"bitterest" poems
"While I sit at the door
Sick to gaze within
Mine eye weepeth sore
For sorrow and sin:
As a tree my sin stands
To darken all lands;
Death is the fruit it bore.
"How have Eden bowers grown
Without Adam to bend them!
How have Eden flowers blown
Squandering their sweet breath
Without me to tend them!
The Tree of Life was ours,
Tree twelvefold-fruited,
Most lofty tree that flowers,
Most deeply rooted:
I chose the tree of death.
"Hadst thou but said me nay,
Adam, my brother,
I might have pined away;
I, but none other:
God might have let thee stay
Safe in our garden,
By putting me away
Beyond all pardon.
"I, Eve, sad mother
Of all who must live,
I, not another,
Plucked bitterest fruit to give
My friend, husband, lover;--
O wanton eyes, run over;
Who but I should grieve?--
Cain hath slain his brother:
Of all who must die mother,
Miserable Eve!"
Thus she sat weeping,
Thus Eve our mother,
Where one lay sleeping
Slain by his brother.
Greatest and least
Each piteous beast
To hear her voice
Forgot his joys
And set aside his feast.
The mouse paused in his walk
And dropped his wheaten stalk;
Grave cattle wagged their heads
In rumination;
The eagle gave a cry
From his cloud station;
Larks on thyme beds
Forbore to mount or sing;
Bees drooped upon the wing;
The raven perched on high
Forgot his ration;
The conies in their rock,
A feeble nation,
Quaked sympathetical;
The mocking-bird left off to mock;
Huge camels knelt as if
In deprecation;
The kind hart's tears were falling;
Chattered the wistful stork;
Dove-voices with a dying fall
Cooed desolation
Answering grief by grief.
Only the serpent in the dust
Wriggling and crawling,
Grinned an evil grin and ******
His tongue out with its fork.
13.4k
**ABRAHAM LINCOLN’S FAMOUS CIVIL WAR CONDOLENCE LETTER TO YOUNG ***** MCCULLOUGH ABOUT DEATH, LOSS AND MEMORY**
Executive Mansion,
Washington, December 23, 1862.
Dear *****
It is with deep grief that I learn of the death of your kind and brave Father; and, especially, that it is affecting your young heart beyond what is common in such cases. In this sad world of ours, sorrow comes to all; and, to the young, it comes with bitterest agony, because it takes them unawares. The older have learned to ever expect it. I am anxious to afford some alleviation of your present distress. Perfect relief is not possible, except with time. You can not now realize that you will ever feel better. Is not this so? And yet it is a mistake. You are sure to be happy again. To know this, which is certainly true, will make you some less miserable now. I have had experience enough to know what I say; and you need only to believe it, to feel better at once. The memory of your dear Father, instead of an agony, will yet be a sad sweet feeling in your heart, of a purer, and holier sort than you have known before.
Please present my kind regards to your afflicted mother.
Your sincere friend
A. LINCOLN.
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 11:00 AM UTC
for you, we bundle into the car,
the littlest
(half my brother and twice my nuisance)
and the middlest
(14 going on favorite)
the bitterest
(only girl and pen-in-hand)
and the biggestest
(20 years
of bombastic nonsense)
30 minutes and four cornfields later
he'll start.
"i have to ***
"there's a bottle up there, dad."
"dad, i have to ***
"dad."
"dad."
"dad."
and he's going to *** in that ******* bottle
which will inevitably stay in the car for the remaining 8 and a half hours,
sloshing and yellow
too dangerously close to the color of something
you would actually drink.
the two youngest
will get into some sort of argument
some sort of argument that i will intervene in.
"shut up!" he'll say.
"chill out!" i'll shout.
"you chill out!"
and my father and my stepmother
will eye from the front seat
until one of them turns around
("relax, madeline!" sharply).
and then the oldest
like clockwork
will act like he knows more than he does about something
(my father will just chuckle, but i'll begin, "bullsh-" i'll begin, but my stepmother will hiss,
"madeline!" as if i've killed somebody
even though the 8-year-old curses even worse than i do).
he'll make a face at me
and i'll make a face at him.
the littlest will
inevitably
stomp on my seatbelt about 30 times a second
which i will not be able to stand,
and we'll get into an argument which will turn into me
versus
the whole car
(afterwards, much stewing,
and resentfully cranking my ipod up as loud as it will go).
