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pitch black god8 Apr 2018
5 Sensory Deprivation Relevations  (Happy Birthday Will Shakespeare)


I     the smell of sad

odor colorless like *****, similar familiar sidewinder effects,
musty invasive, it has no specificity, no locale centrale, well closeted,
saddling saddlng, in place, plain sighted better to toy our lives,
pervades persists, worse lingers, impervious to sprays
and even everyone’s good literature (even Will’s)
good wishes good intentions and mood prayers
to the nearest lay god
on duty at the spiritual emergency room on weekends,
stink

don’t think that this poem is for you; solely for the writer,
your doppelgänger ******, your mirror’s inside hiding out place,
I, who has your sadness smell into my skin cells crept
waft woof and warp wet weft-woven
into the sad receptacles hidden in my
head’s cubbies and the palms of my tree hands-covering face


there are cures so wonderful and inexpensive but unavailable
at the local Rite Aid, though they are the right aid recoverable,
so closer than close, so close that the internist
cannot prescribe them because he must inject himself first
because the live bacteria in the antidote can **** all

this odor lays down bamboo-strong roots;
to eradicate you must dig down deep,
six feet perhaps more, with heavy earth moving equipment,
uproot at the source, follow sad always all-the-way down and the root
great god gone,
but the saddest truth
stench odor yet present

II    the taste of joy

the joy of cooking is not a gene in my litany possess,
but the buttery taste of joy I know, I know,
it’s a real princess rarity,
the hard costs of finding and keeping it,
I’ve paid endlessly and willingly pay on

the taste of joy is like presents under the tree,
shock surprises delights lives/life, customized, infectious
(except for socks, no matter how joyously exceptional),
joy to those whose buds never blossomed for its taste
readable on some one else’s, anyone’s ****** expression

I think of it as the taste of fast traveling cumulus whites
upon my eyelashes blinking as they are speeding you by, but happy
for ten more behind before the evening stars takes over

the taste of joy is physical, there can be no denying,
concentrations can be found in the lips and the fingertips,
which you think of as a tandem, someone else’s on mine

but it ain’t necessarily so; the taste of joy, shared I, having submitted to others kisses carried on the wind that
found their mark and were well received,
poems from the heart
that arrive well,
as their intended is sleeping, and
as intended, as waking gifts

the taste of joy in droplet tears
when you are notified that words
you joined in holy matrimony made you cry,
because the reader did, wept for two,
the weeping of contentment released,
free at last from container confinement;
this particular taste of joy is in the  
recovery and recognition that these
are not for you,
just joy peculiar these tasted tears for whomsoever sheds them

III   the hearing of truthful

truth am told is oft served cold and hard up for the hearing,
best avoided tween noon and midnight and any time a
bathroom mirror is in the vicinity; though religious men lie
too easily; bathroom mirrors cannot; a character flaw for sure,
but the truth to be trusted is this: no one is truly contented, always there are the richer, the more famous, the employed and
someone above who has more, more burdens of a different sort,
better quality losses and pains unseen not dreamed of

truth tastes terrible and is awful sometimes noisy painful;
it hides well in the stink of sad exposed to the atmosphere when exposed it turns red humans blue

truth may set you free, free to be what are you are or truthfully
an admission of what greatness you have to release the trick is
use the correct scale, do not let the wrong sized ruler rule you,
the truth, if you hear, hear it unfiltered w/o the bias implanted
by not your people; hear your poet voice growl like a blues singer and be truthfully satisfied like no thing no person only you could hear it as you intended it be spoken

IV   touches of fantasy fantastic
secret confess: touch my fav cause when its juiced with
mental visions of what might be, it Saturday satisfies and let me weep happy smile silly and is mine all mind; yes another’s tip
has sorcerer powers of revelation
but alone by myself I yet
relevate
and flow; my hands are right sized, my arms reach around myself for so designed, and the pleasure is mine to give;
mine to take,
neither better or worse if self-administered,
touch myself anywhere anytime and fantasy over dreams wins,
rise up, touch is a language and I speak six or a hundred;
listen to the sounds of touching and be touched human

