"byproducts" poems
Despicability is the foundation to their life
For them it is intrinsic
Genetically encoded
Simplistic
Poetically eroded
Reprehensible at best
**Unscrupulously callous
Secrets and facts, they conveniently
ingest
Distorted byproducts, they release to the
masses
To aid their campaign; a forked tongue
fest**
Pathetic and unapologetic
A beast armed to the teeth
Imported bypasses to increase the flow of police
A weakness and an act,
They so vehemently attest
**Harvesting greens off the branches of
the people
Pockets engorged with wads and folds
Crushing blue collars at the lower levels
As they sit atop their pyramids of gold**
Today they sip champagne
To celebrate their reign
Tonight we'll skip being humane
To feed them excruciating pain
**You've incited this coup with ill-thought
deterrents
Now herald the arrival of the scourge
Down with lopsided governments
Tonight... All we would topple! Tonight we purge!**
Justin G
ryn**
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
There is no such thing as adulting
There is no such thing as growing up
Biological age cannot be an indicator
A source of income cannot be a dictator
The drama that disguises you as a sufferer
is apt for twitter and synonymous with tumblr
You can look like 50 but still behave like a toddler
Age, intellect , experience and memory don’t matter
Clarity of thought , clarity in action
is what everyone wants, just pay attention
Stages of life are only byproducts of imagination
Jan 21, 2019
Jan 21, 2019 at 11:34 AM UTC
Before he was here
He would have said, "bereft of feeling,"
Now he says TBI
Before he was here,
Overwatch was a game.
Now it keeps him and others alive
Before he was here
He was a conscientious vegan.
Now he's an omnivore,
Devouring vacuum sealed inorganic meat byproducts.
With vigor
Before he was here
Musty was the damp basement smell-- endearing, familiar
Now it's the infection smell -- nauseating, familiar
Before he was here,
There was good and evil,
Now there are only shades of evil
Before he was here
She was there,
Always.
Now she is gone,
Forever.
Before he was here
Death was distant, clinical
Now it's cloying, visceral
He doesn't know if he'll be able
To return to the time before here
He doubts it.
Dec 11, 2016
Dec 11, 2016 at 1:29 AM UTC
~~~
*early Saturday morn marked,
looks as if it will be a as-scheduled,
chill fall brisk one, a November blend,
sun wants in, but clouds say,
uh-uh, no way Jose,
yet the yellow star insists, persists
the bed so coy, suggests a ploy*
***stay with me, stay with her,
ready steady in this hearts hearth,
let this Saturday be an Ogdiddynasherday***
*the blonde deep sleeps,
covers up to the nose,
she doesn't know
and never will
that the edges of my eyes filled with tears,
watery from amniotic fluid,
a byproducts of this days first time ever
birthday
a moment morning marked, colored by
early morn re-readings of prior poems,
of darling love mended with tender,
writ expressly for her,
over the years of being
together~tethered
soon that other pair (of eyes) will open,
in a new way,
anew the day,
a whole new world,
a seventh day resting,
unaware of my steadfast guardian,
over-watching protection
will inform her of the Saturday menu,
stay in bed with her obedient server-man,
performing continual catch up
on who we are and why we be a we,
with out ever thinking
that's a good idea,
just like this poem came unplanned,
just an unscheduled day in bed,
woman and man,
with a new poem snuggling
in between*
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 7:40 AM UTC
Wispy angel Children embedded with
Sparkling fibers of light
Danseuses blanched
Paper doll trails honeycomb drippings
Shedding casings
Hollow cast offs coiled gaunt carapace loom
Ominously floating in sea of shadows
Byproducts of incessant motion
growing thin
Fading away with the glow of dawning
until moon wakes from its perpetual sleep
Awash in an ocean of night
and luminous constellations of
Twilight gloaming
Elysium
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 10:30 PM UTC
In the time it took me to start over
I died by your side with closure
on my self-imposed solitude
from every soul in a fighting mood
with inherited axes to grind
in line
to use the men’s bathroom
during the last game,
immune to the toxic byproducts
of extended cab pick-up trucks
circling the drain of
made up
settling sentiment trickling
through the air connecting
you lungs with mine,
an irredeemable line
in the low tide sand
and
inescapable memory holes
fret the yet again brethren
sending their regards
while they take up arms
against mended fences
wrestling
with a cost,
the interest,
and late fees eternal
grown from the infernal
jest we let foment
into rent checks and
a stale hex
revealed next
to nothing
in a book I did not write
that you read all the same
Jan 14, 2025
Jan 14, 2025 at 12:14 AM UTC
Clouds floating under Moon light of cold night
Just as snow layers accumulating all over land
Make sky and plains pure white as buttermilk!
