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Nik Bland Nov 2012
The amount of days I've been given have been kind, but each day rather cruel
Trying to lift the thumb off my back of the looming stresses that rule
It could be me again and this is not the end, if fact it probably is
So before I unleash my problems, swear to mind your business

I would be lying if I said I wanted this day to last a forever
Because I found myself one forever short once we weren't together
I've said my piece so many times the puzzle is almost complete
So I've decided it's time to get off my knees and back onto my feet

I've fallen so much I keep Flintstones band-aids close at hand
My heart sewn to my sleeve for only you, which I've yet to understand
You unscrewed the machine that was me and left the parts on the floor
And I'm pretty sure I won't work just right anymore

Fading is the dynasty of what we labeled our so-called "love"
Like sticking my foot inside my sock at night to find it's a glove
The discombobulation is so overwhelming, I think the ocean is jealous
Could I start swimming now or is that being too over-zealous

Life is hard and the people crammed in it tend to make it worse
At times I tell myself it to cry, look to the sky, and curse
But there's a tune in my mind that won't seem to shut up from that one song
Telling me life is a ride, kid: grieve, learn, burn, and move on
Connor Aug 2015
Islands formed thru
Sea-
Children run to
Parliament laughing/
Cheerful for their own
Crucifixion.
Airplane tendril exhaust chokeholds my
Bluesky-
IT'S GETTING HOT, HUH?
Pollution pill form
Pharmacy extract deathglue
Coats up our public parks.
Concave eyes are sputtering visions
Of smog clocks-a-tickin tomorrows.
Nobody ventures to the river anymore.
The TV antannae blasphemy signal prayer to
White House Christs
and "reality" transmitted poison
is too DISTRACTING!
Cacophony vibrating in the trees
Where somebody spray paints
"**** THIS ONE TOO"
Drunk on the Marina by midday
Oh, that one was funny.
Police cars butterfly the nest with siren wings..
THE COLORS OF AMERICA MIND YOU.
Arresting the Accordion player by Robinson's outdoor shop?
NOWwhowouldwannadothat!
They're just swaying the jagged noise imitations of Sinatra!
Decadence infected that instrument and its vessel a long time ago now.
Keep on playing there Francis its okay nobody is listening.
Budded beam of light serenades
Chinatown Upper Floor Apartment
Delirium/three women shouting from their balcony high off ***** from next door neighbor.
questions
For the next time
"Why do I feel so unhappy now?" addiction therapeutic
Temporarily, easing headache and that depression, lady is screaming now in her sleep.
Gargoyle security cameras haunt the street corners.
Electric generators perfume the musical thinman who plays saxophone on lower Pandora,
Two in the morning imagination
Boundless between industry and
Needle prodded Lepers wailing on the adjacent sidewalk, muttering to past childhood friends who took form of rapid voices
Praying for suicide in that HEAD OF THEIRS/I'LL DO ANYTHING YOU ASK!
Men searing their skin with
Carnival narcotics
Tableau upon the bleeding
Walls of modern Hades.
Hopeless romantics
Tread benches facing the
Amber sheathed City blocks
contemplating their emotional vacancies
& labyrinthine desires
(How to achieve the unconquerables of love??)
Can hardly walk in that there
Brilliant light of Luna
Candle for the lonely planetarium
(Childlike galaxy!)
Undeniably complex/
Mademoiselle waving her soft hand alltheway out to
Intercosmic space!
Lipstick stainless
Alpha Centauri
Don't know what DAZZLE romances are,
man o man o woman o mano e mano
Voltage surge thru veins and brain-
Institutionalize me!
I'm in love!
Power of Napoleon in here!
(Tap to my ribs implying the heart is beating poems again)
ecstasy isn't no sanity at all,
Happiness in times like ours is
Delusional half-consious *******
Fed by the state.
Listened in on a podcast once
At work, theys men prophesied
Discombobulation of our economy!
Nostradamus-Moderne waving his phallus of necropolis political
Myth finishing on everyone
From Taiwan to Manhattan
(Tho the myth may be truth yet)
Sunshine bedroom
The Shadows of knight play Darkside recording
(1968)
New American and Canadian Poetry
Rests under faraway currencies
That once rested in my pocket during
Late walk out of Furama,
Mosquitoes illuminated from
Restaurant lanterns and enormous Asiatic hotels.
Tropical sweat beaded from my head,
Hair was shorter back then..
Bike & Blue Cabcar race past,
Tide of the Indian ocean feline
Elegance as Southern Hemisphere
Heats up my ankles,
Balinese acoustic band covering Crosby Stills & Nash (Suite Ruby Blue Eyes) distantly midst oriental carpets and beaded umbrellas where Australians smoke the cigarettes which smell of cigars.
Guitar string clatter,
Fireflies  (flying lightbulbs)
Catching words from accent
Frenzy wordscramble.
This place calls itself Oasis,
Yet here they are the Kuta Bums!
Palm pattern shirts unbuttoned halfway revealing russet hairy chests/ sunbunrt necks/ tanned cheeks/
Pimply backs.
One keeps returning to my table,
The answers always the same
"No thank you" till I feels like being
Impolite.
Oh! The bothering efforts these Bums put in.
It's against the law to pay them jack-
but their brains have turnt to wack-
From hallucinatory perils-
Making muck of their thoughts and dreams reality a-tattered skin
Simply easing by they don't know one February vs the next
Or the laws
Or this that and the other!
Belt buckles light&wind; up toys
Glowsticks hat tricks body ticks
Lighter flicks nausea aura
Body odor
Depression
Anxiety
Illness variety
Candy capped with dots
an' golden cyanide
Bruised nails, infected eyes glazed,
Minds dazed, gods prayed to, Buddhas praised.
Sutras practiced on the southern axis
"GOOD PRICE, JUST FOR YOU MY WHITE FRIEND"
Preach their evening discount discourse holding riven boxes
Tainted with wax chalk.
Who worries of them now?
I'm across the Pacific sea!
Thousands a Miles away
From memory.

