"concocts" poems
There is dark magic
Here in my attic
A magician’s tactics
Cause pain emphatic
This magician gives me all I can handle
Until one day I’m dismantled
Like a once lit candle
Extinguished by the ice near Ymir
Birthing the Titans I fear
Bringing death here
Morphing me into a rigid wreck
Here in the frigid depths
I wish I left
The violence of violins
Lamenting the vile sin
Conjured by riled kin
Like they’re wild djinn
Can’t be muted
Only diluted
By becoming rooted
In thinking stupid
Avoiding Cupid
To join the putrid
The magician concocts potions
That excuse my emotions
As I forget devotion
For a temporary motion
The magician gives us difficult obstacles
And easily medicated excuses
So people won’t make things optimal
While purpose eludes them
Like Jekyll and Hyde
My hackles I hide
With shackles of pride
Covered in mystic thorns
So my wrists are torn
From the pain adorned
It’s my brain I mourn
The magician erects walls so thick
They separate healers from the sick
With magic bricks
Imbued by the magician’s enchantment
He builds a wall and then expands it
Until those inside become tantric
From the prison wall’s antics
Every time I turn the page
I am given rage
On the magician’s stage
Of the wars we wage
Under a curse of anger
Dehumanizing strangers
To deploy the Army Rangers
Perpetuating harming danger
The magician lies
The magician steals
The magician hides
What is real
Until I feel
The cold steel
The magician wields
Piercing through my electrified body
I guess the magician finally caught me
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 6:42 PM UTC
#do?
dew?
Honey
Honey see,
Honey( do/dew)
Honey do or Honeydew?
do seduces with toxic meats
dew attracts bees for its sweets
do concocts Jesus's Last Feast
dew provides succulent treats
Forsaking he who loved thee
But he can't forgive like He,
or ascend to golden streets
Honey do or Honeydew?
Are you Act or are you Fruit?#
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 7:02 PM UTC
Silhouetted against an orange sunset
in expectation of eve's subset
Halloween night, black cats
with green eyes vie for bats
ink-of-night garbed witch flies
on a straw broom in the skies
she concocts her plan to broil a brew
a potion, a mighty how-do-you-do
to poison anyone who thwarts
take note of her nose warts
don't cross her or you will surely die
and she will **** if her plans go awry
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 11:21 PM UTC
Water so blue, trickles during the night,
Along with the sounds of birds taking flight,
The croaking of frogs, hiding behind leaves,
And the small water bird that sits on the eaves.
A smell comes to me, of water on rocks,
And the mixture of what the night dew concocts.
Smooth algae in dark places, where it grows so quick,
Green leafy foliage, against a background of brick,
The chill of the night soon fades away,
Warmth from the sun, brings the dawn of a new day.
Bubbles are popping, down near the water,
Where fish await servants with their breakfast order,
As I wait for the brisk of morn to pass,
I taste the dew amid the freshly cut grass.
The sun confirms that a new day is dawning,
But all I want is to enjoy this morning.
Jun 2, 2010
Jun 2, 2010 at 5:00 AM UTC
I am madness contained in a vessel
A chaos sequenced as a man
My mind is a nebula of beliefs
A soup of confusion, understanding
And a dash of awareness
I spit my fires of idea like a volcano
Or I will implode and die in my bubble
I worship and **** my mind
That concocts my insanity and undoing
It is brimming with conspiracies or optimisms or
Lies
And sometimes all at once
Dancing like wildfires in my skull
But then my hand sought a pen
Gripped it
And never wanted to let go
My insanity was now written
Visualized in a beautiful black ink
That was to be the link
From my walled spectrum
To the limitless world
The shackles of having this mind
Freed eternal words
from a prison of imagination
A passion now burns
In a mere dreamer that is
Who I am
A longing now lingers
To be known
To be spoken
A purpose is now uncovered:
I must write
To leave a mark
I must write
To tell stories
I must write
so I can tie with
The brokenness, the joy, the imperfection and
even the contradicting beliefs
Of strangers, of friends
Of murderers, of victims
Of idols, of the outcasts
Of the loved, of the abandoned
And of people, just normal, coexisting people
So finally, finally,
We might understand
One another
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 8:31 AM UTC
If I close my eyes I smell the butter of fresh popcorn and hear the whirring of a laptop powerful and bright. Can taste the dichotomy of the crisp melting of the popped kernel in my mouth, feel the happiness of being in a desk chair in front of a screen and surrounded by books.
Then I open my eyes and see I have to edit everything I've written to be even vaguely coherent.
Happiness is hard when you're never satisfied. When the childhood curiosity stapled to your youthful lips never unpinned as you aged. Neither did the idealistic expectations. Couple that with a pessimistic anxiety disorder and a mood disorder to swing things between the two disparities and it gets a little more complicated.
