"commentaries" poems
It's been a year since you left,
Six months since you last visited,
(But I didn't see you then).
When you left,
I thought I'd never see you again.
But when you came to visit
I thought that that would be my last chance
But you barely even left the house.
When I heard you were finally coming back
I figured that you'd be lazy
And not want to leave you house.
But your brother dragged you out
And I finally saw you.
As I turned down the road
And saw you for the first time
All I could think was
"Oh God! Not again!"
An infinite amount of emotions
Slammed into my heart
All at once
It was all I could do
Not to throw myself into your arms
And cry tears of joy.
We fell into our comfortable insults and jokes
Just as soon as we saw each other.
It felt like you had never left;
Like it was any other weekend.
The next few days we just hung out
Talking, joking, insulting one another.
It seemed like we were thrown into the past
When nothing had pulled us apart
Before either of us made the mistake
Of telling the truth.
Watching movies
And giving commentaries
While eating pizza and soda
As we lay of the bed.
I wish we could rewind time
Just so we can relive those amazing moments.
But looking back on the past few days
And all those years we were together
I realized
I really do love you.
Never before
(Or after)
Have I ever been so close to someone
(ANYONE!)
Never have I told somebody so many secrets
Never has someone known me so well
Never has someone been able to say
"Oh she would say this"
Or "Don't say that, it'll make her mad"
Never have I been able to be myself and not feel uncomfortable
Never except when I'm with you.
I wish we still lived in the same country.
I wish there weren't oceans separating us.
I wish that I had the courage to give you these poems.
I wish you were here to help me through this move.
I wish I was in Sweden with you
(Or you were here in America with me)
I wish
I wish
I wish.
Only wishes are left.
I wish I could tell you I love you
I wish you knew how much!
I wish you knew I never loved someone as much as I love you.
I wish I had the courage
The courage to send you all the poems
I've ever written about you
Because there are so many
With so many words
That you'll never hear.
I wish
I wish
I wish
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
On this my happy and blessed day
fondly I remember what Mother always said
upon some naughty day when I made her sad
stalling on her bidding and not being a good boy
Son, live straight and be easy to interpret
Life is a complex menu of choices. Still -
you can cruise along if there’s love in your life
I remember the wistful poetry from my father’s lips
Creamy words spoken in jest or in epic tales
and untutored philosophy when he spoke of his going:
Death has come and it’s time for last words
My life has dragged by but now how it hurries!
Be the person that you must and **** the rest!
A truly rich person shares what they value most
And so it is that I’ve shared my heart and my mind
In numerous lines of poetry that has dared me to write it
On this my 66th birthday I read no ills in this number
For I’m just a wayfarer looking for words along my route
I pick the gems that sparkle and dazzle as I stroll to eternity
The landmarks on my route are
The friends I made and lost along the way
The doleful souls that brought tears to my eyes
The pretty girls that taught me I could never have them all
I remember too the places I’ve been to
And the songs of my people – lively commentaries on everything
And how life always lay waiting to be lived
My day of birth is my day of possibilities
And I keep hearing the line from the jazz classic:
Get your kicks on Route 66!
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 2:12 AM UTC
I call myself a feminist.
I call myself proud.
I see "big and beautiful" or *** marked along the walls.
I see "plus size" as a label for a woman with hips.
I watch loving compliments,
but..
I also watch heartless hateful commentaries.
We label everything between fruit, office supplies, or people.
That's how humans understand, to categorize.
How can we call ourselves people if we label to give pain and not for simple understanding.
People are not plus sized.
We are all sizes.
We are all skinny for we are all covered in skin.
Thin and thick are not meant to be judgements.
We are all beautiful.
We should all spread love.
Label to learn.
Leave hate for hell.
Jun 27, 2017
Jun 27, 2017 at 11:35 PM UTC
How to fit it?
Be fake.
Put on a pretense.
Like those anchor peoples on the newscast.
Hold your opinions.
They don't like opinionated folks.
And if they are they called personal commentaries.
How to fit in?
Put on that smile.
In life we all are actors.
It's a trait of our character.
Unless we get selected to heaven.
