"blockage" poems
Unconstrained, Free flowing stream.
Glitters and glimmers with sunbeam.
With obstruction, blockage and dam;
How long its itinerary can they jam.
It cannot be subdued for much long.
With time it will become very strong.
One day all barriers it will surely blow.
Then the world will see its mighty flow.
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 9:49 AM UTC
Greetings audience.
I am off my medication now and I am feeling vastly better. Something just cleared my conscious and vascular blockage so joyously. I will not be posting videos due to my camera and devices breaking. No diatribes nor any vitriolic comments were conferred during my time gone throughout my family and my peers, assuming that is the reason I am now healthy (dropping toxic ties). Unluckily, all of my social media was hacked. Refrain from following anything linked with my name. Indeed, I am not here to bloviate, rather to celebrate. Thank you for your cooperation. I will now go play childishly. Farewell. : )
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 3:17 PM UTC
My eyes, python-like, swallow the sky,
greedy for the wrongs in me to go right
at the sight of your gleeful greenery
spilling over creek beds and hills.
The wind, combing out my worries,
blowing away the blockage built
by the fumes and filth collected in city gutters.
I want to be
let wild, made free.
But one wrong turn in your winding maze and I am gone,
a place like this will chew you up and spit you out.
You should leave, something tells me.
No one ever leaves fully intact,
the longer you stay, the more you will fall apart.
“On the contrary” I scoff.
“I am becoming more myself, not less.”
But this is what everyone says
just before they leap in joyful pursuit
to tumble headlong down hidden gullies.
But I am more careful, I assure myself.
I hunt the way crocodiles do,
watching patterns with keen intention,
offering my hands and eyes.
But what should I do if, when the time comes,
You resist?
Disregard me, like an unworthy suitor?
And what if that is what I am?
I see, I take note of
the way the wind blows and the shadows fall,
the way the trees twist clockwise
or counter-clockwise.
The way animals flee when I approach and
the way they keep perfectly still
hoping they are invisible.
And there are times when I see all this, and more.
Like heat distortions above a fire,
something peripheral or liminal,
almost outside the spectrum of what can be perceived
or communicated or defined.
All these trails, the ones seen and unseen
and the ones somewhat seen
lead me to a terrible suspicion:
that the likes of me lacks to tools
to understand the likes of you.
that in harmony with one another
we would both cease to be what we are.
that you will never regard me with love and worse—
you will never regard me at all.
Then I, in frustration, stop going with you.
Start to go against you.
And keep going, finally on my own.
Still myself, but less.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 7:23 PM UTC
Wandering under
woodland leaves,
my mind confined
to winding suture lines.
Paths of pink nerve tissue
cherry blossom trees,
dendrite branches wave
in a heavy breeze.
Myline bark, an axon stump,
rooted contents of my skull
continuously growing,
a tangled plexus of
neural connections.
Twisting, turning,
a knotted blockage.
Pathways, rippled in roots,
a crossing synaptic stoppage.
A suffocating strangle,
choking corpus callosum
decaying mangle.
Branches atrophy,
shrivel and scar.
Root terminals suffer
hormonal harm.
Forest trails quick fainting
when lost in overthinking.
Feb 17, 2019
Feb 17, 2019 at 11:29 PM UTC
Undo your rues
They're worth a turnover
Enlighten her spirits and stop drinking your *****
Make your attitude flip over
You've done some damage
Own up to it
You can cause a blockage
And turn my feelings to ****
Say you're sorry and everything will be alright
Lofty mountings can form if you put up less of a fight.
Hug your yin and kiss her forehead
She's worth your love
Machismo shall stop and she shall be fed
Free her from this misery as you would a dove
Don't tell me I don't understand
Your voice has shook this land
I'm old enough to know
To her forgiveness is all I want you to show
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 7:15 AM UTC
Taking place where you calumniate
with hidden mask behind interface
An embolism hidden behind your lines
Where a falsetto lies your charm
How you create isobaric pressure degradation between your monodical screaming mee-mee's
Creator of sheol , abode of the dead poets
So supine in way and thought
Where will your Valhalla be
You valetudinarian
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Caluminate - to utter maliciously false statements .