I've been my most relieved and anxious in this place of empty, of nowhere, that I've settled myself into for the next three weeks. A piece of me enjoys the rest and possibilities. The other hates it for those exact reasons.
I need to breathe, I tell myself. Being so separate is my fault, I insist.
But another voice in my head pipes up quietly, offering a new idea. I'm demonizing myself for not being ideas, for not being normal, for not being one.
But perhaps be bipolar, in more ways than just disorder, is exactly what concocts the human I like being.
Perhaps the great empathetic thoughtfulness yet great introspection work so well in tandem.
Maybe the assertive extroversion yet pleasured isolation balance in their own, special way.
In a way, I might just need to look back on the old Sunday afternoon specials and speak to myself the lessons of their half-hour programs. In particular, admit maybe its ok if I'm weird. perhaps its ok I just be the own odd balance that is me.
The Nowhere, the empty, can be itchy with the possibilities sometimes. Yet these moments, that help me breathe through my own neurotics and idiosyncrasies, may just be the best kind of nothing.
Maybe the bothersome nowhere can also be something grand and great for me as well.
There perhaps is another side of nowhere, and perhaps it is my favorite.
Dec 21, 2016
Dec 21, 2016 at 11:23 PM UTC
her tired eyes have seen the most beautiful sunrises and sunsets
pinks yellows and purples, hues of what true happiness must be
she begins to see in the colour schemes of sunsets and sunrises
blind sighted by her own la vie en rose
his bright eyes see in shades of grey
clouded by the thunderstorms with the most beautiful lighting display
that his eyes have grown accustomed to
their perspectives disturbed by natural phenomena
not representative of their heart's bona fide notion
her tired eyes do not reflect the sunrise, she pulls up the blind relunctantly each day and night because she cannot be anything but the sunshine girl
his bright eyes, hidden by the storms that do not rage inside, but he concocts them nevertheless because no one wants to see a bright eyed boy
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 9:11 AM UTC
"why mustn’t it fail?"
Why mustn’t -- He fails.
Trenched in the sand, from whence It hails?
From the mirages treacherous, Thenceforth It prevails, yet,
Implore He must, Its ignorance prevails.
It fights Its fights; Its inquiries It derails:
It is a because, not a why not a may(be).
He; shallow his origin as the queries He concocts
why must He question, why mustn’t... He fails.
Nov 27, 2018
Nov 27, 2018 at 11:55 PM UTC
A veces, amor, a veces
I want to tell you all about
Asphyxiating in the ambrosia of *******
Indulging my kapritsos of thanatos
Following you to your crusades, caballero
I ********** to the mendacious marvels
my mind concocts to make mundanity
a bit more palatable.
I imagine that I consume your carne,
cariño, cannibal that I am
Quiero que te sientas como yo
Quiero que te mueras como yo
I commence with your carotid
I take swigs of your blood like bignay wine
Till satiation spells sweet slumber
Till I **** the sublimates of such fictions
Morning come I’ll bite into my bread
And wonder if I could toast it to be
as warm as your inaccessible flesh
I do not think I’ve sinned in such desires
To the padre I’ll have nothing to confess
This pandesal is a muscle of my messiah
I mutter amen and no longer protest.
Dec 9, 2021
Dec 9, 2021 at 12:25 PM UTC
*your pigment
has raised
delicately
manicured brows
their
undeterred railing;
harangue wit,
shackle eyelids
whether,
dishevelled compliance,
rancid breath still concocts
--perfumed ruin*
●○
°
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 1:02 PM UTC
I hope you can forgive me.
When I said I am,
I meant I seem. And when I said
The Earth is round, I meant
It looked round. You don’t
Believe much in science. You think
There is no chemical response
when I tell you I’m depressed.
Sorry — I seem depressed.
Literally, a flower is in front of your face,
And you question it.
Here is a flower. No —
I hold what seems like a flower.
When an earthquake occurs, you’ll say,
Those movements felt like an earthquake.
It was, and is, an earthquake.
You can’t deduct truth from a situation
Using language. You can only be precise with it.
Oh, be. You hate be. To be, an anomaly
In communication. What is be? Assume a state?
Turn into another thing, far different from the
Previous version of yourself? Be concocts
An idea of an abstract future. Is. Are. Be. Was. Been.
It won’t matter much.
I’ll be leaving you.
You are an *******
You don’t seem like one —
You are actually one.
I am stating that as a fact. Pontificating, if you will.
I am tired of your ********
Sep 29, 2017
Sep 29, 2017 at 11:44 PM UTC
love concocts
a slow death. the night
chronic with melancholy.
somewhere in the world
a man, contemplative,
underneath a lasso of light
peers through the window
without a word,
only an insignia.
we are
only
tender bodies
in supple movements
trying to weave out
timid moments
trying to shatter
the inertia
of being
here.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 2:30 PM UTC