"deliberately" poems
we are always asked
to understand the other person's
viewpoint
no matter how
out-dated
foolish or
obnoxious.
one is asked
to view
their total error
their life-waste
with
kindliness,
especially if they are
aged.
but age is the total of
our doing.
they have aged
badly
because they have
lived
out of focus,
they have refused to
see.
not their fault?
whose fault?
mine?
I am asked to hide
my viewpoint
from them
for fear of their
fear.
age is no crime
but the shame
of a deliberately
wasted
life
among so many
deliberately
wasted
lives
is.
62.2k
BLESSED be this place,
More blessed still this tower;
A ****** arrogant power
Rose out of the race
Uttering, mastering it,
Rose like these walls from these
Storm-beaten cottages --
In mockery I have set
A powerful emblem up,
And sing it rhyme upon rhyme
In mockery of a time
HaIf dead at the top.
Alexandria's was a beacon tower, and Babylon's
An image of the moving heavens, a log-book of the
sun's journey and the moon's;
And Shelley had his towers, thought's crowned powers
he called them once.
I declare this tower is my symbol; I declare
This winding, gyring, spiring treadmill of a stair is my
ancestral stair;
That Goldsmith and the Dean, Berkeley and Burke
have travelled there.
Swift beating on his breast in sibylline frenzy blind
Because the heart in his blood-sodden breast had
dragged him down into mankind,
Goldsmith deliberately sipping at the honey-pot of his
mind,
And haughtier-headed Burke that proved the State a
tree,
That this unconquerable labyrinth of the birds, cen-
tury after century,
Cast but dead leaves to mathematical equality;
And God-appointed Berkeley that proved all things a
dream,
That this pragmatical, preposterous pig of a world, its
farrow that so solid seem,
Must vanish on the instant if the mind but change its
theme;
Saeva Indignatio and the labourer's hire,
The strength that gives our blood and state magnani-
mity of its own desire;
Everything that is not God consumed with intellectual
fire.
III
The purity of the unclouded moon
Has flung its atrowy shaft upon the floor.
Seven centuries have passed and it is pure,
The blood of innocence has left no stain.
There, on blood-saturated ground, have stood
Soldier, assassin, executioner.
Whether for daily pittance or in blind fear
Or out of abstract hatred, and shed blood,
But could not cast a single jet thereon.
Odour of blood on the ancestral stair!
And we that have shed none must gather there
And clamour in drunken frenzy for the moon.
IV
Upon the dusty, glittering windows cling,
And seem to cling upon the moonlit skies,
Tortoiseshell butterflies, peacock butterflies,
A couple of night-moths are on the wing.
Is every modern nation like the tower,
Half dead at the top? No matter what I said,
For wisdom is the property of the dead,
A something incompatible with life; and power,
Like everything that has the stain of blood,
A property of the living; but no stain
Can come upon the visage of the moon
When it has looked in glory from a cloud.
36.9k
You've crossed my mind many nights.
Sometimes I just lay there, holding you tight in mind.
Wandering your body with my hands.
Filling my fingers with the skin I've dreamt so much about.
The things you keep hidden. unraveled in empty sheets, blankets.
Your warmth becoming the only comforter that dictates whether or not I'll have sweet dreams.
What justifies the stain our breath has left on one another's.
The press of your face against my neck.
The marks left on each other in anticipation. Refusing to pull ourselves away.
Clinging tight to the ****** of being beside ourselves.
Deliberately keeping each other awake in the promise of sleeping wild moments later.
To watch your face scrunch up as it breaks your gasp. Bringing a halt to anticipation,
The comfort of bodies becoming pillows harboring us into a deep sleep. Soft, still.
My head laying on your shoulder.
