"anguishing" poems
As these forlorn cadences await- unfold
To compose a disbanded vow
Yielding unto harrows of gates untold
Charms death to disdainful plow
Death is plowed to a forgiving halt
While silver moonlight and whiskey dances remain
Glittering gold in this crimson vault-
Feeble souls conjure grace as graceless minds abstain
Counterfeit conceits ravish this open cellar
As the night’s last dance ceases to a disgraceful plea
The dweller’s disdain is akin to my killer
And heaven yields blood to salt the earth for thee
Come away now with your anguishing defeats
Seek not a jagged spike as the heaven’s conspire and wake
Glory and gold may turn us black as deceit
But deception admonishes the dancers in their quake
Spellbound nuances of this reality await at every turn
Mourning and fighting the finality of this grave
Orchestrated knives are rosined like honey, beckoning our blood to burn
At last, a burning reckoning comes to ravage the brave
But refrain, oh killer- host of this crimson vault
Enlist a memoir for our sins
Recalling the pieties of our gracious faults,
Enough to make this blood go thin.
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 9:08 PM UTC
The flying didn't cease, nor did the gravity
but I stayed close to the ground
my mother had told me not to drift too far
but that one time I did
that one time, I,
I tried to stop, I really did
that day I saw the prodigy there was
that wasn't anymore
I saw sanctity gasping for breath
choking on its own emesis
it shouldn't have gotten so drunk on sin
an aura fighting to survive against pretention
hands holding on to a fading faith
slipping like a baby, yet, tripping and trying
my wings set ablaze by the heat of raging insanity
A memory that day was cast forever
A pithy precis comes charging to me
My eyes opened to what I assumed hell
an old man nominally clad in a tattered sheet
pressed a medicinal red cloth against my anguishing wounds
in a hut that barely stood up
hay dripped off its exiguity
drops of water leaked everywhere
but the 4 feet cot that I lay on
the gracing peacock feather near my feet
gave the only colour to my grey eyes
He shivered of his elderly age
that seemed younger than his wrinkles
poverty seemed to have worn him down
but not more than the wickedness around
"My child, are you feeling alright?"
Affrightened and confused by the terra incognita
I merely nodded in affirmation
My eyes looked around to discover a nurturing,
smiling face,
then to a corner with a *** of water
and food meagre for an infant
he took a morsel in a leaf
and presented to me what was left
"This is enough for me my dear,
do you mind finishing the rest,
it is a bit dry,
here, have it with some water instead
now eat well child,
you look like a stick for a girl your age."
then he smiled again,
and walked away
with nothing on his leaf, but the satisfaction of a whole on his face
I looked at the dry bread crumb
moistened by a drop of my tear
trying to force his bites through
I wasn't ready for the hope he shared
my throat was taking bath in ice
his altruism healed my bubble that was burst
this wasn't the insanity that burnt my wings
this was the one that stole a morsel of my love.
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 10:26 AM UTC
settlers came to the frontier lands
holding guns in their seizing hands
the tribal people's tears and blood
fell on the earth in a torrential flood
they'd been dispossessed of terrain
so lasting was the anguishing pain
their ancient grounds ceded away
to the occupier's colonizing sway
the Indians of the vast Dakota plains
had a culture under great strains
the foot-print put down by forebears
was nearly lost like the brown bears
yet the spirit of the tribes still survive
in their ancestral territory it's alive
they've a heritage enduring of flow
which is seen in the sun's risen glow
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 12:09 AM UTC
Day after day you're
critiquing, pulling apart
anguishing over pointless details
You scold, you demand
your silent booming voice is ugly
never stops reverberating between my ears
Torture and twist
even after they tell me,
"You look sick"
You paint cold purple
streaks up and down my skin
You deny me time and time again
Each rib has been counted
scrutinized through my skin-
but it is never enough in your eyes
I feel insane, wishing I could
scream and shout
out of my head to drown you out
Today I love you
as you're an old friend
Tomorrow I hate you
as you put me through hell again
I've tried to silence you
yet I always give in
ending up in my own prison.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC
There's a blank sheet of paper I hung on the wall
My mother suggested to after a fall
A fall of inspiration,
Dead of true life,
Hope prancing, leaping, dashing,
In the light of unconventional thought beyond all comprehension,
Of dancing on cloud floors, declining haze of the forests,
While insouciant specks of light, similar to glowing pointillism
Can sharply puncture one's un-anticipating boredom
And infect with a communicable virus of
Celestial inspiration.
