"cohabitation" poems
Our brains run on the
Same frequency, a precise
Pitch. Subconsciously stumbling
Into a cranium-themed cohabitation.
With Bics in hand
We catch inconsistent and
Rapid glimpses of a
Contemporary "real" world.
Shape-shifting from one
Ideology to the next.
Using time as a distraction; it's
Human nature to pause for countdowns.
They're all painted over. Oceans and
Gulfs covering lava and intrapersonal
Insides. Scrape it all off and you'll find that
Without all of the adhesives they bruise
Easier.
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 1:50 AM UTC
eat my cinnamon raisin bread
from the inside out,
so if you follow the trail of
crust and crumb to my bed,
swear innocent but not one
cinnamonized raisin will be found
put on my slippers with
trepidation,
for slippers so named,
slip off my toes
at the worst moments,
that my life insurance
expressly forbids our
cohabitation
Well gifted and well returned,
my parents taught me to love
words and the human voice enthralling,
voyage never ending,
love of words
If our issue be our mark,
then mark them well
for you reputation recedes
with them
so as I ponder the why and where,
of the last poem I will write,
issue a tiny prayer that the notes
be cinnamon raisin sweet
and that each letter
slip from my heart,
and let these marks of me
come with smoothing ease of
a welcoming finality
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 2:25 AM UTC
it's real easy to feel like
we've done it all
wrong
phenomenal fuckyes then
phantasmagoric fear ragers
perpetual pity *******
blood middle knuckle crush
regretful bets hedged
hunched frozen tongues
and pointy unsaids
but sometimes
with mind wide-eyed
and heart roots writhing
I've seen it
way differently
a vantage point
where pushpull face-plants
are winning lotto tickets
because maybe
we were kindling of yes
unable to keep it burning yet
and we would have fumbled it
far beyond repair
I'm fairly certain
our heartfelt invites
to instant cohabitation
would have ended
painfully
badly
traumas tripping
over hair triggers
in a 3-legged race
two smoking pistols
and four red feet
even Hello
seems too intense
to mouth
and from this
particular perspective
I can see how
every decision made in fear
led to whinging karmarang
tied with two strings
I daresay
one day we might
look back with a smile
that it went down this way
because the initial who
were not strong enough
to shoulder the immensity
nor surrendered enough
to float the fragility
of newborn carbon
gossamer whorl
in fact
I push all my chips
toward that
maybe there is
fortune in false starts
we make plans
but I bet The One
has better ones
so I'm pretty sure
we should sit down
and listen
for that breeze
to whisper
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 1:32 PM UTC
“It is time to write,” she says
I open a new Word Document.
A blank sheet.
My mind does not want to write an essay.
I write in verse and
chopped lines
not straight paragraphs that drone on and on about William Faulkner and his acceptance speech.
My mind, it drifts off and thinks in flowery words, much too flowery for an essay.
My fingers start typing and words appear on the screen.
Enter.
Type, type, type.
Enter. Type, type, type. Enter.
My thoughts appear in verse and William Faulkner goes unnoticed.
How many times have I written about the whirlwind of a storm inside my mind instead of
whether or not cohabitation is a good thing or
speeches about equal access and the themes in Harper Lee’s To **** a Mockingbird?
How many times have I given into my urge to write and relieve my brain of the pressure that gets built up instead of writing things that will earn me a grade?
The answer is often.
The grade,
Just a number
The conceptions?
Just words
What I write in procrastination?
Everything that bleeds from my heart.
The low grade I received on my speech because I couldn’t be bothered to write about horrid subjects when my soul yearned for something greater?
Worth it.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 8:06 PM UTC
Hello gorgeous, haven't I seen you someplace before?
Open with a line like that, you be lucky not to be shown the door.
I look ten to fifteen years younger, maybe I'm blessed
Sometimes, I put myself to the test
Once I had a boyfriend eighteen years younger than me
We lasted a year and a half. He thought I was thirty.
