Permanent Marker (Slam Poetry)


There are so many ways

your words make it into my blood.


1. Melting into my skin

from absentminded pen marks.

I would take the pen away

but then I would be out of

these little autographs I want to keep.


2. Sometimes intended pen marks.

When I look at them

I don’t think I can tell them apart

from the accidents.

They come from

a laughing game of hide-and-seek

where you always find my hand

and I roll my eyes

as you leave yet another

little ink scar.


3. Something you need to

remind yourself of.




I am a human pile

of things you might forget.

I am not always so good at it

but for some reason

you keep dropping more items in the basket.


4. When I catch myself talking like you.

These little

words a few people laugh at

are stuck in my head,

tell me

I’ve spent too much

too little time here.


5. Pieces of paper you slip under my door

that remind me

how well you speak my language.

Sometimes I think

I met you just for the words.


6. The last thing you say

before you fall asleep.

In daylight I’m not sure why

it’s in some corner of my brain

labeled more important.

I didn’t think sleep did much for my memory

before I started waking up with you.


7. When your fingers drag

along my arm

or my face

or my sides.

The lightest touch

leaves an indent

I’m never sure I can erase

even if I wanted to.


8. Sometimes we speak

in permanent marker.

Say things we can’t take back.

We write our way into each other’s hearts

with every breath we take.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written 8/25/17

View tallsquirrelgirl's Full Portfolio

To Create


To create something is

to sit here with the shivers

and the shavings of things I don’t want

and tell myself that I need them

to make anything more than mediocre.


To create something is

to see a place I will never be

ten steps to the saloon

high above a cliff’s edge

in a tree older than time

in castles that could crack under their feet and still don’t.


To create something is

to turn paper bag stories

into something more than plain,

the stories of poets and giants

and forests and lakes-

or maybe keep them just like they are-

after all, we keep coming back for normal.


To create something is

to say I promise to never turn back

to say I breathe in the harmony of nothing with you

to say we move like burning pale-kissed lips

to say maybe

to say beautiful

to say I love you like this.


To create something is

to know that my story is the dust falling off a traveler’s shoes

and it might get lost in a sea of sameness

and it might crumble while I sit here not knowing.


To create something is

to put a part of me out there

for people to look down on

or to hold close.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written 8/25/17

No way to say it perfectly


We never write what needs to be said,

the barely whispers you can taste in the hallways,

the silence that sits here too long.


We steal pens from each other

as they track down the lives

and I start a chain of the meetings.


It is a dangerous place

when sky meets star and star meets head

and we might say a little too much about this moment.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written 8/14/17

View tallsquirrelgirl's Full Portfolio

I’m not the messiah.. (he’s a…)

I’m not the messiah.. (he’s a…)

     By jfarrell



(thank you, monty python)


I am not the messiah;

I hope you know that….

I too stupid to be anything other than honest.


Instead of wallowing here, in this hole…

I could sweet-talk old ladies outta their savings;

But that would make me feel bad.


A way with words is, apparently, the only real skill I have;

And for someone who doesn’t talk a lot,

I can be very careless with words.


I could easily make a suicide cult :)

But I imagine the pay is disappointing;

And the perks… shagging everything I want


Not really me,

Though,sometimes, I sorely wish it was;

Everyone, die on my command.


I can see how that would appeal.

You read my ramblings

And I feel, YES, I AM, but I don’t want the job.


Why do you read me?

I am nothing, a mote upon the wind of the cosmos;

But so many of you read my stuff


And say nice things;

And, sometimes, scarey things?

Please tell me why, I am nothing.


Author's Notes/Comments: 

and i'm not a very naughty boy, either :) well, that website doesn't count...

