"dauntingly" poems
You were born with a silver spoon in your mouth
and the world at your feet
always taunting me
dauntingly
you held out the spoon
dripping in your spit
I held out my tongue
and prayed for rain
to soothe the pain
of thirst
but never tasted it
And your tongue tasted more like iron
and your touch felt like steel
and so sharp and cold
against the dry of my skin
my sin
you loved to hold
and stole
away from me
the overprotective mother
of a child you *****
and praised
You told me we'd dance
but it felt more like pulling
like swinging
like violently orbiting 'round
the sun you're too well aware you are
you are
bound to burn out before too long
bathe me, cleanse me, shave me
make me
everything you want to take me
touch me
beat me
anything
any kind of embrace will do
will you?
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 10:50 PM UTC
******
Dauntingly so.
Haunting light.
Emits,
From hazy heads.
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 1:17 AM UTC
It is vice versus virtue, in vindictive victories, laden in vanity, as venial villainy, intervenes in the memes of the idolatry, that dauntingly hangs from branch-less trees, vetted out, and stripped by thieves, as only on our knees we breathe, in peace.
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 12:35 AM UTC
... a lamentable natural disaster ―
no one really ever understood
the uncomfortable loneliness they read,
left unsaid, in the silence between the lines
Gathered words often revealed
an awkward vulnerability
a life tethering by a frayed thread
unable to shed the skin that enfolds
the dauntingly misunderstood laments
Suspended at friendless crossroads
melancholy days of malignant indifference
stifle the whispered thoughts,
"accepting an unfinished life"
evanescent as the faltering light,
musing many a sleepless night
It’s as if there was always some wordless reason
to never feel "good enough" to just be,
unworthy to discover elusive love,
cleave a labyrinth out of the darkness,
okay to just let go
It’s not a weakness to be human
"Tears are the heart’s traces" … he once wrote
"only eyes cleansed by teardrops see clearly"
heaven's rain unconditionally enlightened
by love and light.
Someone said a poet died
trying to make sense
out of all he thought he'd given
a word at a time was left behind
only abandoned words remain
orphaned in the drowning silence
harlon rivers ©
Jun 29, 2017
Jun 29, 2017 at 12:17 PM UTC
In the dark night, before dawn,
A darker shadow drew near —
Death, a despicable guest,
Come to take what's dear.
Under the covers, deep in dreams,
I did not awake with fear.
...
Dauntingly, I was lost in oblivion
While Death drew breath right here.
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 8:35 PM UTC
Story after story
Displayed on stories upon stories
Of multiple library floors
In large spacious rooms
Levels of fiction
Nonfiction
Mystery
Poetry
On and on they go
Lined on shelves dauntingly high
Or Child-level low
Artful as featured works in museums
We congregate with hushed voices in examination
Yet we can touch them
We are invited to
We can reach out and remove a piece of history
From the ancient days of scrolls
To the modern pages
We pull them from their places
To discover the wonders within
Sharing in the joy that emanates
From the joining of imaginations
A connection so powerful
It unites the hearts of strangers
We lose ourselves for hours
In our favorite chapters
With our beloved characters
Whom we come to love as precious friends
Reading ignites the imaginative powers of the self
And it all begins by pulling a book off of a shelf
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 5:28 PM UTC
Its nefarious arrogance, that's scaring grandparents, but its in the air and I'm airing it, as we are seeing all the signs, but just staring at them.
Somehow there is safety as an arian, where we are safely alien to Americans made in sapient sanitariums, shooting you first for glaring at em.
So what if i'm Dolling up my delirium for a serum to cure them all.
I am awol, from my call to duty, recreating movies, for serial groupies, suiting up to slither a delivery of a soothing sour piece.
I am stalling to clean the secretions from hostel sheets from the screamers being eaten, by Cretans, with beaten dogs at bay, staring blank at the fanfare from a cage.
Im burning white sage, under pages of poetry anointed by a stoical spleen, tuning out the dreams, of lesser beings, until complete.
