"clutters" poems
cosmic dust.. blowing in the wind
that's what we are.
remains and debris of impacted rock
that clutters and piles meaningless and purposeless.
just until the moment of gravity or some god-like force
accumulates the lifeless rock and dust into larger objects of mass.
what is formed is just a glimmer, a speck in the whole universe.
a tiny cog in a gigantic network of gadgets and machines.
that is us...
and then Jobs told us to go make a dent in it all…
go and make your mark… and follow your heart
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 6:16 PM UTC
Past thick briers and dense thickets
Beyond inconsolable oceans and insufferable lakes
Amidst the roar of obstreperous winds
Within the abyss of calamity
I've let you past my obscurities into the forest of my heart
In return you promised your own so our forests would grow
Instead you left the seeds of hatred that grew amongst my trees
You used me as an exploit for your own selfish endeavors
Our love was made of rot and mold
The passion expired and you were gone
You left me to swim my way back
To climb past my briers and thickets
To bear the violent winds
To climb out of the dark abyss
So that I may find myself once again in clutters of debris
Spread out across the shores of what remains of me
Oct 26, 2018
Oct 26, 2018 at 7:35 PM UTC
What is the thing in us who love to pluck the strings of our imaginations
and try to create resonance with the words that float to the page. To create something from the
nothingness .
We paint our pictures in tortured hues or opaque clutters of expression. At times the palate will surprise even we who mix and stir and strive to find a unique shade or texture. We trawl and dredge and send up pretty balloons in hopes they will return with answers. Well I do
I am odd in that regard. I think all who strive to express , to be heard, to hear to see to grasp and
be ambushed by sudden revaluation. To make sense of it all. to look deep within and waft on the wind at once are kin.
What is it for you?
To wash away pain.
To turn your face to the pelting rain and feel the value of your existence.
What is it for you?
To say the things your mouth cannot express, untie your fettered tongue.
Do you dream in color.
Does your poets voice speak to you in hushed tranquil tones
or rumble and stutter or whisper softly from dank and dusty places.
What is it for You.
A way out of your suppression if not expression.
The rubbing of a soothing salve over the aches and pains endured.
The betrayal acknowledged. The Key finding purchase in the rusted lock. The key falling from your hands in the pitch dark once again as you wake up and find yet another door to open.
What is it for you. For me it is validation that my mind is unique as the neurons fire and
speak a language spoken not by many. We are seekers. You and I.
I do not fit the profile. I am rough and hard my facade has bonded with my skin. But look within. I am bookish and brutal.Loving and glacial. Witty but slow. Volatile but pensive . A walking talking conundrum. I do it just to **** withum.
Why do you love poetry.
What leaks out of you mind.
What goes in.
What is it ?
.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 2:40 AM UTC
The garbage in my room
Smells like embarrassment
It’s the hot Cheetos bag that sits in my desk
It’s the q-tips with earwax
The ideas that float around in my head
And my roommates toenail clippings
The garbage in my room
Clutters the free space
Taking up room that it should not take
The shopping bags and boxes
That held beautiful things
Now empty and cumbersome
The garbage in my room
Takes up my memory
Forgotten blog posts and poems
Fill the hard drive in my brain
Silly thoughts and quips
Only attempt to clear it out
The garbage in my room
Sits in the can
Thinking of ways to grow
Out of proportion
Waiting to spill out onto the floor
And start crawling up the walls
The garbage in my room
Needs to be taken out.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 2:19 PM UTC
I remember the day we just spent hours and hours together
Even though
I know
At the time it wasn’t quite so interesting
Now with my infinite wealth of knowledge
Granted to me by time, so arbitrary in nature
It seems to me like those were the good old days
Just you and me together
I can leave out all the tediousness
The clangs and clutters that inhabit any day on this strange planet
And just remember what it was like
To be with you
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 10:51 PM UTC
Lying alone doing nothing on my bed,
I decided to write about you instead
Looking back to where it started
Now, it clutters again inside my head.
