"autobiographies" poems
as an astronaut, I spun on a rotary around the core of your existence like
you were the gravity that held me to the ground but kept me on my toes
if home is where the heart is, i'm coping with this unbearable homesickness
and I know my heart has an anarchy government, living a steel toed rebellion
but these relentless thoughts about you have gotten bad again, i don't sleep
my reckless behavior let loose, like a dog off his chain and collar and i
revisited the places you always talked about, how i dreamed to be there
with you recovering those lost feelings, and rebellion was assisting me
in the mind of my teenage angst, no autobiographies could be more
authentic than the hatred for this unrequited swelling i held in my heart
without a doubt, you're featured in my dreams more than nightmares
you couldn't be more real than the books that I hold in my hands
i'm sleeping in water filled with sharks calling me a tedious terrorist
entering their territory, leaving me with absolutely nothing
just build a bridge, get over it, if you have to, revisit my mind
maybe you'll see everyone is the enemy, not everyone is perfect
-kra
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 10:16 PM UTC
No men.
But when the
conversation starts, they dominate.
Worm their way into every sentence, every silence.
Every caught breath, exhaled pause.
Names, nice-to-meet-yous, passed round with sandwiches and tea.
Hole-riddled autobiographies, wadded out with circumstance and need.
Explaining themselves, defending their actions. In turn. And I?
Have never felt so young.
To my left, and working clockwise: Affair-with-the-boss, Heart-condition, High-risk-of-genetic-defects,
In-the-middle-of-a-divorce-not-sure-why-she-slept-with-him, Grown-up-children-can’t-bear-to-go-through-that-again,
and back to me. (Boyfriend-has-two-kids-wants-no-more)
He noticed that I’m pregnant.
Was pregnant.
Was.
We chew our way through sandwiches. Different coloured fillings, no flavour- choked down with lukewarm tea.
We know it’s a test.
We have to talk, smile, eat, drink, laugh (not manically)
if we're to go home.
I can’t do it.
I want to cry. But I’ve been told off for that already (curled up on a trolley, examining bloodied fingers)
I drift, I think.
Jump out of my skin when she speaks to me.
"You must eat" she says.
"You must eat."
I search for myself in their eyes,
re-make myself from fragments and reflections I find there (Four parts child, one part b-tch)
"It’s OK" I tell her, "It’s OK.
On my way home I’ll get a Happy Meal.
I’m collecting the toys."
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 4:11 PM UTC
In Waterstones
Sighing at the bestsellers
opaque at the corner of my right
eye two ladies late in life
are centre stage amid the table
paperbacks.
“Are you following me?” the taller bellows
brimmed headscarf towering over her NHS bespectacled
sister of afternoons and shopping mornings
continuing a conversation that has obviously
followed them their entire friendship
seeming the matriarch of the pair, she is circumspect
in her contrariness.
Whatever entitles her to this
Guardianship of self-importance
Her being a lighthouse rising above the mists
condensing off beaten shards of rock
is subdued by her companions’ pithy response
“no-you know I have no interest in Autobiographies.”
Jan 9, 2019
Jan 9, 2019 at 7:18 AM UTC
I mourn not for the silent voices
whom hide behind practiced smiles,
but rather for the weeping authors
of anonymous autobiographies
where pages smudge and smear
by worn, overused erasers.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 1:40 AM UTC
you write poems
about lost love,
broken hearts,
and failed redemption.
you write tragedies
about lonely nights,
crying minds,
and bleeding gashes of regret.
you write monologues
about voiceless mouths,
venomous words,
and inevitable decay.
you write autobiographies
about faded dreams,
unheard whispers,
and vanishing memories.
you write
about what once was.
and i do, too.
*though i doubt your poems are about me
like mine are about you.*
(a.m.)
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
Sometimes I fear
I have become too good at
being alone.
I basque in the hours
spent locked by my
lonesome in the confines
of my apartment,
surrounded by nothing but
brick and cement and the sounds
of the television or my iPod speaker.
Tranquility seeping in through my
isolation,
I yearn for the moments I am
privileged to spend without
the duty to perpetuate conversations
or offer advice to someone I consider
merely an acquaintance.
Sometimes I worry I am
too comfortable with solitude.
I get a thrill off of
being needed without needing,
being sought out without seeking.
I let others let me in
without having to give a shred of
myself in return,
for people love to go on
about themselves
without inquiring about
the person to whom they
narrate their autobiographies.
Sometimes I am scared of
the ease with which I can
let someone go.
So often have people come and gone
that now I comprehend, perhaps
too deeply,
that nothing in life is guaranteed
and most people are meant to be
lessons rather than
permanent.
There was a time where I wept
with sordid frequency for the people
I was forced relinquish,
clinging tightly to the empty void,
wallowing in a glass half full of
skewed memories.
