"attest" poems
Submissive my body tender and weak.
Closer to death my body must be.
If I must attest then it's fluids at best.
Submissive my body the pain and the rest.
I should have known from the jump, for I had not been foretold.
Steer clear of its wrath, it's no common cold.
The fight continues, the world on a spin. God speed to you and this ibuprofen.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 3:01 AM UTC
I approach most desires
like a competition; can I
**** better than him;
can I be famous at twenty-
-three since he was famous at
twenty-four -- I must be able
to sink better than him.
God, it is exhausting. I
feel like I'm dancing with
a machine; a phantom that
I can never catch, for it runs
on my blood; my insecurities;
my passion -- and, boy, oh boy,
can I attest to having plenty of
that stuff, ladies and germs.
I think, truly, that I am
encompassing the American Dream
I think is utterly flawed; that I think
is futile in nature; that I am sure of
is the closest thing to Hell, in this
Godless, spiritually motherless
dark shoebox of sudden collisions;
this space of useful and useless
results, splayed onto and into
our hearts, asking for reverence.
There is nothing I want more
than to be sure that my importance
is not illusory. I am not sure if
I am real.
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 2:14 PM UTC
*If you were my sheets, and at my beck and call
fulfilling all my fantasies, into you, I would fall.
You'd cradle me so gently, and massage me everywhere
releasing all my juices, and all my stress, and cares.
In splendor we'd heat up the room, and I'd crinkle every sheet
and when we were apart, I'd rejoice, every time we meet.
Pillows would cradling my face and head, where jasmine scented rests
blending of our fluids as our bodies, orgasmically attest.
We'd fall asleep together, and spoon throughout the night
and in the morning waking, to unimaginable delights.
Your hands of silken sheets caressing, exciting every nerve
giving me all the pleasures, and climaxes, in you, I am immersed!*
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 10:58 AM UTC
I would rather drink than eat,
And though I superbly sup,
Food, I feel, can never beat
Delectation of the cup.
Wine it is that crowns the feast;
Fish and fowl and fancy meat
Are of my delight the least:
I would rather drink than eat.
Though no Puritan I be,
And have doubts of Kingdom Come,
With those fellows I agree
Who deplore the Demon ***
Gin and brandy I decline,
And I shy at whisky neat;
But give me rare vintage wine,--
Gad! I'd rather drink than eat.
Food surfeit is of the beast;
Wine is from the gods a gift.
All from ********** to priest
Can attest to its uplift.
Green and garnet glows the vine;
Grapes grow plump in happy heat;
Gold and ruby winks the wine . . .
Come! Let's rather drink than eat.
7.4k
We had come to see him, the aging Tenor sing.
He was as good as he had always been.
But half way through, a woman appeared,
Moving gracefully in bare feet upon the stage.
Entering the ring of bright spot light near him.
Long blond hair, falling loose around her neck,
Held back both sides by Turtle Shell combs,
Reflecting the light.
Adorned in but a simple, low cut black dress,
Her with a face beautiful as a new spring day.
Held in her left hand an ebony hued violin,
Touched fondly, like a well accustomed old friend.
Her right hand holding a bow, ready and waiting.
The Tenor’s and her eyes met and conveyed a message
Only they understood. Then starting slow and low,
The full Orchestra commenced. The woman in black
Brought instrument up to her chin, lovingly resting
her face upon it, as if comforted by it's touch to skin.
The fetching violinist, like a graceful reed,
In summer breeze, began to gently sway,
Laid Bow to strings and a transcended beauty,
The voice of both her Instrument and from within she,
Emerged through her fingers, completely filling the hall.
With eyes closed, the slight movements of expression
On her face registering the feelings the musical notes made,
As if those gestures too, guided the bow's musical cords.
Slender precise fingers lovingly caressing the strings.
For nearly a minute, she and her violin played alone.
Her actions of body, hands and head in concert,
To her music, unavoidably hypnotic it could be said.
The Tenor started to sing, and yet my eyes stayed
Locked on her, as if no one else in the room was there.
The blond woman in the black dress owned the stage.
I have no idea how long that piece of music lasted,
I could not attest to what contribution the Tenor made.
Fully my attention and eventually my heart belonged
To that lovely, evocative young woman in the backless,
Little black dress.
It’s true that I may never see or hear her play again,
I know not, even her name.
And yet, I’m sure that I will never forget those
Few minutes mesmerized by her magical spell.
