"agains" poems
Here’s to us
to the next generation
Here’s to us
to the first generation with shorter life expectancies than our parents
to the next generation to create the most lethal weapon
Here’s to us
to another generation that is perpetuating stigmas around *** and ****** preferences
to the next generation to create cancer causing chemicals
Here’s to us
to another generation keeping racism and sexism alive
And here’s to us
to the next generation to **** up the next generation!
Yeah, here’s to us and all the distress
we cause
Yeah, and here’s to us and all the mess
we cause
No!
Here’s to us
to the next generation
Here’s to us
to the generation craving to live deeply and fully
to the next generation that will fight for our rights as blacks and whites
Here’s to us
to the generation that understands that sexuality is fluid
to the next generation to walk for; work for cures
Here’s to us
to another generation of protests agains lies and fights won with mighty pens
And here’s to us
to the next generation to create the next generation.
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 1:18 PM UTC
My mom is snoring,
thirteen stairs and ten feet away.
My mom is peaceful,
thirteen stairs and ten feet away.
My dad is watching,
seven stairs and fifteen feet away.
My dad is learning,
seven stairs and fifteen feet away.
I am sitting,
on the floor against a trunk.
I am crying,
on the floor agains a trunk.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 5:11 PM UTC
It was a moment so chilling when I realized I had feelings for you again.
Yes, again.
This rotation of endless "agains" has kept me up day and night in anger,
love, lust, but most of all, confusion.
This relation we have is driven by ****** jabs and hurtful comments
designed to inflict the most pain on each other.
This "again" that I feel will fade into nothing more than another hatred for you.
But just like every other time, soon we will both start gazing at each other from across the room
and quickly looking away as though the other hadn't seen our eyes on their face;
We will begin once again lose the offensive spews
and our small conversations will evolve into tense talks with blushed cheeks and hot ears;
Yet somehow, I cannot get enough of this cycle of "agains".
It is addictive like your personality.
It is an obsession like your ability to make me crazy.
I am crazy for you,
but at the same time I fear that this ***** craze with wear off
and we will be left with nothing but silence.
Could this be true admiration for one another? Is this chemical?
Or is this passionate relationship powered on by our teenage hormones and sexually-frustrated bodies?
Just tell me what you want.
If you are happy, I will be content.
I guess, if you look at our situation from afar,
you could say we're in love. I’d disagree.
This is nothing but an infatuation between two people both sharing one common thing:
somebody who they can imitate passionate love with again and again.
I crave your physical touch and your boyish humor.
I need your attention most of all.
You need it too; you need me more than I need you.
How you wish to brush your lips against mine and feel my body and hold my hand and be mine. Nonetheless I wish for that too. Badly.
Nightly I torture myself over what to think, what to want.
But every time this happens, I push you away.
And the cycle of "agains" return, only to ruin us inside even more.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 5:51 PM UTC
I feel everything coming down
in the dead of night
"five months" my head says
five months has never felt so long
for five months I haven't held your hand
for five months I haven't felt your lips agains mine
but for one night at least
we can forget this horrible curse the universe has placed on us,
Distance.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 8:54 PM UTC
NEW AGAIN
AGAIN I AM LONGING.
FOR AGAINS ARE REPETITIVE.
IT SEEMS I NEED TO HURT.
I NEED TO OVERCOMPENSATE.
BUT I AM BROKEN FROM BEFORES.
SHOULD I AGAIN, AGAIN?
QUICKSILVER THOUGHTS,
RUNNING MADLY,
DEADLY IF CONSUMED.
AND I AM CONSUMED AGAIN.
THE INNOCENCE OF EYES,
MY OWN FAILURES REFLECTED BACK.
I AM MOTHER, DAUGHTER.
EX-LOVER, EX-FIANCE… EX HUMAN?
I AM TEARING AT MY SOULSKIN,
A WEREWULF AT FULL MOON.
MY INNER BEING IS SUFFOCATING.
IT’S TOO EASY TO BE HAPPY.
HARD IS GOOD.
I MUST BE GOOD.
A GOOD LITTLE PUPPY.
A BAD LITTLE PUPPY.
WILL I BITE THE HAND THAT FEEDS ME?
