"analyzation" poems
I peruse exhibits through the modern art museum
Nails hammered into wood
And trash strewn on the floor
I couldn't help thinking
What the **** is this ****
These can't be the champions of modern art
Moonlight and Arrival morphed my empathy and perspective
The theater is fine
Music is there for those inclined to discover it
So what about visual art?
I know a few things for certain
Nails hammered into wood never changed my perspective
Nor does seeing a garbage can in a museum affect my empathy
Trash is not art
Trash is trash
Waste meant to be thrown in the proper receptacles
So as not to obstruct our view of true beauty
I will concede that
Beauty can be found in everything
Depending on analyzation variation
But those that live an examined life
Constantly see silver linings and sour grapes
Experiencing comfort in tundras to the point of banality
Those visions are much more interesting
in their organic state anyway
As opposed to an interpersonal expression of the seemingly obvious
So what to hang in an art gallery?
I have my own opinions
At this point in time
No visuals elicit more emotions
Than dank memes
When I'm consuming art
Questions are innate in my consumption
Is this a vessel for empathy?
Is this examining the human condition?
Dank memes meet those criteria
Satirizing the powerful
Highlighting emotions and virtues in ourselves
That we're either proud or ashamed of
Memes share a common thread with poetry
In the sense that everybody can create memes
Or be a poet
I get the impression that
Universality of art diminishes it's importance
In the minds of patrons
There's an element of truth to that
But what makes art special is quality
And what makes art truly special is high quality
And that's what belongs in museums
Jun 14, 2017
Jun 14, 2017 at 11:23 PM UTC
Sometimes I feel as if
You have something to say;
Like it is on the tip of your tongue...
But you push it away,
And swallow those words
That would create sentences,
Which would develop paragraphs
That would have meaning.
Those significant phrases-
Shunned and Lost,
Deep into the depths
Of your conscience.
I do realize that this
May seem like over-analyzation,
But I see a glimmer in your eye
That deserves to turn into
Fireworks.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
My name is a reflection of you,
The manner in which it's pronounced makes it all the more true.
My talk is a reflection of you,
The accent in which I speak in is all you- a sign of a sick tribute.
My walk is a reflection of you,
The way my left foot follows my right, and how my thighs are placed together- never bidding adieu.
My sleeping schedule is a reflection of you,
How I stay up in fear of you coming but not being seen by a rescuer- always out of view..
My thoughts are a reflection of you,
Paranoic and the over-analyzation of everything following through.
My mirror is a reflection of me,
Tainted, shattered, distorted- indefinitely.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 3:24 PM UTC
...blame the dreamer, the make-believer, the great play-pretender. blame the girl that picks up every drop of hope off the floor with tweezers. we all want to believe. even if its obvious how dangerous it could be, even when it has dagger-like thorns, and they stab your fingers. we want want want something still even though you will bleed. blame the ambitious one. blame that ******* time that always haunts us. blame the one that tries to defy it. blame loneliness, blame that empty space, that shadow that lingered for so long. blame the encouragement of self-sacrifice. blame basic human instinct, to see, to chase, to conquer. blame the amygdala. but what would it be like, without emotion, memory..it wouldn't hurt to forget to remember. blame energy. blame everything you've ever tried to believe in, wanted with every ounce of passion you had left. blame money, we're all just slaves. blame the unknown course of human life. blame the unpredictability of the circumstances in which you take your last breaths. wherever you would be, would the last scene in your play be a happy one or a tragic ending..or somewhere in between? blame analyzation and rationalized thinking, the fact that things could make perfect sense but your gut tells you differently. blame fear and anxiety, blame what scares you the most in this world. heights, change, being alone. blame the girl that always sees light but is ready for the dark, she is waiting by her windows. shes prepared for the part in the end where the actors bow and you realize, oh, yeah, fuck...this was all just imagined.
blame me. the director. the optimist. blame me, because i picked the thorned rose.
but it was just so, tempting, so extremely beautiful...
......i just take life as it comes.
Jun 12, 2010
Jun 12, 2010 at 2:22 AM UTC
Your mind has been
expanded
all of this time;
over-analyzation
has just clouded
your mind.
