"capsules" poems
Thank you ~
for a life not to trade
blessings, in spades
tight spaces
behind laundry doors
packed closets
and open drawers
gator tails, tarnished brass
cracks in kitchen sliding glass
wet towels, withering plants
foundation filled
with carpenter ants
buckets piled with
shoes and tags
village clothes
and saddlebags
peeling paint
and broken walls
****** seats
in bathroom stalls
clogged pantry
frigid rooms
table scribe
and carbon fumes
comfort capsules
empty tanks
broken limbs
from children’s pranks
**** finger
double tongue
long goodbyes
and sidewalk dung
cluster flies
chavie’ clique
accompanying
the hypocrite
cracked back
and hidden smiles
chalk on board
with mr miles
atomic wedgies
closing doors
wrotten eggs
and open sores
jaw jack
nasty folk
dinner calls
for pig in poke
penny pinchers
double dip
yellow mouth
and silver tip
brown nosers
thick red tape
paper cuts
and pimple nape
gallivants
so out of norm
the joy of life…
in basic form
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 2:03 PM UTC
Little poppies, little hell flames,
Do you do no harm?
You flicker. I cannot touch you.
I put my hands among the flames. Nothing burns
And it exhausts me to watch you
Flickering like that, wrinkly and clear red, like the skin of a mouth.
A mouth just bloodied.
Little ****** skirts!
There are fumes I cannot touch.
Where are your opiates, your nauseous capsules?
If I could bleed, or sleep! -
If my mouth could marry a hurt like that!
Or your liquors seep to me, in this glass capsule,
Dulling and stilling.
But colorless. Colorless.
15.5k
I'm a Barbie Girl,
in a Barbie World.
Life's fantastic: I
feel like plastic,
aiming for an eighteen-inch waist because I can afford to throw my internal organs away.
I feel like plastic,
having to choose
between eating and breathing with not enough space for two tubes.
I feel like plastic,
a thirty-nine inch bust and three times the forehead.
I feel like plastic,
a size nine squeezed to a three, spending
three to nine avoiding mealtime because my weight loss book says
'Don't eat.'
I'm a Barbie Girl,
in a Barbie World.
Life's fantastic, but...
I'm not plastic.
I've sat here listening while you complain about society but I don't think you realize that
society is made by you.
You complain about masks but you're masked by your poetry and
trust me,
it's trendy:
Psychiatry.
A bottle of capsules captures your soul and your dreams,
fading
reality.
I cannot be defined because a definition leaves no room for change and I
am a flame,
ready to burn the cardboard box of priority you put over me.
All the cool kids are lesbians and thespians on about repressions
and I care,
I do,
I mean... I'm standing here among you.
But words are just air.
You can stand on this stage and tell me I'm beautiful, but
I am more than my face so
disregard my mild distaste for your
inspirational speech.
Now, this...
This isn't a call for help.
This is a call to arms.
This
is a battle cry because
I
am sick of waiting for a future that should've happened yesterday.
So use this air to live the words you say and
rally.
Do not soothe, because we've already been cocooned by soothed reality in
Shawnee,
Johnson County.
I'm a real girl,
in a real world.
Life's fantastic, and I
refuse to be plastic,
aiming for generic weight range based on content, not scale number.
I refuse to be plastic,
a neck moulded perfectly for both eating and breathing so I don't have to choose.
I refuse to be plastic,
a bust that you don't need to be sizing
when I've got eyes
a green not of romanticized meadows but of drunken
puke.
I refuse to be plastic,
a size nine foot in a size nine shoe,
spending three to nine
enjoying my meal times,
because my weight loss book is
chucked down the chute.
I'm a living girl
in a beautiful world.
Life's fantastic,
because I'm not plastic.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 4:24 PM UTC
Sleepmonger,
deathmonger,
with capsules in my palms each night,
eight at a time from sweet pharmaceutical bottles
I make arrangements for a pint-sized journey.