Interface - a shared boundary across
embolism - a swelling of a blood vessel due to blockage
isobaric pressure degradation - lines drawn on a weather map marking increasing or decreasing air pressure
Sheol - the place of the dead
supine - failure to act due to moral weakness
Valhalla - Norse hall of God's where slain hero's are received
valetudinarian - one who shows unduly concern for their health
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 10:17 PM UTC
and the unconditional love and the humility
that it takes, to stand naked with **** erected
and to be whipped,long and hard and loveingly,
with a custom 3 foot signal whip.
The welcome 500 to 700 lashes
laid upon my naked back and buttocks,
vigoriously and lovingly by my twin flame,
that take me beyond any adrenal blockage
imposed by mind and conditioned identity.
Ah the warm comfort of ******
"Just warming up" she giggles, then takes
her custom 2 foot bullwhip and give the shaft
of my stiff wobbling and bobbing **** 65 carefully
aimed and oh so stinging strokes,
the tip of the whip painfully flicking my shaven *****
on each stroke,
and like a proper slave I say"thank you Mistress" after each
stinging burning stroke.
And then I slide the full length of my stiff and burning shaft
into the unconditionally loving cool and soft fragrant moisture
of her beingnesss
and am absorbed instantly without a trace.
I burn in multi colours.
I am two in one.
I am one in two.
I am a Lava Lamp!!!.
Do you have the discipline to deep nasally breathe your way into the maximum Adrenalin flow that comes as a result of the sadomasochistic ****** way of breaking your lifelong Adrenal suppression?.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 4:06 AM UTC
if i were to bread my tongue
with rocoto and cornmeal
and twist to reach the andean soil
my tastebuds long for so many nights
out of the year
olfaction and your left-sinus blockage
would stay cradled
in broken-baguette bread-crust baskets,
a trebuchet's missile,
naïve to the horn of the world,
and brittled to a carcinogenic crisp
caped in my earthenblood geysers
en el humo, en la tierra del fuego
in(fierno)
i recount by the tally marks of black felt
resorted to in the puddling of spilt tea,
(like broken china, you never missed
a beat to correct potential error
and my memory),
i count them to remember
the epiphanies standing over a red faucet
a gallon water jug, whistling snail-trickle,
wishing away the cracks in the grout
or the grout itself,
wishing away the cracks in the pottery
or porcelain facade of which
you're so fond and grace with singing cuticles
the fingers of a pianist
lacking the wherewithal
and solid brick gall
to answer the ivory's summons
i am not a piece of clay,
i respond poorly to your sculpture of my surface,
covered in oxides and baked in
hell's oven, your mountain fire
scathes me as it does cedar resin
and i am similarly embittered,
pooling sap & draining smoke
in the embers and dead charcoal
of your embrace
avant le corps, sans l'âme
sans le corps, avant l'âme
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC
Longing for an intimate connection
But I don't have patience for emotional misconceptions
Hording what you call love
At the pinnacle is just numb
A mental blockage that needs a shove
To cooperate with the blind, deaf, and dumb
When you can see, listen, and communicate
Can darken what you're try to illuminate
Fickle misunderstandings dwell in physical connections
They oppose the facade of mental perceptions
Which lead the spirit to deceptions
If this is focusing because of the poetic logic
I only love you physical so you can put it mentally behind you
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 11:03 AM UTC
It’s beautiful, a feeling of pure darkness and intensity.
It’s freeing, like a raven in a cage waiting to break free.
It’s dangerous, opening yourself up to such a matter of inner conscious.
Losing self control and letting yourself go.
The dead sleeps still, the graveyard whispers pain and sin.
It’s midnight, I’ve been in this beautiful place for so long.
It’s peaceful, like I am one with the dead of night.
I felt something I didn’t feel in a really long time.
I felt like I belonged, like the spirits surrounded me in welcoming peace.
At first I felt a heaviness, a blockage in my throat.
They felt threatened, thinking I was invading their space.
When they realized, I’m one of them, just another lost soul.
Lines and lines and wired times.
Fading into the abyss and getting high.
