"conglomeration" poems
I'm Bailey.
I sometimes forget to recycle.
I'm from singing camels and trigonometry.
From soap bubbles and yellow scarves, Irish hymns and Zucchini the ferret,
piano keys, bluebonnet seeds, and DO NOT ENTER signs.
From salt.
I'm the color of hosed off sidewalk chalk.
I'm all summer in a day.
I'm a conglomeration of artistic thoughts that make me look more profound than I actually am.
I'm your infinite playlist.
I'm from elephant necklaces and rosemary bushes
from high-heeled taps and Camelot
threadless socks, shopping carts, and impromptu salons.
I'm the fifth ninja turtle.
I live where you laugh so hard you cry.
I'm from carrots and ranch.
I'm a happy cow from California, a fortune cookie with your enchilada, a drill team skirt over marching uniforms.
I'm from unfinished crossword puzzles and forgotten dead languages
from pixie dust and snapcracklepop
from actually-it's-pronounced's, because-i-said-so's, and that's-not-my-name's.
I am Nancy Drew with a Peter Pan complex.
I come from honeysuckle candles and sunroofs of pickup trucks
broken-down fences and peach salsa
the second you step onstage.
I'm from in between.
I'm Bailey.
I don't drive the speed limit.
And I'm from you.
Dec 22, 2009
Dec 22, 2009 at 6:08 PM UTC
step 1: de·ni·al
noun
the action of declaring something to be untrue.
i thought about sending you an email today.
i got through four drafts before i quit.
i haven't talked to you in three months. i haven't deleted your messages in three months. i haven't stopped thinking about you in three months. my heart is still synced with yours. it stopped beating 131,487 minutes ago. please leave a message after the beep.
step 2: an·ger
noun
a strong feeling of annoyance, displeasure, or hostility.
i'm glad you're gone. you were a house but you were never a home for me. i've moved three times since i left.
you shoved your fingers down my throat and left me retching in the snow, excuses tripping on their way out of your cherry bitten lips.
you made me your slaughterhouse, blood on my hands and heart.
i am made of too many things, a conglomeration the size of a galaxy, thirty people sewn into my skin. there is a hole in my chest the size of your fist. please leave a message after the beep.
step 3: bar·gain
verb
negotiate the terms and conditions of a transaction.
(maybe if i had loved you a little less you would have learned to love me back)
step 4: de·pres·sion
noun
severe despondency and dejection, typically felt over a period of time and accompanied by feelings of hopelessness and inadequacy.
i spent more time thinking about you than i ever did about myself. i'm not sure if this is selfish or selfless and i'm not sure if i know the difference. i hung up on you once and you didn't speak to me for a week and i'm not sure if this is love or hatred and i'm not sure if i know the difference. i haven't spoken to you in seven months. please leave a message after the beep.
step 5: ac·cept·ance
noun
agreement with or belief in an idea, opinion, or explanation.
you told me that acceptance was the same as tolerance.
i don't think i believe you.
i haven't spoken to you in twelve months.
please leave a message after the beep.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 8:11 PM UTC
Ambassadress of the darkness; Akashic Records bringing to light the real storm of contemporary living while consequently sprinkling magical desires into the ontological fire
Conglomeration of whirling bits of electrical force; creating dynamic synergy both negative and positive in nature and sending extrasensory energy pulsating through this mortal container.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 11:50 AM UTC
we are young gods,
daughters and sons of a generation
who gave up on love a universe ago,
but we do our best to experience it-
we sell it in bottles of pop culture and rabid obsessions;
turn it into a conglomeration that profiteers on excess,
a chaos of depression, anxiety, dark self-depreciating wit-
and become artists who lament on first-world tragedies.
we are young gods,
we scoff at religion and we bathe in unholiness,
sin is the new in, black is your best act, and we love it;
we wear our indifference like an armour,
because we fear what we'll see if we're allowed
to understand our emotions and display our vulnerability.
we are young gods,
happy ever after is a joke and true love even more so,
we inhale criticism and exhale cynicism,
because the titans before us acknowledge that the world is cruel
but we embrace it- we drape ourselves in abject and misery,
stitch and mould uncaring faces onto our flesh that gaze upon
the heartbroken jagged shards of ourselves, bleeding guts and glory
embedded all over the cement patch wood floors, amongst the whisky and wine.
we are the young gods;
a mass of degenerates with our entitlement and liberals,
a numbing, sweet hollow feeling that we substitute
for the lack of love and care that we've grown used to;
a realism that carves like a knife at tender ages and
we wear our sadness like a charm- aesthetics to be envied;
we're self-destructive, faithless, pointless,
burning in our question for the meaning of existence
and the only religion we'll ever bow down to
is ourselves.