As we ourselves become lost in the sheets
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 11:35 AM UTC
On the molded plastic black keys
Tip- tap tipping away
Smiling wickedly
With self-satisfaction
Words deliberately in a sociopathic array
Crazed Eyes agleam
Thoughts rambling across the planets
In and out of reality
Both far and away
Each letter vibrates with its own life
The deranged wordsmith's release
So the clicking and typing
Systemic vacant sounds
Never seem to cease
To the mad poet
The combinations of descriptive words
Overpowering
Promotes the disease
Hypnotizing
Beguiling
Calling in a sweet voice
To the mad poet
In letters A to Z
This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3),
Tammy M Darby
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 6:30 PM UTC
on tuesday,
dylann roof was sentenced to his death.
on tuesday we tried
to make one body feel like nine.
to make one body feel like justice.
on tuesday we said
there has got to be some price to pay
for entering the house of god
with a sinful tongue
and a handgun.
today,
six days later,
we remembered the rev. dr. martin luther king, jr.
we looked at the world,
called it a place with potential for change,
called it that because there has to be some softer way
to look at bloodshed,
for sanity’s sake.
if not then
all that remains is a solitary image of dr. king rolling in his grave because he knows,
knows that breathless black bodies
are a constant,
are transcenders of time,
whether sunken in rivers,
hung from taut ropes,
or bathing in blood on historic church floors,
singing, singing, screaming, shrill
for some messiah bringing mercy, mercy, mercy.
felicia sanders wants mercy:
prays for it, wills it down from up above,
unfolded from the hands of god
so that it might fall upon the head and in the eyes
and within the very being
of the man who killed her son.
it takes a certain grace —
one so foreign to me i can hardly write of it —
to see god in such men who deliberately defy Him,
to ask that heaven’s gates
be so indiscriminate and overt.
i would want him to burn for this.
but it is not my say,
not my life,
not my long, resounding, unflinching “hallelujah!”
not my certain type of grace.
breathless black bodies
are a constant,
are transcenders of time, a recurring motif.
but so too, then, is the black body full
of breath,
that inhales and exhales faith
without ceasing.
such is the black body
that sees a little bit of god in dylann roof,
that prays that he prays for forgiveness,
that thinks there to be but one kingdom,
and he, too,
a worthy subject.
the solitary image of dr. king rolling in his grave
is not a surprise.
the black body has always known
so well
how to die.
but felicia sanders hopes her son’s killer finds mercy.
perhaps the one thing the black body has always known better
is how to love.
(a.m.)
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 8:07 PM UTC
We, the voice of the most oppressed,
Work in the profession remaining the most humble,
Throughout histories, as slaves our lives still remain tumble,
With our strangled necks, we are deliberately suppressed
For the centuries, our voices remain unheard,
Like a weeping fish at the sea,
We are treated zombies at the rush of a blood,
Collecting by hand, the human society’s poops & pea
Things for us got intensely worse,
We work as a group with an isolated curse,
For our livelihood, go into manholes as bare-bodies
Mostly get out as dead-bodies
From pathology to oncology,
We are treated untouchables, even by the modern technology
We are the oxygen-offering trees that remain green
Hurting ourselves, collecting excreta making this world neat &clean
With our hand-cuffs we shout and fight,
Rulers remain drunken-deafs to our plight,
Hell with your knowledge, to those who go to college
And keep pushing us to the drainage,
We remain living dead and frustrated, to get our right
When asked about work, we remain dumb and blind,
Fearing the responses to our ***** revelations,
Because humans are unemphathetic and unkind
To get our life some elevations.
Our mind said us “Please think! Please Think!”
When we revolt not to work, societies stink,
We warn, Witness your locality *****
To our sufferings, if you keep blank & empty.
We are a collective voice,
Representing inhuman humanity,
That keeps the society on a poise,
So raise your voice, with a clarity of choice
To get us work with the utmost dignity!
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 9:12 AM UTC
I want some strange man to brush up against me
Just deliberately enough
That my heart starts to race
And then he just
***** off
I want the neighbor's
Disgusting husband-
The one with the hacking cough
The one who kept stealing glances at my exposed, chocolaty midriff-
To give my ***** sloppy kisses
In the laundry room
In the middle of the night
I want you to remember
That I'm a person
And I'm lonely
And I'm ~starving~
And it's really okay,
Isn't it?
I want you to know
The whole story
But you couldn't love me
Through the half of it
So that's that.
