"aversion" poems
i have sunk into a slow numbness,
perhaps because something broke over me
the second i saw you again.
i realized,
it's better to be in full-blown sorrow
than in a fragile happiness,
forever staving off the blackness.
but instead, i have sunk into a slow numbness.
perhaps because you look away from me now
the exact same way that i look away from you.
your aversion gives me numbness.
don't you see it?
that's all this ever was. a fear of the numbness. a fear of the pain.
your indifference gives me numbness
because who wants to feel it
when the ripping apart begins.
i have smoked to numbness.
i have cried to numbness.
i have raged to numbness.
i have laughed to numbness.
i have embraced the numbness.
i have dug myself into numbness
but you gave me the shovel.
you gave me the numbness.
and i feel absolutely fine. i feel nothing at all.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 6:08 PM UTC
This poem was written after watching a few hours of slam poetry on Youtube. Let me know what you think...it's my first shot at slam poetry.
There are so many words flowing around out there about the big girls. The thick girls, the curvy girls, the p-h-a-t phat girls. About their plush and soft exteriors, their abundant backsides, their willingness to accept themselves and their hopefulness that others will do the same. Their….thereness.
They are beautiful, don’t get me wrong.
They are beautiful.
But what about the skinny girls?
The small girls with petite builds and large hearts and an aversion to the word short. The size two and under girls, the drive thru can’t gain a pound girls, the I AM NOT ANNOREXIC OR BULLEMIC girls.
The girls who will always be referred to as “pixie-like” or “waif-like” or “twig-like.” The perfect model body girls that all of the other girls hate…because of their lack of fat.
Aren’t they beautiful?
The girls with the size 32 bust line, the girls who, at 24, still shop in the junior sections of department stores. The girls who, regardless of their age, their strengths and weaknesses, their experiences, heartaches and joys, disappointments and triumphs, their want or need for life and love will always look like they missed a meal or gave it back purposefully with the intent of becoming even thinner. The girls who, no matter how ******* HARD they try, cannot even weigh 100 lbs soaking ******* wet.
Aren’t they beautiful?
The big girls have to search and search for cute and **** and attractive clothes because of their size. Guess what? So do the skinny girls. Do you know ******* hard it is to find a pair of pants with a size zero waist and a 34 inch leg? To finally find an extra small shirt that doesn’t have one of the top three cartoon characters of the time plastered across the front?
All I’m saying is yes, the thick girls, the curvy girls, the p-h-a-t phat girls…
They are beautiful.
But ****** so am I.
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 11:58 PM UTC
Often times my mind does wander wildly
Thoughts where I wonder who I would be
Without my past flames that kept me sane
And without my darker days would I have still remained the same
Or would I be a lesser version of me now
Immersed in the aversion of my mistakes and doubts
Cause we all know I've got plenty. What's new?
Maybe one day maybe I'll see things from a different altitude
My higher learning certain forever searching for a purpose
I may never find cause nothings ever perfect
Deepening lines, wrinkles in time, and broken remnants
Of who we used to be, whoever we are, and what we're destined
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 5:08 AM UTC
The opposite of love, is indifference.
Not anger, aversion, or hate.
Accompanied by avoidant-detachment,
And a silence that never abates.
It can disguise itself in diffidence;
Depressed by misery, for score.
Sheltering who practice its persuasion,
But leaving its victim longing for more.
It looks like a promise that’s broken,
It sounds like the melody of a lie.
It tastes like a cocktail & bitters;
It feels like a passion that died.
You can’t see the damage from the outside;
The wounds that scar from within.
Until they manifest as an addiction,
Or any overt kind of sin.
Love faces the toughest of battles;
Love outshines even the sun.
Indifference regards nothing higher;
And indifference will perpetually run.
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 10:34 PM UTC
The era of cosmic youth .....
Photons creating cosmic passion …
Quantum travel through milky way ,
Searching God's Particle, my lost soul.
Love on quantum time travel …
Tender eyes projecting quantum gravity,
Gentle heart transforms mass to energy,
like the beauty transforms the aversion in my heart to adoration.
Sun shines because it seeks amorous affection .
My passion is the pattern of god's Particle on
Grandfather gravity and 3D/5D quantum time .
Ignites my every desire through my 'Cerebral Zone' .
Travel through the cosmos , across world lines ,
A high-tech earth with out war and map ,
A vision of one universe .
Evolving the edge of youth love & science .
