Members
16/F/Itomorie
my presence may feel like a pretty serenity, but my existence is the profound definition of insanity. ~m "finding refuge in my own lies" :3
22/F/wandering elsewhere
feel sorrow and find solace through my words
Poems
Robert Guerrero Nov 2012
An Angels Sorrow
Robert Guerrero
Nov 2012
An Angels Sorrow
heavy like her heart
as teardrops fall from her face
falling through the clouds
not knowing which direction to go
i love her even when i lie
waiting and hoping to die
i caught her when she fell
released her from the depths of hell
i wish to carry her sorrow
an angels sorrow
a burden like no other
heavy like my heart
stained with others blood
no longer will she feel it
her sorrow i wish to relieve
her tears i wish to dry
her beauty i wish her to know
an angels sorrow
i relieve with love like no other
my love i wish her to see
her head i wish to clear
lay your head on my chest
listen to the heartbeat of a dying man
for deaths tattered cloak wrapped around me
an angels sorrow
a sorrow like no other
a sorrow i wish to relieve
my heart aches for her
as tears fall like rain
dark clouds shape the sun
an ominous wind blows
as her sorrow grows
an angels sorrow
the one thing that could **** me
as her sorrow ends
her beauty glows
her heart slows
an angels sorrow
i took away with my last breath
heavy like her heart
as teardrops fall from her face
falling through the clouds
not knowing which direction to go
i love her even when i lie
waiting and hoping to die
i caught her when she fell
released her from the depths of hell
i wish to carry her sorrow
an angels sorrow
a burden like no other
heavy like my heart
stained with others blood
no longer will she feel it
her sorrow i wish to relieve
her tears i wish to dry
her beauty i wish her to know
an angels sorrow
i relieve with love like no other
my love i wish her to see
her head i wish to clear
lay your head on my chest
listen to the heartbeat of a dying man
for deaths tattered cloak wrapped around me
an angels sorrow
a sorrow like no other
a sorrow i wish to relieve
my heart aches for her
as tears fall like rain
dark clouds shape the sun
an ominous wind blows
as her sorrow grows
an angels sorrow
the one thing that could **** me
as her sorrow ends
her beauty glows
her heart slows
an angels sorrow
i took away with my last breath
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2013
Ben-Oni, Son of Sorrow
Nat Lipstadt
Dec 2013
"Ben-Oni" is a Hebrew term meaning "son (Ben) of sorrow (oni)," and the name of an 1825 manuscript describing a chess opening.
"Whenever I felt in a sorrowful mood and wanted to take refuge from melancholy, I sat over a chessboard, for one or two hours according to circumstances. Thus this book came into being, and its name, Ben-Oni, 'Son of Sadness,' should indicate its origin." - Aaron Reinganum.
From the Old Testament,
Genesis 35:18;
“Her dying lips calls
her newborn son Ben-Oni,
the son of my sorrow.
But Jacob, because he would not
renew the sorrowful remembrance of his
mother's death every time
he called his son by name,
changed his name,
and called him Benjamin,
the son of my right hand."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ben-Oni, Son of Sorrow
Love,
you can fall in
and out of.
Happy,
comes and goes,
in waves,
cycles of differing amplitudes.
Its schedule of
arrivals and departures,
most erratic.
It is always
a two sided affair,
don't blame this messenger,
it's the way of the world
that it comes,
then it goes
Tho certain sorrows,
special, may
wax and wane,
they, a once, then a forever guest,
a full time resident,
taste, once acquired,
cannot be erased.
Part of your museum's
permanent collection,
an addiction affliction
that can't be undone,
be beat back,
ain't no emotional methadone,
to inhibit its delicious lows
Like a passerby,
a mound of stones espied,^
a grave marker au naturel,
compelled and compulsed,
duty bound to add a stone
to keep the pile intact and sound,
another 'sorrow' poem to add
to the internet's dustbin.
Sorrow,
a rich, old moneyed patron,
with a wealth of ancient lineage
orders and commands
yet another a poem
to celebrate its entrenchment
in our constitution personal
Son of Sorrow,
Son, Sorrow,
two conditions,
one necessary and
one sufficient,
combined,
a logical causality,
or a casus belli.
If you spoke Hebrew,
understood you would
the quality of the sound of
Oni.
It is a soundless sigh,
a virulent scream, part wail,
part exclamation, part groan,
say it slow - oh nee.
You alone,
a father,
can own,
the sorrow of a son,
who denies you.
It cannot be denied,
expiated, signed away,
a syllable of grief
that says mine, all mine.
