"articulating" poems
Honesty the lost art/
Honesty is rare
it should cost a lot/
It would be sublime if
We could find it/
Honestly, honesty is the best policy/
We should treasure the
thought cherished engulfed/
combined with
Loyalty
till death do us part/
I yurn
The lies tiring
like ones sleepy
lay down Suffocating to a corpse/
Thought is boss
employ by it
We're all guilty I guess/
Liar liar in court
A sentient being-ness/
Troth be told
I can't believe in this/
Question,
Am I the only one seeing this?/
Or only me blind and ain't Seeing ****
I try and **** it out
its epidemic, Chronic/
The remedy Poetry Hop
Visual Sonnets/
**** naked in
My correspondence/
Articulating articles
Waiting for responses/
Is it a defense mechanism
Of the conscious/
Honesty? Honestly/
Seems like everyone's
Not doing it so its gotta BE/
Non honesty
The ever lasting Prophecy/
And were full filling it
The good succumbs
To the villainous/
My willingness/
To compromise my will
I guess/
You could interpret as weak/
Most realize
the Inside scoop
Yet everyone tells lies
non interested in truth/
Me, a victim and a suspect
An on going cycle yet/
I ask what's next/
as if I didn't know
Where the L lies underlying Facts can't grow/
HonestLy, we all lose an L to Honesty!
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 1:44 AM UTC
Against the saturated
Horizon of dawn,
Loitering in the dark timbre
Of emerging consciousness -
Dissipating somnolence
And preemptive despair,
Tacitly adumbrate the
Yawning abyss.
Chastened by the cunning and
Lubricious nihilism,
Igniting fermented provocations,
Silent subterfuge; death,
By mirth - the inane;
Lament of the mundane.
Fallow paradigms, accretions of
The last gasp -
Evaporating empty liturgies
Of suspicion;
Charity and equanimity -
Lost in confinement,
Triumphant avarice bearing
Descendants
Of intransigence;
Wielding imperious
Schemes of orthodoxy.
Pollard fragments of
Silken tapestry,
Miasma draped depression
Abridging;
Conversely,
Permuted flurries of anxiety
Dislodge
The vestiges of meaning
That abide
In brazen equivocation.
Tributaries of dogma reach
Their confluence,
Watershed moment,
Numinous effusion
Streams naked epiphany,
The precarious vision -
A gesture of providence,
Certainty and contingency;
Gratuitously derivative, life
Equals choice.
Verdant branches of intention;
And opportunity the vine,
Live forward -
The pen, my voice,
Piquant conduit pouring,
Exuberant wine.
Footprints found in givenness
Underline,
Penumbrae of my soul;
Mirrored silhouettes,
Thoughts and words engender;
And in verse adorn
Fecund soil, Line after line,
The cosmos altered,
Continuum of permanence -
Artist’s art articulating
Essence of my imagination,
I proliferate, I design
Phrases unique,
Participation mystique.
Words creating world,
The apparatus of infinity
Heidegger, ontologically precise,
Language -
The house of Being,
Ineffable, Promethean
Literary devise -
Envisioning possibility,
And abundance to allow,
I occur
Inhabit
Manifest
Future phenomena
Experienced as now.
