"cognitively" poems
The words I saw the other day on the bathroom stall read
"Glorified Prison"
MMMM, Cognitively thinking
to myself.
"This is my life"
In an instant flashback of
bent memories,
I thought about
the year
when
it all happened.
My heart started beating rapidly,
my brain collapsing,
My body drenched in sweat.
I was drowning.
Drowning inside a mental pool
and there was no life ring to save me.
I just stood there,
Mummified to the moment.
My eyes were glazed over as if I had glaucoma trying to stare
through a thick London fog.
Everything was disappearing
in front of me.
I saw it though, in my distant memory,
quickly flashing in front of me, like a shooting star across the sky,
then it was gone.
Gone to a place that I never recognized before.
A place that was out of some sort of bad dream.
That place. That brick house. Pitch black outside.
That kind of bad dream, "the worst kind of nightmare
that you can ever imagine"
and I couldn't wake up from it.
Make it go away!!
Please, Make it go Away!!
I am begging you.
STOP IT!!
His hands suffocating me,
but I could barely feel them
or hardly breathe, none the less.
Breathless in this moment.
I became to numb to my surroundings.
Trapped in my own seclusion
and by my own misdirection.
I was left wondering.
I had no idea what was going on.
Lost inside myself,
with unknown fear,
trapped inside that brick house
of malicious trepidation
and insidious manipulation.
I was being sexually violated
and I didn't know why
nor could I control it.
I was in a poisoned induced
coma of fear.
My mind was twisted
beyond reproach
as he continued his sadistic
and cruel usage of my body.
I was longer a human being,
I was just object for his enjoyment.
Escaping the insanity, I ran!!
Finally free or so I thought.
This mental torture has burdened
me for so long and has taken me down many diluted paths
of mistrust, misguidance
and internal, penalized
grief.
I am became lost unto myself.
I have grown to live inside
this Glorified Prison,
with no release date in site.
The torture that I was subjected to,
will never leave me.
So this prison has become solace.
It has also become my hell.
It is where I put on my shoes
and walk without fear but
it is also where I run away
from things.
Many times I begin to tremble when I think of
that nightmare.
It has become a seeded part of me.
It is who I am.
I am a survivor though.
One day I hope to be released
beyond the walls of this
glorified prison,
so I can finally be free.
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 11:03 PM UTC
.the moral obligation, to be cognitively dissident; which has to align with Heiddeger's da-sein at some point... a piquant fervor for reality as: static, yet at the same time moving in the realm of the Titans / orbs - time, is a concept that has to match up to the orbs... otherwise all this space... whatever the wind, the clouds... is just static... inanimate... time could only be derived from animate objects, which became subjects which became momentum... the rest, the rest is just space, and its excesses of the vacuous night... space became a probing mechanism, an investigative vector, posit, charge.
now you call me a germanophile...
like a Caligula or some
odd ****
kennts ihr selbst:
know your self...
which is a reflective form of
the reflexive Anglo
counterpart: yourself.
so i noticed...
whenever i become, really,
and i mean really reactionary
(not angry)
i tend to drift into
writing in my native tongue...
funny...
mother tongue,
fatherland...
but it's the opposite in Moscow...
motherland...
and the epitome
of the Cyrillic?
well... there was
a St. Cyrill...
but father-tongue just
sounds so ****** stupid
in English...
maybe in German?
vaterzunge...
well... sure as **** that
sounds better than mutterzunge...
but hey,
preferences preference preferences,
not everyone says: om, om,
ooh, chocolate,
when taking a bite of a ****
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 10:50 AM UTC
Imaginary Boy
builds imaginary walls so tall he trumps the Taj Mahal.
He walks corridors to imaginary doors
where he stores his love in hoards of fantasies,
but he figures her
the mystery,
the puzzle to be solved.
Imaginary boy
composes stormy melodies.
He plays them through
imaginary seas,
but in his heart it is the sirens,
with songs diminished, sickly,
who claim his ship for the fiery deep.
While he fills his pockets with stone, he screams,
"I stored my love in hoards on board, and she's taken all I have!"
Imaginary Boy
lives in a dream, but never sleeps.
Quietly, he mumbles, "That woman, she makes me bleed."
but she could never penetrate that deep,
because he cannot see her
through his warped expectations.
