"dementia" poems
I began my life active with sports and other meaningless award systems.
Girl's recreational soccer, basketball, bike riding, math competitions, the works
Today, I feel weightless
useless would be best fit
As if all the running, jumping, yelling, point requiring statuses pushed the light out of my transitioned life.
I find myself sitting in one area often, as one may do
But different than sitting on a bench or sitting actively in company of others
I sit wondering exactly who I am looking at
Why am I empty lifeless longing towards an imaginary spot in the distant wall
I imagine some events in these minutes of stoic despair
Hearing goes weak and frozen, in this second, while I continue my Sunday brunch with non-conformative attitudes and her mother, the sweet old dementia
I don't mean to have their meetings often, I must of first acquainted as the first grade trauma or the Broadway rendition of Alone Thoughts featuring the Broken High School Years.
I hope to work the wheels again, to end these meetings and to live for once, in the midst of motion and pause.
This time, stopping and starting as I please.
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 3:57 PM UTC
but have you noticed, have you noticed how all mental health problems
stem form a seemingly aether virus that attacks the pronoun category;
i mean with proper justifiable schizoids you will not hear of the nouns
being ransacked for an equation that equates itself to misnomers;
it's all categorised negation of ease within the framework of pronouns.
it's strange that philosophers stress the pronouns so much these days
and those countless prior, but why do mental health diseases
attack the pronouns and not the nouns? they attack the verbs
thoroughly, but prior to the verbs exposing an illness
the pronouns are attacked, so that many considering the singularity
of expressing thought are ill because of being forced into a plural expression
of thought: "voices." i find it hard to understand, but it's the reality,
the aether virus attacks the pronoun
on the backdrop of a king's casual expression / use
of pronouns, when a king casually says
of himself as omni or multi with one and we respectively;
so why are pronouns so weak and nouns so strong
that a tree cannot be a misnomer attaché of timber
and rock not a pillar, or mountain as the verb: mountaineering?
the pronoun category is weak from day one,
because it suggests photographic duck animation on the lip pursed
into a quack quack, but if we constructed thought
without knowledge prior, eating the fruit of knowledge
rather than the fruit of thought, using the starting point
of the genesis metaphor, it's sometimes a no brainer
to have weak thinking and strength in knowing,
for if there was strength in thinking and weakness in knowing,
i'd be the one chiseling these words in the ice age on a cavern wall.
so, given, that diseases such as the famed premature dementia
attack the pronouns but not the nouns the schizoid one
will convene life with: pizza is pizza and sunshine ray down the drain
clock the millionth dead parting of grasshoppers in decimals -
while man unto man lusts one man's parting in decimals,
but should dire said, part man with integers, and insects with decimals!
but still, in the terminology of a cartesian understanding of illness,
in that segregational aspect of things "sorted,"
why are mental illnesses tattooed in a weak pronoun usage
compared to a strength in other grammatical categories?
why are not mental illnesses ******* the life out of the nouns?
the nouns are intact, the pronouns attacked,
and the verbs chess piece the pawn from the casually speaking clown king
into a beast imprisoned, for while the pronouns are attacked
and the nouns left intact, the attack on pronouns expresses itself
fully in verbs of the never existent tact: with such magic
as to claim knock knock on plank is the same as knock knock on veneer.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 7:58 PM UTC
Sensation, intuition, feeling, and thinking,
Is wrapped inside a ball,
A small pink ball inside our head,
That won't stop till we're dead,
Analytical bedrock inside oozing theories,
Elemental atoms sizzling logic,
The imaginative stranger,
One abstracted and eccentric,
Walking with shadows,
Talking and mocking,
Through these theories inside us,
Tilting our caps ‘til we’re shaking our heads,
Pensive love in storming analysis,
Sapiosexually excited, piqued interest,
Unemotional and thoughtfully attuned,
Absently minded, always condoned,
Unconventional and impartially stringed,
Weirdly wired in auxiliary functions,
Misconstrued and misunderstood,
An ****** intelligence bleeding paranoia,
Knocking unto me,
Into you, inside us all,
It’s something we all yearn to be,
And when you fail and prevail we laugh,
Crickling crickets thinking nothing,
Washing down the storm drain,
With no thoughts fluidly sliding down my throat,
Pop goes no questions into absolute concise words like freshly broken glass,
Again shadows await, but different shadows,
Blinking at me staring at you,
Wondering what’s what, inside this dementia made sense of a lovely afternoon,
Inside your sane, autocorrected, predetermined, twitching, little…mind.