The spirits communicate with me, I can feel their energies like an instant magnetic pull.
I can feel their pain, their sadness, their hardships, their madness. I can feel it all, and I soak in energies like a sponge, I can’t help it. Intuition kicks in and I can’t even block it.
It’s intense and beautiful, the fog and misty air.
The dark light, and despair.
I FELT EVERYTHING
It was the best experience I’ve ever had in a really long time.
The graveyard in the back of the church, where true love sleeps, souls stay forbidden, sacred, ridden in deep.
A hidden passage way to the unknown and discreet.
I finally found where I belong, for I am a lost soul, buried six feet deep.
May 25, 2020
May 25, 2020 at 7:14 PM UTC
.
The special speculative speculum
examined an orifice one day.
Upon its initial inspections
it was clearly heard to say
'I've been in some holes before
but this one takes the biscuit.
I should go in a little deeper
but don't know if I should risk it.
For there is a blockage here,
one I would rather not disturb.
I should really try to describe it
but I am struggling to find a verb.
It was always going to happen,
one day it would come to pass,
when in would walk a patient
with his head stuck up his arse'.
© Pagan Paul (14/12/17)
Dec 14, 2017
Dec 14, 2017 at 6:35 AM UTC
Enclosed
In the cottage
If this
Writer’s Blockage
Lasts
For too long
How lost
Would I be
The reason
For being
Alone this season
Was to grow
My talents
Like an Eagle’s talons
And claw through
The surface
For the purpose
Of providing
A service
That
Serves vice
The plate of truth
Unknowing to those
Who don’t know
Right
From wrong
Produced as a song
Bereft of a beat
Unleft alone
The agitation
Becomes aggravated assault
As I rip the pages
Out the book
To my own fault
I locked the lessons
I was to learn
In a vault
Which doesn’t collapsed
Under the pressure
But becomes stronger
Time lapses
As my mind run laps
And replays the days
When control
Was in tact
Now I let loose
And dug myself
Further in the hole
Any further
Sleep’s cousin
Will become us
Me
And my goals
Lie dead in the same bed
All because
I was too proud
To beg
Myself for forgiveness
Of putting me in this prison
Away from society
With plans
To raise propriety
But how
Can one learn
To better himself
When he’s alone
With no teacher
But himself
So selfish of me
To leave
The fate of the world
In my hands
Too stubborn
To share
My final air
With theirs
Jan 12, 2011
Jan 12, 2011 at 3:28 AM UTC
they call me cat-liter, I'm their slave.
I'm embarrassed at sharp edges,
you've caught me all confused.
he said sleep, but translated space.
at least that's the way these feelings memorize.
depression, rage, stress,
broken threads, spandex,
cold sandwiches, free muffins that you missed:
I want to scream in your face
so that when I hold you I know
you're really crumbling.
I missed you like I missed myself.
my cleaning quickened so that I could see you.
maybe you needed some time spent,
in caffeinated tendencies,
to just blow off some steam.
Forget a few things,
for as long as you could until they
slam you back down again.
I'm not here to weigh you down,
I've got myself covered.
two of the same,
one in the same.
it's sometimes harder to communicate.
the release brings peace, my love.
I wish trust wasn't so hard to come by
in this shy blockage I've got all clogged up,
paranoid by my own actions,
thinking your freedom might repeat itself
in ways that will rip me free.
you're stuck to me like honey,
you're my islebee, make me freeze and see
what lies between and find that all love needs
is a breath
to catch amongst such harsh winds.
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 2:21 AM UTC
Do not fear the unknown in front of you,
But explore it's essence!
For fear is a blockage of progress,
And stoppers of growth.
One does not learn to swim in a whim,
But free fall with courage knowing it might be the last,
And come out stronger soaring in the wind.
One can only stay in the maze to die,
But find refuge by exploring the wilderness.
For the liars play their soft lyre to sooth you from the truth,
Like Sirens charm their voices to men's demise.
Like Odysseus, be a nobody for the Cyclopes,
But come out as a victor of his kingdom!
For risking nothing will get you nothing,
But find courage to voyage to unknown,
And be a champion of unraveling!