I want you to run your nails down my back
And then gaslight me
By pretending it didn't happen
As I get on my knees
To clean up the puddle on the floor
I want to ***
With hot human flesh
In every
Single
One of my holes
I want you
So badly
That I
Can't
*******
Stand it
I want to yowl at the night sky
Until someone volunteers to
Shut me up
I want to feel
The lust
Pouring off of you
Drowning me
Before I choke on your ****
I want to stop
Feeling the need
To wear crop tops
In front of my neighbor's
Disgusting husband
I want someone to notice
When I'm not okay
And I want someone
To love me
Enough
To be there
Every night
Like a raft
In a storm
I want to get ****** so hard
That I forget everything
For just a *******
******* second
I want to be used
And reminded
That I'm just a toy
For your amusement
I want you to **** me in the pouring rain
After so many deserts
And so much heat
And so much time
I want
So badly
To be seen
And to be ******
And to be free
I want you to know
That this isn't really about you
I want so many things
I'd make a terrible Buddhist
May 5, 2025
May 5, 2025 at 6:43 AM UTC
SlenderMan is a jellyfish.
Deliberately dangerous
and deadly.
Waiting
to
attack
the next victim
it sees.
Once attacked
you won't be able to
forget it.
The scars
will
remind you
for life,
if
you live
through it.
The arms are
long
and lengthy.
Its body has
no
face.
The way their presence
made you feel will never
leave your memory.
Jul 18, 2012
Jul 18, 2012 at 3:13 PM UTC
I get mad when i think about my last relationship.
I GET MAD WHEN I CANT FIND MY KEYS
I get mad when people drive slow, like they have nowhere to go.
I get mad when i realize racism is still a problem.
I get mad when i have to MAKE UP for the person that was before ME
I get mad when people LIE TO MY FACE.
I get mad when i think of all the betrayal.
I get mad when i think about the dumb decisions i made in my youth
I get mad when people are shocked that i dont have any kids like EVERYBODY IS SUPPOSED TO HAVE KIDS so young!
I get mad when people are surprised at the ****** rate in my city, but they support it through the music.
I actually GET MAD AT THE NEW AGE RAP MUSIC
I get mad when people stare without saying hello!
I get mad when people dont mind their business.
I get mad i mean sooo madd when black people(my people) go against cops for killing our people but they themselves **** OUR PEOPLE.
I get madd when i find out people are deliberately spreading std's
I get mad when i see a child has no HOME TRAINING!
I GET MADD WHEN THE PRICE OF GAS GOES UP!!!!!
I GET MAD WHEN NO ONE LEADS THE YOUTH BY SETTING EXAMPLES.
LASTTTT, BUT NOT LEAST
I GET MADDDDDD WHEN I SEE EVERYBODY FORSAKING GOD(THE HIGHER POWER)
SO NOW THAT I'VE LET IT ALL OUT I GUESS I CANT BE MAD ANY LONGER!
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 11:13 AM UTC
You kiss me the way
you set the sun:
Deliberately sinking me further
down, then leaving me
suspended just beneath you.
Your mouth smothers mine,
cushioning the sound of explosions.
Nails etch a language onto our skin
leaving raised lines of calligraphy
that we'll read in the morning with a smile.
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 5:51 PM UTC
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
A
bone
slowly
woke
just
in
time
to
become
brok(en).
Once spoken,
there's no point
of lending an ear.
There'll be a violent
jerking of the wheel,
deceptive *** appeal,
and an unrequited (love).
Now, unwillingly, it's open.
The rhyme is deliberately late,
but it's not tardy enough to satiate
Swelling lungs-we're just getting started.
Both for respiratory and broken-hearted.
Here, we speak of energy-specifically kinetic
Because you can't live in love and good faith
with right hemisphere real, and left prosthetic.
AND THAT'S WHERE THIS BEAUTIFULLY KICKS IN.
Picking up faster and quicker and clearer
and headlights have never come nearer.
But I'll be somewhat content lying at rest.
While lively and enthusiastic is best,
unemployed potential is all I can be.
It's something to unwillingly see.
You'll watch the clean breaks
as the marrow escapes.
As I steadily gush
onto pavement
you'll see
how
idle
I
can
really
be.
As
I
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 1:32 AM UTC
I know you only wanna loosen the bolts in my head,
But i won't give you the pleasure of seeing me cry in my bed!
But what exactly do you gain?
Deliberately making me go through pain!
For crying out loud, I call you my friend!
So why did you turn abruptly towards the end?
I don't even know who to talk to,
because the you I used to know in black and white suddenly became another hue!