©2008 & ©2011 W.S. Warner
Sep 16, 2011
Sep 16, 2011 at 2:02 PM UTC
Sterling eyes close the falling red ward
Big Brother has seen it all
He tells me: *there is danger
Terror past the massive, all-protecting Atlantic*
Don’t stray there, the mouth
of stumbling heads say,
They want to take away
Our safety, our ways, our Freedom
Mr. Elected reassures
*Nothing will harm you
Not with me going there
I don’t want you going there*
He speaks like my mom
Warning me of the illicits
I am too vulnerable to experience
It’s death I’ll go to- I’ve been told
Sleepless red monocular
Enlightening the air to a passive blue
It’s opacity beneath and above
Ascending again
Mama and Baba say it’s time to go home
I confront the arid peninsula of Qatar
Lungs accustomed, vitality not frozen
Precariously perceiving the harmful
Sentiments of years past in Jordan,
I wonder why
my kin would ban this place
Rumor on dirt pavement in a draft, ears picking up
*The Atlantic is not to be crossed,
A lack of morals, malintentions
lay beyond the scape.*
Extravagant grenade above,
Falling to the horizon
And no detonation, collapsing behind a curved veil
Skyward lay the remnants
Of heat, frozen in time
The lips in a box on this shoreside
Warn *the zephyrs from the ornery
Reaches towards our home
Be on guard of the deceitful
star at night that rains red*
Tomorrow may not be there
My blood brothers of Lebanon say,
But I wait, field of vision
aligned to the east
Aural stumbles translate, articulating
My brethren begin their search of food
And in too many moments unnoticed,
Black on bottom, red on the low, blue slowly suffocating the obscurity above
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 9:27 PM UTC
Let me straddle your mind until I'm confined
to the empty spaces you refuse to acknowledge ,
taking hostage the inhabitants of this grand mental escape ,
I equate this mission to landing on the moon - you consume
every fiber of my being I intrude ,
wishing to know what you are thinking
it sort of ****** me off when you choose *** over celibacy
just assume it's my jealousy I'd rather have your mind than head
as we lay here in bed I listen to the breath that escapes the dark carven of your lips ,
you kiss me so softly with vocabulary I hear clearly how deep you crave me,
such a sweet sentiment from a sapio ******
someone who can fornicate my mental with intellectual ,
you eat out my riddles and digest philophosy
have me shaking feeling close to God see ,
we get bare naked to the truth
Exposing absolute equations and reasons why , I sigh .
Gagging on your brilliance
you present such increments of human creativity ,
swallowing your mysteries
stroke me close and slow
fill me to capacity with the knowledge of you
tell me the truth you love to **** me
with your words You encourage this insanity
This perplexing wet whirl of words gushes ,
and i demand to see the length of your lyrical havoc
I wish to kiss and grab the sensual sentences you string together
& nothing could compare to the pleasure when we intertwine our minds .
It's ridiculous how meticulous you are with my mental
we lay there , gasping sinful in sections of ecstasy
i watch you vividly , react to my melodic passion
i hold on - grasping my fingertips around your brain
you dig deeper and in pain i give you my vunerability
I .LET . YOU . FEEL . ME
speaking languages I forgot i knew
yet I know I cant dispute
our connection from confessing the truth
you sparked theories bigger than any bang
articulating art using slang
we decode out way of conduct
it was just pure luck we ****** through conversation
Jun 6, 2018
Jun 6, 2018 at 3:23 AM UTC
Face me...fixedly eye to eye, four hands intertwined in infinite reciprocation, articulating...
Osculate my mind with your intellectual parlance, ardently and with hedonistic electricity arousing my neurons, titillating my synapses, sending lustful charge down my nerves.
I crave to feel your utterances surge through me, course throughout every bifurcation, and transude from every last pore of my flesh.
Grasp my heart with your loquacity, embracing so passionately, that our beats become one resonating cadence whilst exchanging harmonious rhythm.
Caress my flesh with cognital poetry woven from emotions existent only to us.
Trace my veins with every word born from pain, contentment, angst and tranquility... pressing their vehemence into my bloodstream, surrendering my pulses to ******
I yearn to listen to you make me moan, as I arch my back, tilt my head and release in silent screaming ecstasy... sating you with visual affirmation of our sapiosexual affair.
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 6:58 AM UTC
your clothing fills the space on my floor
with such defined intention
like that of a form cast onto an abstract canvas
perfectly articulating and punctuating
wordless conversations from the night before
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 11:08 AM UTC
Still in motion, I struggle with shrinking sounds
of my shadow resisting the ballooning into life I find articulating so often.
What is the self?
I have been skinny dipping with this question
because I can not forget what it is to be an object,
a sense of the ever present weight of a secret word
we’ve been struggling to define.
Do I even need a diction for direction?
