"apologetic" poems
I lull the salt
and the rain
with the company of
sour visitors
perpetual silence
stabbing me in
my palms
I strung it together
with thin white exhales
In the morning
I become tangled
apologetic veins
a rib cage and
a buoy, white endless
silence
tangled at the root.
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 6:51 PM UTC
Ebola, coming from the Continent of our roots
The WHO is exhausted by your contagion
Nurses are leaving their posts, doctors are dying
What can contain exponential growth?
Not the money and debts of this bankrupt America
We print more money and expect
The world to stay the same, but it won’t
Not after you Ebola, a profit mechanism
Vaccines, for each strain and mutation?
Ebola, your incubation period is too long
Your death-conformity is too high
How can you possibly be natural?
Man-made, racially biased, targeting
The weak, the poor, the masses
Ebola, a colonial rampage in your DNA
I call your bluff, genocide, Genocide!
Obama doesn’t mind Ebola, flights stay open
New epicenters for outbreaks arrive
The pundits say it’s already too late
Fluids or air-droplets, both, who is to say?
The CDC seems strangely apathetic
The UN is oddly apologetic
Ebola, are you ready to decimate
The white man, as you have the black?
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 10:41 AM UTC
I am tired, really tired...
I am tired of my talents not being recognized
I am tired of constantly proving myself
I am tired of being disabled
I am so tired...
Tired of not belonging
Tired of being invisible
Tired of being worthless
I am very, very tired...
I am tired of exchanging fake smiles
I am tired of meaningless conversations
I am tired of appearing dumb so as to get help
I am just tired...
Tired of being useless
Tired of failing
Tired of not dreaming
I am extremely tired...
I am tired of being apologetic
I am tired of being left out
I am tired of being ugly
What I am I saying?
What am I really tired of?
Why am I tired?
I am tired...
Tired of being speechless
Tired of being powerless
Tired of being afraid
In fact, I am broken down...
Broken down by being black
Broken down by being African
Broken down by being primitive
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 11:30 PM UTC
Fatima Latima
I had wished I had no gift of sight
That the worst I could endure is hear you speak
And not snapshot the footfall of your gradation
You may not be a thief
Nor **** daughter of the dayspring
But definitely my heart you stole
I speak of the daughter of Arabia
Aesthetically, she rocks
The queen of the pilgrim sands
And aeonian desert stones
Beyond the hijab
Artistically knead with consummate craft
Like the relics of Mecca
Blest by the prophet’s bones
The blessed
I see torches
Beaming with intelligence
Within those mascaras
Exquisitely trimmed and vibrant
A lulu class botany
She fixes a searching gaze
As she saunters close
And the stride and tread
Beats a drum entrancing
Soothed in her solacing spell
I give in, to her lullaby
She halts her perambulation
Stands magniloquent and stupefy
Like some pop diva magazine pose
Or Victorian secret shot
A tactical derangement of her gluteals
As she rests her palm in its cleft
I feel contractions, my dartos muscles
The blew of summertime
Gently beats her exceptional form
Her belt submerge her thigh crevice
Cleft by the sundered rift of fleshy fat
Built by the dainties and delicacies
Seasoned by the finest Arabian chef
As her silken dress slithers and gowns
Under the breeze bulging and blooming
Like a rose blossom or sunflower fore
As she bends down
To assuage the burlesque
The sun specula lilts her sensational
Her smile apologetic bids me stillness
I am caught staring
Guzzling down her scent and
Feasting on empty imaginations
Of What If that accentuate the mind and
Speed a hormone
And I pray I sin no more
Next time we meet and I see her again
For I am but a writer
Learning to use my pen and paper
And hope you but forgive
My linguistic impotence
When I make my confession
Employing too plain a language
When I say thus;
Her smile is classical
Her walk magical
Her beauty celestial
Her stride sensational
Her religion ethical
Her character spotless
And that leaves me breathless
And forgive if I step on broken toe
And try speak of the unspoken
Her ****** is sacred
Her being a type that dresses up
In the milliards of brutes dressing down
And shamelessly style it fashion
I must see a priest
One confession I ought to utter
And even vociferate abroad
For once I had fallen in love
With an Arabian Beautie
A ****** of Mecca.
