"countlessly" poems
Life has many milestones.
Each bringing a significant change to one's life.
Whether that be a birthday, a wedding, a child.
But it's difficult to admit the sadder milestones that we carry with us.
However these negative moments also have a significant effect on us.
This is my list of milestones I hate to admit.
But they have impacted me tramendously.
It's time I released them so I can look ahead.
Molested by a boy at age 4.
Countlessly ***** by my sister starting at age 5.
***** by my therapist at age 7.
Beat by my sister throughout childhood.
Bribed and verbally abused by my step father to condition me to keep my issues to myself.
Traumatized at 10 by my father and his ex due to a domestic abuse situation.
Almost drowned from my first public panic attack at age 16.
Harassed by a man at a concert at age 20.
Endured the hell that relationships always bring.
Attempted suicide twice at age 21.
And a man attempted to **** me at a party last week while I was intoxicated.
I know I'm not the only one with these difficult memories.
And knowing I'm not alone will always be my comfort.
But I'm letting it all out;
purging out the evil so I can be releaved.
And now my hope is to heal and become whole again in the healthiest way possible.
I can overcome these milestones.
I know I can.
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 12:33 AM UTC
i am not her
the woman who had countlessly betrayed your trust,
the woman who constantly made you feel like what you did and who you were was never enough,
the woman who would only hit you up for not true love but a convenient lust.
i am not her
the woman who so willingly took advantage,
the woman who without the slightest hesitation, took you for granted.
i am not her
the woman who took everything as a joke; to upset you was to be seen as funny,
the woman who only seen you as a dollar sign and finessed you of your money.
i am not her
the woman who spilled bitter lies from her lips like coffee to a wooden table,
the woman who convinced you that you could never achieve anything, as if you were unable.
i am not her
the woman who was filled with nothing but anger and spite,
the woman who seeked joy from causing you pain,
the woman who was given gift after gift and yet still found a reason to complain.
i am not her
the woman who mission was to use and abuse,
the woman who wronged you then turned around and you were the one being accused.
i am not her.
- d.berry
Dec 22, 2020
Dec 22, 2020 at 2:25 AM UTC
I am sun and you are moon.
Caressing countlessly
Cranes and Starlings swoon
With love effortlessly.
I paint the daybreak flawless
with color sinking in
Moon is gathering the waves
while Mantas sink and swim.
You wrap yourself in darkness
with holes and craters deep,
Orbiting a world that has you
shackled at your feet.
I can see it spinning, with
everything it holds.
And I'm afraid that one dark day,
it might just steal your soul.
I can't control your presence
parading atmosphere,
And must not always worry
That the waves will disappear.
Nor reminisce on memories
so many "moons" ago,
That orbit other planets,
of which we'll never know.
And maybe all this warmth
inside my soul so bright,
is overtaking judgment
and misjudging moon at night.
The heat within me rising
might be unwarranted.
So I will just shine brighter
and make flowers bloom instead.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 12:50 PM UTC
How countlessly they congregate
O’er our tumultuous snow,
Which flows in shapes as tall as trees
When wintry winds do blow!—
As if with keenness for our fate,
Our faltering few steps on
To white rest, and a place of rest
Invisible at dawn,—
And yet with neither love nor hate,
Those stars like some snow-white
Minerva’s snow-white marble eyes
Without the gift of sight.
2.5k
I’ve had myriad seizures in my life.
I’m however, still alive.
An obscure force constantly attacked me.
A force directly proportional to gravity.
God granted serenity to accept the certainty,
Epilepsy, you’re in my life.
You don’t own my life.
My cognitive function has been dented.
I’ve been labelled and painted.
Sometimes even laughed at.
Seized, fell and rose countlessly.
I soldiered on courageously.
Giving up has never been an option.
I never took my eyes off the goal posts.
Epilepsy tried to shift the goal posts.
Against all odds, I graduated.
Applause as I approach the podium.
They applaud for academic success.
I however applaud for overcoming epilepsy.
Hospital was my other home during studies.
Marks capped, academic record not true image of success.
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 5:16 PM UTC
We don’t have a name,
And our love isn’t something they write about.
I watch you scrawl some stains on a paper
As you tell me to go,
But I can’t.
