"cluttered" poems
We were once kids.
We were once wild.
We were once soldiers.
In the dead of winter, you greeted death.
You fell from my grip and into the darkness,
and now a hundred years have rotted away and I have never felt so alone.
I ran from the winter because war was to attached to it.
I close my eyes and I see you there on the front line.
Young and drained, you were just a body rotting away.
Full of life so you hung on with everything you had.
bang
bang
It was such an awful sound.
Only if I had taken your place.
If only you would have run the other way.
Just how unfair is our luck.
Someday I'll teach myself to learn and live alone.
I'll teach myself that death was not the enemy.
But the winter storm rages on and I'm still having trouble breathing.
Don't be alarmed.
I march on.
Like the soldier I once was.
Don't be alarmed.
I've seen many winter storms
and I have miraculously survived them all.
Can't you see that I don't want to move on?
Don't bring tomorrow because I can't take another.
My eyes are too fogged to see the light.
My minds too cluttered to think right.
I've tasted my own tears
and faced all my fears.
So here I am.
Laying on the floor.
So here we are.
Together once more.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 10:19 PM UTC
the Eyes are the window to the Soul
really?
a tinted window, perhaps
or one with the shutters Tightly drawn
a shattered window
a window into an Empty room
or one so cluttered there is no where to Begin
maybe the window tells us more than what is Inside
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 10:14 PM UTC
Don’t forget to get away every once in awhile,
To lose yourself in a book
Or in the woods behind your home
Ride your bike into the sunset,
Sit on your front steps and count the cars passing by,
Lay on your roof and gaze up at the night sky,
Drive along backroads with the windows rolled down
Listening to nothing but the sound of rushing wind
I hope you take the time to be alone,
To sort through the cluttered shelves of your heart
I hope you take the time to be silent,
To close your eyes and just listen
I hope you take the time to be still,
To quiet your mind and experience the beauty
Of simply Being
In a world that tells us we should always be
Connected, on the go, and doing something worth sharing,
I hope you know it’s okay to
Disconnect, slow down, and keep some memories
Between you and the moment you shared it with.
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 9:53 PM UTC
i walked the boulevard
i saw a ***** child
skating on noisy wheels of joy
pathetic dress fluttering
behind her a mothermonster
with red grumbling face
cluttered in pursuit
pleasantly elephantine
while nearby the father
a thick cheerful man
with majestic bulbous lips
and forlorn piggish hands
joked to a girlish *****
with busy rhythmic mouth
and sily purple eyelids
of how she was with child
14k
Everyone said I had such great potential:
A bright eyed lad, adept with word and song,
an angelic voice, a wordsmith like a lawyer.
They look at me now and wonder-what went wrong?
If I could put my finger on the problem,
Procrastination did beget my fall.
I had, at times, an ambitious plan and project.
I just never got around to it, that’s all.
I dallied in my summer’s afternoon,
Listening to other siren’s songs
Now winter comes upon me with a vengeance
I realize now I never sang my song.
But on my cluttered desk, a wooden talisman!
A round wood carving- a Tuit tis
And now, in possession of a round Tuit,
I’ve no excuse for wasting time like this.
Nov 23, 2011
Nov 23, 2011 at 5:37 PM UTC
Days that cannot bring you near
or will not,
Distance trying to appear
something more obstinate,
argue argue argue with me
endlessly
neither proving you less wanted nor less dear.
Distance: Remember all that land
beneath the plane;
that coastline
of dim beaches deep in sand
stretching indistinguishably
all the way,
all the way to where my reasons end?
Days: And think
of all those cluttered instruments,
one to a fact,
canceling each other's experience;
how they were
like some hideous calendar
"Compliments of Never & Forever, Inc."
The intimidating sound
of these voices
we must separately find
can and shall be vanquished:
Days and Distance disarrayed again
and gone
both for good and from the gentle battleground.
9.6k
They say the pen is mightier than the sword
If this is true then God was the sword and you were a pen
And I was the pencil who laid you a foundation of erased mistakes only for you to trace upon them as if they didn't exist.