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 9:12 AM UTC
Am I not too overwhelming
drowning even myself
still waiting
for thee to turn and flee
how hath thy not done so
apologetic
for I fear thee
not thee
but the power thy hold
within thine heart lies a key
to the lock that would consume me
please, I beg of thee
do not use said key
let me lie in thine heart
for eternity
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 8:45 PM UTC
I find myself locked
Between my flaws
In that I love too much
Yet I love too few
There's not much I can do
Than just be apologetic
But living an apologetic life
Leads to apologetic stories
So I wish to not say sorry
For I cannot change this
My flaws are my flaws
And they are what make me
This is not an apology
Just a warning
For my love is large and strong
And I cannot stop for anyone
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 3:19 PM UTC
I look up to a pale blue sky
With apologetic eyes
And a heart so very filled
With dim.
Take me back
To the empty box I was
Before I began feeding myself
Gin and jokes of grim.
God, please wash me off my sin,
Or take this foolish thick layer
Of skin.
-- Eleanor
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 8:07 AM UTC
Colored streaks on the pavement
Grinding stone against stone
We return our source of enjoyment to the Earth
Sidewalk chalk tastes like childhood.
Body tracings, blue skies, big fish-- our cement canvas is filled
Filled with youthful thoughts and unlikely realities
A world of our own creation;
One we can stomp on
Cross out
Wash away
The presence of an unknown friend
Everyone is a friend, we are young and naive
“Draw with us, Draw with us”
Our wonder reaped the same;
The new face shows only bewilderment
“Draw with us”
Chubby childish hands exchange colored chalk
Despite our encouragement, this outlander won’t join in
It’s now a game for us
“Draw with us, Draw with us”
Foreign motions, fast moving fingers, a frustrated face
“Draw with us”
His hesitant movements are masked
By an apologetic smile
He brings new things to our Crayola-created universe
A trumpet, its player, a lion in mid-roar,
All things ordinary
Nothing we’ve drawn before
Like the colors we immerse ourselves in
Our company doesn’t last
Our accomplice offers a wave
Leaving his silent marks in our little world.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 8:44 PM UTC
A scuba diver, head first like a dolphin,
goes in to the ocean, 100 feet down
in semi-darkness finds this apparition
something beautiful to behold in motion,
really really big and mysterious it appears
gliding gracefully spewing wonderment,
inviting reverence from all kinds of marine life
Clearly apologetic, for being out of place,
though he has encroached, in to a world
though not far from the sea surface,
yet in a depth where human has no place
all his scientific temper got evaporated
a simple villager now, gripped by wonder.
All he could think of anyone
fitting in to such magnificence
was God Almighty,himself.
"How do you do God?" he stutters,
aware that in plankton filled darkness
the mighty man is at the mercy of
the behemoth, looming large above.
The phenomenon in question,
***** whale"as we know him,
smiles and burps happily "Fantastic"
then he dives 6000 feet down, looking
for a colossal squid, succulent to be sure
the whole reason for him to play God
at this depth for sea creatures that lose
bearing in the haze of challenging depths.
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 5:59 AM UTC
#If there were better words
I would sing 'em.
For now,
Silence is a crowd
And I'm making it as their leader.
Or only true believer,
In words.
Or lack of them,
regardless,
It's a mute commute to what you want.
Was it my bad, behavior?
that was feeling you-
before you were feeling me
around my neck
I get it.
Out of respect
and for heart murmurs
Its true,
I can feel it;
Me, mute is a commute that you want
This train had to keep moving.
The conductors wife is at bay.
Many people are apologetic.
But many more have destinations to make.
Like crying baby.
And a grin,
from a lonely man in his gazing,
fading lying chair.
For you
And me-
In this booth.
Mute is our commute to what we want.
Mute is our commute to what we want.
Dec 11, 2017
Dec 11, 2017 at 4:42 PM UTC
I'm sorry dear
but I must confess
that I haven't been
at all the best
at keeping up my end.
