"depictions" poems
Painting in the secrets
Of a thousand lies
Is fun
As you get to paint in
How you see those lies
Let's paint our hair red
Of a thousand fires
So fun,
As you get to paint it
How you really want to
Aggressively painting canvases
Of a thousand depictions
It's fun
As you get to paint whatever
How you really see it
*Let's go paint something, sister.
Together.*
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 2:53 PM UTC
Photoshopped fantasy fictions
Misogynistic oppressive depictions
Unobtainable beauty
Fake imagery
This LIE is but violence and bigotry
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 10:38 PM UTC
I'm not a writer... Or anything resembling that
I am just me... Sharing my words picked out from life's hat
I can't find the most accurate to say
So letters I dabble in various permutations
Layers of letters turn into words and come to play
Could call them journals, these text-laden creations
But I'm not a writer... Or anything resembling that
I am just me... Penning the words picked out of life's hat
I'm not a poet... Or anything mimicking that
I am just me... Relating experiences out of life's hat
I can't conjure poems... About anything or everything
Can't use my words to incite or inspire
These are just ideas and I just like rhyming
They are just experiences that fuel my fire
But I'm not a poet... Or anything mimicking that
I am just me... Spouting rhymes out of life's hat
I'm not an artist... Or anything pretending to be that
I am just me... Drawing scenes from life's hat
I can't sketch a portrait with a simple pencil
Can't put together an installation and call it art
I can paint fairly well; of which I have done several
I can draw out emotions and depictions from the heart
But I'm not an artist... Or anything pretending to be that
I am just me... Producing paintings out of life's hat
I'm not a musician.. Or anything fantastic like that
I am just me... Playing melodies from life's hat
I don't have the quality of voice to match that of a crooner
I can't play instruments that could earn a place in a band
I can sing in key without the help of a tuner
I enjoy music best with a guitar in my hands
But I'm not a musician.. Or anything fantastic like that
I am just me... Singing songs from life's hat
I'm not a writer, poet, musician or an artist...
I do a little of everything, not excelling at any one title
Although I wish to have everything clenched in one fist
All I ever really do is just dabble....
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 9:34 AM UTC
I've always been confused
by media's personifications of Life.
*A beautiful woman
whose skin is flawless
whose face is symmetric
who has no faults*
She, Life, is perfect and clean.
How life truly is not
A depiction of Life I give you now,
one not so perfect as She before.
Skin and features of many
taking in the best and worst.
A being who is strong and weak
visibly ill while being well.
A being who is beautiful in it's -u-g-l-i-n-e-s-s-
or rather,
a being who is beautiful in it's uniqueness.
A being who is not perfect,
but strives to be.
A being who is not commonly pretty,
but true to the mixture of
Pain and Sorrow
with
Ease and Joy.
Now I am sure you depict
Life a different way.
But how truthful all these depictions are
for life is different to everyone.
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 11:03 AM UTC
***** girl. godly beast.
I couldn't be
one of those
beautifuls
if I pleased.
tribal bones stained
with European empirico
I am black death disease,
just human trash
that learned to read
& I believe bootleg genius
is being
massively reproduced
more cheaply & as we speak
is being weakened
so as to be spoon fed
to the cool kids.
yknow they
couldn't do it
by themselves.
never sweated.
laughed instead
yes
I seen em
inchin to the edge
but
I didn't
do anything about it.
I kinda feel guilty
cause I didn't
do anything about it.
It's just a ****** up
awful sound,
a whole generation
hitting the ground
at once.
Man. it really
puts things in perspective.
kinda makes you wonder
what's coming next.
medicine medley
ineffectual
malady infectious
witch hunt etiquette,
I think in pictures
disney depictions of
apocalyptic ****
yet to be decrypted
I rip myself to pieces
every day.
