"crushingly" poems
Mythical.
The artist is an old one,
Un-earthly and infinite,
Vast as heaven and the void,
The limitations of good and evil,
I am immune, yet soul crushingly bound to its power,
I am a toothpick,
Yet I am useful for now,
As I plan my escape,
Writing an endless map in memo pads and text files,
I tell myself it will someday be worth the while.
The artist is like you, reader,
The artist is ugly, disgustingly so.
The artist is beautiful, and puts me to shame.
The artist could burn the world with a thought,
But couldn’t break its teeth with a diamond,
No matter how hard it tried.
The artist is fictional,
Contextual,
Known only to I,
Especially as the artist.
I bet its laughing at me this second,
My feeble attempts to escape a napkin,
A tool to further other means.
I don’t mind it,
In fact, it’s rewarding in a way,
The artist lacks definition,
But moves with a sway,
It is hard to defend.
[(Impossible to define)]
My role is that of a journal of skin,
A memory bank to which it is akin,
But my limit is reached,
Something has come to a head,
I can feel the artist defined…
It has taken form,
And now,
Unfortunately,
Dead.
Sunburst
I wanted to ask it what it was thinking,
But I think I know now;
Bad things.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 2:15 AM UTC
I’m crushingly sentimental, you might not know, I don’t let it show, but it’s true. I’m walking in the moonshine and moonshine is how I feel - I’m intoxicated - by you.
Some nights when I can’t settle - I walk - and find myself outside your dorm. Your light’s on tonight, everything’s right, when you're a few feet away safe and warm.
I’ll wait a while, in the windy cold, the crunchy snow, deep in the sharp blue moonshadow. When people pass by, I look down at my phone - oh, don’t look at me, there’s nothing to see or do.
A walking girl, a stalking girl? Lingering, at 2am, drunk with desire, yearning somewhere inside for the ephemeral closeness of you.
Jun 3, 2022
Jun 3, 2022 at 2:40 PM UTC
A wise man once said:
“Wrong life cannot
Be lived rightly” [1]
Many become aware of
This fact, but rather than
Taking action, they instead
Resign themselves, to
Hopelessness and despair,
As doubt rears its ugly head,
Asking: “what can one person do?”
All the while, neglecting the fact
That this world overflows with
People who are just like they are,
Each of them “just” one, and
Each alone bearing the same burden,
Indeed, on the back of “just” one,
This burden is crushingly heavy, but
On the backs of many, it becomes
Lighter than a fallen leaf
Adrift in the autumn breeze.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 1:41 PM UTC
you used to make me feel like i was in flight;
above the clouds, with the breeze in my hair,
and no one around so i could actually be myself for once
nowadays, when i see you,
it make me feel like i’ve fallen down a flight of stairs;
all tangled up inside
and broken in all the wrong places
sometimes, i wish i could forget you
but then i remember i’ve avoided a lot of train wrecks
because of our atom bomb
we were the first of mine, you know,
the first to make me commit as big a mistake
as the ******* manhattan project
you ******* me up more than you can imagine
i lay waste for months, with no sign of human life,
or, life of my own, at least
i threw myself into the care of plants and cats
and writing love songs with terrible lyrics
telling tales of people who weren’t us;
of people who never fought.
of people would never leave the stove on
because something more exciting
was going on in life outside
i used to feel like i was always close to you,
to the world, to a bigger idea,
but now, when i think of you, i feel like
the bigger things are ominously closing in on me
closer, closer, too close, crushingly,
and you were always so physical
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 1:57 AM UTC
Still a child; fragile, undefined -
trembling, timid and shy -
a body curling inwards
- petals and moonlight -
we're magnetised:
this shared desperation and
fumbling adolescent shame.
A throbbing, suffocated silence -
lost hands and strangled hysteria.
Achingly tiny,
shattered-glass bones flutter,
colliding and entangling;
causing the skin to lift
and contort. To ebb -
a fluid - a pulse.
His shoulder-blades
(the crushingly delicate shiver
of butterfly wings)
cast splintered, mosaic shadows
(sharp and electric
to trace) along
the gasping, groaning spine...
