"criticality" poems - Hello Poetry

for the 111 yr. old young lady from Mars <•> fluids in, fluids out wake up at midnight, lips, throat, even eyes, California Death Valley parched, white crusted-stuck together, it takes Poland Spring water from the Northeast to unlock the throat, ****** not sipped, from a plastic gourd the chilling wetness slap to the body and brain screams metaphor, poem in there somewhere, so what if it's spat-past midnight, isn't this one of those soul-criticality's, staying hydrated, (is) disco staying alive make sense to you? the older I get, thirstier I am, could be I'm drying/dying out from the inside out, doctors clueless, but then again they don't reveal all they see out of poetic professional courtesy and they are tired of yeah yeah yeah, my professional courtesy answer to their dire warnings repetitious tonight tho the metaphor runs strong like a mountain stream, a Mt. Marcy beginning trickle growing into a mighty Hudson, and the driving urge to drink, simple replenishment, birth fluid is strong transformed into words water is words, the water is wide, the poems hydrate what's left on the inside, and the metaphor transforms itself again water is words, words are water, the difference huge, the difference minuscule, both pour, both refresh like a mother's body fluids, all for one, one for all, and as closing time grows nigh, staying-hydrated is primate place a new cold bottle in readiness for my 3 o'clock feeding

0

Nov 14, 2017

Nov 14, 2017 at 1:50 PM UTC

left-foot

staying-hydrated

for the 111 yr. old young lady from Mars <•> fluids in, fluids out wake up at midnight, lips, throat, even eyes, California Death Valley parched, white crusted-stuck together, it takes Poland Spring water from the Northeast to unlock the throat, ****** not sipped, from a plastic gourd the chilling wetness slap to the body and brain screams metaphor, poem in there somewhere, so what if it's spat-past midnight, isn't this one of those soul-criticality's, staying hydrated, (is) disco staying alive make sense to you? the older I get, thirstier I am, could be I'm drying/dying out from the inside out, doctors clueless, but then again they don't reveal all they see out of poetic professional courtesy and they are tired of yeah yeah yeah, my professional courtesy answer to their dire warnings repetitious tonight tho the metaphor runs strong like a mountain stream, a Mt. Marcy beginning trickle growing into a mighty Hudson, and the driving urge to drink, simple replenishment, birth fluid is strong transformed into words water is words, the water is wide, the poems hydrate what's left on the inside, and the metaphor transforms itself again water is words, words are water, the difference huge, the difference minuscule, both pour, both refresh like a mother's body fluids, all for one, one for all, and as closing time grows nigh, staying-hydrated is primate place a new cold bottle in readiness for my 3 o'clock feeding

25

To lose the robust and ephemeral vitality, is waking up in dazed desolate imitation, that creases and crinkles euphoric principality. Blades of grass, sharp tipped spears of unreality. A chilling, a challenged negation; to lose the robust and ephemeral vitality. Spinning round the ugly formality, are snickers, unshy sneers of an evil salvation, that creases and crinkles euphoric principality. Thrilling no longer a verb, piano key pressing its precious mortality into her throbbing thrashed temple dictation. To lose the robust and ephemeral vitality. A ****** numb soul with the criticality of skeptics, chewing their lips, a dead cell castration emotional stripping, slipping into complete impromptu filtration. That creases and crinkles euphoric principality.

0

Jun 21, 2012

Jun 21, 2012 at 10:39 PM UTC

brianna-heins

Depression: An Explanation

To lose the robust and ephemeral vitality, is waking up in dazed desolate imitation, that creases and crinkles euphoric principality. Blades of grass, sharp tipped spears of unreality. A chilling, a challenged negation; to lose the robust and ephemeral vitality. Spinning round the ugly formality, are snickers, unshy sneers of an evil salvation, that creases and crinkles euphoric principality. Thrilling no longer a verb, piano key pressing its precious mortality into her throbbing thrashed temple dictation. To lose the robust and ephemeral vitality. A ****** numb soul with the criticality of skeptics, chewing their lips, a dead cell castration emotional stripping, slipping into complete impromptu filtration. That creases and crinkles euphoric principality.

16

Let us render clear, The vital items Of our lives, Not the things of pleasure, But those things without which We may find ourselves expired, Or at least severe impaired, Beyond Those things that are The sustenance of life, There is a list that can be made, Food, Water, Air, The last is mostly critical for its Oxygen, What if we were to lose An equally critical component, The oxygen of our life, Not the O2, That mixes with the nitrogen We breathe, But that very something that Sustains our soul, That very life line That many of us must have. True, Some are more tightly Interwoven with it than others, For some it is Like unto the umbilical cord, As critical as that to which we cleaved Within the womb, Without it we wither. What is it? For some it is a place, For some a drug, For others A person, For all, A vital element, Defined only by us As individuals - involuntarily, The level of criticality unknown, Until it is lost, Whereby we are, Perhaps for the first time, Truly working without a net, Or a sense of direction, And we begin slow suffocation, Not of the lungs, But of a different kind, A drowning of the mind and soul, For, Without that special oxygen, Whatever, Or whoever it may be, That beacon, Like unto a horizon reference, We are slowly, But surely, Unmade.

