"circumstantial" poems
I Was In Darkness
Suffering With Pain
When You Came Into My Life
With A Ray Of Which Is Meant To Shine
I Couldn't Believe My Eyes
And What I Was Feeling
So I Kept On Asking Myself
'Are You Sure You Are Not Dreaming? '
I Was So Happy
To See Things Turn Around
But There Raised A Situation
Where I Had To Stand My Ground
You Might Feel It Was Intentional
But Believe Me It Was Purely Circumstantial
I Wish You Were Here To See What You Are To Me
But Then Again I Can't Just Make You See
I Wish You Realize How Much You Are To Me
But Then Again I Can't Just Make You Notice
All These Might Be A Just A Couple Of Words To You
But It Is My Heart Which Is Pouring Out Here
All This Might Be Just A Drama To You
But This Is My Life That Is On Line Here
I Really Don't Know How To Make You Understand
When You Are Strongly Fixed That I Will Never Understand
But Still I'm Glad I've Fallen For You
Because You Are The Best Thing That Happened To Me
Nevertheless I Just Want To Let You Know By Saying This
That You Are The Unexpected Love Which Swept Me Off My Feet! ! ! ! !
Aug 12, 2017
Aug 12, 2017 at 10:10 PM UTC
This is the mountain I'm climbing
Due to circumstantial timing
The triumphant peaks change over time
Just one of this mountain's many crimes
The rocks on this mountain are flawed
But the mountain is flawless
Nature enforces restrictive laws
So my life becomes lawless
Through this insanity
I can't find my humanity
It's gagged and bound
In the lost and found
On this lonely hill
Where I get my fill
It's an uphill battle
Getting above this mountain
My conscience rattles
My eyes pour like a fountain
When I see everything suddenly
Like halos hovering
Over my past
Lying dead in the grass
Sometimes I must traverse a log to go over a bog
Then I must do the inverse to go under the smog
There are countless endeavors
Through varying weather
That leave me very confused
And frantically panicked
This mountain provides a view
Of the entire planet
This mountain made of dust
I scale because I must
Stillness develops rust
When cliffs await us
I see dead pioneers on the ground
I see weary travelers all around
I see fellow climbers as brothers
Unless I see them as a lover
Then I want to go cave exploring
Before my grave ends the story
Things should get weird
If banality is to be feared
In order to make a mark
Even if it's in the dark
To be perfectly candid
This mountain is my canvas
I carve my face in it as I go up
But my face changes as I grow up
So I start swag jacking
The backpacking
Mirror macking
Confidence lacking
Mountain attacking
Climbers
So I can find a crevasse to fit into
This mountain is easy to give in to
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 12:20 AM UTC
I
This is the night mail crossing the Border,
Bringing the cheque and the postal order,
Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,
The shop at the corner, the girl next door.
Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:
The gradient's against her, but she's on time.
Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder
Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,
Snorting noisily as she passes
Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.
Birds turn their heads as she approaches,
Stare from bushes at her blank-faced coaches.
Sheep-dogs cannot turn her course;
They slumber on with paws across.
In the farm she passes no one wakes,
But a jug in a bedroom gently shakes.
II
Dawn freshens, Her climb is done.
Down towards Glasgow she descends,
Towards the steam tugs yelping down a glade of cranes
Towards the fields of apparatus, the furnaces
Set on the dark plain like gigantic chessmen.
All Scotland waits for her:
In dark glens, beside pale-green lochs
Men long for news.
III
Letters of thanks, letters from banks,
Letters of joy from girl and boy,
Receipted bills and invitations
To inspect new stock or to visit relations,
And applications for situations,
And timid lovers' declarations,
And gossip, gossip from all the nations,
News circumstantial, news financial,
Letters with holiday snaps to enlarge in,
Letters with faces scrawled on the margin,
Letters from uncles, cousins, and aunts,
Letters to Scotland from the South of France,
Letters of condolence to Highlands and Lowlands
Written on paper of every hue,
The pink, the violet, the white and the blue,
The chatty, the catty, the boring, the adoring,
The cold and official and the heart's outpouring,
Clever, stupid, short and long,
The typed and the printed and the spelt all wrong.
IV
Thousands are still asleep,
Dreaming of terrifying monsters
Or of friendly tea beside the band in Cranston's or Crawford's:
Asleep in working Glasgow, asleep in well-set Edinburgh,
Asleep in granite Aberdeen,
They continue their dreams,
But shall wake soon and hope for letters,
And none will hear the postman's knock
Without a quickening of the heart,
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?