I've pulled away
In a such a cowardly way
And I really am apologetic
However, I'd be lying
if I told you that I regret it.
I'm just not the person
You wish I was
Though I've managed
to convincingly fake it
The keyboard lets me
lie with ease
with each "I love you"
"Thank you" and "Please"
Although the former
I've been saying
less and less
because once again
I must confess
the feelings
that I once adored
but eventually
began to abhor
and successfully managed
to ignore
have simply left
and are no more.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 4:10 AM UTC
With the slightest touch I grow wings
And I am able to see the things I couldn't before.
A second chance to grab on with both hands.
I believe everything happens for a reason,
The path of your smile lies in wait.
Finding excess need.
The times I couldn't catch my breath.
The maturity of being open.
To elope in a touch that brings the next moment that much closer.
The pretense of spending my time soaring known that you were the reason why.
The full disclosure of trust in a none apologetic moment.
The only problem is figuring out where we land.
Do we even have to come back.
May 5, 2018
May 5, 2018 at 2:47 AM UTC
When my father was young he mowed lawns for money. He pushed a second-hand spinning blade in the hot Florida sun for spare change.
With dull coins clanging in his pocket and crumpled bills in his palm, my father fought to escape home.
To him, home was synonymous with scary southern suburbia, where late-night television was replaced with screaming matches and loud fists. Angry eyes with children's cries. Barbecues bombarded with apologetic looks from neighbors. Pretending not to hear shatters and shouts of supposed 'baseball black eyes'.
And so he pushed. Pushed the rusty lawn mower down strangers' yards, pushed away the sniggering snot-nosed kids calling him 'Spic', and pushed at his father's demons, crawling down his spine, whispering that he was no good.
Years later he kept pushing
Pushing
Pushing
Pushing towards whatever came next. Yet no matter how much he pushed, he was still the same boy with the lawn mower. Angry, mad, pushing violently ahead.
The smoke of sanity is inhaled now, as my father's blood-shot eyes try to suppress the angry boy within. The residue of stolen innocence is not left unnoticed. A touch of tone on his once sunburnt neck and the man he has made instantly flushes away, leaving his father's demons. Calmer than before, a dying star, burning bright before collapse.
Like a strong jaw, his father's anger is passed down to him, and I, his son, am now born with this seed of destruction. Smaller than before, but still seething.
Constantly reminded, I sit in a leather chair surrounded by white walls in carefully controlled climate, plastic pen perched on my palm, I push.
I'll keep pushing.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 4:50 PM UTC
Quincy Valero
Everybody’s best friend
Jet black hair
Shiny brown eyes
A boyish smirk
Standing six foot something
Coming out of catholic school agnostic
Attending state college
Every word that came out of his mouth was a riot
A funny story of a bad situation he was in that he can laugh at now
An awkward moment with a girl he tried to get in bed
God awful train rides with a clueless conductor
Quincy Valero
A wanna-be Casanova
The irish-italian self-proclaimed “Don Juan of Dumont”
Roaring down the suburb streets in his bright yellow mustang
From Bergen county to Trenton
Edgewater to Ewing
Bumping R&B; from the 90's
A main girl
A side chick
And a few back pocket broads
Leading them on
To where?
I’m not even sure he knows
Quincy Valero
My best friend since I’ve been here in Purgatory
My lifelong cellmate
My hetero life mate
My brother of second thought
Our token white boy
He’s had his ups
Wild ragers until day break
A four way with me and two girls in my four door sedan
He’s had is downs
Falsely charged with domestic abuse
Community service, endless court room hearings, suspensions and a whole bunch of nonsense
Quincy Valero
The quintessential example of the modern day male
Stays up all night
Sleeps all day
Opportunistic
Egotistical
Miserly
*****
And hungry
Always aching to put in his two cents
And leaving everyone in a howl of laughter
An Adderall popping
Seasoned drinker
A professional *** smoker, coached by yours truly
Fast talking baritone voice
With a half serious tone
Yes, Quincy Valero
The tight plain white t-shirt wearing
Chino sporting
Nostalgic, slightly racist, sexist, anti-semitic
Bust usually honest, friendly and apologetic
Good hearted dude we all love to hate
And hate to love
Bed-headed
Pajama bottom ***
Talking about his Svedka regrets
And we laugh and laugh and the stupidest things
Then remember events that seem so long ago
And then make plans for tomorrow
Yeah, one of my best friends
My oldest friend
That’s Mr. Quincy Valero
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 11:56 AM UTC
You smile like a wolf about to ****
Your cruel, sharpened fangs barred in spite.