I always look back on that paper and perceive,
Beyond my tantalized body and anguishing mind
Through it's blankness, it's empty slate,
It's disgusting plainness, piercing my hope,
It's beauty in its... Lack of anything, null, nought, nothingness--
An array, plethora, profusion, superfluity
Of inconceivable courses of actions
Breathtaking inspiration.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 1:38 PM UTC
Unto seventy years and seven,
Hide your double birthright well--
You, that are the brat of Heaven
And the pampered heir to Hell.
Let your rhymes be tinsel treasures,
Strung and seen and thrown aside.
Drill your apt and docile measures
Sternly as you drill your pride.
Show your quick, alarming skill in
Tidy mockeries of art;
Never, never dip your quill in
Ink that rushes from your heart.
When your pain must come to paper,
See it dust, before the day;
Let your night-light curl and caper,
Let it lick the words away.
Never print, poor child, a lay on
Love and tears and anguishing,
Lest a cooled, benignant Phaon
Murmur, "Silly little thing!"
1.6k
I used to believe I was being responsible when being irresponsible,
I used to hold hope that time had a life for me that was of brilliance and soft petals, because I'd known a hideous child life.
I was wrong.
The flow is off.
The DJ has not played my song.
I am not dealing in fanciful "what if's" any longer.
I kept it at bay.
The loss.
The feeling of it. Its stench.
Now, it sits firmly in my gut.
Anguishing, as if it too knows its own demise.
Separate, but every bit a part of me.
Back in the day, I remember I used to love myself, despite the hurt.
I wish I knew him, he was a wonderful kid.
His hair used to hang down, covering his eyes.
Shy, but he had hope.
Too bad.
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 8:39 PM UTC
Movies are my passion, the thing I love to do, the thing I enjoy to an extent. People ask me why I am wasting my time sinking into the ineffective fantasy world of the movies instead of enjoying the dignified life of reality. Not many people understand my undying affection for this compelling activity of entertainment. What they do not know is that the real world isn’t actually the real deal. It is a test, an absorbing guidance into the perfect afterlife or the anguishing heartbreak into the tormenting hell. It is their choice which one they choose. It is like the reality of realities in the movie of The Matrix or the corruption and sadness of the desolation of The Titanic. It may be the realness of Jennifer Lawrence as Katniss Everdeen distressingly fighting for her life or the adventures of Shailene Woodley as Tris, loosing loved ones on her way. It could be the fans in the movies, screaming upon their idols or the hatred in the jealous, briskly spreading through the town. The inspiration is overwhelming and the education comes from the films, not from the institution they call school. The alive are in the fantasy and the real are in reality. They don’t understand the goodness that has not been seen in the life they call real.
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 2:06 AM UTC
This one was different. Not the kind of different you hear about from Hollywood. Not the kind of different that’s only in fairytales, where the farm hand has a heart of gold and the duke wants to steal the maiden’s gold. No; not this time. This was a bad different. But one that felt…so good, so right, one that simply couldn’t be ignored. He may have been the cast to her broken heart, but I suppose we’ll never know.
The first one’s kiss tasted sweet. Sweet to match his chocolate eyes, sweet to match the music that he created, sweet to match the tenderness of his heart. But his sweets belonged to another, who turned and bloodied his back.
The third one’s kiss was nothing particular…almost bland to the taste. But his was warm and comforting and addictive to taste…he drew her in with lips like roses coated with the ashes of a smoked off drug. He kissed her once…then again…and again…and again…and again…he drew her in, he coaxed her and drew her close to him, letting his fingers gently pull her chin, her hands…and he left her when he had healed her and when he was breaking, and she returned to save him with his own poisin.
The second one’s kiss was the different one.
How so different was his.
It drew her in...or perhaps it was her broken heart...but her drew her in and she backed away into the sweet lies of his persistence. And she gave him her all, every last drop of loving, anguishing blood, and she left him without a clue, without a sign, without a hope...
And yet, his was different.
But that’s all that should rightfully be said.
Sep 1, 2012
Sep 1, 2012 at 9:21 PM UTC
i.
