"asthmatic" poems
When I am in statistics I cannot focus
because the world around me is ending in my mind
slowly fading into something without meaning
until I cannot breathe and I have to leave
to go cry in the bathroom.
When I am in my statistics class I cannot focus
because there is a boy there who looks like my favorite **** star
I know what his ***** looks like
or might look like
Schrödinger's **** in a box.
I cannot help but stare at him and
picture him in gym shorts and no boxers
or cargo pants and no boxers
or just in boxers
or.
It's an uncomfortable feeling of morbid intrigue that
makes me tap my toes too fast.
I want to know him.
I want to tell him that
I love the way he smiles
and laughs and communicate s
and makes sure everyone is safe and happy.
I can only watch **** that has behind-the-scenes features.
It's comforting to know that
everyone is happy and
everything is consensual and
everyone is having fun.
I get too invested in these people, too attached -
One time I had to give up
and take a moment to breath
because I was just so overwhelmed with pride
Like a parent watching their kid graduate after all their hard work.
And that feeling is not okay.
And seeing that boy in my class is not okay,
Because I feel so proud of all he's accomplished
So when he answers a question right in class all I can think about is
When he ****** a **** on camera for the first time
And the first time he licked whipped cream off another man's *******
And it's very distracting.
When I am in statistics I cannot focus
because I start to worry that I will fail this class
and then I start to worry that I will hate my future
and then I worry about having a future in the first place,
bunching up into an unfocused, panicking, asthmatic mess.
The **** star boy is a distraction.
It's because of him that I'm passing this class.
( and in a way, a stupid, silly way,
it's because of him that I'm alive. )
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 12:27 PM UTC
i live in a ******** so boring tractors roam the streets in the usual
traffic,
but i found that you can wizen up to a title of wizard
by finding inanimate things entertaining and thought provoking,
because the internet will not become
the next scapegoat of goldfish memory - not the next
box of entertainment - it will be what god’s green earth indented.
out here, where you’re far from trafalgar sq. you
get crows circling back to the origin of the woods with odin on the lyre
venting out against too much pigeon **** coo coo of the attired men and women marking karma with the no. 13 and being ******* on from on high,
you get seagulls, even, seagulls so far into dry land... imagine!
and you get the autistic zoning in of the cat’s eye,
those cats are very autistic, their eyes tell the sad sad story
of encapsulated solipsism - snap your fingers or meow
and they look at you passing you looking at some randomised
point of entering their sleeping pattern - very autistic those cats,
they look at you almost cross-eyed when you try to snap them out of it -
out of it being: ****** off at being awake.
very autistic those cats, those cats are very autistic, they look
at you looking past you, looking almost cross-eyed -
don’t blame me for the zigzag or the w!
so as i said, it’s so boring where i live you see tractors and crows,
and the only solidification of your presence is either provided for
by an addiction to television eager for the flicker -
or drinking... watching bricks, thinking bits and bobs out
for the torrent of slavic plumbers building the great ****** of london.
lo... upon the yonder... there it blooms *******
i like places where trees tower over man's handing man brick on brick -
makes the sky a bit bigger and less asthmatic.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
Tripping past windows,
turning to look but missing the image
(I’m going too fast)
too slow
I’ll never make it
not like this
Heart pierced
by each short, asthmatic breath
by each spastic, hazardous thought of you
I’m late
(for a very important date)
very important, even though it doesn’t exist
(this is all in my mind)
a silly dream I play out to calm myself
running down that road with a goal in mind,
a goal ready to leave at any moment
but because this is my dream
I make it all happen
(just the way I want it)
Maybe in real life, the train would pull away
ten minutes (ten seconds) before I arrive
but in my mind, I get there just in time
to wrap you in my arms
and pull you back.
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 12:59 AM UTC
I don't have pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis.
I'll stay away from Yellowstone.
If one's asthmatic in the Eifel region
You don't pronounce the "P."
This won't **** me.
I don't have COPD.
Everyone coughs in blue smoke.
My throaty itch won't **** me.
I won't constrict and choke.
I don't have an infectious disease,
Despite my personality.
I run for shelter in acid rain.
I drink water with ice cubes,
And spray my green out back.
As much as I hate to, I avoid rusty nails.
