"concaving" poems
Waves crash and crumble
Concaving piles of rubble
They beat up the shore
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 8:00 PM UTC
Joe wants to know
how'm I doing?
an innocuous query,
little can he know,
bye bye is my merry,
marooned on a skerry,
noxious fumes in the aerie,
currently inhabiting my foreheady,
worry waves, rolling thunderous tides,
have myself beside
thus the answer to your toll,
something bad, on me, got a hold
Joe,
life is,
more than a tad
concerting
concerting?
surely you meant
converging, or perhaps,
concatenating, or concaving?
discombobulating, or more likely,
plain ole disconcerting?
indeed, all of the above,
fit like a glove,
but best combinated in steaming mug of
concerting
"to contrive or arrange by agreement: to plan; devise"
the world is secret contriving,
the world is secret devising,
a plan for my demising,
forces are concerting re me...
most concerning,
as trends converging,
concave hollow chains clinking,
a concatenating chorus
voicing their displeasure,
at my happy existence,
which now gone,
its loss, wept for, in great measure
life dissing me, in a manner
concerting and dis-concerting,
my composure,
decomposing,
the ides of depression,
hip hop discombob-
(undu)lating throb
but then again,
what's in a word,
what's in a rhyme,
jes that old timey R&B;,
rhyming and blues,
of a verbal kind
so, Joe, how'm I doing?
now that you are knowing,
as men of distinguished letters,
students of history,
part time poets,
Your Reply
must only be:
"Oh no, Natty,
say it ain't so"
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 5:03 AM UTC
The concaving mystery
The simple act of love
The beautiful act of life
The confused act of insecurities
The hope of acceptance
The charge of degradance
The violent act of power
The intertwine of two souls meeting for the first time
The lesser the meaning of this 3 letter word
The lesser the meaning of the 4 letter word
What is *** without love?
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 1:19 AM UTC
There I was standing in the stark cold
in New York staring at the fast-paced
traffic breezing past my sight, flashing
bright blurs blinding my eyes, heavy
rising fumes lost in the air from rusty
engines, as I breathed in the loud
vibrations and mixed creations
surrounding my eyesight.
The towering buildings concaving
around my soul. The high pitched
trains pounding my brain, steel
scraped railroad tracks sifting
inside broken lanes. The blinking
stoplights lingering in helpless
shadows. And as I gazed at the
scarlet stained sidewalks, how
the cigarette butts sunk in
meaningless mazes, screaming
embers disturbed and scorched,
scarred and surrendering,
my heart was against the wall.
I could feel everything around me
moving in accelerating speeds,
scurrying pedestrians clouding
my wild breaking frame, swollen
grayed trees clicking and blazing
in little language, red smashed stop
signs falling in between compromised
worlds, while I struggled to break
from the love that stole my heart
in the nighttime spark. I could see
his dark twisted eyes in the shadows,
crimson-black designs destroying
my mind, smoke shattered kisses
torturing my dimension, as I
gasp deep heavy breaths,
embracing every single solid
drum shuddering inside my nation.
How was I to know that your love
could burn my flesh, razor flamed
and ****** over flattened and
rammed, a cold unrhymed beat
diminishing my existence in the
blackened skies.
Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 1:29 PM UTC
Sometimes, I swear I can feel my chest concaving at the thought of you.
I find interest in the fact that sometimes I want to be near you, but sometimes, I wish you were an ocean away.
Sometimes I look at my mother, and pray I'm not like her, but other times, I wish I could be more like her because that would make my life so much easier.
Sometimes, I cry alone at night.
I sit unaccompanied and begin to gorge myself on memories and guilt that I am certain will forever haunt me.
And during the day.
I think about how many more days I must suffer before I can be me freely.
Sometimes, I wish I was as much of a physical man as my brother is.
Because sometimes, like when we have a relatives birthday, or a celebration, he is glorified for his ability to be ox-like.
And while I sit here only weighing 130 pounds and having the strength of a rubber chicken I feel as though every bit of breath I breathe is not with the carbon my lungs put out.
Sometimes I think about you.
And how you're with him.
And it makes me sick.
Because sometimes. . .
I wish sometimes didn't exist
Nov 14, 2016
Nov 14, 2016 at 4:50 PM UTC
I was complete
come back
You swept me off my feet
come back
I can't breathe
My lungs are concaving
come back
I know we're worth saving
come back
I'm breaking
You've left your mark
come back
Etched into my soul, so deep, so dark
come back
You were always my favorite form of art
Music doesn't sound the same
come back
I read between lines of pain
come back
They all seem to whisper your name
My world is a colorless black
Taylor
Fill this emptiness with one simple act
Taylor
Please come back
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 3:44 AM UTC
Humans are ****** up.
We search and search for the approval of others.
We coordinate clothes in order to get "that image."
We make our music selections based on what everyone else is listening to.
We don't shower because hygiene is so uncool.
We starve our selves to get concaving clavicles.
We boast of the ***** and drug abuse in order to appear "hard."
Why?
Who cares what ***** is wearing if it makes them feel good?
Why give two ***** if they don't know that band, it doesn't make them inferior or you superior?
******* shower, if you don't shower for own personal enjoyment then power to you but because "greasy hair is in" isn't acceptable because I can tell you, it's not.
