"discontented" poems
Upward I swirl
into the swirl of death shrills
Discontented about absolutism; the lies of war
Discontented about the perversions against nature; man's egomaniacal tendencies
Upward I spiral into the swirl of darkness
Gravity has no power to keep me bound
within myself
I let loose once again
I float towards another endless spiral of dark clouds,
these clouds spin expeditiously within its air-vortex
I see carnage,
I smell blood,
I witness the land of all misanthropes
Into the blackness as I spin,
my vision catches a chorale begging to be autonomous
in the state of sovereignty
The impetus in my desperate and saddened heart
I curse the gods
My tightened fist fails at at the darker darkness,
at this ominous swirling
I see no light ahead likened to the event horizon
on the outer rim of a black hole
My breath is being ****** out as the greed-succubus ***** out life
I see you in me, as we both are caught in this uninvited storm
Will we ever survive?
Will we ever survive?
So we must fight on!
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
You've heard me, scornful, harsh, and discontented,
Mocking and loathing War: you've asked me why
Of my old, silly sweetness I've repented--
My ecstasies changed to an ugly cry.
You are aware that once I sought the Grail,
Riding in armour bright, serene and strong;
And it was told that through my infant wail
There rose immortal semblances of song.
But now I've said good-bye to Galahad,
And am no more the knight of dreams and show:
For lust and senseless hatred make me glad,
And my killed friends are with me where I go.
Wound for red wound I burn to smite their wrongs;
And there is absolution in my song
5.6k
*** Worker to a house wife -->)
Entertain not for me hatred
It is only for a daily bread
I take your husband abed.
Since you are so timid
In haste, you leave your husband
Restless and discontented.
********** is an art
My dear sister
You should surely master
Than on me nicknames pester
Harlot,Slut,Hooker and a *****
Read a lot on the subject
With your spouse develop the art
At long last
When you prove your dexterity
In conjugal felicity
A tip it would be for mental integrity.
With affection and suggestion open
Your spouse,you can turn
A ********** machine,
What else do you need in return.
By and By
You may not seek a hit on the sly
(<--A housewife to a *** worker)
My dear sister in Christ
I know there is nothing foul in your heart
Except,you are a *** worker by ill fate.
Thanks a lot for your comment
Which I will second no doubt.
Dear sister in Christ
At times if both
You and my husband
Get debouch of beer or Highland
Check you have a ****** at hand
Just when you hold him inside,
For otherwise
Severe will be the consequence
For me and my child.
So you are morally obliged
By "No ****** no *** to abide
I am also willing to you extend
A helping hand
That could help you
On your feet stand
Than barter your body
For a daily bread!
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 8:25 AM UTC
Time has come and the time has gone,
Another sun will rise with another dawn,
All I have now are the traces of the missing star,
An unknowingly discontented heart or an unacknowledged scar,
Oh! If I could just know the reason why or just the meaning of I,
As if listening, “Why bother?” whispers the lovely orange sky.
So, maybe I am laughing I cannot really see,
Or maybe it’s alright, I cannot really feel,
Anyhow I look forward to another misplaced sun,
Another beautiful day and another misleading run,
Maybe the night shall make me tough, and hope will keep me high,
And then, as if listening, “Why bother?” whispers the lovely orange sky.
So now I finally listen, I melt into the beautiful hues,
Lost or Found? I don’t really have many clues,
Few tears escape my eyes as if they have committed treason,
Is it the dying day or the dream? I don’t really know the reason.
Few more fall as the colors fade and as the last traces of light die,
And then, as if listening, "Why bother?” whispers the lovely orange sky.
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 11:25 AM UTC
In a few moments I'd be thirty-five
Excited not but a feeling of dread
Time has come but have yet to arrive
I lay with a pillow over my head.
Tears streaming with eyes burning hot
Gasps in between, riddled with disbelief
Mess I've made that I wished I had not
It manifests itself in full ****** grief.
Discontented with how far I've fallen
Far cry from any semblance of my dream
So deep, wonder how far I'd have sunken
Long way down fraught with tears it would seem.
