"concaved" poems
When you were a young child,
you wore your naive head in the clouds.
The vastness of space was your limit,
there were no social norms to worry about.
Growing up they told you,
you should pretend that you don't care,
so when your hopes would get devastated,
disappointment could give you a spare.
And now you find yourself wondering:
when did I stop following my ambition?
The thing you regret most when you die,
is your passion's creeping omission.
Besides, how can you ever win a game,
that out of fear you did not participate in?
Without your dreams you're a soulless ghost,
like a concaved snake's skin.
If only you're bold enough to walk your own path,
alienated and without an established map.
You will soon realize that your passion's just waiting,
for your courage to close the gap.
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 9:52 AM UTC
turn on a sixpence
i slipped on your silhouette,
as i crept in your shadow.
Obscured in your umbrage,
an abundance of dark.
Opaque mistakes clouded,
our nebulous hearts.
I shaded your colours in grey tone,
to take home,
your essence in plainclothes,
and our monotone goals.
I was your eccentric apprentice,
You were a trip to the dentist,
pulling me out of comfort zone.
I had decayed in ways,
concaved incisors seen better days,
yet in spite of my enlightened phase,
the sweetness of life took me away in a chain of abuse of penny chews and the absolution of front page news.
I choose me,
I choose you.
Now if i misstep,
i’ll turn on sixpence;
and my value to you will continue to grow over time.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 3:43 PM UTC
The truth behind my absence might scare a few
People will turn a blind eye, because I am not part of their crew
I sit alone in a teeming room
Look up, you won’t find me there, I left to soon
My silent dwellings concaved, keep me sane
The noise within these walls, prevent the pain
As they stroll by me everyday
I hear them say...
"The light is too bright
For someone with poor eyesight
Dim it
For he will give you a fright!"
Spread the love, Stop the hurt
I am different
Introvert.
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 4:46 PM UTC
Sharpeville, 21 March 1960
"The native mentality does not allow them
to gather for a peaceful demonstration.
For them to gather means violence."
- Lieutenant Colonel Pienaar
1.
We went with wrists ready
For metal shackles
To clench
Their cold grip
Onto fire hot skin
Boiling with white rage;
The appropriate rage.
This situation has justification
In the predications they hold true
Where to some
Human is synonymous with
******* nature,
Dangerous and hungry for
Light white blood we
Must be caged
To prevent the massacre
We could create.
2.
A child’s body is not a hurdle.
But when fleeing,
Feet pounding on dirt paths,
Black with dark blood, leaking
From shafts of taunting revolvers
And throats of the permanently
Silenced,
What do you do but run?
5,000 bodies bound together,
Melding flesh with flesh,
Fusing unhinged bones to bones
Still cradled in their skin,
Line the street where
Puddles are forming next to
Concaved skulls emptied
By misinformed bullets.
Last thoughts and worries
Are forever splattered on faces,
Tracing red lines
On skin
Sooty black,
As dark as nights will be.
3.
Sixty-nine lay dead.
A rock they said.
When interrogations
Took place
A rock they said.
Empty hands laid
Palm in palm
But a rock they said,
This, they said, sparked
The worry
That made it right for them
To make bullets fall
Onto us like metal raindrops
From an angry heaven
Hungry for black skin
And black blood.
Hands digging into earth
For retaliation,
For blood they said,
But everyone else said,
The rock that flew
Was in hands white as light
As bright as the day was
They say.
If the rocks they said that,
Spurned uniformed egos,
Flew from ground,
To air,
To gunned men like they said,
Does it justify the dead?
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 6:07 PM UTC
she sits - eyes darting side to side,
eating the atmosphere, chewing carefully,
rosebud mouth moist, lips open a space,
hands fidgeting in her shallow concaved lap ..
woman leans forward to stroke wayward
tendril from wide forehead - a sign of excellence
to some just that, to others smart phrenology;
tendril defies maternal meaning to spring
like a diver from top board thrill
to fall once more upon laughing brow,
how young child loves the tickling touch
she never receives from mother -
she who urges piano practice, eight to ten,
dancing lessons, eleven to one,
geography, history and Latin tutelage
with woman ancient her and morbid more,
afternoon alternate curriculum and oboe,
catechism, times-tables, spellings parroted..
