"deterioration" poems
the dutch colony ascended on our shores
replacing traditional african education on culture
with teaching slaves how to pray
we saw the deterioration of black schools
and state-mandated segregated curricula
whites being taught better than blacks
who was only destined for subservient jobs
policies of apartheid birthed the bantu education
and later forced us to learn languages
which was not our native tongue
the youth could no longer be silenced
soweto uprising saw them dying for the cause
we have protested throughout the decades
silenced by the apartheid government
simply ignored
with Mandela’s release we saw liberation, freedom, democracy
and a single education system, we were finally equal
however the legacy of black inferior education left a deep scar
which has still not healed
our parents not able to give us the education they were denied
now students are holding the government accountable
who promised free education for a vote
the movement trending as #feesmustfall
anger expressed by burning premises, striking and rioting
i believe in the cause but who are you really hurting?
why destroy the very universities that you are fighting for?
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 5:17 PM UTC
What is time?
Time is progress.
Time is regression.
Time is growth.
Time is deterioration.
Time is beginnings.
Time is endings.
Time is everything.
Time is nothing.
Time can't be grasped.
Time can't be stopped.
Time heals all wounds.
Time ends all things.
Time is limited.
Time is infinite.
Time can't be defined.
Time can be experienced.
What is time?
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 11:50 AM UTC
my polygamous relationship with you distances me from the monotony of monogamy and makes me feel lonelier than the loneliest mundane monogamist. my mere apologies for my misendeavors, the malnutritious morals of my miseducation propose metal mirrors and castaways controlled by cutting carvers, craving crazy letters and loyalty from lengthy lies and lonely lives. lethargy overtakes and vowels reign, raining drops like rainbows and rocks in rivers, rusting relationships, rusty railroads at intense intersections entwined in everything inside and nothing on the outside anymore except these
muscles. we are back at the beginning.
my mind marvels in the magic of the memories, the madness of the morbidity and the hesitations of your reaction. his, I take, is misunderstood as my misfortune, but it is not a miss, my fortune: it is a fox in feathers colorful like friendships 'fore their forfeited and feigned approval, forced for fear of polygamy tho' it promises the purest pleasure, the most personal independence and precious pearls of princes, princesses, powerful, plight-less
poetry. peace surrenders,
souls surprise themselves, surprise their cells, call for curious catastrophes to take place. colorful and calm they coincide with cooperation that can not contain the context of truth, of teases, of teasers and targets and tonal dualities and we endeavor, we endear you, we dare destroy the darkness of the devil in its disguised diamonds.
words lie at my feet like pebbles of poetry and I promise personal demise, deterioration and ridiculous obsessions- there's madness to be had and fragments to be written and I play with silly alliteration instead!
serious and serene you stare as if my sanity has slowly faded and I sternly helplessly smile shyly. I suppose you are sincerely offering me your blessing before parting, so stumbling slightly I surrender…
if this is the prevailing promise of mere mortality, I'm graciously aware I was worthy of words.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 2:01 PM UTC
The King of the World is on his way now,
he always shows up when the chips are down.
Everyone just loves The King of the World,
he always arrives with his banners unfurled.
The King can be a loud chap,
or The King can be quite a quiet mime,
he even puts his pants on
one royal leg at a time!
The King might eat breakfast,
or The King just might not,
he is everything you are,
yet is is all that you forgot.
He's a musician of sorts,
with a very big band,
his arrival is in herald,
throughout every land
-with brass trumpets a-blare,
and snare-drums rat-a-tat,
he makes everyone aware,
that he's now where you're at!
The King marches his forces
through the cities and fields,
assure of his courses,
lying flat beneath his heel.
He revels at the sight of deterioration,
fills his belly with the joy of nations in extinction.
The King grounds everything down to things he scrapes off his boots,
he topples the governs and poisons the cultural roots.
The King's fixations are splashed with spatters of blood,
turning kingdoms into crumbles of ashes and mud.