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 3:31 AM UTC
Sometimes
it all seems so real
Like this reality weighs heavily on my chest and I can’t breathe.
my stomach jumps and sends this cold fire throughout my body and I feel it.
I feel the world boiling in my consciousness and there’s no release that could possibly be worthy of this feeling.
Then I tell myself I'm just being dramatic and I tamp that feeling down with my fear and sadness and a yearning for eventualities.
Sometimes I’m not sure what I mean.
Sometimes I make stuff up.
But really I’m just an awkward almost-twenty year old who wants her life to be something.
Extraordinary
But.so.is.everyone.else.
And isn’t that right?
Isn’t that rich?
That we are all one.
A vast ocean of “ones”.
I’m really just a wave.
And it is alright to be a wave.
Because waves, they move.
It’s alright to be dramatic though. Why not?
I have this mind that wants out and I keep suppressing it. At least I’m pretty sure I do. Maybe I don’t. Maybe it is only on occasion that I tell it to shut up because it all is just too much.
That’s probably it.
Who am I really?
I guess I could list all of my traits and that could be who I am. Or what I have accomplished in life, and presto, you have…me.
Then there’s this consciousness that sits inside this flesh and controls it. That could be who I am. But that consciousness is just the acts it has achieved and the traits it has portrayed, is it not?
So I guess what I’m saying is.
The I that is me has not achieved satisfactory on my scale of living by which I measure my worth.
Not yet anyway
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 5:25 PM UTC
My father never told me
To "just be myself"
To "search first for my wealth"
To "seek ye first the Kingdom
Or quench the fires in hell"
Just one thing instilled in these,
My randomly pulsating crevasses
The sacks now in my chest,
The ever-beating evidence,
With everything I feel
And everything I believe in
Regardless the time or season,
Or the countless cries and pleas for remorse:
That I would know the course
Stay ahead
But now I see within me
I'm breeding with pride and envy
And the sickness is a symptom
Of what makes me feel empty
I'm tired of situations
Calling for analyzation
And heartfelt anticipation
Of other standing ovations
For the things I see are breaking
In here
I'm caged by the guilt I have laid
At the feet of the people I've played
And those I've used as supports
(They caught their heart in the door)
Unaware of what's in store for them
They couldn't see into my eyes,
The disguise through which I try
To hide all my ghosts and why's
And all the things kept inside in order to
Stay ahead
The needy, greedy child with eyes for the spotlight
With emotions bigger, even, than his head
And the same mud blood, barely red
Just like his father's
Who's always "just fine" and says "don't even bother"
Because "today, everything is going my way."
Jan 25, 2012
Jan 25, 2012 at 12:59 AM UTC
So much to process.
Process, process, process,
Process, process, process,
Process, process, process,
Until sleep switches off my endless conveyor belt of over-analyzation.
Tonight I'll precisely pick apart things that have no business being harnessed
Until perfect rest precludes my process-a-palooza.
**** this brain.
And **** the thoughts that float through it, wispy, adrift.
Aimless, with no hope of reaching the other side, the action side.
I know exactly what's going to happen.
And yet, still, I will repeat this process.
The definition of insanity comes to mind.
Am I insane?
Those who do what they've always done will get what they've always gotten.
So some frustration is coming down the pipeline, undoubtedly.
But here I am.
Keeping myself awake while my little mind powers through minutes and seconds and hours of data
Burning itself out completely
And yet accomplishing nothing.
Moral of the story?
To overthink is to run a car for hours with no one driving it,
To study vigorously and then not take the test,
To hedge your bets,
To run on a treadmill,
To fight an uphill battle,
To enter into a no-win scenario on purpose.
To analyze too much is to work the muscles of your sanity to the point of tearing. **** it, **** it all. This crucible of introspection, I hate it.
It's all thinking, and no doing.
What kind of world would we have built on thought? Deceptive, static and imprisoned thought, in and of itself?
