"cements" poems
We've all felt unrequited love
I've just felt it more than most.
Maybe I'm guilty of loving too easily
Maybe I'm guilty of caring too much
But is there really such thing?
Can a person really be guilty of loving too easily?
Can a person really be guilty of loving too much?
Guilt implies some sort of crime, some form of offense
Who have I wronged?
Surely not myself
Surely not her
Maybe my only true guilt is in thinking that one could ever really be "guilty" of love at all
Because even in this type of love - in this unrequited love - beauty prevails
Surely there is no guilt in beauty.
I love her
She doesn't love me
I know this
But is this not still love?
Does the thought of her not still keep me up at night?
Is the thought of being with her not still the one thing that gets me out of bed every morning?
Of course it does.
Of course it is.
I love her
She doesn't love me
But that doesn't negate the beauty of love
For to love someone is like nothing else in life
The rush of adrenaline every time I see her face is above all others
The high that I feel when I think about her is like no other high
It's not about how she feels
It's about how she makes me feel
It's about the lessons that she has taught me
Lessons about selflessness
Lessons about persistence
Lessons about myself
Lessons about love.
One day the thought of her will pass
A relationship merely a fleeting thought
But a love that will last forever
Because unrequited love is a love like no other
A love that teaches what it's like to love
A love that cements the beauty of love in the imagination
Indeed, there is beauty in the unrequited
And for that, I have had one of the most beautiful lives that a man could live.
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 4:35 AM UTC
my body is a topic that trails the mouths of a family at dinner
it is the trail of saliva that leaves shortly after breaking a heated kiss
always leaving a bitter taste
but when did you taste me?
when did I crawl into your mouth full of cavities?
existing as I am cements chains in people's root canals
a topic for discussion
my life to debate
trans people being the forefront
it is so inconvenient and sinful
and yet its the flavor on their seething lips
kissing one another trailing more saliva
knowingly trading hate with ones mind and lips
integrating more citizens and normalizing their behavior
transphobia is the topic for discussion
Jun 18, 2021
Jun 18, 2021 at 1:25 AM UTC
The neighborhood is gone
Familiar faces
No where to be seen
Portland cements hides
The dusty street below
Progress left its scars
Razed our shotgun house
And poured an interstate..,
The corner gang no more
So precious few
Can be accounted for
They are the ones
Who lie so still and cold
Beneath incongruous slabs of stone
With names of barefoot friends
I used to know
Copyright Louis Brown
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 11:58 AM UTC
I could stare at myself in the mirror for hours.
It starts in my extremities.
a chill creeps its way into my abdomen,
and cements my joints.
The bacteria residing in my intestines
dine on my organs for supper,
they blow up my stomach until I'm
pregnant with air, my non-existent baby
forcing thick liquid out every orifice.
It tickles,
when the flies visit my rotted skin.
Their steps light and playful,
turn sinister, and force their way into my
open mouth to lay their eggs.
I wait, as the larvae devour
my brain tissue.
When I have nothing left to give,
I'll pull down my lower eyelid
and let the maggots slide out.
Feb 3, 2021
Feb 3, 2021 at 10:17 AM UTC
Once upon a time was I a prodigy,
Wandering and drifting to find a phrontistery,
A fantasy beyond thinking,
I was a child of precocious virtuosity.
But now time has liberated from my corpsic avatar,
And to God, I was announced a groom to a bride called progeria,
Not only I but now the entire human race seems to undergo ephemera,
A phenomena not to be taken dilemma,
Death do us part dear poet
Though through our good deeds our work serves eviternal, sempiternal-and eternal.
I know not who I am,
But the tombstone that is scarred with my name cements a legacy that
Buries everybody's histories.
Death is but void and will lead me to become a martyr,
For I deeply believe that poetry is the finest art And not a literature,
I am certain that a spiritual minister on the day of my burial will fail to point out that I was a sinister,
They will all say great things about me-
Where is the wrong, where is the perfect picture?
I once decapitated a seraph for I but thought it was a boobook,
Look!
Now I can be pseudocodenymic numerical, alphabetic artist.
Yet, what am I rather than being a poet?
For the reason that death will deprive me of my rights and belongings,
I don't wish to fall in love but sometimes I get caught up that she might be the daughter of Jesus,
Because I can't get my mind off her celestrial features.
Who else but her makes my story worth telling?
