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Welcome !	Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link	29-May 15:43:46 AEST

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Array ( [sid] => 96438 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => Recycle Bin [time] => 2005-05-31 23:38:49 [hometext] => I dunno ^_^ always, abraham [bodytext] => I have a box, teak wood and iron slips,
filled with a thousand
two thousand
dreams
all crashing down; all dried out, bleached
and crumbling from the sun; the blackest
black sheets and candlewax chipped
and crawling over the painted gold trim.

I have a coffin tracing my walls
stuffed with old shoes and dreams
that forget to dream forget to dream
forget the rubber soles of my soul;
stuffed with old hats old tired toys
that tiny fresh hands would hold,
hidden in bushes, in rivers of sewage,
in the musk and heat
in the salts and sea
in the skin and kiss
of my kiss as a child
I was so unaware
of the cruelty and hunger
that creeps from those very same walls.

I have a face that forgets my face
and rots in the carpet
rots in polished golden bars
smothered with paper
smothered with broken watches
pennies and pencils
praying for the day i die
praying for the bruised
and swollen fingers
praying for the day
that I can write the night
the white night day rain
singing at the sky. [comments] => 1 [counter] => 278 [topic] => 48 [informant] => iodinelove [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 0 [associated] => [topicname] => EmotionalPoetry )

Recycle Bin

Contributed by iodinelove on Tuesday, 31st May 2005 @ 11:38:49 PM in AEST
Topic: EmotionalPoetry

I have a box, teak wood and iron slips,
filled with a thousand
two thousand
dreams
all crashing down; all dried out, bleached
and crumbling from the sun; the blackest
black sheets and candlewax chipped
and crawling over the painted gold trim.

I have a coffin tracing my walls
stuffed with old shoes and dreams
that forget to dream forget to dream
forget the rubber soles of my soul;
stuffed with old hats old tired toys
that tiny fresh hands would hold,
hidden in bushes, in rivers of sewage,
in the musk and heat
in the salts and sea
in the skin and kiss
of my kiss as a child
I was so unaware
of the cruelty and hunger
that creeps from those very same walls.

I have a face that forgets my face
and rots in the carpet
rots in polished golden bars
smothered with paper
smothered with broken watches
pennies and pencils
praying for the day i die
praying for the bruised
and swollen fingers
praying for the day
that I can write the night
the white night day rain
singing at the sky.

Copyright © iodinelove ... [ 2005-05-31 23:38:49]
(Date/Time posted on site)

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Re: Recycle Bin (User Rating: 1 )
by Former_Member on Tuesday, 13th December 2005 @ 07:01:19 PM AEST
(User Info | Send a Message)

nice poem. i liked the creativity of all of it.

good job

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