V  insights for the sightless

at last we close the deprived
with an elegant elevation
sight overrated when imagination exists,
cannot be restrained
this the revelation
you have proffered and preferred all this time

have pity on me
I crystallize the unseen with the replacements
of my conjuring
the other senses lend a hand
telling me look up look up, be life save life
let your madness blossom in the spring airs,
the coolness of a first fingered ungloved snow
sight,
a mathematical function from the other four derived,
sightless an impossibility for with one alone defeat the
sensory deprivation and give tongues to words

epilogue

read my face
incapable of,
deprivation
but how now silent bow my head to Will
for teaching the way of words
traced upon
a fool or a king's tongue,
two too human,
so that poet may ken
his senses keener,
all for the better,
for the betterment of all
and now you understand how came this poem to be writ
in the pitch black
دema Mar 17
Guilt of lack of sleep
makes me decide to go to bed early,

Guilt of lack of accomplishments
makes me unable to sleep thinking about it,

Guilt of sleeping in and time wasted
makes me put 3 alarms at 6:01 am, 6:02 am, and 6:05 am,

Guilt of my emotions eating me up,
makes me unable to get up even when Im wide awake,

It turns out that guilt is the only thing I accomplish, allow to eat my day up, and yet can't decide on lacking.
Cynthia Jan 29
I remember.

That deserted park,
I do, I do remember!
We used to run around,
Playing hide and seek,
The seven of us.

The hidden pond,
In that old forest,
Don't you remember?
We pushed each other into the water,
Laughing,
Hugging,
Playing,
The six of us.

That little wooden house,
At the end of our road,
Ah, I would always remember,
We sneaked in,
And deemed it our hide out,
The five of us.

Oh, and our cramped up apartment,
How could I forget?
Watching late night movies,
Waking up tired as ever,
But never with a trace of regret,
The four of us.

And that abandoned theme park,
We always went on the Ferris Wheel,
When it reached the top,
We could see the whole land,
We swore we would travel it all one day,
The three of us.

That dusty old caravan,
Oh my,
Don't you remember?
We used to drive it to the end of the world,
Parked it in a field,
And talked about our future,
Gazing up at the stars,
The two of us.

And how I remember,
Laying down next to you guys,
In a pretty grass field,
Six stones surrounding me,
As I dozed off.

I remember...
Max Jan 20
I need to sleep
Before I start to weep
Because of sleep deprivation
Zzzzzzz
Nisha Fatima Jan 19
In the gleaming lustre of joy,
There's a requisite factor,
A hope to seek some buoy,
And to resist the impulse to shatter.

I open my palms to the divine,
And beg for a prodigious fate indeed,
Listening to the cries depicting the sign,
Until despair eats me up inside, counting as a need.

But is it genuine?
That all corpses turn to the might,
I neglect the thought and continue with the credence of men,
As thought it leads me to the height.

Alas, anyway,
Despite the greed to reign,
In a shallow corner of my bay,
I yet restrain, the hope to attain.
Cynthia Dec 2018
Yes, I visited my old friends one day,
Told them all about my life,
How things have been these days,
Reminiscing the treasures we once shared.

Yes, we sat in silence,
Under the glistening stars,
As I told them,
"It would be nice of you to pay a visit,

Never seem to catch a hold of you these days,
But I hope you're now happy as we once were,
As you now have each other.
But it does get a little lonely for me."

Alas, they never replied,
Perhaps it was the six feet of dirt
That blocked my sigh
As I said,

"Farewell, once again,
My friends,
Your time had run out,
And my hourglass is soon to finish,

And I'll join you,
with a smile."
கையறுநிலை (kai-yaru nilai) - A Tamil word to describe the utter helplessness of losing something and never being able to get it back. (In this case, Friends) (P.S. The literal meaning is: slipping out from one's grasp)
John Gallant Nov 2018
Was the inevitable manifestation
of these finger shaped voids,
raked through touch starved flesh
to torture, or to teach?

Empty fissures easily leveled
by strokes of affection.
If only this crevice laden terrain
would intersect such loving hands.

Perhaps the ache of this deprivation
is neither punishment, or lesson.
It is though, a prominent resident,
at the forefront of my soul.
WA West Oct 2018
Of all known tyrannies,
This is the most airy,
Each word from this day forward,
Will be silk coated
More carefully chosen
Whispered from a kingdom up high,
There are many feelings weaker than,
My hand upon yours,
Our eyes meeting,
I cannot wait to hear your heart's music,
And for it to be recognised for what it is,
Your steps will be the music that gives me strength,
With you,
The world has less sharp edges
harsh looks,
Anya Sep 2018
Bad
You know it’s bad when
You start using “I hate myself”
As a way to say good morning
Anya Sep 2018
I do think someone who adamantly denies themselves would
Possibly write a poem judging others for reading
Their poem
But wouldn’t that be denying others
Not them?
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