"disintegrates" poems
October 8, 2014:
Blood moon as red as my
Bloodshot eyes
Blurry through the tears
But I can still see through your lies
Blood moon as red as my
Bleeding lips
From biting them in fear
Of you slipping from my fingertips
Blood moon as red as the
Marks etched on my arms
You said you'd protect me from myself
And yet I was harmed
Blood moon now fading into pale gray
Now the night has turned to day
And the last tear drips away
As the feeling disintegrates
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 10:34 AM UTC
Whiskey keeps my heart alive,
But disintegrates my mind.
Its a fair trade, I guess.
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 6:14 AM UTC
of this wilting wall the colour drub
souring sunbeams,of a foetal fragrance
to rickety unclosed blinds inslants
peregrinate,a cigar-stub
disintegrates,above,underdrawers club
the faintly sweating air with pinkness,
one pale dog behind a slopcaked shrub
painstakingly utters a slippery mess,
a star sleepily,feebly,scratches the sore
of morning. But i am interested more
intricately in the delicate scorn
with which in a putrid window every day
almost leans a lady whose still-born
smile involves the comedy of decay,
6.3k
Even with a thousand heads and souls around me,
The thought of loneliness always resided with me
I did not intend to fit in everyone's sizes,
Nor was I proud of the bottle that shook with rage, ready to spill
My life disintegrates within a flash of a solution
I present myself and my energy to a dull audience
But the same smiles just stare speechless, gawking at me
I paraded willfully, expressing myself through art that was repulsive to many
Yet, there were a few eyes that presented a beacon, despite my addictions crumbling the floor beneath me
I reached out and touched the flames that singed my hair
Till I landed on flowers
They were not the gorgeous type,
But they were just like me:
Odd, beautiful, deterring, and tiresome.
One of them shared a joke about death,
It forced a laugh out of me, till I realized today was April Fools' Day
A skull-shaped bud cries in front of me, similar to that of a child
I take in the smell of the hole I've fallen in, though the fall was cushioned by giant red flowers
As pretty as they are, their smell is who I am
I look above and see a crucifix in the sky
Then the darkness falls in, and I accept the undeniable truth by closing my eyes.
May 12, 2022
May 12, 2022 at 3:53 AM UTC
Beat a thousand beats,
Crumble a thousand crumbles;
But no single formula, nor restless colloquy
Can mend the deafening black gravity nestled in this cage.
May grow flowers, but disintegrates to ash.
Soars to the highest peak, then jolted with a fatal blow.
Comedy or tragedy, truth or dare, numbers or letters, fidelity or treachery;
What does it choose?
Courage, dear heart.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 8:35 PM UTC
Karim disintegrates
To the madness of the Brightest Star
In the fog-thickened day.
That star,
Empowered with the strength of a
Thousand soldiers
And their passion,
And the cunning wit
Of the Great Apollo,
Stretched the fabric of linear veil to pause
The illusion of society
For a moment
Outside of dementia
Jun 15, 2022
Jun 15, 2022 at 7:36 PM UTC
*Tell yourself to breathe
as the stratosphere is falling,
imagining verses tumbling
midst downpours' dissension,
sans sentimentality's
loquacious language,
and the land is left barren
as verbosity disintegrates
and emotions wholly perish
'neath fickle cloudbursts
of poetry's extinction*
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 7:12 AM UTC
jesus and judas kissed in the garden
moments before the world caved in.
the gospel of judas says that
the betrayer was the most loved of all disciples,
that jesus took him aside and
taught him touched him laughed.
there are two sides to canon, history, myth:
someone somewhere at sometime
wanted a better story,
where the betrayer was held close
and favored, forgiven—
but the gospels all end the same.
the son is strung up for someone else's sins
as judas wastes alone in the garden.
intention is a matter of interpretation
but what is silver worth, really?
metaphor disintegrates
and you come to me in my dreams.
to love you after all of this
is apocryphal— tempting yet untrustworthy.
you're not judas,
i'm just a mortal man,
and there is no gnosis, no hidden knowledge,
only apocalyptic revelations now.
the world is irrevocable, just born.
i miss you in the same way
jesus met judas' eyes on the cross.
somewhere in a field of blood
or a forgotten library buried under the earth,
there is a better story.
over time only becoming more unknowable,
hopeful fragments turning to dust
in trembling hands.
