"conceptualized" poems
I think I'm going blind.
I'm under the impression you've disappeared.
That you're gone for good.
That you've eliminated yourself from my retinas in order to escape my mile wide stare.
That you've constructed homes under tombstones hoping I'd mistake you for
A box of under-appreciated skeletal remains
Because all you've ever wanted is to be dead to me.
Like you wanted my eyes to forget about their day job and resort to conceptualized adultery
Because God forbid I commit to an honest day's pay.
I've never intentionally visualized imaginary fabrications.
But the truth is, my eyes do everything but tell the truth.
1. My eyes write monotonous picture books with your face plastered on every single page
Just to recreate your physical beauty time and time again
So the world knows your look tops my mind's best seller list.
2. My eyes climb mountain tops and skinny dip in stormy seas
Because sometimes crazy is the only way I can get you to look at me.
3. My eyes fly hot air balloons carried by the echoes of your soft spoken sentences
As if exhaust pipes could spew such sweet nothings into the night sky.
4. My eyes invade foreign lands with every intention of burning down
Prehistoric villages and discovering your secret hideaway because I too
Want to know how it feels to savagely destroy former sacred territory.
5. My eyes struggle out of bed every morning. Not even
Three shots of espresso can perk my eyes up enough
To allow the radiation you still give off enter my pores.
I think I'm going blind.
Or maybe I just can't see straight.
Or be straight up with you and tell you how it takes every part of me
To not gauge my own eyes out for betraying the rest of my body.
It takes every part of me to admit my misjudgments spawned the downfall of it all.
Because I told you I saw the two of us trekking through unfamiliar lands
With each stride another step towards our destiny.
Because I told you I saw something in your eyes
That gave mine the ability to smile.
Because I told you I saw us redefining what infinity
Looks like to the senseless visionary.
But my eyes don't tell the truth.
I'm going blind.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 12:05 PM UTC
Leashed by loves lynch till I’m dropped by my lack of respect for the beauty’s presence
Thank god she wasn’t curbside taking tips with perked lips for a stranger’s ****** fix,
But I needed to feel the evidence that the pieces fit,
That’s why this is about me and a barstool princess
Getting close enough to taste the moans of vodka’s venom
Get close enough so I can know my needs can be fulfilled
Like a lunar eclipse this species keeps grinding its teeth when teased
Time and time again we’ve been taunted by,
The mistress our ancestors once described as the serpent of Eve,
When procreation was preached as an STD
Yet we’ve been perpetually pivoting,
To defy the chastity of a species
Grandfathered misconceptions relating to why you and I exist
As wickedness warms in the covers of the lustfully parallel
So let’s drown in this bliss,
From head to toe, eye caught, grazes at the nose,
From the bar stool to a lonely man’s home,
From one dollar tips for two *** and cokes
To the bedroom of this writing,
The nights like this, that remind me I am alone
But this isn’t about me loathing the fact that I won’t hear her whispering for more body warmth,
Nor am I looking for you to pity me because I’ll be sleeping solo
Enough is enough since we are humans seeking ****** catacombs
I’ll try to be an adult about how the human molds but it started me at childhood,
When those that conceptualized love gave me this world,
And now I no longer have to listen to what I’ve been told
This is about how to perceive something we can never truly control,
Lucky enough to avoid a contraceptive despite unable to remember the doctor’s pull,
Its night’s like this I get to question,
When will my sheets meet the perfect fit?
When will this be more than just a humanizing fix?
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 12:41 AM UTC
~~~<^>~~~
cupped carefully
In our palm
is a tiny
light
we caress it gently
tenderly
then hold it to
our
*****
there it seeps
into our
*pores
lungs
heart*
flows into our
bloodstream
to feed our
flesh
exhaled
it is
*brilliant
magnificent
terrible*
it reflects every
*race
color
creed
idea
annihilation
abnegation
angst
joy
sorrow
pain*
everything that can be
conceptualized
by
the mind of
MAN
we have named it
POETRY
soulsurvivor
(C) 6/7/2015
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 4:33 PM UTC
(the hours in between)
It is the morning after reuniting, wining and talking...the stirring of the curtains transparent, become slow moving hands and calming whispers of a hypnotist, blending perfectly with the gentle whiff of a breeze...and the soft sounds of one who has just woken...a hint of a breath of life...there is much gratitude.....these early morning whispers could still be heard...quietude is a swaying hammock, but sleepy eyes peep through the window, gazing far, enthralled by the horizon...red, orange, purple.....merging.....against green and brown of the mountains...and from all these mix of colors, finally emerges a sky so blue...a new day is born, the Almighty is most kind...but something else unsettles the mind of one who has gone through many arduous journeys...asking:
"How did I fare"? Can I still...? Will I...?"