*** is safe... and at a distance.
Despite being repeatedly told to,
I never eat ****
The great imitator
Is a snivelling mime.
If I'm bitten, I recognize the marks.
The erupting of the ring of fire won't **** me,
but perhaps I was precocious
To drop the "P" in
Pneumonoultramicroscopicscilicovolcanoconiosis.
I haven't succumb to animal flues,
I stay clear from the bars.
I donate to the SPCA,
Bet on ponies or the odds of SARS.
I don't have meningitis.
I like lights and loud music.
If I get the night sweats,
I turn down my electric blanket.
I haven't the minor or greater pox,
I spurn comparisons.
According to the scoop and scope,
I ascend and descent C free.
But the time spent on Referrals
Might be the death of me.
I don't have botulism.
My smile still concaves down.
Curling convex above it,
A condescending frown.
I'm not a *****
I feel every poke and like.
My digits number twenty...
Twenty one.
My glasses are smudge free.
If anything I see too well.
Alcoholism can't **** me.
Alcohol can.
I haven't cardio entropy,
But I'd be remiss
To dismiss
The wise counsel Oz gave me:
"Hearts can never be made practical until they can be made unbreakable."
So true.
So true!
Anyway, none of the above will get me.
But, I do have what you have.
The young and grown.
The able and ill.
A hand.
A sweeping hand.
A second hand
Setting those infectious nonogerms
Like diamonds
In my Time-x.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 11:51 AM UTC
An irreplaceable mirror
One of a kind
An irreplaceable memory
Stored in a photograph
The mirror, shattered
Shards lying on the floor
The photograph, tarnished
Smeared with paint
A room reeking of chemicals
Belonging to an asthmatic.
Being refused the refuge
Of sleeping on the couch.
A gouge in the wall
A long, scratched line
White smears across
A brand new, silver surface.
But we can't sue,
Or complain
Because your son
Runs our Real Estate.
Jul 31, 2019
Jul 31, 2019 at 8:00 AM UTC
Asthmatic heart attack fits
in a powdered-sugar
hurricane blitz
swept the fertile landscape’s
curves & twists
before the mud of disgust
was caked hard as rust
on the buildings hoisted
out of soil’s distrust.
Tear them down echoed
the canyon walls
whose layers of prayers
crept the ivy higher
reaching toward the sun
where the liar can envy
what’s honestly done.
In a stream it was spoken
to rush upon ears with
the good grace to listen
like whales of our years
unburied, and twice re-lived;
under seas of reproach
for having nothin’ to give.
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 6:52 PM UTC
I first cried
where freshness itself struggled
to breathe. Outside
the Ganges,
asthmatic,
began to cower
back in fear, in
disgust, in
disease, browning
like the discarded banana peels
on the roadside below.
I first cried
in a dirt town
where kings and queens
drank to grass avenues
and swaying music in the realms
of history books.
I first cried
where those books
aged quietly
in forgotten rooms.
I first cried
where the streets bled
out crumpling homes and
cardboard stores with misspelt names,
spilling children in dust dresses
and hair matted
into rust pieces.
I first cried
where those children hung
babies on their arms
like my mother swung
her handbag, a flag
of Valentino, while stumbling on
crushed cans and dog ****
and foetid mud-water
on the way to the dentist.
And the children cried
out snot, their arms
perpetually reaching
for a rupee
from the traffic.
I first cried
where white-lit department stores
sprouted in defiant sanitation
between eczema-covered apartment blocks
in which washing lines drooped
and parking was always a problem.
I first cried
where many gods and goddesses
resided on the footpaths
decked in glitter
and cloths of rouge
as old men with
skin weathered into mottled
leather shook
beneath sheets of jute
on the roadside below
and offered tiny flames
to their gods
as morning bellowed and their coughs
grew worse.
I first cried
where stareless men burnt
their fingers
on the Chinese noodles with too much
chilli powder
they cooked and fried and cooked
for those who never saw them
but to haggle over a ten
rupee note,
on the roadside,
on every corner.
I first cried
as thread-blanketed teenage girls
with wrinkled faces
squatted amongst cows
in the middles of roads,
chanting prices, in voices
full of tar,
of the mound of peas
they were selling for that week.
I come every year.
