Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Carlos Molina Mar 2013
Can't sleep, it's always the same.
I get to my room, exhausted, lie in my bed,
Close my eyes and the Sleepless Fairy
decides to take the reins of the situation.

Maybe if I go to my computer and surf for a while
I could doze off. Maybe I'll go out and have a cigarette
to calm the Fairy. No, this insomnia is different. I can't fix it
with simple solutions.

This wakefulness is not due to the anxiety of an exam,
or the diffidence I have for that one girl I can't get out
of my head. This insomnia is that small sparkle of
uncertainty that has abounded my mind for a long time.
That feeling of vagueness, of yearning. Yearning of what?
I don't know.

It is simply that feeling that I'm missing something,
whatever it is. I go around the whole day in my mind,
what am I missing? What am I forgetting?

During the day I'm acquiescent, lucid, happy.
But come night... time to go to bed.
Time to perform the daily check for recent events.
Catalog the occurrences with different feelings,
accommodated to their respective memories.

But there's something missing.

I curse the Fairy and its 1001 tricks that keep me
awake and conscious about that which is in the

Will the day come when the Fairy shows up no more?

As long as that feeling is housed in me, like a parasite
clogged on its new victim, the Fairy will keep visiting.
Raphael Uzor Apr 2014
Burning my will
In His fire of obedience
Drowning my woe
In cold drops of His blood!

Hanging gleefully
On acquiescent cross
Pleasures, pride and passions
Lost in eternal holocaust...*

© Raphael Uzor
CH Gorrie Jul 2012
(for the unknown You) –
Sweep up a mound of achievements;
layer dogwood and newspaper beneath;
find a small, secluded shoreline to sleep an endless sleep;
shovel money (in at least twenty currencies),
some status and fame
onto the funeral pyre’s unremembering flame;
write furiously with computer or pen,
fill out the days’ whitespace with enthusiastic fantasy;
revel on a fallacy (or three);
win the gladiatorial games in the Corporate Arena;
rediscover a bit of ancient folklore;
set up nice altruistic societies to make orphans feel infinite;
plant a little garden – give guidance in its growth;
build four or five fine-but-small boats
with richly decorated keels;
fight for something worth believing,
though I’m still unsure what that means…
A(my) guess: lyricism and poetry and prose,
musical composition, simply being kind and open;
A suggestion(for You): lay Your hand on a patient’s slowing heart
in a cancer ward, catch their tears with a jar
and meditate on better things to do;
give the old folks a laugh;
steal the Elgin Marbles back for the Greeks,
or, for the memory of ancient Greece;
find where lay a psychopathic fascist’s bitter ashes
and give them to the conspirators for closure;
(for me) place letters on the graves
of John Keats, Percy Shelley,
Wystan Auden and William Yeats;
rescind, abolish, annul, invalidate
my station in God’s dysphoric, existential reverie;
heap up beautiful words and send them off to sea
inside a laptop on a cellophane-wrapped raft;
(for both of us) think thoughts uplifting;
smile thirty-three times a day (or more);
plan for the future of ourselves and others;
give just a bit of love to our mothers;
sweep the kitchen and the city streets for free;
by your garden plant a tree.
Beyond these things for us to do,
be proud-yet-humble, open-eyed and acquiescent;
just accept; all things inanimate and animate, accept.
megan Aug 2018
with every click of Their tongues,
i am acquiescent.
Their words fill my lungs,
audible discontent.

i swallow Their disgust,
mostly misinterpreted,
i nonchalantly combust,
now i am free.
zebra May 2017
her soul a bride
her life a corpse at the gate
a naked mouth red
to lie exposed
without shame
to be rendered unconscious
to be touched, incised, plundered,
and remade
coyly she displays
the weight of her emptiness
chest heaving
her torso acquiescent
aching for the forbidden
her legs parted
saturated like
rain storms bilious cloud
ripe melon brooding
spilling outwards
she would levitate
if only held down
by a merciless man
Pearson Bolt Nov 2016
i’ve long dreamt
of black flags in the streets
tonight i marched beneath
the shadow of their wings

in hope and solidarity
an anarchist professor
with a climate change activist
an independent journalist
and one of my students

