"cystic" poems
My body once an ocean,
Water seeped through my pores,
Now a dry crustacean
Discontent shall be no more
My body a euphoric journey
In a wavely atomic state
In faithful hopes of good fate
No more cynicism, no more hate
No more No more,
I shall do without,
Without animus, without fear
And nor any further shedding of tear
My body a talkative spirit
Good spirit talk some more
Engage the well-winded conversation
But not end in confused frustration
My body animates love from
The surface of my Eyes
I do not wish for anymore Cries
Unneeded to despise
My body with yours
Perfection that pours
Connection that will ever last
Both in present and in past
You and me,
We equate you see,
Like two pods in a pea,
Or is it the other way around?
For beloved Eternity,
Our Universe smiles at each other,
In sane glee
Insane and happy
Our devotion cystic
The warmth holistic
We protect from Sadistic
Do you see? We click
My body once an ocean
Water seeped through my pores,
Now a dry crustacean
Discontent shall be no more
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 9:45 PM UTC
I know your pain,
They broke my bones and divided me.
Where have you been?
It’s been 19 years of this ****** mess.
This is your mother asleep at the wheel, This is your brothers blood in the backseat
When everything you love only seems like something you feel.
Sacred sediment wrapped in white gold.
Shiny as god’s revolver but twice as cold.
What you hear is all Casablanca and she’s shivering cold.
They took your teeth, fragments of what they sold.
Take these seams from me.
Split them down these American IV dreams.
Take these seams from me.
Take these two lips, cut me clean and free.
She put me out like a cigarette.
Burned at both ends.
And my history to the anesthetist
and my body to surgeons
Take these words from me.
These cystic fibrosis regimes.
Take these words from me.
Light blue collar worker bees.
- MW
Jul 28, 2011
Jul 28, 2011 at 9:32 PM UTC
I know your pain,
They broke my bones and divided me.
Where have you been?
It’s been 19 years of this ****** mess.
This is your mother asleep at the wheel, This is your brothers blood in the backseat
When everything you love only seems like something you feel.
Sacred sediment wrapped in white gold.
Shiny as god’s revolver but twice as cold.
What you hear is all Casablanca and she’s shivering cold.
They took your teeth, fragments of what they sold.
Take these seams from me.
Split them down these American IV dreams.
Take these seams from me.
Take these two lips, cut me clean and free.
She put me out like a cigarette.
Burned at both ends.
And my history to the anesthetist
and my body to surgeons
Take these words from me.
These cystic fibrosis regimes.
Take these words from me.
Light blue collar worker bees.
- MW
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 5:42 AM UTC
He looked me in the eyes
The other summer night
And told me of the abominations men of the world
Impose on women of the world
As if I didn't know them.
As if I weren't the ******
That time had ****** so,
So,
So ******* many times.
He told me I would never find a man
Who would treat me better than he.
But I found my hero
Without having to run away with Proud Mary.
And I may have found him
A midst empty days
And a longing to fill a chasm I found deep within myself,
But I found him nonetheless.
And as I sit here,
Awake for days and
Sick,
I hear his words echo
Like back blows
Administered
To the lungs of a Cystic Fibrosis patient.
He told me men on Craigslist
Look for women to ****
And women call their vaginas "oceans"
To try to pick up men.
But my love wants only a partner
To participate in a round of Super Smash Bros. with.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 1:16 AM UTC
The wisest of men once said to me,
if you are lonely amongst people,
you are probably bad company,
he also talked about the disease of consciousness,
how humans have given up their senses,
for a supposed superior mind,
which is best?
This man will soon die,
his outlook on life comes from,
isolation,
diabetes,
and cystic fibrosis,
I hope I can help his dreams to fly.
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 3:51 PM UTC
At the track kitchen that morning
I was playing cards with friends,
There sat Pop Sigh, we called Dead Eye
and Fats Jimmy, who drove the Benz
The fourth man, Wheel Chair Eddie
a boy of eighteen, I'd been told
The wheel chair, was his cross to bear
on each, God had broke the mold
Fast Eddie as I called him
suffered from Cystic Fibrosis,
"Get outta my way" he would say
"don't need no **** diagnosis"
Eddie was cleaning up on us
took me for two hundred three,
He was the best, wiped out the rest
taunting us all, with his spree
The others always let him brag
in pity for his condition
That might be, but they weren't me,
I'm not given to submission!
