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Never You Mind

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This is what I'm listening to, RIGHT NOW! [02 Jun 2017|11:23am]
[ mood | bouncy ]


()

Old poem I came across and loved. [08 Aug 2008|04:21pm]
[ mood | blah ]

Robbin' 'Hoods - April 22, 2005

Robin Hood steals from the rich and gives to the poor.
But, then what happens when the tables have turned?
It'll be a never-ending cycle of wealth being transferred from person to person.
With no end to the sufferings, because if one has it all,
there's bound to be another with nothing.


-------------------

I'm going through some old poems and loving some of them. Here's one.

()

Writing while the world wakes. [24 Apr 2008|04:06am]
[ mood | artistic ]

sKin - April 24, 2008
by Kyle Michaud.

Your iridescent flesh kept hidden by waves of cloth and cotton,
I must gaze upon once more to appease my eyes' deepest yearning,
What pure tapestry, is your skin, woven together by the gods,
To touch such sweet and warming sheets of you oddly gives me shivers,
I'd freeze by will for just one moment if it meant your warmth forever.

()

New artwork. [01 Apr 2008|08:22pm]
[ mood | bored ]

I was messing around with my new sharpie [pink] and came up with this.

I like it.

()

Polymorphous - January 4, 2008 [04 Jan 2008|04:13pm]
[ mood | good ]

I am the fly in the ointment,
the fly on the wall,
I fly too high only to fall.

I am the thorns on the stem,
the thorn in your side,
the wallflower,
decaying in your sight.

I am the break in the dam,
the reason we'll drown.
I am the wrench in the machinery,
the black in the greenery.

I am the one,
the one you deny,
the one you defy,
the one you deserve,
and the one you desert.

The fly in the ointment with wings pulled off,
the thorns of a rose with the petals torn away,
the break in the dam with gum in the cracks,
the wrench stopping the cogs, and the death in the sod.

You've stripped me of flight,
of beauty and strength,
left me ineffective,
broken to spread your disease.


[Revision from original back in March]

()

Whys of the Wise - December 26, 2007 [04 Jan 2008|12:09pm]
[ mood | blah ]

Wisdom comes with age and experience, mistakes and mismerriment. Knowledge of the past, attention to the present and questions of the future. The wise are wise because of the whys they ask and the time it takes to get the answers.

()

Hemophobia - January 4, 2008 [04 Jan 2008|02:41am]
[ mood | blank ]

The need for blood is excruciating. The yearning, nagging, undying dream of open wounds pulls at me infallibly and without consideration.

With each second devoted to thinking of the unforgivable act, the need burns deeper into my being, turning my insides to ash and vapor.

Distractions, hard to come by alone, at night, are what keep the blade from penetrating the flesh, from releasing the fluids to marry the air.

Thankfully, these disruptions come in different forms and times, helping to ease the ever-growing evolution of nightmarish notions of one-sided transfusions.

Thankfully, the blade stays sheathed and the blood stays within me.



[PS. You know how some people cut with intentions of suicide or cut because they're depressed or whatever? Well, I think it's different with me. It's just this underlying urge. To see the blood. To feel it flowing from me, on me. To get stitches if needed. I guess it's like being a little boy and thinking scabs are cool, but to a much greater extent. A more fucked up extent. That, I guess has a little bit to do with the first two things discussed. But not entirely.]
[PPS. The last line speaks the truth. No flesh disturbed. Writing helped. And talking about random stuff with people.]