Pharate, we're demolishing ourselves
in a gorgeous, stumbling,
careless collapse -
colliding in cold frenzy, desperate
to hide - burrow - entomb --
to bury ourselves - his mesmerising flesh.
Rasping out - teeth and lip
and tongue - ravenous,
animalistic despair.
With timid breath - to rip, devour, engulf --
to hiss and **** delicious venom.
An ache - a yearning - for absorption,
for skin, for blood -
to be consumed and to consume -
to feel every pain of it -
to be wrecked - to become
the same debris.
I spill out into his shadows,
his indents, his cuts and curves -
their fervent whimpers, electrified palpitations -
and he to mine:
It's as though we're eclosing,
these golden deodorant nymphas - we're quaking through;
tearing apart every sad smother of silk - and now
desolate; forever nothing
but drifting, lambent dust.
Skin like porcelain -
cold and wrong to touch -
yet stomachs hot,
hurtling hot.
Flesh winces - ripples - under
premature pain.
("I'm sorry. I")
He crumbles, cuts
my thighs
and leaves us both with
scars that we, as scars, forever treasure;
and with veins seeping Hemolymph;
to heal, to beat, to grow.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 3:13 PM UTC
“I am tired,”
I say
You ask if I was up late
Last night
And instead of telling you about
My hypocretin levels I nod
And laugh and say
“Something like that.”
“What, are you tired?”
My coach asks
He thinks he is
Trying to motivate me
But he does not know
That my very existence is
Bone crushingly exhausting
And yes,
I am tired
But I wouldn’t expect him
To understand
So I say nothing
When I say I have narcolepsy
And you say
“Must be nice, being able
To fall asleep anywhere,”
I have never related
To Ted Bundy more in
My entire life
You suggest I stop
Drinking coffee
I suggest you stop breathing
Teachers talk about the
Impact of sleep on
Mental health and
I think
Maybe that’s why
I’m always depressed
My doctor suggests I stop
Drinking coffee too
I am a little worried now
I google
“Caffeine related heart attacks
In teens”
My findings are not enough to
Convince me and besides,
A hospital visit
Is just an opportune moment
For a nap
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 11:12 AM UTC
thank you to my bestfriend
the one whos always there for me
the one who i can always rely on
for a shoulder to cry on
the one who i share every happy moment with
the one who i share every soul crushingly sad moment with
the one who i look forward to seeing when i wake up
the one who gives me the motivation to do anything
the one who is keeping me alive
thank you
i dont know what id do without you
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 1:08 AM UTC
The chair gripped like a bear
mauled into place
tongue tied, throat silenced
roaring....
ferociously .....
the door raged between us
locked loudly
cries , crawled their grimy patch
hung momentarily, felt the stale air
quietly gathering, pooling damply
cheek soddened in pain
giant force propelled, the floor
hard and unrelenting shocked my bones
breath forced itself outward....
black and rigid
the open window of before.... forced shut
palms spread across the floor
interrupted, reinforced toes stamped
crushingly, the sound resonating
without movement now
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 10:39 AM UTC
for Maria
if you have lived with me for more than a day,
you know I hero worship each individual word
in my birthed American English language
as is my style, I oft honor it with a poem,
but begin indubitably with a definition
Base
is such a word that deserves a recitation
for complex it is, a multiplicity of uses,
a word of many characters,
a word so unusual,
to the French I defer,
un mot plein de mystère
see its complexity,
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/base
a base is:
your bedrock, your cornerstone,
on firm footing your base must exist
t'is a groundwork word,
a keystone cop,
a root underpinning,
your warp,
your woof
Your children
so when taken,
when the spiritual
is crushingly wrong*
sometimes I feel like a motherless child,
*tense all wrong,
all wrong perversed,
the words reversed
You understand the nuance of words
so much better, and you
engage it
for now the word, just
enrages
Base
my new base
is
bad, black, evil, foul, immoral, iniquitous,
wrong and cruel
my new base-full state now,
my new base-less state now
this is my base now,
now that my organs,
cut from my body,
cannot be restored
Base is my life
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 5:51 AM UTC
This is what I know of crushingly reckless beauty in
that which overpowers us like a wild storm at sea
or the impossible mountain;
The Devil is in the detail but God is in the whole picture.
