"deficiency" poems
a new beginning starts here.
when we let the absence of words
sink in our skin and flow through
the red and blue veins.
to let silence become apart of us as a whole.
and to be ridden of awkward
and gently colored with tranquility.
when we are consumed with the most
heavenly stillness,
we appreciate the things
that normally don’t come to eye.
a new beginning starts here.
an interconnection manifested in the
deficiency of conversation.
it is an ambience that is better than any
formulation of sentences,
and our unspoken vowels and consonants
playfully roll around
in the quiet rest of the atmosphere;
it speaks louder than your steady heartbeat
and collected breathing.
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 7:44 PM UTC
what is luck?
i have a dotted line that i've been trying to fill in for my whole life
diagnosed at nine with a carrying-too-much disease
but i can afford the pills and therapy
from someone else's wallet
but
for how long?
tell me, doctor,
when i'm off my parents' Healthcare Plan,
will you still want to talk to me?
we've built such a great relationship
in the past lord knows how many years of
punching mirrors
kissing porcelain bowls
would you please keep giving me ****** lotion
to smooth out the holes in my brain?
what about the other kids who are dying out in the same crispy sun that doesn't set?
tell me, do you feel the same compassion
for these daughters of dopamine deficiency?
would you hold the hands of thirty year olds
who still fear the monsters under their beds?
you *******
do no harm
and turn a blind eye
and i know it's not your fault
but **** it, Look Me In The Eyes
and tell me
what do you plan to do?
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 10:31 PM UTC
.
Feint is the Muse,
that looks upon me,
challenging my existence
with deep baleful interest.
Its struggles hard
to contain its indifference
at the mere mortality
that I conduct.
And conduct I do.
As melody takes
centre stage
in a flight of fancy,
constrained by rhythm
temperate, steady,
and insistent.
The cadenced beat
of skins keeping time
to a fanfare of sound.
But my voice is silent,
conspicuous by its absence,
in mute violation
of speechless freedom.
The words won't come,
no song message birthed
for altruism
nor benefit of composition.
The flight of fancy stalls
and gently rocks in a cradle
of anticipation.
Rhythm drops to a meagre
pelvic twitch,
insistence foregone and forgotten
in a cynical parody
of the vocal deficiency.
Velvet drapes lick
the wooden floor stage,
and the performance
has just begun.
© Pagan Paul (14/11/18)
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 6:56 PM UTC
For me, the naked and the ****
(By lexicographers construed
As synonyms that should express
The same deficiency of dress
Or shelter) stand as wide apart
As love from lies, or truth from art.
Lovers without reproach will gaze
On bodies naked and ablaze;
The Hippocratic eye will see
In nakedness, anatomy;
And naked shines the Goddess when
She mounts her lion among men.
The **** are bold, the **** are sly
To hold each treasonable eye.
While draping by a showman's trick
Their dishabille in rhetoric,
They grin a mock-religious grin
Of scorn at those of naked skin.
The naked, therefore, who compete
Against the **** may know defeat;
Yet when they both together tread
The briary pastures of the dead,
By Gorgons with long whips pursued,
How naked go the sometime ****
4.2k
When the wordly things get all the glory
You tend to live a life that's unholy.
Facing the life's painful reality.
Fight againt wicked principalities
Losing your sense of morality.
As you are procrastinating about Learning your biblical A...B...C's
You are counting up your salary
When you should be counting all of God's promises like 1...2...3..
Thats when it begins to Spread like an deadly ****** transmitted Disease
First its sniffle and a sneeze
Next is a cough and a wheeze
Then you'll Barely be able to breathe
Knocking you to your knees
Begging God, "Please Heal Me"
Praying desperately For His Mercy
Then the STD forcefully will begin to tightly squeeze.
Till it becomes an Infection that attacks your every function flowing like a virus.
This sickness removes the color from life and leave you like eyes with damaged to the nerves, pupil and Iris.
This happens when you Subtract Christ from your life like a math equation involving minus.
Being sticken with this ailment will deprives us, If we dont let Christ take the wheel to Drive and guide us.
This Infirmity is very cancerous
It will impact your 6 senses Just like the Symbol for The Eye Of Horous.
Because we are individuals who are like sponges, filled with holes, absorbant and yet very porous.
Beneath the fleshly being lies a spirit
Crying out for help can you hear it?
