"detaches" poems
Stuck in a straight jacket
That detaches from humanities
That disables civilized thinking
It strangles your insides
And steals compassion
And your breath of life
Withers inside this chasten
In this rubber room
Who’s pads make up your apathetical existence
You rot here like the ***** you take
You die here
Unless you bleed yourself of disrespect
Unless you bleed yourself of disinterest
Unless you bleed yourself of narcissism
Who cares
Your worthless in this state anyway
Find purpose in empathy
Or die here
Exist out of the minds of others
Others who have collective respect
Collective understanding
Collective empathy
And open mindedness
You’re locked here cause you prejudge
Guarded by your own stubbornness
You don’t accept
That you don’t know everyone’s story
You can’t know
You judge anyway
That hippie over there
He’s not a ***** loser
He has a family he loves
Worked hard in construction
And overcame a destructive alcohol and drug abuse
He’s better than you
He’s empathetic
Loving
Understanding
And embraces everyone
Mar 24, 2019
Mar 24, 2019 at 12:00 AM UTC
winter's after-the-noon shadow lights,
fused-tinged with early-onset grays,
harbinger of one for whom death
detaches the answer from that question
too soon asked, so long unanswered,
why me?
those gray lights, a violin accompaniment,
mourning pitched wailings unasked for,
yet always in attendance, court courtiers,
feelings of insufficiency, angry angst insects
envy days when simplistic unknown fears
were the worst enemy, never lingering,
for unknowns have no answers and
cannot obtain permanent resident visas
but reality, another matter, mad hatter,
asking repeating what is this, why is this,
even comprehension partial gives
no comforting answer satisfactory logical
envy innocence past, for newer questions now *****
comfort by the lies in the essaying, trialling,
if, but, for, the distractions most affordable,
so grasp the pen that is the envy of thy companions
let the ink wail louder than you,
make paper shed what you have used up,
let envy of lost and found, found, yet still lost,
salve, but not solve, soothe, but not save
in the winter afternoons, those shortest days
of indeterminable longevity, words received,
offer little, but words self-conscripted,
a mortal transcript of pain immortalized by pen, relief will yet be,
for the pen is the envy of all
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 6:10 PM UTC
It happened every moon that
Filled the sky, the transformation
Couldn't be stopped.
I howled in defiance
I howled to cure the moon
I spoke unto the heavens
"Freedom from you"
I walked the places I could not
Have before, birthday suit
Wasn't the suit to show my
Face arrested for sure.
"Washing lines"
"Like a free store"
Socks,
Knickers,
Trousers,
Then last of all a shirt to finish me off,
Knickers you think?? this doesn't happen
All the time, but I find them nice to the touch.
I could feel you clawing upon the flesh
"Needing release"
But this is the moon of plenty now play
Nice, soon it will be your turn.
I sink pints as if water, then I find
Myself licking at the pint of ale,
Looking around,
Quizative,
Stares,
Beard
Upon my face, weren't you shaven when
You entered this place??
Hoooooowwww.
Do I know, I didn't look in the mirror
Before I left home.
"You drunk fella"
Nooooowwww
Right out the door I was politely
Thrown to the curb.
Well at least I tasted it this time,
"Golden nectar"
The animal is approaching
"My moment has pasted"
As I arch in agony,
Some one kicks me,
"Laughs at my pain"
"Would you like to meet my friend"
"He'll take a bite out of you friend"
Kicked upon the face as clothes shred off.
"The wolf is released"
Gone is man, primal form freedom
From that white hell that plagues
Every full moon,
I clamp down upon
Meat,
Marrow,
Bone
Shatters in my fanged grasp,
As my claws rip upon his throat.
I swipe once more as his head detaches
And leaves a frozen look of terror,
Rolling upon the floor.
I am free, I am the beast as I
Pounce upon road and path,
I reach the outskirts of my home
"I look at the manmade filth"
Howling into the night I am wolf,
Cured to be man for when the moon shines
I am that which is cursed I become man.
