"constraint" poems
A green eyed monster within,
in behaviour satan's akin.
Other's possessions are his attraction,
flies on wings of dissatisfaction.
Hopes more for other's loss than his gain,
can take ugliest of forms without constraint.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 9:23 PM UTC
Ships won’t be anchored forever
Rusted anchor will break free
Its weight will help sink deeper
With a loud clunk, noise will dissipate
The ship will set sail once again
No weight is heavy enough to overcome
Steered away to distant land
Searching for newer shores and destinations
Away from the land of constraint
Ship will sail safely through deeper waters
Navigating through inclement weather
Forces of nature will test its strength
For the ship shall find the happy shores again
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 9:46 AM UTC
Cray-Z...
*You know that you are, ******* crazy?*
*Think up a new grand goal to meet,
then drop the blotter, -to compete.*
*Are you movin' on up?
to the top, to a deluxe compartment in your mi-ind?*
Lenny?
Saul admired David...
"Admired,"
him.
dissolved him in, David.
*You know that you are, ******* crazy?*
*Look at the hands, -they swirl in, ceiling paint...
Thinking like this the world is NO constraint.*
Fuzzy
Futzy
Fickle
Fiber
Pick a pickle Whitley Streiber.
*Gargle,
Gasp, rinse and repeat.*
*Then Devil for the Heaven's seat,
and find a tiny child to eat,
for tasty things water mouth with treat,
nothing stained by water's meet or tendered strangely as complete.*
Crazy...
Carpet fibers tickle my neck.
I am a house.
Household item.
Bleach feels funny on the fingers,
they still won't change color back?
*Think up a new grand goal to meet,
then drop the blotter, -to compete.
Then Devil for the Heaven's seat,
and find a tiny child to eat,
for tasty things water mouth with treat,
nothing stained by water's meet or tendered strangely incomplete.*
Crazy you know that you are...
...is that wall supposed to be flashing?
!!!!GET OFF MY ROCKER!!!!*
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 9:25 PM UTC
From my mute mouth pours the emotions and exaggerated feelings of a once precious time constraint love. From the peddle touch of your masculine being evokes the insurmountable lust to be touched more and more like the tease of a honey bee that passionately ***** and pollinates the delicate flower bud until it screams in the wave of the wind, but now left not so naïve and innocent I like the flower am left to bud and bloom without my once precious time constraint loved…
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 11:51 PM UTC
God knows how our neighbor managed to breed
His great sow:
Whatever his shrewd secret, he kept it hid
In the same way
He kept the sow--impounded from public stare,
Prize ribbon and pig show.
But one dusk our questions commended us to a tour
Through his lantern-lit
Maze of barns to the lintel of the sunk sty door
To gape at it:
This was no rose-and-larkspurred china suckling
With a penny slot
For thrift children, nor dolt pig ripe for heckling,
About to be
Glorified for prime flesh and golden crackling
In a parsley halo;
Nor even one of the common barnyard sows,
Mire-smirched, blowzy,
Maunching thistle and knotweed on her snout-
cruise--
Bloat tun of milk
On the move, hedged by a litter of feat-foot ninnies
Shrilling her hulk
To halt for a swig at the pink teats. No. This vast
Brobdingnag bulk
Of a sow lounged belly-bedded on that black
compost,
Fat-rutted eyes
Dream-filmed. What a vision of ancient hoghood
must
Thus wholly engross
The great grandam!--our marvel blazoned a knight,
Helmed, in cuirass,
Unhorsed and shredded in the grove of combat
By a grisly-bristled
Boar, fabulous enough to straddle that sow's heat.
But our farmer whistled,
Then, with a jocular fist thwacked the barrel nape,
And the green-copse-castled
Pig hove, letting legend like dried mud drop,
Slowly, grunt
On grunt, up in the flickering light to shape
A monument
Prodigious in gluttonies as that hog whose want
Made lean Lent
Of kitchen slops and, stomaching no constraint,
Proceeded to swill
The seven troughed seas and every earthquaking
continent.
6.5k
When you sit in a chair you sink into it's warmth and comfort.
It's like it's hugging you and making you feel like everything is alright in life.
As you sit in that chair you start to wonder.
Wonder about life and all of it's treasures.
That chair is magical giving you happiness and light.