as mid-November winds tugged
at her pink-and-brunette hair
she lifted a hand-drawn sign
of a gigantic sneaker
smashing a ****
and i felt
for not the first time
an enormous sense of pride

how humbling to at once
inspire and be inspired by
an eighteen-year-old
punk and artist
who asked to borrow
The Moral Imperative of Revolt
two scant months ago
then took to the streets
to oppose and depose
a twisted fascist virtuoso

for two whole hours
we hundreds owned the streets
we marched down Rosalind
Central and Orange Avenue
as protest slogans rang angelic
we raised hell and found heaven
in liberty equality and solidarity

but then the pigs closed in
cordoned to Lake Eola
to scream acquiescent rhetoric
at the fish sleeping
blissful in their innocence
beneath the jet black surface

a half-dozen cops in riot gear
astride horses loomed
ominous before us
backlit by the headlights
of the aggravated motorists
our march had forestalled

as the people abandoned the streets
we’d won so easily
i felt my chest wilt beneath
the weight of forsaken opportunity
my eyes scanned the remaining crowd

four stood strong
rooted to the concrete
by the world's weight
anchored by conviction
an anarchist professor
an independent journalist
a climate change activist
and a freshman college student

i heard the professor whisper to his student
i heard him say she'd put herself in harm’s way
that they'd lost the day when the marchers
turned their backs and walked away
but she didn’t flinch or move an inch
she stood silent and vigilant
chin held almost as high
as her ****-smashing protest sign
and her matching *******

and in that moment
i could’ve died
This poem is not about me. Quite the contrary, this poem is about my brave student. An absolute champion.
Climb, claim your shelf-room, far
Packed from inquisitive moon
And cold contagious stars.

Lean out, but look no longer,
No further, than to stir
Night with extended finger.

Now fill the box with light,
Flood full the shining block,
Masonry against night.

Let window, curtain, blind
Soft-sieve and sift and shred
The impertinence of sound.

Now draw the silence up,
A blanket round your ears;
Lay darkness close and sure,
Inverted cup to cup
On your acquiescent eyes:
Dismissing body's last outposted spies.
Jane Jan 2019
I looked outside, the sun is shining where it hasn't for days.
I looked inside, it's been caliginous for months.

The smoke over my tea seems foreign,
My gazes are empty,
My flesh feels hardened.

My thoughts don't haunt me anymore,
we live together, a familiar routine.

It's an odd place to be in,
when you're acquiescent for Departure,
but wary of the destination.

Death will grace us all in a given day,
how to act as a catalyst,
I wondered,
simply, keep your door inviting.

As I sat with a blizzard inside,
a deep sunken calm emerged within.

I asked, "who is it?"
"your solace", it answered.

I asked again, confused, "who is it?"
"your tranquil", it answered.

I asked once again, unsure, "who is it?"
"your Departure", it answered. I smiled.

"What kept you so long?", I asked,
"you have. May I stay?", it asked me.

"You've never left. A perpetual guest is always welcome." I answered.

The sound of violins overcame me,
an odd, fitting melody.
only dreaming
Michelle Lynne Feb 2014
From my rotting body, flowers will grow, and I will finally be beautiful.

The marigolds that will bloom will not flee and vanish from the glow of the sun
They will aspire and capture its power, ever basking in its majesty unlike all that I have done
For they are enduring and evergreen, quite a contradiction to someone always on the run

Helianthus will burgeon from my corpse in the Autumn, cordial, acquiescent and jolly
Luminous hues of gold, superiority in the form of a blooming seedling, free of worldly folly
Irresistible to butterflies and feathered creatures, who shall evermore adore the perennial dolly

Snowdrops with delicate pedicels will pepper the frost polishing over my long corroded flesh,
An impeccable ability to synthesize with the world effortlessly, so that I may at last mesh
Nevermore will I acquiesce to let the world negligently toss me about, instead the world will thresh

Irises in the spring will be next to transcend, ripe with nonconformity rooting from their eccentric peridot petals
For the world encompassing them may be wrapped in blissful ignorance, but  they will forever hesitate to settle
They realize that life is for naught, putrescence is inevitable, so why even make a vain attempt to mettle

As sure as the sun will ascend, the summer will materialize, and the sun's glimmer will rage from dusk until dawn
For the world will strive on, long after I am gone, and my effulgence on the Earth is perpetually withdrawn

I am not fearful of death because in death there is ignorance and blissful uncertainty
From my rotting body, flowers will grow, and I am in them and that is eternity.
Don Bouchard Apr 2013
Thrift Shop Confessional

Old carts squeak down re-sale aisles
"One of," "two of,"
Sometimes "three of" items
Tempting treasure-sifting shoppers,
Bargain-needing families,
Women seeking up-brand names at low-brand prices...
Our wives, followed by their husbands,
Acquiescent, but quiescently seeking
Seeking a thrift shop oasis.