Now my only resort is to put my thoughts in declamation,
Because telling the world what I'm going through'll be like exaggeration!
But feigning not disappointed aint true,
So I'll take this as one of the major lessons to be learnt!
But know this,don't take me for a fool!
If you do, you'll be suprised to know the magnitude of the kingdom I'll rule!
I just don't understand why people take one for granted,
Hmmm,believe me when I say no one knows tomorrow.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 12:25 PM UTC
The power of Averages,
it means a lot
if you can
understand Means, a lot.
Assuming a Normal Distribution,
A Standard Deviation, or σ
defines where about 68% of the data falls;
roughly 34% above and below the Mean.
Two Standard Deviations
defines where a further 28% of data lies;
14% above and below 1σ and -1σ.
Positive 1-Sigma is one Standard Deviation above the Mean
Negative 1-Sigma is one below;
The range from -2σ to 2σ includes 96% of data.
The implications are astounding.
Within 3 Standard Deviations, one finds 99.7% of the data;
Within 4σ, 99.9%, 5σ, 99.999%,
the remainder are generally outliers and other improbable results.
To illustrate:
Suppose we had a group of 100 people,
and we wish to determine average height:
If our Mean height ends up being, say, 180 cm,
with a Standard Deviation of 20cm,
We can suppose that of 100 people, on average,
with a certain Margin of Error that is inversely proportionate to our Sample Size, or n
(for sake of argument, the Probable Error, or γ, is 13.49cm)
4 are taller than 220cm
14 are between 200cm and 220cm
68 are between 160cm and 200cm
14 are from 140cm to 160cm
4 are shorter than 140cm
--
Statistics is the parent of Probability;
Statistics is the Art and Science of Forecast,
Statistics paves the way for modern Science
Statistics is a powerful weapon in the fight against Ignorance
Statistics, however, are generally and intentionally misrepresented and thus misunderstood.
For increasingly accurate figures,
one must have a larger Sample Size
and a Sample group that is a representative subgroup
of the Whole
*This is intentionally abused
by most of the News
you read or see each day on Paper and Screens alike.*
If a "Statistical analysis" does not include at least
Margin of Error or Probable Error,
Mean (Average), Standard Deviation, and Sample Size
do not take it as accurate.
Depending on the source,
it could even be deliberately malicious.
Arm yourself with Knowledge.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
Maybe it was me, not you...
**** it.
I ain't one to
Sugar-coat the truth.
Or sacrifice my youth.
You were fun while it
Lasted.
Dabbled in my
Little thing of passion.
Became my main source of the
Madness.
What the **** you expect from me?
Better than them hoes
That just want a check from me.
But still, wasn't much that
You could get from me.
And **** it, if there was,
Still wouldn't get from me.
I'm deliberately harsh.
Say things from the heart.
Make you swear I've no
Heart.
But you was tearin us apart.
I would never feel remorse,
I could never shed a tear for you.
If you was dying from a fright,
I wouldn't **** a fear for you.
Dying here tonight?
Yeah, I'd like to hear from you...
If you wanna tonight,
I'll rush the new year for you.