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 1:47 AM UTC
It is important to add just enough
of the lemon skin:
Too little and the cake is crushingly sugary sweet;
without the sharp texture that tickles the back of my throat
and brings on the threat of a sneeze.
Too much and the tiny yellow pieces-
like gold, like garnets, like tiny crystallized pieces of the sun,
like summer -my youth-
can overwhelm all else with the sharpness of tears, sour and bitter.
Smell is the sense
Most closely related to our memories
It should be sight -
I can teach my eyes to see anything.
I grind the lemon carefully against the grater
releasing summer in a rush of yellow
too heady for me.
and stare out the window through the pane.
If I focus hard enough, I can pretend I see
your suitcase was only a briefcase
as you hurried down the path,
and the giant lemon tree in the front yard
was budding soft white stars of scent.
But the smell of golden pith springing from the grater
prompts the memory of pendulous fruit dropping to the ground instead –
the wanton tree already ********** for spring’s touch.
The grater grinds against my knuckles
a drop of blood falls into the batter.
I am reminded again that
only the best fruit will hang too close to the thorns,
only the theft that is given makes us bleed.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 9:31 PM UTC
Sail away with me; come sail away with me; fight with, for, or against me with honor;
'Till Valhalla!
Rocking violently encased in metal on heavy seas, still safe, peacefully so; like some kind of Zen Buddhist **** (peaceful frustration). The journey might **** us. Though We still get to go. That's what it means to fight, 'till Valhalla!
Our pilot may doubt us but not in our endings; there is no room for doubt come our last day. Come Valhalla!
Crushingly optimistic he's our steam roller baby. He pilots because he has to, because we are finite, Because the premise of our story is that it Begins and Ends no matter who's doing the writing or The Dying or finding or lying or even The Killing. Our course is set;
'Till Valhalla!
Forget the word mistaken at your own peril on the open waters. Mistaken, this is a world full of Peril. Still, it matters for naught at The end, not for us princely warriors. There is a place where all geodesics Collide, where you and I can finally embrace without Malice. For where we would have arrived is Valhalla! Great hall of the dead, where wars leaves its warriors to dine among gods and forget they were men.
Jun 6, 2018
Jun 6, 2018 at 10:14 PM UTC
there’s a streetlamp on an avenue,
it throws out tiny galaxies of light.
they falter as they reach the outer layers of the cobblestone highway.
the light dances in a soft ballet with the shadows -
a plié that picks the innocence out of allies,
a pirouette that smiles at your doorway.
you might be slumped behind it
pretending the rugged wood is everyone it isn’t.
i hope you are.
if you are slumped behind that doorway,
with the light and dark dancing to a thousand phonographs,
i might be able to imagine you as someone who didn’t need a door.
someone who could take a door and see it as a door;
not a mother,
or a dog,
or a soundtrack,
or a piece of set.
i could imagine that you haven’t become a dramaturge,
that instead you see every movement and static implication
as crushingly real.
i would be able to watch reality wring your chest,
grind at your ribcage,
and that would hurt less -
watching you be torn apart and ground to dust
at the same time
by a reality that hates us both.
it would be the tiniest bit better,
because i can help you fight anything.
i can sand beside you and at least allow my remains to become dust as yours will
and we can blow down the streets together
and be stuck in the cracks together
but i won’t help you fight yourself.
if you hate yourself, i have to let you do it alone
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 1:51 AM UTC
What a cruel trick
of my own nature
that you would have to build
me up spectacularly
and then come back and tear
me down crushingly
and make me question if
you ever loved me
until I could for the first time feel
I can speak to you honestly.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 8:42 AM UTC
My mom asks me what I'm studying,
And I say The heart.
Her interests peaks,
Because she's always seen
The body as a work of art.