.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 4:43 PM UTC
Believe in me
As I you
Find as our youth
Detaches further
It hurts
I go hard in the club
Double whiskey, that's my drink
I'll meet you in the bathroom
Wash my mouth in a ***** sink
Bus home, charging Love's busted energies
Where the days old dishes drip
with sludge and collect a days old stink
Wrap my head for the pain to come
Sleep ******* thumb, dreading
The numbers will repeat
And replete with melancholy
Accept the pattern will repeat
Believe in me
As I you
Find as our youth
Detaches further
It hurts
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 6:39 PM UTC
A wave of people who all suffer from depression's undercurrent leans over me until gravity pushes the water over my head and I drown in the depressive maelstrom of lost, distraught family members with the same weak psyche which I suffer from. Only the dollhouse owners can live a picture-perfect life where everything is antibacterial and anti-depressant while we get jammed between the walls until we can no longer scream for help and tears become our only weapon. The moisture from the rivers that sourced in our eyes penetrates into the walls and seeps into the floor, then mold and mildew infects this otherwise perfect dollhouse. I'd rather drown in depression than live in this false cardboard house with drawers and cabins filled with pills and where no one knows who takes what and why there is constantly bought more and more even when the pills tumble out of all the doors. I'm waiting for a tsunami, which can split the dollhouse that I call my home, hoping the walls detaches and the pills flush away.
Feb 12, 2017
Feb 12, 2017 at 4:26 PM UTC
Connection involves a reciprocal flow where being detaches from nothingness into an inseparable unity.
So, let us acknowledge the colours and feel the vibrations as they transcend the parameters of compartmentalism, into an infinite and unified whole.
Attempts continue to socialise us into the abyss of perceptual bankruptcy with materialistic carrots where the fabric is truly frayed despite plausible and intellectual argument.
So, I want to talk with you as we swim in deep rivers of generational statements, which are released from the conglomerate of necrotic unions. I raise my glass to realms which lie beyond tangible and finite chords.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 10:08 PM UTC
I'm so lost.
My surroundings don't feel real and
I'm so scared.
The skin on my fingertips is sliced
in patterns created by anxiety fuelled
compulsivity whilst I'm sat around an unfamiliar kitchen table.
I'm so lonely.
Interaction is only manageable after the sour taste
of ***** shots have seeped into my blood stream and
I'm so sad.
Do they know where I disappear off to?
Do they realise that I leave the room, unable to cope,
just to slash at my thighs in a desperate attempt to feel grounded?
I'm so sore.
My body is bruised, tiny constellations that
only remind me of home, of my mother and her hobbies.
Of skies no longer tinged with the bitter sweet brassiness of city lights
but of unadulterated and divine decrees.
I'm so wistful.
My body shatters at the thought of home, of comfort, of love.
The fragments form a barrier around me,
a territorial wire with thorny thistles ready to attack.
I'm so divided.
Half of my mangled mind grasps onto you,
your memories and your love.
The other detaches, similarly to the way in which my mind
departs from reality.
I'm so disconnected.
Yet this feeling is sewn strangely into my wounds,
tied too tight to let go.
Maybe if the thread was to be loosened,
I would fall apart forever.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 2:11 PM UTC
I lay here now with tear streaked eyes
And with tear streaked eyes did realize
The words I speak are in my head
I'm going to die here in this bed.
He sits and waits, sits and watches
And on the glass his nails make notches
They pass the time and wait till it's right
He's going to **** me on this night.
He speaks no words and his mind is a blur
I know he moves but I've not seen him stir
Right now he's sitting outside my room
Waiting to bring me face-to-face with Doom.
His nails are long enough to cut me from there
Long enough to force me into a silent prayer
His skin is sickly gray and comes out in patches
And from his ****** scalp his hair detaches.