He bulldozes the bodies into toxic pits of ****
contaminates by obscenity, wringing his hands at the wit.
Lionized by his minions in the empty empires he wrought,
The King's elite ruling class is dictated with rot.
In the aftermath of the bile
of his genocidal, sweet plight,
The King celebrates with great style,
turning the daylight into night.
With bonfires a-blaze on the wicked, windy wasteland,
The King of the World strikes up his big band,
and once marching again will torch and ravish the land,
dropping massive, beautiful bombs for the sake of the thrill,
melting the people and villages and eroding the hills.
The time for The King
always is nigh,
for he is surrounded by
the conjurations of lies.
Some say he is evil,
(but, he's not the Devil, you see)
-He's The King of the World,
he is you, he is me.
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 9:14 AM UTC
I’m a victim as you stream my life
Like a short film and I can’t remember my own name
You drape my skin over rusty bones that fail when the clock chimes
Yet you collect every strand of my hair
Torn and grown
Cut and combed
and repaint the shapes I used to be into finer lines
Why do you whisper silly words to me?
Yet I hang myself on them and engrave the fate you sealed for me
Why do you twist me at every angle? relishing in my deterioration
Soaking and rinsing your own wounds in the pools of my bitter mistakes and sweet memories
But these scars I wrap with your worn stems, vanish beneath my exterior
I am stainless
Sometimes,
when I am too tattered to walk, you carry me on your shoulder
But I remember when you grabbed my ankles and cracked my wrists
You cast me like a stone
And polish me like a trophy
Conceal me in your clock work
Jun 1, 2017
Jun 1, 2017 at 6:13 PM UTC
The deterioration of society,
Commonly serves as writing material;
Hell, even I could write about changes
That have lessened our souls.
But I also appreciate the changes
That have bettered us as a collective people;
I dream of collaboration between church-goers,
And those that turn from the steeple.
We've evolved to a new level of acceptance,
And equality that was unknown;
Yes, the "isms" still exist,
But in a much softer tone.
Gender roles wreak havoc,
And some feel elite.
But we've inched closer to equality,
And those roles we will defeat.
I have so much hope for this generation,
The kids that have been raised with new eyes;
We possess views that our ancestors
Would abhor and despise.
Unity and inclusion,
Love and tolerance;
I will preach these things,
Until there is a balance.
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 2:39 PM UTC
The water makes me forget,
yet I remember
the waves lapping on sand,
except we haven’t had enough rain
in years for the lake to reach the shore,
this is my favorite place
but it feels just as tired as I do,
living up to expectations of the past
barely meeting requirements of placehood.
I’ve lost the special that once consumed me
dilapidated buildings and broken promises
link the memories between
place and person
deterioration reminding me
that I am not the only thing
searching for peace
and finding loss in its place.
Jan 16, 2022
Jan 16, 2022 at 5:31 PM UTC
why do i hope when all i know is disappointment
why do i live when all i feel is loss
why do i love when all i see is failure
why do i dream when all i sense is deterioration
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 1:04 PM UTC
A perfect Mommy, a perfect Daddy
A perfect daughter, a perfect life,
A perfect world to exist in, eclipsed by consummate sight.
She was my sun, a seraphic voice
bathing me in warm light,
And he was my moon, watchful eyes
protecting me from the darkness of night.
Two halves of my whole heart, their blood flowing through
my spirited veins.
Two halves of my whole mind, their thoughts crashing through
my synthetic brain.
Perfection is their sweetest lie, proclaimed by selfish mouths uttering
vain whispers after bedtime.
"I can't live without you. You can't leave me. I know we can survive this."
But survival is intangible against an affliction of the soul.
Imperfection is my harshest truth, comprehended by grieving eyes seeing raw memories before sleep.
"I can't live without you. You can't leave me. I know you can survive this."
But even a human's profound devotion can be turned away by their Creator,
just as a pleading child can be deserted by their mother and father.
And that is the largest betrayal of them all.
But to remain, to endure against hate's control, against fate, would be an immediate death.