I remember, yes dear, it was Christmas
And I got no intentions for an us
Back then, I was just a simple grown up lass
But everything changed with that simple favor to you, I asked
After you responded, that ends there really.
And I'm sure, it's not just you who I asked, see?
You're just someone, and I'm not even being friendly
But a spark out of nowhere ignited unexpectedly
It took a couple of months for me to realize
Talking to you suddenly felt so nice
I'm even daydreaming you and I in paradise
In this dull world of mine, indeed, you added some spice
Late night conversations eventually came into place
We shared to each one the dreams we want to chase
Just in case I'm one of your dreams, you'll have me apace
Wondering what will my future with you, if ever, taste?
Believe it or not, my deep affections for you grew
Even if we don't converse, I, now, begin and end my days with thoughts of you.
I don't know what fantasy have I indulged myself into
But whatever it is, what I feel is sincerely true
Just so you know, it feels good to write about you, even just your name.
Oh Dear... can't you feel a thing?
Can't you see the fluttery in my heart that you bring?
I badly want to hear that you feel the same
Mr. Down to earth hunk, I'm clueless but hopeful
And I tell you these words with candour
You are one eye-catching beautiful creation --- that's one of the things I praise God for.
And to me, you bring happiness galore.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 1:24 AM UTC
little feet dashing across the playground with light-up shoes and arms raised and poised to hold our weaponry. swift movements mark the territory with memories of traipsing through our makeshift castles. when we’re children we gallantly save princesses with long tresses who cry from the tops of towers, fearing uproarious dragons and the darkness of the sky. we protect the princesses from terror, and some of us grow up to become them and learn to protect ourselves. the tall dragons shed their prismatic scales and flinch as they feel the girth of our swords. after much opposition, we face our fears and instantaneously make the final strike and become victorious. we turn and look through the binoculars of our hands and spot nimble thieves stealing the shimmering scales in exchange for their own greed. they climb medieval walls and we try to catch them. impulse clutters our line of vision and we go because there is no time to waste, we don’t want to lose them. sometimes they return the stolen treasure and sometimes its a lost cause. we learn the latter later, through long sighs at lonely 2 ams after seemingly infinite words have spilled out on paper and out loud out to those who can’t come back and those who can but won’t. but the former fleshes itself out when we experience moments of kismet. these days where we share conversations with people who satiate the hollow corners of our hearts and walk outside and breathe in the petrichor just as the sun has wriggled its way into the sky. we learn life is as vivid as any story we become momentarily enchanted by. people come and go as fast as the pages that inspired our childhood adventures turn, and everything happens at once. we face demons as beastly as our dragons but we have our warpaint on no matter how hastily drawn it is, and we convince ourselves of our strength until it’s real to us.
we were the heroes of the story then, light-up shoes running across the playground, and we are the heroes of the story now, playing and living in the light-up world.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 10:01 PM UTC
*Clutters of broken emotions
Floating on the salty sea of tears
My heart is a shipwreck.*
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 9:45 PM UTC
The thing that hurts most about growing up
Is losing table settings.
First we were six,
Then five,
Now four.
I dread the next place-mat leaving.
Fat lumps of butter drip from my mothers fingers
As she realizes she's once more forgotten to account for our losses.
Sugar sweet, my sister, cracks eggs for the mixture
Her smile splits her face like the line down a peach.
My brother fetches glasses and de-clutters the table,
Like a general wiping clean his strategic map.
The thing that hurts most about growing up
Is losing table settings.
First we were six,
Then five,
Now four.