My love is hungry
My bank means nothing
The moon shines
Impressions of Autumn
Upon the consciousness of
A spark surviving a typhoon.
Where was I?
The thought has ended.
The Dedpoet Aug 2016
Reading,
         Reading you,
Reading me:
Symphonic emotional intelligence,
Words like a violinist.
    I carry them with me
Inside my mind applying reality,
       The unreality passsing out of me.
The poems speak like see through natures,
The clarity of my discombobulation.
      You all become real.

   Archives of the souls
    Instantaneous connection
        Closer than
Touch:
Your words resonance with every
Fiber of my being.
    Your words
Invent more words,
    Your emotions tie
The world's shoestrings,
    The experience shared
Is a reality of musical theatre
    And it kills the silence,
The silence of the mind.
     Your words are movement,
Be it from a past,
     The metaphysical dance,
A kiss of gentle air,
    The idea is a life living
Recovering from the enigmatic plague
Of ignorance.
    Though I see the bird sing
My heart stops when it I hear it
Through your words;
    Connectivity.
Reading is not reading,
    It is saying what your silence says,
Art becoming life in an echo of YOU.
       The words that I understand:
Yes, the pain is also a gesture of reality,
     It lets us know it was real,
Your tears,
      Your secrets,
           The murmured past,
And as I read it becomes as the
Sun on morning dew.
   Beginnings,
Endings,
    You become apart of me,
I become part of you,
      Not words
But music in the silence.
And the moment will come
When you hear it too:

The poetry:
Crystalline humanity.
I carry your words with me,
They resonate with my very soul.
Thankyou all for sharing.
two wars, two wounds
four deployments in ten years
the trauma, the scars
the waste, the tears

a soldier driven to madness
numb warriors driven to drink
a lost decade of blood-lust
gives a nation pause to think

how virtue becomes nightmare
how ideals implode and die
how the paradox of intention
is undermined with hidden lies

fighting wars to **** terrorists
on obscure Afghan plains
generations of young ones
sentenced to death and pain

the ***** of bloodied footprints
march strait to a profiteer’s bank
depositing lucrative spoils of war
fill contracts to build more tanks

woe to the battlefield heroes
who answered a country’s call
decorated with broken families
and home mortgage defaults

a minds discombobulation
nurses a spiritual malaise
fuels emotional breakdowns
kindles smoldering rage

kneeling to medieval potentates
to win hearts of corrupt Afghans
guard Loya Jirgas of narco kingpins
spill blood to defend tribal lands

the call of deranged duty
maniacal as a video game
lines of the real and phantasmagoric
firm only in minds of the insane

the Skype connection broken
won’t see the kids face tonight
a land mine took a buddy’s leg
some ***** will set things right

the brain starts quickly buzzin
a zillion scenes flash in the head
better paint blood on the door jams
the grim reaper gonna thresh the dead

don a suit of Kevlar armor
the invincible angel stalks
to avenge blatant inequities
he suffered here and in Iraq

a land washed by ****** oceans
scarlet splashed on every door
death prowls along dark roads
a passover finds no safe abode

the screaming eyes of the angel
inflamed with red spikes of hate
seeks to still the heaving roil
his raging heart could not abate

he murdered a sleeping family
and found another to share its fate
a desperate act to cleanse himself
to find a profane state of grace

this pilgrim of death was not finished
cool retribution must square accounts
a burnt offering to the Lords of War
speak the deeds sermon on the mount

dragging live and dead bodies
stacking unholy pyres in the hall
no angel to stop this Abraham's hand
this grotesque executioners pall

Staff Sargent Bales was arrested
He now sits in the prison of his thoughts
does his trembling mind have knowledge
of what his awful hands have wrought?

or does a trembling nation
so much in love with war
understand its complicity
with what it should abhor?

the blood of innocents drip
from every American sill
as the passover approaches
the stain invites an angel’s ill will

Music Selection:
Charles Gounod,
Funeral March of a Marionette

Oakland
3/19/12
jbm
Nitika Small Oct 2015
All this lifeless air created from migrated diverted array
Shot from wasted uneventful deep rooted motionless fatigue
Squeezed beneath a realm of misguided beliefs
Things mixed and shattered, confused mistaken repeats
Dug from a soul that never eats

All this lifeless air was created by total dismay
From thoughts that creep without light often in the calmest state
Shaking the essence of what purgatory seeks to infiltrate
With masks that always intolerably penetrate
The gateway to a subtle overactive mind grenade

It hits like a brick, it comes out of nowhere
Breathtakingly taking you into its mystical embrace
To another space in a place where nothing feels the same
Only discombobulation and facades of an erratic charade
Leaving your thoughts confused and in an melancholic state

Calmness in your spirit is a lantern burned from the light inside you
It seeps from your pours and glows intensely within your core
Unmasking horrific ramifications that you justified in the past
Leaving your mind free to disseminate thoughts that usually trespass

Recognizing feelings can be often obsolete
The lurking and self loathing of being stuck in between
a domain of migrated air and empathetic domains
Dragging your lifeless air into migrated array
Only erratic melancholy conceives and births total dismay
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2013
Woke up with children in my mind, wrote two new,
then stumbled on this...
I give this poem to an orchestra leader I know, who understands better than most, that conducting and being surrounded by many, is oft the loneliest task and who knows best the meaning of
"finally, all synchronized in time and space, on a single continuum, within, without and through."

Thanksgiving Day 2011

Through
the picture window,
watching
restless generations,
multitudinous compilations,
children's backyard runnings,
all about, hide n' seek,
uncoordinated coordination,
well calculated randomness,
perfection in its
discombobulation

Within
my bloodstream,
chemical changes,
blow thru my veins,
direction home,
like leaves,
on a November weekend,
windswept from a thousand directions,
endless energy, noise, and commotion,
results of internal tremblings,
the side effects of satisfactions,
in ways I could only dream of...