But yet I was in bedlam because of her,
Yelling like a certified lunatic playing,
I however can't forget the asylum's floors and ceilings,
The horrible medicine that got me to be always day dreaming.
Is this the same "cycle of psychopathic love that all these poets failed to describe?"
Affirmatively! This is something they will never outmatch,
Sadly, this all seeing sun never saw
That me and her were a match since this world begun,
Hence, I had to give her up to win everybody's heart,
I gained a voice of thunder to be crowned the darkness author alive,
So I ask, where are the poets of yesteryear? The nail biting, acerbic, alcoholic nighthawk ******** who truly knew how to write?
WHERE IS WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE? WHERE IS EMILY DICKINSON? WHERE IS EDGAR ALLAN POE?
indeed I outmatch them all, do you know why?
It's because I am still alive!
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 11:18 AM UTC
O, these fine, fashionable, fondlers
Of pondering wisdom’s,
In the idioms of earthen
Consents,
Gray case encrusted,
Attitudinal cements.
Parapet and barrier,
Laments of rancid carrion.
Self bestowed upon slinking shoulders.
Into the Frey of Man speak,
Into the realm of blood and bone,
Ejected into the otherings
That man alone bestows.
Upon his brothers ****** brow,
Upon his trodden heart,
They seek definition
In epitome
In enfilades of bias and violence.
They languish under opinionated stars,
Under sun’s of blood red risings.
O that the voice of this could only die a death
Befitting some horrid criminal,
And peace come in its stead.
A vision of a dreamer
A poet writing wishes
Clichés of lost hopes
In search of soulful riches.
Jan 2, 2011
Jan 2, 2011 at 6:13 PM UTC
We are mules,
Moving matter here and there,
While men in suits and pristine
Combed hair,
Wax shined shoes
And a plastic smile,
Say "no, not here, there!"
Followed by some monotonous management bile:
"Yeah Ted, great squash game
Your blue sky thinking will pave the way!
Yeah bye..."
"Christ, that guys lame"
The office applauds and cements his fame,
While the mules keep ambling on,
Moving matter that doesn't matter
Until the last days light has shone.
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 9:02 PM UTC
I've never been much of an artist,
but I will paint a portrait
of kisses on your chest,
if you let me.
Matisse has nothing on
the beauty the comes from
the collision of
my lips and your neck,
your lips and my neck.
We are paintbrush and canvas,
both.
The curvature of your lips
belongs in a museum.
I'm keeping it
for my private collection.
My awe cements me
to the bed.
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 12:12 AM UTC
Is it desperation
Is it realization
Is it weakness
That brings me here
Can it be my initials
To settle in the concrete
Can I get away
Before it cements
-JCM-
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 2:35 AM UTC
Those **** things
lurch around each turn
as if they are lost children
who's mother is also lost
in some isle at Costco.
I know those arching
towers of rows
that hold cardboard boxes
reaching to skylights--
where each passing cloud
blinks for me
as I wander wide eye
for Costco brand cat food
hidden somewhere in the back.
*** holes are not the best at digging
but it's impossible for
my town to fill them,
as each one is a reminder
to our people
that we are irreplaceable.
That when time comes
and the clouds find their resting place
we will no longer crowd the isles
of Costco nor will clouds keep
blinking for us.
Instead our personality
will have dug it's trench
a minor engravement
into the cements and asphalt
of which we called our home.
For us they will leave
our history, appraisal
to the life that has thrived
a marker
that there was beauty
before us
and beauty with us.
Dec 23, 2015
Dec 23, 2015 at 4:33 AM UTC
I almost cried because someone read what I wrote
Someone understood me
And I felt this lump in my throat
Was I scared of feeling so exposed?
Or was I anxious because now anything goes?
They've gotten to see me naked
No hiding behind any smile
Would they love my words
Or think that they are vile?
Do they truly believe I am worthwhile?
Self doubt, my greatest enemy
Always a friend it pretends to be
Convincing me I'm wrong about what's right
It keeps me home on Saturday nights
It cements my walls that I build around my soul
Self doubt, I'm afraid it won't leave until I'm old
I almost cried because someone read what I wrote
Someone understood me
And I felt this lump in my throat
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 3:32 AM UTC
Maybe the ocean whispers things into our ears
and it eats through all the filling in our heads
cements itself in that one place we were keeping secret
and the visions of the truths we wanted replace themselves
with hollow melodies and salty foam.
