"assuredness" poems
Whenever I'm around my family,
I get this low kind of feeling.
My family is full
with the kind of people
that become vps,
investment bankers,
nurses,
lawyers.
me:
little ********
that smokes ****
calls himself
"a writer",
and doesn't like to have
long conversations
about his future.
I am not one of them,
I am not a black sheep, or a black pharmacist,
or a black lawyer.
I am something
that wants to become
something,
when I am unsure
of what that something
is.
A continual
rebirth of somethings
likening myself
to God
with so much
internal creation.
This is malignant
to my family's ideals
of self-assuredness
and placement,
brutal placement
in America.
Nov 23, 2011
Nov 23, 2011 at 5:18 PM UTC
****** Bag in sunglasses
donned indoors where
fluorescent sunlight cannot justify
the obfuscation of haughty eyes
so the visage is one
of pure pretension
and cockiness,
dichotomized
as self-assuredness
and the colloquial term for the phallus,
a literal ****
(I see him strongly in the memory of a high school field trip returning home school bus late night he sits sideways back to the window head leaning back sunglasses donned smug grin I rendered him the vessel and the scape goat bearing my burning hatred for the inflated ego wrapped in an undesirable chic I deem deplorable, hate hate hate)
Smug grin,
I wrote this poem from a bean bag
in the corner of the library third floor
whilst wearing sunglasses and
a taste of irony
on callous lips
twisted in an invisible sneer.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 7:50 PM UTC
Your use of words
of late, I have noticed,
seize the cold light of day
snowball the pack ice
send a shudder down the spine
hail the dawn of an audible ice age
lest if only
One would listen
that loquacious nature
left to stew in the freezer
the embodiment of toxic wine
your preferred after taste;
the sediment of choice
demands a selective palate
we have bulldozed
The Garden of Eden
now only the Snake remains
offering the bitter-sweet apple
to those who oblige
pave the way for emotions
to argue their objections
a subjective nature
in acerbic tones
fierce and unwavering;
the adulation of the Other
A raised eyebrow
denotes a self-centred assuredness
that anyone else
with a deft hand for art or language
is clearly a copy of the blueprint
your ingenious creation;
such is the intellect you abide by
that of your own reckoning
Your argument
is the passing of an iceberg
perhaps fleeting
the early evening;
the disingenuous melt
of your carbon-cloaked temper
My riposte
will be your undoing
defeat by the warmth
of the passing Sun;
embrace that which you chase
see what you dont see
agree to disagree
is the sympathy
for your antipathy
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 1:52 PM UTC
Bathtub music and drums played on the surface
of Davy Jones's mirror: the ceramic holds
the sea, the sea, and all within it: ***** me.
Scrubbed you off my skin again for
the umpteenth night in a row. Row
row row our boat away from the constant,
constant rows. Stormy arguments and
weathered mistrust. You'll break me,
won't you? I'll break you, won't I? Won't you
come drown with me Ariel? Won't you
come up with me to the kitchen and lock up
the door then lock up the oven then lock up
ourselves in carbon-monoxide poetry?
But then how does cooking gas end up as sass
in a library? How did sustenance turn into
asphyxiation? Why are our hands on
each other's throats instead of being binded
by the absoluteness, the certainty, the assuredness
of palms within palms and fingers interlocked
and question marks dispelled.
Splash! as way in and over my head
is the bathtub music
and my absorbent curls are
drinking, drinking, drinking, thinking
about the why you only call me when
you're drinking, drinking, drinking; thinking
about the way I cannot suppress you when
the cellphone has long gone quiet and
your Hughes of blue are still loud but
your red is dead.
Ariel, Ariel,
I want to be your dark-haired prince.
Ariel, Ariel,
my country is landlocked but I still see you in the sink.
Ariel, Ariel,
gurgling away as the bathtub music fades
into ugly brown rings around the ceramic
pause button
that shows no hope of continuation
Ariel, Ariel, you are the final splash!
as the false sea drifts away, the final splash!
that scatters bathtub music past the drain
and into the air. Ariel, Ariel,
you are the false rain
that my landlocked country never prayed for.
Ariel, Ariel, toneless, begotten and forgotten
Ariel, Ariel. I cannot sing for you. I cannot.
You will not sing for me. You will not.
The final splash! past the drain and into the air
is you Ariel. The false rain.
The rain song of our endless games.
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 10:02 AM UTC
Ah, once more a day in vacant rays
A webbed window, cracked gently to let the breeze by.