View suicideslug's Full Portfolio

Perfect Sky


I write lines that sometimes rhyme,

sometimes crash and fall

Sometimes I pull out words from her

I shouldn’t want at all


My chest is testing, messy blessing

I wish I’d stayed till dawn

I wish I had the perfect sky

to spill the lightning on


Her name is memory, broken record

so I won’t get stuck in lies

Her face is magnetic, a ledge to leap

a place I will set my eyes


This game I play is war or beauty,

terrified that they’re both right

She spends the last of her minutes here,

I still can’t sleep through the night


My temperature rises, smoke to flashes

burns when I never choose

I wish we had the perfect canvas

and color we would never lose


Her kiss is lighter, heartache changer

didn’t know I could love to cry

Her kiss is faster, sinner, breathier

I can bite out the reason why


My heart is heavy, maroon lately

but I love that color too

Sometimes the red gets too damn lonely

with her I can even fade to blue


So I write lines that sometimes rhyme,

sometimes crash and fall

Sometimes I pull out words from her

I shouldn’t want at all

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written 4/12/17

View tallsquirrelgirl's Full Portfolio

Poetry In The Attic


Dark corner

of a cobwebbed 


Box filled with pages,


Words written,
long years


Forgotten notebooks.
-A poet's

Yellowed paper
sits there-






Constructed thoughts
of an ancestor-






Wasted ink
wayward dreams.


Never bound in books,
or themes.


It was her hope
to see them in print.


Now they sit there,
in dust and lint.


A talent wasted.
Gone by
the wayside.


Packed away there,
soon after
she died.


Maybe fame.
would have come
her way.


But it never
to her dismay.


She never finished
the dream,
that she started.


Too many obstacles
sprung up.
Then she, departed.


Now it just 
lies there,
cold and enigmatic.


What remains
of her life...
Poetry in the attic.

Do Poets Dream In Verse?


Do we sleep in rhyme,

With words rehearsed?
In unconscious state,
Do poets dream, in verse?


Do we see the lines,
That always take form?
When we awake,
Are poems born?


Do we fear our nightmares?
Or are they only a guise?
For the stanzas we compose,
In our slumbering eyes?


Do we imagine scenes,
While lying prone in bed?
Ideas and stories,
That reside in our head?


Does ink flow through,
Our vessels like blood?
Do we write each day,
To contain the flood?


Do poets dream in verse?
Do our minds ever rest?
Or do we fear, that our thoughts
Will simply go, unexpressed?

Preconceived Creativity

Simple Thoughts

"You're free

to be

as creative as you are;

or so they say. 



Every time, 

the artist guided,




Why is the artist

so restricted? 

IS it concious? 


Do those who commission 


know they can be stifling it? 



is it a lack of trust? 

Not enough of it 

to go around, knows 

the budding artist


with lack of portfolio. 

No trust 

goes to those

with no reference. 


So often are we told

we are free, 

when we are not. 

Their own opinion 


trusted first, 

unintentional or not, 

before the artist, 

the one who creates. 


When one asks another

to create, 

to stifle the flame

is to put it out completely. 


Trust is a must, 

we must learn to 

give our hearts and minds

and souls 


to others

to mold.


And that's the hardest thing to do."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

So often am I told by other artists they are held back by those who ask for their art, creativity. 


Simple Thoughts

"No excuse, 

but the metal has rusted. 

An unkept armory. 

Barrels with red, 


triggers peppered orange. 

Springs stuck, 

pins, unmoving. 

Bores obstructed. 


The whole weapon set


to the trained eye. 



a gun is still a gun, 

the potential it has

to kill, 

ever present. 


Rusty or not, 

it is still recognizable, 

months of no use

not enough to erase


the sizable impression

of the shape, 

the indication

of the handgun, long gun. 


The task looming, 


keys in hand, 




the cages, 

duty tumblers turning, 

locks coming free. 


So long, 

had it beem

since maintenance

had been laid


where it belong. 

The familiar metal

began to fill hands, 

twist, turn,


rifles broke down, 

pistols slid apart. 

Rusty was the



as were the firemans, 

but both began 

to be broken



Rag, brush, 

break-away sprayed, 

assemblies oiled.

Pieces began to click, 


operate smoothly, 

unlike language, 

where lack of use

means disappearance, 


past tense

isn't the demise

of functionality of things,

like bike riding. 


or an armory. 


The Armorer will be busy,

it may take some time.

But he will pass inspection. 


With work, 

with determination, 


and time. 


It takes time

for things to rust. 


It takes time

to fix such a lack of use. 


The best solution

isn't busting rust, 

but daily use, 


Author's Notes/Comments: 

Time to write a book...