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 9:53 PM UTC
She woke up in the morning with gas that would not pass
So she put her head up her ***
She looked to the left and then to the right
However, there was no blockage within her sight
Then she heard the rumble deep down inside
If she did not pull out her head, it would blow her mind
She pulled her head so fast it created an air pocket
Hitting her like a two-ton rocket.
They found the crap splattered everywhere
On the walls and on the chair.
The paramedics stood in disgust and awe
As they turned and closed the door.
WARNING: if you have some gas that will not pass
Do not stick your head up your ***
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 10:14 AM UTC
I yearned to speak from the walls of my heart
But it was a glass house.
No foundation
They say the chambers were empty.
I think there is blockage there.
They said I needed to bypass
I said I needed to GET. IT. OUT.
So that I can breathe again
So that I will breathe, freely
Because right now my heart is racing.
And it is not on track
They said I had a stroke
I replied it was a stroke of genius
They urged me that this type of stroke does not come from the heart.
I have to sit down, I have to lie, down.
The room is spinning
And the walls of my heart are caving in.
The glass from the house is hurting me.
I yearn to speak from the walls of my heart
But when I finally tried, the walls were no longer there.
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 9:05 AM UTC
bewilderment, many more women than men, and still so few a man committing polygamy, it's almost like the mirroring of so many men committing suicide; the loss of the practice of polygamy leaves so many men committing suicide prematurely, leaving so many women alive to give the abnormal ratio without an actual diseased cause of death of men, hence the statistics.
just when you start enjoying it,
you stop,
there are so many going to restaurants,
but you're just a turkey
readied for stuffing,
you gorge on it
like traffic in Hinduism with
the holy cow that's a pedestrian
in England...
chomp and chop the food
like a toilet blockage,
you eat it without a palette,
no cheese and crackers after,
no candlelight, no wine,
it's a strange looking necessity,
esp. once digested;
it's as necessary as death for your
engagement: you have to eat,
you have to die...
i eat to add to the insomnia cure
because i should but can't pay alimony
payments because an engagement is
not lawfully enforced...
chemists are natural bachelors,
i told you, but you wouldn't
understand...
you were the ******* of youth,
the girl aged thirteen prone to suicide
and still the many numbers of men
committing to the act of suicide...
the law is in your favour, since you're
the incubator of it, the womb,
any rich **** can provide the Semitic root
of it all, cutting the excess skin of genitalia
of one *** whether ******** or ********
you think you won't get anti-ontological
behaviour? if what was intended was intended
and you play and revise the **** thing,
do you think the answering reason will
not look ridiculous enough to not attract ridicule
like a cow and flies, ready to spawn maggots
in the wet eye sockets?
you must be joking then!
monotheism was born in the halo
of revising mankind, abraham's snipping
isaac's "excess" skin...
it took place there... but revising a second
time with female circumcision...
well, revising humanity like that
gave us all the possible abominations accessible...
how can you teach the origin of man
with that ugly aesthetic of being furry
and a blunted snout of the gorilla
and not wonder why revising man
to an over-eager representation of engaging in ***
not combine into a holocaust...
you steal the sheath of the sword from the sword,
you'll find it constantly warring,
because that's what circumcision did,
it stole the sheath of the sword...
and no, this isn't crude imagery, ******
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 8:28 PM UTC
A block in the mind
A wall blocking all creativity
A blockage interfering one's thoughts
A writer of soul and passion
A holder of the pen that creates
A person with a unique way of combining words
A blocked writer...
▪-▪
Oct 17, 2022
Oct 17, 2022 at 10:25 PM UTC
I have a blockage
in my head
caused by an old broken nose
so it creates
a headache
that neither helps
nor hinders
and when life
presents an obstacle
I go around it
by just paying.