Through,
a minute an hour,
a bee lands on a flower
succumbing to desire,
a move with a purpose
It’s assuredness I admit breaks a chunk from my confidence
What is what isn’t what could what couldn’t
Is of no concern to a bee, imagine how free that would be
A beetle crawling up the bark of a tree,
Oh, just for an instant
I wish I could see the life that you see!
May 31, 2021
May 31, 2021 at 8:34 PM UTC
Cruisin' the highway of life
Nothing can get in my way
Radio up, tunes I adore
I couldn't ask for anything more
Suddenly, I start to swerve
Euphoric poison jostles my nerves
I'm losing control, and I can't feel
Somebody please take the wheel
It started as a bit of fun
The race unfinished I had won
Soon enough I'd sense false glory
Would I live to tell my story?
Somebody catch me, I'm falling
Harsh realities now appalling
Don't you know I could be bawling
Instead these words I'm duly scrawling
A million projects unfinished
Sense of time diminished
Sentiments overdue
Self-assuredness gone askew
Perhaps the most productive time
Still I would rather be just fine
Than pacing, racing, sleep deprived
Just glad I made it out alive
In the midst of all this rambling
I'm sure glad I'm not out gambling
Not for money, but survival
Bless my sanity's revival
First came the ocean's bottom
Next, the top of the world
Then, I was numb, dead
Now I am myself instead
At first it was a paradox
I couldn't understand
Drugs meant to resurrect me
Could render me so bland
But that was just a phase
The gilded Age was brief
Not long 'fore I could smell fresh air
Salt's not a stealthy thief
The seasons change
Friends come and go
But I outlast
And won't let go
To anyone who's in a bind
Keep fighting, see it through
There's sunshine once the clouds are gone
It's waiting there for you.
post nubila phoebus
Apr 18, 2012
Apr 18, 2012 at 2:57 PM UTC
Something that existed
Before nothing
Made something
From nothing
In seven days
Then fooled a man
With a snake
And a woman
Then flooded something
And made it
Nothing
Then gave us something
A spirit
And a son
Who was God
Or was he?
Raised from the dead
Then nothing
For two thousand years
Except a book
In another language
From another land
And you believe
That's alright
But what does that have to do with me?
The law
Spoken from your lips
Demanding tithes
Judging
Preaching
Witnessing
Praying
Laying hands
Faith healing
Speaking in tongues
Evangelizing
Lifting up
Right
Wrong
Fear
Yeah
That's a lot of talk
But what does that have to do with me?
Born of the same man
But not the same Mom
Separated
Sent away
Living in the desert
Believing in miracles
Of a ****** birth
Of ascension from life
Further revelation
The final prophet
And you believe
That's alright
But what does that have to do with me?
From nothing
Something
Primordial soup
A fish
A monkey
A man
Then death
Then nothing
And you believe
In nothing
That's alright
But what does that have to do with me?
Which miracle should I believe?
The miracle of a God?
The miracle of life from nothing?
The miracle of my life?
The miracle of yours?
How can I be sure?
How can you?
Yet you are
And I am not
Your assuredness
Leads
My skepticism
Follows
The more you believe
The less I do
Why must I be like you?
Are alms not enough?
Stop shaking my shoulders
Stop telling me I’m going to die
Stop telling me I am not chosen
Stop telling me only idiots believe in God
Stop
I met you forty years ago
Then again
And again
Each time
A difference face
Each time
With the same message
Believe
Don’t believe
It never changes
So stop
Please
I've heard it
I've thought about it
I've felt it
You cannot reach me
Only I can reach myself
I know how bad I can be
I know how I hurt others
I know my capabilities
I know my limitations
I know I need to forgive
And I know how I feel
I know
Ok?
So you live
As will I
Let me follow my path
It will be unspoken
I cannot tell
I will not tell
Maybe you will see
Maybe you will know
So
As you follow your path
While disapproving of mine
And you find yourself
Trippin'
Because you were judging my way
Instead of living your own
You might ask yourself
What does it have to do with him?