Now shining bright is a list of
Things yet to happen...intentions---
Disguised as questions.
Though this has long been conceptualized,
There's this pressing feeling, they must now be prioritized
Pray they soon be realized
Before exit from this world has materialized.
Can I still -
Be brave enough to swim? drive a car? ride a bike?
Meet with distant friends? learn new languages?
Write with more depth, even when I turn 80... and older?
Fly in a plane with my son as the pilot in command?
See my granddaughters finish college?
Will I still be able -
To satisfy this wanderlust endlessly stirring within me?
To ride a camel in the deserts of Morocco?
To feel the sun, the air, even the rain, while walking the cobbled streets in Tuscany?
To spend an evening in Florence?
To visit Greece, Spain, Ireland, Wales, and relive stories read?
To feel and breathe the air there, brimming with adventure?
We walk through various labyrinths in life, so absorbed in our own worlds...hours, days, become prosy, they move oh, so slowly.......still, when the dark is upon us, we sit and reflect...wondering:
Will we see another day unfold before us?
Do we get to witness
The Blue Hours of another sunrise and sunset,
And further be enchanted by the day's breath-taking
A L P E N G L O W ?
How many more
A L P E N G L O W S ?
Sally
Copyright August 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 7:39 PM UTC
At 7 years old, I told my mother,
"You're not my real mom.
You're my Earth mom,
And at night when I'm asleep,
I go back to my home planet."
As the years sped onwards,
I conceptualized myself as a three headed alien,
A Poet From Another Planet,
Acutely aware of my innate differences.
No explanation had I other than being extraterrestrial.
Those around me, too, seemed to sense I was "other."
Playground insults supported by adults who floated labels like
"Lazy," "Difficult," "Rude," "Deliberately Obtuse"
Over my head as if they were a crown,
Signifying I was queen of kingdom "Unlike Us."
No one looked deeper at the poor social skills ,
The rigidity, sensory difficulties, challenges with executive dysfunction.
It was easier to pretend I was in control,
Choosing the route of difficulty and belittlement.
It was only after I nearly succeeded in killing myself
That someone assembled the whole picture.
My story is not unique among women
Born into bodies and brains whose operating system is Autism.
We are the forgotten, the alienated, and plastered with assumptions,
Lost under the blind eye of those who spin tall tales of
"Only straight, white little boys can possibly be autistic!"
Generations of autistic women have known not a name for their difference,
Bogged down under self-loathing, eating disorders, and suicides,
Anything to cope with a world designed to break them
For the differences everyone noticed but no one could see.
Now that women are finally coming onto the scene,
A subtle shift in the awareness that the clinicians, teachers, doctors
Were missing a whole population of autistic people,
Answers are gate kept behind assessments that are thousands of dollars
And diagnosticians who've yet to see the error of their ways.
Peace of mind seems to be a right only of white autistic men
Who are lucky enough to have the "profile" of autism modeled after them.
It took 19 years, two suicide attempts, including 10 days in a coma
For someone to finally "see me,"
And I'm one of the lucky ones.
Answers were finally mine,
But understanding one's own brain should be a human right.
I think we can all agree:
The price of a diagnosis should not be your life.
Mar 17, 2021
Mar 17, 2021 at 2:39 PM UTC
Death from her life on my shoulders
resurrect me in the wind
-a weightless vagabond
whispering breaths of prophecy
Blessed are those who live life to the fullest
Tamed to breath filtered oxygen
we did not know the taste of exhilaration
conceptualized, packaged and shipped objective
realize that society holds no ground
life is yours to miss
open your eyes to the fact
that you are blind
and no one sees you
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 7:47 PM UTC
I guess I feel threatened by your strength
I guess I feel threatened by your beauty
I build brick layers between us.
What is that?
She ushered me to that golden path of sacred
My hands seek but grasp not
But there is something there to be taken
Why the blinders?
Why the stammer?
I have never been so confused
‘Olobeouch,’ the Yapese say
A tangling predicament worth
Unraveling with a fine-tooth
Bamboo comb
What about awareness
Emotional terror both by day
And by night
The subtle insidious kind
Calm waves of sad
Inertia creeps
What is that?
How do I heal when--
(and thanks for putting words to it, Rudy):
When it feels like the arms of my
Clock have arthritis?
Ship wreck on the wrong shore
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My feelings for you have grown needlessly ornate
Yours for me, simple
Sullivan says:
Friendship is underrated
Because of its inherent
Ability to be so earthen
So organic
And, thus
Conceptualized
Less
So why have I built
Nonsensical negativity?
