The Write Frame - Poetry by Nab.

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Content Page.
(Will be properly updated when I actually have the time.)

1. Terminated.
2. Four-Nineteen.
3. Wallows.
4. Once.
5. Painters.
6. The Right Answer.
7. Operation: Diveboard.
8. Freezing Point.
9. The Committed And The Sinned.

Terminated.

I committed murder last night,
And the hollow vines
were laid to rest by my copper-drenched window,
along with the friends I made these past months. As
white-washed mist trailed off behind me,
I made sure slumber
was only one of paper, (torn)
plastic, (blown over by mouth), and of the flesh that
ate me into another
night of sleepless sleep. They wouldn’t suspect
the weaker ones, whose bones were
made of cowardice and whose words
were languid, spineless at the best of times – it is
societal assumption to who we are, and why
I must never

attempt eradication (or so the
rulebook says).

I held on to the note so the men wouldn’t
call me back for those silly, frilly facts, made
to entrap me. I made my job clean
and simple, with less of a glamorous
affair at finality, than those who
investigated
assumed.

But slumber had ruled over, and my bridge
to a conscience
creaked in shame; what weaklings as human, what turnabout
was I expecting as the chemistry was drained?
Still, I was well-handed
at the task of keeping it at bay, I can
easily keep the bridge,
lubricated.

With months straying along, all
unassuming, relentless, with their made-up promises of a blissful tomorrow.
But
each hour was as hard as the hour before;
I’d tuned out the lyrics of the forlorn killers who stood
As forlorn killers to me, with a backdrop
Of a trench and their backs against it
Despite the (hardly) convincing veneer of
a stronger you,
You are dying for the telephone -
Aren’t you dying for just
one more
call?

I committed murder last year;
I’ve kept it quiet.
I haven’t called.


_____


Four-Nineteen.

The chief of pretense, or
What they say is such, would always tell me that there
Are bigger issues on my platter than the one
Consuming it.
I am reflective of my lies, rich and devoid of sloping emotion
Pity the conundrums didn’t seem to work
Though sinning as a form of escapism wasn’t really the
best coroner for such a complex,
Twisted autopsy –

My shoulders sagged.
Upon letters all marked capital or otherwise, they
Slip pass flesh to fall upon ears, gullible,
I take on the challenge of arriving as clean-cut as the next victim in line;
Perhaps to keep the toxic from forcing its way through fabric that
had my face hidden. And they ask,

They ask the knowing, the un-desperate and
the ones who implore less than a common street monger,
They ask of my
State of mind (or health, or maybe lack thereof).
They ask
A typecast of ‘all clear?’

I want to speak, I want to force a negative
through my chords, but
I forgot, I had tied them raw.

“All clear, sir.”

Wallows.

I do think so,
How foolishness is buttered over with the clotted scratches
we fling; nettling distraction can sometimes pile up on
the wrong side of your heart, and nettle more
than it distracts. But I do think
so,

Unless I’ve misconstrued its intention, I think the
mirror speaks more to me when I walk
away from it, than
when I have fallen against the glass, in my own puddle of questions.

I’m drenched, I’m drenched -
I’m dry.

Often, self-infliction renders me more likely to be ambushed
with past regrets, where I lack quirk and
induce tensing silences,
To commit myself in arrays of tight eyes,
Shouts that I don’t find lucid even as the words blind me.

But I do think so, I do
think that “I disagree”,

And that I always
“am in love” with a brand new hero;

I do think that I ought to, sometimes,
really,
just stop speaking
even when I think.

____

Once.

This used to be art once
upon a sugar sticky summer of ’93;
Of oil paint, but green, green grass to which its
inaugural brush stroke
was a red, red accident.

It sang a hymn once
to capture glances with the better side of its miens,
Though now, framed by rust,
held up by a crumbled nail and piqued
by age, and discerning immortality.

I currently stand in
what times they tend to call modern

Later,
a landmark of legends and myths, perhaps
but –

I stand, each eye fixed to beauty
That lay once alive,
Then whimper,
Then dying.
Quite a languid start to my story tell, that is
to worsen wounds by pointing out their presence.

___

I am less than art.
Than the kip set up beside the site of strings,
and hearts and souls.