Nov 16, 2022
Nov 16, 2022 at 11:48 PM UTC
Your hands feel the cold stone
of this textured tower wall. You look up
and see an arched, hollow window gaping
like a moaning train tunnel, darker inside
than the moonless night sky.
Instead of a door there flutters a rose petal,
dry, crispy, impaled on a thorn
that succumbs and disintegrates into the cold wind,
leaving the skeleton of the thorn bush
without its last memory of sunrise.
This chilly autumn air pierces the bridge of your nose
as you turn your hooded head away and take a muddy step
back toward the woods you braved through
on this chilly, moonless autumn night.
As the impending fog before you thickens
the last touch of almost starry night disappears
with the resounding click of a tower door in the distance
that never existed on this chilly, moonless autumn night.
[First draft]
Your hands feel the cold stone
of this textured tower wall. You look up
and see an arched, hollow window gaping
like a moaning train tunnel, darker inside
than the moonless night sky. This chilly autumn air
pierces the bridge of your nose as you turn
your hooded head away and take a muddy step
back toward the woods you braved through
in this chilly, moonless autumn night.
As the impending fog before you thickens
the last touch of almost starry night disappears
behind the rolling black clouds.
Even the dry, crispy rose petal impaled on a thorn
succumbs and disintegrates into the cold wind,
leaving what’s left of the thorn bush
without its last memory of sunrise.
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 6:45 PM UTC
_Peace abides in the gentle velvet folds of patient time;
When industry is forgotten and rigid right angles
Give way to soft currents of inspiration;
Lacking definition, judgement or expectation
My yardstick shrinks and disintegrates into nothingness...
Inadequate to the task of measuring infinity._
Mar 13, 2021
Mar 13, 2021 at 1:00 AM UTC
Once a smile, now a frown.
Once a city, now burned down.
Excite yourself, have a visit,
Paradise awaits you, it’s quite unfit.
Lies, hate and treasures untold.
Wait, you haven’t begun to see it unfold.
The magic, the glory, the hammering sound,
All being heard from under this ground.
Silence and mockery at the final gate,
Once you enter, your soul disintegrates.
Trapped forever, unlike any other dimension,
You’re gone, it’s not just a suspension.
The world you once knew,
Will finally wish you adieu.
You can now be in peace, and wish your lucky seven;
Here in my hell demented version of heaven.
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 11:27 PM UTC
my legs are closed now
so it's all through to you
you say:
what a night
you're fantastic
well
that was fun
while it lasted
I say:
oh yeah
well
go on now
get gone
but despite my efforts
to deny it
to hide it
my young heart
is ripped open,
in two
because
it's through
wondering your answers
to the questions
left behind
in my mind
what's your middle name?
where do you take proper girls
on a first date?
am i just a flake,
full of hate?
do you have a favorite
cursive letter?
if you loved someone,
when would you tell her?
how will you make a living?
(certainly not by drinking)
does your mother know you're
a lying lush?
do you know that you're
a lousy ****
will you remember me?
i hope to forget you soon
although it's doubtful
but i have to
to get my soul full
again
wondering the answers
until I indulge once more
and my heart is torn
into 4, then 8
until it disintegrates
I say:
go on
get gone
don't make
me late
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 12:46 AM UTC
What is the meaning of Life?
Does that not state there is in fact a meaning to our lives? Are we not conceived with a blank slate and let our actions be guided by the environment we have become accustomed to or is there a true predestined meaning to our lives? Is it neither? We are nothing more than what we are and nothing less than what we are not.
What is my purpose?
