#repulsion
As we share our meal,
as we laugh without care,
I like to think that they are secretly -
against their better judgement perhaps,
and despite their best attempts
to resist their inner urges -
that they are secretly,
at an almost primeval level,
repulsed by me.
But they'd never admit it
as they smile across the table
and say yes to desert.
Oct 18, 2022
Oct 18, 2022 at 5:13 PM UTC
there were oil stains outside his house
where the car had sat
like the stains,
he bore marks
little pocks
that had worn on his face
from a life he lived
al a erosion
though each scar, skin deep
as shallow as the rest
he felt best
when they bled
Nov 16, 2020
Nov 16, 2020 at 8:01 AM UTC
minding care of sun
i step outside cautiously
finding repulsion
observe the day golds
refolds in time proceeding
i flee ; propulsion
arbor shield timely
stop-rest inner ******
heartbeat, kind pulsion
Jul 26, 2019
Jul 26, 2019 at 9:32 PM UTC
The ocean, I wonder; Does it ever regret?
O’ how many lives has it taken?
Maybe the sound of the waves that reach endlessly upon the shore;
is a cry? A Plea?
Does the sea regret.
Does it regret all the lives it has taken?
A force to be reckoned with it knows;
it’s anger is as a mothers when a child is taken from her grasp.
Does the sea reach out for the lands forgiveness?
All creatures young and old, oh, how they fear her might.
The seas sorrow is hidden in plain sight;
Can't you see it?
Can't you hear it?
She is crying!
She is full of sorrow and anger.
Why do we hurt her more?
Why do we seek to control and contain something so pure?
Do you hear the ocean's melody?
Anger, Sadness, Love, Hate, Compassion, Deception, Woeful, Kind, Desolate and Free.
It's such an Amorous piece filled with her deepest thoughts and feelings.
The Ocean's beauty O’ how it captivates the mind.
A Sailor's dream; Repulsion
A Birds ambition; Delusion
A Child's fantasy; Nightmare
Have you ever wondered if the sea regrets?
All the lives it has taken O’ how many do you think?
Has been captivated by her beauty, only to think;
such a Woeful sight, for thoughts can’t contain her endless crimes.
Does the Sea regret, and the land hate?
How many lives have we taken?
Maybe our crimes are worse than the Sea?
For we can’t even live in Harmony..
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 9:09 PM UTC
this mere mortal frequently feels:
a. like joost another brick in the wall
or b. feels comfortably numb while alienated
in this condemn nation
with the sounds of silence
written on the virtual subway hall
n wishes he could escape
(like that eponymous spoon
running away with the tine e fork)
2 the dark n far side of the moon
jumping without Humpty Dumpty fear 2 fall.
joost as an *** side (wit me only intent 2 *** till late)
let me playfully close this email by readily admitting
that voluptuous women with plenty of junk in the trunk
(or 2 employ more outdated term zoftig)
does readily prompt a top notch rating of google times ten
for those queen of denial big a$$ bot tum gals
who possess buxom build plus smart n able 2 understand
how 2 cosign via trig
anyway, for your edification, i wish for nada qua non
one snarling day vid growl joining me
in monogamous ****** gig
which latter mental ability
might not in the least matter 2 moost men
unsure if my poetic reply you will find *** abominable bore
or be prompt an oh bomb in a bull barrack 2 dig
this common joe just biden his time
but in a nutshell with no intent to be impolite,
mine eyes (no surprise nor insult meant)
favor gals whose ***** happens
2 be outlandishly big
in tandem to the searing roe bust english language,
which this simian i.e. **** sapiens doth adore.
from::the fool on the hill, who lives along
abbey road near penny lane
across the street. Eleanor rigby, Mister Kite,
the virtual nay burrs o this human grain
plus Norwegian wood, the latter actually a great dane.
postscript:
words my (ahem) pen ultimate live aim
while trying 2 steer clear of reese sieving a wagging
virtual finger in blame
neither at some fellow nor destitute dame
since chance circumstances of existence akin to being frozen
in some space/time paradigms frame
attempting to extricate our selves playing lifelong game
which message offer in this poem rather lame.
email moi, which means
applying cerebral muscles to flex
fire off a brief bull a tin i.e.
preferably a brief text
to TRACFONE NUMBER =
215---370--8929
Feb 2, 2018
Feb 2, 2018 at 4:19 PM UTC
maybe we are like the opposite
ends of the same magnet
perfectly designed for one another
but never meant to touch.
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 2:34 PM UTC
you stained me
like napkins you
wipe around your lips,
crumpled and thrown away.
a lump in my throat
some nights you set me on fire
some nights you freeze me
with your words
i couldn’t walk away
i couldn’t set things straight
for each time i take one step forward
i take two steps back.
i made a thousand paper cranes inside
my head hoping that wishes
could somehow
be granted because legends tell us so
i guess legends
are legends for a reason.
i am not a phase of your life
nor a moment that would just
pass like days and nights i feel empty
after you shoved the life out of me.
i am not a jolt,
a spark, that surprise you
for a moment that’s soon forgotten
i am more than a moment—
i am an experience, i breathe life,
i am capable of reading between the lines.
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 7:34 PM UTC
you ask, "why i haven't killed myself?"
I.
the day she died,
i remember my father telling me
there are millions of good girls out there
then i realized, she was the one in that million
and for her, i'll stay alive for another trillion
II.
my hope that one day, this pursuit of happiness
will eventually peruse me to joy and success
but i wear anxiety like a dress
to the point i've made this whole 'killing myself thing' a mess
III.
for all the heartbreaks i've endured
there will be one girl that invents the cure
but i reject love to the point it's lost its allure
and death is the only thing that has become sure
IV.
why i haven't killed myself?
i am already dead.
we said we'd grow up and meet in a coffee shop one day
now you're gone and to see you again, my life would be the price to pay
but you have reserved your soul in me, embedded like espresso in a latte
push these pills away, and hear you whisper "there are other ways"
V.
i outright refuse to hear my grandmother's religion talk about suicide in an ignorant manner.
i rather not be the talk of Christmas dinner
and rather endure my aunt's repulsive dessert than become the devil's bread-winner.
VI.
why i haven't killed myself?
i am already dead.
i am finally starting to find love again
and i'd rather the ink of this pen die before i enter Heaven's den.
VII.
i can't handle seeing my brothers at my funeral
hear them whisper of all my "wasted" potential
then see them leave to use drugs as their coping utensil
VIII.
i would get to see her again in heaven
but she would bring my heart into a deep descend
as she says "to me, you are forever dead."
IX.
everyone would speak about my sacrifice
but i wear pride and it shreds my skin like knives
and god forbid, i disappoint my loved ones before i end my life.
X.
why i haven't killed myself?
can't you see it? i am already dead.
i died the day she left and i'd rather my final words to her
be the last thing i've ever said
than a stupid poem about how i kept wishing i was dead.
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 10:05 PM UTC
The greatest of distances separated us,
but being abrasive at best,
our two rougher edges always sparked.
Even when friendly,
a side conversing of judgement
and not-quite-resentment
kept the parameters of conversation
shallow and narrow minded.
Deeper inference
caused interference
like static in my mind,
and short circuits were common
even in the most civil of discussions
common to other circles.
Round and round,
wishes to connect and
a secret bid for volatile collision
kept us chasing,
while a wary voice forced us to stay separated
like magnets pushing and pulling.
Never did two people
hate so many common things
and yet repulse each other so completely.
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 4:50 PM UTC
out of the womb
and into a suit
the cords that connect us
repel us too
the more the reception
the less the connection
the more we discover
the less we recover
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 8:52 PM UTC