Feb 17, 2010
Feb 17, 2010 at 3:42 AM UTC
By the end of this poem, those once vibrant
shall slough off in horizons of necrosis.
As I tap out completion,
their summer cedes to countless performances;
actors bow before the closing curtain of Autumn.
The maelstrom of summer-lovers lulls to a murmur
And the great Mevlana’s couplets and Khayyam’s quatrains
Float away on the formations of down-bound geese.
You’ll hear the Doppler shift of devotion’s goodbye
On the whines of the locomotive’s whistle.
By the end of this poem, the thistle fades
from heliotrope to gun metal gray.
The clandestine scent of “once-whens”
Wafts into a future of “now-agains.”
Yet, this new Fall is bittersweet.
Before another ********** of trees,
a red rose blushes in reminiscence.
By this poems end, I’ll be in love
with the chill of an approaching season
wearing the brightest flower in my garden of poetry
One last choke on the rising smoke
as the last painful stanza goes
Into the solemn procession
toward the sacred pyre of leaves.
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
I don’t really know why I’m writing this, except somewhere, to someone, to no one, I owe an explanation. I also deserve a small rant. The past two months have stripped me of everything I believed to be true, and all my perceptions have become a gallery of laughing spectators. This whole big thing we call life is absolutely insane and has severely twisted ways of tripping us up and holding us carefully at the same time. All I can say is that I got a second chance at it, and the blows keep coming harder and harder but all I can do is roll with them, because giving up is not an option any more, and there is beauty underneath all of the suffering, and an exuberance that emerges in survival. Every day, we are fighting, fighting, fighting to survive. I’m not the right person to say if it’s worth it or not, or to give advice how to swallow the pills we’re given, or how to show humility, or give forgiveness, or find a little corner of happiness to hold onto when we slip. But I know there is a reason why I am here, why you are here, and why time runs in circles, and why things happen the way they do. We are both slaves to destiny and masters of choice. We have an innate bilateral symmetry that manages to be both. Someone told me there are no do-overs, but there are don’t-do-agains. I may not care for this person, or perhaps I love them wholly. I think it could be both. When these scraps of wisdom float by, grab them and put them in your core, no matter who says it. It could be an ex, a professor, your mom, a stranger-it doesn’t matter. They are giving you a gift. Try it all, and if it doesn’t work, move on. Hurt people and get hurt. Go out of your way once, and if it doesn’t prove to be in your best interest, walk away. Do what you want, but don’t destroy yourself getting there. Just keep walking in the direction you feel is best. Everything is difficult, and it will always be difficult. That is why this life is so ******* magnificent. Each day we can celebrate that we made it. There is nothing more pure, or more raw, than moving forward and understanding that no matter how hard things are, and how ****** everything looks, if you just keep moving, and don’t look back in order to bring the past with you, it’s not horrible at all. Each rough patch is just a foothold to climb on to. We all have to be up to get down, and down to get up. No matter what choices you’ve made, or the guilt you carry, know that tomorrow you can wake up and check that baggage at the door, and simply walk away with a list of things you can’t do over and things you won’t do again.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 6:29 PM UTC
My mind is a sea
of what ifs
and never agains
I want to scream
and scream
and scream
But I am afraid
that if I start...
... let it out...
I will never stop
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 7:09 PM UTC
remember we won first place
from competing agains Burroughs
and on the bus ride home
I sat in the loneliest place
and wanted to burrow
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 11:17 PM UTC
I love how the setting is after rain; I can almost focus on the sound of my steps as if it is the only thing I need to worry about. dry, chapped lips from the cold breeze that has set in only allows a few whispered words to pass at a time.
droplets along the window blocks connect each thought as my fingertips connect each dot, allowing my mind to wander where it usually does not. the drops along the metal roof tell a story like a rambling poet agains the keys of a typewriter, uncertain of which drain will drain the pain away.
(j.a.r.)
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 7:02 PM UTC
The rain came down in sheets that night
Thunder, as lightning split the sky
In that flash of light I saw you at my door
Your tear filled eyes glistened in a dark.
You want it darker?
Whistles of the wind through wires as
Rain knocked agains the windows of my room
Glass of wine in candle’s dancing light
Drama of the one you left behind.