A zoo within a zoo within a zoo, i barely know you now
Barely know how, to know you as a model citizen with baller trimmins, fixins, and a life with others wives, in the rough diamonds of the bluff, before the door opens just enough, to look through and confirm what you already knew.
Love is the stuff dreams are made of.
And through you..
Im through.
Pleading, to seed the need for repentance and with reduced sentences, bleeding the demands on stances of chance, in costly cants.
I am convulsing in the congruence, in which I am influenced, by my afflictions of depictions in my head
I might be addicted to the dread of previously said decor, in my adorable horror show afloat, deplorably denoting the nopes of logic, and the slippery slopes of khangi, that spring off me when i'm coughing on my green tea.
You are wrong to stop me in my dislogic, dodging the narcotic mocking of toxic strong arming, in proxy alarms, setting barns ablaze.
I praise the poetry pushed on me, dauntingly haunting me with savant like ambiance, from the have nots, having things as far as the eyes can see.
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 12:51 AM UTC
If I could but learn to discard a wounded piece of self
If I could part with the beautiful symmetry
Of the cogs, driving forth the machinations,
Churning with their white noise, that
Turn to shape maiming thoughts
Then I might one night close my eyes,
Not to images of words bound by self-deriding connotation,
Comprised of typos and back-strokes
But to a peaceful blackness
Yes, I might lie down, close my eyes
Out of a will for rest, not contrived
But organic and my own
And so I know this as my waking dream
Relegated to wake for the night has been
Deemed the world of painful perfection
A place where protection is offered
With a backward hand, carefully made
Patron to the lovely polished mental instruments
Used to bludgeon simplicity and idiosyncrasy
Used to leverage pressure on the scales of the heart
So to tip downward the side of known cyclic indifference
And lift upward toward heightened neglect
The side of pleasure, the side of silenced retrospect
I grow, each sleepless evening, more fearful
That the ugly, backward hand might never forgo its leverage
And, if life is a wellspring of knowledge
Feeding into a stream of lessons
Then my strife stems from reading of the
Same page in the same chapter of the same textbook
A book filled with words bound by self-deriding connotation,
Comprised of typos and back-strokes
On this page, one learns a fundamental formula
It derives the relative weights of who we are
And the happiness we might find
Through some convoluted tale of misfortune
My page was written by an ugly, backward man
So, through unsagely studies, I’ve concluded
That the art of well defined reprimanding thought
Does outweigh in its beauty, the unseen hope
Of a future left to whim and bliss, or perhaps
The simple elegance of chance, goodness unsought
So, for the first time in my life, I seek to unlearn
I seek to roll back the defining lines that once flowed
From the pen in a backward hand that yearned to sow structure
But the vaulted walls that hold the scales of one’s will
Are so dauntingly difficult to unbuild or puncture
This, truly, is the weight that each sleepless night
Bares down upon my sleepless heart, so heavy
If I cannot pull exacting, formulaic pages from my sight
I fear the only peaceful blackness I will find
Is one against no patron hand can levy.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 5:14 PM UTC
I'm a lost beat in a generation that I don't belong in
This accent isn't my own, and nothing is really just nothing
On drunken nights I feel you, your words stumble upon my sight
And I feel, I feel... static, ecstasy, loneliness
This beauty which you claim of blossom fields and grey empyreal
It mimics my inner-manic. Estranged voice that dauntingly whispers:
don't claim to the beauty you see
Satellite heart, you're losing your signal, again
I'd build a ladder to the sky and climb every star,
past the moon and beyond, if I could.
I've tried, you know I've tried.
Although I refuse to recline,
denial itself fixates truth:
I'll never be able to fix you.
To quench your thirst, to ease your pain, keep you awake
I'd make you stay, forevermore upon your desire, you know I would.
In my mind, I'll hold your hand without interference
And if tears do in fact dry on their own,
I'll cry yours along with mine until they do.