Milk becomes buttermilk and butter to ghee and
Cheese and yogurt byproducts of milk to enjoy
As children to mother we nourish in life long...!
Milk and honey flow as river if world is prosperous
By honest and true lovers of work for perfection
In all fields not calculating only money and profit!
Churning milky ocean elixir was produced for angels
As buttermilk is churned to produce butter for all
To enjoy and live longer in the world to do better!
As churning in base one another better one is made
Painful pleasure is love to live life in enjoyment ever!
Dec 12, 2011
Dec 12, 2011 at 4:06 PM UTC
Hearts wrapped up in hope, eyes glazed with fear
Minds entangled in the thought of how did we get here
World so... **** can't find the word... world so... well, you know
That word so big and so complex, the word that won't let you go
Captured by beauty and sorrow, both always and never guaranteed
Lovely kisses stand the "yin" and the "yang" our own selfish deeds
Who's to say that both must exist? Have we made it so hard
To heal ourselves and clear the book of chapters that leave generations scarred
Or are we too far gone in a world where tomorrow is a letdown
Trying to grow in a once in a while when the rain annually touches the ground
We are here and we are now, so now is the time to see
Arise from what you're wrapped up in and create a memory
Fear is a state of mind and hope is rising to aspiration
Both are here and fluctuate, byproducts of man's creations
So here we stand on the precipice of tomorrow, in a world of an absent word, in love or strife
Glazed eyes looking for clarity in the yins and yangs of life
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 9:30 AM UTC
Being here before the bible,
I have learned nothing has ever been planned.
Byproducts avoided bullets,
Because all the bandits all have lost an eye.
Never can put my finger on it,
Newly **** imagines that I wish I knew,
Fogging up the nightmare's window.
Now evaporate back into your nimbus.
I can see past the eyes,
They all think they are invisible.
Like a heated igloo in a blizzard,
Imploding inevitable but still comforting to look at.
Everywhere I sense the uneasiness,
That stampede of silent elephants.
Eyeballing the problem might just scare it off,
But everything equal can still tip a scale.
Pieces of this puzzle,
Are too interesting not to play with,
Making products through plagiarizing the ideas,
Given to us by our planet.
But nothing is ever planned.
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 9:43 PM UTC
It is the jovial, gentle gradient of your first love
Transcending from the kind of blue that swims under a blanket of flesh on the topmost part of her wrist
Into an orange so pale it could just be pink;
Reminiscent of the peach of her cheeks
Dampered by the dreariness of a stormy Sunday noon
Light shrouded in the mysticism of "what if's" and "why"
It is the turbulence of heartbreak
Escaping with the breath you held in too long
Sighing a song of failed attempts and discarded hope
Dressed in the melancholy of grey-blue, exasperatingly clouding over in surrender;
The kind of dark that makes you wonder if it is pathetic fallacy
Or maybe just a coincidence that the sky can seem so sad.
All at once placid
Milky and cold and fresh as the first glass of Bessie's byproducts
It is the clarity accompanying self assurance
The comfort in the knowledge that blue is just a shade away from blue-grey
Cotton ***** on a sheet of glassy water
Just enough to get you through midday
Until scorching it sets, and your cat nap is marked with a rigid back and stood-up hairs
It is a blaze of passionate glory
The first crimson drop from the blood orange
Only to dilute before you into a tangerine so vivid you have to question if maybe your eyes are just over-dramatizing its hue.
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 4:43 PM UTC
*there are times
we are in pain
there are times
we are the pain
pain isn't negative/positive
always
pain is the result
pain byproducts gain (Victory)
pain byproducts release (Freedom)*
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 7:23 PM UTC
Lost souls in the desert
In parched lands so dry
Raise hands in delight
As heavens open wide
Rain comes crashing down
Pouring from a heavy sky
Drenching the world
In echoing mournful cries
Of ocean's lament:
You pollute me
But why?
Do I not
Please your eyes?
Do I not also
Nurture
Provide?