And replenishing you for the rest of the night.
You finally stand up and you feel uneasy and faint.
Feeling like you can't move and your constraint.
You sit back down and all of your colour comes back.
What just happened? You wonder.
'Maybe I should just sit back and relax.'
You fall asleep in the chair and the next morning you wake up fresh.
You feel so good and you had such a great rest.
But when you stand up again you just fall back down.
The chair is holding on to you and won't let you go.
It's afraid you'll never come back to it and you'll just leave.
Abandoning it never coming back to see.
See if it's okay and if it's been refurbished.
Or to see if it's torn down to little pieces.
You don't care it's just a chair.
That will collect dust in despair.
So you get up and say goodbye to that chair.
And you never come back.
Because that's what you're best at.
That chair will stay there and hope for another.
Another to sit and ponder.
And then that person will also get up and leave.
Leaving that chair to stay and grieve.
Grieve about the loss of all the people that have come and gone.
And only used it as something to sit on.
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 11:36 PM UTC
Why don’t I love?
For this love is a
possessive obsession to handle.
It’s a constraint,
sealing you mine forever.
So just flee—
or better,
not come at all.
For it's a Red envelope,
A prison house… or love?
My limitless love !
Sep 15, 2025
Sep 15, 2025 at 2:45 AM UTC
The Pen
The pick up the pen;
The put it down again
(That sunken feeling, nemesis or friend?)
The pen. The Pen.
The pacing, the pressing up against
The period. Stop stopping
Again. Pick it up to put it down.
Pointless. Pshaw.
Please.
Please me simplicity. C’mon!
C’mon pen lemme pick it up
And put something down.
I’ll plagiarize the flow for a few words of my own.
I’m looking for inspiration from the great beyond.
My muse is missing.
I know the medium is a constraint.
I know inside
The set of symbols paints
Me into a corner. The parameters
Of my pen’s head worn out. I’m ****** The metaphors
Pressed. The pen is second-guessed.
A literate piece of poetic license,
The defense mechanism
Against the prison I impose.
Me, myself, and I inside
The pen pining for a purpose.
The nexus of picking it up and putting it down
Is perplexing me, is vexing
Me like a sticky keyboard key.
So, I’m putting it all down
With the pen.
The pen.
The picking it up: who cares?
The putting it down: pensive prohibition.
The picking up; what I left out.
The putting it down: polygraph precision.
The picking up where I left off:
The putting it down: priority, what’s left of me.
The picking it up, when I don’t even know
Why I bother?
The putting it down: passion
The putting it down: plea of let me be.
The putting it down periscope; I’m diving under
The pressure’s mounting; I’m down for the counting on my muse
To bring me back
From that inky black abyss once again
My personal sonar is
Probing the depths, of what lies
hidden within
the pen.
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 7:46 AM UTC
On that fateful day of Pentecost,
power came down from on high.
For it originated with God’s presence
and His Kingdom, that’s far beyond our sky.
The ascension of Christ had been witnessed,
with Him clearly rising above the clouds;
He was no longer bound by planetary constraint
and the opinionated amazement of the crowd.
Upon the Earth, a violent breeze blew;
it brought forth ‘winds of change’ into the hearts of men.
This first outpouring of the Holy Spirit reinforced
God’s abundant Love, for us all once again.
The power of Jehovah had appeared,
as ‘tongues of fire’ above the people’s heads -
Thus fulfilling an Old Testament prophesy,
as the prophet Joel had previously illustrated.
The spiritual battles are fought today
inside the imagination of our minds;
cleanse your thoughts with The Word
and shift your ideals with His holy paradigm.
God has promised in The Scriptures
that He will never leave us nor forsake us.
His comforting Spirit remains along side
as we now await - the final return of Christ Jesus.
Author Notes:
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2010, All rights reserved.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 6:25 AM UTC
Breathing on the surface but smothering inside,
Pale face blue lips and wide open eyes.
Running desperately with no company and guide,
Too little time and too many disguise.
Like a lost site pervade with dreariness and spite.
Who would help you when they heard your yelp?
Hoped to be broach but no one to approach.
Who would love you when without the pure white dove?
Trapped in coach and let the soul slowly encroach.
How would you feel when no one to reach?
Stares at the window just to look for a shadow.