Purposelessness.
What is God?
God is what leads me in the direction that I am heading and keeps me away from where I have not gone. God is not in the endless skies watching my every action. God does not know me. I don’t know God. God is not a being. God is not energy. God is not matter; God is not made of protons, neutrons, electrons or photons. God exists. We made God exist. We also made God disappear.
What is reality?
The tangible and physical perceptions that we have keep in our memories. As soon as we forget, reality disintegrates. When we remember, reality regenerates. Reality is not constant.
Why am I here?
Spontaneity
How did I get here?
I managed to avoid every other place than where I am. If I averted where I am now I would be someplace else. I would be any place else. Am I happy? Yes. Am I upset? Yes. This experience is beautiful yet full of dismay and I experience comfort but sorrow for only being able to experience a small sliver of the universe. But this is my sliver of the universe. I love this sliver of the universe and I would fight to the death to save this tiny space for anybody else to experience existence the way I do.
Who and What am I?
I am human, **** sapient, **** hominine, hominid, primate, Mammalia, Chordate, and Animal. I am an Earthling from the Milky Way. I am what I am labeled, by others and by myself. I am defined by everything I am not and I change every day. I am not constant.
What will happen when I die?
Transcendence from existence; Appearance into eternal rest. My body will provide nutrients to the world, my memories will be lost. I will no longer be, except in the minds of those who knew me and in the evidence I leave behind. I’ll be lost forever, the evidence will soon disappear. I will be over, the universe will go on. That’s all I could ever ask for.
Jan 3, 2012
Jan 3, 2012 at 9:40 PM UTC
It's as if I can feel every cell of my being illuminating.
Everything my fingers touch is electrifying.
My face aches from the corners of my lips relentlessly kissing the lobes of my ears.
Every word spilling from mouth is as dire as the need for air in my lungs.
My body is restless and weightless.
There is no euphoria I can't reach.
No amount of ecstasy I can't handle.
Complete bliss, if only for the moment.
Just as quickly as this paradise was built, even faster it disintegrates.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 9:44 PM UTC
Living is often like drowning, and sleeping like flying,
So bridges and tall buildings always tempt me.
When I talk about death I feel brave.
I've always hated how recognition can so easily turn into pride.
They say pride comes before the fall,
But I believe that various kinds of self-centeredness are the origin of all unholy descents.
I remind myself that I shouldn't take my life because I didn't give it,
And my heart continues to beat on its own.
Blood doesn't stain crimson red,
It darkens and crusts on the skin.
Everything that is dead becomes only a memory,
Then it disintegrates and washes away, eventually becoming nothing.
I can’t remember anything from before I had the ability to reason,
So when did I come alive?
I wonder if all people valued beauty,
Would there be peace?
Because I sometimes wonder whether Neil Armstrong meant to say what he did as took his first step on the moon.
I think trying is as valuable as doing,
But justification is a dangerous tool.
I am cautious of failure and success;
But count this as my eulogy
A list of things that I am going to say before my untimely death.
*I recognized the world for the canvas it was and I didn't waste my life.
My dreams were my motivation,
And they were fueled by those that underestimated me
I walked streets day and night and prayed that I would somehow run into the girl of my dreams,
and when I finally found my missing rib I looked at her like she was a piece of art that I just couldn't keep my eyes off of.
I suffered and I found its nectar bitter-sweet.
I didn't get the best of life, but then I made the best of life.
I never stopped caring,
my love for the unlovable made me daring.
I trusted too easily so I was always broken.
I always found things to love, but they never loved me,
But despite it, I still loved, hard, even though it hurt me.
I couldn't comfort because I had never been comforted.
After a lifetime of battling myself, I finally took off my crown of thorns.
I didn't let the past get the best of me,
I gave the future all of me.
I hated animosity,
War was despicable to me,
And I always preached peace.
I prayed constantly that my efforts would not be in vain.
I never actually could stop sinning, but despite my ugly sins, I never stopped straining.