Jul 28, 2011
Jul 28, 2011 at 1:05 AM UTC
Enclosed
In the cottage
If this
Writer’s Blockage
Lasts
For too long
How lost
Would I be
The reason
For being
Alone this season
Was to grow
My talents
Like an Eagle’s talons
And claw through
The surface
For the purpose
Of providing
A service
That
Serves vice
The plate of truth
Unknowing to those
Who don’t know
Right
From wrong
Produced as a song
Bereft of a beat
Unleft alone
The agitation
Becomes aggravated assault
As I rip the pages
Out the book
To my own fault
I locked the lessons
I was to learn
In a vault
Which doesn’t collapsed
Under the pressure
But becomes stronger
Time lapses
As my mind run laps
And replays the days
When control
Was in tact
Now I let loose
And dug myself
Further in the hole
Any further
Sleep’s cousin
Will become us
Me
And my goals
Lie dead in the same bed
All because
I was too proud
To beg
Myself for forgiveness
Of putting me in this prison
Away from society
With plans
TO raise propriety
But how
Can one learn
To better himself
When he’s alone
With no teacher
But himself
So selfish of me
To leave
The fate of the world
In my hands
Too stubborn
To share
My final air
With theirs
Dec 24, 2010
Dec 24, 2010 at 2:12 PM UTC
I'm not all that different
From doctors and surgeons
I search for sharp eggshells
In brownie batter
It's a grueling task
Yet, one I can't miss
Without my extraction
My dessert is displeasing
My grandfather's surgeons
Are similar to me
They search for the blockage -
A distasteful one at that
Hands search
And scavenge
They use medical instruments
I have utensils of my own
Both certain that sharp eggshells
Harm the entirety
There are times I
Come up short
The pesky shards
Are difficult to find
And I am afraid
Of the doctor's similarity to me
I pray they find the eggshells
Inside my grandfather's arteries
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 11:04 PM UTC
I've been under the influence
Of a grand delusion for years:
That humanity was in need of saving,
That I could do something to change things.
But the vast, sanguineous swamp of civilization
Swallows you whole,
Indiscriminately forcing you to adapt.
Ripping your flesh from the bone,
Until you are a twisted phantom
Of who you once were.
The ants,
Though,
They work together.
Their colonies are, essentially,
A single organism:
An immune system of warriors with grotesque chelicerae,
With foragers and scavengers radiating from the colony's center,
Bringing back sustenance,
And the queen, ceaselessly pumping out generations.
They all live and work and die seamlessly:
Cogs upon cogs, organic machinery.
So what am I?
A blockage in an artery?
An aimless foreign object,
Doomed to be consumed by everything around me?
I don't know.
I wake up and I put my contacts in.
It's usually past noon,
And some days I can't get out of bed.
Don't ask me why.
But I go to class and I take care of things
I'm trying to at least be mobile,
To have options and use them.
I've got a wanderer's spirit
And a saint's moral code.
Why must so many go without? I ask.
Why do we cause so many of our own problems?
Again, I don't know.
We're naïve, hairless apes with nuclear weapons,
Cosmological Protozoa at best.
Our cities are staunchly divided:
The haves and have nots,
The grime and the detergent.
The ghetto is potholes, shattered glass, And faded, forgotten dreams.
This is not the succinct society I see in ants;
This is chaos, disorder, malignant and cancerous.
This is ecological genocide.
This is systematic exploitation and manipulation.
This is rigged elections and clandestine empires.
This is **** Sapiens circa 21st century,
And I want nothing of it.
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 4:59 AM UTC
If you decide to come back,
With an open heart,
I'll keep my tools ready,
Performed will be an open-heart surgery,
Where an incision into your heart,
Will be made to remove the blockage,
Then love will flow unobstructed in your heart.
The various crap you read about love I meant,
That surely is the chief restricting factor,
It has cost you the pure true love,
It did cost you the caring nature of mine,
I've lost the will to live,
With my sad heart,
If you will rather not come.
My body has started revolting,
Pushed I am closer to oblivion,
Though my arms still long for you,
I have my second thoughts too,
Because if I die soon after marriage,
As is already most probable,
I don't want to widow you.
So I give you the modern window you seek,
The window to happiness & harmony,
Go ahead and grasp the opportunity,
Worry not about the blame,
Because I bear the responsibility,
Cost it would more lot of money,
I fear cancer for the expenses.
Fear I don't the cost,
There are few wellwishers,
Relatives and acquaintances,
Who might help me bear the cost,
Fear I do the ensuing loneliness,
**** me it would for sure,
I fear a quiet seclusion.