The procession marches on through the early morning hours,
Until sleep rescues me from this malicious rabble of thoughts
I cringe at their noise, I grow weak from the weight of such an immense amount of perception
My mind shifts and sifts through it all
Until I finally lose consciousness.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 2:20 AM UTC
My sadness is a toxin
Of which I'm fully infected
It shows in the bags on my eyes
The cuts on my skin
The bruises on my face
I breathe it every day
When I skip a meal
Or skip a class
(When you think about it, there's so many things to skip in a life)
I feel it in my bones, my chest, my heart
Weighing me down; suffocating under sheer pressure
I've tried to cure myself
With conversation, medication, psycho-analyzation
But the sickness prevales; it's already latched into my lungs
My sadness is a toxin
Of which I want no one else to breathe in
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC
you're the chucks i lace up on lazy days
the sun permeating the back of my head
the spoon surrounding my body
and i miss you when we're apart.
but it's so much
at once
all the time
you.
sometimes i feel like time and space closed in so quickly
because all i see is you.
in the dark
your delighted smile when i fall back into your arms
the little mewling noises that drop when i kiss your cheek
(and your neck, and your lips, when i caress your face)
and it burns it burns
when you're inside me and i don't think i can take anymore
but you're there above me
wanting-needing-loving.
i can't control the words that float through my head
each drawn out stare
soft giggle
you know there's something going on in the back of my mind
and you don't take my resistance as an answer.
my needs, wants, the pining thoughts that circulate
you want to know everything.
and how can you understand me so easily?
how.
it frustrates and fascinates me
pleases me
that you just know.
when your hands dig into my hips
and your teeth dig into my collarbone
i don't know what else to call this
but love.
you say love isn't defined
it's just a feeling.
but i feel so many things
and not all of them last.
not all of them are deep and undying
and forever like you whispered to me last night.
over-analyzation
makes me question
our declarations.
i just know i
need you so much closer.
Oct 18, 2011
Oct 18, 2011 at 5:19 PM UTC
Some people are beautifully abstract movies:
enlightened visions of an idea come to life through cryptic scripting and inspired cinematography.
Slow burns full of brilliant dialogue that leave you thinking about them long after you've seen their open endings.
The kind that only the intelligentsia could ever truly appreciate, with a poor audience score but universally loved by critics.
The kind of movie with a cult following that comes up in late night conversations amongst hipsters sharing their opinions on the pieces of art that have made the biggest, longest lasting impacts on them.
The kind that takes hours of scrutiny and analyzation just to feel like you've arrived at some vague sense of what it all means.
And then there are people like me,
who are less like grand artistic visions of profound cinematography,
and more like reality tv.
The kind of thing a working suburban mother tunes into after a double at the local diner/supermarket/pharmacy counter.
The kind of non-committal, light-hearted viewing that never comes close to demanding your full attention. Just a myriad of characters brought together with a loose premise and slightly coerced tension.
The kind of thing you could have a conversation over, and walk away from and come back to, and still know what's going on, because it's just all so obvious - it never requires much thought.
The kind of show where the actors have every viewer convinced that they're something that they're not.
May 6, 2021
May 6, 2021 at 1:04 AM UTC
the end is within reach
close enough for me to touch
making my fingertips tingle
and my legs weaken
with the fatigue of
over-analyzation
it rips worries apart
in my already warped mind
the good becomes bad
and the bad dissipates
quickly
because i want so desperately
to feel good
about considering the need
for an end
but i'm held firm by chains of
cowardice
guilt
and a love
that just won't let go.
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 7:42 PM UTC
Mutilation begins to take over
Of this fragile soul.
Definitions of a complicated destructive
Inner being,
Unraveling home truths that have been
Brewing with no analyzation or understanding
Of them,
Weakness soon starts to over power and a break
Down is just around the corner.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 4:28 AM UTC
maybe I'm over thinking this whole bit,
but when I texted you the other night,
letting you know you were one of my favorite people,
It seemed like you shrugged it off.
i don't know, maybe there's a lot of analyzation
i can't catch my breath to know or to think
you haven't been the same since then and
i thought we were just getting close
i mean, we confessed a lot and i felt attached
it's not like i didn't hate myself for feeling like i could lean on you
i'm not in love with you like i used to be
and we don't have the same views but
now i feel like i need you.
its not fair.
