"concussions" poems
I am having writer's block
and experiencing all this anger
and hunger and love and regret,
I feel like I just don't have a bowl
for all these incredible feelings.
I just don't have enough respect for words anymore.
I want to make a cake out of this psychedelia
and I don't even have a sweet tooth.
Where do I put all of it?
Not how.... where?
I feel like drinking water without pills is vain.
Air left in my stomach
makes my mind a ****** stalker
who'll chase you down the road
suddenly have concussions and die in front of you
and make you call the police for a whole new different reason.
Writer's block is ghost town
and I am still human without a soul.
How to die beautifully?
Perhaps when the sun shines the brightest in the dusk
burning everyone more than ever.
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 2:10 AM UTC
She may be our metronome mother
But when was rhythm first discovered?
Did ancient nomads hear it in the sounds of walking?
Did they like how it sounded over them talking?
Did they view the melody
As a felony?
And start to sway their hips
To the crack of whips?
Maybe that wasn't good enough
Maybe we needed more stuff
So we started crossing swords
To create more violent chords
That interested us more
Violence has a catchy hook
That can't be found in a book
But started with a ***** look
Until our brain begins to cook
And we learn to love the beat
As the harmony depletes
We take concert seats
At a darkness feast
There's an iambic pentameter
In the middle eastern theater
That sounds all too familiar
The troubling treble
Of mothers screaming
While superpowers meddle
And innocence is leaving
The reaper is reaping
To a situation heating
Empathy fleeting
Fascist seating
Rhythm beating
Our soundproof homes
Create acoustic cones
That our cries can't escape
Taking the container's shape
Filling our mind
Until we're blind
And only see political teams
Instead of childhood dreams
We fall into a rhythm
Based on deadly decisions
With lethal precision
Like surgical incisions
That don't make us healthy
But support the wealthy
Who whistle a different tune
That will **** us all soon
And as the world crumbles
Their bellies still rumble
Creating a disruptive bass
Their music we must face
With an impossible grace
Or else we'll be replaced
I hear instruments of percussion
Causing concussions
Deflecting discussions
Making us harmfully dance
So we'll have a fair chance
Which seems wrong at first glance
But it's actually a pragmatic trance
Provided by Mister Rhythm
Who carries misery with him
Apr 12, 2018
Apr 12, 2018 at 12:22 PM UTC
Lotions and creams,
pay no heed to my screams-
Pains my inner impressions
through ****** concussions;
enveloped by flattery,
a repressed reality- Of
hidden expressions,
hidden dreams
and unspoken deeds:
reveal the beauty beneath.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 4:40 AM UTC
cackle sublime savagery
in domineering supremacy
a knee repletes successive concussions
and by viscous absurd petulance
crack this gourd, thought bearing toothed
i
evol
ot
hurt
uoY,,,;
Nov 27, 2010
Nov 27, 2010 at 11:11 AM UTC
I'm a fan of Vontaze Burfict
Though he may not be perfect
For he gives players concussions
To continue the daily discussions
Of the power of his percussion
To receive a hall of fame induction
That is where his value is derived
So what do these penalties imply?
That the referees have a preconceived notion of him
And are preemptively looking to treat him grim
Which gives his team a lesser chance to win
Which makes the biased referees grin
We are a country that idolizes quarterbacks
Every other position we're quick to attack
We only care about who has the ball
And laughing at others when they fall
We worship that which is shiny
And view everything else as grimy
Quarterbacks become celebrities incredulously
While everyone else is treated impetuously
The NFL is like America
Politics makes it harder to watch
The Patriots are boring and plain
They win constantly
The Bengals are entertaining and rough around the edges
They show promise and potential that is never realized
In a nation
Of provocation
I'd rather proudly call myself a bengal
I know that seems an idealistic angle
But Cincinnati provides no coziness or protection
You must always avoid discriminate detection
Of those that call themselves patriots
That drive blue and white chariots
And penalize players unnecessarily
For African Americanning
We really fumbled the ball
Because of the ref's call
That treats us unequally
How they have fun evilly
They can arbitrarily treat whoever however
But a concussion will make them less clever
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 5:31 PM UTC
i tried to **** myself
and two days later i got a concussion from a car accident
everybody asked me "how's your head?"
and i said "fine"
but i thought about how no one normally asked me about the state of my head
because i was not fine
i was not fine
concussions aren't the only things that can be wrong with your brain
but why does nobody ask you about them?
