"cathartic" poems
I could’ve woken you up in the morning and could’ve been the sun that rises even when we both live in a place where it never does.
I could’ve taken you to museums, at least 2 of where I’ve been to. The first one, we’ll have to take the bus because I’d tell you that I’m too lazy to drive but for the second one, I will tell you that I’ll drive you there.
My car would look at me as though it knows that there is another soul seating in the passenger seat – it was no longer some books, a box of pizza, or my dog.
I could’ve taken photos of you in that place, post them everywhere but subtly so that they can see that there are at least 2 forms of art in that photo — the one you’re looking at and the one I’m looking at.
I could’ve talked to you at night under the stars, in the same rooftop where I told you that I liked the cathartic experience of doing just what we could’ve done; the same rooftop where you talked about your life, at least some pieces of it.
I could’ve brought you to where I used to study. We could’ve walked the halls that stared at me for being too alone and too lonely only so I could tell them, “Hey, here he is, finally.” and they could’ve smiled at me because they know how long the longing lasted.
We could’ve taken a stroll in the shade of the trees or could’ve had a picnic there while watching the joggers and the sunset.
I could’ve introduced you to my friends – they’ve been meaning to meet you. They too know how long I’ve been stuck on an island by myself. They know who I was when I was eleven and when I was sixteen and I bet, if you gave them a chance, you could’ve heard the crazy things we did.
And maybe they could’ve liked you. They could’ve told me how lucky I was and probably would’ve warned me that if I hurt you, they’d stick with you instead of me.
I could’ve introduced you to my family — my mom liked you even then. I could’ve introduced you to my little brother who I would consider as the biggest and most important judge of character because I believe that children can sense goodness in people and he could’ve seen that in you.
I could’ve written you letters, could’ve left random little tokens I would've used for all the words I cannot muster to say.
I could’ve played the piano for you even if I just know, at most, 3 songs; even though I don’t really know how to read notes at all.
I could’ve introduced you to the artists I like and I could’ve known more of yours. I could’ve listened to them and I would have had to remember you every time.
I could’ve held your hand, could’ve eaten brunch with you, could’ve read you a poem.
I could’ve loved you — could have – if I was the given the chance.
But, I was and I could’ve used it but I didn’t.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 11:01 PM UTC
The form in which we live our lives
Breeds in the midst of demon hives.
For dogs do bark in senseless fright
At shadows lurking in the night,
And souls shiver at that unseen;
Cathartic reasons not to dream.
Voices whisper ideas, faux truths,
That knowledge has no valid use.
And when we hear, we do obey
The voice that blocks the light of day.
Lamplight dances against cave walls
And childlike wonder slowly falls.
Pavlov shakes his head in sadness,
For we, indeed, are his madness.
And Plato weeps within his cage
For all his truths leave him in rage.
Is all that we can ever see
Vague words that tell us not to be?
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 3:10 PM UTC
_...All I remember was
Cancer and my hospital room,
My green gown, my bed,
My white hair and mustache
Until suddenly...
...Reality started to stretch…
…And flatten into a brief euphoric white…
…I felt a cathartic release
As I was encapsulated and bathed
In a glorious sensation…
...I floated for an eternity…
…Until I felt my euphoria lifting…_
…As my eyes reopened
I found myself gazing
Upon a room of tiny lights,
Blue and pink specs
Dotting the inner workings
Of large wall sized machines…
…They lifted me upright
In a gray metal chair
And with sharp robotic groans,
A long arm from the wall
Held up a mirror to my face...
...In the reflection was a young man
I thought I would never see again…
…I had a wife back before,
But now I have a new one
Everybody in my situation,
("Reborns", as they are called)
Has brand new things and people
Filling their lives and concerns
They bring nothing with them
When they make their returns...
…Every morning I wake up
On the west 402nd floor
Of a residential tower
Next to my slim, youthful wife
And the trails of flying cars
That populate our view
From our wall-spanning window
As they soar through the city…
…I was told of technology,
Created and discovered
That could reawaken people
Who, like me, had died
In an earlier era and time…
…It’s strange that my past,
In all its importance and meaning,
Memories, friendships and scenery,
Seems to no longer be of concern,
Now that I have all this…
…I love what was, very dearly,
But the life I live now is for me.
I have new children, knowledge,
Friends and technology…
…I’m quite sure it’s possible
That old family members
That passed before me
Could exist in the same place
That I now live and find myself…
…But I can’t be certain,
Maybe they live further,
Deeper, in an unknown future
That I can’t even comprehend…?
