"discarding" poems
Young people can you feel the suffering?
roca wear, gucci, apple, facebook, mcdonalds, apple bee's,
honda, lamborghini, harvard, Community College
american express, pnc bank, walmart
Wage Slaves, ceos, owners, lenders, renters, indebtedness
Structural dehumanization, systematic mechanization
Exploited labor feeding blood to your hungering consumerism
Young people you are embracing MISANTHROPY!
Embracing the hate of your own humanity! Why the hypocrisy?
Wealthy children, poor children
Trying for enlightenment through education
Parents garnering wealth through the oppression of their victims
Parents garnering debt through the oppression from economic inequality
Still you invest and promote the only legitimization of your being: CAPITALIST UTILITY
Capitalism engineering unrelenting misanthropy
Vicious economic system discarding humanity
Perfecting the concentration and accumulation of wealth
With the expansion of human alienation and murderous competition
Prostituting your body to labor exploitation and consumerism
Where does your wealth end up?
multinational companies? financial corporations? military arms contractors?
Loyalty lies in their pockets, backstabbing everyday tactics
Killing you through the exploitation of your body
Because they know the birth of another proletariat or bourgeoisie can replace you
Entities, not human, how much have they bought you for so that you cannot see!!!
Beware of these misanthropic missionaries granting your body power and agency
When your body can no longer be plundered for profit you will taste tears and blood
Young people will you deliver your forefathers and fathers
From worshiping capitalist misanthropy?
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 12:56 PM UTC
Urges through the night, a blade dancing with its mistress, discarding what has summoned up in her way alike a ****** crazed devotion,
Scarlet tears make their way down her cheek, washing the sand off as the pillars around begin to collapse alike cards one by one at the time,
Phantoms rage as a pure flower appears to commence blooming,
The warped moon embraces the shadows of such fools as it rises,
Actions with not much meaning seek their rampage as the battle field becomes frail and soulless through this sleepless night of lunacy,
When the flood of realisation arrives she will be swept away unlike the wise who make a more solid, stadfast decision. How trecious,
Does she want to take a dance with this cruel world she rampages on, are her ideals fitting for this battle she is about to win for now,
Drenched in blood and impurities of her work, her mind remains pure, innocent, not even sweating one thought to the consequences,
Mercy nor compassion are unlikely to be granted in this darkening realm, not to her dancing knife or her lunatic ****** devotion,
Time is moving, as she sacrafices her soul for her actions,
Taking another dance in this distorted dark
~ Umi
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 12:44 PM UTC
**The weary mind in turmoil writhes
and slumber will not come.
The moonlight seeps
like latticed withered vines.
I listen to my heartbeat,
in the silence like a drum,
And through my shuttered eyes....
see strange designs.
The night will not take me prisoner,
and bind me to restful sleep.
No dreams, or any respite,
no way, my soul to keep.
Groaning as I turn myself
to rest beleaguered pain,
I stretch to ease
my tortured back and sigh.
Then I fluff my pillow
to deactivate my speeding brain...
Rolling in the covers,
as my body sweats and strains,
seeking to lose myself,
discarding all, my pains
But my eyes are wide...
and still the question..."Why?"**
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 11:32 AM UTC
Is there an order?
In there an approximation of pi
circling our first awkward flirtations?
Does a dragon curve lurk hidden as I
caress the curvature of your spine?
Where does Euclidean geometry fit in to the
first time our lips met?
Does the Pythagorean theorem detail our most intimate
love making?
A quadratic formula for the shameful
discarding of punched in picture frames?
Is there a golden ratio that best expresses
hurried apologies and frantic entanglements
between our sheets?
I know for certain there was
a simple subtraction
on the day your tears added up everything
and finally said goodbye.
Some would say there is order in this
chaos disguised as order disguised as
chaos
Continually debating pattern recognition
or butterfly effects
But I’d like to think
We were more subtle than that
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 6:00 PM UTC
You threw me to the snakes
leaving me to fend for myself,
discarding me like an object that
you had grown bored of.
And,
when i crawled out from the pit
more powerful than before,
venom coursing through my veins ,
I became the monster.
