"committal" poems
We were equally matched
Until a plan was hatched
You became the subtle aggressor
By making appearances lesser
Using your passion aggression
To steer a passive direction
You perform a vanishing act
By canvassing flak
Balancing black
Against a sky so blue
Teaching me that which is true
Is different from what I knew
So my anxiety naturally grew
You launch a resistance
By remaining silent
On this plane of existence
Where you're the pilot
Not taking the right angle
Into the Bermuda Triangle
That is your social sphere
Where you disappear
From committal fear
Of love being near
So I throw a search party
But your presence is tardy
Because you're departing
On the journey you're starting
Without me
Slouching
From my submission
To your anti-admission
Splitting our position
Like nuclear fission
The air has become radioactive
Through light that is refractive
Through ways which are retractive
Living this ugly way to live
Sharpening my shiv
To escape this cell of decay
Where flowers bloom and fray
But can't see the light of day
Not one ray
Stuck in the marked moor
Of this dark war
I use parkour
To avoid aggressor attacks
Never cutting me any slack
Bringing pain back
Until I crack
Lost in your blank expression
I make a grave concession
Enslaved to your impression
Yet afraid of your aggression
Caught between
Taking heed
And fulfilling needs
Born from greed
I'll only impede
You scream aggressively
Like you're ********** me
Just by addressing me
After making a mess of me
With deafening quiet
You attack with a diet
Of a steady riot
And I won't buy it
You left when you were here
But stayed once you weren't near
You switched to a guillotine gear
Based on how you wanted to appear
Striking me from the equation
By utilizing deflation
For a sinister elation
You removed our relation
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 3:23 AM UTC
Your room is so warm
but the place where you
rest your head is so cold.
It's so cold
but I wanna learn how to control
and unfold
the layers of my one soul.
And what if I let go?
What if I told you every secret that you deserved to know?
Complexity from simplicity.
Oh, this could be so simple.
But instead
I'm contrived and trying to survive
while my mind is in the middle
While my mind strives to take pride in the greatness
of what feels so little.
So non-committal.
That was like your favourite word.
Like how your name went from my
favourite noun to my favourite verb
spewing from my throat like an intoxicated slur,
waiting impatiently for the day that we
return to the way we once were.
Yes.
We were great for one another.
Staying out late and sharing stories of our fate with each other.
Now we're building walls of hate
while throwing red ***** of paint as our cover
So I sit and I wonder
and I wait, wrenching hunger
until my silence pulls me completely under
Sep 18, 2010
Sep 18, 2010 at 5:39 PM UTC
Red roses, red ribbons, and war.
I’ll fill you up and leave you wanting more.
White wine, white lies, and dust.
I’ll turn your “might” into a “must”.
Dark eyes, dark nights, and a game.
I’ll be the winner, you’ll bear the pain.
Clear head, clear heart, and hope
I’ll hang by your feet at the end of my rope.
You’ll dance on my fiddle,
and seek my acquittal,
as I stand, non-committal
and feed you love’s riddle.
One hit, one kiss, and a hook.
I’ll script the ending to your repeatable book.
Two more, too much, then again, more
I’ll be the curse you long to endure.
Three hopes, three ghosts, and a ***** crow.
I’ll write the only truth you’ll choose to know.
For what? For whom? You’ll plead.
I’ll offer a reminder: you exist for me.
I’ll act as gravity,
a pull towards depravity,
and at the brink of insanity,
I’ll walk away, earth-shattering.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 9:13 PM UTC
Another visit to
Med Psych;
the withdrawals are
horrendous.
I’m emaciated and malnourished.
With the exception of
one meal every few
days, I’ve dined on ***** and
wine for my sustenance.
I check out a lap top from
the patient library, and
try to get the poems organized on
my flash drive.
Concentration is elusive.
The psych doctor decides
to have me committed.
She’s concerned about my
worsening health and depression.
I guess I can’t
blame her, but what
bird likes a cage?
I try to talk her
out of it,
but she’s resolute.
The next day, just
as the deputy is
serving me the
committal papers, I have
a seizure—a bad one.
My lips turn blue.
I **** myself.
The doctors pump me full
of Ativan. Everything is a
blur for the next
week.