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 12:25 PM UTC
When assuredness
won't slay its enemies,
and determination
forgets its ardor;
the wind the leaves lets fall,
the water its surfaces harden.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 2:01 PM UTC
her name rung out with a chime
her heart beat in pantomime
her body reeked with surprise
her soul rested deep in her eyes
her hair flowed with silky shine
her squared smile had become mine
her lust was only surpassed by passion
her hips and gait always in fashion
her mind bold and on always fire
her lust for thought my prime desire
her touch a golden tip of grace
her beauty rested quietly in her face
her loyalty thundered at every turn
her devotion never ceased to burn
her way of placing anything at all
her assuredness all did enthral
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 10:03 AM UTC
part one:
everybody needs somebody to love;
to adorn with plastic ornaments;
to say they feel lost;
and mean it;
a real love:
feelings of assuredness.
believe me,
i am sure.
part two:
gasoline heaven lines nostrils-
and the brain-
and the hands and heart it controls.
the pockets, too.
is it sad to realize and not care?
that the pockets and the nostrils-
and the steel strings (and their haunting reverberation)-
and pencils to paper-
come before true, and honest love?
part three:
no bodies left behind,
or given away for the future.
no turpentine-
no poppies-
or silk.
no illegalities;
rule breaking;
infidelity-
a simple desire to be an artist
and the sacrifices an artist makes
only to fail and continue to yearn:
failure
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 2:23 AM UTC
You run your hands
I run my tongue
Hands tangled in my mermaid wish you were here hair
I've got a mouth made for bruising
With your flashy kick stand made for using
Between you and me who needs three?
Pushing me down with rough assuredness
I never did take orders well though
Flipping over, landing face down exactly where I am needed
Now who's song splashes off of white washed walls?
Please. Gods yes. Just like that.
I want to tell you to blow it all over my tonsils
My face. Stomach. Chest.
Any where you want
But I don't
Instead I increase speed
Not as soft and easy as I seem
Rough palms cradle a well made skull
One last ****** **** A hissed name on begging lips
My tongue swirls around your most sensitive ridge
You shudder and pull away
Kissing me softly, tasting your appreciation on
my swollen lips
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 9:01 PM UTC
Blue shirt
I can’t trust a boy like you.
Sectarian sympathiser,
driving brothers apart.
I see a glint in your eye
whenever I
lean in for the unanswered kiss
self-assuredness is your favourite
amuse bouche. Nice with a fine wine
tastes a little like shellfish.
Picpoul de Pinet
for a girl that’s hardy on the outside.
Just when I am starting to turn
purple on the lips
you breathe air into me
and hide again.
----------
Believe me,
there’s red in these veins
and flames in my lungs.
Your eyes
eye me up, river blue.
Chip fat and *** smoke
make out for a foul cloud but
girl, you’re the pearl of the night.
Your mouth is the glossy phone
I should answer,
wanting love on a tongue
like a pillow of wine.
When you grip my shirt,
expect to connect, I end up
pouring out puddles of nothing,
your lips apart like violets.
Jun 12, 2017
Jun 12, 2017 at 10:41 AM UTC
When they ask I’ll say
I didn’t go anywhere
Because I didn’t believe I could
I’ll tell them that my hollow promises
Although, tethered to good intentions
Were only a chasm of misdirection
I will speak on how our appetite
Wasn’t an insatiable craving
Rather an agent of dodging our realities
That the bounty of gifts and
Assuredness of future company
Cannot abate the 13 hundred miles
When they ask I’ll say
That the madness of two
Wasn’t sacred or shared
I’ll clue them in on how
Connections are opaque
And being ironically self-destructive isn’t fun anymore
I might say that I knew you
But you forgot me
Because there’s well-dressed guys in every college town.
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 12:10 AM UTC
When I was 11, my best friend told me that they were gay.
Their eyes were glazed with watery doubt and their voice quivered to the same pace as my trembling heart. I prayed for seven hours that evening, begging God to cleanse them of these sins that I didn’t quite understand to be wrong but that my mother and father and sister and aunt spat out like deadly poison.
When I was 11, my best friend told me that they were gay. And I screamed words that I learnt from my family, words that felt ***** and disfigured in my mouth, words that had no meaning that I could decipher.
When I was 11 years old, my best friend told me that when we watched Harry Potter together, when our friends drooled over Cedric Diggory, they
fell
in
love
with Hermione Granger
When I was 11, my best friend told me that they were gay… and I didn’t know what the word meant. Just that it was awful and demonic and that they were going to rot in hell. At the tender age of 11 my mother’s religion eviscerated a 7 year friendship.
When I was 12, I realised that it wasn’t God I worshipped, it was the feeling of belonging. I idolised my Father’s radiant smile and my Sister’s reverent voice, her face raised to the heavens and her song echoing across a stained glass chapel. When I was only 12 years old, I discovered that I was a slave of my family’s beliefs, and that I didn’t understand what my religion even was, only that my aunt liked it when we clasped hands around a dinner table and that my gran reminded me to recite the same words before bed every night. Pretty words like ‘glory’ and ‘heaven’ but also malicious words like ‘temptation’ and ‘evil’ and ‘sin’, words that I, with a shudder and an almighty stab of guilt, remembered saying to my best friend at 11 years old.
