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Asisipho Sep 2019
As set of structures.
Built on nightmares, fears and weakness.
Game set proudness with only just a tick of truth.
Just a recipe of failure.
With just only a pinch of salt to taste fear.

We reek of unfulfilled failures.
You only matter because you live.
Strength of an ant, getting pulled to corner.
Straight out of my eye.
I am unfilled.

Only I seek a correct manner.
But as it seems, it doesn't matter.
Redemption is only served to those wronged I guess.
We were pillars of generations.
Yet unfilled.

Fields fled like flairs.
Fires meant to fly like features of fate.
Fed to fight figures of speech.
Fame's defined to be lame.
If all fails fate hails.

Unfilled.
Promises will stay unfulfilled.
Like this is not my playing field.
If only you were born to lead.
But deep inside you still have a need.
Unfilled.

# By
Server
Mother always called me the devil child
She said I was  loud, destructive and wild

Parents told sister I was bad and she didn't ever have to play with me
Much time alone was no fun, however for some friends I did make a plea

I'd beg for my mothers attention, she'd run off to her room crying,
Yelled for my dad to come get me, because to her I was very trying

I heard my mother double dog dare my father to hit me
Mother would refer to me as a **** in front of the family

When I was very young mother once said “I will ****** you in cold blood”
Today mother said “you’re crazy, I’d never say that to a child, you are crud”

Nothing I did would ever please my mother
Gifts I bought her were tossed in the gutter

All my cousins were smart, while I was failing all my classes in school
Got into many fights with bullies and teachers who were always cruel

My family would all make fun of me, call names bully and teased
I was the loser that anyone could do or say what they pleased

None of my cousins was I ever allowed with to play
Was always much of the time alone every and all day

I lived in a strange way my dad was very to the T religious
And my mother was always drunk and of course blameless

She’d drink when home from work, on the weekends or holidays
And could always hide it from all her friends and the relatives

No one believed me when I told them that she had been drinking
They acted like I was crazy by then I knew what they were thinking

Mother took me out Friday's to eat and buy what I wanted, after work
Last stop, the liquor store for drink and smoke, was left in car like a ****

Mother would always drive with me while she was drunk
I knew she'd been drinking because she smelled like a skunk

Bought games that took two to play, parents never had any intention  
Of spending time with me, I was a bad child needing intervention

If I didn’t act a certain way when opening all my very expensive Christmas gifts
She’d pout, leave, and I’d have to open my gifts alone because I’d created a rift

Wasn't  perfect I admit;  ran off when 16 regret parents sent me away,
Came for counseling I complained about moms drinking, she felt angry

Said drinking not my problem, she’d return when I could face the truth
Never could admit wrongdoing, everything was because I was a youth

Home from school one day mom was passed out on  floor drunk
Called 911 her Dr blamed me and said no visit,  he called me a punk

My dad arrived home, find she was throwing up while passed out in bed
He'd take bowls put them near her mouth to catch it,  something I'd dread

He’d walk to the bathroom, empty the bowl and go back to get the next one to do the very same
And replace the unfilled one repeat the process.  I was told by her doctor that I was the blame

Sometimes mom would run down the hall to the toilet bowl throw up then my heart would race
Because I always knew mom would do this and then she’d come to room to scare rant and pace

Since I was a badly spoiled child who had parents with money, nice house cars and good jobs
And I was not willing to help out or be responsible, was told I made the family look like slobs

My sister let her boyfriend talk her into letting him take me to dentist, instead, he molested me
No one believed me because in the past I had lied about things, and the truth no one would see

I was different all the cousins, my aunts and uncle could blame me when things went missing
Or went wrong I was then and still am now the perfect scapegoat yes about it I’m still babbling

My father ran out the back door when he heard me wake up and come out of my room
So he didn't have to  bother with me, I wanted to spend time with him he’d assume

Somehow I managed to graduate from high school and I then would move
To a different city, I felt I might have better luck and my life would improve.

Married two very bad guys both who drank, beat me and verbally abused
Divorced them both and had one child and how I’d raise this child alone I was confused.

Moved into an apartment I still today about it rave
Mother always referred to it as a little dark damp cave

Things I wanted my mother to do with me she would say no
But wouldn't turn down a chance with other family to go

But this home where I've written articles, poetry that's been published
Most of the things I've written, mother has said they are mostly *******

Tried to work and go to school never was competent enough to follow through
Each time I would start either I did not have the ability to complete anything new

My daughter grew up, became ill with a repeating debilitating disease
I dedicated myself to getting her well, and nothing about it was a breeze

Had to take her in pain for doctor visits many times she’d cry and wished she were dead
This broke my heart with no family help, just her and I to face things in the years ahead

Unable to attend school for years, the doctor signed permission to stay home
School system assigned a teacher who was mean nothing about her was tome

School Social workers interfered
And my name they smeared

She finally one day went into remission
And now the Nephrotic kidney condition

Seems, for now, to have forever gone for good away
For years it’s been don’t want others to downplay

For a while, I home schooled her and the first semester back in the public school
She was on the honor roll things seemed to be looking up and I felt like I was the rule

Then one day she lost interest in classes, homework, and attending
And the principal of the high school was calling and threatening

Took her out of school and put her in to get her GED
Then  she was soon graduated within month of three

A year before she was supposed to graduate
I knew by then that I was doing things right

Enrolled me and her in community college we made the Dean’s list and no student loan debt
Last May she and I graduated have a new life now I don’t feel things in my life are a threat

Alone I’ve raised a good child, published a book and kept things together
I’ve published some poetry and stories in that will be on web pages forever

Even though my parents have helped me out once in a while financially
I feel lack of respect since they helped family who treated me crummy

I’m still feeling and have most of the hopeless thoughts when I was young
I still try to steer my daughter to be different from me and hold my tongue

Sister divorced husband for molesting children told kids I was bad
Lives in my town and over 20 years never talked, by her, I've been had

I think it's because my parents never would face reality or admit
To any wrong doing of years of abuse, something I couldn't forget

Mother has disowned me going to court to remove my name
Because she said I've caused her embarrassment and shame

I'm damaged goods, only go to doctor and for groceries to shop
I hide inside and on computer, write stories and poems till I drop

Why am I talking about this after all these years still?
Because I think that it may just possibly help me to heal

Looking back I find so many things have not been my fault
But I still feel many days like I'm the only one under assault.

