"chronological" poems
The antique shop,
a cauldron where memories
from far and near boil and froth,
where chronological order
didn't matter, time stood still,
part real, as much magic,
different lives from distant lands and time
rolled in to one.
Here they met, by chance,a man
and a mysterious woman,with an eye for unusual,
among what was on display were
things a conman would seek
and also favorite stuff fit for kings,
artifacts and articles they must have used
or hankered after.
Past uses these museum pieces
as baits for us, secretly preparing us
to surrender before future,
unkind and rude in mind;
he changed roles as both con and king,
there was a constant yes,
she was the mate in each
he couldn't take eyes off her,
and she asked what he looks for,
"The famous ****** quilt,
that was to be mine twice before,
I missed making it mine,
narrowly every time"
He wondered how did he
make up that story so quick.
"I can take you to the quilt,
but it isn't here" she said
not a bit hesitant
He was flabbergasted by
the turn of events,as if
a hidden scripted move shows the way
They left by her car,
she was eloquent about
the effects of the ****** quilt.
As they stood near the ****** quilt,
in this room he thought was part
of an antique shop, the place looked deserted,
and her eyes shone when she suggestively said
"Want to test the effect? Don't be disappointed"
It wasn't. How could one imagine, that
the quilt can be so voluptuous.
That secret shook him out of his shell,
she had nothing to do with antique of any kind,
just another visitor like him, and the quilt
was an ingenious plot she hatched
in keeping with my sudden flourish,
the quilt, was a new addition in her bed
patch worked in silk, light weight,
it wasn't a blanket, but ****** in its very touch
it was them, the moment of adventure they found
had brought the rapture,who would regret?
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 1:23 PM UTC
The night approaches swiftly, like a tiger on the prowl,
As the night moves forward you can hear the hoots of Great Horned Owl.
The hours pass by and the clock keeps on ticking,
And here I lay on the couch just thinking.
In my time of relaxation I pondered and I thought,
Is the path that I’m on a wise one or not?
Hour after hour I begin to feel sleepy.
So I rush to my bed, relaxed, until I feel something beneath me.
In a rage the room turns pitch black, with flashes of red and yellow.
And in a panic I jump off my bed and run like a crazed fellow.
The door slams shut and my panic becomes deeper,
Until I hear the voice of a mysterious twisted creature.
“He says be wise with decisions that are made with haste,
You would never want a fortunate opportunity to go to waste.
Never feel forced to be on time with what you choose,
Because it will not be the respect of others, in which you lose.
Indecisiveness is wisdom, which with time will bloom,
So from here on out do not spend your days in gloom.
If these words are not followed, a different life you shall live.
A life in which you are selfish and refuse to charitably give.
One that is chronological and filled with bland affairs,
A life that is careless and lacking in truths or dares.
In the blink of an eye light pours in from spontaneous lightening,
And in a matter of seconds this all feels more frightening.
I turn to open the door, but the door will not open,
Scared for my life, I scream “This isn't the path I have chosen.”
As I lift my head up and turn around, the monster in no longer there,
At last my room is filled with light, it was all just an insightful nightmare.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 6:06 PM UTC
I will write myself to sleep.
I will write long, pathetic
poems instead of texts to my
ex. I will write
the novel of my life
instead of asking you
for attention.
I will write
the new bible
on isolation, chronological
volumes
on loneliness.
I will write ten million
haikus before I write
you again.
I will write love letters
to myself until my fingers
bleed, until I
believe them.
I will write the handbook
on neglect, the idiots guide
to dealing with it.
I will write vague
fortune cookies about
self-acceptance and
self-forgiveness.
By the time I'm finished,
I will have exhausted
my depression.
I will write Shakespearean
prose about this
rejection.
I will write suicide notes
on my shield and armor for
protection and I will
save myself with them.
I will write angry, violent speeches
to rally the voices
in my head.
I will write a pledge of allegiance
to myself and recite it daily,
after coffee.
I will pray to the Gods of
"move on," and "get over it."
I will baptize myself
in holy water
that makes me
stop caring
completely.