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 4:38 PM UTC
mmm, palce lizać, albo wsadzić je w dúpe i nadawać sygnał wriggly-wriggly alter: wriggly-pigglety; counter-alt? calling it: the miracle of five croutons, and two pieces of sushi... c'mon, let's go crazy! and take it to the excesses permitted by the original feat! (yes, i mean the fish parts of sushi, there's enough carbohydrates in the croutons, so yes, no rice-bed for the tartars).
ć is the puritan's aversion to cz / chai;
or at least an exfoliation curbor.
i write honey,
honey honey honey,
i write honey,
honey honey honey
p'ooh bear
droned in on it.
when i write,
i write honey,
honey honey O'Milee.
from serving in the US and A
navy, to a beach-buggy
accident.
when i write, i write
honey -
*** e -
Atilla styled liquorice -
lee co reesh - not
liquidated rice -
ghosts of latin almost everywhere;
quadruple that.
convene and converse -
contrary collective.
some say this might as well
be the famous goldberg sardines;
when i write, i write honey,
i write: honey honey honey...
will you be my Duracell bunny?
honey, will you be my
******** par excellance?
i see... no, you won't be.
the museum of Greek sculpture
was vandalised!
guess what they took,
the ****** fiendish crooks!
with a wet splash of colour
comes the cold marble artifice -
a bit like the cool-mouth
refrigerator of a woman during
felatio... still don't know
how she gets that gob down
below room temperature.
(heresy input, never start a
sentence with an) and
there you have it,
writing, catering for
abstractionism,
just after he said: they're on a diet.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 10:49 AM UTC
I have a friend who still believes in heaven.
Not a stupid person, yet with all she knows, she literally talks to God.
She thinks someone listens in heaven.
On earth she's unusually competent.
Brave too, able to face unpleasantness.
We found a caterpillar dying in the dirt, greedy ants crawling over it.
I'm always moved by disaster, always eager to oppose vitality
But timid also, quick to shut my eyes.
Whereas my friend was able to watch, to let events play out
According to nature. For my sake she intervened
Brushing a few ants off the torn thing, and set it down
Across the road.
My friend says I shut my eyes to God, that nothing else explains
My aversion to reality. She says I'm like the child who
Buries her head in the pillow
So as not to see, the child who tells herself
That light causes sadness-
My friend is like the mother. Patient, urging me
To wake up an adult like herself, a courageous person-
In my dreams, my friend reproaches me. We're walking
On the same road, except it's winter now;
She's telling me that when you love the world you hear celestial music:
Look up, she says. When I look up, nothing.
Only clouds, snow, a white business in the trees
Like brides leaping to a great height-
Then I'm afraid for her; I see her
Caught in a net deliberately cast over the earth-
In reality, we sit by the side of the road, watching the sun set;
From time to time, the silence pierced by a birdcall.
It's this moment we're trying to explain, the fact
That we're at ease with death, with solitude.
My friend draws a circle in the dirt; inside, the caterpillar doesn't move.
She's always trying to make something whole, something beautiful, an image
Capable of life apart from her.
We're very quiet. It's peaceful sitting here, not speaking, The composition
Fixed, the road turning suddenly dark, the air
Going cool, here and there the rocks shining and glittering-
It's this stillness we both love.
The love of form is a love of endings.
2.6k
fragments of life
scattered on the photoshop floor
discarded moments
deleted before fully developed
urgency depicted as living for today
overexposing the instantaneous
cropping a disjointed existence
from the bitmap of impatience
why the aversion to time's darkroom
where future's blur slowly comes into focus
giving clarity to the contiguous
splicing realization from potential
cut to ending...
a panoramic view of destiny's horizon
where paths converge but never vanish
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 9:07 PM UTC
SANDMAN
Can you see them?-lookin' for me to be them,
lookin' for my warmth to breath life to them,
the hollow men,yes men,fallow men,come follow men,
no heart no mind-mindsick and eyeblind,
sheep talkin' like wolves that I find,
most despicable-Dis-gusting unpredictable,
following the wind as it blows on their wick they're all
candles in the strong wind gutterin',
snipes from a distance yeah they're all utterin'
Great threats from great hollow chests,
that up close-don't stand inspection,
empty vessels-makin great noise,
hard men behind keyboards hands -poised,
with the poisoned pen ready to dip in the deep well,
of hatred they bring from deep hell's,
inside,a void,avoid if you can please employ-
aversion tactics needed,don't need it,
vampyres that need pyres,yellow they bleed it
Yellow right down to the backbone believe it...