Copyright 2013
All Rights Reserved
Am not proud of this but I had 30 jobs that I lost in 10 years and even tried going to college
Unable to remember how and when to do things, my head from years of abuse was in a fog
Pierson Pflieger Apr 2012
A bright light annoys my eyes.    I can’t get away from it- I don’t like it.  
Tired and overwhelmed with obligations and requirements,
I’d rather not complete or even think of-
I’d rather they did not exist.  

What do they prove?  

I am comfortable and lazy.  
I would like to sleep, but the smallest agitations are an unbearable annoyance.  
Obnoxious voices speaking a tongue I don’t know, laughing at my condition-
I’d rather be asleep-
quiet and asleep.  

I want a cigarette.  I hate cigarettes.  
I don’t hate cigarettes; I rather like them, especially with coffee,
but I hate how they manipulate me.  
I want one, but I’d rather sleep.  
I wish I could smoke in bed.  
I should have showered before bed.

Self-confidence comes and goes.  
Sometimes I don’t care what people think; other times it’s all I think about.  
It’s judgmental; it’s worry of acceptance, worry of not belonging, worry of standing out.  
People- including me- want to be individuals, but are not brave enough.  
Society does not accept true individuals, it kills them.  
How can I be unique or allow true self to be and true identity to exist when there is fear?

When I see her, I wonder what might have been.  
There was a connection, or maybe just an attraction.  
We lead different lives.  
She is pure and good in the church sense; I am pure and good in my own way.  
But, these two lifestyles could never intertwine.  
I must admire what she is from a far.  
I should not dwell on it too much because it is unfair to the present.  
We always want to know.  
We want to know the future, but I will get there at my own pace.

Lying in bed, I don’t remember most days.  
I only remember lying in bed the prior night, trying to remember the previous day.  
Sometimes I hate my body- not enough muscle, skinny legs, blah hair.  
Against society's standards I am mediocre.  
They know what a man should look like; I am not him.  
We are all not the portrayed he or she.  
Those people only exist on screens.  

This is the last place I want to be.  
Stuck in a class I couldn’t give a **** about,
listening to a Professor I can’t understand drone on and on in his sing-song,
marbled-mouth accent.  
Occasionally trying my patience with a drawn out, “You noh wah I main?”  
No.
I don’t know what you mean.  
I can’t understand what’s coming out of your mouth.

Apparently, the only way to be a good teacher is to jump through hoops and
dance for the cloudy heads of a department.  
If I play their games, I will have blisters on my lips from having to kiss too much ***.  
I do not need to be validated, approved, passed, accepted, or liked by them to be a good teacher.  
I know I will be a good teacher- they have no influence on that.  
They only have the ability to stall me and help steal my money.

The worst is when the pain sinks into your eyes, dull and deep.  
The pressure tunnels around your temples and tries to bore a whole through your forehead.  
Six Advil cover up the pain- only for an hour.  
Everything within your skull pushes out like a balloon on the brink of bursting.

The worst is the restless anxiety experienced lying in bed right before sleep.  
It is the empty churning of stomach, half shots of adrenaline that tickle your veins,
while the mind races like prey trying to evade predatory jaws.  
Your heart flits, skips, and stops,
as your mind obsesses about the seemingly infinite list of things you have to get done.  
That only adds to the stress- since you’re not sleeping, something could be accomplished.  
The worry heightens, the obsession increases until- sleep.

An instant of eye contact can be rare and intriguing.  
Instants too small to have time, can convey so much.  
Eye line meets eyes, eyes lock- message of vast information conveyed.  
A minute moment, an insignificant second, so monumental.  
This blip exchange ignites an internal fire of emotion or ruins your day.  
The messages that can be exchanged in the smallest,
feasible time frame are vastly unique to each experience.  
Polar and extreme: Love me - I nothing you.  
Eye contact conveys an incredible amount of information, but perhaps to be keen to it-
is to be vulnerable.  

What if it were acceptable to give into every desire or want?  
What would the world be?  
Would it be that much different or would the internal, human morale still enforce invisible boundaries?  
What would we do?  
Would the private become public?  
Would others see our lowest animal drive?  
Humans are the only being capable of acting above or below their nature.  
Rough.
Raw.  
Human animals.

It is ironic when something is built up to high expectations, but turns out anticlimactic.  
Was that it?  
That is what we waited for?  
When something does not meet expectations, it creates hollowness, an emptiness, or unfilled hole.
  
What do you do?  
What can you do?  
You can learn from it or you can let it bring you down.  
It is better to look for the positives
than dwell on and become disheartened by the negatives.  
Learn and Grow.

I am a poor student.  
I have been loaned money I will never be able to pay back.  
I am paying for a degree, to get a job that will never return the favor.  
I am strangling myself financially for a “higher education”, but am I getting it?  
Perhaps it is not the institution’s fault; perhaps, it’s my own?  

so much depends
upon

a green dollar
bill

glazed with American
greed

beside the fabricated
dream

I am poor and will be poor, but I will be happy.  
Everything costs.  Everything has a price.  Life is expensive.  
How can I save?  What can I afford to put away?  
When forty dollars in your bank account is a pleasant surprise-
surprises are cheap.
This is a piece I wrote for a class while in school.  The goal of the assignment was to capture "agitated consciousness" (write the moment you wake up, experience high or low emotions, right before falling asleep).  First thought, best thought.  I recently found this and have only made minor changes.  It is not my favorite piece I have ever written, but there are moments I enjoy.  If you have never tried to write like this, I would encourage it.  It's challenging, fun, frustrating, and revealing.  Thanks for reading.
Ritika Dutta Apr 2020
Questions unanswered ,

Blanks unfilled,

I had many

But somehow,

Society could fill them all.