9 hours and 12 thousand cliff-faces later
we'll get there.
we'll make it.
we'll only be
a little worse for the wear.
we will be swept up by our twelve billion aunts
our nine billion uncles
and our three billion cousins,
like we always are.
someday something will be missing.
first it was your back,
and the postponement,
and eventual cancellation of our trip.
then it was your surgeries
(why weren't they working?)
and then it was a series of words i don't understand
stage
inoperable
3
cancerous mass
lung
malignant
radiation
therapy chemo
you may crumple in
on that blackness inside you,
that's eating you alive
one lung at a time,
pushing,
on your back,
until you can't even stand.
the fabric of our family
is plucked by this
disease.
this is my poem, my plea
for you
and for us,
that you not pull into the blackness,
and that you fight the tumors and the tests
and that you win.
Jul 31, 2012
Jul 31, 2012 at 10:42 AM UTC
for Karlotti
~
And a flower on the borders of winter.
an unseasoned sign that the singular erupting bud
will lend the lens to see, give the courage to accept
the greatest joy of man will ever be
anticipation
there will be seasons that the singular erupting bud,
be the bitterest truth nail gunned into your temple,
the perversity of a mockery, an uncrossable boundary
a flowering sign of skull & bones meant to teach acceptance
the greatest curse of man will be
the changing seasons
*La mayor maldición del hombre,
Las estaciones cambiantes*
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 8:36 AM UTC
Hot cocoa,
so saccharine,
so sweet,
Warm me through the bitterest winter,
the iciest claw of the wind
Hot cocoa,
melting on tasteless tongues
warming my tiny, gelid hands
You trickle and run down numb throats
leaving milky, brown streaks
on colorless lips
Hot cocoa,
rolling and tumbling in nippy stomaches
as my belly rumbles and thunders for more
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 8:40 AM UTC
My hand, a little raised, might press a star--
Where I may look, the frosted peaks are spun,
So shaped before Olympus was begun,
Spanned each to each, now, by a silver bar.
Thus to face Beauty have I traveled far,
But now, as if around my heart were run
Hard, lacing fingers, so I stand undone.
Of all my tears, the bitterest these are.
Who humbly followed Beauty all her ways,
Begging the brambles that her robe had passed,
Crying her name in corridors of stone,
That day shall know his weariedest of days--
When Beauty, still and suppliant at last,
Does not suffice him, once they are alone.
1.9k
head sways
from left to right
arms swinging
back and forth
walking traipsing
treading
the careful
surface of your
teacup filled with
the bitterest coffee
no sugar
no cream
no teaspoon
to save you from
falling
do
w
n
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 6:52 AM UTC
Among the silent,
thunderous
halls of the mind,
there are pathways
one should seldom
roam, for, often,
the bitterest of
fruit grows between
the walls of an
intricate cognitive
labyrinth.
Still...
I walk the very
walkways that will
either lead me to
complete
self-destruction or
to enlightenment
and divinity.
I walk quietly,
tiptoeing around
certain memories,
so as not to awaken
them from their
slumber, and
incur their wrath.
I walk on glass
footsteps, as the
shards make their
way in through
broken arches,
in search of a place
to call home,
among the ruins of
a broken spirit
and a bludgeoned,
weeping heart.
Such is love and life
and the ever present
shadow of remembrance,
and still I walk,
leaving scarlet
footprints along
the way...
to remember
where I've been.
-by Mercurychyld
Copyrights
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
She’ll wander back to you again,
but drawn by the string
of ineffable instinct—kissing the sand
of your beaches still damp
by the routine of her departure.
Yet as she recedes,
you already ache her homecoming
as though longing for an estranged relative.
You count the years
by the bitterest point
of every winter, and
value your harvests
against the cruelty of the drought—
and even when she rearranges herself
nightly, by increments you’ve already calculated
by meticulous observation,
somehow good fortune owes you eternity,
even as it crumbles under the weight
of its own impermanence.
You’ve never dealt well with entropy;
all that came before you, which also happens
to survive you—an honorary god.
Stranded on earth,
you monitor your greying scalp as grimly
as you decry a darkening sky above you succumbing
to the certainty of winter, but
even she is ebbing, too.
You curse her departure like an abandoned child,
but she had never sinned against you—
that was your idea.
You mourn the day she repossesses
with mortal anguish,
yet you still find a way to forgive her
when she sends Dawn
to shine his light between the trees.
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 7:44 PM UTC
WE have cried in our despair
That men desert,
For some trivial affair
Or noisy, insolent sport,
Beauty that we have won
From bitterest hours;
Yet we, had we walked within
Those ******* towers
Where Helen waked with her boy,
Had given but as the rest
Of the men and women of Troy,
A word and a jest.