Inspired by Myers Briggs Personality Test
Tyler is INTP... Logician (Introverted INtuitive Thinking Perception)
The drifter, dreamer the absent minded professor!
SassyJ is INTJ... Architect (Introverted INtuitive Thinking Judging)
The starry-eyed idealist manoeuvring life as if a giant chess board!
What Myer Briggs personality type are you?... See link below
It would be great to know.Please comment!!
http://www.16personalities.com/intp-personality
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 10:30 AM UTC
Now let us pray.
May hellfire rain down
on us today, on all those who
offered pay in
full metal change to watch
the life sized lights explode
& wicked witches
hanging by the throat
from a tenth floor window
it was all so cool.
so cool.
demon induced
dementia cemented in
an underground parking garage
sleepover
sleepless
starry eyed orphan
**** princess-
apparel section
regressing to an
oral fixation & a
need to keep the
fingers busy.
pink **** carpet
heart shaped atrocity
rotten thing.
you ain't the boss of me
paleface
scarab angel
seraph snake
made up cheap
heart tarnished
purely
black comedy
legs like a limousine
keeping company with
the holy cross
dressers on the
local drug scene.
oh how special.
yesterday
I fed my
edificial fetish
& I could not
stop thinking.
these high
arched ceilings.
could not contain
my feelings,
if they tried.
drive by advertisements
remind me there's
not much
to be excited about.
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 6:23 AM UTC
I sat by his bedside the day my father died.
The cancer that had riddled his body and soul now had complete control.
He fought kicking and screaming
the night the men in white came to take him on his final journey
like a great wildebeest struggling to get up on its front legs after being taken down by young lions. The way so many had said he
probably would since he fought his way tooth & nail throughout his life from the very beginning.
That night I sat on a chair at the foot of his bed staring out the huge ceiling to floor window of the medical centre at the many worlds hidden beneath thousands of rows of stationary lights and fluid winding rows of transient lights in-between and thought how the light of this window is just one of many thousands.
At that moment it seemed more like just one tiny speck in the vast star fields worlds above this city of light.
My father had spent most of his life just a short six-mile drive from here under the scattered lights of his hometown.
He turned to me and asked,
“That’s a big city. Where are we?"
Dementia had claimed his mind ten or more years earlier. It
slowly wound its way around his brain like a cocky snake
handler being choked by a boa constrictor unawares.
It seemed like it all caught up to his body. But it was good to see much of the bitterness and bad blood between us dissipated over the past decade.
On that night compassion ruled the day.
I could not say it then but it has been many years, where it seems compassion has forged with objectivity.
In a lucid moment he looked around the hospital room
bewildered as if he were a little boy who just woke up from a bad dream and asked,
“How did this ever happen?"
If only I could have told him.
Sometimes the truth cannot be spoken or heard. All I could do then was sit by his bed and lean in close to his ear and sing softly his favourite hymns.
By morning his lifeless
dilapidated body laid in the fetal position. His once ravenous mouth now forever frozen looked like a knothole in a twisted cedar tree.
All I can do now is hang my head and think of how weak and frail we humans truly are.
Like compassion forged with objectivity, weakness and frailty forges with fleeting moments of strength. We forge heroes out of these moments to tower above
the pedestals the former is made of to somehow minimize the pain of this often denied truth.