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC
Do you remember begging our parents to let us be adults?
When our favorite thing to do was dress up and play make believe.
Drinking meant chocolate milk and artificial fruity drinks.
Getting wasted meant falling off your bike.
When the only pain we knew was stubbing a toe…
Or scraping our knees from the fall.
Getting high wasn’t a term where we blew smoke out of our mouths,
it was seeing who could jump or swing the highest.
When “taking one for the team” meant helping your teammates,
not making a girls night a little bit better.
When kissing was just kissing and you got cooties,
Not STDs and aids from going too far.
And the protection we wore,
was helmets on our heads to prevent concussions…
not a newborn.
When wearing makeup was fun,
and a way to express yourself…
Or wearing your favorite skirt made you feel cute,
not like a ****
When we didn’t know what drugs were,
just knew that the creamy pink liquid made us feel better.
When boyfriends and girlfriends were described as,
“My friend thats a boy….”
“Or my girl……….. Friend.”
When sleepovers were strictly sleepovers,
not an excuse to get in bed with your best friend…
Who you recently discovered feelings for.
The only wars we knew were card games
And our worst enemies were our siblings.
Dad’s shoulders were our thrones and mum was our hero.
How about that time when we all wanted so badly to grow up?
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 8:09 AM UTC
Mos Def addict practicing my mathematics
multiplying gross deaths stacking high in my attic
banishing, your batting eyelashes in my hatchet
brandishing a reflection of death nothing can match it,
a packet of matches, three cans of gas am I mad *****
I’m a man mastering cracks of dark arts from a sad witch,
tears of evil, blasting apart marked hearts, sew they can’t stitch,
so I can cross your eyes and harvest every last inch
of your body I’ve got hauled high with my crass winch.
Dangling like abattoirs meat hanging upside down by your feet,
never is the time that I will retreat,
secreting discreetly in your petite physique,
desecrated secretly I never cease with the heat.
I’m a clever beast with the sweet smile of a pre-school teacher
I’m a leach, I’m an evil preacher,
I’m worse than a priest with someone not quite senior in reach.
I beseech you to keep my smile in mind when I breach
the regular limits of sin, an when the victim begins
spinning within the rhythm of my limb precision
positions a physician would think weren't natural
constructions. Causing concussions with my bone crack percussion
discussing the disgusting repercussions of being obstructive
with a kind as destructive as mine its reductive to imply
that I’m stuck with a mind superior to thine, let the subtleties shine,
you’re an inferior design, obsolete, so the premise is supremacist
there’s no preventing this, the evidence is left in every crevice of the premises.
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 6:14 AM UTC
Everyman had many friends,
and the Sheilas loved his looks.
He spent his days at football,
with not much time for books.
Everyman in the prime of life
was a wonder to behold.
Was any man more full of life?
Could any be so bold?
Everyman came to the day
where he lost a step in speed.
His mates had settled, mostly down,
or sold their souls to greed.
The game moved on to younger lads,
left everyman behind
He, of course, remained a fan
consigned to the sideline.
Everyman began to fail,
old concussions took their toll.
He'd enter a room full of friends
and couldn't name a soul
Everyman, now in a "home",
awaits his morning tea.
Sometimes a stranger visits-
a member of his family.
Everyman sits in shadows now.
The world goes on without.
His strength and wits deserted him
and he never was devout.
Everyman begins to die
with a murmur, not a shout
Nurse Deeds stays to hold his hand
till the light of life goes out.
Jun 24, 2012
Jun 24, 2012 at 8:36 PM UTC
On some mental shish,
Some hyper bolictime chamber shish,
Working out, unpreferred peripherals.
How quaint thinking hyperbolic thoughts,
Translation, non-medicinal words got me hollering...
"Cacophony cosmic cluster concussions"
Thinking sarcastically recklessly on a regular,
Causing mental anguish when thought of.