CHORUS
*the hollow men,yes men,fallow men,come follow men,
Yes men Hollow men come follow men
Yes Men-Shallow men come follow men, the hollow men,
The hollow men,yes men,fallow men,come follow men,
Yes men Fallow men come follow men
Yes Men-Shallow men come follow then
while I tell you bout the Hollow men*
JAY
Yeah, **** right I can see them.
Trolls in holes. I'm willin' to bleed 'em.
Society's detritis,
..delighted by the slightest sign of weakness.
Bleakness of their lives underlined by the lies they employ..
.. in their contrived..
..cyber sphere.
Scavengin' on carrion.
Peckin' at the carcass. Behind the veil of anonymity.
Sit in darkness as they hammer out calamity.
No nobility or amity. Cyber-highway poison.
I got the remedy.
Hollow husks skulk and lust..
..for coat-tails to ride on. Soon turn to dust.
Rusting hulks their disgusting bulk decaying on the shore.
Soon to be forgotten.
The Yes Men, the Hollow Men, the fallow men.
The everything is borrowed men.
The no tomorrow men.
The follow slowly to the gallows men.
*The Hollow Men, Yes men, fallow men, come follow men.
Yes men, shallow men, come follow men.
Yes men, Hollow Men.
Never follow them. The Hollow Men.
The Hollow Men, Yes men, fallow men, come follow men.
Yes men, shallow men, deal in sorrow men.
Yes men. Don't ever follow them.
A fool strolls to the gallows man.*
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 2:15 PM UTC
Keep the youth medicated & sedated, then wonder why the literacy rate is doomed to decline. Birth us on a pedestal, then wonder why we have no incentive to climb. Build us from a violent genocide, then wonder why we've got guns pressed under our tongues. Kneel us before the clergy. Strangle us with your rosaries. Brand psalms into our wrists & make laws to control her ovaries. Value groupthink over independent thought & induce aversion to curiosity. Hang us between your revolving doors & shoot nationalism into our veins... Then wonder why we're so addicted to drowning our insides.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 10:52 AM UTC
Jew harp, Plath hearted, dream seamstress
who sits in the dark.
Who made me live here.
In a small room inside my head, little dictator
and I lit this place with music, just for you
Where all sounds but songs are dead-headed
Just before they bloom.
Totalitarian angel, rage-filled fragile smoke
who censored my tower of Babel.
Who tamed my very rivers of song
to breathe the moon-tones as vapor, until as a sun
you’d rise to scar these rivers, every single one
wherever you find them, with your face.
No matter how they run.
Paranoid animal with an understandable
aversion to caress and kinetic poetry.
Damsel who births her own dragons
like the fertility of hell, again and again.
Life and love belong to the monsters
the monsters you make of them
but all of them I’d befriend.
and I wonder.
I could chew my pen hand off
snared coyote.
I could swallow my tongue
dancing to dead note barks.
I could visually inhale that sun.
Take in all I can.
To get the eyelid ink spots.
The branded silhouettes
busying my eyes as I sleep
each night as I sleep.
Without this allergy to identity
you could turn this world backwards in me.
That hell of a snow-globe you hold
if only you knew what kind of world you controlled.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 5:57 PM UTC
Talk is cheap but it's not a cheap addiction
payed for every word i spoke with every wound inflicted
withdrawal symptoms: high level of emotional stress, depression, anger and bouts of uncontrollable rage, more depression, bitterness, resentment, trust issues even with the trustworthy, aversion to physical affection despite the craving for it, loneliness, contradictory thoughts and feelings, paradoxes of actions and intentions, silence, and poetry.
I guess my options are to avoid or entertain my addiction
"hello, how have you been, if I'm talking will you listen?"
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 3:19 PM UTC
We have a possessed person at work.
She talks incoherently
& spins around in her chair
like a crazy girl.
Forever using the Lord's name in vain,
once I saw her floating to the restroom,
and it wasn't on a broom.
Flies seem to hang around her desk,
her breath sometimes smells like *****
and she has an aversion to crosses.
