"blankness" poems
I’ve died
I’ve felt the brunt of dis-ease like a disease
The final straw that has broken my heart
Drove a stake through instead
Why now?
The leftover time I’ve been allowed
Is filled with hollowed out emptiness
The screams of pain when there is no one to answer me
Bursts my life at the seams
I have died
I’m gone for sure this time
I cannot even fill the time I have in between
Because I am numb
Dead inside
Without that genuine human touch with no hurtful motive
I’ve gone and died
Withered blossoms of socialization should have fought hard
Hardly fought instead
The weak politeness crept out
I have died
With no thought for the future
I’ve cut my past off to live in the blankness of the present
Don’t fret
I never really lived anyway.
cc111911
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 11:57 PM UTC
Another week is done and little has been accomplished
It seems lately I only exist to eat, I’ve barely left the house
Sleepless nights filled with scrambled egg thoughts of a time which doesn’t exist any longer, served up on a plate come breakfast time
My new home although filled with animals, holds no resemblance to what we had built together
The home I finally deserved left desiccated come springtime’s-battle with mental health
The cats although great company do not replace the steady hum of your computer fans
The rhythm of your breathing knowing you were somewhere close in proximity
Weekends brought a time when we felt whole
6 am memories releasing silent fountains of tears do not bring us back together
Hours passing can’t erase the 4 months it’s been since you left me
Or the wintertime when everything had been perfectly comfortable
No, our love left me with a void of blankness impossible to just shake away
Entirely unforgiving feelings, grieving for every kind word you ever said
Id be lying if I didn’t miss you.
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 7:14 AM UTC
A wicked woman told my love, **** him and you will be free."
My love paused, and the wicked woman's old twig of a finger pointed off to me.
Love walked to me with tearful eyes, as if she had no choice.
I smiled wryly and told her in the softness of my voice, "Let it be done, and be free.
No sword is long enough to show my love for thee. No dagger, short enough to match my heart's beat.
So please my love, take your choice of my death. Choose what would be fit."
She didn't hesitate, just cry. She, slowly lifting a mirror from the dust.
I don't know why I felt I must, but I wiped the tears away just to savor her touch.
I looked into her sad blue eyes, just for one more glance. Then I shut my own.
I could feel her lift the mirror, this was her chance, let it be known.
A crashing blankness came down on me, soon after the last things I heard.
"I'm moving up, and you're moving down." These were her last words.
I didn't understand them then, but now I think I know.
She will one day be in the warm light, while I'm still stuck in the cold indigo.
I'd always run up the down escalator, like a crazy kid.
She always said, one day I'd trip.
And now I finally did.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 6:31 AM UTC
I am tired;
tired of waking, tired of sleeping,
tired of crying, tired of holding back tears,
tired of breathing, tired of holding my breath,
tired of working hard, tired of being lazy,
tired of living, tired of dying,
tired of love, tired of hate,
tired of dreams, tired of dreamless nights,
tired of thoughts, tired of blankness of mind,
tired.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 12:40 PM UTC
I am a garden just waiting to let spring in
I stand frozen now with wind blown tufts in the air
Nothing but a blankness, as suits the harsher months
I wait for the signal to unclasp my sprigs
To make known my blooming blush
To let down my head of greenery
And fill the empty space where I have slumbered
Mar 12, 2019
Mar 12, 2019 at 2:34 PM UTC
The plump moon lights up my room.
My mind is now a flat graph
no desire no lust no dream
the cold winds from the rumbling sea
make no dent on me
I look at my palms
and see the cracked floor
gnarled roots of mangrove on the wall
blend seamlessly with all I have
like once I had her in this room
love together
taking wingless flight to the moon
but now I more like sitting here
prospecting no words to rhyme
not angered at the blankness
for in this vacuous moonlight
I wait without a hope of gain
without a despair of loss
unconstrained for time
contoured by fireflies
alone
recounting a new beginning
from the end.
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 11:00 AM UTC
Pet was never mourned as you,
Purrer of the spotless hue,
Plumy tail, and wistful gaze
While you humoured our queer ways,
Or outshrilled your morning call
Up the stairs and through the hall—
Foot suspended in its fall—
While, expectant, you would stand
Arched, to meet the stroking hand;
Till your way you chose to wend
Yonder, to your tragic end.
Never another pet for me!
Let your place all vacant be;
Better blankness day by day
Than companion torn away.
Better bid his memory fade,
Better blot each mark he made,
Selfishly escape distress
By contrived forgetfulness,
Than preserve his prints to make
Every morn and eve an ache.