Self-sabotage
What is that?
I’m not that guy.
I told you:
“I want so much more of you than I need”
I didn’t know at the time that I got it twisted
Maybe:
I need you more than I want to admit
Love the one you’re with
I idealized, romanticized the **** out of you
Before I even came back
I shot myself
Big toe on rifle trigger
A nice distraction from more
Pressing issues?
What is that?
I thought I was alone
But you reminded me
I am not
I can’t tell you how much that means to me
Those words:
Struck match
In a dark room
I’ve not let anyone acknowledge or
Sympathize with my lingering ache
Much less help anyone understand it
What is that?
I’m not that guy
I’ve never been that guy
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I let news of:
Thousands killed by super typhoon
Refugee birth
******** hunter casualty
Child victim of AIDS
Remind me that my pain is small
Pretending that that news is
Good enough to build perspective
And deal with pain
When it isn’t
“We accept the love we think we deserve”
I guess I thought I didn’t deserve you
Thank you for reminding me that that is
Not Truth
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ask me unprovoked questions
By the sea, under a tree
Whisper me stardust
Because one day I want to say:
Love me for the man I’ve become
Not the man I was
I touch the tip of your nose
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 5:31 PM UTC
For who can say life is not but a dream.
When you sleep does your mind often know that you're not awake?
Something that your brain can't distinguish between,
is it reality or dreamlike serene?
For who can say that death is not but a dream.
Free'd from mortal coil, the body may wither but the mind may transcend separated from the body. Time is only conceptualized and regimented. Time is of course intangible. There has only ever been one time, the now everything is happening on one scale, at one time, always.
Empty, like all living beings. composed of nothing.
All that lie behind those thin human shells, and interact as if aesthetics are taken for granted. However, all is perceived and compiled of atoms and molecules, particles. Nothing lies truly there except for perception, look aside of the boundaries and reevaluate the conception.
Living, stagnant cogs of the world with fear of rejection.
Are you a dreamer? there isn't too many of us around anymore.
Life, is a waking dream and you walk down its path, but must challenge it and not give in, therefore life is a walking exam.
Aristotle spoke of knowing something because he knows he knew nothing. I know nothing, we all know nothing, knowledge is found therein.
Faking your way through everything, who's going to call who's bluff. Invisible boundaries, ones greatest enemy must surely be themselves,
for instance all those living their lives painting imaginary walls to lock their dreams in. Told something that isn't just on a daily basis by media no you shouldn't and no you can't. Hypnosis of the masses, bow down to the monopoly and put priority to the meaningless monetary.
Living lives chained to sheets of paper, always chasing, never ever asking why? do you need that, but will you die? Confused and lost sight of the real. pursuit of Happiness, Knowledge, Creativity, Love, Possibilities of above.
Break out the invisible shackles, leap out from under the internal prison and run, never stop till you reach the top of the mountain and scream. We are free and the time is now, there has never been a greater time to be alive. The world is our oyster lets soar and leap to the pinnacle of our greatness.
We can all achieve our potential, your life on a canvas, paint your masterpiece.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 10:58 AM UTC
Black smoke Binomial random
Exhaled, white Variable
Light Probability mass
Condensed Labels Function
humanity macro micro
into seasonal index
meditative chants
Conceptualized meaning attempt
at poetry / waste of time
Death in a lecture hall behind
a prison of silver screens.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 5:31 PM UTC
how dare you --
endless months of unraveling,
countless hours stitching wounds,
sunless mornings beaming with a nothingness
only conceptualized through experience,
with nights spent curled on the tile
writhing from the ache of embedded scars,
still mending the voids i had abandoned
500 days later i reside differently,
the threshold of a new chapter long anticipated,
a chance to refine my routine, to hone my rhythm,
to emerge evolved with renewed eyes,
a mantra of self-actualization
traversing turbulent seas within,
raging across the crevices of my core,
tapering tempestuous gusts,
emerging anew with a novel reverence
for the agony borne from your touch
a solitary text, a wrecking ball to progress,
returns me to that forsaken juncture,
perched within four walls of trauma,
amidst undulating hills of the bluegrass,
with screams reverberating through the valleys,
our fury etched into these uttered phrases
how could you —
500 days on, you persist within,
while I dwell less in your realm --
your echo lingers, though not reciprocal,
your manipulation, constantly unyielding,
the deceit still unsettling in its grip,
for change is but a mirage, after all.
Aug 21, 2023
Aug 21, 2023 at 7:59 PM UTC
Splitting the framework of conceptualized demise, demanding council with the potential for immortality found in the roots of a proud, longstanding family tree.