Could we not let our selves wash
over us like we could not falter
and if not then aren’t we already dead?
Will.
A horseshoe on fire with all the weight of emotion.
A far more intoxicating psychosis,
than being a program.
I dare the children;
play god,
there is a reason he’s known to be jealous and a man.
I will play but I’m going to bend the rules as it suits this shade at my heels
driving me further into my own lightness so that it may grow taller.
The ant and the sapling.
A sensation of of being… SNAP OUT OF IT.
Too close. You don’t want to feel this love.
You’ll become contrary to your cage
and It is that very tension that will vault me
into the sun where again I will melt back down into a wash basin
of soapy science trying to scrub reality clean.
When everything is spotless,
what will the dirt mean when there is nothing left to refer as an opposite?
The earth will become the numb halls of sadist’s with not much left of
home to live in unless we learn to fly by our own direction.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 6:44 PM UTC
Look far beyond your nose
Imagine the wording prose your mind recites despite the fights between the lights;
Stand-back to back with your enemies
And believe that you are safe,
A mistake;
Craving knowledge of everything from your existence
To your beliefs
I believed I was falling down the trail
And all hail the misguided princess;
She's so misguided the North Pole becomes south
And the south;
Exiting from her mouth
With a flow; the beautiful candles of her heart.
The beautiful candles of her heart
Those that lit stormy fire inside mine
Those that lit up the dark pits of something I forgot about,
And all about my whereabouts
I see the signs of inconclusive doubts
Over my forehead, reflected upon people's faces;
And eyes look at me with non-empithetical sympathy
The symphony of eyelashes flapping over a lost identity.
I'm lost.
All those spiritual stoppages
Are causing my hands to shiver
All those figurative speech as she caresses her words
Preparing mine to stutter
Are making my eyes darken
And my faith to dismay;
I may,
Or may not be the person you want to find
But I find you the person I was never looking for
Yet I still crave the carves you carve on my hands.
The snapping bones of anger;
The cracking knuckles of regret;
The apprehensions preconceived with the threats;
The young man lost his track
The young man lost in the wild
With ideas even wilder
And actions that do not convey his messages
For the circles of bees become limits to his being;
For the frontiers of fighting lions
Become barriers to his block,
That upper corner in dying arteries; hidden
Way over the Mediterranean seas forgotten,
That young man is creating chaotic cancellations,
Phones typing messages of hesitation,
Brains articulating pieces of his own creation,
A salutation be upon my buddy
The young fellow who got lost facing everybody,
And everybody cheered as they watched;
His being stepped on, and heart being stabbed
The chats between the minds
Become cramps
The cramps in his existence become fatal agitation
The agitations in his life become psychiatric misinterpretation
For he got it all wrong
Everyone got it all wrong
But does that stop him?
Let alone
Does that stop all the fake men who built their empires upon forged pillars?
Killers,
Of characteristics;
Followers,
Disciples and students
To a dark lady
Typing her last words of goodbye
Over a phone that’s found in her palms
Yet lost,
In a young girl's heart.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 10:06 AM UTC
Where does one start if not with the absolute I,
Beginning with sight,
The sun kept clockwork in check.
The kids kept their songs in their heads
The parents kept photo albums full of smiles where a split second
Becomes the cover letter for years of dread.
The page kept condensing life that is better left unsaid,
While the reader kept considering the page a part of him.
Beginning with sound,
The ocean kept grinding the ground.
The guitar kept articulating the waves that come from
A place that can be found
In the engine of muscled bone,
Arriving at what you know
Through nature's transient code,
Read between simultaneous consideration of scope
And a song that keeps you on your toes.
Beginning with touch,
The cage kept the prisoner condemned
Who was slave to the ego's violent whims.
Hunger ravages the idealism of men,
Who kept on believing in sensory over stimulation.
While rapid eye sleep kept fostering shackled sheep
Towards their only release.
Beginning with dreams,
I start to seem incomplete
Fuzzy puzzles kept flagging themselves as urgent but unapparent in meaning
And even faster in disappearing
To make room for me.