Watching the sun push away
the backdrop,
the stage curtain of the randomized
but they a-keep-on-coming,
summer thunderstorms
that have scattered
all living creatures
to the comforts,
the shelter
of loved ones,
but yours, present, or not,
return your message
either marked "well received'
or sadly, postmarked
"addressee unknown, get lost."
Curse me to stop,
and I can't,
already accursed,
add your curse to my collection,
makes no difference to my pile,
of sorrowfully fresh recollections
We slept together,
so many good night moon
stories read,
pillows shared,
side by side,
a stock exchange of
kisses and hugs,
trades that can't be cancelled,
having been entered officially
on the books and records of
our-sorrowful hearts.
Lesser men
cry to themselves,
their loneliness, their tragedy
a soliloquy, revealed in a
one man show,
Off Brodway,
before an audience of none.
Not me kid, my oni,
is a public theater
of a visible shriek
in every breathe,
but the Supreme Court
gone and ruled against me,
and now there is no possibility
of injunctive relief.
Will travel to faraway lands,
asking different courts
for a hearing, knowing full well,
that I will be plea-denied,
having no standing,
for here,
there and everywhere
I lack proofs
and my son-accuser
wears masks and presents
no charges,
and even if he did,
I would gladly confess,
if he but presented them
face to face.
Son of Sorrow,
Son, Sorrow,
two conditions,
one necessary and
one sufficient,
combined,
a logical causality,
or a casus belli.
Come let us exchange
new names, new poems,
for we, though both poets,
do not read each other's
Works.
It is time.
"Whenever I felt in a sorrowful mood and wanted to take refuge from melancholy, I sat over a chessboard, for one or two hours according to circumstances. Thus this book came into being, and its name, Ben-Oni, 'Son of Sadness,' should indicate its origin." - Aaron Reinganum.
From the Old Testament,
Genesis 35:18;
“Her dying lips calls
her newborn son Ben-Oni,
the son of my sorrow.
But Jacob, because he would not
renew the sorrowful remembrance of his
mother's death every time
he called his son by name,
changed his name,
and called him Benjamin,
the son of my right hand."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ben-Oni, Son of Sorrow
Love,
you can fall in
and out of.
Happy,
comes and goes,
in waves,
cycles of differing amplitudes.
Its schedule of
arrivals and departures,
most erratic.
It is always
a two sided affair,
don't blame this messenger,
it's the way of the world
that it comes,
then it goes
Tho certain sorrows,
special, may
wax and wane,
they, a once, then a forever guest,
a full time resident,
taste, once acquired,
cannot be erased.
Part of your museum's
permanent collection,
an addiction affliction
that can't be undone,
be beat back,
ain't no emotional methadone,
to inhibit its delicious lows
Like a passerby,
a mound of stones espied,^
a grave marker au naturel,
compelled and compulsed,
duty bound to add a stone
to keep the pile intact and sound,
another 'sorrow' poem to add
to the internet's dustbin.
Sorrow,
a rich, old moneyed patron,
with a wealth of ancient lineage
orders and commands
yet another a poem
to celebrate its entrenchment
in our constitution personal
Son of Sorrow,
Son, Sorrow,
two conditions,
one necessary and
one sufficient,
combined,
a logical causality,
or a casus belli.
If you spoke Hebrew,
understood you would
the quality of the sound of
Oni.
It is a soundless sigh,
a virulent scream, part wail,
part exclamation, part groan,
say it slow - oh nee.
You alone,
a father,
can own,
the sorrow of a son,
who denies you.
It cannot be denied,
expiated, signed away,
a syllable of grief
that says mine, all mine.
Watching the sun push away
the backdrop,
the stage curtain of the randomized
but they a-keep-on-coming,
summer thunderstorms
that have scattered
all living creatures
to the comforts,
the shelter
of loved ones,
but yours, present, or not,
return your message
either marked "well received'
or sadly, postmarked
"addressee unknown, get lost."
Curse me to stop,
and I can't,
already accursed,
add your curse to my collection,
makes no difference to my pile,
of sorrowfully fresh recollections
We slept together,
so many good night moon
stories read,
pillows shared,
side by side,
a stock exchange of
kisses and hugs,
trades that can't be cancelled,
having been entered officially
on the books and records of
our-sorrowful hearts.
Lesser men
cry to themselves,
their loneliness, their tragedy
a soliloquy, revealed in a
one man show,
Off Brodway,
before an audience of none.
Not me kid, my oni,
is a public theater
of a visible shriek
in every breathe,
but the Supreme Court
gone and ruled against me,
and now there is no possibility
of injunctive relief.
Will travel to faraway lands,
asking different courts
for a hearing, knowing full well,
that I will be plea-denied,
having no standing,
for here,
there and everywhere
I lack proofs
and my son-accuser
wears masks and presents
no charges,
and even if he did,
I would gladly confess,
if he but presented them
face to face.
