"disfigure" poems
*consciously, willfully, I wish it
quietly the Sunday, the sun day, drifts toward,
in its natural game, set, overmatched,
the foregone conclusion, nightfall diminishment
the water songfully swishes,
as the tide departs for places unknown, this then, now
the only natural authorized aural apparition,
the power boats renounce their normal noisy conditioning,
honoring their silenced, under-sail brethren,
as well as admitting their noises disfigure
the fast approaching majesty of the end of
our summer seasoning of humanity
consciously, willfully, I wish it
once again, lush is the quietude,^
now given up, surrendered and surceased to wonder,
how come I to write of these moments so oft,
thenever-ending quest to re-inscribe it on my sensibilities,
in vainglorious hopes that this stamping will last, be the last,
see me through the turgid frigidity of my Lucifer life,
come the fall, the winter, the early dark,
the daylight's brevity, the hurricane season of the mind,
that...need I say more?
consciously, willfully, I wish it
the particular white cloud formation of the moment at hand,
shall stay in place, be the capstone of my summer living vision,
become permanent part and parcel
of the sclera, the white of my eyes, and when
I will write, soon enough,
my vision white weeping clouded,
you will weep knowingly, sympathetically
consciously, willfully,
I wish for that as well*
8/27/17
6:35pm
Aug 29, 2017
Aug 29, 2017 at 10:38 AM UTC
You asked me to put on some makeup.
Well, dear.
I would need too much makeup,
to cover my scowls,
and this ugly thing I call
a face.
There would never be enough makeup
to cover up my scarred heart
and attempt to make it look whole and pretty.
There would never be enough makeup
to cover my sarcastic and strange humor,
make myself sound smart, pretty, cute.
There would never be enough makeup
to cover my soul,
make it seem pure,
innocent - the way you want me to be...
I've been exposed for too long,
too many burns, and scars race across me,
everywhere,
too noticeable, too many
for me to ever use makeup.
Makeup will never make me look pretty.
It will disfigure all that I have,
take away the stories that are etched onto me,
it will cover what defines
me.
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 6:48 PM UTC
Warning: Use dis list in context.
You decide on which side you fall.
disappear
disregard
disaster
displace
disqualify
disrepair
disturb
dissipate
disability
dispose
dismal
distribute
distrust
disturb
discriminate
discuss
disdain
disguise
dishearten
disinherit
disown
disparage
disagree
disgruntle
disclose
discolour
dispute
disarm
discover
disassemble
disadvantage
disallow
dispossess
discontent
discontinue
disrespect
disincline
discomfort
disrepute
dishonest
disillusion
dishonor
dismiss
disobey
disjoin
disappoint
discipline
discord
discern
discrete
disfigure
disconnect
disapprove
discharge
disbar
disease
discord
disfavor
disengage
disassociate
discipline
discount
disembody
displace
dissaray
disembowel
discombobulate
discredit
discourse
disentangle
disenfranchise
disembark
discard
disburse
disbelief
discover
disable
disagree
disintegrate
dismay
dispense
dislodge
disclaimer
disapprove
dissatisfy
disrupt
dispel
dislike
dismantle
disloyal
disbatch
disrobe
disperse
display
disaprove
disciple
disavow
disconcert
disinfect
disorder
dismal
dismember
displease
dissemble
disunity
dislocate
distort
distrust
distress
dissolute
disassociate
distill
discect (?)
distemper
distain
distasteful
distraught
dissolve
dissonant
dissuade
And dis isn't de end.
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 12:06 PM UTC
You followed down through the gathered pages
to the labyrinth that leads back through the changes
A long and twisted line of unmapped rivers,
*** holed low-roads and tattered mileposts
glancing homeless back-alleys as dark as lonely crossroads
Past the broken wings that fell from skyward treetops
scattered feathers amongst rose petals wilted
at the hand of tear stained faded photos
of frozen black and white faces;
hidden ghosts in the closet that fell from grace
The pathway narrows where the traces dissipate
passing under burning bridges, beneath locked stairwells
A fickle feather floating upon rivers ragging
like the hubris disconnectedness of time rolling out to sea ―
Shadows growing darkest as you reach the blackest silence
and you kept the answers to all the questions at arms length
hidden in the darkness ― where you saw love disfigure me
It was then and there I knew I'd dreamed of someone like you
looking for someone more than I could ever be
Just an unsated curiosity, trying to see beyond
your own misunderstanding, to feel and touch
an unknown depth beyond reach
As sunset pales the distantness, the night is yours alone
when tomorrow's morning rain
hangs on the falling leaves ― I’ll be gone
Just a wayfaring loner in a lonely world
Where rivers are only water
and love was once a flowing river
I thirst to swallow ―
to wash away these tracks of my tears ...
rivers ... 2017
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 11:58 AM UTC
Creatively wit, artistically gifted -
politically inclined to design any archetype of freedom and how a woman should hold her head up high, like the almighty God she is.