4.7k
For the lonely,
for the loveless,
for the forgotten and overlooked,
for the discarded and trodden on,
for the neglected,
for the ignored and mocked,
for societies weeds,
for circumstantial weeds.
For you outcasts are weeds
the flowers nobody wants,
but
weeds are resilient.
They persevere where others can not.
Often mistaken for weak, but no,
weeds are strong
and tough enough to break through tonnes of concrete
and metal.
Clever enough to find growth in places
others perish in.
Adaptable to every habitat and
brave enough to exist on barren wasteland.
Weeds need only the tiniest of a chance to flourish
For the unwanted,
for the unclaimed.
You are beautiful.
You are equal to every other flower.
You are the Charlock, the Buttercup, the Clover,
the Pinapple-May-Weed and so much more.
Next time you see a **** by the roadside,
or peeking out from a crack in a wall,
or between paving slabs in a busy city,
or overgrown in a garden,
or weaving through rubble and debris,
take heart
lonely ones.
You are not worthless
You are magnificent.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
Confide in me
the irony
of laughter as a crutch to keep
with self descriptive Bildungsroman
in view of Schadenfreude's Ad hominem
Mask the image, compensate, compensate
Power struggle, shift division, relegate, relegate
Egocentric discharges inhabited by identity crisis
Circumstantial Deus ex machina, plastered on by streams of vices
No wreck, no head on, but a path beset by tolls and diversions
Somehow I must find a way to make these scattered routes converge
Dead and othered language roams the fields of pomposity
More ironic self aggrandizement, an appropriation of ferocity
Paint them a picture in the mind's eye of your blurred forward vision
I want to see the target marked, but attention is a competition
I'm Viable, I'm Jovial, I have the means to take these chances
I'm lying now, it's one or the other, let's hope I make the right advances
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 2:21 PM UTC
*A river flowing against its course
As if to floss
Its rare peculiar uncanny ingenuity
A notable case study of ambiguity.
An estranged lover unceremoniously
Literally butchering his offspring mercilessly
In cold blood
For having been dragged through the mud.
The undercurrents of change overriding
Entrenched seemingly myopic tendencies which aren’t binding
Causing irrevocably reversible state of affairs
Care not to be caught in the crosshairs.
A hopelessly optimistic romantic
Head over heel in love with the mystique
Aura of eccentricity effortlessly effused by
Her, she indeed worth a try.
Myriad circumstantial conundrums
That is cause of the inevitable humdrum
So characteristic of life
Answers a trifle few and the lackluster enthusiasm rife.*
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 2:21 AM UTC
By accepting the terms of this agreement, you represent and warrant that you have the capacity to love.
Any similarity to a previous love is circumstantial; this love is not affiliated with other loves.
We assume no responsibility for for the shortcomings of prior loves;
we do, however, assume all responsibility for any loss, error, or communication failure incurred while in possession of this love.
It is, after all, love.
Love is available as is; no specific results are promised.
If you are at all unhappy, you are encouraged to return love.
If you find love to be damaged or defective, well, it's love.
Slight imperfections are to be expected, and add to the character of love.
Love may occasionally send you poems, letters, or declarations of its continuance. If you wish to opt out of this correspondence, you may cancel your account at any time.
The service may be temporarily unavailable from time to time; this may be due to maintenance, or periods of reflection. It in no way implies or forecasts termination of love, unless specifically stated so.
By accepting this agreement, you agree not to abuse love by acting in a manner inconsistent with the provisions listed above.
(please say yes)
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 2:19 PM UTC
Agony of the fantasy, so lazily, with no probability
the ecstasy so randomly seen with eyes of atrophy
my heart beats so rapidly for the sake of catastrophe
so i gallantly step on the travesty of the compatibility
i casually see my casualty through eyes of calamity
searching so actively for a canopy of rationality
my mind thinks abnormality is better than conformity
actuality meets versatility or circumstantial amity
thinking elaborately not organically, of reality
a tapestry so naturally put together differently
visually vivid quality is a visible consistency
no commonality, critically crushed by normality
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 3:51 PM UTC
self-sacrificed suffering
this life burns into nothing.
abstract obstructions
my hands are full,
cleaning, moving,
legs sore
and voice changing tones,
laughing is more persistent.
don't be nervous:
retract all motions blocked by the feeling of it.
lack of control, the situation needs to build itself
and all you have to do is live it.
communication codes:
call me esoteric emily,
leave me up in trees
I'll throw apples down for you to eat.
you feel like stones,
cement, hard-laced fruit loops,
and the morning after, and the year
after year after year
that
will
follow.