I became the one to be feared.
How easy it is to forget that monsters are not born
but made
and my dear,
you are responsible for every inch of the creature I have become.
Dec 18, 2019
Dec 18, 2019 at 4:44 AM UTC
december 2011:
soulmates? something out of a fairytale!
handsome Prince Charming and the sweet Princess
are unlikely childhood sweethearts
their scripted fate tucked away under my bed.
april 2012:
soulmates? it’s just like in the fairytales.
we flirted with chance but knelt on destiny
my eyes were bright and wide as
true love’s first kiss hangs promised in the air.
april 2013:
soulmates? the fairytale wasn’t mine.
I tried to fill in the gaps with ice cream and picnics
but we were a jigsaw puzzle missing half its pieces.
don’t worry, I thought, I am still so very young.
july 2013:
soulmates? the fairytale forgotten
I threw myself at people hardly worth the toss
mistakenly discarding pieces of myself
I didn’t expect to need later
november 2013:
soulmates? a fairytale of treachery.
you sleeping beauty, wide awake
I tore myself to shreds on your wall of thorns
tread carefully, for fate is a dangerous game.
january 2014:
soulmates? a fairytale, for now
I cast that suffocating doctrine out of my mind
frozen in time, I decided now was what mattered
a love like one I’d never felt before beckoned
may 2014:
soulmates? a fairytale assured
I don’t know what the future holds, or how my story will unfold.
happiness is everything and care is not for this world.
love is abounding and soulmates can wait.
october 2014:
soulmates? they belong in fairytales.
chipped and damaged hearts don’t become more whole
just by finding comfort in another broken soul.
all the world’s a playground
these grown-up children
just playing pretend
because nothing’s really meant to be
after all.
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 8:48 PM UTC
It was hard to miss Jerry
in the corner
holding court
over the bran muffin.
Flurries of judgement and wisdom
flying across coffee dappled pages
as he sentenced a large cup of
Paruvian Dark Roast
to be ******
7 am Dan never flinched
steeling his tenured chair at
a spot one section of stir sticks away
calculably just out of reach
of the regularly scheduled tantrum.
An auburn-haired newbie
fanes camoflage
peeking over two pages of Obituaries
she never intended to read.
Her raised and nearly detached eyebrows
hover above the dateline like a magic trick.
And on every table fall
scattered leaves
of press print trees
unsorted and littered with intent
by careless absorbers of trivia.
Disconnected
ear-budded
footnotes of humanity
see nothing
hear nothing
using the disarrayed World News as
enormous coasters
unmoved by hyper-ventilating compulsives
pushing panic buttons through
desperate quests to uncover
one alphabetically organized set
of local news.
Of the papers not strewn
the remnant holds anxious
on a distant wall
a throng of flopping
rabbit-eared
step children
dangling precariously
from unaccomodating magazine racks
like smoky orphans from
windows in a fiery building.
Disordered.
Disrespected.
Discarded...words are
Jews in the holocaust.
Death of a voice.
We are irreverent in our silence
diminishing genius through apathy
put off by the imposition to be challenged
choosing disposable principles
above responsible knowledge.
Everything is disposable - cameras, cars,
relationships, loyalty, babies...and wisdom -
crumpling Pulitzer prize authors
and discarding WW2 veterans
just to get to the cartoons.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 11:15 PM UTC
how come my projection is ignored
your eyes, like high beams, flash over my existence
scattering my photons/my waves
in exchange for your bright/white clean/canvas
you wander through these halls flitting from picture to picture to picture
fitting yourself to each
scene and visual style
discarding the ones irrelevant/inconsequential
like me, tossed aside
connections- but how deep
what soil does your friendship take root in?
in experiences/morals/ideologies/pasts
or is it simply a necessity
a validation
that you exist
but why don’t i fit into your
equation/picture/life?
You want to laugh and I want to hear you
i don’t get it
i wish i did
you look at me and you look at you and you look at the boy standing there
and somehow you laugh at his smile
you talk with his persona
you walk with his saunter
and here i am passing the other way, looking/writing down
your validation
in these words i will capture your
reality/aura/matter/existence
so that you won’t be forgotten
like his smile/persona/saunter
and my projection/
photons/
waves/
equation/
picture/
life?/
reailty/
aura/
matter/
existence/
is anybody out there writing
for me?