Holy water, oh well, whatever
move on. Hallelujah.
I will write the ten commandments
on how to be
abandoned.
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 3:10 AM UTC
To be loved by a writer
Is to be immortalized
You will live on forever in her writing
Your quirks,
Your ideas,
Your insecurities,
Writers notice everything
And we never forget
You might catch her smiling at you
For what seems like no reason at all
But she's just trying to describe
The exact color of your eyes
To be loved by a writer
Is to have your entire relationship in written word
All you have to do is read and re-live everything again
Your first kiss,
Your first fight,
Your first date
Nostalgic memories in chronological order
And you may even learn something you never knew
Since everything will be in her point of view
To be loved by a writer
Is to see her frustration
Because she wishes she could be an artist
Since no words serve you justice
She wishes she could just paint a picture
And then they would understand
Because no amount of words could perfectly depict
Your hair sticking up,
Your abundance of freckles,
You wearing glasses
She gets upset when she thinks
She'll never fully portray all the things you say and do
But she'll never run out of ways to say "I love you"
To be loved by a writer
Is to be eternal
And to never fully disappear
And no matter what, she'll see you everywhere
Even when she opens her mind and escapes reality
Because she is the writer
And you are her writing
For you own her heart
From which her words flow
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC
12-17-2-13
Her face flooded with scarlet
her nose flushing out bright red
Did I do it?
Did I do that?
How could I just do that;
was it someone else instead?
She says three separate people
control the thoughts inside my head.
"which one is the realest" she asks.
I'm not pretending when I ask for amending.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 2:57 AM UTC
I've been looking at the world from a different perspective
IG filters and Snapchat interceptions
I was off the grid, I am now in inception
Social media dance floors
no escape or exceptions
what do you stand for?
put your hands in the septic
so your arms can take all the **** that
Your legs normally dealt with
Apartment, complex complicated life consequences
Brothers life deciphered
into the trenches
Despite all of the help we lent him
Life can be a loan when you are alone
It can get expensive
Don't own a home,
but I could show you what rent is
I could show you what hustle is,
I'm that relentless
Slick mouth, silver tounge...this is manifested
Bike peddling, rebelling Ambidextrous
Quiet devilish, my medicine makes most hella lit
I speak in crooked tongues like most nuns who settle with
Being Singular minded there Vibes are so celibate
A courier in this Corredor settlement
How do I, in these times, stay not high but relevant
I'm confined in thin lines, tell them **** time,
if the sunshine, makes us dumb blind
Like retail and it's details with the big signs
See this conclusion is just a visual illusion
A cesspool in the mainstream visual pollution
This vortex is just a digital confusion
Digits to acidic, hash tags for the lab rats to abuse them
watch me slipstream into a hazmat suit and snap back to an audience all the toxics that I'm using
my minds a clock incapsulated in the bottom of a backpack but only in math class, I state facts for your amusement
How can you do this?! Who the **** are you kid?!
I'm Duke Nukem with a scorpion fist ready to hiduken!
I'm Isaac Newton with a paint brush when I do this
Painting photosynthesis with my sentences, I conclude with...