And I was cast in the bottom of some cluttered bag
while you were gently capped and placed in a box lined with blue silk,
And you knew I would always be there to test the waters before you spilled the pages with your brash delicacy.
But you needed me and I craved you for completion.
Together we created sweeping illustrations and lengthy novels with dozens of sequels.
We depicted a tale of modern love in our ball-pointed journey.
But my graphite stayed intact while your ink started to run out.
I could see as our pages unfolded that your colors no longer spread as boldly.
You became more and more invisible as I desperately etched harder and harder into every page hoping to give you clearer guidelines
but you no longer had it in you.
And soon enough we couldn't make anything beautiful.
You had run out.
And I'm still hopelessly drawing maps desperate that you can regain what you once had and use the indentations on previously blank pages to find your way back to me.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 11:11 PM UTC
my life is a blur.
hundreds of days,
all tumble-dried into one story.
but you are an exception to this.
when I picture you in my cluttered mind,
you are always there, in full focus.
you pinpoint my existence on the back of your hand,
and memories of us play along to the beat of
'mad sounds' by Arctic Monkeys at 2:11,
completely out of my control.
I think I'm falling,
because everything else is more blurry than ever.
(but I guess I won't know until I hit the ground)
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 3:29 PM UTC
I imagine myself
A few gentle decades older.
Finally grasping the cusp
Of success.
Living in my own apartment
In New York City, nonetheless.
Wearing an Armani coat
(Whatever those look like.)
Walking idly yet prestigiously
Through winter in the city.
Taking care not to laugh too loud,
Talk to myself, smile too much.
A small, attractive female
Has to be serious to get ahead.
Customers will buy from a happy girl
Only if she is early 20's, at most.
That is Marketing 101.
I am a small fish in a large sea;
The principles of Darwinism
Still apply to me.
I've learned long ago to succeed,
I must stifle the welcoming smile.
So along the familiar concrete
I stride,
Carefully manicured hands
In pockets.
The Filipinos know better
Than to rush on the hands
Of a businesswoman caressing
A successful career.
She tips well and lives well.
I walk along with cool calm
And feminine grace.
I have regained the safety
To be feminine once again.
The criminals know better
Than to infiltrate
The Business district
And cause trouble
To working professionals
In Armani coats.
I imagine myself a few decades older.
Kissing snowflakes unenthusiastically.
Yes, I marvel in poetry, in Nature,
But I have matured
Much like the snowflakes themselves.
At the end of a cycle,
No matter how beautiful.
My actions flow gracefully and delicately.
I melt into New York City
Like a cell in a body.
Pumping fuel into the *****
To sustain the mass.
A tumor.
I smile subtly as I slosh along.
I recall, once upon a time,
On my lower-class youth.
***** jokes, crude dancing,
And cluttered apartments.
I approach the high-rise building
I call home and greet the doorman
With the obligatory disregard
For his innermost being.
Poetry truly is in the strangest of places.
Even in an enigma like me.
I enter the marble floors,
Wiping my feet,
My rent as sky-high as
The building itself.
Elevator. Comforting motion sickness.
This is success.
The pit of my stomach sinks.
I tell myself it's the motion sickness.
I return to my apartment,
With its symmetrical details.
My thoughts return to you.
You've never stepped foot in my home,
But you've always been here with me.
I get dinner started.
I set out the extra glass, like always.
Rituals like these serve
As my Sunday mass.
I drink your glass with my evening medication.
Dare I say like always?
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 6:09 AM UTC
When I was younger
it was plain to me
I must make something of myself.
Older now
I walk back streets
admiring the houses
of the very poor:
roof out of line with sides
the yards cluttered
with old chicken wire, ashes,
furniture gone wrong;
the fences and outhouses
built of barrel staves
and parts of boxes, all,
if I am fortunate,
smeared a bluish green
that properly weathered
pleases me best of all colors.
No one
will believe this
of vast import to the nation.