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 11:40 AM UTC
/ innocent until prōven guilty,
contra guilty until
prōven innocent...
ah!
so the minority report?
guilty, while innocent,
based upon a premonition?
hindsight with a zodiac
type of interpretation...
innocent until prōven guilty
has no superiority
in practice over the continental
guilty until prōven innocent...
no... because the principle invokes
presuppositions,
of suppositions...
treating the two as propositions -
or rather... "verbs" inacted...
innocent until prōven guilty -
then no understanding of freedom,
at least guilty until prōven innocent
allows understanding
restraint, however unfair,
with 18 years lost...
and then the tears of relief!
Tomasz Komenda...
an "espionage" case of staging
empathy...
en masse...
an innocent man walks away
from falsely imposed justice measures...
a redemption...
a count de monte cristo
allowance...
but in reverse?
the evil man walks free...
succumbing to old age,
and dementia, a pontius pilate pardon...
there is no redemption aspect
of the saxon course of applying jurisprudence...
the... innocent, until prōven guilty,
contra: guilty until prōven innocent
schizophrenia?
the latter overshadows
the former...
because we're not babies...
at least with the latter:
there's a redemption exegesis -
but with the former?
bitter-sweet tears within
the confines, of an example akin
to jimmy savile...
guilty until prōven innocent
has much more authentic emotional
content, with a redemption narrative...
innocent until prōven guilty
has? not much,
just a grave,
and the stunted emotional expression,
what ought to be flowers
within the heart,
instead: fungus, growing in the dark...
and thus... translating
to other hearts:
let's allow this chemo-phobia
chemo-philia experiment
be left intact in its the momentum...
honestly... the study of law -
is probably the ********* game
in the allowance of games of
adulthood... one tier above gambling.
p.s.
because you know there's proof:
and that the past-participle
thrown into a future, does require
an omega rather than an omicron...
not an oh, but an ooh...
hence? reign from above,
on the omicron, with a macron (ō).
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 12:34 PM UTC
~for the one who will know it was written for her~
muddy verb and adjective,
muddling and muddled
have you ever seen a pas de deux/deluxe,
one dancer, proscriptive,
and her partner, prescriptive?
the stage, of course,
exactly the width of your head,
from ear to shining ear
this couple o’muses dance en concert,
though their very natures are anti-logarithmic,
the value of their exponential activity is a
descriptive nomenclature
I am overly abstruse this Saturday morn,
mushing mathematics and ballet, verbal word games
as is my wont wanted,
everyone sleeping while I rise at 6am,
doing ablutions, seeking absolution,
pulling weeds from our respective gardens,
answering old friends I have yet to meet,
to whom I answer,
“still here, though long time no see,”
which is of course hysterical funny, inherently contradictory,
as the brain grasps well my
Red and Dead Sea brain cells, a splitting motif
muddling and muddled,
proscribed from getting on transport,
to deliver to you the proper healing prescriptive,
as if I had in my possess to diagnosis and correctly assess
even though one of my many passport names,
a requirement, to visit,
this inter-netting ether, that both combines and separates,
permits me safe passage,
over the historical lineage of borderlines of land and sea,
to deliver this message,
to you
woman
*I am here, waiting patiently, though long time
no see
like ever,
absentia, dementia,
both self-censure:
here, then, my cadenza,
dedicated solely soulfully for you,
as the sabbath sun rises over the East River,
saying, laughing unto me,
“still here, though long time no see,”
for though I cannot look upon her,
my sun, my sun, my son,
yet she, as well,
is everywhere-inside of me,
warmly illuminating
my muddled mind*
Mar 23, 2019
Mar 23, 2019 at 7:57 AM UTC
i lost my innocence at eight years old
and i wish someone would have told me that
i wish i hadn't figured it out by myself when my trust in anything that was supposed to be safe was already long gone
i wish i hadn't walked up to him
i wish i wasn't afraid to tell people that i did because i'm afraid to hear someone blame me for it
i wish i didn't blame me for it
i wish i never have to experience that awful feeling of simultaneous disgust, shame, dirtiness, and confusion again
every time i've taken my shirt off for ten years straight.