I'm the queen of this condition.
I'm an expert on making the trip
and now they say I'm an addict.
Now they ask why.
WHY!
Don't they know that I promised to die!
I'm keeping in practice.
I'm merely staying in shape.
The pills are a mother, but better,
every color and as good as sour *****
I'm on a diet from death.
Yes, I admit
it has gotten to be a bit of a habit-
blows eight at a time, socked in the eye,
hauled away by the pink, the orange,
the green and the white goodnights.
I'm becoming something of a chemical
mixture.
that's it!
My supply
of tablets
has got to last for years and years.
I like them more than I like me.
It's a kind of marriage.
It's a kind of war where I plant bombs inside
of myself.
Yes
I try
to **** myself in small amounts,
an innocuous occupatin.
Actually I'm hung up on it.
But remember I don't make too much noise.
And frankly no one has to lug me out
and I don't stand there in my winding sheet.
I'm a little buttercup in my yellow nightie
eating my eight loaves in a row
and in a certain order as in
the laying on of hands
or the black sacrament.
It's a ceremony
but like any other sport
it's full of rules.
It's like a musical tennis match where
my mouth keeps catching the ball.
Then I lie on; my altar
elevated by the eight chemical kisses.
What a lay me down this is
with two pink, two orange,
two green, two white goodnights.
Fee-fi-fo-fum-
Now I'm borrowed.
Now I'm numb.
12.3k
1241
The Lilac is an ancient shrub
But ancienter than that
The Firmamental Lilac
Upon the Hill tonight—
The Sun subsiding on his Course
Bequeaths this final Plant
To Contemplation—not to Touch—
The Flower of Occident.
Of one Corolla is the West—
The Calyx is the Earth—
The Capsules burnished Seeds the Stars
The Scientist of Faith
His research has but just begun—
Above his synthesis
The Flora unimpeachable
To Time’s Analysis—
“Eye hath not seen” may possibly
Be current with the Blind
But let not Revelation
By theses be detained—
11.2k
the world is e.n.d.i.n.g
every. second, is. fleeting.
minutes. become empty pockets
of moments. no longer,able. to, support
existence;
those. who .see
each; br,eath ,as a tick. on their own
clock; reminding them that
they too are
ending.
run, from. their lungs.
forgettin to. let e a c h insta.nt
take hold, of their. flesh.
because,
even. if father time. has claws,,, that
lea.ve scars.
at least, etched into their
bones. would be, the
smiles, wide enough.
to convince, the man on. the moon
to. hold, back night,fall. a little longer
letting. this brief, lifetime, linger.
and the ,laughter. that rippled; time, into
deep wrinkles. of prol,o.nged being.
scratches, that. symbol victory's, over. time's
elusive game.
so that. when. our, clocks run. out of time
we can, be winners. without
being the first to the finish line.
leave. our, bodies behind.
as, time capsules.
filled, with. the lives
.claimed
by, patient.
eyes.
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 10:20 PM UTC
It happened on a Summer’s morning
Hiroshima’s bomb once dropped upon that day
She was feeling tired and started yawning
Her crochet rug was tucked around her knees
Hiroshima’s bomb once dropped upon that day
The yellow capsules easily went down
Her crochet rug was tucked around her knees
She’d sent Arthur on a journey into town
The yellow capsules easily went down
She couldn’t stand another day of pain
She’d sent Arthur on a journey into town
At 82, she hoped they’d judge her sane
She couldn’t stand another day of pain
Two wars survived and still it came to this
At 82, she hoped they’d judge her sane
There was nothing left on earth that she would miss
Two wars survived and still it came to this
There is simply nothing more that can be said
There was nothing left on earth that she would miss
In a little while I hope I will be dead
There is simply nothing more that can be said
She was feeling tired and started yawning
In a little while I hope I will be dead
It happened on a Summer’s morning
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 4:02 AM UTC
~ for Angela Scuteri ~
Cancer cells bloom and open
their capsules split apart
and spit the pips
on the red tide.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 10:52 AM UTC
Orange capsules of condensed vitamin C
Tumble out onto my cracked,
Outstretched palm,
As I arch my spine towards the bathroom sink,
Scooping lukewarm water from the faucet
Into my half closed mouth-
The tiny pills clog my upturned throat:
Just two of the numerous solutions
To a world too numb
To contest.
