"dilapidate" poems
In a world of laughter
I was apart of at a time
Now glides with sadness
As the refugees shine
And there in the darkness
I can see someone's face
Wholesome with fear
In deliberate disgrace
Find the world's end
And summon the flees
Through the fires and cries
Lies this appealing disease
Of rotten flesh
And from human, to be born
Crucified, embodied, concealed
And still so adorn
Notify the states
Address them assured
To be swept with the scars
In a world unsecured
With the memories of a beast
White flesh and teeth
In written disconcert
And so, whom would I bequeath?
Of decayed discontent
In a black path of a rose filled garden
Hides the wishes of a ******
Broken by the pervading Janardhan
And where the blood may spill
I may not be for real
And in this nightmare I place myself
But where I stand my eyes congeal
Broken faces, smiles depart
So much love, ruled by lust
So much hate, driven by anger
Asphyxiate my disgust
My repel of this utter evil
Where a ****** proclaims
The absence of virtues
And the murderer of William James
For the only unseen
And the utterly disturbed
Comes a vision alive
And they're truly perturbed
Where their own flesh dilapidate
With their minds running amuck
And at everyone they will berate
And in my cage of silent betrayal
I will commence to cleanse my soul
My solid trust, broken, forever damaged
I can only hope for extol
And yet my own deceit
Will lead me to my fall
I still await this day
And truly bury my appall
Dec 11, 2011
Dec 11, 2011 at 5:19 PM UTC
#The quill's sodden ink evaporates
while this bell jar encapsulates
leaving these dreary words to permeate
only to rain back down and stagnate
this terrarium, my lonely estate
pickling eyes that spate
people peer through the glass only to deprecate
while I slowly start to acclimate
two horizons squint until light dissipates
allowing the darkness to overtake
monsters crawl out to dilapidate
snarls and growls devastate
this is fate this is fate this is fate this is fate
is it too late is it too late is it too late is it too late
echos verberate echos verberate echos verberate echos verberate
this is fate and it is too late these echos verberate and I ruminate
I ruminate and ruminate and ruminate and ruminate
with a languid gait
a countenance set straight
while I desperately try to create
a happy blissful sunny green free state
it's not too late it's not too late it's not too late
meditate meditate meditate meditate
don't let the glass alienate
pick up the hammer and swing
till the glass ***B E K
R A S.***#
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 10:09 AM UTC
Their bars are bars there.
It’s just that the taps
have all run dry.
Behind a wall
computers clank, buzz,
dilapidate.
Behind thickened glass
clerical workers
patter like hail
on shingled roofs.
Beyond walls and glass,
sallow-white leaks.
I sit rough somewhere.
Cold, unfeeling stone
everywhere.
A payphone stares
jeeringly at me.
I curl up tight.
Mother and father
surely spite me now.
Brother won’t know,
no, he won’t know.
Others never will.
Don’t comfort me.
I’m in pajamas.
I’m grasping at straws.
I’m falling fast.
I’d like to know
how much is the bail.
“Sixty-thousand.”
My fingers are pressed
on a copier
like those old, dear
library books.
Copied and copied.
Next I’ll be shelved.