And sometimes, I see him, a guy who I like
I sidle up slanted, you know, slithery **** it's what they like
You have a drink, it's a whole different world
Your fear goes out the window, thrown away, out that door
You been here long?
You like to dance?
Doesn't matter who says it, so long as you're in a trance.
Yeah, I like that. You're really fine.
We are both really having a good time.
You get a little closer
You can smell his alcohol breath
And in that moment, it might as well be ****
Cuz it's a kind of intoxication
In itself, just the chemistry, this temporary cohabitation
If he's young, he might be ready to go
Let's go back to my place
I know no one will know
Sometimes I did that
I never was afraid
But now, I just slither, and drink, and bathe
in the silliness of it all, these instant connections
The shape of his hand, that shy guy smile
The square jaw, with the stubble on the side
Oh yes, men, oh my
The young ones get aggressive, let you feel what they've got
You're not supposed to do that in public, do they care? Not.
It's all so fun, so just in the "now"
Someday I'll venture out again.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 9:08 PM UTC
~
something
sinister
this way came,
a lie insidious
steals our name;
one most often
we accept,
one so common
we ignore
its evil dance
concealed
in shame;
cohabitation
at its worst.
a simple line
that looks like this…
though brutal
our abuser
when asked
to spill our soul,
accounting for
another’s misdeeds.
instead our tongues
get caught
with heavy coils
that pull us down.
when cruel jaws
that gripped our leg
could be opened
by our witness,
hungry fangs
clamp tigher still
because we sit
in silence;
and in our silence
witness bear
the marks of
these who hurt us
the ones who
claimed to care.
whose uncovering
feels betrayal
and betrayer
feels the thief,
it adds to
our undoing,
becomes
a web of our
own choosing;
contradiction
of entrapment
traps us in
another's deeds.
*i ain't no thief,
i’m just a child
with a story;
the only one
i’ve ever known.
its mine I say,
it fits me well,
it isn't one i stole.
these marks
have made me,
yes... even this
my painful tome.
but take this story
from this child,
you’ll take away
my only home!
take away
my lies
my name
and I’ll
be stripped
of all but bone;
left to wither,
die alone.
i'm just a child
with a story,
the only one
i"ve ever known.*
i bear these scars,
i know them well,
today i wonder why
i never chose to tell.
~
post script
is it too painful to relive the story?
or perhaps it is that in my shedding
i fear it will become my shredding
all that i have come to know,
despite its pain, as part of my own soul.
today i tell others to spill the truth
but am not willing to follow my own advice.
does this not make me guilty of
knowing but failing to act
on my own behalf?
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 10:52 AM UTC
Concerning man and what he makes,
other than scrupulous laws, is that time is of most importance. And as any morally ethical man will tell you, or not tell you, is that time is money.
Now because time nor money grows from trees, it is essential to value them
as entities of the Earth. Valued like trees and plants. Well, some plants. Usually not plants referred to as "tree."
Man made are the laws that produce
a moral oral. Remember, Lady Justice is blindfolded, not gagged.
Time does not exist.
Money is not real.
Only was real when measured in gold, but note the age of the dollar,
and see the change.
Hands on a clock were assembled with hands and a smock. Built in a factory that produces black clouds to join the natural white. When the white clouds drain, the different smells of ground enter the air, and sometimes you get mud, and sometimes that peculiar smell of blacktop on a warm summer's day enters the nostrils.
Whether man is suppose to steal the fruit of this land, or become nutrient for the fruit of this land will never be agreed upon, because of ego over Eco, but I'd like to think that that is a constant and everlasting reminder that this is a cohabitation. Maybe what is natural and taken from this Earth will always be plentiful. But maybe we will pile too much on our plate.
Contain too much in jars.
We can write.
Educate and enlighten.
Hope that ego
never destroys Eco.
Concerning man and
what he makes.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 8:38 PM UTC
She is the water bearing spirit
near the lake at night
Combine this mild duality
to trickle down and decide.