I've never felt more alive,
Than when I'm drowning my body
With handfuls of tap water
And magic remedies bottled up and
Marketed to a world
Afraid of growing old.
Lining the wall of local drug stores,
One isle over from office supplies
And scented laundry detergent.
Multicolored, multipurpose-
Labels proclaim the fountain of youth
To anyone alive enough to fear it.
There's never enough of reality
To reach our depleted veins
Through the ever present forms
Of the world. Enough isn't
Enough, until we've convoluted it into a tiny
Plastic oval, and forced it down the throats
Of those well enough to swallow it.
Pharmaceutical companies proclaim their
Daily gospel in the linoleum streets
Of hospital waiting rooms
And local grocery stores,
As I cross my heart and count the
Hours until my next prescribed dose
Of complacency. Who knew happiness
Could have the bitter after taste of
Vitamin B or
The credibility of Zoloft.
The sandman has been replaced by Benadryl,
While creativity lies stagnant
Beneath adderall's indifferent thumb.
Obsession is a 26 letter alphabet,
Strung together by a bunch of deficiencies,
Incoherently droning on
To the burden of Man,
And flickering neon light
Of a drive-thru pharmacy.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 1:41 AM UTC
The Pill Poppers Proverb For Purchasing:
Only buy from friends
who'll give you
the solid truth.
Capsules can
carry lies
they could
have been
in
the hands
of stoned-cold-heart
killer
or
careless self-proclaimed pharmacist?
It's hard to spot
a double agent
in a sea of sunglasses.
Stickwitchure gut.
Apr 12, 2012
Apr 12, 2012 at 10:34 PM UTC
Doctor, Doctor
I've trouble with my eyes
Then take these blue pills,
That's what I advise
Oh Doctor, Doctor
My bones are all sore
White pills I prescribe
They'll hurt you no more
But Doctor, Doctor
My heartbeat is waning
Take red pills for that
You'll soon be regaining
Please Doctor, please
My mind fades away
For that I have gray pills
You'll be sharper today
Its quite shocking Doctor,
My ***** is murky
Take these yellow pills
They'll clear it by Thursday
I mope around Doctor,
My mood's really flat
These rose colored pills
Will take care of that
You must help me Doctor,
In bed I'm a flop
Then try these long capsules
They'll liven things up
Tell me please Doctor,
What's inside these pills?
Why medicine, of course,
To cure all your ills
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 7:05 PM UTC
I used to think they were harmless,
I was so naïve.
The variety in my house;
a never ending rainbow.
white ovals
multicolored capsules
muddy orange circles.
A plethora of every imaginable combination,
right at my fingertips.
Ive followed in my mother's footsteps
no matter how hard I tried to avoid it.
No longer innocent
I am tainted in sin
Shape doesn't worry me
size and color don't either
some went with headaches
some for concentration
some for depression
they couldn't ever make the suffering go away
it lingers within me
no matter how hard I try
to
rid
of
the
pain
I cry out
Why?
Oh god,
why?
Do you really
hate
me?
What is this
Hell
I live in?
I popped another;
I just couldn't resist the
bittersweet taste
the coating leaves in my mouth.
Swallowed it whole
no water
because
I am a pro.
Maybe a few.
3 more
then 5
only 1 more
well 2 couldn't hurt
Lost my count by now.