To try and withstand their sickness and deterioration would be suicide.
And I have realized that I do not want to die.
Loss is my most unbearable pain, undeniably clouded by her beautiful smile and his comforting resemblance.
She used to sing her child to sleep, and now, she is singing to her one last time. At the door, he is watching and keeping them both safe.
They will both leave and never come back, but the memories will remain. The happiness will always be there for recollection.
But for now, it is time to sleep and forget.
She caresses her child's hair and kisses her forehead lovingly, getting up and walking to join him at the doorway.
The silhouettes of their mournful faces seem like a cryptic dream.
"Goodnight, Gigi. We love you very much."
"Mom? Dad?"
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"I can live without you. You can leave me. I know I can survive this."
"We know."
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 11:19 PM UTC
I love you my child
I don't know how to help you anymore
You continue to die your slow death
It's painful for us both
To watch you killing yourself with no way to stop
To see you so all alone
Living your life from hell
Watching you living with demons
I curse the devil and his minions
To watch you convice yourself to give up and die
It kills me inside
I love you child
I've always loved you and always will
I don't think you're long for this earth
The slow mental and physical deterioration
has accelerated
The doctors give you one short year
I cry for the hurt in your heart
I cry for the torture in your soul
I cry for the pain in your unhealthy body
I cry because you think I don't love you
Don't give up and die my little one
I physically ache for loving and losing you
Living a life I would never have chosen for you
I love you my child
Please see a glimpse of the light in my soul
Let it guide you to peace
Non reversible is your disease
I'm tormented with the fear of losing you
I can't watch anymore
I can't see you do this to yourself
Don't die my sweet little girl
Don't leave me behind
My love for you is insurmountable
Your love for yourself is long gone
Let's love eachother for the time you have left
I love you more than theses mere words express
I love you more than my own life
Don't cry little one for I am here
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 12:35 PM UTC
At three in the morning,
The mists hang, mixing
With the grass,
An unscaled rainforest,
Fog intertwined with the blades
Delicately, like the last puzzle piece
Being placed.
A flashlight shines on a snowflake--
The first of the season--
As it spirals slowly,
Slipping silently by stretched branches,
Stopping softly on the green.
The light shuts off,
A door lock clicks,
And a plume of black erupts
From a chimney.
These are the signs
Of a slow deterioration
Into what is expected to be.
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 9:34 PM UTC
I got this voice, you see?
No.
You don't.
You don't see the way I do.
You don't hear the way I do.
You don't feel the things I do.
The world just isn't the same to you.
You don't understand how important this is to me. To the very fiber of my being.
It's just pen & paper.
It just words.
No.
It's not.
It's having an entire life revealed to you by watching someone smoke a cigarette.
Sounds of the greatest song you've ever heard, but haven't written yet.
The nagging poem about a heartbreak you can't forget.
It's not that I see.
It's that I'm shown.
The world telling me all the things it wants to be known.
Still I tend to fear that all the best stories have already been told.
I have an order.
To you it's a joke.
I just want attention.
I'm making excuses.
It's sounds totally crazy.
Maybe I am.
I'm ok with that.
Are you?
When I speak in lyrics & it sounds dumb in your head,
When I allow myself to be giddy over something I'd just read,
If my shoes belonged to someone 50 years dead.
Does that bother you?
I find wonder in all the trivial corners of the world.
I don't reject any little joy.
Infinite possibility.
How often do you refuse to be pleasured?
All grown up, no fun little boy.
All this chaos is my beauty.
It pecks away at the disease trying to contain it.
Thanks Doc, keep your pill.
This is my test of will.
Obsession.
Compulsion.
Dis-order.
******* irony.
My madness lies in my heart,
Given the whole world to make my art,
& my brain, at least some part,
Tries to control it, Kayla you need a chart.
THERE ARE NO RULES!
You can't see what I'm fighting.
You can't see my own mind being held captive of its own accord.
Key to freedom.
Just break that glass.