How would you feel when your heart starts to screech?
At last it became hollow slowly loaded with deep sorrow.
Like a letter unsent filled with unread content.
Holding on like a puppet being sway,
With those unsure senses and constraint.
Living faithlessly and ends up stray,
Nerves are brutally torn and mind gone insane.
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 5:26 AM UTC
Homecoming body:
A grey cardigan strips down,
bonding skin to
night’s air,
penetrating
Chevrolet safe havens
drowned in lover’s spit.
My Mind
thanks Google,
enabling electronic bibles
to leave disciples stifled
with religious quotas,
an excuse to quote us —
“Trouble at the Border,
read the former
court room reporter
working for the,
sensationalized,
through remnants of
blood stains in our eyes.”
Midway through Chapter 1 —
reeks not only of
of *** in the backseat —
but of Venezuela’s shorelines.
Of her high school hallways.
Of the intrigue of the unexplored Mexican neighbor,
her freedom amidst constraint,
where Visas
lease us
advertising campaigns
for maquiladora made lampshades.
Despite their protest,
common sense
lent comparisons,
a consequence
of stories told in reverse.
They hover over Venezuela’s familiar curves,
her long black hair straddling my shoulders.
Jan 5, 2012
Jan 5, 2012 at 8:00 PM UTC
For years so jealous I have been
Of those who excel with the brush
And envy those who make beautiful
A blank slate with the slightest touch
I tried my hand at drawing
Tried my hand to hide results
And my attempts at painting?
Rembrandt would label them an assault
But then I found a pen
And in this pen there was some ink
I found a page of blank paper
And sat down before I could even think
The words, they flowed like rivers,
Streams of life for the soul
Feeding my every desire
To reveal stories never before told
I have no use for charcoal
No use for chalk or paint
And a canvas is too small
Mocking me with its constraint
My pen is my paintbrush
Blank pages my inspiration
For my words are my works of art
The beauty found in their formation
Mar 11, 2012
Mar 11, 2012 at 1:33 AM UTC
In my Autumn garden I was fain
To mourn among my scattered roses;
Alas for that last rosebud which uncloses
To Autumn's languid sun and rain
When all the world is on the wane!
Which has not felt the sweet constraint of June,
Nor heard the nightingale in tune.
Broad-faced asters by my garden walk,
You are but coarse compared with roses:
More choice, more dear that rosebud which uncloses
Faint-scented, pinched, upon its stalk,
That least and last which cold winds balk;
A rose it is though least and last of all,
A rose to me though at the fall.
2.9k
Blessed are the mild and long-suffering,
for they alone shall inherit the earth;
their happiness and contentment comes…
from only understanding their Godly worth.
Not worried about accusations against me-
my Lord continues to defend His children.
My Lord is the eternal and heavenly advocate
and His Blood overcomes all affects of sin.
Real meekness… is strength under control,
while gentleness demonstrates self-constraint
in the midst of trying, difficult circumstances
and walking in genuine Love without complaint.
I’m able to endure any, ungodly responses,
when acknowledging my dependence on Christ.
I will eventually receive the comfort of God,
from standing on His promises… for my life.
.
.
.
Author Notes:
Loosely based on:
Matt 5:5; Phil 4:12-13
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2014, All rights reserved.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 9:37 AM UTC
Rue the unlettered nugatory inequity
of insensate dishabille narcosis and
the insouciant clandestine ravish
perverse of durance's constraint.
AUSTRALIAS CODE GREY IS A HUMAN RIGHTS VIOLATION.
MENTAL HEALTH ARE RAPISTS. PUT AN END TO FORCED INJECTIONS
AND THE UNCONSCIOUS UNCONSENTING SEXPLOITATION OF THE MENTALLY ILL!!!!.
NO FUNDING FOR MENTAL HEALTH AND THEIR ****** REGIME!!!
MENTAL HEALTH LAWS ARE MENTALLY ILL!!!
''the pride of women will never be laid in the dust"- Gaelic Proverb.
MENTAL HEALTH ARE RAPISTS. LYING ******* ****** DOGS!!!