Able to disfigure the illusions and misconception that the media and other forms of capitalistic control, teach her fellow sisters and Queen.
Prove to them that not only are they more than this 'sex symbol',
And being blind to this facts, just helps perpetuate the conditioning of self-hate,
that you're not light enough or too dark - you're just something that helps the sun shine on their fare skin.
And you're ****** is worth nothing more than it was compensated fo' 450 years ago,
to birth being that yet again go through the cycle of supremacy.
But you say,
**** ALL THAT -
I'm a Queen, GOD IS SHE.
So kiss my fat *** and my appletree.
Because me and my sisters sill no longer accept your misogynistic disrespect and immoral, emotional neglect.
Your referendums for ****** favors in exchange what is due me, ****** freedom and freedom to do whatever the **** I please.
And ever since I saw those defining characteristics in thee,
Since, I've always respected you as my Queen.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 9:38 PM UTC
The Pill
Called up big Pharma,
Sad and depressed,
I told them straight out:
Dudes, I need a new karma.
*NO problem they cheerfully replied,
(later I wondered, which pill they were on)
We custom make, haute couture, drug-design,
Mood enhancers, in little canisters,
You need only supply the cash and the system vascular!
Your soul's desire?
To be a better wilder, rambler,
Or a life calmer, better anchored?*
I know what I want, exactly,
A pill that removes
Specific words
From the frontal lobe temple
Verbal storage center.
*NO problem! (so cheery it was kinda scary)
Which words would you like to have
Exorcised, annihilated, irradiated, confiscated?*
I list from below, from side to side,
Let not one be denied,
Bury them all in nether-lands,
Swamp them under mountains of
Granite and sand,
Banish them from my lexicon.
How much do you charge?
But one dollar per word.
The list I emailed complete,
Herein I reprint.
Scars Pain Wound Strain Torture Anguish
Disfigure Damage Mar Mutilate Maim Blemish Deface Damage Ruin Distress
Afflict Trouble Wound Torment Agonize Sad Suffer Sting Throb
Torture Torment Despair Suffer Distress Hurt Vex Trouble
Ache Hurt Misery Woe Bitterness Misery Agony Bitter
Heartache Afflict Hurt Cut Loathing Shatter Broken
Alone Bleed Struggle Self-destruct Monster
Nightmare Cornered Darkness Horror
Loner Confused Goodbye Suicide
Slash Cut Desolate Submerge
Dissipate Dead Stinking
Enough.
Awaiting my concoction sweet,
When an answer they begat,
A response forthcoming, indeed was snubbing!
**Dear Sir/Madam,
We regret to inform you that we are unable to manufacture
Said item. Removal of these words would be a violation of
Federal Poetry Laws.
Sadly yours,
Big Pharma
P.S. Are you the author of "Yo! Yo! Warning: the government is reading your poetry! (Metadata Mining This Site) on HP?"**
P.P.S. Please do not contact us anymore.
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 1:53 PM UTC
I'd never hurt myself but
sometimes I get the urge to cut open my face and disfigure it
Because I wonder if I lose all attachment to myself, I’ll finally be free.
If only it worked like that.
Dec 28, 2017
Dec 28, 2017 at 2:35 AM UTC
.
*I cradle my head
in my palms
There's an inerasable vision
of hearts and bones
inwoven in a spider web
Untied forget-me-nots
writhing disentanglement
A collage of all the dead roses ,
tawny petals bestrewn across
a fallow frozen mind-scape ;
hidden behind eye-lid's
hesitantly arising curtain
just like a noir movie screen
I saw love disfigure me*
wild is the wind ... December 4th, 2016
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 2:11 PM UTC
My insides were scraped,
Molded, and shaped
Into words on the pages,
And my eyes watched
In silent horror (silent pleasure)
As the fire devoured emotional
Responses, (hopes) to the
Fabrication of reality you made
Me wear.
Grey dreams, papery lies
That streaked the pages of my hands.
Burnt poetry is the best kind
(Burnt memories are the best kind)
The tapping at my door
Keeps waking me up
And it isn't a raven
Asking me about some
Eleanor.
No, it is the urn, full
Of ash and imaginings
It rattles with displeasure;
I shall let it go.
Heavy, but light in my arms,
Taking the cinders to the sea
(Finally, I'd let you free.)