Sep 18, 2023
Sep 18, 2023 at 10:06 AM UTC
Feel the force of the broken ones
Blindly lashing at the branches
Afraid to strike the root and see
The end to their negative solidarity
Streets seethe under daylight’s pressure:
The negative solidarity movement marches forth.
But I remember as I stand here watching on,
That they say the night is always darkest before the dawn.
In fear the masses converge
Under banners devoid of vision,
Understanding,
And love.
No light of freedom glints in eyes
That look for solutions from above:
“The state will cure the sickness
of self-centeredness,
Greed,
And Lust,
It will bring the order to our lives
Our cities,
Our nation,
Our trust.”
But the state can protect us only
From the violence we cause each other
Its touch never brings the love we crave
From every man as our brother.
It cements its rule with force’s power
That in love’s absence, projects a veneer
Of a nation’s people bound together
Though, in fact, they’re bound by fear.
The state’s hand touches where we’ve succumbed
To the blind hatred that keeps us enchained
To our selfishness that preys on others
And acts on lies we’ve entertained.
The state lets us live with the sad folly
Of not looking our fellow man in the eyes
And knowing his pain, troubles and joy
While living with him every day of our lives.
I dream one day we’ll realize the truth
That our nation was not of fiat born
But birthed by freedom’s present light
From which the state has had us torn.
I dream one day we’ll see the truth
That love and freedom must lead the fight
Against state slavery and its chains
But ’till then we march:
Left, right,
Left, right,
Left, right.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 1:06 AM UTC
My heart overflows with love for you.
I can’t describe what you do to me on the inside.
You are the only being on earth who reaches inside
of me, and touches the tip of my heart with your soul.
How on earth can this type of love feel the way it does?
I can’t breath, I can’t see, I can’t even reason.
But yet, I can breath, I can see, I can even reason.
You make me feel a love so deep, I cannot describe it.
This type of love isn’t possible, yet I know that it is,
because I feel it for you.
Time stands still when you and I are together.
Almost as if distance never set us apart.
When I’m in pain, you know to call, you
seem to know when I need you most.
There must be an invisible bond that
connects us still, just like it did when we were together.
This type of love is scary for me, I never felt anything
like this before. We don’t even have to say anything,
our love comes out in the air; it comes out of our pores.
The love surrounding us is like tension in the room, you
can’t see it, but you sure as hell can feel it, and it feels good too!
Seeing you, the real you when I look into your eyes,
cements the bond that connects our souls.
I don’t think that I will ever stop loving you.
You are my destiny; I can feel it in my soul…mate
Jan 11, 2021
Jan 11, 2021 at 10:01 AM UTC
I dream of the summers apon a distant shore.
Visions of a paint by number life.
And old friends I seldom think of anymore.
In my mind I live in a world that does not exist.
As the smoke flows off into a night here I stand .
Dreams so endless apon my command .
Trying to mask my feeling's underneath a smile.
Another drink cements the mask for only
a little while.
Ive tasted passion kept warm in sin.
Kept sweet secrets acted as only friends.
Torment does linger from all ive kept locked within.
She can be with him but is no stranger to me.
trapped in a game.
The soul slowley breaks of what can never be.
The clown must wash away the face paint
every night to so his sanity can remain.
That vessel haunts these sheets.
Calmness on the cusp of a life insane.
Im a madman to the blind eye to this world
im forced to exist to which to many give in.
My mind roams free.
As my soul and true voice stays locked within.
Mar 29, 2010
Mar 29, 2010 at 6:16 AM UTC
Open letter
Dear B
It overwhelms me to write this because this week I've been speechless. So speechless. You've witnessed this as my eyes suddenly watered because staring into your eyes showed me something I had never seen. I always knew, but after five months apart, and seeing that stare through a screen, I forgot the magic that lies behind it and the feelings it stirs in me. That stare alone reminds me of everything I've always wanted and never knew how to get, never knew what it was worth if I ever did. I've been searching for this thing forever. Anxious and needy and impatient. So I apologize to the men I never loved, because I thought maybe "love" was something you speak out loud when you crave their body or just want someone to stay around just a little longer. I mistook all of them for something only you could be, hoping that they could fill the gap I never knew was always going to be empty until you came along. But I never knew until I knew.