Imaginary Boy
doesn't know that love resounds infinitely through our mentality,
and cognitively,
it is our decision to love,
and we decide how to love,
and who to love
Imaginary Boy,
love is a verb, never a noun,
and so very real,
so very profound,
that the loving cannot be real
if the expectations are imaginary.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 3:33 PM UTC
What is an empath
I person who neurologically
Feels emotions of other people
You cannot hide from them
As I am one
I have felt the emotions
Of myself
And another
Since I could cognitively remember
Sep 30, 2020
Sep 30, 2020 at 8:08 PM UTC
My incoherent rantings upon this white,
tainted by my virulent thoughts expelling out.
I leap at echoes of what may have been cognitively
expelled but never given true form.
*"I just lingered my mind in the air like a net catching
stray speculations that were never musing,*
I never understood why infuriated wording
was not given form, why I lingered outside my
window like a peeping tom. Waiting for those
Drifting inconsolable lost thoughts never given form.
Some were so sullen a tear would edge closer to
my yearning of falling but then I'd catch and devour
it. Swallowing that sorrow to feel that pain needed
to ink better vocabulary then I had penned before.
"I hear things in the night, feverish dreams of inscribing,
I understand my conclusion of what I am spilling in
irrational contemplations, that wield meaning of
what should lucidly be realized within my words.
But my ink is waved upon as to complex in thought.
"I am a man with no water yet I am drowning,
Can I be enthusiastic in my wonderings of captured words,
expelled but never used. I hoard them within me, so others
may not take what I thought what I took from the breeze.
I think I'm cognitive, but others think I'm rabid in inducing.
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 3:22 PM UTC
I.
She waits in the shade
Of a best-loved oak,
Where he once carved their names inside a heart:
"This means forever."
II.
The heart needs tending
--she visits from year-to-year.
Her security, a vow.
His constraint, a contract.
She made to open the door but he detained her,
A perjury.
Pruning stems, branching
--cognitively speaking--
Dead or alive.
III.
The landscape has changed:
This place no longer holds water.
Listen now for love's addendum,
Measured in the signal-to-noise ratio.
(You'll hear it all the time).
IV.
Oh, painfully leafless gray meadow.
Sufferance is a viable timekeeper,
When it storms the weak run for shelter.
Oct 21, 2019
Oct 21, 2019 at 6:36 PM UTC
mind drifts within evolutions
pull; enclosing thoughts in
earth's many wonders, causing
brainstormed emotions into
ideative air pockets; casting
kaleidoscopic prisms to realms
of life's many gifts as we
intellectually ruminate cognitively
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 8:20 PM UTC
it's not the first time that a Bristol Belvedere
(type 192) helicopter flew over my
house...
am i right in thinking
i'm somehow associated
with the army?
ah **** for amusement's sake,
have a funny thought
(cognitively speaking
funny via mere thought
you're into sit-down comedy,
appropriately suggestive
as a delusion - but funny as **** -
pardon my french -
on a rocker with dell boy over 'ere,
mm mange tout, mange tout -
mon rz too, mon ż too -
honestly, check my search engine
IP address statistics,
most of them begin with:
polish diacritical z / s / c / e / a / n / o / l);
actually the Bristol Belvedere
is debatable... it might as well have
been a Boeing CH-47 Chinook.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 11:05 AM UTC
*With words I am a figure of conjuring movements
My hands detail words silently they breath
Upon reality*
Form
Breath
Solidify
*Upon this place of life through phrases,
I play a chess board of moves thought out,
Not in moment but in millennia's
As for each action their is a reaction that
Moves slowly or instantaneously*
Moment,
Time,
Patience
*Is a virtue as my words whisper on the
Chest board of light and darkness, I
Mummer on the playing field of both,
I am the words heard in ears, like an echo
Of a thought they cognitively thought their own,*
Words
Blend
Power
*And I am of neither or both.
I am of the order where words were spoken,
And hand gestured upon the air, reality its self
Bent to our thoughts,
we are what is, was, to come to the dawn
Night shall fall and when it arises once again
We will be their to guide with the words gestured with hand.*
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 12:52 PM UTC
Deliberation, restoration of a beaten nation. Beaten into the dust, rusted, cohesion gone, the gall of so many wrongs finally come to fruition like children's songs of un-suspended remission.
