"aided" poems
I have become death eater of words
I have become death, destroyer of books
I have become death, Savager of pages
I have become death
neglect at my side
And with no pride
Destroying all that once aided man kind
bringing suffering to all that was written in lines
and hummed in rhymes
and sung in time
knowledge ignored is knowledge consumed in dust
so sit with me and watch the world turn to rust
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 9:56 PM UTC
Devised by Cosmic Boss
Sourced by parents
Aided by obstetrician
Nursed by pediatrician
Nurtured by nutritionist
Counseled by sexologist
Treated by orthopedist
Stressed by physiotherapist
Directed by dietician
Nudged by nephrologist
Nerved by neurologist
Contained by cardiologist
Consoled by psychologist
Interspersed by dentist,
Sighted by ophthalmist
Conditioned by physiology
Terminated by mortuary
The inexorable Lifeline Express
Of hospitalized hospitality
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 6:42 AM UTC
New Year's Eve party.
With the popular kids.
That you don't know well.
But your boyfriend's going,
and you need to go too.
(for a New Year's kiss,
of course.)
Your favorite pair of jeans
because they are easy to dance in.
Your best floral tank top
because it's brand new
(and it's cold out, so you can
have an excuse to wear his jacket.)
Coral blush
because it looks good with
your skintone.
Purple eyeliner
because it makes your eyes pop.
And french manicure,
(your very first one!)
Done by your older sister,
aided with scotch tape
for the tips.
(It makes your hands look pretty,
and official,
like your best friends mom.)
Jan 1, 2012
Jan 1, 2012 at 9:17 PM UTC
I lay a girl to rest in the flowers.
She sleeps softly in her meadow bed.
I stand by, Woman, strong.
I love her with all my heart
But I am glad I am not her.
Not anymore.
A snake slithers through the grass
His name is Death
And I am, at last, afraid of him.
When he strikes at my heel,
I crush his head.
All my force aided by
The blankets of comfort I wear around my shoulders-
Collected from my Dear Ones
And from the One above.
Suicidality fades,
Suplexed by love.
I loved myself with all the violence of a wrestler.
I threw my self-hatred on the ground;
Crushed the head of my snake.
Now-
Back straight
Head high
Hair curling around a sun bonnet
Skirt rippling out
Boots splashing in puddles
Music in ear and heart
I graduated at last
From barely surviving
To fully living.
Jul 25, 2023
Jul 25, 2023 at 2:40 AM UTC
A little guilt goes a long way
Even the sturdiest oak can be made to sway
Figments of people duped by atavistic views
Waking up from bouts of fervor
A most sadistic snooze
They repose like overgrown fountains of youth
Their dreams rusted, forgotten and that’s the truth
In a lonely forest, oaks fall with the loudest screams
A somberness aided by clouds and defective sun beams
My soul has finally given in to moralistic cracks
For now it’s about as clean as mud pies and tire tracks
I’m wobbling down my lifetime from crutch to crutch
Wondering when to finally whisper **** I’ve seen too much”
So please, return me home, send my spirit way down below
To lands of rusted dreams and toss-turned pillows
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 4:23 PM UTC
The rock slept
Genghis Khan clamped fingers
Over the edge of a land mass
And peeled freedom away from the East
The rock slept
The mob beheaded a woman who aided the American Revolution
Americans denied it later
But every town called Marietta is named after her
The rock slept
A vegetarian who didn’t drink and smoke
Commandeered information technology and chemical engineering
To commit the biggest murder-robbery
In the history of daylight and star-shine
The rock slept
The vegetarian cowered from justice
Committed suicide like the milksop/milquetoast he was
The rock slept
A fourteen-year-old boy clamped his fingers
Around it
Aimed it at High Strength Lexan riot shields
Protecting flesh, blood, and bone minimally paid
Protecting shields of numbers, theories, interchangeable office holders
Until he realized the futility of it
Dropped the rock
Turned south (or maybe north)
And walked away
The rock slept
Snoring unheard through the next spurt of tyranny
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 6:33 PM UTC
Among trees i rest
and wander through
scriptures of olde
pouring over ancient
words of grace and peace
of love and compassion
where can this be found
outside my leather bound
at a green picnic bench
i read and marvel at
the words of Peter and Paul
two thousand years removed
in my semi-secluded sanctuary
just off the bike path
among trees i rest
and wander through
the works of Ezra Pound
language beautifully poetic
but nothing is found
to my liking except
of course
a line or two scattered
with no anchor
that is how my
mind rolls you see
gathering bits of inspiration
followed by digestion
which gives birth
to a renewing of my
mind and soul
refreshing as i ride
my bicycle down
the path of enlightenment
aided by the words of
poets, prophets, and priests
culminating in fervent
meditation
among trees i rest
and wander
Aug 9, 2012
Aug 9, 2012 at 3:22 PM UTC
How fast a vegetable heart can perish?