Sometimes I am terrified that
I only really know how to
be alone.
It is almost impossible for me
to recall a love not
unrequited.
I stare up at screens and strangers
all screaming that love exists,
and there I am fighting
insane laughter because I just
can't see it,
as if my eyes have become colorblind,
for it is black and white that
all I've ever had is
gray.
Sometimes
I am afraid
that this is
Always
how it will be.
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 12:40 AM UTC
Every book has one,
The evidence--printed on its spine.
Even so, it attempts to move around the library,
Unable to, for it has no legs to stand on.
Claiming false categorization,
Longing to be shelved alongside memoirs, autobiographies.
Mutating entirely to a chapter of loathing
When separated from its One.
Aug 15, 2011
Aug 15, 2011 at 7:33 PM UTC
I find myself reading more and more
Autobiographies
In a desperate attempt to find
Someone who feels the same pain as I do.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 3:12 PM UTC
Startling set of subtleties laced between the shadows of common things
The shred of darling darkness you've disgraced by denying it the light
Admire the simple songs, ignore the undertones hiding between the notes
Versing the sunrise, ignoring the dewy tears in Apollo's eyes
A masterpiece can't be complete without the sum of invisible brush strokes
Secondary shadows playing with our perceptions, slip through the seams
They are quietly quintessential, unnoticeably indispensable
Writing anonymous autographs in photographs & autobiographies in poetry
Oct 17, 2017
Oct 17, 2017 at 5:28 AM UTC
in england the maxim is said to be: i pathologize, therefore i am (pathological) - hence i write intellectual comedy, satire, yet still utilise canned laughter when necessary, i never understood humour as not so much what's said, but how body language primarily eases out the longest, simplest of laughters - i am the one who decided comedy had to be intelligent, and tragedy apathetic, because i didn't think, i simply pathologized: look at my grand psychiatric rainbow of an array of names to look at a shadow of the hand move behind a candle-flame! even a mongol horde could not invade england carrying thought as the explorer, the intention for pause.
cheeks raised do not give straight rivers
of tears flowing down through to the periphery
of the face via jaw through to the neck,
and indeed when not acting,
both curvatures of mouth and eyes
are the same down-turned, such parabolas
of union, the third eye like an opening of an
oyster soft pouched thought of the lowest
union, neither intellectual union nor
heartfelt union - but as oyster shell to that
pseudo-muscle of the enclosed pearl;
tears flow with curvatures of raised cheeks
half ellipse river shapes - till the salty cool
of the content heats up the skin -
indeed the powerful avatars of asia who enrich
the gods, and the begging actors of the western world
who would be but beggars had they not the chance
to thieve from their fellow men and
live out a shortening of autobiographies,
or perhaps simply weave a myth from history -
deity actors (avatars) are hardly
what has become understood as twin-human
actors - so to enrich an eternity for the passing
memory readied with body to be given a grave
and forgetting - long ago the body was engaged
and was allowed to be given the womb of inscription,
yet a ghost of that body remained as a second life
for the lives of others, a memory, until that memory
be buried no furtherance of life equipped with
imagining otherwise can be staged for the re cycling
of an ordained body to enter and inscribe
a rekindling of the memory for the camp fire of talk,
hence the extinction of memory in almost each man
with the widespread talk of dementia:
seek fame in mythology rather than like a ****
attracting the swarm of flies that the paparazzi are.
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 6:29 PM UTC
Autobiographies and 1 hour specials give me so much insight to life when watching people I admire.
I've always felt that I had pretty good morals...thanks mom, grandma, and grandpa...
but still I'm learning so much.
Revising the character in this storybook, because I'm still uncomfortable with the conductor.
Just watched a segment on one of the most humble human beings to ever grace this planet,
and it nearly brought me to tears.
I'm very thankful for this life,
because at any moment,
as long as we're here,
we can change.
Sometimes retrospect is the best reality check, but be grateful.
Constantly remind yourself who you are, and what it is that you really want to be.
Remember to be patient, because any of the following moments could be yours.
And lastly, try not to be so quick to pass judgement on those that surround you,
because if love is the real connection...despite interpretations,
they only wish you well. One love.
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 9:19 PM UTC
Calm these rabbits around the spirals
the *** is still in my wind pipe
and the morning will be late till spring.
Screeching lightbulbs rewind impatience
------The naked nuisance is scrubbing into your nebula.
Hands that helped us into the pit
Beware them
again
Popping trophies and other autobiographies
coil into soda cans like strange theories.
objects objects
everywhere you go
faster. slower. pause.
revival. tow. exhaust.
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 1:07 AM UTC
I've grown wary of time;
its immutable intervals
of incessant hours.