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 1:57 AM UTC
I think about our memories intermittently.
They still haunt me.
Especially the bad ones.
Thought about writing you another letter,
but the chances of you not reading it are high.
I've needed to give myself closure.
I did love you but it was wrong and I could never love you in the ways you wanted.
In those moments,
you were my best friend,
someone I counted on.
Now you're a distant memory,
a counterfeit mirage.
I've written about you,
I've talked about you,
and now it's time to forgive you.
Forgive you for what, you might ask.
Forgive you for breaking me to pieces.
Discarding me like one of your toys,
and acting like I never existed.
I forgive you, Claire.
Sep 2, 2022
Sep 2, 2022 at 10:38 AM UTC
*When I was just a little girl
I wanted so much for my life
to resemble a beautiful secret garden,
I'm aware that this may sound
crazy and bizzare - if it does,
then please do beg my pardon.
A secret garden in the woods
with such beauty hidden deep within,
Full of secret pathways and passages
that only special people would know about,
fitted with padlocked gates - so not to let
any bad people in.
Pretty little flowers
in vivid colours
that please the heart and soul -
seen through the eyes of everyone,
Butterflies dancing above pristine hills -
with hedges making mazes;
for a touch of fun.
Crimson tree-tops and rose bushes
in every beautiful colour
ever created,
A place that is so unique - from it,
no soul could stand to be seperated.
Ineffable in its beauty,
like a magnet souls are attracted,
This secret garden,
like a heavenly day dream,
in a daze -
from it, you cannot be distracted.
Whether there was a blue sky,
or dark clouds, as a daily rooftop,
Love and happiness
would be nonstop.
A place where loved ones
always felt safe and secure,
Never wanting to find
the secret garden's door.
They'd always be free
to be themselves,
A wish
That we all have for ourselves.
When I was just a little girl
I wanted so much for my life
to resemble a beautiful secret garden,
Now I'm all grown up,
and still trying
to bring this aspiration to life;
this vision, is one,
I am never, ever discarding,
I really still want my life
to be just like a beautiful secret garden,
And if this sounds crazy or bizzare...
then, please do beg my pardon!
By Lady R.F ©2017*
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 4:24 AM UTC
Cutting my organs and rearranging my bones
Discarding of the skin like ***** band aide
Watering insecurities and dipping in my pink
Fitting me in the solace of your neck
But never in your arms
Drowning in your touch
Etching into my memory the bitter sweetness of this
One sided love
Craving your torture and remedy in one.....
Jan 29, 2020
Jan 29, 2020 at 8:53 PM UTC
The shoes of a dead man
For you to walk
And his blade
For you to ****
Every page vanished
And every memory
But not the paper upon which it was written
And the dust
Under which it was hidden
Traces of direction
Windblown
A new future
Waiting for ripples to die
To see the reflection
And the form
That must be overcome
In the eyes of others
To determine need
Though not enough
In the eyes of others
To speak
Or live in silence
To write
Or to think
For who would listen
Or learn
From a man wearing a dead man’s shoes?