SAY NO TO BUTTOCKS INJECTIONS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 11:53 PM UTC
Thus on my genesis Love's fought Regret
My Ardent Sire whose Merits installed
These English Gifts whom I have thanked just yet
Carried Misconstruction; And docked the Fine Toll
This that Penance be my Honest Attempt
Yet still besieged in case of Bad Timing
The Gold I carry an Issue I Contempt
Will try once more to Win his Best Blessing
My how the Fortunes some drive the Mind mad
And took my Heart back to a Wildman's State
This cannot continue; Much have I had
Sponge this Circled Self back to my Constraint.
The Human in me, the Cause of my Lone
And Sister's Reason I banged on the Phone.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 6:47 PM UTC
I know you're afraid
You know I used to be afraid
Is this something I fear? I'm afraid not
Take your fears, and please let them rest for the night
For me the fear was only ever from the unknown,
the unknowable, the untold
I don't fear anymore in that way, because of what I know now
Not afraid that you would know, not afraid what that would mean
Not afraid of where you'd go, not afraid of how it seems
I don't need reassurance, I don't need explanation
You don't need to affirm a thing, that goes beyond the situation
I'm not afraid to see you here, in this place where my fears had gone to taunt me
I know enough of the big picture now to not sweat the gaps
I'm not afraid of a disconnect, because what you taught me goes beyond that
I dispel my fears the more I know, and the more I need to know
I don't need to name every star in the sky at night to know it fills me with awe
much the way I don't need to have every question answered,
when you were the real answer to my questions
I'm not afraid to be that answer, to work for it, to be that impossible completion
I'm not afraid of the work, the confusion, the learned constraint
I don't fear anymore in that way, because of what I know now
Take your fears, and please let them rest for the night
Let's not be afraid to mock ourselves, and how much we were scared to admit what we knew
And if you're still scared, I'd like to be brave for us
I'm not afraid to just let it flow, to just let it go, and I won't be afraid to let you know
I don't need reassurance, I don't need explanation
you **** my fears and bring liberation
Take your fears, and let them rest for the night,
so I can see the cosmos of you, and know I'm filled with awe
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 6:54 AM UTC
I write so free without constraint
Give me a frame to chain down
Ideas that are half formed and
I lose my inspiration there's just
No anticipation about what I might
Have to say when I'm locked in to
A context fitting your liking.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 5:38 AM UTC
Ten years old again,
In a tree ten feet high again,
In scuffed shorts with tangled hair,
And with the boys I longed to be.
Sanctimonious girls in dresses and frills,
Boredom and constraint personified,
Stare up in incredulity
As I heave myself over mossy branches.
“Girls don’t climb trees.”
I do. I roll in mud, play racing games,
Never brush my hair.
“You’d be pretty if only you tried.”
You’d feel alive if only you tried.
The wind on my bare arms,
Dirt beneath fingernails,
Scrapes on my shins
Red and out of place
Like smudged lipstick
On children’s faces.
I’m not you. I’m me.
Boxes serve to keep us in,
Deliver us neatly packaged
To a society which cannot cope
With fluidity,
Individuality,
Uncertainty.
Boo!
She says those two misguided words:
“Make over”.
Impossible. One cannot start afresh.
This is the result of every waking moment,
Of every word heard and spoken,
Each memory joyous and painful,
A piece of art nineteen years in the making.
Not to be destroyed in one act of disguise.
Yet curiosity is my mistress.
She leads me to boundaries
I never knew existed.
Up goliath trees,
Into foreign beds,
To the brink of reality
In mind-bending worlds
Of parallels.
Like a mannequin, devoid of identity
I give my image to you
And you place yours jarringly
Onto my reticent body.
The obliging cheers
At my transformation
Into an eloquent femininity
Feel hollow and worthless.
I have done nothing of merit.
I totter like a toddler
Uncomfortable in my own skin.
I’m on stage, an act,
A project. Not a person.
How bizarre it feels
To wear a stranger’s façade
Of dresses and frills,
When you know you belong
To a different world
Of dirt, and treetops,
And freedom.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 4:26 PM UTC
I am constraint
In a constraint body
I move from thought to thought
race between a permanent
solitude
I hear a screaming voice
and it´s my own
She´s screaming out my own
deepest secrets
Who did I tell my shame?
If not you
You keep me, in a confinement
locked in among my frustrated fears
morbidly amused by their strenght
I stay in here.