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 2:27 PM UTC
Tired
Brain spits words in fits and starts
The internal running commentary misfiring badly
Ideas stuck in bottlenecks
Traffic backed up and down the on-ramps
Leading off the congested thoughtways
Tired
Stormwater overflow pours out of blocked drains
Sidling up the gutters of fallen leaves
And other assorted detritus of modern existence
Spewing out over footpaths and under cars
And over the tops of the boots of downtrodden dawn treaders
Tired
Mountain pass impassable under it’s mercurial precipitate mask
Features only glimpsed in snatches
Like looking through a white picket fence while running
Thought trees bunching up around the middle
Warping under the sun and the scrutiny of others
Tired
Collapsing under the weight of the wave function
Subatomic particles currently in a state of nonexistence
Abandoned altogether by the Higgs, thoughts vibrate and dissipate
In extraordinary frequency and noise
Drowned out by the audible hum of the big bang
Tired
As if running a marathon in treacle
Start with a whimper then dribble to a halt
Running barefoot on salt flats
Or over pillows in stilettos
More time spent on face than feet
Tired
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more
The court jester prances for the Big Queen *****
And her merry King of Fools with his band of merry drunkards
Quickly losing the point of it all
As words start tumbling down in random order
Staccato signal messages like binary or Morse code
Information overload threatens to upend the boatload
Like the military dumping refugees into the harbour
Buckle up armour and wait for the onslaught
Of somnatic visions, twisted psychedelic impressions
Land mine concussions in the fevered dreams of veterans
Who witnessed limb torn from limb
In the name of something nobody remembers
Lose their tempers and start a war on home turf
Jungles petrified into concrete monstrosities that blot out the sun
From the flowers that feed in the cracks of the pavement
Everywhere bereavement and none shall take leave
From the cold, impassive logic of Death
Who comes knocking as you read this
Wired
No chance of sleep now
This is why one shouldn’t write poetry late at night
Sep 26, 2012
Sep 26, 2012 at 12:41 AM UTC
i tried forgetting you so hard
my liver's collapsing
& i've got these bruises & cuts -
contusions & concussions -
from my aggravation, concentrated
on the wrong people in crowded places
but we all need ventilation.
so i spilled out abuse
on whoever was willing to take it,
combining fists with faces -
call it distraction or entertainment,
whichever way you phrase it,
i won't remember...i was wasted -
i was swimming in liquid sentiments
the backstroke of the blind
as i'm blacking out my mind,
turning off the lights
on the portion of my life
you partially defined.
Mar 3, 2010
Mar 3, 2010 at 8:30 PM UTC
I don't write poems, I write
concussions. Dangerously close
to blood coming out of your ears, straddling
life, don't fall asleep because
you may never
wake up.
I don't write haikus, I write
famous last words. The final exhale,
the precious breathe before
the light at the end of the
tunnel, a tongue deep kiss
with death.
I don't write stories, I write
tragedies like Romeo and Juliet
except a dozen more people are killed
in the cross-fire of
my affection.
I don't write, I ****
the English language.
I beat it into submission with
sweat and strife.
I destroy life.
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 5:38 PM UTC
sentences go off like gunshots.
the smallest of sounds have the loudest of consequences.
whispers make waves.
the quietest of confessions carry the most catastrophic concussions.
words are weapons and our mouths are at war.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 12:31 PM UTC
Barreling through town
in the depth of night,
earth’s colossal magnets
hurled jagged fire spears -
flashing and ripping the midnight sky.
Whirling torrents whistled
and lashed against the glass.
A blinding fire bolt
Shattered an old rock maple -
quaking our shelter to its footings.
Cosmic strobe-lit concussions
stuttered and roared across the nightscape
like a feral timpanist gone mad.
The frenzied cacophony
subsided at last -
rumbled off in the distance
as the storm lumbered on
like a barbarian horde
off to sack another village.