She wants to know more,
So I give her the brief about pumps,
What makes it faster or slower,
But I don't want to talk about this,
In truth, I haven't told my parents much since I started to go here.
We've studied anatomy,
And how bleeding works,
Biochemistry,
And why swollen red skin
Seems to always hurt.
But the more I've taken in,
The less I've given out.
As if being an expert for only you
Is what becoming a doctor is all about.
I tell my friends my grades are good,
Though I definitely study less than I could.
And after saying school is fine,
I skip to some other line
Of thought,
Like I suddenly don't have the time
To include my friends in this new life
Of mine.
It's not that they wouldn't understand,
Because these pals are smart as hell
And it's not that they wouldn't want
More details than "I'm doing well."
And it's not that to learn,
You have to forget,
About the people who matter,
Who got you where you needed to get.
It's that this world is skull-crushingly,
Mind-numbingly full
And at the end of the day,
Escape seems the goal.
But creating two worlds
Makes it easy to leave one behind.
And I wouldn't want to lose the rhythm
Of my values
Just to learn more medical rhymes.
So I need to work harder
To tell my mom about the heart.
To make these two lives
A little less apart.
How there're really two pumps,
No, really there're four,
And in some people's hearts,
You can hear a dull roar
Of a valve slamming shut
Or opening at the wrong time.
And if you've got pulses in your feet,
You're doing just fine.
To tell my friends the truth,
Instead of sloughing it off,
That asthma and emphysema
May have a similar cough.
Or that there are really two systems
That your body uses to clot.
And platelets aren't the only
Thing that you got.
To become a good doctor,
I have to become a good man.
And I thought until now
That was a simple enough plan.
But it might not just be about
Good bedside manner and empathy.
It might be more about how I treat
Those important to me.
If I can give everyone Zach
Without a dodge or excuse,
I'll become a doctor in training,
AND a doctor in truth.
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 2:23 AM UTC
One man alone...emerges
seeking to claim His own
Barely, yes
but still breathing
Desolations disgrace
is what has been shown
Clawing up from where
crushingly abandoned
Sure to escape
the horror the man
He has known
Describe Him
despicable rejected
Quite altogether forlorn
Surely far lower
than hopeless
Still advancing steadily on
There is not one
that He can call out to
Neither friend
nor family or home
Ignoring
the laughter of cynics
Oblivious
to the jeering of scorn
The continuous
critical whispers
only lengthen
the sojourn
He is upon
But still through
the music
of His conscious
His soul cries
a sad quiet groan
The total
incalculable sorrow
of all the man
He has borne
Finding
yet always pursuing
Searching for all
His destiny has sworn
One man alone......emerges
Seeking....... and sure
to reclaim His Own.
-R.
(06)
TX
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 12:54 PM UTC
i’m slowly breaking 5.27.25 (5:47 pm / 18:47)
i’m slowly breaking, can’t you see
can’t you understand me?
i don’t need to be diagnosed,
i just want you to hold me
and know me and see me
i don’t care that i’m broken in a hundred different ways
i don’t care that i’m cutting and starving
and crying alone and being depressed
i don’t care that the whole world is just closing in
claustophobically
crushingly
i’m slowly breaking
and i don’t care
i just want you to be here
May 27, 2025
May 27, 2025 at 8:56 PM UTC
from another side of a window,
a shadow permanently cast:
disinterest licks lips. like i ain't
care to know. as if time were
our great merchant, as if wares
bought ashore were something
more than summarisable.
doubt, crushingly, descends.
the shore-lined, i, sent moral
and virtue on pieces of 'hear',
& a little less say. words
falter; left to hang, unimaginatively,
like candles under the thatched
ceilings of humanity. oh,
how we were led to the water.
taught to breathe. how were we
ever pure? some animal below,
some eternity at fingertrim.
can't believe this freedom,
of sailing above standing
waves. set-out regularities.
wrought up a smile with
alligator teeth. dust's song.