Nothing but a chronological order I cause a cascade of disorder
I'm on the edge don't **** with me and my border...can't **** with me I'm the best this visual mess is what your ordered
Apr 23, 2019
Apr 23, 2019 at 3:33 PM UTC
---
a minute or so
to experience
birth
seventy years
(give or take ten)
to experience
life
and a
millisecond
to be
ushered into eternity
soulsurvivor
(c) 5/29/2015
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 1:37 PM UTC
the wrong atmospherics of transmission
move in uninvestigated chaotic archives
red and pink turbulent storms swarm across
deep space frequencies in imaginative
currents of pulsars
that are translated into phases
each represented in diverse
conflicting modes of expression
in obsessive grooves of consciousness
cut up components of recycled narratives
audibly fixating on vibrations
that sound across the universe
in diffused spirals of manic fluctuations
converting archaic symbols into equivalents
of dust surfaces that oxidise in intermittent epochs
and deposit a rediscovered earth
an expansive transferable construction
of accidental providence
that allows for expression in artificially generated realities
hallucinated images that float
across the consciousness of the cosmos
producing visions that punctuate rational thought
become preoccupied with the conception
of interplanetary transpeciation
counting the chronological diversity
of those that occupy the black, blank
vacuum of space
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 7:54 PM UTC
I thought I was dying
Smog
Holy
Electrifying
Crumbling of leaves
Beneath swollen knees
Respite from
Can you call it mind altering
Succumbed by disease
Leaking
I devoured
Aspects, hints of true
Licking fingers
Until they were cold and blue
Full, chronological breaths
Eruption
Then the infite thawing
I’d echo words spoken
Between eroding teal beams
The repition
Slight hints at recognition
I thought I was dying
Forest turned
Ash soaked air
Would have taken anyone
Yet you stood there
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 12:10 AM UTC
i have been introduced to a fragmented universe
blue and silver
amid temporal ruins
oxidized epochs extract from me
thought processes and aural distillations
of a catatonic rage, that discards all trivia
in its scrutiny of minds
in a chronological diversity of words and images
it is a kinetic fluency of gestures
in an ****** calligraphy of expansive
transferable threads of thought
it is the real and the imagined
one that precludes inquiry
which leaves me infused
with a compulsion of composed complications
in episodic inspired delirium
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
I want to remind you of all the times we shared.
When I helped you stand in an elevator at 8 years old because you were too drunk to stand yourself.
When you missed my last band concert because getting high and crying over him was more important.
When you told me I treat you like a dog, but I get anxiety whenever I'm around you.
When you told my brother he should have never been born. A drunk man's words are a sober man's thoughts, you know.
When you said I was too immature to decide if I should stay at your house or not.
When you stopped being my safe place.
When you tried to make me feel guilty for not coming out to you sooner. It made you mad that even though you have been calling it a phase for a year that I didn't think you'd exept me.
How about the time I tried to put my younger brother to sleep and you yelled at me for asking you not to distract him while cleaning; he would never get to sleep that way. But I was "scoulding you".
Don't forget when I was 4 years old and you came to visit me and promised me a new booksgelf for all my moovies, and didn't even remember the next time I saw you (a month later).
And I've been told plenty of time of when you left me with my grandma to go get some food, and came back about 4 days later for your child.
I was sick once and I remember throwing up, wishing my mom was there to hold my hair, but I figured I hadn't seen her in so long that maybe if I prayed she would hear me up in hevan?
When you dropped me off without saying I love you, even though I said it three times and I was mad.
Now pick those out in perfect chronological order. Tell me what was the old you. Tell me you changed. Lie to me. Im already used to it.
Now you might understand why I'm counting down the days until I live with my father.
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 2:33 AM UTC
One hundred years of solitude
and Marquez still couldn't shut you up,
your words tear down the walls of Macondo,
heckling the Buendías, poking fun at Aureliano
and his golden fishes. The circular history
spins to a halt, and I fold down
the corner of a page, as if closing the book
could save the city built on paper,
on the Formica tabletop
of an old café with a broken clock
A few chapters back,
you were chastising time,
saying one day you'd
crack your watch open,
rearrange the gears, twirl the dials
and steal back from the ticking hands
that steal so much from you. On page 178,
you committed abominations,
spooning sugar into espresso,
and declared your love for Dali because
the man melted time,
didn't care for anything
not molded to the back of a horse.
Cranberry scone finished,
you ruffle the newspaper,
bemoaning the stockbrokers
who grow fat and complacent
on the crumbs of seconds,
chewing chronological cud, you called it,
but you said nothing could ever pin you down,
much less some cheap Timex
on a nylon strap. Cast out of the fourth dimension,
Marquez scribbles graves for the Buendías,
in death, they've forgotten the original sin
and the Colonel forges fish
from the gold fastenings on his casket
ad infinitum.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 1:11 PM UTC
this depression
grips me like the rope thats soon to **** me
it's visible in my blank ****** expression
nothing is going to cure me
no one with a title, forget your medical profession
I believe its passed down genetically, chronological succession
but I don’t have my elders' strength, I’m choosing secession
leaving this place
but don’t call it regression,
because I own sole possession
of the knowledge that this life never gets better,
now do you understand? reading comprehension?