0

Oct 11, 2011

Oct 11, 2011 at 8:51 PM UTC

gary-l-misch

The Metaphysics of Breathing

Let us render clear, The vital items Of our lives, Not the things of pleasure, But those things without which We may find ourselves expired, Or at least severe impaired, Beyond Those things that are The sustenance of life, There is a list that can be made, Food, Water, Air, The last is mostly critical for its Oxygen, What if we were to lose An equally critical component, The oxygen of our life, Not the O2, That mixes with the nitrogen We breathe, But that very something that Sustains our soul, That very life line That many of us must have. True, Some are more tightly Interwoven with it than others, For some it is Like unto the umbilical cord, As critical as that to which we cleaved Within the womb, Without it we wither. What is it? For some it is a place, For some a drug, For others A person, For all, A vital element, Defined only by us As individuals - involuntarily, The level of criticality unknown, Until it is lost, Whereby we are, Perhaps for the first time, Truly working without a net, Or a sense of direction, And we begin slow suffocation, Not of the lungs, But of a different kind, A drowning of the mind and soul, For, Without that special oxygen, Whatever, Or whoever it may be, That beacon, Like unto a horizon reference, We are slowly, But surely, Unmade.

62

I sometimes talk to others with the same tone I talk to myself With the same criticality, the same distain Sometimes I don’t Sometimes I’m forgiving, I’m tender Sometimes I’m compassionate and kind I must remember this To keep it in mind For the next time Myself and I Speak again

0

Feb 14, 2021

Feb 14, 2021 at 7:54 AM UTC

troy-wylie-hill

To keep in mind

I sometimes talk to others with the same tone I talk to myself With the same criticality, the same distain Sometimes I don’t Sometimes I’m forgiving, I’m tender Sometimes I’m compassionate and kind I must remember this To keep it in mind For the next time Myself and I Speak again

10

that's the thing on the tip of my tongue in a heart i felt nothing but i had some dawns in me already breaking truth that else is not always else and my self was not always myself and i trust this and i need this truth and if it's called selfishness then i admit it to be i swear it to be because a heart where there is nothing else only comes about for me an end, i reach, came finally all that was amind was mine. the biggest fog, cloudiest bog aggregated aggravation wish i could go around and change the notation never MIND the abject self-criticality i mind it the most when you mess with my practicality cause i'm sick of this big big fog that i carry in me. you wanna carry this for me? i carry it for no reason but an old commitment i used to have for interreality and this isn't really my reality this is your reality so we play, and when we do, we play across the line and when we cross your faults, they become mine but like always i'll take them it's fine forgetting i'm already sick of the weather forgetting i don't know how to make it better forgetting it forgetting it filled of others I'M FILLED with others of what else? you say else never was the anti-me but i fought inner wars to have it reconciled in me well, in any case, your else, i used to make it mine but here i fulfill my own. disown disown disown cause i've laid no ties to this weaky throne nor to the cloudy ****** weather i'm gonna have overthrown belonging to all these people i asked to leave me alone by the way, they never left me alone till i finally left me alone honey i'm home honey honey i'm home i'm more than skin i'm more than bone but i'm not you i'm my own i keep thinking if only i had known if only i had known

0

Jul 18, 2016

Jul 18, 2016 at 4:24 PM UTC

ultraviolet

nothing clears nothing but who's gonna stop me from pretending it will

that's the thing on the tip of my tongue in a heart i felt nothing but i had some dawns in me already breaking truth that else is not always else and my self was not always myself and i trust this and i need this truth and if it's called selfishness then i admit it to be i swear it to be because a heart where there is nothing else only comes about for me an end, i reach, came finally all that was amind was mine. the biggest fog, cloudiest bog aggregated aggravation wish i could go around and change the notation never MIND the abject self-criticality i mind it the most when you mess with my practicality cause i'm sick of this big big fog that i carry in me. you wanna carry this for me? i carry it for no reason but an old commitment i used to have for interreality and this isn't really my reality this is your reality so we play, and when we do, we play across the line and when we cross your faults, they become mine but like always i'll take them it's fine forgetting i'm already sick of the weather forgetting i don't know how to make it better forgetting it forgetting it filled of others I'M FILLED with others of what else? you say else never was the anti-me but i fought inner wars to have it reconciled in me well, in any case, your else, i used to make it mine but here i fulfill my own. disown disown disown cause i've laid no ties to this weaky throne nor to the cloudy ****** weather i'm gonna have overthrown belonging to all these people i asked to leave me alone by the way, they never left me alone till i finally left me alone honey i'm home honey honey i'm home i'm more than skin i'm more than bone but i'm not you i'm my own i keep thinking if only i had known if only i had known