6.4k
Dust on fans, cluttered rooms
you're still beside me
I know that's true
red nights, take it how you like
you're still beside me
I have to thank you
Darker thoughts, and mistrust
you've reassured me, no matter what
I trust you, I do
Past has bruised me,
but eventually they disappear
yours have not, I see that daily
Ill tread with caution,
you seem to save me
Daisies, and messy clothes
my muddy water remains,
We share a lake, you and I
with turtles, fish, and cranes
dragonflies coasting above our rippled waters
our lake is never dry,
you seem to save me,
you and I.
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 8:38 PM UTC
There's just no escaping you.
You're wrapped in all my thoughts.
Your face in every crowd.
My heart is cluttered with feelings of you.
Adelaide road.
A street in Dublin.
But also your Australian hometown.
Crazy.
And now every day I pass there..
Your face will swim in my heart and my mind.
I bet even if I wanted to escape.
Even if I tried my hardest.
I just couldn't.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 4:00 AM UTC
stress like the rest I’m trying to get something off my chest. its a weight so great my body begins to shatter all i want to do is yell but this weight is hell it pushes all the air from my lungs till they are bare. do you even care? are you even there? stress is the pain in my chest it feels like cardiac arrest i feel like i should be wearing a bullet proof vest because I’m wearing a red target on my chest. just something to aim at. stress is a mess with no clear way to clear a path without being cluttered by fear. it will bring tears, it will make you think of the ones you hold dear, stress is that weight on your chest making you feel oppressed. its something i deal with normally dont worry i dont repress. i paint it on this page with each move i make a digital valve releases letting you read this.
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 12:38 AM UTC
I know I shouldn't be sad that my name doesn't leave your mouth anymore.
Or that your head isn't cluttered with me like mine is with you.
I know this shouldn't matter because all we were was an unfinished thought,
but you took the hope from my grip and tossed it over the bridge on your way home.
I probably shouldn't write of you either,
because I didn't even know you long enough to know your middle name.
But there was something about the way you looked in the dark,
under the natural light of the early morning sky that made me crave you.
The way you held my hand in your white Honda,
and told me that you loved where I lived because you could see the stars.
You told me you wished you could get away, from it all, as you sang.
And I smiled.
What else could I do?
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 3:27 AM UTC
Saltwater Poet.
Waves washing over me cleanse my soul.
Salt-soaked sand glues itself
to my skin,
it clears the cobwebs in my cluttered mind.
Anchoring back near the coast
is my ultimate goal.
Reaching others through my words
with the help of my
Nautical Muse.
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 3:23 PM UTC
I could fill my hands with wishes.
Vials of fairy dust tucked deep in my pocket.
one day,
I might need it.
But that day I think may never come.
Prayers whispered on red stained lips,
but they drop sincerely,
with to much heart.
Silence says to much in ways I can't comprehend.
Wind says that it can take me to a place, where shadows can't haunt me.
Sorrow can't sit on my door step,
reminding me of things that want to consume to much of me.
Monsters grab me in the night.
Profanity and ****** don't mix well with whiskey.
My stomach is always twisted in knots of strangled butterflies.
I could be a runaway.
Just another face on a milk carton,
or those cluttered bulletin boards at Walmart.
I fade away so easily,
flowers in my hair and feet bare,
sunshine warming my face.
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 10:54 PM UTC
Pollution of the mind is real.
Our minds are cluttered with uselessness.
Stories on the street repeated mindlessly.
Words describe men and women as animals.
We insult the person and demean the animal.
We are no longer part of nature, unnatural we are.
People are dumb as a donkey, wise as an owl.
If a woman disagrees she is a ***** fights, a cat, she is.
To be a good mother you have to be a hen.
A man is built like a horse he is part of a stable.
In times of slavery Black people were animal, soulless.
Confusion between humans and animals caused by disconnection.
Religions and Politics in ****** use rats to justify: hatred.
Jews are told they are pigs, and drink blood.
Blood and Pigs are forbidden in Judaism.
Culturally socially we repeat mindlessly: slander.
Our connection to the earth and animal is lost so is our humanity.
Pollution of the earth causes pollution of the mind.
The earth cleanses itself by fire and ice.
The mind can also: freeze out these concepts these fallacies.
Burn the words that are defamation and abomination.
Do; yes do this to avoid the fires of hell.
Soon, hell will freeze over and become heaven.