From the chair whereon he sat
Sweep his fur, nor wince thereat;
Rake his little pathways out
Mid the bushes roundabout;
Smooth away his talons’ mark
From the claw-worn pine-tree bark,
Where he climbed as dusk embrowned,
Waiting us who loitered round.
Strange it is this speechless thing,
Subject to our mastering,
Subject for his life and food
To our gift, and time, and mood;
Timid pensioner of us Powers,
His existence ruled by ours,
Should - by crossing at a breath
Into safe and shielded death,
By the merely taking hence
Of his insignificance—
Loom as largened to the sense,
Shape as part, above man’s will,
Of the Imperturbable.
As a prisoner, flight debarred,
Exercising in a yard,
Still retain I, troubled, shaken,
Mean estate, by him forsaken;
And this home, which scarcely took
Impress from his little look,
By his faring to the Dim
Grows all eloquent of him.
Housemate, I can think you still
Bounding to the window-sill,
Over which I vaguely see
Your small mound beneath the tree,
Showing in the autumn shade
That you moulder where you played.
3.4k
When I saw my bones
Protrude
From the knots of my back
Like the ridges of a dinosaur
Sapped of food, singed with
Stress
A childish distress
Fear darkness
Blankness
Terrifying emptiness
When I saw my back protrude like the
Ridges of a dinosaur
I saw my body dressed as the
Skeleton I will one day become
I saw a vessel controlling a brain
I felt like a bottle of tequila drained
Such fun until it's empty
Used to the tip of uselessness
When I saw my back protrude like dinosaur ridges, a skeleton
****
The most terrifying thing I felt when I saw my back protrude, like the dinosaurs I coveted when I was small,
The rudest thing I felt was
Satisfaction
With it all
I felt more beautiful than I ever had
Maybe
Ever will
Felt satisfied at the neatened carelessness I
Had almost used to **** myself
Satisfaction
That my body curved in
Only bones, no fat or muscle to
Hide the struts within
Revelled in the hunger in the pit of
Stomach because no one
Could control that but
Me
You can't fail at starvation
I loved it
For once I couldn't fail
When I saw my back protrude like a dinosaur
I knew I could never go there again
Because the living dead feel only
Hunger
Chest pains
And fatigue
And dinosaurs ate whenever the **** they wanted to
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 8:16 AM UTC
stuck between pride and ****** mood
lurid lights, laughter, ladies, lively lips
we are 96 souls away from the magic
and we nevah wake up or get up, nope
i swear on my momma's grave and pray
may she rest in peace with good ghosts
wise man told me to wear a black suit
me, tho', forgot if i did so, can't help it
was i trippin from dawn to dusk again
probably but ya gotta triple that time
and consider the weirdness of my speech
dem words stumble other words upon
meanwhile me and milly made luv to luv
luv laid back like rasta villages, jah songs
she's spreading her legs and licking
13.8, worship the fountain, that's basic
gangsta poetess & burglar, membah 108
while meetin milly, i imagine her naked
64 minutes later, lolling on silver satin
the lips such big perfect matches
by the end of the day we float over glaciers
our months vanish within a few days
hihaho, tickling trip, totally toony, truly
milly and tizzy equals eccentric & woozy
steering dreams, mysterious mixtures
golden goblets, served on light tables
we falling into the floor, a voltgreen maze
wondaland's gardens, we reach 'em
frozen loops of yummy yearning, yeeeah
all dem blankets and pillows, hundreds
in a bed spacious like a football field
a quarter of milly's back is my tattoo
parking lot at 4:16 am, 24 k bracelet
gotta look at it under the light of the sun
reminds one of eazy legs & adorable greg
we come, observe, read, blast and leave
stuck with mental blankness, in limbo
block party of creation 96, 2056 souls
oh my, sweaty forehead, i'm so cold
burning bloodshed, beasting bloodbath
marriage of mystery and skyline tales
sparkling are the eyes of yayo vampires
8 days awake, bangin in sky dunes
schmock, dinosaur, sole talker
Jul 26, 2021
Jul 26, 2021 at 6:25 AM UTC
MASK
Her face a mask of blankness
Trying hard to hide the pain
People whisper
She is not the same
What has happened to take away
The smiling face from day to day
She stares out the window
Looks into the fire
Saying hello
Being polite
But the emotion is gone
The joy not there
Every now and again
Someone sees behind the mask
When she is not watching
Or thinks she is alone
Wonders why she hurts
She will not say
She hides it away
Keeping it to herself
The pain is deep
They wonder if she will ever smile again
A true smile
Not the pasted one
She wanders in her mind
Searching for peace
For now her face blank
Tis easier than facing
The pain
Jun 1, 2010
Jun 1, 2010 at 6:21 AM UTC
I’m never ever going to get any work done sitting at a computer
rather than with a pen in my hand and a thought on my mind.