Slowly, softly,
my mind comes back.
I get a room-mate;
turns out he’s an
artist, a fantastic
abstract painter,
his name’s Chris.
Chris gets the activity
director to bring
him some paints and
other art supplies.
He goes to work;
stabbing the paper
with his brush—
makes it bleed with
color. He’s a young
drunk;
a madman and a
genius.
I have my notebook and
my sword.
I pound out the word, the line,
my highway through this
silly society.
Chris and I talked
long into the autumn
night, locked in a
cerebral prison.
The room we were in
was more like a Greenwich Village
beat pad than it was a
hospital room.
Mar 6, 2023
Mar 6, 2023 at 5:57 AM UTC
the token of love, vacant of meaning
the token of love, vacant of meaning
a non committal heart, ne'er sticks by
a non committal heart, ne'er sticks by
the token of love, ne'er sticks by
vacant of meaning, a non committal heart
ponds replete with lovelier lotuses, of enticing thrall
ponds replete with lovelier lotuses, of enticing thrall
shun none of them, attentive the mind is
shun none of them, attentive the mind is
of enticing thrall, attentive the mind is
ponds replete with lovelier lotuses, shun none of them
binding in love's genuine bow, doth require consideration
binding in love's genuine bow, doth require consideration
all avenues being toured, the right lady chosen
all avenues being toured, the right lady chosen
all avenues being toured, doth require consideration
binding in love's genuine bow, the right lady chosen
the non committal heart, doth require consideration
all avenues being toured ,ponds replete with lovelier lotuses
attentive the mind is, of enticing thrall
shun none of them, vacant of meaning
the token of love, ne'er stick by
the right lady chosen, binding in love's genuine bow
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 10:24 PM UTC
It's been a while since I've let my fingers do the talking
Subtle clattering intermittent between self consuming stares into space
Strange and conventional instrumental atmospheres driving fantastical thought
And that self indulgent need to be heard by people without discernible cells
I guess my poems are a hobby of sorts
A collection of ideas, observations and metaphors put forward (barely) structurally
Though I admit the process is more for introverted enjoyment than anything direct
What my tongue would sound blurting these words is a fantasy in itself
I try to stay optimistic in them
Holding on to my passion for the positive, despite the convoluted dysfunction of the day to day
I do it with the same eyes as speaking to others, trying to be someone who's worth being around
Ending with some ******* non-committal message about an approach towards tomorrow
I hope one day I'll get around to reading these poems
Hearing what my inner monologue sounds like in that quiet but intently occupied space
Taking the time off poor sods who'll listen, hoping that the messages mean more than just metaphor
But I'll get over it if life doesn't produce such idealistic circumstances
Thanks for reading what I've written
These white spaces have given me a quiet personal realm for exploring ideas
A place where I can explore my intelligence beyond academia
Indulge my passion for the written word by pouring out gallons of ********
And hopefully make someone, somewhere, smile in the process
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 3:50 PM UTC
When Donald Trump opened the floodgates last year,
by basing his campaign on paranoid fear;
By embracing the zealots, the hawks, the alt-right,
he emboldened the racists to take up his fight.
When Donald Trump barks and belittles and bellows,
he ends up with strange and revolting bedfellows,
who think, 'cause they're white they can fight and can ****
which, with horror, we witnessed there in Charlottesville.
When Donald Trump won't quickly, strongly condemn
the racists and nazis, he's standing with them.
When he's vague, non-committal, or responds with delay,
he's disgusting, pathetic, and as worthless as they.
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 7:06 PM UTC
One may have to sacrifice a lot just to gain only little
and what this will demand would be a big committal.
But when one sacrifices a little and happens to gain a lot
it could be a very fortunate life which that person has got.