Who destroyed me ? Why did they?

I never knew

The moments of unfathomable pain, i knew

When they smacked me,

Shredded me,

Devoured me.

But somehow ,

The society knew it all.



Judgemental I call them,

Skeptic the society prevailed.

For them, imbecile

My blanks pertained.

Obvious Consequences

Of  hints I gave , they said.

Consequences of attire

And behavioral patterns, they said.

Whoa, Is our society for real?



Only one blank unfilled

For the society remained.

Section 228A was their complaint.

Such narrow-minded hounds, I exclaimed.



Justice tried to fill my blanks.

Could he ? I asked again

Shamefully , he took his eyes off.

Could my blanks ever be filled?

I asked again
Angela Alegna Oct 2012
One broke her,
Into thin fibers of glass disarranging a once whole vase
A beautiful vase, multifaceted and covered in ornate beauty
Intricate, delicate, carefully carved
A whole vase, filled to the brim with life and love
But what does love look like? She knows not anymore.

Two found the vase in ruins,
picked up her pieces, mended her and held on to her afraid she would break once more
Carefully, protectively she now lived.
Given everything, someone who had mended her.
Yet she still felt a sense of a missing piece
A gap, a hole, a missing fragile piece, unfilled but by One who had broken her

Why does she love One who hurt her, who broke her who left her unfilled?
Two many times has he mended her back together
Yet One is still the missing piece, the gap, the hole, the Vase
Gwen Whitmoore Apr 2013
I am not in the business of being you
or him or her or they
we doesn't even really interest me.

you hated me within the first 20 minutes
like a shallow predator
experiencing virginal danger
you have the limbic system of a prey
obvious to anyone in touch with their senses.

you were threatened-
you cracked a joke and among
the robotic laughter and among
the generic thoughts
I stood back, blank-faced
a novel piece of art you haven't the ability
to muster up the courage to understand.

aloud, I said it wasn't funny
which I'm sure your emptiness already betrayed
in a booming, and terrifying fashion
(I'm an intellectual sadist-
I get off watching you squirm)

you know enough, that you have no basis
that the status quo is the stale stream you do nothing but soak in.

you're superficiality is so pervasive
that your thoughts are unfilled, plastic
discarded long ago by anyone with stamina
(you're a carbon-copy of a Xeroxed person)
looking the same as the others of your degenerate breed
with much less vibrancy than the original
and far less worth.

your boundaries have been in place for so long
passed down by
generations
of
generations
of
generations
great-great-granddaddy's barbed wire is the only thing protecting your prejudice.

you're not funny- you're scared
ashamed and lonesome.

ashamed of the person you wish you could be
but don't have the strength-or the guts
to morph into
lonesome because even yourself is someone you don't feel close to
you are so basically human.

I have no pity.
**for you are no Muse.
Elaenor Aisling Sep 2021
My sisters and I jest
That men never get over us.
We have been named
Muses, angels, succubi, leanan sidhe
But we are les belles dames avec merci
And that is their undoing.
Our breath has left them gasping
With unfilled lungs
We never meant to be their oxygen
But they drink us in like drowning men.

We didn’t ask for this,
But disarming, we are soft enough
For them to float in
Belly up, eyes to distant stars
Singing the sirens song that stirs in our veins.

Behind our teeth rests the love
The world has failed to give them till now
There are holds in the knowledge
that our fingertips find the hollowed spaces,
mother wounds, clefts where trust was carved out,
And they clutch our palms to staunch the bleeding.

We never asked for this,
They cherish the brittle changelings of us
until they are crushed in the coals of our eyes
Eggshell ideals, fragile as egos.
Blown by the sea wind in the strands of our hair
they are scattered, undone.

The distance drifts between, inevitable
And full they turn away to starve
We cut the mooring line
After one too many storms,
And search
For safer
Harbor.
Enigmuse Apr 2014
I remember the little men
in big boots. The ones who sat
at the edge of roof tops in a city called
Loneliness, and cut their teeth while chewing jagged glass and angry truths.
They parachuted down to earth
and hit their heads on desperation.
Hollowed out hearts with tree trunks
serving as legs, they marched
across the stratosphere until their existences neared zero. Nothing
more to disappearing than popping
some pills, falling asleep, and dreaming
that the whole world had gone mad.
The interesting part is when you wake up
and you can still hear the echo of
unfilled boots.
Bleh
Laura DeLuca Nov 2014
Perhaps the familiar yet unnoticed crevices in the walls must mean more to me than the very same crevices which will forevermore remain hidden in the depths of my heart.

They're all pieced together,
forming an abstractly numb
piece of art.

Incisions, Incisions,
Made by false, ignorant decisions.

Beautifully arrayed intervals of nothing but enigmatic space.

When you part, your soul hath but a trace.

Done caring.

About the permanent , lethal damage that has been done

By far more than just one.
Brent Kincaid Jun 2017
Mirrors are all traitors
As in them I can see
Just what a monster I am;
That I will always be.
I have lumps and and spots
That make me unloveable.
And everything I eat is
Another bite of trouble.

Why can’t I ever look
Like the models in the book?
Why is it that I
Can’t look myself in the eye?
No one will look longingly
At the gorgon I turned out to be.

I don’t watch cartoons
Because what I see is me
What did I do to deserve
To become so **** ugly?
Did I cross the path of a cat
That was an omen meant to warn
And I ignored it so now
I inherited this awful form?

Why can’t I be the kind
With a beautifully formed behind?
I wish it was my history
To stimulate evil jealousy.

