more.bad.poetry

where awkward private thoughts become public knowledge.


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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.


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Can’t.

I’m tired of not being able to write.
What happens to an artist that can’t create?
Will I swell up with unshared truths,
Bursting at the seams,
Driven mad, tormented at what’s unspoken –
Maybe.

Or will I sink slowly into some kind of darkness,
Grasping for the remains of the rays of light
That I once spouted desperately into the world,
Hungry to ignite a spark of hope or beauty in another lost soul?
Possibly.

It’s eating away at my brain –
These images I can’t put into words,
These feelings that don’t have names.
Tortured by the right words on the tip of my tongue.
Craving the quiet that comes after bleeding on a page.


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Crazy

Already breathing heavy at the starting line
Worried I jumped the gun;
Performed the finale before the show,
Cheered before I’d won.

Can you miss someone you don’t even know?
Are some souls meant to connect?
The cynic and lover are warring inside,
Heart versus intellect.

Brain, you’re calling this a mirage,
A beautiful lie, just pretend.
Heart valiantly argues for hope
And letting the feelings in.

But really I’m just a jukebox girl,
Good for a play or two;
Willing to bet my monster inside
Is one that no love can subdue.


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Dusk

Was that girl in the mirror sad?
She looked so much like me
Then shards of glass flew at my face
With lightning breakneck speed.

Is it just an illusion, my confusion setting in?
I never seem to see the darkness starting from within.

I tried to hold tight to that golden rope
Should have lifted me up with my hopes.
The wind is picking up and I’m getting tired –
If I could climb up to the top
I know I’d make this feeling stop.

At first it made sense to climb
It really seemed worth it this time.
The lights, they’re fading into dim
Just like dusk is setting in.
Why was I so open? all the words I spoke and
The way I let myself let you in.