Cognitively oozing out of pores like sores of an otherwise un-marred beauty, and all the scoundrels come looting rudely to destroy the tapestry deliberately deployed to instill an air of utmost joy.
Money falling into the hands of moral lepers, economic pressures untoward, yet still pushing forward. The tenacity of ants, unparalleled cohesive cerebral structure, chants of a buddhist nature bleed desperation wrapped in graceful slumber to ward off the mortal structure, inevitable in its destruction which ruptures the potential reduction of essential corruption.
A gleam in the eye of every schemer, transferring blaspheme to the revelry flying high in the mind of every dreamer. Spewing out clouts of reconciliation, renewing like dust clouds of just degradation. Rejuvenation of this nations ancestry, patient in its wait, parched in the ancient vestry, waiting to sate the state of arched backs, superstitious black cats. Careful if a human crosses your path, losses run amok...invoke the acumen of wrath and bad luck.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 1:34 PM UTC
Reptiles the pathfinder of humankind
Come from quagmire cognitively blind
Claws become digits, hind legs took on knees
There eyes looked forward, they wanted to please.
From upright gaite he saw his first sun rise
Walked towards horizones enticing skys
Began to gather, his perceptive root
To plant his rational, interlect route.
Grunts become recognised vocal conduits
Which co-operate with reasons pursuits
For eruditions ultimate clarity
Wisdom works for familiarity.
Knowledge deciphered in words to provoke
The birth of conscience a central yoke.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 1:08 PM UTC
My newly gotten kitten,
was playing in the kitchen,
chasing a delectable treat
He pushed it around
on the cold-hard ground
as if it were live meat
Now that he's older
and learned cognitively
that treat is not what is seems
So now there's no push with a playful paw
No thrill, or excitement, or lifeless, I saw.
For there instead
in his bemused head
the thought his beliefs are a lie
So now he just eats it greedily
because it comes so easily
..this is our reality..
Imagination is a word
seldom ever heard
except to describe the child inside
That kitten, you see,
represents you and me
because we once had those ideas
Nothing is real, Nothing is fake
it's all from inside, it's all what you make
But our society has told us what is right and wrong
and we have believed it far too long
You must follow a one mind track thinking
instead of listening to your truth
Just like this kitten,
who played in the kitchen,
chasing a delectable treat
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 5:07 AM UTC
Why is your soul so attractive to me?
I wanted you before I knew you
I made you up
unknowingly
piece by piece
you came together
in my past, endeavoring, thoughts
before I knew I had you
in front of me
From the first moment I knew
I felt like we've known each other before
maybe we have..
It sparked my curiosity
why are you so intriguing
it is rather exciting
Cognitively, I put up my security
and held up my heraldry
But I am slowly seeing, you are not one to be fearing
Why are you this way?
Why are you so beautiful
Perhaps because I am use to the hostile
You must experience darkness to appreciate the light
I embrace your light and soak it up like the rays of the Sun
Of all the questions I have but just one
to answer me,
please can we continue to be
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 12:00 PM UTC
The map is not the territory.
The menu is not the meal.
Cognitively, we dwell in a symbol-scape
and easily mistake
the signpost for the path.
Spiritual and New Age medias
offer signposts,
but,
if one enshrines the sign,
it can make captive the one wishing to walk the path.
Leaving the seeker abandoned of their journey for a
golden calf.
Really, all teachings are distractions from the Truth.
Science and Spirituality are methods of inquiry
and, surely, have little
or nothing
to do with watching videos on the internet.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 7:51 AM UTC
you really like
labels.
you like being able to say
"i have THIS"
or "i have THAT"
now the therapist can begin a new ritual
a new rain dance
a new prance of prescription
to make me feel better about myself.
dyslexic
anxiety
adhd
PTSD
google is your doctor
informing you of all the ways you are ill
and without a formal analysis
you diagnose yourself
and then inform the world.
you like being able to articulate what is wrong with you
so people will stop accusing other outside forces
of being the cause
like maybe
**mommy
problems**.
this makes it all easier. because honestly
you don't know
what is wrong with you.
and you don't know
how to make your lungs feel able to breathe alright again
though you profess you do...
and that my lungs are in need of your theripistal jargon as well -
personal salvation at the hands of a 16 year old child.
i have seen more than you.
and the more that i have seen i have even understood better
and fully.
want to get wordy?
i was able to
cognitively deduce the situation
because my brain was fully developed.
tell THAT to your therapist.