Ungrateful little *****
Happy I don't have to deal with you
Could never feel for you.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 7:48 AM UTC
The scent of the pollen allured her, hanging in the still air of the morning. She would stop in her travel and visit each flower that she found. The precious nectar oozed from deep within the petals and she would thirstily drink at each one. She would gently land in the scented shade of each blossom and coax the precious nourishment from it. She never gorged, but rather drank from each flower what it was willing to give. Some were full and over ripe and bursting with the honeyed juice. Others had a smaller treasure, but she would drink lovingly of their gift leaving them an offering of pollen as a thanks. Her small, delicate tongue would gently lick and probe the recesses of the flower hunting the sweetness inside. The pollen on her coat would touch with the very deepest innards of the bloom and enter its very core. Her gift, as she suckled each part, was imparted into the scented womb of the softly petaled blossom. Each flower awaited her coming and spread wide it’s scented opening for her to enter. Their swollen pistils would be gorged with the potential for life and their gently glistening stamens would tempt her to feed on their sticky juices. The soft buzzing of her wings caressed the delicate parts of the fragrant blooms with a gentle breeze as she drank her sustenance. She sheltered in the colored shade of petals, hung round her like colored sheets, as she took what each one had to offer. When she was done she would move on to the next, slowly and deliberately milking the juice of life from each one. Every flower needed her and each one did what it could to tempt her in. Some threw heavy fragrance into the air so she could catch their scent while others bared their large and swollen glands so she could see their abundance. She traveled from bloom to bloom, sometimes enticed by the shaded shelter, and other times the sight of glistening pollen. But she fed on each one, large and small, and in each one she left her gift. The pollen that she carried would be imparted on each ***** stamen as she fed. The glistening end of the shaft was soft and sticky and waiting for the pollen that would carry on its life. While she fed each day, there was a gardener who tended to her plants. He took gentle care of them, weeding and pruning and tending to their needs. The flowers that she fed on were his future sustenance and he tended her as well. He would follow her sometimes through his garden and watch as she gently buzzed from plant to plant. She was used to his watchful eyes as he watched her drink from each bloom. He knew that his crop depended on her and he would peer into the bedding of petals as she caressed the sweetness from each one with her tongue. Her long tongue would probe deep into the recesses of the fragrant flower and find every drop of nectar. The gardener watched as she carried on the cycle of life for him and would wait for days to see the swollen fruits of her labor burgeoning from his plants. When she left each flower satisfied with their delicious treat, she would fly off to the next, not knowing that a seed would be swelling in the gorged pistil that she just left. And so it went as the bee buzzed her life away every day. The gardener would be there among his carefully tended crops, watching and waiting as she moved among the flowers. His gaze would follow her as she traveled through the foliage and landed amongst the blooms. Every day he would watch as she coaxed the sweet nectar from each one and left her gift in return.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 2:03 PM UTC
so we are at the operating table
and we work slowly and deliberately
with the patient between us
and I say to you:
I'm a little nervous
And you say to me:
You? But you've got so much experience
And I say to you:
*Yeah, but if i ***** up this one,
my insurance company has advised,
I'll be at the end of my quota of cases
for my malpractice insurance*
And you don't say anything
just that, behind that mask,
you've got your mouth agape
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 6:25 PM UTC
we are the masters of self-destruction
trying to numb the pain with wine
and drugs
and smoke filling up our lungs,
we write down in lines with no rhyme
all the things
that make our souls burn and die.
our poems bleed
we drink their blood
then we write again,
listening to stupid songs all night
wishing sometimes we were deaf
wishing we were dead.
we let the doors open
anyone with a knife can come inside
cutting our hearts in half,
any tear is welcome
to create the ocean around us
in which we deliberately drown ourselves.
masters of self-destruction,
our bodies are temples where dying souls hide,
we run till our legs are broken
jump off cliffs
go between sharks' cheeks
forgetting to sleep
to dream
we bleed
we drink
we love
and hurt
it's a madmen game we play
each day
laughing hysterically
while slowly taking steps to the graves
we dug for ourselves,
the masters of self-destruction we are
lunatics
worshiping what's not for us to adore
crying
hiding
falling again
and again.
legs broken,
hearts cut and eaten
flesh ripped from our bones
lungs full of water
ears burnt
our eyes scream
but that's fine
'cause we are the masters of self-destruction
and our life is just a mad game
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 11:07 PM UTC
Her skin looks pale,
White shedding brown,
like a golden brown velvet
strewn across a skeleton
made from Cleopatra’s frame.
There is nothing to it,
her sway is flawless
in her stilettos,
O’ God those stilettos.
She pave the roads with
blossoms of Primrose
and Calla Lilies, as the tip
of her heels stab the earth.
Her body melts cotton candies
in winter,
her curve bakes pastries
in snowy mountains,
It was an unbelievable sight,
like a sunrise, she climbs the edges
of the highest of peaks,
like the wind, she enters a heart by
the creaks; like a creep.
Perhaps nothing shall stop her,
Her footsteps continue to pierce
the soil, making a sound close to the
cracking of my knuckles.
She made people snivel and weep
when she enters the room
with her slender black dress.
She makes heads turn almost
to their full circle,
it would be death to steal a
peek, or glance, a peep.
She is the sun on earth:
hot and highly radiated
but too tempting to be left alone.
She is like the still waters:
calm, clean and serene
but too quiet to know the depth;
and still willingly jump in.
It is like believing again.