4 ()

heroes50 Prompts. [01 Jun 2007|01:12am]
[ mood | blah ]

01 Wish. 02 Need. 03 Dream. 04 Search. 05 Destroy.
06 Fly. 07 Swim. 08 Freeze. 09 Jump. 10 Run.
11 Mother. 12 Father. 13 Brother. 14 Sister. 15 Child.
16 Love. 17 Hate. 18 Sex. 19 Apathy. 20 Work.
21 Second. 22 Minute. 23 Hour. 24 Day. 25 Year.
26 Birth. 27 Life. 28 Death. 29 Heaven. 30 Hell.
31 Earth. 32 Air. 33 Fire. 34 Water. 35 Spirit.
36 Rain. 37 Snow. 38 Wind. 39 Sun. 40 Moon.
41 Crimson. 42 Mask. 43 Breath. 44 Sacrifice. 45 Devour.
46 Writer's Choice. 47 Writer's Choice. 48 Writer's Choice. 49 Writer's Choice. 50 Writer's Choice.
()

Something I just came up with. - Will work on later. [31 Mar 2007|04:19pm]
[ mood | hot ]

I am the fly in the ointment,
the fly on the wall,
I fly too high
only to fall.

I am the fly in the ointment,
the fly on the wall,
the wallflower,
the broken, decaying rose.

I am the fly in the ointment,
the fly on the wall,
the break in the dam,
the reason we drown.

I am the wrench in
the machinery,
the black
in the greenery,

I am the one,
the one you deny,
the one you defy,
the one you deserve,
and the one you desert.

I am gone...
I am gone, I am gone,
I am gone...
I am, I am,
I am the one.
The one, I'm the one,
I'm the one...

()

Two-week-old poetry. [07 Mar 2007|01:14pm]
[ mood | creative ]

Breath - February 21, 2007
by Kyle Michaud

Deep      breaths, short breaths,
smoke-filled     or  fresh   air,
we all  need to  breathe.  We're
all striving for  the same thing,
this gas of life, this invisible
sustenance.  While   we  breathe
the trees,  the trees breathe us.
What   total     sym  bi   o sis.





She is Like Your Favorite Movie - February 21, 2007
by Kyle Michaud

She is like your favorite movie.
You can watch her time after
time and still leave wanting
more. You pay admission and
sit quietly, waiting for her to
start. She tells you stories of
love and death, of life and lust;
she speaks comedies and dramas,
horror and biographies. All the
while, you're seated softly,
gazing at her screen, listening
to her loud speakers as they vibrate
through you. You say nothing while
you watch this masterpiece, and
let it all soak in. And, she finishes
when she wants, and you come out
feeling tired and weak, while she
lingers in your subconscious, staying
for eternity.




                Sleeping With Martyrdom - February 21, 2007
                by Kyle Michaud

She had her own alphabet,
each letter having the same
sound. It made it impossible
for her to make sense to

anyone but herself. After she
buried all her calendars and
melted the hands of all her clocks,
she had a drink with God.

They were eating philosophy
while discussing what it really
means to be alive. "Papa's got
a job in the miracle factory,"

she said right before biting into
a piece of hope. God shot back

    by adding, "and boy, does it
    tire my psychiatrist." They both
    laughed hysterically and decided
    dinner was over. While God paid

    for their meals, she composed love
    on a napkin, and quickly crumpled
    it up. She had the trinity; the Father,
    the Son, and the Holy Ghost. She

    slept with martyrdom and the
    sex was great! After each orgy of
    spirituality, she would crash back to 
    the floor of her reality and begin

    pursuing her salvation. On her trek,
    she tried hitchhiking to perfection,


                                  and got lost along the way.
4 ()

March 3, 2007 continued [03 Mar 2007|11:59pm]
[ mood | creative ]

To Each Their Own - March 3, 2007
by Kyle Michaud

The painter paints his canvas.
The writer greys his paper.
The musician plays his basses.
But me? What's my art?
What's my instrument? My canvas?

She's got curly brown hair;
she comes up to my nose,
and her eyes are bluer than
the Caribbean.

My inspiration, my instrument,
my muse, my canvas,
this girl is my everything.
With her, I create my art.

The lover lays with his babe.