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a shimmering lightness
of white rolls playfully
across the tips of
slender bladed greenery
the delicate dancing of
that yet-to-be-mown grass
grown long beyond
what building aesthetics
should permit
a gentle play of
low-lying sun
glanced upon frosted
and thawed alike
the cold breath of wind
ruminating between
a delicate breeze or
those chilling gusts
harsh yet homely
while blanketed in
the warmth of
this merino wool
even the bitterest of
winter mornings will
feel nothing but
picturesque
Jan 19, 2024
Jan 19, 2024 at 7:38 PM UTC
It seemed like a story
For Schrödinger
Time and distance ensured that
They were
All things and
Nothing
At once
And, in this way, they stayed in perpetual orbit
She wondered if
In another life
In another place
Time
Universe
Their lives would have intersected
Instead of diverging
Unrequited
To haunt her with all that could have been
It was the bitterest irony
When at last their paths swerved together
That both hearts had already been spoken for
Somewhere
The Fates were surely cackling
As the air hung heavy
With all the possibilities
That died on the vine
Because time was never on their side
How could one even cry for something they’d never had?
She found herself heaving uncontrolled sobs
Shaking with unfettered grief
In mourning
For all the things
She had wanted to live
All the bright dreams of their teenage years
That had seemed so perfect
Shattered by the bitterness of
Growing up
And that old ******* Father Time
If she were honest with herself
She’d admit it was not him
She actually loved all these years
But all the things he might have been
—or rather—
All the things she might have been with him
What a different life she might have had if
One day
She had followed her
Wild teenage love
Instead of living in this cosmic joke
She’ll never know
But she’ll heave sobs
For all the parallel lives she is not living
And the orbit she will return to
Knowing she’ll never be satisfied
She’ll always wonder
Always be gazing off
Trying to glimpse a galaxy
Where things turned out better
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 7:20 PM UTC
Bleeding world content with wounding still
Dying casualty
Catalyst of the apocalypse
Clammy hands
Static pins & needles
Ethereal, acid skin
Shivering sweats
Ever-corporeal mind
Expanding skull
Temple pressure
Tightening screws
Mechanical Frankenstein
Peripheral vision loss
Drunken babble sober talk
Mouse voice
Flat tongue
Mini seizure coming on
Clock winds and winds
Pain still resides
Cigarette blood
The gift that keeps giving
And I'm burnt out
Machine breaking down
Little by little
Another ***** dies
Mental disease
Physical need-
All the same
No sense left
Life with no taste
Words can't express
This is the only place where
Sadness can be heard in its most bitterest pitch
Heart palpitates
On another spoken word
What's the message?
How can I string them together?
Twisted Mandela on the ceiling
Don't let it be the last thing I see
Miss the days of bended knee
Believing words transcribed to holy holy
Brain graffiti, mind confetti
Panic, panic
Delirium
Attack, attack
Merry go round & round
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 9:07 PM UTC
Do you know how much I love you?
I’m going to tell you:
You are my everything.
You are the breath in my lungs, and you are my heartbeat.
You are my sun, my moon, my stars.
You are my sky, my galaxy, my entire universe.
You are my North star, my guiding star,
the light that I seek to guide me through my darkest nights.
I would give my last breath for you,
I would give my heartbeat for you.
I would take a bullet to the heart
or a knife in the back
for you.
I would move mountains,
part oceans,
I would move the heavens and the Earth for you.
I would walk through the bitterest blizzard
or the cruelest flames
for you.
In ancient India, there were Sati wives.
A Sati wife loved her husband
completely and unconditionally,
and if her husband was killed
in battle or in hunting, in work or in illness,
then she would grieve with all her heart for him.
And when the day of his funeral came,
and the funeral pyre was lit,
the Sati wife would throw her body onto the flames
in a final act of love and devotion,
because she would rather die than live without him.
If we lived in ancient India,
I would be your Sati wife.
If you were to die,
I would throw my body into the flames
of your funeral pyre,
because I could not bear to live without you.
I love you
completely,
unconditionally,
purely,
thoroughly,
with all of my heart
and with every single cell, fiber and molecule
of my being.
Every new cell that forms
to replace a dying cell
loves you more than the last,
and as a result,
I love you more every single day.
You are
everything
to me,
and I will never stop loving you,
never stop caring for you,
never leave your side.
Even when I’m far away,
I will still be with you
always.
I
love
you.
I love you
so, so, so, so very, very much.