In Arial black I will waste away my time
by sitting on a website designed to keep my mouth shut and my eyes glued
to the glowing screen of the worlds media, that I don’t really care about,
but yet I care too much about.
I open all of the tabs and write down very few words
and what ever happened to writing complete and utter nonsense
just for the hell of it?
And why did I ever open this laptop to write a poem
that will be cut off by a website calling for me to look at its pretty pictures
and witty text posts.
And why will this drivel make me feel so **** happy
when all it does is waste my time and lower my grades
and destroy my self esteem
that has already been mostly deleted?
Why do I decide to waste all of these moments with wishes
when I could go out and make them realities?
I sit on this computer and stare at the blankness of other peoples thoughts
and mock the imbeciles for wasting all of their time coming up with stupid rhymes
and sarcastic remarks that they think are hilarious ,
but really they are pointless.
And though I laugh at their foolishness;
they are no worse
than I.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 5:52 PM UTC
There was something so intimate about sharing our favorite colors with each other
About sharing something that people deem as unimportant, basic information
"Does it matter?" He asked
And I said "Yes, because it's funny how we can know so much about each other yet still not know the basics"
I want to know the things that most people don't know
I want to see the parts of you that you hide in your shadows
I want those parts of yours that have gathered dust and cobwebs in the crevices of your mind
I want the parts of you that you may have thrown away
Black
Black was his favorite color
And then he followed up with orange
So he likes Halloween colors
Totally cool with that
And he asked me what was mine and I said I'm a bit colorblind but sky blue appeals to me
And he said he liked that
He liked this thing about me that people deem as unimportant
He liked this small piece of knowledge about me and even if my favorite color may just be as small as a sprinkle on a monster banana split, he liked it
I said I wanted to paint my room sky blue
So that when I'm in bed I feel like I'm lying on one of the clouds in the sky
He said he wanted to paint his red
And I said well that's a dark color
But he said that when he was little the sun shined through his red curtains and covered his room in this red light
And he loved it
I liked that about him
I could imagine his little self sitting on his bed staring at the red light that shone through his curtains
And all this red was all he could think about
If he would ask me again today, "what's your favorite color"
I think I would say, "You
Because ever since you came into my life you were the only color I could see. You were the only color I could feel like how you felt the red from your curtain, I felt your love. You made me realize that color is one of the best things the world has to offer. If I was a blind person and I had met you, I've no doubt I would have the best set of imaginary colors in my head because you have the ability to make me feel so much things at the same time and these feelings come out of me like paint, splattering all around creating the masterpiece of our existence. It was the best masterpiece. It was the kind that you didn't have to understand it to love it. You just loved it as it is. You love the color, the unusual mixture of color over color and the mystery of not knowing the reason behind this festival of colors. you came into my life not with smooth gentle strokes using a paintbrush, instead you painted with your fingers. You told me you wanted to feel the colors at the tips of your fingers and imagined that our blood would change color according to our mood. You wanted to feel that moment when paint meets paper, when color meets blankness because that's how it felt when I met you. You made it seem like knowing the favorite color of a person is like knowing what gives life to a person. I can't say my life has been black and white before you because I could see a few colors here and there in very low tones. As if I was looking at life through filtered lens. But because of you, I am no longer colorblind."
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 1:38 PM UTC
Life is mediocrity
You grew up in a trap
Staying trapped
No networks
No connections
Nobody to talk to
Mediocrity
No hope
No help
No support
Faces are blank
Faces can’t help you
Nobody got through it alone
Don’t let them fool you
They had support
Even the tiniest
Always left behind
Nobody remembers
Did you leave a mark?
How would they remember?
No mark.
Trapped
Mediocrity
Staring at blankness
Black and white no colour.
No hope.
Mind is blank
Ingenuity is dead
Heart doesn’t feel
Body just a shell
Privilege is an evil word
No its not
But it will cause you to suffer.
Who wants it least, destroys it
Always left behind
Never good enough
Confusion
Anger
Depression
Danger
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
Is this not what it's all about?