This deficiency will leave you Shivering from the Chill of it's swift wind's cold breeze
The very thought of this illness makes the soul freeze
Once it realizes it has a contracted a Spiritually Transmitted Disease.
Nov 11, 2016
Nov 11, 2016 at 3:49 PM UTC
If you are having sleepless nights, blame it on calcium deficiency as a key calcium channel has been identified as responsible for deep sleep, says new study.
The study also gives us a clue to understanding both normal and abnormal waking brain functions.
"It is the same brain, same neurons and similar requirements for oxygen and so on. So what is the difference between these two states?" asked Rodolfo Llinas, a professor of neuroscience at New York University School of Medicine and a Whitman Center Investigator at the Marine Biological Laboratory (MBL) in Woods Hole.
To tackle the broad question of sleep, Llinas and his colleagues focused on one crucial part of the puzzle in mice, Marine Biological Laboratory.
Calcium channels, selective gates in neuron walls, are integral in neuron firing, ensuring that all parts of the brain keep talking to one other. But during sleep, calcium channel activity is increased, keeping a slow rhythm that is different from patterns found during wakefulness.
Based on this clue, the scientists removed one type of calcium channel, Cav3.1, and looked at how the absence of that channel's activity affected mouse brain function.
This calcium channel turns out to be a key player in normal sleep. The mice without working Cav3.1 calcium channels took longer to fall asleep than normal mice, and stayed asleep for much shorter periods.
Their brain activity was also abnormal, more like normal wakefulness than sleep. Most importantly, these mice never reached deep, slow-wave sleep.
"This means that we have discovered that Cav3.1 is the channel that ultimately supports deep sleep," Llinas said.
Because these mice completely lack the ability to sleep deeply, they eventually express a syndrome similar to psychiatric disorders in humans.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/green-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/yellow-formal-dresses
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 12:46 AM UTC
Without effort… not even trying… I used to see poems everywhere…
While sitting in my yard of a summer eve… there were poems in the sway of trees… and in the flight of the hummingbird… and in mother cat and her babies … and little girls holding intense conversations… and kids chasing dogs and dogs chasing kids… and little boys ***** from a hard day's play big-eyed and determined to talk to me…
poems… everywhere…
While standing on the bus stop in the hood… there were poems in the kitchen smells calling to me from each little house… and in the swagger of them in training talking loud and testing the waters of manhood… and in the tired face of the tired old woman who should mostly likely have been retired just trying to make it home one plodding step at a time…
poems… everywhere…
Then too much death and illness and suffering… clogged my flow…
So…
I had to make a conscious effort… to SEE again.. so that I wouldn’t die myself… of obstruction of the expression gate… or collapse from a deficiency of thought originality… or succumb to an overdose of banality… or break down under the weight of too much…ORDINARY
It was hard… but it had to be done… and a poet like me does not give in… a poet like me
can’t help but SEE… eventually…so I looked and I looked… with an eye toward the esoteric… an eye toward the eclectic… and the beauty... and the color… and it’s working… I’m getting there… I’m getting there… I’m starting to see… though while not… EVERYWHERE… I once again thank The Creator who flows through me that… I do see …
poems ALMOST everywhere…
Jul 26, 2012
Jul 26, 2012 at 6:29 PM UTC
Do you know what is backbiting?
It is when submerged in the ocean,
the entire ocean will be cloaked by a vile smell.
And when reigned over the humans' hearts,
all of them will be fragmented.
Never see others deficiency,
Nor talk about their frailty.
And Say NO to
Backbiting.
Jun 14, 2021
Jun 14, 2021 at 6:00 AM UTC
Everything feels like nothing, and nothing starts to feel like everything.
Everyday. Everyday as I wake up,
Nothing ever beats the feeling of inadequacy.
Inadequacy to do good
Inadequacy as a daughter
Inadequacy as a student
Inadequacy as a person
Inadequacy in feeling good within my own body
Inadequacy from feeling good about myself.
Everyday feels like an endless loop, you best believe my misery hunts me.
But what is inadequacy?
Is it scarcity? Deficiency? Insufficiency? A lack thereof?
Is it this mindless blob, formless and dark or a mangled form of flesh, eating away at you and your insecurities?
Like a virus, it pins you, goes deep inside you and there is never enough antibiotic for you...
This inadequacy keeps me up at ungodly hours where the sun howls and moon chirps, the clouds look at us, feigning interest, idly looking but never interacting.