I was not perfect, but I did the best I could.
I never ceased to hear the music.
I still played, even when I felt like I was playing solo, I still played my part in this symphony of life.
My eyes were aimed at the director, and we played through the storm,
We played even when all hell was against us,
We played, and played, and played
Until eternity came through.....*
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 1:28 PM UTC
The writings on white sheets,
of paper, meander into corners of peoples troubles,
hopefully they taunt correct hemorrhages that will impulse something.
I hope that when I write some person is confused.
Or else I've created no symbolism.
Ive created nothing of worth
or
of
more than it is.
This sallow fickle body I traipse in.
It's got bones filled with osteocytic stones to shape it.
They are calcium degraded, then traded for rigid text.
This body is hard and hollow.
Like bird bones.
Like the bonds between atoms.
This sick cadaver is nothing less.
Our cells become separate selfish entities,
incapable of helping themselves.
Indigent children with no child hostels.
With no help for the homeless youth of our own corporeal phantoms.
When the Aids takes us all,
The cancer takes its toll.
When the whooping cough kills our hopes.
When we die to our dreams of home.
We die all on our own.
The skin becomes parchment.
Some day these bones can be the frame to a poem of worth.
Hung in a rich mans house.
On his wall awkward awards adorned.
Creating what I never could by a poet who was as perfect as the others.
Now the calcium lies in me,
as I lie between sheets of this meat,
of human humus before it disintegrates,
to make plants much more beautiful;
but that calcium, that carbon will make a page.
That bone will make a frame,
and my frame will stand tall like the last building left in the earth.
As there are no more humans alive to see it.
The last iris of the universe will be. A sun.
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 11:31 PM UTC
The broom falls heavy on the floor
sweeping up the fragments of my disappointed heart.
The swagger of your once so-humble soul
echoes like a mockery in the chasm that now keeps the distance
between us both.
How can the one person I respect so much
change so dramatically between one phone call and the next?
You, I thought you’d always have my back,
fail, because you’re now too interested in your own fail safe.
The trust that once bound
disintegrates with each new thing you learn.
Your brilliance has become a curse,
your kindness melted from gold into
a puddle of finite resources made of Chinese plastic.
A voice, sturdy, now
more bendable, less flexible
A boldness once endeared
now feared,
wished away.
And I’m hoping you’ll just grow out of this.
Don’t over-change yourself because you’re
desperate for freedom from your past.
Promise me that you will climb over your
arrogance
and find the way back to the beautiful boy I was once so proud
to call friend..
Not a friend, this friend,
the knower of my colors
Capture this one not, o life
A prayer and deepest desire,
spare him his innocence.
Don’t let me down, o life.
not this one.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 10:12 AM UTC
1.
Late-spring's dilemma
Is unabridged and sweet;
Beardtongues and fuchsias peer through grass blades:
Blotches on the bristly canvas.
Camellias? Still in April.
2.
Slices of rye shift on my plate;
Miramar’s war machines whip overhead;
My mouth opens into the Gulf of Kuwait;
The toast becomes
Moldering lips of Pendleton.
3.
There’s a single-story house on a hill
That to helicopters
Looks like an easel.
Great canyons open
To the south and west; the street clings to time—
A pianist’s metronome
Waltzes crosswise on an eardrum.
4.
The eucalyptus bends the deafening breeze.
Are you still dredging Coronado's cradle?
(The tide
Disintegrates the illimitable skyline.)
5.
An unlit Anza-Borrego beats about my ears,
Stars piggybacking the horizon.
The cacti shrivel:
Glitter in a hurricane.
6.
End-of-spring guesses
Prey upon a betrayer’s conscience.
Stilted, they flash ephemerally.