Without
knowing, nonetheless,
the knowledge rests within,
footage of future days of
quietude and satisfaction,
recalling earlier simplicities,
records recorded somehow
before it happens,
records recorded now and then,
but only for
future consumption.

Harmonies of times,
well deserved,
to be future spent,
now, finally, all synchronized
in time and space,
on a single continuum,
within, without and through.

They say that Einstein erred,
time cannot outrace gravity,
therefore it cannot be
that I have seen the future.
Yet, I know with
unerring certainty,
these truths
posses the gravity,
that thanks,
I have and
will again,
gave,
and will give

The remainders,
the children,
the net of our gains and losses,
within them,
        my thanks lives,
without them,
        I am lessened,
through them,
        I am whole,
Why these lyrics? Because they fit me
"at these few hours"


► 4:30► 4:30
www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZgXrMPP8TU8

Artist : Eva Cassidy Album : Eva By Heart Year : 1998 Important : I own absolutely nothing ...

Wayfaring Stranger Lyrics
Writer: TYRELL, STEVE/GRIFFITH, ANDY/HUNTSINGER, DAVID LEE


I am a poor wayfaring stranger,
While journeying through,
This world of woe,
Yeah, and there's no sickness,
toil nor danger,
In that bright land,
To which i go.

[Chorus]
I'm going there to see my Father,
I'm going there,
No more to roam,
I'm only go,
Going over jordan,
I'm only go,
Going over home.

I know dark clouds,
Will gather on me,
I know my way,
My way is rough and steep,
Yeah, and beautiful fields,
Lie just before me,
And God's redeemed
Their vigils keep.

[Chorus]
I'm going there to see my Father,
I'm going there,
No more to roam,
I'm only go,
Going over jordan,
I'm only go,
Going over home.

I'm going there to see my Mother,
I'm going there,
No more to roam,
I'm only go,
Going over jordan,
I'm only go,
Going over home.

I want to wear,
That crown of glory,
When I get home,
To that good land,
Well, I want to shout,
Salvation's story,
In concert with,
All the blood-washed band.

[Chorus]
I'm going there to see my Saviour,
I'm going there,
No more to roam,
I'm only go,
Going over jordan,
I'm only go,
Going over home,
Well, I'm only go,
Going over home,
Yeah, only...

Made this far, then see

Nat Lipstadt · May 26
Eva Cassidy, **** You
Where Shelter Aug 13
typo of the first degree
meant to type passed,
better to letter the error,
write the poem you knew
was the one of the litter inside,
stewing & brewing in the internal
of you, regardless of the woulda
shoulda coulda of poetic eye~hand~brain
trinity of discombobulation…

we passed a 110% good-god-
another-glorious-day—perfect
in every aspect of deep respect,
lazing in sun and shade, no
matter, for the cool customer
of gentling breeze comforts
the global populace and each
draws comfort, deposits solace,
from the timeless day that slowly
slips inside us, a blessing for the
senses, that are inadequate to
praise it properly, ‘cept with a
nod of appreciation for the great
blessing that on us has been
bestowed…

we read, I write, bring her a
coffee unasked, for the chip
secreted by me in her temporal
lobes, lobs me a silent alarm:
snacks required!

we heartily dinner debate,
turkey burgers or mushrooms better?  
Bun, No Bun?
Salad ingredients  consumes a
de minimus 5 minutes before the
holy silence of our total environment,
soothes the phony discordiality of our
pretense, that there are two sides here,
not just hers, no matter what🙄
any diplomatic observer might
think…

the bunnies sense our presence,
emerging from the cool dark
of the shaded burrows dug beneath
our redwood deck, & get fed baby carrots,
that they pretend not to see until the babies
are summoned, from beneath the ledge!!!

the deck, that is now in its forty fifth year,
grows ancient stronger with a good annual,
steam blasting face lift, bettering with age,
keeping pace with the creatures resting on it,
just above the bunnies below’s steerage deck,
though the humans graceful age with no
artifices or outside help, except the air,
its salty flavoring, and the panoramic view’s
total encompassed comforting…

so the day passes, and it’s added
to our cull of perfection, distinctly
better than the day prior but who
can be sure, not I, for the poems
come easy, the music delivers delight,
the books read, additive to the engine
of the human body of know-more-ledge,
weighty matters, but zero caloric, and
thus, well deserved and served for dinner’s
chatter banter + desert with caramel M&M’s (1)

and the poet signals that the poem near complete,
and the trad sign off, today unnecessary, no need to query,

Where is Shelter?

for we are all a day wiser, and smile,
the answer before and inside us,
and the only open question remaining,
can heaven be better, and we secret wink,
cause the answer is. too obvious to we restees,
here, here is heaven, and go back to giving thanks
for our lucky stars…
3:12pm Tue Augustus 13
two thousand and twenty four

(1) or Tootsie Roll Lollipops, alternatively…
Heather Anderson May 2015
I saw it coming a mile away.
I knew it wouldn’t end well,
But I didn’t bother avoiding the wreck.
I only stood in shock,
Engulfed by euphoria,
Feeling as light as a feather.
I was flying
In a warm sunny sky.
And then bam!
Ringing.
Discombobulation.
Searing pain.
And in an instant I felt like I was dying.
Of course I didn’t.
Even after these long months,
My wounds have not fully healed.
And even when they do,
I will be scarred.
This is love.
Lizzy Love Sep 2015
My heart is a compass,
guiding me in the direction
I am meant to go.

Only when my path
is STRUCK with the
>>magnetic<<
dIscoMboBulAtiOn
of
<< o u t w a r d >>
opinions, and
s                
  p              
     r   i   n  k
                     l
                        e
                          d
with "should"s,
does it become
unclear.