Withdrawals worked out to pay off a longstanding debt with a beat down mentality housed and rehearsed for the sake of a sour state of mind, preserving faltering sainthood.
Ink stains used to stretch the page thin, scraping off fragments of the tatters of a foreign form of progress, denounced with age, but brought back around for a short bout of overtime.
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 3:38 PM UTC
Meaningless
pushed and pulled
through arbitrary dimensions
Emulating differences in the same,
the Fatal Contradiction
Redefining the sane!
Recombined
fused with idle spinning.
Forging the distorted lie,
these lines in between
with apparent coherency
and ingenious discrepancies
blurring the boundaries
of this new systematic hell!
Put in perspective
these inconsequential banalities
and childish banter
all but shape the future
reiterating the errors of yesterday
Skewed
Conceptualized
Vizualized
Realized
Quantized
... Denied!
how long was it before i fell?
does it even matter?
when even these parallel thoughts repel...
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 7:39 AM UTC
If a picture is worth a thousand words,
then a thousand words must be worth a million pixels.
So then, millions of pixels must be worth trillions of atoms.
Just think: the amount of atoms in the word ‘fractal’.
I wonder if it supersedes the conceptualized notion of ‘itself’?
Nov 1, 2010
Nov 1, 2010 at 8:37 PM UTC
Exploring musical concepts
in the key of C aeolian, with some G mixolydian;
even some G Phrygian sometimes- dominant.
Naturally, there's also some blues scale licks.
Mostly in 4, but some parts are in 7;
others are in 5, while yet more are in 6
(which is arguably just 3, but I venture to argue all rhythms can be more easily conceptualized as combinations of 2s and 3s. Then, one may argue that it's all just 1s, but now it's just getting nit-picky.. think of it however works for you.)
There's even a groove in 27/16!
Who would do such a thing?
Then, it's also a bit of an experiment
when it comes to harmonic rhythm
(the rate at which key/chord/etc. changes happen)
All that **** east Indian music influence!
While I realize how little of that may make sense
unless One is to approach music fairly philosophically,
I implore thee to copy-paste the link below
to hear whatever it is I'm talking about.
Be warned, though: it's measures nearly 15 minutes long.
What can I say?
I tend to get a bit carried away...
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 4:00 PM UTC
bearing our souls
barefooted, our soles.
bearing the weight
of only our bare
naked souls.
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 1:43 AM UTC
Maya
I’m in a far away place
Where my mind can be free
Far from the people
And their ignorance
Far from the judgment
By their lack of compassion
Their close-minded assault
Believing whatever comes to ear
No media, no distractions
Throwing out all of the trash
The disease that is thought
Conceptualized idols
As they quest for knowledge
And seek individuality
I will laugh with the Buddha
As they waste their life
Falling victim to the veil
The illusion of the ******
Fools among gods
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 3:03 PM UTC
i guess i'll light up this memory again
it'll sputter at first, then the smoke will billow
a grey cloud of memories surrounds my reality
my reality, if you can call it that
because i'm dreaming in and out
just searching for the pristine light
that's going to keep me moving
i need some gasoline on these rotting logs
a kiss, to stir the embers
an embrace, to see the flames
a serenade, to make the light dance
your presence, to fuel my bonfire
although it's withering during the night
i find comfort in the heat and vivid colors
whoever conceptualized love, knows of fire
knows of the burn, knows of the mystery
i'll leave coals across the distance
this distance that greatly separates
but it'll light your way back to me
and you'll see, i'm left burning for you
a red, passionate heart left simmering
while you fetch more firewood, out there
you'll find your way back through the woods
and see, i've kept us alive all this time
whoever conceptualized love, knows of fire
knows of the burn, knows of the mystery
<3
Apr 11, 2012
Apr 11, 2012 at 3:11 PM UTC
Here I stand,
naked as the moon.
Denude of childish tendencies to protect the ego's fragile skin.
Palms turned towards the continuum of space to expose the souls purity,
eradicate insecurities.
The sky steeps me in a soothing womb of chamomile and honey,
abloom of sweet, scattered opalescence as freckles upon her face
interlaced with familiarities.
Extending conceptualized singularity to experience eons of unified grace.
Anahata awaken, caress of winds breath
frolics across the topography of my being,
releasing the god-essence.
Activated through remembrance
that which is, was, and always will be.
Instilled in every cell, attune harmony.
Conduit, co-existing as student, teacher, observer, conductor,
cleanse.
Wash away layers of the veil to reveal.
Acknowledge, accept, expand, contract.
Embodiment of cyclic sacredness.
Wholeness.
She and I mirrored images,
reflected consciousness,
alchemical catalyst catapaulting immense distances inside an instant.