This time i'm not in pain
I just want the fog to cover me
and to once again not
feel
or
show
anything
Nothing
at all
For I go numb once again
as I swallow
another
pill
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC
Comes in Jars
Comes in little **** baggies
Comes in Wrapped up clear wraps
Comes in capsules
Comes in bottles
Comes in a "100% organic" jars from the smoke shop
Comes in a friends hand
Comes in a pouch
Comes in eyedrops
Comes in as the best gift
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 6:50 AM UTC
What is to come?
From a world where our children are given guns to play with,
It’s not the squirting of water,or release of plastic bullets, it’s the message we shoot into their heads .
Triggering violence from adolescence.
Planting seeds of hate,
And watering them with spilled blood .
Waiting for the fruit to ripen, but it never does,
Now we have the taste of bitterness lingering on our mouths.
That bitterness stays on our tongues ,
So that when we speak, that’s all that comes out.
You see Somehow the fruit is never as sweet as when it’s forbidden.
Sugared by sin,
Borrowed from thy neighbor, because when it’s sin there’s always enough to go around.
What is to come?
From a world where we are told to express ourselves , but within the guidelines.
Told that the world is your canvas , but restricted to only the color white.
It isn’t as pure as it seems.
Underneath the white paint lies splashes of read , gushing from a black body.
There is no canvas, all we are given is a painted picture, of what perfect looks like.
So that we Erase anything that doesn’t fit the image.
The slightest difference is reason for war.
Be it the quantity of melanin
Be it religion
Be it Gender.
What is to come?
Of a world that is only tolerable through the shade of intoxication .
Where pills serve as capsules of happiness
We are our biggest enemy,
Our pain is self inflected.
If this is what it is ,to be human
What is the cure?
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 11:09 PM UTC
Twice amongst the meadows watching
from behind a Cyprus tree
he stares at thee with anxious waiting
glances nervous as he yearns for thee.
Twice amongst the meadows walking
plucking blossoms as they bloom
release from capsules such a fragrance
that make the glorious angels swoon.
He tasted bitter poppy petals
chewed to paste they cling and swell
to the innards of his teeth
each tiny bud they do expel.
grass and sun combine to create
an early summers reckoning
that bring about the union of
springs infant buds to bring to she.
From behind his hiding place
he comes to thee with frail mutterings
coyly he presents an antidote
to cure your failing frame.
As that maiden swoons from fever
pale as winter's deadly moon
fight she does for every swallow
that comes from each shallow breath.
Indeed her lover knows her sickness
and with ointment doth he bring
but to late he comes to aid her
for he is a timid thing.
In his arms she breaths her last
and with her dying plea
she implored as to why
he withheld his love from she.
Oct 21, 2010
Oct 21, 2010 at 10:48 AM UTC
Your eyes
are time capsules in my mind.
The memory of you there,
fingers lingering through my hair.
Begging me
to lock my lips with yours.
I posed from a distance,
sipping on my infidelity.
How it made its way
lasciviously
across your body
so meticulously,
intentionally
imploring you to want me.
You asked,
but I didn't know what to say
so I just kissed you.
I still see you sometimes
in the peripherals of my mind,
though the contours of your face
are beginning to blur as they do
with any beautiful stranger.
I can't tell whether the image of us
is a painting or a picture:
something I've carefully constructed
or a moment merely manifested.
But I do know
that it was the blue in your eyes
and the white in my lie
that had me stay til dawn.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 3:38 PM UTC
It's 2 am
The television is quietly mocking me,
telling me I'm too large for my skin,
and providing a simple solution:
tiny capsules of hope, plagued with consequences.
Caution: may cause nausea, infertility, and (in some cases) death;
but isn't that a fair trade for a flat stomach?
The media consumes us:
"Slim is **** you can be **** too!"
Girls get the message from early on that
what is most important is how they look;
not the poetry they speak
or the way they move their feet
but the size of their jeans.
Women in magazines and on TV portray an unrealistic ideal of what a woman should be.
They turn into objects.
