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Nat Lipstadt Dec 2023
But I know…

this blending of a warped (time) continuum,
the future resting on shaky table legs,
errors of habitual inconsistency,
one on top of a prior, on top of…

we pursue regrets, misdeeds, theorizing
that we can fix the wobbly mess we instigated,

that can we smooth the ruckus that
the unknown in surety is bonded to be
surly serve up buffet style,

we help ourselves to troubles so attractive,
like rice thrown at a wedding, dead seeds of
messes yet to come

old regrets freshly regretted, for we waste
not even
what we wanted then
even now!

for we do not proper value the passing of each momentary,
but weep and mourn the entirety of years corrupted by
wrong-headed mish-mash of longings,
swift stupid inexcusable acts of impulsive weaknesses permitted,
so that we dust
the dust encasing artificial flowers,
that are so faded that the dust mispermits one
to fool themselves
that they were once ,
burnt orange vibrant,

like the optimism of a sunny day gone and hoped for
just once more

yes, I know why…

<><> <>

*Burnt Norton by T.S.Eliot

“Time present and time past

Are both perhaps present in time future

And time future contained in time past.
All time is eternally present 

All time is unredeemable.

What might have been is an abstraction

Remaining a perpetual possibility   

Only in a world of speculation.

What might have been and what has been

Point to one end, which is always present.

Footfalls echo in the memory

Down the passage which we did not take

Towards the door we never opened

Into the rose-garden.

My words echo
Thus, in your mind.

 But to what purpose

Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know.



the rushing to my ever nearer demise
the dust suffocates,
the regrettables
have no half life,
and I dust,
I know
if I do not,
I choke…
9:02am 12/14/23
Sandman Mar 2020
Seldom are the streets quiet
The children age by the window light
Outside it is spring

March brings the turning of the cold
The adults fester and rot, feeding themselves to their resting places

Wicked things brew far and wide
Sizzling and spewing like acid dissolving bone and flesh

The morning moon glimmering
Time has burned itself to the wax
Everyone is meandering their minds
Searching for a smooth door handle to grasp

There are doors but none to open
There are windows but none to peer out of
There are cars but no one to steer them
This is the apocalypse
Sarah Michelle Apr 2019
She says she has an opening
At 9:15 a.m. Thursday morning.
Whose permission do I need
To respond to what is essentially
My own request, my own persistence,
My own action. Do I regret it
Or don’t I?
Do I dare to eat this peach?
Do I dare to bring this moment--
At 9:15 Thursday morning--
To its crisis?
Will the mermaids still not sing to me
When I become less willing to drown,
Or will they sing louder than for
Anyone else, for want of that
Which they cannot have?
I will arrive at 9:15 a.m.
On Thursday morning
With the bottoms of my trousers rolled,
Not to dip my feet into the
Misleadingly temperate waters,
But to show a counselor
The over-worn, many-colored
And many-patterned
Socks that I wear
Much too often,
And she will tell me
It’s warm enough outside
To just wear sandals.
always anxious Dec 2018
I breathe in until I feel like my lungs might explode. I tighten my neck muscels and before I can think - My entire body is tense.

I'm trying to supress it. It has ruined so much but I will not let it ruin another moment...
I grind my teeth trying to supress it further, not realizing that grinding my teeth ... was a tic too.

Letting my mind slip for a second; I come to find that I have failed - once again
I flick my head, blink my eyes violently - turning the day into a stop motion movie - Once again I already know the plot.

Everything is moving in slowmotion around me - my body moving too fast to hold it in I fail - once again my body is dancing to a beat that is not mine.

I feel the pain in my neck. It is sore from giving into the neverending urge - once again it is strained from constant twitching and has been for god knows how long.

I try to ignore the pain and focus on supressing what's coming next, but being distracted by the pain I fail - once again I flick my head and exhale as fast as humanly possible. The exhale doesn't come alone - it never does. A pallette of sounds escape my mouth.

It was not me making those sounds, but the lungs affected by the pain are mine.
I feel the cycle starting over - once again.

It goes through me like a wave of energy.
I have been robbed of the control over my own body - once again.
The power to fight back has ... vanished.

