"buildup" poems
Dry winds of monsoon rainless
Caress my little hair idly
Fire crackers acrid painless
Waft up quite widely
The elements treat me fine
Yes, they are all democratic
Often verging on divine
Tho’ folks call em lunatic
Bother not, friends
Folks are easily dumb
That’s how it ends -
Tom, **** and a thumb
Tho’ nothing might augur well
Keep being until groundswell
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 4:22 PM UTC
Shape and structure coming together
Body composition like no other
A date in pushing heavy weights
But as a Bodybuilder how each muscle relate
Fitness and Bodybuilding all require all the nutrition that you take in
It’s the energy to help you begin and strength in continual at the end
Fitness and Bodybuilding is about body shape and construct
But careful concentration that you don’t run a mock
However, Bodybuilding being more intense with precise body buildup principles
It’s not a simple process
It’s focus with a mission
The battle with weights for condition
The whole point is strictly exercise
The new image from training in thinking wise
A Gym being the place to create the new you
The results in the mirror for you to look through
The Personal Trainer guiding you every step of the way
Proven assessments that will be ok
Fitness and Bodybuilding coming together as two separate sports
Intensity at one end and shape contouring at the other
“Exercise is to look a certain way, tomorrow your after will be another day”.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 6:45 PM UTC
She laughs as I tell her how
The way she devours her stadium dog
Is so *******
I can’t concentrate
Only we are interrupted by
The crack of gunshot over an open plain
It is followed by a hoorah hurricane
So unison I stop trying to make her laugh
Think about the car ride later
And being stuck in traffic
And sliding gently into home
I want to tell her about years from now
Ninth inning deathbed passion
When my red seems finally begin to burst their cotton
About the splinters living inside of my hands
I was living with them inside of my hands
That’s why I was so rough sometimes
How the scotch guard kept the **** off of my knees
I loved to trace the outline of her ***** diamond
Until there were grooves in there
And my initials in her catchers mound
We are so much hoarse voices
Lost in the noise of ***** hands clapping
How I imagine
As I am sliding into home
In our shower
The soft patter of water on the curtain is stadium applause
Let me run grooves in your shapely pattern
Your laughter is a full circle homerun from heartache
Save me again sweet music
Open plain gunshot buildup
And then a noise so booming it is silence
And us
Ninth inning deathbed lovers
Gently sliding into home
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 7:10 PM UTC
Disney
Like America
Looks awesome in the brochure
But feels faded and slightly forced
A bit of a letdown after the buildup
Still
Wild eyed zealots
Sacrifice their year’s savings at the altar of the mouse
A western Hajj eulogized by matching Toy Story t shirts
I really feel
I missed an important moment of cultural indoctrination
That left me insensitive
To the draw of this place.
A surprise comes though,
As instead of the expected moral superiority
I feel a sense
Of loneliness
And societal exclusion
As I watch
An old man with a silhouette of Mickey Mouse tattooed on his forearm
Happily
Buy a Bud Light for $5.95
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 8:06 PM UTC
Feeling frustration today.
A buildup of a sort.
Life seems to have fallen short.
So tired of the fight.
I don't know if things will be alright.
Push down the pain thinking it will go away.
But it surfaces and stays.
Fear of losing control and letting others in.
Loneliness within.
Frustration on what to do.
Frustration on where to go.
Frustration with the absurdity of life I know.
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 1:17 AM UTC
My conscience is loud
yet my voice never comes,
It's disarming what dependency can do, altering your character,
until you are simply a character,
weaving falsities into strands of fools gold, until you're living in an armor
of the emperors new clothes.
I swore to myself,
that I would never again be this person, the one with my finger
on the self destruct button,
but sliding down the hill
comes much easier than climbing.
And at the bottom,
numbness awaits me,
making me fearless.
I feel the cold wash over me,
goosebumps all throughout my being,
as the waves begin to rise.
She covers me,
salty yet sweet,
and everything makes sense.
The meaning of life in a pretty peach casing.