And when we lose the fight for our humanity,
we lose the fight for equality.
Misogyny is bred through the over-sexualized photographs in magazines or on the TV screen,
but so is misandry.
Men are depicted as stolid creatures,
and boys grow up being told they should conceal their emotions,
but even the strongest walls crumble with time.
Chipping away slowly at the concrete until
a flood of passion or rage overwhelms them.
The emotional tyranny of masculinity is exhausting.
Boys' role models are fit, cocky, and brute:
He-man, Superman, Spiderman; and if you can't earn that label of "man" then what are you?
We have all been brainwashed.
Tainted to believe that the image of the ideal man or woman is what we should strive towards;
and no matter how tirelessly we scrub, the idea remains;
like the residue of a bumper sticker you used to believe in.
It is too late for us, but the future holds innumerable possibilities for a better world.
A world where women are not accused of provoking **** because of their short shorts and men are offended by the idea because it suggests that they are incapable of control.
A world where men aren't seen of as weak or unmanly because they express themselves emotionally outside of their bedrooms.
A world where despite your weight, gender, race, or ****** orientation you can pursue your happiness.
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 3:08 AM UTC
Inject me,
Pierce the skin
And it let it merge
With blood cells and
Bacardi,
Press your lips against mine
And slip the pill onto my tongue,
Don't pull away until each grain
dissolves
Stacks of cash
From selling love in bottles,
Capsules,
IV drips,
Losing our minds as we
Become entangled in unconsciousness.
But when I wake up you're gone.
Sweaty palms,
Goosebumps,
The fear of relinquishing control,
Or even losing my mind?
We become addicted to the visions
In our head,
The dreams we steal from dark corners
Of the brain
When we are intoxicated,
Yet with each passing of time
We rely on what numbs the pain
Of what we lost.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 9:28 AM UTC
I'm often faced with the question
"why don't you just take medicine?"
Zoloft
Prozac
Lexapro
Paxil
do they take away the memories
or replace the words slipping through their mouths?
do they stop the fluttering of thoughts racing around my tired brain?
do those tiny capsules create apologies or never said goodbyes?
do they stop my thoughts at the late hours of the night?
do the scars on my wrists magically disapear?
do they erase the images of every bad thing that's ever happened?
do they suddenly make me good enough for everyone I wasn't?
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 12:56 AM UTC
Doctor, Doctor
I've trouble with my eyes
Then take these blue pills,
That's what I advise
Oh Doctor, Doctor
My bones are all sore
White pills I prescribe
They'll hurt you no more
But Doctor, Doctor
My heartbeat is waning
Take red pills for that
You'll soon be regaining
Please Doctor, please
My mind fades away
For that, I have gray pills
You'll be sharper today
Its quite shocking Doctor,
My ***** is murky
Take these yellow pills
They'll clear it by Thursday
I mope around Doctor,
My mood's really flat
These rose-colored pills
Will take care of that
You must help me, Doctor,
In bed, I'm a flop
Then try these long capsules
They'll liven things up
Tell me please Doctor,
What's inside these pills?
Why medicine, of course,
To cure all your ills
Jul 17, 2019
Jul 17, 2019 at 4:58 PM UTC
After Danez Smith's Dinosaurs in the Hood
Let's make a movie called Lil Peep In Heaven
Transpotting meets 8 Mile meets six xanax bars
There should be a scene where Lil Peep climbs up a few flights of Stairs and makes it to the pearly gates, because there has to be pearly Gates
Don't let Bella Thorne star in this.
In her version she tongue-kisses Peep,
Chews scenery in platform boots and bright pink
Ripped jeans. **** that, Peep has a tattoo removed
By a saint, his laser is proof of all that is good
I want a scene where Peep throws his pill bottles
At Ganesha, a scene where Allah tells Peep he'll
Rot in his grave forever if he doesn't stop
His antics. Don't let GothBoiClique hold a
Funeral for Gustav. I don't want any of that
Sentimental **** about love and how life is too
Short. This movie is about a man/boytoy/ugly and dying thing,
Restarting his life with all the real-ass gods and patron saints and
Deities
Of every religion and every afterlife
I don't want some funny, dreadhead living in LA with a tattooed stick And poke commanding presence. This is not a vehicle for someone to Play Peep, this is a vehicle for Peep to play himself.]