When you put all those facts together,
there's no way you can deny
the devil's inside her.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 5:17 PM UTC
don’t kiss and tell,
meaning
do kiss, go crazy, let passion rule, give in, take out,
meaning
kiss but don’t tell
yet,
the real telling is in the kissing
where your heart gives way,
avalanches into frenzied chain of signal fires,
smoked, clouded eyes, with only one exception made;
the shining, sheer veil see-through when
the other is on the room and the green spring coverlet felled,
all to see the glow, see all the the blush,
the pretense, aversion skins natural makeup, a liberty beacon
laughing, how it cannot be hid for what’s inside
climbs so fast, blushes blue blood redder, the inside reaction reagent,
the weakening composure, the intense beating from heart to head,
the joyous tearing, the silent swearing, the stupid grinning,
the step skipping, the happy dance springing spontaneous,
no control, might as well just let it go biology in chemistry class
all these tells that you have kissed beyond reason,
these hidden kisses might as well be on
billboards on the highway into town,
a P.A. announcement in high school,
a hearty button attached to your backpack,
the incessant text checking, all dogs nighttime barking all day
go ahead kiss and tell
go ahead tell and kiss harder,
in the kisses, a million tellings
every body part red swelling,
the tearing of every body part,
concentric circles extended from a pebbled heart
~
Apr 25, 2019
Apr 25, 2019 at 5:56 PM UTC
I have conjured up
an aversion to empathy.
It only opens the heart,
awarding her influence
over the mind.
I know how she feels.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 8:14 PM UTC
You cannot sleep?
It will come
It's the clock genes
Just come over here
and lie down with me
Close to each other
You are so sweet
It tied knots in me
that are not quite undone yet
I was a saviour, an angel
not yet used
to her body, a child
who does know heaven
but not yet earth
It recurred
Anger grew inside me
Powerless aversion
It recurred
And with others
I lost my wings
A worthless angel
May 27, 2023
May 27, 2023 at 3:31 AM UTC
Hobbling over rock and dust,
The Nameless winces with every weary step.
His soles scorched and torn
By the unaccustomed roughness underfoot
The jagged teeth of a prickly piping earth.
Alone he makes his way
With tiny treads towards the dying dusk.
Fatigue dragging at his limbs
Bowing his neck to leave eyes downcast
And unfocussed; seeing naught but blurs and
The swirling and swaying of the trembling past.
A city:
Grand buildings stretching as one toward the sky;
Great lions waking from their feast and basking
In the brilliance of noonday air.
The bustle of flesh coursing about their purpose
The tight press of bodies all around
And the chatter and the natter and the laughter and the anger.
And then the silence.
The fear and the glares.
The hunger
And a guilty aversion of one’s eyes.
The shattering of glass
The raising with fire and boot.
And the stealing of Names.
And now here he trudges.
With tiny treads and into naked night.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 9:31 AM UTC
Like old
mean beetles,
like old
men in battle,
like egos: solid anvils,
like families: lethal weapons,
like these: them,
begotten sons
who begat daughters
of a land, of a bordered plot
on the globe, the dirt,
the house, the property
which begot
them
both,
these two
bitter enemies
from two
separate places,
furiously blaze,
as the time
for darkness,
is far
from arrived.
And the sun
quakes,
in its heat
rippling sights
and
knocking particles,
which deter the next
knocked,
and which enforce
the continued sensation of
warmth
continued,
of aversion
continued,
rising,
screened,
for its impeccable quality,
against
nobody in
general or
specific
to announce, or to gain
against
consequences, which are
soothsaid
in time,
nullified.
Partners afflicted will be less opportunistic
and more egalitarian,
but are sworn,
like the sun,
against the monotony,
of repetition,
of indistinct days;
like these:
them,
the enemies,
they
are
engaged,
aged,
unteachable
and
spoiled.
They are always
immersed
in
vexed
states,
always in competition.
Hope
is
the
souls
united
never again
as much
as the static,
single dimension,
alone,
impeccable,
impossible,
for its possibility
is drawn by He
who
spews forth
lumens
next to card sharks and Amazons, knowing these
will have to suffice, having no escape
from the projected
source
of energy.
The metal heads
of garden rakes,
weapons
thrown
at devils
in the sweltering heat
of hell,
the Inferno
that holds a
first-person
point of view,
a dream, alongside
superheroes, allied,
but who are,
nevertheless,
without their unique
and exceptional powers,
pros and willing deviants
from the celibacy,
the weight,
the unoriginal paint
that collides
in
each
stroke,
making what
appears
null,
and the array
but one,
and supposed,
so that then
are the weary
and soulful mergers
which corrupt
and meander throughout,
polluting,
as
it
were,
the tranquility,
the wrenched service,
of the destined
machine,
of a million
trajectories,
homespun threads,
woven
into
a
million
miserable
microfibers,
unanswered
queries
that were
held back
in
fear,
and
were
never
asked,
and remain
even
now
sorry.
Jan 17, 2010
Jan 17, 2010 at 7:49 AM UTC
Some people endeavor to portray a persona.
Some people perpetuate the beliefs of their parents.
Some people pretend to be somebody they've seen on TV.
Some people have trouble accepting that they're actually existing.