What trusty steed to ride upon
What unwritten creed to follow through
To follow a path rarely walked along
with such blessings from a single few.
A connection split by folicles
Words spoke and motions methodical
Cherished cohabitation and
an Astonishing Conflugration
That rewards our Versimilitude
with love.
My four hands can guide you
my steady minds can show
Though i carry less than water
My true passion is to grow.
My mild to frank multiplicity
Your Bold and cautious stance
to consumate our loves authenticity
I'll, for you, rarely take this chance.
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 12:50 PM UTC
Thanks for listening, though I'm only writing this because I've assumed you're filtering all my e-mails into your trash. Who can blame you?
I am remembering the time we went to Lost Bar and then walked around my neighborhood for awhile. It was Spring, wasn't it? 2013. It was one of the few times we had fun together after actually going out. I remember that we returned home and as I was walking out onto the patio I said something about how I would probably never get married, because I can't handle the seriousness of forever monogamy and the weight that it carries. The limitations, the non-mystery. Such casual bluntness, unfiltered by my self-proposed life expectations or indirect efforts to keep you around, both of us hoping. Wishing.
I'm slowly realizing that we had a friendship. Somewhere in there, under the jealousy and resentment and the mismatch of our personalities within the confines of cohabitation and romantic expectations. Our breakup was inevitable. But there were parts of us that I'm glad I saw.
My habits are the same.
I hope you are well.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 9:55 PM UTC
The handle
to the front door won't budge,
but it can still be locked
from the inside.
The overgrowth is five years
in the making, vines took over
this home of once improvement.
I don't believe we ever
owned a gas can.
A boarded up pool.
The one in which the dog died.
His body was as bloated as my eyes. The puppy in the pictures still hung in the basement beside the kicked in window.
Leaves and insects rest
on the linoleum floor, a cohabitation that was formed out of vacancy.
A long dresser left ajar from wood paneling, insects crawling around,
not that one would know how they
got there. Old paperwork and letters survived. The assumption is that the moths never arrived to join the spiders nestled in their leaves.
Both longhand and typed sentences that spoke of longing, love (young love), happiness, direction, and lastly evaluation. Broken glass fixed against the dresser, a reflection shows.
The dirt and grime is of a
subconscious level.
One that exceeds the proximities
of the appropriate metaphor.
So what is seen is loss.
And although this occurrence
comes as a new beginning, the best solution at the given moment may perhaps be a broom and a dustpan.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 7:26 PM UTC
"people make the mistake of letting beauty guide attraction" said a character from a mediocre movie
It paved the way for a period of self reflection
Remember that boy or girl might be beautiful, but no facade is a stable foundation for a serious healthy relationship
Don't force yourself to settle for anything, not even people
You don't look now fall in love later
Be with them because of what you see in them not what you see looking at them
Your perception of them when you are at a low point is what matters
You kiss with your eyes closed, and that is as much as you'll ever really see when you are arguing with them
You will pick the things they do, say, or believe when you're having an honest real argument, it won't be how they do their hair their clothes or what they look like in makeup it will be the bills you can't pay because they thought education was less important than their name brand shoes
You will remember the lack of help they offered more concerned for themselves
You will become revolted when you take note of their homophobia you didn't notice when you were too caught in what they looked like to see what matters
You are a wonderful person who works hard, you have aspirations, and are realistic in your expectations & someone will find that endearing, you will never lose the ability to see the light in their eyes when being in their arms feels like home and you work together to succeed and commit to each other and your own needs in coexistence
cohabitation isn't just organizing two peoples worth of stuff it is the feelings and emotions together too
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 11:28 PM UTC
By living alone i am escaping a haunted house. to leave is to be spat out undigested, a bone picked clean of meat but spared the marrow. it was always me who refused to be easily swallowed. it was always you who hated that.
We both know this haunting didn’t seep out from the walls, it was set in every room. (you made sure of that.) in such a space, articles of comfort are more unpleasant than bare walls - far worse than nothingness, they are marks of you. it is true you have built a home. but it is not my home.