when night calls child to sleep,
she curls her softness into a knot, tight
and unforgiving, ******** tears from
sea blue eyes so they weep 'pon Egyptian
cotton sheets to dilute the ***** drips of
progidy’s day by day nightmare..
child needs, child yearns for what she
does not know, kettle drum heart throbbing..
longs to run in meadows mossy bright,
longs to see dirt under sweetheart nails;
in dreams she rides ponies ********
and soars sky, dances clouds, kisses moon..
but then, morning vivid with sane insanity
she wakes in an open cage, in a different room..
rebelled, she did, small fragile six year old;
today, today, today her mind is empty,
hands fluttering butterflies, eyes bright, innocence
faded, but laughing..laughing..laughing, free.
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 7:31 PM UTC
i am a skeleton,
with crumbling bones
and an irregular beating heart
on the brink of collapsing.
i am an ice cold silhouette
of a girl with sunken eyes
and shriveled lungs
slowly shrinking inside
my concaved chest.
my hips protrude like shards of glass,
shattering onto the gaps between my thighs,
and my collarbones
are sharper than knives,
slicing and dicing
a year off my life everyday.
i am a rotten corpse,
with worn out ribs
and a cracked spine
disintegrating into nothing but
ash and dust.
this is what death looks like.
i am not my own.
Feb 17, 2018
Feb 17, 2018 at 11:28 AM UTC
I used to dance alone in my room
I’d spin the spun black under needle
And turn till my walls became one
I’d stretch my face in strain
And mimic pain in movement
I’d measure arms and hands to
The waver of the music
I cried in concaved chest and
Screamed in legs splitting air,
Laughed in fingers spreading wide
And collapsed to the beat’s final throe
I became a simulated symphony, and
So became each dance;
My afternoon secret
I’d forget words and
Mesh into mangled body melody
mmmmmm those hands droning guitar and
a distant voice
in verse,
drumming, drumming
My body curled around each syllable,
Both in question and answer
It was pain, yes
It was heartache
Yes, it was beautiful
But I soon realized
It was not mine
- c
Jan 13, 2019
Jan 13, 2019 at 1:09 PM UTC
You had heard, and so the story ran. From where
The hills begin to rise, and then sink the ridge
In a gentle slope, down to the waters edge. Who would
Strew the turf with flowery herbage,
Or curtain the springs with green shade?
Who would sing to the Nymphs?
Can any man be guilty of such a crime?
Singing swans shall bear aloft to the stars,
Heifers browse on clover,
And swell their udders, to my song.
The Pierian maids have made a poet,
But, however, I trust them not.
I sing nothing worthy of my Emily;
Cackle as a goose among melodious Sparrows,
And here by the flowing streams,
Earth scatters her varied concaved hues;
Here white Orchids bend over cave,
Vines weave shady bowers.
Come to me; let the wild waves lash the shore.
You've heard me singing alone,
Beneath the cloudless night. My measure bathed
In loves sway; do you keep my words?
Why art, do I gaze at old constellations rising?
The stars to make fields glad with corn;
And gift grape upon the sunny hills.
Time robs us of all, even of memory; oft as a boy
I recall that song I would lay the long
Summer days to rest. Even voice itself now fails me,
Now the whole sea-plain lies still,
And eerily silent; every breath of the murmuring breeze is dead.
My last task this…, to win my dove.
Relieve me of this burden!
Can I trust my streaming eyes?
Or do lovers fashion their own dreams?
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 8:18 AM UTC
Fields of foliage green, with endless dope yields
streams of wasted life, Churchill's empire threadbare, poverty and ***** of its dignity.
I wish I could bury the soundless whispers that I seldom resite, turn off the light and with pride retire.
I see conceived walls of destitute junkies, rejected societies and abused deafness of blind philosophy, I highly rate the nostalgic plea.............
Postwar shadows of hidden government policies that call, I will, I shall, I will never.
Dust to dust, neon lights and queues to the other side, Cheque books and empty ink pens of thoughts i wish to re-sight a wasted life cannot do so............
I sentence you to a death of insanity, and still the concaved walls molded from the backs of bodies once leant, Rocking and craving I shall, I will, I know I'll return.
Jan 28, 2011
Jan 28, 2011 at 8:48 AM UTC
I started with a boundary line.
I found all my edges and started building in.