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 12:02 PM UTC
*Discouraged, I silently wait-
Anticipate the cultivation
of a new surrogate
slowly weighing down
the corporate weights
Generations have died
We need not new worshipers-
Though we preach and preach
of new ways of life
The articulation of a stealthy
misguided population
Rooted deviously within our realm
Subliminal dis-figuration
is cognitively calloused
Deeply punctured inside
the root of our thickly stems-
This, the way of the world
The capital effect
Leaves one hungry, starving-
and dastardly thirsting for more
A consumerist mind-set
Correlates abruptly
with this generation of
"non-thoughtful thinkers"
Consumption of supply
Regurgitating of demand
Are we senseless-
Or just sensible
in cultivating this disheveled war
on our possessions
possessing the rights of man?
Are we grasping at this
misconceived dream
That we can live long and dream
the dreams we feel we're destined
to achieve?
We are the result of the
reality we create and strive
to be
Don't be a commercial-
Be your own documentary
© 2014 Christina Jackson*
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC
I'm not who I was
never have I been who I am
My love and admiration twist
I have no confidence
because I am cognitively dissonant
raised with values too extreme for humanity
not able to shake free of them
I've done terrible things, too few I regret
and even those still echo desire in the depths of me
but I'm not going to allow myself to wake in this darkness
not going to be complacent
pain follows change, but so too does joy
I'm not yet free, not yet me
I don't know if I can break free
but I do know
I'm not done yet
Aug 6, 2021
Aug 6, 2021 at 9:42 PM UTC
Fascination in obscure
words or sensations
in my deep states,
seemingly insecure or even uncomfortable concepts to some
yet holding a great enigmatic eloquence
in elegance
when looked at through
a different prism of the crystal.
I could even say that my
Deep Stateness
is of the copper-dark
radiating scarlet paired
with lilac,
inky blue
and grey mist
at the Lighthouse Keeper’s shift
when all stories come alive
and what’s seemingly real
turns feeble.
An example word of such would be: “Incalescent”
or
“Evanescent”.
It holds that feeling
independently
from its cognitively
given definition.
Astrality, to me,
if you’d like to ask as a help
for placing it,
may be most probably
the aforesaid
Deep Stateness married
with the presence of My Lover, otherworldly consciences
without words
(as if I were some astral being
embodied
and aware of its misbelonging
to this world
and my moderated
female body)
and my Fernweh
for my Home.
It’s also that Phronemophiling,
like a thing greater
than getting high on drugs.
It is also my endearment
at my antics
or getting Philosophy
in me and what I read
as lovely,
playing naked on guitar
at night alone in silent dark
with trust in my eyes without glasses, looking at stars bravely
without this handicap device
and lonely daring the world
to tell me
I cannot see them without it
on,
using the strong reverberating
of my voice so pulsing out loud
with sureness and passion,
or fascinating at my tears
for more than two days
whilst in commotion
after reading deeply
“The Dead Poets Society”.
Surely you must have felt it
one way or another some time.
Aug 18, 2020
Aug 18, 2020 at 2:42 PM UTC
The runner knows the most glorious step is the one that transverses the sedentary boundaries of day-to-day perception. Though many miles are spent cognitively – when her consciousness pants with the worries of non-running - there exists a tangible point beyond which the run becomes feral and the runner’s mind entangled in her muscles’ rhythmic exertion. At this point, nothing is considered but the destination and its taunting distance. Nothing is felt but heady sweat and strain. Nothing is heard but labored breaths and practiced, patterned footsteps. The activity has become the runner’s identity. She is a sweating, striving, driven, and essentially mobile being. She is acutely aware that this run is her purpose and her portion. Her legs will always pump defiantly against time and distance. Her lungs will always sift the sharp winds of locomotion. Her hair will ever whip behind her. And the runner will live this way until her legs dissolve, her lungs collapse, her heart implodes – until she dies running, in perfect, primal ecstasy.