A resurgent thief
That kept insisting on stealing a mind's freedom to be.
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 10:57 PM UTC
It was a wildly windy evening
The trees were articulating the conditions
With rhythmic sways
And crispy rustling
To the chorus of native wind chimes
And the trills of resident song birds
It was only mildly chilly this evening
Light wind jackets and caps were in fashion
The sky was a smooth glow
Of delicious blood orange hues
Punctuated by the first triumphant flight of a little girl’s kite
And the shrills of such a monumental moment
Oct 20, 2011
Oct 20, 2011 at 5:02 PM UTC
i always knew i would never be
"girlfriend material"
maybe the gods forgot to cut me carefully from the same cloth they doted out to everybody else
a thicker and more claustrophobic material
one that overheats and suffocates you
my mouth is a forest fire that ignites at the first sight of thunder ahead
other people use their words to heal and comfort their significant other while i'd always had a natural disposition of wielding my tongue as a freshly sharpened knife
i wanted to learn
i wanted to teach myself that in order to be in a relationship you have to treat the hardships like delicately gauzed wounds
changing them out every few hours and applying ointments to soothe and mend the broken flesh
but i don't know if it's because of my mother
who was never very nurturing
taking emotional withdrawals from me throughout my entire childhood
teaching me to cultivate my isolation and find comfort in my loneliness
i'd see the signs of her packing up her bags and departing from a mile away and the only survival method i knew was to let her go before she let me go, again
and again
and again
and again
i tried to mend myself for you
to be less broken down for you
i promised myself i'd be healthier and fight my depression like a true viking at battle
i knew i was never girlfriend material
i don't have the patience or understanding to learn how to nurture wounds
my natural instinct has always been to throw salt in them
to slit my throat and slit my throat and slit my throat until i bled out all of you entirely
it's not that i never knew how to love
but that i never knew how to love properly
caring too much and showing too little
displaying my fear of losing you with an anger that destroys everything in my path
instead of affection and vulnerability
my lovers never know if i love them
i display my feelings in watered down sentiments that take shape in the way i allow my body to mold into theirs under bedsheets
the love i carry though, suffocates me
it drowns my internal organs
and floods the entirety of my body
leaving me speechless and incapable of articulating how i feel or why i feel the way that i do
in turn i appear cold to the touch
and that is how i knew i was never girlfriend material
i want to lay down on train tracks and sacrifice my body
again
and
again
until i get it right
but i fear it only leaves me in poorer condition than the last
i'm sorry i don't know how to love you properly
i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry
you see, i'm just not "girlfriend material"
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 1:01 AM UTC
i am nothing more than
a series of substance-less
selfies and a never ending
stream of well timed
cute emojis
my eyes turn to hearts
when i feel sentimental
and my sly smirk lets you
know that i'm excited about
us without articulating a
single thought
my face turns purple it
grins and grows horns and
you know i want to **** you
not once not twice but for an
extended period of time
days months years so i can
send you the boy-kisses-girl
or the ring or the crown
won't you be my queen
am i the woman in the red dress
who dances or just another con artist
where is substance behind the yellow
always smiling face and i have to
ask you have to ask we have to ask
SOS with a red background
silver revolver that only shoots one way
cheeks are blushing i am smiling what
the **** do we actually feel
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 11:40 PM UTC
It is said, to overcome and conquer and enemy,
You have to know him better than you know yourself.
This enemy I know well.
He plays on me to my strength,
but I will not be drawn in,
enticed by,
or seduced in this intellectual exchange,
a battle of the soul’s wit.
He encamps around about me
picking at the scabs of my many afflictions
until they bleed out my many transgressions and memories displaced.
He knows my innermost secrets.
He hides in the shadows of my fallacies articulating my intentions,
plotting on my next move.
He strikes with malice in his right hand,
and with fear and intimidation in his left
releasing the venom of self deception,
paralysis to my self, esteemed.
He knows me well; falling back into the abyss
of my many false realities created by my conscious,
he
knows
me.
