"commits" poems
Dear Reader,
if you're reading this
it means
I'm dead
as a paper
_free_
to be etched
with the poem
I tried to write
so many times
when I was me-
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 9:15 PM UTC
“Robin Williams didn’t die from suicide. I only just heard the sad, sad news of Robin Williams’s death. My wife sent me a message to tell me he had died, and, when I asked her what he died from, she told me something that nobody in the news seems to be talking about.
When people die from cancer, their cause of death can be various horrible things – seizure, stroke, pneumonia – and when someone dies after battling cancer, and people ask “How did they die?”, you never hear anyone say “pulmonary embolism”, the answer is always “cancer”. A Pulmonary Embolism can be the final cause of death with some cancers, but when a friend of mine died from cancer, he died from cancer. That was it. And when I asked my wife what Robin Williams died from, she, very wisely, replied “Depression”.
The word “suicide” gives many people the impression that “it was his own decision,” or “he chose to die, whereas most people with cancer fight to live.” And, because Depression is still such a misunderstood condition, you can hardly blame people for not really understanding. Just a quick search on Twitter will show how many people have little sympathy for those who commit suicide…
But, just as a Pulmonary Embolism is a fatal symptom of cancer, suicide is a fatal symptom of Depression. Depression is an illness, not a choice of lifestyle. You can’t just “cheer up” with depression, just as you can’t choose not to have cancer. When someone commits suicide as a result of Depression, they die from Depression – an illness that kills millions each year. It is hard to know exactly how many people actually die from Depression each year because the figures and statistics only seem to show how many people die from “suicide” each year (and you don’t necessarily have to suffer Depression to commit suicide, it’s usually just implied). But considering that one person commits suicide every 14 minutes in the US alone, we clearly need to do more to battle this illness, and the stigmas that continue to surround it. Perhaps Depression might lose some its “it was his own fault” stigma, if we start focussing on the illness, rather than the symptom. Robin Williams didn’t die from suicide. He died from Depression*. It wasn’t his choice to suffer that.”
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC
Life is easy
But it's been busy
Happiness is light
But sadness likes to fight.
My mind is big
But it's some dig
Dreams make it right
But sometimes turn to the dark sight.
My heart is young
But it's some wrong
Thoughts write from day to night
But the diary is always white.
The face is smiling
But it's really crying
Sometimes the breath is so tight
But everyone knows it's alright.
Love is part of life
But sometimes treats like a knife
When something happens inside
Then someone commits suicide.
I love my life
I love my dreams
I wouldn’t use a knife
I have family and friends.
Don't worry about me
I can hear and see
I don’t like to take a flight
I'm alright in my way, I am alright!
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 2:34 AM UTC
Vainity is a terible thing,
It spreads through your body like posin.
Everyone jealous or the rest don't care,
All while from her tower the Queen stares.
Mirror mirror on the wall who is the fairest of them all,
Snow White
A plot of death ended with loves true kiss,
A wave goodbye to the seven men she'll always miss.
A new life with everything she could ever want or need,
Distrust setting in just like a ****
A kingdom now goes to war,
A new queen who sits back wondering if this will go far.
A king on his deathbed sick with lies,
A Queen who's beauty is where it all ties.
Back to square one the story starts all over again,
As Snow White commits the next evil sin.
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 5:04 AM UTC
This is one of those serious poems
And yet it has nothing new to say
But the poet needs to keep himself busy
And writing seems to be the easiest way
The poet rises up on his soapbox
Because he works better from an elevated height
He screams about organized religion, politics
And stripping away of our basic human rights
Like a magician with a classic misdirection
The poet wraps his moralizing in purple prose
He hits you over the head with one simple point
That he’s forgotten more than you’ll ever know
Around the time of the nineteenth obscure reference
The reader is in awe of his far-reaching knowledge
Then the poet overuses polysyllabic words
Just to prove he went to a good college
And the poet keeps filling up the notebooks
Even though he should have stopped long ago
But the publisher agreed to pay by the word
So unfortunately, there’s four more stanzas to go
Quickly, the release date approaches
There’s one printing, then two, then three
And the poem becomes a hit in coffee shops
Recited by grad students in between bites of biscotti
His face now graces the cover of every magazine
In an explosion of exuberant media admiration
Dozens of talk show appearances are scheduled
For the newly crowned “voice of our generation”
The publisher decorates the dust jacket with blurbs
Complimenting the book’s “dangerously original rhymes”
But it’s nothing more than passing hyperbole
Gathered from a glowing review in The New York Times
Now thousands grasp the paperback edition
And eagerly await the feature film adaptation
Meanwhile, the poet hunches over his typewriter
And commits more sententious literary ************
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 3:18 PM UTC
A man he wrote the book
A book for all and none
About a life spent leaning