I try to leave, but my molten feet stick to the floor.
The space between us is different from the others.
Am I a scribble in your black notebook?
Because your name is written countlessly,
In elegant, clear penmanship in mine.
But we aren’t that obvious and clear.
Our names aren’t printed on the latest newspaper,
To read all about.
Our hands don’t rush together in unison
When we walk down the sidewalk.
We survive through secrets,
Sending letters through underground cities.
We dance around the words of others,
As my mouth slowly meets yours.
We are a garden that ceased to exist,
But instead reversed..
You are a mystery,
Not in the typical manner.
You are not the one you can solve again and again;
But one that puzzles me every time.
You find me at midnight,
My hands are shaking, as I hold you, eyes bright.
Your palms are cold, thawed by the heat of your breath
And we sit.
Your peculiar eyes dazzle me.
It’s not an emerald green,
But the kind of green in a forest
Among an earl gray coast.
Nostalgic, but warm.
Rainy, but bright.
We are tenacious as one.
Through you I’ve lived a thousand lives;
Sipping pink lemonade in a rainy diner,
Standing on the Oregon coast,
The navy ocean biting at our feet and
Inviting us for an icy swim,
Chasing you down the Champs-Elysses,
Watching your eyes turn into London skies.
I’ve seen every bitter moment of your life,
From the bruises on your thighs,
To the thoughts you try so hard to bury away.
I love you from the faded buttons of your flannel
To the burning tips of your hair.
Please let us exist as one.
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 11:51 PM UTC
Usually, I let words come to me,
tonight; however,
I am going to formulate something.
I am tired of whining about love - the lack of it,
really;
in my life.
Tonight, I'll whine about, countlessly, contemplating.
Countlessly desiring;
countlessly yearning;
For - your physical touch.
My placement of my hands on yours.
My placement of my hands on your body.
My placement of my lips on yours.
My placement of my lips on every crevice of your body.
Tonight; I whine about yearning to touch you.
I whine about your lips, softly - sensually;
rubbing on my face, lowering -
Mine, rubbing on your forehead - as you lower;
down -
my body.
Tonight; I whine about my lips, yearning -
the taste of your body.
Your skin rubbing against my tongue;
Your skin, satisfying my taste buds.
Tonight; I whine about the love my body has for yours.
The love in need of no words;
the love only touch understands.
Tonight; My body wants yours.
I hope you are shivering, in hope -
that our bodies will quench the thirst causing tension between us.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 6:38 PM UTC
life is unpredictable in its fickle nature,
moments can transform into a lifetime of shared splendor or somber recollection,
healing isn’t linear nor is life’s trajectory as we tread this path scattered with trials and tribulations,
time challenges our wit and forces our hand at resilience as we build ourselves countlessly to brace the changes that come our way,
that is the beauty of existing— understanding the significance of loss and relishing the triumph of union,
savoring the essence within us and radiating faith amid our silent prayers,
healing isn’t linear, nor is life’s trajectory as we are riddled with fates that at times make us question our purpose in retrospect to the everyday,
this breath is but a gift of chance for us to continue walking mindfully with the beauty that surrounds us,
you are but a flower in the garden of tomorrow; blossom endlessly.
Dec 1, 2023
Dec 1, 2023 at 10:38 PM UTC
People assume things. They tend to do so every day, no matter the situation. Why? Who knows. What? All kinds of things. For example, they assume that the happiness I show them is real, when it is only a faqade. My happiness is the mask I use to hide my bitterness, my hate, my depression, my anxiety, my lonliness, my helplessness, and the broken pieces that I truly am. I mask many more things than this. My sanity is the mask I use to cover the fact that I truly am not in the right mind. I might not be insane, but I am certainly mentally unstable. My wholesomeness is the mask I use to hide the fact that I am beyond repair. I am broken in heart, mind, and spirit. My body may be intact, but the soul it masks is broken. It is broken in a million pieces and these pieces are slowly turning to dust - beyond repair. My smile is the mask that hides my tears. The tears that fall when no one is looking. My laugh is the mask that hides the screams of pain that constantly **** me from sleep. The screams echo in my ears and they never vanish until sleep takes over again. The make-up on my face is the mask that covers the tear tracks. My empty, emotionless eyes are the mask that keep my inner despair hidden. The hat, or hood of my hoodie are the masks that hide my scarred scalp. The scars there are from countless hairs being pulled out by my bare hands when I have a breakdown. My pants are the mask that cover my scarred thighs. The scars are from countless nights of countlessly and raggedly drawing razorblades across my sensitive skin. I am completely and utterly masked, hiding everything true about myself like a coward. I even take it so far as to hide my cowardice with a mask called strength. It is better to be masked than left out in the open with nothing to shield yourself, wouldn't you think?