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 5:36 AM UTC
*Elemental Metamorphosis & Transcendental Milestones,
Sempiternal Origamis Of Her Temperamental Clones,
Spiraling Perpetuities & Her Sacrosanct Fortitude,
Procreating Tipsy Ruptures In Her Permeating Solitude,
Perplexed Momentum & Her Outlandish Constellations,
Nuclear Decay Of Her Masked Radiations,
Verbal Shadows & Her Tranquil Ascendance,
Encasing Her Tears In Liquefied Transcendence,
Yearning Oddities & Entropic Oceans,
Vitalizing Inexorable Emotions Into Phosphorescent Potions,
An Hourglass Existence Of Her Fabricated Virility,
Dwelling In Quantum Ascents Of Ardent Agility,
Silver Ghosts Of Her Prismatic Abyss,
Convicting Glass Houses In Her Ecstatic Bliss,
Telepathic Shades & Hollow Palisades,
Detrimental Novelists On Uncharted Crusades,
Pernicious Scars In Her Profound Gaze,
Erupting Genesis Inside Her Dimensional Maze,
Perplexed Periphery & Digital Fictions,
Annexed By Her Hourglass Depictions,
Breakdown Sanity & Her Concealed Screams,
Lifelike Dewdrops In Her Visionary Dreams,
Satellite Searchlights & Love//Less Progenic Mutation,
Paralyzed Sunlight Sparking Genetic Alteration,
Monochromatic Streams & Cinematic Realms,
Static Screams Of Her Toxic Schemes.
- 05:43 AM -*
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 11:18 PM UTC
Trigger Warning depictions of ****** assault
Beach sands
peeling off a swimsuit
a wet slap
not quite drenched to the bone
yet still a burden
how it sits heavy on the tongue
a humid storm
inside you
heaviness in the prison of my ******
I am trying to pull up my *******
after my friend ***** me
in December
and I'm thinking of how everyone I love
has once hurt me
'moist' is the sound
of his fingers slipping inside me
I am closing my eyes
as the cotton of his shirt clings to my bare legs
and I am thinking that all the wetness must have
teeth
especially the wetness that grows within
and spills out
or chews its way through the skin
and falls onto another's
the night I was *****
everyone laughed
until the walls were moist
until it rained indoors
I say moist
and first, think about two naked bodies
the sound their skin makes
when I try to fight him off
underneath a hungry moon
in a house of warm heat
I saw moist
and think of his tongue against me
the bullet in his brain as I curse him
on a cold December night
the room
my *******
a dark red
I say moist
as in
my own blood spilling in my white ******* moist
or
his fingers moist as he pounded into me
so hard I bled
or my eyes moist when
I told my Momma what that boy had done to me
it felt like winter for ten years.
Feb 28, 2020
Feb 28, 2020 at 12:31 PM UTC
Farce!
False!
Fantasy maybe. Even still,
It’s far from fact.
Fiction!
I've seen more accurate depictions
Of Love
In abstract pictures.
At least it’s fierce colors
Show so form of passion
Fashion!
Artistic? It can be
But this is trendy
It'll fade as a
Fad!
True art is timeless
Truth? It can be
But this is candy
Not fruit
This is pop
Not soul
Technically it’s music
Because of it’s movement
But this needed no muse
Only tech
No chords
Piano or vocal
Only vocoder!
Inhumane, alien maybe.
But even the Vulcan
Shows some form of fire
Folktale!
Fog!
The misleading smoke
Shows no water
In the vicinity
Only industry
The only esteem
In this engine
Is steam
Gas.
The closest thing
To nothing
Fodder!
Deflowered. Devoured
By self-expression
Selfish innovators imitating life
Forgetting to live it.
****
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 10:55 PM UTC
...plain, white light of conscious sight
carved with the black of depictions,
stretched imaginations, dance of
curves and shapes, the inner vision
needs a pair of shades, color it
with flames of passion, free flow
of feeling, breeze of dreams
whistling through the meadows
of vibrant forms
...from the dust
this thought was born, to the
dust, the vision fades, in the dust
are the sparks, minerals, elements
of life, fertile fields, sow the seeds
...from the groves, the forms are
reborn, then the critters and grubs
swarm in, eating the scraps, ********
new life into the soil, new sparks
and minerals, eggs and chances,
rhythms for the new generations,
vibrant once more, a matter of
potent renditions, the breath fueling
the black depictions, white light geyser,
grey clouds, tarnished ores,
dirt and dust, all colored with the minerals
of light
...and in that light is solar life,
lunar reflections, Earthly fullfillment of
'son'shine, mother's milk, and dad's
beer brewing in the astro's firmament.