She is like believing again.
She is tiny as is her name,
It shall rhyme as the bell shines,
Her hair, her coiled twisted hair,
is much like herself: curled, twisted
bended.
Yet she is, perhaps, the twist in life,
the curl of wind on her bosoms, or
the bend of spines when eyes turn
to gaze at her splendor.
It is uncertain what she is,
but I know, vaguely.
She, like a Zinnia, shall be the
decoration of this planet.
She shall be, though exaggerated,
the reason for our existence.
She, corrupted and dangerous,
shall reclaim her spot in divinity
and shall forever more be
my source of inspiration.
Like a stream of clear water,
gushing down the torrent
ovately,
ornately,
creatively,
purposefully…
She shall see herself,
breathe herself and know that
only she is the one she could
deliberately fall…
…or fail.
The black sand shall be her dress,
the grey rocks shall be her stilettos,
that clear water be her conscience
as she takes on the world.
With her cursive eye shadows
she will see the funny side of
life; she will see it thoroughly.
She, regardless, will persist
and resist the failure
of herself, with the moist
creek on her seductive lips.
She is seduction.
She is temptation.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC
She stupefy truth
with her finely crafted lies
that stand head held high
without even
the slightest sign
of embarrassment.
She waters the seeds
with acid, deliberately
even manage to get kudos
for her 'kind intervention'
Her 'collected venom'
in real, is a counterfeit concoction
more deadly than the real,
that attracts unlimited attention
and the loudest rounds of applause,
for it's new shade of blue
when displayed with special effects
for all to view.
In her presence, fairness loses its meaning
foulness like her, usurps it, makes its own,
becomes the reigning queen!
Whatever she does
has a dark beauty,
even the true angel of evil
would greatly envy her.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 2:24 AM UTC
You are a bicycle,
your rims are rusted;
Rusted to the overblown rubber tire.
Your chain is broken.
We've tried to splice it so many times,
but I'm running out of links and I'm broke.
You broke me, you ran over my foot.
No apologies. Only the reminders you leave like leaches.
"Well, I told you. I'm a bike."
Well, I told you not to hurt me.
Then you deliberately sought out to run over my foot.
Then ask me "Will you pump my tires, will you oil my chain."
I do these things for you, without being asked or appreciated.
Do them because you're my bicycle, and I appreciate you.
For getting me places, and knocking me down
to give me bruises, bumps, and scars
Scars that remind me, I am not a bicycle.
I am the flesh and blood of the world.
I am not a hollow iron cast;
My innards are in motion with my mind and heart.
I gotta stop pumping the tires on this bike, and toss it.
This bicycle gave me tetanus from it's peddles trying to run away.
Stop cutting up my ******* feet, bike.
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 11:42 AM UTC
I have accepted the heart you held in my hand.
I wished to fit it with my own.
But in the process, you kept deliberately cutting my fingers
Was I going too fast? Possibly.
Were my pieces too small? Possibly.
Were the edges too sharp? Possibly.
And yet, I continue to clutch at your shards with ****** palms.
I can't let you go, even if you hurt.
I accepted your heart, and I can't go back on my word.
I will, one day, form a beautiful stained glass portrait of you and I.
No matter how many ounces I bleed, I'll attempt to complete this work of art.
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 12:20 PM UTC
You've said and I'd have to agree
I'm
selfish,
*Because
I refuse to let you do anything to me,*
Selfish ......
*Why because
I refuse to spread wide & let you
**** me then leave?
You've expressed to others
how*
Selfish
*I can be,
because
I wont give in to your deceit,
I refuse
to allow you any sympathy
when it comes to
your fuckery
your an
infectiousness diseases...*
Selfish
*cause I wont be
subdued with all
the lies and ways
you mistreat me,
all the game playing,
trying to scheme
fake me out,
while you try to
make me lay out
my cards,
ya stupid cheat,
Selfish
because I've told you*
I Wasn't Ready
*I'm calling your bluff,
Your not so tough,
Ya sort of funny papi
Your always trying to knock me,
wishing to cause havoc and bring me down again.*
Selfish
*huh
really?
I'm so*
Selfish
*because I'll put my children
all of them before you,
I've placed my walls back up
wont allow you to climb em
I've changed my mind
more than once it's cause
of something you've done...*
*You've got me rethinking
being up on this pedal-stool
&
I'd rather you stop shaking it
so
I can get down
but you'd rather see me fall.