…All I know is that, like me,
They have a new life somewhere
So I’ll do what I tried to do
My first time around…
…I’ll continue to grow and live on
In this new, world-spanning cityscape
Fueled by the love and memory
Of a past life remembered
only by me...
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 9:01 PM UTC
TW: r#pe culture
anxiety-riddled,
my head is a constant battle of sounds
and feelings crashing
like waves into each other;
interference scares me.
as does being out of rhythm,
missing too many beats — i am
conflict-averse but i am also
realistic:
i know that
sound travels faster
through solids and liquids
than through the air,
can be distorted
and interfered
into oblivion—
that when
push comes to shove,
whisper networks
can only reach so far.
scores of screaming matches
between metoo advocates and r#pist apologists
crescendos of nails
scraped across a board
feel a bit too familiar
like listening to white noise and broken records on repeat
while scrolling through toiletpaperworthy nonapologies
witnessing victims collectively crying in an orchestra of agony
and then be blamed for attention-seeking at best,
of causing their own suffering at worst.
although it pains me to listen to these tragic tunes,
it is amusing how so many mishear this collective choir as
survivors celebrating with silly receipts in cancel parties
serving blistering hot tea sweetened by revenge - no
all this is anything but
cathartic.
it’s to make people aware
that the same melodies are sung or screamed
by those who suffered similar pains
and so that those of a similar frequency know
there are those who listen
that their voice matters
and we are not alone.
- 20210315
May 28, 2021
May 28, 2021 at 12:44 AM UTC
I'm a no one;
Just a stranger that happened to pass by,
Who made a silly mistake,
Yet you talked like we were meant to.
Just a peculiar case;
Talking random things,
That seem to mean nothing,
Yet made its way to be remembered.
A cathartic mess;
Leaving a note that said I'll leave,
Trying to forget how much it'd hurt;
You told me to come back.
Comfort;
Words that made me hold on,
Coming from the most unexpected person;
Maladroit.
Ecstasy;
Dancing with what you've said,
Somehow excruciatingly sweet;
Bitter.
Waiting;
Exhausted with nothing more to say,
Though wanting to talk;
Cold coffee.
Aug 20, 2017
Aug 20, 2017 at 4:43 AM UTC
To whom this may concern,
I forgive you.
Even if you haven’t apologized just yet;
maybe you never will.
But I have held this hurt in my chest for far too long
and I don’t want this rotting away my naive heart.
I’m writing this with cathartic desperation and a patience
that only comes from being angry for so long.
I want you to notice the first sentence I wrote earlier.
“I forgive you.” Note that I did not say “it’s okay,” or “it’s all right."
There’s a distinction between what I did say and what I could have.
I said that I forgive you. When I say that,
I acknowledge that you have wronged.
You have hurt me and we both ought to recognize that.
If I’d said “it’s okay,” I would be subtly telling you that
“whatever you did, it’s okay, it’s all right.”
I didn’t say it’s okay because it’s not.
Whether or not you come to terms with it
is not my business anymore.
I hope you find yourself within these words
and make peace with yourself, and I hope
you don’t make the same mistake with another individual.
Without Wax,
Someone Whose Scabs
Have Only Recently Become Scars
*P.S. I may have forgiven you
but that does not mean that I trust you just yet.*
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 2:55 PM UTC
(the tics will talk 'til twelve o'clock)
When we make time,
When we listen:
The theistic preach deistic talk;
The atheistic preach pragmatic talk;
The agnostic preach proleptic talk;
The heretic preach shismatic talk;
The mystic preach prophetic talk.
(the mesianic and satanic never stop)
When we have time;
Then we listen:
The optimistic teach hypnotic talk;
The pessimistic teach sarcastic talk;
The altruistic teach empathetic talk;
The idealistic teach synergistic talk;
The pacifistic teach semantic talk;
The body politic teach charismatic talk;
The technocratic teach robotic talk;
The romantic teach poetic talk;
The critic teach cathartic talk;
The moralistic teach dualistic talk;
The ascetic teach platonic talk.
(the artist would rather not talk)
When we find time,
Do we listen:
The lunatic speak quizzotic talk;
The neurotic speak pathetic talk;
The chauvanistic speak monistic talk;
The nihilistic speak ballistic talk;
The hedonist speak narcissistic talk;
The futuristic speak galactic talk.
