"breathers" poems
we so easily pluck weeds from the garden
because the look unruly and don’t go with the tulips
but in life
we don’t segregate the suicidal, emotional, and unstable
because they are that way
from the steady breathers
we are a world of dandelions
with a rare tulip
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 2:29 AM UTC
_Standing with Marshal Gebbie_
No trumpet sounds.
No banner bleeds.
Just the quiet hum
of satellites watching
what we dare not name.
Power does not sleep,
it drips
from trade routes,
from whispered sanctions,
from the tremble
of a diplomat’s hand
hovering over the red phone.
We are not at war,
but we rehearse it
in algorithms,
in tariffs,
in the way maps
shrink and swell
without consent.
The empire is hungover,
but still it walks,
barefoot through proxy fields,
cloaked in plausible deniability.
And we,
the breathers between borders,
write poems
on the backs of embargoes,
sing lullabies
in contested airspace,
and pray
that silence
is not mistaken
for surrender.
Sep 14, 2025
Sep 14, 2025 at 6:51 AM UTC
The scars on your arms
Form the box of my jail cell.
I'm serving a pseudo-voluntary,
Compulsory sentence for someone
Else's hell.
I guess I chose this fate
Despite it being ****** in front of me.
But the illusion of free will
Is a broken façade of
Immaturity.
I suppose I do like you,
But be with you? I don't know.
Your unblamable desire for
Love and affection is something
I can't show.
Because while your world may be Torture, mine isn't heaven either.
With heart flutters,
Stomach aches,
And leaving class for breathers.
The help that I can give,
Is reaching its end.
And whisperings
Tell me to leave,
From nefarious, bitter friends.
Yet when I entertain departure,
The only things that I'm left with are
My thoughts in the shower,
My tears joining the water,
And I remember looking in the mirror
Trying to figure out where I am.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 8:33 PM UTC
In the context of today's supernatural energy,
The brains in which I inhale are forever spinning.
I bought my eyes from the black market
and cannot see clearly anymore.
Saint Hildegard lived in yesterday's supernatural
with purchased Germanic eyes of green and ivory...
as mine are.
She is the best friend that I have never known
and would never **** my vibe.
But all of the energies running around
are killing the vibe that races through my spine.
And I want to see life as a puppy does,
running and frolicking low to the ground...
digging up tennis *****
You can count on me, though,
to see life as a the gangsta I'm not,
and not as the hound I so want to be.
But I'm neither gangster nor *****
but only a Lupine plant leaving seeds to be eaten
by the breathers with brains who take all I have to offer.
And nobody calls me the lucky one,
but I know I could be if I had somebody else's organs.
And if I were to dance with you
I may call myself the lucky one,
but I settle for dancing for you
and I'm not lucky at all.
And I don't know how I'm at the end of the line
when there are no girls in front of me.
Can you tell that there are no girls in front of me?
This line goes on for miles,
and the stereo I listen to today's supernatural frequencies through
goes on for miles.
You're the dearest loving zombie I know,
so take me away in a helicopter
far away from the breathers and the bleeders.
And we'll be the only ones in the sky
and we'll walk about the clouds
and engage our supernatural ids
and create a make-believe empire.
But there are things to do outside the windows
and nothing can possibly be how I wish it to.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 2:57 PM UTC
People of peace walk gently
People of strength never be stilled
Abundance awaits those with courage
RW Dennen-
Stay out of Iraq the spirits
pleaded...