Then that's another matter.
We required to be real because the love of God is there.
How to fit in?
Embrace the concept of your surroundings.
Just sit back and take it all in.
Like a shy person you'll be able to describe everything.
From those that fake to the backstabbers.
Now, you can be a rogue.
Just realize renegades doesn't last in the fakeness for long.
But that's how you fit in?
You just need to ask yourself?
Is this your quest?
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 9:57 AM UTC
To write poetry is
To create philosophical memory
To adjust the commentaries
Of all souls, to just one voice
To strip the inequalities
Of existence, of their mass
To write poetry is
To erase the written
Transforming what we have read
Making alphabets contemporary
Fluid, mystical
To write poetry is not just art
It’s neurological reprogramming
A quantum gesture to
The nature of beauty
And Meaning itself
To write poetry is
To return to an absence of meaning
The meddlesome mind forgets
The natural order of nature
To reduce layers of narrative
And return to a total peace
And a grand vision of the universe
As a talking thing, exchanging energy
In a physics of existence
To write poetry is to love the unwritten
Endings that all concur
To identify with the sudden
Rupture of beginnings
From which all thought originates
To write poetry is thus
The silence in between the words
And a solace beyond thought
To free oneself form the memory
That is an impression or a scar
On the mind, blankness is an ideal state
To observe time and space without attachment
To love existence independently
Of the personal conditions of one’s life
On the letters of your poems
I observe a black walking cat
A woman that must question her heart
To find the answers, without
Speaking we are a language
All we feel and do is a kind of vocabulary.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 9:37 PM UTC
Truly.........
the charisma
beguiles and challenges them
truly the sublime force is too irresistible
in attraction and confusion they fake faux condemnation
and in awe the artificialities of superficiality offers sanguine solace
as dim counterfeit pundits give counterfeit commentaries
for who dares say this is one like no other
when to be real is a crime per se
wow! that charisma
truly..........
Truly..........
his charisma
exceedingly shades all others
no one and nothing compares we know
God threw the mould away after making him
cry me a river and build that bridge over troubled waters
for a David walks head and shoulder above most
in truth we see his light but lie we must
when passion voltage overwhelms
its ebb is the afterglow
we live to die
truly.........
Oct 3, 2021
Oct 3, 2021 at 5:13 PM UTC
well... between listening
to the INFO WARS ban...
by the mainstream...
and listening
to Greig's
perfecto
in the hall of the mountain king...
and john williams...
london symphony orchestra
for *the emperor's throne room
scene*?
youtube was always my
testing alternative to
****** megastore listening
booths...
like replacing my ears with
a tongue...
i never actually tuned
in on youtube,
for the indie commentators...
i was always there for the music...
listening to these
content creators,
grovel a penny,
like some Oxfam offshoot?
not cool...
i was always there for
the foraging of music...
never the commentaries...
who said anything about
the commentaries?!
can't be bothered,
won't be bothered,
given that i've been doing this
scribbling for over 10 years,
and hven't been paid a
barnado's penny...
can't be ******* bothered,
mate...
burn in hell;
at this point, you don't dictate,
and... i don't tell you
what you must do...
welcome! free fall!
oh no... like my english neighbor,
he doesn't tell me when i can or can't
light my barbeque...
just so he can hang his washing!
**** off!
the only respected violence is
that against private property rights...
i'd cut his limbs off,
and then hang him off in a noose
composed of, his ******* tongue,
the next time,
he tells me i'm to inform him of
when i do my next barbeque,
prior to him doing his washing...
PRIVATE... PROPERTY... RIGHTS...
YOU ******* ENGLISH! ****
nor king, nor Buckingham Palace
janitor!
**** OFF!
you even know what itchy teeth
implies?
i beg to differ:
you don't want to know,
but i'll let you know;
it implies a desire to own
a pig farm;
and we known what the economics
of pork looks likes...
now apply that in reverse,
to hide, cannibalism.