Cryeth not mine unearthly floret, for thou art good enough
Cryeth not, thine tear's art mine tear's, thine fear is mine fear;
Cryeth not mine pet, thine bijou vision's art met with mine own
Cryeth not holy apostle, thine anguishing jostle's across interweb.
ii.
Frowneth not mine protector, thine room awaiteth me to arrive
Frowneth not O' ethereal ressurector, I'm stuck sweetly in mind;
Frowneth not core of mine existence, thou art mine daily bread
Frowneth not, thine Thorn's art off, now they sit upon mine head.
iii.
Smile mine delicate sweet, I'm begging at thy feet for one laugh
Smile mine elegant treat, I'm more than happy, with thee blessed;
Smile mine earl Jane nagley, soon to taketh mine hand, two ring's
Smile mine dandy, we shalt meet soon, in ourn room, Bell's ding.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane nagley dedication
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 1:17 PM UTC
I want to be susceptible to the world's most anguishing heartbreak.
I want to know torture outside prisons
and inside the hidden doors in the soul-
the ones where you stash the secrets
the truth
the unadmittable.
Looking across a roomful of people
and only seeing one
only Ever seeing one
and wouldn't it be a fairytale
if he was looking right back.
Because before heartache comes heart great.
No more "do my eyes deceive me?"
No more fantasizing what happens when hands
accidentally graze
There's no mistaking his meaning.
Like Love poems in foreign languages-
you still understand every word
every sentiment
every intention.
And while the world keeps spinning
and the noise gets louder and louder
We will retreat into our own quietness.
Where we will stay for
a long
long
time.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 5:34 PM UTC
(For my Loving Daughter Suzanna Christy)
Seven years before her heart throbbed and mine too,
She was prepared to face to the world with God’s Gift:
Her travail had begun and each of her nerve shivered with thrill,
The Father in Christ in His invisible Presence hath been beside her.
Now I shed tears that speak how she had borne the physical agony,
And my inward eye writes how the day was and today it is.
The tiny blossom within the womb shook the stem of the plant,
And the plant stood fluttering, unshaken, but withstanding.
I now feel how I felt of her personal ordeal for matchless Gift.
God’s Answer in her womb, personified, traversed the way out,
The Invisible Christ held her in His arms during the journey,
It was the journey that none can describe except the Answer in the womb.
Biological apprehensions began to fly out with anguishing threats;
Yet the Heavenly Providence filled the way with His Grace.
Medical engineers acted upon their wit and tools to watch the drama.
The God-sent soul, anxious and hopeful, waited for the little wonder:
‘How could God’s Answer personified be?’
Time was on its wings, minutes flew, seconds galloped.
Engineers’ assistants exchanged responses of sincerity and hopefulness.
The little Answer personified whispered from within the Heavenly Mercy.
Everyone heard the whisper, and the mother too, and she would be a mother.
The clock was in its perfection to chime the melody of the Answer,
And the whole world, dressed in joy and smile, looked in awe and wonder.
It was forty strokes behind the entry of the little Answer:
How could I share my joy and with whom?’
The mother raised a doubt within her.
‘I am with thee, share thy joy and pain with Me,
For I have borne everything for thee on the Cross.’
She heard a voice within and the pain left her,
Joy let its wings fly when the little Answer peeped out the world.
It was seven strokes yet to chime.
Each second was a mystery and the mystery was to be solved.
The trumpet raised its clarion call; the lyre touched its strings,
The firmament, filled with Heavenly Blessings, began to shower on.
The little Answer personified sent forth her first cry,
And the cry was first heard by the Master.
Yes, she was born, and she entered the world.
It was fifty-two strokes past three whistles she was born.
Little fairies began blowing little trumpets,
The mother shouted in joy: ‘THANKS TO MY LORD!
Our answer hath been heard. Thou art my Master.’
Dec 20, 2011
Dec 20, 2011 at 11:28 AM UTC
The typical person—
Strives to become better and good
Will always see that they have some advantage in the matter
Enjoys art, in some form (the species-specific expression of humanity)
Seeks comfort, and pleasure in its way,
Seeks love, a bare necessity for flourishing survival
Gives love, by instinct, causation, or personal values
Would give much to have the answers to everything and all
Still, in the exhaustion of panic unearthed,
Constricted chest muscles, proverbial blanching ache
And anguishing doubt
Just them same—
We will only partake
In beliefs without pain
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
It is terrifying that love dooms us to pain —
because if not done correctly,
love is a cancer on the heart
Its greedy cells fed by the anguishing cannibalism
of one’s own mind,
unable to separate itself from the seed it once held
And if it done correctly,
lovers will feel that two bodies cannot become close enough.