And I'm ashamed to say
I'll never live here
but in my verses
because I can't stand the smell
of the place where I was born.
I first cried
here.
I first cried here.
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 2:55 AM UTC
In outer space, there are 10 particular stars that are the brightest. They are part of important constellations that people search for their whole life by name. The brightest star is Sirius, because of its magnitude.
You are my Sirius.
I searched and searched and searched millions of constellations, looking for the brightest star and I found you.
I am like the regular stars of the universe which do not contain such a spectacular magnitude and would never be able to reach the superiority of Sirius.
You Sirius, are the kind of boy someone would write a book or produce a movie about, because you are literally a star.
At least ten girls in school admire you because of your magnitude and your being, and maybe they sit there and write about you too.
I've been searching for you my whole life and here you are in front of me, for at least two hours of a day.
I don't know what to do now that you're so close and I don't want to ***** up. I wish my intelligence could be enough for you, but Sirius, you are the brightest of them all, and there are brighter stars out there that admire you.
there are less skinny,less lankier stars that stare at you
there are more brilliant, smarter stars that yearn for you
there are stars that don't laugh like an asthmatic,
there are stars that have themselves in order and know where they are going and what scholarships they will receive because of their brilliance.
man, i may be the most annoying, stick skinny, unintelligent, asthmatic star out there, but at least i perceive you as my Sirius. no other star sees you brighter than how blindingly bright i see you.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 8:27 PM UTC
To an asthmatic like me,
who feels pain in her chest,
has shortness of breath,
and can't stop wheezing,
when her asthma is triggered.
To puff her inhaler,
begging for the medication to work.
Only to hear two empty puffs.
And just like me,
the inhaler is ******* wind too.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 12:12 AM UTC
Do you ever feel asthmatic?
Not in a physical way but a mental one.
Like the lungs of your heart are bursting with air but you still can't breathe.
Like you have a lot to say but no words to put it in.
Like you want to pull your hair and scratch your skin but all you can do is stare.
Do you clench your fists hard then? And grit your teeth harder?
Do you feel your eyes popping out of their sockets?
Do you get goosebumps then?
Because, I do.
Almost too often.
(M.I.)
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 3:14 AM UTC
Your slim figure & stylish cloths,
complement your feminine & **** figure.
The white of your big brown eyes,
complement your pretty white smile.
The fullness of your shiny red lips,
complement your long black & silky hair.
Your long eye lashes & darkened thinned brows,
complement your beautiful skin.
Your soft & ***** voice,
complements your hypnotic .
My heart yearns to save you.
I worry for your very life.
Your perfectly manicured fingernails,
disfigured by the burning, smokey cigarette.
The order of on your cloths & breath
distracts from your flowery perfume.
Your shortness of breath,
accentuates your asthmatic conditions.
Your strong & intermittent coughing.
worsens by your addictive habit.
Your persistent & consistent.
Slowly deteriorating your body from within.
Why can't you stop?
After many visits to the emergency room,
Why can't you stop?
It doesn't make sense!
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 12:26 AM UTC
She is beautiful beyond measure, excellence
She is gorgeously brilliant,
Her skin reflects the heavens dark canvas.
Her essence illuminates
like the stars lighting up the skies,
journeying across the galaxies many years away.
I backstroke deep within the depths of
her ******** celestial milky ways. Wet Misty ocean spray erupts, splashing all over my body and face.
Her u ni versal magic causes all kinds of havoc.
She ferociously drags me under submerging me, deep in her underwater ballot. Keggle rip currents pulling me deeper into the depths of her dark melanin hole.
Behold I can feel her heartbeat.
Exhale, with asthmatic like breathing as we engaged together, unified harmoniously simutainulously. I can feel the vibrations of her eccentric, electric current flow.
I plugged into her slow, submerging into her soul. Surging to converged as one, Matrimonial we shall dance forever from dawn to dust until death do us part.