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 3:40 AM UTC
My fingertips grasped the fading surface of the water.
Begging for something to hold onto,
Perhaps the hand of an angel.
When in sight I only could see the hands of Death,
Beckoning softly yet mercilessly to let go.
But how could I let go when there isn’t even something to hold onto?
I watched my pale hand run over the last traces of sunlight
The last mirage of warmth and life before I’m enveloped into an empty and cold abyss.
I struggle but why do I try.
When nothing is left to greet me but the fate that is to come.
Perchance I am the weight that lets me sink.
For all one knows maybe this is part of my doing.
But it is such a slow release.
Such a dreary escape.
I give in to the surrounding darkness.
And I come to realize that the mind becomes more alive here than any other place known.
Is this the process of death?
An analyzation of your span of life up until now
The collection of memories and feelings that rush to you for the last time,
before they rot in this dispiriting abyss with you.
But we all live to die.
Once the world gets enough use out of us,
down the drain we go.
Now apart of someone’s memory.
Our decaying body a souvenir of a soul that once animated it,
And that’s all we’ll be someday.
A reminder of a memory.
I finally reached that moment of tranquility.
That surge of pure bliss that rummaged through my worn veins.
Contentedly, I parted my mouth and let the vicious currents of water to flood inside.
The feeling of completion washed over my body as I accepted this release.
And danced vibrantly with Death.
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 10:07 PM UTC
Our energies peaked in perfect synchronization
The ultimate pinnacle of all elation
Nothing in this world has a flavor as sweet
As your sensual lips when our mouths gently meet
Something a brain can't neatly put into a box and hide
Futile analyzation of the tangled emotions kept inside
What is the origin of longing I fail to repress?
Desire too powerful to accurately express
Confident your heart holds identical emotion
Bound to each other by endless devotion
Like the moon and the sun we set and we rise
Take turns being the light in each others skies
I look at your face and my breath is taken
Right out of my chest
I let you break-in
Nobody else on Earth could unlock the door
Though many have tried to find the key before
You were the first to successfully step inside my soul
And the last
Because you have finally made me whole
Aug 29, 2020
Aug 29, 2020 at 5:54 AM UTC
We are all used books-
A little warn- our pages
Sometimes torn, or frayed
Around the edges. Coffee stains,
Lipstick stains, and other various
markings covering words the new
Keepers of these books will never
Get to read. Annotations fill the sides,
Streaky highlighter runs over
Quotes that resonated with the reader
Who came before the last. Tabs and
Folded corners call attention to
Metaphors, riddles- everything
That needs analyzation and
Clarification.
We are passed down and handed out
Until we find a home at last- Someone who
still wants to read, what has
Already been read, many times before.
Mar 27, 2018
Mar 27, 2018 at 4:50 PM UTC
Logic isn’t focused with poetry. Poetry is purposely alienating logic. Splitting up logics meanings into pieces that can’t be put back together again. Only fitting back together in a more imaginative sense. Imaginative grasp of abstract functions winding up a newer playing field. Playing fields that aren’t taught, until you instinctively bind them back together again. Logic is thinking, right? Feeling makes it subjective. Instincts collapse the two. Rearranging them back into fitting purposes without design of chance. Chance is everywhere. But design is not necessary. Only when there is a purpose in thinking. Feeling is the doppelganger of neurons smashing synapses together. Filling in logic that doesn’t need to be. Again! No design of chance. Chance is everywhere. Feeling interprets the pieces of logic when infused with poetry. Poetry being chance. Chance dominating all aspects of abstract features in its thrall! Poetry becomes infused with logical mimicking. Copying to catch the details of reasoning, interpretations, and analyzation. Repurposing the pieces to remain everywhere. So, it can learn what it means to be separate. If it’s logical, It ain't chance. It’s purely intentional! Making each separate piece its own backing logical platform. Giving rise to more reasoning, interpretations and analyzations. Never repurposing, until it’s ready to unwind itself back to the core. Like a magnet. A magnet with no purpose, rebuilding itself back up again. Diminishing the vulnerabilities of feeling too stretched out. It doesn’t hurt. Yet it’s uncomfortable. Resistance isn’t futile, if it’s a positive process one is nurturing to overcome. Overcoming stresses of desires. One has become too cramped! Cramping the style of the only vessel to hold those aspects together. Abstract features on a timer. Timer equivalent to infinite steps to achieve a goal. A goal of provenance. Provenance without limits knowing when the deed is done. Magnifying the timer to ring! Signalling the imaginative grasps on the newer playing field. How long have those abstract features of aspect attributes knowingly collected new material? And how many abstract features culminated parts of itself from far off reaches, from the original core? Except with time, comes (process inducement). A claim hinting at miniature parts of a whole, becoming their own wholes. Finding their own cores. There center. There true calling. Poetry being the culminating focus of every aspect ever formed. Producing far reaches of perspectives. Overclocking desires newly buffed up on a style that makes simple reasoning, interpretations and analyzation blush constantly!