I want to look like a dream,
But instead I must surrender
A fragile wish, as it seems
An unfilled hope altogether.
Some friends are sweet to me
They say I look fine to them,
But I know what I can see
And I deserve no diadem.
Farewell Life, Farewell
What recriminations while I LOVED
That I smiled even in pain
That I served even in suffering
But now, with death impending
You, my beloved has forgotten me
In which case
My life - An ewer unfilled
My LOVE - A completion of death!
Amanda Kay Burke Sep 2018
Hold the universe inside my palms
I alone understand it is but a solitary dream
Between stars I make out memories
Connecting dots, forming images ingrained in my mind

I look in the unfilled depths of sky where suns have yet to burn out, remaining eternally preserved in an explosion of beauty lightyears away wondering about humans peering at their ambience through time and space

This isolated reflection I witness change in compliance with the predetermined path set in motion by the astrological forces of nature
Unstable
My hands must be trembling
Scared of sorrow and frustration they undeniably confront

The fear of the uncertain, the inconsistency of the unapologetic future awaiting
Solemn visions of an imperfect outcome, enough torment to push strength a bit too far over the edge

Fragile balance of peace and chaos resting within cupped desperate hands
Ignorant, the quickness of extinction among synapses in the cavern lighting the entirety of my skull
Pinned under familiar self-induced delusions
Galaxies silently begging for permanent freedom
Such fate to let their wishes dangle ignored
Urges within bursting, released
That moment I also give in
Forcefully close my fingers into a fist
Instantly crushing wild constellations scattered around my consciousness
A great deal more fragile than realized

Once unshakable destiny budged a millimeter by one lone act of rebellion
Against a powerful pull the majority pretend is rigid
Elusive control by way of self-combustion of life's temporary illusions
Proof one touch can fell worlds of fantasy

Founded on fiction

Or maybe

Reality
I was inspired by Horton Hears A Who
in our
besieged republic

snipers are
popping up
everywhere

taking ***
shots

ending lives
with a well placed
head shot

active shooters
star in
world premier
events

jokers
rise like
dark knights
casting large
looming shadows
on real 3D cinemax
multiplexed screens

sprinkling overpriced
buckets of popcorn
with generous
dollops of blood

others
head back to
school
still ******
about missing
recess and
excessive
sentences
to detention
halls where
bullies tortured
scrawny inmates
with wedgies
and painful
***** twisters

they’ve
come back
to even the score

leaving
bullet hole
pockmarks on
Sharpie smudged  
smart boards
declaring endless
summer vacations
for classrooms
of children
who don’t
give wedgies
and only dream
of soft *****

these
urban guerillas
are now working
to liberate airports
from the tyranny
of TSA agents
fulfilling
PATRIOT ACT
duties for
10 bucks
an hour

and
last night
the latest
active shooter
showed up at
the Garden
State Plaza,
-my hometown
mall of america-
mumbling about his
Grand Theft Auto
score, strung out
and crashing
from an unfilled
pharma addiction
script

he grew
up as a
Highwayman
in Teaneck

a former
classmate
working
at Nordstroms
said he was
a really good kid

he was,
one of the good ones,
he could have shot
some people
but the only
person he
shot in the head
was himself

legions of
police officers
surrounding the mall
stood down
grateful for overtime
milling about
in the flashing
red strobes
inhaling the heady
blue fumes
rising to commend
Bergen County
Blue Laws and
next Sunday’s
time and a half
active shooter
training day

Jimi Hendrix:
Machine Gun

Oakland
11/5/13
jbm
Lost in shadows Dec 2013
went out
picked up three easy women
had *** with one
went out two more times
struck pay dirt
for my pleasure
still unfilled.
did you like my poetry babe?
you can create poems
whining about your broken
heart
and your loser state of mind
for having *** with me
withing hours meeting me for the first time.
were you a ******?
doubt that!
i will be picking up more easy women all day
you can post poems about broken heart
on this site.
happy new year to you easy lay
going back to bed
finishing off this easy lay
then out to the curb she goes
with my trash.
Druzzayne Rika Feb 2018
many days I feel it isn't worth it
it is better I end it
I just do not fit
right

Small disappointments
unfilled expectations
make my daily lessons
I am no longer surprised

gifted with so many unused liberties
armed with many facilities
having all basic amenities
why still unsatisfied?

my thirst for what?

but compare it to so many of them
where do my problems stand
should my opinions even matter

God still has to hear my many complaints
every other day
No wonder he doesn't listen,
I wouldn't too.

Blessed with so much
wasted it all
on being this bitter self I hate
my present state draws the ugly future
and the only cure
is to feel gratitude
on the things I still have
on my conscience who still cares
.
Unfilled dreams visit me
and I pretend
thundering pain does not touch my soul
when I can't hear you say,
“I love you”
before I lay me down to sleep.
Still, I wonder
if I called out on the coldest night
would I hear nothing
but silence
inside the dreams
I keep.  

In the morning hours
I write your name
in the air
with a hand of power,
creating an image
of  love's fire
that can never be lost
in thought.  
A delightful understanding
becomes a sensation of living
with the eyes of my heart
wrapped around the words
I have sought.

My mind sings our story
even when I am alone.
It shouts
from an ocean
of heaven
with a tune swinging  
to the countless beat
of our future need.
It paints our past
with long strokes of feeling
outside of  all the years
that were hidden
by a shadow's greed.

Here I stand as I am
with an invitation
circling my heart
creating a place
for you to be
when time hands me leave
to love you
with every breath
I breathe.  
Although, I may not hear the words
from your lips
the eyes of my heart
hear you speak
with ears........
that see.
Copyright ©2012 Neva Flores - Changefulstorm
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2014
a man gave me that phrase as a gift today.
quiver of constant smiles

for well he could,
yet little did he ken
the nature of the present

because
I read the smiles as the
tween the spaces,
in between the words of
anguish that never goes away

how can this be,
how to make sense of this

well I am a father too,
of words and sobs
and ownership of sins
between sons and fathers,
who inhabit
the unfilled spaces within,
the drawers with their name
on masking tape attached