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 2:31 PM UTC
fragile umbrellas are strewn
across the cluttered forest floor,
nourishing strong connections
from all over the world.
their gills are loaded weapons
that fire spores into the air
at the speed of light.
if we blink, we miss it -
and the umbrellas multiply.
Apr 24, 2022
Apr 24, 2022 at 12:50 AM UTC
I like it here.
Damp air clinging to my skin, clinging to my clothes,
Grey skies laughing at pewter water,
Wind tossed seagulls reeling passed
Individual calls demanding attention; their joint voice hushing into the soundtrack of this place.
Buildings cluttered together for protection from blasting winter gales,
Yet all jostling for a glimpse of the harbour.
Guess in their own sleepy ways they like the thrill of danger.
Their red tiles roofs so reminiscent of Mediterranean towns,
But inescapably speak of home.
People traipse past, creating the shifting landscape of this place.
Their own lives and concerns mingling to create a vast sea of humanity,
Mirrored by the roiling sea...
Just beyond the safety of
This harbour.
This bench.
This packet of vinegar soaked chips.
I'm glad it's you here with me
Glad I can feel your soul soar with mine at the salty air and eroded stone.
Beside me
Hunched into your coat
Gazing out.
We don't touch
But I feel you there
With me.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 10:49 PM UTC
Lately it's been hard to get to a writing state of mind,
When I'm happy words are the hardest thing to find.
Sadness allows words to flow like magic,
Even though the thoughts are always tragic.
But I've learned that happiness brings peace,
It's brings humans a type of release.
One from the cluttered thought,
Where words are no longer sought.
You sit in love and enjoy life good and bad,
And you realize you are alive and you should be glad.
Life should be simple,
Don't let the pressure cause your mind to *******
It may be hard to see light in dark,
But just trudge through the tunnel and find your spark.
You light your own way on this floating ball,
Just make sure to share your light with all.
Aug 11, 2017
Aug 11, 2017 at 1:33 AM UTC
my heart belongs to you
whether you cling to it
with sweet caresses
or stomp on it
with malicious silence
i once thought we were
inevitably eternal,
that nothing in existence
could tear us apart
but now i'm left with
a messy bed,
a tarnished core
and a mind cluttered
with all the things
you left unsaid
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 5:07 PM UTC
I travelled straight west
to the epicentre of the southern wastelands
and 'twas with mind-numbing disbelief that
I found an Oak table propped upon the sands
and it was not alone either
for three beings sat it, seemingly nonplussed -
one was a skinny old man
wearing a linen suit faded and powdered with dust
his collar frayed around the edges
a moth-eaten hat sat upon his head,
he had a daisy poking from his breast pocket
so very much preserved, so very much dead,
to his left sat a one-eyed Hare
the sole eye ecstatic and wiggling -
he swore and blasphemed each time the man spoke
from a mouth toothless and dribbling,
sat to the right of the man
was absolutely (absolutely!) nothing,
however I observed with mild humour
that both man and Hare were convinced it must be something
for the man was profusely adamant
scorning the Something for dissing the Hare's hair,
although the Hare was too busy rolling around its one eye
to even notice the man, or simply give a fu- care
"Hey hey talk to I! Hath thou seen my missing eye?!"
Hare asked from a voice shrieky and shattered
saliva running in rivets
upon the table it slopped and slavered -
then suddenly the man started singing encore
his voice cringe-worthy, out of tune,
sounding like a cat back-broke and on steroids
rocking and waving like a spastic-loon;
"If Father Time has no end,
does he even have a beginning -
oh, if there's pain is there gain,
which one of us is it that's winning?"
alas, that's when my attention was brought to the mounds
of surgical needles cluttered on the ground,
feeling sickly aura lick the back of my throat
I started backing away without a sound
["Hey hey talk to I -"]
["If there's pain is there gain -"]
["Hath thou seen my missing Missing MISSING EYE?!!"]
#FLASH!#
the dystopian landscape around me melted
into a field of bloated poppies -
serene, scarlet and blinding 'neath the sun,
feasting upon our charred bodies.
AJ
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 5:23 PM UTC