Because they are not wearing them
Only you
The blasphemy of discarding his past
But saving his presence
Is only for you to know
The willful generation
The one that learns from the past
But lives for the future
While others
Ignore the past
And die before they say amen
But not the man walking in a dead man’s shoes
Inside a book
Inside another book
Choosing the prophecy
That fits his needs
But not the worlds
Because they wouldn’t understand
Even if it was written in their language
Nobody can understand
Except the man walking in a dead man’s shoes
He knows death
And every word is life
So he reads
And prays
And does not bring who he is
Because he is not the book
He is only the man walking in a dead man’s shoes
He cannot hear anything
Or see color
Only the desperation that fills the void
Between men
And their confusion
That he is unafraid
And able to walk between people
Without explanation
Or justification
Because they wouldn’t understand
Nobody can understand
Except the man walking in a dead man’s shoes
So don’t ask
Don’t ask
You do not know how to ask
Or what to do with wisdom
They are just words
Words that amaze you
But cannot change you
Because to you they are words
To him they only describe
An approximation
A sketch
Of smoke
From a fire
That you cannot see
Or feel
Not like him
Because you are not a man wearing a dead man’s shoes
It is much worse than you think
Because you won’t confront it
You are insensitive
Dehumanized
The only ones worth living must believe as you do
Thoughts are life to you
Certain thoughts
Thoughts that may be right or may be wrong
Thoughts that cannot be described by one man the same as another
But thoughts that he will not speak
Because he is walking in a dead man’s shoes
Without the blade
For he does not come to you by the sword
For separation is only by choice
His alone
Without bloodshed
Without the desire of what you have
For he is not a thief
He will live without it
He will never take it
For his interest is not in what you have
But in what he can earn
And what is provided
As it is given by the world
As it is described
In the prophecy
That best fits his needs
Because he is a man walking in a dead man’s shoes
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 3:54 PM UTC
emptying out boxes
discarding things I no longer need
rediscovering treasures
I had frgotten I had
as I break down each empty box,
I feel a little lighter, more free
soon the things I have been hoarding
are all gone, and I can't rember why held on so long
one room down, few more to go
I wouldn't miss it for the world
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 2:18 PM UTC
Afterthought
(Poem by Serenus)
Yes, there is an issue
That needs to be addressed
Lately I’ve been feeling
Like you’ve placed me as 2nd Best
Funny, I never knew
I was competing in a contest
Oh my beautiful prize, was it all lies?
-Time to confess
If you wanted to be” just friends”
You should’ve stated your un-desires
But you had an ulterior motive
-The backup plan of a liar
Keeping me in your back pocket
Playing me for a fool
Selling me sweet dreams
While you had your cake-and ate it too
Telling me what I wanted to hear
Lying to my face
If things didn't work-out
With choice #1
You kept me around..."Just in case"
Lost in my own mind
Is there something I missed?
I thought I was first in line
But you had me on a waiting list
Passion in every kiss
What a ***** little trick
It makes me wonder…
What kind of "special gifts"
Did your “first pick” -get?
Loving you was a battle
You don’t see how hard I fought?
Discarding me as your “Plan B”
A second hand -afterthought
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 1:03 PM UTC
"A vice grinds hard in the gut..."
Began a poem from decades past.
From one hard lover, now a ghost,
Whose words have long since passed.
She scoffed at love and poured another,
Drunk, to dull the pain,
Sober, I held her in my arms,
On guard against the flames.
But love grew, still, within the dark,
Inside her body, bourbon-tied.
Unseen to me, there was a spark,
And the gates below blew open wide.
Discarding friends and lovers, too,
She ****** them for their care.
Believing this was what to do,
Her love became a dare.
She sang her wrath in poetry,
Self-loathing, hatred, blame.
The gilded coach that had to be,
A vehicle of pain.
I made farewells once she was gone,
They formed inside of sighs.
I gathered up the rhyming note,
And kissed her peaceful eyes.
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 9:38 AM UTC
Summertime, Billy Holiday plays
As the hot sun spreads like butter over the trees.
The grass tickles the toes of children at play
Before a chill comes to breezes that blow.
Wind combs trees, heavy handed
Discarding leaves like so much flotsam adrift at sea.
Their bony crunch underfoot reminds us
Of the cold, dead future in store.
Deserted of life, brown and bare winter cold cracks limbs;
They stare with angry faces,
Moaning as the wind wrenches again and again.
Cloaked in ice, they hold buds alive deep inside.
Exuberantly pops the blossoms luring
The bumblebee to work for free.
Erasing the death that came before
And ensuring, after spring, a fruitful summer.
The seasons' constant cycle of birth, life, and death
Requires time to reflect on our growth,
Reflect on our life, and
Reflect that we, too, must face death.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 2:59 PM UTC
After discarding the remains,
Of a troubled past mangled with lies,
All that remains is happiness.
My eye-water bereaved me long ago,
Since she came to me at a go,
I turned bereft going crazy after her.
