"disenchanting" poems
And there it lies...
A face in the shade...
Fragments of a soul...
Staring beneath thy flesh...
A disenchanting glance...
With a playful stride...
As I look upon thee...
I can hear her whisper...
"Can I keep you?" she said...
I smile and replied...
**** you, I know your face"
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 4:03 AM UTC
Time is the ruin of humankind's love for all. Nothing shall be loved long after its gone, as unfeigned too which it was in its lively form. Humans are but ghoulish creatures; to whom nothing is rightfully sacred. Humankind should be as pious to life as most are to their gods they claim had made all in his image. They try to make us believe with their disenchanting tales of greatness that you hear of as a naïf adolescent. As society crumbles to the sound of our own beating drum, another builds up of mindless drones that feel no pity towards anyone. There is no one to accuse but ourselves In this spiral of disillusion. As time ventures forward into the endless span of time, our morality lessens, as do our feelings towards what we should cherish.
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 2:58 AM UTC
i always thought poetry
happened as life
chaffed you over
and over
until it rubbed holes in
the fiber of you
and almost without even knowing it
you leaked your soul in lines.
i thought experience was beautiful
but its only disenchanting.
i think a cynic is such an ugly thing
and i think myself the ugliest of all.
i'm always wanting
always falling into a trope of misery;
i thought i was better than that,
i thought i was wise.
i can't hide my sensitivity or shiny pinpricks of hurt
catching the light.
i thought poetry dripped like faucet water
like a garden hose.
i suppose i've learned that poetry
is like pulling your worst fears
from your stomach where they thrive in acid dark,
and pushing them out through your mouth.
it's word-poisoning.
it's the ugliest parts,
it's vestigial tenderness
and i'm bruised
yellow black blue
purple red.
i've been living in the
tortured safety of my own head
and poetry is my writing on the wall
scratched into the sides of my skull.
it doesn't matter what i say
because i'll probably
live there till i die
but at least i'll have this graffiti,
this watery poetry sloshing like
brine in a jar.
what an ugly cynic i've become.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 10:01 PM UTC
an undulating reverie
hangs heavy in the silence
past canyons abundant with sunlight
and dreams made out of cotton
there, beyond the intoxicating haze,
you stood.
my lips uttered no words
that the universe could decipher
but the midnight tide understood
what i truly meant
now, if only you could, ma chérie
but the scrupulous colloquy is bound to break
and the stratosphere rewinds again
past divine oculists and obstinate facsimiles
and beyond the desolate valleys
where no sunshine dares to embark
and what’s left in the end
at the very edge of such a disenchanting,
morose fantasy
is you, and me,
and an undulating reverie.
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 1:24 PM UTC
Imagine the illogical
A common sense that lacks
Parasitic phenomenon
Clinging to ones back
Involuntary commitment
To a shadow haunted state
Just behind the unconsciousness
Unable to feel safe
I hate to sleep alone
When one eyes opened wide
When the shadows go a swirling
Up the walls and down my spine
But I've felt too many things
In the journey of my soul
I'll take them to the grave
When the shadows lay me low
..................................................
Mar 8, 2018
Mar 8, 2018 at 7:30 AM UTC
Quite disenchanting, writing about what is really happening.
A throbbing head, a sore back, aching muscles and tired eyes only emphasize the calling of my soft warm bed willing me to take shelter in sleep. No I mustn't or the thoughts will slip away, escape my ever flailing grasp. As if I had enough trouble catching them it seems as soon as I touch one it begins to fade and crumble in my clutch. The beauty of my words diminishes with each second I am not writing. I do not deprave myself of sleep because I want to write. I simply listen to that which calls the loudest.
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 1:03 AM UTC
admittedly,
i have wandering eyes
and a mouth that had kissed
too many hands goodbye
and for a while
i've gotten used to dry spells
and disenchanting love affairs that
has left me coughing black and blue dust
yet my loneliness craves the warmth
my cold bones can't provide
but i run away with heightened wariness
at any chance to defrost
Jul 30, 2016
Jul 30, 2016 at 7:23 AM UTC
"It has been a really long while... You didn't even bother to ask how I've been," she said. "Perhaps that says alot about me. I am probably that disenchanting."
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 5:15 PM UTC
The object of meditation is to attain a why-less insightful personality.
Like everything is "its own cause".
Life has become disenchanting by the common awareness of my real familiarity with it.
My thinking of "what is the need of this or that" is truly a mark of low intelligence, or a common sign of age.
Mar 5, 2021
Mar 5, 2021 at 9:58 AM UTC