Leaning towards the sun
In search of all a greatness
His life a distant run
A battle for a giant
He reaches for the sun
On a field of giants
Merely flesh and blood
He disregards the mismatch
And stretches for the sun
Life the fiercest battle
A war that’s never won
Commits his life to reaching
Reaching for the sun
He asks the aged pastor
Disillusioned as the nun
Confides in self and marches on
Onward towards the sun
Saw life and fortune a lady
Took a chance with love
Traded breast and beauty
Traded it for the sun
His only life a sacrifice
A gamble for a goal
With faith and strength he pushes on
He strains his empty soul
Tried to be a good man
Emulates Christ the son
Grounded broken wings he *****
Tragically towards the sun
To advance the course of history
Alexander, Caesar, the ***
A martyr for the western world
He reaches for the sun
To hold the mighty leviathan
With gear to catch a cod
Born with a head of a *******
He aspires to be a god
And oh his quest does beckon
Failure certain done
What else can he do
He reaches for the sun
To god he clings his anchor
Sworn service to God and Son
Hopelessly he leans
Leaning towards the son
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 7:06 PM UTC
A poem should be read aloud
whether to one’s self or to a crowd
It’s meaning lies in being heard
and not the shape of every word
Lest it become calligraphy
hung on the wall for all to see
But poems seen do seldom touch
when compared to one read out as such
For intonation, pace and rhyme
are all heard within the poets mind
As pen commits the words to page
the actors banished from the stage
To reappear when words meet sound
and raise the poem from the ground
To sail on high with majesty
extolling sorrow, mirth or glee
Bring forth emotions penned in ink
and take the reader to the brink
To place you there midst poems tale
for to spectate means poets fail
So stand up son and stand up proud
whilst you read these lines out loud
Feel the smile upon your face
or seen on others your voice did grace
For had you kept this to yourself
might just as well have stayed on the shelf
But bringing voice to wiser words
allows its message to be heard
A message know by self or crowd
that poems should be read aloud
Oct 19, 2010
Oct 19, 2010 at 2:30 PM UTC
The one who loves the depressive mind
Commits to smites; the wary waltz he gaits
Arresting all pride he denies he's blind
Yet the poison nectar; cures and claims his fate
A fate that by his hands has hewed
A fate where he is the exclude
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 4:15 PM UTC
that girl you made cry
yeah, she's insecure
all because of you
and your friends
you laugh and feel cool
for making her cry
not a care in the world
when one day she suddenly 'dies'
you feel like
it isnt your fault.
"maybe its another reason" you say
until you see on the news
"girl commits suicide for being bullied"
you suddenly feel something you've never felt before
something called guilt
you cry and worry that
everything's your fault
many days pass and
you still feel ashamed,
well guess what,
you're the one to blame.
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 3:47 PM UTC
The amount of similies in love poems are ridiculous.
They always remind me of how his eyes are as green as a Christmas tree
or how his hair fell onto his face like a shadow
or that when he blinked his lashes resembled butterfly wings
or that his smile was similar to a crooked coat hanger.
They never mentioned
how his fingers were long and shaky like branches in the wind
or how his shoulders hunched over like a good game of jenga
or how the curve from his chest to his torso was as steep as a hill
or that when I found the bruises on his stomach,
they were like ink splotches all over a beautiful poem.
They left out that his dad hit him like a train
or that his mom lived in the house like it was a bar
or that it would hurt like 16 bee stings
when I saw a line of 16 scars on his left bicep
or that the gasps in between his cries would sound like drowning
or that his eyes can ombre to be as red as an egyptian sunset.
They never warned me that he would come crashing down like an avalanche
or how his constant expression depicted a shattered stain glass window-
every piece beautiful but still apart.
They could've said that reading the headline
"local boy commits suicide"
would numb me like paralysis
or that hearing his last words would echo in my head like screaming in a cave
or that his funeral I would say
"loosing him was like an overcast of rain"
except I lied,
because losing him was like a flood
and that his grave stood out like a redwood tree carved of stone
or how his dad looked at his own hands like looking at maggots.
Love poems never said that I would miss him like being homesick
or that the drive to the cemetery would feel like skyrocketing to the moon
or that I would refuse to play jenga with my little cousins
or how I would hate hanging my clothes without seeing his smile.
The amount of similies in love poems are ridiculous.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 12:29 AM UTC
Everyone goes through some stuff in their life that they want to change.
Something that hurt them, someone who changed them, a situation that could have been avoided.
And we have to face the realization that we can't change any of it.
I wish I could write a letter to myself.
My past self.
I could tell her that the minds of teenagers get dark and scary.
I would inform her that razors should only be used to shave.
I would plead that she didn't let her insecurities stop her from reaching her goals.
I would enlighten her that no matter how much make-up, dieting, or personality changes she commits too; its better to change for yourself than turn into something your not for others.