Dancing all through again and again of
swirvy curls, recollection of scattered pearls,
casted and then returned.
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 5:13 PM UTC
They've sold their souls in the midst of humility
and super-pervaded occult, they've sacrificed
people just to get that fancy car, and that
mansion like paradise, and all that glamors on the
face of multi-universe, they are living in the era of
self-aggrandizement, and more doubtfully
contemplate christianity, they moved a step
further to promote atheism, the concept of
humanistic thought have been overthrown, and
decisions made under the philosophy of
postmodernity, depictions of reality are mystical
and emanate from the dark prisms, their
conception of glorification is different from the
society's, therefore I'm hateful and watching as
the world slowly chokes itself to death.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 4:09 PM UTC
hours drip slowly
onto a taunting empty page
the soul’s depictions brushed simply
a palette of whispered words
dry as if it were thoughts painted
onto a tightly stretched canvas
it's been said so many times before
similes,...
form clots at the tip of the quill
words,...
finally surrendering to gravity’s flow
as the ink scribes the paltry ruminations;
flooding the same stifled notions
another way into another moment
metaphorical sleights of hand
incarnate onto the absolving
sheet of parchment;
traces of past now’s ensconced
in considered words
miles of silent reverie,
spun,...
like a spider reprocessing,
carefully savoring
each fine silk thread of web,
spinning the womb of time...
© H.A. Rivers 2012 … All Rights Reserved
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 1:01 PM UTC
She says that I'm overthinking small
situations and turning them into complex
equations, a mountain of igniting dungeons
beyond infinities, a labyrinth of swelling
light flickering without energy.
I gaze at the unfiltered alliteration in her
one-dimensional shape, the split derivatives
diverging towards a square of stained
subtractions.
My mind is the light source that transcends
destiny, a wall of mirrored depictions
aligning with my soul. I am a critical thinker,
and I shall live in this realm forever.
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 3:15 PM UTC
Some people believe that dreams warn us
Others believe that its depictions of your subconscious
I had a dream of of our lips pressed against each other
Me laid under you,
Watching your lips curl up with every touch
But then you started chasing me
The look on your face was not the same
The tension was heavier
The knife was sharper
I woke up in fear
**And turned over in bed
To see the same smile I fell in love with**
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 1:03 PM UTC
sweet nyx, my goddess of the night.
you are the deity and reminder
that even within abysmal darkness
we are capable of excelling infinite heights.
I will be your muse:
weaving epic tales of love and loss,
depictions of existence
and resplendent, radiant light
as I guide you through this ineffable
journey of tiresome, exuberant life.
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 7:45 PM UTC
Sand-crusted catacombs of dismembered dreams
Settle beside memories of the child who grew up
In rocky Harpswell, Maine. Not many beaches,
Only a foggy stretch beyond Morse Mountain --
But I used to stand ankle-deep
In the water, wait until my toes sank
Into crystalized Earth
And bubbles from Littleneck clams.
I’d stand there until goosebumps spread upon
My blanched legs, rising up, up, like the artificial hills
Of Maya Lin’s Storm King Wavefield.
Now, when I lie alone,
Misplaced inside a vacant Manhattan studio,
I surrender to sirens and accelerated lives.
Peace comes in painting – thick oil,
Violet and claret on stretched canvas,
Depictions of neon signs and cityscapes,
Cheap t-shirt stands on street corners,
And 24-hour coffee shops with “specialty”
Blends in little white travel mugs – selling
To flocks of strangers, strutting like pigeons on cement
Sidewalks, pretending they belong.
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC
towards another end
the black sky of winter postures
¬fireflies like stars by
depictions of dancing¬
ochre soil of rock escarpments
flood plains, buffalo grazing
and you smile at me as we’re driving
it seems presence always has a way of disassociating
I have so much to say
but when you’re attentive it all feels cliché
just play me piano keys and ruminations
when the storms sink the streets
and drains overflow with branches
there’s always that desire to stand amongst it
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 6:53 PM UTC
Its nefarious arrogance, that's scaring grandparents, but its in the air and I'm airing it, as we are seeing all the signs, but just staring at them.