Her breath scents up my life,
Sweet flavour of the first kiss worthy,
Of being as tasteful as elixir.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 1:03 AM UTC
A pool with no walls in
An ocean with no souls
Has no choice.
Fate is the tyrant,
The trident even Poseidon controls not.
You cannot drown if you’ve never breathed air.
“Be no one like everyone,”
She laughs, “Equality 7-2521.”
My mouth remains frozen in the frown,
Brows furrowed down.
Disgusted by sheep, I never wear wool.
The fibers stick, **** suffocate,
Even when dry.
No one else minds it. In fact,
They say “baa” and wear the same masks.
“Bah,” I mutter into ripples.
Witness myself in reflection, introspection,
Retrospection: the id is omniscient;
Individuals are conventional, rarely exceptional;
Explanations are like Time,
They wound and heal.
Truth is disposable, honesty opposable.
Disillusionment is discovery,
Disgusting, discarding, disregarding,
Disblahblahbinizing.
Splash the water, pause the thought process.
Steal fate’s trident, bend it
Into a bubble wand.
When dawn dawns,
Daintily dip the stick in.
A big, blue bubble is born
With each breath, with each blow.
I enter the bubble, in peaceful pace,
Gently lay down,
Knees kiss my face.
Sigh with relief, rebirth, rediscovery.
The ultimate revolution ending
In victory,
In magnificent realizations,
In my last gasp.
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 8:59 PM UTC
She frolicked through trouble, and dandled with mischief. Alison Wonderland; everything I wished I was and so much more. Ever emanating her doe-eyed façade; proclaiming our jests mere “mischief.”
Yet, an unspoken verdict (Foretaste? Conception? Notion?) had cloaked the truth: wickedness rippled beneath our parade.
I nuzzled her contours; my peripheral eye – nailed to her profile, her blueprints, her chassis. I stalked her mirage – dancing with vapor.
She glissaded about, no fool to my truth, varnishing my mantle.
I belonged to Alison: perpetually at her side. Our couplet became a “we.” So, We regretted nothing. We veered for the pyre: caroming(skimming?) those embers alit with vice.
She narrated my mental seminar. Discarding my dogmas to uphold her own; and thus, my mind was hers.
My mind was her mind.
Alison made heads turn, and mouths water, as we sidled – hand in hand – down the street. She was my Christmas morning: each colloquium – giftwrapped with finesse. She personified paradise, she illustrated utopia. Hatching our Carnival; netting us, enamored, sidling the Carousal. We’d skim, we’d sail, her halo – my fossil. Her lips, her eyes, her hands… they echoed the innocence of a child. Niave, innocent, and giftwrapped in wonder.
Little Miss Wonderland: my very own fairytale. She was mine alone; she was mine to keep.
Did I want her, or did I want to be her?
Alison Wonderland.
Her aura – so celestial – paralleled my prose. When she banished my husk – Maple Thatcher – I cackled good riddance… And I grew a new personality to accommodate her own.
For, without Ali – devoid of our we – I doubted the very existence of me.
On my composition, she bestowed rhythm. She gave tune to my silence; her chimes, her cadence. My ink was her song – fusing a symphony. A symphony of Alison: the melody to solidify our tryst.
My mind was her mind.
And yet… somehow, I missed a carriage – or two – aboard her train of thought. For, the same felon spiting my existence, was the angel I loved to life. Gladly, I huffed, and I puffed, and I blew Maple down.
Fused against Alison, I needed none of Maple.
Carnival infatuations…
Alison Wonderland.
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 8:04 AM UTC
I asked the love inside me
to sleep but not to die.
To fly like swallows at sea,
give me peace,
but please,
be homesick.
I asked the love inside me
to relent it’s doping up
like an Indian Luna
discarding the moon
for daylight.
I asked would it be stoic,
Drown the sun for just a day
and hang dark over street-signs
that have anagrams of her name
or point to wherever she sleeps.
I asked the love inside me
to keep the love-bites
in my capillaries
lest they phosphoresce
like the backs of cuttlefish.
I asked would it be patient
to shine them later,
as inkblots, reminding me
of what the softness
of her lips can do.