July, 2007
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 1:35 PM UTC
I have to don the face of madness when I encounter your shadow. Held back only when that shadow pulls a 180. And though I cannot hold the hand of this shadow and spin madly on with it. I grasp unwillingly to the hand that catches my grip. Catches my palm, catches my five reasons for holding on. Because your shadow is the only shade of you I can seem to handle. The one I wait on to signal the coming of a new day. The only one I hold my breath for because it holds no breath at all. But rather the idea of catching up to someone whom I wish to see vanish. No, I hold no distain towards you and no pleasure in seeing the shadowy curves of you saunter off into the sun. No I do not hold regret in the distance found between your shadow and I, because that distance cant seem to multiply fast enough for my liking. And though the closer and closer you get to that sun represents sunshine entering my life again, it will never be enough. Because even when you walk head first into that sun I know your every molecule is still floating in this endless universe of ours. I will never be without your presence, I will never be without your shadow, I will never be without you haunting my every thought. For no matter the alcohol consumed, cannabis smoked, and concussions sustained I will never be able to put a scratch on the lyrical nightmare that was our song. That was our time together, and though I try and play DJ and put a positive spin on our song…Im reminded that it once was played. So I look for your shadow every night and every day. Not for torment sake but for the little sanity that remains to show me that the monster that was once my love can be slain again, and again, and again. And though it keeps returning I remind myself the difference between your darkness and my light is exactly 180 degrees.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 9:06 PM UTC
**you came out rosie
and turned to blue
shots to immunize...
shocked the health out of you..
sharp corner called
your toddlers tender lip
invincible, you flew
shoulder met earth
half way round
hard into the cold ground
meningitis settled in
lymes not far behind
both with fevers and
lots of tears...thought we
might lose you at 9
3 concussions within 2 years
being pulled off the hill
snow packed up to your ears
daddy went to prison
anguish and pain
forced your decision
To become so thin
running through corn fields
dazed and confused..
up for 3 days, don't 'member
what'd been done to you
boyfriend deals..big guy in town
love him so much
you go down..
2 federal offenses..is he still around?
attempted ****** and ****
left you damaged beyond
all so overwhelming
you look for ways to drown
anything to block the pain
you twirl round and round and round
got pulled back from
the edge last night.
a needle in your arm
announced dead till
policeman felt you warm...
Oh My Darlin
Oh My Sweet
Such a Beautiful Soul trying to
Fly Free
I Call to Your Perfect Self..
Come Back
Please Come Back
Please Come Back to Me**
Copyright © 2014 Christi Michaels
All Rights Reserved.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 10:22 PM UTC
Flashback...
We'd spent all day
In "the fields"
Not twenty yards from the whitewashed cemetery fence posts
Floating and then burning
Paper boats on a muddy puddle in a depression in the dirt
Phillip and Chris scored some Skoal From Danny or Billy, I forget which...
It was "long-cut"
We try a bit...putting it in our cheek
Like the big kids did
The Skoal making a strange and potent tea from our spit
The smallest amount of this tingly elixer is swallowed- and it's over.
I lose my lunch.
I am yawning in technicolor.
Chris and Phillip laugh and laugh.
Then Phillip follows suit barfing on his shoes
Chris gives him an arm punch, with a smile.
I think Phil and I were both done with chew.
There was never a shortage of things to do here
Under an old barnwood board, was a magazine with glorious pictures that made us feel strangely isolated
From one another
We would memorize each line, each curve
For later when each would be alone
With the Sears catalog and some tracing paper.
We made single line trails for our bikes
With banks and jumps
Chris was the daredevil of the bunch
He would take a new ramp at top speed
His little brother would too
Sometimes with drastic results
Concussions and broken bones.
*There's a chain store now
in the spot we called "the fields".
It used to seem vast.
And now it looks small.
But that is the past.
Memories. That's all.*
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 9:09 AM UTC
Though dulled and faded with age
Memories of violent encounters demand service of a scribe
The enemy ambushed the amicable, interrupting instruction
Plans were made and location changed to find a fitting field for fight
The mob moved through streets dusted with white
Settled prematurely in a small public clearing
The challenger caught my friend off guard, his temple struck
A sickening thud rang out over the posse screaming madness
My confidence waned in shock but before my thought completed
A mighty counter rocked aggressor’s jaw, knocked unconscious
Dumbfounded he slumped to his knees and made grapple for support
Thrown to a defenseless dorsal pose awaiting beating
Each strike from my friend’s boxing fists landed with force
Dynamic demolition; I could hear the snap of bone
Again and again the primal chanting of the mob
Was overpowered by noise from blunt trauma to a damaged brain
Authorities arriving cleared the crowd with their sirens
I dashed to wooded cover carrying the victor’s possessions
To my astonishment, joined by the badly bruised
The flesh of his ebony face stained sanguine with defeat
He felt his tissue for lumps as his pain set in at last
Adrenaline disappearing, ears bleeding from concussions
An infamous day to me as brutality yet unmatched
Performed for barbarous and sadistic spectators, I among them
Dec 26, 2010
Dec 26, 2010 at 8:54 PM UTC
I was broke as usual it's okay I understood that far easier than I ever did being well off.