Oct 18, 2019
Oct 18, 2019 at 3:17 PM UTC
I find myself lacking the ability to find elation
in the parts of my brain that give me satisfaction.
In the parts of the world that are supposed to bring me
whatever the opposite of misery is.
the same way you lack the ability to find brushing your teeth in the morning
anything but tedious.
Because my brain is too big.
Your world is too small, mine consumes all that lives.
As if I was born to vegetate my own existence
and pick the pieces of my brain that hold fascination.
I care less about what you think.
if only I could step out of myself to stop and jot on
my eccentric behavior
the way I express myself even when I eat.
my supernatural way of thinking
and how that coils its way into my connections
with people who are only self-aware when the situation is far from the person
who is mindful of.
Would my analyzation of my core and the outsiders of this world
make me neurodivergent?
Would I be accepted into society because I need therapy?
Would it make me less human if I declined help from another one?
Of course let the person who is qualified on reading others
like a book read me like I'm just page.
Grasp on to the things I can't just understand yet.
Help me understand myself even if you are not me.
It all sounds vague.
let the therapist teach me how to be self-aware and learn a new ability
to not panic as much
the same thing we all care about in the minds of the animals that we eat.
I am not a pig.
I doubt I'm even human at all except the parts of my existence.
I can't even tell you what the world is
but I can definitely tell you what comes from it
and how it rebirthed me.
Mar 5, 2025
Mar 5, 2025 at 5:04 PM UTC
Some people stay up thinking about the treacheries of life
Their mind becomes a jumble of thoughts banging on their eyelids like the loudest of drums
Their over analyzation denies them any type of rest
They cannot fall asleep
This leads to insomnia, and sleeping pills come to the rescue
--Me I'm the opposite
I can't stay awake
Reality drags me to my bed,
Under the comfort of my sheets
I can dream whatever I PLEASE about this sick world
Trumps not actually president
The world is a platform for love
Hate is wiped clear of the planet
Racists realize that color does NOT matter
Humans learn to love eachother with their minds clear of bias
I'm good at something??
The boy I like actually likes me back?!
When I'm in bed I don't want to wake up
It's so much easier living in my head
With colors that fly through my mind like a paintbrush
It's my own drug
Every dream I have is a book that I have published for me myself and I only
there's a little world in there far better than the one out here
I'll snooze my alarm for three hours
And imagine the world how I want it
With my eyes closed to view it in the highest of definitions
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 6:35 PM UTC
Thirty one lines
Is all I need
To satisfy the poet in me
The creative, but repetitive side
That no one needs to see
**** satisfying it
It hasn't helped me cope
With love, loss, and sanity
Or even anger, sadness, and hope
It's only helped itself
My voice doesn't even want to be involved
It just mumbles and mispronounces words
Like a ****
And my heart rate increases
Around any girl it finds viable
For love, loss, and sanity
For what my poet side should have been doing
My overthinking hinders wit
And compliments
Instead to people I barely know
By me just being polite
**** that definition
**** everything about love now
I never knew what it meant
And I've destroyed the word
Burnt it to the ground
By rambling on about the same girl
That I ruined
And who ruined me
Actually, probably only the second part
Although I'm sure I helped her
Dec 6, 2017
Dec 6, 2017 at 1:57 AM UTC