when i shower.
when anyone touches me even in the most innocent way.
that feeling like the only way i could ever feel completely clean would be to burn my skin off.
that feeling that consumes my mind out of the blue and suddenly i'm that little girl in the green and white striped skort again that didn't understand what happened to her
just that it was bad
the little girl that nobody taught to differentiate between what was okay along with the real, blunt reason why and what happened to her so any sort of physical contact with people felt wrong
i wish i could never feel that again
i wish it could be night all the time and no one would ever be around
they warn you about wandering too far from home when you're alone
about going out after dark and playing in places without people around
about the bad people, the sick malicious perverts, that you have to watch out for
they don't tell you about the good people that just don't know what they're doing
they don't tell you about the grandfather with dementia watching his grandson play at the park in broad day light surrounded by people
at least, they don't tell you to stay away from him
daylight has never made me feel more secure than darkness
and seeing people nearby has never brought me comfort
because nothing has ever made me feel more unsafe and vulnerable than that day in the park
in broad daylight
surrounded by people
Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 9:01 PM UTC
Karim disintegrates
To the madness of the Brightest Star
In the fog-thickened day.
That star,
Empowered with the strength of a
Thousand soldiers
And their passion,
And the cunning wit
Of the Great Apollo,
Stretched the fabric of linear veil to pause
The illusion of society
For a moment
Outside of dementia
Jun 15, 2022
Jun 15, 2022 at 7:36 PM UTC
I hope she knows what she's getting herself into.
I hope she knows what your heart sounds like after a night of
comparisons between her handwriting and mine.
I want you to know that I am through with dumbing
myself down to fit inside your god complexed hands.
Don't tell me I never tried to save us.
I wrote you songs with knives on my palms
and your ears were anything but listening.
I had a dream about you every night since you told me
you didn't know how to love anything with a heartbeat and hope.
I started sleeping again when you came back, and oh when you came back...
I am not sorry that my temper is as short as the lifespan of us.
I am not sorry that your smile is the only one that ever made me
want to wake up in the morning.
I am all pain and long long longing and she has always been
a storm with a heart dead set on your stillness.
Our problem is that I never stop shaking long enough for the dust to settle.
I've been writing with the same pen for four years and
you still only recognize my words when she plays them back.
Let it not be confused, foggy or incomprehensible-
you were the one.
Until the one became none and I stopped being a number when you stopped counting miles.
I hope she loves harder than a woman with dementia, relearning parts of you every morning
in the places you reserved with my first and your last- maybe next time.
Maybe next time, maybe next life will be different.
Maybe I'll be patient, stronger, I'll stop covering my smile. You'll stop pretending to be in love.
I will stop shaking and the dust will settle and her poetry will make you sick.
Her poetry will sprout evening primroses and she won't know that you always fall asleep before midnight
or that you're allergic to flowers that bloom when the sun is down.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 8:55 PM UTC
Mind, like a deciduous forest
has lost all its foliage,
all leaves torn away
by the autumnal blasts
The brain where great schemes were concocted
is now an abyss where spiders sway
It is bare – dismally barren
of all memories – sweet and sour
Like a kite afloat in the boundless sky
moving nowhere, but as the wind directs,
cut out from the past, turned from the present
with the future yet to surge from the abyss
or like serpents intertwining,
hissing in turmoil within the brain,
unable to sense the gusty blast,
or hear the whispering air,
dead to sounds that disturb,
deaf to songs that soothe,
like a phantom he moves weird,
drifting far away
to a space and time impenetrable
with nothing to make the mind agog
or depress it to let out a sigh.