Every piece felt different.
Another personality come to stay.
And yet they all fit so easily inside my frame,
as if I'd kept this space open for them all along.
So I drank them in.
I flooded myself with their
convexed and concaved sides.
I let them find their place,
no guidance along the way,
and waited to feel whole again.
Then I realized what it felt like
to be assembled by a faulty machine.
To have a piece of myself lost on some dusty floor,
waiting to be swept away.
How am I supposed feel whole,
when I was never that way to begin with?
Who do I blame for my missing pieces?
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 1:07 PM UTC
Mr. P. Showed me the first time,
And now placed before me, Mr. J
I questioned your state,
While you laid there like a piece of slate.
Thin you were with the apple in your neck.
Tempted for a bite like in the book of Genesis,
A sin you might say, but what the heck.
They didn’t care for they put you in a partial wood and glue box,
Then they stole your money like a masked fox!
Opening your velvet lids she exposed them both,
Pressing all around, for she had to make sure.
Just in case you could have been saved
From some kind of a cure
A bowl your pupil turned
Something you gave me to eat from
Milky white yes they were,
Something else they did tell me,
And I didn’t even have to look that far.
With her clipboard and her pen
She marked all the things outside and then within.
Doors now closed and stained instruments are now touched
Thick blue rubber latex gloves are passed around
Pre prepped he already is,
What’s next I then wonder?
A quick slice of a scalpel
Now exposes what was under.
Hooks seven layers deep
Removing something you now couldn’t even keep
Like pulling a worm out a fish’s mouth,
It then popped out,
“Look” He just snagged himself a trout.
Putting your trust in something better then Big Ben,
If it seized up, what would you do then?
(CARSr.5-31-12)
Jun 5, 2012
Jun 5, 2012 at 1:00 PM UTC
Perfect. By: Hannah Ostenberg
Puffed out cheeks, sunken eyes, raw throat, salty tears that run down my dry skin,
I am perfect.
Dry thin brittle hair, nails that are chipping away, Bruises litter my paper thin skin,
I am perfect.
Thigh gap of an inch and a half, Concaved stomach, hip bones sharp like glass, ribs so prominent that when my thin cold fingers run over them feeling every dip between, they could be strummed like a one of a kind vintage guitar making a sad melody,
I am perfect.
Heavy chest, Short breath, Numb limbs, Cold skin,To weak to get out of bed,
I am perfect.
Make up painted face, fake smiles, Daily lies, “I’m not hungry, I already ate, I’m ok, I‘m fine, I‘m just tired”
I am perfect.
I am perfect,
I am prefect, Perfect at lying.
I am perfect.
I am perfect, Perfect at dying
I am perfect.
I am perfect, I am perfectly killing myself, but to the outside, to society, I’m just….
Perfect.
By: Hannah Ostenberg
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 3:28 PM UTC
It's a quiet autumn where
your footsteps were felt last.
A cool breeze blows through
the emptiness of a concaved ribcage nest,
where once a summer boldly raged
and now the snowless winter takes its rest.
© fey (03/09/23)
Sep 3, 2023
Sep 3, 2023 at 4:08 AM UTC
The Lost Letter of Love-
The thunder of the busy street makes love to the vicious voices that plague my mind. Reminisce of a forgotten love still shower my inner most thoughts. Passion that once overwhelmed my life is now my reason for exhaust. The shimmers that once lit my ambition and drive now hang lightless, darker than the deepest secret. Yet the frequency of lost desire still induces the most intoxicating substance. Arms grow weary caressing forgotten times, the tears that once grew a river, are now dry beds of torment. The beautiful dawn plays in coalition with the residuals of a distant song. “Goodbye my lover” plays in harmony with the neglect of reality. Not facing demons yet displaying affection to them. Indulging in virtues once restricted by political propaganda. I am her vicious vendetta, her thoughtlessness, her absence. I lay on a bed of needles enjoying the aguish, suffering in satisfaction. The destructive thought of deserving such a decisive decision allows my mind to become a rag of lost emotion, wiping tears from the concaved steps that once bread a whirlwind of radical love. A canvas stained recklessness paints a picture of a destined solitude. No regret orchestrates a symphony of percussions, streaming beautiful sound through the hills of total regret. Awake becomes second nature, slumber slumbers with the lack of motivation to ignite the calm. Insomnia hums in a melody so righteous that the religion becomes the man. A hollow shell of broken ambition sway in the wind of self desire. The cries of the night become intoned with the cries of truth. Instinct maps the course of self-withered illusion, illuminating the “why us” cause. A foundation of happiness holds the weight of a pessimistic engagement. While optimistic scavengers prey on the depths of endless souls. Disappointment rectifies all signatures of a so-called love. Remembering a once forgotten future claims its stakes as the eternal right. The moon holds desperate for the fortune of the unfortunate son. Unsettled disputes, take a toll on broken bodies. Broken wills dance in the limelight ignoring the forgotten pain, a laugh of retribution becomes one with inexplicit content. While saying “I love you” becomes that of explicit context, searching for the meaning between the lines. The lost letter of love shapes like the clouds in the sky only resembling something it never can be.