I want his ******* white or not, praying. I want them far from their Knees.
I want Lil Peep to ride in a Benz truck down from the clouds, Screaming with spittle flying from his mouth the entire time.
I want Layla to post another video of Gustav slapping pans together Like a child. And I want Peep to see it all.
But this can't be a death movie. This can't be a death movie. This Movie can't be dismissed because it's too dark, or that a dead man is Playing the leading role. This movie can't be about crying, or cause people to cry. This movie can't be about a long history of emo coming To an end. This movie can't be about dying.
No one can say Peep is a pill-popping ******* who deserved his death Who wouldn't say it to his cadaver. No big pharmacy jokes in this movie. No bar, capsules or gels in the heroes, and Lil Peep never dies & Lil Peep never dies & Lil Peep never dies. Besides, the only reason I want to make this movie is for the first scene anyway; Lil Peep climbing up the cloudy stairs, his eyes dilated & empty
the heaven before him filled with congratulations
Nov 17, 2017
Nov 17, 2017 at 10:47 PM UTC
. IF I WERE A POET
The
First stanza
would be a
magnatic attic captivating
Elegant architects of
iridescence
Vividly
propelling pupils to edges
Of the schleras
Compelling pens to pages
of new eras
IF I WERE A POET
The
Second
Stanza would
Mirror Zues's
spear slicing through
tears drowning in clouds
striking fields of pens
Egniting the
capsules of
Variegated
Lands
IF I WERE A POET
The
Last stanza
would sail summers
tame winters bathe in
springs of autumn praise
deeds of the monarchs
reigning over raining
rainbows nurturing the
clouds planting wings on
the ground giving free will
to plants to seed the sky
with warmth and love
of nature's heart.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
When I was twelve,
my uncle told me that
when I got older,
I would only have enough
"best friends" to count on
one single hand,
and they would be the
best best friends I'd ever had.
And I can count my five
best friends,
but they are not
my best best.
Because they tug
and twist
and ****
and pull
on my heartstrings
in ways that could make
a grown girl cry;
and they do.
So I can tell you the names
of my best friends
that rip me to shreds
and throw my heart
onto a floor covered in
broken glass;
and you will be able
to identify the names,
because they might be your
best best friends, too.
Wanderlust
the beast to slay them all,
pushing my desire
and reinforcing my disability,
reminding me that I have
nowhere to go
and everything to see
Disorder
in my bedroom,
in my essays,
or in my brain;
all of them causing
someone (me)
to explode in a fit of
unwanted emotions.
Apathy
Towards my schoolwork and
busywork handed to me
by middle-aged "can't-do-so-teach-ers"
that need a handful of capsules
to numb the pull to leave
just as much as I do.
Dysfunction
in my brain's chemical makeup,
and my family's emotional one,
not to mention the relationships
I attempt to handle like a
one-handed juggler.
Imagination
creating scenarios in my heart
that could never come to be,
leaving me in a perpetual state of
disappointment.
So now I will tell
my nieces and nephews,
sons and daughters,
or countless grandchildren
to never trust the ones that
try to make something different
of your heart,
because they don't really love you,
they love what the can make you become.
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 9:32 PM UTC
*So many spiderwebs
each with individual suction cups
******* blood and injecting poison....
a collapse lung....
withered and black....
festering in the hot sun
kissing silver scalpels
and *********** yellow pus
into crunchy white tarp....
capsules that release toxins
into a parched mouth
spiderwebs.... make love to my arm*
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 3:03 PM UTC