I cannot melt into you
in the way that I want to
When I’m lying with my head on your chest
begging to fall into your heart.
When you are not here, you are too far
But even when I am in your arms,
separated by nothing but our skin,
You are still too far
Thank the lord for these two sorrows
and the ability to choose between them
— @sheherazad.poetry
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 12:21 PM UTC
Physical and mental pain
Relentless and anguishing
But what about mental pain
Pain unseen
Bubbles. Bubbles. Finally boils over
It's one concept to be damaged by mental suffrage
But how about being the one who commits the act
Onto a lover? Stranger? Friend? Lover is worst.
The pain onto a lover is equivalent to a stranger tenfold
Tossing a grenade straight to a healthy selfless heart. The lovers heart.
And then you. Isolated. In a corner.
Being told in one ear you did it
Yet another ear says is that really what YOU YOURSELF wanted?
Pain comes and goes in abundance
How to deal? The theory of talking it out is one
Yet the only one who can help is the one you shoved a knife into
You ask yourself--speaking to them...
Would this twist the knife?
Maybe do yourself a favor and just shut the **** up and experience your consequences.
They did. Falling in and out with you.
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 2:10 PM UTC
every day we plaster
a smile upon our face
to hide the inner turmoil
with a polished grace
every day we chatter
we pass each other by
every day we laugh, we smile
every day we lie
we ask: "hello, how are you?"
breezily we reply:
"I'm fine, thanks and you?"
we say: "very well, thanks, goodbye"
there's one thing never mentioned
one thing never spoken of
it's a guilty secret
the thing that he calls "love"
silently we suffer
our voices never heard
quiet as the midnight our
we never speak a word
mouths forever shut
speaking out is forbidden
constant anguishing
the pain is always hidden
quietly we learn
to live with all the fear
forever terrified
we push away all we hold dear
silently we fight
forever marching on
step after step
towards to breaking dawn
we hold aloft our swords
composed of shrieking light
to pierce the darkness
of our persistent night
as we wage our battle
our voices ring loud and clear
the silence is ceased
and we will share our plight for all to hear
no one should live in darkness
so I will let my story be
a catalyst I hope
to set my silent sisters free
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 5:49 PM UTC
Amidst the sea of people
suffocating in the calumnation of their realm
ringed within the despair of others around them
and solemnly existing alongside the control of civilisation
Lay individuals heeding to their own opinions
shunned, ignored and stamped on by their peers
labeled as a nobody, as worthless and useless
and understood as not one of them
only as an error in the production of mankind
Free and unconstricted of the anguishing order
released as someone whom does not belong
condemned as not right in their head
and mentioned as unusual, absurd, crazy
Criticised as a dreadfully contrary being
memorised as a faulty move in the game of chess
expeditiously withdrawn from the establishment of humanity
and obliterated from the existence of their kind
Eyes judging from afar
fearing for their presence to be near
disgusted by their demeaning manner
and forced to abide within their deficient companionship
Once bound to free the shrieking tears
sobs and wails heard from others
begging for acceptance and help
and chasing the deemed worthy for assistance
Metamorphosed into a satisfactory compliance of themselves
buoyantly striding into the halls of the accounted worthy
neglecting the insults and protests of others
and middlingly acclimated to the continuance of being the hated
Disrespected, despised and dishonored they may be
but blithe, wild and free-spirited incorporated
effectively enhancing their blessed individualised life
and liberated from the provocation of those unwilling of exemption
forcefully claiming their unrighteous place in civilisation.
As they are, and always will be the outcast.