I am Invincible.
I am Oblivious.
She peaks and soon crashes,
repeatedly against me,
making me feel like the world could end and I wouldn't even think to care.
But what at first seemed exhilarating, wears on me to no end,
the buildup and constant let down.
She's lost her novelty,
and with that,
the numbness fades.
Sobering up for long enough to realize,
I am the definition of insanity.
Inviting you back in so often,
I no longer have defenses against you.
You snuck into my priorities without me ever noticing.
Like that song you hate so much but can't help to sing.
Will I ever get rid of your tune in my head?
Will I ever be able to say no when you call?
Jun 12, 2017
Jun 12, 2017 at 8:51 AM UTC
One can easily become disillusioned in a world senselessly
Filled with confusion and upheaval – evil at every corner,
and it appears as though good has become unsustainable
Bleak as tomorrow’s tidings may, I stay on bended knees
Looking upward with unanswered questions - let wisdom
Rain down like libations, to quench thirst wrought off miles
upon life’s rugged road, and before the end has come I want
To have left behind a legacy of achievement, taking whatever
Motivation I can get to buildup up conviction, until cynicism
is converted into action - my spirit soaring like an eagle propels
My ambition to loftier heights thought unimagined – so I wait
Patiently for a windfall gain, made from choices to facilitate change
For I’m indomitable, from a lineage of kings rising above the worlds
condition, like a sprightly star among the constellations…
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 2:02 AM UTC
A player in life’s game
Only bears one aim.
Keep up the charade,
Masquerade reality.
Forced smiles
Cover up the sweat of shame
He withers inside.
Anxious minds wander
seeking to know the truth.
Any tidbit of conversation will do.
Twisted diction ruins lives.
Words are hollow;
his emptiness revealed; he won’t deny.
Can’t dodge the stench.
Years of buildup have left
his mind wrecked.
Teeth stained with lies,
the time has come to live
in the light.
“Fa la la” the jester sings,
Mocking his incredulity.
Through the air revelation rings.
Though time doesn’t heal
the scars agony has left on his entirety,
he wears a mask of stone
to hide the distorted fantasy.
When the time comes to celebrate the truth,
He finds it’s the hardest thing to do.
If only for his own sake,
There’s no going back
And he knows he must leave this place.
In a world unknown true happiness lies,
Shifted vision has allowed him to see
A way to be, he’s searched for desperately.
His world to leave behind,
Never looking back
He knows it’s the only way to rewrite his story.
The salient charge;
He must break free.
Carve new paths in life’s worn down trails.
Only then can he break his step
From his life: the cruel charade.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 1:25 PM UTC
Of ***** roasting pans and racks and island fog!
*if you love me, then you know poems wright themselves when standing, driving, bus riding, ********** and especially when
doing manly battle, ******* ***** dishwashing midst island fog
a passing remark goes noticed and summoned to a
Friday night feast, roasted fowl, wild rice with golden raisins and mushrooms, English spring peas, was it a Montrachet?
for dessert the washing up is obligation mine, a traditional desertion,
separation of church and state, her cooking a church in which I worship, she states eloquently:
“Unto Caesaria , Render Her the cleanup”
this is hand to hand combat, no dishwasher mechanical
can scrub like the human hand, and with body english,
water hot, but no gloves employed for this is ***** man’s work,
not for sissies, cleaning roasting pans and roasting racks
that are at least twenty years burnt and crusted with a blackened
finish, residue of other lovers and dinners P.N. (pre-nat)
array three kinds of sponges and some human & metallic *****
no one asking which came first,
the scrubbing away of life feasting residues,
or the poem writing that comes with pre & postscript sleepiness
when I say the dark stains and the grease buildup are
flavor enhancers, am beknighted with starry stares of
“how stupid do you think I am?” and sadly return to the
Battle of Agincourt, the one the American lost….*
but they do source poems that flavor life
2020
Jul 17, 2021
Jul 17, 2021 at 11:54 AM UTC
anxiety attacks like
volcanic eruptions
buildup unbreakable.
the explosion is
the worst kind of release
it seems like the scariest
part but don't forget
the fallout
the devastation of
any living thing
nearby.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 9:45 PM UTC
The first time I sat down and wrote
I was just a little girl
Eleven... Twelve?