Embrace the journey.
Through struggling,
striving,
and succeeding,
the optimal destination is in reach,
always.

I am there.
© Lizzy Collins
Briar Rose Dec 2013
A stint in the darkness of the alleyway called Social Hierarchy.
Taking just a stroll,
The stench of a rat,
I must ignore.
Oh, but it takes a toll on my motor skills.
It takes a toll on my motor skills.
Scored 99 on protective instincts.
1% is a grand difference.
I learned from you.
Oh, I learned from you.
Paradise shifts in my lucid innocence.
Discombobulation as I frantically search for "Heaven" again.
Don't you tear down your wrought iron gates,
The constables are coming.
Don't try to flee,
You wont escape,
The king wants off with your head.
Vision blurring,
Split ends.
Summer hazards of new friends.
i wrote this when i was in 8th grade and this is completely unedited. let me know what you think.
angie Jan 2019
Discombobulation
   Snuffing out my insight
   Stings of uncertainty clouding my mind
   The acidic taste of bitter gasoline rest on my tongue  
The scent of brewed turmoil, The sound of whats? And questions ringing in the smoky air
Please help me out with this one.
K Balachandran Mar 2014
A strange yellow smile draws a wired look on her face
she tells him in a crude whisper, that a beast stalks her
in her discombobulation, he detects the withering.
a desperate flower sometimes  mysteriously invites
a flower forced to bloom before her time, was her
only in the closed vault inside her chamber is it's secret,
her hands strongly grips him, not letting him leave her
and he could feel the presence of the beast then and there.
Then, little by little her grip becomes cold, lets his hands free
she  slips in to a trance, body gets stiff like a log.
Willobi Kome Apr 2018
Beclouded by your thoughts
I'm sitted in the darkness of love
Should I go
Or should I not ?

This state of discombobulation
Keeps me wandering with no destination
I try to obliviate
But my heart still aches

It bleeds like an uncontrollable river flow that has no terminus
Now its just me..no "us"
The truth of our love is now false

I'm lost
Trying to find my way out of depression
I scream for help
No one hears

Its just the voices in my head
But none seems to be yours
Now buried and gone is my trust

When you were needed, you never showed up
Well ,I guess your time is up
And my love is finally lost .
Ignatius Hosiana May 2016
They'll tell you to listen to your heart like you have another option...
they'll insist on saying the answer dwells there
even when it's clear your heart is an empty place
with nothing but cracks bearing monstrous crevices
which leak away whatever little sense that finds its way there.
They'll implore you to stretch and strain the
stiff neck of your faith to the chest of the unfathomable,
and listen to the silent pulse of a fate far beyond the touch
of your feeble faith,something even a flexible python of hope can't do,
a thing even the Ostrich of optimism finds searing hurt doing.
They'll implore because they can't understand the depth
of the **** you've been through or smell its odourless pungent stink...
Because they lack the bravery to face your phantom,
to courageously plough through the pitch of the life you've endured,
because they lack the foresight to envision or
the mind's eye to see the invisible distance you have left to chew,
because they can't swallow even one spoonful of the bitter
mound of history you carry along on your journey to an uncertainty
you are not sure you'll reach... an illusive destination.
They'll tell you to listen to your heart because they lack
the ears of empathy to hear the deafening silence of the bangs of your doldrums...
neither do they have the wings to soar through the violent
winds of your despair or feet it takes to walk in your shoes...
they will speak with an orator's eloquence,stuttering
foolish words of wisdom because they are blank of how deep shards
of a broken heart can cut...they will implore you to be a man,
because they know a lot of nothing about being a man
one of which is men don't cry... they haven't been in presence
of the silent sobs of masculinity whose tears are buried
with dead hearts in the tombs of hypocrisy.
You'll hear very many voices for each splinter will speak for itself
but insistently and persistently they'll push you to the edge
of the cliff of your disarray ignorant of the star filled sky billion choices
twinkling on each glistening piece of the mirror like shards of your heart...
This they'll do because that's just what humans have been
channelled off course the river of true humanity to do...
tell you they've got your back so you can confidently
expose yourself to the deepest stub...boost your morales
so that you can stupidly climb to dizzying heights,
tell you they'll catch you only to film you jump to your hardest fall...
they'll promise to help you cleanse your dead just to see
whether you'll frown at their stench,and to curse
and mock in case you spit... they'll tell you that the path out of
your labyrinth is mapped across your heart simply to enjoy
seeing you wonder rudderless in the Sea of discombobulation...
Humans, they'll offer to circumcise you freely just to laugh at you
when you wince at the cruel touch of the blunt knife of their shameless daring...
they'll give you pills so they can mock at the difficulty
their bitterness brings at ingestion...
they'll tell you to listen to your heart like you didn't hear
your own jumbled heartbeat before you opted for their ugly opinions...
they'll say it, enjoying the moment and beautifully...
"your Heart knows it all" like you have another option besides your hurt.
and you will follow not because they said
but because you have no other boulevard to take
Hands May 2011
I feel the shining glory
of life cut through me like
your sharpest knife through
my sweetest of fruits.
My insides have slept like
small children, nurtured
and nestled and tangled within
dreams and memories scrambled
and lost between and among each other.
They spill out.

