"commiserate" poems
Scandinavian badger sitting in the tree, I can't believe we met, it must be desti-ny.
I look up to the sky and see two clouds fighting, for some unusual reason I don't find it frightening.
Instead as I look up at the angry cloud, all I feel is proud, that its even aloud that this fluffy white sky sheep can be so well endowed.
With all the strength I can muster, I swim thru the lake of custard.
There I meet a female goat- "I'll clean all your biscuits if you just share your picnic"?
"I wish I could but I don't think I can risk it".
As I approach the shore, I meet a male horse. He says he's having a mare.
I don't know whether to commiserate or congratulate. I stroll off wandering what he meant and if I even care
I meet a male cow, or am I talking bull?
Who knows if half this story is even a quarter true.
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 8:18 PM UTC
If we taught tolerance instead of fear,
how many lives would we have spared this year?
If we taught acceptance instead of hate,
if we taught kids to commiserate,
to see what others have on their plate,
that would make America great.
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 4:12 PM UTC
1
From all the rest I single out you, having a message for you:
You are to die—Let others tell you what they please, I cannot prevaricate,
I am exact and merciless, but I love you—There is no escape for you.
Softly I lay my right hand upon you—you just feel it,
I do not argue—I bend my head close, and half envelope it,
I sit quietly by—I remain faithful,
I am more than nurse, more than parent or neighbor,
I absolve you from all except yourself, spiritual, bodily—that is eternal—you yourself will surely escape,
The corpse you will leave will be but excrementitious.
2
The sun bursts through in unlooked-for directions!
Strong thoughts fill you, and confidence—you smile!
You forget you are sick, as I forget you are sick,
You do not see the medicines—you do not mind the weeping friends—I am with you,
I exclude others from you—there is nothing to be commiserated,
I do not commiserate—I congratulate you.
2.8k
Terrible divides, steep creatures fishing from the fissures.
Devil ties, honor cries telling of fable able love lies.
Red rug **** from… Ah stomp down pound twice round.
Let me in dearth harp melody killing me true internally. Over me, you do du thee or in one to learn to unseen these say said twas. What then spoke big loud a proud voice e bound red to set the turns in a state of decay. Spread death red pestilence.
Broken brains with bad temperaments. To know this clever myth, in definitely one word siphon spell check commiserate in-consumption
Only fitting to continue after that, twas broken in two-tone spits of *****
Oh how one can be so indiscriminate, yet be so in to it
Suckling finger to finger, the artist and his soul slip through one another
And **** there it is… why I am drunk, why so earthbound?
No, No, that la-la-di-dah sing song, nickname, sick game
Ah… already this is where I end, lying before the gate, spread in sprawls of my final death thrall, the spastic convictions, emotional token, so wholly holy that I am certain of this and this alone; they, folk of blend and contrast so steady will carrier this body through the gates, this world or that, bounce and then back, splendor in form, surrender to utter the weight of universal, expressions in the shade of totality
Goodnight too.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 8:08 PM UTC
From life, we learn many a valuable truth
That makes our existence one of worth
So growing old is no curse
As experience aids us steer life’s course
While life itself is a riddle
Remember, Death is an inexorable puzzle
Hatred burns life like fire
And wickedness turns it into mire
On Earth, forgiveness bonds hearts
But revenge, sure, breaks all bonds
Even a guilty falls prostrate
Before those willing to commiserate
Know, a true friend has no deceit
And a truly learned has no conceit
If jealousy is an acid which erodes
Generosity is a fuel that reloads
If inactivity is akin to death
Creativity is vital as breath
If perseverance conquers mountains
Laziness dries up fountains
While pride leads a man to his fall
Humility takes him closer to his goal
While Honesty leads him to salvation
Deceit drives him to damnation
Patience is an inexhaustible well
And ********** a sure road to hell
Know that those who long for the crown
Should also be torn by the thorn
While love of God takes us to eternity
Love of man leads us to fraternity
Ye Friends, with such priceless tips learned in bits
Light up your life in glowing glitz
Bury your past with all its woes
As each morn of hope brightly zooms!