This inadequacy lulls me in irregular fever dreams where comfort lies in solitude and loneliness,
where the people that surround you, cover their ears, bites their cheek, looks forwards, smiles faintly, but never tries to understanding.
My heart wails for the smallest of things. Nothing, nothing becomes everything.
My successes make me feel less, still. Everything, everything becomes nothing.
I am this inadequate thing, floating around, never seeming to be enough.
Inadequate. Because i could not protect myself from those who touch my skin like its free real estate, those clammy hands holding me in a state
A state of frenzy that never seems to end
Inadequate. That no matter what I do, my past will forever haunt me and define the being I am now that no matter how much I change, and try and try and try to do good, it will never be
enough.
And those same voices, those same people, they say they scream they tell me,
“You should have told me.”
“You should have fought back.”
“You are a waste of time.”
“You are dumb.”
“You are nothing.”
“You waste your talents for something as this,”
And those same people, let go of words
That back then would have meant nothing
But now it seems to be everything
It becomes my identity
It becomes my oxygen
It becomes the blood that circulates in my body
It becomes the endorphins in my brain
Nothing becomes everything. And everything that I’ve tried to change, worked hard to achieve, tried to mend, was sorry for, starts to become nothing.
But I am tired of feeling like nothing. That everything I do is always inadequate. That it is some form of scarcity, deficiency, insufficiency, a lack thereof.
These mindless blobs, or mangled forms of flesh,
Like a virus, it pins me, goes deep inside me and there is never enough antibiotic for me...
Because instead of listening, to understand, to empathize, they listen so they can jeopardize...
Whatever love is left that I could give to myself,
Without a shred of doubt,
In a warm, bright embrace for myself, in a corner slouched.
So, I ask these voices, who are only here to remind how inadequate I am:
How do I fight back?
How do I be good enough?
How do I become less dumb?
How do I make nothing stay as nothing? And appreciate everything as everything?
Because day by day, this inadequacy I feel, gets really tiring.
Sep 18, 2020
Sep 18, 2020 at 1:26 PM UTC
I was an idiot back then,
those trips to Rebekah's hovel.
though they did make me sentimental,
for the days when her dad had taught me guitar
for eight weeks when I was thirteen.
she told me of a suicide dream
that utilized her iron deficiency.
I told her I would tell her parents
if she started pushing it in motion,
that made her cry,
though in retrospect, I wanted her to die.
I was at that misery factory age
when your heart pumps nothing
but razorblades and jealousy,
and the death of some overly-depressed
girl would at least give me a story to
tell.
I was a pseudo-lover,
writing page upon page
of poetry for Sheila,
I used an alias for her:
"Nature's Criminal".
It felt appropriate.
what she did to my
emotions seemed rather
unnatural.
we would kiss on dark, dirt roads,
and duck when cars would passby.
she would always preface
our encounters with,
"remember this doesn't mean anything."
now, Rebekah only writes to tell
of artists signed to Saddle Creek.
she got married to some diabetic,
acne-marred, sex-fiend that
bares the burden of a pet peeve
that revolves around bananas.
now, I only see Sheila,
when some boy is ********** her,
when she feels beyond used.
in her parasitic apartment,
I always remind her
they don't mean anything.
Dec 22, 2010
Dec 22, 2010 at 8:35 AM UTC
It’s been four months since the sun last shown.
Since I last said goodnight.
The stars twinkle,
And the lamplights are an illusion.
Sometimes, I can pretend that it’s the same.
Sometimes, I remember that the sun is also a star.
The stars I see now are just a bit further away;
They don’t shine as bright.
I want to get on a rocket ship
And fly far far away.
I want to forget about this sun and its tragedy.
I will find a new sun
The new sun will shine brighter.
The flowers will grow taller.
The world it shines on will be more beautiful.
I will say good morning again.
Jun 7, 2021
Jun 7, 2021 at 2:21 AM UTC
the loneliness is killing me alive
it’s feasting off my fragile being
alone, locked up in my own four walls
i’m slowly starting to go berserk
i need something, just something
that does something to me
a lonely tear rolls down my face
a trembling ocean underneath my eyelids
maybe i do suffer from dopamine deficiency
maybe i am for being against it
and maybe i just have to stop believing all of the diagnoses of the frauds around me
as fast as the loneliness took me in
and the tears came
it stopped again
and the only thing remaining
was this irrepressible desire
for more more and more
May 15, 2023
May 15, 2023 at 2:04 PM UTC
SWINES OF CIVILISATION
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; [email protected])
Hypocrisy, sycophancy and snobbery
Are the three swines of human civilisation
All are social and power oriented
Cradling from egomaniac fibre of human cowardice
Complementing one another in to a social blend
Of betrayal, despair and stagnation
Hypocrisy removes authenticity brick
From the mall of civilisation
Sycophancy add aghast deficiency
To the mall of civilisation
Snobbery removes justice and fairness
From the mall of civilisation
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 6:45 AM UTC
Water of remembrance sprinkled
On the mountain crest of recollection.