I am less than purity.
Of white washed walls that peel deliberate
tarnishing to trap the memories along the –

I am less than Truth.
A chagrin to society that plays jury to
roles blooming inside my head,

I am less than this wall.
With its solidity, disintegrating at the seams,
color, white bleached in hues,
its evergreen support site when obliging
it fell apart;
Slain like anti-Christ upon these feet
but,

___

Once upon a sugar sticky summer of ‘93
When the grass was a green, green whirl
And desires were brighter, brighter,
And pertinence was still within earshot,
It used to be
(once),
It used to be
art.

Painters.

The best poets don’t write, they paint
Art: in the form of words; to compensate for their lack of
tangible talent.
It is the dry canvas, maybe, that makes us
wonder why we can only string plethoric terms and not
do –
– something.

Our words cannot break through the doors of a museum
Our words, rough; calloused,
Not warranting critics or gawks, nor the low
whistles of an underpaid, high-billed artist by the neighboring
college. And if,
if we managed to reduce them to snivels,
a wreck, if we manage to cure, maybe then
We would be doing something.

But it is nothing to be proud of; when
we stare upon tangible art. Shade after shade; we can gawk,
Color by color, and we can let out
a low whistle, and we turn back to our notepads,

Where our landscapes are mere black swirls
against white. An added
decoration of a scratch to blanket mistake may break
it away from routine, but still – black against white,
word against word, word after
word. And so

such excuses deem indispensable, to say,
in sophistication, in a way that proves us less of
a chagrin to ourselves and much better than the beggars crawling
old alleys, to say: the best poets don’t
write,

We paint.

I always love going back over your poetry, Nab.
Now I can do it all the time (:

you are wonderful.

This might suck to some of you, but I had to write it out. x) Plus, I haven't updated this page in ageeees, so here ya go.

The Right Answer.

You talk about blood like it is the silent
shoulder we once discussed.

Saying it is silver and molten, sometimes
swelling to sizes, sometimes shrinking under
the judge, and turning into what we see;
quick – stealth - that we notice not
the odd difference between liquid pretty,
and the edge of the stone table. Or
sprayed, over the
cream layer of coffee in the morning – our
enigmatic vices in a steaming cup.

I have little of the gift
of gab, and less of the ribbon that comes
with the talent. Suspecting that the only thing more

soundless than I am is silence itself, swelling
in a crowd and shrinking into a high buzz inside
our ears when we sit, attempt-to-ponder,
attempt-at-poignancy, letting the shrill be our muse.

And I want to be like that.

Like blood, silenced shoulders and molten; bending
into a perfected cast when in Location A,
or with Social Company II. I would love to be
the leaning post-box of support,
as much as you are one for me. And I would love it

if I could breathe but without the evident fear that expels
instead, like you can. I want to be your smile,
and I want your self-belief. The embarrassed grin that
is more endearing than embarrassing; the ugly flaws
that are more of beauty than ugliness. But

when it comes to me, my smile is crooked and
my confidence is trembling. My shame remains just as
shame, and nothing of a funny story, nothing of the It’s What Makes
You You.

But I want to be like that.
The me in me.

I want to be like blood, molten, torn
into droplets that take shape and is shapeless at the same time.
Here, the only incentive to
being imperfect is the sad, true fact of staying insane and human.
Here,
I only see ugliness in the ugly. And only red
in my blood.

I read Terminated and Painters. And I am adore your style alot! Just as Cherokee said you are truly a hell of a poet. XD
I love the imagery, the context, the metaphors. Great work. xD

Operation Diveboard: Amazing. I like the imagery and it style was quite good. xD

The Right Answer: This is truly awesome. I just love it. It was so deep and meaningful. xDxD

Wow, Nab.

Both those poems were just awesome.
The blood poem was a little rough at first, but by the end you could see it all coming together and it made loads of sense. It was also very touching.

The embarrassed grin that
is more endearing than embarrassing; the ugly flaws
that are more of beauty than ugliness.

Here, the only incentive to
being imperfect is the sad, true fact of staying insane and human.
Here,
I only see ugliness in the ugly. And only red
in my blood.

Operation: Diveboard was a bit different from your usual stuff, but still effective.
Well done.

Operation: Diveboard.:
Wow, I thought I picked myself a favourite part, but then I kept on reading, and now I can't pick anything!
The idea of three, two, one options is so great, and the poem in general is kick-ass: =D