Eyes wide opened, boots and shoes lined up in order
in almost perfect straight lines in Philadelphia July 2005
Symbolic death shoes of civilians out of synchronization
in a war of soldiers
Under a small tree meticulously placed
we're children's shoes in a perfect solid circle
I read o months of age on tags
I read 8 years old on tags
I read 12 years old on tags
And on and on the children's lists grew,
as wisdom must have waned
and common decency
was once cherished
These shoes and boots sadly became
the dimishment of human beings,
horizontal and vertical rectangular
snapshots of once smiling faces
all in the name of war, they vanished all too soon
And I saw running tears and tears being held back
and I felt lumpy throat feelings in unison
with the rest but in cemetery silence
Touching deep feelings so overwhelming
is to touch a false bent flower and flowers
and pictures of deceased soldiers and civilians
and letters once presented at doorways
throughout America
America cried its sadness and disbelief,
the vanished breathers of life giving air,
Our sons, our daughters,
Our mothers, our fathers,
Our sisters, our brothers,
Our relatives,
Our close friends,
All perished, like a vampire that ***** away the life blood of
the once innocent
I noticed mostly tourists coming in droves from Market Street
towards us volunteers who were located adjacent to the
visitor's center side entrance as silence like before still prevailed
And like before the atmosphere prevailed even stronger
as these boots and shoes became tombstones
And tender hearts became tombstones
broken into small pieces
Passions never changed into loud speech
And the green turf
rolled down towards the sidewalk
like a green carpet holding all those boots and shoes
like a quilt interwoven with boot and civilian
shoe memories about days that should never
happen again...
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 8:34 AM UTC
You can't safely have a cigarette outside of the bus terminal
without a couple of folk asking for one.
You can't safely have a cigarette in general.
But, if five of them have to last you a night and a sunrise,
you don't really mind turning down a few nameless hands.
Some of the bus drivers like to talk about football, weather;
others complain about management or the patrons;
a few don't say much at all, avoiding sympathy.
They're probably the smart ones.
They don't want to learn the sad stories in between stops.
I usually like to just sit in the back and ride out the best bumps.
The handrails jiggle and crash with every pothole.
-
The men who work at the metal scrap yard
usually get on in front of Debbie's Diner on 22nd street.
Bundled up for warmth and firm of face, they only speak to each other.
Small talk about who almost missed the bus, broken crane joints,
and who moved the most barrels of copper piping fill the blocks.
They tend to pick on the guy who runs the aluminum can crusher;
big guy, they call him "Boose" and he couldn't be much older than I am.
His hands and lips are dry and cracked from exposure,
but his face still shows ember of teenage years, though jilted.
There is a bar that serves three-dollar chili across the street, spicy.
The workers go there when they miss the first bus, have a beer,
down a bowl of boiling chili, and catch the return bus in better moods.
-
The railroads on Brush College road tend to hold up traffic.
The ADM plant doesn't really mind if a few twenty-something mothers
are late to their practical nursing and phlebotomy classes,
but they voice their complaints out of a cracked window to the side
of a ten story soybean silo nonetheless; steaming ears and all.
I stare at the graffiti on the laggard train cars, each unique
in color, quality, style, and message; the industrial Louvre.
These waits sometimes last a half hour or more.
In the days before Pell grant rewards come in,
when students still feel like they're working toward tangible cash,
the seats are all packed with heavy breathers.
The air becomes thick with community college carbon coughs.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 9:23 PM UTC
The black little letters
Fall off the black block of a word grater
Inbetween the holes
Are the slices of the ink splattered
They pile on a plates platter
And a story forms the matter
Food for a face fatter
A paragraph buffet scattered
Have a seat and flll with laughter
It's a recipe for actors
Each scene a new chapter
Stirring in the plots factors
Little black letters
Walk across a books chedder
And you'll remember not to forget her
All her words rendered
Cooking in warmths splendor
Each page read was a new ember
Igniting the next pages paper
Fire in an authors blender
A purree of black letters
Drinks a tall glass of readers
Mouth breathers fill theaters
And spend millions to see her
Little black letters
Falling of the scripts
And entering gutters
They drain into alphabet ocean
And wait for a new arranged stoich
He dont know it but these
Words will find their way into the poet
And on this page I show it
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 11:58 PM UTC
I’m in the same place as all of yous, but I’m absent minded and got misanthropic contempt, like anthropomorphic deer by the highway watching Cadillac surgery. But deep cardiac compassion, all you idiots are inside of me, lashing out with lively love. Scorns used to scar, but now I smile. **** the struggle you’re on, and put your shoes on the final platform. It’s not truth mama, it’s death. Have you tried it? Me either, we’re both among breathers. Now, tell me about your facts in expressions unconditioned by human history. Tell me about those bats on your shoulders that babble obscenities like Black Beard’s parrot, named ****** He speaks not of this century, so his ***** are now children’s songs, sung around plastic bonfires, trying to roast electrical socket covers. To no avail.