yet another 2:01am.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 9:01 AM UTC
I remember through the haze of Hong Thong and Thai Stick
Our sterile love
In that shabby hotel
In Chiang Mai
Our stubble
Like Velcro
And I don't remember much else
Wasting away
Here
It's funny how you forget things
It's also crushingly sad
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 4:43 PM UTC
One man alone...emerges
seeking to claim His own
Barely, yes
but still breathing
Desolations disgrace
is what has been shown
Clawing up from where
crushingly abandoned
Sure to escape
the horror the man
He has known
Describe Him
despicable rejected
Quite altogether forlorn
Surely far lower
than hopeless
Still advancing steadily on
There is not one
that He can call out to
Neither friend
nor family or home
Ignoring
the laughter of cynics
Oblivious
to the jeering of scorn
The continuous
critical whispers
only lengthen the sojourn He is upon
But still through
the music of His conscious
His soul cries
a sad quiet groan
The total
incalculable sorrow
of all the man He has borne
Finding
yet always pursuing
Searching for all
His destiny has sworn
One man alone......emerges
Seeking....... and sure
to reclaim His Own.
-R.
(06)
TX
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 2:06 PM UTC
The Zombie came to Corrie.
First call Ken's place for a bit of brainy tea.
Later fancied a taste of something more mature.
Emily for supper.
Rita tasted mighty classy.
Tracy fought back.
Tony was a great big lummocks.
Thought he'd join Tracy in her zombie crushingly battle.
Kylie and Eva out on the lash.
Befuddled and pickled as Zombie teeth flash.
Dev fought independently in his corner shop.
Liz and Eileen mighty meaty.
Steve shook in defence of his mother dear.
Audrey,the dresser of hair got stuck in his teeth.
Gail, put up a fight with her tongue, David copped it in the ear, mother dear.
She'd noticed her new bedroom floor erupted.
World's end outside the bistro,
Callum's hanging out,
Looking for Sarah.
She's gone.
He wanted to share her with the others.
A really tasty morsel.
Callum's back.
(c)LIVVI
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 1:00 PM UTC
victimized by happenstance
the moral majority leans
crumbling faded pages
fall disjointed
the bible has slipped to light bathroom reading
and those betrothed to Jesus
cry themselves to sleep –
wringing clasped hands
and looking skyward for answers
they watch in helpless dismay
as true equality and individual freedoms
crushingly stomp values
based on 2000 year old desert stories
the dried tears
turn into salty anger
and systemic hate
based in fear –
gays proudly wed in churches
once maligned for witch burning
taking turns carrying each other
over middle-class thresholds
adopting impoverished babies
and the unwanted immigrant children
only to be blasted on mass media
for their ****** and unholy lifestyle
it seems to me
American Christians
have lost sight of the work
Jesus actually did –
Avidly reading and researching
the world’s religions
seeking eternally for the reasons
some semblance of an answer
as to why gods of love
would instill so much hate and fear
in their constituency…
their flocks ……..
those blind to reality
and subject to irrationality
because someone once told them
this book is the only way
and without it
salvation and peace
are bad jokes –
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 3:02 PM UTC
Rain falls like silence
Crushingly gentle and then
So suffocating
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 1:52 AM UTC
The oak doors that caught the light,
as natural as the fizzy drink raised to my lips-
shone in the midsummer evening.
Yet they swung back,
into a room not unlike a painting
where the artwork is but the frame.
Spoken word.
but why was the room crushingly quiet?
Five there was, i think.
As is my norm, their names were not handed to me
but assigned by me.
Little miss Smiley- staring into her own sky.
Mr gentle Giant- filling out his seat, but oh so fast to greet.
Blue dude- all suede and swagger.
Minnie mousey- eyes as sharp as diamonds, touch as gentle as velvet.
Then Luna- because he glowed, but not burned.
Because my mouth thinks for me,
soon i was enveloped by these souls, these strangers.
But then the time ticked,
pens and notepads out, all aglow.
Revealing their dice game "A Word A Throw".
Cause i was new, first i had to go.
Once upon a midnight dreary- i would of prayed for "Alone"
I don't believe it's fate when it landed on "Home".
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 5:45 PM UTC