A toddler growing like a seed of corn
Planted on a fertile ground
So cherished,
Like a man after the king's heart.
Not knowing nature has a different plan against him
Or men of the underworld are strongly against his being
And too desperate to shower unending tears on her fresh mother's smiling cheeks
He was stolen away by death.
I can't forget that dark scaring night
Where all the heavenly bodies were dead asleep.
The echoes of his granny shout still live in my head
A shout she made like she just realised she has been praying into deaf ears
The prowess of which I plucked him off my mother laps to my chest
Still baffles me
The race we ran to the empty darkness outside
Reminds me of the speed of a certain Bolt from Jamaica.
In prayers, speed and tears
We continue our race to a center for health care
Too much fluid is lost, the doctor summited and aided us to continue our race for more competence.
Competence often too difficult to find in this part of Africa.
To cut it all short, competence was found
Treatment was made
Praises bell began to ring in our hearts for we thought he was already saved.
Yes, the next morning, he moved, smiled and uses hands to play!
But the noon that follows the whole story changed
And the ceremony of mourning began.
His spirited effort wasn't enough and he had to leave us,
No, he was jealously taken away from us
Just weeks before his first year birthday.
The stain of his tears still lives on my mother pillow
Reminding her that she was a grand mother for eleven months and a week ago.
His happy face still stand in a picture at a corner of her mother mirror
Recalling the fact that she has lost a gem to the world of ghosts.
His father striving to remain a man as he pushes to get loans
To pay up his medical bills from family and folks even from supposing foes.
The pain of his departure never cease to add Bitter sound to my heart beat,
Though forgotten how cute he was when he was alive
But I never fail to remember how cute he became in dead indeed.
His demise was a script Unseen,
Till date it remain a prank to me.
Amidst all the experiences I have been forced to face
This is one of the scripts I wish it was never written nor played.
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 6:18 PM UTC
we kip through all the ****** on the news
i left the device on a radio channal
awoke to it burning up static and turned it off
silence as falcon overviews us
ultraviolet sight
looking for neon spots and trails of *****
markings that may betray the entrance of our dwelling
i put the kettle on
our voices are clayed
by our
confessing inner multitude
but they're recorded all the same
i pour a cup of tea
our pattern of submission
is signal tweaked
maintainance by murmers
****** thorough
through our glacial surrender
i take a sip
silence as
aided by the clear weather
a drone nips out its choice targets
we were not selected
neither us or any neighbour
but far away ;
a story heard on the device
Apr 7, 2022
Apr 7, 2022 at 6:24 PM UTC
Barrels of oil painted smooth in acryllic
fill up the cracks with a feeling
spit out the money to feed the machine
Fair if it's toiling kids
draped along spoiled villians
immersed to serve the version of a billionaire's dream
eat the rich
Try me after I've been taught
I could've bought my chain
I would've lost my name
I should've dropped my shame facade
to play the game
We grew the youthful breath of heaven from the clay beneath our bones
imbued and innervated
aided you and drew the oath to play within the zone
circle reverie treasury burdens
bury the feathery,
herding squarely to fame - put on a show
eat the rich
dare me
you and yours invaded
bated breath had sung belated effort, whistle "death has reared it's head
at our expense so grab a sword.
