"comatosed" poems
I will not write about you.
I will not write about how you send me to
Places I have not been to in quite a while
With words that revive the comatosed
Butterflies in my stomach
Nor will I write about how your hand behind
My back sends goosebumps to my heart
Up and down like strumming guitar strings
A song I would not want to end
I will not write about how you caress my thigh
Making me wish the hands of time would stop
For a moment, so that yours would still be on me
How your chin is like a puzzle piece
That finds its way perfectly upon my
Shoulder as we ride up the escalator
I will not mention how many times I have wished it
Was not "you and me", but "us"
No, I will not write about all of that.
I will not write about you.
I will never write about you.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 12:36 PM UTC
A sudden pause
You remain still
In hopes you won’t be seen
Comatosed like swallowing a pill
Don’t blink, don’t breath to much
Drifting away, staying frozen and such
If you don’t move, you won’t be noticed
You’ll be hidden in plain sight
Remaining in your own self bliss
Jan 27, 2019
Jan 27, 2019 at 8:52 AM UTC
I smile more often than usual when your around.
Comatosed by the feeling that you give,
A sweet sensation.
The strength to nurture my soul with just one look.
But the feeling,
That dreadful feeling,
Can pour right out of me like a glass of wine.
Watching butterflies fly,
Between two bushes in love like you and I.
Im possessed by your love.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 2:15 PM UTC
Chapter One.
Taste the crap fully.
The corn eyes comatosed....
stuck
In between the folds of mash potato like obedience.
Fuckery makes hate great again.
The horrible rift established by
Religiously intolerant thetoric.
Reacting becomes classic.
Suffocation slowly creeps in and becomes expected.
The silence becomes tragic,
as the first amendment is shredded into nothingness.
And soon the corn eyes begins to multiply,
as stinking crap blinds the dreams of its corn fed yellow eyes.
Remember, fake news like corn never sits well in the tummy.
Comes out at the other end.
Brown chunky oatmeal,
with corn eyes wide open looking stuck upon the mountains and mountains
of left over **** traffic coming to a sudden halt.
Where is lady liberty?
My original democracy loving tv dinner Mommy.
Who knows....
This is the diary of zombie corn eyes.
Next Week....
Chapter Two.
When a new jacking off tax becomes a liability for those professionals tryimg to make money off their favorite part time hobby.
(C) copyright 2020
Feb 23, 2020
Feb 23, 2020 at 1:57 PM UTC
You draw me in with false promises, and forever let me down
You promise escape & happiness, but it just ends in a frown
Not from me of course, as I’m laid here snoozing
A constant disappointment I feel, so I carry on the boozing.
What am I running from? Anesthetised I lay
And coast through each and every hour, of the following day.
Your everywhere I look! Buses, billboards, even litter
Trying to draw us in with your intoxicating glitter.
Your so ****** acceptable, I’m a FREAK if I abstain
“Oh goo on kid, one waint hurt, stop being a chuffin pain”
BUT what they fail to understand, is at 1 it does not stop!
The moment that sip will pass my lips, I’m craving the next drop.
Or 2 or 3 or **** this **** I’m off to the bottle shop”
In fear my stash will not suffice my seeming desire to flop.
Fast forward half an hour, and here I am again
Snoring like a pig, much to the families disdain
Iphone started, camera rolling, my daughter hits record
She watches Daddy comatosed, her memory stamped APPALLED!
“No goodnight kiss, no cuddles tight, no tickles once again”
Her hero lays before her, vest adorned with red wine stains
“What’s wrong with me?” she wonders “why’s he chose wine over me?
And my sis & mummy too, is he too blind to see?
Your consuming liquid memory thief, don’t forget us dad
Im learning all I know from you, is this how fun is had?
Or adult relaxation? Or when you’re feeling stressed!
Does drinking really do all this? WOW IT SOUNDS THE BEST!
But if it really is this good, then what you fail to see….
Is your family stood before you whilst you pass out on the settee!
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 2:50 PM UTC
Aba would
have been there
Ole
had he known
would not
have left you so
facing death alone
that first time
bedded in that
hospital ward
that late evening
had they drawn
the curtains by then
Ole?