My imagination juice dropped into a glass below,
dripped down onto the sterile surface;
drip,
drip,
drip.
I was, again, lost,
lost within my weightless falling,
caught between razor sharp edges
of sunlight which reflected
the dust motes surrounding me.
I felt myself in several places at once,
some drips of my being larger,
some smaller.
My fluid molecules
swirled and whirled within
each of my tiny bodies,
sweetened by the Sun's
biting radiance.
I felt the first impact,
the splatter of myself was
painless, at best.
My thoughts scrambled for air
as my soul scrambled for breath,
each piece too small to breathe,
each one still dependent on the whole.
I flew through the empty air
within the glass,
hitting the walls and sliding down,
pooling in the bottom,
collecting myself and taking
mental stock of my injuries.
As your knife cut in
the falling continued,
as the spaces between me
widened and shortened
with each passing drop.
We came to the lake at the bottom,
expecting a silent slumber,
however,
this sleep was active.
I stirred and swam in
the sea of myself,
my atoms bumping and bouncing,
bonding and breaking apart,
bringing my contents up
then down in convection currents
meant cut deep.
My above felt squeezed dry, by then,
as the drips lessened and lessened
and my body began to regain stability
and a deeper sleep.
A warmth crept around the sides
of my container,
heating the glass walls
like flimsy muslin cloths
wrapped around me to conceal
my true taste.
The calloused hands, those
slave-driven beasts of labor
rubbed my sides quite
excitedly,
erotically,
though it didn't fully reach me
through my layers of sleep
and solitude.
I felt a squeeze,
reassuring but definite and final
as a floating then a rising
reacted with my being.
My particles, tiny, unable to be seen
but impossible to ignore flew up,
millions of pieces of me floating in the air,
to crash back down to the surface
as I felt myself tipped back.
Greedy little pillows clasped
my clothing as I began to slide
down through those chapped men,
past the solid gates of yellow and near decay,
purifying the putrid mess
and bringing a larger beast to tears.
Streams of sunlight broke through my
silent streams, cut through each bond
I had made for myself as I felt
new pieces of myself lifted up
out of my old world
and dropped into a new one.
Drip,
drip,
drip;
drops fell in hurried patterns
down a dark and confined cavern,
bumping against fleshy,
slimy walls, contracted by
muscles struggling to swallow me.
I washed over growths and tumors,
stung the embittered tongue
as more of me slid out and through
the blackish hallway to collect in
an ocean greater than me
below.
At the bottom of the glass
a slight film remained,
though few would noticed it
and countless washings might obscure it.

Still, small particles remain,
clinging to the dignity of stability,
of sticky solidity and transparent walls;
some of me remains up there,
clinging to the glass,
clinging to the air,
clinging to the slicing sensation
of the Sun to my skin.
is this a battle I'm winning or losing?
Leechle Oct 2018
I sat in the empty bathtub
thinking maybe if fate
was willing to fill me up
this tub would be filled with sorrow.

I had no motive nor discombobulation.

I just wanted to feel the cold cast iron,
cool down my inferno state
but it was so weird how it kept me at ease.

I am just trying to figure out my life, me or even better my future.

I sat in the empty bathtub filled with mixed feelings within that kept me wondering why.

I sat in the empty bathtub to deal with myself, little did I know I'm empty.

It's so surreal.

Written by :Leechle ❤️
tuckered wayfarer

Blitzkrieg cacophony debilitates Earthling
spiritually, mentally, emotionally... castrates
analogous post traumatic stress disorder
status simulating shell shocked warrior
dizzily descending darkening dimension
aghast - weakly ******* wherefore art thou
Elysian Fields?

Mine skeletal atrophied, diseased, gnarled...
once muscular flesh now awful blight
trumpets, dons, bespeaks... existence
regarding barren toothless anchorite

desolate physical environment
offlimit superfund site
mirrors equivalent condemned
toxic physical body quite
piteous, hideous, atrocious...,
this human bag of lovely bones

can barely, limply, scratchily... write
forbidding natural geography might
best demarcate courtesy skull
and crossbones bleached white
optimally reflecting feasting
carrion did delight

post mortem cannibalized habeas corpus
can never know where Edenic Garden
bloomed ah... magnificent sight,
nor reckon eyes me
how poetry doth not excite
forever striking living daylight

emancipating soul joining spiritus mundi
relieving tortured corporeal skiff good night
amidst abandoned, desecrated,
gutted... wasteland rendered might
of mankind quest to tame and temper
breathless fecundity kickstarting

rejuvenation linked to potent Gaia despite
havoc wrought regenerative force
repurposes deadened muscle and cellulite
unbeknownst decomposed organisms
comprise yours truly, nor what bright
transformation new life regeneration
will kindle, snapchat, tender... excite.
Raquie Nov 2017
Back at it
Like
A crack addict

White *****.

**** that ****'s morbid.
These stereotypes, I ain't for em
& honestly I'm getting sick of talm bout race

Cause I know I'm the fastest
But you rigged it babe

acting like you down for me

Saying, that ****** is a clown for me

Modern
Day
Slavery

My libido is not your entertainment
But it is
& that's all I am to you

*** appeal
Strong broad shoulders
Smooth brown skin
Reflecting the sun
You just wanna soak it in
This 12 inch sacred ****

       *               *               *

Energy Theif
Preying on the weak
-POST-
-TRAUMATIC -
-SLAVE-
-DISORDER-
He's at war with himself
-WILLIE LYNCH-
Vulnerable cause he don't know his lineage
Generational discombobulation
Instilling addiction, rage, & unhappiness

Self Sabotage
Your people made us this way
SAVAGE?
Like Chitown Drilla Music
That's just what we'll be
Coming for you & all you got
Materialistically
Freewrite on perspectives of white women dating black men & some of the unsaid truths & opinions.
SiouxF Aug 2020
I wonder where,
Where I call home.
I’m uncomfortable with others,
With their ersatz shallow ways,
Except those few sweet few.
I prefer most my own company
Away from the many,
The contradictions, the confusion, the overload of senses.
Its so much easier that way.
No worry.  
Be myself,
Without fear
Of treading on eggshells
Lest I put my foot in it,
once again,
Saying wrong things,
Being judged,
Being criticised.
Just for being.