Only to have oxygen transform
And disfigure ash into butterflies;
They attacked ruthlessly, at my face
With kisses that brought back memories.
I blew out my wish
"Let this be my last" And
Suddenly, there was nothing
Just the results of paper and
Calefaction.
Jan 1, 2010
Jan 1, 2010 at 4:25 PM UTC
Gallantry badge stitched to rotting cloth
as the skin sinks and the bones fade
and the love made is left to reek the bed
where sexless wife and lonely daughter
Lay their head's arrest.
In due time they both tan, sag and crackle
Under weight of the sun.
That dizzy cyclops that roped forth
homecoming boats and ships stands
five years from being defunct; rusted
to the hue of a coppice
and hardly the attraction it once was
But oh well— sighs the sailor, too old and bankrupt to care
for approaching poverty— the money has been made and my life spent
For others (his Sister, his Niece, his Brother)
They lack the ability to sigh;
the closest they get is the occasional stormy wind
that cracks the surface, blows through their teeth
resembling a crooked lullaby,
Revolves the bullet lodged in their skull;
O occasional stormy rain that beshrews the water
clogging their lungs and, in due time, The leaking muck
that’ll pluck and sharply snap inward the casketwood--
directly against the bullet gathhering mold in their heart--
Their souls have been spent.
One less soldier wouldn't have changed a thing
(The result was a certainty propagated
as a contingency)
And if G-d bare'd witness his eyes no longer sting,
His grievances had and his puppets dead
Following a suffering in his name.
If Thy Kingdom holds true
They bare witness now to the lighthouse
In it's chipping hue, it's trivial dock and visitor
Silhouettes—
All held in place and burning; They disfigure
Under weight of the sun.
Aug 12, 2019
Aug 12, 2019 at 2:58 PM UTC
broke, scared, high, uncared - ******
too in love with love to let him go.
hands ripping skin around fingernails to shreds.
contemplating the existence of religion and of ambition,
(remember they say work is worship,
your purpose you cannot shun).
fingernails scraping the desperate bones between which a beating heart once bled.
in the shadows of the darkness you see the past -
another second passed, time flying so fast, one cannot last.
treading tip-toe across a tightrope
stretched thin between your rising expectations
and his fla(il)ling patience.
nature’s infinite scream tearing through dimensions, leaving you haunted.
there’s a lot you hoped you’d never be in your twenties.
slow, shallow, low, hollow - stop.
diaphanous landscapes leaking into memory’s slippery crevasses.
no longer aware of the here and now.
battling desperately against reality’s sting.
questioning the bitter metallic aftertaste that punctuates
every seemingly-cheerful conversation.
self-worth slashed into strings of cynicism
hanging around a sorry neck.
inhaling air thick with the dregs of a life
suspended between conflicting timelines.
the past and present collide angrily to disfigure the future.
the past and present, two words that cease to exist in the future.
glassy eyes staring proudly at shattered crutches scattered around cut feet.
there's a lot you never thought you'd be in your twenties.
bold, bitter, brave, better - ready.
ready for the solitary walk,
a lifelong talk with only the voices in your head for company.
ready to dance to the vibrations that distort carefully laid plans.
ready to survive stormy seas on stormy nights
with no lighthouse waiting to shine on.
ready for what's incredible, what's impossible, what's magical;
only not for what's mechanical.
ready to face more no's and less yes's
no heroes and angry villains
but carry on anyway.
ready to say yes when your ego says no,
ready to say yes when your brain says no;
never ready to say yes when the heart says no.
there's a lot we've become in our twenties.
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 10:03 AM UTC
I felt that you loved me
I did
But I felt like an object
You toyed with my heart
You left me behind
You called me a fool.
But alas,
I fell in love
You used me...
Your pair of lips.
Your hand to hold.
Your shoulder to cry on.
Your female object.
The body to show.
My legs,
My chest,
My ****
Whatever.
I'm not your ******* property.
I wish I didn't love you.
I wish I wasn't an object.
You choose me,
A monster of self doubt.
You told me I was beautiful
Told me that I had no reason
No reason to disfigure my own body.
You only made it worse.
And I hope it slowly eats away at you
Editing the way you used to life,
So confident
So capable.
I hope that I,
The object
The simple doll
for your abuse,
The girl with the legs,
The girl with the heart,
Changed you,
The man of ice,
The man
I am sad to say
I love.