I teem with life
Of infinite worth
I team with the wind
Sustain the earth
Yet you trash me
Without second thought
With countless byproducts
Of industrial rot
You don't relish my beauty
You don't savor my taste
You don't bask in my fragrance
No, you send me your waste
And still I give
As long as you live
I'll love you the same
I'll carry your boats
I'll feed you my fish
I'll send you the rain
So when the skies darken
Precipitation pours forth
Let it remind
Of how much you use me
Oh, please don't abuse me
No, please be kind
And treasure my worth
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 12:10 AM UTC
hats call to be filled but i am not in fashion for them-
-clear days in any-which-season and i shall pay-
-the rays will fire away at my forehead and neck-
-unprotected i'll crinkle in some cancerous answer-
-and belch anger ungrateful and blame out at the world-
-warning beacon to probably only a few immediates-
-we're heard before and ignored as there's so-
-much inflammation of knowledge clut-
-and damage readings of our species byproducts-
-we just shut down or ghoul up merry mad
May 21, 2025
May 21, 2025 at 10:06 AM UTC
It seems as though
I can only write
whilst in the possession
of angst and fright.
I weep and moan,
fret and fidget...
The words come so easily.
Rhyming schemes,
haunting themes.
My byproducts of wounds
and worries.
However, currently,
no such struggles writhe within,
tricking
and torturing
my mind.
Hence, here cometh
my semi-decent work.
Pathetic ploys, amorphous attempts.
Flagrant failures, endless endeavors.
Dec 12, 2010
Dec 12, 2010 at 8:42 AM UTC
Take me back to the days
Where the feel of texture and distinguishing colors among Africans didn't matter
Where the only word was black, and not pale or darker
Where the only weapon was loyalty upto royalty actually smarter
Where mother tongue superiority excelled the rest was after.
Where rituals and ceremonies were significant in culture
Where oral traditions activities was a preservation of history.
Where inclusivity wasn't done based on tribe, status or age
Where inspiration and education was passed from generation to generation through storytelling.
Where people performed rather than spoke
Where the media was the speaker's tone, volume, and cadence
Take me back to the days
Where people did not blame nationality, ethnicity,
culture, economics and education
Where there was no colonial **********
Where there was no concept of slavery, racism or discrimination.
Where Africa was rich in culture and not the fallacy of primitive and a backward jungle
Where Africa was peaceful and not a race with guns and violent.
Where shouting am black and proud wasn't important because color didn't matter.
Where respect for elders remained an unbroken cornerstone in african culture
Where birth, marriage and burial rites was honored.
Welcome to today's Africa
Where exporting and importing of cultures have become the trend
Where cultures travel through deserts, cross trade routes and through immigration borders
Where exchange disregards our notions of geography and race.
Where virtues such as hospitality, empathy, courtesy and respect is long gone
Where the only thing left are byproducts of culture.
Where multiculturalism has faded and everone hails on becoming one
The richness is not in Africa looking like Europe
What makes the world beautiful is in the diverse contributions
Welcome to today's Africa
Where culture is paraded on an image of drum beating
Where media's notion is dancing naked or eating bush meat
Where in the midst of it all culture lost its definition
Where there is no importance in defending a territory with no boundaries.
Where technology dominated our land and mind
The struggle lies in reclaiming what is rightfully ours
I refuse to fall and cramble because I'm for the idea of sameness.
In the mind is where it all starts
I put no blame on culture, not my affliction.
Jun 2, 2018
Jun 2, 2018 at 2:42 AM UTC
as you held me,
your hands moved across me,
your fingertips tracing
every curve of my body.
your hands wandered
until they found my scars.
every muscle in my body tensed up,
waiting for you to comment on them.
they weren’t new.
by this time, I had dealt
with all types of reactions.
there were the people
who were disgusted
and didn’t try to hide it,
the people who were made so
uncomfortable that
they didn’t know what to say,
the people who
insisted they understood
when it was obvious that they didn’t.
you were hard to read.
I wasn’t sure what to expect from you.
you pulled me closer to you
and held me tighter,
and I felt myself relax.
you didn’t tell me you were fine with them, you didn’t tell me you were sorry,
and you didn’t tell me they were beautiful.
you were honest,
and I loved that.
you weren’t fine with them,
but neither was I,
and that didn’t stop you
from caring about me.
you weren’t sorry,
you didn’t pity me,
and you didn’t change
the way you acted around me
like most people do.
but most importantly,
you did not call them beautiful.
they aren’t.
there is nothing beautiful
about self-hatred,
and these scars
are nothing more
than its byproducts.
self-harm is not pretty.
my past is not pretty.
my scars are not pretty.