I would encourage her to not think twice. STOP OVERTHINKING.
I would remind her that she is young and yes, death is unpredictable but so is your ability to reach your biggest dreams. Reach for your dreams.
Don't think of death as a dead line; great things take time.
Everyone makes mistakes.
I would tell her that one day she will have these unexplainable feelings for a girl. It will seem impossible, but do not give up on her.
I would warn her about the high school boys that will only use her, no matter how Christian they are.
Create friendships, get to know people before you give yourself away.
Let things take its course and you may be surprised where it takes you.
I would explain all of the great things that I have experienced, and inform her that the world can be bright.
I would remind her that her parents only want what is best for her, and they are more supportive than she thinks.
I would let her know that people will leave her, and it will be hard for awhile, but she will survive.
You will survive.
Mar 10, 2018
Mar 10, 2018 at 11:37 PM UTC
Take my life,
Take my everything.
Strip me of my rights.
But give me one thing.
Give me a paradise!
A paradise of brotherhood,
and sisterhood.
A paradise where violence does not exist,
a paradise where nobody commits a crime,
a paradise where people are not afraid to openly confess their sins.
Give me a hope.
A hope that at the end of all these troubles,
there will be peace, love, and humbleness.
Where Greed is no more.
Where men do not need guns.
Give me a city.
Give me a city,
where doors and locks are no more.
Open seats at dinner tables for brothers to join.
A quiet city,
where children run in happiness,
where a new generation lives happily,
where the old generation smiles.
A beautiful city,
where evil is no more,
Give Me Paradise.
Land of abundance.
Land of peace.
Land of brotherly and sisterly love.
Give me a land,
a land where people different by culture,
different by background,
different by skin,
different by family,
can unite as one.
Give me a land where there is no sin.
Give Me Paradise!
Jan 6, 2012
Jan 6, 2012 at 9:31 PM UTC
Beware the frigid woman
who can lean upon the stars
but never gather light
or comprehend heat.
She hides what to reveal
would turn her lover’s eyes away,
the scars her daddy left,
the guilt thrown at the pews,
the touch of too many,
the touch of too few.
For strangers she
will fly the moon, for you
she comes home tired
to sleep on nails.
A master of conditional love
she heaps her baggage on the ones
who love her most,
entitlement
the only truth she breathes.
She never goes to where
you'd take her
she only commits to
deception
and stacks of Bibles do nothing
to bring forth truth
I tell you this much
the light across the dawn is more
than just the sun
and everything you give her
will rust.
May 6, 2011
May 6, 2011 at 5:43 AM UTC
I am a criminal,
So you and the papers say.
They would put me away
For countless nights and days.
Tucked away "safe" in jail,
All for the choice of herbs I inhale.
That they would only have their way...
Yet I am no marauding mobster,
No gangster for hire.
I smoke in the evenings
When daylight is fleeting
And withdraw to my rooms to retire.
I am no plundering pirate
Pillaging your private property.
I go about my day,
As right as I may,
You will find no evil protégée.
I am spoken in the same breath
As delinquents and undesirables.
The infamously unfavourable,
Mire on our tireless society.
Well I am tired now,
Fatigued.
I've grown weary of living
In your narrow minded
Make believe.
Yet I leave you be.
Keep to mine and own.
It is you who lights the torches
From high deluded throne.
It is you who crafted and rounded
That perfect stone,
Hurled with such indiscrimination
Always many, never alone.
Each night now I wonder,
When I cross that imaginary line.
Such fools we've been,
The waste obscene,
Who really commits the crime?
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 8:01 PM UTC
Is it for fear to wet a widow’s eye,
That thou consum’st thy self in single life?
Ah, if thou issueless shalt hap to die,
The world will wail thee like a makeless wife.
The world will be thy widow and still weep,
That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
When every private widow well may keep,
By children’s eyes, her husband’s shape in mind.
Look what an unthrift in the world doth spend
Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;
But beauty’s waste hath in the world an end,
And kept unused the user so destroys it.
No love toward others in that ***** sits
That on himself such murd’rous shame commits.
1.7k
an animal never commits an injustice
-a dog
-a cat
they are true to their nature, and that is quite a lot
what of Man?
the slaver?
the one with all the modern ideas?
the one with the white skin?
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 7:39 PM UTC
On barstools, people drone on endlessly
about meditation and yoga and hot yoga
or cold jogging, and bicycling in special pants.
‘It gives you a high,’ they say.
‘You’re on top of the world,’ they scream.
The saps push their new religions
with the gusto of car salesmen.
When it’s a woman, I politely listen
between mouthfuls of whiskey and ginger ale.
When it’s a man, I shut him down
early in his ramble. I tell him to
grow a pair.