His body is long and very strung out
His frame is bruised and beat about
His eye sockets are a 'beautiful' scarlet
Beautiful if they weren't making me a target.
What made him stick to me is still a question
I've never even shown him any aggression
I've let him stay there and watch me sleep
But now he sits here and watches me weep.
He's my secret admirer, but no secret anymore
I thought his spirit was just folklore
Did my faith in his nonexistence make him stay?
Can my faith when he's here make him go away?
Apparently not, for now he's coming in
I lay here still with the moon showing his grin
He sits in the corner, watching me still,
I see now his teeth sharpened with a drill.
He's teasing me now, and I know this is not fair
I've got to keep quiet, I'm not consciously there
Maybe if I'm 'sleeping' he'll leave me alone
But I'm prolonging the inevitable, his eyes are locked to stone.
I'm not getting out- I've accepted this now,
But his pride in winning is not something I'll allow
You see, losing is not something I take lightly
And dying with him I will not do politely.
Now that I've seen this coming for a while
I've kept my escape hidden in a small little pile
I'm not getting out of here, and he can watch me as I die
I'd rather off myself than let him win, I won't lie.
I swallow the pills and he creeps towards the bed
He tilts up my chin and gets a good look at my head
I watch as his smile turns angry and frustrated
Because for all this time he's just sat and waited.
I've foiled his plan and I knew all along
Now I know he'll never be strong
Those shiny red eyes are the last thing I see
I've won, he's not gotten the best of me.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 8:12 PM UTC
Every sigh, every breath, every forced pattern is sparkled with the intensity of the memory of you.
I have created a world with noone to tell me wrong, noone to go against my wishes. I have created a world without you and every breath I take I regret my being.
For what is passion, without you. For what is desire, without you.
For what is love, without you.
Teach me passion, for I fear it has left, compose desire in the web of the music carried by fear.
An ocean filled with lonely souls, agony heard in the mesmorizing colours of a wind that is to be spoken of.
A song, not to be understood with words is rippled across the surface of the lonely ocean. The darkness that touches the sun, gleaming with devastation, is a constant reminder of reality.
The doubting heart, the breaking stride, the abandoned agony. Solitarity can be a treasure, when one desires it. It can be the arrow pinned through every limb. Rise above, till you hit what is known as earth.
Cast the anker, slow down. Drown in the ocean with the deserted. Over the hills and further. Wait for dawn, your presence will embarrass what is known as perfection.
Leave me not, leave me for you.
A desire for red roses. Leave white at my deathbed, for what is death without love?
You are the sound that detaches my heart from its melancholy. I walk alone.
Believe what is said, trust me not.
I cannot bear responsible for the debris I create, I cannot stand to watch you bother.
Hold my hand with your black gloves. You know the misfortune, you know the misery. Take the black horse.
I see the mask, but not the face. I see your touch, but feel nothing. Inside my heart I wish you near but time is pushing me against the fall.
Forget the wide eyes, gleaming with fear. Forget the discreet screams.
Let me be the light that guides you.
Say you will love me.
May 14, 2012
May 14, 2012 at 4:12 PM UTC
At one point I couldn’t find love to purchase
I thought you ended those searches
but now I’m getting nervous
thinking I might be allergic
to your nature absurdist
and I can’t swerve this
feeling I’m worthless
stripped of all purpose
boils start to burn us.
I’ve got an eczema
sense of a
relationship
rashly lips
can’t kiss
who they wish.
I can’t leave the house
or your eczema breaks out
you scream and shout
and make me doubt
if your love is devout
when you treat me like trout.
Stress boils through my skin
after you tell me I win
and leave my house of sin
leaving a gift in
an itch
given by a witch
to make me twitch.
You’re the itch that rashes
causing unnecessary scratches
leaving a width of lashes
on my skin in patches
your personality matches
the blistering ashes
of my skin that detaches.
I keep itching
I keep scratching
to be switching
from your thrashing
into comfort
to numb hurt
of dumb words
creating thunder.