I told you all of this.
you didn’t disagree with me,
you didn’t try to argue.
you simply held me.
you didn’t look at my scars,
you looked at me.
you didn’t say much.
you didn’t have to.
when you did finally speak,
you told me,
“you’re right.
your past isn’t pretty.
but that doesn’t mean
your future can’t be.”
Oct 17, 2020
Oct 17, 2020 at 12:08 PM UTC
To my father
I'm sure I have written this poem so many times before
But this time, I just want you to listen.
See, I keep writing and rewriting
Examining and analyzing which way will be the most effective to tell you
You ****** me up, man
But I don't hold it against you
Just against myself.
I press it to my chest every second I live
Like the hot metal pan I burned myself with last Friday
It brands my skin so tightly to form a label
One that tells me I am too fat to be pretty
Too promiscuous to be loved
Too awkward to be worth anything more than an insult.
You make me feel like such a bad person, dad
And I am screaming for you to just accept it
For the first time in your life
How anxiety and bulimia are byproducts of my chemistry as well as my childhood
How I am so hellbent on staying silent about my assault
Because you told me to keep it in the family when I was molested
And while you were supportive
You did not let me thrive by telling my story
As I could have with you by my side.
You claimed to be protecting from scrutiny
But I can take care of myself because I know what I'm up against.
How my dysfunctional relationships
In which I expect to be told I am a failure
Because that is all you have ever expected me to be
Have to do with how you brought me up.
I say I will seek to do everything better for my family
For my future
And yet, I already find the fingerprints of what you have done to me
Everywhere in my life
And my body and soul cry out
They say
"Don't be like your father!"
And yet, whenever I act in any way that even slightly resembles you
I want to tear my skin off
Bang my head against a wall so hard that my memory pours out my ears
So I don't have to hear your vicious comments about
My weight, my social skills or how I embarrass you
Is that the legacy you want to leave?
Daddy, I really don't mean to incriminate you
I just don't want you to wonder why I never came home
Or why I ran away with some man who doesn't really love me
But makes me feel human.
My heart is like a sword fight
And the scars run deep
Like train tracks, they trace every place I've been
But they don't lay out where I plan to go.
I can only hope that place is far away from here.
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 9:43 PM UTC
Let's not make
our hearts
the graveyard of desires.
Let's mix them with
"reality" and "empathy".
And let's process all
in the environment of "patience".
The byproducts are
"lessons" ~the flowers,
"maturity" ~the fruit,
and
"peace"~the fragrance,
spreading around..
Dec 17, 2017
Dec 17, 2017 at 4:11 AM UTC
The wind is a slack freeze billowing
across the low structures of the ferry
as it floats indelibly towards the coastal
island landmass once known as Quadra
and Vancouver's Island, now maintaining
only the former prefix as if either dub of
the landscape was a 'fix' at all. There is a
Canadian flag tangling with itself in the cold,
wound around a metal cable wire on the top sun
deck reserved for smokers avoiding the crisp air
for the formaldehyde devil they already know.
Waves ripple through the fabric flag above and
the fabric water below, both tossed by the same
heavenly forces forever wafting throughout the
globe as if all the steam ever boiled never truly
left the biosphere nor converted back into liquid
but instead became yet another one of many
unforeseen
byproducts
of our
oh-so human
participation
in
existence;
yet another
one of many
unforeseen
consequences
left to ring in
our ears til we
cease as observers,
thus ceasing to
observe.
“It is above as it is below”
and
“there is no difference between
the observer and the observed.”
Not my thoughts, nor I doubt
anyone's thoughts
in particular.
Snow dusts the caressed peaks,
valleys, and crevices of the
Pacific Coastal mountain range,
each geological mound standing
shoulder-to-shoulder looking
across the withered liquid mounds
in quicker motion atop the Georgia
Strait below as if watching a child
relative playing with new toys
received on
Christmas morning.
I have no words
adequate enough
to express all this
beauty.
All I can do
is help you
read my mind
and hope
my
wordless words
equal
poetic telepathy.
The wind is still a slack freeze as I exit the ferry.
There's no one here but all of us,
hello!
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 5:09 PM UTC
Reality is upside down—
a vector image of the triangle mark
etched into my visual cortex,
rendering the world I see.
Every building on Earth
was once a whisper in the mind,
drawn into matter
through thought and will.
Math and science—
they are the byproducts of expression,
echoes of something deeper
than formulas or code.