The sun had shone in the days before
Tonight it seems I'm alone in the dark
Wounds I thought had healed; still open, and sore
Thought they'd disappear but instead leave a mark.
Where do I turn before I start moving
I wish that I had some sort of bearing
Truth is in circles I have been walking
Plagued by questions that now need answering.
Like every year, I'd still make my journey
A lifetime it seems; walking with aimless pace
Wounds be forgotten and would scar eventually
Next year, I'd arrive back at this very same place...
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 11:01 PM UTC
It was a tenacity
She was emptying her bowl of pasta
As he looks unsatisfied
At what exactly?
The dim lights of the restaurant
Or his formal attire of
perfect fitted suit and trousers
Or could it be
The discontented taste of wine
or perhaps his unfinished steak
But what baffles her was
He found everything menial
A display in the trophy section
Just a casual glance in the art gallery
She was just something
He just found aesthetic
May 26, 2023
May 26, 2023 at 12:54 AM UTC
Now, moving in, cartons on the floor,
the radio playing to bare walls,
picture hooks left stranded
in the unsoiled squares where paintings were,
and something reminding us
this is like all other moving days;
finding the ***** ends of someone else's life,
hair fallen in the sink, a peach pit,
and burned-out matches in the corner;
things not preserved, yet never swept away
like fragments of disturbing dreams
we stumble on all day. . .
in ordering our lives, we will discard them,
scrub clean the floorboards of this our home
lest refuse from the lives we did not lead
become, in some strange, frightening way, our own.
And we have plans that will not tolerate
our fears-- a year laid out like rooms
in a new house--the dusty wine glasses
rinsed off, the vases filled, and bookshelves
sagging with heavy winter books.
Seeing the room always as it will be,
we are content to dust and wait.
We will return here from the dark and silent
streets, arms full of books and food,
anxious as we always are in winter,
and looking for the Good Life we have made.
I see myself then: tense, solemn,
in high-heeled shoes that pinch,
not basking in the light of goals fulfilled,
but looking back to now and seeing
a lazy, sunburned, sandaled girl
in a bare room, full of promise
and feeling envious.
Now we plan, postponing, pushing our lives forward
into the future--as if, when the room
contains us and all our treasured junk
we will have filled whatever gap it is
that makes us wander, discontented
from ourselves.
The room will not change:
a rug, or armchair, or new coat of paint
won't make much difference;
our eyes are fickle
but we remain the same beneath our suntans,
pale, frightened,
dreaming ourselves backward and forward in time,
dreaming our dreaming selves.
I look forward and see myself looking back.
3.8k
You
Are untamed
Reckless blood and wit intertwined
A twisted, brazen
mind.
Your mind
Is so clearly different
It leaps and soars, so acrobatic
And your thoughts appear to me so hazy and enigmatic
Your mind is simply not pragmatic
Yet your perception knows no bounds.
You have thoughts that come close to insanity
That sometimes flow in the form of profanity.
Your spirit
Is either very high or very low
Up and down, to and fro
There is no in between for you
Some say you are stupidly crazy
The dull ones say that, the ones too lazy
To see beyond the rugged surface.
The subdued and vapid ones
Will never understand the magnetism
Of your sweet, exquisite devilry.
On your face you often wear
A fierce and restless stare
A wan, discontented expression
As though you're always awaiting
Something bigger,
Something better.
You
Are fluid, swaying fire
And I will never tire
Of watching you burn
I can see you brain boil and churn
As it reels into into areas of
madness and chaos.
Your psyche
Is an endless field of dark reverie,
Of fear and vagary.
I know your night terrors
Your savage dreams of death
Screams and bated breath
Unutterable visions
The grotesque world of horror thats spins itself out
And dribbles into your drawings
All those creatures, skeletons gnashing and clawing...
You
Are gentle and thoughtful
Yet you are terrified
Of this dark thing that sleeps within you.
Your eyes - they’re stunning
They’re tempestuous,
Wild, like some fierce animal peering out of a rusted cage
Oh, your eyes
They are something beautiful, but annihilating
Like Autumn crocus flowers, innocently poisonous
Lids splaying delicately like its violet leaves.