In the end I count my losses, bludgeoned by defeat, but
his miscalculations has not seen the prophecies foretold as
I have sewn seeds of new life in the fields of my emptiness.
This is a warring encounter unrelenting,
fighting me to my end.
Although outwitted by my ingenuity,
He attempts to still chain, restrain and defame my life to be,
but I will not give in.
I know my nemesis
very
well.
For he, is me…
My own worst enemy.
© 2013
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 8:22 AM UTC
How can I really articulate myself to you?
I shake and consistently smile.
My cheeks are in pain.
My breath stops.
The brain receives no oxygen.
I can't think.
My heart won't beat.
I guess, in a way I am perfectly articulating myself to you.
You make me loose control.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 6:41 PM UTC
Screaming internally; sitting in silence.
Make these feelings wash away without a word spoken.
Articulating perceptions while throwing water on burning oil.
Flames and rainbows blend until the fuel is exhuasted.
I am exhausted.
Oct 23, 2019
Oct 23, 2019 at 7:21 PM UTC
I’m sleeping
Heavy creaking footsteps walk down our hall
Into our bedroom
Auditory echo of dysnchronous high amplitude waves [maybe?]
Rough hands grab my legs
Ripped out of bed
Dragged out of the tissue paper of my reality
Into dark expanse, glistening eyes turn to me
Voice [speaks internally]:
I will eat you, one day at a time. Moment by moment I devour you
Struggle
Open my eyes
Articulating forms become dresser
Plant
Clothes on the floor
“Stop”
“You’re dreaming. It’s nothing. Go back to sleep”.
I wake up tired the next day.
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 11:41 PM UTC
Help me understand because I don't understand, it's got me questioning' like, "Why?
Just tell me why, tell me am I really different to you or are you the difference that keeps this void between us.
Are we not derived from the same beginning? Are we not derived to the same ending?
Did our ethnicities come with a guide book where complicated combinations are simply too exotic to comprehend?
I stand on a land where all these cultures and religions clash and meet daily and now do you still want to tell me that I’m really different to you.
I’m here in front of you all articulating through the silence. Where’s your devotion? Where’s your devotion, to fracture this never-ending chain of unfair equality?
As Martin Luther King once mentioned, “I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the colour of their skin but by the content of their character.”
Well, I have a dream, a dream where this plague will soon have a cure for the state of being equal, in status rights and opportunities.
Before I rage and rant out of passion and before I lay down the historical traumatic facts don’t act like listening is a crime don’t be so blind, don’t be so blind to what tears up our social lives.
So, let me say sorry! I’m sorry, I’m sorry for the fact that our history is built on mass genocide against our native indigenous people I’m sorry we’ve alienated you stripped your form your rights and treated you differently due to the colour of your skin.
I’m sorry I’m only beginning with general history. Look I know I’m not much of a historian, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out the fact that we were built based upon unfair equality
My mother always told me to give back to my community, but how am I meant to give back to a community which is so divided? I don't understand, it's got me questioning' like, "Why? Just tell me why"
I wrote this as I’m trying to pull my head through in hopes that you understand I’m no different to you …
✊🏻WE✊🏼ARE✊🏽ALL✊🏾EQUAL✊🏿
Jun 2, 2020
Jun 2, 2020 at 7:30 AM UTC
you remind me of sunsets and hearths
that stretch on the line
where empyrean touches the earth.
the golden strokes with hints of red hues
blended with purples, crimsons, and daisies
reflect itself from the rhythmic
glowing collision of ocean waves
like sepia photographs.
as the last bright rays
fade into the night,
it rests a promise before it lifts
the blanket of velvet twilight.
from the horizon
you see the heaven articulating its thoughts,
“paradise is not where the sky meets the ocean,
it lies on your presence,”
i stay lost in you for a little longer.
Jun 10, 2020
Jun 10, 2020 at 2:01 AM UTC
Running around the inbound of sound.
For all to see me deceive what I believe to retrieve,
the neglected objective that's been subjected in this mind of mine.