Some people perceive themselves as being unlike anyone else.
Some people have an aversion to personality profiling.
Some people just can't help themselves.
Some people feel a need to place everyone they've ever known into categories.
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 3:23 AM UTC
Blue streaks shew across the sky.
Manic days and semper fi.
Red dawn smashes out the sea.
Honor is all I claim to be.
Though I love and feel like saintly.
I reek, timorous, spineless and dainty.
But I have no respect for you!
Till we are in court, tried and true
It was the world, the world of defeat.
I planted my flag on a daisy and creek.
On a light dominion of my summerhouse place.
There sit, the lovely Welterman case.
Weltermans family gathered in boon.
Farewell to a daughter, a motherly loon.
I killed her. There. I said it okay?
But don't blame me, she was just in my way.
On a cold summer day, and a hot summer night.
Cicadas bizzled but hardly struck a fright.
Daisy lay sleeping, sweet next to me.
Leaving behind her unfinished dreams
But lo and behold, an undertaker.
Ruinous desire, I decided to take her.
My confession means nothing, my killing, an iota.
So love would not infect Alexander of Macedonia.
Down the throat and across the sea.
Of loquacious gelatinous sanctimony.
I'll cut deep without thinking, I'll slash without aversion.
Ophelia and her love is a tainted **********
I bathed in the blood and cried myself silly.
She only deserved death, that ***** old filly.
No more would Welterman reek of my sin.
To lower a king, to a peasantly Tim.
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 2:59 AM UTC
I do not like olives.
They are the only food
I have been unable to educate myself into.
Just one food,
Most people have more,
But I will eat anything
Rather than an olive,
I'd rather gobble down a rotten egg.
I want to like them.
When the waiter brings a little bowl,
Balsamic, bread and oil,
I sigh and let the wistfulness kick in.
They are so civilised,
So summery,
I feel I'm missing out -
- But I just can't -
They taste like mackintosh,
Or shower gel,
Or toothpaste gone wrong.
I feel sorry for the olives,
Offering a holiday vibe,
A Mediterranean ambience,
And meeting revulsion, rejection,
(Juddery shuddering).
Perhaps I am making too much of this,
No-one can like everything,
They will never know.
Perhaps I am someone's olive aversion.
Perhaps they are
(Juddery shuddering)
At the thought of me, right now.
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 4:30 PM UTC
inverted purpose, a hurting version
verses for this urban exertion
first curse, the burdened dispersion
unworthy service of incursion
perverted circus, a working aversion
reversing their verbal coercion
the first thirst is the verse's assertion
immersed in an urgent excursion
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 1:33 PM UTC
i'm starting to think that the consequence of bragging actually breeds an unconsciously invested in message of: don't make the same mistakes i made, which i now brag about; my, couldn't ask for a finer aversion of said deeds bragged about... perhaps if bragging was salted with nostalgic spices of: if i could only rekindle the said event... the subversion of bragged about, nonetheless regretted events.
the ultimate faux pas is the zenith of
lost etiquette -
tact -
bragging -
translated back into gluttony -
so, why should i feel shame in
writing poetry in writing out the most
mundane, when people start off
their hello with bragging shackles of
turning a hard-on of ambition
into a wet-cunt of envy?
n'ah, joking...
**** me and the need to take a ****
i started to imagine it as:
as much pleasure comes from taking
a **** in a dark alley in winter
as it does being given a...
hmm...
why name it? the antonym is all too
obvious;
lody: ice cream.
Nov 25, 2017
Nov 25, 2017 at 7:06 PM UTC
in the underground ocean tunnel
a golden boy with big dreams
drives a 5 speed and despite his tight jeans
his copilot companion is side-seat driving
while he employs reckless steering-weel styling
sarcophagul stasis is most surprising an outcome
for him with his personal aversion to dying
he was in a coma overnight
suddenly eyes are open
above an apathetic white pillow
and all around him people are crying
a partial paraplegic is pledging his allegiance
in his town he's an ornament parked upon the bleachers
thirty years later most assume he was a war hero
but he was just twenty getting road dome on the way home
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 8:11 AM UTC
To All Men Who Can:
We must articulate our sorrow; find joy in the grief
Call the resurgence when anguish is chief!
Illuminate Dark Alley
There is no finale
But the ethereal timeless bliss
Return solemn calling
of the moon,
Return to the mother
flowers in bloom
Listless excursion
Our soul's in aversion
To the petty game we made
Love be thine calling,
Our souls are not falling to this
Infatuous State of Sin
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 8:49 PM UTC