You want it darker?
Your story was so incredibly complexed
In the way of pain inflicted perfect storm
How the one you love - left you broken
Hurting, at my door, looking for revenge.
You want it darker?
With every kiss our friendship’s dying
With every teardrop revenge was growing hotter
No love can heal the pain we’re causing
As we fell lower our fury burnt brighter.
You want it darker?
Like stars on a cloudy night
My true feelings were hiding in a dark
I couldn’t even look you directly in your eyes
Cause through you I was making love to her.
You want it darker?
Agonizing pain of self Inflicted cuts
Hearts drained of passion, dying fast
We both knew that you’re in love with him
I’m still in love with fading light of her.
You want it darker?
Like waves crashing agains a shore
I felt your pain collide with mine
Eyes wide shut as we reached out to touch
In our minds we wanted the ones that we were not.
You want it darker?
Dying candles flicker in a rays of raising sun
Lifeless hearts, falling out of lovers grasp
I used the blood for ink to pen this poem as
Angels wept in sheets the night before.
You want it darker.....
Dec 16, 2018
Dec 16, 2018 at 7:30 PM UTC
*One day
I will wake up in the early morning
My fingernails aglow with sun
And I will not want to scratch the pain out of my skin.
One day
I will not be subject to
Pleasantries and masquerades,
Hellos and goodbyes and see-you-agains,
But be greeted with a small smile
And a nod of understanding.
One day
Someone will say they will stay by my side
Even when the sea inside me
Overflows, and drowns him too;
He says the tide will bring us back ashore.
One day
My fingers will not shiver
In summer, because the cold is never gone.
The blood in my veins will not carry the echo
Of hate and self deprecation.
One day
I will wake up without internally screaming,
And hey, who knows, maybe I’ll smile.
I will put on my yellow boots
Not as a reminder of the sadness I hide,
But a proportionate guarantee of the happiness I feel.
But today, you see,
Today I cannot find the strength to leave my bed;
The blinds will be closed the whole day and
The postman will know not to knock on my door.
Today
The sea inside me rages
And ****** the backside of my eyes,
Drenching my pillow with saltwater.
And in a blurry pointillism of blues
I will drown
Before I reach ashore.*
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 1:44 PM UTC
The bandiferd spots
Mark the afterglow dots,
The fervor that hangs in the throes.
I've often jang-herdled
The silk left uncurdled,
My comes and agains have their goes.
I've left the lust listless,
And appleseeds restless,
My truths are not something she blows.
The cherry's well-fallen,
And I've all but forgotten,
The chastities I never chose.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 1:31 AM UTC
Write every chance you get,
there aren't many.
Write when you
have a quiet moment
by yourself.
Write when you
are
in
the
queue;
life is about waiting.
Write when you are in bed;
take your pen
and
close your eyes.
By morning
you will have forgotten
more poems than you have written
but
you will still be a writer.
Write when you are getting a haircut;
all that hair has a story.
Write while you watch a woman.
Write while you watch a woman
lugging a rolling suitcase.
Imagine what is in there,
what is so important to her
that she must roll it around
in the darkness?
If you get the chance,
write in New York.
New York is writers writing about writers.
Write when the
most
beautiful
girl
turns around
and
gives you
heaven.
Write because heaven is costly;
heaven is elusive.
Write because heaven is rich
and know that you will be there
again.
Write because of anyways, well-fuck-it-thens, and don't-call-me-ever-agains.
Write when there is nothing
to write about,
there is always something
to write about.
If your writing is ****
feel freedom
instead of
disappointment.
We ****
to make space
for
reason.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 3:52 PM UTC
Today I forgot to practice
My parents noticed
They told me
I should have practiced and
Not have made cards
Thank you cards for
My beloved teachers
Whom I love so much
But I can't tell them
With my voice
I went into my room
Ran and closed the door
Felt the guilt heave in me
I want to throw up on the floor
I want to cut myself
Hurt myself
Avoid the light of day
Never go back to my beloved string camp
Not tomorrow or any day
I feel ashamed for forgetting
I feel horrible and weak
I feel like nothing more
Than an ugly freak
Someone with no talent
Or physical beauty
Or a voice to describe this guilt
I know this guilt is unnecessary
But why do I feel it in me?