You are tall and strong
And uncontrollable,
And your smile
Is the biggest paradox I've ever encountered
Childlike
And fatal.
You are not
A creature of the commonplace
You are not a slave of the ordinary
You are not a mindless drudge of the mundane
You are free.
Or bewitched, what's the difference
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 5:21 PM UTC
**Yo! Yo! My Drug of Choice **** Poets)**
Yo! Yo!
Member of the troupe?
You up all nite?
You always hungry,
Making trouble, rite?
You one of those?
**** poets!
Exist on strict diet?
Pleasured-pain,
Constant-continual surges
Turn into urges,
Full-time suspense,
Juices always flowing.
**** Poets!
Yo! Yo!
You one of those?
Never knowing,
What? When?
The eyes gonna invert
Retina images into words
Brain signaling, semaphoring the fingers
Yo! Yo!
You don't get nine months,
Maybe nine seconds,
Then mother-birth another verse,
****** poets!
Yo! Yo!
Remember your first real high,
That moment
No absolution, no return.
That moment
When you admitted, confessed,
to yourself:
*I am
Forever forward,
A home-grown poet.
I am
Soul enslaved to words.
The alphabet - My oxygen molecules,
I am both,
Addict and dealer
A ****** poet*
Yo! Yo!
So you do recall,
The exact moment,
God-spark-within, ascendancy gained
You lost control,
Wept words instead of tears!
A ****** poet ******
Yo! Yo!
Sophie's Choice.
You chose writing over breathing,
Worshiper of the purest pleaure,
******* in deep the smoke-high of
Head-nodding discontented contentment
Stealing anything you saw
For to satisfy the need, the craven
Craving.
****** poets!
Yo! Yo!
Don't you're ever sleep?
Hear that the city, the state,
Gonna methadone your kind
In a special program
Teach you only language to sign.
**** poets!
**I am a ****** poet.**
*The first step taken.
Admission.
Poetry is my default rest position,*
My drug of choice.
5:07am
June 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 5:12 AM UTC
This feeling I have that drags my spirit
And I indulge in its lowly zest out of habit
My feet they move in a trudge like manner
Shoulders hunched inwards non receptive to splendour.
How heavy it is in my heart I weep
For a life been dealt in a single, swift sweep
Cards that has been dealt from aeons past
Oaths recited loudly so that they would last.
Amidst the crowd of mask-faced happiness
Unconvinced, I slipped past unfound lest I be careless.
Discomforted in what on this path may lie
Discontented as such that my heart whines a cry.
Rigidity of routine when sensibility took over
Bruised bad and battered well my heart tumbled after
It felt like it's the end of my dream laden days
Reality sinks in, picks on my heart and there it stays.
I don't want to leave my coveted dreamscape
I don't want to destroy my only means of escape
On the ***** of fantasy, forever I want to stay
But it's crumbling away alarmingly like sun beaten clay.
I deceive my heart into thinking that there's still hope
Truth is I may have come to the end of the rope
Heart wants to hear a faint whisper of reassurance
Mind chides heart, it judgingly delivers it's sentence.
My cries cannot be heard, a wail of futile pleas
Banging on locked doors for which I don't have the keys
So weak this spirit for it has thus been broken
Morsel by morsel, this hapless soul is being eaten.
This burden I'm carrying seem never to have lightened
It is the dark of this period I wish to have brightened
Someone, anyone help...please show me a way
In this god forsaken pit I do not wish to stay.
However there exists yet a slim little chance
Key to courage is somewhere if I could afford a glance
Chances are that I may never even find it
I'll be trapped in a hole in which I can never truly fit.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 5:16 AM UTC
I BADE, because the wick and oil are spent
And frozen are the channels of the blood,
My discontented heart to draw content
From beauty that is cast out of a mould
In bronze, or that in dazzling marble appears,
Appears, but when wc have gone is gone again,
Being more indifferent to our solitude
Than 'twere an apparition. O heart, we are old;
The living beauty is for younger men:
We cannot pay its rribute of wild tears.
2k
I remember sitting
On the tiny porch
Of my dad’s home
Offended by the sun
That continued to sink and set
Without pausing to acknowledge
My dad’s passing.