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 11:13 PM UTC
i inherited an entire library
full of books that offer explanations
as to why you are incapable of loving me.
the romance section was laughable,
giving me bullet point commentaries
as to why i am doomed to never
be loved or feel loved again,
reasons why i settle for beautiful boys who
enjoy my company because i'm quirky, cute, time killer material,
not anchored, solid, strong, soulmate material.
but that's just it, i guess, no one can deny it-
(everyone knows when they are in the presence of precariousness.)
the mystery section offered me nothing but
a full buffet of questions i already had,
questions that always seemed to give clues to future answers,
delicious questions that tasted sweet at first
then turned suddenly sour,
questions that made me understand the meaning
of a deceptive cadence.
(these books made me wish i didn't leave fingerprints
on everything i touch.)
the fiction section made me feel like a child again,
these were the books that reminded me why hope
is and has always been my favourite bedtime snack.
(these were the books that reminded me that just
because i couldn't make you love me did not mean
that i couldn't make believe you love me.)
since i've stepped out of my fins every step has made me wish
for the courage to throw myself into the sea,
to dissolve in an instant,
to be a daughter of the air forevermore.
(perhaps Hans Christian Anderson was the only person in the world
who knew just how much it hurts to be a human being.)
the self help section gave the illusion of answers,
the way a fortune teller with a foreign accent
doused in flattery and jewelry might seem.
i have spent hours of my existence with these books,
laying on my stomach, furrowed brow, fingers turning white
from clutching the ballpoint pen for dear life thinking
maybe if i just keep
underliningunderliningunderlining
things will start to make sense again.
(because, don't you know? the more you underline
the parts of your life that are relevant on paper,
the closer you are to having figured out your life so perfectly
you eventually will walk by these books wondering
which unfortunate person you should donate them to.)
i inherited an entire library
full of books that offer explanations
as to why you are incapable of loving me.
i think maybe there are some things
that we are never meant
to know.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 9:49 PM UTC
The two boys.
Of course, they know.
But all they do is laugh.
At the players.
At the tackles.
At the appeals.
And everything else.
Mother.
Always the one who sympathizes.
If the Reds are up by two.
"Oh, I pity the opposition. May they score one."
She says.
"Awh, MUM?!"
Same goes with the eldest.
It would make it more intense.
She thinks.
Me thinks, I should pray for a cleansheet.
Hah!
The two blabbering baboons.
Knows nothing.
Gives running commentaries.
Predicts that the others win the match.
Such support I get.
The next one is a Kop in the making.
I-am-darn-proud.
The lil one thinks Ozil is good looking. -_-
-Doey
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 1:36 AM UTC
A gesture's worth a thousand words,
intimations of the body articulate:
my gas-passing interrogatives,
your inquisitive belches, remember?
At first, such unspoken jokes seemed crude,
though useful. So we refined them,
and from trees at night mock owl-calls homed you in.
Do you remember eyebrows, intelligent as lips?
In time, I developed tics, snarls, an expert shrug,
a professional groan. And I grew to resent
your sighs, your phony, irritated coughing fits,
the critical commentaries of your silences.
Mar 29, 2011
Mar 29, 2011 at 8:14 PM UTC
I knew this man because I was this man
So it must be said; I was this man because I knew this man
And never did I faultier when he reached with his trusting hand
Bound by intent, his grip stowed the tension of promise and fruition
His is a lifetime laden with the cogs of internal creation
This is the summons, the congenial placement of his offer
Beckoning the self to again be rendered upon the plane of the psychotropic wood
Through this sanctified exchange the divergent union assumes singular being
A spiral of fleeting connectivity, lapsing as the hesitant tide breaks upon neither shore nor sea
So the invitation reciprocates moment to moment by way of residual eternity
The soul twists and skips in both agony and ecstasy
Bearing a jagged tolerance for lingering wait and the flash of re-entry
Thus begun my endless stroll within the confinement of mind
I am birthed each day anew in the cradling mist blanketing the forest floor
With shy eyes one surrenders to this emergent rim
Sentenced to wake beneath the towering monoliths, the fossil redwoods
Who lull my attentive ear with the ambient groans of their interned memory
Joined in chorus only by the hushed breathe of the creborus crows
These birds, these deities hung inverted from gray and rotted limbs
Whispering their imbuement to the aggregate dirge of pardon
This is the swallowing of supposed sensory
Set in impetus, this final paradigm may forever possess the gift of awareness.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 8:21 PM UTC
It took years for the physicist
and the meta-physicist
to reluctantly agree.