I haven't killed anyone
Or done anything agains the law
I just sacrificed some time
To make these lovely cards
Or are they even beautiful?
It was my sacrifice to make
Please don't rub it in
It already hurts
Anyway the day isn't over
Which is why I'm here with
My violin
My best friend
Who never talks but sings
I pick up my violin
And go through several songs
My back hurts
I've already played for 4 hours today
At camp
But when I'm done
The guilt is still there
It won't let go
Why
Why
Why
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 9:46 PM UTC
*Inside in pieces
Yet outside strong
making things right
yet proven wrong
The dreamy road turned
into a patch rough
The repeated setbacks
turned me tough
Few rollbacks
Also comebacks
Many setbacks
Yet bounce backs
Lost a lot
Found a little
Learnt a lot
Unlearnt a little
Many loved
Few unloved
Few just involved
Issues unresolved
Many pains
Also gains
Not agains
Some stains
It's the course
No remorse
Always thankful
To all I'm grateful
Added life to years,
totally transformed*
***Birthday reminds,
The life is reformed!***
Aug 11, 2017
Aug 11, 2017 at 2:30 PM UTC
The lakes and streams filled with natures goodness,
Skys eerie and filled with only questions,
The lilting laughs of the young playful women,
And the prompting for springtime suggestions.
I was always laughed at then, ridiculed, a joke.
In the mornings I would bring with me as always
Oats and honey for breakfast. Your beautiful doe
Eyes always batted at me. I was youthful, bearded face,
Strong lean body. My friends had all but abandoned me.
Everyone said we were evil, poisoned fruit from a tree.
The bon fire lit agains all of our faces, sparks flying into the sky.
The woven basket filled with dates, nuts and rice,
My work never finished, speaking of kindness, of life.
They thought I was there to ruin them, to give them over
To the authorities. My dream was to inspire them and give
Them a better understanding of innocent philosophies,
Never once did I mention eternal suffering or grief, let
Alone the way a life without pain. I was there to enliven
Their lives with music, with fine art, wild unruly entertainment,
I never quite respected the forceful authority figures or
The scorn of those who wanted us to "behave,"
But for one reason or another, everyone sought to clean
Up each of my statements.
But you were there, amazon lady, with such strength,
And I your effeminate match, how could it be that I'd found
Such a catch? Our story would go on to be silenced,
Bound with lies, why? Because when they found
Out the truth about us, they sought to change
It to something popular, so they could sell it.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 5:42 PM UTC
Sometimes I pretend.
I pretend you're still here.
You're still here, but only in my dreams.
Only in my dreams do I remember you.
Do I remember you? I remember everything.
I remember everything you gave and took.
You gave and took all of you and all of me.
All of you and all of me, together, as the sun sets and the moon rises.
As the sun sets and the moon rises, I sit and wait.
I sit and wait beneath my window.
Beneath my window a tear rolls off my cheek.
A tear rolls of my cheek in memory of you.
In memory of you, I trace the scars.
I trace the scars, I trace the bruises.
I trace the bruises, I trace the bumps.
I trace the bumps and I remember.
I remember your hand.
Your hand. Against my skin.
Agains my skin. Like fire, like the wind.
Like fire, like the wind, destructive, and you never know.
You never know where it comes from.
Where it comes from changes every time.
Changes every time I feel you close to me
I feel you close to me sometimes.
Sometimes, only sometimes.
Imagine that.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 11:20 PM UTC
If I hold my breath,
And count backwards from ten,
Will we live through his moment
Again and again and again,
Until there are so many agains
That it never ends,
I certainly hope so
As I’m at three, two, one,
I grab my next breath,
And it all begins again,
Ten, nine, eight,
Thank you fate.
Jan 16, 2010
Jan 16, 2010 at 7:22 PM UTC
Isn't it odd how so much can change with just one breath. One blow of the wind; and everything seems to crumble.
Isn't it funny how you don't even realize how many pages are left, yet when you turn the page; the chapter just seems to end.