I became a master at hiding these feelings, skillful repression
and no I was never happy, there's my confession
how's that for a first impression?
in a world filled with prejudicial oppression and money hungry obsession
we’re G-d's material possession
unfortunately all the others will look on, intentional indiscretion
so yes, blame yourself, and discuss all the things you could've changed at my funeral procession
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 3:59 PM UTC
"This won't hurt."
"Maybe later, darling"
"Yes, we're nearly there."
"Nothing's going to change, it's just Daddy will live at his new house, and Mummy will stay living here."
"Things will be so much better when you get to secondary school."
"You'll definitely use what we learn in this lesson in future life."
"No, it's Daddy that doesn't want you to get your ears pierced, I'm fine with it."
"We'll be best friends forever, won't we?"
"No, I liked him before you liked him."
"I hate you."
"I love you"
"These exams are the most important things you've done so far."
"That haircut looks so good on you!"
"Of course I know how to pierce ears, who doesn't?!"
"These exams are the most important things you've done so far."
"Things will be so much better when you get to university."
"Nah, no-one's actually allergic to MDMA, I reckon it's a government conspiracy."
"Seven inches, swear down."
"Oh, that assignment? It's at home."
"No, honestly darling, I love your tattoo!"
"I love you."
"I won't be late."
"Now you're in the real world!"
Any sentence that starts with the words "When I was your age..."
"It's not that I don't like him..."
"Oh come on! It'll be fun."
"You're too young to be this sad."
"This won't hurt."
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 4:26 PM UTC
transparent boundaries in a mind
mark out the blank vacuum of space
scrutinize other minds discard all trivia
extract with a kinetic incisiveness
required information
in a chronological diversity of images
speak with the fluency of an abrupt halt
which is maximized to reduce an effect
on the skeletal calisthenics of
introspective histrionics
by acquired extrasensory faculties
by that very mind, by that very mind
a neurobiological transmutation
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 2:26 PM UTC
It is 9:23 AM and I'm not doing my homework.
Instead I'm writing poetry, wearing your sweatshirt.
You just washed it, so it shouldn't smell like you but it does.
It doesn't smell like dryer sheets, it smells like mint. It smells vaguely earthy, like tea and coffee and nutmeg and all the other smells that I've come to associate with you.
It is 9:04 AM and two teachers come walking through the door. You hold out your hand, and I take it. I could kiss you, but instead we are cuddling with my head on your shoulder and your head on my head and our right hands clasped in a grip of love and your left hand in my hair and your lips against my head whispering 'i love you, grace' and I whisper it back, my lips barely moving because it doesn't take much effort to love you, so why should it take effort to tell you? Our hearts beat as one and we breathe together and it's so much more intimate than anything I've ever experienced. I gave up my purity years ago, and it wasn't even close to the intimacy of sitting here with you.
It is 8:50 AM and you tell me to lean on your shoulder. At first you're tense and unsure, but then you let yourself relax into me.
It is 8:45 and I walk towards you in the hallway. You turn me right around and whisper that we should go to the couch in the corner, where no one will find us.
It is 9:30 and I'm still wearing your sweatshirt and I could've gotten things done but I'm so lovestruck that all I can do is write run-on sentences that refuse to turn into prose.
It is 9:31 and I'm really bad at endings, so let's just never say goodbye.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 10:35 AM UTC
Younger men, much younger, wash up against me.
Sometimes desperation, sometimes belt notching.
It's not a matter of age or experience or skill.
It's the unearned arrogance and presumption that puts me off
And it has nothing to do with chronological age, either.
I don't want to be with a tally ho' of any sort. And it's not about what he can buy with money. Thoughtful generosity is quite another thing, though.
I want...I want...someone who's been hurt, who's experienced loss and reeled under it, lived through it and who has survived and thrived.
Who is both softer and harder for it. Who has compassion for and expectations of me. Who can be harsh and tender with me.
And me no less for him.