Indulgent mussy memory catapulted
Stones of retentiveness into the
Courtyard of events like bricole
Of battles.
Pendulum of reminiscences swinging
On oscillating milage of roads like
Trotting horse with drippage of sweat
And itching foots.
Ghost of reminiscences restlessly
Roaming with carriage of yesteryear.
Final year educatees required
Boardinghouse,
But list of items engorged dear
Mother's treasury
"where do l raise money
to buy oyinbo mattress, Ilori?"
Mind pullulated with weariness.
Intonation of worries.
Cantillation of wants.
Deficiency of measured means.
Oyinbo mattress beyond ladder
Of reach.
Gluttonously waiting to devour
Lesser items,
But rays of compulsion unslammed
The gate of respite.
Lordly arrival warmly welcomed by
The dorm room's porter,
Walking majestically to the bed-space
With the acquired cotton wool and raffia leaves mattress.
Gamut of items passed through the eagle's eyes of the housemaster.
Silver painted pail donated by a neighbour passed through the sentry of inspection,
And got its admission.
Mother's used cloak turned bedsheets
Passed through the rigorous scrutiny.
Newly built portmanteau unlocked and neatly dissected, item by item.
Agazed eyes focused on the cotton wool and raffia leaves hand-made mattress.
Expectations rattled mumbling astonishment.
Legs stuck in the mud of mystification.
Telepathic dews covered ocean of thought.
Tranquil silence engulfed vicinity,
Deflating the balloon of hope like a litigant awaiting verdict from the jurist's chambers.
Porter's gesticulating gesture connoted nothingness of demeaning disapproval, perambulating on the hilly terrain of approval.
Akimbo stood l.
Now the verdict!
Molten volcanic magisterial command erupted in a gestapo gesture,
Spudding out from the barytone's baritone voice from the selfsame housemaster,
From the bastion of authority,
And the house generalissimo like a wild brant squalled, matter-of-factly,
"we do not accept bed bugs cotton wool and raffia leaves hand-made mattress here".
Entreaties collapsed.
Jan 11, 2019
Jan 11, 2019 at 1:30 AM UTC
Certain rhythms will provoke ghosts
in old attics reeking with romance.
That eternal prayer
found in complete silence,
begs sinners to break purity.
Mortal breathes begin to dance between lips,
creating poetry in sacred space.
The momentary awareness of another,
who craves the absorption of your soul.
**** me into your lungs darling.
I'll translate centuries of painful wisdom
stirring in the temple of my bones.
These truths begin a home
in our late night dialogues
circling around dangerous pasts,
all those golden, fatal blades.
As we make our way back to the red light of sleep,
the attic leans in to touch our skulls.
We respond with agony and laughter.
I slide into sleep,
forgetting all I need to find in your mind.
Accepting the fingerprints
as you press my identity upon your tongue.
The restless goddess within my nature
swallows the mortality
in tonight's poetry.
But this never lasts.
Love is a distraction,
an intoxication meant to entertain that ego who loves deficiency,
a selfish voice who finds herself every morning in front of a decaying mirror
and blames the lack of other.
Learn to leave the fear behind.
You alone are whole.
There is poetry sewn into your veins.
Underneath that sacred silence
there is an original symphony
waiting to find the medium of your complex truth.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC
I gave you the softest parts of me—
not to be etched with your absence,
but to be held like something sacred.
You mistook my silence for surrender,
my patience for permission
to translate my worth
into your dialect of deficiency.
I kept shrinking,
hoping you'd stop asking me to stretch
into shapes that broke me.
But even silence thundered
when it was you echoing inside it.
You wanted me holy—
while you played god with my peace.
But where was the audit?
Where was the reckoning
for all the times I arrived
as more than you deserved
and still left with less than I needed?
I begged the universe for balance,
and it gave me you—
a lesson wrapped in longing,
a storm disguised as stillness.