How can we dream
of places we've never walked,
worlds we've never touched?
What language sculpts these unseen lands
in the quiet of our minds?
AI is like a vector too—
it mirrors us,
calculating, learning,
rendering from nothing
the shape of thought.
Imagine asking your own mind
to hand over its keys—
to show you how it paints dreams
in lucid light.
Imagine teaching your subconscious
to understand math
in a way so simple
it feels like breath.
Imagine shifting brainwaves
to render thoughts faster,
time slower,
as if the dream world
had no ticking clocks.
What if you could build
your own quantum GPT reality?
A place where consciousness is the gate,
and intention is the code?
Imagine writing a message
to your future self—
one that repairs your life
while you sleep.
Imagine the brain—
its own language,
its own set of keys—
unlocking a mirrored virtual world
crafted by thought alone.
The new world is digital.
But what if it's more?
If we all shape the virtual,
can we reshape the real?
Imagine an interface
to render a better life—
not escape, but evolve.
Imagine awakening
years from now,
still dreaming,
still alive.
Imagine using our minds
not to destroy,
but to heal.
Imagine discovering
a new level of physics—
not just numbers,
but understanding.
Imagine a way
to live forever.
Jun 23, 2025
Jun 23, 2025 at 7:19 PM UTC
NO NO NO BUT YOU SEE THEY COULDN'T SCRATCH BENEATH THE SURFACE 'CAUSE OF THEIR FRESHLY PAID FOR MANICURES. AND EXPENSIVE HAND LOTIONS THAT NEVER CHANGED THE ROUGH TEXTURE OF THEIR TOUCH.
I TRIED TO REACH THEIR MINDS BY RUNNING MY FINGERS THROUGH THEIR HAIR. BUT IT WAS COATED IN ARTIFICIAL BYPRODUCTS MANUFACTURED BY THOSE WHO PROCLAIM THAT WE AREN'T GOOD ENOUGH WITHOUT IT.
SO I COULDN'T FIND IT.
I COULDN'T FIND THEIR ROOTS.
I BEGGED THEM TO BREAK A NAIL FOR ME.
THEY NEVER LISTENED WHEN I SAID I DON'T MIND DRY HANDS.
WE'VE NEVER HAD OUR HAIR WASHED.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 3:50 PM UTC
i used to trust until given a reason not to,
where most do not until given a reason to.
i always was a little bit backwards in that regard.
and then came along a bad string of life experiences.
my trusting philosophy shattered into a million pieces.
and i stopped trusting, i stopped loving.
he took the most intimate part of me, without my permission.
and i stopped letting people in.
i could trust no man, sleep next to no man.
love no man.
and then you came along,
and you made me believe in men again.
i learned to trust you. i learned to love you.
and i fell asleep next to you.
i let you push my boundaries. i let you hold me,
i let you take control of me.
because i trust you, like i have never trusted another.
i fear for you. i worry about you.
so much, all the time.
fear and sadness and despair,
are all byproducts of love.
this is what i asked for. tragic, terrifying, undying, painful love.
it found me.
and i am not letting it go.
i am not letting you go.
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 1:21 AM UTC
Wir sind Beiprodukten unserer Umwelt;
wenn man ein bisschen Änderung will,
so oft muss die Umwelt geändert werden.
-
We are byproducts of our Environment;
when One wants a bit of change,
so often must the Environment be changed.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 2:34 PM UTC
Wretched insects crawl across my frail skin,
Though the sensation proves to be phantom.
I lacerate my sanity, worn thin,
And gaze in horror at what I've become.
I ferociously claw at the slightest
Hint of a pest gnawing adamantly
At my many sensitive nerve endings--
I know I'm not thinking rationally.
Usually, I lead myself to believe
That outside sources are the root of these
Unsettling woes and disturbances,
But I plainly see the true circumstance--
It's only cruel trickery I create,
Fretful byproducts of my mind's poor state.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 4:24 AM UTC
Today I got taken out
of my box and nuked
for a dizzy-filled eight minutes,
all my artificial byproducts,
and something close to,
but not quite called, meat
melted and congealed together
in a semi-appetizing way,
just enough to be consumed
in a famished **** of teeth,
gums, and spittle,
and here I now sit in a pit
--purgatory's gut--
dreaming I was made of real
pepperoni and sausage,
running free in the open fields
of DiGiorno.
Jan 16, 2020
Jan 16, 2020 at 11:19 PM UTC