Where else would I go
If not back to you.
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
Living by ideology must be comforting.
The freedom of constraint, the security of single-mindedness.
It gives one a sense of position; rooted
Behind battle-lines, clear division.
I always thought Marxists naive,
But not in the way you might think -
I was impressed by the notion that the ruling classes
Knew what they were doing.
Subjugation is at least part of a plan.
Humanism simply baffles me:
One might as well believe in
The primacy and potential of pigshit.
Even nihilism is ideology; its comforting
Sense of community: "We believe in one Nothing."
Ideological blinkers preserve order
By blocking out the surrounding chaos.
Perhaps I should find something to cling to
Before the rising tide sweeps me away.
(Not poetry.
I've tried that;
Too unstable.)
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 10:21 AM UTC
Fair lovely Maid, or if that Title be
Too weak, too Feminine for Nobler thee,
Permit a Name that more Approaches Truth:
And let me call thee, Lovely Charming Youth.
This last will justifie my soft complaint,
While that may serve to lessen my constraint;
And without Blushes I the Youth persue,
When so much beauteous Woman is in view.
Against thy Charms we struggle but in vain
With thy deluding Form thou giv'st us pain,
While the bright Nymph betrays us to the Swain.
In pity to our *** sure thou wer't sent,
That we might Love, and yet be Innocent:
For sure no Crime with thee we can commit;
Or if we shou'd - thy Form excuses it.
For who, that gathers fairest Flowers believes
A Snake lies hid beneath the Fragrant Leaves.
Though beauteous Wonder of a different kind,
Soft Cloris with the dear Alexis join'd;
When e'er the Manly part of thee, wou'd plead
Though tempts us with the Image of the Maid,
While we the noblest Passions do extend
The Love to Hermes, Aphrodite the Friend.v
1.9k
there may
or may not
exist
certain colours
that the human eye
is unable
to see
an insipid
blueish-yellow
an unpalatable
greenish-red
each said
to be impossible
for our eyes
to process;
if seen
it could appear
in all manner
of forms
but would remain
indescribable
they say that
butterflies can see
the ultraviolet spectrum
and that
the honey bee
sees in infrared;
and so
it would not
be too absurd
for a person
to dismiss
the "impossible"
to believe
in the possibility
of the as-yet
unseen
although
scientifically
the only way
to perceive
these "forbidden" hues
is through trickery
and constraint
by forcing the brain
into seeing both
antagonistic colours
simultaneously
and
without reprieve
until the border
between
the opposing shades
finally dissolves
there may be
a truth
but it is hidden
somewhere between
the plausible
yet impalpable
and the proven
yet proselytised
May 2, 2022
May 2, 2022 at 11:30 AM UTC
It stirs my soul to say I am slave,
for thee, daddy, I shall mock ideas of freedom
cast forth by common and devilish cultures,
for thee i shall embrace another sort of freedom,
freedom under constraint,
constraint willfully chosen,
by infinite grace, ever applied in totality, to me,
freedom that says,
before I was a slave to sin,
now i am a slave to righteousness,
and joyfully so,
for being moved by your spirit,
i am ever able, when before i was helpless,
to choose that which pleases
the abundant master,
the master without end,
the existing one,
El Ro'i , the God who sees me,
me a slave chosen as friend,
me a friend adopted as son,
me a son lavished as heir
to that which i deserve not an inkling, or mite,
not jot, nor tittle,
not a word or breath from your lips,
none of that which you spoke or breathed into being.
Oh, God! I am a slave!Ever shall I be!
Thank you master that i be, ever slave, ever to thee.
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 12:45 AM UTC
Your verse speaks of
Constraints from beyond
The grave as if love
And life and joy are
Forever taken from you,
Yet your life is far
From wrecked by that man,
And you so much greater
And more amazing than
You it seems perceive,
Your soul is great
And good and pure,
Your beauty burns from
Deep beneath your
Alabaster skin,
And even if you
Cannot see the worth of you
Or hurl aside that vile constraint,
You have a counter at your side,
One to protect your from the storm
A counter that costs you
Not a penny nor a dime,
A counter to carry you
That's always there and free,
And lest you wonder where or what
That counter,
Love,
Is me!
Nov 26, 2023
Nov 26, 2023 at 11:28 AM UTC