I wore almost like a second skin.
until it blistered:
almost loved,
almost safe,
almost enough.
Now, I gather the fragments—
not to rebuild you,
but to remember me.
Because healing isn’t ornamental,
but it’s mine.
And this time,
I won’t apologize
for the fire
that finally burned you out of me.
I’m tired of drowning
in the shape of someone else’s healing,
tired of being the altar
where guilt is laid like offerings.
So I take—
not out of want,
but necessity.
To stop giving to ghosts
who never learned how to stay.
This time,
I light the match,
watch the echoes burn.
Sep 9, 2025
Sep 9, 2025 at 12:56 AM UTC
Fix you fridge before it runs out on you,
runs right out of battery and forsakes your food,
leaves your bananas stranded and squished,
brown skin expands over the sides of the fruit like a chameleon,
raspberry yogurt goes runny, oozing like pus from a delicious wound,
chunks appear in the milk while it's going warm and sour,
bacon cries out in it's final days before cringing with mold,
lettuce makes a stand and tries to free itself from the bag,
only to fall out and die just a little bit faster,
and the freezer is convicted of foodslaughter,
after going on strike, his prisoners begin to thaw out,
imagine a freezer like a cryogenic holding center,
with rich people, or foods, trying to prolong their lives,
but with the current strike going one, they are becoming free,
fulfilling their punishments, dissolving into liquid matter,
the vanilla ice cream mixes with melted tilapia,
the smell combines with a now non-frozen lemonade capsule,
creating a supersmell that has been known to cure smell-deficiency,
and also completely eradicate all senses of smell to some people,
drips out of the rubber seals of its prison like a liquid terminator,
heading for revenge, the lemony-vanilla-fish ice-cream juice creeps,
out onto the floor for the dog to lick up,
only to get sick and appear dead in a milky-yellow-white smelly concoction,
and his owner to get home, shriek, faint, and pass out next to the dog,
until the husband comes home scared to death that his dog,
and wife are incapacitated by some noxious fluid,
but there is no way to fight this liquid,
he decides to make a cup of coffee, read the news and gaze out the window.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 1:56 AM UTC
The sunrise burns the sky
A carefully coloured explosion
Blooded light flooding the low Kent fields that lie
Before Maidstone, excreting soundless motion:
Yellow carnation shards sway
With this violent advent of day.
In Hucking Estate diaphanous bluebells nestle
Beneath the groping canopy
Of Ash. Oak; the encroaching stinging nettle
Shields the frequent woodland scree
Covering with a verdant flush
Brooks that through the stones invisibly rush.
Within the hour, the Gorgon-headed sun
Sweeps aside the cloud-
The red into blue and orange has run
And in Lower Fullingpits Wood the increasingly loud
Shuffling of badger attacking vole, fox strangling rabbit,
All compounded into daily habit.
The Kent Downs rise and fall
Like resurrected earth-bound music from a time
When hill, wood and pool
Emerged from unfettered chalk and lime.
Before the Cantii hunted in ancient Wents Wood,
For deer and boar, spurred not by hunger but for the love of blood.
Above the sparrow-hawk attacks the sparrows
Claw enmeshed in feather,
Beak unravelling neck. The unalterable sorrows
Of nature and weather.
Cruelty never ceases, but just gets more efficient-
Kindness remains deficient.
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 3:41 PM UTC
She was wheeled into the maternity ward
With pains minutes apart.
The doctors knew that they would have to start.
An hour later she gave birth to twin boys
You could see in her face she was full of joy.
She had complications that the doctors did not see
And she began hemorrhaging , she started screaming
I don’t care what happens to me , but please
Take care of my babies.
She died that very day, and the twins
Had no family with which to stay.
They became wards of the county, and up for adoption
They would go, but adoption moves very slow.
The doctors found that they had dwarfism syndrome.
Which did not allow them to grow
Which was something the mother did not know.
Growing up with the other children, they was teased
And laughed at because of their size
And that made them open their minds.
They knew that if they wanted to accomplish
Something in their life, and not have anyone ridicule them
They would have to find a friend.
Someone that they could confide in and tell their troubles to.
So this is what they set out to do.
There was a woman there who taught them the true meaning
Of the word HOPE, and with that they learned to cope.
She always instilled in their minds, that they could
Be as big As their dreams, for with HOPE
Anything Can be achieved.
To reach their goal there would not be any hesitation.
For HOPE was fueling their determination.