I go to bed early but sleep late; battling this force with every shard of energy I could possibly have left - Once again leaving me exhausted enough to finally sleep, despite the constant twitching.

They say it's a chemical imbalance in my brain.
Too much dopamine is released.
As far as I'm concerned dopamine is a "Feel good hormone", so why does it make me so miserable?

I lay here thinking about when this cycle will end?
And when it finally does end, when will it restart? - Once again...
I suffer from tourettes syndrome. This poem is written about how it feels to have a tic attack
- an unknown length of time filled with constant tics. It can last anywhere from 2 minutes to 24 hours.
Tammy M Darby Dec 2018
Does the true being of self to consciousness cling
Disappearing suddenly when reality so elusive sings
Pride covet words in anticipation of the ultimate ascension  
Daring to imperil it all for ink and pen
Ignoring the warnings
A poets world rarely mentioned

We discard with little effort what imparts to us conventionality and vague interest
Desiring instead to reminisce on that which tortures and haunts us
It is by choice we reside freely and roam in unknown dimensions
Artists of our experiences
A poets world rarely mentioned

Many will condemn with ridicule and scorn
Those who exist in the universe of the word
As we climb the stairs to the dreamworld
Closed to those deficit in imagination
Only the ingenious may enter
Virtuosos of the mind and heart
A poets world rarely mentioned

@ copyright Tammy M Darby Dec. 29, 2018.
vera Mar 2018
Perhaps in time, I will understand love,
How our separate bodies are to become one,
Perhaps in time, I will understand
How I never could love you,
While loving you.
"the women come and go talking of Michelangelo"- T.S Elliot
Wicked Mar 2018
I twitch
I shout
Without thinking
I move
I make noise

I don’t have any control

I ****
I yelp
Without thinking
I flick
I whimper

I never had control

I jump
I yell
Without thinking
I twist
I scream

I’ll never have control
Wicked Mar 2018
I wake up
        head ****
        shoulder roll
        tongue click
I get ready for school
        head ****
        head ****
I get on the bus
I put on my headphones
        arm ****
People stare
I suppress
        They build
The minutes drag on
        Like an itch they can’t be ignored
The bus can’t go fast enough
        They’re pushing up
We arrive at school
        They’re going to escape
I run off the bus
        They begin to explode
        head ****
        arm ****
I distance myself from the students
        arm ****
        head ****
        head ****
        tongue click
        tongue click
They stare
        shoulder roll
        arm ****
        shoulder roll
Everyday I tic and twitch
A homage to my everyday struggles living with Tourettes Syndrome. Tourettes is a chronic condition where you have involuntary movements and make involuntary noises.
Matthew Rousseau May 2017
Amber is the color of your energy,
I know I understand you,
bonded from paternal love, so naturally,
A soft melody, Your reasons, a lot of,
times you learned, fueled by experience,
your guidance for me, it's furious,

You're gone now, with a part of me
We can't find common ground,
we agree to burn it down,
We play it like a game,
Too late, we realize that's lame,

the needing in our compass is trembling,
your words hurt, an eminent sting,
Now I see all the futility,
of resisting all these jaded realities,

Don't burn what can't be rebuilt,
your mind is a million miles away,
your heart in the same place,
fix the day, before you separate,

Now I've hit the ground running,
these lessons I find so cunning,
The ice we skate is getting pretty thin,
The water is getting warm, go ahead, swim,

I miss you dad, and this is how I say
goodbye, I know you cannot stay,
The years start coming, and they don't stop,
Anxiety's the worry on top,
I know I let you down,
but I'm just a slave to the night,

I know I gave you hell through the years,
I know you've shed countless tears,
and I know you have countless tears.

But now there's a single truth.
There's you in everything I do,
dad, miss, you, miss you, Matthew, T.S., Rousseau, Matthew T.S. Rousseau, sad, loss, death, passing, mourning,
WJ Thompson Mar 2017
T.S. Elliot reminds me that I don't have to rhyme,
Every line,
                      be on time, in measure,
Or attitude,
Or make sense,
Or only write when I'm depressed,
Or sad or angry.

Which is good,
Because I, (and I'm not being sarcastic),
honestly feel fine
T.S. Elliot=My favorite poet of all time
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