"Eddie, you're a gimp legged freak,"
I'd said, giving his chest a tap
"Off your **** or keep your mouth shut,"
"Hey Morgan, I won't take your crap"
He waved the money in my face
"you fish bite the same old hook"
"Man" he'd say, "you're easy prey
you make it sound like I'm a crook"
"If you'd climb outta that wheelchair
I would teach you some respect"
He'd laugh and jeer, show no fear,
"well now...what did you expect"
But Eddie had such little time
whereby, we all knew his plight,
What might I see, if I were he
I'd welcome their taunts to fight
While others made him feel sorry
for the state that he found himself in
I could see, he was just like me
though at times, I would let him win
I think that's why he favored me
he would seek me out, most the time
The reason he, played cards with me
in the hope, I would drop a dime
I never looked on him as sick
to me he was one of the ****
He knew I'd say, "Eddie, let's play,
come on, we need another man"
Tate
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 2:15 PM UTC
The dodecahedral light fixture wants to hover into my ear canal,
Humming distraction and anxiety,
Scratching at my white matter.
It nests on my shoulder, festering as a cystic rat
Nibbling at my lobe,
Tickling my spinal cord base.
Its patched gold foil,
Peeling from the age in which it has existed,
Dusts the line of my hair
In a metallic luster.
But this vintage incandescence only ignites my passion even stronger.
The bulb illuminates the dark corners of this coffee shop,
Blanketing any traces of apprehension,
Any remnants of doubt in saturated confidence.
My father sips his coffee and gazes at the suspended geometric glass object
Chained to the ceiling,
Residing over my command of the building,
And is indicatively pleased with my excellence.
The whipped cream glistens on his captivated mustache.
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 12:59 AM UTC
Cystic
Nothing but a cyst
Sloughing skin
Kept within
Cancer
Nothing but cancer
Sloughing skin
End/Begin
Dirt pop
Nothing but a dream
Simple wish,
Spinning disc
Meat pop
Nothing but a dream
Nothing good
Nothing grand
**** me. Rend me.
Pull my soul
Out of my ***
Hold me. Taste me.
Rub my flesh
Dance into death
The apartment lies just on the hill.
Beyond the defunct track, beside
The working track. Tall, pale grass
Pressed under trash. Food bags.
Food bags and drink cups.
Cigarettes, butts, and packs
Watch as the refuse stretches
Just as it is
Sharing light of morning sun
Cystic.
Cancerous.
Refuse.
Detritus.
Watch as the refuse stretches
Just as it is
Paper and/or plastic
Beautiful, isn't it.
Mar 10, 2019
Mar 10, 2019 at 11:52 AM UTC
(whose video powerfully, profoundly, and
positively affected this southeastern residing
Pennsylvania papa)!
Afflicted with Cystic Fibrosis since her birth
contagious exuberance, gung-ho,
infectious jubilance noah dearth
which eye opening (then tearing)
podcast link sent tummy
FaceBook account,
she distilled and
didst poignantly blog the
purpose driven life,
no matter...hmm...
her existential time
nearing thee finis
line on planet Earth
though upworthy defying
deathly clasp of grim reaper,
who scythe lent
lee doth await
she (titled lass of poem) established
a substantial supportive network,
via such an up
beat aura, charisma,
persona, et cetera create
ting global bond sans,
world wide web, aye equate
chance lucky opportunity
to witness airily especial
and gutsy acceptance
of her (congenital) grim fate
while this healthy
(as an oxymoron) lix
spit tilling chap doth hate
sweaty palms (a minor,
though tolerable inconvenience)
versus being irate
at an accursed disease
still no cure as of late,
yet...state of
the art revolutionary treatments
provide longevity, and... YES
possibility to discover a mate
though consigning severe limitations
but...WOW, that girl (unknown
til yesterday) doth narrate
positivity, which amazing
will power didst permeate,
within thine noggin
triggering sincere flowing tears
bursting forth at an unstoppable rate
hence this attempted rye
ming livingsocial tribute
to go for broke
esprit de corps elan trait
completing a bucket list
while eternal sleep will wait!
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 3:58 PM UTC
I'm devastation in cling wrap
Melted to the frame.
Popped balloons on birthdays.
A bankrupt business.
Giving out more then it has.
An empty O2 tank,
On the hip of a cystic fibrosis patient.
Useless extra weight.
Like an anchor
On a boat trying to set sail.
Going nowhere.
Remaining in the same spot.
Growing roots
That barely scrape the surface.
Only to be blown over
With a gust of insufficiency.
Inadequate valves
Leaking out life sustaining fluids.
With more effort to fail
Then to just
Let go.
Jul 31, 2019
Jul 31, 2019 at 10:39 PM UTC