Then what if I shatter too?
You control what you allow in,
I cannot.
I'm controlling what I let out.
Afraid of the things I write down.
It's begging not to be forgot.
Tiny, tiny steps.
I'm afraid to crush the flowers
Trying to grow in shadowy ruin.
Creation is finding it's way through the cracks of what was.
Foundation.
Deterioration.
Inspiration.
If you wage war with yourself,
Do you ever really lose?
Until you can dance in your darkness,
You never really find your muse.
What you can't understand is the way I love my demons.
Most people run from theirs.
I dine on blood with mine.
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 2:21 AM UTC
She was the first sin made of flesh
when no act of love was lewd or wicked
before men and gods
invented shame and virtue
hers were the fingers
that carved the heart of every star
and whose kiss set their fires ablaze
to burn eternally
in the vast emptiness of space
to give us something beautiful
to look up and pray to in the moments
we can find no beauty within ourselves
and beauty is within her name
and the colors of her eyes
and lust and desire burst from her womb
like a wild garden spilling over the universe
to give life hunger and reason
and she carved out a small piece of her soul
to give time a heartbeat
and set eternity into motion
and she is as old as she is young
for she lives outside
of the rules of deterioration and death
she is endless and kind
and you felt the warmth of her breath
in your lungs in your first gasp of air
and you will know her again briefly
as your take your last
and hear the sound
of her gently black wings carry you off
to the place where stars are born
and she carves you into a heart
to float in the sky
and comfort those
who need to find beauty
somewhere outside of themselves
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 10:52 PM UTC
Marched in step
Toting a little red wagon
Stride carried pep
Dragging that little red wagon
Weathered in rust
Creaking in the sun
Covered in dust
It weighs a ton
Overburdened by basic trinkets
Remnants of Christmas 05
Macaroni made cumulonimbus
From school days off winchester drive
Photo of family for evidence
Not that it means a thing
Victim of malevolence
Thrown out in early spring
Winter brought about the cough
Toting a little red wagon
His whole system seems off
Dragging that little red wagon
He's feeling old
Went and turned lethargic
Held onto the cold
Wallowing in hardship
Deterioration apparent
There's something horribly wrong
Behavior aberrant
His strength is gone
Innocence in tow
Holding onto reactionary bliss
Writing name in snow
...Blood marked abyss
Death encroaches.
He falls before his little red wagon
A young boy approaches
And steals that little red wagon
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 1:02 AM UTC
buy me on the black market like the instability I am.
watch me hurtle through negative space backwards,
the planet-wide catastrophe of a sun-sized storm in me.
Call me Carbon-14.
it’s the latest piece of my galaxy-sized identity, another chemical
small enough to wage nuclear war.
you’re witnessing my radioactive decay,
the deterioration of everything I used to be into
everything I might be,
a kind of reaction that happens when one of my ‘downs’
becomes an ‘up,’
no aces up my sleeves or full houses of face cards in spades,
but I’ve got straight sevens,
protons neutrons electrons, carbon to nitrogen.
beta decay, the mass production of passive procrastination;
second in command, sidekick sidetracking heroes.
Call me Nitrogen standard 14.
watch me decay into the air that you breathe,
seventh most common gas in the Milky Way galaxy,
keeping things fresh and stainless like my steel armor,
try and make me combust but I’m fireproof, bulletproof,
balanced and on my toes in a defensive position,
fists raised for the fight that you’re going to put up.
my axis is more stable than yours. step into the rings of saturn,
ring the bells to start the rounds, champion takes home the stars,
wraps orion’s belt around their waist and buckles it tight with nuclear waste.
everyone loves an underdog story, but only when they know,
positively, that the underdog will win.
with you and me, it’s a 50/50 on who exactly has the upper hand
and who exactly is going to win, but I’ll make bets with the elements around me,
the carbon that I used to be hashing out 20’s and oxygen
claiming she’s not one for gambling.
baby, you’re in my lungs, you’re in my corner of the ring.
she’ll slip in a 50 like my chances, and I’ll pretend that I don’t notice.
phosphorus is too fiery to root for me,
he’s more of a heavyweight believer than me.