We can war this **** straight out of this ole ditch
and fix whatever ***** gone wrong with it
with grit and sense
and build a fence"
Forget the soil your roots are grown in,
if you want to.
bask in shadow
of the weight of trust and decency
impeding our advances to your winner's table
fabled robin hoods with internets
guess who's deft enough let you know through every filter
left for us we may upset your dinner guests
let em know what's on the menu
eat the rich
let em know
The irony in learning
how to burn the fuel that kills you
after all the warning signs were there
sound familiar? it's a slog
burnin up, they'll crawl around
and find a meal on common ground
try the light show one more time
maybe that'll work
"The serfs are like a herd you see
they can't be riled along without a sermon
Burden them with silks and styles
worry them toward money piles"
Remind them of the fire they've been turning
Analogies aside I must abide by me and mine
but I've still got my eye on anything
...concerning
eat the rich
with discretion I guess.
May 24, 2019
May 24, 2019 at 7:35 AM UTC
I look down at my feet,
toes adorned with chipped nail varnish,
a pitiful plaster clinging to the sole,
and I grimace at the
purple marks, reddening blisters,
cicatrices of stories long forgotten.
The ***** of my feet are thin and worn,
my heels rubbed raw from
shoes I have loved and shoes I have detested,
faded scars from childhood accidents.
I have aged hating my feet,
the discoloured skin, dotted with odious callouses,
my throbbing, wrinkled soles.
They have grown with me,
from tiny clumps unrecognisable as a foetus,
to wide, long size 7s.
My toes are misshapen, twisting this way and that,
freckled with sun kisses from foreign countries.
They’ve been battered and bruised
repeatedly,
victims of my hurtling abuse and mortal neglect.
I have punished them
with verruca socks and freezing ointments,
pin ****** small shoes, razor blades, nail clippers and
not once
have I nurtured them, soaked them with praise.
These feet have walked me up mountains,
aided me in athletic championships,
withstood six inch heels on weekends,
ran me through marathons,
enduring my never-ending physical torment and though
they may buckle,
with weeping blisters and aching pains,
dry skin, broken bones and sprained ankles,
they will recover,
rebuilding the scabrous skin.
Regardless of how unstable my life may become in later years,
whether I am stranded on a deserted island,
or walking the ***** streets of the city, no room to call my own,
my feet will always,
undoubtedly, lead me to safety.
And when I am old
and withered, an exhausted heap of human life,
with my last dying breath,
I will thank my durable, reliable feet.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 11:28 AM UTC
Strangely timed
like a midnight rose
but this baby's breath breathes life
vibrant, visceral, vivacious
a requirement in this environment
for corporeal sustenance
maintaining and sustaining subsequent substances
and for which
no substitute exists.
nor should one.
for if this is that
without which
anguish persists permeating the vastness
clearly packing voidish absence
reminding that reciprocity not animosity
makes connectivity the activity
then why bother with formality?
or try to deny reality?
Grateful nostrils more easily discern
Scents that sting and scents that burn
Aided by proximity to incense intense senses
lives sweeten with flowers' presence
sweet airs and flowery essence
but there's hesitance in this instance
careful to engage or allow mental enrapture
one must gauge potential fracture
for roses have thorns
And I fear morning glory's scorn
despite wonders of its consumption born
that of which misgivings warn.
But know this
Golden lotus:
Let us lattice.
