"axing" poems
From whips and chains
To whips and chains,
Earned by pigmentation.
Suffered through tribulation
Caused by the need for **********
Lead to the names of elders confusion
The game of deception
Lead to liberation.
A work for works sake,
Where all currency we make
Is born for the government to take.
A cycle of earnings and yearnings
Where earnings go to learnings,
And learnings go to younglings,
Younglings go to work,
And from work they live to buy things
And from these things come the taxings
Of all things to come.
With housing comes heating where water is needed.
These things to provide for the one to be marrying,
And a child she may be carrying which leads to more taxing,
And when this child grows and they don't need your waxing
So begins your pension and time for relaxing.
Living without fear of receiving the axing,
And your wrinkles now potent define all your moods
You may wish you had done what little other men could,
Stand tall where some other pioneer may have once stood,
But instead around the stump no room for a branch,
Locked in by the cycle
Left to pedal with no brakes.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 5:35 AM UTC
My greatest fear is
that my mind will become languid
all these nerves that buzz and fill
will someday become a vegetable
somnolent times will set upon me
a spell from which I cannot recover
lazily and languorously I shall dwell
an intellect without vigour
too much comfort too much praise too much ease
shall push me off the cliff of complacency
and I shall fall without cognizance
a mental suicide, awareness in deep freeze
a hardened blank consciousness
that needs to be broken through
excavated from a grave of self-righteousness
pushed beyond self-set limits
melted until the core is seen
I need to feel the pain and hurt
cry briny tears and experience grief
need to feel unsure undecided
obscure myself in anxiety
make sure the inner ocean stays unfrozen
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
12.09.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 4:35 AM UTC
You sit there
Sails billowing empty wind
Heart tight-lipped
Thinking you share feelings
When it is them
That shackle you
Your eyes betray
Your fingers stab
Gathering my blood
Your mouth chases breath
Exposing pain
You refuse to see
And axing the root that heals
My heart is spent
I place my scarecrow
And while you flaunt black pinions,
I send you to scavange
On someone elses field
This day…
You hurt no more!
Aug 21, 2011
Aug 21, 2011 at 2:26 PM UTC
Her beat had been so bastardized that a tree had grown to protect it;
To harbor silence in pandemonium.
Isolation was the only remedy to a disease persistent to turn past into present,
So she grew on her own terms, and her heart beat for no one but herself,
Because to let someone in, meant to risk axing away at the barricade she had worked so arduously to withstand.
When she fell into him the first time, the wounds were preemptive.
Her brittle bones cast away at the hopes that he would see her heart before her mind;
From which idiosyncratic branches wrapped around her fingertips,
And the oak shards springing from within, just barely inching away from his own heart.
Strangely enough, he didn’t seem to mind.
When he stripped to bare back the scars were evident,
They cascaded from collarbone to the dip of his hip.
That’s when he brought her closer and whispered marvelously:
“I would bleed again for you.”
At the beginning, the boy hurt,
Yet he still saw the heart it held between the prongs of wooden cage.
So he continued to hurt, for her.
His mission rooted in the purpose of painting her the canvas of what life ought to be.
Penciling in the possibility of a reality where her aching shoulders could be lifted,
And a new smile plastered onto her lifeless frame.
He painted her in the image of who she used to be-
As if he knew her before she grew weary at life’s expense.
In the canvas, the wooden cage had disappeared, and a luminosity introduced itself.
He had uncovered her heart, and no longer was it encompassed by a shell, but freely beating;
Beating for him.
Every morning, day in and day out, meters of her branches gradually retracted,
And the boy’s scars gradually sealed over.
Oddly enough, it seemed as if they had healed each other.
That the quiet embraces they held each night didn’t pierce him,
but rather comforted his mind that this time, it would be different.
Somehow, she would come to love him, and him, her.
She saw in him a soldier; whose battle wounds were ghastly.
He had lived through hell and came back to dispel the stories,
But instead of stories of agony and woe, and anger and spite,
He spoke of the morning dew on dandelions reflecting the sun’s rays and how they most beautifully sprung from nothing.