A cast-off dining set beckons,
Sturdy enough, if a little battered,
To make us solemnly content to wait
Carted clothing trundling
Off to fitting rooms.

He shuffled up with a foolish grin.
"I think I'll join this convocation of
Waiting gentlemen.
My wife is a shopper...
She'll close the place down."

I moved a chair and gave some space;
Strangers become brothers in this place.

Five minutes on,
I knew he was a vet:
Army, Vietnam Nam...
"I don't like to think about it,"
Cleared his throat,
"Never can forget."

I turned to look at him.

"A little girl came running,
With her hand behind her back.
She only stood this high," he said,
And showed me with his palm her height,
"They carried grenades that way...
All of 'em...couldn't tell which ones...
Sergeant told us, 'Don't ever check...just shoot.'"

The voice trailed off....

I sat sweating in a thrift store,
Captive of my own politeness,
Half a century,
Half a planet,
Transported in his words
into a soldier's Hell.

"So I shot...
Nothing else to do."

Silence then.

A total stranger staggering
under the weight of having
Murdered his Albatross....
Of having carried this thing,
This memory,
Inside him all these years,
Of finding me,
The unsuspecting thrift shop guest
Who'd listen to his lonely tale,
Perhaps so he could earn some rest....

I, his unwitting Confessor,
Uncertain what to say,
Certain something must be said...
Certain nothing could be said...
Sat dumb, but understanding
The wisdom of confessional dividers,
The private comfort of two booths
Where prayerful exchanges
Intersperse uncertain silences,
Present in the overhanging need:
Demanding sorrowful returns,
Impending memories of sorrows...
And lonely trudgings home....

(Connections with Fr. Laurence's "Riddling confession finds but short shrift," in Romeo & Juliet, and Coleridge's "Rime of the Ancient Mariner")
Michael P Smith Mar 2013
The road to truth has many  immure & acquiescent turns
Many tough battles with fire has left marks from many burns
Gruesomely the darkest hours of life are in the nugatory lies
The state of mind conforms with with deception as it so complies
It repeats on and on in the wild confines of a diabolical sequel
Its seems life is so riddled with impractical & daunting ways
People with poisoned minds, so narcissistic & shameful as it stays
To intersect with a soul of opulent  loyalty & truth is seldom & blessed
But the severity of impeccability & prevarication having a fine line,
is a realization so strongly stressed... 
©Michael P. Smith
everly Jan 2018
i lay here again
as i wonder what it’s like to be felt
ferverously by your curious hands.
i’ll be patient and alone
waiting for only you to claim
my throne.
CH Gorrie Sep 2012
Lay simplistic in my nervous embrace,
though my fingers shake with your purity.
A great, gold-backed moon-palette for a face,
and mind acquiescent simplistically.
Your features, sharp and definite, are free,
and none may mumble a pedantic word
against you; let them talk --- they'll never see
or, blindly, feel what you afford:
a priceless truth beneath a thin veneer.
Incomplex, clear, manageable, and clean;
you, non-idealized and lying near,
are like the timbre of a tambourine.
No more rhapsodizing --- lie slowly down ---
be calm tonight; forget this specious town.
Helios Rietberg Nov 2011
by the flickering candle
feeling your chest heaving gently in the darkness
bare and glistening

Watching the whispering moon at its act
grinning evilly through the cracks of the roof
daring us to look
hoping to steal the show
just before daybreak

Dark whistles in the night
Deep resting dreams
And stories of some memories

Every moment well spent
in the cover of that silence
resting softly
quiet after the journey
adamant for more adventure
and gripping our rims
ever so tightly
acquiescent while––
© Helios Rietberg, November 2011
Matthew Harlovic Feb 2015
It's acquiescent,
to grieve for what you don't have,
your losses will pay.