♥
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 10:39 AM UTC
don’t take me to a
garden
i like my flowers
dead
for, the most
beautiful things
have
the most bitterest
end
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 9:08 PM UTC
You're tied up in time ticking choices away
white light fills the night till its brighter than day
cacophonous voices can say what they say
from the dusk till the meaningless dawn
Then secured by a seatbelt to leather and foam
the speedo's at zero six yards from your home
a million neighbours, completely alone
you're a shell, you're a shade, you're a pawn
But glance through the windscreen and look at the sky
a seagull, suspended, is catching your eye
you sense a connection but cannot say why
as it tilts on the wind and is gone
Then the trees you drive under are sharpened and clear
they're humming and pulsing beneath the veneer
you're dazed and confused as you shift up a gear
dumbly wondering what's going on
You turn on the satnav for guidance and sound
but its whisper can't silence this thing you have found
from the shimmering clouds to the roots of the ground
Is a force that is ancient and new
You try to pretend like a terrified child
that the world can be binary indexed and filed
and the sparkling eye of the jackdawish wild
isn't focused intently on you
But there is no denying this fluttering clutch
that is moss-furred and feathered, a hurricane touch
that you knew long ago and you've missed it so much
with a longing that's howling and black
But she's patiently stationed there just out of sight
as you've built your resistance from pixel and byte
Rebellious teenager, pitiful plight
she is waiting to welcome you back
Yes Nature is waiting to welcome you back
She's beneath every slab and behind every crack
at the nethermost end of the bitterest track
she is waiting to welcome you back
Forever forgiving, unloosed unconfined
she is mad she is chaos she's love and she's blind
volcanic voluptuous core of mankind
she is waiting to welcome you back.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 6:44 AM UTC
I wonder if I will ever understand
You destroyed everything good
You sit there and blame the world
Claiming you are "misunderstood"
You whine that no one gets you
Yet don't bother to explain
You won't let anybody in
You have zero right to complain
Do not say nobody has tried
To open doors to your mind
I personally wasted years knocking
Genuine thoughts I have yet to find
It is hard to accept what someone won't give
Even harder to listen to words they do not share
I tried but it is difficult to love
A person who's presence isn't actually there
You act like I am the one in the wrong
As if I would have jumped ship if you told the truth
My loyalty has proved to be enduring
Been dealing with the same ******** since our youth
It's unfair to make me feel guilty
For taking the course I thought was best
Know I'm sorry for hurting you
But I will not apologize for all the rest
You excel at playing victim
Done it so much you really believe
The universe is conspiring to get you
In denial of the fact you deceive
My biggest frustration with your fake facade
Is the time you spend fooling yourself
I'm powerless to flip your tired ways
Expose flaws you forced to hide up on some shelf
Fairytale you began fearing is finished
The easiest failure to flee
Freedom pushes frantic fingers further from you
Life to you is but a fading foolish fantasy
Satisfied spinning us round and round
Still I followed your dizzy path
Sedated souls stumbling over obstacles
Sickening secrets revealed without a polygraph
Our twisted relationship takes the most room in my heart
The bitterest sweetest disappointment was you
Though fleeting, this beautiful love was rare
I just wish I knew reasons behind the pain you put me through
Dec 3, 2018
Dec 3, 2018 at 1:29 PM UTC
When I was a little girl,
I've always wondered what love would be like for me.
If it would be like fireworks
That suddenly bursts into vibrant colors
But disappears the next second;
If it would be like a sunflower
Just contentedly gazing at the sun from afar;
Or if it would be like a fire
That keeps on burning as long as the wood keeps it alive.
But the more I grew up
And the more I saw the world,
The sooner I realized
That love wasn't something easily defined
By metaphors and poetry
Love was a ray of sunlight
Covered by clouds of mystery.
Love was the shadow
You never realized was following you
And sometimes when you turn,
The light has already shifted and the shadow is gone
And has moved to another direction.
Love was not merely fireworks, or sunflowers, or burning fires.
Love was a mixture of everything.
Love is your favorite pillow stained with the bitterest tears.
Love is the beam of sunlight on the cloudiest morning.
Love is the drizzle of rain on a hot summer day.
Love is one thing while at the same time being another.
But if there was one thing I knew,
It was that love can sometimes mess you up,
Love can sometimes break you
Love can sometimes make you cry
But love can also heal
Love can also build
And love is what makes the tears all worth it.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 5:56 AM UTC
If you still care
Don't ever let me know.
If you forgive me
For breaking your heart
And for leaving you behind
In that ****** town
Of addicts and death
Don't ever let me know.
I'm coming to visit
During the bitterest month
And if you see me
Don't say hello.
I'll never forgive myself.
I'll never let you know.
I'll always love you.
I'll never let you know.
I'll never let you know.