Collarbones aren't hot or romantic, the only thing deep about them is the depth, very few people like to cuddle skeletons, maybe necrophiliacs but if you want to cuddle a necrophiliac then good luck to you.
Being a heavyweight, smoking **** cigarettes, hard drugs aren't ******* cool. If you do them then do it for yourself and not because you want other people to know you do them.
Riddle me this,
If we accepted ourselves for the clothes we wear, the choices we choose, the body we've been bestowed, and everything we are, then would we need others' approval?
Is having an image all that great? Think about it, your image in the mirror, you dissect it until you want to change almost everything about yourself.
I understand that I am the worst hypocrite of them all because I have yet to approve of myself but that's me. I accept that. Can you?
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 3:17 PM UTC
The roof is collapsing,
caving in on every promise,
breaking down to show what's real.
The walls are condensing,
concaving in unspoken words,
building up on what's been broken.
Structure built on false foundation,
only creates faulty condition.
Dec 5, 2016
Dec 5, 2016 at 11:21 PM UTC
I took a long and hilly road down to memory lane,
The trees concaving in,
Acting like a roof to the animals that scurry by.
Our house hidden back behind the pines and oaks,
That is where I grew,
Where I prospered,
That tiny house is where I learned to love,
Where I learned love,
Doesn’t last.
The pond in the back,
Seemed to croak at night,
The rooster crowing in the morning behind us,
And now I awake with nothing but silence.
I see no roof covering my head when I walk out the door,
Everything has seemed to change,
And driving one last time down that road and onto another,
The trees seemed to wave goodbye.
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 6:10 PM UTC
I love your hair
The small strands
Of golden brown and
The way it moves like waves
Around my fingers
As I watch them disappear
In and out of view
I love the way
My lips feel
On the bottom of your neck
The skin concaving
To the kisses
That I place there
With my chin resting
Against your collarbone
I love the hands
That draw swirls
Absentmindedly
On my thigh
Or lay on the curve
Of my waist
Your fingers
Brushing my spine
As they nestle
Between my ribs
I love your eyes
The blue of a forget-me-not
Saturated with that plea
Swirling
With the jets of blue
That crash into the harbor
And the caves disguised
As craters
That barrel through my soul
I love your lips
That kiss my hand
When holding them
Isn't enough
That caress my own
Like a warm sigh
That bubbles inside
Or that rest against
My forehead
To show me
Reassurance
Isn't only in words
I love your feet
That root themselves
Around mine
When I try to push you away
My winds howling
Through your branches
As you sway
Like a pendulum
Back and forth
Accepting of the rain
I love your smile
That gratifies my humor
And rises with your cheeks
That blush the color
Of the inside of a cherry blossom
When I whisper in your ear
I love your wise stare
That playfully pulls at my pigtails
As I twirl in circles
And shout at the Gods
Seeing me as Helena
Inside the quirky passions
Of a young woman
Trying to find her voice
May 26, 2017
May 26, 2017 at 12:09 PM UTC
You know that feeling before your heart drops?
The slow concaving of your chest
And you want to **** and cry
But you're too hurt too afraid
And there's nothing you'll ever be able to do to forget
How badly that hurt, how terrible it feels to not be able
To take anything back
Yet it's allowed to take your happiness
Your smiles
Everything
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 4:07 PM UTC
“the irrepressible impossibility of not-writing”
not my phraseology, cut/saved/pasted from the tens of thousands
of words my eyes imbibe daily, waiting for a Fulfillment Center to
deliver a perfectly completed poem matching, equal to the Ah Ha!
uttered when he first read them, understanding the need, the surging
urging when a chest concaving with irrepressible bursting purpose,
just has-to hasty expel, never considering the possibility that I, I do not have something worthy of stating, right now, an inside insight...
Aug 25, 2020
Aug 25, 2020 at 4:16 PM UTC
How to stay anything a world gone mad
sickening consumption
so egos may last
bellies teetering
gitty with greed
and yet we all wonder
why there is so much bad
it's all spinning backwards
everything is concaving
why are we so comfortable
being so blind?
despise the overgrowth,
yet they present life
killing mammals for sport
yet not to eat what they killed
why so tethered to that of our
computer screens
doesn't it bother anybody
there is a world to see
why, I must ask, why
the people are growing tired of ****
the government can be of so much more
yet the white men reek in their thrones
not knowing anything
calling a nation their own
when really it's the money
which keeps their ego afloat
history repeats itself
doesn't anybody know
the protests and death
alluding to a brink of war
and who would tell
those mad fools
who would cure
the ambiguity in
their holes
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 8:20 PM UTC
If I could write everything I'm feeling
On the tops of the walls in acrylic paints,
Would the words drip down the wallpaper
In silence,
Reminding me that emptiness
Is only relative,
That whatever magazine cut outs
And indie band posters I've hung over the years
Can dissolve into the vastness
Of my memory?
That somewhere in my organs,
There's pictures of you drenched in
opera house pinks,
Van Gough sunflowers,
Georgia dirt reds?
That the paint ran down the walls
As quickly as you ran to me,
A four minute mile of I Love Yous,
Paint dribbled bursts of joy
concaving over the stillness of the pavement,
Blissful evenings where the wallpaper
Was hardly a bother,
Just white noise blurring the rest of the world so I could focus
Focus on nothing but you
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 3:10 PM UTC