Waiting in the wings,
stretching, turning, churning,
anxious and adrenal,
living for the dream,
wishing for the dream,
being
the dream,
dancing on beams,
beneath the streams
of lights and fans,
arrayed like a bird
in tulle, crinoline, silk, satin and linen
white plumage,
acting only on command,
the music soft and flowing
their frail, slender figures
take to air,
arms and legs,
torsos tender,
slender necks,
wisps of downy hair,
melding colours,
sights and sounds,
the stage a pedestal of fate,
their beauty
captured
in gilded cages
for all to watch and see,
recaptured yet again,
by the artist on the easel'd window
of his canvas,
a maestro of sorts,
tapping his baton-brush,
coating the blankness with sweet
inspiration,
like angels heavenly
brought to earth,
serenaded by strings,
life from the blankness begins,
covers the void,
bejewels the mind's eye
and beckons the ballet
rehearsal to begin,
yet shall in oil paint now
and for all time
never cease to be...
"Art is not what you see, but what you make others see."
Edgar Degas
____________
Inspired by the painting by Impressionist artist Edgar Degas,
The Rehearsal.
--to view the painting:
http://www.ibiblio.org/wm/paint/auth/degas/ballet/degas.rehearsal.jpg
Sep 3, 2010
Sep 3, 2010 at 3:24 AM UTC
I called and called,
Yet he still fought,
Threw me to the side and stepped on top,
Punched my nose, and made me bleed,
Come back, it's me was all i said.
I pointed the gun at him,
But I couldn't pull the trigger,
So I pointed it at my forehead and fell,
He knelled down and held it, steady.
There was nothing in his eyes,
Nothing but blankness,
I held his head in my hands,
Come Back, it's just me, I said.
It's just me, I repeated,
His hand on the trigger
**** me now, I said,
Then he looked away.
Look at me, I called,
And finally a soft Tris escaped his mouth,
I relaxed,
He was back,
He pulled away the gun from my head slowly,
Then he turned around and faced the enemy.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 6:31 AM UTC
Love has come Again
At a halt on our path
a field-scape lies.
The sky downcasts
a beige blankness
tucked into the horizon.
It is a scene, still of movement.
Then in an abrupt cloak of berries
the sudden plumage of a pheasant
erupts from its hedgerow covert,
a most vivid proclamation
of the season’s palette.
In these silent wolds winter’s wheat
has already sprung its green blade
from the buried grain . . .
only now to wait,
to wait in the cold earth
at our feet, to wait, then flower.
Love is Come Again the carol sings.
This is nature’s promise,
and yet hidden from sight
the story tells itself
again. And yet again
we pause and wonder
at its telling . . .
even as the light fails us
and a darkness falls
against this frigid land.
La Serenissima
There it was, high on an outer wall
of San Giovanni Battista in Bragora;
the church where Vivaldi was baptised.
Ruskin would surely have brought
suo scala a pioli to come close
and so sketch this tableau in relief
of Mary, her son and the Magi three.
But with il telebiettivo
its detail becomes forever mine,
and so is pinned during Advent
to my studio notice-board:
a ****** purissimo,
un bambino divine,
my Christmas gift
from La Serenissima.
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 5:30 AM UTC
I have stopped counting,
the days, for they are now
just seconds and hours that pour away
into the blankness of life.
It doesn't pain me because it is an
understanding that for you
love could never mean anything
more than a prolonged feeling of monochromia.
You have fallen,
and fallen again.
Love is nothing more than
a chasing game for you.
But if I had never
come into your life,
what could, in your ways of life,
it have proved?
Nothing.
It was the mischief of the cosmos
that wanted us to be.
Else the weaves of the universe
would come undone.
We have our stories
already written
by a known
hand.
All we are,
are characters
waiting.
Till our curtain falls.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 8:30 AM UTC
To write poetry is
To create philosophical memory
To adjust the commentaries
Of all souls, to just one voice
To strip the inequalities
Of existence, of their mass
To write poetry is
To erase the written
Transforming what we have read
Making alphabets contemporary
Fluid, mystical
To write poetry is not just art
It’s neurological reprogramming
A quantum gesture to
The nature of beauty
And Meaning itself
To write poetry is
To return to an absence of meaning
The meddlesome mind forgets
The natural order of nature
To reduce layers of narrative
And return to a total peace
And a grand vision of the universe
As a talking thing, exchanging energy
In a physics of existence
To write poetry is to love the unwritten
Endings that all concur
To identify with the sudden
Rupture of beginnings
From which all thought originates
To write poetry is thus
The silence in between the words
And a solace beyond thought
To free oneself form the memory
That is an impression or a scar
On the mind, blankness is an ideal state
To observe time and space without attachment
To love existence independently
Of the personal conditions of one’s life
On the letters of your poems
I observe a black walking cat
A woman that must question her heart
To find the answers, without
Speaking we are a language
All we feel and do is a kind of vocabulary.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 9:37 PM UTC
I forget I'm alive.