//
What is physical attractiveness, anyway?
It's not conventional, plastic perfection. You cling to that fallacy, you lose.
Sometimes, I am toppled into vulnerability by the shape of his mouth, the feel of his cheek when I touch, the way light or emotion moves in his eyes, his voice when he is on the phone for work, the way hair lies on his arm, how he is in conversation with a child or pet, the strength of his legs, personal scent, the unguarded expression caught. The way he hums.
An unexpected sweetness that moves me.
Grace
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 1:16 PM UTC
Mimes and clowns
Jesters and jokers
Making their rounds
To the chimney chain smokers
All walks of life
In chronological order
Bashful and blushing
Prepositions of stringless intimacy
Hellbent to find release
It's all folly
It's a misguided preface
The ongoing destruction of agriculture
Living under power lines
Filter feeding
Edit that
It consists of accessible ideas
"I ain't pointing fingers
I ain't naming names
But if the shoe fits
You can't call it a blame game"
Polishing off a bottle of Pinot Noir
As per usual
-Tommy Johnson
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 5:05 PM UTC
You call me an inspiration
Overcoming all this devastation
I don't feel any different
Beneath my skin
Is every hurtful word said
Laid out in chronological order
Starting from the day I decided to be myself
Instead of hiding behind doors meant for clothes
And you can say I had it easy
You can say I took all of the glory
But you know my name
You don't know my story
And my story is written on my arms
Written in notebooks
Where my notes should be
Instead I have outlines
About how much you meant to me
And I was told to pay attention
Listen to today's lesson
But I had already learned mine
I was two days ahead of time
And why apologize
When all you do is speak lies
I don't want your pity
Or your comments that you think are witty
So please save your half hearted words of encouragement
I don't need your secondhand prayers
Just let me be myself
And I won't need to cuss you out
Or live with doubt
About the way people see me
Everyone wants to be seen rather than heard
But my words are the only way I'm visible
So why cut out my tongue
Then ask why I am not outspoken
Or some lesbian token
Just because I don't shed tears in front of you
Doesn't mean that I don't feel pain
You asked me why I wanted to **** myself
And I told you I wanted to be happy
A life without me seems almost perfect
But people tell me I'm worth it
So it must be true
I can look at the sky a thousand times
And still wonder why its blue
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 9:22 PM UTC
There I stood.
Body trembling, hearing only manic depressive echoes.
On one side, mournful cries, on the other, sheer harmonics.
There was a feeling of dream-like reality.
Some great force enveloped my body, compelling me to stagger forward.
With no realization of the whereabouts of my being,
I conceded to follow my feelings, as I always did.
With each step I took,
I could see and feel and experience a new part of my life that had already happened.
It was a chronological walk in time.
The conflicting noises ahead continued to get louder and more distinct.
On one side there was a gnashing of teeth; screaming and yelling ruled.
It was riotous, and strange looking people were festering about.
They scowled and spat at me; the smell--repelling.
On the other side, there was a great feeling of unity.
Great stillness and serene calmness.
An entity secure within itself.
There were much fewer on this side.
I chose to walk close to this side.
My knees buckled, but I miraculously remained standing.
There I stood; facing the Creator.
Anticipating God’s words, I prematurely smiled expecting open arms.
God, in all His righteous power, simply pointed at me and thundered;
“I know ye not!”
There I stood… body trembling.
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 6:27 PM UTC
"I love you."
those three sweet
meaningless words
always find their way into my head
and roll around like they're stuck
in a box
moving from house to house
never really finding a place
to call "home"
and i wish i could get the idea of you
and those three words out of my mind
but you’re stuck there
as much as we both hate it
and each other
day after day
you’re still there
in my veins
in my bloodstream
my pulse spells out your name
I haven’t washed you from my sheets
out of fear that my body
will miss your slight touch
or out of fear that
I may be forgetting you
and I don’t want to
but I need to
and if you look closely enough
to the scars on my arms
they tell a story
in chronological order
of how I fell in
and out
of love
with you
(a.k.)