Born human mightiest
Socially slighted and far-sighted
Let’s bash through hierarchy
I said bash
you P.C. crusader
cold as a computer
slaughtering the people’s good language
in the name of removing something savage
instead of asserting a new image
A true sign of the artist
but I’m no artist
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 12:00 AM UTC
my brother is the safe environment I’ve created for the history of my lord. political awareness, I mean, I mean, is a darkness. my eyeglasses tell me you’ve been to see a train station. do animals wait? several impatient years later, two blindfolded mouth-breathers walk cheek to cheek in an Ohio fog that combs forward worms the length of a screen name on craigslist. I am nearly pronouncing krokodil until my tongue disappears so I can pronounce it correctly for my mother’s not frostbit ear. as for the two, they are mistaken by the disembodied poetics of local policing as the trophy nose of an odd-for-these-parts moose. any re-enactment is my father the victim of a spirited birth.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 11:20 PM UTC
Contemplate all this work of Time,
The giant labouring in his youth;
Nor dream of human love and truth,
As dying Nature's earth and lime;
But trust that those we call the dead
Are breathers of an ampler day
For ever nobler ends. They say,
The solid earth whereon we tread
In tracts of fluent heat began,
And grew to seeming-random forms,
The seeming prey of cyclic storms,
Till at the last arose the man;
Who throve and branch'd from clime to clime,
The herald of a higher race,
And of himself in higher place,
If so he type this work of time
Within himself, from more to more;
Or, crown'd with attributes of woe
Like glories, move his course, and show
That life is not as idle ore,
But iron dug from central gloom,
And heated hot with burning fears,
And dipt in baths of hissing tears,
And batter'd with the shocks of doom
To shape and use. Arise and fly
The reeling Faun, the sensual feast;
Move upward, working out the beast,
And let the ape and tiger die.
1.5k
keep this.
it's yours. you might enjoy the rambling brook with both toes.
we can't sleep now. this is how jailbreak is **** Salomon's Mines, all yours.
say what you will. i got you. relax and configure
the dark nook of my profile...
come at me at an angle, and i'll arrive untethered; coping with real ****
stitching heirlooms to re-breathers... pinning neon
to your gold tooth.
all dribble. no bib.
just an avalanche of weightlessness, jamming signals. a sumptuous void,
undulating in indefinitely... keeping me sane and losing my things.
in ivory towers of strange radio
this is eclipse....
gone nova.
Oct 27, 2012
Oct 27, 2012 at 12:26 PM UTC
I read some poems badly and in bad light, here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QR3w2eHYE5Q
from 12.9.13
messianic allure
my brother is the safe environment I’ve created for the history of my lord. political awareness, I mean, I mean, is a darkness. my eyeglasses tell me you’ve been to see a train station. do animals wait? several impatient years later, two blindfolded mouth-breathers walk cheek to cheek in an Ohio fog that combs forward worms the length of a screen name on craigslist. I am nearly pronouncing krokodil until my tongue disappears so I can pronounce it correctly for my mother’s not frostbit ear. as for the two, they are mistaken by the disembodied poetics of local policing as the trophy nose of an odd-for-these-parts moose. any re-enactment is my father the victim of a spirited birth.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 4:10 PM UTC
To the outcasts, the freaks
To the silent ones, the unheard
To the criers, the broken
To the heartless, the damaged
To the screamers, the closed off
To the drowners, the dying
To the breathers, the living
To the strong, the weak
To the flimsy, the fragile
To the suicidal, the struggling
To the raging, the bitter
To the sad, the lonely
To the misunderstood, the confused
To the 'why don't you talk,' the 'why don't you shut up?'