Loitering on roads without hurrying feet
with no bliss coming on the way
to run or hasten to embrace
or fear to be missed sore
passing through dark labyrinthine tunnels
forever barred with no exit
churned in oblivion, oblivious of all,
he remains a spectral facsimile
of his onetime self
plummeting into a black hole
The pulse of a heart beat
is all that keeps him alive,
all else is dead…… !
with dreary nights ahead
that shall not know another morrow
Jan 7, 2018
Jan 7, 2018 at 8:13 AM UTC
Ebola has my name on it, the Doctor
Who came back with Ebola
In New York, yes you heard me right
His name is Mr. Spencer, I’m a
Spencer, he rode the subway in the dark
And he went bowling a week after
He came back, and he only went
To the hospital very sick
This is dementia of the public system
And the main stream media
Is being blacked out by the Czar
Appointed by Obama, he’s a lawyer by trade
Are you surprised that Ebola
Can hitch a ride with a Doctor without borders?
There are no borders for a pandemic
It increases exponentially
And peaks sometime in 2017
I’m sorry to be the first to break
The News, but Ebola is running wild
Somewhere in New York, somewhere near you
There could be a city that has it already
And do you think the media would let you know?
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 10:45 PM UTC
A tattered bird had a made a tomb
in tepid water, it was a puddle
near the framework of a half-built room—
but the soul’s a swerving tunnel
and the dead are waiting at the end:
all sorts of animals huddled at the fringe
where littered pine needles stand
and creep inside the sandy construction site,
pale in the morning light,
the tractors dug aesthetic swirls in the sand—
a culvert keeps the brook alive,
it flows into the forest, which learns to mend
its scars with the festering of its things:
kingfishers’ **** on the berries and branches,
if the plants could undo their own stink
the heart wouldn’t die on its haunches—
the morning’s dew resolves to hoary ice,
its killing the greenery,
but the sandblasters lean, arranged by the outhouse, like
a dream, the first worker arrives early
he rests against a smooth-planed board—
flood the mind, but be sure to drain it out,
its his breakfast cup of tea that stores
his knowledge of beauty
past the place where the bushes are thin
there is an apple orchard, plucked to pieces at the end of fall—
trees arranged in ranks, held up with wires and strings:
a dementia arboreal—
the smells from the orchard meet
the smells from the machines and hover
above the building-zone, mixing with the bite
of cold humidity—a cruel kind of vapor
Feb 1, 2010
Feb 1, 2010 at 9:10 PM UTC
i knew you had a hard farm, where the livestock was stoic and the hills less harmless.
you had wolves that would breathe down your neck. and weeping willows made of funerals
and *** U knew you had an old world view of birthmarks, where life is stampede and riddle
and lost art...
i knew you had guns, and an April of dead suns... a humid dementia of lecherous guile and innocence.
a distinct remain. [ a loose cherub in the Wednesday...]
a bowl of fruit and tyrants
catching spark.
i knew you meant no harm that a legion of crossed charms could reason to decimate my reckless.
you had rules that had deeds, done in the name of nameless. a thing, pillows dread.
the soul of your soul is the spot spotless; a dowry of feathers and blood
and yes.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 11:34 AM UTC
The writer is
bound by the Oedipus
cauldron stewing can't relax
--all women are mine--
but this doesn't stop the bloating bubbles.
But the writer did not invent Wonderlandia
--no double-sided tape or wrong number or sloppy poetics.
Wonderlandia was born from the ***** of the stars
--our fathers,
and the void of space,
--our mother's womb.
the writer
was busy staring at the girls that walked by
ditch diggers for renovations on Euphoria.
The hippies are disappointed in this current Wonderlandia,
or they would be.
Their dreams had dirt in the mud,
they walked upon. Our Woodstock
is celebrity interviews,
reservations failing,
political satires--the last ring of change
sold at five cents a word. Period.
the writer
says it understands and writes:
"Sticks shaped from elitism
rare.
Usually a vibe too brittle,
breaking in battle.
The bass thundered robins.
The snare's firearm stabled the swift,
electrifying beat.
The brass was addiction
to the crowd's ears.