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 6:17 AM UTC
The glimmer in his hair, those kaleidoscope eyes,
Isn’t he lovely?
With lustre and humid afternoons
We jumped on plastic sheeting
Till our cyclist’s thighs and drummer’s fringe
Ached for the next day’s meeting.
Yen for one such as you,
Sidled up in the overtaking lane.
A flashing red passed me by, mouthing
‘Mother and child reunion is just a song.’
And with that I wished for you,
Non-existent, imaginary you.
But for now, marmalade sticks together
A household of three companions
As we wait for our January highs
And commiserate November rains.
I’m the one of them who wishes
That she could sing Wonder’s song aloud
To you. Imaginary, non-existent you.
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 4:57 AM UTC
Oh,the past I want to obliterate
all my past sins abolished forever
for all old hurts with good deeds compensate
Oh, karma holds a grudge, catch me never
Any damage I’ve caused I commiserate
Ah, with my bad deeds all ties I sever
Not necessary to rant and berate
To mend my wicked ways I endeavour
So unfurrow thou brow, let me placate
I admit I was oft, not so clever
I’m trying new ways to communicate
To walk path of righteousness, I aver
I vow, this is my new travelling road
It entails a pure and chaste highway code
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 6:47 AM UTC
They salute the setting sun-
The invocation of eternity in a dark glass bottle
Colored in by the furious scribbling of a black marker
Always on the verge
Of empty;
To the dull cacophonous squeak that erupts from the tip of that thing,
Irate in its placid path towards obscurity,
Censoring the callous morning light from refracting
Into the chasms of some finitely empty infinitum
Otherwise dedicated as the blunder of nomenclature:
Reality.
But to the muted and forlorn residue of the aforementioned,
The fiery chill blazing down upon fair human hearts,
Only meek eyes and ears perceive You in Your squandered state,
Your quiet quintessence,
Your opaque perfection.
Shine on, though I beg!
For even this obfuscating cherubim
Is depraved,
And wicked,
And lacking substance
To combat they who stand aside from the narrow mouth of that empty bottle
Where emptiness becomes palpable while beauty has no form;
Shine!
Luxuriate the few and linger not on the fearful and ignorant,
Scintillate and commiserate with us,
With them,
With those you find and who find you--
Do not confuse yourself with
God!
For God is in the bottle
And God is the marker!
Confess your presence in our souls--give a name to what we cannot
So that when we wake we find no compartment for our passions, no boundaries of love-
Roaming freer than the dancing light made pale by that blasphemous credence of philosophy awry.
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 8:30 PM UTC
I have to close this chapter in the book,
it doesnt matter how it will read or how it will look,
because even the worst memories get brighter,
as age gets dimmer like a dying lighter,
right meow it will be looked at as a year for hate,
a year to commiserate,
maybe a year to accept the growth in me,
or a time I was most free,
it was a year for love,
or maybe it was just all of the above,
but that's every year I suppose,
just like every poet rhymes,
and has pros,
every year makes me happy,
and every year makes me feel down in the dumps,
its a just a game,
"Of streaks and slumps"
so here's to the next year
of happiness and fear,
love and anger,
thrashing and quiet,
raises up glass to my friends I have and havnt met yet
Lets all make a bet,
to be have good days and bad,
so that next New Years,
there will be something to be a had
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 8:31 PM UTC
Helicopter seeds descending from tree houses
and
resting in ponds shadowed by shaken needles;
—I awoke from a dream this morning—
Forests in fiery oranges plagued by pine beetles
and
a man fishing in the dusk, a sole fish he arouses.
—such a dreamin' I had me—
How about them men in the mountains, hermit'd, high, isolated,
and
pensive with pens in ink, draftin' a'lookin' after their suicide notes:
—it was nonsensical, such nonsense—
I can feel my bones aching,
my finger bones aching.