Hopelessly caught in her enchanting web.
With me sitting, third row, isle seat left,
Worshiping as I did, at her so pretty,
Slightly ***** naked feet, the striking
Blond woman in the black dress.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 4:01 PM UTC
Despicability is the foundation to their life
For them it is intrinsic
Genetically encoded
Simplistic
Poetically eroded
Reprehensible at best
**Unscrupulously callous
Secrets and facts, they conveniently
ingest
Distorted byproducts, they release to the
masses
To aid their campaign; a forked tongue
fest**
Pathetic and unapologetic
A beast armed to the teeth
Imported bypasses to increase the flow of police
A weakness and an act,
They so vehemently attest
**Harvesting greens off the branches of
the people
Pockets engorged with wads and folds
Crushing blue collars at the lower levels
As they sit atop their pyramids of gold**
Today they sip champagne
To celebrate their reign
Tonight we'll skip being humane
To feed them excruciating pain
**You've incited this coup with ill-thought
deterrents
Now herald the arrival of the scourge
Down with lopsided governments
Tonight... All we would topple! Tonight we purge!**
Justin G
ryn**
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
Thinking with short breath, gripping my chest, sinking with stress?
Just to attest, Imagine putting stress to the test
Over pushing boundaries set with intent
Chasing leads, gaining lost time pursuing a lust with broken trust
Only to rise to the question
Can the duality of morals and ethics which define us..
Be overwritten?
Misconstrued needs for skeptics lost in line
Slowly assimilating breathless methods
Hijacked
Black rose petals spiraling to conclusion, Decomposing as if to forget this
Why don't I neglect this elusive euphoria defined in terms of confusion?
Split paths once veering in opposite directions begin running parallel
I know I'm here, but who's that there?
Ominous reflections veer back with eyes unfamiliar
A face with no definition grabs my wrist lurching me forward
Weightlessly ***** following a diverging direction with questioned intention.
Where are you taking me? (Silence)
Operating in two places at once, questioning who is the driver
Hijacked
There but ever increasingly distant, attempting to reach you
The sunrise rekindling the spark of yesterdays intuitions
Preserving eloquence like a flower in full bloom
Suddenly fades eerie in an instant, dwindling on gloomy restless expressions
Cloudy perception refracted by crystalline illusions
The evanescent cypress terpene, king of bliss
Flowing in the direction towards what has been calling it most
An icy chill enters my chest, a constant race to chase an endless quest
A ploy of acceptance with a cotton ball
Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 11:50 AM UTC
You'll never believe that I am the secrets and you're the words
Just like I don't want to believe I was the ball and you were the bat
What am I even saying
Why am I still writing
These words don't feel the void in my chest
Church says God bless
But then talk down about you
I can attest
I'm drowning in myself
The beast of my mind is consuming me
How much is left
I have no ambition to fight
I'm weak and you'll never know how it feels to be me
No matter how much you relate
You won't know how much I feel it's in vain
Depressing words to match feelings
Dressed in a uniform
Tears roll down my cheeks
Snot dripping nose
All, just leave me alone
Yes I'm broken hearted because the crack was never sealed
And although I act like a cold blooded murderer
I'm the one dying
I'm fading away
You'll never believe that I am the secret and you're the words
The ones I never heard
I don't know myself
Death is stuck in my head
These words you're reading don't mean a thing
Just another broken soul
Probably nothing original
Everyone feels pain
These emotions are cliche
Nothing, still got the same feeling
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 1:10 PM UTC
Settle down, the court is in session,
The esteemed Court of Validation,
Where I stand trial for being
And thus must attend this hearing
To seek the sublime opinions
Of the wise Jury of Champions
Who've been there done that.
Please lecture me on how to act,
Tell me how I must dress,
What to say under duress,
To brandish my success,
And my worth attest
To finally be accepted among civilization
With a stamp of approval from the Court of Validation.
Here comes the verdict for the Judge to read.
I'm guilty of possessing an identity.
Therefore I'm sentenced to a lifetime of conformity
To the status quo established by society.
But Your Honor, there must be a mistake!
There has to be another path to take.
Sorry child, this is the only way,
Or else you'd be imprisoned in the Cell of Dismay.
Embrace your fate without hesitation;
Indeed it's a gift from the Court of Validation.