(the minimalist hasn't the time to talk)
Just don't.
Look.
Some tic reset the clock.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 12:15 AM UTC
Behaviour of Writing
In psychology pre- uni.
Case study of a mental man.
Or crazy lady on a play day.
Remarked on mental cases.
Exhibiting strange behaviour.
Writing so was stated.
A subtle gentleman perhaps.
Lady chilling in the evenings.
Picks up pen and writes.
Why I asked,
Oh why,
Oh why is writing thought strange.
We writers we,
we are not deranged.
Write because we wish to .
Scrawl to save our souls.
Scribbled wishes in verses.
Cathartic.
Words drawn because we want to.
Words drawn because we can.
Removes the daily curses.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC
One, and two, and two, and two
The people I saw to get to you
The door, the desk, the man, the bed
The thoughts of what you're going through
My face a distant helpless frown
My heart gave way when I saw you wince
My knees felt weak and Buckle-y
The thought, it came: I let you down
Control so far, we can't attain
Alternatives so distant now
Delete the wrongs this world wreaks
Loss too great, the horrid pain
A miscarriage of all our aims
No doctor can prescribe a cure
I finally scream in cathartic rage
"I thought this ******* comic was about video games"
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 8:36 PM UTC
I could punch myself in the face
or I could grow up.
None of us, or any of this
is perfect; it's okay to not
measure up. Measure to what?
The beauty of life is
that the definition is all my own.
No one can tell me what it is.
I am sitting in the sun.
I can smile.
I forgive myself.
I love
myself.
This is the best poetry I could write.
The beauty of poetry is
that the definition is all my own.
No one can tell me what it is.
I am a pearl, however misshapen
I may be the world is my oyster.
It's mine. It's mine. It's mine.
I could get used to that.
Mar 14, 2012
Mar 14, 2012 at 10:00 PM UTC
forgetting you? cannot do it with a sober mind.
I'd rather fall into a drug induced coma than try to forget you with all my pieces intact, my mind intact, my heart in place.
I want to feel forgetting as a cathartic emotion than a numbing aid.
I don't want to feel you. I feel you through the nothingness and it is overwhelming.
weeping willows weeping willows. weeping in the rain the wind carrying the weeping willows as they sing. my heart weeping for you. my willow you.
drug induced coma; forgetting her ; without the nothingness..
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 5:34 PM UTC
American city, your roads make me gasp,
Hold my breath with cancerous anxiety.
Your sidewalks,
Ancient ruins of time passed: A failed optimism for Utopian desire:
A house, a yard, a car for every person.
Now derelict, termite infested, but rented.
Chlorinated chemical water runs through rusted, moldy spickets to
Rinse pesticide seasoned vegetables.
And yet they remain so tasteless.
But who cares?
Suburban middle class zombies?
Created with media placed propaganda.
Born and inoculated with DisneypepsiMccocacola ideologies.
Oh Wal-Mart,
how we love your homogenized Chinese products.
Oh America,
how we love your multi-million dollar cathartic films,
They bring my mind to no place and inspire nothing.
Your theme park inspired retail caters to any identity I desire:
I am a professional,
My wallet lined with the best credit cards,
SUV, Hummer, Super boat, designer label, mall bought,
bleached teeth smile, with slick greasy hair style.
I'm cool, I pay for the gas.
Beep your horn, and rev your engine.
We are at war with each other.
Everyone get out of my way: road rage lifestyle: compete or die.
Big screen television dream.
Bought it at Target.
Open my cupboard: Macaroni and Cheese, delicious.
Ambian, Prozac, antibiotic, Listerine.
Collagen bovine beauty:
Manicure, pedicure, dye and wax
Acrylic nails, hair extensions
And silicone sacs.
Oh, American city
How we want to steal your money and **** your blood.
Chop your trees and cement your grass.
American city you are dead.
Jan 11, 2010
Jan 11, 2010 at 6:22 AM UTC
Slam that, thy Pen,
if thou doth so please,
in protest to earnest catharses;
Slam that, thy Pen!
Let it all out,
tell them of unfairness brought about
in a mutual way,
as if you are the Victim of outrageous Circumstances
and as if the Past vindicates more recent indiscretions.
-
Slam that, thy Pen,
in the face of yourself;
leave not thy rotting feelings
upon thy mental shelves.
Slam that, thy Pen,
that it may help you overcome.
Slam that, thy Pen,
lest ye be overrun.
Slam that, thy Pen,
in the face of your Pain.