Let us, lotus,
Don't pass thus.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 4:40 PM UTC
I can do this too, when I'm not au naturel
And trying to beat all of your @sses with how well
I make the gentleman, how excellently I am the imp,
How swell I step, dancing, aside, how terribly I simp -
Sometimes catch me getting back and giving the barman a chance -
I heeded their call; I washed off the day, and stepped into a trance
Of raspberry, rose and sandalwood; I donned my blue and pink silk,
And my black boots, tights and blazer - She's got style; And in that ilk
I also painted my face, with blues, whites, pinks, blacks, golds
And it was late when I stepped out, and in the very holds
Of the night that a lady like I should find terrifying, but I walked
The quarter of an hour to the Silk Mill; talked
For something more like four or five,
Face sharp, hair artfully mad, alive
In every sense, aided by the fine cocktails in this student setting
I could enchant all in four languages, and I did, forgetting
For a bit that another one of my faces I believe to be repugnant:
Because it begs for attention; and my current, commanded it
Because I came expecting nothing, and asking nothing,
And I quite frankly didn't give a d@mn about much of anything,
But if I wasn't very much a part of the room, and very much she
Whom every boy needed to speak to, and would ideally keep the company
Of, if that wasn't I
Then every lie's a truth, and every truth, a lie.
Mar 20, 2022
Mar 20, 2022 at 11:15 AM UTC
In God We Trust, For He Invented Reasonable Doubt
In Courtroom of the State of New York, Part 62,
where the only decoration extant,
in gold leaf letters,
a magnificent joke,
In God We Trust.
Words so incongruous
to the real time drama,
a poorly acted Law and Order episode
of which I partake,
(as Juror No. 1,
ergo you may address me as
Mr. Jury Foreman),
they stun me into stupefaction
every time we enter and the
Bailiff pronounces with much gravitas,
"Jury Entering"
A potpourri of a dozen Manhattanites,
with wisdom acquired
by the singular virtue of
having attained the robust age of 18,
noteworthy for being free of
criminal record,
having been nominated
to sit upon the jury that will decide
the fate of one Eric B.,
for what he may have done upon West 11th Street
one Summer night in
June Two Thousand and Eleven,
If adjudged guilty,
New York State can take,
incarcerate him for up to
15 years of his life
Predicate felon by the age of twenty seven,
Eric's resume consists of
four felonies,
two misdemeanors
a wife and two little children,
and a partridge in a pear tree.
Facts turgid and muddy,
Eric tells a story
one juror calls a confection of lies,
no one murmurs
much disagreement in the
tiny, overheated room
we have been sequestered to
replay
the 2012 version of
Twelve Angry Men.
But I am not his peer,
nor am I a seer,
common sense says
if appearances are what they seem to be,
he aided and abetted
in the forcible taking of
a nice Connecticut lady's cell phone
with his brother who just happened to be
released from prison earlier that day
A convoluted tale
ripe with inanities is told,
upshot is our defendant's tale,
his robust defense,
portrays him as the unluckiest man
in the whole world,
a good Samaritan,
*{chasing after the thief,
** ** his bro}*
against whom events have conspired
In Manhattan can be a harsh place,
where the natives
a tough lot,
tougher than the Indians from whom
they stole it all.
Our bridges we sell to out-of-towers,
all it takes is one to say,
what the heck,
reasonable doubt is
a ***** to overcome
so let him go
Jan, 2012
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 4:45 PM UTC
******* and bra's mindlessly slung over chairs
while the serenade of squeaky bed frames
is aided by the collaboration of lustful moans
Chocolate sauce drizzled over naked flesh
the toppings of whip cream and strawberries
are also included.....
The exchanging of saliva....
passionate kisses conclude the motion
of passionate ******
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 8:42 PM UTC
How about we start at the base
Ground zero
The place of destruction
The beginning of the action
My brain
If you think you can take it
Go ahead, step on in
Welcome to what will probably be
The most traumatic experience
Of your life, yet.