But I’m lonely too,
That lack of connection,
To others
and myself.
I pretend.
I keep busy.
I have no time to feel.
I pass absently
And joylessly
through a life
Of empty
Disconnection,
Discombobulation,
With a heavy weight upon my back.
Tis sad.
Tis a waste.
Till a fall from sweet grace.
From what we are sent here to do.
Spread love.
Be love.
Love all.
Love you.
Love me.
This is an ok poem, not great I feel, though it’s sentiments were true at that time. However, being new to poetry I committed to share my journey with you fellow poets and explorers of the truth.
This was my third ever poem, and my first attempt into something more personal than the woods.
My first version was very unpersonalised. I didn’t want to “own” my thoughts and feelings. It’s slightly more personalised now, but still has a way to go. I am leaving it here as is as I feel it’s a starting point as to what comes later..... It is imperfect. And that’s ok Now there’s an admission!
Xanthic May 2015
I stare at the mirror and see a broken reflection
Feigning again as she hid her shattered discombobulation
Despite her dampen eyes, nobody seemed to care about her
She seemed covert and invisible
I looked farther and see her smiling
She used to be beautiful, but now she's lying
Her shattered face has gone
She was now okay
I looked closer than the first time I did
And saw what she once terribly hid
An ocean of tears
A river of tears
It was too sad to look at
I can't take it
I can't dare to look any longer
Her eyes
Her broken red eyes
Her smile has melted
Like it never truly existed
She's far too gone
Waiting
Praying
For someone's hand
For someone's help
Or maybe
Just maybe
For her moment
Her death
I wrote this poem amidst my depression. I was truly lost that time. I forgot everything that mattered most to me, and I knew that I needed to let it out. And so I did through caging it to a bunch of words where it may somehow touch those who feel the same.
Azariah May 2022
You try to reassemble the fragments of the trust you once had.
You collect the pieces without contaminating them with your anger, bitterness, callousness and discombobulation.

You console yourself with memories that aren't tainted with the hurt.
You try...

But you get weary and distant.

And you don't put much effort in the trust you're trying to rebuild.
Because why should you clean up a mess made by someone you love?
When he disappoints you
(cira December 22nd, 1996)

Abby tested positive, (sans colonized)
with clusters of Group B streptococcus
(GBS, a type of bacterial infection found
within ****** and/or ******) undergoing
routine prenatal examinations during third
trimester of pregnancy with (Eden),

which intent toward natural childbirth delivery
preparations came to screeching halt, cuz said
harmful naturally existing toxic secretions
(detected within about 25% of all healthy,
adult women), thus midwives at Bryn Mawr

Birthing Center could no longer countenance
(against good interdenominational faithful con
science and any impending lawsuits) assist with
timely delivery starkly aware of serious adverse
risks via incumbent natural birth.
*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *
Hence sea change
     immediately adopted
     pitting mum blame
ming discombobulation
     as she scuttled
     linkedin with intravenous tubes game
lee crossing Township Line Road
     (all the while,

     her body shored up lame
basted with necessary intravenous sustaining
     nutriment fluids none
     of which I could name
awaiting to be wheeled into sterile
     antiseptic hospital prenatal
     ward, where shame
     enveloped descended,

     where questions addressed
     to fly by night doctor
brushed away unlike
     storybook television medics,
     where real life hectic frenzy all hustle
     and abustle becalm temporarily tame
when cameo appearance
     of Doctor Do Little rushed into fray
(hastening onset of cervical dilation to grow

     so he could, return as an ordinary Joe
     to his interrupted round golf
     with Trump at Mar-a-Lago)
when labor pains
     did not start less or mo
(at the convenience
     of obstetrician), a no

name generic brand hailed
     from "doc" side of the moon oh
most without consensus,
     hestarted "mother"
     on an IV infusion poe
shun of oxytocin
     (brand name Pitocin),
     which agitation provoked

     roil (royal) row
her disposition to
     high blood pressure
     quieted by attendant
     mid wives beaming
     at "starry eyed student,"
     who uttered whoa
Already daughter wasted

     no time lambasting us
     newly minted parents for intervening,
     sans natural status quo
     versus surrendering "scheduled birth"
before launching into
     the peroration slow

wing enunciation (something
     about Dorothy and
     the wizard of Id) in toto
of a lengthy excoriating speech, she rehearsed
     while she bobbed around in utero
     like ma's yoyo.

The departure from maternity ward
back to Pennfield Manor Apartments
     of Hatfield, Pennsylvania
appeared (hyperbole understated)
     as a double edged sword,
an ill fitting car seat
     generating highest decibels
screaming (do nut under estimate
     the lungs of a newborn)
whom this papa being hard
of hearing now, thereafter
     hitherto known as
     the pantomiming bard.
Drab Sep 11
It starts with just a sniffle.
A cough or two at worse.
But then it starts to spread.
Waiting for the hearse.

Oh wait, it’s here.
The mating call is near.
It wants me to resist.
I like that….
NOTES - POV – 91024
Come on, someone HAS to be offended? At least a little....
Bvaishnavi Mar 2023
I heard it's called
"Discombobulation".
Damien Ko Feb 11
take me
neuron by neuron
and rearrange me
every single nerve in some other place
a totality of discombobulation
render me such with a gaze
and let me babble my mind into the void
i am neurochemistry afire
i am alight
i am activated
and i am completely lost
bamboozled
delighted
by you
SiouxF Nov 2020
As human beings
We need to believe in something,
Otherwise we drift through life
Purposelessly
Aimlessly
Hopelessly
Not reaching our potential,
For we are all here to help one another
To lift each other up
To support and guide and care.
Without faith and belief
We feel disconnected
Lost
Hopeless
Lonely,
Our ego and self absorption
Hiding us from the truth,
Our truth,
Increasing separation
Anxiety
And discombobulation,
Rather than connection
Purpose
And Oneness
With all living things.
What to believe in is up to you and based on your culture and what you’ve been told,
Though be careful of man made religion designed to control according to human narrative,
But God is a good starting point.
A higher being connecting all of us through love not fear,
Who is always there for us
In love, compassion and forgiveness
No matter who we are or what we do
We only need to ask and invite Him in.
Discombobulation thunderously
torments, triumphs, tumults
courtesy deafening,
earsplitting, fracturing...
whereby unbearable mental anguish
rents psyche asunder