___________________
Nov 16, 2023
Nov 16, 2023 at 8:11 PM UTC
funerals are a form of menticide. also, writers. undead, I don’t mean to talk. what I mean to do is approximately yearn. for something nearby. an old computer. plugged in, cursor blinking, hell’s door. for awareness. priesthood. box-cutter. wayside. what began as Franz Wright. what became Lou Reed.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 3:12 PM UTC
i'm pretty sure
this is one of
the wisest pieces
of advice
i've seen
well meaning, anyway.
i walk alone
and it's a strange thing
every single time
i begin walking
i have an intense urge
to bust a move
and dance to the
music in my ears
but that would be
like feeding the animals
so i don't do it.
i am suspicious
when i walk alone
so i am constantly glancing
behind me
preparing to fight
in my mind
i am a fantastic fighter
my body moves
in deadly arcs
i can turn
anything
into a weapon
and i will
d r o p
any fool that
comes near me
i am an animal.
i shouldn't be fed
with crazy daydreams
but i keep. getting. fed.
and once i've been fed
i just want to eat more
the desire is overwhelming.
every few days
i consider taking up
a new hobby
like smoking,
or a destructive
non-committal attitude
but i always decide
not to feed
this animal
anything
but words.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 10:24 PM UTC
I've been sitting on the fence too long
Too long have I allowed myself
The luxury of not committing
Of simply sitting
Sitting on the fence
I must commit to something
Anything but myself
For I am too far gone
An untamed lawn
Filled with broken bottles
Left or right in or out up or down
Where do my loyalties lie?
Some days I want war
But an oath I swore
To be a pacifist eternal
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 2:59 AM UTC
Who invented such a tiny word to describe something that is so large?
Four letters can't possibly cap a subject that the heart gives free of charge.
Even if I say it twice or three times in a row,
It's too small a word to make truly how I feel show.
If I were hired by love experts to invent a whole new word,
It would be something long and complex that they hadn't ever heard.
It would be more immense to declare then by a child who is autistic,
With enough time to think it would rhyme with supercalafragalistic.
But in the end I'm left with nothing then these committal letters four,
Repeating them again in hopes that they will mean ever so much more....
Jul 31, 2010
Jul 31, 2010 at 11:23 PM UTC
You smile at me,
you tell me that I'm pretty,
you tell me I'm different.
I think I like the words you say,
better than I like you.
Its hard when the flattery and the warmth of you
engulfs me and
makes me feel wanted.
So you cuddle me in closer
and the closer we get,
the more I know
that this
--
this
thing
--
is not what I want.
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
I finally met someone like me
He's sharp of wit
Charming in attitude
Smooth in conversation
Closed off in emotion
Supportive in nature
Understanding off loss
Non-committal to admissions
He is everything I have ever searched for
Yet because he is such
We can never be
For I am too much like him,
And he is too much like me
So alas I'll watching him pass
Just a drifter such as I
Such a shame it is to find perfection,
Only to watch it pass me by
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 12:20 AM UTC
He insisted we go down
To a place near the river
He was briefly obsessed with the boats
And explained he didn't have anywhere to stay that night.
All these constant changes of subject,
And weird self-obsessions,
Then he calls ME half crazy,
As if that would make his company pleasant.
Why does he keep checking the origin
Of my tea
And of my oranges.
He's a loveless, non-committal fool.
Just when you think
He understands what you're saying,
He says something stupid.
And I don't say anything,
Just let the river do the talking.
He's delusional about our relationship.
And he wants to come on vacation with me
And he doesn't seem to care to where,
And he thinks somehow I'd trust him,
And he makes lascivious comments about my body.
Jesus, how did sailing come into this?
Is he some evangelical nut?
Oh man, he is going on about this.
Sailing, and garbage and flowers and seaweed.
He clearly cannot maintain a train of thought.
I look at my watch,
I take out my mirror,
I practice my 'yeah, sure, I'm interested face.'
And again he's off again about coming on my vacation,
And again he doesn't care where to,
And again he thinks himself trustworthy
And again, with the unwelcomed comments about my body.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 4:19 PM UTC
i’ve been wondering lately
about the cynical views i hold dear
i identify with them greatly
but i’m not sure if they’re sincere
i don’t want to be sixty
and have not appreciated life while i have it
i never even wanted to live till sixty
but life’s all i have isn’t it
the idea of God always merely humoured me
and while an afterlife still eludes me
does nihilism’s peace really compete
with a serenity birthed purely from belief?
i’m non-committal for a family
but a child to guide and be close with
is a ***** kind of alchemy
that maybe would make me a goldsmith
i’m not one for a spouse
but i'd love someone to know me
maybe i could settle for a real house
enough to quench the wanderlust in me
society is cruel
too, life’s fatal rules
but i'd sooner be cast aside and sixty
than six feet deep at twenty
the selfishness of humanity always disgusted me
and while the blindness still eludes me
does humanity’s grief really compete
with a beauty Earthed like a stampede?