RICHARD ITSKOVICH
Jul 28, 2010
Jul 28, 2010 at 2:05 PM UTC
Its forced, like a crow bars metal bite
Against the cold surface of my heart
Where the anxiety pries,
Hard against my insecurities,
All my bad dreams, and
Old deeds done and buried, regretted
And carried to their graves,
Never to be replicated,
Torn from there spot
At the bottom of my heart,
Blood spills, crimson dripping
Down the concaved prison.
And with all the feelings that have risen
For no good reason I feel ashamed.
When I was dyeing but survived,
I wish I had just closed my eyes
And drifted to whatever end
Suits me best and sooths anxieties
I hold in my chest.
To feel free for
Just a single day,
Be free of me and this
I confess is the brightest
Of all my pipe dreams.
Not scared with the panic of my anxieties,
always chasing me.
Jul 7, 2012
Jul 7, 2012 at 1:22 AM UTC
you see, i've developed the front of a sheep and mind of a wolf
and concaved into myself like an irregular polygon because of the
people who roughly handled me like a last resort, never to fit in
and always to be confronted with my imperfections. these hands
are midas's opposites, converting beauty into the beast, scavenging
the bone marrow of others to keep me alive. the wall i've built up
makes the wall of china look like a scaled down model, because
the difference between jail and my ribcage is absolutely nothing.
they come hand in hand like best friends and i wish to drown the
sorrows building up in my chest with a tsunami with metaphors
that speaks of safehouses where people exist, not annihilation.
- kra
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 4:15 PM UTC
It was in the way your chest
concaved, convexed with my pulse
and with our ****** our bodies
beat rhythms into the walls
and floors; I was shaking
as your hand held up the arch
of my back. I looked up and wished
it wasn’t you so badly, I cried
and you wiped away what you saw
to be a bead of sweat from my cheek.
It was January and the heater
was broken.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 12:06 AM UTC
Dear something to remember
Dear nothing that I knew
Was it clearly a reason to give me a clue
I’ve reworked the works of past lives
Calculated numbers to exist with mine
To reminisce on such a sweet accomplishment
Known as greed to another man’s treasure
Where thoughts could not coexist
But exist if not measured
Where jubilance is false and apt to do
Walls concaved with no place to move
Well if it’s so weird to think regardless of nothing
Then shall I cope with what’s to come?
Or have walls never been where they are or were
To a place that was never done
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 1:42 AM UTC
Tonight I sleep in the sky and fly with the stars
Shedding behind the old worn skin of the days past
Entering the safest place, my mind
And meeting the most encouraging person, myself.
I used to scream silently into the dead broken night
In the now concaved woods, that once enveloped me
And now that I have found the freedom to drop the rust covered blade
I am able to feel the pleasures of the ice cold rain
My newfound strength uplifts me
As my real self comes out, quivering with fear
I am not child nor a woman
I am a transgender man with much to live for and much to give
I maybe young but my eyes are old
I was raised to be an adult before my time
I shall rise to the occasion and give the love I have
While still leaving some to be received
I am sick of a greedy world full of pain and suffering
I am sick of my sarcastic, pessimistic values
I am dreadfully tired of the life that was handed to me
And I am ready to start anew....of my own and by myself.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 1:09 PM UTC
Three days absent of sleep.
Three days deprived of food.
Three days without direction, function, and moral collection.
Three days spent swallowed whole in the depths of plausible correction.