It's a chaotic chronic
A twister of pain, little gain
No production, simply destruction
Addictive personality
Worrisome and stressful reality, honestly
I don't know just how to say it
Or how to express it plainly
So I'm gonna wing it
And hope you people can understand
That I'm truly not all there
Sure, I'm responsible
I'm a smart kid with a bright future
But I don't know if I want that future
I don't know if I want myself either
I'm internally deranged
I like the idea of wasting myself of throwing myself in the flames and playing hopscotch in the smoke rings
Of wandering oblivion
And living in eternal suffering
No, I'm never gonna be a drunk
Never going be a ******
Never gonna trade my soul
To the only one who knows
Just how far I really wanna go
I'm not gonna dive off that cliff
Into that endless abyss
That holds the cold embrace
If the sweetest, purest
Most adored lover's kiss
I'm gonna keep to myself
Leave behind the inhalants
The smokes, drinks, and capsules
And hold my daddy's hand
And stay my little girl self
Meanwhile, on the inside
I'm lighting your home on fire
Throwing your kittens in the river
Slaughtering your children's dreams
And revealing your secrets
Satan can keep his contract
I'll keep my soul, just like you want
But I'll inwardly express the pain
That is my life
Signs of a serial killer, right?
Well, remember
Whatever I become
You made me
Aided the monster
By caging me
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 2:17 AM UTC
908
’Tis Sunrise—Little Maid—Hast Thou
No Station in the Day?
’Twas not thy wont, to hinder so—
Retrieve thine industry—
’Tis Noon—My little Maid—
Alas—and art thou sleeping yet?
The Lily—waiting to be Wed—
The Bee—Hast thou forgot?
My little Maid—’Tis Night—Alas
That Night should be to thee
Instead of Morning—Had’st thou broached
Thy little Plan to Die—
Dissuade thee, if I could not, Sweet,
I might have aided—thee—
1.9k
Three nobles were fleeing
after the monarchy had been overthrown
Three non-polar amino acids were trying to get away
from the polar gel they were on
They were escaping through means of a merchant who dealt with the black market
He gave priority to those who paid a heftier sum
The amino acids were aided by a non-polar liquid solution
The more non-polar the amino acid the higher up the solution could get them
But alas! For the merchant lacked the resources to
get the nobles out of danger
The amino acids all eventually reached the top of the gel sheet
But they would need extra aid to go over the top
And that is my science class
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 3:59 PM UTC
There's a mansion on a hill
I've seen it numerous times
But,
I've never been inside
It's said to belong to an old woman
Who is very selective
in who enters her domain
Either you're an insignificant servant
And you slip inside
Through a back door
A tiny molecule diffusing
from high to low concentration
Or, you're a personal servant
Then, you gain special access
Still, through the back door
Water molecule
Diffusing through osmosis
After that are ordinary guests,
aided by the butler
through the front door
Facilitated diffusion
Molecules carried or channeled
And finally,
the VIP's
Welcomed by a great procession
Through a special VIP door
People,
invited by the madam
with great effort
Active transport
From low to high concentration
Requiring added energy
But despite this selectivity
of who can and cannot enter
That old mansion on the hill
And the jobs it provides
Is essential to the livelihood
Of the people in this town
Just like the cell membrane to our bodies
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 1:43 PM UTC
They wondered why the fruit had been forbidden:
It taught them nothing new. They hid their pride,
But did not listen much when they were chidden:
They knew exactly what to do outside.
They left. Immediately the memory faded
Of all they known: they could not understand
The dogs now who before had always aided;
The stream was dumb with whom they'd always planned.
They wept and quarrelled: freedom was so wild.
In front maturity as he ascended
Retired like a horizon from the child,
The dangers and the punishments grew greater,
And the way back by angels was defended
Against the poet and the legislator.
1.8k
the water lapped about my waist,
the coolness stung my skin.
I sat upright on the shore, eyes closed,
my body taking in the feeling.
I felt the sand seep around me,
stick to my limbs and cling to me.
I focused on my breathing and my heartbeat,
I listened closely to the noise that surrounded.
I heard the waves hit the bank,
I flinched at the occasional siren, and prayed for the safety of those it aided.
I counted car horns and footsteps.
I tuned out any voice in my head.
Becoming one with the river,
forming as one into the earth,
I sat still on the banks of the water,
in a city where the river ran through it.
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 12:42 AM UTC
In the mist of night
I sat under computers light
Watching moving pictures
Of ******** delight.
