"articulated" poems
Two were suffocated
One stabbed
Four drowned
Three broken neck.
A massive shock for her,
articulated.
10 were over
None are forgotten,
7 irrelevant
but 3 where all 3.
She was asked to
portray all these
in a pie chart.
While he was eating
a blueberry pie.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 4:18 PM UTC
I'm smarter than
Most people i know,
But i've been cursed
With the ability to
Feel.
I have a multitude of thoughts
Being triggered every second.
Each with their own
Unique emotion.
I feel each one vividly,
And with amazing depth
Creating a storm in my head
Impossible to ignore.
My storm of emotions
Grows so strong,
It prevents the simultaneous thoughts
From being articulated
Or understood.
I can confuse myself,
And break my own heart
Because of the complexity
Of my mind.
An astounding talent, really.
My dad says I'm smart,
Too smart for my own good.
And he's probably right.
What good is a brain,
When your heart makes all the decisions?
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 5:11 PM UTC
Short sidedness,
blistering thoughts;
selfish predisposition:
What a world!
Hypocritical claims
about profound lack of wisdom
and fear of loneliness;
Deeply ironic statements
about some lust to be alone
that you felt as you ******
Your words seem well chosen and articulated,
and perhaps in time will become true;
but it seems to me that they right now
are as hollow and transient as the space
between your actions, logic, and resolve:
I've found very little
that can make me stop
to laugh and cry all at once,
perhaps a few pieces of Beethoven's music and some really ******* good metal;
but you sit atop that short list
on your rather gorgeous and elegant hubristic throne,
mocking the progress I've made,
oozing with scorn and spite:
You have so much to learn before you will be regarded as you like to assume you are:
"Responsible"; word around the campfire is: hardly.
"Honest"; perhaps in words, but apparently not actions.
"Mature"; physically, it seems, but mentally? Not so much.
"Respectful"; only to yourself, and seemingly not even that.
I tried to help, and clearly failed.
If it were a test, you cheated;
didn't bother to see how it could've been,
but hey:
at least you were honest.
At least you told the Truth,
though your actions were untrue.
I thought I loved you;
I thought I needed you.
Perhaps I did,
but it has run it's course:
you killed it on purpose.
I suppose it served it's purpose to you;
that I have served my purpose to you.
I detach myself from you,
and from myself, in the process,
and in the process, I fall in love
with those aspects of myself
I so seek in others:
Darkness; honesty. Honor. Intellect.
Humour. Creativity, balance. Respect.
A level of elegance, but an amount of **** it";
Mental maturity, to an extent.
A moderate badass. A **** badass.
Though, it seems,
the path to Heaven is paved with good intentions,
and is built with the bones of the hopeful,
and is illuminated by unfounded faith
in ****** ******* people:
A mandala of Irony.
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 9:46 PM UTC
on your birthday
I wrote a letter comprised
of all that I adored;
words articulated in strikethroughs
and barrelled with smiley faces
to disguise my evident
addiction to your smile
--to your happiness.
and although I value your happiness
the letter remains at the bottom
of my computer
untouched, unsent
because my heart is already
shred to pieces, and the thought
of you dismissing
the words I poured myself in
is unbearable.
words;
they never articulated properly
although I pride myself a writer;
I addressed situations I overanalysed
over countless nights of lost sleep,
where your mouth dropped,
your eyes lowered
your breath grew heavier after
another brutal attack from my unaffectionate
words.
I noted little things;
conflicts within yourself
and wrote about them,
my remedy a simple melody
contrasting the bitter tunes
spat at you, through widened eyes
and curled lips.
That letter is unsent
because it exposes too much
about how often I think
dream
feel
about you.
while I say very little
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 5:11 AM UTC
The middle class idea of theft--
where we eat at semi-fancy restaurants
seated at faux leather interior
deep seated dimly lit coves
dine in a sarcophagus of tasty mildew.
A youth lends their smile
teeth faintly shine through,
but roughly cut short of sincere;
on their lapel in fine print the label says Sandy.
Flexing water spotted plastic
black brim borders
and articulated names of food
that would put all of Italy to shame.