Oh my sweet, I fear no fate can contain this inevitable fear
buried tightly within my chest.
Concaved isolation,
bitterness consumed the best of me.
72 hours of solitariness.
72 hours of repression.
72 hours of apprehension.
72 hours of loss of consciousness.
Whispers of evergreens
chant to me.
Beige stained sheets become
nothing more than a distant memory.
Three months without you.
Three months desperate for lips,
which once caressed my *******
Three months stripped of scalloped palms, and
crazed for circles traced across my neck.
Three months craving ocean eyes
softly speaking, “we’ll be alright.”
Warm baths filled to the brim
creamy, and delicate skins
while Chopin’s ballad danced in the twilight.
Forever delude us.
Forever spoil us.
Still 13 weeks without you.
13 weeks craving the vibrations of gentle breath,
humming me to sleep, silently sooth me.
13 weeks without fingertips tangling fine locks,
morphing into screams of our names
13 weeks without sideways smiles,
rich and modest, but assertive with simple grins.
13 weeks lusting after charcoal hair nuzzled in my chest,
Alluring arms wrapped around me.
The burden of our romance weighs my mind.
Yet, let us go make our visit, I say
to yellow smoke that lingers on streets and window-panes.
It’s time for indecisions, maybe a hundred visions with
Intoxication to bury us, exhilaration to uncover us.
There will be time to wonder, “Do I dare?
Do I dare fall back into the abyss of my mind?”
There will be time,
‘till voices wake us.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 9:00 PM UTC
Accomplished fingers stroking the strings
Vibrating the air, adjusting the stiffness
Ribs of willow securely placed between my knees
Enbowed and concaved
The amplification like ,embroidered words
The flawless cello harmonious
As I grieve the instrument , I weep
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 3:33 AM UTC
You were bright wildflowers running through forest green fields,
showering the world in sunshine, and I was the rain.
I was dark nights filled with rolling thunder and electric energy, and you were peeking through the clouds with your sunbeams.
Lilac skies and shady trees, I decided that purple just wasn't my color.
But who could ever want a sunflower in a bush of roses?
You were bright early mornings with rubbed sleepy eyes, and coffee with sugar, while I was black.
Tasteless and bitter, your cheerful moods sent me spiraling, and I was grasping for the misery that always kept me company.
Your words were sweet, like sugar, and left a bad taste in my mouth, like a poison I downed to drive out the sound of your voice in my head.
You grew flowers inside my lungs, and although they are beautiful, I can't ******* breathe.
I'm gasping for air, air, the lone reminder that I am free.
I was dark hair and dark eyes, with a heart that was chained to my independence.
You were so bright, and I destroyed you in fear of losing another.
But this universe is vast, and this earth is small, and instead of exploding, I concaved.
You should have known better darling, I'm just a black hole.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 11:25 AM UTC
The boardwalk itself did sheen with a collective sweat,
basking in the orange glow cast by the approaching sunset.
All remaining heat of the day was begging my body for night,
Through my shirt the sun burned, my skin cursed the light.
As the sun became a semi-circle and was concaved by the horizon,
I was on the dark piers utterly awestruck, whilst putting my eyes in.
We could see them down on the beach, each more painted in crimson
and, as the night progressed due East, all the people stood and listened.
And I glanced at the sun after it was far too late,
the rays had gone and my memories changed.
Leaving me staring at the back of my eyelids.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 9:05 PM UTC
i think the bindings
of my spine have
finally concaved
into tiny screws to
drill away the tattered
scabs of my marred
stitches into the skin
of my mouth.
i wasn't supposed to
s c a t t e r
this way.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 5:35 PM UTC
Sad and sunken, sloppy
Reclining in their paperback seats
Heads lolling forward like they are made of
The rags they are clothed in.
Rags they sleep with. Clutched like a child's
Blankie to hold them down on the
Concrete bed made from their cold and hard
Voice,
But soft words, that built their bones
And concaved skulls, empty but
Open like a bowl to be filled,
Like their stomachs will remain unfilled,
Like their stomachs
Decaying,
Un-used and un-taught.
Soft, sloping, shoulders,
Slick but slump tongue,
Too heavy at the base of their throats
To speak and sigh,
They sway in their hollow frames
And sink lower in the cold.
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 2:07 AM UTC