To the 'it's all in your head,' the 'It's not important enough'
To the 'stop acting,' the 'stop faking'
To the 'stop being so dramatic,' the 'there are people worse off than you'
To the 'shut up,' the 'you're making no sense'
To the 'I don't understand,' the 'nobody feels this way'
To the 'I can't help you,' the 'get over it'
To the 'you're weird,' the 'this isn't normal'
To the 'go away,' the 'nobody wants you here'
To the 'you break everything you touch,' the 'just die already'
To the 'broken ones,' the 'freaks'
To everyone, to always
To whatever you do, whatever you say
To everything, to everyday
You are not alone.
~ hk
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 1:28 AM UTC
Or I shall live your epitaph to make,
Or you survive when I in earth am rotten,
From hence your memory death cannot take,
Although in me each part will be forgotten.
Your name from hence immortal life shall have,
Though I, once gone, to all the world must die;
The earth can yield me but a common grave,
When you entombèd in men’s eyes shall lie.
Your monument shall be my gentle verse,
Which eyes not yet created shall o’er-read,
And tongues to be your being shall rehearse
When all the breathers of this world are dead.
You still shall live—such virtue hath my pen—
Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.
1.2k
Dear Children of overwhelming love:
Breathers of Breaths
Thinkers of Thoughts
Dreamers of Dreams
You're on the edge about to fall
It's a selfish place we call home
No one cares to see your tears
In your pain, you walk alone
Heavily laden with dreadful burdens
Will there ever be respite?
Or someone to carry your yoke
Impossible in the darkest of nights
Pull your hair to feel fresh pain
Go to sleep and never awake
If only your mind knew these thoughts
Put a precious life at stake
You run, you run though your body aches
No escape though you scream
In your mind; the only possible end
Or so it would seem...
Your broken hearts break hearts
Surely you know this to be true
Don't become just a number
When there are great plans and dreams for you
They may be clouded, they may be lost
But if you search you will find
Strongest of fighters, Pioneers
Most beautiful soul and mind
So children of overwhelming love please:
Love to Breathe
Love to Think
Love to Dream
And Love to Live
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 5:52 AM UTC
Contemplate all this work of Time,
The giant labouring in his youth;
Nor dream of human love and truth,
As dying Nature's earth and lime;
But trust that those we call the dead
Are breathers of an ampler day
For ever nobler ends. They say,
The solid earth whereon we tread
In tracts of fluent heat began,
And grew to seeming-random forms,
The seeming prey of cyclic storms,
Till at the last arose the man;
Who throve and branch'd from clime to clime,
The herald of a higher race,
And of himself in higher place,
If so he type this work of time
Within himself, from more to more;
Or, crown'd with attributes of woe
Like glories, move his course, and show
That life is not as idle ore,
But iron dug from central gloom,
And heated hot with burning fears,
And dipt in baths of hissing tears,
And batter'd with the shocks of doom
To shape and use. Arise and fly
The reeling Faun, the sensual feast;
Move upward, working out the beast,
And let the ape and tiger die.
1.1k
the sun will die
but not for a long time
not before our own infinities
collapse into the absurdity and
the unimportance of it
all.
the sun will die
but not before goodwill
closes its doors one last time.
so long ****** $1 books and
memories of old people couches
that smelled like **** and beer and your great-grandfather's
apartment.
yeah, the sun will die
but not before those
kids who used to pick on you
and that ******* on the train
who got kicked in the ***** for making lewd comments in the quiet car
become worm food for
more decent creatures.
the sun will ******* die
so be glad.
everything ends including
all us ********
us heavy breathers and
old ladies and ex-cons and alcoholics and plain humans.
the sun will die
but we got other things to worry about
more relative than all the others
so we may as well
enjoy
the
wait.
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 4:21 AM UTC
Red rooster is yet to crow
but I feel
my pulse racing to
to embrace the new day.
Shadows of the night
cling tenuously to
parked cars and trees
awaiting the golden brush
of dawn's early light.
Sleepy elbows and knees
complain in vain;
my brain yearns only
for the kettle's
shrill persistent refrain;
caffeine's coveted crutch is near.
Roasted vapors of
Kenya's finest beans
thrill the air
with redolent coffee streams.