What a terrible thing to happen to a child
I read Bridge to Terabithia and wept bitterly
I just couldn't understand why anyone had to die
So I tried to turn it around
Have a story rewrite itself into perfection
But I quickly discovered the ending
That endings are the healing after heartbreak
And without the pain
There is no satisfaction in the ******
No release after the buildup
No rest after release
And it just made me notice
But that's not what I want to talk about just now
That's not the kind of mood I'm in
No, I'm in the kind of thrall that's only present
When you've already lost it all but almost no one knows
When you thought you knew how
And you thought that you could do this
But no one's sure you did it right
And no one really cares anyway
When I'd rather rave and rail
Thrash against the pain
And scream against the chains I know I wear
But cannot see them with my eyes
And who do I believe out there
All they say
The mysterious, murderous, undefined "they"
They say that good is evil, and evil good
And sin is art and art is something you can judge and **** and curse
And no two sides will take my side
Because there is no spectrum
Just a line you cross or do not cross
But I think I must exist somewhere
Lost between the infinitely small sides of the invisible line
And the middle ground is me
But there is no middle ground
Just a little girl who thought
That she could write her misery
Out of existence when she burned the pages
The pages of the Bridge on which she died
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 2:39 AM UTC
In a library you could find a book's buildup,
There was this quiet girl who hid behind bookshelves.
She was special, for she took the courage to stand up;
For those who could not stand up for themselves.
She realized that those fighting what they're fearing,
Often did not have a choice.
And that the ones worth hearing,
Often did not have the loudest voice.
She was the one to have her sails unfurled,
In a storm, yet not inflect.
For sometimes those who change the world,
Are the ones you least expect.
Jan 21, 2018
Jan 21, 2018 at 7:36 AM UTC
You cannot swim where there is no water
However, you can drown from the inside
Our skin changes ever seven years,
New cells, new ideas, new technology
However, the first lady in the house
Is not the same lady of yesteryears?
Even if she said she doesn’t care:
Most likely, you can drown from the inside
From tears, humiliation, aggravation
Never mind how traumatic those situations might be
There is no antidote for buildup pride
Love is NOT the antidote to pride – humility is:
And who has agitated her more than him:
Her eyes and her voice show fears:
I sense her wait, she will be free again
Fake happiness is dangerous.
*Blessed are those who can give without remembering and take without forgetting." Bernard Meltzer
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 9:07 AM UTC
You could put it down
as youthful folly, or spit out
the hackneyed line about
pride and what goeth after.
It's true, I over-reached,
wanting to limitless kiss
the sun's crisp lips.
I did hold her glowing cheeks
firmly in my palms
for one exquisite breath.
Can you, rocking there
in your comfy prison,
say the same?
There comes a time to sit
astride clouds and burn off
the waxy buildup of childish things.
The weightlessness before
the plunge feels
like it will never end,
but, I can tell you, it does.
Jul 6, 2010
Jul 6, 2010 at 8:55 PM UTC
It doesn't matter what color you'd bleed if you'd cut yourself.
It doesn't matter what you did last Friday or what you've already got planned
for the weekend after that,
how much rage you're going to make with the best
of so called buddies,
or even how many times you came "this close" to almost dying.
But I fell for that **** because it was scary and because
it was everything I taught myself to never want in anything
that meant it could fill me
but I used you to feel full and not so empty and tempted
to engage myself in something that would worry my mother if she knew all the secrets.
It doesn't matter what you've done before and how good that makes you now
at what you tricked me into doing.
It doesn't matter how fast you talk or how many people
you can choose to falsely idolize because of a stereotype or a media buildup.
No one was ever crowned king because of self proclamation.