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 9:05 PM UTC
*Make peace with yourself,
inspite of the everlasting riot in your head.
I have been placing one foot in front of the other,
creeping my way mindlessly through melancholy.
This isn't how it's supposed to be.
Have faith in what you do,
so that one day faith will repay you.
I have been contemplating doing all,
but the things I should be doing primarily.
This isn't how it's supposed to be.
Save time for your unique hobbies;
write all the poetry you need to be happy.
I have given up on the words, and the dialect,
and the books piled up on the shelves countlessly.
This isn't how it's supposed to be.
Draw yourself a tigh-fitting box,
then burst right out of it.
I have been confined to my comfort zone,
unkowingly losing a handful of opportunities.
This isn't how it's supposed to be.
Fall in love with yourself,
instead of spending time finding it with somebody else.
I have loved him too hard, yet ended it abruptly
just so I could set myself free.
And that's how it's supposed to be.*
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 12:26 PM UTC
I dance alone and countlessly wonder
if you're as confused as I am
I want to fall in love again
I want to find your gaze
and feel violated and connected
and be confused about what it is you mean
and what you mean to me
it's all some sultry dream.
I want your kisses again
I want you in my dreams again.
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 1:23 AM UTC
Approaches with adoration:
Beckoning benevolent beauty being blessed
Countlessly with contouring cryptic cuteness.
Dazzling, distracting, divine.
Elegance that will endure
forever.
Grateful for the gracefulness and
Heartfelt feelings.
Impetuously invoked by each other,yet
Joyfully jump starting and
Keenly kicking off
Lasting Luck for two.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 5:19 PM UTC
Am I,
protected and Ignorant?
Instead, choose to
countlessly amount problems.
Often wondering that romance, anyways
blind being without shade:
Sun-gazer;
fry pain from eyes.
As closed eyes turn,
eyes open for curiousity
you punish
No, just no…
Punish you, curiousity for open eyes.
turn eyes closed
as eyes, from pain, fry.
sun-gazer;
shade without being blind.
anyways, romance that wondering, often.
problems amount countlessly
to choose instead:
Ignorant
and
protected;
I am.
Oct 8, 2011
Oct 8, 2011 at 3:10 PM UTC
Second place achieved, after cheating.
You can say I have failed, I was beaten,
it's true, I lost. My number one did not
let me win, let me in, gave me hope
and now I have to cope with the feelings,
mixture of much, turns out to be just one,
indignant. The country loves his winners,
losers are not worthy. I'm more into blues.
Rock her world, making plans, another
man's idea, my misery, it's easy to understand.
Yet I'm the only one who does. I told you
I was wrong and sorry and hopeless.
Now, 24 seconds after timeless, countlessly,
trying, I give up. I am made to be second.
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 7:34 AM UTC
spread your broken wings, dove
flap them countlessly,
take off and forget about me,
you can leave,
i don't mind,
spread your love around my dove,
don't let anything grasp your broken wings once more,
be love.
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 1:10 AM UTC
I don't know what it means to be a good person anymore.
It was easier when my head was full of pigtails
instead of politics,
when good was opening doors
and doing your chores.
When it was easier to pick out the bad.
Children are gifted with innocence
and a diagram shaded with generalizations
that their parents hold as truths.
Mine shaded family members green,
male strangers red.
Mine shaded police officers green,
black people pink -
a whisper of bigotry, a silent justification.
Mine shaded teachers green,
playground bullies red.
But when innocence fades,
colors mix
and saturations grow stronger.
My grandma tells me that she wishes she could think like me
because she grew up
in a world without rainbows,
where white was good,
and everything else was bad.
But I don't know what good is
when all I see is gray.