Don't you apologize, fish, for biting bait
lest the others hear that I commiserate
amongst the fishes in the lake water:
"She could have a mother; she could be a daughter!"
I feel that boom; I know that boom:
That's Thunder's yellow rumble a'stumblin'
'cross the oak-wood floors of my room–
That's naked, **** clothes strip'd.
A pile and a bundle,
my bones are aching.
That's a candle left burning,
that's saints speaking in tongues,
that's men hung like curtains on rungs–
This world is getting old, times are a'turning.
That's a taxi cab afterlife, a mail-order wife,
that's pills on the floor of a Motel 6 in Reno,
that's forty-four hundred lost playing keno.
We can't always be lucky, who calls that a life?
My joints are a'sprainin' aching
with the preempt of a storm.
That's writer's block and cramped hands, cramped hearts,
that's a hovel heated by an oven, heads found in hot ovens,
that's the hillside and the glens past where the track bends but
just before the dens of monsters that I swear I left behind that night.
—dreamin' a'dazin' and days in always let my demons out—
That night I hid another razor in the rafters thinking,
"My thoughts I'll bury."
I ran away to sell maps of the human heart en Algérie.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 12:50 AM UTC
Run away to a foreign country, one with plush yellow green pastures. The grasses hiss soothingly as the breeze brushes them down this way and that. My home, a simple one room shelter built atop a broad and wise dark leafed tree who has welcomed me to its strong open arms. The skirt of my plain brown dress tickles the tops of my feet as I step down onto the soft soily earth.
There are no people here but I am not alone. The wind is here to lift the overflow of thoughts from my ever questioning mind and the water is here to soothe me and commiserate like an old companion purified from the complications of humanity. The dirt is my mother and my father, providing for me. Nurtures me with its succulent plants and cups its hands so that I might take a few small fish from them now and then.
A spotted sun perch hangs behind me as I perambulate meditatively. I see a few delicate vibrant blossoms on the side of my arborous home. They chime a brilliant tune that I will later compose onto a clay canvas. The afternoon is spent cleaning the small token and then toasting it over fire. I tend the patches of nearly wild vegetables and fruits. The most desirable ones plucked for my plate.
Guardian stars begin to dot the serenity of a dazzling dusk that demands my awe. I am aware of my tiny existence and its grand insignificance yet at the same moment I feel as though I was specially chosen by the cosmos to witness this perfect event. An intoxicating shiver grips me suddenly as a gust flits up my spine and through the back of my hair. Slowly it falls and the lulling chirps of a million violinists begin to play to one another. An admiring amphibian adrift the pond lilies relinquishes some commending croaks.
As the dark begins to settle in I climb to my aerial cottage to lie down. The rustling of my nest-bed reminds my neighbor owl of the time and she hoots appreciatively before flying off to begin her hunts. The splendid nocturnal symphony soon sends me to my dreams.
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 10:01 AM UTC
I remember when I didn't like your boyfriend and you said that I couldn't tell him I hated him anymore because he was important to you.
You were never apparent enough because you never told me that I wasn't.
The days always dragged on and we would commiserate on the lack of family.
We were never a family.
But it was always my fault, wasn't it?
Solitary nights, I found myself accompanied by the ticking of an alarm clock made of metal that wasn't quite as cold as your heart.
I spent those nights alone brainstorming efficacious ways to **** the pain but I never got too long of a list. Mainly it consisted of picking up a blade.
You never noticed the pencil sharpeners suddenly missing. You never noticed that I only wore long sleeves, even during the summer. Now that I think of it, you never really noticed anything. But I can't really blame you when you were never home to see it.
I remember wondering why you loved him so much. The scent of alcohol constant on his breathe, quick with his words like sharpened scissors. Your sword turned into a shield made of paper. Fire and fire, but I was the one who got burned. I never understood why he loved you either.