Your voice was gold, your white cuspids alight.
You smile at your prey; we deer stand still.
I know the smile shall end where it will.
I know it never reaches to your eyes
And I know, like one bitten once or twice,
That the wolf closes its eyes to ****
The wolf leans in too close, panic sets in
Stumbling through apologetic speech in
An effort to get somewhere else, again...
The deer springs into action, can't win
For wolves hunt in packs, the wingman swoops in
Now trapped by foes unbeatable, I'm slain.
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 11:55 AM UTC
*Meeting up with the dragon
was a page
out of an intergalactic adventure;
shaking hands with
doppelganger, it was.
He insisted that he is
still a mythical animal
just don't exist in real,
he was so apologetic
to the point of being mawkish,
"Don't want to mislead any one
to somewhere, let's be scientific
to think, you took such pains
to make this meeting happen,
which is not the case in real,
do you see me well?
He was in panic, it seemed,
took him in confidence and
made him stay put.
"What's real is a long debate
don't think I am real,
material world could
easily proved an illusion
matter in to energy and reverse
is the story we see here
quantum mechanics will
end all your qualms
everything is in a state of flux
even the scientists are,
sometimes they see black holes
and suddenly they think otherwise,
so the universe is not even
a handful of dust, it's energy
playing fancy dress..."
The dragon looked crust fallen,
"you should have met a dinosaur instead
at least they EXISTED,and Phew, what a variety
much more than a myth, which I am"
"Don't be apologetic, grand father's gift
grandma must have used her fun of imagination
to beget you and raise to such level of popularity
dragon or meerkat, all are fun, like human,
when none exists, but happily present
in mind and on these vast spaces our eyes see,
waiting to transform in to quanta of energy
when time summons, and God play dice.*
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 8:20 AM UTC
My Heart is a drunken bipolar maniac with masochistic tendencies .
My Heart does not care about your feelings,
or the fretting of my apologetic Mind.
It is ravenous and deranged;
it will devour your succulent hopes and spit out the bones.
My Heart is one mean ************
it is a rabid wolverine with a hangover who ate razor-blades for breakfast,
and no, it does not want to go steady
or hold hands.
It wants to rip the soft white throat of your infatuation
and watch your eloquent offerings pool around your feet.
Unless, of course, you do not want me.
For met with that alluring indifference,
my unhinged pit-bull of a Heart will curl at your feet with doe-eyed meekness
and follow you from room to room in an agony of adoration
while Self-Respect and Dignity sulk in some dusty corner, thinking
"Please God, won't somebody muzzle that crazy *****
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 7:45 AM UTC
Winter is quiet, but always restless.
Irrevocably cold, and deceitfully burning.
Harsh at times, throwing storms of ice when tempered.
Apologetic, as it stews in silent shame.
Unforgiven, and tolerated.
A season which destroys beauty in order to create a kind of it's own.
Decorated, as if the beauty it created for itself hadn't been enough.
I never liked Winter very much,
but I've come to realize we've got a lot in common.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 11:22 PM UTC
A synthetic thunderstorm envelops me
and I forget where my life is.
I forget about you and your fluent tongue
of disinterest, puppetry, and misinformation.
I forget the speakers and soundscapes;
wires and ties and strings attached,
the way I struggle to sleep alone,
but cannot share my life with anyone.
I forget the next payday, the next lay;
the need to borrow words and feelings
just to make sense of my own.
Distraction and hunger for nicotine
become near-echoes of a past life-
an umbilical bond to old decades
of habit and mistrust for the sober mind.
I forget the ash and ends I have left behind.