Because once I could bear it,
Twice it would rather **** me,
For I am not the immortal god,
Scared I'm as ending days ****
Beckon me does a lonely death,
Death which I no longer fret,
But loneliness is a threat.
For she failed to cease my heart once,
She might as well fail even twice,
Death has had old scores with me,
Averted she was the last time,
Coz I suspect my own body now,
My happiness destiny will mow,
Give me it will grief of loneliness.
Nov 15, 2016
Nov 15, 2016 at 10:20 AM UTC
I.
My pillow smells like another deity.
In the morning, I breathe out
from only one form,
daylight to dictate who is allowed to wake,
from within me.
And during that time,
I am one deity;
I am one deity;
I am one deity.
But when night falls
and lullabies are accepted into a place
with four walls and barely a door,
I am seeded into a different
plane of reality.
Hitting my pillow,
falling into its soft embrace,
its plastic scent is dizzying-
because it is not mine.
This way,
vertigo can easily write itself over
my heightened senses.
II.
In this realm,
I exist not as myself,
or just one deity that
wishes to be
skinny-dipping into daylight
without anxiety.
Instead,
I am everything I ever wanted to be-
either something that is
close to this "true persona" i speak of
or something of a far away fantasy.
In this realm,
this void that is a blockage
from a world of judgemental skin,
I have one hand-
the key to the judgements
of the ministrations of the night.
III.
You see,
in this realm,
there are two things your hands can do
in a rather lengthy moment of warm privacy.
You can either use both yellow hands
(frigid, lacking of blood circulation),
to embrace
(without loving, without care)
to snake around your neck or
you can snake one hand
between two pillars that,
in daylight,
bring them from one place
to another.
IV.
While,
far far away,
in a wonderland,
you (or perhaps me?) wish
to be a part of one day-
a boy you've seen in short,
sizzling hallways to arousal
and moments of desire
ー He sings.
V.
He sings for you in unknown pity,
in the fact that he barely knows you,
in the fact that you,
despite never being able to touch
such majestic and soft paleness
of another-
to touch what can be touched,
yet you yourself cannot-
He sings for you until your fingers move slowly
far, far away from hell
yet closer and closer to a little
bit of death.
That is how it is;
your pillow that smells of another deity
that isn't in accordance to the "you"
painted by social sunlight-
That is how it is;
a duplication of you that is somewhat you
and the small waist you felt
your fingers touch-
afraid you'd break their
small innocent body
is gone.
It's morning now,
and fantasies are better
when kissed by blankets
and shown with purple skin
and a clock
that depicts midnight.
VI.
Before you do,
morning comes first
and it is time-
to burn yet another
undecipherable duplication
of yourself-
or whatever left of who you
used to be.
- eozyoh. 14.12.2017. 16:37.
Dec 15, 2017
Dec 15, 2017 at 11:04 AM UTC
The womb in my view is the most emotively eloquent aspect of a woman.
I believe the womb is the source of unlocking true love.
For when a woman gifts her womb to a man, it is then that she learns to love unconditionally.
Before this ability is unlocked, she will never know.
Personally, I have wholeheartedly devoted my womb to one man on two occasions.
This is the man I plan to marry.
This is the man I released my soul unto.
This.
Is the man.
During the first occasion is when I learned what true love felt like, from within my soul.
There was no other person on this earth to which I had devoted my entirety to.
I felt the flow of my energy intertwine with his as together we combined to form the ultimate gift of life.
There was something incredibly compelling when our two souls became one, forever coupled.
The second time I relinquished my womb it did not go as planned.
There was still true love involved, however this time I believe a tragedy was required in order for emotions to flow freely between two souls.
There was a blockage between the two, built from the pain of time and the ease that distance can entail.
However, together, two were able to accept this blockage and work on letting love flow, for love is what heals pain in my view.
More time passed
Along with this time came strength, autonomy, and independence
All still within the unity that was.
The bond was unbreakable.
Was.
Mar 1, 2018
Mar 1, 2018 at 4:30 PM UTC