An age will pass
& I have sat still
Like a stone.
Fire, wind & water
Weather my surface
As I sit motionless
Lost in blankness
It takes an almighty
Knock, to make
Me roll & then I
Roll and stop.
Forgetting I am alive
Time slipping past
While I sit still
Like a stone
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 4:49 AM UTC
it’s windy i think,
at least the windows are rattling.
the men in hard hats,
yellow motes off in the distance
and their jackets the colour
of poison,
they scale the façade
of the contralateral building.
they’re speaking, yelling,
probably catcalling, singing
their ugly songs on cherry pickers
like some crowned nest
of wagtails.
it’s early i think,
though the lights are always on.
they’re fluorescent, staining,
unflattering colouration, rinse
your skin to poverty,
to jaundice.
i’m here because of pills
i’m here because school is out,
i’m here because i’m tired
and i’m here because of you.
flowers sit at the side,
already dry upon purchase.
gifted awkwardly;
do we give flowers to a man?
a boy in sheets, foolish drunkard,
balloons with helium
to lift my spirits.
its lonely i think,
though it’s filled with people.
wristcutter, lupus, chemo
all thrown into one.
we’re what’s left post-production,
left to sit in an outlet store;
buy me for half-price
or else half an hour of company.
i’m the young one,
nurses scan me with motherly eyes,
the radiator warmth,
their rounded bosoms,
‘you remind me of someone’.
at twelve to three, she washes me,
asks me to lift my *****
so she can get at the two-day grime
of indolence.
it’s sad here i think,
at least the television is boring.
daytime ghosts and broken families
make my bedsheets gain weight;
even the balloon sags
in heavy misery,
nothing is mine.
sleep comes in fits
and starts in blankness.
it ends with my questioning
of where the dream began
and where hope had perished.
you haven’t come,
i knew that you wouldn't.
it’s hard to blame you,
what with my post-use pinings
long after you’d given up
and the way i act familiar
after treating you like a stranger.
i long to leave here,
so much the windows are rattling.
i’m here because i am
i’m here because of my job,
i’m here because i’m tired
i’m tired because of you.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 11:09 AM UTC
The darkness is a cradle.
The blankness is a cocoon of nothingness.
Being lost here is a relief.
Nothing hurts here.
The last lingering taste of blood fades.
The phantom breeze clears the burnt smell.
Lost thoughts drift away.
Lost memories skip just out of reach.
I am lost.
The dreams of fire and blood blink out.
The darkness is a cradle.
Nothing hurts here.
I am lost.
cc2010
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 4:44 PM UTC
Put a bullet through my head
Cuz I'm alive yet I'm dead
I'm sick of everything and everyone
I see no moon, I see no sun
All I see is a gun..
So I'll take it and put it to my skull
But all I feel is null
I no more feel a thing
Not the joy of a swing
Nor the pain of a sting
So give me one reason to why I should fight
Tell me the story, what's wrong and what's right
They said at the end of the road there will be light
But all I see is the dark black night
I'm on the edge of darkness
Some may think I'm heartless
And all I write is artless
But all I feel is blankness, and it's driving me to madness..
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 3:18 PM UTC
Why did you give no hint that night
That quickly after the morrow’s dawn,
And calmly, as if indifferent quite,
You would close your term here, up and be gone
Where I could not follow
With wing of swallow
To gain one glimpse of you ever anon!
Never to bid good-bye
Or lip me the softest call,
Or utter a wish for a word, while I
Saw morning harden upon the wall,
Unmoved, unknowing
That your great going
Had place that moment, and altered all.
Why do you make me leave the house
And think for a breath it is you I see
At the end of the alley of bending boughs
Where so often at dusk you used to be;
Till in darkening dankness
The yawning blankness
Of the perspective sickens me!
You were she who abode
By those red-veined rocks far West,
You were the swan-necked one who rode
Along the beetling Beeny Crest,
And, reining nigh me,
Would muse and eye me,
While Life unrolled us its very best.
Why, then, latterly did we not speak,
Did we not think of those days long dead,
And ere your vanishing strive to seek
That time’s renewal? We might have said,
“In this bright spring weather
We’ll visit together
Those places that once we visited.”
Well, well! All’s past amend,
Unchangeable. It must go.
I seem but a dead man held on end
To sink down soon. . . . O you could not know
That such swift fleeing
No soul foreseeing—
Not even I—would undo me so!
2k