They took opposing alleys:
One looked into matter
and arrived at its intrinsic energy.
The other looked at energy
and saw matter as incidental analogy;
just a random criss-cross
of cosmic puissance.
They made much ado
in arriving where my good old
three-band radio
catapulted me years ago.
Since my teens;
she had faithfully been
my worthy companion.
With sweet melodies,
thoughtful talks,
rousing commentaries....
she kept me company
through thick and thin.
For a scanty eternity,
she was the only tie with humanity
in my plain, flat life;
lonesome, sickly and solitary.
We knew each other closely;
fondly and dearly
and I would talk to her,
some would say foolishly,
and though strangely,
she always responded readily.
For years sixteen
that Philips machine
was with me
and I saw
into her inherent energy
that underlies every material entity.
#
When she died suddenly
without warning....abruptly,
I knew a friend had gone
but the essence lived on.
We had perfect camaraderie:
She was all intricacy;
body, battery and circuitry,
and the spark that came from me;
ah!!! my art of tuning adeptly.
Though I got newer models and makes,
the heart still beats with a dull ache
for the one who began as mortal matter
and bonded timelessly with my being;
...merged and mingled...
as an undying memory,
in what they call
my imperishable, impregnable spirit.
Nov 15, 2019
Nov 15, 2019 at 10:51 AM UTC
My dad was on Omaha Beach but he
didn’t talk much about it so now
I’m going to take the rest of the day
to tell you all that he didn’t much talk about
we broke the Enigma code yeah we did
you can always tell a real veteran by
his thousand-yard stare, yessir, I know stuff
we kicked the Germans’ butts but he didn’t talk
much about it if not for us the French
would be speaking German yeah man yeah
when I was in graduate school but he
didn’t talk much about it we saved the world
when I was in graduate school when I
saw Patton those liberals in academia
he had this thousand-yard stare them snowflakes
wouldn’t hit Omaha Beach now they’d be browning
their pants when I was in graduate school
but he didn’t talk much about it yeah
that M-1 was the best battle implement
ever devised I got me one and boy
it’s got some serious stopping power yessir
I just love to go out to the range and pop some caps
with that bad boy the French are cheese-eating
surrender monkeys we can’t depend on the Italians
but he didn’t talk much about it when I
was in graduate school thousand-yard stare
my dad was there he didn’t talk much about it
here is a youtube about it if only
those snowflakes would watch Patton they’d learn something
left-wing academia he didn’t talk much about it
when I was in graduate school yeah man
I seen it on Band of Brothers liberal elites
Macron Macron Macron first front second front
‘cause I know stuff I got a whole liberry
but he didn’t talk much about it if not
for us yeah you’d all be speaking German
we saved France’s **** when DeGaulle told us
he wanted all American soldiers out of France
we asked him if that included the thousands
of American soldiers in French cemeteries
and that sure shut him up ha ha ha
bet you never heard that before and then
there was these old veterans at the airport
and this Frenchy asked them for their passports
and this old man had to look for his
and this Frenchy asked this veteran if he
had been in France before and this veteran
said he had and then this Frenchy he said
then you know you need to have your passport
ready and this here old veteran said that he
was at Normandy and there wasn’t no Frenchies
to give it to and you could hear a pin drop
ha ha I bet you never heard that one before
When I was in graduate school when I
was on my gap year but he didn’t talk much about it
snowflake liberal elites in academia
I love me my AK-47 that son
spits out some serious lead but he didn’t
talk much about it…
Me? Like, I had this deferment, my feet,
but I know all about it ‘cause I watch John Wayne
and my dad was in it so I guess he ought to know
and he was in a real war; you were only in
like you know them A-rabs and stuff…
Jun 3, 2019
Jun 3, 2019 at 4:05 PM UTC
On advice from a friend
I’m sure that “plenty of ******* in the world”
and “Love me some freckly *******
were said with the best intentions
On Physics
While I watched a woman Hoola-hoop
and take off her clothes I was fascinated,
but when she laid down on the ground
and took off her stockings, while the hoola-hoop
twirled on, I lost all belief in science.