And I'll be the next place-mat leaving.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 2:09 PM UTC
oh right... no social criticism... just a bomb will do? mm, yes, a bomb will fair much better... no social criticism... and only the political class are allowed a backdrop of satire... now i have to be thankful for a 7 year old schizophrenic simulator, the "inability" of the medical profession to misdiagnose... oh yes... i'm really thankful for all of that.
philosophy and its rigid vocabulary,
clutters up the range of ******
expressions, scientific atheism
is still measuring the non-existence
of something via the occator crater
of ceres as: ah... look at that... a cute puppy!
enlaraged eyes of a kitten pleading!
ooh ah! so so cute! mm.
actually, in #a, philosophy is the original
divination of divisions - centimetre in man
to distinguish him into a spider-web
project of thinking, feeling, consciousness,
sentience, animate, zombie,
it cuts cuts in, slashes away at so many
meanings, you end up with shorthand
of 140 character allowances -
so this scientific negativism - i can't
see any scientific positivism right now,
calling something cute as a puppy will
not really do justice to the measure of things,
unlike atheism in humanism,
where the projection of will is paramount
to define life, of how one human influences
another, if at all, atheism only matters in
how humans politicise, i love the fanciful
individualist definition that does not
really wish to congregate... and there we have it:
atypical to the English, the invention of
utilitarianism, the best moral action is
to be polite, or simply nice, to say
'yes, thank you' and 'no, thank you',
to say sorry a lot when commuting in the
tube... ah, mm, oh... and the other grand
pillar of utilitarianism? REMEMBER PERSONAL
SPACE... well spinoza could tell you a lot
about this principle when the rabbis
****** him: about how people were not
supposed to stand at a certain distance
near him... sardine **** of human sweat
on the tube during rush-hour.
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 9:55 AM UTC
what a pity
spent the last few years idling in a thin sense of self;
amid outstretched pores looking to photosynthesize more eccentric disposition
even though i know you know my woes consecrate through the spirit, through the veins
what i have shown you is thicker than blood–better count your blessings
so HA! neglect wont erase the ways ive molded your mind
its a gift, to
ditch reason for compassion
to breathe vanity
to breathe immortal sorrow…
my most absurd suggestion yet, now listen closely:
when the tips of my fingers freeze over, let sleeping mountains lie
do hate, but dont devour it;
holy holy holy holy hold the past like a knife
apologies for my insincerity but you must understand…
**** what is left of me?
trembling and then the blade clutters aloof, to and fro and to
i cower from the vision of my wicked phantom,
skin stretched tight over my bones–yet do what He says, for
He makes ruin a honey-like intoxicant
omega three, anti-this anti-that, acronyms galore,
each a little dose of layers of
Him, unraveling atop my fragility
May 24, 2018
May 24, 2018 at 6:41 PM UTC
To polling stations
Going out in droves,
With their unanimous voice,
Electors made clear their choice-
“A breath of fresh air
Would be fair! ”
But as a democracy patrons
Also democracy vendors,
You thought-
“Better an old Satan
Than an angel new born,
The heart of a new angel,
We may not crack open!”
As peace brokers,
To dissuade voters
You dinned into their ears,
“Democracy is a process!
Thus it entails
The gradual unfolding of rights!
Specially in developing nations,
It is tardy in striking roots!”
You also went to say
“The ill-favoured government ,
Though by ballot card made out of play
And adamant to let power away,
A midwife to self-determination
Had paved the way
For the fairness you enjoy today.
Imagine the price it had to pay!”
Tirelessly you pleaded voters
To see reasons
And give the government
A time-out and stalemate,
Also to let it take part
In a joint government!
The hardest way
What people learnt today
Is democracy is indeed a process
That could suffer setbacks,
Or experience a lapse
And down clutters
A tyranny abyss!
Double dealers
Now as a democracy undertaker
You venture to offer
A hearse,
What a farce!
As history
Recorded it in its annals
Go ahead fish in troubled water,
By your very nature
You are capable
To do nothing better!
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 6:03 AM UTC
Inspired by “The Burning Giraffe” by Salvador Dali
I am defined by what clutters my drawers:
• Aortic—a tattered matchbook with a phone number I never called
scrawled to the inside cover as an inscription to everything
I never wanted. A half-empty can of butane with a missing
cap alongside a dollar’s worth of pennies that weight a scrap
torn from a newspaper tragedy: four killed, faulty smoke
detectors to blame.