Loving you gives me a new life that is lighter, easier, yet fuller at the same time. Being with you, holding your hand, knowing that I am yours and you are fully mine, it cements a feeling of peace, finally. And I just never would have thought as we crossed paths that summer 2013 during soar, I'd fall so in love with that brown boy from California wearing a tank top so boastful of his LA roots. But I did, and each day you allow me to be yours still feels brand new. Five months without you can be described as "it literally knocked her down at night, and raised her up in the morning, for when she dragged herself off to bed, having spent another day without his presence, her heart beat like a gloved fist against her ribs." Well, I'm not Hagar nor you Milkman, and my love is not affliction, but I ached those months to be next to you long enough for pecks to turn to passionate kisses that excluded the world. Waters rushing through me strong enough to erase anyone that is not you from my body, and force my mouth to refute those who ever visited. "You never had me, I am not who I was then. I am only his, all of his."
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 8:19 AM UTC
Almost effortlessly it appears to be
somewhat divine
cuts the line so fine through skin and bone
homes in on the malady that's affected me
and burns it out.
Laser beams unpicking seams
I deem it best to just accept the light
lay back and relax
while the laser attacks
me
internally.
It's like Star Wards
tied by hospital cords
and it's scary
but interesting and fascinating
hyperventilating
fear
the laser comes near
closing my eyes
nobody dies who comes into the light
Yeah alright
I'll believe
but the laser freezes and does not burn
which is of some concern
did not expect that turn of events.
The surgeon cements me together
he's clever
and say's 'all done
nothing to worry about'
then goes off with a gun in his hand
to laser beam land?
Everything moves so fast
where once a plaster cast would have done,
Today,
everyone wants to blast you with a laser
gun.
Zapped.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 11:32 PM UTC
it's not a prison that
keeps me segregated from the
general population to
protect their neurotypical minds
that are terrified by
a blood lust directed toward the self
or perhaps that urge to consume
and consume
all just foreplay for the
grand finale where i'm
bent over the toilet and riding
that stratospheric high
catapulting me out of this world
and into the forest of stars
a pinprick in the infinite black of
space
but do not misunderstand
it is not some sort of jailbreak
a streaking figure in the
black and white stripes of shame
clinging to my exiled body
it is more the futile pulling
i am not stuck in the trap
i am the trap
and i lock down on my
vices and the
self destruction that sings
the most sickly sweet songs
that somehow convince me
that if i am pulled even tighter
i might somehow break the mould
and no longer lash myself to
those actions and thoughts
that terrify
and destroy
i worry i am the strip
of glue that hangs in the kitchen
to catch the fruit flies that
come to visit in the summer and
pester me until
they land their feet on my
sticky
sickly
trap
they can't escape
and so they die
is that what i do to them?
is that what i do to you?
do you become paralyzed
by some sort of
noxious agent or
a viscous bog that
cements you here
and forces you to watch
eyelids held open
as i dance with the demons that
you assure yourself
you will be able to tame
you will be able to banish
but they're the one's who've been there
decades of companionship
and torture
Stockholm syndrome that
ties me to them
through some sort of
vital connection which i can't escape
clipping the umbilical cord
and leaving me bleeding on the ground
aching for that part of me
that is gone
so i pull myself
i stretch myself so thin
and the harder that
your fingers fight to escape my trap
the harder i clamp down
because i want you to go away
to prevent the inevitable pain
and yet i pull you tighter
i lock your fingers into me
my nails digging into your back
as if somehow i can affix myself
to you.
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 1:48 PM UTC
the ribbon tied. the seal pressed, neat. and the astute.
hello, stranger. an eroding corpse among a bed of buds
coroner's eyes over you. it was due. sour.
worms gather. flies flood in like a plague and the
consequential axe wound cements its innards as the
roots of the trees pull you six feet under.
degrading still. the aftermath and the smell of it.
rot and decay. i extend my hand, reaching out for rose and silk
to pass the time but as i tamper with the flourishing buds
the uneven petals wither collapsing into themselves
and as my feet are greeted by the familiar roots
i too follow.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 7:53 AM UTC
This virtue
I have learned from your warmth
and understanding of my imperfections.
This time
who would ever know it would be this intriguing youre not here and I'm not there.
The anxiety
drilling disbelief in my head,
when I think of you and hear your voice in my head,
hope and belief in this love pours itself and cements the holes in my mind.
Avid desire
to be beside you and tell you everything,
I want to hear everything from you and how you are.
It takes time to be together again, none of it would happen without the patience you taught me.
I look forward to seeing you again.
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 1:52 PM UTC
Scared.