Was it still dull
that end
despite the light?
Who found you
and were they
there in time
that first time around?
Did you murmur
make moan
make sound?
Aba would
have given his life
for yours any day
given his limbs
his eyes
his speech
but too late
he didn't know
until they phoned
when they managed
to reach
remember Ole
you are loved
not forgotten
Aba and family
made it
the second time
around
but you
were comatosed
and made no sign
or sound.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 2:58 AM UTC
Upon a bed of newspapers lay a creased red cotton shirt.
No fixed abode
Dirt appears on dirt
Grind teeth.
Got any change said man with can in hand.
Card and blanket with dog curled underneath.
Comatosed body rigid from a fix.
Brandished **** and theif.
Patchwork multicoloured polyester tents adorn a high end shop.
Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 7:10 PM UTC
Laid to rest,
stone in place,
legend chiselled
and name
and words
and such,
flowers
in place.
Laid to rest-
but not,
my son,
for us,
the memories too strong,
too recent ,
to put to sleep or rest.
Waves of it rush
against the shores of self,
digging in deep,
pushing heart
and sense aside,
raising the ghostly
images to sight.
Who spoke last?
Who conversed
in final hours?
How dark the ward.
I helped you
best I could.
Unknowing,
promised
of the morrow returning,
but then too late,
just the comatosed you
to greet, the last
drawn out day of demise.
Laid to rest,
stone in place,
words chiselled,
ashes encased,
buried, flowers,
prayers said.
You,
my son,
stoic by nature,
warrior to the core;
why does
the sun rise?
What was
it all for?
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 8:43 AM UTC
I can't forget the moment
your heart flatlinded,
my son, watched it
on screen in the ICU
as you lay there comatosed,
eyes closed, wired up
with wires and tubes
to a machine just out of sight.
I often wonder
what your last thoughts were,
what sounds you heard,
what images behind your
closed lids followed you
into I know not where.
We held your hands
at those final moments,
muttered words for you to stay,
but death came stealthily
and carried you away.
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 2:32 PM UTC
Comatosed with open gaze insinuating
Morphine daydreams,
With bristling hairs along arms
Before she had the chance to shave
and the folicles deactivated;
It is her womb she has devoted
For the public eye;
How it slowly rots, from incarnadine
-as the historical pictures aside her show-
To it's current viridian swelter;
Like an ugly robust bruise too tough to die.
Rupturing outward a torridness
Of legs and crooked fingers stuck to half-grip,
Scanning southly one notes globules of goosebumps
Haunting up her thighs,
Pricking cloudward and shivering implying that,atleast,
For a second whilst living she was aware of this—
Her impending fate.
Red,red,red lips
bud close to form a cute,poppish image,
Honouring those photographers who come and go—
Her tiny hands are posited to corner her tiny *******
As not to stir any further controversy.
The lady in the jar awaits the usuals,while blind
to her own doing so,
Mind overrun and on display like a faulty calculator
Via that dull, happy, gaze.
She smells up the room of exquisite perfume and
Quixotic trees and fields and roads and too much more to mention...
The fee these stranger's would scavage from their pockets
Just to be awarded a chance to touch
The fair lady’s skin and determine a better verdict
As to whether or not she meant all that much to the world
at all.
Jun 16, 2020
Jun 16, 2020 at 8:55 PM UTC
*Watch the moon
glide away
from the
world
and
slip,
comatosed,
uncomfortable,
and
isolated.
leave
the
moon
to
itself,
and
watch
the
smile
grow:
The
smile
of
the
world
slipping
away
between
your
fingers.*
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 3:59 PM UTC
Clouds blowing through your smog induced brain,
Sipping on beer while you medicate your pain,
Everybody's gone but you haven't even noticed,
Easy come, easy go, to you its all the same.
A danger to yourself? I'm yet to ascertain,
Talking to a bench while people eye you with disdain,
You have a problem - I'm not telling you to abstain but,
Wake up pal, smell the air and see the sun again.
A simple life is something we all crave,
It gets easier dependant on how you behave,
But you're popping pills making yourself ill on a thoughtless roller coaster,
And lying to yourself saying you're going through a phase.