He spoke of the quiet whispers of the wind bringing music to deaf ears.
He spoke of how if you listen closely, you can almost hear each cricket sing its song
in a field of thousands.
Each time he kissed her,
he did as if it were the last.
Each time he held her,
he did as if she were asleep.
Each time he healed her wounds,
he did as if they were preemptive.
Feb 8, 2021
Feb 8, 2021 at 12:55 PM UTC
While sitting on the beach
that's within my own head
enjoying
a bacardi and coke
and just chill axing
it was brought to my attention
that to readers of some of my poems
it might give the reader
a headache or maybe worse
of course this is not my intension at all
so please note for the future readers
you read by your own choice
and any brains that might explode
was not the intension of the author
however if they do
please do not hesitate to let me know
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 2:16 PM UTC
I sit on rocks.
The discomfort feels real.
It's tangible.
I can feel the jagged edges piercing where I sit.
It feels real.
But my heart is broken.
Filled to the brim with axing sadness.
It rips at me, begging to be poured out.
And I try.
I try to empty it.
But it fills again and I don't know how to release it.
The discomfort ebbs as I sit. My heart feels empty.
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 12:05 AM UTC
laddered interior young
at the stem. axing archetypes,
archaic impulses needling,
tracing a thin history.
versed in red cedar,
conversation inherited from
compulsive dreams,
spontaneous ******
absurd.
air thick through
hemlock mind, beliefs
losing acreage
to wildfire,
practice.
feet like temples,
side stepping,
environment a dip of
images patterned,
falling to edges,
mountains
widening,
basic matter.
Aug 17, 2019
Aug 17, 2019 at 2:25 AM UTC
-
Any Body Care?
any body Daring Enough
to
Fake it?
any body Gracious enough
to
Hide their Insults?
any body Kind enough
to
**** their Laughter?
any body Mindful enough
to
Notice an Open mind?
any body Polite enough
to
Quietly Respect
the
Sentimental Truth behind
the
Universal Versatile
styles of Writing
of
Existential Youth?
"Zzzzzzzz"
Keep Sleeping, world.
Were the ones that burn your Book,
cook your Meals n wield your Word,
turn your Tables up side Down,
crown your Halos right side Up.
Were the ones that up your Way,
wake you Up n pull you Down,
down your Blood n **** you Dry,
dye your Hairs n ware you Thin.
Were the ones you think you Killed,
Still the ones with willful Thought:
All the ones that cross a Line,
Im the one that signs its Bill.
Were the ones that build you Up,
cut you Down n shout out Timber!
Were the ones that tip the Drill,
tilt the Ships n chip the Chucks,
hunt the Mills n spill the Guts,
cut the Hairs n bare the Gift.
Were the ones that give you Lift,
lift your Covers, tuck you In,
ink your Spines n sing your Ticket,
tick your Time n tie you Up:
Were the ones that punch your Clock,
block the Sun n run in Flocks,
lock your Wings n sling the Rocks,
Drop your wings n swing you High.
Were the ones that hide in Packs,
axing........Axing........stacking........Lumber.
the
"people you are After
are the
people you dePend on."
- Tyler Durden
.
© Copyright Jesse James Adams
.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 6:24 PM UTC
Today overlord of his cabin
Will cut down all the little green shrubs
Cutting and axing
Until all the cutting's done.
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 6:55 AM UTC
are all phillips corrupt with power 27.10.18
not sure of knighthood
but now aware of axing
is it better for greater good
if guilty claw back for effective taxing.
who is under the thumb
its so clever
on entering its a roll of a drum
reminds me of little mo's nutty trevor.
shop is a goner
like london programme ink
deserves no respect or honour
silence is key wink wink.
can not see similarity
just the name
prince phillip will give clarity
out spoken and no shame.
not going to stigmatise
that would not be clever
but going to summarise
what is it with people called phillip s trevor.
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 6:01 PM UTC