Love the One You Have
but, Make Sure You
Have the One You Love - March 3, 2007
by Kyle Michaud
The way she bre-
aks the silence:
she clears her
throat and looks
at me across
the couch. I


then realize the
meaning of "love
the one you have"
and I love her,
but I can't deny
the fact that
she's not mine.

      so, I prolong
      the silence, not
      knowing quite
      how to tell her
      that she's the
      one I love and
      love being
      silent with.





The Life and Death of Old Man Peters - March 3, 2007
by Kyle Michaud

                       I
Death calls with a low bellow
to the man who never did a fellow
harm. He ignores the beckon and
continues his life, giving to everyone
and receiving nothing in return.
He even gives Death a lozenge on
his way to church. But this won't
stop the afterlife. At least Old Man
Peters died doing what he loved:
loving. He loved Death so much,
he had to oblige. He didn't want to
put him out of a job. His love is
infinite and indiscriminate.

                II

There once was a man
who lived down the street,
and one thing about him
you can't help but see.
His heart was as big
as the sky, and in fact,
it floated above him
like a red balloon above
a little kid.
Everywhere he went, his heart
would touch. Everyone he met,
his heart would touch. This
man, with the oceanic heart
lived out his days smothering
others with love. Now, on this
day, three years after his passing,
his heart still floats, touching
all who live, spreading so much
love through the grave.

                                   III

They say he spent his life repenting for sins he never
committed. Maybe that's why he was taken. God finally
found an equal, and just wanted a friend to relate to.
()

March 3, 2007 [03 Mar 2007|06:17pm]
[ mood | creative ]

Synapses Snap - March 3, 2007
by Kyle Michaud

Between synapses and synopses
of what I was and who we are,
I swear I heard Jesus say to me,
I swear he said he loves me more,

but, maybe that's just wistful
and wishful thinking.




Gated - March 3, 2007
by Kyle Michaud

The light may burn your eyes,
but it cleanses your soul.
Don't be afraid to look.
don't be afraid to be pure.




Questions in Confidence/Questions in Continence - March 3, 2007
by Kyle Michaud

I walked you up the stairs
and looked for an answer in your eyes.
All I got in return was another question:
"Do I love her?"

Caught off guard by my own regard
I lost your hand to the air
and looked down for stability.
All I got was a hand on my shoulder and an
"Are you all right?"
                              no.
()

She Leaves You Breathing Deeper - February 18 revision [19 Feb 2007|12:46am]
5 ()

The Ruby in the Rough - February 7, 2007 [19 Feb 2007|12:41am]

The Ruby in the Rough - February 7, 2007

by Kyle Michaud

[list poem]

 

The way her laugh always went from

a giggle to a cough. The way

her breathing machine hummed

and would vibrate the table.

 

The way she'd removed the pickles

from her burger and drop them

in her mouth. The way she licked

the food she'd hoped to've kept.

 

And the way she poured

salt on everything she ate.

The way she meant to me before

and the way she means to me today...

 

In life and now in death,

I will always hear her faulty breath.

()

Unhearty Things - Revision - Feb. 19 [19 Feb 2007|12:34am]
()

I'm Lovin' It - February 7, 2007 [19 Feb 2007|12:31am]

I'm Lovin' It - February 7, 2007

by Kyle Michaud

[list poem]

 

We drag our feet down the halls,

slowly walking and lugging

the books, while wasting

seconds on your wrist watch.

 

We sit in these chairs,

listening to these spiels,

holding these desks

to our worn out ears.

 

We talk in this awkward tone,

exuding this bullshit to you,

hoping all the while that

you don't ever catch on.

 

We hurry ourselves to the door,

looking only to the welcoming hall,

leaving behind the warm seats

and no longer white-white boards.

 

Our education is handed to us from the podium

while we sit back and absorb it all in,

thinking only of the future and our un-full bellies,

of our lunch - the fastest food so full of sodium.