Most of the time, it ends mid-sentence. Abrupt and inconclusive; almost as if the last pages were ripped out, or as if the author forgot to etch in the remaining chapters; the final words.
Isn't it odd how one day the sun is shining so bright that you can't even fathom the mere thought of a cloud in the sky, but when you arise the next morning, you wake to rain falling in a steady pattern;
drumming it's fingers agains your window.
Isn't it funny how you always remember the beginning, yet always seem to forget uttering the unfamiliar goodbye;
How you can't even seem to remember the words forming against your lips?
What's an ending or a goodbye when you can't even remember to cry?
Days later, looking back, you wander into a perpetual state of wonder.
The thought always rising to your mind.
Funny how change blows in with the turn of a season. It seems to blow into town, carried with the wind; it seems to push your hair back, and whisper in your ear;
It wishes you were here...
I wander to wonder, and I wonder to wander these things, turning them in my mind.
& as the leaves changed, so did I.
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 9:33 AM UTC
HITHERING AND TITHERING WATERS OF..
Aaw sure she's my own
little Finnegans Wake.
For my little skeowsha
language is lava
the mind is molten
flowing.
She catches tones and hones
in on the last word.
"pleaseyawannanicecupof...TEA?"
She knows how to
stick question marks on
things like
"...sweets?"
The thunder scares her
on Thursday
& becomes
Thundersday.
The flies bother her on Friday...
becomes Flieday.
Not realising she is
quoting Mr, Joyce
following in his WAKE.
Or she makes up her own
"ONESDAY...TWOSDAY
WEDDINGDAY...FATTERDAY
SOMEDAY!"
She my little trinketotes
my dear ***** Dumpling.
I read her to sleep.
Not a peep
when Anna Livia Plurabelle...
tells her tale.
Beside the tickling waters of.
Beside the chuckling waters of.
Beside the laughing waters of.
She loves
the music of it all.
"Again!"
she agains it!
" Can't hear with the waters of.
The chittering waters of.
Night now.
Tell me, tell me, tell me elm.
Night night!
Tellmetale of stem or stone.
Beside the rivering waters of..
Hithering tithering waters of.
Night."
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 6:02 PM UTC
Regrets haunt us all in our own sick way.
some so bad these feelings wash over us everyday.
flash backs, sleepless nights and wasted tears.
mistakes that manifest into our worst fears.
the what ifs.
the could'ves
the never agains and unforgivable sins.
everyone forgave you except you.
and the memories that you go through
everytime you mind wanders to those days
you feel yourself break and you say
"Ill never be the same"
But just know to learn from ur mistakes cause life is NOT a game.
no do overs
No second chances
Just live and let live, learn from your mistakes and understand them
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 3:45 PM UTC
*I can still feel you in my arms, the warmth of your breath agains my face, the sweet scent of your skin.
Your smile that brightens my day, the laugh that energizes my soul.
Every second that you are away from me I yearn for the moment that you will return, hold me and tell me you will never leave again.
There have been moments that I felt like giving up and cry till my eyes ran out of tears, but then I realize that there is no one else I want to spend the rest of my life with, that I need to be strong for both of us.
To make our dreams become reality I need to be there for you the same way I know you will be there for me.*
I know it's you, standing near your warm sensual body, trying not to show the excitement you provoked, those endless nights discussing our dreams, hopes, fears and disappointments we opened our hearts and cried our pain away to let love heal all of our open wounds.
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 11:35 AM UTC
I am in love with gray sky mornings. They make me wish I sang mezzo-soprano. They make me wish I had a distinguished streak of white running through my hair. They make me wish I held all the wisdom I will ever possess, but with the sprite heart and energy of a 10 year old wearing worn out sneakers. Gray sky mornings seem to represent a middle world, an in-between plane of absolute sweetness and impending doom. But not the scary apocalyptic doom, rather the powerful, majestic and mysterious kind of doom. Gray sky mornings are the worlds way of saying hold your sunshine anecdotes of beauty and bliss, beauty is much too complicated to be confined to only the obvious blue bird scattered skies. Beauty is in the messy, the transitions, its in the muddling of good and not so good, its is the unknowns, the half-ways and the try and try and try agains. Beauty is in the grays.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 11:55 AM UTC