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 6:52 PM UTC
et go the bird that doth not fly
Release the prisoner whom do no harm
Let run the horse hast he no legs
Does not the heart beating within thine own chest
Scream to be released from its cage of bone
Does not the soul held within the walls of flesh and blood
Plead to be set free free of its fleshly grave
Can not you hear the crimson tide of blood and bile
Gurgling in your ears to flow upon this baron land
Does not the pulsating between your fleshy lobes
Beg to explode gray matter into space so cold
Use your head your really dead this is all an illusion
Think about it this cant be that which really isn't there
Nothing for your eyes to see so is it dark in there
Nothing for your ears to hear so have you gone def
Do you really feel the pain burning deep within
Is your insanity driving the living mad from your rantings
Are you paranoid theyll dig up your pallid bones
Will there mournful cries drive you from your grave
To haunt the men and children of your disdain
Will the love they had become anew in your rotting heart
Will the freedom they held become your captor
Relentless as it may be but your pain is for eternity
Youll never harm another as you have done before
Youll stand at the gates of hell and time anguishing in misery
Youll beg of fleshly fiends to do your biddings no more
All the while you remember the lifes you stole
From those you were to week and embarrassed to ****
Believe in that which cant be seen
Remember that which was told of you
Your only mortal but time and death
Will take their toll and come calling at hearts door
Death has come with its misgiving
Blood has boiled in your veins
Hear the whisper of the living
As the screaming of the dead
See the blood that leaves its stains
As the making of your graveyard bed.
Dec 18, 2010
Dec 18, 2010 at 9:15 AM UTC
White, black, grey
polaroid
memories in colorless tone.
Shining white
white like your eyes
torrid and hanging
anguishing
white.
White grinning
gorging on fear
gripping
white.
White
foam forming at the corners of your mouth.
your hair shone white.
Grey as I looked up,
Black is what followed.
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 2:24 PM UTC
Convulsing Pleasures
My woman passed me by
Some years now
Years ago, yes
I suppose
I believe in the wilderness she lived through
Winds that haunted her explicitly
Insisting on delivering anguishing pains
Somehow, un-nurtured, unrestrained
Exactly as her will, lust and flesh were
Well, for me, I - unbelieving - saw it too
Wherein threats threaded their fearsome paths
Gathering ever mightier forces
And exploding within all her convoluting
And yet expanding endlessly passions
Within violent quivers and contortions unseen
In God’s history
In one finale crescendo, I swear
Fearful, it can be to you
But fear not, I say
Fear her not
For, you know naught of her carnal resilience inner
Triumphs savagely over her entirety and existence
And what then
Will you think as you behold
What then will you dare to relate unto unknowing others
Will you, can relate on her
Her pleasurable gasps of madness
Her convulsing, frenzied satanic sublime ecstacies
What, then, can you dare say unto people
I know
Nothing
Perhaps
Little, or else
Insane fugitives, eternal
We too shall
Forever be
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 5:45 AM UTC
She holds the dead body of her brother
Long after it's grown cold
Like I had once held a dead kitten
In a washcloth...
Anguishing over a loss
That I couldn't have helped.
I couldn't have helped this one, either.
No matter what we have
Who we know
Who we are
Death takes us just the same.
We all leave...
Cold
Pale
Blank
Empty.
I remember,
That for a while
The kitten was just limp in my hand...
When I laid him down for a bit
And came back to check once more
Just to be sure
That he was gone
He was stiff
Stale
Like he had never been alive at all.
I asked my sister to bury him.
I could never be sure he was really dead
Even though he had no breath
Was he still there
Somewhere?
What is death...
Anyway?
What is it
People say?
He's passed
He's gone
He's deceased
In heaven
In hell
He's left
(he's not here?
are you sure?)
I'm sorry for your loss
My condolences
He's at peace
He's at rest
He's watching over us....
Where is he
Really?
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC
i sip continuously on this luke warm coffee
the withdrawing heat slowly seeping into oblivion
how the summer was meant to be
the heat from last years sauna season left memory of warmth in my bones
the cold from last winter froze me over
with the arrival of spring, the cold didn’t ease up
i spent May waiting for the steam to rise
by June the frost rose to my flesh
no longer buried underneath
stripped of any shred of strength that once inhibited my tender muscles
the frigid bullet shot through my veins, numbing all in its path
all I’m left with is the shrapnel.
with the tang of metal on my tongue
i disguise the anguishing flavour with each drag of this cigarette.
the chemicals leave a subtle fragrant veil of desperation on my lips. my fingertips. each strand of hair.
the fire of the burning stick between my lips ignites my insides for a few moments, but leaves me colder than before.
such power given to such a insignificant habit.
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 12:34 AM UTC