Feverish trembling of reminisce will not exist, not here
Outside these city walls,
To a place afar from calendar days and neon glistening hours
We will dance atop telephone wires
The soles of our feet tracing back to the sound of that very first call
*gliding, floating, drifting
recklessly, carelessly, quixotically - - -*
And if we fall, love, imagine that imaginations fly.
It's been said, as they say, that everything, everything ends
We are not everything, however. We are merely ourselves alone
You and I, it is just you and I, dispersed, coffee of the sea
For no reason other than our own, we rage in reprise as
Metaphors among caffeinated tides.
We are not infinite, immeasurable, imperishable
Our ancient bodies have long been buried in one-an-others heart
We are our own. Constant as the silence of sound.
Ceaselessly, immersed in the slumber of our dream
We are, we are, w e a r e
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 5:38 AM UTC
Black tidal waves encompassed by the wall of lipstick,
releasing steam becoming inhaled from the mouth that sleeps.
Black curvatures sped along the ghostly lines to ease the tick,
relapsing legs touching to the web that weeps.
No winged-beast, no unpredictable mind,
to lullaby the creator of both the invisible and the translucent.
Slowly suffocated to the echo of the riled up rhyme,
slowly spitting out the guts of red paint.
Freedom flown, fists formed,
molding white pieces into scattered clouds.
Head hung, heart hummed,
wailing teary notes into ripped wedding gowns.
Cycle of the eaten, and the uneaten,
all must gallantly fall; however births ripples.
Sanctions of the needed, and the unneeded,
all must dauntingly call; however pictures simple.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 3:19 AM UTC
I remember those days on the seawall;
wondering if the waves would come and crash
over our heads, hoping to be swept out
by the vicious tide, but only to turn back
and drift ever slowly back to the path
that haunted as the black ominous storm.
But you always stared out into that storm
and at the last second the sad seawall
was to your back, and on the brave new path
you set out, standing to the rise and crash
of the waves. “Just don’t forget to come back”
I’d scream, knowing the storm washed my words out.
I always knew not to follow you out
to the shore. You and I both knew this storm
and that the only safety was left back
at the comforting height of the seawall,
but somehow you ignored the flash and crash
of lightning set to us on a clear path.
But what if I had followed in your path?
Perhaps if I decided to walk out
to that shore, and allowed the waves to crash
at my feet, that the dark and frightening storm
would ease, the dauntingly distant seawall
no longer beckoning me to turn back.
Yet somehow it seemed simpler to turn back,
maybe it would be fair to say my path
and yours were not the same, and the seawall
could not stop you from your adventure out.
When the drop fell, were you lost to the storm?
I wished I could protect you from the crash.
Or maybe there had never been a crash…
you always seemed to find a new way back
at the gentle conclusion of the storm.
I’d see you strolling up your normal path
and the waves from the shore would follow out
to rest peacefully along the seawall.
“Maybe in the next storm…” I’d follow that path
and I will not look back to the seawall,
but out to the black cloud and blinding crash.
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 3:24 PM UTC
Shall I spill words?
Shall I spill tears?
Or Shall I spill blood?
Indegenious to my nature is the fact,
That it can't stay,
It needs to flow,
It needs to be felt and heard by another existence,
A much kinder and understanding one
Hitherto,
the sacrifice to spill has left a dauntingly adverse repression,
Nothing has sustained,
all has been robbed,
"Shall I spill away all that has been left of me?"she wonders
Sep 21, 2024
Sep 21, 2024 at 3:51 PM UTC
Colargrins
I pull daggers from my sinking heart, liquefy blades, and splash back in spades upon the staggering departure of my starts.
Ill finish even with a diminished will.
Im not always first, but **** it in the last minute in nervous fidgeting of my reality rippling through residual hauntings of the feel of the feeling of your reeling in the excitement.
Dauntingly, flaunting, the alarming charm of tongue, eniticing the romantic knifing of lungs, in spent breaths, confessed of the love of truth.
Rasp out the hiss, as whisps of winds licked from jackals lips.
Whip the words in willful waning of the facts.