Long as there was a bottle and a room I could crash in I was good.
I never cared to gamble.
I lived my life that was a gamble enough
My money i preferred to be wasted upon myself not given to a fixed game played by overpaid children.
The only sport I ever loved was fighting.
I understood you against another.
In life its always you against the world.
I loved to fight even when you lose you know you've lived
I had stepped between those ropes often.
Paid the the price for a simple mistake and been knocked flat on my *** for it.
Boxing is a human chess match very few men have what it takes to go toe to toe with another.
Anyone can fall down it takes a man or mental patient to keep getting back up.
I had paid my dues broken bones multiple concussions between that and all the ***** poured into my skull you think I would be braindead by now.
Some would tell you I already was.
And those people would be like most full of **** speaking on things they know nothing about.
Critics come in all forms.
Don't worry over there opinions nobody ever worth a **** sat on the sidelines.
I had nothing to show for my years.
I could barely get moving some days.
But when the drinks hit me right and some young **** called me out i still had that spark that fueled the fire.
Never take **** from.anyone no matter how tuff they seem.
Anyone can get caught anyone can bleed.
Remember kids its not what you can dish out.
Its how much you can take and keep going that makes you tuff.
I wore my scars like tattoo's.
Everyone of them had a story.
I never believed in luck.
I just kept going no matter what stood before me.
If I depended on luck in my life.
I would be up **** creek for the rest of my existence.
Never stay down no matter how easy it seems.
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 3:22 PM UTC
A gashed and gaping pumpkin burns
emits a rancid rotting odor
greeting pre-diabetic heathens
Black cats and screeching bats
startle the littlest of the munchers
in a city decayed by blood and rust
A bridge tilted by a millimeter
lords over rushing river and splinters
struts in metal fashion before the storm
Gladiators hallucinate between concussions
Lions and christians and furry huns
leap from alleys and dumpsters and gutters
Bands play and march and dazzle
rippling brass and silver on a field
before brazen cheering plebians
Hear the song of a thousand dreams
a thousand shouts singing out of key
uncertainty brings the cacophony down an octave
Presidential box matches the drapes
Imagination finishes the vision of a short
master stroke invoking the myth of the tyrant
Setting sun on an amateur showdown
in the shadow of an errant arc
choking the last gasps from a senile warrior
Passing boredom in a controlled climate
Cringes in a backseat with no batteries
dying echoes of "are we there yet...."
Babies and mental patients despair
over loss of closeness and peace
disappeared into dystopic hysteria
Hobbits and goblins and Big Bird frolics
in a sanitized concept of Hell
among treats and smiles and winks
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 7:24 PM UTC
These white lights shine too bright for my
poor dead eyes, and the man’s ramblings, he
held my eardrums hostage. Then came a sudden squall, she
engulfed me in one heck of a waterfall.
Faint moonlight peeked at the end of a musty, darkly lit stairwell we
saw each other and laughed at our equally drenched clothes, our
wet hair. As sewer rats, we scurried to rescue potted plants, we
whipped ***** thuds on white walls, with sticks and knives and all. We
rolled on the floor and nearly got concussions, sprained ankles. I
remembered how to fall again, to do it all in one fell swoop.
I know my body was mine, but now it is also yours, so we
danced, barefoot, twirled in our arms, caught each other, ate our
mother’s mooncakes while the storm rages on somewhere, outside. We
smiled, mouths full with black sesame, white lotus, egg yolks, our
laughter echoing under this gentle white light, upon this warm wood.
This conversation spins nothing, but this means everything to me.
We walk under the damp, stale, starless sky, remnants of the squall. You
suddenly proclaimed that all stars have gathered for me,
and it is my stage, my game now, so I
went home smiling despite it all. You
don’t know that this mid-autumn night was all I ever dreamed of.
Sep 18, 2024
Sep 18, 2024 at 9:53 AM UTC