Porcelain plates hold lofty portions
of what is purely compensation
as texture and flavor remind me of my adolescence
this is when Playdoh and Crayons are used for flavoring.
A slate for my signature is provided
and the upside to this all
was the perfection of a pen they lent me
it was ball tip and bright pink--
finally something I'd be glad to take home with me.
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 12:17 PM UTC
Asmodeus is left to breathe nothing but sand
Belial is trickery and is partial to Man
Charon is only influenced by what is paid
Dagon will bake whatever can be made
Erebus guards his own darkness under his own tree
Furfur his army is more legendary as a legion to see
Geryon his sentry at the gates ensures leaving is not right
Hetu-Ahin even whole at Dawn you are not safe at Twilight
Itzcoliuhqui is the ******* of all that is cold
Jezebeth is articulated as all falsehoods that are told
Kasdeya wallowing 5th in line to never be king
Lilith who Adam thought would make him sing
Mephistopheles not the true leader just a fawning servant
Nyx Incestuously in love with her brother Erebus
Orthon can take on any or other form
Philotanus will assist when the fortress is to be stormed
Qanel is alone in a canal of strife
Raum his command means Furfur is under the knife
Seth Rules the Egyptian underworld with an iron fist
Tando Ashanti Takes seven on seven and will never miss
Uphir will ensure that all Demons stay well
Vetis will make sure all that Holy comes to Hell
Wele Gumali is as black as the darkest sin
Xaphan makes sure that all are comfy and warm within
Yama has dogs to take care of all the junk
Zagam is just a drunk
Jul 19, 2012
Jul 19, 2012 at 5:48 AM UTC
I can tell the truth without speaking
I can admit without looking into saddened eyes
I can dream without sleeping
I can convey a tone with my lips closed in disguise
I can let it all spill out knowing I can hit delete
I can think aloud in silence
I can let out a frantic cry and remain completely discreet
I can interchangeably exercise conformity and defiance
I can turn a wish into a goal with strokes on the keyboard
I can tend to my own wounds
I can create my own articulated rewards
Writing poems keeps my thoughts from swirling into typhoons
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 2:36 AM UTC
To elaborate on what Chris Hedges (the liberal who loves to play radical during uprisings) wrote in the Occupied Wall Street Journal concerning the goal of the Occupy Wall Street movement: “The goal to us is very, very clear. It can be articulated in one word—REBELLION. … What the elites fail to realize is that rebellion will not stop until the corporate state is extinguished.”
To that, I say this:
If you are sick and tired of living in the land of the 'free',
in the land of plenty,
while you see injustice
and poverty
and suffering,
then stand up.
Join a local chapter of Occupy,
join any progressive group.
If you don't see these things,
PLEASE WAKE UP.
READ, look and listen,
to the world around you,
rather than a TV, an Iphone,
or some talking head.
The deep inequities in life exist for a reason.
Capitalism, that oh so familiar 'greed is good' mentality.
We have to transform it totally,
beginning with a plea for rebellion.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 8:48 PM UTC
Inconclusive patterns
Form indented regularity
In flowing drifts
A panoply of tropical orchids
In my mind
A menaced distortion
Straining forward
Like an isolated image
In an old photograph album
Disclosing only the fragments
Of an insoluble puzzle
Its atmospherics of frequency
Disturbs me somewhat
It is identical to hidden speech
Or the resistance to time
Of exclamatory reminders
Of forward motion
That momentarily fascinates
Then falls through a hole
In a central vortex of vision
This is the architectonics
Of a thought
That can never be articulated
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 11:38 AM UTC
I would like to think of myself as an intellectual, but really I’m just a regurgitation of the adolescent caste system with academic anxiety and a learned fear. Well, I suppose that is a bit harsh. I used to be social ***** now I am a lowly intrapersonal custodian (let us never mind my inter-personal mess-managing, please?), though I am far from clean. __________ I have found myself flitting back to this page from time to time and mentally inserting here a terse, self-degrading statement that could re-catalyze my pitiful little verse, but never actually writing it. I hold it heavy in my head where it shall remain, apparently. Apparently I don’t feel the need to read my flaws, transgressions, and fallibilities back to me. Perhaps I haven’t yet articulated them, and they’re just skulking around—hunched apparitions haunting my subconscious. (Death smells like dog treats: perplexing, but you want to touch your tongue to it so long as no one will know). I must slay them all, eventually, or else perish. But! It is not the transgression itself that I fear—my behaviors are observable, even tangible, I can stare at them for hours. It is the dark implication of the transgression—the churning matter only detectable for its outline of illumination—that gives me trepidation. How will I move-on? How will I grow-here? Like an impossible little spur that nestles between resistant skin and unknowing fabric? Can I penetrate the protection? My security is maniacal; it is evidence of crazed disillusion. I am the raven clawing through infinite veneers; I am tangled…
Out ****** spot! Out, I say!