A doctor gave me a prescription
to avoid your dereliction
and feral diction.
He gave me an antidote
in a plan of hope
helping me cope
with saying nope.
The rash lingers
like poison fingers
choking me
woefully
draining life
like rain at night
I pray for light
and wait inside.
I found cortisone
in the form of a home
with a man
so I’m in demand
not your empty hand
red from the brand
of all the discomfort you withstand
now that you’re itching like sand
seeing I’m no longer ******
Jun 5, 2020
Jun 5, 2020 at 5:46 AM UTC
Creation is beautiful;
To see something being created is beautiful.
Seeing an idea take flight.
When a poet grabs a pen, and speaks in words of ink
and lets her mind open and flow in a rhythm of expression
She detaches a section of her soul
and lays it on a piece of parchment
with the hopes that somebody else can pick it up
and attach it with their souls, instead.
When a songwriter forms lyrics to let an audience ingest the world through his eyes
and he pairs up with a musician, tapping away keys at the piano
that would send chills down the spine of the most heartless human,,
and the two form stories of sound and lyrics
that ripple through crowds like the detonation
over the sky of Hiroshima.
When the lonely author writes his sad stories,
Filled with the triumphs he wishes he owned,
he feels the need to fill the paper with more,
because he is in love with creating.
He wants to do more. He wants to be more.
He always feels his actions will never fill the space it should,
and a vacuum will encompass all of his papers,
and even his heart,
so he can never fill either of them as desperately as he wants
but he creates with the hope that somebody can relate.
Even when a boy and a girl hold hands,
or when they hold each other, together, in attraction
with the pains of the world numbed by the drug of the heart,
crossing their fingers that they will always get a refill of their prescriptions,
And their silence says more than any words could.
One smiles, and the second can't resist,
and the creation here is love,
the best,
and frailest,
creation of all.
As for me: I see creation as a challenge as well.
To push yourself to be something else and make something else.
To inspire, to encourage,
to be beautiful, even if nobody is facing you.
To know that when you die, death won't take you entirely,
with the words on paper,
paintings on the wall,
or kisses that you gave,
you will continue to exist. You can never fully die.
Creation is the key to immortality,
but creation isn't about living forever,
it's about allowing others to see who you really are,
and who they can be.
Creation is telling stories and lessons to others,
Creation is sharing,
Creation is helping.
Creation is beautiful.
Jul 28, 2011
Jul 28, 2011 at 8:42 PM UTC
We must never forget
the heroes that fought - the brave
we owe them everything - yet
it saddens our heart seeing their grave.
A sea of poppies float silently
running into lakes and streams
they fought courageously, mightily
then to have shattered dreams.
The wind in the trees - it's a cool breeze
it detaches a single green leaf
that will not bring the tree to its knees
but a single red poppy will bring grief.
Nov 10, 2016
Nov 10, 2016 at 3:59 AM UTC
Do you ever just feel like you’re dying,
Like a million suns from unknown galaxies
Are crashing into you,
Stealing the space and air from your lungs,
Colliding with your heart,
Until what’s left of your soul detaches from your body?
Do you ever just feel like even starlight
Cannot keep the hope awake in your chest
And you yearn for the precipice that is the night sky
To swallow your whole?
Do you ever just think to yourself
That only monsters live inside you
And you are doomed to forever repeat
Your mistakes on time lapse
With despair in your bones?
Do you ever feel like there is no soul alive
Who is want for what you have to offer,
That the madness within is your only gift
But no one dares to receive?
I do.