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 6:49 PM UTC
She arises from sorrow's casket,
trussed up in a dusky wedding dress,
yellow tinted cushions below her,
supposedly,
supporting her deathly pallid head,
somewhat discoloured,
looking rather distressed.
carnations and confetti unfurled,
sprinkled maybe as pretty portents abound,
a warning,
that maybe true love ne'er lasts.
Her man,
he sits longingly,
enduring his pain,
perhaps as a tragic hero,
awaiting,
almost to take the blame,
the blame for her demise,
beside her he crouches,
as she's sat,
upon her marble slab,
And yet again,
she rises,
yawning,
stretching out her immortal warning,
Poplars dress the mausoleum,
behind the greying pillars,
to the right,
a gathering,
a crowd small in number,
most impressed,
by non-committal of death's distress,
and her lover,
he sits,
and sits some more,
looking longingly into death's dark eyes,
while patiently awaiting her final tragic goodbye.
(c) Livvi
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC
Been a while since I took them, the little keys to sleep. Unlock codes for unconsciousness, cheat codes for non-committal death.
But tonight the pain is unbearable, the mental wounds are bleeding like they’re fresh. Scenes replaying in my mind constantly, mocking me mercilessly for believing that they’d left.
Time is supposed to be a healer, or so I’ve been told. Time must have missed me off it’s to-do list because healing is a card I’ve never been dealt.
The pain is effervescent bubbling through my veins and laying heavy on my chest. Tramadol couldn’t even dull it, it demands to be felt.
My only recourse are these tiny promises of temporary respite; I take more than recommended, playing roulette with this life.
It’s been a while since I took them, the little keys to sleep, I wish I could leave them but I’m weak.
Feb 8, 2021
Feb 8, 2021 at 8:24 AM UTC
To ride along and see what you see
It's nothing committal but merely
Something to please my curiousity
Deep in my past; a faint moment
A rememberance of time past
Perhaps its your allure
Or your clean and beautiful scent
That leaves me breathless
I'm suddenly ashamed
That I could ask of you
Any moment of the day
But then I pause and realize
That you're much too fragile
To bear the burden
Of the weight of my memories
The road doesn't fork
It's just that I step aside
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 5:42 PM UTC
Some people are beautifully abstract movies:
enlightened visions of an idea come to life through cryptic scripting and inspired cinematography.
Slow burns full of brilliant dialogue that leave you thinking about them long after you've seen their open endings.
The kind that only the intelligentsia could ever truly appreciate, with a poor audience score but universally loved by critics.
The kind of movie with a cult following that comes up in late night conversations amongst hipsters sharing their opinions on the pieces of art that have made the biggest, longest lasting impacts on them.
The kind that takes hours of scrutiny and analyzation just to feel like you've arrived at some vague sense of what it all means.
And then there are people like me,
who are less like grand artistic visions of profound cinematography,
and more like reality tv.
The kind of thing a working suburban mother tunes into after a double at the local diner/supermarket/pharmacy counter.
The kind of non-committal, light-hearted viewing that never comes close to demanding your full attention. Just a myriad of characters brought together with a loose premise and slightly coerced tension.
The kind of thing you could have a conversation over, and walk away from and come back to, and still know what's going on, because it's just all so obvious - it never requires much thought.
The kind of show where the actors have every viewer convinced that they're something that they're not.
