Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Nat Lipstadt Jun 22
not  the prophylactic kind,
nor the rubber kiss road tire kind.

but the rubber of bodies
old and young,
tired and tense,
young and flexible
migrained, played & splayed,
pain paralyzed,
soothed by cherubic
fingertips
oiled with,
anointed by,
a-custom cream
of tenderizing aloe
and gentling, kind loving
quieting & shushing

tho mine own temples,
raging, feverish,
combobulating
as words spill as *******
and then

she
sleepy whines:
why did you stop rubbing me?


and for
a sleep deep,
she leaves
me,
going unanswered

but happily
nonetheless
boy be typing
**The End
On Sunday morning, bathed in golden light,  
I grasp for life with all my might.  
Yet day is weak, my heart is blind,  
In shadows lost, no warmth to find.  
Colder than winter, darker than night,  
Bitter like every farewell in sight.  
I fight, but strength has left my soul,  
My fate remains beyond control.  
A deep breath, one more, once again.
I hold it in to mask the pain.  
Yet silent tears refuse to hide,  
Still searching for a way outside.  
What is my meaning? Do I belong?  
I seek the answers, but for so long,  
The void just echoes back my cries,  
And chills me with its silent ice…


(c) xellber
Nat Lipstadt Jun 7
Like King David in the bible, as I grow older, bones grow colder, seeking added warmth  where, how, ever, mechanical, humanoid

Start my day, with a Canadian mug, illustrated with Vincent Van Gogh's Almond Blossoms, brim 19 .oz filled of Caribbean islands blended beans an elixir biblical that soul restoreth, and yet fresh from the *** yet requires 1:30 seconds of maximum additional heating

and I drink it down in minutes few

and go back for another

I know I'm droning on, many of you have escaped looking for pithy
abbreviated angsty desperation that
tumbles out of troubled chests

well you have to just keep on wailing
what no mas?

nope

but u can always hope

sorry this poem joke is in you...
but feel free to microwave me
back
Àŧùl 4d
My poems, novels, and original music might be discovered by some alien civilization someday. Why do I express faith in aliens? My real-world people and other inhabitants of the planet are too self-absorbed.

I don't blame anyone. I can’t blame anyone. Who would I spare if I begin judging?

Strangers seem apathetic, but what have my people done for me? My former friends, colleagues and distant relatives all refuse to even read my free poems.

I have stopped expecting. What good would be a mechanical marriage be? If you can't admire my art and validate my efforts in life, why should I marry you?

If I were a rich kid to start with, I'd have hired a public relations manager. I'd pump millions to build my image. I'd have everyone read even my premium novels.

And then you'd have seen, I'd probably have been happy.

They have seen me smile a lot. I have a smiling face like my father. But is happiness all about smiling? Is it about killing my desire for validation and acceptance, for admiration and appreciation?

Why do I expect validation? Because they have invalidated my existence. They collectively considered me an inconsequential fool after I endured brain-damaging injuries in that coma-inducing, high-speed bike accident on May 7, 2010.

People are sadists. They are happy presuming negatives about me just because I survived that accident. I expected acceptance from her, but she was too self-absorbed for imparting such healing effects.

I shouldn't have agreed to get married to her. Why? She started avoiding me next day onwards. It's not like her work kept her busy. She had all the time for Instagram Reels. When I objected, she misbehaved further.

She called my art outdated. The injuries have healed almost completely. However, I can’t heal from the misgivings. And not just because of her. Even my colleagues, friends and relatives have invalidated my efforts to rise from the depths of depression.

They cited their busyness whenever I requested them to read my premium novels, or even experience my free poetry, or listen to my free music.

From her I expected validation and empathy, understanding and acceptance. But all she gave me was indifference and apathy. She should've understood my situation after more than a decade of social boycott I have faced due to my temporarily disabled state. And she's doing her course in special education, where teachers ought to inculcate the virtues of empathy and kindness. She didn't have any of it. She just reminded me of the apathetic society.

The society had suggested my parents to help me establish a roadside candy stall because they thought (or rather hoped) that I may never get back to normal life after such a major road accident. Their small minds made them presume that similar to Bollywood movies, I'd never completely return to a normal life. They even gave me the nickname of Ghajini after figuring out that I have the diagnosis of short-term memory loss.

I not only completed my pending B.Tech., but I also attained a postgraduate M.Tech. in Animal Biotechnology. They still judged me negatively. During the PhD course, they set up impediments. The obstacles they presented me with were both moral and systemic. I understood that they were not educated enough to help such special cases as me.

I'm professionally successful, and I have ample investments too. But I dearly required the world to read my novels and poems, and even listen to my free music back at that time. It'd validate my existence. However, now I figure out that I’m not ever going to be validated by anyone.

Now I feel hopeless about the future of the human society. For more than 15 years, I've been experiencing such ignorance. They didn't read even the novels I gifted to them, the thankless people.

I'm sorry to say, the society has disappointed me. They refused to give me an opportunity to prove that my worth is beyond the physical limitations after the cataclysmic accident.

Now I'm creating a dystopian future by writing predictive fiction. In my 2021-novel titled "Swansong: A Tribute?" I had accurately predicted the ongoing hostilities between Bhaarat and Pakistan.

Next, in the same novel, I predicted a China-centric World War in near future. They don't pay attention to my words. But I have a knack for predicting things.