Your fathers's hell will slowly go by

Show me a man-father
whose lips
have not quiet quivered
when hearing those words sung

we ease the grip of

carrying them on our shoulders
when they are five at the
Macy's day parade,
running alongside their first
solo bicycle ride

we ease the grip of
the vise of

not seeing them for years,
or never again,
cause they hold you guilty,
responsible for their confusion

have too, ease the grip,
cause we got more than one
singular responsibility

so we dad draw,
a smile from the quiver,
that like those of the elves,
replenished magically,
strap it on wide,
mile high and move on

oh you teenage children, you babies,
with your endless angst and bravado
of drunken scar talk,
first love lost
and the hard course
of being sixteen

put down your tiresome blunt pens
that revel only in Self-intensity glorious-galore,
read of the self destruction
of love pains thirty years in the making
and fifty in the undoing

write of ancient inescapable feelings
decades in the vat, aging, but drunk in the
moment quick searing of
every life breath you take

and it's Sunday nite
and the work week hell begins
but it is no compare to the other,
but ****, you can't understand

so chant these words,

reflect on them well,
for soon while you dream sleep,
in clean, dry sheets and safe bed
a man will come for a peep,
to make the checkmark
on the all's well list

so chant these words,
a sad violin melody,
the single sole he ever hears,


**Your fathers's hell will slowly go by
This written unexpectedly, surprising the writer...
Alexis Dec 2014
Can not sing,
Nor play a note.
Academics,
Agility,
No strength neither.
Lust for talent,
Desire of success,
A void remained unfilled,
By the talentless.
Ode to the weirdos
Julia Low May 2012
I do not know who I am writing to anymore.
Faces blur to pages to chapters
of the never ending story that I write
as I walk through the waves of indifference.

Sea foam splashes over drying ink
and curling parchment in ways that
blend background and foreground into
nonsensical images of insanity.

I write blank letters left with open
spaces and unfilled lines waiting for
a name or a pronoun or even a shimmering
idea of who to place there.

The final line is always the worst
with "love" and "yours always" and
"sincerely" hardly meant before
the name I know even less than yours:

     *my own.
the Hello Poetry portrait gallery
is becoming full of empty frames
what individuals had a hand
in these harassment games

we've been deprived of many
talented written contributions
the villainous mob most adroit
with their unwarranted executions

blank boxes tell of an almighty
mischief being awfully made
by they who are wanting
to garner every accolade

under a serious threat our
fraternity of poets are thus far
and of seeing unfilled cubes
there leaves a permanent scar
Hedonic Nihilist Mar 2014
I am space
I am the space around me
Unfilled with people, Unfilled with conversation
I am the space in my pockets; no candy wrappers or love notes
I am space

I am empty
I am the empty soda cans filling my trashcans
Empty, I am the hollow in my stomach when I cannot eat
I am the bottles of water I drink to avoid conversation
I am the empty pens, ink used up
I am empty

I am space
I am an infinite void who's farthest corners will never be discovered; not by a lack of effort, but a lack of idea
I am the space between words, allowing you, my love, to stay cognizant(iloveyou)
I am the space between the blades of grass, giving bugs a place to live
I am the space between the tiles, full of grime and dirt and dust, I am a mess between a mess
I am space

I am empty
I am the feeling right before you eat
I am the empty trash bin, just cleaned
I am the empty spaces inside the car, just waiting to be filled
I am not empty, I am 0% filled
michael gagain Sep 2014
Even in the darkest beast, one can find beauty.
If they look through the eyes of love.
Seeking a fading light, just out of reach
as the heavens reign from above.

Too soon, two souls become one,
While two hearts are left longing.
Darkness melds upon two minds
they're chemistry is haunting.

A connection so strong it spans the distance.
Feelings are so real,
one can feel the others touch.
Yet both their hearts will heal.

The realm of desire turns to ash
as the moon sets low upon us.
to need you so bad and not to receive
we both shall turn to dust.

Feeding off the dismal past
true love it will prevail.
two shadow;s dancing in the night
their friendship will not fail.

Tempers flare as longings go unfilled.
Both fighting an attraction that can't be real.
he has instilled a certain reality,
she now begins to feel.

A calmness in the darkness, a silence so surreal.
they dance within the keyboard,
in lacy shades of teal.
They both live in a fantasy...knowing it can't be real.....
Black Swan Mar 2010
Cold, permeable raindrops
Fuse with warm, flowing tears,
Coursing down craggy furrows of
An unforgiving headstone.
An anguished face pressed tightly
To a glistening granite slab--
A column etched with memories
That will not pass away.
“Here Lies” is a reminder
That she was not a dream,
That on this earth did walk
An angel sent to him.
Instead of giving love,
He offered her empty promises--
Hollowed, unfilled commitments
That tomorrow would be kept.
A softly muttered prayer says,
“Please forgive me dear,
This final oath I make,
Tonight I will be with you
To plead for one more chance.”
Black Swan  © 2009
Terry O'Leary Jan 2019
.             <Well, ShallowMan’s ne’er at a loss>
              <for voicing shallow thoughts that gloss.>
              <With trenchant wit he reaps the dross>
              <when seeking sense in applesauce.>

              <But to his aid flies FactoidMan>
              <who always has a Fact at hand;>
              <with him, who needs a whether-man>
              <to answer “if?” or “but?” or “and?”?>

“Oh ShallowMan, let me explain
the Facts of life to you, so plain,
yet flush with truthful thoughts arcane.
When understood, you won’t maintain
that callowness you think urbane.”

                              “Oh FactoidMan, give benedictions,
                              save me from all contradictions
                              with your knowledge, no restrictions
                              finding Facts, avoiding fictions.”

“Well, when in doubt, you always may
request my help to find your way
through shades of black and white and gray,
and from the Facts you’ll never stray.
Yes, ShallowMan, I’ll make your day.”

                              “Since yesteryear I’ve wondered why
                              I’m served a piece of humble pie
                              whene’er attempting to descry
                              just what’s a Fact, and what’s a lie,
                              and which be Facts one can’t deny.
                              With candor, can you edify
                              me with some recondite reply?”

“Well, as you know, my Facts are Facts
which naught nor nothing counteracts
and things that do, mere artifacts
in dim myopic cataracts.”

“A lie’s a thing which disagrees
with Facts I utter, if you please,
and hides the forest from the trees
ignoring all my verities.”