Slam that, thy Pen,
into cathartic gain.
Slam that, thy Pen,
as I know I've done.
Slam thy ******* Pen
It's cathartic and fun.
Thus I implore;
Slam that, thy ******* Pen!
That's what the **** it's for.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 8:29 AM UTC
Her syllogisms repose trust in her adept beleaguering of unworthy opponents.
Constantly in a state of lassitude for this desultory, inure world of the insouciant youth which dwells upon it's cathartic terrain, she engages not in lachrymose nor is she crestfallen for the hope of romance and it's everlasting ineffability.
She is a fugacious moment of frisson embodied in a human form; a juxtaposition of the serendipitous moments that ever constantly come one after the other in a fickle wheel of steep highs and deep lows. All her life, this girl will lilt through the crossroads of her obstacles and show the world the efflorescence of her beauty. Hush don't speak lest you miss hearing the mellifluous music of her voice of fail to hear the lagniappe that is her name.
She is the cynosure of human attention, the goddess and we are but her humble servants. She is innocence most rare, love most coveted. She is infinite. She is peace.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 10:25 AM UTC
There's this guy who constantly gives me grief online
as if I need a reminder that I am not funny or smart
that I am incapable of posting any story without his remark
as if he should impart and bestow all of social media
with his divine and seraphic academia:
what is with that?
He posts comments about how illiterate my poetry is
how it doesn't follow the rules; the do-nots and the do's
pontificates how its not properly punctuated
as if I should give up altogether and just shine shoes
and forget trying to construct sentences
just wander in the carousel of nebula's
eternally seeking the tentacle of enemas:
what is with that?
This guy enjoys winding me up like a persistent hobby
the reverent devilment of sadistic entitlement
pushing my head under water for a digital baptism
that I should thank him for his rhetoric enlightenment
as if he was blessed with a correspondence talisman:
what is with that?
This isn't even a poem.
I am letting off steam like an overused kettle
fed up of his mortar forever rammed in my pestle
the temples are raging and my brain is just draining
to explode on cue on the next digital heckle
the cracked and broken vessel
into a vengeful steam-driven projectile:
what is with that?
This, < here > , is my only escape
and creative cathartic vent
I'll post this lament
with the stench of discontent
and tag his name and then just wait
for his feverish malcontent
that I should dare to
prevent his God-like dissent:
memo to self
to a digital antagonist
and his verbose verbal cyst
and the keyboard of twists
when you push
sometimes you get
a big shove back
so don't be surprised
by my riposte
and this poetic attack.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 8:56 PM UTC
~
March 2023
HP Poet: Thomas W. Case
Age: 53
Country: USA
Question 1: We are very happy to have you participate, Thomas. So how long have you been writing poetry, and how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?
Thomas W. Case: “I've been writing poetry since I was 16, and I've been a member of hello poetry for 3 years.”
Question 2: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).
Thomas W. Case: “The things that inspire me to write are life: the good, the bad, the ugly. Emotion inspires me to write. Poems come to me in many different ways. Sometimes in pictures, sometimes a word will pop into my head and I will write around it. And sometimes a situation in my life will transpire and I will write to process it.”
Question 3: What does poetry mean to you?
Thomas W. Case: “Poetry is cathartic for me. It's a lifesaver, it gives me a unique perspective on the world, it helps me to make sense of life. Poetry is my highway through the madness.”
Question 4: Who are your favorite poets?
Thomas W. Case: “Charles Bukowski, Pablo Neruda, Dylan Thomas, and W.B. Yeats.”
Question 5: What other interests do you have?
Thomas W. Case: “Writing short stories, reading, and spending time with my kids.”
Mr. Timetable: “Thank you so much, Thomas! We really appreciate your willingness to be the first one to be spotlighted.”
Thomas W. Case: “Thank you, man. I look forward to seeing the post and how it turns out.”
And thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed getting to know Thomas a little bit better.
– Carlo C. Gomez (aka Mr. Timetable)
We will post Spotlight #2 in April!