Elder, mother, kin, within.
Ammorea flame ablaze, raise sensory vibrations to these
potent mysteries.
Project positivity,
what is given is received, this is my prayer.
My offering.
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 9:57 PM UTC
I always assumed
that you could determine the will of a writer
by the quantity of ink
remaining in his pen.
Yet, I have never fathomed
what makes him brilliant.
Is it his degree of education,
his inequivalent repertoire of vocabulary to the common man,
or just born gift bestowed by heaven?
Later, I came to the lucid realization
that brilliance is conceptualized
at the hand of the inner mechanics
and harmonious complexities
that portrait the writer's
heart, mind, and soul.
From which, shape his message
by the process he takes to arrange,
construct, and execute
his philosophies and mental apparatuses
This, ladies and gentlemen, is a writer.
-n.s.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 6:41 PM UTC
Are names telling of something?
When you were young, you were taught to name shapes,
count figures with your tiny, slender fingers,
read text like creed, memorize facts like incantations
so that when it is time that you are already raw
and machinated into the fullness of your body,
you are ready. Ready like the gull darting
into the deep blue to filch the marine.
Ready like artillery to fray.
Ready like genuflected children
in contrition – left the peccadillo aloft, canopied
by a thumbed down word of prayer;
Are names telling of something?
What do they delineate? A sense of ownership?
A demystification? What machine does
it pledge allegiance to? Sage of old?
A frantic fretting of sensibilities? Erudition, or at the very least, obscurantism?
If we leave a thing without a name, what will
that thing be?
It cannot be held – to what extent?
It cannot be owned – for what reason?
It cannot be classified – for what? to saturate it with comprehension
to ensure a fate underneath a conceptualized bent
of attestation and abomination?
If I left you without a name and only held you in my hands like
a thing waiting to be used, to be fondled,
what will you make out of it? Will you darkle and then dissipate
in the thinnest air? Or will you remain? Are names exacted so that
when a thing leaves the body, when an abstraction leaves a moment,
there is a device we can use to drone it into coming back? So that we know
that in addressing it, there is a sure claim that it will move back
and retrace tractable errors? So that in the aftermath,
we are certain of the weight it casts upon our sorry and aching
bodies that refuse to make love? So that there will be words to be written
and voices to be launched in form of song
with identities assured to match the thirst?
Why does this deserve a name? Why are these hands undeserving
of territories? Why is there dissent when there is desire?
The answer lies in the silence of every passing day famished by
evidence: this thing that has no name will remain
as punishment for being – so that when it is time to
prosecute, there will be no
firm basis for eulogies.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 11:11 AM UTC
Eventually you may see what you politely termed, 'ambition'
might by others be conceptualized, 'condition'
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 3:50 PM UTC
you were misunderstood;
for a stranger stranger.
you were instrumental
in his dandelion
wish to oblivion
for a stranger stranger.
you weren't nonsensical;
for a stranger stranger.
you were conceptualized
in his peripheral
to be reliable;
unlike stranger strangers.
~ A.M, F.H.
Feb 20, 2020
Feb 20, 2020 at 3:46 PM UTC
I wanted to be a man,
Some idea of something supportive;
Instead, I became assertive;
Father said stretch my hand, and for some reason I advocated my ideology as if it contained some type of importance,
My song is killing her; his-tory chorus,
I apologize for believing in abundance when there is clearly a shortage...
I’ve had thoughts that were heaven sent,
I lost mom to life, nothing is relevant,
I wanted elegance, to express truth to those that were ready to jump; Although I myself was hesitant;
Heaven is this hell I’m living in,
Received the message through intelligence; two realities that were evident,
Something only the psyche and intellect can represent,
This is life, and I’m accepting it,
What is Love... if we are not Respecting appropriation,
Pain and pleasure? Guilty by association,
Why ratify a foundation if communication isn’t a consideration when we’re speaking on things like integration, relations, and revelations?
That logic is ill to me,
That arithmetic; if plugged in...
It means we **** to be,
And actions are assertive if responsive, exerting energy for purpose to ensure that your reality is one that is free,
If we know this, then why is it so hard to be?
Why is so hard breathe; believe...
I want to be a man...
Someone who’s assertive with emotion and receptive with intellect,
I don’t want to be detrimental when beauty dances with the devil and I’m brought into a reality in which I can’t protect,
I want to be one that serves and reflect,
Grow as he humbly respect,
Know as he openly accept,
Hope with faith over indulging in concepts that pertain to the term expect...
I am that, conceived it, conceded, I’ll be it.
Jun 7, 2019
Jun 7, 2019 at 12:34 AM UTC