into bajillion pieces
singular recourse necessitates
invoking cerebral powers
to engender feeling
comfortably numb skull,
hence tried and true value accorded

transcendental meditation recourse
offering absolutely zero choice
incumbent upon yours truly
to remedy cerebral chaos,
an unpleasant quotidian experience,
whenever yours truly

exits deep sleep
more potent solution
versus pharmacological medication
to instill peace of mind,
plus elevating cosmic consciousness
allowing, enabling and providing

pronouncedly heightened awareness
acutely poignant insight
permeating throughout this body electric
calming, fanning, jumpstarting
vitally important discipline
in order for lifetime anxiety riddled

disabling affliction upends
potential to satiate existence
(oft times state of severe panic -
triggering chronic sweaty palms
extremely bothersome
physiological manifestation

induces suicidal ideation
i.e. death welcomed),
which onset regarding
ordinary agitated state
inchoate congenital malady
probably coalesced in utero

extremely intolerable,
especially incorporating socialization,
cuz no contra dance partner
(cue Irish jig and reel
musicians playing lively tunes)
favors grasping hand
analogous to wet dishrag.
Travis Green Aug 2022
Your salacious carnation pink lips are
Divinely biteable and appetizing
Bright and mesmerizing
A greatly intoxicating scent
Emanating with stellar persuasive passion

You ignite my flowery desires
With the fiery hotness
Gliding throughout your vigorous ripped body
You saturate my thoughts
With pure glistening visions of your loveliness

I feel your soft, irresistible breeze
Stream in my dreams
How you weave enchantment in my undersense
Burning and dazzling russet honey eyes
A sensual dancing kaleidoscope
Overflowing with macho photogenic dopeness
Unfathomably shining and hypnotizing

I drown in your supereminent distinction
Of endless heavenly venerableness
In discombobulation and inebriation
Such steaming speechless heat
In your sensational embrace
The meanest manliest entrancingness
A vast strapping sea thick
With deep luscious seduction
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
(Prelude)

Conflicted notion:
Best bottle of unopened wine you own,
drink this new year's eve and disown,
or preserve for just one more forever,
a reservation made and unmade.
satisfaction of sustaining the unrealized,
a pleasured dream,
a middle class myth maintained,
that perfume lasts forever.

When allowing the earth's atmosphere to oxygenate
his best, his words lying dormant,
thus initializing the fulfilling of potential,
simultaneously sipping from the now ever diminishing reservoir
of future verbal, poetic spawn of discombobulation,
the finality of phoenix birth and destruction,
a poem created, is it not, but its
obituary notated?

This epic conflict has lain muddled,

Just Money

warming, chilling, for years,
just neath a man's breast,
for forty eight fears,
in the first sub-basement of the mind,
stimulated by the ******* receipt
of a first teenage paycheck,
compressed by the dim recalling of
youngest child's blurry memory,
someone arguing about,
just money.

This title, pro and pre scribed long time ago,
daily challenging the man like black phylacteries,
wrapping/rapping round, in and on
a man's head, arm piece pointed
at the heart, stabbing,
morning probing, what is it,
mourning daily over the spirit questioning,
where does honor and self actualization come from,
is it
just money?

This title,

Just Money

asking to be written,
asking for a rain delay,
a mockingbird, with every login,
was/is waiting, in the poets Notes icon,
wine aging for decades,
asking to let it be fully formed
in order to die,
after all, it is
just money.

This story, dark and macerated,
needed to dissolve in solution,
letting the pieces separate,
be distinguished, or be extinguished,
be inscribed, or let evaporate
incomplete even when completed.

Never-sure if/when it will be drinkable,
never-sure, all the muddled sediment,
will fully fall to the bottom.
liquid and stolid,
compositional elements of the
unity of self, destructing.

the question begs on the street,
drink, serve, or preserve,
answer the question,
is it just money deserved and earned or
Just Money?

Chances are this story will never
complete, sore-tempted to rinse, repeat,
then delete these words for after all,
it is just money. hah.
just and money
Two words that combine differently and tell me
It's a poem you need to write, completely.

Just Money
Feb. 2014
Discombobulation thunderously
torments, triumphs, tumults
courtesy deafening,
earsplitting, fracturing...
(think emotional bomb cyclone),
whereby unbearable mental anguish
rents psyche asunder

into bajillion pieces
singular recourse necessitates
invoking cerebral powers
to engender feeling
comfortably numb skull,
hence tried and true value accorded

transcendental meditation practice
offering absolutely zero choice
incumbent upon yours truly
to remedy cerebral chaos,
an unpleasant quotidian experience,
whenever yours truly

exits deep sleep
more potent and holistic solution
versus following pharmacological medications:
GLYCOPYRROLATE, TAB 2MG
CLOMIPRAMINE CAP 50MG
RISPERIDONE TAB 1MG
FLUOXETINE CAP 20MG
PRAZOSIN HCL CAP1MG
BUSPIRONE TAB 15MG
PRAMIPEXOLE TAB 1MG
CLONAZEPAM TAB 0.5MG
AMITIZA 24 MCG
(prescription laxative as needed)

the former closed eye process
to instill peace of mind,
plus elevating cosmic consciousness
allowing, enabling and providing

pronouncedly heightened awareness
acutely poignant insight
permeating throughout this body electric
calming, fanning, jumpstarting
vitally important discipline
in order for lifetime anxiety riddled

disabling affliction upends
potential to satiate existence
(oft times state of severe panic -
triggering chronic sweaty palms
extremely bothersome
physiological manifestation

induces suicidal ideation
i.e. opened arms death welcomed),
which onset regarding
ordinary agitated state
inchoate congenital malady
probably coalesced in utero

extremely intolerable,
especially incorporating socialization,
cuz no contra dance partner
(cue Irish jig and reel
musicians playing lively tunes)
favors grasping hand
analogous to wet dishrag.
The little blue teapot was exactly that, small,
enough for a sant two cups of tea
or an almost generous mug