You have to earn a rule like that.
It doesn't matter, to you, who you hurt as long as you gain something when you get there.
And that was me, sadly, who you got in between some bad timing
and a little self loathing.
I just wanted to feel good and you let me do that in the most wrong,
disgusting, abusive way.
And it doesn't matter what people say to you in the morning,
how many high five's you get or how long it'll be remembered.
All that matters
is that when you're drunk at the creek on another "turnt up" night
of losing yourself in illusions your insecurities lead you to believe
you're thinking of me.
You're thinking of how good something so real like me could be
if you only gave up your blinded trust for one second so you could see
what you're turning into and what I guess I thought
you always could be.
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 12:15 AM UTC
Your touch is fire.
Trails of heat that mark
Each place where skin brushed skin.
Sinking, spreading into a rich, warm glow.
Your touch is ice.
Frosty tendrils entwining
The delicate nervous network they find.
Cool shivers radiating from every fiber.
Your touch is lightning.
A buildup of charge
As distance closes.
On contact, a surge, a tingling rush.
Fire, ice, lightning:
Touched by three,
And by three bound;
And all three bound within a single touch.
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 2:26 AM UTC
Churning in your stomach
Burning on your tongue
Taser in the chest
Hatefully sung
Pulsing of your mind
Slamming of your heart
Flatline screen
Electric start
Crawling through your veins
Sinking in your blood
Building, building, building
Til your insides begin to flood
Pulsing of your mind
Slamming of your heart
Flatline screen
Electric start
This is the buildup
This is the monster's best
Wait to see what happens
When it bursts through your chest
Clawing, crawling
Stabbing, grabbing
Feeding and falling
This is the monster start
Ripping out your heart
This is the buildup
The monster start
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 10:21 PM UTC
It all starts with the condensation of emotions
Cells supersaturated with sadness
Solute buildup presses outward
Overloaded tear ducts haphazardly spill forth
Distilled thoughts leave shimmering trails
before crystallizing leaving
a crust of salt behind.
An ephemeral remnant
bound to wash away
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 2:34 PM UTC
Going inside and out
Compression to stretching
Something like breathing
Exalted expression
Who's playing this squeezebox?
Can I make a request?
Play something lively, loud, and fast
My heart's tied in knots
My brain's hanging on
By the skin of my teeth
For the length of one song
Dance like you're dying
And dance like you're dead
Life is little more
Than a song in your head
Break down the walls and let it all in
Dance as if this moment will never end
Move to the rhythm and jump towards your soul
Suspended stringless puppet under no one's control
Fall down to yourself right on top of the beat
Spinning in the center of where all the lines meet
Slow it down for the break and take a deep breath
Potential energy buildup for what's coming next
Those chills in the moment right before it all hits
Soul body and mind caught up in the mix
Hear it; explode
Supernovate the senses
The death of a star amid a galaxy of faces
To be born again
In a jet stream of limbs
I find enlightenment
At 150 bpm
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 12:09 AM UTC
i feel like i'm on the cusp of... something
just waiting for my stars to align
there's a hot buildup
tension in my tendons
my hands itch
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 3:12 AM UTC
We play it every summer
With the other people in our street
The buildup is slow
We fuss around, cleaning up
Distract ourselves with domestic chores
From the inevitability of the game
Will it be us this year?
The tension builds, as do the temperatures
We are sent emails - prepare, prepare!
Be ready for the game to begin, stay calm
I'm terrified
Every year is the same, but I'm not leaving
Just another high fire danger day
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 4:37 PM UTC
Of all things sentimental.
She came through the door wearing a suit of armor.
The door closed behind her with a rattle and tick of swaying arms.
With rust around her eyes she longed to be melted down.
A drop left in her can of oil.
The metal on her chest plate dull, full of dents.
She explained that her heart stopped working.
That the gears and springs just won't turn.
With a screwdriver jammed in the middle and a bolt or two missing.
I heard the man behind the counter say that he could repair it but she too insisted in a louder voice.