Breathers flare,
lips quiver,
tasters salivate,
first sip is here...
Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!
My heart sighs...
It's time to write!
~ P (#writerscrutch)
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 6:39 AM UTC
I gave my car insurance
but myself none
Living in a bed sprung by money
and covered with a loaded gun
If you want to ****
then ask to be mine
We can be smoke breathers,
tossing our leftovers in
eachother's freezers.
I've got America's chewing gum
stuck to my vintage tread.
Viva la sell me myself
before I'm dead.
But my hair is knock-off foaming cream,
and you have to ignore it in my
wanna-go-far movie star dream.
My nails are splintered with dirt
from twisting the skirt
of my reflection
and I feel so deranged
because my whole life is staged
and I don't have enough
money to watch it.
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 1:11 PM UTC
Thoughts of blood and gunfire bouncing in a skull that has been damaged
To the point of no control, I wonder if I can fix the hurt and salvage
The more I try the more the skull ruptures, and the more hurt pours out
Yet I try to pull away and the skulls owner viciously attacks then strikes a pout
I'll try to explain and calm things down but it refuses for the skulls ways is the only way
And the only way is the wrong way yet the easier way is in the distance of the day
'My friends have betrayed,
The boys are afraid
And I am alone', but really, are you truly alone?
'I thought I could call some people friends
goodbye goodbye
I cant believe you've abandoned me
Goodbye goodbye'
Scream and shout all you want, you've lost the respect of the ones who cared
And the dagger and rose will stab through the hearts of those who shared
Babe take breathers all you want know that I'll continue to fear
For the skull and heart that you've tried to hard to hide and hold dear.
I'll try to explain and calm things down but you refuse for the skulls ways is the only way
And the only way is the wrong way yet the easier way is in the distance of the day
'My friends have betrayed,
The boys are afraid
And I am alone', but really, are you truly alone?
'I thought I could call some people friends
goodbye goodbye
I cant believe you've abandoned me
Goodbye goodbye'
If this is what you want
Then I will give in
I'm sorry the world isn't pleased
Mar 4, 2010
Mar 4, 2010 at 2:19 PM UTC
he was strong. i could see that much. and bitter, with a black-coffee way of speaking that kindled thoughts of fallen soldiers learning to walk again. holding fast to my blue plastic tray in true freshman fashion, my focus wandered to the red band around his arm, akin to the one encircling mine—always a symbol of the hunter, never the hunted. but i could not pay attention to this small detail for long; a gruff voice was asking me questions and a pair of sea eyes swept me away with the tide.
he was tarnished. i knew from the moment he took his seat, like an elderly man would, holding onto the back of the chair for support before lowering himself down. though it was easy to hide behind an ever-charming veneer, the fine wood was peeling at the corners, revealing the coarse plywood beneath. we talked of the living dead, zombies and zeds, planning attacks like star-ornamented generals as casually as two strangers meeting at a coffee shop. we never touched, and a bridge was building on our crumbled foundations.
he was beautiful. an army assembled under his command. and with myself at his side, we were breathtakingly terrifying. breathers defended the air that had held them thus far like a secondhand cradle, yet we were the vacuum that ****** it directly from their lungs. the ruthlessness of it all stirred up carnal instinct in me that had existed millenia before I was even conceived. and he felt it, too. there was no denying that the hypothetical taste of flesh on our tongues was enough sustenance to keep us from feeling the bite of autumn or the memories of betrayal sulking in our war-punctured hearts. a different war, for certain; but there was still the hunter and the hunted, and we fought with every cell within ourselves to be the former.