Sep 9, 2019
Sep 9, 2019 at 7:07 PM UTC
Specimens of long pig struggle from their mound
Sky-splitting screams starkly resound
My veins circulate a steady stream of spite
For their mewling humbug has turned quite trite
It wasn’t too pleasant when the taunts started to singe
*When **** forced me into a balancing act across society’s fringe*
One by one, I separate my courses from the flock
Store their tender bits inside of Ma’s favored crock
I then engage in a vigorous process of toil
Lower frantic faces into water made to boil
Skin hastily detaches, tongues flop lopsided
Scalded fists clench and eyes bulge cross-sighted
I scurry on webs of scorn
Maim my prey with marks of malice
Eat torn hearts with mine retaining its layer of callous
These lesser swine are absorbed into my design
Their bodies gorged on with generous gouts of fine wine
“Oh, I do hope not to get too drunk”
-I think while chewing on an especially splendid chunk
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 4:25 PM UTC
When I think of you,
My Mind detaches my Heart from my Body.
It floats alone.
It teeters to the rhythm of the words you say.
It nests itself in the warmth between my legs,
When you say "I'm still hurt".
It elevates and rolls in front of me,
As if powered by hot air.
But it easily deflates like helium balloons,
To the point where it sits empty on the floor,
With its legs straight out in front,
Cracking its toes and rolling its ankles in confusion.
Sometimes my Heart stands on tip toes,
Reaches with fingertips extended,
Waiving at my Body,
Pleading for me to put it back in its place.
But my Mind pays no mind to its advances.
My Mind's ulterior motive is to divorce my heart,
To separate entirely.
To be completely distant entities.
They were once lovers,
Who've now found comfort in each other's pain.
Feb 22, 2011
Feb 22, 2011 at 1:10 PM UTC
What is our society if not a copycat catastrophe
A cold-hearted calamity of blind hindsight
Severed chains reforged in the flames of minimum wage
How we herald the heretic
Free is the slave who detaches their arms and legs
To gift kings their reign
Jeweled towers of bone reach to the sky
And devour the progress of our connective open roads
What is prosperity absent a shared purpose
Like a brain held apart from its own heart
Human history imprisoned on a page
Ink-stained chronicle of our original sin
Thinking we can get where were going
By forgetting all we have been
Each obstacle a handcrafted impediment
Dinosaur dynasty doomed to irrelevance
Jun 8, 2021
Jun 8, 2021 at 6:39 PM UTC
Alone in my thoughts,
I stand jumping to conclusions.
Doing nothing as I was taught,
Adding to all of this confusion.
I Segway into foreplay-
But I know in this day
I’m going to feel alone
No one set on stone
To stay.
The conversation fades,
The mind detaches feeling.
If I would have stayed
I wonder if it would have
Time to be appealing.
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 12:09 PM UTC
The shadows flick
Faster and faster of
The fan until it
Turns into a UFO and
Detaches from the
Ceiling to fly away.
I'm drunk on
Exhaustion
High on
Poetry.
The invisible pattern
On the wall begins
To dance, the curlicues
Tangoing with fleur-d'les
To the silent drumbeat
Of my heart in my ears.
I'm intoxicated from
My thoughts
Completely smashed on
Shards of mirrors and the
Dregs of any
Innocence I had left.
I'll watch the numbers
Flash backwards, just
Let time turn around
Clocks will melt
Even in air-conditioning
I've got a
Pounding headache and
Tomorrow I'll be
Hungover
On my soul.
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 4:16 PM UTC
*You're like threads
Unfurling at the end of my coat
And with each fiber that detaches
My coat adjusts.
It's not the same as before,
But it manages to still keep me warm.
k.w*
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 7:08 PM UTC
The light of my life isn't a light
Not the sun
Not a lamp
The light of my life is different
Just different
My lights silhouette can not be distinguished
The mystery of it's feature lies in the hands of God
The feeling of it's hand is unknown to my skin
The flavor of it's lips unknown to my tongue
The insense of it's being is unknown to my senses
The rythem of it's heart is unknown to my audition
My light is not a light
A man
Who bestows the light in my life
Who destroys the darkness with his laughter
Who detaches the sadness with his words
Who strips the melancholy with his smile
My light does not glow
He shines
More than the sun
More than a lamp
He shines brighter than anything on earth
He Is The Beautiful Light Of My Life
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 3:42 AM UTC
Under the evergreens I take your hand.
