#compelled - Hello Poetry

~but, yet, another love poem~ In the thousands of years of Earth’s foregoing, marking the reign of humans, all seeking sapience, full well knowing, neither first or last am I to mark this day’s commencement with a need, a desiring, to notate this not unusual but definitively unique calendar entrance with a tribute, neither requested, but freely given to the person who lies beside me. *Did I wake commanded or so compelled to scrabble a collection of words, sequences, initially disordered, into a shape, to chisel these sendings of a chest into a living disbursement, a marbleized breathing creature, that empties and releases a sensory disposition rambling, rumbling into a messy, utterance of sentience while they sleep quiet, pockmarked by dreamed mumblings, dreaming?* No, I did not. News headlines come demanding see me, insistent that I am urgency, but one displaced by the next, making them instantly stale by pealing replacements. This poem, a self- appointed task is now eased, story spent and spurted into a lifespan of a length unknown and untold. But, and yet, here I end, ceased and not resisting, demurring, desisting another stanza, The hour approaches the seventh hour after midnight, rising time. Go now. *The choring chords of fibrous tasks that stitch existence into a sustaining impertinent permanence, list-crossing-off, a-nagging. The itches of living, ask for scratching, 1st cup of coffee making, but smile bemusedly that this first and freshest to do, newly added, is done, dispatched with a line-sworded satisfying crossing off. She sleeps on, while I soon to rise and quiet paddle to the kitchen where kept the utensils for sustenance,* But, and yet, I am contented, miraculously, simultaneous, emptied and fulfilled. 4-14-2021 NYC 7:18am

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Jun 26, 2022

Jun 26, 2022 at 6:15 PM UTC

nat-lipstadt

But, Yet, One in Thousands (Am I Compelled?)

~but, yet, another love poem~ In the thousands of years of Earth’s foregoing, marking the reign of humans, all seeking sapience, full well knowing, neither first or last am I to mark this day’s commencement with a need, a desiring, to notate this not unusual but definitively unique calendar entrance with a tribute, neither requested, but freely given to the person who lies beside me. *Did I wake commanded or so compelled to scrabble a collection of words, sequences, initially disordered, into a shape, to chisel these sendings of a chest into a living disbursement, a marbleized breathing creature, that empties and releases a sensory disposition rambling, rumbling into a messy, utterance of sentience while they sleep quiet, pockmarked by dreamed mumblings, dreaming?* No, I did not. News headlines come demanding see me, insistent that I am urgency, but one displaced by the next, making them instantly stale by pealing replacements. This poem, a self- appointed task is now eased, story spent and spurted into a lifespan of a length unknown and untold. But, and yet, here I end, ceased and not resisting, demurring, desisting another stanza, The hour approaches the seventh hour after midnight, rising time. Go now. *The choring chords of fibrous tasks that stitch existence into a sustaining impertinent permanence, list-crossing-off, a-nagging. The itches of living, ask for scratching, 1st cup of coffee making, but smile bemusedly that this first and freshest to do, newly added, is done, dispatched with a line-sworded satisfying crossing off. She sleeps on, while I soon to rise and quiet paddle to the kitchen where kept the utensils for sustenance,* But, and yet, I am contented, miraculously, simultaneous, emptied and fulfilled. 4-14-2021 NYC 7:18am

33

~another love poem~ In the thousands of years of Earth’s foregoing, marking the reign of humans, all seek sapience, knowing full well, neither first or last am I to mark this day’s commencement with a need, a desiring, to notate this not unusual but definitively unique calendar notation with a tribute, neither requested but freely given to the person who lies beside me. *Did I wake commanded or so compelled to scrabble a collection of words, sequences, initially disordered, into a shape, to chisel these sendings of a chest into a living disbursement, a statute, a marbleized creature, that empties and releases a sensory disposition rumbling into a messy, mediocre utterance of sentience while they sleep quiet, pockmarked by dreamed mumblings, dreaming?* No, I did not. News headlines come demanding see me, insistent that I am urgency, but one displaced by the next, making them instantly stale by pealing replacements. This poem, a self- appointed task is now eased, spent and spurted into an lifespan of a length unknown and untold. Here I end, ceased and resisting, demurring, desisting another stanza, The hour approaches the seventh hour before noon, rising time. Go now. *The choring chords of fibrous tasks that stitch existence into a sustaining impertinent permanence, list-crossing-off, a-nagging. The itches of living, ask for scratching, 1st cup of coffee making, but smile bemusedly that this first and freshest to do, newly added, is done, dispatched with a line-sworded satisfying crossing off. She sleeps on, while I soon to rise and quiet paddle to the kitchen where kept the utensils for sustenance,* I am contented, miraculously, simultaneous, emptied and fulfilled. 4-14-2021 NYC 7:18am

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Apr 14, 2022

Apr 14, 2022 at 7:30 AM UTC

nat-lipstadt

One in a Thousand (Am I Compelled?)