Offended by the cars
That continued on the highway;
Callous indifference, it seemed to me.
Even the birds at their feeder
Greedily fed and failed to look up
To mark the loss of their benefactor.
I found myself
Silently demanding condolences
In every encounter.
Not for the sympathy,
Or worse, pity,
But for the acknowledgement
That he was here
And now he’s gone,
And something,
However infinitesimally small
In the scopeless universe,
Has changed.
I have two cousins.
The first called my dad
Every month.
His regular call came
During the last days.
The decline surprised him.
He took a deep breath
And asked for speakerphone
Near my dad.
He told my dad
How much my dad had
Influenced his life;
How as a child,
he anticipated a visit from my dad
Like kids stay up to see Santa;
How my dad made my cousin feel
Like he was the most important kid
In the wide world;
How my dad gave my cousin
The otherwise unavailable
Sustenance of heart
Young boys need;
How my cousin had strived to be
Like my dad
And how he hoped
His own children see in him
What he saw in my dad.
That was acknowledgement,
Profound acknowledgement.
My second cousin called
Shortly after the first.
He had heard
That my dad was dying.
He did not ask
To speak with my dad.
He wanted to tell me
To call him
As soon as memorial
Arrangements were made
So that he could purchase
Discounted airline tickets,
To include a subsequent visit
To his son who lives
In the southern part of the state.
My dad was still living.
That, too, acknowledged something,
And served to impel my pending decision.
So I opted for
A less conventional
Memorial ritual
That required neither
Plane tickets nor attendance
Nor a frozen smile reception.
I would not suffer
Insincere acknowledgement.
I am sure I scandalized
Many acquaintances of my dad
Who enjoyed the social conventions of
The anticipated gathering
If only to point out the deficiencies
Of the event and the host.
I am sure I offended
And frustrated
And embittered
One of my cousins.
The other cousin thought
My dad would have preferred
Sincerity
Over a pantomime.
I would suffer
The disfavor and distaste
Of the discontented
With no difficulty.
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 9:59 PM UTC
Is this my midlife crisis,
my “what’s it all about?”
Everything that once were certain
is now vague and filled with doubt
The friends I thought I’d have forever
one by one have stepped aside
I’ve lost my grip on oh so many things
despite how hard I’ve tried
The urge to run away, escape,
grows stronger every day.
Am I unique in my frustrations,
or do others feel this way?
The things around me, they mean nothing,
most of the people, less than that.
These four walls around me are not home
it’s just the place I hang my hat.
When I consider my life’s purpose
there’s really nothing I can say
It's enough to do to figure out
the purpose of this day.
Jul 1, 2011
Jul 1, 2011 at 10:19 PM UTC
Calm down restless man, calm down.
Nothing worried will ever change.
What is will be. What happens happens.
Restless flutters of fallen insecurities
must be silenced to be forgotten.
So forget everything.
Endless streams of consciousness
flows heavily with the neglect
of being free. Freedom only
comes when the thinking is
stopped. Don't think. Just be.
When I am not travelling through
the poetry, I toss sounds inside my head.
Metaphors drip from the unconscious
like ice cream melting in a bowl.
I know I am as strong as my
strength allows me to be.
These times of putting myself
into lines upon a page, these are
what defines me. So let the
jumping end. Sit down. Rest.
Put no foot upon the floor.
Bruised and analysed, stopped
in my tracks by what attacks.
Discontented thoughts be silent.
Be nothing. Be over.
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC
I can't help but be concerned with your every move
with my mind developed in solitude
You move with out care with drunken eyes
Over mornings with an aching sighs
You speak with conviction
A smile with devious intention
But with a fire of daemonious concerns,
An Attention for fallen angels, you learn.