© Matthew Harlovic
Jemoh Dec 2016
With its roots embedded in the ground
The plant gains its vitality
Nourishments painstakingly climbs
Reaching its peak
The blossoming of the flowers
With the canopy shouting out loud

Aren't we all just trees
Rooted yet not literally grounded
Trading the rugged roads
With occasional stumbles
Refusing to fall.

We know the ground too well
It's where we came from
As we shine
Lest we forget what it means to us

Big power has took hold again
Lies paraded as half truth
Discernment has been lost in the process
Theirs hearts opened up to manipulation
Hatred fills their hearts
Through long standing acquiescent norm

Arise from the slumber
Power abhore vacuum
Greatness shall thrive in goodness
Lest we forget the root
It never ceases to bring wonder
To those who chose to stand their ground
James Fate Apr 2013
blood on my lips
dirt in my hair
a smile hidden somewhere in the grimace
your foot looks for something
apparently hidden in my chest
a lung?
it's found both of those already
it finished searching
you left me dying
I guess I should feel disappointed
or maybe angry
to have been dealt my losing hand
but  it's best
not to take this silly place too seriously
they said
we'd all live forever
someday beat back the creeping death
with it's sleeve full of aces
probably not anytime soon
seeing how
we can't stop killing each other
once I thought
life was something big
maybe it will be in time
this little joke
looking at it in dry, acquiescent humor
at least
we all still have a punch line
[ba-dum, kssh]
PrttyBrd Nov 2013
Here lies a lonely heart
And here it was besought
Too acquiescent to question
Too obstinate to acquiesce
Neither foolish, nor naive
The heart endeavors
Tattered in the process
Tentative in its gifts
With but one request
Yet, in its stead
was found thoughtless untruths
Holding fast to words spoken
Despite the fact the truth remains unhidden
Prefer honest consequences to deceit
Regardless how pale in color
Copyright©PrttyBrd 20\11\13
Day May 2016
Amiable, amorous and acquiescent,
an embrace like no other.
Determined and dauntless desire,
is what I long for.
something sensual, i guess
Eric Gallagher Feb 2010
The acquiescent servant of God
Delivering its victims
Quietly, delicately
To its master
Leaving only Past in its wake
Which, like a horrible dream
Is impossible to forget
Lucas Oct 2015
Quik trip at 4, away from a cutie, sleeping of me.
In tune with the void, without commanding action comprising choice.
Quik trip restroom, light in a circle cosmic where I ***, the lack of sleep is kicking hard, but coffee. Yes! There is coffee.

And thank something for such a divine way about this past evening and now this early morning, cold with bustle.
Kismet connections abound in the acquiescent form of non thought.
She cried in every tattoo I'll never have, deep in my chest where it hit me too.

Such sporadic insomnia is medicine for man, and now with the audacity to work heavy machinery, I shower for work after 34 hours of binge in coffee, drug, drink, smoke and woman.
I shave too, it's a must, lest they learn of my recent transgressions against the man.
Hank Desroches Mar 2013
part of the issue is that people spend so much time
          trying to quantify paradise;
                    trying to delineate
                              what exactly it would look like,
                                        and what the air would taste like.

that’s not necessarily plausible.

the imaginations of men
          are acquiescent to their

                              as a species,
                    we form opinions based on
          societal designs that stress a need
for instant judgement.

we’re contained in
          an age of information and instance;
                    an age that has rendered
                    and reflection archaisms --
tasks delegated to philosophers
          and poets
                    and writers for literary magazines,
                              and other ‘nonessential’ social functions.

“nonessential” because of a permanent,
          entirely pervasive air
                    of cynicality
                    and ignorance
          that has descended upon us
as a species.

I digress;
people decide
          what they delight in, and
          what they detest;
                    what they revere, or
what they repudiate,
                              based on quick decisions
                                        and first impressions.