May 6, 2021
May 6, 2021 at 1:04 AM UTC
confiscated memories
taken to dark rooms
with single 40 watt bulbs
swinging overhead
casting alien shadows
and adding to the air
of uncertainty
grainy photographs
lay haphazard
askew and strewn
as if by a child
or inconsiderate adult
making a symbolic point
children faces
from summer camp
classmates in spandex
eternally living 1991
teased bangs
and hanging wallet chains
the images distort
colors blend and fade
new images arise from the swirl
birth elation
and passing family
lost pets furry snouts
smear into the eclectic
bandaged knees
bees stings and mother’s kisses
slight pressure builds behind one eye
as a strange pull exerts force
indirect
vows and flowers
powerful allies
cash gifts and glass dishes
showered
blank polaroid’s dot the tabletop
washed-out black with lens flares
sun spots
orange hues, circular and non-committal
slowly alter and develop angles
first front porch swing
splinter banister
and sanding the space
currently void of tile
flashing stashes of mix-matched socks
boxes of books
cooking thanksgiving.
they sit quiet, lost in though
when the steady red line matches
the single tone
…sighs escape pursed lips
when the littlest member asks,
“What was he thinking about before he died?”
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 4:18 PM UTC
I believe in destiny.
Sure I may come off as anti love and non committal but give me the chance to back my statements up.
I’m anti loving someone when you as a human with a beautiful soul cannot see the lighter aspects of yourself.
I’m anti loving another person when you can’t find love in yourself.
It’s somewhat painful and distasteful to want to receive a perfectly beating heart and give back uncertainty because you can’t love yourself.
I’m non committal because I see it in you.
Doubt, fear on what you could find to be true.
You shadow these thoughts and let them take over you.
You let the past of other people define what you see of me and treat me lesser than them.
I’m non committal because your heart is in lust and your soul is charred and blown to dust.
I believe in destiny.
I believe that in a world exists two or more of our soulmates.
I believe each soulmate is for each specific moment and that a specific two are for a more permanent mark.
Your first soulmate shows and teaches you exactly what your soul has been crying and screaming for.
Your second fulfills that underlying pressure the world has put on you about love.
But your second may never come,
Your first may never leave.
But stay believing in love that is yours and you will be okay.
Im anti love and non committal because if you search for these qualities But can never find them in yourself than that toxicity.
That is inhaling the green and spreading it to the lungs of another.
Have you not seen the love that they are portray?
All in it’s broken and incomplete manner.
How can I be so trustful when love doesn’t reside within ourselves first?
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 7:17 AM UTC
i know why you do it -
the back-and-forth,
the maybe-maybe-not daily ritual of
non-committal niceties
and incongruent actions
that keep everyone on the edge -
it's a control,
a way of dealing with the world
so you can face another day,
so you can look in the mirror and feel good about yourself,
and know there's something that depends on you,
and your upside-inside-down-out life
has a moment of peace in it that you can understand.
And that's fine -
you need to function that way,
to play the puppeteer.
But I do not dance that way.
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 10:10 AM UTC
I was still mesmerized by you,
leaning against a faded brick wall
lazily flicking a cigarette
against the 90 dollar jeans
I believed you ripped yourself,
when your mouth opened and all I saw
were those perfect lips, that perfect mouth—
your words hardly registering,
some blasé speech
I bet you pre-rehearsed,
“you know, desperate time desperate measures
and all that jazz—”
with a non-committal hand wave
as if accountability was a fly in the air
you could swat away.
I stared at your hand,
suddenly hopeful you’d choke
on that Marlboro Red,
and realizing the problem with pedestals:
there’s no graceful way to fall off.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 9:24 PM UTC
Her bed
Isn't as interesting
As it used to be.
Her bed
Isn't as enticing
Anymore
To me.
Her bed
Has become
The bed
Of non-marital
Of non-committal
Separation,
Where an imaginary
But real
Wall
Blocks all intimacy
And separates us.
It has become
Holy
And wholly
Immune
To all and every
Non-existent touch,
Immune
To all and every
imagined intimacy
Contrived
Or concocted love.
Her bed
Has become
Just a place
To half-sleep
Half-dream
To lay my head.
Her bed
Has become
Still
Life-
Less,
Loveless,
And the place of
The love-dead.
Her bed
Makes me want to fly away home
To my own
Home
And bed
Though I'll be just as lonely
And alone
As when
I'm in
Her bed.
Her bed
Makes me want to fly away home
To the only true love
I've ever known;
Fly away, fly away
To Jesus
And up to holy heaven
high above
Far away from
The heart
Innocuous,
The heart
Inoculated
Against love.
I need to get her
Out
Of my heart,
Of my head
I need to
Get myself
Home
And out of
Her bed.
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 8:13 PM UTC