All before the elitism was born,
a symphony was constructed in the drug's head."
the writer
knows about D. A. Levy and his revolution,
we all felt that voice, so the writer replies:
"Did you hear about the John Lennon poser
waving his gun on TV?
While listening to the Beatles, you
sit and watch the vagabond cry.
He says, "Counter-culture is dead, entombed
in a metal casket.
We need a new flame. Those watching TV
get your hands out of the basket."
the writer
walks with grandma Alice
by lakes,
thrilling dementia
"Don't tell me what taurine
and caffeine can do to my heart.
I can have alligators in my rib meat
eating away at bone marrow.
High? That's your question?
Hi...I am a float
in a useless pond
bordered by malnourished trees.
By the love of hell you better not
fertilize those ****** trees
because if I die
the alligator of my ribs
will dine and take your ****
girlfriend straight to the vet.
I thank you for asking though."
the writer misses
the syrup in the tree completely
I am not your beatnik
or future idol--burn your 1970's classrooms away.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 6:49 PM UTC
*My acute dementia
Seems to precipitate the need for immediate euthanasia
A hurried departure
Through the aperture
Deep set in the hollowness of time
Because essentially life’s been a lackluster mime
Imbibing flawlessly flawed ideas
That inform my capricious
Nature to various stimuli
It’s a life story based on a true lie
Frivolities interspersed with grave concerns
The myriad adjourns
Futile attempts at mitigating
A self-imposed galling.*
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 5:06 AM UTC
spoon fed my keepsakes as nothing blots the sun so much
you teach me how to cringe in spun sugar. the nape of your
neck.
gleefully, we usurp the thicket of our mild dementia. sullen
joy equipped. a sumptuous dirge curdles the myth, your fins
***
as troubadours, we malinger in the pith of our blunt fruit. crust
removed from our daily bread. our basket of basilisks, bathe
in stone.
duel wielding our gazebos... we bivouac in our ambivalence, by
turns we move. you tip toadstools as i milk maidens for their
candelabras.
our palominos run. we do
violence to timpani and click mice.
pc
drifting in the cyberwocky. we transit the binary auto-bond
and paste
whats
clip.
blue thumbs thread cranberry noose. our ***** nods off. fronds
of juniper and cannabis slap the window pane. throughwhich
a *** mouse pounced on frond’s sway.
startled, we move the furniture of our eastern proclivities.
for thine is the kingdom
of our discontent !
swing-shift lap-dogs, trundle west of the east village. smell
of ****** and nag champa. idiots sting.
idiots braid zodiacs with greasy fingers. [ indeed ]
and
you
preach from your gut...
( your left breast marvelous with taint) and saltwater taffy.
we
laugh again-
at things we have
and now
only
harbor ghosts
where the rain
should have
been.
should have
been.
should have
been.
should have
been.
should have
been.
should have
been.
this is the new
intimacy.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 7:03 AM UTC
if he is not made of them wholly, branches, he will be soon. they are everywhere, and he steps on them, and they are arms from hell. he wears a child’s football jersey, torn at his size and his sorrow. he reaches into it and pulls out his heart, a red balloon given the what for, inside of which he blows his nose. he returns the heart.
a yellow adherent hangs from both nostrils, as two ropes being cut at and then loosed from his brain. the first keeps an arm from heaven; the second he catches and loops twice to put on his neck. one is never out of the woods here, and he knows it, knows here is Baltimore, Ohio. he has watched the people, some of them, leave; their happiness would be better called remission.
he is giddy when he comes upon a man wearing only a barrel and he tips it with joy and makes better his headway home. the rolled over branches shriek and wake the man who nakedly bails. the branches up their shrieking.
his mother he has no dementia of his time in her womb. why for **** the despondent are given captions like ‘blank look’ he can’t say for in his mama naught but canvassing eyes. she’s what he calls ‘at grocery’, shaking a coffee can she’ll buy because a done melon can’t hold pennies. she often at the neck is saddled with two toddlers but in his projection now there is just one making miracle of not kicking the coffee can into another’s back.
any girl that occurs lets him take her with his tongue only as she seems to know he was circumcised and after that much paddled.
he starts thinking on dad and dad’s laughing when mother’d say boys be home before dog because that’s how it sounded from seizures and of course rock candy in the summer. the barrel splinters beneath him to be forgotten and his legs go to bleeding stilts.
his last things by his face are insufficient; rock candy, barrel, and twin. I talk on the barrel, I don’t need it, not anymore.