I remember when I came home from school and the boxes were stacked to the ceiling with his name printed neatly on the sides. I thought maybe you two had another fight, but it wasn't that at all. It was me.
"I can't deal with that for another four years!" he shouted.
It was ME...
But even when he left nothing changed. In fact, I think it got worse.
I remember screaming at you that you made me want to **** myself. I remember it because I was shaking, tears rolling down my cheeks. It was the first time I had ever verbalized something like that. And with such anger and pain, but mostly fear.
You didn't hit me though. You didn't pull my hair like I thought you might. Instead you grabbed your car keys and you didn't come home for awhile.
I remember sinking to the floor, back against the wall. I cried for a bit and held myself. Mostly because I knew you wouldn't. You never did. I never wanted much, but maybe I asked for more than you could give.
Every day in that house, I felt unwanted. Alone.
Unimportant. Unappreciated. Unloved.
You were never a parent enough because you never told me that I wasn't.
-k.d.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 12:30 PM UTC
Fragile like soft rotted wood
Recept still not understood
Almost a quarter of a hundred on
More setting fires more feral and blind than ever, I'm endlessly taking the endless life
Ever vibrating through me
Some say it's cynicism build-up pressuring away young naive eyes, I maybe take the knife
Because I dream pain relief
Remembering what's good that's come before
Epsom salts for weary ghosts
Allow me to play the host
Kneading energy into carrion
Believing the love I have to spend is best spent on what is gone that I can't quantify
Umbra inside reaping me
To ends my means can no longer afford all day long living under night, I maybe hate the light
Comfort to others while weak
Offering peace till the slamming of doors and I slammed my door
Maybe I'm hopeless, Maybe I've locked it out
Every ounce of me preaching so devout
All of these lies sung from my poison mouth?
Garnishing with flourished words
All moments of nurtured hurt
I'm taming darkness to commiserate with peers about the loss of gain I could commemorate
No longer I'll tame what no longer remains
What ever the pain rusts I've divined I'll
Trust the lifting energy like it's evolving me into my god
For now
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 1:38 AM UTC
I never paid much attention to abandon buildings until I became one.
It was after I heard the words,
I heard you say the words,
"She's gone."
Two words that can make a fifty year old veteran feel empty inside the pit of his stomach that was just fed.
After all, no matter how many meals,
no matter how much liquor he drank,
It was never enough to make him feel full.
And no one ever tells you being so empty can be so ******* heavy.
And no one ever tells you a stranger's soft hands cannot hold you back together.
Because the truth is you can't always turn your sadness into a poem and sometimes it just sits in your chest and drains the life from you.
And you can run away,
as you will try,
but you can only go so far until noticing the sidewalks are only cracked to commiserate the broken hearts that have stood on them.
This is not about me.
This is about the human spirit.
The resilience we have installed within us to feel
Everything.
And when my best friend broke up with her boyfriend,
she told me he was OCD,
always doing everything in threes.
But he only said goodbye once,
And I don't think she realizes that it is killing him,
as much as it's killing her.
As humans,
we have the ability to create,
and destroy.
Love letters and suicide notes are just different combinations of the same 26 letters
remember that.
But love is a beautiful thing,
Our love was a beautiful thing,
A fragile thing,
A glass castle,
And we were both sledgehammers.
We created and destroyed and we did it beautifully.
Mr. Lunn said some people are already dead.
Walking around the halls in their own high school,
Waking up for work every single day at nine o clock only to start driving back home at five,
these people are already dead.
And it didn't hit me that he was right until I was lying with a friend,
his head on my chest,
admiring my heart beat in a way confirming he did not have his own to admire.
I asked him if he believed in God, if he believed in the universe, if he believed in the stars staring back at us, if he believed in the connection when you can look at another human being and feel
Thankful to all of those things,
thankful to every god in the world,
for the mere pleasure of knowing them.
And he said he just didn't know and I still don't know what moment was more alarming.
I wondered if he payed attention to abandoned buildings.