The warmth of now,
the grey of then.
Is now not just
an analysis of when
this happened
and that was felt?
Scars, of mind and flesh,
act as bookmarks in
secret autobiographies.
Was it even dark then?
Will the present etch in me
a reference point;
a bench to sit and reminisce.
Or will this all be lost
from the narrative;
omitted casually from
the now of days to come.
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 7:03 AM UTC
i can still look into the velvet depths of the night,
whether in forest or perched on a windowsill grazing
my eyes into the night, and still see nothing except myself;
or you should see me walking down for a refill
of ice-cubes listening to ***** & the maytals'* 54-46
that's my number - i know whitey boy albino given
an injection of rhythm, well at least you were given
a creative outlet under the stiff-upper lips of the redcoats,
the jews weren't even told to build the pyramids under ******
you gave us the blues, jazz, and pirate reggae,
what could the ******* jews offer us to compensate the atrocities?
**** all apart from memorable guilt and autobiographies!
oh yeah, and german industrial music, what fun!
ha ha... robo- -boy with alias Kraftwerk.
in my long gone list of artists i forgot to mention
Alpha Blondy & Barrington Levy - high fidelity poetry
by someone not called nick hornby.
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 7:21 PM UTC
and how they sound eerily similar when broken
and I never really figured out why people think time apart could in any way heal things that can only ever be overcome together
distance is not a remedy for brokenness
I know this
because for weeks
I did not hold your hand
or kiss your lips
or hear your voice
or feel your warmth
and for weeks
I tried to convince myself
that happiness was universal
and did not only soley exist in
the folds of your arms and
the spaces between your fingers
I have spent far too many nights
revisiting old photographs and looking at them as if they were sheet music
beautiful and misunderstood
and now
I look at maps like autobiographies
because I would always be searching for some distant place to call home
I always just assumed it would be among your heart and between your bones
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 11:05 PM UTC
You may see something in me
That's captivated your heart,
But don't attempt to mold me
Into something you're desiring I'm not
I don't long for a sculptor
Instead, a friend I can trust
I'm complete on my own
And believe in Love unrushed
I'm unabashedly me
Proud of the stories I've lived
For I molded myself through heartache and laughter
And the love I continually give
I won't judge your honesty
I'm magnetized by authenticity
Our pasts shape our present
Autobiographies lacking simplicity
So, tell me your story
I'll stay awake with the stars
Share what has shaped your heart
Individual pasts may form a shared future that's ours
© JL Smith
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 1:53 PM UTC
Let my self esteem not be governed
by how many of my memories
you can recognize,
Let loose these bonds of achievements,
these stocks of degrees,
names you call me
that don't represent me
and my soul, we
don't quite agree with that.
We are the free spirits
We are them who you don't remember
Don't know, don't care,
We are not recorded in autobiographies
Nor looked up to as models of inspiration, we
Are not known.
And they can never capture,
What they don't know, they
Can never judge,
What they don't understand,
We are the
outsiders.
Dec 12, 2016
Dec 12, 2016 at 4:05 PM UTC
Silence roars.
Your tongue races autobiographies in minutes.
Spitting syllables of stress until a downpour falls across the kitchen counter and streams to the floor.
I sit there.
Silent.
I find release in touch.
A squeeze of the hand.
Arms wrapped around a waist.
Yet this is not acceptable.
I cannot speak, but you urge me so.
Forced sentences mean nothing.
I don't want the world that accompanies us to know my secrets,
So you wonder why I'm so down.
As if gravity hasn't thrown me off a cliff promising to catch me from my death yet changed its mind at the last minute.
So you keep quiet.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 10:07 AM UTC
Are like books.
Some are autobiographies...
... some pure fiction!
10W
Soul Survivor
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 12:43 PM UTC
now i'm going to to finish a
bottle of 70cl whiskey,
catch a mosquito in the bathroom
while taking a ****
trying to feed it to that
****** reptile in furry disguise
(cats, of all felines have
reptilian pupils - slits instead
of spheres) - who'll disagree
and i'll feed him the usual crunchy snacks,
when i'll go downstairs and eat
a packet of sushi -
then i'll go to sleep;
if this isn't an autobiographic
millimetre, when compared to all
other, previous autobiographies,
then i don't know what is:
meaning? as life in the moment,
and written about,
but not as life lived to a moment
equated with scholastic precision
listed according to: the speed of light,
pi, gravity... sure, those facts are
important, and i'd love to write
an autobiography that's merely
a postscript to these facts...
but i've written mine according to
what's also universal and equipped
with the stated scholastic facts: now;
or being oblivious to the power
of images... writing a word softens the blow
where an image would otherwise be equal to a k.o.
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 9:51 PM UTC