Your haunting is pristine, white walls and tasteful furniture. beautiful but unwilling to be dwelt in. in polished mirrors, everyone is dirt. at least a gutted, rotting place could have been somewhere someone like me was loved, some long time ago. even claimed by mould and time such a house is less of a haunting than any space shared with you. at least i can imagine those crumbling walls as having once been the pillars of a life. at least among them i am clean.
if you are a leech, i am water, part of blood but never enough, you consume more than i alone can give you. you consume more than i would part with, even if i could.
if a home with you is a haunting, a house alone is a half dug grave.
but at least theres work left to do.
at least i wont be rotting alongside you.
Mar 2, 2021
Mar 2, 2021 at 8:50 PM UTC
Do you want me there, every time you turn over in bed, every room you walk out of and into, in your spot on the sofa, with your remote in my hand?
Do you need a minute?
I'm not sure why people do that, I'm not sure why I want that, if I want that.
Am I being selfish, not wanting to share my space?
But also wanting to share my space.
You invade it, slide into it, spill over my rough edges and then I notice you there, how long have you been there?
I'll share my morning hair, coffee breath and bad singing because I've decided missing you is worse.
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 5:09 AM UTC
Notre être, à l’incipit, apparaît minuscule
Puis se développe notre histoire jusqu’à son crépuscule
Une existence imaginée comme un cycle par quelques têtus
Constituée d’un début, d’une suite d’intrigues, et d’une fin, avant de nous voir repus
La partie la plus longue est communément appelée la vie
Selon le contexte certaines dérangent et d’autres donnent envie
Certaines sont accompagnées de louanges et d’autres de mépris
D’échecs qui démangent, et de réussites anodines qu’on oublie
Est-il raisonnable de se comparer et de se sentir misérable ?
Alors qu’en creusant un peu on trouverait facilement quelque chose de louable
Quelque chose que l’on a accompli pour aider une personne
Peu importe la teneur de l’effort, l’essentiel est que l’on donne
De sa personne, de son temps, de son pécule
Apportant ainsi un instant de joie, un sourire, en somme rien de ridicule
A quelqu’un dans le besoin, en détresse, ou se sentant inutile
Tel une montre suisse à laquelle il manquerait une pile
En oubliant que nous faisons tous partie d’un seul et même écosystème
Que la mort du phytoplancton* entraînerait l’extinction de la race humaine
Dans une époque où il semblerait que la réussite se mesure à la hauteur de ce qui est ou peut être consommé,
J’estime que nous sommes tous importants et avons tous une valeur
Inestimable, tout en étant palpable et faisant preuve de splendeur
Et qui ne se restreint pas seulement à quelques possessions futiles et prochainement démodées
Pauvreté et richesse se retrouvent souvent en cohabitation
Quelques âmes en peine et perdues rêvent de jouir un jour de la possibilité de posséder un avion
Alors qu’il est possible de voler et de voyager rien qu’avec de l’imagination
Que courir, c’est voler entre deux foulées, voler par intermittence
Que penser c’est voyager et contempler des pensées, sans avoir besoin de prendre des vacances
Il est possible de créer et d’exister via la culture d’une passion
Permettant la naissance d’un bien commun
Un bien immatériel ou non, portant un amour inconsidéré en son sein
Non par hasard mais par dessein.
« Au milieu des choses », on se retrouve parachuté
Dans un monde, une société qu’il est pénible de changer
Mais l’histoire française nous a montré
Qu’en nous y mettant tous ensemble rien ne pourra nous résister.
Jun 12, 2020
Jun 12, 2020 at 7:35 AM UTC
Since I have become an
unnecessary annoyance to you,
Why are you still hanging
around me.
Why are you so desperate
to attach yourself to me?
Why not simply allow me to go?
Everything you said about me is true,
Yes you are correct,
Yes you are right.
I am a nonconformist.