I didn't either,
Until I became one.
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 1:26 PM UTC
it is supposed to be better
to have a life unlived
than to sit in dark corners
and commiserate grimly
May 26, 2010
May 26, 2010 at 4:15 PM UTC
It is deep waves of peril
Living only to be washed over in fear blankets
Frigid white lights oscillate deafening strands on the base of someone’s hammer
The playful message delivered on a chipped platter
You are not wanted
A strange pacing rejection amongst your own kind
Draped in the devils stain till you spin and commiserate the loses
Dreams of an orphan dry like white paint behind rusted nails
Falling down the rabbits trench
That just ends with a head buried under white cotton comforters
Licking the roof of you mouth singing that somewhere you used to be a king
Yes once you mattered
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 8:58 AM UTC
i like this bar.
the low lighting and
dramatic arches lurching
forward from grainy,
crimson walls
i have been here for over an hour
observing, listening, smirking.
i should be sulking
from the looks of the others.
but somehow this is cozy, tender
the man with the crumpled beard
has been two stools over
all night drinking
countless somethings
amber and veiled
he returns from the toilets
saddling up to the stool
on my left
and begins apologizing
Naomi I'm Sorry
You Know, I...I...
i stop him to explain
i am not, nor will i ever be,
naomi
but i am his naomi tonight, his
sham priestess
welcoming
sins and repentance
I Never Told You
I Never
his incoherence is
both tragic
and welcomed
the truth is,
i don't want to comprehend
the life
that has made
this man so eager to
drown
but i can piece portions together—
serrated jigsaw
of tireless nights, of death,
preoccupation and bitter
regret
i would commiserate,
but at this point
neither he nor i
believe
in salvation
Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 3:48 PM UTC
At the 14th street station a hispanic man, medium height with a cowboy hat and a guitar slung around his shoulder walks onto the subway
passengers look on suspiciously...
as the doors shut he picks up his guitar in a well practiced fashion
the eyes of the train are weary...
he begins to play a classic sounding mariachiesque tune
spanish lyrics
A woman with green eye makeup and dark lip liner rolls her eyes and tilts her head back in exasperation
at the end of the short song a sigh of relief sounds through the car
he timed it perfectly to end as the train came to a stop
he takes off his hat and gives a short speech followed by "gracias amigos"
as he walks through the train with it upturned for donations
i regret not giving him money solely because of the expression on the green eye-linered woman's face
i walk out into grand central station and am stunned at the beuty of life
Beuaty is an interesting word for me because i cannot hear it with out thinking of the Jim Carrey line in Ace Ventura "B-E-A-Utiful"
this fact however does not save me from spelling this word wrong nearly every time i write it
Later Quietly drinking and crosshatching an old comic on a saturday
with a train gang of long islanders
miller lite is a heroes welcome
for a repugnant anarchist antichrist superstar
hidden beneath the semi-amiable skin tone, ****** orientation,
and likewise social status
the only thing left to do is commiserate
in the trappings of convenience and leisure
and the clash of Hadit and Nuit
thrumping thrashing in the sea
1000 troops to iraq again
and i don't mind to much
beyond the travesty is great comedy
for miller lite is a heroes welcome
to pennstation in late noon
and two corn dogs for breakfast
In the ancient shadows of illicit eons past
and only existing in the shadows of the now
I stare at the reflection of myself in the eyes of my sunglasses
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 5:25 PM UTC
the silent witness washing
her truth in the forgiving rain
rinse away all the lies you convinced yourself with
and hope tomorrow wont remember
what today couldn't bear to believe
maybe if you feel it hard enough
you can be somebody new
with a new road to get lost on
she evaporates as the day drags on
cant keep up the purchased pretense
without a rationalization or blame game
she runs in a raincoat
but gets wet anyway
seems like its all for naught
gave up a bitter truth hiding her lie
for a reality of greys and endorsement of hand creams
grease the palm to ease the way
but it just leaves you hurting inside
she says turn me into a bird so i can fly away
a dark day calls my name
a reckoning for all iv done
this fate labored for
the one i sewed to my soul
spare me this weight
tell me i'm free to run far away
far far away
but she had left her last true companion long ago
and the shadows surrounding now
commiserate only with the tears of loss
and only bear the burdens that pay in silver and gold
she turns to meet the thunder drums
of the coming sun
to meet the maker of her design
and that mirror waits for her alone
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC
don't bother to hold me hair.
and ****** why do I feel the need to lock you out,
I don't want to have to share.