Its not worth the trouble, that she'd rather be melted down.
Too much time has passed, she wants to finally feel the warmth of something genuine.
I watched her as she walked into the welder's shop.
Some people laughed. Others wore a look of wrinkled eyebrows.
Revealing their defect. Noses turnt sharp in the air.
Beauty comes in all shapes and form.
A beautiful shape molded into tin to protect how precious she was.
Dings and dents from the rocks they'd throw.
The world is a cruel place.
Her operator forgetting her name, A reflection of alzheimer's not done intentionally.
The damage of watching everything around you slowly change.
The insecurities of home no longer being home.
She pierced a hole over her heart with a screwdriver.
Jamming the gears. Causing nuts bolts and springs to bounce everywhere in a buildup of steam.
Rust composites in the duct of her eyes.
I watched her walk through the door.
Making brief eye contact before walking through the door myself.
When I walked in there was no sign of her.
Just the man behind the counter setting out a new watch stained in rust
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 12:30 AM UTC
He cannot hear
I just now realized
He's deaf to it, it's all disguised
Everything, all of it, is crystal unclear
What's up is down and what's far is near
The radio boils
The microwave sings
The telephone listens, while his ear rings
But he hasn't noticed, his ignorance is loyal
To his strange world of backwards turmoil
His eyes tear up
At the toasters dull ding
Oblivious though, to orchestral strings
Crescendoing, divinus, in joyous buildup
An Ode only heard as a course hiccup
Puts books to his ear
But hears no voice
Thumbs through jibberish, but his hands hold Joyce
The steak tastes like spam and the wine of beer
He's deaf to it, all of it, everything I fear
He runs in squares
And lounges in circles
Tears down hopes, and builds up hurdles
Will flail in shallow water and fall up stairs
Then write love letters to hate-affairs
Has two left feet
And no right moves
His rhythm and soul have lost their groove
It's tragic, greek, a heart that offbeat
Might mistake victory and chance for fate and defeat.
He's wrong. What's more?
He's oxymoronic
His light-hearted prose are mostly sardonic
Wouldn't know an apple from an adonic core
Or discordant beats from euphonic score.
He's deaf to it,
Yes ears and all.
Despite what words I might here scrawl.
It will never get through to that dumb misfit
He's deaf and blind and full of ****
Apr 6, 2021
Apr 6, 2021 at 1:06 AM UTC
You are the warmest winter,
Keeping it just warm enough to never snow.
Sitting somewhere in clouds above my world
Holding back the white flecks from encircling my globe.
But that’s what we’re doing now,
Trading a good thing for maybe something better.
Out to replace normal with an iceless ground
So that we don’t have to tiptoe around the weather.
And you don’t mind intertwining our lives
Like the temperatures are doing with seasons.
The borrowed days from autumn, newness of spring,
The connections from summer, and a million reasons.
Whatever we were doing then
Was a nice, natural time line, I guess.
More like a buildup than a countdown.
Less like accomplishment and more like success.
If it ever gets cold enough again,
It’s because the outdoors will finally understand
That by then we will have weaved blankets from comfort
And made hot chocolate with a richer feeling
Than being friends.
Until then I’ll be blowing on the fire
That I’ve been watching since I felt its heat.
Surely it can melt the plastic walls of my snow globe
That have been in the way of letting you
Make me feel complete.
-Makenzie.
Aug 14, 2011
Aug 14, 2011 at 11:58 PM UTC
You're so sweet
I think I'll need dental work before this operation is complete
I intend to fill your cavity
Just a routine cleaning
I'm clearing out this buildup inside of me
Transfusing it into you
Open wide and say "Ah"
Tricky temptress
What's your damage
A throbbing tumescence
An internal hemorrhage
Count slowly back from ten while I put you under
Prepared for the incision
I handle my tool with precision
My IV dripped solution has got all these patients wishin'
I will donate this ***** to whoever needs a heart
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 4:44 PM UTC