~
Mar 14, 2023
Mar 14, 2023 at 7:50 PM UTC
Poets go blind from writing by moonlight,
But my artist smites the moon with her luminance,
I write by her subtle, cyan, rays
And would gladly go blind for, with her, my eyes find their fill quickly,
She is the unexpected wind bouncing off the water’s surface,
And my chest is the sail,
Lifted, pushed, expanded and fulfilled to its most righteous purpose,
If the world is a stage than she is the red velvet curtain,
Commanding a sway so slight and savory
That other rags rent and burn,
No matter how mesmerizing the performance is,
A sudden hush or vibrant ovation is demanded in her wake,
A sultry swirl of goddess and girl,
Too precious to be stored with other jewels,
Elegance with every hinting glance, every rowdy inhale,
And every placement of those sinister legs,
That rams would think twice to scale,
The bend in her back is the stroke of my oils,
The pout of her lips is scarlet meat to the lions,
And the feel of her hips sum up my surreptitious desires,
Like good jazz things seem to pull back
Before the cathartic crescendos,
But to put it bluntly dear, the next time you’re here,
It may pay to freshen up with a Mentos.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 2:45 AM UTC
This world wasn't meant for me.
To be all that you can be
means you must give in
to giving up one of your desires.
When you can feel your heart
by touching your wrist
you're able to close your eyes
and feel the Earth spin.
That is transcendence.
That is comprehension.
It's what cathartic energy
once was, before sacrifice was
essential for happiness.
This world hasn't accepted me.
I've only learned to
tolerate injustice and
repetitive wrongdoings
that history has tried
to educate the masses with.
They're written in
differing languages and
many books; books that implore
morals and ethics,
but place brothers and sisters
into groups of people
destined to fail.
Simply because
minor differences are easier
to swallow than
major similarities.
That's why this world isn't
meant for me, or you.
We sacrifice
our lungs for shelter,
and our hearts for love.
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 9:43 AM UTC
Chop down the city lights of Paranoia.
Cathartic beads of sweat roll
off the horrors of your back
under the saggy breast lamps
in the pitched dreams where the nightmare kids
come to watch you sleep.
Somersaulting walls made of human tissue,
the love of your life overseas, and everything you say
comes out as water torture on hollow centers of hope.
poetry is dead.
Liars smoke ten packs a day,
social criminals stroll in marathons of perdition
across the rot of post-modern vices,
their feet stomp closer to watching faces under the bed.
'This is a story. A dream!'
Everyone sees the fire under the bed.
Watch-fires earthbound by every word
before it is said,
gagged in envy--brought to glow by spineless atoms.
Every sexless sun has a beard, a saved flirtation that singes
the vacuum of today's soul,
a dead dream because you didn't pull it from the brink.
No one has a name in poetry. A task. A point. An exit.
One bed-room apartments locked with pearls
visible only to soloist dogs.
No sorry for vagueness or shut-mouth or bleeding upwards. The meter is running....
to the pharmacy
because it could be pregnant with all the possibilities.
And the whole amphitheater wants to hear one line, the life changer you brought
--here it is: Forget your name.
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 1:47 AM UTC
Acquiesce here my love
Ameliorate my heart
The assemblage of circumstance provides dulcet ebullience
An efflorescent dalliance conflated into cathartic becoming
My bucolic bungalow made upon your callipygous
A young Life’s denouement
Your evocative elixir fetching
An erstwhile emollient embrocation
Your eloquent fingers find their way to frisson
My felicitous chatoyant gambols in glamor like a halcyon incipient made ineffable by the look of the ingénue
The labyrinthine inglenook lagoon leisurely lithe
The murmurous daffodils wink at the insouciance of your beauty
A panoply panacea, the half shadow complete as an epiphany
Quintessential to feminine riparian resplendence
Your mellifluous voice, an opulent offing, the sumptuous summery soliloquy of an angel
Cools my soul like the smell of earth after rain
Your propinquity ripples the scintilla of my spirit
Your surreptitious smile like a zephyr quietly whispers
Its redolent seraglio sempiternal in my thoughts
As skyward gazes like saccharine gossamer lilt with the knowledge of our raveling juxtaposition
a masterful pastiche, the cynosure of divine revelation
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 9:25 PM UTC
*I can't take my eyes off you..
Let me hold on
a moment more,
and the one after that
Let me look at you
let me drink from your thoughts
listen to your muted voices
I can't take my mind off you..
Let me come a li'l
Closer
eh?
Closer*
There is something 'bout shedding your emotions, one by one, before the one you love. Just like shedding your clothes, one by one. It could be as cathartic as *** could be sometimes. That feeling of being emotionally naked before him, sharing all the ***** secret. The intimacy of being one, with him. The feel of being Closer, than Closer could be..
Feb 12, 2011
Feb 12, 2011 at 9:33 PM UTC