It's not a generalization or a stereotype.
I'm not whining because I countlessly fail at using my privileges to help people,
I'm shouting
because I've been beaten down with criticism
for trying to be what I thought was
good.
My vision has been fogged with fear,
and whatever shade of green that trust used to be
is bleeding burgundy.
What the hell does it mean to be a good person?
Jul 9, 2016
Jul 9, 2016 at 8:41 PM UTC
*I can smell the rains
dark skys can tell too
to cease and ease the pain
and count on the coming gains
the swaying of the trees could be seen
cool tones of droplets settled on my skin
seated under my usual tree
I hear the chirping of birds next to their nest
I noticed the dancing of the calves and lambs
my mind on the coming treasure
to end these echos of doom
echos of doom
worst of a season
dry streams dusty field and clear skys
will be a thing of the past
should I judge a book by its cover?/
I countlessly count on the rewards of rain
the seasons will be as usual as my conscience tell me
sooner than later the echos of doom appear again
no rains,no gain but more pain
I shouldn't have counted my chicks before being hatched
echos of doom are at it again*
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 3:34 PM UTC
You came along with your bags,
All arranged and looking neat.
To find a place for a vacation,
To spend quality time within.
To your surprise, the door was shut.
No one welcomed you like before.
You questioned yourself countlessly
And tried knocking even harder.
All your efforts left no reward.
The ****** deal had finally ended.
There's no more room for you in there,
Embrace your shame and take your leave.
The damage you caused was terrific.
Never again will you get that chance
So carry your bags and cease knocking.
You're not welcome here, never again.
Dec 13, 2020
Dec 13, 2020 at 12:33 PM UTC
Wind and frost carves
Countlessly, silently
Meander along the timber
String together
Pearls of November
Echo the waves
of mercury atlas
ever-changing
and the pavements
of silver reflections
ever-blurring
Mirror sparkles and streams
of shivering lights afar
A whistle of a train leaving station
A stillframe of illunimation
A scent of deep autumn
A taste of earth burn
A burst of desire
A touch of you
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 1:01 PM UTC
Complications define our choice.
Day by day, we fear.
True love needs no voice.
Each smile faithfully followed by tear.
Confusion muddles our tormented minds.
Day by day, we hope.
Yet we are windows housing unruly blinds.
We are the threads of fate, forever intertwined as rope.
Courageously we defy what others say.
Day by day, we trust.
But the ends of our rope must soon fray.
And we shall discover if such love was merely lust.
Countlessly, I think of you.
Day by day, I remember.
From your hello to my adieu...
My passion is a fire, and each memory an ember.
Sep 1, 2012
Sep 1, 2012 at 8:20 PM UTC
it’s a daiquiri colored morn, countlessly
as I, gazing never tiring, of a vista I’ve seen,
awoken to, endlessly changing, voyagers of
birds and boats, the redecorating minimalists,
moving pieces on a latticed shadow lawn
the Sun eastern, asking the trees to turn and bow,
hence the shadows their branches cast are a waffling,
hopscotch pattern irregular, so jumping from/to
yellow-green sunspots, the children are delighted by a
new game, moving to and from and between an ever
changing crazy chessboard of light-patches unsquared
described, written of, yet here I am, once again, a servant
despairing, looking for new combinations of superlatives,
though I never spoke before of it as a vista,
until today, wondering why, perhaps because
it’s here, one lives, one doesn’t conceive of being
part and parcel of a vista, humans, just visitors,
pawn observers, gallery visitors, art appreciators,
transient hobos after forty years, truthfully claiming
that they’re merely still, passing thru, passing by
9:40 am, respectable hour to meander over
to the throne room, the four Adirondacks, them,
the year round poetry nook authorities, are equal
sunned, shaded, simultaneous, stately shadowing,
observing, advertising as perfect for composing,
willing to make verbal suggestions, rhyming notions,
especially when the poem pays proper obeisance
and so it does, and so it is, as you can clearly read
9:53am Sunday Jun 14
Year of the Pandemic
Jun 17, 2020
Jun 17, 2020 at 8:45 AM UTC
Threw each glass against the flow-shants of each word
vocal-tension, when form reacts against its shards, rotate sprinkle,
moving through the invisible waters in empty space I listen to these songs to go towards God
inviting God into my home, into my eyes and heart instead of focusing on flesh like you
lay my head down in the lap of God, my hair stroked by the hands of angels
to access me in this third density, they disguise themselves in jewels, in voices, in words and in the structure of pages, in the passages of the hekhalot, see me inside Lorelai;
drunk on the tales of the Most High, olives form and grow inside their teeth,
cheeks are rosied and I manifest with the light shone inside me, sourced from God and angels beyond me, connecting from a bridge deep within my kidneys,
relics of god-thought-sent from juvenile gardens, made countlessly,
unmatched and bountiful, Edens everywhere when He talks to me.