That the reality is not complete
Disconnected from you, and discontented
You elicit change in others providing
Romantic praise in libations of initiations
You gather lives, pressing a piece of yourself
In each intimate encounter – satisfied
That you have made light of their candle
A blue flame of resolving promises
You have kept yourself well
Free, intangible from the intrinsic
Drawing from your own ambiversive nature
Clearing your own torture of monotonous conjecture
I almost lost your reflection
From the diversion of an incidence
Realizing your beauty surpassed superficiality
Through your eyes I see aesthetic sensuality
Jan 23, 2010
Jan 23, 2010 at 2:33 PM UTC
I want to fold up Constantinople
And tuck it in the crease of my pocket
With a rock and a harlequin opal,
Nestled against your map of Nantucket —
A keepsake framed by a tired locket.
Sunlight pours past panes like gold tapestries,
Blue-sky-checkmates belonging to Vermeer
And his Woman with a Balance — trophies:
A man crowned a chivalrous cavalier,
A gentleman of this tremendous sphere
Misunderstood by societal norms,
And expectations set by precedent.
All while a bird coos cucurucu, warmed
By yellow light, freed from discontented
Murmurs with song. I want to read segments
Of the map on the curved back of your hand,
Knuckle-mounds like the knees of a woman
You once said you loved between shorthanded
Compliments and the words of Walt Whitman —
Blanketed by a bible and a man.
Maybe our web-tangled thoughts coexist
With the sky, place our feet firm on the ground.
Or maybe they’re a window that insists
On temptations, the mind, rewritten sounds,
Coming alive, and wanting to be found.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 10:52 PM UTC
I always feel gloomy every 5th of February
Must be the idea of growing old
In a fast-paced world
Seems like a never-ending questioning of
Sanity and morals and dignity and fate
Surrounded by whispers of longing
You just ask if there’s anything left
Or is it going to be like this forevermore
Unsatisfied, discontented, dissociated, distant
Unruly, unkempt, unsure
Knowing that it is nothing but another
Insignificant year of false hopes
Nothing but unread notes
Keeping in mind that these should have been
Inside a box, thrown in a bottomless pit but
No. You just had to creep back. Go back. Stop
Feb 5, 2024
Feb 5, 2024 at 11:37 AM UTC
There can be
Little said about
The hearts desire
amidst the bustle
of waking life
as the sun
scorches the sky
and burns a hole
in her confusion.
A lazy, discontented
lover strangled by
words that stick
in his throat languishes
in the heat as she
cools off in the breeze
of his indifference.
Exposed, alone in a
translucent ocean of
discontent, she floats on
the surface of indecision
and ambivalence
When at last the
changing tide sweeps
him off to another shore
leaving her free to dive
deep for her pearl and
Much more… much more.
Nov 10, 2011
Nov 10, 2011 at 5:09 PM UTC
MARION! why that pensive brow?
What disgust to life hast thou?
Change that discontented air;
Frowns become not one so fair.
’Tis not Love disturbs thy rest,
Love’s a stranger to thy breast:
He, in dimpling smiles, appears,
Or mourns in sweetly timid tears;
Or bends the languid eyelid down,
But shuns the cold forbidding ‘frown’.
Then resume thy former fire,
Some will love, and all admire!
While that icy aspect chills us,
Nought but cool Indiff’rence thrills us.
Would’st thou wand’ring hearts beguile,
Smile, at least, or seem to smile;
Eyes like thine were never meant
To hide their orbs in dark restraint;
Spite of all thou fain wouldst say,
Still in truant beams they play.
Thy lips—but here my modest Muse
Her impulse chaste must needs refuse:
She blushes, curtsies, frowns,—in short She
Dreads lest the Subject should transport me;
And flying off, in search of Reason,
Brings Prudence back in proper season.
All I shall, therefore, say (whate’er
I think, is neither here nor there,)
Is, that such lips, of looks endearing,
Were form’d for better things than sneering.
Of soothing compliments divested,
Advice at least’s disinterested;
Such is my artless song to thee,
From all the flow of Flatt’ry free;
Counsel like mine is as a brother’s,
My heart is given to some others;
That is to say, unskill’d to cozen,
It shares itself among a dozen.