Somehow there is safety as an arian, where we are safely alien to Americans made in sapient sanitariums, shooting you first for glaring at em.
So what if i'm Dolling up my delirium for a serum to cure them all.
I am awol, from my call to duty, recreating movies, for serial groupies, suiting up to slither a delivery of a soothing sour piece.
I am stalling to clean the secretions from hostel sheets from the screamers being eaten, by Cretans, with beaten dogs at bay, staring blank at the fanfare from a cage.
Im burning white sage, under pages of poetry anointed by a stoical spleen, tuning out the dreams, of lesser beings, until complete.
A zoo within a zoo within a zoo, i barely know you now
Barely know how, to know you as a model citizen with baller trimmins, fixins, and a life with others wives, in the rough diamonds of the bluff, before the door opens just enough, to look through and confirm what you already knew.
Love is the stuff dreams are made of.
And through you..
Im through.
Pleading, to seed the need for repentance and with reduced sentences, bleeding the demands on stances of chance, in costly cants.
I am convulsing in the congruence, in which I am influenced, by my afflictions of depictions in my head
I might be addicted to the dread of previously said decor, in my adorable horror show afloat, deplorably denoting the nopes of logic, and the slippery slopes of khangi, that spring off me when i'm coughing on my green tea.
You are wrong to stop me in my dislogic, dodging the narcotic mocking of toxic strong arming, in proxy alarms, setting barns ablaze.
I praise the poetry pushed on me, dauntingly haunting me with savant like ambiance, from the have nots, having things as far as the eyes can see.
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 12:51 AM UTC
There is a wave of basslines rotating and vibrating in the landscape, smoking vowels splashing and cracking in diamond depictions.
Heartbeats thrum in dizzy formations, lost in the beat bopping
and flow rocking.
Heads spin in faraway galaxies, further than eternal Earth,
seamless Saturn, flaming Mars.
Secret stars burst with electrifying energy and trigger blazing consonants.
Hips divide into multiple equations in a series of grinding rhythms.
Over the top sensations spiral high in the sky across the jazzy
frame.
Muscles popping, feet hopping, arms dropping in breaking beats,
as sweet sistas and groovy fellas gyrate in timeless dimensions.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 10:30 PM UTC
Vivid depictions
of street corners
with glaring lamps
lighting only
a portion of the walk,
as you stroll in and out
of the spotlight
Flashing glances
from strange passerby,
as they shuffle on their
daily commute to
wherever it is
they are going
Sitting Straight,
upright in the
blue chairs,
in the classes
that come and go
and leave no more
of a mark on you
than they did
before you stepped
in the room
Flashing Lights
from the neon sign
as an advertisement
for the bare skin
& money &
alcohol that just
goes right through
you in the end
Forced smiles
for the customers
who are not buying
anything, but insist
that the prices
are lower, that
You have no idea
about the products in
your own store, and that
you're wrong
Simple Connection
between one person
and another, the community
created between one heart's
compassion and another's
misfortune, sharing in a bond
so undeniably deep
cradling the essence of
humanity in the folds
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 1:19 PM UTC
So you've dared your girlfriend to write you a poem
Detailing why she loves you,
So what shall she write?
Perhaps that she imagines your kiss will be ambrosia to her,
And that she so easily trusts, and talks to you.
But the point of this poem is why she is in love with you
And so I think she'd say this;
I love you because you're so crazy, and different, and that's so right for you
I love you because you're so kind and sweet to me and other people
I love you because you've got awesome taste, in music and movies and the arts
You're a poet, artist, genius and I love you for it
I love you because you challenge me, and you appreciate intellect
I love you because you don't act excessively proud of what you've done, even though it's really great
I love you because you're quiet, unlike what I am most of the time
My list could go on for pages if I wanted, I've got so many reasons to love you
I love the way your hair covers your eyes
And when it gets ruffled up it's so cute, and reminds me of a flustered bird's feathers
I love how you use words and graphite to create beautiful art and gorgeous depictions
I love you, and pretty much everything about you
And you've got this sort of air, an aura one might say, about you
One that I can only describe as irresistable and curious, curious in both senses of the word
I love how you don't put me down, and are actually so supportive of me
I love how you comfort and understand me so quickly
I love you for talking me out of all sorts of depression, cutting, anorexic tendencies, and still loving me despite my craziness
I really truly thank you for that
You're an incredibly fantastic best friend and boyfriend,
I'm still so amazed at how I got lucky enough to get you, and that you feel the same
The only thing I don't love about you in this moment is that you aren't here
Because I miss you more than life right now
And I love you so much
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 7:33 PM UTC
I am the greatest liar I know.