~another love poem~ In the thousands of years of Earth’s foregoing, marking the reign of humans, all seek sapience, knowing full well, neither first or last am I to mark this day’s commencement with a need, a desiring, to notate this not unusual but definitively unique calendar notation with a tribute, neither requested but freely given to the person who lies beside me. *Did I wake commanded or so compelled to scrabble a collection of words, sequences, initially disordered, into a shape, to chisel these sendings of a chest into a living disbursement, a statute, a marbleized creature, that empties and releases a sensory disposition rumbling into a messy, mediocre utterance of sentience while they sleep quiet, pockmarked by dreamed mumblings, dreaming?* No, I did not. News headlines come demanding see me, insistent that I am urgency, but one displaced by the next, making them instantly stale by pealing replacements. This poem, a self- appointed task is now eased, spent and spurted into an lifespan of a length unknown and untold. Here I end, ceased and resisting, demurring, desisting another stanza, The hour approaches the seventh hour before noon, rising time. Go now. *The choring chords of fibrous tasks that stitch existence into a sustaining impertinent permanence, list-crossing-off, a-nagging. The itches of living, ask for scratching, 1st cup of coffee making, but smile bemusedly that this first and freshest to do, newly added, is done, dispatched with a line-sworded satisfying crossing off. She sleeps on, while I soon to rise and quiet paddle to the kitchen where kept the utensils for sustenance,* I am contented, miraculously, simultaneous, emptied and fulfilled. 4-14-2021 NYC 7:18am

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Don't feel responsible to do everything Feel compelled to do something

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Jan 27, 2020

Jan 27, 2020 at 5:10 PM UTC

colettealexia

Something

Don't feel responsible to do everything Feel compelled to do something

2

I shouldn’t have I guess I forcefully moved my things into your heart on parham street This fool has been celebrating a grubby clean slate He drank a cocktail before the harvest After storing his brain safely in the garbage He asked ‘would you be mine’ I shouldn’t have said I love you first Now realising that was the pistol to your head And i jumped the gun twice and over again This fool stands in awe of his folly He reads his scribbles of idyllic love poems and ******** dovy quotidians Every compelled ‘i love you’ will be overturned My hands over-burned from the blisters Bitter from the bile from every memory Though i took my time, I was patiently stupid I shouldn’t have Now i’m sat here with this lollipop of regret Now knowing that every graphic snapshot was because of that same pistol No wonder why it all seemed strange I used to gnaw about making you feel like you needed to trust me and love me I was yet weary of receiving the blame of every kiss, pause and touch I didn’t realise that the foundation was built on compelled labour I was to quick to celebrate, but now i know what i should have

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Jun 28, 2018

Jun 28, 2018 at 5:38 PM UTC

ola_bajo

Forced to Love

I shouldn’t have I guess I forcefully moved my things into your heart on parham street This fool has been celebrating a grubby clean slate He drank a cocktail before the harvest After storing his brain safely in the garbage He asked ‘would you be mine’ I shouldn’t have said I love you first Now realising that was the pistol to your head And i jumped the gun twice and over again This fool stands in awe of his folly He reads his scribbles of idyllic love poems and ******** dovy quotidians Every compelled ‘i love you’ will be overturned My hands over-burned from the blisters Bitter from the bile from every memory Though i took my time, I was patiently stupid I shouldn’t have Now i’m sat here with this lollipop of regret Now knowing that every graphic snapshot was because of that same pistol No wonder why it all seemed strange I used to gnaw about making you feel like you needed to trust me and love me I was yet weary of receiving the blame of every kiss, pause and touch I didn’t realise that the foundation was built on compelled labour I was to quick to celebrate, but now i know what i should have

23

that moment I first saw you I knew I was in trouble you were too handsome far too smart and too sweet I knew I was in denial you said these words to me that compelled me to fall for you lies probably but I listened anyway knowing this could be fiction but hoping it was the truth ever since you left I have realized that I miss you ever since you left I look for you everywhere I go and ever since you left you cannot escape my mind I was told to stop looking so I did then you appeared and I told myself that I wasn't looking for you but maybe I was and maybe you fooled me into thinking I was special rare and wonderful did you mean that at all now I don't think so I am stuck on you already and it scares me intensely all my options seem wrong I cannot leave you but I cannot stay when you held me that first night I knew I would never let that feeling go when you stared into my eyes and asked me "what are you thinking about?" I knew I couldn't tell you because I would look like a fool to say "you"

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Nov 2, 2015

Nov 2, 2015 at 6:59 PM UTC

gravygod

that moment i first saw you

that moment I first saw you I knew I was in trouble you were too handsome far too smart and too sweet I knew I was in denial you said these words to me that compelled me to fall for you lies probably but I listened anyway knowing this could be fiction but hoping it was the truth ever since you left I have realized that I miss you ever since you left I look for you everywhere I go and ever since you left you cannot escape my mind I was told to stop looking so I did then you appeared and I told myself that I wasn't looking for you but maybe I was and maybe you fooled me into thinking I was special rare and wonderful did you mean that at all now I don't think so I am stuck on you already and it scares me intensely all my options seem wrong I cannot leave you but I cannot stay when you held me that first night I knew I would never let that feeling go when you stared into my eyes and asked me "what are you thinking about?" I knew I couldn't tell you because I would look like a fool to say "you"

42

In the waking moons. I write my best verse. A closing of wounds. The most evil of curse. The words write them selves. A compulsion of sorts. The drum of purpose. This supernatural force. I hope I've written. All my pain away. Inviting new energy. To bring a new day. It's love or sadness. And no in between. No words of indecision. Have I got left to glean. Words of great meaning. Passion, pain or practice. Each a worthy path. what ever the price is.

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Jun 15, 2015

Jun 15, 2015 at 12:42 PM UTC

jack-thompson1991

Empty Inside

In the waking moons. I write my best verse. A closing of wounds. The most evil of curse. The words write them selves. A compulsion of sorts. The drum of purpose. This supernatural force. I hope I've written. All my pain away. Inviting new energy. To bring a new day. It's love or sadness. And no in between. No words of indecision. Have I got left to glean. Words of great meaning. Passion, pain or practice. Each a worthy path. what ever the price is.

20