Feb 7, 2018
Feb 7, 2018 at 5:13 AM UTC
Many years past by to get to this new age
Now there are so many new ways
What is wrong with the old ways
They call it evaluation
There needs to be a revolution
I am afraid of this new nation
People of gratification
The new age of ligation
summation
starvation
So much talk of deportation
And of emigration
No legalization
This is
The new age , The new way
The new age of the politician
The new way of their deception
No reputation
No consideration
All about their affiliation
The new age, The new way
Of all corporation's
All about their accumulation (of money)
Their conglomeration
Jobs of elimination
Exportation
The new age, The new way
Still so much discrimination
No equalization
Young life's - unjust- evaporation
with no justification
The new age, The new way
The world without conservation
Global warming no talks of stabilization
Over populating
The new age , The new way
to our own
Proliferation
!!
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 10:15 PM UTC
An amalgamation of a conglomeration of scents forming the universe.
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 11:37 AM UTC
I'm sick of writing ********
angst fueled piles of
**** poems about how much
I think about stupid *******
and how I sickly miss their sadistic
tendencies exercised upon my
unsuspecting psyche.
I write of greys and nothings
and try to create murky landscapes
because I'm ******* bored and high
and I know that kind of ****
resonates with some of you creepy *******
I wrote so many ******* poems for her,
for you, dearest.
So many poems I thought you would see
how much I love you, how much I would give all of myself.
For nothing.
I told you no the other day,
after not hearing from you for months.
That twisted my guts but I asked
my sister what to do and she is
one of the few creatures with a ******
I trust.
I'm sick of reading other peoples
**** of lost love and broken hearts
and **** gone wrong and he loves
her but she likes ***** and *******
empty heads smashing empty hearts
and abuse and neglect and so many
******* gut wrenching tales of woe
it makes me sad to be a part of this..
pathetic conglomeration of fools, humans.
Sure, there is some positive **** out there,
but even that makes me want to puke.
I'm envious and doubtful, cynical and jaded.
I want to believe my one is out there,
but I'm not getting any prettier
or any smarter
and I have grown weary of
even trying to try.
I'm tired and ******
and I just want a soft
sweet smelling pile of flesh
next to me rubbing my
temples and whispering in my ear
stories of bugs and latex body paint
and what dress she is going to wear
for me.
****
I'm tired of writing poems like this
and I'm tired of reading poems like this
and I only want a sweet dripping ***** on my face.
I never claimed to be a poet.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 12:18 AM UTC
Imagine a world without terror outer
and inner, sans famine of food and water,
where every soul is well-sated; a world
sans sickness and disease, not by the cord
of morbidity and death held; a place
where huts are mansions, every shack is
a castle, and each flat a grand manor;
where the roads are built with pure gold
and the bridges with resplendent diamond;
where the day does not change in colour,
except when full moon in its full array
once in a month has its own display.
I mean a planet steeping in love
unfeigned, bristling with true hospitality
of the soul; a world bereft of danger,
and of every mind-and-heart breaker;
a world with the similitude of the garden of
Eden, hung on the shoulders of harmony--
where man at another cove's lovely dove
will not leer, where there are
no split and divorce. The genre, stuff
of life where one's pigmentation is
not the cardinal, but the inner essence.
A sort of society where ****** Hussein
and Laden-like fellows and all their
coterie of killers do not have a lair
of habitation, i refer; where besetting sin
has no confederacy with the rotary heart
and mind of man; where the leagues
of villians are non-existence. An earth
where conglomeration of wicked cliques
is non-operational: where everyone be
holy--no child soilder, nor forced labour;
where women are not ravaged in cruelty
of acts, and is void of conflict and war.
Such a place "the world" is not called
but "heaven: governed by the Almighty Lord.
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 3:20 AM UTC
People like me
I feel wanted
But at the same time
Nothing could matter less
And nothing could matter more
Nothing could matter more
Than the bitter need
To be wanted
To want
To give
So much frustration
Tension
A depressed conglomeration
Of hormones and talent
Stuffed into anxiety
With a side of want
But that want
It looks so big on the plate
It makes things seem all over the place
Nothing seems
Set
I cant get a grip
On what I need to think about
Theres so much on this plate
I cant even bother with the next thing
The next trial
The next sleepless night
The next missing light
Or keys
Or i lost my wallet
I dont know how long i can do it
Maybe it'll all come crashing down
And ill just sleep
Forever.
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 1:32 AM UTC
I am a thing.
A conglomeration of atoms.
A little thing you can borrow
From him
Or her
Or anyone, really
But I’m also sort of yours
Just ask you
I am a milky neck beneath long sunny hair
Sunshine, you call me,
Old Man,
Just before you dig your boorish, ***** blutwurst fingers
Straight into my crunchy upper vertebrae
In the spirit of a "neck massage,"
Invading me
Injuring me
Insulting me
Bruising the skin like a ripe peach you have dropped ten times
With your sick fingertips
Until I fear cervical dislocation
That’s a broken neck in lay terms.
Skinny, you call me
Like it is my identity.
Like if I gained weight
You might call me Fatty.
Beautiful, you call me
Like it is my name.
I am not skinny. I am not fat.
I am me shaped.
I am beautiful, but that is the least of my graces.
My name is Hope, ****** Call me Hope.
I am a thing.
A conglomeration of atoms.
A little thing you can subjugate
Without even using your hands.
All you need are words
Because all I’ve got are two X chromosomes.
Women should obey their husbands.
Women should bear children.
Wait, WOMAN isn’t generic enough.
Females.
Females only go to college to get married.
Females spend too much time with other females
But females should not spend too much time with men.
Men.
A man is a male human.
A woman is a female human.
I am a THING that is a HUMAN BEING.
And I would ask you to treat me like one
But until I am more to you than a female
I cannot expect you to act like a man.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 11:24 PM UTC
by way of strangers we met
i recall those lustrous nights
the sky held no stars
we were young
maybe too young...
i don't remember which
us, a misfit bunch of misfits
a gang of conglomeration
unleashed on a distant city
to each of us our own
yet to each of us the same
caught up in scintillation
i was lost in the sounds
the sights, the smells
smoke veiled my exhausted eyes
and vapor, my lungs
these lights are unfamiliar
the neon language i cannot translate
we've only got 'one shot'
i think we turn left, maybe right
turns out, i think i was wrong
strangers swiftly became friends
and friends swiftly left
i, too, followed their exit
i struggle to remember everything
i can't even recall all the names
by way of strangers we left
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 12:13 AM UTC
The space between chaff and
grain...misshapen yield vying
for the ecliptic plane.
As eye to eye...to be plucked
from what is gathered.
Moments timeout their
defining...what beauty hobbles
its poetry?
Something in league with or
without...passes off a kinship
nearer and dearer than bone
in plain conglomeration, as
strung to skeleton.
A seeing through of boundary...
as always open to season,
change by its allowance changes.
Our parenthetical infinite is
blessed/cursed with peripheral
vision...anonymously...
glory blurrily grows.
Begs from form what itself begs
form...we are thus force-fed
finitude, till what infinitude comes
of our eyes.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 11:46 AM UTC
Ween will mend inertia
with a flair, only a care or attribute
in conglomeration can reticulate their spin
and thus their ardor abound
in meadow by a brook then
will allude a castle if white sand
will morph butter and
may implore horizon
to only stake catalog
with green arbors there
yet magnitude of the nation
largely reactionary in latitude again.
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 8:40 AM UTC
I am not ordinary but then I’m not extraordinary either
What am I then?
I am the culmination of ancestral miracles and generational transformations
With star particles thrown in for good measure
I have the remnants of palaeolithic homosapiens
And the dust of stars from a million years away
I am not ordinary yet I’m not extraordinary
There are many me(s) on this earth
And I’m inclined to believe in other universes as well!
I am not ordinary, no sirree;
I’m just a conglomeration of stardust derived from stars a million light years away!
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 1:06 AM UTC
type of boy: tastes lightly of wintre and cigarette smoke, but mostly of a deep-seated passion that is littered with things he rarely shares.
the lesions have eliminated the ability of my hands and knees to feel the difference between broken bottles, shattered hearts, pieces of bathroom tile. but was there really anything to distinguish them in the first place and there are times when i would die just to be a lightbulb, to illuminate people's lives without having to speak or feel pain, except for the burn of giving your life for people to see each others lips to kiss and to read what is going on in the world.
every evening you torture yourself spewing and spitting your pain into a bottle, because you refuse to allow the words of your excruciation to enter the world. darling, you cannot keep them bottled up forever. i dont think you understand that your pain has been here already, and it will continue to be so until the end of time. it was born when Eve sank her teeth into the Forbidden Fruit and opened the gates of Limbo where Disease and Death reigned supreme. their children escaped and ran into the world to ravage it and they live off of our refusal for comfort, our prideful need to "be strong" when truthfully you will find your release in humility and openness. your throat may fill with a conglomeration of everything that needs to spill but if you just release a drop at a time you will be only watering flowers that were so desperate to live. let the flowers grow inside you and root themselves in your soul. keep watering them. do not waste the water and leave it in the bottle. allow the waterfall to nourish the life within you and become better and stronger. do not keep caged a beast that will only ravage you, not build you up.
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 12:25 PM UTC
My heart is a mechanism over which I have no control
My heart is a weapon I use against myself
My heart is a conglomeration of mixed up emotions
My heart is a tattered and torn but still somehow beating vessel
My heart is a complete and utter paradox; it perplexes even myself
My heart is heavy artillery ready to open fire on me at any moment
My heart is a solitary device, driven only by its own selfish and foolish desires
My heart is a kindergarten craft project, held together weakly with superglue,
but each fragile piece created with care
My heart is the antithesis of progress,
the opposite of what I need to remain sane
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 7:06 PM UTC
Flabbergasted with its conglomeration of cheese and tomato sauce
Gobsmacked with the way its cheese drips down the bread.
With garlic lingering in every bite.
I love its sight.
Its succulent mozzarella makes me feel gold
But the thin crust ain’t that bold.
It’s crispy and gooey.
Asking me to take another sip of whiskey.
I devour it from inside out
Fearing that it rather make me stout.
Onions, tomatoes, cheese and pepperoni
Mushrooms, ham and macaroni
Serve me again
With extra cheese
If it may please.
-Khushi :)
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 8:35 AM UTC
we look into houses at night
and tell ourselves, that will be us one day"
illuminated by the idea that "us" and "one day"
will remain eternal
this runs through
our high-strung,
heart-strung,
minds
our bodies,
sprawled out
like the conglomeration of constellations that
we look up into the sky at night
it's because we're trying to find something inspiring,
something awe-striking and divine
but we already are
we are ***** and demanding
we are spiralling and spinning
into the universe that longs for us -
we are illuminated
by the light that spills from houses at night
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 11:10 PM UTC
and i will immerse my index and middle finger into the breathing grave of winter, of wetted belgian mud like railway lines expanding and contracting, so too the earth, and thus leave my thumb to be akin to Caesar's daffodils, prematurely sprouting in january: but the godhead of gladiators aching for their river styx to rekindle the zenith moment with shout clap blood-thirst & applause at the coliseum that leaves the koranic promise in comparison a foetus of faeces; what a lazy paradise; male lazy is called philosophy which women call idiocy... i call female lazy anything else but, a sort of aesthetic conglomeration.
raise your children among dogs,
and your earliest adults among
felines: so that the former may
ring-bell-true an attachment of
feet unto print of the sphere,
and the latter work with a "bias"
of solipsism of ventured into
so many priestly truths dog-collared
for a lack of readership but awaited sermons;
only by reading does the priesthood become
worthless and funny due to the chosen attire.
for god be but a poly-solipsism or a diamond
mirror, each on the path to such a meeting
will see himself clearly and no other,
and with himself seen, will claim no false
knowledge of the other he once claimed
for the worth of the ridiculing joke.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 9:15 PM UTC
Death lives in the dark corners of my soul -
Lulled to sleep with her songs; I find I'm consoled.
A conglomeration of thought eventually collide.
A collision of conflict will be my demise.
I walk through the halls of a stranger's home;
I peer out the windows to a land I don't know.
A little girl stands there - tattered and broken.
She wears the face of a tired old woman.
Live empty carcasses press in on all sides.
Like cannibals they try to eat me alive.
In torment I dance between fantasy and reality
Hazy memories responsible for a fragmented personality.
The little girl runs past me - a ****** sacrifice.
At the hand of her abuser, innocence lost her life.
Sun breaks through the dark visions of night.
Plastic smiles contain all indications of fright.
I see her lying there in a casket of dreams.
A sense of anxious silence careens
Towards the house of denial and an emotionless life,
Survival depends on avoiding the plight
Of repeat behavior - of life being expressed ...
So I open my soul to the solace of death.
She lulls me to sleep with her songs of the night.
This stranger's home seems to fit me just right.
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 12:26 PM UTC