I don't.
I have carried you on my back,
trying to help you,
and now I am empty and I can't focus on your pain
like you want me to,
I'm empty and I feel the harsh brush of bitterness climbing up my throat,
to form the acid on my tongue,
and I bite it back,
but my insides rage war,
And I love you.
we've been through,
death,
divorce,
****
***
Sarah,
but I'm...
barely breathing,
and I'm not sure you're seeing me anymore,
this breath is waning and I can't focus on you,
any more
or maybe it's so hard to past the news feeds of your life,
I resent that I have to ask you, to care about me,
I thought you know me,
but maybe you know the "me",
I used to be.
and can I just say whats on my heart,
I wish I didn't have to teach you how to love me,
you get me on so many many levels,
but jump back to the basics,
I dont want to be the supply and demand of my own needs,
You say you've never felt more closer but I'm not sure if you know I breathe.
I want more from you then this, how many times have a put your needs before mine,
And I can't do it this time,
and find love,
in life's leeches,
thinking I'd be the cure,
and have sat and rage war beside you,
but my insides hide,
you're hurting me cuffing my wrist chaffing this heart
and I'd burn this if it didn't help the bleeding of my heart
i'm sorry all I want is for you to be
happy but all i see is the water now that surrounds me,
I jumped in to save you,
but I have,
and I didn't save a vest for me.
were just drowning together no one better off then before,
but i no longer want to commiserate together, though I'm in love with the storm.
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 7:01 PM UTC
It's times like these
that make me want
to scream at everyone,
especially at those
who don't deserve it:
they cannot know
how I feel right now,
so **** them the most.
After not sleeping well at all
due to a particularly nasty toothache
for seven days in a row,
I finally got a good night's sleep last night,
but, of course there had to be a problem:
I overslept for work
because the pain
was so subdued.
I didn't even have a chance
to have painkillers for breakfast,
as was necessary
the other days this week.
So, when I got to work,
I immediately caught flak
for being so tardy,
all the while being unable to focus
on anything but all this ******* pain.
I never thought I'd say this,
but I understand, now,
why the notion of Suicide
can be so seductive;
not that I seek it,
but that I commiserate
with they, who do.
I cannot recall
being in this quality of pain
for this quantity of time,
and all the dentists are booked until Tuesday.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 7:03 PM UTC
Sometimes I find it hard to concentrate,
But my mind can hold the image.
someone That'll commiserate
in my morning misery,
Or at least understand The hollow filling like a drum.
Maybe
when I awake,
and see you lying
that things are fine
and our hands could be entwined,
or I could slip between your breast,
and hold you by your chest.
But why be so burdensome.
perhaps I’d rather be alone
Let the morning throes dissipate with the sun.
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 2:54 PM UTC
Love is always so fickle,
Itself only as strong as our commitments.
Oftentimes, we seek a level
Which is non-commiserate
To that which we offer.
We often feel ourselves
To be what's most important.
Pushing & pushing.
Until that day
In which the push is away.
Distance becomes
Only that which we are close with.
Apr 17, 2025
Apr 17, 2025 at 10:07 AM UTC
run my friends, run
I think I heard a noise
something I didn't understand
run, hide, commiserate on the unfairness of life
scream, tear, puncture all supposed enemies
yell, scratch . make your presence known.
but don't let them see
the fear in your eyes
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 3:04 PM UTC