Watch as I pretend to
stand for something.
Purity?
Listen as I tell you,
I've never kissed a girl
or even held her hand.
I'm saving everything for my wife,
isn't that grand?
Maybe physically modest I've remained,
but the confines of my mind are rotting.
Witness the perversions unveil
on my search bar as I fail to abstain.
My bathroom is a battleground.
Countertops stained from failed
attempts I longed to call victory,
shower rugs withering from endless moments
on my knees, begging you to forgive me.
Darling, I wish I could
love you as you deserve.
But the depictions flicker
behind my eyelids in every
blinking moment,
and despite the constant
praying, I can't stop preying,
the craving screams my name
through bleeding lungs
and a parched tongue.
I've lost all control.
Demons are clawing their
crooked fingers through the cages
of my heart, of our heart,
and my ribs are cracking
as our romance is shattering.
Love, I'm so sorry.
I have tainted all you were,
my nightmares have mutilated
your innocent perfection.
I am not worthy to hold you
in my arms, even if you're the first,
these stains cannot be erased.
I have left cobwebs in your corners,
they'll never be clean again.
It's my fault,
I am a vicious poison.
I don't know how to change.
I've lost the power to say no,
I don't have a cast for the broken bones,
the bodies are still littered beside
my personal porcelain Hates.
I hate me. You deserve better.
I can't perform an exorcism on myself,
and I can't wipe the webs off the shelf,
I can't even reach the top without help.
I wish I could say I love you.
But love is sacrifice
and the only thing I've
sacrificed is my commitment
while betraying my integrity
and slaughtering the promises
I stole from you.
In this moment of brutal honesty,
I'll admit my inadequacy
but as soon as morning
I'll forget about reality.
Watch as I fight to become
the best failure I don't want to be.
m.w.
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 2:35 AM UTC
The land is green,
And the water, blue.
Let us remove the solves,
Beneath sheltered feet.
Trekking through these colors,
Bare-foot.
Lapping waves wash out,
Con-caved imprints of adventure
From feet grazing the sand.
Photographs spark,
An array of mental depictions
With first hand sights.
Flashing activity, inside the mind,
Multiple memories,
Recollected in due time.
Words do not describe,
What a photograph provides
But a photograph does not suffice,
The memories which last a lifetime.
May 29, 2012
May 29, 2012 at 9:30 AM UTC
Secrets drowning in blood
steeped depictions,
cunningly smothered
of familial tied executions,
heredity oft an unkind
sacramental entanglement,
deeply rooted in
disparaging divisions,
disintegrated 'neath ashes
of unresolved deliverance
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 12:31 PM UTC
i was born at the heart of a ribbon jam
my analog pulse
tap
tap
tapping
out the lyrics of my fight song
since day one
india ink sludge blood has flowed
from my dog-earred heart
straight through to my ball-point fingertips
my DNA lays in cursive wait
leaping from the pages
into the light
at every aching plot twist
card catalogued depictions
not of how events factually unfolded
but of how it seems they could have unravelled
if this were a paperback i'd planned to read
and re-read
alike
but alas
when the lights go out
that's it for this round
and i'll be down for the count
no matter how hard i fight
but words...
words know not death
solely evolution
they change their shape
their time
their place
a word can only fade
like aerosol on dust colored cinder
a single word will outlive one hundred empires
one thousand governments
ten thousand authors
and so
it's within articulation that my loyalty lay
and in my words that i'll find my home
here
in the lowercase swoops and loops
of the 'A's
and the 'E's
and the 'D's
and the 'G's
...and those little cursive 'Z's that hang just the same as mom's old hammock
yeah
home
with every inhalation of stale inhabitation
i'll exhale a poem
my regenerative reincarnation through catalytic creation
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 4:34 AM UTC