Consisting of time like fine wine of the intertwined kind will bind the blind line of mine.
The anticipation of the inevitable separation caused from the nations obliteration for youth.
What's missing is the truth.
I melt to help the self,
arose to arise the arisen distant prison crimson that listens with the minds eye.
such as I of the mind for the eye.
Distant assistant listening for missing lies.
whimpers, cries ,
exhales and sighs.
The fantasy in witch I see continuously runs into me.
Articulating fiction contradiction **** injuries.
Repetitive incentive meant to give intensive thoughts.
breaking the awakening making me shaking taking lots.
Monstrous past at last running fast from the masked blast,
new tasks.
Configuring manipulative structured meaning that's gleaming for redeeming intent,
and the time spent when it went bad.
It's sad but i'm glad I had bad dads .
Add a tad of reflection and redemption,
let me not mention,
my intention.
Side note( reading the writing fast helps the fluidity)
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 3:42 PM UTC
I invest too many hours creating scenes with words bigger than my imagination. Articulating a grand scheme of vividly painted phrases sculpting the workings of a surreal scenario. Practicing pristine implementation of descriptive speech for God-like abilities to plant emotion. Patiently calculating the steps from beginning to eternity; from birth to infinity.
The deconstruction and reconstruction, razing and elevating, of rewrites cycle through an incessant reel. Connecting bits of frames with no correlation and binding their frayed edges to author an insatiable, perfectly disorganized, cinema streaming through cracks of my consciousness. Hinting at the exception; drawing my attention from the tangible existence before me.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 3:36 AM UTC
Hear my voice.
It starts from the lungs and propels through my throat
Rattles my trachea and obeys the manipulation of my oral cavity
Next on up through that of another vessel
Incessantly passing through the body
Behind furious fingers articulating words from a soulful dictionary
And out through the
Liberty
Bell.
Listen to my voice.
Its timbre is not that of natural beings, but
the content flows from my brain as a second nature
My instrument is my vessel,
My opportunity to voice that which cant be spoken.
Listen and be heard.
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 5:43 PM UTC
some poets take copious hours
to perfect a poetic line
their pens ever ruminating
on what they'll opine
a piece polished with lustrous gleam
having the silken flow of a dale's stream
an insight into nature's beauty so rare
portrayed by the pensive mind of care
word craft the knowing
where to place that descriptive
figure of speech
a nuance articulating the sound
in the car brakes
sudden locking screech
every part of the verse
well thought out
to present a verbiage
of artistic sprout
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 6:56 PM UTC
Sitting in a yellow room
I look at your face and your mouth.
Your lips move and I hear your story,
I'm interested, maybe,
only for a while.
I like to talk about myself,
I talk and I see you smile.
But maybe you get bored soon
and we're sharing nothing but time
together, sitting across each other.
Two hours pass and your duty calls
or maybe it is saturation.
It could be that you've had your fill
and need to leave me right now.
I wonder how I'm always left
empty, somehow.
I close the door after you,
the door with the white paint.
It stares at me with an expression frozen
blank,
articulating nothing.
How is it that the closed door
seems to understand me
more, than those I cherish conversations with.
Are you my friend or just some time
spent, in discovering myself?
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 1:39 AM UTC
I want to be tragically beautiful
I want to whisper delicate fancies
in the ear of the unknown
I want to sit in pools of serenity
while the world passes unthinkingly by
I want to breath in the flame of passion
and exhale pure intellectual thought
I want to steep myself in contemplation
articulating the terrible complexity of humanity
I want to sit in a coffee shop
allowing the distinct sent to engulf me in comforting familiarity
I want to wrap my arms around the wounded
and shed magnificent tears of sorrow
I want to soak in scenery
taking in the exquisiteness that embodies nature
I want to smile radiantly
yet mistakenly allow sadness to show in my eyes
for I am so terribly alone
and yet so interestingly picturesque
But I’ll remain in delicate transit
until that day that I succeed in capturing
the dignity of tragedy
while relinquishing
the nightmare of beauty
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 4:17 PM UTC