fell with a gentle thud onto the floor, and looked out of place laying on top of the polished wood.  She watched, dazed, as a few solitary locks drifted lazily down through the air and landed on the floor without much commotion.

In bed, she wore a scarf to keep her newly bare neck warm.  Her head felt light; she panicked, and feeling like she was missing something essential above her, moved her hand in the air above her head and felt nothing but the headboard.

Suddenly tired, she pulled the blankets up over her face and closed her eyes.  She held her clasped hands to her mouth. No sound came out as she prayed.


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Wednesday’s Story

Ted went on a walk and bought a chicken.  He named this chicken mini Ted.  Ted promised mini Ted that he would never be made into a nugget.

This helped mini Ted sleep at night.  He always slept under a grey and pink flannel blanket, and rarely forgot to blow out the candle at his bedside before he slept.

In the spring they would stroll through the park, Ted and mini Ted sporting matching red bandanas.  They both enjoyed egg salad so that is what they ate.  Life was good.

As time passed, both Ted and mini Ted aged.  Mini Ted, being a chicken, had a drastically shorter life span than Ted.  As mini Ted became weaker and weaker, he began to worry about Ted being alone.  Who would cook the stew?

Eventually mini Ted slipped into a coma, and died two days later.  As his body was being prepared for the funeral Ted sat by the riverside lost in thought.  He had never felt more alone.

At the funeral Ted said very little and looked at no one.  He lingered only a moment over mini Ted’s graveside, gently laid a single red rose on the coffin lid and walked slowly to the car.  Half way home he realized he was hungry.  If only mini Ted was there to make some stew.

Ted hung his coat in the hall closet.  As the days passed he grew used to being alone.  He never entered mini Ted’s room and never touched the aged Finnish whiskey that mini Ted had been saving for a “rainy day”.

Whenever Ted was approached by other chickens he politely excused himself from the conversation.  There would be none of that.  He instead found comfort to sleep in his faith and a few fingers of gin.  At night he dreamt of mini Ted and polar bears.


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Nope, I hate you.

Nope, I hate you.
Wait, I don’t.
Maybe I do, I don’t know.
I know that I hate the way
The absence of you
Makes me feel halfway less whole.

I definitely hate that on every breath
My lips whisper
Before I can hush them, hurried.
But I definitely love that the shape they make
Is so quietly your name,
Butterflies being freed.