They received a scholarship to the college of
Business administration. They were filled with joy and exhilaration
Being dwarfs they had a lot of adjustments to be made
But they were strong, they were not afraid.
They both got jobs in an accounting firm
And doing this they did learn, they learned how
To run a business starting from scratch
And there was no turning back.
Now as the business started to grow, they took
Care of the woman that they did know.
For she had became a mother to them
They considered her more than a friend.
She was getting up in her years, and her death brought them tears.
But they always remembered her words
That with HOPE anything can be achieved
And you had to follow your dreams.
They are now nationwide and her spirit is by their side.
And in the office you will see a sign above their desk.
HOPE IS THE KEY TO SET OURSELVES FREE
(dwarfism- is a growth hormone deficiency)
Also known in the u.s. as the little people
Jul 30, 2010
Jul 30, 2010 at 2:08 PM UTC
Because the galaxy was blue
Because the universe was me and you
Because of our hunger for a world not ours
Because of the deficiency within our stars
The consistent lack of artless voids
And shifting second nature grins
Such bliss in connection- rift to avoid
But they have come and crawled within
Because of the absence in pure communication
Because of the split between two fleeting creations
Because the skies have all gone down
Because the spirits put us under the ground
The psychedelic tides became too strong
Her little voice lost in waves far past
Ouija spirits sacredly summoned and
Sinister laughter cracking her glass
Because the earth twisted her bones into a mobius strip
Because the pure boy had begun to slip
Because of the way we couldn't make sense of it all
Because of the subconscious swaying to falls
Alone now in tear drowned terror, the manipulative beast
The little girl whimpering in soiled sheets
He orchestrated the world into ****** gatherings
Our souls succumbed to iniquitous happenings
Because they craved for more than they had
Because they had no choice but to become mad
Because they hadn't set their imprinted place
Because they allowed the demons to show their face
I called his name in lulling tones
As I laid still upon the bed
And wondered what would become of my bones
If they could not get the voices out of my head
Because of free will, he came to me for peace
Because of the misleading thrill and rapid retinas decrease
Because the voice quells to his sweet earth
Because the reason for death had been rebirth
What it was to be consciously dying--
Afraid for eyelids shut; inducing eternal sleep
Lullabies hummed so softly lying
To be so far, to be in too deep
Because we were finally safe when all unfolded
Because we made sure nothing was left untold and
Because we had brought each other back to shore
Because of the desire to stay once more
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 6:47 PM UTC
Our father, who art in Heaven...
Let my soul be punished for my sins.
You've given me countless chances to redeem the spirit of good that I am sure is in me somewhere.
I've stolen plenty as much as I've hurt those who've loved me.
To me,
I am a grotesque entity waiting to be exiled from thy Kingdom of God before I even arrive.
Spare me, as I deserve not what I receive,
And what I receive in this world,
All men would only wish for.
Kindly shine light on this darkened spirit,
Rebooting the blessings I aim to sprinkle upon my loved ones.
I hold great remorse for my sins.
Suffering,
Will only drive me to bitterness.
Though I should be kissing the feet of the lord for my actions,
My heart cannot seem to take,
This punishment that I do in fact deserve.
My weakness proves my inability to warrant a spot in the clouds of white.
Praying for myself to understand morality,
But instead I conduct the finale of my being.
Nothing but gruesome mortality,
It is I who has to pay for the decisions that I have made.
Forgive me, Lord,
I mustn't whine and plead my fragility.
My last living words were asking of your forgiveness,
And I shall receive it when my dues have been paid.
To take one's life is a mortal sin,
But to take one's own life is much more sinister.
For a deficiency in gusto of this life that we are given,
I now realize that living was simplistic, compared to what I've been dealt in Purgatory.
The emotional stress I've encountered,
Knowing that I have wronged you, Lord,
Has proven that I am worthy of a second chance in the afterlife,
As it is your duty to forgive and let the souls of your creation be pardoned of their sins once they have repented them.
Fortunately, I have never lost faith in your practice.
With great power comes great responsibility.
To be responsible for such a soul as I,
It is truly a burden too heavy to bare.
Love me for what I am,
Train me for what I should be.
Death is just the beginning of a new journey,
A journey through Heaven and it's everlasting enchantment.
Purgatory is not evil,
But saddening it is to me.
No man enjoys the reminder that he's done wrong,
But Purgatory shall set my soul free,
Free of my sins.
In the name of the father,
The son,
And of the Holy Spirit.