something smooth to rhyme to,
you're building fences for me to jump,
I'll leave you to mind them.
your eyes were my eyes, and it felt natural.
something you showed me that took advantage
of the bounds that tie and rebound and break,
something similar to a run on sentence.
sarcastic similes
arcane knowledge seeping through my eyelids.
now I'm forced by my own self-will to tell you everything.
there are more forces than that,
I'll learn to respect them in silence
rather than saying that I don't believe in them.
doesn't mean I'll get on my knees and pray,
just means I might want something.
seemingly mean
from the things that seem
to tunnel
underneath
your garbage,
your sinking
thoughts
combined
with
circumstantial
evidence
led me to believe in the beauty I swore was gone.
thankfully all suffering passes no sooner than happiness does.
Aug 12, 2012
Aug 12, 2012 at 1:53 AM UTC
Mushroom clouds in your eyes
. Blew away my circumstantial inhibitions. .
Leaving nothing but a fine dust
.
of understanding
And no matter how I carefully group those particles, they will never amount to the walls I had up
I thank you
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 12:58 PM UTC
Bald, wide-eyed, white skinned stretched
Muscles ripple across obscene ink
Void of art there is hatred
Seething resentment and loathing
These strike the innermost realm
Murderous temptations
A reminder of our carnality
I must remain led by my helm
This has happened before
But not like this
It's a textbook cycle
Of being treated like ****
Fists clenched, teeth gritting, standing idly by
Domestic terror and physical distraught
The predators are strong
But the manipulator is stronger
A reminder of circumstantial hopelessness
Death has never sounded so sweet
The camel was thirsty and it's back was broken
When the prey was finally beat
Uniforms and papers
This will not stop it
It does not fear the flash and captured
It relishes in the resistance
It is sick beyond compare
A contagion forever void of rapture
Watching the script unfold
It is taken away
It took a victim with
And it's death we hope and pray
The next biome the predator seeks
It's next prey arrives and squeaks
It is unaware and uses it's beak
To dominate the once-chained but newly free
It's presence has yet to be seen
But it's return is anticipated
It has always been keen
To complete the cycle
A period of peace lies between
The next unnecessary tribulation
This time I refuse to be the light house
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 11:18 PM UTC
"Do you believe in global warming?"
they asked me
as though it was something you could choose to believe in
like santa
sitting on the melting polar ice caps
wondering how else he could tickle our fancies
for our momentary pleasure
one sizzling christmas eve
“but”, they said, “but its all circumstantial,
And”, they said,"all natural,
All part of a cycle,
all part of a plan-
And there’s no evidence anyways"
Is santa melting?
Do ice caps exist?
Who knows!
Who knows?
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 12:34 AM UTC
The parking lot beeps know how to creep,
Creating the jingle and jangle
That hit her with the smooth cutting angle,
The rhymes and the wishes
Intruding her like the farmer farming fishes,
Pound and slit until she can’t fully handle,
With strength in her arms burning out like the candle
Once lit as her ribs crunch from the pull of the mador,
Crushing her with Frankenstein's failure far greater,
Her eyes missed more misinterpretation
Of her admission with intense hallucination,
While the divorce of her lighter burns the constrained homicide,
Although it didn’t stem from her sister’s suicide,
Contradiction?
She’d say it was an addiction,
Death isn't what she grew up to fear,
What’s that? There’s more despair?
Is it the systemic collapse that she can’t bear?
Trunks click open with a cluster of blunts,
Puffing the herb anytime she wants,
Insanity spawns a circumstantial sport,
Which she crystallized quenching some support,
From the bubble of her family she couldn't help but pop,
While begging the janitor to mop
The puddle of horrific insensual
Desires that end up so sensual,
Sprinting to the finish line in her own ordeal pace,
Winning an irreplaceable
Prize for finishing in fifth place,
The doppelganger can’t even comment
On the records of her CD retching as she continues to *****
There she blows before you know,
‘Tis no way they could tiptoe
Around this drear deep-end **********
Aug 7, 2017
Aug 7, 2017 at 2:08 PM UTC
I want to run away.
I want to stop thinking.
I want affection,
however ephemeral
and sickeningly circumstantial
from people
who seek the same.
If only for tonight,
they’re my kindred souls,
so I’ll take one,
pretend it’s you,
give up myself to your reflection
and in the morning
curse at my conception,
come to.
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 6:27 AM UTC
*Ever since time immemorial
Even before the existence of now defunct phenomenon
Society’s had a stranglehold on “goodness”, a fact not entirely circumstantial.