It's*
Selfish
*of me- right
cause
I'd rather not have to fight,
I don't like being put down,
Specially ya
small jabs
about my mental
the many excuses
you've come to make
time and time again
You've dismissed
my past and all
the bad that's trapped me,
You make fun of me
for having PTSD
& D.I.D.
You've said and I'd have to agree
I'm*
Selfish
*cause I don't want to do this,
I don't need another man's
to abuse,
or for you to
use and beat me
I'd rather be*
selfish
*then to take care of another drunk
or man with any type of addiction,
even if you're addictions me.
I'll be*
selfish
*While
I guard all that's dear to me
You've already
deliberately
tried to cause me so much pain
dressed it up and called it love
but I wasn't fool to your game.*
Selfish
*huh?
Is it because,
I didn't let you in
well not as much
as you'd like me to,
Naw papi
it's because
You
can't just pop into my life
then try to take it over.*
**SORRY MOTHER ******
*You can't mistreatment
and abuse me
than bring me flowers
cards or candy,
You can't rock my body
then dismissively
treat me like
I'm worthless....
But it's me
whose so *******
Selfish.
*I've said it long ago
Oh how he thinks
I'm*
"His Type"
*Well that's not true
because
baby you've made it
so **** clear
that
I'm nothing.
Besides
a *****
a **** & a ****
A *****
even though
You've apologized
each and every time
those
words left your lips,
not right away
but you've done it
&
I refuse to forgive you
over and over
each time you've
repeated ya crimes...*
*No way could
I allow you back
because
you showed you'd
do it
again and again,
and if
BIG ******* IF,
if I allowed it
which I wont-
not anymore and never again
its because
you've said it
right
and
if you cant
remember
well baby
I'll help you
out
its
because
I'm*
SELFISH!
*Always Me Ayeshah ™ ®
K.A.C.L.N ©
All right reserved ®
Copyright 1977 - Present*
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 10:20 AM UTC
It is snowing and death bugs me
as stubborn as insomnia.
The fierce bubbles of chalk,
the little white lesions
settle on the street outside.
It is snowing and the ninety
year old woman who was combing
out her long white wraith hair
is gone, embalmed even now,
even tonight her arms are smooth
muskets at her side and nothing
issues from her but her last word - "Oh." Surprised by death.
It is snowing. Paper spots
are falling from the punch.
Hello? Mrs. Death is here!
She suffers according to the digits
of my hate. I hear the filaments
of alabaster. I would lie down
with them and lift my madness
off like a wig. I would lie
outside in a room of wool
and let the snow cover me.
Paris white or flake white
or argentine, all in the washbasin
of my mouth, calling, "Oh."
I am empty. I am witless.
Death is here. There is no
other settlement. Snow!
See the mark, the pock, the pock!
Meanwhile you pour tea
with your handsome gentle hands.
Then you deliberately take your
forefinger and point it at my temple,
saying, "You suicide *****
I'd like to take a corkscrew
and ***** out all your brains
and you'd never be back ever."
And I close my eyes over the steaming
tea and see God opening His teeth.
"Oh." He says.
I see the child in me writing, "Oh."
Oh, my dear, not why.
3.9k
it's simple really, nostalgia is buried in a melody
the same way humans are put in coffins--
deliberately heart-wrenching, a science.
an old transistor radio climbs lazily in the background,
buzzing, humming but then hear it--
blank stares as the road carries on, gradually,
slow mascara rivulets kiss cheeks like the intimacy long forgotten only to come rushing back--
songs that we said were ours were never ours to have,
an old familiar lyric that we claimed to spell destiny,
auditory memories that taunt and torture:
the chorus only instigates barbed thorns to lonesome hearts,
major chords aren't happy,
but cause discordance--
clenched fists on the steering wheel, you must pullover--
you can't pause or rewind, you can't stop--
yes, change the channel--
but the music still plays, and the riffs hang in your head,
remembered and reminisced over static--
but nothing is white noise when the final notes linger on your auditory palette,
the taste like the stare of a cold gravestone...
but even colder still,
the empty seat next to you.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 8:24 PM UTC