Marion, adieu! oh, pr’ythee slight not
This warning, though it may delight not;
And, lest my precepts be displeasing,
To those who think remonstrance teazing,
At once I’ll tell thee our opinion,
Concerning Woman’s soft Dominion:
Howe’er we gaze, with admiration,
On eyes of blue or lips carnation;
Howe’er the flowing locks attract us,
Howe’er those beauties may distract us;
Still fickle, we are prone to rove,
These cannot fix our souls to love;
It is not too severe a stricture,
To say they form a pretty picture;
But would’st thou see the secret chain,
Which binds us in your humble train,
To hail you Queens of all Creation,
Know, in a word, ’tis Animation.
1.3k
Things we used to be
Or rather that which we are still
We as in I
I as in you
You as in me
Just a pair of eyes
Disembodied, disinherited
Then a word or two
Spoken uncertainly, with imperfect diction
Next came a body coated matte
Appearance totally flat
A reprisal of the reeling mind
Discontented, self remarked
Struck like fells of flak shells
Wrack
Emotive motion to inhale pain pill smoke
Foiled
Spoiled through imparts of ignorance
Palette saturated, severance pre-packed
Wheeze ever
A bio beat box, palpitate off tempo
Disharmony collate
Chaos culture, we the cancer self-castrating earth
Bastardized with sickly sounding mirth
Loudest, proudest, irreverent
Disclaimers
Naked
Reclamation
The origin known as nature
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 7:57 PM UTC
Uncontrollable, useless and pain inducing
A required repetition, which reaps false acceptance
Temporary high, but will end up leaving
Alone, alongside your filthy arrogance
A painstaking process follows,
One of which could have been prevented
Living with your disgusting self wallows
Realization of your careless actions, becoming discontented
Obsession has rendered you worthless,
And henceforth you’ll forever live, knowing you deserve this
Nov 19, 2020
Nov 19, 2020 at 7:55 AM UTC
Seated on the edge of the riverbank
Watching raindrops fall across the city light's reflection;
A living Monet of color and fluidity and the sutble refractions of life.
The bridge above me is humming with traffic,
The railyard to my left fills the cold night with the timeless bellowing of midnight trains,
Used syringes lay amongst the driftwood here.
A crudely painted ******** adorns the trail head,
Overgrown with brambles bushes and blackberry vines.
A solitary ****** cruises the shallow dregs of shore
On an endless quest to find her mate,
Painfully unawares of his fate,
Fallen victim to a poacher,
Some careless fool with a greedy and discontented heart.
The tents and tarps of Portland's homeless, the lost and forgotten, line these hillsides;
Their many dreams and hopes lie broken amidst the rubble of this everyday existence.
I sit here often, smoking and thinking, and watching the ever changing lights.
Every now and again I take a picture, gather a stone, or fall asleep to the sound of rain
And the smell of earth and leaves and rushing water.
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 2:24 AM UTC
even tho the fire was never really lit truly human,
their tousled hair and sad eyed lowland blues owning the fullness of natural emptiness ain’t no crime, like a double negative,
to which no one no cares no objects when spoken
those bad boysenberries radiate a flirty tarty aure, venus fly traps
for those needy to do a saving, the sweets of the the three poems
memorized for wooing, oft another’s undoing, the top button
releasing a burning bush of chest heat
being misleading the reddening cheeks
was a bad boy once of ill repute, daddies and mommies warning
their innocents of my word of mouth reputation, making me 100%
irresistible, so all forgot when climbing into my two-seater to go
moon gazing swooning, learning the moves practiced in nightime
bad boys still need saving sooner but usually later, cause
moon gazing is still a thrill for his new audience of grand children,
proof that some of them boys are hiding well enough stuff
beneath their veneer
be the miner of a thousand years, teach these child boys well,
crack them open, let the empty escape and light rays spill in
**** if some of those bad boys grow up
now, just to be bad poets laughing
at the foolishness of the early days of
discontented shortsightedness incontinence of a soul fumbling
Mar 16, 2019
Mar 16, 2019 at 12:55 PM UTC
...He never took the
chance to say I
love you...
Hanging words
in an unspoken
conversation
Words
that were suppose to
rekindle
old flames to start a
new fire
What he felt was
never heard
Discontented
by the remnants of an
undisturbed
candle lit dinner
Regrets
can only wait
for another time
hoping for second
chances...
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 9:36 AM UTC