Jul 1, 2012
Jul 1, 2012 at 1:34 AM UTC
treacherously torrid and torrential torrents of totally tangential tumultuous tortuous ; tyrannically torturous adjunct viably salient seethe.
procrastinating pandemic plenipotentiary prosthesis ; prosaically pragmatic parenthetical predication predilection premise prognostication
panoramic tableau preternatural propensity proclivity prestidigitation gesticulation :
gyration guidon ; ghastly gruesome grotesque hideously horrible horrendous heinous
grotty gnarly
diabolically maniacal dementia brusque macabre abrupt
awful
amalgamated anathema analysis agnate aggregate aberrance
somatalogy virtuoso cognate obduracy
worse
rudiment ebullience , confluence effluent effusion affluent , prolific profusity opulence , cogent fecund secular secund , recondite redolence abstrusely obstreperous mesomerism resonance resilience
protractive perpetude futurity
blither blandishing blabber burnishing boresome blahs
lithe blithe jabber prattle chatter tithe
morose morsel moribundness
stolid stoic
stalwart bastion bulwark
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 5:45 PM UTC
i loved you, right
a love unreturned,
unrequited
but alas, still
stoked by little miners with
hearts of brass their
iron faces grimacing at the task,
little beads of lots of sweat
dripping down their
taut frowns.
so what i meant to say is that
i love you, right,
and it’s a love that still
burns, bright, enough
to bring the boys home but
let’s be honest
it wouldn’t best the sun, but
**** it’s a terrible light,
it throws everything into a soft relief
where pretty, soft voiced sheep say
pretty, soft voiced things like
‘it’s okay to feel this way’
‘i want you to be happy’
‘she sounds amazing’
and other things that normal people
tell me mean that either
i don’t love you
or i’m moving on.
they don’t understand though,
i mean,
i love you, right,
though all that sheep **** makes it
sound as if
i’m waving you off,
smashing the celebratory champagne on your bow,
waving you off into the distance with a lacy hanky,
joyful tears cascading down my powdered cheekbones,
i’m greedy
maybe even,
needy,
a disgusting word and
even if i make pacts with myself
to the order of
‘he can do so much better’
‘i am damaged goods’
and other associated half truths
i’d be a liar if i said that
i would kick you out of bed
or even rebuke the slightest of
advances, no i’d take my chances
and i cannot bear it, really
i’d touch you and whatever wholeness
whatever someone else would
parse as clean or pure or holy
wouldn’t disintegrate, no
wouldn’t tarnish, no
would most probably just implode
under the combined pressure
of emotionally-mentally-fucked-in-the-head-doe
(where the **** do you think the miners got all that coal)
so, yes… wait. no?
i love you, right
but just ignore it
enjoy the lights
please remember them
tell your friends and
cherish them until
they are taken by
death, drink, dementia
but i’m sure your mum,
teacher,
or television
long ago informed you that
bright lights are detrimental to vision
so think of your future and
forget now
if you’re tempted by how i look at you
remember how
sunburn seems innocuous
until you see your skin
and sunscreen pretty useless
‘til you learn the sun will win
and the best way to avoid
dainty melanoma
is
to
go
inside
and
lock
your
door
and act like you don’t know her.
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 11:51 PM UTC
I am the queen of being forgetful,
My nieces and grand niece follow
me,
It is in the genes.
I neither have dementia nor Alzheimer,
It's just my way.