Let me go my own way.
We are not seeing eye to eye.
We are not meant to be together.
Believe me you will wake up tomorrow
and thank me for leaving.
A leopard can never change its skin.
The ocean can never flow backwards.
The sun must always rise from the east.
When a man can no longer breath,
he expires and die.
This arrangement of forceful
cohabitation is no longer working.
This integration is choking me.
This amalgamation is suffocating.
You know it's not working .
It didn't work out then
and it's not working out now,
Or will it ever work out.
I am the lion from the Ibo tribe.
I am the king of the African forest.
I am the whirlwind,
I am the storm,
I am the rain,
I fall where ever I chose.
Grace is upon me.
The breath of the Almighty propels me.
My intent to survive is genuine.
I have already prove it to you.
Don't force yourself on me.
Don't intimidate me,
I am not such a one.
I will fearlessly
and vehemently oppose you.
You forced me into a corner
as if I am a social *****
I cannot function like that.
I am a free spirit.
I must soar.
Let me be.
©2017. Emeka Mokeme.All rights reserved.
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 7:15 AM UTC
Since I have become an
unnecessary annoyance to you,
Why are you still hanging
around me.
Why are you so desperate
to attach yourself to me?
Why not simply allow me to go?
Everything you said about me is true,
Yes you are correct,
Yes you are right.
I am a nonconformist.
Let me go my own way.
We are not seeing eye to eye.
We are not meant to be together.
You will wake up tomorrow and thank me for leaving.
A leopard can never change its skin
The ocean can never flow backwards.
The sun must always rise from the east.
When a man can no longer breath,
he dies.
This arrangement of forceful cohabitation can no longer work.
This integration is choking me.
This amalgamation is suffocating.
You know it's not working .
I am the lion from the Ibo tribe.
I am the king of the African forest.
I am the whirlwind,
I am the storm,
I am the rain,
I fall where ever I chose.
Grace is upon me.
The breath of the Almighty propels me.
My intent to survive is genuine.
I have already proven it to you.
Don't force yourself on me.
Don't intimidate me,
I am not such a one.
I will fearlessly
and vehemently oppose you.
You forced me into a corner
as if I am a social *****
I cannot function like that.
I am a free spirit.
I must soar.
Let me be.
©2017. Emeka Mokeme.All rights reserved.
Oct 15, 2017
Oct 15, 2017 at 6:17 AM UTC
Ground is opened in the urban sprawl. Dark earth sits where concrete and asphalt use to be. The dirt can breathe once again after years of being kept under a stony tomb. Now green things take root and grow. Food is produced by the hard work and sweat of those living in the masonry covered towers. The idea of hope is taking root as more buildings are reconfigured to allow for green spaces to blend into the urban landscape. In slow movements forward, the towers of cement and steel are being joined by cabbages and pole beans. The life is returning to a once desolate place and things are living in cohabitation under a new sun.
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 2:11 PM UTC
There was no romance per se,
Certainly nothing which would lead poets or philosophers
To hold their hats over their hearts in reverent awe,
Perhaps one or two de reiguer chestnuts,
But they both were bit players in a milieu
Where the hustle was the coin of the realm,
And the comfort of their pro tem cohabitation
Was strictly a surface thing;
Indeed, she stirred from half-sleep
To see him out of bed, already more than half-dressed,
(Not at all surprising, this being the time of day
Where such young men made their money,
Some package to be delivered or message relayed,
All in service of some crumpled-up tenner
Never missed by its purveyor
But life's blood to its recipient)
And she watched silently
As he sauntered over to the window
To where a group of boys were out well past
What would be considered bedtime out in the suburbs
(It being the last weekend before
They would be corralled into classrooms once more)
And he leaned out the window,
Addressing them with a somewhat paternal growl,
*Hey, my little heroes--time for you to get inside.
Gets cold at night 'round this time of year*.
Sep 28, 2021
Sep 28, 2021 at 11:14 AM UTC