He sings to me, whilst whispering inside my brown ear; His hand cups my head, fingers sliding in between my curls:
“Admittance comes from the mind, acceptance comes from the heart:
the senses work extra-ordinarily,
the sonorous haze, the visual daze : a body peddles one forward
towards the trickery of the eye: and the eye is dazzled by the flashy things of the world, of what is human, something still so human
but the Eye and the Ear holds on to something more than that: intangible, indelible, incomprehensible.
Why don't you see with your Inner Eye? Why don't you hear with your Inner Ear? Think with your Inner Mind? The Higher Mind?” Somehow a breeze kisses my ears . . .
Sep 13, 2020
Sep 13, 2020 at 12:23 AM UTC
Different direction, apart from the mass,
it's just a cold, patient, let it pass.
But let me check, one last time, I'll
see if it is certain.
I've grown a beard while
he was searching, read a book and wrote
a song. It won't be long, is what he said,
is what he said,
pass me the remote.
I have laid my eyes on you, countlessly,
but this will be my last,
a burden for a future past.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 4:13 PM UTC
Countlessly,
I have found myself with the fleeting desire
to be all the people who have replaced me
and those whose memory I was meant to erase.
Though as quickly as I process the thought,
the wish to be who I am not dies
and I am left only feeling shame.
Shame that for even a split second -
I didn't see my worth,
I thought I wasn't good enough,
I compared myself to another.
Although, mainly shame for in that brief moment,
I didn't love myself.
Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 2:19 PM UTC
The sky was an ocean, clouds of foam washing against the mountains.
The sun was a golden drop of honey, casting light upon the emerald grass.
A pond lay still in the field of green, motionless and peaceful.
Calm was the water, and silent was the breeze.
One day when the sun was barely peeking over the mountains and the field was full of an early mist, the wind carried a single drop of water to the center of the emerald meadow.
The droplet fell into the grass and sunk deep into the earth.
For days of sun and nights of moonlight, the water and soil bonded to create roots.
The roots grew stronger by each morning, until one day a bit of a stem rose from the ground.
Hidden by the tall grass, it was still unseen.
The sun nor the moon could see what was slowly growing just before their gaze.
While the sky changed colors countlessly and the mountains woke again and again, something was slowly rising from the grass.
Soon it grew taller than the emerald field, and indeed the sun and moon did see it.
They awed over the astonishing beauty of the small flower.
A body of green and a head of white, the flower stood proud in the center of the meadow.
As the sun was retiring and the moon was beginning to cast its eerie light, the clouds grew violent and a storm arose.
The sky was dark and rain fell.
The grass swayed in the crying wind but the flower did not wilt.
It held still, its roots in fact digging deeper into the earth.
The next dawn was quiet and dreary.
The sun was dimmer, the grass was duller, the pond was still resting, and even the mountains looked asleep.
The white flower was seemingly untouched and even more bright than it was prior the storm, morning dew resting on its delicate petals.
Later the same day, a soft wind came.
Though it was a small gust, it unexpectedly swept right under the flower and pulled it from the ground.
It was carried with the breeze and dropped gracefully into the pond.
It drifted down the river, floating peacefully in the blue water.
Then a current pulled it down, and the flower swirled down to the bottom of the pond, never to be seen by the sun or the moon again.
Many sunrises later, a drop of water was carried by the wind to the center of the field.
When it fell to the earth, it sunk into the soil and felt the familiar roots of a flower.
The water built upon the roots and eventually, in the field stood a single flower.
Mar 23, 2020
Mar 23, 2020 at 10:06 PM UTC