• Ankle—a charred picture, curled in upon itself and kept as a reminder
of what I could become; a blackened nest as an omen of
losing all I’ve ever known and an ointment tube, squeezed
in the middle as a talisman against blistering tempers.
• Thigh—an empty Zippo with a scarred case, dull and pointless; a coiled
stove element with an ashen haze that could testify that water
doesn’t douse all flames; and an oily fuse, plucked from the top
of my head to serve as a yardstick of minutes, seconds, then
nothing.
• Knee—a fine layer of charcoal dust and half of a briquette from last
summer’s backyard barbecue when the wind kicked up to spray
red embers into the air like a meteor shower, streaking in bright
sparks and fluttering to shrieks and stop-drop-rolls along dry grass
until the itching ceased and the bubbles formed in small foamy
patches along arms and strapless backs and sun-red cheeks.
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 5:30 AM UTC
at non effugies meos iambos
If I were to wipe away the constellations from the sky,
You alone would shine,
There in that,
Devoid of all the light,
Which too often clutters
Your radiance and your mind.
And lightheartedly I say this,
While scrawling desires on yellowing pages,
Which I hand out at random
(et ad absurdum).
And throwing little glances,
Lost in endless distance
Or translation.
There is a grand complexity to sight and sound
Which I with my inherent limitations
Fail to grasp.
Depictions wrought by my hands
Could never do the forms of these things
Proper justice.
And instead of facsimile
They become ruined.
And so I blur the lines
Between the real and perceived
As done with paltry sketches,
When the artist has no more good to do,
And so becomes not a bearer of beauty
But a butcher.
I write dis
Jointed poesy
With you in mind.
(No better subject could I find.)
And fill the lines,
And fatten the meter out
With syllables and sibyls
With diacritical marks and dieresis
And critical remarks
By means of
Playing knucklebones with words.
But I’m no Anacreon,
Or Tibullus,
Or Sappho.
And though I may be just a boy reading Catullus,
Anachronistically,
My poems are just as good
Had I been
A wordsmith
Like Wordsworth.
(at non effugies meos iambos)
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 11:08 AM UTC
I do not know what I see,
Fog clutters my mind making breathing hardly a thing.
There is this deep sinking feeling;
It and the pain will never fade
As each day passes,
I feel as though time has stopped ticking
Will anyone notice as I drown in my fears,
Praying this is all just a dream?
Will anyone notice as my wounds get deeper
And thicken my life with error
Mistakes too long repeated,
There is no going back
But still I sit and stare,
Waiting for your familiar face
To walk back through that door
Never will I adjust to the fact
That you are not coming back
You left us too soon
Without any reason
Now I'm losing time,
I'm losing my mind
Will anyone notice?
Jan 24, 2012
Jan 24, 2012 at 8:30 PM UTC
A silent voice speaks out to portray the loudest words of unfaithfulness, listening with your eyes to the echoes that bounce off of the walls and wander as agony plays it's favorite harmony in your head requesting the simplest iota of pain to make you live in shear insanity. Breathe quietly or the next sharp breath you take will be in vain for you will then fear your lungs are collapsing. The next throb of your heart will be the shattering of the glass ***** so strong and yet so frail. Your emotions will drain through your tears and screams as you ache to feel whole again. Until you've reached the point where all seems silent inside of you but you know your gears are still turning like those of a broken robot. You ache to quiet them for good so you take the barrel and make it roll. A loud, skull cracking noise clutters the air as your gears become blocked enough to cease and cause you to fall into a disintegrating mess. Bye, bye beautiful...