                                        this is paradise

                                                            and there is nothing else to see

                                                                                          seen it all?
WJ Thompson Mar 2017
The question respirates
the acrylic aperture
behind the eardrum.
A responsive tongue to the palate
taps out the consonant.
But before the note descends
with musts in the glass-
The cathartic statue
refracts the
synapses stretching
to grant a
minuscule autocracy.
Already charting north,
fingers fluently gather
ego between the
sundered reverb of the vowel.
Already twisting key,
pressing restive feet
to acquiescent gasoline.
Working on my vocabulary.
Sputter Outlaw Apr 2016
In mid morning dew
Why find you so sullen?
it's of no regret to see
you beacon of blasphemy
when all I's want is
one short
token of indulgency.

Frequent my life
ift you do but dare
respend my strife
if you dost care

weren't it so strange a thing
if by now twere bought a diamond ring
without learning you by now
acquiescent knowledge acsertained
but how?

You are a rose of sorts combined
a fleetful and enormous kind
with skin and flesh delush
mine fitlful longing aflush


Despite all sentiment still obscene
I regail you as my love, my Queen
Eoin J Griffin Sep 2014
A house of cards since torn apart
And spirits broke before restarting.
A crow, whose ****** circles fast
Smells decay now from afar.

The marrow picked, and bleed, once tasted,
Fills the guts of those who've stuffed.
And fumbled in a greasy til
And still want more.
Insatiable. Craven.

Now rats who race to break the bones
Do hurry and scurry to survey these heaps,
All corners kept
questioning Questioning,
Festering, Venturing
these treacherous tendencies.

What once caused irk
now drives berserk
in shadows lurk acquiescent clerks.
Whose duteous work,
Cloyed wolves 'mongst herds,
venerate without exertion.

Can't *** the plants to break enchantment.
Now rubble strews the once green pastures,
Serpentine, exiled from gardens,
This concrete tomb, once womb of Gaea.

How barren plains once bloomed; need rain.
Her balding dusty broken frame
Now chokes with hate for beast with brain
Who slash deep wounds in soft terrain
Contempt, with only glutenous gain.
They reign.
pistachio Dec 2018
As a leaf departs from a twig which dears her true
And which on his care and ardor adamant
So acquiescent and frail you depart too
With the swift wind you became compliant
Then, ceiling became my kind of sky
But bare and dull contrast to that azure canopy placed high
Bed is now my kind of meadow green and dazzling
But damp not of dew but of my tears overflowing
My breath turned into a summer zephyr
Warm and gentle, repose to my fear
My tears grew into an ocean abysmal
Immeasurable with ripples cataclysmal.
You gave me this kind of dwelling after you left. But I guess you didn't know.
Sarah Kunz Nov 2016
Why I am like this?
The taddest stiver from what I deem aptest is excavated.
My skin is pock marked and discolored like a poorly laundered sheet.
When I run my fingers across my flesh ridden vessel my fingers read the incrusted  imperfection.
Divot: you were never worthy
Scar: who could ever find you appealing?
Blemish: your existence is repugnant
I ravenously pick at my skin, hoping I'll find some scintillating suit of beauty lying just beneath my robe of acquiescent reality.
Tear: I fear intimacy because I let my imperfections blind me.
Heart: palpitating panic, I've grown accustom to the small nibbling self loathing.
I harrow my skin not only as a result of my OCD, but as a way to keep me corralled from all the potential I'm afraid to see.  
I feel much more safe sundered away from all the beautiful things I once aspired to be.
Scarring, discoloration, dead skin.
I don't have to fret rejection when I've already denied myself the right to be accepted.
Jerry Bradford Mar 2019
The moon, acquiescent stirs
It conjures, and commands common cycles
The moon, on occasion blurs
That which in the day cannot be viewed
or stifled
As the pearl of Earth turns
With gravity as its strange ally and dubious rival
It concedes to the Sun
Yet even now remains only temporarily idle
Calvin Baker Aug 2014
tickles of startlight
(and flutters of fancy)
dedicate a sermon
to all the hopeful dreamers
casting a wish tonight.

vivid imaginations
moved by frank impossibilities
peeled away the layers
to reveal a mellow thought.

we are not all that we seem
(but not quite what we imagined)
yet there are still a few of us
unafraid of standing out.

heroes destined not to be remembered
and adversaries universally praised
line the pages of this notebook
in ink that looks the same.

embers and coals alive and whispering
haunting memories quick and ticking
fill my addled brain
with threads i cannot follow.

but You can
with all your acquiescent defiance
and souls alight with our raw potential
push us into tomorrow.
Regina Golan Feb 2018
He wants me at first sight.
His glorious, thick-lipped smile,
surrounded by deep and dazzling dimples,
a square, solid jaw and chiseled cheekbones,
shines in the light of his well-worn work truck.
A whirlwind courtship and I am spinning.
I’m a beautiful ballerina in pink toe shoes.
Yet, I’m a clumsy cog, a contrivance,
desperately longing to find my home.