On painting a brown dormitory ceiling white
“You really have to use both arms to get up in there
Just push it up in the brown
Get it all until it is covered in white
Come on Tom, use your muscles.”
That’s what she said
Oct 2, 2010
Oct 2, 2010 at 9:06 PM UTC
**words ****
tightening the noose on the neck
stabbing anyone in their safest places
firing invisible bullets in chests
hate stays at the corners of death
while you are in front of it
shooting arrows aimed at the heart
laced with spoken disdain
cowardly commentaries turned solemn eulogies
he falls to eternal silence
his pained voice echoes in you forever
you walked him to his grave
quietly, convincingly
...
it' getting dark
in your disturbed slumbers, his dying face waits,
uttering that it's now his turn
to bring you to your grave**
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 2:20 PM UTC
Shooting stars fare well in the moonlit aura of some incessant…broad.
Encapsulated wouldnt be the word,
Evoking…No. Only negative commentaries on that front.
Oh but how, such damsels, such dames that none of them can seem to fit as well here.
One more and one more and slowly
the constellations begin to form and
Ive made my cosmos of empty love.
Star dust, Ma Cherie...
Pixelated lust fall'n over concrete waterfalls.
Granulated moments of barely glowing skin.
Youve dulled, dear.
Just like the others.
-P.S.
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 11:45 PM UTC
Call out the demons, rearrange the seedlings
Commentaries read to command
Spead out ****** it's the doing of ones hands
Shift slits in steely aperture wholly fail to capture
Awake from your nap now sir.
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 6:03 PM UTC
so Olson (#2), Honorarium
around here,
poets have been advised and disclaimed
the genuine praise of others get repaid
in kind, in k i n d
no, nope, not in
succinct pithy praiseworthy commentaries
that pays the quid pro quo bills
no ******* it,
a full blown poem is your honorarium,
you have torn open that envelope, and gosh **** golly gee...
debts must be paid for the scales can not exist imbalanced,
until pieces of me equal pieces of you,
and I hate owing (for one never can be owning) poems...
Honorarium
*this lonely business, never paid the rent,
at best, I hear them whisper, leave him be,
he’s entranced in other galaxies, breathing
words of nitrous oxygen, which has oft
produced excitable effects, copious weeping, hysteria,
and uncontrollable hyena laughter and
a sadness so deep, we fear for his retrieval*
*while
conversing with others in his head,
but when he writes of honor & love,
beware his bewitched bewitchments,
when all flu-like symptoms starburst all at once
the words are corded and stacked.
for fiery consumption in a hearth hearted fireplace,
word fries with aioli spice tendered in repayment*
*not a one lost, for those poems, though up in smoke,
lung imprinted, and breathed out into the clouded atmospheres,
dragon exhaling, poems roaring, stored and restored
honorarium in the crematorium of word debtor prison*
*an “the end” sigh dot dot dots the bitter end,
the anchor resting on sandy bottom,
at last, the last word, debt paid, honor restored*
*this, this
he loves best, when the beast released
and then returns to rest-in-chest and
await his next self imposed commission,
immolation in isolation*...