Too much goes in my mind,
Creating pages of happenings,
In Gujarati they call me Sunji (forgetful).
My husband would boil tea or milk for me,
Otherwise,both would spill over,
The utensil burnt.
I learned how to drive a car,
Unfortunately,had to give up,
I would nearly forget to switch off the ignition key.
I would certainly forget to give messages,
Or attend invited occasions if not reminded.
Uncannily, I would never forget if I had hurt someone,
Someone owed me money,
My own personal work.
Everybody tried to rectify me,
But,to no avail,
I am what I am,
And they let it be.
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 8:05 AM UTC
*Clouds are as thin as satin
The cool breeze caresses our faces
Millions of stars gleam so bright
Like no other I describe the night
There I see your eyes ever so pretty
Jaw-dropped as they look at mine
Your face defines such beauty
That It cursed me with dementia
Your lips is as red as velvet
Cured my color blindness
As they move as you speak
I can't respond, I'm tongue-tied
The warmth of your embrace
Overthrew the coldness afar
As both our eyes collides
I fell more in love with you
I stare in your lips one more time
For they kept me in astonishment
Oh I really wanted to kiss them
Yet I can't cause I can't
I know that time will come
All I have to do is to keep my faith
Under this bright blue moon
I promise, with all my heart, I will wait*
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 9:30 PM UTC
in 2012 i experienced an incident with a rifle. my friend spinned it around and hit me in the face. the hit was hard enough to break my nose and make me fly backwards and land on the back of my head.
after that i started having seizures. cluster seizures which mean seizures back to back. they have to be stopped by iv or i can go into status epilepticus meaning continued or back to back seizures that can **** people. there have been several times where my heart has stopped or i stopped breathing from it. its hard to live with. soooo many pills, and doctors, specialists to help diagnose me. just about a month ago i was diagnosed with tbi (traumatic brain injury) before i was diagnosed i was so upset with everything. my health my relationship, my family problems. it just piled up so i decided to numb myself with drugs and alcohol. i no longer can do that because the last time i did i woke up in the hospital with alcohol poisoning. i have right hemisphere disfunction and it effects my motor skills, speech, memory, decision making, confusion, and at this point the doctors say that my memory and confusion is dementia. sometimes i try to tell myself i don't need help, im fine, i don't need anyone, or that the doctors made a mistake. but they didn't and that was proven to me today when i saw my eeg, and mri. i have built up white matter in my brain. and it only gets worse . i can never regain anything ive lost but i can learn how deal with it and move on from now. i can never be independent in the part of just living alone. i would like to marry the man of my dreams but i don't think i want to put him through all of this. he would have to take care of me when i get sick, and i get sick often due to my weak immune system. one hit in the face and my whole body went out of whack. we also recently discovered that i have a bundle branch block in my heart which means it is a condition in which there's a delay or obstruction along the pathway that electrical impulses travel to make your heart beat. i have a dog that can smell my auras which are mild seizures like warnings that a big one will come. but he can only do so much . squeeze under my head and bark for help.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 10:31 PM UTC
Remember the first good day we spent?
The sea washed out the sand at our feet,
The city lights twinkled like the stars above.
Only, these were the stars we could touch.
It was the first I'd seen of your carefree laugh;
I told myself then, I haven't seen it enough.
I still haven't had enough of it...
*She said, 'The city lights are the stars,
They twinkle in the shrouded night.
**I have been waiting for someone
To help me reach for the light.'***
It's like I'm in a dream...
Were we together in our past lives?
I was holding this torch forever,
In the darkness, I could only burn bright,
For my neverending love, to seek the forgotten light;
To reunite, and spark into flames together,
Like the Sun, warming, burning, with it's light;
And I finally found you, through all those blackest nights.
*He said, 'If this was meant to be,
I will die over & over again to be in different eras with you.
**To live forever despite living various lives,
To live in the end and die in the beginning!'***
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 11:41 PM UTC