He wants too much of me.
He is insatiable in his desire.
“Sing for me,” he chants.
“You could be a star! I can see it now.”
His dark brow highlights clever, hazel eyes.
His button nose hides his
heritage, but his thick accent
gives him away.

He reeks of macho ideals and an entrepreneurial spirit.
He asks my parents for my hand.e’s doggedly determined.
A stony shiver runs down my barely-bent spine.
I push the far-off fear away
and dig deeper
into the safety of the sofa.

Sweet sadness kisses the girl
with hidden harbored afflictions.
The fair haired, pale skinned girl
with narrow back and large back end.
I’ve a delicate face and bright green eyes
with feet and ears as large as a man’s.
My fiery wit and sultry smile
hide the black cloud within my brain.
I have it all. Unwrap me.
I’m a prize in Nordstrom wrappings,
but also a stunning disappointment
in Prada heels.

A circle of gold slips possessively
on my relegated ring finger
in a land of strangers.
Their dark eyes burrow into me,
yet I wear my smile
like a shield.
Foreign tongues chant in ceremony,
and I am told to drink
the thick, sweet rosy wine. A bitter
spirit that offends my tongue.
A sad smile sits on my decorated face
like the painted palms
lining the path to the white wedding canopy.
My stomach groans. A rabbi chants.
In my mind, I chew on
French manicured fingernails.

Our bed is a crocodile pit with no rest.
Penurious, predatory eyes
cast an eerie glow on the taupe walls.
Green monsters snap at my innocent
until my posture curves toward them
in subservience.
I made my pristine, picture-perfect bed,
so I remain there, despite the accepted
Every day, a new reason to hate
Each tireless tirade
with flailing hands and pounding fists leave me

I stare at the books on the shelf
to keep my composure,
while his Pacman mouth
spews ugly lies and spittle.
A thick spine of leathery brown
tells of long lost lessons of the Torah.

A tuft of black hair
juts out of the venomous
v-neck of his t-shirt.
His calloused hand hits the
soft skin of my face, but I don’t cry.
Nor do I wince. I merely stare
blankly ahead in the dimly lit boudoir
where jade jailbirds roam free
on diamond-patterned carpet.
Where is that lavishly lucky girl?
Who is this broken wife
who’s stolen her life?
I hide, pitifully, behind my extra
wishing away his crocodile cruelty.

The numbness envelopes me in its
superficially loving arms.
I become the hateful creature
that he wants me to be
and he hates me for this, too.
I hide in the shadows of the room,
but I am still visible.

I become a buttercream butterfly
free of the tirade
in the abruptly transformed bedroom
feeling the faraway freedom
of the acquiescent air on my newborn wings.
The pinched nerve decompresses
and I begin to fly
high above the ravenous room,
the frail, foreign female,
the mixed up, tormented macho male
and the pain held hostage
by the stranger I’ve become.
A W Bullen Dec 2019
It is difficult to define
With no black dog to lead
this pressure dropped familiar.
No symbol/ fetish/ effigy
to incorporate a misery that drains
the joy from all that I hold dear.
How does one trace the contours
of an abstract exhalation?

Somewhere near
a pendulum is stilled.

That which I loved one minute past,
that filled this hole of borrowed time
is laid apart her spent electric
body washed in turpentine
Her outline drawn.



I follow where the way grows small
Where disembodied voices pull in
strange degrees of separation
I flow toward their thin remains
shape, ill-defined, subliminal
An acquiescent aftermath of
calculus unknown.

I am pressed italic, hither sent
to comb the sear of cloying strand
for relics of the days worn down
by nothing in particular.
There is no anthem or lament
no ornamental sentiment to wrest
the quickened lacks that sand
the shores of Anhedonia.

— The End —