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 10:09 AM UTC
'the perfect royalty.'
funny.
funny how it rhymes with your disloyalty, princess.
the world's been wondering where you've been.
no, no one knows how hard your life is.
how hard it is to lie.
no, no one knows how scarred your mind is,
or how bent you are to smile.
'the perfect royalty.'
funny.
hilarious how your title rhymes with your cruelty, acquiesce?
the school's been asking questions 'bout where you've been seen.
no, no one knows how tough this act is.
this character's a show.
no, no one's guessed how rough the fact is
that your life's not one they know.
'the perfect royalty'.
huh.
doesn't mean you're perfect too, you're just a novelty, do you attest?
the mirror's looking for you 'cause you're hiding from its screen.
no, no one understands your worries.
no one cares about your strife.
no, they want to see new accessories,
or else just quit this life.
'the perfect royalty'?
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 1:16 PM UTC
I saw a sign that said,
I spent all my money on scotch, women and guitars. The rest I just wasted
My life will probably be the same way
Except knowing my luck I'll **** around and have the strings misplaced
Men never really grow up our toys just get more expensive
As a guy I can attest to this
I went from being content with action figures Legos and my N64
To guitars cars and rollerblading on the Riverwalk under the bridges
It's funny how that happens
How materialism changes how we see the world
But pursuing all the finer things
Wanting champagne wishes and caviar dreams
Makes you forget the madness that truly comprises the earth
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 3:18 PM UTC
1153
Through what transports of Patience
I reached the stolid Bliss
To breathe my Blank without thee
Attest me this and this—
By that bleak exultation
I won as near as this
Thy privilege of dying
Abbreviate me this—
3.1k
Words briskly picked
from the fruits of your memoirs,
galloping air you forcibly breathe
the music you hear, the colours you see.
the hymns you appreciate,
shows traces of wonderland,
the hints and pieces
ah, superficial paradise.
Now you tell me stories
I'd ought to focus and listen,
As I see the snap of your fingers
Loud words and Whispers,
vines and wrapped my heart
without any given reasons,
you provoke and attest,
Your hideous mission.
to capture and get,
Slaved by your intentions,
with peace and love,
through your life lessons.
You've given grip
through friendship and company.
I will raise this glass
for our uncharted destiny.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 6:11 AM UTC
I felt it all burn inside this space
Pompeii wreaked havoc all over the place
Watch it burn my ashes in this urn solitude my main concern
As any heart broken lover can attest
It's not easy cleaning up your own mess
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 5:28 PM UTC
I don't know how to write of love,
It's unfamiliar territory,
Like a hand in an oversized glove,
Or a moral with no story.
If I could write about the way
I put all faith in you,
And how you returned that faith to me,
That alone wouldn't do.
I could write about attractiveness-
Of skin as smooth as milk,
Of eyes that heal my sadness,
And a touch as light as silk.
That still doesn't quite do it though,
It doesn't seem enough,
To quote the cannibilistic king-
"This subject is quite tough!"
I could write about the words we share,
When we're together and alone,
Or of holding hands in public,
Or crying on the phone,
Or how we long to hold each other,
Or hear the other's voice,
How just being with each other
Feels like the only choice.
Yes, I could talk all day about the way
Your feelings make me feel
But as fishing-rod designers say;
"It's time to make this reel."
Because real love's not as romantic
As the the love seen on T.V,
Or how it looks in certain books,
And classical poetry.
There's arguements at midnight,
There's anger and despair,
And times when you may feel like
The other doesn't care.
There are times you feel you're talking
And the other doesn't hear,
There's feeling you're not good enough,
Caused by jealousy and fear.
It's giving the other power
To destroy your hopes and dreams,
To tear your heart completely
And sometimes that's how it seems.
No- I don't know how to write of love,
Because the realism shows through,
To quote the cannibal king once more-
"This subject's hard to chew."
So I will not bore you anymore
On things I can't convey
And feelings which I am not sure
You're feeling anyway,
But I'll leave you with some sound advice-
Being in love can be the best,
Or else it turns your heart to ice
(To which many can attest.)
I won't recommend you plunge right in,
Or back off altogether,
But it will not stay as it begins-
Love changes like the weather.
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 6:22 PM UTC
The couplet's first in writing villanelles;
if you desire your work to be its best,
a singleness in purpose always tells.
Of course, the open has the hook that sells,
your reader is seduced to read the rest.
The couplet's first in writing villanelles.