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 10:10 PM UTC
i believe that there lives a counterpart
of me in Spain and in France -
equally critical - not me per se,
but two individuals to compensate
my efforts in England,
Eastern European, hell-bent
to overtax the happy meal and frozen foods
for "the busy lives of 21st century love-e-dub-e's;
a seance of unification might be far away
mind you;
they say they cite the Bible as if it
were an Encyclopaedia -
you reared the African as subhuman,
you think, that other European nations
will succumb to the African systematisation
necessary for integration?
you actually think i'll abandon my
mother tongue to engross myself
in your filthy history and sing god save our queen
like a kindergarten sing-along readying
myself for Oompa-Loompas?
oh i'm sure that's just due to your genetic
makeshift tents on the steppes of Mongolia;
any news from Mongolia? none.
any news from Kazakhstan? none;
except irony... or the great Tao principle:
forget the world and let the world forget you;
i'm not too eager on the Heidegger octopus either
having to be in the world and care for it -
or at least tax my existence with a concern for it.
but of course it's like an inbreeding principle:
little Britain meets the Empire,
Darth Asthmatic... coo khhh... coo khhh...
H vocalised is the best painting
of ancient static in televisions,
motivational ashes lost with digitalisation,
the kaleidoscope of flies and 8-eye spiders
hacking the flight with spider-web geometrics...
prolong the first two letters of the word Khan...
and i'm sure you'll genealogically stress
the origin of Pakistan as being in Mongolia.
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 7:40 PM UTC
Never ending marathon
Its a struggle just to keep breathing
existential asthmatic
Internal conflict
They can't see what's going on
The pain I dread
Ink marks on my brain
Addicted writer in my head
I want to escape--
Reside is my safe haven instead
But it's hard to run away
When everything you're running away from is in your head
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 10:15 PM UTC
The singles game had the power to change,
all it requires is believability
and prosaic earrings with stories about Turkish exes,
welcome together in a taxi to Blackheath
home to Father's Anchor butter
and her tireless Cat Stevens dreams
an open secret she's got an addictive habit.
Gin and on off days
Tobacco for cultivating asthmatic lungs.
Could never understand was this an
altering cry for help.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 3:32 PM UTC
Out of despair I've broken
the glass protecting this mind
from our memories, as we see
each recollection begin to leak,
your thought, once again
impossible to make hearts retreat.
The explanation I'm deserved;
forgotten, as it's now stained with forgiveness,
in order to attempt a different tactic at recapturing
the heart, of which a picture, I keep in this attic.
Can you read the words
of this asthmatic?
That my voice is finally
calm and not frantic.
Hate my enemy, to it,
no longer an addict.
That to you this seems
as me trying to keep
sparks lit with static.
Correct you are lovely lady,
and if you read this in content, get in contact
with man whose name begins with a consonant,
keep communication constant and let us
learn to walk before jogging.
At the moment too overwhelmed and
if the tattooed [two] were to appear
I'd steer the [conversations] onto revealing
I'm held up in investing a relationship with fame.
The pieces are starting to fall into place.
I'd tell you in detail,
but for now I'll keep this tongue tamed.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 3:15 AM UTC
1.
The mind creates
withdrawn to its own pleasures
a green thought
behind the banyan tree
behind the flickering lust
2.
Age seems to stop
for a while in sexact
a running horse
***** and heavenly
white as a lightning
3.
Their minds
hallowed in the borrowed sun
joyous in hate
celebrate emptiness
of the pimp’s *******
4.
The lane to temple
through foul drain, dust and mud:
black back of Saturn
in a locked enclosure
a harassed devotee
5.
Not much fun—
cold night, asthmatic cough
and lonely Christmas:
no quiet place within
no fresh start for the New Year
--R.K. SINGH
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 12:51 AM UTC
In a second story room
a gas fire goes out
as a refrigerator compressor kicks on
even the middle of nowhere is noisy
The panel board walls relax as the room cools
like an asthmatic that can finally breath again
Snow and sleet pelt the
windows and deck
I write this with greasy hair
and a band t-shirt
Thank you for today
sometimes a poem
pays more than a
day of work anyway
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 3:09 PM UTC
Your Marilyn Monroe face is coating me in nostalgia.
There's old school Hollywood appeal about you that's keeping me still and set in my ways, because how could I be mobile looking at the iconic images of you?
For you gave me refuge from my purgatory, I'm stuck here in my bedroom, your scenes each carefully curated by Billy Wilder or God...
I've heard you're a dying breed but you're so full of life and charisma.