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 10:08 PM UTC
Sit in the saturated twilight
Wind down the taxed eyes
Take one rooted breath
Open the extensive world in the mind
Pale emotions locked by weakness
Only the key of virtue can open
To discharge the stout sting on the spine
Filled with warm crimson candy
Vibrant green embers release
Around the staggering brain
Like nimble mating fireflies
Lighting the brittle inner land
Feather floating thoughts
Powered by an emotion’s spirit
Each a memory; choice or inferior
Brought out again by keen thinking
Sometimes in an imprudent world
It is tough to get to a state of relax
Which clutters the memory of mind
Until that deep respiration is contained
Jun 23, 2010
Jun 23, 2010 at 7:16 AM UTC
The metro station caged the slumbering metropolis
From this dingy mid-March town fridged in January wind
A ******** clad explorer marches in mellow strides
All the way to you
To back the lover's whisper spoken by static selfies
With fleshy whiffs, a borrowed jacket and a gawky face
Blind to but maybe fiddly pepples on the ground.
Down at a backstreet diner, its locked out doorstep,
A hygge cover made for two,
Humming low is the city's nocturnal remains' dubstep
Coming from an illuminating exit,
Luring the busy hands and buckled excitement, whereto ----
Whereto the vacant main street glides them
With the at ease traffic,
Down loops of everextending branches
I followed you
To the roundabout between
two surrounding glassware towers
Where gleaming sparks ***** on each other's windows
Divining themselves by lighting up pavements, entrance signs
and glooming heavens.
Corridors, lawned with clutters from refurbishments,
Lead to glassrooms of suspended business meetings,
And that cozy cavern,
Where you flump into a swivel chair.
Your inhibited expression unwinds
As my curious caress explores
The damp torso slumping deeper into the pliable seat.
And a devoted twitch of ecstasy, blossom unexpectedly
On your face,
Which already shied itself away from its audience,
Doubtlessly, for way too many times ----
A candid sight I could only cache from you,
Because I intend to see it again, your effortless reaction.
The sarcoma-like lump left uncut at the bottom,
Wrinkled like wind waves in a Ukiyo-e drawing.
I scoop the saline ripple, so you can taste it beforehand.
Our bodies started gravitating
onto each other or all over the place.
And lips, they startlingly perched,
out of wills, like magnets
For the very first time.
I've been feeling patient.
And I love taking my time with you
Nov 29, 2018
Nov 29, 2018 at 1:13 AM UTC
I wanna warn you in advance
Escape while you have the chance
What you see in me
Is only what you want to perceive
So here let me hit you with reality
Get out before its too late
I don't wanna have to demonstrate
How I'll devour you whole
Make you question your soul
Yeah I can be deep
But it comes with a toll
You think you can understand me
Your out of your mind
Don't get ****** in
Or else you'll become bind
To the notion that I'm someone else
Who you want me to be
Only exists in yourself
Love is merely a fallacy
Thread together by lies
Losing yourself to compromise
I hate who I am
So I hate you for loving me
No matter what I do
You'll never see
Which feeds into my disdain
You try to understand me in vain
Cash in your cards
While you can
Forfeit
I can tell you now
I'm not worth it
It's not too late
You can still quit
This twisted game
I'm the worst opponent
My interest lingers only a moment
You and everyone else are just the same
With love on your arrow
You shoot and miss
I distorted your aim
Its not your fault
You have me to blame
With all my insecurities there's no room for you
My past clutters my future
This warning is long overdue
So don't hold your breath
for" I love you"
No matter how many shootings stars
It'll never be true
Until I meet my match
Which will destroy me
Like I've destroyed you
Mar 18, 2011
Mar 18, 2011 at 10:42 AM UTC
In the genesis of the last breath’s eulogy, the first word was sorrow.
Pain was a cry of an infant;
a cry that you cannot reason with,
a cry that will not stop until the hungry little mouth is fed.
the only difference was that the grief was unbearable because it was full.
It’s been fed with words as warm as a fresh bottle of milk
and with touches as comforting as a mother’s lullaby.
it was like a tired child, lulled by the softness of his blanket
only to have it taken away from him a few peaceful sighs after the lashes finally touched the flushed cheeks
how cruel it is to deprive a child
of solitude
when the beats of his pulse are not enough to understand why this world is red in tooth and claw.
and when he is oblivious to the fact that his trust is earned, not demanded.
but after a millennium's worth of tears
and what seemed to be a continuous cycle of rumpled sheets and sleepless nights,
the eulogy became an ode
the ache was a coated hunger
and the child learned to sleep alone.
turns out that my body doesn't need another to rest,
my bed is an ocean of peace, I just need to remove the clutters of you from it.