Call me contagious
when my knuckles bloom across your jaw and knock away
all of your sensibility, stability, bruises like moons
as the mirror shatters every reflection of who I used to be.
Call me Carbon-14, but know that I am radioactive,
actively changing, reigning champion of breaking perceptions,
and you’re just the impression of the death that I’m carbon-dating.
Dec 27, 2015
Dec 27, 2015 at 11:43 PM UTC
Fresh baked bread
Layered in death and vegetation
My insides burn with withdrawal
It's been almost 24 hours now
How much longer will it take?
To either cave in unwillingly
Or to die painfully slow?
If I had not forgotten my cash
I'd have given in to my survival drives
I'm happy I forgot it
Because I can't stomach the idea of food
Let alone choke down something so revolting
Only because it pulls me further away from death
Instead I flood my veins with nicotine
Desperately trying to curb these cravings
My legs threaten to give out
With each step I take
Even now, scratching this among global fem notes
Dissociated entirely from class
My hands won't stop shaking
Is it nerves?
Or physical deterioration?
Or the panic lying under the surface?
Deafening screams ricochet through my mind
As I try to drown these feelings
But they won't disappear
I've dropped significant weight
And I don't want it back
I don't feel the need to lose more
But still it falls away
And eventually leaves nothing but skin and bones
Fueled by electrifying anxiety
Nov 17, 2017
Nov 17, 2017 at 3:14 AM UTC
Cover your mediocrity.
With your digital identity.
The semi-logical fuckery.
Of the modern technology.
The start of a new generation.
A flood of false information.
Have caused the war of miscommunication.
And as we feed on fake emotion.
Our intelligence suffer from deterioration.
All is temporary.
Type delete save an image of a rosary.
Pathetic pixelated society
Who ***** you for being holy.
Make a mistake, that's what keeps them happy.
Lowlifes that only has a kilobyte of memory.
End times have come.
Where knowledge is neglected.
It is a war but normal to some.
Oh how I love to join but I am
Disconnected.
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 8:16 PM UTC
It's too late.
You're already in.
In my skin,
Crawling around,
Throwing in my face
The very truth
Of the deterioration
Of my existence without you.
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 8:17 PM UTC
Death or deterioration
Which is more painful to see?
To watch a candle melt away
Into a puddle of itself
Or to wake up one day and the flame be gone.
Death or deterioration
Which is more painful to see?
To know the storm is coming
And live in endless cloudy days
Or to wake up during a flood that washed your loved one away.
Death or deterioration
Which is more painful to see?
To know the Reaper is coming
And live in constant fear
Or to wake to the smell of sulfur that let's you know he's been there.
Death or deterioration
I don't know which I'd choose
Because no matter which fight you fight
In the end you're still gonna lose.
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 4:46 PM UTC
After years on this earth, I have weathered and grown.
As a child, I did things, I had joy, love, and goals.
In early summers, my life was a canvas for scar tissue:
hot pebbles burned soft skin into calloused glory,
the sun beat down and leathered my skin,
chlorine and dirt turned my young hair to gray.
When I was young, I etched tunnels in my bones,
with crayon and marker, I forged deep ivory valleys.
Some see this as cruelty, a sad deterioration,
but this atrophy is experience, the catalyst of life!
Years later, I sit here next to a painted sunrise.
With jell-o, gray matter rots on my styrofoam tray.
I wish for the summer, hot pebbles, and crayons,
for the laughter of youth and its calloused adventures.
But I've retired, so I sit idly in this plastic wheeled chair,
watching monitors beeping with ebbing heart lines,
grieving for my gray hair as it turns back to brown,
mourning, as my unused bones fill with marrow to the brim,
watching, heartbroken, old age clutching my hand,
as my wrinkled skin smooths away.