Son of Sorrow,
Son, Sorrow,
two conditions,
one necessary and
one sufficient,
combined,
a logical causality,
or a casus belli.
Come let us exchange
new names, new poems,
for we, though both poets,
do not read each other's
Works.
It is time.
I have a first born son who I rarely see and only, very, very occasionally hear from, and then it is by email or text. I do not judge for he is the product of my *****, and who cannot wonder if...
^a Jewish custom is to place a small stone on the tombstone you are visiting at a cemetery. The custom, ancient, is derived from when a mound of stones would be a marker of a burial. It became customary for a passerby to add a stone to the mound to perpetuate its existence.
^a Jewish custom is to place a small stone on the tombstone you are visiting at a cemetery. The custom, ancient, is derived from when a mound of stones would be a marker of a burial. It became customary for a passerby to add a stone to the mound to perpetuate its existence.
Loxlei Blaire May 2012
What Sorrow Is
Loxlei Blaire
May 2012
Sorrow is a hot flush of prickle
salt filled pearls that spill over
the dry reds of your cheeks.
Sorrow is the swollen ache in your
throat that tugs down on the corners
of your mouth:
gravity that seeks to bring
nose to grass,
forehead to gravel:
the little razor
that dig into your blackened flesh.
Sorrow is the way your own arms
seize themselves:
freckle to freckle,
hand to hand,
all identical and opposite.
Sorrow is knowing that
all sounds coming out of your
own mouth and all self-caressing
comfort is utterly
and irrevocably
and inexplicably
vain.
Sorrow is the cool glass
you smash your brow against
in reflective attempts to cool
poundings in your temple
and calm the only constant of life:
drumming, hot-blood pumping
four-chambers that will one day
Fail You.
Sorrow is dirt you inhale
into your starved lungs when
it buries your head in
earthy embrace
awaiting your thrashing to grow still
as you’re shushed like an animal
before butcher until
your hair blows gently
in the wind.
Sorrow is the way pain like fire
licks every crevice of your sweet skin
until molted scars like old corpses
swallow you whole
making you utterly
and irrevocably
and inexplicably
unrecognizable.
Sorrow is the eyes of your friends
refusing to meet your own
until the flicking of blues and greens
and browns and blacks
to any place besides
the empty whites of your own
is dizzying
is numbing:
an electric buzzing of static
in grey matter.
Sorrow is an invisible hand
wrapping gently around your neck
pushing you under the oceans
of your own briny making
until your foam kissed lips
are blue and cold—
parted slightly in a dead hope
that someone will revive them.
Sorrow is the vice clenching
bloodied tissue of
your battered
and bruised heart
tightly
and tighter still.
Until it is stagnant.
Until it is inconstant.
Until it’s too late to tell anyone
what
sorrow
is.
salt filled pearls that spill over
the dry reds of your cheeks.
Sorrow is the swollen ache in your
throat that tugs down on the corners
of your mouth:
gravity that seeks to bring
nose to grass,
forehead to gravel:
the little razor
that dig into your blackened flesh.
Sorrow is the way your own arms
seize themselves:
freckle to freckle,
hand to hand,
all identical and opposite.
Sorrow is knowing that
all sounds coming out of your
own mouth and all self-caressing
comfort is utterly
and irrevocably
and inexplicably
vain.
Sorrow is the cool glass
you smash your brow against
in reflective attempts to cool
poundings in your temple
and calm the only constant of life:
drumming, hot-blood pumping
four-chambers that will one day
Fail You.
Sorrow is dirt you inhale
into your starved lungs when
it buries your head in
earthy embrace
awaiting your thrashing to grow still
as you’re shushed like an animal
before butcher until
your hair blows gently
in the wind.
Sorrow is the way pain like fire
licks every crevice of your sweet skin
until molted scars like old corpses
swallow you whole
making you utterly
and irrevocably
and inexplicably
unrecognizable.
Sorrow is the eyes of your friends
refusing to meet your own
until the flicking of blues and greens
and browns and blacks
to any place besides
the empty whites of your own
is dizzying
is numbing:
an electric buzzing of static
in grey matter.
Sorrow is an invisible hand
wrapping gently around your neck
pushing you under the oceans
of your own briny making
until your foam kissed lips
are blue and cold—
parted slightly in a dead hope
that someone will revive them.
Sorrow is the vice clenching
bloodied tissue of
your battered
and bruised heart
tightly
and tighter still.
Until it is stagnant.
Until it is inconstant.
Until it’s too late to tell anyone
what
sorrow
is.