With motions so loveless
Even my father would be amazed
At how empty and soulless
There facile expressions became.
How pathetic am I
Not to get off to such a sight
Am I broken on the outside
Or has the inside ****** me dry?
The continuous coitus
Has me wrapped in memories,
That remind me how miserably inadequate
My past lovers have been to me.
I've never got the good side
Of cunnillingus you see
Just been known as the first three letters aided with a "t."
I am distant and disconsolate with life
Relationships seem to end
Once me and males meet in sight.
My never ending lust for liaison
Has left me with no earth to stand upon.
Oct 7, 2011
Oct 7, 2011 at 4:38 PM UTC
h a n d i n g
over the grave,
just to ****** your attention
lies upon li es and m
o r e
l ies
spaced in between yelling:
'I'm still here!'
with anger towards thing included
in such matrimony and forgiveness
expectations over the grave
everyone is exactly the same
i am not a privilege and don't deserve you,
or you or you (or you)
patience gone, over the grave
they think it's so easy
finding somewhere to belong
and it is easy
but i chose the hard way
(i'm still here)
aided by loneliness,
(why are you crying)
i am crying too
with stepfive:
Self acceptance and forgiveness
falling down the grave, over the other graves
****** in by the simple beauty of it all
all around me is a painting
sometimes grey, or blue
sometimes all hidden in little boxes,
getting quieter...and quieter
mixed in with style
breathing in, and out
to remember i'm human like the rest of you
so much worse, so much better
i'm still here, and vulnerable
as i hear you breathe in, and out,
turned around your head feeding stepfive to me
but i can swallow as i am the one who needs my choke myself
on self-acceptance and forgiveness
not for one thing, but for many, but most of all you
and all the sighs released are my oxygen
my beautiful, my gorgeous work of art,
why do you throw me over the grave?
I'm still here, vulnerable, and sorry,
choking on stepfive (looking at you)
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 9:51 PM UTC
K.p’s dad was a Science Fiction author,
While his son and I learned at school.
The teacher talked about planes, bombs, and towers-
Explosions, debris, and jet fuel.
We were poised like guppies, fidgeting with our lips,
Our bodies seemed made of lewd rubber.
Not one of us understood the weight or gravity-
Of one person killing another.
K.p’s dad wrote about a fair United States,
Called: “The Defined Territories,” rather tenacious.
A satire exploring justice with exaggerated sameness-
That most readers found to be tasteless.
His main character was a ‘rookie cop,’
And every skin color was uniform and equal.
Homosexuals gladly aided population control (by not making babies)-
And bullets were designed to be non-lethal.
In the story: a group of smugglers find a stockpile of real guns,
Automatics, ammunition and bombs.
The valiant cop pursues them through page turns and plot-
With sweat budding on his palms.
K.p and I fought over a girl at school,
I broke his nose and we each served detention.
At the end of his dad’s story the smugglers are caught-
Fined $1,000 and given lethal injection.
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 12:44 PM UTC
Under the unforgiving summer sun, their small, winged bodies hover from one flowering plant to another, working tirelessly in the sweltering heat as we laze in the shade...
Their work is endless, the product harvested in minutes. Smoked into a stupor while we steal their treasures, and if some of them die, so be it...
Melissa, Queen of Bees,
revered before by human royalty and great innovators,
Melissa, Queen of Bees,
who connects life and death,
whose children killed the demon Arunasura in India,
and were prophets to the gods in Greece and Rome.
Melissa, Queen of Bees,
her bees fell from the sun in Egypt,
aided the first living man in Uganda,
and created man from the back of a mantis in the Kalahari Desert.
Melissa, Queen of Bees,
her children are the origin of magic in Eastern Europe,
a source of fertility and a connection to nature in North America,
and fierce, terrifying warriors in the South.
Melissa, Queen of Bees,
the Great Mother,
the root of being,
the bridge to the afterlife,
we owe her children our lives,
the least we can do is spare them their's.
Jun 15, 2018
Jun 15, 2018 at 12:56 PM UTC