When I was 13, I was angry. A furious cloud of space-black smoke swirling in my stomach and pulling on my tongue, until I was a silent and malevolent storm. When I was 13, I realised that if this is what being close to god feels like, then I would rather burn in the raging pits hell, surrounded by the same billowing barrages of blackness as those inside of me. When I was 13, I found out what gay meant, and I sobbed and howled and screamed. Inside of my own head. When I was 13 I apologised to the person who was once my best friend, and with eyes glazed with watery defiance and a voice quivering with nothing but assuredness I told them ‘me too’.
And we clung onto each other promising to never let go.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 5:10 AM UTC
I am not all the things my words make me out to be.
While my tongue clucks of bravado and strength
my eyes search for the easy way out.
I tell tall tales of how I've gotten by
by the skin of my teeth
by my own daring and will
but the enamel is worn thin
from the nights I spend chewing over
the moments I wasn't ready for.
Every day the sun passes over me
is another day spent passing idle conversaton
of what I will do one day, only if, never when.
If I speak to those who construct their sentences
with actionable words
with authority
with that self-assuredness
that theirs is the correct path,
I find myself wondering when the day will come
that my own words
will shape the person I say I am.
When will I be the person I say I will be?
Not until
I write my own story,
instead of listening to those of others
while wishing I had
a story to tell.
Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 11:44 AM UTC
I seek the secret ways
and longing lost secrets
the stability, the assuredness
in the answers.
I had them all for you.
“How does it work?”
I will tell you, sweet
Love under white sheets and behind draped curtains
Certain, I am certain
in the endless possibility
of you and the world
of space and all the places
we occupied
One time
Sick and sad you asked me again,
“How does it work?”
I held you the entire night
to see you through the storm
and into the morning
All the questions––
I gave to you answers
In my own mourning
when I held myself
the white blacked out the gray
and in the empty bed
I wondered
“How does it work?”
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 6:30 PM UTC
A previous apartment
An old town
Nothing but silent buildings and hollow walls
Yet my mind equates these
Empty spaces
With memories of freedom
With feeling alive
So I start to yearn for their physical presence
And once I'm there I feel disappointed
Because although I'm where I used to be
I'm not the same as I was
And that sense of self-assuredness
That sense of relief I'm seeking
Doesn't live in the drywall and clean pavement
It lived somewhere inside me then
And I'd like to believe that
Somewhere deep down
It's still alive
Just waiting to resurface
Feb 27, 2020
Feb 27, 2020 at 10:30 PM UTC
Vanity supplanted the setting sun,
moonlight trails then called our finer points
we only had to have foresight
to cast our truer selves.
Walking with the assuredness
to unblink the rays of self assurance.
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 5:22 PM UTC
In the vastness and void
I am just a grain
A particle
The grand opera plays
Through comedy and tragedy
The world applauds
While the speck observes
While the sands of time wash over me
Ignoring me
For I am minute
Solitary
Brief
All my endevours
All my labours
Are fleeting and insignificant
While time resumes
And power waxes and wanes
The glorious bedazzle the stones
The audacious stand, for a short while
Then fade
Just like me
Yet
In my moment
I know
I feel
I love
No grain could have such passion as I
Could ask the questions I dare to ask
Could seek beyond the familiar
To embrace the unthinkable
And taste the unknown
This grain lays upon a hazardous shore
Where tides and fauna hold sway
And the grain does not deride or decide
But acquiesces
With quiet assuredness
This grain does not struggle to be known
Does not beseech the approval of the universe
For in me are all the majesties and mysteries of life
And for me
This tapestry dances
And I rejoice
And I sing
For one brief second
A song
A melody of life
Such as can never be heard from the rock mass
Upon the waves of oblivion, of uncertainty
I flounder
One grain
On the vast shore of existence
Awaiting the builder's loving craft
Jun 3, 2020
Jun 3, 2020 at 5:36 PM UTC
My heart beats in a frenzy,
Uncontrolled and clinging to
fleeting pride,
I wish upon a star,
to give me confidence,
to give me assuredness,
for I feel it has never been
felt before~ Truly, in a way
my pride is not corrupted
by narcissism.
Because deeply,
As my lungs soak in
air and my head spins
irrationally,
I feel how sanity
seeps out of me.
I am left with
a pit of empty
aspirations.
Nov 11, 2019
Nov 11, 2019 at 8:28 AM UTC