In saying it was blue,
It was a comforting
royal shade,
with a shining glaze
Stoutly round
With a sphere as
the top notch  handle
All in all
a cheery
little thing
Cheap
and
utilitarian

How many cups
had it processed:
delivered
with a
drip or dribble,
that was at first annoying,
but
eventually
becoming
an endearing part
of the overall charm of the piece

It would be generous to say
millions;
But
truthful to say
thousands
of  
thousands
As the age of the *** was 12+years
of  almost continuous service.
In which time
it had been
witness
to every
emotion.
Conversations baring
soul and psyche.
Mental discombobulation
and
emotional acrobatics that would  easily gain
employment  with
Circe de Soleil
All whilst sitting  solidly still
  on the table of the day.
The little blue teapot was simply
a background character
in the soap opera
of it's family
and their friends

And
because of this,

It's
sudden
shattering
demise,
upon the slate floor yesterday.
Brings forth this eulogy to an everyday object  
Considered
by many
to be just
a thing
But to this family
a treasured piece
of daily routine.

Reached for
with
muscle memory.
A dash of color
at breakfast,
Comfort
on a cold night
A genies lamp
to a
small boy's
growing imagination.
A gift
from
one friend
to
another,
for the
shared  cup
of
Russian Caravan Tea
and a chat
that set the world to rights,
at least for another day
or two.

The little blue teapot was exactly that,
Ordinary
But also;
So much more
than it
purported to be.
So...
so
much more.
(route 76) both heading into
(and a small number of hours later
exiting) center city Philadelphia
to Schwenksville on May 19th, 2024.

Yours truly (a doodling Yankee), and the missus
went to town, NOT riding on a pony,
NOR did I stick a feather in my cap,
but we walked at a brisk pace
unwittingly set by our eldest daughter
from her three bed apartment
at 405 south 22nd street
to a museum housing
an awesome breathtaking eye opening place
called The Magic Garden
located at 1020 South Street,
Philadelphia, PA 19147.

Herewith follows a blurb
copied/pasted courtesy Google in general
and Wikipedia in particular.

Philadelphia's Magic Gardens is a non-profit organization, folk art environment, and gallery space on South Street in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. To date, it is the largest work created by mosaic artist Isaiah Zagar. The Magic Gardens spans three city lots, and includes indoor galleries and a large outdoor labyrinth.

Initially, we (thyself, the spouse,
and averred twenty seven year old heiress
to the Harris misfortune).
intended to ride SEPTA,
but the bus driver quickly pulled away.

So trio comprised of the Mister and Missus
and their city smart grown daughter,
who earned the appellation "star student"
for her superb academic performance
(quite evident even when
she started kindergarten)
and voluntarily enrolled
in advanced placement
after she got promoted to sophomore year
at Harriton High School.

After our energetic hustling
only a short distance
(courtesy "rubber express"
id est sneakers), the papa bear (me)
he experienced relentless dehydration,
and struggled with impossible mission
to generate saliva, hence dry mouth
afflicted hokey pokey man,
who brought up the rear.

Upon determinedly trekking without complaint
circumstances found urgency forcibly tapping
into immediately realized heretofore unknown
potential emergency reserve
whereat solar plexus witnessed hyper boost
setting body electric of mine in overdrive
increasing heavy huffing and puffing
ever so glad to complete
rightly striding twelve plus city blocks,
whereat pace of mine got perceptibly slower
as the end point got nearer,
and what an amazing sight to behold!

The sprawling conglomeration
held together analogous to fortification
against invasion of architectural conformity
haphazard juxtaposed linkedin naturally
poetic/prosaic rhapsodic traditional
vaulted xenotime zaniness.

Isaiah Zagar, the brainchild
American mosaic artist
based in Philadelphia
notable for his murals, primarily
in or around Philadelphia's South Street.

After three years in Peru, the Zagars moved to South Philadelphia in 1968 where they opened the Eyes Gallery, a folk art shop on South Street. In December 1968, the Eyes Gallery was the site of Zagar's first mosaic; Zagar mosaiced it as a way to create a folk art environment for the art they were selling.

After perusing the sacred structures in relative silence
thru these myopic eyes of a skeptic
echoing blood, sweat and tears of said artist,
which perambulation evinced the Great Tribulation
in Christian eschatology a period
mentioned by Jesus in the Olivet Discourse
as a sign that would occur in the time of the end.

At Revelation 7:14, "the Great Tribulation"
is used to indicate the period spoken of by Jesus.

No blatant religious symbology,
yet the invisible hand of divine spirit
gently, minutely, and subtly
ordained, intruded, experienced,
and anointed yours truly
challenging, condemning,
and curbing profane thoughts
subsequently inviting rumination
linkedin with inspiration to witness
my own slice of palatable spiritual awakening,
which served me in good (home) stead,
a sexagenarian awash with discombobulation
when amidst the beauty
of inexplicable fabulous creation,
clashing with personal paganistic paradigm.

Belief in guardian angels
became pronounced when entrusting
orienting myself behind the wheel
of our 2020 Hyundai Elantra
accessing the (oxymoronic named)
high speed thoroughfare
iterated in initial lines of this poem,
cuz bumper to bumper traffic
on that late Sunday afternoon
found atheistic dogmatism
severely put thru the paces,

particularly when resigning
being sorely tested to drive
after twilight (cataracts exacerbate glare),
hence hitching a wish to return
to Schwenksville
without getting into a serious accident or worse,
which impromptu wing and a prayer
spurred whim to exit at Lincoln Drive,
following hairpin twists and turns,
which anxiety precipitated
increasing need to urinate.

— The End —