Jul 21, 2019
Jul 21, 2019 at 6:51 AM UTC
___ ___ ______________________ 11 Light? On July 7, John Fox News Channel 2 is bigger than the seven big UK election officials. Nero, in 1980, some members of the military and the army go to what was written with guns. Military training. Erasmus, Rotterdam, Roger's Businesses lost tonight. I live in Kenya. New information on July 7th and July 8th. 7th, Thursday is dedicated to the children of the people every day on July 11th. This was a Jew. Two containers with water in front of God. August 8 Erasmus Rotterdam July 7 _______ _______ ____ * Evenson Marcus' Thebes study July 7 and September 2, the test group, July 7 and April 8, 777 St. Julian emperor , Kenya Second World War, olive oil JuliãoLas van Erasmus No. 7, I would like to say, I will say that it is your time, you are talking: It is not a figure of 6, so ___ ___ Will not I cast? What will be done in the last of July 7, July 7, July 7, Julius Caesar, Rotterdam (Rotterdam) July 7, Julius market, nurse, Alice, wind fish) What? Kenyan style forms the stage of the world - 1000 fires and women sold $10,000 at $10,000 with the help of a high yellow head at the end of the fear of others. ___ ___ ______________________ 11 light? July 7, John Fox News Channel 2 greater than 7 Big UK election director. Nero, the 1980s, some of the rifles go to the army and to the army goes a written statement. The military training. Erasmus Rotterdam Roger's business uses tonight. I live in Kenya. July 7, July 8 new information. Children 7 to 11 people every day and Thursday in July. The promoter, Alice says. This was a Jew. Two buckets of water in front of God. August 8 Erasmus Rotterdam on July 7, _______ _______ _______ ____ * Epson Marcus's crowning research; September July 7 & 2, the test group ;July 7 and 8 April, 777 St. Julian, Emperor 80 to 80 for the doctor Osulin in July; Erasmus of Rotterdam in the forests of Rotterdam, longing for Kenya the second world war, olive oil Julian Las van Erasmus No. 7, I want to, I say to everyone is done, hour, that speak ye: for: for they were not _____ _____ did not drive out the number 6? July 7, July 7, the anger, July 7 (Julius Caesar in Rotterdam (Rotterdam) July 7, Julius fish market nurse, Alice's air) What happened? 1000 is a fire, women and sold lost $100 to $10,000 with the help of yellow hair on the high end of fear of anybody - Kenyan Style mold behind the world scene. ___ ___ ______________________ 11 light? July 7, John Fox News Channel 2 greater than 7 Big UK election director. Nero in 1980, some members of the army and the army goes to gun-written. The military training. Erasmus Rotterdam R. business uses tonight. I live in Kenya. July 7, July 8 new information. 7, Jupiter and is dedicated to the people, every day, on 11 July Promoter: Alice says. This was a Jew. Two containers with water in the presence of God. August 8 Erasmus Rotterdam on July 7, _______ _______ _______ ____ * Epson Marcus research Thebes; July 2 to August 7, the test group, July 7 and 8 April, St. Julian, the Emperor's doctor Osulin 80-777 to 80 in July, Erasmus, the forests, hoping to Kenya the second world war, olive oil Julião Las van Erasmus No. 7, I want to thing I do is that all the things which happened on the hour, that speak ye: for it is the number of the 6 _____ _____ I went to his justices and I have not put them away? July 7, July 7, July 7, at the rage (Julius Caesar's Commentaries Two Rotterdam (Rotterdam) July 7 Julius fish in the market, the nurse, Alice air) What is it? 1000 afire and women lost $100 sold for $10,000 with the help of yellow head into the deep end and fear - Kenyan style molds the world stage.
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 8:20 PM UTC
*So often engaged
With our attending
All of those
Editorials
And commentaries
And sermons..
Of which often
Side-track and delay
That awakening
Transformation
Quiet watching
Of this Now
Which is passing…*
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 9:45 PM UTC
I remember the T.T on the front screen tv,
I remember the wooden table outside, with perched prose inscribed
I remember knocking myself out on the door **** **** that I am adorned.
The video games
Plastered on the monitor
Excessive violence on demand.
I remember Sunday lunches
And the soggy Yorkshire pudding bases
And the ham, bear shaped and broken out from plastic cages on demand.
I remember the late nights playing board games,
The laughter cacophony ensuing
The vivid images and 3D activity represented on the big wooden table top purview,
I can't remember what the tabletop looks like... A shame
I remember sitting in the car unable to breathe,
I remember the recycled oxygen,
The time we nearly died on the roundabout,
The times we looked at air rifle paraphernalia.
The times we smiled together.
The arguments,
And conversations,
The silence
And sleep...
And questioning glares everytime I asked permission to make myself a drink
The awkwardness
The times we walked to the corner shop
Or took a drive somewhere or someplace,
The time I picked flowers and got a bollocking
The skin that felt empty and conceited.