I must regress to becoming the white blanket.
I must know nothing but God.
A simple cloth.
A towelette.
Rags!
Rags!
Rags!
…
….
…God?
…Hello?
…Is it too late to become
…plain?
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
A visit to the library,
And returning I opened the book
I’d waited for a long impatient month.
Knowing it to be brim full of inspirational words,
I had only to read a few paragraphs
When it came to me,
When there was this moment
Poets call epiphany.
Into another place, beyond the printed page, mysteriously I slipped. I think it’s where your creative spirit lives and thrives, a place your flowing thoughts reside. There, the energy of your spirit flashes in the dark, and there exists the archetypes of all your inward eye brings forth. There the marked surfaces carry the chemerical accident of objects placed and pressed, and there the passage of your sewing hand’s rich rightness of intuition guides. In tandem they touch me to the quick; they scare and scar me. And why? – I sense in them this vigor; a potency no less, strength so wholly absent from my declining store of sad objects and false fashionings.
And all that careful reasoning
I'd so variously composed,
badly articulated,
tiresomely presented
became then as nothing,
nothing against the truth
of what you make
and what I know you are.
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 2:23 AM UTC
A honeybee he is,
but how does he know
it's his brief to make honey;
never once it was articulated anywhere,
following a faint tune of fragrance
he flies, crossing barriers, forgetting everything else.
This is a divine madness, his blood sings,
he is just an instrument in the creation of sweetness,
but when,
the rain clouds pour down in torrents
the flowers are laden with water
his honey tastes different.
In summer he hums a different tune,
in resonance with many fragrances that invite him,
as flowers vie with each other,
to let him have their taste.
Honeybee's tune now changes to a love song,
always remembered by the inebriated pairs of lovers
roaming in the gardens.
A honeybee he is, he is unaware what it means,
he is prompted by nature in all he does.
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
Cleverly-crafted crumbs created
Are fabulously fantastic when framed for framing's function,
But accurately articulated actions
Are better for freeing feeling's function.
Now I can see your
Creative crumbs are cause for chaos.
The creator capturing caring compassionates
With each wilful, worthless word.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 7:55 PM UTC
behind books never lent
there is a worm hole to different worlds.
However, this being a library,
this discovery has never been discussed
or articulated.
Attempts to share the secret are met with a finger
to the lip and a ssshhhhh
from the hatchet faced librarian.
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 1:02 PM UTC
i cannot fly
for i am lost,
in a world i do not know
and have yet to understand.
emotions are trapped deep in my throat,
caught in my chest,
intangible wisps of half-formed words,
bent and misshapen,
thrown together like mismatched furniture,
never with the intention of being articulated.
we are souls on the verge of being,
but not quite enough
to be.
walls hover above my head
closing in,
as stones crumble beneath my feet,
rocks tumbling,
disappearing
into a fissure of emptiness below.
in isolation
i fall,
surrending,
before the earth shatters
into millions of pieces
of other broken souls,
and we carry each other
as burdens on our backs
even though we are all damaged,
flightless.
the earth is 7 billion humans long,
the circumference composed of pain, suffering, healing;
souls piled on top of souls,
and we are caught,
caged into a life we didn't agree to live.
we did not sign a waiver in the last moments before our conception,
or in the delivery room,
or when our faces were first greeted by the sun as infants,
we never had a chance to cease to exist altogether.
my wings are clipped short,
and i do not know how to fly--
i'm thrashing against the sides of my cage,
my songs of joy becoming tears of sorrow,
of desperation and faltering hopes.
i'm bursting at the seams
that were hastily sewn by others,
people i hardly know.
they patch each incision with torn bandages,
that come undone with each breath i take,
only to be mended again.
we are fighting to save ourselves
whilst wrestling with the darkest creatures that only ever existed in our childhoods,
our youth being a fleeting memory,
scattered by the wind.
it has become a mindless struggle
as they pull you
downward,
binding your wrists behind your back,
as you stumble
helpless to catch even yourself,
let alone anyone else.
for how can you escape from the darkness
when you cannot fly?
and how can you fly,
when you do not even know where the sky is?