The ocean is close but occupies no space,
only the airwaves with a rhythmic breath
to still my own, reducing my identity
to fractals of self-interest and oneness.
I forget who I am amongst the writing desk,
The Book Of Longing, the cooling tea;
the stagnant water. I forget flesh desire,
violent *** and apologetic *******
I forget, for once, the need to live,
amongst all of this living.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC
The rotting corpse of a dilapidated morning glory
Waxes poetic in the dry summer air-
Its wilted petals droop heavy
With the subtle presence of something
Close to the end, but of a different hue.
A sweet yet sickly scent
Engulfs the neglected shrubbery,
That so gracefully collapses onto
A rusted, barbed wire fence,
Caving in beneath the heavy traces of morning dew
Atop intricate spider webs and fallen leaves.
Its bitter laments of despair
Sound out to the iridescent moon,
Cursing god in all his putrid grace.
Somewhere in the night, the sad wail echoes
Tumbling off canyon walls and over priced gas stations,
Until all that's left is a hollow boom
And the faint whisper of the Holy Ghost.
The pagan wind slowly creeps by,
Pushing the flowers further down,
Until their stems take on the silhouette
Of the stooped backs of apologetic sinners,
Face down at the altar, accepting their worthy penance.
Dawn waits beyond the bend,
Her seductive fingers trace the fragile outline
Of the sleeping buds, blushing a faint pink
The color of a newborn child-
Beauty is only real within the tender moments
Leading up to it's intricate destruction.
Is this how it feels to exist?
Beating up against forgiveness
With bloodied palms, imprinted with the
Wilted outline of an indifferent morning glory-
Too alive to ever experience eternity,
For, in accepting life,
All else perishes.
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 11:01 PM UTC
Throat,
Please open,
I need to let it out,
I can't keep holding back,
I need to express myself,
But you won't let me,
You tighten,
Constraining,
Closing,
Around my feeble words,
That cry from their prison,
To be allowed to show themselves,
But you won't let them,
I choke,
My whole body begins to shake,
And those lyrics that seemed so perfect,
Stop.
.
.
.
I stare,
Into nothing,
Wishing I could speak,
But hoping more that I,
Can begin to sing in key,
But no,
You decide for me,
That my sentiment is not worth sound,
You refuse to permit my right to free speech,
By closing my vocal chords down.
.
.
.
Their eyes stare,
No sympathy,
Critical confusion,
In the end their glares usher me away,
I shuffle back from the microphone,
With an apologetic smile to my pianist,
I turn and leave the stage,
My hands hit the floor,
My head down,
Eyes down,
Tears fall,
Anger builds,
But only at my sorry self.
.
.
.
Failure.
.
.
.
The rest of me was so strong.
.
.
.
But my throat gave away my pain.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 2:30 AM UTC
Where did you go?
I see the sun set.
I can actually see it go down.
The world gets darker.
So many bottles of champagne surround me.
I celebrate nothing.
I lose entire days.
But men that look apocalyptic fill me up
Until I put my ***** clothes back on
And trample back to my den.
Worn, apologetic, and wishing it would all pass.
Glittered nails and crooked teeth.
I think back on my past relationship and laugh.
Who was I?
Who was he?
I can't even remember anymore.
And that's a good thing.
I just want on vacation.
A long week in Florida.
Sun.
Oranges.
Kitsch.
I've said it about every ex
I'll say it again.
We're going to be okay.
It may take time.
But one day we will talk.
We will laugh.
And we will smile.
I wish you all the best.
And I know
Deep down
You do too.
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 4:33 PM UTC
You make me feel like
I can be honest
but if you want,
just say the word
and we'll drop it
.
I'm sorry
that I dropped you,
it's just something
I can't not do
and it's not you;
I don't plan it,
this bad habit,
it just happens.
It just happened
to involve you.
.
And I know I
can't console you
because each time
I call your phone,
I rub salt
deep
into
old wounds.
.
And every night
you go to sleep,
you feel me
naked
in your sheets.
So you let songs
I'd hate
run on repeat-
like you
no longer think of me.
.
And I would do
the same thing;
if I'd ever been
that mean to me.
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 7:14 AM UTC