Curvaceous women with long hair
and ***** that easily get wet,
bourbon that melts the top layer of ice,
pocketing a few bucks after sinking the 8 ball,
those are the legal addictions,
I tell punks
that give a man small escapes,
the sins he commits to feel whole.
A man who knows the desperation
of fulfilling temptations always
works harder to stay one step ahead
of the game.
Those are the addictions,
I tell men in designer clothes,
that **** us
slowly
when we least expect
our demise.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 3:40 PM UTC
On the coast of the shore
pictures on the page
staring at the ocean
Churning and full of rage
Her jet black hair
waves in the wind
Quiet Jersey girl
Alone commits no sin
Brown eyes stare in line
Gazed along the walk
Finding her only guy
Whispers no loud talk
Waiting in the cold
Shivers in the wind
No sailor coming home
Turn back gone again
Tears fall down her cheek
Sadness settles in
Telegraph wrinkled up
Her heart broken again
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 4:19 PM UTC
10 is the number of a team
Working in unison to achieve success
9 is the number of the men
Who judge us all before their seats
8 is the number of dancers
Weaving and twisting in time
7 is the number of magicians
So that their illusions can survive
6 is the number of people
Crammed into this old house, fighting
5 is the number of celebration
Hands raised, slapped together
4 is the number of conflict
Friends tearing each other apart
3 is the number of strength
A triangle, holding up the world
2 is the number of lovers
So that neither will be alone
1 is the number of the man
Who commits perfect evil, or perfect good
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 1:29 PM UTC
Conglomerate softness
Plying blissfully the scars off my wounds
An addictive activity with bleak endings
Leaving a small dent on my skin soon
A memento of this visit
Comforting words and faces explain greatly
The niceness in which days daze away sadness,
So I savour this.
A kiss of kindness disguises itself in the random acts of allegiance
Only friendship commits
On the edges of wit,
And the brinks of sanity
I treat my own mind with such levity that fails to address the subject topic.
One day I’ll get past this
Like the seasons which pass by the skies like temporary trips
Staying long enough to make you feel sad when it’s gone
But hopeful that it’s not lasting
Bombastically feeling nostalgia for everything.
The world makes me happy
In the way that happiness only exists within this realm
The only one we know
And for every day that I grow I show the fruits of my labour
Flavouring the air with words that fall out my mouth like crisp apples
Perishable but delicious and nurturing,
Though this apple tree can’t really fend for itself
It has gardeners who defend its’ health,
And I am so grateful
For this help to grow,
Hopefully through these fruits
I can show you
as well.
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 5:30 PM UTC
Fear.
It haunts me in my most private moments.
To wonder and fight the thoughts of my un-honest parents.
The thoughts creep in and I ponder my brothers.
Will they know the things I've done for them? Or all the nights I've cried?
The fights I fought and lies I told, mommy is just fine.
The questions asked by young helpless hearts, as I soothed them through the night.
Daddy does love mommy and mommy is just fine.
They don't mean the things they yell, I stutter out of my mouth.
Hiding in their bedroom, with the TV turned to loud.
I run to stop the fighting, for the sake of helpless hearts.
Daddy won't end his life and mommy is just fine.
I ponder all the days where it was just me and them, I longed to leave that fortess, that god-forsaken hell.
I lay in bed at night, young helpless hearts sleeping sound.
They do not know the evil that lives in their lives.
It flows through their veins just like it does mine.
I swear daddy loves us and mommy is just fine.
I never tell them the stories that keep me up all night.
That daddy is not the same and mommy commits the crimes.
I prayed, dear Lord help us, but silence is all there was.
I sang in the choir and hoped some good would come.
I found nothing but hypocrisy, with a smile painted on my face.
The second we left the church corridor, they had everything but grace.
The torment and the lies, the woman I despised. The man I used to praise, now crying at his knees.
But when his eyes left the ground, a blackness filled his soul.
There's nothing left of daddy when his anger takes control.
I'm screaming in my head as I sit in the closet.
They send the children looking, thinking surely I've lost it.
How could I not? I've spent so many years protecting the young ones you turn against me.
Convincing them I'm the enemy.
I rocked them to sleep, I sang their lullabies, I took care of your sheep as our shepherd stood by.
You left us in the darkness, you didn't even care. Many days I just got by, with only enough for them to eat.
We had little to nothing as you walked on priviledge feet.
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 11:15 PM UTC
Chains of heart strings locked away by fake queens
Time behind a cell wall
I wonder why love is a crime
Punishment from something that my heart commits
But my brain a bystander to an attack on beauty
Witness to pain from someone meant to be a painkiller
Your lying lips sounding like old movie scripts
Bounding me to the cold corners of this mental cage
Prison tattoos consisting of scarred arms
Associates in romance and nothing more
Holding hands just a misdemeanor
You’re leaving me on parole.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC