"congruency" poems
A spiteful taste of malice
Slithers across my tongue
Secrecy spoke in volumes
Before the words begun
This sensation it saunters
Into solar vacuity
Perpetrating sheer, faugh
Acts of congruency
In vain contempt I wallow
In the pillars of infamy
Whilst faint my ears waltz
To vindictive symphonies
Prolonged my strife be by humanity
Whilst I attempt to appease
As they flaunt their existence
To miscellaneous degrees
The English language resembles
Clouds of hyperbolic fallacies
In light of this hapless universe
They share an index of analogies
From behind cracked windowpanes
I peer at all that is inane
With repugnance I am slain
As I wince with disdain
I scarf reality in intervals
Reaping jagged grains of salt
Though helpless I am left
Pessimistic by default
© 2011 (All rights reserved)
Jan 23, 2012
Jan 23, 2012 at 7:57 PM UTC
Give someone a joint.
Watch them glow.
Watch the squirrel run down the birch wood tree.
Congruency in lives,
It’s complexity is unmatched like
The Mighty Leaf
Vs
The Hungry Giraffe,
Who’s David?
Lalalaisallthismeans.
Jul 14, 2021
Jul 14, 2021 at 12:18 AM UTC
A bluebird blissful, fistful of flight
happily hopping to the greens and the grain
accompanies the rhythm and rhyme
subtle solemn songs intertwine
Through the still and the sway, now boy don't you walk away
you just wait, we're gonna fly someday
Hearts flutter in congruency at the speed of waiting wings
swinging in the summer breeze, blending with the autumn leaves
shades sank so deeply--those amber eyes so discreetly,
just dying to complete me
And Love,
Though the fair fall is fleeting
with winter winds freezing
There's a warmth in the way
our eyes dance the days away
starry gaze, steady aim, toward the spring
May 7, 2011
May 7, 2011 at 7:20 PM UTC
Catapult cherry bomb metaphors
Like pestilent adolescent authenticity
No sharper then dull is the witless then before
Yet we ignore constant facts that lack congruency
Purely a jest to elements of a vicious nature shown
A lead lined carpet with no broom large enough
Hiding only chucks of self that fade to dust
Pyrex houses have shorter lives when granite flies
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 11:30 PM UTC
a smile, a look, a touch
is all that's needed for them to think
you belong with me
(you do)
but you are not mine
not in ways they presume
when they see us together
and the ever shrinking space between us
you are not mine in ways that are well trodden
of obligation, of possession, of labels
but you belong with me
in ways that matter
in the way we talk just to each other
in the congruency of our thought
in the importance we have for us
in laughter and sadness
in sickness and in health
they look at us and they presume
but they can never know
how deeply I belong to you
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 2:54 PM UTC
Hound-dog swallowing poly-coated pills, filling up, bloated, falling off stage, and into a more permanent and lasting Graceland, to be surrounded by another’s verse.
I only enjoy what comes from my own head, a modern Samuel Johnson, no matter what happenstance brought about to be said, a cage free Bronson. Hearing false verse through a syllable count, hoisted onto adverbs easy to mount. Congratulate a lesser mind, reaching commonalities most could find. Ease in creation, opens floodgate doors, distributing specs of grace through misworded spores. Life, love, and the pursuit of vanity, leaves simplified lumps of prosperous thought riddled with anonymity. The invention of despair overwhelms those ungifted, and leaves them erecting stale forgeries they grifted.
In the wee small hours of escaping light, a crooner steadies his hands as he falsifies his originality, reading off the music from another’s sheet.
A change in topic is something to hold as worthy, though in a modern context of prosaic prose, such good fortune can be exceptionally elusive. Broken hearted symptoms shared through a hash-tag, rerouted and worded, to fit an illiterate youth’s lesser diction, reposted to approach validity, only to be called forth as an original soul, one to revere, and hold as an entitled fraction of logic.
The piano man knocks out a tune, hit in stride with vocal conduct, inspired and laid in pen by a lesser man propelled by better wording, given up for another’s career.
Market’s over-saturated with teenage sonnets, weeping over cut wrists, ended (Victorian inspired) trysts, refreshed and brought back around until sentimentality vomits. Themes used to run rampant with fresh ingenuity, made extinct, occurred in a blink; now every poem has some congruency.
The grapevine got entangled, getting involved with a troublemaker, providing the soundtrack, using another’s words.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 5:43 PM UTC
she takes her sun and she goes
woah
this was for you and not for me
from the beginning for eternity
i never amounted to anything
she takes her sun and she burns slow
but not to me
now what were we but heaven sent
hell bent on getting it
polished, restored back
to congruency -
repetitive distant make believe
electricity
lights her face
at an alarming rate
the thoughts of you swarm my memory
i shut the door and here i am
on my own in this room again
this light makes me look so *****
you know this time it didn't feel that good
a rocket took off and crash landed
*no it never reached the top
wasn't good enough
couldn't fill the cup
like the elevator operator got beat up
and when we hit the bottom,
he drowned in his own blood*
i missed the spot so
when i was woven into polyester couch cushions at the end,
and you didn't give a ****
well i couldn't blame you after all it was my fault
you're in bed, you're sick as ****
i'm trying but still
"there's nothing you can do
this is it"
now for whatever reason
i've been starving all my demons
till the changing seasons
cease
and there are no more lesions
on my heart of recent treason
oh i love the feeling of completion
but there is a girl
a little ways down the avenue
solid and tortured looking
like a statue
in a red hat
with a red nose
and a red back
she counts her bills - ego altruistic
for the fear
Mar 17, 2012
Mar 17, 2012 at 2:47 AM UTC
You watched me:
Live the life of a spark, always trying to be a flame
An act of quintessence, a folly void of blame
You burned your hands countless times whilst trying to suppress my sou
A burning string, from flames so bold, they almost felt like glittered gold
But how could I never have seen the cowardice in your eyes?
The anxiety from time to time that produced sweat so cold
I swear they would douse my fires
If they could touch me
You began to withdraw yourself
A recluse
A hermit
But I knew this was more than a gambit
This was not childlike epiphany
This was not a consequence of misery
You had known all along that I was disparate
But yet you acted in congruency with my antics
You are a whiter shade of your former self now
A hue so pale those who once knew you would never know you now
But I’m still a spark, the same old, disconsolate spark
And your sacrifice has been in vain
Ashamed, I am, for your reputation I swore to never taint
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 4:33 AM UTC
You are a tessellation
composed of repeating patterns,
a labyrinth of congruency,
and the last thing I need
is another right angle
to corner myself in.
I don't want any more
symmetry
or geometry,
I simply want to be freed
from this multicursal maze
you left me in.
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 4:32 PM UTC
We are here
experiencing life
through the challenges
we find our opportunities
to transform our selves
back to our true selves
we are creators
weaving our way
from dark to light
stumbling teaches balance
as we recognize our divinity
We are all engaged
in the perfect symphony
will we pause
to listen today
as the melodies
harmoniously
ensue
As I grasp
for meaning
courage to continue
and purpose to be
I remember
as I’m reminded
to walk my path
in authenticity
sharing my honesty
my pain
and my joy
as I am open
to receive
from you
in celebration
The master plan
is our own creation
we designed it all
to learn to love
to honor
to allow
Take my hand
and I’ll lean
on your shoulder
shed a tear
and I’ll offer
a smile
Each moment
sequence
timing
and season
perfectly placed
in congruency
manifesting as it is
with perfect reason
Taking solace
and finding warmth
in our beauty
and our grace
locating truth
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 1:17 PM UTC
I want to be true to myself,
and tell of lies no more.
I want to explore congruency,
and cease the inner wars.
How can I create peace,
if I haven't known it yet?
To live in utter bliss,
and be free of hatred's debt.
Who am I?
I am who I pretend to be,
who is really no on at all.
I only am when I am free.
Well, when will I be free?
When I finally realize
that I always have been
and take off this silly guise.
To be scared of one's habits
is to let them defeat.
I want to change
and let that change complete.
I know the way to love,
and I know what I must do;
it is only first
that to myself I be true.
Dec 13, 2010
Dec 13, 2010 at 5:18 PM UTC
I decided today that it would make it easier if I just ******* castrated myself and then cut off any limp remains of anything
it would be easier if sex-parts mattered less to you, for a forced congruency is to be established as fine, and the fact that you **** me you **** me you **** me it makes no difference
I have been ***** of my being by my being, and I will be ready shortly, once I figure out who I am for today.
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 1:59 PM UTC
I am but a wanderer seeking refuge
Finding shelter in the arms of one cherished
But this sanctuary lacks congruency in my heart
Now, I acquiesce to hope and conviction
We mourn the loss of a child called love
With youthful enthusiasm it was encouraged
But if one loves the child more than the other
Love grows divisible and rebellious
The pain and anguish of the vanquished,
Need not to be in vain
All feel the sting of relinquishment
Soon, a fleeting memory
The soul intuits destiny’s detours
Like a mouse in a maze, we seek a prize
Worthy of the pursuit
But are we mindful of the past costs?
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 7:17 AM UTC
I’m looking into your eyes right now. I love you.
Don’t quit not quitting on yourself, whatever is in your heart — big, important, longing stuff like the quest for true love.
Swing tenacity’s knife exactly as sagacity has swung your ***** nilly dilly head.
Look reality in its bright, bulging, blinking eye.
Track down any self-care apathy within, jump any legitimacy laxity — **** them both.
And don’t forget to take up the continuous, scientific adoration of honesty.
If you adore emotional integrity, if you favor psychological congruency, if you pound out new affective territory — then you will not fall off a cliff at night and you will not lose all you have always hoped for.
Here is what to do.
Stare love right in the snout and speak the truth, lean in and grind out a bushel basket of openness, eat a yard of authenticity and knock back true falsity.
Shout, charge and retake the emotional high ground.
What are you thinking?
You are all that anyone could ever want — you precious cargo, you personhood of inestimable value, you absolutely gorgeous emotive mess.
You’re tired?
Okay, go watch some brain dead TV.
You’ve tried and failed?
Okay, go to bed and get some sleep.
Remember when we had lunch last week. I told you that the first three tries don’t keep the fourth from succeeding.
In the face of failure, tenacity is the still the best policy — and ontogeny.
If you can’t grow one thing then grow another, you long, glorious bank of radiant blooms planted in previous springs.
Every seed you have ever sown — even if it has died in someone else — has flowered in your own soul
Dec 19, 2019
Dec 19, 2019 at 4:49 PM UTC
the room fills with smoke
i twist and swerve
my waist rotates around him as a snake around the vine
crystals clanging and words whispered from the head
its nothing too big of a deal; just talk and ask something about it and never question those things, because when i talk it becomes something so sweet and silly never made a difference: and then you could make a reason, you could be a sacred season: harmonize and humming, and you could breathe in easily, when its easy to love me.
these things are so brown, he tastes like it: i open up to it, taken aback by her way of slithering around: like an occulted cloth on the table, where the towel lays and its woven with seashell and job’s tears: necklace out of adam’s root, grisgris fed with my tears. humming and harmonize: congruency matters, and it’s easy to love me.
seaweed and nitrous: a little taste of glitter, the roadways open. hymns spoken from its fur, whiskers appealed.
Aug 14, 2021
Aug 14, 2021 at 11:30 AM UTC
Hair draped back
I can see the path of the brush
where it swept fuzzy sleet
away from her face
and out of her eyes.
The strokes echo in soft strands
framing my her face like fluffy waves
the way the brush intended.
My friend is not perfect
in the sense that she is not flawless;
but in the vestige of her presence
her aura is captivating
and is absolutely beautiful.
I babble,
but what I mean is the potency of self,
being without trying.
Synchronizing with the spiral center
and twisting like a cork
into and out of the trunk that hinges
her existence
in a way that grows eternally.
Essentially, the unconscious.
Free, I fell into it
and became one of those moments
I want to lightly pinch
when he said
"Wow, you're a good dancer," just as freely back.
I smiled - then stopped.
Noticed my fleshly shell
echoing with the reverberations of my soul,
and withdrew.
Tremors booming from the inside
seem invincible
but so intimate to the Center
they're more like
Night's shimmering water
whose glimmer always waves
but never lingers,
Just shivers.
I learn as I die
how to align to myself
and what congruency to one's context really means,
because it's not conformity.
Just as significant as it is irrelevant
My Own Ness has a spherical redundancy
I chuckle at finding reassuring.
I want to be heard
like we all do
But (like we all do)
only by those who will actually hear me.
Redundant, I know,
because it will happen as it will
But it's the kind of symmetry I think is worth
living for
giving for
dancing for
and eventually, dying for.
I babble,
as I watch the subtle shadow
of my friend's unconscious hair
glowing faintly in the dusty light,
But sometimes
I'm actually saying something.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 7:25 PM UTC
Sing, poet Presley! for you are right
'Tis now or never to hold them tight
'Tis now that the heart acts like a wild animal
Trying to break out of its tired cage
'Tis now or never to seize and kiss
Or let ferment and age
'Tis this fleeting moment, passing so swift
That yet paralyzes and perilyzes me
'Tis this, to be enamored with you
And to hold you at a distance
'Tis for distance sake, as we are both
Fur and far apart
But quell your aching heart
For now is not opportune
Neither philosophy nor location
Are terribly in tune
And whether congruency is even possible
For someone like me
Is largely irrelevant for us.
For my lips beg for your lips' touch
So, poet Presley; first name Elvis,
Have we passed into the future,
making now the past?
Do we live in the never?
Why negate when such a strong feeling
Wells within me?
When it could just as easily
Be stored for them later.
Are not things worth waiting for
Worth waiting for?
Mar 12, 2018
Mar 12, 2018 at 1:17 PM UTC
Do you ever get nervous.
And you say the wrong thing
No I want it to be spring.
I want to feel love bring me a bit closer.
Pilfer through the past,
run with a purpose
but I know one thing is for certain it matters not the days or the weeks and how things worsen
I see the clouds
and how they’ll part and how I’m
a person
the versions who make them selves appear is weird
but I know the end of suffering is near
it’s the crowded rooms in the train stations waiting to board, lazily the coach opens and you hop aboard.
The rewards of watching birds flock Inside as the atrium between you
and the outside is wide.
When I remember the past I break
through the worst.
Wishing for the feeling
of love without hurt.
In pairs they’d fly though the building, following the train as it moves to the open, to the green grass fields I wield this ability to see the congruency of each step in my life.
Feb 26, 2019
Feb 26, 2019 at 9:09 PM UTC
burning hot yet cold // this vitreous gem
rhombic dodecahedron // whos congruency lies yet
disallowed to be worn as // dryness means bareness
fasting in dry heat // remembering sins wages
evocative of a bone licked // by an unwavering rod
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 5:17 PM UTC