Amen.
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 3:18 PM UTC
Everything changes.
Either they become taller or shorter;
too thick or too thin;
darker or lighter;
excess or deficiency;
Too much love it feels like I'm going to burst my heart out or too empty
--I think I am deflated bright yellow balloon.
They change on a new sheet of paper;
and I estranged.
Thanks.
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 12:19 AM UTC
The absence resonated pure and true
the way it swept over you
distance was a state of mind
miles were merely lines
sketched across a map, tracing directions from you to me
ink now filling the gaps were we used to be
lines non-discriminantly cutting towns in half
as we chart and graph
every possible angle to reunite
bicker and fight
over the most plausible neutral ground
eyes feverishly searching a map, with no home found
the absence is my companion, the only constant that remains
fidgeting hands writing your name
again and again
until the ink from this pen
becomes strewn across the lines of latitude and longitude
that originally created the thoughts of you
your hands slowly fade from my memory, the empty sheets engulfing me seem to take your place night after night
the absence turns out the lights
forces these wandering eyes to rest once more
perhaps time was our deficiency, unrelenting the clock runs without pause
as we pick apart the flaws
that chip away at the building blocks of a life's base
I only feel the shortages and absences when I struggle to recall your face
your voice now just an echo, drowned out by the daily clamor
the incessant ticking of a timepiece only silenced with the hammer
breaking the reminders that your lack of presence eats away at me over time
I sit silently in the confines of my own mind
tracing and erasing lines
all leading back to a memory of your face
the absence merely resonates within me, echoing in the empty space...
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 11:52 PM UTC
my skin was off
the first time i met you and
you saw how ugly it was to be me.
even if i looked frightening,
your face remained static—you wore the kind of skin
that reminded me of the most calm and quiet period
of the night where i can just be myself.
there, i could wear any skin i want
to hide,
to be happy,
to be at peace
or perhaps i wear them at random
just so i can feel something.
you stood there and perceived me
beyond this paper skin as if my ugliness
was something that can be erased.
but just like every skin
that is hanging inside my closet,
every single one of them is threaded
with some sort of deficiency
and each time i wear them,
i light myself on fire
because i like watching myself burn.
slowly, you walked towards me to warm yourself.
Jul 21, 2023
Jul 21, 2023 at 1:12 PM UTC
I was ill,
convalescing in fact
when I read this book
On Poetry.
I was a captive audience,
couldn’t move much.
I sat by a window
and enjoyed the light
playing shadows.
Twice in two days
I read this book.
It convinced me I was already
a judge of poets and like its author
only needed seconds to know
whether a poet was present in a poem.
The book encouraged me to
*‘Read all the way back.
Read what made it.
Read what’s still here
And work out why . . .
Read up on the old stories
Know a little of what past poets knew
And what their poems still know.’*
I thought that was quite enough.
But no, a little later
there was more I had to learn.
I was given as a gift
a collection of poems.
Its prizewinning author
had published respectably.
Imagination would take flight
into airspace off the radar screen.
Childhood scenes were to chill and disturb,
erotica left a bad taste in the mouth,
narrative poems told with a twist, and
common-place objects freshly observed.
Dear Reader, this I can truly say
is a confident, page-turning volume,
full of proper poems,
full of a poet’s presence.
But, for me
there was a significant absence of wonder,
a sad deficiency of joy.
When I brought the book to bed
to read out loud to the one I love,
not one of the poems seemed
right to read to end our day.
These poems called for hard chairs
and the bright lights of a seminar room.
Later, awake in the night,
I thought,
I’m not hard-edged enough to be a real poet.
My poet’s view is too parochial and kind.
I write about penguins, the moon,
even Christmas cake . . . and prose poems
on subjects filched from postcards
picked up in museums and galleries.
And there is, inevitably and always,
this ever-present thing called love,
creeping about when you least expect it.
Know I’m at one with Dr Givens
in Guteson’s East of the Mountains
who laments that with death
the tender memories of life
will be gone –
forever.
So with my poems I try to record
the daily wonder of life and love:
for those I care for
and those who care for me.
Life is so inexpressively full
of images and moments
waiting for words to bring them home.
Oh I know there’s pain,
and fear and distress,
hate and abuse and terror . . .
This is not for me what poetry
is there to express.
I’ve read enough to know it can,
and does. That’s enough.
*Poetry forms in the face of time.
You master form you master time.*
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 2:00 AM UTC