-j.m.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 9:28 PM UTC
Another hollow night of meaningless time spent trying to accumulate hours of sleep...
The clock seems stagnant during those minutes when I close my brain to escape the world
articulated before my eyes -
A world written in such a manner...
that perfect poetry blemishes the manifestation I lay before thee...
This perfect beauty... relevant seemingly only in the realms of language...
Tainting something lost adrift -
Something so pertinent... so... potent... but lost... lost adrift somewhere...
Only to be confined by our fabricated gratification of the meaning amidst the letters b e a u t y... Still resolved extraneously somewhere...
Somewhere lost adrift...
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 9:16 PM UTC
i pray for silence.
a quiet moment from the storm.
my mind possesed by unwritten lines
burdened by the weight of life.
i am unable to feel
beyond the thunder and trashing
of my own mind.
slowly losing myself.
chaos breeding inside my head
of words that are slowly dying.
my battle has always been
between overwhelming thoughts
accompanied by poems,
versus... not feeling anything at all
with pages left blank.
i prefer either the scorching passion
or the cold numbness.
this is much worse!
with each thought not articulated,
i'm missing pieces of myself;
which i can only find
in the calmness of writing.
Oct 4, 2016
Oct 4, 2016 at 5:08 PM UTC
We are each...
just learning each other
my core is shaken by
how quickly
the world stopped
and my empty soul
playfully slid around you
and settled in your eyes.
I have always believed
in the thought of you...
the reality of you however
is very articulated and exacting
you are my karma
I am your bridge.
I am slowly learning
what real love is.
I'm scared... paralyzed...
comfortable... ecstatic...
and very impatient.
We are just now
learning...Us
creating....
believing...
My inner sense of self
changed
when you became mine.
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 4:30 AM UTC
The world was crashing before her eyes and the movie was playing
over and over.
Blood flowing through her air, wiped off by bright colors she despised.
She lived in a dream she wanted to fall asleep to.
She whistled and weeped and wrecked and wed widows
who walked among different grounds than her
She plotted fresh and icy white droplets of mint in her mouth, awaking her morning breath
She masked her soul in itchy wool sweaters and her emotions in
pounds of make up
Melodies and harmonies are plucked by strings. A voice and a wooden guitar create
A symphony of truths
Something never articulated in a conversation was flowed out through this cold and curved instrument and on pure sheets of paper
Piles of pages of stories of those relating to the villains inside our hearts,
All honesty is gone in modern stories of victimization.
A relation to the simple days is caressed in moments of weakness.
Crying the Sh’ma to her God,
to the ferocious tiger,
the trustworthy elephant,
and the regretful giraffe.
A bond reflected through gold and a diamond reveals more hatred and despair than the love and commitment it was given for.
Songs sung sounded of serenades and lullabies all were real abominations and a nuisance
among her razor.
The flame flew away back at camp, all that is left is wax in her seemingly well pampered box. The fire’s flame was filled with water.
Oh, what a cancer.
Oct 28, 2011
Oct 28, 2011 at 7:52 PM UTC
*How you comprehended my myriad a murmur
My mind can barely understand even with a hammer
Hard hit on my head
I a diaper-wetting toddler nestled in the warm bed
Of your comforting arms
You, in constant vigil feeding me honey-sweet plums
Singing me lullabies in your soft mellow voice
Your seemingly palpable heart always in a state of rejoice
Kindness well-articulated on your visage
Your demeanor that of a revered sage.