Oh, I know it's hopeless,
But it's been remastered time and again,
1080p being the latest format to get my heart racing,
Letting your DVD spin to the point of exhaustion.
It's very consequential and I'm still betting on this,
I can't take your word as gospel when I feel you in my ribs...
I'm painfully asthmatic and respiring on your sighs.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 9:21 PM UTC
It comes back in pieces
When I lie in a bed too big for me
With a blanket too heavy
A shut of the eyes
Spikes my adrenaline and the memory
Of the greasy wheel between my hands
My right foot slipping on the perforated pedal
The engine, tiny and angry
Purring like a asthmatic lion
The victory of pulling into first
The beginnings of a whiplash headache behind my ears
I see them
Grey and intertwined
Trying to focus on myself and my driving
And not that with every kiss they steal
Their happiness is being ****** away
And when the interest runs dry
I will be the pillar on which to lean
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 10:59 PM UTC
In the face of beauty, I am breathless,
And I am asthmatic around you
My heart leaping from my body
Determined to cross paths with the one it loves.
My heart will leave my body
To climb into another
To snuggle deep within your chest
And say "I love you."
Awakening me and
Feelings long forgotten
The feelings I had for you.
I don't want to forget
secrets
late nights
whispers
of love
and comfort
agony in the most blissful way
imaginable.
I remember love
as if he is an old friend
he sings me to sleep
with promises of you.
and with you i know
fireworks
passion
warmth
flowers and grass
the breeze playing with my hair
the may air suffocating me
with happiness
The curtains conducting
a song of love
with the breeze and the birds chirping
Can you feel it?
can you feel me next to you
clutching, clinging, caring?
caring so much i could break.
fireworks fill my heart with
flowers and Easter eyes
the rebirth of love
seeds planted in my chest
a chain of daisies around my lungs.
a tree forms in my stomach
and the branches seem to quiver
in the may air
the sun kisses us
almost the way you kiss me
and we laugh together
swinging upward toward the sky
the may air is everywhere
and i am breathless in love
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 11:15 PM UTC
Man nestles further in his falsehoods and fabrications
The subdued hues alluding to something...Lesser
Rough yet rigid, in pillars frigid and
Stone.
Barely fitting, barely standing
Hardly loving, hardly meaning to go
Choked like an asthmatic child in the smog
We are the snow in a blizzard after the world prayed for sun
The wolf at the door with teeth gone dull
Don't worry of the time
You've plenty to mull
It over.
In the face of the storm we comprise
The sun to bright in our losing eyes
We must go.
Lest the scars of our past strangle us like a partridge for dinner
With loss there's no winner at all.
Meet my eyes even if you don't love me with your heart
Don't be
Harsh.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 11:45 PM UTC
Your Aunt Edna
had asthma
and she carried around
a big black
asthmatic mask
which frightened
the life out of you
especially when
she put it over
her mouth and nose
and her eyes went
big and dark
and she said
it’s ok Tony
nothing to worry about
it’s to help me breathe
and she managed
to laugh
and you kind of relaxed
and watched
as she sat down
and closed her eyes
and breathed in
and her breath
came back
of its own accord
and then she put
the mask down
and she was herself again
and her dark hair
was curled and wavy
and she looked like
an actress when
she wasn’t gasping
for breath
and didn’t have
that awful mask
over her face
and some days
she took you
to the park nearby
and watched you
run and play
or sat with you
on a bench
when she needed
to catch her breath
and you liked the park
with its tall trees
and wide green spaces
and the green
painted railings
that went all around
and there was that
gateway you went in
and you remember dogs
running and their owners
throwing sticks or *****
but you just sat
with Aunt Edna
as she put on her mask
to find her breath
and you and she
not knowing then
that hiding behind
the asthma
was ugly Mr Death.
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 2:47 AM UTC
I use to write like
it was my only way to get oxygen
about all the things I wanted to do
places I dreamed to go
people I had met
and those I hoped to one day meet
my writing brought memories back to life
people back to life
feelings back to life
it would stop the the hands of time
but now I can't write because when I do
I write about you
and it brings it all back
and I feel like I do
after running a mile
in the middle of spring
and I'm asthmatic
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 2:47 AM UTC
wish i never smoked
my lungs into the color
of my shadow soul
s.q.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 9:42 PM UTC