57

shapeless form flowing easy whirling and twirling to infinity colliding with memories and creating delusion synapsis fire seemingly random shapeless formless mass shifts altering long held beliefs and morphing religious boundaries gifting treasonous ideals to steadfast personal decisions without consideration to ramifications – free flowing thoughts cascade leaving trace elements behind fitted with apparatus engineered to change one’s mind create a new thought pattern extend and elongate the process into criticality the path to becoming a critical thinker is no longer marked or taught it has become up to the individual to learn this important and valuable skill lest we all vote Trump and live on McDonalds –

0

Mar 2, 2016

Mar 2, 2016 at 5:47 PM UTC

s-lyman-temple

thought on strike

shapeless form flowing easy whirling and twirling to infinity colliding with memories and creating delusion synapsis fire seemingly random shapeless formless mass shifts altering long held beliefs and morphing religious boundaries gifting treasonous ideals to steadfast personal decisions without consideration to ramifications – free flowing thoughts cascade leaving trace elements behind fitted with apparatus engineered to change one’s mind create a new thought pattern extend and elongate the process into criticality the path to becoming a critical thinker is no longer marked or taught it has become up to the individual to learn this important and valuable skill lest we all vote Trump and live on McDonalds –

24

In the dim corners of an archaic repository Guarded by shadows and subdued mystery A nerve cracking tale of emotional misery A chronicle of unspoken, untold history The brutal lash of a leather belt The screams, the echoes, the relentless assaults felt The horrifying scars, the unbearable welt Withers my soul, seeing a mother being forcibly knelt The haunting cries beneath the moon’s cold gaze A child’s fragile heart, encountering frightened days The tormenting intuition, the intolerable helplessness Depicting this insensitive world, how time and tide frays The hypocrite neighbours with malicious intention Their hollow candour, veiling a double faced complexion The depraved society, lost in its superficial attention The child, gasping for emotional care on the ventilators of affection The backbiting relatives, feeding on unbidden hospitality Once in a blue moon, do they emerge in adverse practicality The mother crying her heart out, even in such criticality Traumatised, by the unforgivingness of such harsh reality The translucent mask, leading to intensifying mistreat Ignorance, structuring a highway of unimaginable deceit Betrayal, the shift, from friendship to cheat Mental burnout, draining the child to inevitable defeat Tribulation getting culminated with every dart Still the mother, protecting her child with a brave heart Believing that someday, there will be a cheerful start Today, that kid stands in front of you, portraying this beautiful art

0

Jan 24, 2025

Jan 24, 2025 at 1:40 AM UTC

avici

The Last of Past

In the dim corners of an archaic repository Guarded by shadows and subdued mystery A nerve cracking tale of emotional misery A chronicle of unspoken, untold history The brutal lash of a leather belt The screams, the echoes, the relentless assaults felt The horrifying scars, the unbearable welt Withers my soul, seeing a mother being forcibly knelt The haunting cries beneath the moon’s cold gaze A child’s fragile heart, encountering frightened days The tormenting intuition, the intolerable helplessness Depicting this insensitive world, how time and tide frays The hypocrite neighbours with malicious intention Their hollow candour, veiling a double faced complexion The depraved society, lost in its superficial attention The child, gasping for emotional care on the ventilators of affection The backbiting relatives, feeding on unbidden hospitality Once in a blue moon, do they emerge in adverse practicality The mother crying her heart out, even in such criticality Traumatised, by the unforgivingness of such harsh reality The translucent mask, leading to intensifying mistreat Ignorance, structuring a highway of unimaginable deceit Betrayal, the shift, from friendship to cheat Mental burnout, draining the child to inevitable defeat Tribulation getting culminated with every dart Still the mother, protecting her child with a brave heart Believing that someday, there will be a cheerful start Today, that kid stands in front of you, portraying this beautiful art

28

I hit the ground running What else was I supposed to do When I fell Every thought in me All that I believed Said I should have seen this coming. But where were you Who were you Who was it I thought you would be What did I expect you to do Who were you... Who was this "you" in my memory A perfect stranger Or maybe me What did I expect Was myself not enough to survive the storm When I asked you and you held me up Did I expect that you had some deeper knowledge -- did you know me -- did you see me for who I am... not who you thought I should be Give it up, Ive had enough, I drink too much to believe in belief I am my worst enemy above even your worst Criticality So take a breath and walk away... Maybe just let me breathe.

0

Nov 1, 2023

Nov 1, 2023 at 6:34 PM UTC

brass-knuckles-mike

Out of Air

I hit the ground running What else was I supposed to do When I fell Every thought in me All that I believed Said I should have seen this coming. But where were you Who were you Who was it I thought you would be What did I expect you to do Who were you... Who was this "you" in my memory A perfect stranger Or maybe me What did I expect Was myself not enough to survive the storm When I asked you and you held me up Did I expect that you had some deeper knowledge -- did you know me -- did you see me for who I am... not who you thought I should be Give it up, Ive had enough, I drink too much to believe in belief I am my worst enemy above even your worst Criticality So take a breath and walk away... Maybe just let me breathe.

27