Shaking.
Can barely breathe.
Tears well up, attempting to break the surface.
Insides getting torn up by mistakes; mine and others.
Regret forms, pouring pain down my throat.
Chest aching, torment cements in an empty stomach.
Needing comfort, but my only resource is dry, dusty, gone.
Stolen.
Ran off.
Want bleeds me cold.
Need ***** me empty.
Pain steals all other feeling.
Tears are needed to cleanse my soul, but I can't find them.
They won't come screaming down my cheeks like I so desperately want.
I just want to wash away all this, wish away all this.
I'm all huddled up,
begging for solace.
begging for some sort of recognition from the universe.
But it won't come.
Not yet.
Nov 25, 2010
Nov 25, 2010 at 7:06 AM UTC
I grew up in the city. That's what's I've always known. And just like I know the city. I'm learning more about you each day.
I want to know you like I know the city. I want to walk along your streets. I want to know each story from each of your buildings. I want to know of the walls you build around you. I want to memorize the path to each of your corners.
The cracks in your sidewalks are the scars on your legs and I want to introduce myself to every single one of them
I want to dig deep into the crevices, into your history, into your foundations and see what cements you together and tears you down
I want to be the paint on your pedestrian lane. I want to be your stop sign. Cause you, you are my traffic light, telling me when to go... When to slow down... and when to stop...
I want to wrap my arms around you like rush hour traffic wraps around the city.
My heart rises along with each new skyscraper reaching for the stars.
But even if my heart soars up into the skies...even as each floor of each building has a different story to tell, It's not the buildings that make the city. It's the lights. And you...
You're the hole in the wall ramen restaurant that no one goes to but everyone secretly likes
You're the park I sit in to get my daily dose of vitamin d.
You're the rooftop of my apartment-- the only place in the city where I actually know I really truly feel like me.
Your skin is the used bookstore where the history is not in the text but in the pages, and your voice is my favorite record store, because you tug at my heart strings when you say "i wanna hold your hand" --
It's such a comfort to know that there's a convenience store half a block from my apartment but more comforting to know you're right here with me
I grew up falling asleep to the roar of trucks rolling past my window --I can't sleep in quiet houses.
But Since I've heard you breathe--I can't be calmed by any other sound
And just as the street painter spends each day memorizing the ups and downs of the ever changing skyline of the city, I want to memorize your mind, your body, your soul.
I grew up in the city.
This city knows all the hardships that pass through. All the broken promises and the unfulfilled dreams.
But this city also knows of truth--Knows of hope...
This city...knows what love is.
It has experienced the greatest love stories heard and unheard of...
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 1:05 AM UTC
Writing is an Art
so many people say
Selection of the words
arranged in such a way.
These words are there for all
not just for the select few
and we all have a choice
to arrange them as we do.
It's not a thing to rush
but don't take to much time,
to start just write them down
before they leave your mind.
Then we can take some time
now they are down on paper
To edit as we wish
which can also be a caper.
So many words we chose
as we move our words our way
but we find to smooth it out
that we're throwing most away.
We want our characters
to have unique temperaments.
so that when the story is read out
the audience cements.
If we can't get that bond
with our writing it may taper
but we can play around at will
as long as it's put down on paper.
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 8:45 AM UTC
perhaps it is less than great,
maybe a poor mediocre,
but such as it is, is mine,
unique, and it gifts me
easy expression of my
experience, conveying
my excitations, aliving,
freely divining what’s
within and without,
and to exhale said
thoughts and
observations
si so
we can be apart and together,
touch without touching, e v e n
love each other with our e v e r
meeting and that miracle presents
and is a present, this presentation
of my cells impressed upon yours,
thus fashioning newly creative
combinations…
this is what I am thinking,
this is what I am divining,
this is what my reasoning,
permits, encourages, creates
and with your reading this,
cements us in ways unseen
all the b u t s…and hesitation
marks that disconnect us,
are sundered and we are
a forever till reason no longer
matters, or our cells can no
longer divide and recombine
and reproduce our memories,
which are our connective tissues…
nml
3:39am
10-20-24
Oct 20, 2024
Oct 20, 2024 at 3:47 AM UTC
Luck is my legend
it leads me down the pathways of fate
it plays havoc with my prospects
and cements a place in time
for every breath of wind
that might shorten my breath.
May luck prevail.
Mar 30, 2021
Mar 30, 2021 at 9:27 PM UTC