Why should anyone pay attention to my words? Who am I?
I'm just a lucky survivor.
Now I don't fear anything. Judge me as you may find it convenient. I have everything I need. But I no longer expect any validation. I'm on a matrimonial platform, but they all seem ineligible. To validate somebody, you need a high emotional quotient. The present generations don't have the required EQ.
Nat Lipstadt Mar 29
Ye olde Yo-***, advises get thee to a nunnery of trees, leaves of sunlight scorched sunrises and sunsets to clear the cobwebs and recall more fully the good stuff,  like in Oregun,

allow it to resonant via ****** shots of temporal, but seasonal natural harmony, a more regulat visitor of the upcoming comes of good weather and the life by the water, on a tiny islansd, long lazy days, and a lessening of the
mental haze-ing

punctuating life with long walks and teardrops of tears, poetry suggestives, will be dropping from icy white cumulus every day clouds, moving to uncover the elaborate and running trills of colutara words lurking within, no more the blaring horns of trafficked sounds of First Ave., trucks fighting to de-liver-er the urgencies of consumption (a most excellent disease) and the potpourri symphony of marching bands blaring of ambulances, fire trucks, and the EXTRAordinary impatience of horn blaring taxis up and down York Ave., dropping off patients 24-7 at a laundry list of  "specialized" Hospitals with "views of the river in every room"

I miss the quietude noises of summer breezes tickling minds, trees frothing a
cappucino sun heated breeze to stir the blush and rush of words forming faster than the mind can absorb;

alas, alas, this same mind can never fully squeeze out the sins of memories of winter's travails and yet, the mere suggestion of my old friends embracing me, sun, wind, green landscapes, sea and land animals coming to greet the human interlopers makes me all stirred up, like watching white milk in black coffee spread its cooling affection and lightening the black; aerate and mixing the perptual continuum of my ever slowly chilling bloodstream streaming to mind
                               and I sigh, for many reasons...but in my heart, I am, and remain, forever a summer man...
aerate and mix and I sigh, for many reasons...

Absent brain surgery, the mind wanders following the sun's trajectory, wither?
1/27/25
grew up near the atlantic ocean, and on my bike I would disappear for a whole day,
and the kid was suntanned and blond, and free to be an explorer of everything; and that is why I am forever a summer man
Still Crazy May 29
~for M. G.*~
who discerned in a

witty three words,
my essence, perfumed~

<>
we all have in our own(ed)
personal debtors prison,
a chained inner child
asking always:
Am I there yet ?

sad smiling,
a 'no you are not,'
for to freedom day to arrive,
the child must unlock the chains,
no one else can be
permissioned!

someday he'll, rebelent,
will comprehend that
wishing insufficient,
asking nice,
once, thrice, millions
can’t break
the padlock,
And you have to walk away from the inner child,
Leave it to starve
Leave it to die
Leave it to be free
And just a regular grown-up guy!

So saddened
There will be no return
There will be no funeral
No keepsake memories
For the keeping
No capital letters
Just a path
Large yellow arrow pointing
This a way
Bluntly and without fuss, un accompanied by any special invitation,

You leave behind the writhing child
plodding forward,
Slightly offkilter, slightly off balance,
But no longer writhing,
Just drifting from the course,
Ever so slightly
Which is drama plenty,
But there is no morning mourning for the child left behind
DEC '24
Eme Mar 18
She repeats patterns she learned from home.
She is blinded by her actions.
Justifying what happened.
She’s the hurt one,
not them.
She knows the answers.
No one listens.
That’s her truth.
People leave.
They don’t agree.
She’s alone,
Saying, why me?
Until the pain is too great to change,
She’ll see herself as a victim,
and continue living the same.
Isolated.

I have to heal my inner wounds.
I have to face reality.
I contributed to this relationship. (Mess)
I feel remorse.
I am ashamed.
I’m ready to start,
and face my inner pain.
In time I see,
I am at peace.
Thank you, me,
Thank you for not giving up.
why when we compose
on matters urgent
oh my love

are we not provisioned with
beginnings and endings,
opening and closings?

We know what needs to be said,
the symmetry of butter and bread,
but how to begin and how to end,
these difficulties, not easy to comprehend

how to get
to the heart of the matter,
the door to the hallway
leading and departing
to
the front door entrance,
to the front door exit,

don’t know the words to begin,
the words to end,
which way does
the door open or close?

so read this, please, sit beside me,
while you place your fingertips
on my lips
and encourage me to
just say it!
2/28/25
J J Jan 12
O ladybird, lend me ur heart.
Sigh heavily and blow the cobwebs from my brain;
Unwind us both until we undo ourselves to the very start.
Dry me from your torrid rain.

Ladybird, O ladybird,
I’ll bleed over your feet
And stickily paint my lips
In the name of your grace

So loving it descries and so nonchalantly unforgiving and relentless

My ladybird, O ladybird

Crawling nails thru my hair like scratched steel, spotty from the outset, femme-fated accent

Ladybird in her own image;

  Arm outstretched, palm bent up facing,
O ladybird, my ladybird…

Oh Jesus Christ
RVani Kalyani Nov 2024
It feels weird,
I try to collect happiness,
In minutes and keep a checklist,
So I do things that bring me joy.
I don’t feel myself,
When that checklist’s empty,
Am I turning more,
Into a human or robot,
When will things be fine,
When would things go back,
Into how they were.
Next page