Feb 20, 2012
Feb 20, 2012 at 9:22 AM UTC
Your words are twisted with purity and gold
With no stained bloods resurrect in you
You Have been craving for good onwards
The camels and goats were never eaten by one
Who once become a witch monster of craft but an enigma of one's spirit will transfer into your soul and body
My ribcage that directly punctuated with your hearts unstring
The flesh of one's soul is always wanting you no more
For which enters your heart and brain;
Cognitively will back from you
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 3:14 AM UTC
My hair is soft
yet the only other fingers
aware of how soft
have long since past.
I do sports - not watch
that is, of course,
unless my sons are playing
or the music is right
and the party is tight!
I catch Pokemon
**** in Fallout 4
visit Azeroth every chance I get....
My DNA - an enigma
African
Irish
Southern Europe
Finland and Siberia
Scandinavia
Neanderthal
A puzzle wrapped in a conundrum-
All questions - no answers...
I love action movies, Marvel and DC Movies
Game of Thrones
Vikings
I was amazed at the evolution
White to Heisenberg....
Cognitively I know my age
Yet spiritually
my soul is ageless....
My music rap to rock
old school and new
jazz, classical
Western, Eastern, Mid-Eastern, South American
all but Celtic....
can't handle most Celtic!
I love sunrises in
the US
Canada
Mexico
Egypt
Jordan
I plan to see more world wide
God(s?) willing....
Ms taken
Ms abused
Ms understood....
Me!
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 10:41 AM UTC
When I bought food today, the guy behind the counter said,
"How's your weekend?" and "Have a good day, Nick."
My response was, "You as well." And I really meant it. I couldn't believe he read Nickolas on my I-card, assumed people call me Nick, (which they do), and called me Nick.
I left and I thought to myself, "I'm like him."
I love connecting with people. I want to not be afraid to talk personally with people who I don't know personally. I just want to dive in.
I want to read nametags and after the wonderful young lady at Starbucks gives me my change for my Grande Caramel Machiato, I'd say, "Thanks Sara. Have a great day". She might look at me and say "Thanks! You as well! :)" Or she might say, "Thanks...you too o_O"
Does it matter?
When you give someone your love, even if it's just a milliliter, especially if it's just a milliliter, do they have to like it? Do they have to reciprocate it?
Do those people who always smile and are full of love prefer their lovees to be put off by their kindness, making the lover superior because they have more love than the lovee could ever imagine?
It's just that love has to be selfish. There must be something to gain.
I love people and I never got out of that phase of when you're a child and you think everyone is perfect and they know what they're doing.
See, I cognitively now realize that people are just as lost as me, but emotionally, I feel that everyone else is on a level above me and I am a few levels down. In terms of how much love I deserve, how much attention I deserve.
I love seeing other people happy. But me? I could do without it. It's immaterial.
So when other people love, it's lovey love, it's happiness love, it's the love that's in the air, the love that makes you hold open doors, the love that makes you human.
When I love, it's the love that makes you write letters, the love that's begging for attention, looking for approval, trying to dominate others, trying to be human.
I want to be just like you. If I could treat myself how I treat you, I might be happier.
You can love something and not care about taking care of it. You can love something and let it go. You can love yourself and let yourself go.
It's really bad but I want to share this with others because my artwork might help someone someday and it helps me and that's cool, but knowing that everything I produce might someday make someone's life better even if it's just for one second, then it's worth it. It's extremely worth it.
So I want to be like that guy who works at that place. Someone who cares. And underneath all of that "I deserve way less than other people" emotional nonsense that plagues my neurons, I am.
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 6:26 PM UTC
How did I get so cold?
Smile and laugh as friends,
then in silence wonder
all alone.
Is there safety in troubled solitude
or only sadness?
Cognitively dissonant,
I trust you
yet I'm skeptical.
Perceived peace of solitude.
safe and lonely
or friendly and terrified.
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 1:37 AM UTC
i have gifted my anatomy with wholesome, organic nourishment
i'm left unaligned
i have gifted my form with stimulating and beneficial exertion
yet, i'm still left cognitively discontent
my ears (and my mind)
have a constant flow of incongruent content from that above
and that, simply, is my revelation
i am blessing my organs
while doing no favors to my mind (and my soul)
this became prevalent following a fresh, introduced energy
the things you read, write, listen to, and say are potent creators
no matter how health-giving you are to your physical form
the content flow is the omnipotent
Jun 14, 2022
Jun 14, 2022 at 11:16 PM UTC