Jan 28, 2012
Jan 28, 2012 at 9:27 PM UTC
we rove in shabby clothes
in the splendorous groves
of our night kingdom.
we tread unkempt beds
than rather lay our heads
or make love
in them.
we darken the closest star
we further the farthest
more lost, than
found.
we groom the mane of our lying.
not for the lack of trying
the truth...
but more, for the harm -
done allies
in a war of thumbs
in a Serengeti
of our imminent
demise.
we poker face.
we monopoly grey
where our pink blood
is enough.
we trouble the rust.
we slink and encrust
where the oil slick cuts
a more striking
disfigure.
we toss sharp dice
for dull games. blood mites
for dust devils
in broken
chains.
we retreat from rings
that ferry ending gloom
to better yes the no of things
too maybe
to true.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 1:05 PM UTC
Can't hide the rigors
Of anxiety and fears
Even knowing what it harbors
Can't cloak their effects from mirrors
It figures
Such a force can disfigure figures
Right under the skin it lingers
The worst possible time is when it appears
Rears up to rip down the facade and veneers
The you you knew is what it devourers
What good are middle fingers,
When only directed at yourself?
For now,
I guess,
I'll have to put that question on the shelf
©2024
Dec 12, 2024
Dec 12, 2024 at 7:53 PM UTC
There's so little remaining
of my affection for anything.
Even poetry now offers
it's forgiveness
for it's unfullfillment.
I've lost the patience
that carried me here.
I've grown tired of waiting
for something worth
the waiting.
There's so little remaining
of my love for living.
I've exhausted this forge
for its ceased creating.
The universe churns
and remembers little
of its former solidarity.
As gravity struggles
to collect stardust
before the void reclaims it.
Christ, but it must be so violent
and lonely there,
dependant on forces
that shape
and disfigure
on passing whims and fancies.
There's so little remaining
of my need for continuing.
When the morning is a knife
****** keenly in my side.
Before the caffeine cleanses
and imbides it's chemical veil,
to lend a false sense of purpose.
Black urgency,
coupled with a need for exceeding
the accomplishments of our fathers.
There's so little remaining
of gravity's hope for retaining.
When all it should do
is start letting us go.
-Kevin James
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 8:02 AM UTC
i laugh
as i watch
you
fall gracelessly
from the
pedastal i
naively placed
you upon
at first
i think you
flawless
no imprefections
mark you or
disfigure you
but turns
out you are full
them
i think though
i placed you up there
as a distraction
while i tell you
all the things
you want to hear
i cross my
fingers and
hope to hide
all the flaws
that ive been
trying to hide
so jokes on you
my inadequete
vision
of useless
perfection
Apr 7, 2010
Apr 7, 2010 at 3:39 PM UTC
cannot live by living
sublimate
intractable life the way
a poet of mangled hands burns away
incessant blankness
to a hot glowing moment wherein
his excision, sought after,
lives.
Whatever way is taken
a fire therein will burn
to majestically disfigure
the unfigurable in your life
the way a drinking straw made of
plastic transforms
in lips of flame
to curlicued ribbons and
blazing involutions, coiled springs and
brightly curled
imaginings of crimson.
Choose to run
and so too will the fibers in your hamstrings
curl, glow crimson
as under fire.
Sit quiet on the marble steps
of a dried fountain in Union Square
watching the looming arch through
the crisp distance of night
and so too will your eyes become
incendiary orbs
heating the air around
to transient veritable sharpness
as if suddenly, every piece of
stone or root of tree
has been released from
a hold
and could at any moment
flinch for you. For
just your witness
and nothing more.
Attempt to find the dream of death
hidden within the taste of
your one beauty’s lips
and so upon the kiss will she
burn, explode!
in quick high flame
to a pile of
shrunk dust and scintillating
strands of hair.
Whichever way, all can burn
to release its true form—hardly sweet
seeming unbearable
before curling
just barely sweet, just bearably, always just
necessarily so.
And slowly, you are already
curling in the flames.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 12:10 AM UTC
Like a ghostly memory rehaunting my mind,
Now I am older I see what you did and all your lies,
Nasty, twisted, bitter anger, smell of life,
Hate how you trigger and disfigure me after all this time.
Memories return, stuff I thought was gone forever,
Trying to deal with all this **** then you anonymous texter.
Hit me when I’m down, only just started to feel better,
Now I can’t sleep again, or dream, back to a bed wetter.
Sleep with a knife by my side, claw hammer and bat,
Because if I saw you intruding again, you’ll get smacked,
See through confusion to see your wrong, protect your back.
What you did was wrong, against the law, that’s a fact.
Why did I enter your head, you contact a ***** past,
Now I’m an adult, you decide you want to play a part,
Twist me even more, you lonely, excuse of your heart,
You and others are hindering my path.