Mar 28, 2018
Mar 28, 2018 at 11:39 PM UTC
I try to put on a front that
I'm okay,
but what they don't know is that
the image of you with a gun in your mouth
has never left my mind.
It haunts me, making sleeping difficult
and waking impossible.
While the days go by, I appear to be
more and more okay,
when in reality your absence is making me
weaker
and weaker.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 5:29 PM UTC
Love the name.
Got upset
When the man called out, Seen.
Stupid man.
It's Sean, and not Shawn.
A year older than Gerald.
Two younger than Kevin.
Two older than me.
That's Sean.
Daddy wrote home about us.
Maura was working at the hospital.
Sheila was finishing highschool.
Kevin won the Science Fair.
Sean plays ice hockey with the All Stars,
All over Canada and the U.S.
I found the letter, penned in '62,
A jagged European cursive. They tend to write the same.
I've seen the words, run together to hide the spelling;
With JMJ's and TG's sprinkled like manna throughout.
The last page was missing,
Just when Daddy'd write about Gerald, me, and Marlene.
Gerald with his Beetles haircut.
Me, mimicking ( probably mocking),
Some unknown priest, to my father's delight;
Marlene, the wee pigeon, he missed most when he worked
Away from home.
Jimmy, The Bruiser, wasn't here yet.
The last of an Irish brood settled in Canada.
I discovered it in the spare room at Granny's and Frank's.
There was no mention of Michael, Eucheria or Particia.
He exaggerated about the harsh, six-month winters here,
And our proximity to the North Pole.
Suggested Frank try putting copper wires around Granda's wrists;
The Egyptian mummies didn't exhibit signs of bone deterioration.
Daddy was hard-pressed to be proven wrong when he concocted.
Sean had a drawer full of ribbons, medals, trophies and plagues,
And a large S, his Senior Letter.
He also had sideburns, a much smaller nose, and, smelled
as good as he looked,
The Elvis dip-curl, the Connery swag, the Selleck stash to Clooney cool.
Sean kept a disposition of hidden pains secreted for others.
A heart of tears.
A spirit of adventure.
I love Sean, I recall.
He is always welcome here.
Drops by sometimes.
It's always a great surprise.
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 1:09 PM UTC
Crossing the Limits: An Unforging Wasteland
Boom goes the economy
Blooming a shade darker every full moon
Ragged wires and broken tires
All we ever did was try to sustain
The pain of a million pesticides
In our food, in our dreams, in our sleep
Open your eyes and realize
The harm of every arm cut up and torn apart
Trapped in corrupted media
Brainwashed by subliminal messaging
Lend an eye for an ear and save our economy
A foreseeable wasteland near to come
Once true to youth
As with the endangered animals
Prone to extinction
And breeding babies to come
Rising with hysteria
Completion for resources, affluence, sanity
An ecological disturbance hard to ignore
Deterioration
Depletion
Destruction
Truly, the origin of the storm.
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 10:37 AM UTC
We used to be so close, so inmost, so opposite and disposed and yet so equal and lazy that we were one.
Opposites attract and then get distracted. Equals distract and then get attracted.
We are opposites, we are equals, we are strangers.
We were opposites, we were equals, but today we are just two strangers with a routine of talking everyday about stuff that never existed.
We are two points intertwined by a circular line that keeps moving without our consent, lost in a infinite time space.
A friendship disguised, a feigned tolerance, a mutual and misunderstood need of acquaintanceship between each other.
A prophylactic and procrastinated love that wants to keep distance, deviating itself from the deep suffering.
But what suffering?
The suffering was only the avid fear by pain that turned us into two unaware and afraid of everything.
We are singular.
We are plural.
We're diminutive and we're augmentative.
We are two laconic passengers of the wacky train without driver that is the prolix relationship of humans, love and hate.
We are two regular strangers in relentless pursuit of deterioration of our love as a solution for all in our lives.
We are two remote lovers in relentless pursuit of deterioration of our lives as a solution for all our love.
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 1:43 PM UTC