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC
a cairn on every mountain
chronological tricksters stacked
by near naked natives, or frat brothers
who pointed the way there
with crushed Bud cans?
fossils were less disingenuous,
treasures from a Jurassic sea, staring
back at me--coprolites a fine find, evidence
our voiceless progenitors also
squatted and shat
after days of wilderness
wandering, I found a lonely menhir
tall as two men, wide as one, in no
particular vantage point
to the sun
who carved this monolith
I'd never know; how it was dragged here
would vex me even more
I sat beneath its shadow
until it stretched a desert mile
all the while watching, waiting
for someone to return
to claim it
when no one finally did,
I rubbed my hands on its weather worn flanks,
and bid goodnight to ancient strangers
who worshiped this silent stone
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 11:04 AM UTC
Love
Love
Deeper Love
Tweenaged stars
More Love
linelinelinelinelinelineline
Do you worry?
Drama Queen
linelinelinelinelinelineline
Bull. ****
Touch me
SawingSawing
linelinelinelinelinelinelinelinelinelinelinelinelinelinelineline
Pretty little circles
Diamonds in my ears
Or safety pins
linelineline
On my thighs now
Side to Side
Carve my abs
Rock hard
linelinelinelinelinelinelineline
Best Friends For Ever
Shh. You're ALIVE
O Captain my Captain
linelinelinelinelinelineburrrrnnnnnnnn
I ran through the trees
Or a dog scratched me
Or a cat
Waiting for the moon to curl over the sky
Dec 4, 2011
Dec 4, 2011 at 12:15 AM UTC
I reckon every day is another page, another chapter to the storybook of your life. Some people have every sheet numbered in neat chronological order or categorised according to A-Z, while others are blank pages waiting to be filled, waiting for words to come. Occasionally there are stories that have been left unfinished, tragic end or dire fate, and there are those that end in the quiet melody of unsung heroes.
Of all the life stories in the world, mine is fragile at the spine, paper thin and translucent. The ink is splashed across several pages, words intelligible and smudged with tears; blood stains dotting the edges. There are countless tales that lurk beneath the binding, and even more lives entwined with mine. You, for instance, pressed thorns between the pages of the book that is my life, leaving flowers wilting amongst the splotched ink words and tears in the paper. It is funny, because only when you look back do you realise that nothing would ever be the same if you didn’t exist.
I am older now, the accompaniment to the author that is destiny and fate, overseeing the paths I am to take, the people I still have yet to meet, the places I will go. There is no promise of calm ahead, and with every recollection there are flashes of hurt and pain, of times when my heart was torn apart at the seams, shattered beyond recognition. Despite this I continue on, the naive hope that things will get better and that I will recover, lingers in the core of my soul; sparking a new hope down to the ends of my fingertips.
And while page after page is filled with cutouts and photographs of the memories I have had, none will ever shine as bright as you.
-
"When you’re here it’s like the sunrise, and when you leave it’s like the sunset."
(A.H.Z)
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 6:46 AM UTC
Treating life as a means to an end
will only make your death come sooner
a chronological record of each broken tailbone
but I guess some people just like falling on their *****
Personally, I like growing my tails
using them to jump a little higher
maybe that’s just me, though.
Yet, if you’re always surrounded by the blackened earth
you might have to get your hands a bit *****
climbing from that unhandled abyss
just dont forget, master colombus, that the land of the free
is just a place in your memory
Now don’t go around waiting for me
I’ll come to you
scrambling through single-pixel tunnels
my expression is a blur shifting constantly
but dont you know, a black hole couldnt reverse my inertia
I’m bound to you with something stronger than gravity
I’m a sound wave on a direct path
I’m found without weight
you’re mine to find, can’t you feel my mind?
If you’re the waterfall, then I’m the river
taking each crash of your waves
it reminds me of this song I used to know
about how we’re expansive and massive
and surrounded by infinity
suppose that makes us nothing, just passive
So as the bright and shining moon,
you stay on your ellipse,
and I’ll drag the sun into you,
and maybe our collision will create something new
because in a universe thats collapsing anyways
lets take this synergy and carry through.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 8:09 PM UTC