Aim to ****
Ill just Relax to the drop of the ax
Im a ridiculous idiot
Meticulously breaking it down to absolutes, in my astute fickleness.
Lustily finding finesses in the regrets of others, smothering prideful chuckling of chummery in distractive strumming of the nothings, shielding the view of this place, changing the hue of my face in the light.
Step away from the light
You dont wanna see what lurks within the night
My lackluster mustering is the recipe for disaster.
Ill just master the disguise, with too much time, miles of smiles, lies, and cold hand shakes that imply my maniacal despise.
Hi!
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 2:58 AM UTC
.
A dark shape
dauntingly blows around
as I lie in a fetal position
watching the smoke
from a once raging fire long spent
reaching for the sky
One lone ember barely glowing
remains, gasping for oxygen,
fading by the second
until it is nothing more
than a bit of ash
scattered easily by the wind
I was that fire
once raging
and the ember my heart,
now merely a dark shape
dauntingly blowing around
what used to be me
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 7:04 AM UTC
Cold, cold floors press
against the soles of my feet,
as I roll out of bed
still affined to my sleep.
While my eyes remain low
and quite dauntingly heavy,
my hands moving slow
part them ever so stiffly.
Then, before me a speech,
spoken only in vision,
brings tears to mine eyes
by its glorious image.
Alive yet again,
the sight gives me relief,
for the glorious sun
shan't deliver disbelief.
Oct 21, 2011
Oct 21, 2011 at 2:58 PM UTC
you are my booming clap of thunder during summer rain,
my inconvenient papercut placed conspicuously on a knuckle;
my stringent alcohol spilled into a pulsing, gaping wound,
and my burning bee sting on a painfully humid afternoon.
your ugly fangs spew venom more toxic than any poison,
and you hiss and growl and spit dauntingly.
with words so harsh and grating they are impossible to ignore,
you raise your head, poised for attack, and you shreik and wail
until the sound echoes throughout my whole being,
shaking me from the core and eliciting curious emotions.
my feeble defence is no match for your well-trained
and perfectly executed attack, and i crumble.
it's a poisonous cycle, inevitable and futil, that drains
every ounce of moral fiber and happiness from my soul.
suddenly, my fingers entrap your small little throat,
and they squeeze as hard as they possibly can,
until the blood bursts into your eyes.
it's only a dream, but my fingers can't help but remember...
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 3:13 AM UTC
Full of wrinkle and ridges,
It has a face of it’s own.
Is not appealing to look at,
and it rests on my shoulder bone.
Like a little tilted crown just resting there,
I kind of like it, when they stare.
Even though not in the way that I would want,
but it gets me attention anyway,
so why wouldn’t I flaunt?
I’m so proud of this part of me,
because it’s a reflection,
and also a memory.
When I look down at it, I smile,
It’s been the best statement to make,
it’s always in style.
Who knew I would grow to love tea so much,
especially after what it did to me,
well, I started to love what it left me with too,
a dauntingly beautiful scar, that is such.
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 6:36 AM UTC
It was the rose
Who he misses
That once was his
Until one day he shattered it into pieces
It was the willow
Who he mistook for love
But he refuses to believe
That he's now in the sharp-edged of betrayal
The rose he was once longing for
Has grown itself into a magnificent one
Guarded by mischievous sacred shields
Even he can't divert any glance without causing his heart to hurt
But he'd do anything for his rose
And the willow too has grown
Into a dauntingly poisonous one
Also hazardous to touch
Even he's suffocating from the lies it built
He begin to wonder for the sake of love
For the guilt of breaking his rose
For misunderstanding his love
And he began to misses his rose once again
Though he doesn't deserve much
He's willing to get hurt to earn its love
It was his rose after all—
Who he hurt millions time harder a while ago
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 9:53 AM UTC
The undead surge endlessly.
Drained and muddied will.
Holding them back with everything left.
Delightful blood they've come to spill.
Barracading the doors - only surrounds.
Moans and groans dauntingly loud.
Sleepless nights hoping they don't breach.
The scariest thing is how they sound.