The blooded scratch marks hidden under sleeves,
The scratching, allergies,
Dripping noses, headaches,
The mass of energy in front of me.
The unconscious predispositions,
The illness that came every morning,
The return home to certainty
And mostly the fluctuating sense of existential ambiguity.
The times we went on holiday and flooded the car with gear,
I remember the constant uneasiness,
The commentaries that rounded every corner
The time you turned yellow,
The overwhelming desire for love,
I remember the attempts to connect
The feelings of rejection and isolation
The awkwardness.
And love,
And memories that die with me.
I remember you daily, live you eternally,
I find myself caught in a web spun,
And thus
I try not to remember you
Too much.
I apologise for these thoughts,
But not to you,
But to the others I love,
Whom it may hurt.
Jul 18, 2019
Jul 18, 2019 at 2:01 PM UTC
MY EYES ON THE SURFACE
Your penumbra gleams with little print
in Papyrus text style, elucidations for the most part, live-
bolster passionate updates, amendments in your
shadow's edges. Your shadow is an idea
paper wrote broadcasting live, eradicated and re-composed
by everything you might do, recommendations stick-scribbled
in the sand as the following wave licks its finger
to flip the shoreline. For you, genuineness is consistent
correction: your position shifts and new
notes spool out from your feet – commentaries,
updated, an assortment of dissolving documentation
I endeavor to speed-read sufficiently quick to know you.
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 8:42 AM UTC
love gripped light
~ for r, sleuth of life ~
you sleep with a metal detector,
unearthing dreamed artifacts,
that messenger many fates of many young,
belongings of dead men living again
and
of a living solitary man, a vision of him, envisioning,
dancing on a property line dividing
immortality dreams
and finality schemes
dead men living,
these different men, haunting and roaring, sighing pointlessly,
speaking to you alone, pithy commentaries, they, predecessor poets,
someone’s ancestors inhabiting a soil world familiar, awaiting we too
you whip yourself over life’s lost campaigns,
where strategy proved insufficient,
lost to men and materiel superior in numbers,
the hearts that were captured, imprisoned, stolen,
and worst, lost by grievous bad judgement human weak,
your dreams are you own artifacts, recovered
long after the battle smoke clears, you remain,
questioning not the how, where or when, only
was it worth it? and so sadly,
you answer yes.
you keep a record of your poems, losses,
each battlefield has no victors, only losses,
each poemfield has no victors, only losses,
it tires you so, to be guardian, the promise keeper,
you asked for burdens, you got just desserts awarded,
you share some, the ones under the pillow,
gripped lightly and tightly, simultaneously
with long distance lovers of your soul,
those you barely know, until met in red soil someday,
what matters it, they ken a kinship bond, and
love you oh so lightly
and they are
gripping you so lightly/tightly with the lightness/tightness
of words,
two book bound souls.
one shared spine...
2/10/20
100 Centre St.
NY Criminal Court
1:38
Feb 10, 2020
Feb 10, 2020 at 1:47 PM UTC
Suicide this, suicide that
all I hear is how they know it
how much knowledge they can tell
because they have the purpose to say it
and their commentaries of hate
Did you know?
Do you know?
How it felt when the voices
when their words are on repeat
and my soul made up of paper
is scribbled by ***** names
When the darkeness is my lover
and it embraces me with hate
no place to run to
no person to care
All I could do is be in a corner
I sat and rocked myself to sleep
hoping the scary lullabies
will give me a little peace
It hurts. Did you know
My head hurts with all I'm thinking
and my resolve is frozen in
I was touched by coldness of a monster
but I found a warmth instead
for it gave me a little vision
that everything will end
That is suicide, it is self-free
a one way road to run to
if the void inside ablaze
and yes, maybe it is selfish
but let me think and breathe
for many years I have been fighting
don't I have a right to wish?
for all the pain to be over
for a freedom to embrace
Did you know?
Do you know?
Suicide this, suicide that
Stop. Stop your happy endings
there is no cure to my self-hate
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 9:42 AM UTC