Clutching you I discover a similarity.
Your nails are brittle and stained edges of the pinecones.
Beneath the fingertips crammed dirt and sand.
Who knows what else lies under there, I don’t want to.
Rubbing you the wrong way, the nails drag and snap.
The opposite direction feels silky, wooden.
One cone detaches from a limb, falls in our lap.
Hands smelling of old forest’s deaden life.
Smelling of all school chapel outside.
Wonder if Dieu meant for us to smell that way.
Wouldn’t he have put it in the good book?
Dirt and what else flies through us in each new breath.
I feel the evergreen within me calling out.
What is He saying to you with that aroma?
Perfume ourselves in eau de pomme de pin.
Woven together our palms become a pine cone.
Notice tessellations of body parts and cones.
Where I stop, you begin, overlapping, lapping.
Blossoming and wrapping till we reach a point.
Forever is hardly a romantic concept.
However, the trees manage to keep green each winter.
Falling all around us, hitting the brown needles, cones.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
.
*All was quiet
the Lord and Lady retired,
courtiers all gone to bed,
the Great Hall silent.
Hounds slumberingly snored
next to the dying embers
of a cooling Inglenook,
occasional crackles popping
as the heat catches wood resin,
it splatters and dies.
A lute lays idle
amongst the mess of banquet
as a lonely secretive figure
detaches from the shadows,
prowling through the detritus.
Slim fingers pick up the lute
and gently strums a chord,
the Minstrel exits stage left,
to compose and construct
new songs and ribald stories
from this nights celebrations.
Retiring to his chamber
his eyes stare balefully
at an uneaten bowl of stew,
the gruel of his station,
a metaphor for the content
of a nearby journal,
closed but waiting,
for a quill rich in ink
to fill its void
with the musings of a Fool.*
© Pagan Paul (26/06/19)
Jun 27, 2019
Jun 27, 2019 at 4:38 AM UTC
Those who embrace the morose departure immediately transition to their arrival destination, in the same manner as the crystal-clear droplet of dew which steadily detaches itself from the leaf on the end of a branch.
Stroke your soul and acknowledge the reality of fantasy, if you dare to venture into the realms of vulnerability. However, one must fully accept that presumed freedom is usually nothing less than serving a harsh custodial sentence.
Forgive me for being bold: How do you define the concept of cost? It is wise to step back and look deep inside, as one will find that the roots are laid bare and that they are screaming for sensitive caresses.
I have already distributed the tickets, and there are many that remain to be freely available. But it is only seconds until departure.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 9:29 PM UTC
A colourful candy bar,
Giving her warm fuzzies,
An angelic face,
experiencing a heaven sent,
A devilish face nearby with a malicious grin,
Ribboning lust in his heart,
Stepping towards a room full of toys,
Winning the child with petrol soaked perks,
**** of the door clicked,
Curtains being dropped,
The laughters altered to screams,
As a new leaf is turned,
Rapacious hold on the wrists,
Making the angel to vociferate,
Filthy hands and animalism,
Staining an innocent soul,
Carnal thirst being satisfied,
By victimising a child by libido,
Walls of the room tainted with a secret,
Childhood squirming in the corner,
Star shell wishes turning into coal,
Angels mourning,
Dolls gulping their tears,
Teddy bear covering his eyes with dismay,
A bruised piece of flesh and blood,
Stabbed from pain,
Butterfly peeking from a window,
Loses the colours of its wings,
The earth trembles terrifically,
As the sky detaches a star ! ⭐️
~ Ayesha Nadeem
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 9:28 AM UTC
Fear overwhelms
The antisipation dibilitating
Bracing for impact
Crashing blind
The anxiety erodes my former self
I'm a shell
A shaking leaf
Waiting for the gust of wind that detaches me
All I've know.. gone
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 9:27 PM UTC