Sick, do you even realise what you did?
Some maybe, but you fit in the category of the sick,
Child abusing, nonse, paedo, take your pick,
Don’t make the excuse that you were just drunk or a bit thick
© Emma Johnson
Feb 6, 2010
Feb 6, 2010 at 2:40 AM UTC
Sharing yellow starbursts,
artificial color stains our saliva
what feels like years later,
as I have aged quite a bit by this point,
I repeat the motion in my mouth
reminiscent of you
instant messages of gentle reminders
to resentment
anger saturated print
seeks to disfigure my skin
insides twist in response
to the configuration of a screen
energy signals lost in translation
When will I see you again?
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 9:53 PM UTC
A regal woman brushes her daughter’s hair –
waves of golden grain –
a child with eyes bright
like the sea.
A good child, ever so obedient,
she heeds her mother’s words,
though wishes for emancipation.
Womanhood come soon enough,
and the daughter breaks away
(lips pale pink).
With room to breathe
she grows, becoming brighter
and stronger with each triumph.
Swift as an eagle,
the young woman takes the world
by storm.
Others watch with
envious eyes,
smirking when
she becomes conflicted
and starts to
disfigure herself.
To their amazement,
she rises once again
(lips ruby red this time).
As years pass,
her wisdom grows,
and she becomes a woman.
Though rebellion and revolution
shall never be left behind,
peace comes twice over, for
a steep price
(now a dark, solemn crimson).
Determined to never fade
nor pass the torch,
she clings to youth and
obsess over beauty.
Now false and hollow,
she dabbles in the blood
spilt by martyrs and saints,
willing to paint herself red.
Jul 8, 2010
Jul 8, 2010 at 8:47 PM UTC
A canvas is merely a mirror
Yet, I change to fit the image-remake reflections
Feel me as paper in the frame- might I be glossy as oil, will eyes slant along bends in light,
does the dull perfume of ink still linger? Hush -
is there a faint pushing of blood through painted veins?
I taste the sour stroke of an artist's mistake
Pointed footsteps echo insults, "Stupid Girl". Such prickly laughter slit
the base of stone statues.
I sense a million standing bodies
and a building desire to melt- hidden as one of the alluring ladies
amongst the crowd. I will chisel my features to charm the masses
The lashes that brim my sight mimic the bristles of a paintbrush-
yes I blink masterpieces!
Enchanted emotions engage everything
With the speech from a baton, the passion in symphonies will mesmerize
Dive from the stage, explorer- sometimes when we imitate we fly.
The image becomes me, I become the image.
Will the lens of film alter too?
Might the harsh flash of society disfigure itself yet again?
I stare at us all- each an individual glimpse of art
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 12:34 AM UTC
With the whisper of the wind, the words gently sting the very fiber of who you are and who you hope to be. The whispers coil and whirl as you filter the sound.
The time in life where influence is of the essence. Where words shape and disfigure our being. A time in life that shifts as you blink. As friendships fade in and out, some as quickly as they came. The stories take on a different color as the days pass.
As some things are left to be, we can only stop to see. Here we are. Chasing and dreaming. Seeking and seething. On the floor of our rooms we cry out and sob, but the daylight breaks and soothes the calls.
We arise to greet the new day, but often it feels old. As if on repeat the day comes. Sold to the rhythm of the society we take part in. The movements of the day can feel rigid. The steady beat of expectation .
With sighs, we walk in anticipation of a better tomorrow. Perhaps not realizing every day is a gift. Neglecting the reality that we can choose to live better than what is expected of us.
With genuine words we can choose to see beyond what has been given. To give far more than we thought we could. With words that challenge one another to be better.
Words that pump the heart back to life. That make life worth living. With every step we move forward, we have a choice. We can walk forward or we can continue to look back.
There is nothing left for us from where we came. Even after hours of words exchanged, the past is still the past. And should be left just as that.
With genuine words we can only hope to guide one another forward. To lead with our hearts open to new possibilities and trusting of new relationships.
With eyes looking forward we can see a better future. A future of living what we speak. Guided by conscious and social causes we see clearer.
Genuine words whisper in the wind, but only you can choose what you hear.
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 5:18 AM UTC
the gentle day
Sirs
gives way to sweet night
and we come to give swift pleasures
Sirs
and the coins you may offer
keep our bodies
but the pleasures we offer
Sirs
the nights we give to you
our contortions and exertions
disfigure us, distort us day and night
Sirs
your Pleasures are our pain
for us the plain and painted yotaka
Feb 10, 2011
Feb 10, 2011 at 1:11 AM UTC