On the high pedestal of “moral high ground” it’s stood, a loose canon
At the behest of “moralists” and “immoralists” alike
Malleable to all manner of situational conundrums
Rubber-stamping all manner of questionable theatrics with lord like
Patronage, this artistic fashioned manner of duplicity detailed in compendiums
Of information passed down from generation to generation
“For posterity’s own good”
Rhetoric construed
To imply the wellbeing of every individual born.
Subject to the above I implore society to effective immediately
File for moral bankruptcy in the court of public opinion, humbly.*
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 4:34 AM UTC
i hear the whistle of a mockingjay
play every time someone says your name.
a rebel girl in a patriarchal world
defying the absurd iterations of hyper-masculine
oppression that manifest themselves in solipsistic
displays of impotent aggression.
how do you muster the compassion
to forgive seventy times seven?
i want to learn to love like you.
the white noise fades away
when you and i fly
down the interstate.
the breeze teases
your hair, the sun
kisses your face
the way i'd like to.
i hope you hear my voice
every time one of our favorite songs
gets stuck inside your head,
singing in time to the rhythms of love requited.
have faith in me.
and i'm trying hard—
real hard—every day
not to lose my temper
with these circumstantial quandaries
that leave us wondering whether or not
we should press pause.
instead i'll climb the mountains
of your vertebrae so i might find
a resting place in the holiest of holies.
if only i could shrink myself down,
dance between the synaptic gaps of your brain cells,
i could see reality through your eyes—
twirling like twin nebulae,
galaxies inviting me to endless epiphanies.
i want to lose myself in your universe.
your courage is infectious.
when i hold your hand,
i summon the strength to smash the State
and all the arbitrary authorities
trying to dictate the limits of liberty,
that instigate injustice and propagate malice.
it all just falls away until it's you and me,
forever us against them all.
you're like Hermione,
time-turner included,
feeding the homeless,
leading a women's health group,
acting for a short film,
directing a play,
writing a novel,
all in a day's work.
and you breathe white-hot fire
when you fight for the disenfranchised
recognizing that those who are neutral
in situations of injustice have chosen
the side of the oppressor and it's quite
impressive how you stand-up for
the little guy or invite the social acolyte over
to your table to have a bite of whatever
vegetarian dish you cooked up last night.
i see you on the silver screen,
in each new book i read ,
in every single note i sing,
latent remnants in recited rhymes
of poetry from the one and only Bukowski:
i found what i love
and i want it to **** me.
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 7:54 AM UTC
Something is moving through you--
In a soft nuzzle...
In a casual run of fingers through your hair --
Something living moves through you.
Intention,
Attention,
Elation
Move within you--
Sometimes aware,
most often unaware.
It shows itself in the holding of your hand; Instinct.
It's Life. It's God. It's the "ill-intentioned" arm of Death. It's inspiration;
Living alternate realities through imagination.
Agitation, Anxiety, the need to succeed.
An infinite intention flows through your circumstantial existence.
Its only physical evidence, we call luck.
Its lack of physical evidence, we call nothing.
It, is nothing.
We, are;
the perfect vessel.
Apr 6, 2011
Apr 6, 2011 at 2:43 PM UTC
Take your pills, go to therapy,
Take your pills. go to therapy
“get better”
Take your pills, go to therapy,
Tell yourself you’re getting better
“You’re getting sick again ariana, we will raise your dose”
Take your pills, go to therapy
“Am i getting any better, am i healthier? do i look sick?”
Take your pills, go to therapy
Take your pills, go to therapy
“Why are you doing this to yourself Ariana?”
Take your pills, go to therapy
Take your pills, go to therapy
help
“how do i get the maggot thoughts that crawl into my head and tell me i’m inadequate, trifling?”
“It’s all circumstantial, and that is what we need to mend and patch”
Give me your mental diagnosis-diagnonsense
Go ahead, tell me what you’ve espied when you sat oneself down and perched your virtuoso intellect in my head
“oh yes, you comprehend
you understand
Everything.
You know me deeper than i know my self”
“We are getting somewhere, we are moving forward you are progressing!”
Take your pills, go to therapy
Take your pills, go to therapy
You must be pleased as punch you’re finally fixing me
dismally i disinform you, i lied
Why you may inquire? Not one can understand ones speculations or thoughts unless they are legitimately situated in my chamber of a lugubrious trench filled with distasteful maggots which leave dolorous contusions-bruises and thoughts that leave me questioning reality, questioning my essence, questioning myself
Take your pills, go to therapy
Take your pills, go to therapy
If i were in deed reviving from the sorrow i would no longer have these god awful scars and bruises
You can’t tell me i am not out of ones tree
when
you
scarcely
know
me
At times I’m not sure if i even know me___________________________________________________________________________
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 3:15 PM UTC
I fear that the end goal
moves at a speed that surpasses our efforts infinitely.