I asked the love inside me
to remember and not to hope.
Keep our room everlasting
alight with music,
and like my love,
my own.
there’s lipstick kissed filter tips
and roaches made from textbooks
littering the ash-hardened carpet.
The lift of bra strings over collarbone
tracing a mole
meeting like the Saone and Rhone there.
Hungover afternoons
where the heat stays asleep in the air
circulating with our radiance
as if our hearts fill the whole space.
The time moves glacially
like we’re children
having nothing to compare it with
but the length of hair
and the states of cliff faces.
Two stillborns
meeting in the afterlife.
The first time
and the last time
and all the love in between
is alive.
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 5:31 PM UTC
*Death near
don't open the door
forgotten ruptured sky
sees you and I
riches are impossible
in the blinding dust
vision is beyond the horizon
fighting to win
you back
come close to losing all....
Each selective thought
will bring about
pieces .......
that we will think is love
discarding the rest
in street dust
of many tomorrows to come
It has been years since
you left me so long ago
trying to forget
daily life .... that we loved so
this is the last poem
that l will write
of the pain
you brought about
Time schedules
Timbre slows
so very far
in a varied substance
of liquid foam
as death
knocks
don't open the door.....*
By Debbie Brooks
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 10:37 PM UTC
My love for you is like a new box of tissues,
You keep using more, pulling one more out,
It seems as if there is an infinite amount,
Never running out.
You don’t even think about.
You use one more tissue,
Just a little more love whenever you need me.
But you don’t realize I’m not a what,
Realize WHO you are using.
Just use another, two at a time.
Discarding with ease.
One more,
Two more,
You can’t possibly run out.
Soiling it,
Crumpling it,
Then throwing me out.
But one day you’ll pull the last tissue,
Leaving nothing but an empty box.
Then what will you do?
I am not just a box of tissues.
My love WILL run out.
If you keep on using me,
Throwing my love away.
I will leave you.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 11:23 AM UTC
To strive to know the heart of one so pure,
To contemplate the fate of one so young;
With heavy hearts, uncertain and unsure,
We honor thee and praise thee with our song;
To stand alone, amongst the enemy,
To take a stand, and stare them in the face;
With courage in your heart, to let them see
That you alone can walk within God's grace;
To burn and burn and thrice to burn again,
To turn the skin, and flesh, and bone to ash;
Discarding all remains unto the Seine,
The stains upon their souls will never wash;
Old men of cloth, long deaf to voices sainted;
Her name condemns your black-hearts ever tainted.
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 4:03 AM UTC
As we stood face to face...
Waist-deep in our insecurities,
the years...
Would continue to
revolve around us with nonchalance.
Soothing the wounds we had traded.
The universe...
Would envelope us.
Like cosmic balm.
Healing us...
Catalysing us,
into melding together.
So we'd emerge out of the fray
as a single entity.
An entity...
Oblivious to each other's imperfections.
An entity...
Capable of discarding past discrepancies.
An entity...
Granted a new lease.
An entity...
Worthy of another breath.
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 10:07 AM UTC
You can pour love completely
into a wine glass body
Write heart wrenching verse
pure soul poetry
but when you are beat,
dead,
done,
exhausted
weary
the lover beside you
becomes dismantled
and arranged into parts
of burden
temporarily.
Pointy elbows drilling into spine.
Rock hard knees buckling thighs.
Razor sharp toenails
scour
ankles and calf.
Sprawled limbs
invading your bed half.
Thieves of warm sheets
and cosy duvets.
Gurgling,
snorting roars
snoring,
snoring,
snoring away.
Or teeth grinding
piercing anvil,
hammer and drum.
When extremely tired
Only then your love isn't as fun
as and hour ago
when limbs, torso and flanks
eagerly woven
discarding blankets,
But that was then.
Sleep has a stronger lure
and retorting with your own elbow
or *** shunt
just can't end the snore.
Crying for snoozeville,
you can't take any more.
Suddenly,
a choked snuffle
then blessed silence
as they roll back onto their side
And you sigh, “I love you,”
But grateful for the stop
Better off with bunk beds,
one can still go on top.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 7:18 PM UTC