The world has passed you by in your comatosed state,
You watch, but don't feel for reasons you can't explain,
You want to live life but can't handle your own mind,
So you dumb it back down and fly home to space.
Have fun on your 'travels' while you cement your own fate,
Thanks for giving me this lesson to recommunicate,
You can get dealt a **** hand that foils all your plans,
But essentially your whole life is custom made.
Feb 21, 2019
Feb 21, 2019 at 4:19 PM UTC
The Catholic priest came
and gave last rites;
you were comatosed,
though I expect you heard;
they say one does,
even then, shalom, amen.
We held your hands
most of that last day,
one of us staying,
whilst the other
(went for drink or such)
went silently away,
but too long or much.
Puffed up hand and arm,
your eyes closed;
tubes and wires
coming out
here and there;
all those machines
keeping you alive,
pumping away,
softly noisy.
We never gave up
you'd survive,
watched and held
and talked until
the last eased out breath.
A lonely place,
some say, is death.
We were there,
breaking up
at your departure;
didn't want you to go;
but you fought until end,
stoic, silent, Seneca like,
our son, and these hearts,
which no time
or words or prayers
or creed( at this time)
can mend.
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 1:59 AM UTC
I said once this place was where dreams came to die,
So why am I happy here?
I can see the years etched into these peoples faces,
On line for every life they should have lived but didn’t.
Creased skin coating arthritic bone;
Comatosed souls in caracasses.
Defiant if not alive.
Because there’s not an eye that doesn’t glisten with mischief in this prison.
Solidarity and laughter while we peel back the skin on our knuckles and chip away bone.
As though the blue plasters can patch up the damage from years where it didn’t trickle down.
Mar 8, 2022
Mar 8, 2022 at 2:26 PM UTC
That last time
we talked, my son,
the very last,
unknown to us,
never ventured
on profound subjects,
(as they do in films
or heroic novels)
we conversed
on the mundane:
how did you sleep?
What was the food like?
or trying to explain
the puffed up limbs
and pain( having
complained to the nurse
about your visual state)
when you did you pass
***** last? and some
such usual things.
You were tired
your eyes were closing,
and unknown
to either of us,
you were probably dying
for the first time, then,
without priest
or prayer or amen.
What was it like
that first time?
Revived, they
called us in,
while they set you up
to machines and monitors
and wires and tubes
and all such things.
You were comatosed,
eyes closed, lying there,
hands at your sides,
puffy and discoloured.
Did you hear us talk?
Did you know
we were there?
We held your hands
at the end, my son,
wanted you to stay,
wanted you
to be with us,
but death took you quickly,
far and away.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 4:08 PM UTC
It's the beauty of rain
That washes away my pain
As it showers down
My heartache drowns
Quitening the anger
That causes havoc in my soul
My emotions comatosed
I feel no more
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 3:06 AM UTC
Maybe I was comatosed,
I heard not a thing,
those raindrops,
well they must have partied on the ground,
the garden just a sodden plot,
I never heard their footsteps tripping.
Prediction of heavy weather,
for two hot nights strung out in a row,
a little bit like garden garlands,
But,
I saw no flashing lights last night,
preceding night just one or two,
no noise did disturb me,
the lights were all out,
behind my eyes,
was peaceful,
on my pillow,
it took on the role of ear plugs,
as into sleep I slipped.
I'll never know what I have missed,
I slept through everything.
Sleep came and kissed my eyes and ears goodnight,
and that's just what I had.
(C) Livvi
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 4:49 AM UTC
Some nights, my son,
I dream of you in some scene
unfamiliar, for some reason
unfortold at least to me,
and it is the you I used to know
before the fatal end; yet I am unaware
( as in dreams it seems)
that you are here no more,
maybe off in some other sphere,
some other shore.
I hugged you in one dream,
so close I felt your body's warmth,
feeling a sense of strange relief
that you were there, until you
disappeared like melted snow
and the reality sank in
that I must let you go.
Some nights, my son,
I search my dreams for you,
through the dark corridors
of your final days, walk past
the room I left you last,
look again and again at you
lying there comatosed,
eyes closed, wired up to machines
and lights and sounds
like one who dozed.
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 2:40 PM UTC