()

Experiential Decision - REVISION - Feb. 19 [19 Feb 2007|12:30am]
[ mood | okay ]

Experiential Decision - January 24, 2007

by Kyle Michaud

[anecdote poem - revised Feb. 19]

 

"I love you!" - she shouts with such veracity.

I tell her I know and turn back to the party.

 

The boys start their inevitable fight - words and stares blaze.

I roll my eyes - I guess it'd be wise to watch what I say.

 

"Who's that?" - she then asks, pointing to her best friend.

I answer quickly, annoyed with her incessant questions.

 

The words and stares finally lend to shouts and fists.

I ponder the purpose - drunken jealousy - and look away.

 

"I love you!" - she shouts again - a new revelation has dawned!

"I love you, too." - I smile and look back to the table.

 

The boys coalesce and the beer pong starts once more.

I watch for a moment - should I play? - I'm not drunk enough....

 

"I have to puke..." - she laughs tensely and brings truth to premonition.

I hold her up and steady and help her to the bathroom.

 

So, this is what it's like? - I wonder as we walk.

I bring her to the toilet and regret ever showing up.

 

I ask myself, What's so fun about vomit and fisticuffs?

Then I carry her to the car and vow to never look back.

()

She Leaves You Breathing Deeper - February 2nd revision [02 Feb 2007|02:22pm]
[ mood | annoyed ]

She Leaves You Breathing Deeper
by Kyle Michaud

With stripes stretching across her torso,
hugging her curves,
she looks like the clichéd jailbird,
but as innocent as a nun.

Sitting with leg over leg
and hand under rested chin,
she stares with blackened lashes;
smiles with lips pressed tight.

Her soft voice carries through the air,
gently slipping between
molecules of nitrogen and oxygen,
to land coolly in my ear.

Like a painting of pastels,
she pleases your eyes,
delicately moving her dainty body,
so slow and subtle.

With a smell- indescribable,
she leaves you wanting more,
leaves you breathing deeper
and more alert than ever.

What is it?
Why does it draw me in?
Everything about her is smooth and soft,
including her harsh words of discontent.

After meeting my gaze,
her head turns away,
giving the wall
a perfect view of her face.

Unknowingly, it seems,
so impossible to be,
but she has no idea
what it is she does to me.

6 ()

Experiential Decision - January 24, 2007 [25 Jan 2007|10:54pm]
[ mood | okay ]

Experiential Decision - January 24, 2007
by Kyle Michaud
"I love you!" - She shouts with such veracity.
I tell her I know and look the other way.
The boys start their fight - words and stares blaze.
I roll my eyes and look the other way.
"Who's that?" - She asks, pointing to her friend of years.
I answer quickly and look the other way.
The words and stares finally lend to shouts and fists.
I wonder the cause and look the other way.
"I love you!" - She shouts again - a new revelation has dawned!
"I love you, too." - I smile and look the other way.
The boys coalesce and the game starts once more.
I watch for a moment and look the other way.
"I have to puke..." - She laughs tensely and brings truth to premonition.
I hold her up and steady and look the other way.
"So, this is what it's like?" - I wonder as we walk.
I bring her to the toilet and look the other way.
"What's so fun about vomit and fisticuffs?"
I carry her to the car and never look back.
()

She Leaves You Breathing Deeper - January 24, 2007 [25 Jan 2007|10:51pm]
[ mood | okay ]

She Leaves You Breathing Deeper - January 24, 2007
by Kyle Michaud

With stripes stretching across her torso,
hugging her curves,
she looks like the clichéd jailbird,
but as innocent as a nun.
Sitting with leg over leg
and hand under rested chin,
she stares with blackened lashes;
smiles with lips pressed tight.
Her soft voice carries through the air,
gently slipping through
molecules of nitrogen and oxygen.
Like a painting of pastels,
she pleases your eyes.
With a smell- indescribable,
she leaves you wanting more.
What is it?
Why does it draw me in?
Everything about her is smooth and soft.
She intrigues me so.

()

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