Your second line resides in writer's hell,
the rhyme-rich ending word must meet the test
and singleness in purpose always tells.
Pentameter iambic works just swell,
but matters not, as many will attest.
The couplet's first in writing villanelles.
Last stanza rolls around, the poet's well
is nearly dry, their muse under duress;
a singleness in purpose always tells.
The final lines! Relax, and sit a spell,
enjoy the glow of formal poem's success.
The couplet's first in writing villanelles.
a singleness in purpose always tells.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 9:56 AM UTC
With patient hands, and caring heart,
a mother's love was shown
in the tender, stubborn saplings,
she loved enough to grow.
She listened to their tearful woes,
she kissed their hurts away;
She offered up the best advice
and tried to show the way.
She taught them well,
and scolded when they failed;
She laughed with them and played with them
and watched them blaze a trail.
She let them fall, she let them choose,
she watched them from the dark;
for a mother's greatest heartache
is watching them depart.
If not for the strength of mothers,
if not for their watchful eyes
the saplings would have shriveled,
curled up,
and died.
So here is to the mothers.
the ones that try their best;
know that we saplings love you,
to this we can attest.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 11:38 PM UTC
The world is ice
Melting upon fire
A growing vice
A hidden desire
It's not so nice
And ever so dire
Retire
And sleep
The meek
Must seek
An end to the torment
For a moment
And rest
Attest
And find yourself
The world is dying
And I'm left alive
Why?
Mar 30, 2012
Mar 30, 2012 at 5:44 PM UTC
on your first moment of being alive
you’ll wonder why god’s in the sky
and how the ***** of your soul
can’t grab hold of the air
to steer you to die
and on your last day you’ll attest
that the plane in your chest
can take the air from your crumpling house
and fly you to god’s bed in the clouds
the clouds will spray and dazzle
with lightning purely designed to unravel
all the twine lashed around your heart
that keeps it form flying out into the dark
of some columbonimbus forest
where the pine trees are black
and you’re only a tourist
through the trillions of droplets of static
don’t panic
you won’t become static
if your being is healthy and your course erratic
through the eclectic college of higher thought
and liar’s losses where
what you said you’d ever do
is who you are and it is you
flowing through your floating soul
far away from your crumpling home
and what you said you’d never do
is who you are and it is you
and it’s flowing through your dying blood
tainted brown with air and mud
and who you are is how you fly with
wings of soul and ***** of lung
piloted by how you die
with tar and drink and merrier things
than you’ve ever known in a crumpling home
because flight is happy and death is euphoric
and falling is a trap sprung by calling for nothing
but concern and disdain will slash at your face
like raindrops cushioning a pilotless plane
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 4:33 PM UTC
"Envision yourself working in your own office."
"Envision yourself writing prescriptions for your patients."
"Envision yourself receiving a huge amount of money."
"Envision yours-"
She stopped mid-sentence and looked at me.
"I want you to dream high, my dear."
"Mom, I want to become a writer."
"No, being a doctor is better."
"But mom, I want to study literature, I want to publish b-"
"I said no."
Mom,
I know you wanted to become a doctor way back then
but mom,
I have my own dreams too.
I can't imagine myself working inside hospitals
I can't imagine myself writing prescriptions
I can't imagine myself receiving a huge amount of money
but mom,
I can imagine myself working inside my own office,
I can imagine myself writing stories and not prescriptions
I can imagine myself starting with a small amount of money
but most of all,
I can imagine myself smiling despite these.
You told me to dream high,
and I'm sorry because
Mom, I failed.
I told myself not to dream high,
I told myself to dream deep.
I told myself to dream deep
and plant my dream in the deepest part of my heart
and make it grow -
that even my heart can attest that my dream was all I ever wanted.
My dream grew deeper
And the roots grew stronger
and I can tell,
Mom, I failed to dream high.
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 10:01 AM UTC
unmotherly love envelops you in all your childish ways
snickers and jealousy
emotional vampira
vacuous hole holding love at ransom
unmotherly mother
narcissim reigns over your sadistic ire
never satisfied
manipulation and cunning
pander them to exact perfect cuts of pain from me
but this is the last heart bleed
this the last compassionate faulter
I am no longer your prisoner
my babes are safe in bough of my loving arms
a million miles away from your strategic abandonment of me
your Radom spates of visitational cruelties
it spread a generation too far
you went too far
It will no longer reign
My humility is gone I am the best version of every dream you ever had
and I did it on my own
despite the cruelty of your cold
a lesson must be learned
now I'll show you a mother with a fierce love
the mother you choose not to be
a lioness crouched over her cubs guarded by claws
though capable as my other siblings seem to attest
you only have interests for their best
no more last
no more future
no more past
you don't hurt me anymore
my progeny will rise to all they aspire
challenged and sheltered
all equally loved
a child can not be her own mother's mother
you are nothing I need, now nothing I want
my only regret is, that I didn't leave your black hole sooner.