We thought they weren't real.
Just comic book stories.
But when they came knocking.
The first to go was four-eyes.
All the horror movies.
Won't leave you prepared.
To face to undead horde.
Brains aren't meant to be shared.
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 12:41 PM UTC
Fear not the brazen and bold
nor cower before the mighty and oppressive
but be weary
of those who fool and sneak
Infiltrating the deepest and even most safeguarded parts of yourself
for it is they
who can manipulate you
abuse or destroy you
They dance dauntingly around
so you want to be theirs
to build and destroy at will
The strong cannot subdue your beliefs
The Brazen cannot out do your hopes
The oppressive cannot contain your hope
The bold cannot destroy your spirit
but with a single word
the infiltrator will annihilate your entire essence
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 10:56 PM UTC
This is not easy
progress is dauntingly slow
I will persevere
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 4:59 PM UTC
We fear Silence.
We fear the absence of sound like we fear the emptiness it fills us with.
When one fears the silence consuming them, they must only remember to listen.
Listen to the sounds that are always there, but never noticed,
Listen to the sounds that are often overlooked,
The sounds that prove to us that we are never as alone as we feel.
The sound of a plane soaring overhead.
Trains rolling along their tracks with yellow headlights piercing through a black night.
Rain falling steadily on a window pane.
Silence seems dauntingly inescapable.
It seems as if a moment too long trapped in a world of silence would be enough to forever descend in a world of loneliness.
What we don’t realize is that true silence doesn’t really exist.
We fail to understand that true loneliness is simply fictitious,
For there will always be something there remaining to obliterate the perception of silence.
Jun 1, 2019
Jun 1, 2019 at 1:53 AM UTC
After all that we’ve been through,
I thought we were okay again.
I thought that it was a change
for the better.
Night
after
Night
had come
and
I missed you
less
and
less.
Suspicions haunted me
dauntingly,
day
after
day.
and each time
I blocked them
they didn’t matter;
you didn’t matter.
I no longer craved
your embrace,
but you gave it
anyway.
I no longer needed you,
but you gave yourself
anyway.
Sunlight came,
and morning broke,
and you took it away.
You pretend
under false pretense,
and lie through
your teeth.
You clench them
and demand it’s me,
not you.
The truth is,
it’s always been
you.
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 12:41 PM UTC
A small ripple in a vast river body, that would strike up no particular conversation.
Perhaps it was just a figure of your imagination
& tell me, does life ever really change?
When we get turned around
& swept up in all the fast-paced daily moments- blind.
Everything's the same baby,
just rearranged
a maze of moving staircases,
every soul climbing towards
the light
dangled dauntingly
above their heads
But tell me if you're all so afraid to die, why do you work yourselves to death?
Does money fill the gaps of time spent apart?
Do possessions talk for the conversations we could never start?
But please don't be alarmed,
I stitch my own seams on this broken heart
You see they're not pretty
to the sight or touch
But scar tissue never bothered me much
Just promise me,
you'll tell me if I'm never enough
I'll crumble this weary heart in an eyeblink
and form another from its dust.
I won't heart-broken or crushed
The shell of the figure
I used to be grew
a skin mighty tough.
I can be anywhere you want me to be
and nowhere at all
I can be your first priority
or the last one you call.
As long as you
Tell me
You love me
Baby,
I wont be sorry
face first, I fall
I'm really lovely, underneath it all
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 11:21 PM UTC
Alone I trace my pulsing finger tips
Down the lines of my lithe body
As if to replicate
The way your words seep into me
Not insistent,
But ever-so dauntingly
They creep into the stream of thought patterns
That speckle my day
Syllables;
They course through my veins
The way your tongue
Must form each one so precisely
Vocabulary;
Each word chosen ever-so carefully
They know how to bring me
To that fantastic climactic peak
Punctuation;
You've mastered, clearly dripping with experience
You have me saturated, baby
Reading each of your melodic stanzas
I allow myself to trace your words
With my hands
And one day
Your lips will follow
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 7:29 PM UTC