Nov 19, 2016
Nov 19, 2016 at 5:37 AM UTC
Your ears dance with fire as the rain falls from your lips
Your eyes are as dark now like the roads from your trips
You haven’t got a chance now, to make it through all of this
So just give up all your hopes before we all take to the mist
You got to move on, See yourself through this day
You got to move on, So you aren't the one to blame
Clutters of cold nights come, like the days before you wake
You sleep next to no one, but yet you see that it’s no mistake
It’s like a frigid cold summer, that wipes the smile from your face
You try to look forward, but you see that there is no escape
You got to move on, and see yourself through this day
You got to move on, so you aren't the one to blame
Every Days awakening, brings forward another pain
So you hide beneath your coverings, so that your dreams will never break
But as the days grow longer, you find there is no other way,
But to get up off your *** and go, and forget the days complaints
You got to move on, and see yourself through this day
You got to move on, so you aren't the one to blame
Fear is like a thunder, it’ll shake the ground beneath your feet
And if the storm ***** you under, then hold your ground and reach for me
Because I am like no other, I can teach you love can teach you peace
I am what you hope for, when the waters below reach your teeth
You got to move on, and see yourself through this day
You got to move on, so you aren't the one to blame
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 6:19 PM UTC
I used to be that girl who believed in staying close to the things and to the people who make you feel human — make you alive. But these days the book clutters look just like a patch of misplaced stars while the dusk crawled in my head, and the poems look better when they're crumpled or written in red inks and on my wrist, and all the songs just come and go. Today, I let all four of my cacti die. Today, my eyes took the form of the nimbus clouds, and my body reeked of petrichor; maybe it has returned to dust. Today, I felt too empty to even mind the emptiness. And today, I would've written a eulogy to that girl who used to believe that we should all stay close to the things and to the people that make you feel human and alive.
The thing is, sometimes we're not alive anymore.
Jul 30, 2019
Jul 30, 2019 at 7:09 AM UTC
Right now,
The mind flutters.
The body clutters in emotions.
In motion.
Trying to sip on a potion
While staying in devotion to something.......
I try to be it all, yet I cant control this
This
THIS ——- flutter
Yet, falling freely.
Seeing me be me.
Really,,,,,
I stay away
At bay. Yet fragment, moments, ideas
All collide into an explosion of the possibility.
And my mind flutters
Like a butterfly
Crashes like a falling airplane;
Freely, painfully
As I hold onto the railings on the bus. There is a single stop
I crash - again, again.... When, I say stop
Again -
Reality -
A shattering crash.
And I flutter, more
More,
More.
Nothing will stop, nothing.
This fluttering flies away and I am left shaking
A wound
Is opened, in front of you
I want crash now. Because my explosion in front of you
Will hurt you
You will stay
Yet I think:
Please come (I flutter)
Please go —-
At the same time..
Jun 10, 2018
Jun 10, 2018 at 10:00 PM UTC
Majestic eyes glow. Our hearts already know. Destiny will make it so.
Our beauty appears through the years. The direction our path steers. Our ambitions collide. Big hearts open wide. Generous & giving. Celestial happiness is alive & living. Strong minds with souls are kind. Your spirit love will seek & find. Unbreakable bonds bind.
Sacred connections unshatter.
A family to protect. & love, is all & everything that matters.
Envy is brutal & batters.
Aggravation disorder clutters & clatters.
Flirting harrassment unflatters.
A vision of hope develops.
Perfection is distorted & interrupted.
Childhood's get corrupted.
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 2:27 AM UTC
The verbiose virtuoso of verse
clutters the page with poetic pap,
penning endless meandering murk
that amounts to a pile of crap.
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 8:47 AM UTC