Jun 24, 2012
Jun 24, 2012 at 11:17 AM UTC
Lonely highway for poets and gurus, stop! you shall not pass here, no liars thieves or breathers of air..What direction do you have , what conquest runs dry when tears plummet sad.. Sadly mistakened or badly broken, What beauty the empty vase shall carry when the exodus comes, When deaf turns dumb youll be the dumbed.. Founded freedoms tossed to C.E.Os, voutures for clothes, endless serenity.. food theres plenty.. Heartbrake lane lies between the false lovers lips, fused fingertips to caress whats not to caress, stores to sell you out, a slave to the world, a murderer thief and bitch..What have you become to the vocal masters..Whos slave are you after? or are u the slave>>> ive seen much much better days................Title- slave to broadway Avenue.... by me :)
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 12:48 PM UTC
Rift rafters fall for the love of their sinister lives that continue long after the setting sun,
Breathers lay out their arms welcoming peace with a deadly knife,
Sought after visions lie but for a just cause,
Simple villains turn tides when truth proved to be theirs to gloat,
Lips of curves softly calling for the ears of new found kings,
Lofting lost but on the path that was sought when no path was given,
Crain the neck to see what is alreadyinfront of you,
Suggested laughs at the subtle sight that was born from the head of a baby,
A free fairing fan fiction frantically falling for free franks from Fredrick's farm facility featured February Fifth,
A test to the cure that causes our noses to run amuck,
Fidget in our seats when words of conversation repeated for few sentences know their bounds,
A long lost rambling mind, tastes silver in the blood of night
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 4:23 AM UTC
The connecting notion is "blindly, without foreseeing."
From <https://www.etymonline.com/word/temerity>
Sad, you, city child, silly old man says.
Sad, you, city child, saying so hateful a thing,
saying you would hate being a bird,
saying you cannot imagine having nothing to do,
but fly around heaven all day, scrounging
for scraps, ah
child,
see those crows, hear their song,
are they laughing/
yes, at you.
I believe all black birds laugh, coo,
if you care, is common to doves, coo
to caw,
as a bird, these are common sense,
saying, I am here, now, if you care,
let me know,
otherwise,
this is my rest of the moment, time to feast.
I come to
eat the bugs that eat the dead,
caws, never any famine
until fire, or
catastrophic reordering of earthly things.
As when men lost sight of time signs,
trains of thought, fought all natural
signs of times too long for one
generation to know alone,
but watch,
hide, and watch.
Isotropic radiation field
pressure moulding matter
from raw mater, really
immaterial substances accruing
oomph
to act as a force in field, from
out to in
becoming one in time and nothing
more.
Or drifting into sleep as sound
silence imposed enwraptured wait/
A mighty rushing wind…
Eight billion voices
counting cadence, 30 per,
once intuned as day to night,
global steps through ever empty
time continuance field-set-frames
expanding as we imagine unbelieving
unimaginable,
in a structure so big,
us, no mortal takes so many breaths.
We listen, loosening tight why-knots in
wish reports so oft negated in time today,
I am in this wind passing as gas
of eight billion breathers, but
between the exspelled hex
human 'spiration, so soon
seeming freebird familiar
with the bass line,
my toe taps a happy dittydahdit dah didah.
- haps as happened,
- may haps per se
- FTA
sent into the wind every minute or so.
keep looking, soon we see, you, there
suddenly blue shifting seeing me seem
no longer red and running away,
but we both are like fairy floss,
pale blue dot convergent
gentle minds, fitted with tamed tongues,
hearing laughter welcome the transformation.
Aug 14, 2021
Aug 14, 2021 at 6:40 PM UTC
True story used to cause me to remember,
Christmas coming to mean the story told,
I first got the story from a family Bible, yep.
We had one, and my mom must have read it,
because, when I was no older than six,
I asked her where the story of Christmas
came from, and she opened that Bible,
to the very story.
The Good News, surely was then, had been,
since. And now I think I may recall
that child like faith, in a seed
planted as true as can be,
the story came from the tellers of the story.
Why? Curios addiction, pineal primitive will
to know what works and what kills.
Men of letters, let us make up our minds,
in the realm of words, lust is not a factor.
Any vital juices spilt trigger art' official guilt,
mea culpa, my one 8.2 billionth
of all breathers, I caused hope to fail…
falsification
of this sapience capacity- projected
light where Plato had shade,
of course you may now remove earbeans
with no other one the wiser.
Apr 5, 2023
Apr 5, 2023 at 5:41 PM UTC