“And this reminds me of my youth,
with axioms defined as truth
which I selected as a sleuth
(abetted by a sweet vermouth);
I being now so long of tooth,
to contradict me’s hardly couth.”

                              “That certainly helps me clarify
                              whom I can trust: yeah, you’re the guy!  
                              Now, furthermore I’ve wondered why
                              the moon can’t fall and clouds can fly.  
                              What’s called that law those facts defy?
                              And mightn’t I just give a try
                              to make a guess to verify?”

“If you link your facts to law
(ah, please excuse a gruff guffaw)
you’ll certainly flaunt a flimsy flaw
that strains belief and breaks the straw
of what you’ve heard and thought you saw.
(I‘ll leave you with some bones to gnaw
that leave you holding me in awe
when once you’ve grasped and gasped ‘aha’).
So tell me now your ideas, raw,
but keep it short, your blah, blah, blah.”

                              “Umm, could it be just gravity
                              (well, something like a theory
                              that some call Relativity)
                              which pulls the apple from the tree
                              and puts a strain upon my knee;
                              or is that fact absurdity?”

“Ahem, a theory’s just a theory,
not a Fact, it’s all so eerie,
something which should make you leery
as explained until I’m weary.”

                              “If Relativity’s a theory,
                              and a theory’s not a Fact,
                              is it a fiction I can query
                              when I’m falling, ere I’m whacked?”

“Though theories might be based on Fact,
a theory is, in fact, not backed
by any cause, effect or act
which might be salvaged when attacked.
For you, this Fact may seem abstract,
plumb depths where shallow thoughts distract.”

“Yes, what goes up must soon come down
is quite a Fact of world renown.
But theory’s just a heathen gown
to deck the naked King in town,
and when he falls, he breaks his crown
which leaves him wearing but a frown.”

“It surely should be obvious,
the property of Heaviness
(like Godliness and Heaven-ness)
defines the cosmic edifice,
refuting Newton’s flakiness
and Einstein’s spooky emphasis  
on space-time’s 4-D flimsiness.
Yes, Facts like these are copious
(I count them with my abacus);
to argue would be blasphemous
displaying mental barrenness
about the push and pulling stress
when bouncing ***** rebound, unless
one views elastic laziness
as evil Satan’s stubbornness.”

                              “Well now I think I understand,
                              that gravity seems somewhat grand,
                              but’s just, in fact, a rubber band
                              that stretches through our earth-bound-land
                              constricting us when we expand.”

“Yes, ShallowMan, you finally got it,
just as I’ve long preached and taught it.
I’m so happy that you’ve bought it.
(Not a question nor an audit -
you’re so shallow, who’d have thought it?)”

              <Once ShallowMan dipped into science>
              <seeking FactoidMan’s alliance>
              <gaining, hence, a strong reliance>
              <on the Facts and their appliance,>
              <justifying strong compliance,>
              <turning down those in defiance.>

                              “Hey, FactoidMan, another topic
                              leaves me reeling, gyroscopic,
                              dealing with the microscopic
                              in a world kaleidoscopic.”

                              “Within the realm of vacuum loops
                              Dark Energy in quantum soups
                              of anti-matter sometimes swoops
                              across inflation’s Big Bang stoops
                              where space-time ends and matter droops.
                              Do you believe, or just the dupes?

“It’s nothing but a passing phase,
(a theory that in fact betrays
obscure occult communiqués
that fevered fantasy conveys)
of those who thump creation days.
Just check! The vacuum state portrays
perfection in your shallow ways
reflected in that vacant gaze
you cast upon the dossiers
of all my Facts that so amaze.”

                              “And what about the quantum theory?
                              Particles not hard but smeary,
                              just like waves? It’s kinda eerie!
                              Facts could not be quite so bleary
                              leaving Bohr, well, sad and teary.
                              FactoidMan, just tell me, dearie,
                              what the Facts are, bright or dreary.”

                              “And then again what are those holes
                              (as black as ravens bathed in coals)
                              wherein the past and future strolls
                              exploiting fields that Higgs controls
                              beneath the shady shallow shoals
                              between magnetic monopoles.”

“The science lab’s a ‘fact’ory
concocting stuff that cannot be
(like unknown realms and notably
those tiny things NoMan can see
with naked eye on bended knee
neath microscopic scrutiny)
and claim they’ve found reality;
they call their god a ‘Theo’ry
(a fig-ment of the Yum-Yum tree)
that leads them to hyperbole
about the singularity
that’s dipped in dazed duplicity
denying all eternity.”

“Here’s my advice that seems to work:
ignore the ones with ‘facts’ that lurk
behind their ‘proofs’ (which always irk),
and being challenged have the quirk
of stepping back within the murk
(indulged, I chuckle, smile or smirk).”

              <Now ShallowMan is quite content>
              <receiving FactoidMan’s consent>
              <to quibble and express dissent>
              <as long as keeping covenant>
              <with fingers crossed and belfry bent>
              <when viewing Facts in sealed cement:>

                               “The Facts you give me circumvent
                               those ‘truths’ your chuckles supplement;
                               although they might disorient
                               they can’t be wrong, I won’t dissent,
                               just using ones which you invent.“
“(No need of source in that event).”

                               “Your wise advice is simply sound
                               in cases where a game is bound
                               to parcel points out round by round
                               or else on verbal battleground
                              where know-it-alls are duly crowned.”

              <Though ShallowMan is kinda slow>
              <he still takes time to learn and throw>
              <his facts and theories to and fro,>
              <amazing facts which seem to show>
              <that theories sometimes come and go,>
              <returning strengthened with the glow>
              <of new found facts (for which to crow)>
              <that fill the gaps of long ago.>

                               “Oh FactoidMan, just tip your cap!
                               I’ve found a piece to fill the gap
                               that simplifies a mouse’s trap:
                               if triggerless, it still will clap
                               to give the mouse a mighty zap
                               that makes its tiny back bone snap.”

                               “With mousetrap type simplexity,
                               reducible complexity
                               helps arguments’ duplexity
                               with twists of crude convexity.”