Like the tortoise and the hare,
the tortoise will never be caught up to,
only lapped.
Likewise for the tortoise,
it is unable to reach the hare,
it serves only to be passed.
The speed at which our end goal moves past us
is entirely circumstantial,
similar to the tortoise and the hare.
We take ten steps towards our goal
and it has somehow managed to
already reach the first bend.
Saw we take another ten steps,
and physics will tell us again that our goal has reached the second straight while we have just come to the first bend.
And so the cycle continues,
a wheel of "unreality"
and yet I stay on the track even with this knowledge.
It's comfortable here,
I will admit.
And short term this is suited.
But my legs are beginning to hurt and
I've never been much of a runner.
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 12:04 PM UTC
No way for her to ascertain
the ashen carpets of erasure
randomly assigned to the tapestry of garish
hope's circumstantial hopscotch squares
with a body already incommodiously perched
upon legs submissive to the here and now's
drunken mercury
Alone she has been left to sweep up
the gravity that hobbles optimism
in the hops of faith around the ambivalence
of horizontal authenticity
Left alone to weep on twitching roots
and theorize a rally bloom in spite
of severance in tune with sparks of closure
The shadow of her sunken chin emits
embroiled tributaries of respawning yesterdays
Queen of checkerboard embodiment
her rhythmic rule entails zephyrs of endurance
in the vacuum of fulfilling prophecies
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 2:44 AM UTC
claws and jaws that set their song
are open, loud and do no wrong
and *** and drugs and rocks and rolls
and circumstantial dancing poles
are all of no great consequence
in the face of endless circumstance
when beggars, pleaders take their chance
to lace their shoes and start to dance
Perfect faces lie and cheat
to make their loss into defeat
a poor man's song is no one's thrill
and honest people learn to ****
the eye of love is gouged out raw
by frozen winters yet to thaw
and siren's music looses tune
in sharps and flats under the moon
So try and love me when I'm wrong
it's harder when the road is long
we're stuck inside a goldfish tank
with no one left for us to thank
so please be kind to artist's minds
and try to hard to cross our lines
between your temper and your sighs
and free the world of senseless lies
It's in the greenhouse growing ***
we're senseless with the things we've got
and honest work for honest pay
is swept away with yesterday
hide your lover in the brush
you can always look but never touch
a hard truth born from Ferris wheels
and the easy listening way you feel
So tell me when you're on your own
if love is all the same alone
and holding hands with air itself
is worth those trophies on your shelf
so miss me while I'm gone, my friend
this deal was always meant to end
think me pretty, tarnished gold.
It's easier.
Or so I'm told.
Jul 13, 2011
Jul 13, 2011 at 9:27 AM UTC
The last time I sat down with myself
was in the sink
in the dark
penetrating the only creative train I could find.
Coal, cargo...
Robbing words so I didn't have to think
or explain the difference between
'deeming' language and
'demon' language.
From my perspective in the sink,
the retouching of morals
is all circumstantial
because maybe tomorrow I'll save the fire
instead of the human,
you know, save the fire from the human.
That way, I don't have to decide
who's going to burn.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 9:50 AM UTC
fake wood grain pressed conscious desk
pushing up on elbows, and armpits, and eyelids
headache computer screen
sinks between teeth and gum
slavery is dead,
only very much alive
not in the same sense..
not in the same sense..
machines collect dust
lives go numb
and wages are spent on daily bread.
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 12:45 PM UTC
I like to think of most things as circumstantial.
that
I am who I am
beautiful and powerful
and that
fortune
is a jealous ****
Apr 19, 2011
Apr 19, 2011 at 12:07 PM UTC
Dream your peace
Whilst the world rages
Go lie in your steel-walled sleep
Let the crueller men deceive
Let better men bleed
A sleeping mind for sleeping times
What’s another casualty?
Doesn’t affect me
So you let deflections become reflexes
Unknowingly
Happenstance you came to live
In first world palms, with first world eyes
Never looking back at second place
Least of all the third in line
Whatever gets you to sleep at night
With such birth rights,
With such languor
I will rule the world in my own mind
With such circumstantial, beneficial, superiority
I will turn a blind eye
To everybody’s suffering but mine
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 12:51 PM UTC