I'll never let you know.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 3:22 PM UTC
He grew up lonely with his soundless shadow,
Like a star, in the middle of a far vast meadow,
A low light twinkled from his shack’s window
To tell about his sullen solemn presence,
All night, he slept, but the light remained a reference,
A deliberate language to declare his presence,
A spirit of a person in a far-off existence.
Wreathed not with the joy of a guest’s sight
Enduring his motionless future fairly light.
A roving girl saw him once, once no more,
Yet still imagined his scene every morn and night
Tempted by affection and pacified by her right,
Unexpectedly, she knocked at his ancient door,
Then left leaving a red rose on the blackened floor,
While he was in bed before the rise of an earthly sound,
‘Thank you, lover,’ cried he for the rose he found,
Then ate the petals sitting on the cold ground,
He was forever amused by their slight bitterness,
To wilt in a vase, to him, was of bitterest sadness,
Full of life, every morning, he ate an acrid flower,
On the door, he fixed a note welcoming the stranger,
whispering to himself,’ The note is much better.’
Watching all night was a desire, even more than love,
spending most of the night outdoors in cold weather,
Until the day he didn’t find his passion’s motive,
He yielded to his old life, yet so eager to live
excusing her every morning for her realistic decision after all,
He never knew what people in town did say,
About the death of a girl in pursuit of a rose,
In a wild land, she fell and fell and never rose,
For him, he regretted eating the roses, petals and soul.
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 3:14 PM UTC
Was an aperitif to an aphorism,
An architect of aphrodisia,
An apiary of my ever-buzzing thought.
She slipped into me streamline: Maraschinos
Into a Manhattan. Oh strike of sugar,
Stain the bitterest days a red no chemical dispels.
She was a cryptic gallipot
Shelved in an apothecary
At the Caelian's base.
Her shape was incense wisps, her touch
A song sung in 1940s noir, her locking gaze
Eros himself.
Alliteration ran thick through the blood.
The paintings? Like Debussy composed.
Nothing in the universe could’ve imposed
Anything on her!— Quit it, you idiot...
The admiration, the visions that adorn her:
Subjectively supernatural—
Maybe she’s just a girl, the way that you're a boy—
No air of denigration.
She was intricate, but altogether simple.
I encountered her in stifled confessions.
It was not the beauty of her face, the body
That held her mind and laughter, not the dazed sting
In my hand as it cupped in hers—
It was her autotelism and her hope.
And now her imaginings hang,
Framed in my house; little landscapes of the heart she left;
Retreats that prove I’ve loved and been loved.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 1:41 PM UTC
the bitterest, bitter
guiltiest, guiltier
trying to reach out the flag out from here
most hidden, more hidden
can't...
Sep 22, 2019
Sep 22, 2019 at 6:52 PM UTC
She wrestled with her sanity like those who couldn't think
Enduring its profanity, the bitterest of drink
And as the taste began to drain from every single pore
The girl who held the cup in hand tried settling the score
But thirsty heads can only take offense to every move
And in the end proclaim defeat, surrender what is due
So spill it out, the time is now, as it has always been
A glass of equanimity, unshakable by whim
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 11:50 PM UTC
I don't think I have ever been so powerless
I will spend every morsel of a moment with you before you go
If you want me to
I'll do anything you want to make this sweetness last
To make the agony of you leaving me last
before it turns to numbness
You are great to be powerless to,
You are so easy to love
And so easily love.
This is the bitterest sweetness, I've ever had.
The only sweetness I've ever had,
Losing my only sweetness,
Makes the taste of loss so bitter.
I never knew I could love like this.
I never knew love could mean honesty and trust.
I never knew it could mean tenderness and lust.
you make me a person I want to be around
You helped me widdle away the stubborn
and smooth out the self,
in self esteem.
Without your patient and hard working hands,
my Self will turn rough and dull again.
I'll have to face myself
while you go off
and carve out you're own dreams
And leave me after you have shown me how sweet it all could be.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 1:45 AM UTC
426
It don’t sound so terrible—quite—as it did—
I run it over—”Dead”, Brain, “Dead.”
Put it in Latin—left of my school—
Seems it don’t shriek so—under rule.
Turn it, a little—full in the face
A Trouble looks bitterest—
Shift it—just—
Say “When Tomorrow comes this way—
I shall have waded down one Day.”
I suppose it will interrupt me some
Till I get accustomed—but then the Tomb
Like other new Things—shows largest—then—
And smaller, by Habit—
It’s shrewder then
Put the Thought in advance—a Year—
How like “a fit”—then—
Murder—wear!
900