“Ha-ha! That serves to prove my case:
for each gap filled, two in its place,
each growing at the doubled pace;
for unfilled gaps, I’m saying grace
(they help, indeed, for saving face)
Trying to get out of neutral....
don't know whether I'm in first or reverse...
Joshua Haines Aug 2015
The sky looks like cigarette ashes in a puddle of milk,
and I, almost 22, am unsatisfied that I have not won a Pulitzer.

And I, on the borderline of delusion and confidence, am unsatisfied I am not crazy or cocky enough to submit to The New Yorker.

I hear the voices of the pastors,
telling me that God heals all.

They say 'He' is the only absolute.

The people raise their hands towards the water-stained ceiling,
as if He'll push his arms through the copper-colored scabs and save them.

Grabbing their wrists and cooing,
I am the remedy to the anxiety of death.

I am six foot one and French, Irish, Cherokee,
some sort of Anglo-Saxon,
and a lost **** in a drowning garden.

I think about all those who had to ****,
in order to make my cheekbones,
eyebrows, lips, and ****.

I think about how I'm good at *** and bad when it comes to forgiving too easily.

I wonder how I can sweat on another body,
but only feel naked when I have to be myself.

I watch the elderly chant words:
******, ******, ****, and Half-Breed.
I study if their dry lips reflect the hate in their eyes.

Not all are like this,
but I am surrounded by tables of them,
as I pretend to be Christian,
just to get ahead.

I don't speak,
just sit like an unfilled bubble,
waiting to be marked out by graphite.
I feel like a *******,
I wish I had a Pulitzer.

The sky looks like a stretched grape,
covered in kisses of ******.
And I, white American conformist,
am unsatisfied
that I have succumbed to the American Dream.

I wish I had a Pulitzer,
I wish I had my mom and dad.
Ashland, Wisconsin
Robyn Lewis Aug 2013
A vast unfeeling sordid breath,
That scalds my naked doubt
Grazing the space unfilled.
Lost in the waves
The summer an oppressive embrace,
Infecting this town.
And I am alone from here.
The stagnant tsunami,
Creeps up from the depths
Untiring in its attempts to overwhelm me.
But I'm already so tired,
Bone-weary.
I give up on my fight to the heat,
To the eternal god that glares
So balefully from beneath heavy clouds.
Have done with me now.
Leave me to the tide.
To the uncaring winds
Anywhere beyond the sweat of bodies
And incessant hate
Of the sun.-
Sia Jane Mar 2016
For hours, I tried to sleep.
The rain drums down on the tin roof;
the demons are knocking.
I see their tears stream down the window;
a cleverly designed artifice to distract
from their true intent.
I ignore their subtle attacks, but they always
find a way back in.
I watch their shadows drift in through
the windows;
morphing from one shape into another,
hovering around me,
their whispered breaths cloud the air –
there is barely a space unfilled by their presence.
I can’t seem to chase them away, and I’m
wrapped up into their world.
Empty, cold and alone,
my reality remains stranger than any dream.

© Sia Jane
I love her
I desire her
More than anything
I can imagine
But I am unsure

I dreamt of her
I weep for her
I struggle with myself
But I never conquered
‘cos I am unsure

And at night
I hug my pillow
In my sleep
I held her tight
But I couldn’t keep her
For I was unsure

She kept coming
She kept smiling
But never opened her hands
To give me a warm embrace
Which is all I desire
And the more I am unsure

I never told her
I love you
I’ve never held her
In my hands
But I love her
Though I am unsure

The wound remained unhealed
The vacuum remained unfilled
The tears flow unstopped
And I’m losing her
Who is the remedy
‘Cos I’m unsure

And I’m losing her
Fast than I expected
Though she still smiles
The fear increased unmeasured
She loves me
I don’t know
For I am unsure.
Lost Poet May 2017
Such a disgusting monster,
Too this, too that,
Gorging itself only to regret it,
Killing in order to live,
Maybe I should break the mirror,
So I don't have to see the beast anymore.
cleo May 2018
i had a dream about you last night.

i’m wearing mismatched socks.
my face, bruised and ******
my body, slumped
in the corner of the handicap stall.
you’re standing above me
smiling, happy even.

“not happy, just killing time”.
your voice so soft, so sweet
the perfect lullaby
to put me to sleep.
i pass out from your love.

i woke up this morning
phone cord wrapped around my neck.
felt like a noose,
felt like you.
“i didn’t mean to hurt you”
(but you’ll do it again).

cigarettes in the backyard.
crossed legs on the patio table.
it feels like my stomach is filled with acid
and my head is filled with smoke.
you grabbed me and it stung like a bee.
i want to drink ’til i forget you.
i want to get so high that i forget myself.

i’m no angel.
i’m just a little dolly who gets broken easily.
i’m an artist using their own body as a canvas,
razor blades for brushes, blood for paint.
be a disaster with me.
ruin me with your eyes,
fill my soul with *****
and break my bones.

i’m feeling emotionally dead inside.
like forgotten flowers in the attic,
unfilled holes in the ceiling.
i’m hollow.
like vintage television sitcoms,
trap doors in old houses.

the chambers of my heart are filled
with cobwebs and spider eggs.
eyelids swollen shut.
mud up to my ears;
i’m choking on worms.
you’re killing me
but a very muffled “i forgive you”
still manages to escape my lips.