Dec 26, 2016
Dec 26, 2016 at 10:14 PM UTC
I'm sorry for all that was said and done.
Truth be told, drunks and phones shouldn't mix, I'll attest to that.
The later stages of being drunk lead to some very interesting confessions,
***** secrets spilled to open air,
If only someone would hear this drunken fool.
Confessions of words once whispered and missed chances,
Hidden feelings, and imaginary romances.
Words I might've ate, instead I would over contemplate.
Thinking about how I could never stand a chance.
But no one wants to hear this sober fool.
The outdoor type, was you to a T, never meant for me.
I can put up a tent, start a fire and that's about it.
I thought it was great, a small bit of your attention was all it took,
to teach me something not in a book.
But who's listening to this lying fool.
A bombers moon and the stars, I'd pick them over nights at bars,
Even if it were just to reminisce about a night we shared.
Hours walking to clear my head,
Of things that your friend twice said.
Yes, this confession of a regretful fool.
I'm sorry for all that was said and done,
For not saying at the time, but I've missed my chance,
I would bet on that with my last dime.
But I had to say, and I've got to know,
Did you maybe want to grab a coffee to go?
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 3:27 AM UTC
*Slammed to "Pick Up the Pieces"
by Average White Band*
Life's a jungle I have found
Torn to pieces all around
There are foxes - there are hounds
Zoos where wild things abound
Just listen to the funky sound
Now we're going underground....
Underground where rabbits go
Down tunnels in a faster slow
It's all over, don't you know
Pick & Shovel, Rake & ***
You're down with it, on the low
Like you're Edgar Allan Poe
Feast or famine - friend or foe
It must go on... The Truman Show...
*Jigsaw pieces - play the game
It is just a crying shame
Dance for dancing - Fame for fame
Break a leg and you are lame
No one'll ever know your name...
**PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES***
You're a tiger, nothin' nice
You've been bought, you had a price
Yeah, you tore off quite a slice
Well, some are men and some are mice
Some eat meat and some eat rice
Some are fire - some are ice
Some are ticks and some are lice
Let me give you some advice...
Just so you are never boring
While you're out there pimping, *******
While you're the one they are adoring
Just watch out for polished flooring
Don't break loose from your fast mooring
Into the pit you will be soaring
After that there's no restoring
Listen to the lion roaring...
Chorus
Here we are in the U.S.
We are pampered we are blessed
Sometime soon there'll be a test
We'll ride the Bronco way out West
The Magnificent Seven rides abreast
There's a new Sheriff, have you guessed?
With a tin badge on His vest
He does not play - He does not jest
I'm afraid, I will attest!
It won't be fun, just wait and see
It will be "pain" with a capitol P!
On this bus, don't ride for free
This is not a game of Wii
There's a port and there's a lea
There's a shrub (Bush), and there's a tree
There's an us, and there's a we
**There's a YOU, and there's a ME...
PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES**
SoulSurvivor
(C) 9/14/2016
https://youtu.be/xpflST8xWm8
"Pick Up the Pieces" extended version
Average White Band
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
Liberate the train
Inch by inch, mile for mile
Speed is a waiting land, devoted to plain
Excuses and accusation, in the lips, all the while
Independance, is our reward
Found futures, in a problem silence, now
In last, the problems of candor before the words
Of compelling a heart to action, as if guidance allowed
Travel of the ******
Suppose to wither with denial?
Sordid capture of a freer insanity?
Cares of presumption, to live with fear, filial?
Callous worth, we's of owed solemnity
Trading hunger for wheel's
Spare adroitness to tame a keeping nativity
Boxes of avarice, with purity to establish a host feel's
Rage, for a dream in the land
Set to firsts and lest we begin the dire harvest
Of an honest soul, that has lent avarice a hand
A thought for wishful patience, that has momentum to attest
Jul 10, 2023
Jul 10, 2023 at 1:05 PM UTC