Sep 2, 2012
Sep 2, 2012 at 7:44 PM UTC
Yellow journal
Aged in fondness
Worn by the weight of powerful words
Forgotten upon the shelf
Neglected despite your cheery shade
An artist leaves a piece of themselves within their art
A fateful discovery
Thats exactly what you are
Beaten up, broken,
torn weathered-
By years of dry land and drought of inspiration
Made alive by Christ
And awake in its pages
Your cover is worn
Your pictures dilapidate
But once you open up
Magic careens
Unveiled under your dusty pages is joy
Romance
Poetic trances
Art of divine nature
That is exactly what you are
Worn yet beautiful
Aged and reminiscent
Evoking fond warmth
You are the yellow journal
Beloved yellow journal
May 27, 2019
May 27, 2019 at 10:34 AM UTC
My rusty chains yelp and squawk
Shrill, yet somehow on the verge of becoming monotonous
So far, weary from humdrum-ly swaying
Presently induced alone by Nature’s bitter, raw sighs
Bound to this
Bastille of a rotting exterior
Eventually decrepit, at first, from use
Now merely deteriorating as of neglect
Once-stimulating summers fade
Into seemingly sempiternal November evenings
Dejected and funereal
Echoing the nostalgic meandering trumpets that once coiled
The lengths of my now cadaverous frame—
Their blue blossoms left timid and etiolated
Reflecting the ghostly, lilac hues of an insomniacs raccoon-like eyes
And brittle, wispy veins begin to dilapidate
I yearn
For a sudden rekindling
Reminiscing
About memories only I can keep alive
For the exploiters I was dependent on,
Like the withered azure trumpets used upon a time, have bloomed
Yet I still stoically anticipate their return
I pine for their sun-kissed skin graced in airy cottons
Their thrilled shrieks drowning those of my (less electric) fraying chains
Recollections of their highs juxtaposed with my low
My faith, my only zeal
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 2:00 PM UTC
Bit by bit the debris of my being will dilapidate
My arms of cement will be tied and pulled to pieces by ropes
My windows shall be crashed and shattered by the indestructible cranes
The walls that contained the stories I kept will be torn down ceaselessly
The pillars that once made me stand tall will crumble to pieces and dust
My tower will fall apart amongst all the people and placed I've come to love
The ground beneath me will give in as I sink into the hollow Earth to disappear.
And as this may appear as a catastrophe, it most certainly is not.
In fact, it is satisfaction -
Satisfaction for the people
Who ordered for the nuisance I was
To be taken down and demolished for their own reasons.
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 9:45 AM UTC
we wound in stars on old fishing rods;
reeling on promises from days where
the light still brought species, clutter,
schematic belief. you caught three. i
caught nothing, but glimmers of hope.
allusions and reality are often cleft,
though. this truth i'd rather cast,
like myself, over cliff-face. but, i
alone am
mutable in this scheme. you named
yours as blank-faced children, born
to the sea.
predictably, i named mine woe.
fate moves through seasons, sovereign
groups, ways set down to dot. the
object stands;
here lies truth. this is the truth:
pebbles form kiltered circles
under the dock. floating
above the architecture of my
ribs consuming churned
air, i watch me fade. i
discern and too, dilapidate.
you raised yours with colour
in iris. i picked mine up
lovingly-
this woe is
awake and tightly circling.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 10:54 PM UTC
I need to grow up but I don't know how
When my feet hurt I ask myself
Could that be? At this young age I have already begun to
dilapidate?
Or is it just my brain weakening,
Panting, airless, reluctant -
I was not made to live this life, nor were you -
My mind says my legs were meant to
Traverse natural fields
And gape without scrutiny at the beauty
of things around me
So my body tires walking on tiled hallways
Because it knows better than I
As to what this body was cut out to be -
But it's specifications don't fit
any of these multitudes of molds
So I cram myself into angles and
depressions unsuited
because it's for the best
it's for the betterment of society
it's so I have a place on this earth -
But I already had a place, we all did,
Now our bent forms are unrecognizable to
Our Mother who wonders
"Why would my child pervert itself
out of shape from its beautiful form?"
Through what common pair of eyes do we all see and
at what point did we decide
our own couldn't show us truth?
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 2:21 PM UTC
as I squint my eyes to the sun
the virile rays that run
straight through my eyes leaving me stun
still no harm done
the kaleidoscopic memories start to run
pouring through my eyes, so much we had fun
played back , threw laughter while we punned
damage done
the agonizing feeling that still runs
all those elated times when I should have sung
the lyrics , the melody of my heart's feeling
and them unspoken words
indeed hath left me undone..
without you im in an indescribable state..
crumbling inside my heart has started to dilapidate..
the hole in my chest is an abyss
before i perish give me a goodbye kiss....