there is no remedy for a sickness quite like this.
del Jan 2018
mediocre and
faded
the average poem
no longer strikes chords
in the heart's harp
use extravagant vocabulary
weave your words tight
until they seem uncomfortable
the original meaning lost
between the claustrophobic corners
covered in lace and pretentious boasting
try but don't try so hard
that no one but the classic readers
would be able to understand
the words you've worked so hard to convey
do not force a poem out
or it will stick your fingers and
it will create a mess
similar to a teenage boy
it will be long and uncomfortable with itself
unknowing of how to adjust
into this thing that is supposed to be
mature now despite wanting to be simple
do not rush poetry
find quiet inspiration
in silent observations
of yourself, of nature
rushing poetry makes it fast
too many unfilled thoughts
racing around in one space
not meeting each other
despite being so close together
tell a story with imagery
with delicate words of morality
tell a story with flashbacks
with soft lips and with stained shirts
tell a story with love
make your poems with care
Jason Cole Mar 2015
no guilt lives here
no binding fear
no last chance proof
no remedies moot

the hollowed heart
pounds still
the measured mark
unfilled

driven thoughts
will stay their course
amid the freaks
of future's force

change of mind
is change of time
chain this shame - raise this blind
fork this road - freeze this cold
bide this crime - bend this fold

embattled breath
to and fro
know no rest - take this toll

buried love
long and low
climb this crest - breach this hole

here where no guilt lives
where the hollow heart pounds still
pumping pain like a train through my brain
'til i'm a free bird in the rain
'til i'm a T-Bird in a frame
'til i'm a face without a name
Dark n Beautiful Oct 2016
Your kind of loving, your kind of feelings
Your way of living, your way of thinking
Your thoughts are everywhere,
Your mind wanderers, your eyes lie

You held on to my every word
hundreds of words we uses daily
Without the physical action,
you say you love me
That doesn’t mean you love me
Because, you think it weaken me

We both use it, we both **** it
Your kind of loving, your kind of feelings
Your way of living, my way of thinking
Is what we reap is what we sow,

You **** your words, I bargain with myself
my words are counterproductive :

My kind of night, my kind of day
Productive, inquisitive and worthy
Your kind of night, unfilled and frustrated

Deep down you love her, she hates the aging you
somehow you still manage to love her
with all her imperfections,

you woke up at dawn, and make her oatmeal
and you serve her  breakfast in bed with a dying rose
How idiotic, how clever, how fatuous



*A good marriage is something you have to work at. It doesn’t drop from heaven
gray rain May 2016
Emptiness
feels like death
nothingness
in your chest

drowning emotion
space explosion
gaps unfilled
yet nothing spilled

enclosed
alone
no emotion
shown


just hollow
a shell
living in hell
you follow

*nothing
no interest
no meaning
just destress

unknowing
unidentified
emptiness
nothing inside
There's no straight lines from A to B

No compass does it show

It shows my life as it has been

It doesn't show me where to go

As time goes by the pages fade

Just memories of past times

At times the present's blurry too

There's just so many criss crossed lines

No pages show my future

Just blank, unfilled, unset

You can not have a road map

To things that have not happened yet

Some roads it shows are darker

Roads you'll want to use once more

And on other pages, blankness

You don't know what they were for

The map is everchanging

It's not always the same

You can blame the old mapmaker

It's your mind that is to blame

You trigger things with songs and sounds

And others you might lose

It's a map that should show where you've been

But it's no good without clues

A compass in the corner

Doesn't point which way to go

It's your life, there is no answers

You get to choose which row you ***.

It's not an easy map to follow

Hills and valleys all around

But, somewhere there's a spot that

Is where your best can be found

A page that now sits empty

Tomorrow, will be mapped and show the way

But, it won't show you where you're off to

It'll show where you were today

So, enjoy the roads you've travelled

And the experience so far

For this is not a map you'll ever

Find inside of any car

As I said, it changes daily

There's only so much room for stuff to stay

So, remember just what's important

And make the bad stuff go away

It's not a map that can be folded

It doesn't show you where to start

But when you go and look back at it

You'll see your life was full of heart.
.
mannley collins Dec 2014
Dearest John,
Whats the point of writing something to you that you will probably never read.
if writing nothing to you is the only something I can write?.
Whats the point of writing nothing to you if I cant write something to you that's really nothing to you?.
Whats the point?.
A nightingale singing in the the Lilac bush
in my backyard?
Is that the point?.
saying hear me sing just for you--listener!.
A luscious Blackberry swollen with its lifes nectar,
dangling insouciantly, singing its song silently--
pick me--crush me in your mouth--
wash your tongue with my sweetness.
Is that the point?.
A Selmer hand made Alto Clarinet on its stand-
daring me to play the melody of the Isness of the Universe just for you?
Is that the point?.
swooping keening hawk like notes
flowing from my very beingness.
An empty canvas waiting patiently
for medium to be applied.
The Chaos of my emptiness
crying out to be stirred into the action of your Form.
Is that the point?.
Or just to say for your ears alone--I Love You!.
An unfilled pan needing filling
with hen ***** and milk and salt and pepper--
and then flamed into the tasty miracle of scrumbled eggs.
Yummy yummy yummy
Ive got food in my tummy
and everything is gonna be alright.

If I tried to write my life down for you
would you come to my waiting arms?
Would you end this cruel silence?
Would you commit a line of meaningful prose
to your keyboard just to tell me you love me?
But your gone to heaven knows where?
Memphis?.
Dissapeared into the maw of electronic death.
Leaving me bereft of your yourness.
No access to your body fluids.
No more your flesh to caress.
As if I could penetrate the skin
of your aloneness and merge into the Isness that keeps
molecules of your georgeous beingness together.
Walking talking laughing the symphony of life together.

Would you listen if I spoke truthfully to you
or would you prefer one of the many "truths"
of your multiple "religions" or "politics" or "philosophies"?.
But as I can only speak truthfully then I guess
youll hear but not listen.
Wasting your opportunities at Isness realisation
as you have done since I,as the Isness of the Universe,
brought into being voidness from my own essence
with time and materiality--hearing but not listening
to the Brownian arpeggios of the rising and falling scales
of the music of the spheres.
I play my horn of blackwood to the empty rooms
of my universe--
accompanied by the booming bass of harmony--
Amazing Grease.
India the Corrupted.
Moanin and Groanin.
Warm as Luke.
A Chicken Supreme.
Satis-Faction.
God Rest Ye Gerry Mandlebaum.
The Universe listens.
Everyone else hears.
I speak.
your ears are closed.

www.thefournobletruthsrevised.co.uk

— The End —