Your unmatched audacity to defy odds
Neutralizing all prods
Initiated by inconveniencing circumstance
A goddess of stern indefatigability, your experience in life expanse.*
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 4:32 AM UTC
my mundane life
is all too trivial
I am a child
I still live
in my parents house
the one my father built
with his words,
the one my mother
blew spirit into
with her macaronis
the one I sat
in my room
studying in
useless packs
of forgotten information
trying
to cry.
into new notebooks
and ukulele
filling bathtubs
opening windows
letting air
form an air
of beauty
in my ugly
homely
country
unloved country
every being here
utters poorly articulated words
of loath
to you
how do you stand
so strong
whilst staggering within
adversity?
would my life
be more
or less
mundane
if I were nabokov
living in russia
transcending and transmitting
beauty?
coated with cold
and cruelty
thats cruel for cruelty
and aesthetics sake,
rather than
heat
and rage
and silenced
misery.
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 5:49 PM UTC
~inspired by Lar Lubovitch,
gifted to Glenn Currier
who made my eyes water-dance this
morning ~
<>
raise the arms in preparation
for an articulated genteel waving
to keyboard,
an elegant slow descent,
fingers extending, splaying,
but in fine coordinated curvature
for they are 24 carat gold filled fingertips,
word & dance-art~infused
i king and expelling sounds of dancing words,
all over my body
some body part of me,
grasps that the cylinder of ink,
becomes a baton,
single instrument director,
an attaché,
an additive~lubricant,
for all my orifices,
firing rocket-in-the-air bomb bursts
while body in its entirety
motions,
shuckin’ and jivin’
in the prayer~poem first position,
a rock n’ roll motion,
back and forth,
to fro,
holy mesmerized
words run down my arms,
letters drop encased in salt drop capsules,
from the intuition in my eyes,
we see them forming words,
pooling,
without volition,
upon,
all my surfaces, but they
a mere conveyance,
bringing these expulsive explosive verbs
in an ordered fashion,
to your eyes,
intuitively,
asking you
to dance with me,
begging you
to envision me,
hearing the piano maintaining rhythm,
while a violin crys out in a overly long held notes,
concertinas bellowing,
all together quavering,
oscillating, emoting,
and you!
you are reading me perfectly
so we dance in unity
cheek to cheek,
to the song of
our poem,
our words, our tongues,
our entire entities,
rogue kissing
Dec 4, 2023
Dec 4, 2023 at 8:52 AM UTC
the acrid unease of incence
emaciating the mind
hangs in the air at the edge of the forest
where the dew drops wither
the sorrows of the moon
where shaped and tailed eyes
pacified only
by a satisfaction of images
that buzz in frenzied movements
savored and perverse
strangle
in black, scarlet, white and pink
divergent parallels
the quantum connection of memory
listen to the deformation of silence
and tease the disunity of
attempted cohesive geometry
where nothing is heard
but strained articulated color
by shaped and tailed eyes
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 6:47 PM UTC
Practically everyone fell to their knees at the sound of the whistle. Maszar glanced backwards at the iron rod pressed to his spine and the articulated expression of a misty thought-god that held the holographic weapon prisoner. He believed, and the sudden twitch of dendrites and synapses claustrophobicly trapped him inside of his head- - he began screaming, "too small, too small!" like it made a difference and scratched at the walls of his mind as the Queen of Deza Park dosed her way into the debate panel of his mind for an evening special of Into the Mist.
There wasn't much left to debate when she arrived- - the synapses were firing at one another, frightened warriors frantically snapping their own necks in unintentional combat or disillusioned by the unromance of war. Dendrites and neurons began to shoot themselves hard in the temple as the world swiveled into a whirlpool around them, thoughts crashing through the unprotected dam of the cerebral cortex and landing on the war torn beaches of repressed memory. Slowly, the chasm between Maszar's body and mind began to close- - revealing to the war torn gods the implicit unity within each explicit duality, swapping sanity for quick sand and comfort for faded lenses through which scratch marks created a tear in the space-time continuum.
If only.. was his second-to-last thought.
If only there was some way to measure the death erupting within me to see if..
was his last.
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 8:22 PM UTC
I hinge upon you
you are the fulcrum
of all my motion
Feb 2, 2019
Feb 2, 2019 at 1:14 PM UTC