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 4:29 PM UTC
quantum poetry paradoxes
<>
forArianna who sometimes hears opera by night,
but always sees poetry
<>
what we are is unique, at the molecular level,
our DNA is microscopic visible,
in every letter, comma and
even the false white spaces of
universes expanding,
black holes ******* in fooled passerby’s,
burning out and disappearing
as invisible forces create and dilapidate -
simultaneously
this our poems are finite but never complete,
explorers sent knowing they will never return,
and if they do, though their poems unchanged,
but all the readers older, deformed and/or dead
think on it!
the world of you has revolutionized many times
since you started reading this prose, you have birthed
and seen cells die by the millions by the time you’ve
read this sad stanza twice and glory hallelujah uttered!
so go ahead, create and die
simultaneously
I give you answers,
though you ask for none,
you keep on breathing beating,
beating pumping apparatus paradoxically
insists you live even as it wears out with each
stroking, explain these minute contradictories
as your consciousness refracts and absorbs
these many mighty infinite finalities of
the
quantum poetry paradoxes
12:34pm EST
Aug 25, 2019
Aug 25, 2019 at 12:41 PM UTC
In an epoch of dissonant raucousness,
The land reeks of corruption.
Humanity to dilapidate
To a seemingly ages-long anguish.
Excruciating; it torments the soul.
An odious scent,
A deep well eminently putrid,
Foul enough to send legions
Forthwith, cowering,
Caterwauling in trepidation.
Although, notwithstanding, it subsists:
Beneath the contagion
Of a ravenous plague,
An invocation, a call to permute,
A purport to exhume
What has gone adrift.
Where goest thou, oh relic of yore?
From the toxic shores
Of newfangled premises,
Thou hast been washed away.
A feeling of predilection,
Of warmth and affection,
Thou art forgotten, unfamiliar, hitherto.
Long overdue to recur,
A matter of time, it is such.
And thus so, we shall wait
In the sprawling gape
For the fervent abstract of love
To once again take its shape.
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 2:12 PM UTC
Valueless how nothing lasts forever, life is an empty bucket
Who would care if you didn't exist, if I didn't exist?
Feeling as empty as my old jean's pockets
Open bottle and drink happily
Of course until happy
Only to finish up with the abused opposites
By my blurred eyes, I seem to be nakedly nacred
Questioning whether I'm real, is sadly consecrated
Questioning if its love... rapidly grows vapid
Close, as the unhappy body drawn to my noteworthy pace
Close, as the rain that draws attention to my morbid habits
My happiness is a circle collapsing into a dreaded mess
Erroneous notion that we're all little gambits
As it pays to be negative
It can't be right, I know we're all not evasive
Two days of being convinced, that I am not actually homeless
Face emotionless with xanax on my left wrist
I'm addicted to my truest sense, that'll forever be hidden
Open bottle and drink happily
Of course until happy
Lacked ones open highway road, lonesome wind please blow away
Tie a silk scarf around my neck, and kiss on my benighted soul
As goes below, unnameable
Sniffing more than air and watching my issues blow away
Out my nostrils into the tissue of my flawed escape
Open bottle and drink happily
Of course until happy
My head is swimming from wine
I'm about to spit bedraggled japes
Soon to overflow, soon to dilapidate
Fit my body, warm my old sane mind
Torch patience, I'm a ******* light
Without actually breathing
I somehow stay alive
In my eminent vintage bucket
Of taint time and caned wine
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 2:12 PM UTC
The stones whereat, in vision, I see,
The courting cries of cicadas,
Are scorns, and all thy noise,
trifled from astray of honesty.
Thine eyes, a testament of beauty
That dilapidate upon
O'! Stars! thy's hissing word
Like Odysseus' deadly deceit.
Thy heart, once purest gold
Untainted by the world
Hath become stained
To mark, a smudge, a scar.
To ---
I know not of worth and value
Nor can I hold my place in your world.
That honesty and truth is surrendered
In the wakes of a single lie.
I applaud those who never lead astray
But you my dear, have stained my conscience
Of love and trust
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 12:42 AM UTC