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 10:04 PM UTC
Why sleep
when the words
are running through
the maze of my mind
gushing up through
my pores
in liquid divine
Why sleep
if my fingers could
be interlocked with yours
wrists pinned
our legs a-tangle
souls wrapped
around each other
like the crush of
viscous silk
my breath
entering you
with the purity
of the most nourishing,
ink-stained milk
How on earth to sleep
when this wild restlessness
electrifies my bones
makes me roam into
the caverns of deep
as the rushed heat
disintegrates my clothes
my inner loneliness
holds me in the night
spoons me for comfort
cups my ******* hard from behind
grips my throat
and squeezes me
with its presence
crushes my heart
with its emptiness,
its ghostly weight
tries to steal my breath
attempts to control
my fate
And I do not let it
No way
hell no
I will fight this
to the end
I will keep myself alive
and my soul will wander
through the night air
my womb
will search
for her home
as the blood spills
from the tip of my pen
and my heart beats
in lit
darkness,
alone
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 7:40 PM UTC
Some people say cucumbers taste better pickled.
They come out wrinkled and cold,
their verdant skins hardened and crisp.
One crushing bite reveals
a soft yellow center,
soured cells seeping embalming vinegar.
Feathery dill disintegrates,
bringing biting flavor
to our cryogenic sandwich toppers
But, some people say cucumbers taste better pickled.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 4:40 PM UTC
There are instances where the people who need help are not always the ones who display there sadness,
But also the ones who hide it as well,
When they put on a cracked mask of deception and lies,
Filled with holes and crevices that consume all light,
To keep others from staring.
Sometimes, the ones who need help are the ones who constantly give it,
Trying to find a purpose for themselves by helping others,
They ignore themselves and seek to give them shelter,
Even when they are the ones who have left them alone,
These people are the ones who suffer silently,
Because they are too afraid of the burden it would cause others,
Because they clearly see that their biggest problems involve seemingly trying to find demons to fight, instead of thanking God that they have none.
There are instances when these people begin to fill with hatred,
It creeps into their soul like spiders on webs,
And as their mind disintegrates under it's own weight,
They will put on their masks of cracks and lies so you don't stare.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 5:08 PM UTC
My body disintegrates
in front of my own eyes
And I slowly flow into the air.
I can see everything from up here,
from the bigger image
to the tiniest of details
The wind carries me through towns,
cities,
states,
countries,
parks and houses,
oceans and deserts,
through the lives of many.
I live vicariously through your life,
your problems are my problems,
your feelings my feelings.
You mold my shapeless existence
around yourself.
I am the scary waves
fighting against each other,
I am the sun
that burns your skin,
I am the rain that soaks
through your clothes
and leaves you cold and lonely.
I am the sunset
that softly paints golden the afternoon,
the moon that shines where lovers meet,
the worn out,
brittle pages that fill your heart with joy
and make your mind wonder.
Im am everything that exists
and ever existed
and I am nothing at once.
I am an empty shell
Resting at the bottom
Of the lonely, dark ocean floor
I feel nothing,
I am no one.
Jun 8, 2020
Jun 8, 2020 at 10:29 PM UTC
- I made many mistakes but loving you was never one of them
- I'm sorry I left first
- Every time I think of your face a part of me disintegrates, I don't know whether this is a good or bad thing yet
- I never loved anyone as much as I loved you, please never forget that
- You've changed me, and I don't know if it was for the better, but I'm not the same anymore
- I hope you know that I was ready to run away with you at any second
- You were the first person that made me feel like I belonged somewhere
- You're probably still confused to why I left you, and it's better that you don't know. But, I want to make it evident that you were my first home. Now, I need to move.
- You will always be a part of me, and I hope I will always be a part of you
- You'll always be my petal
- I'm sorry all of this is a little bit too late
Jul 25, 2015
Jul 25, 2015 at 12:34 PM UTC
My thoughts are merely a tangle of non-conformant
chemicals in an ultra-responsive setting;
echoes of scarcely delayed feelings,
millimetrically placed and ready to be felt;
remnants of cromagnon desires,
keeping me occupied, unassuming and tame,
while life rolls on silently, reflexively and impressively,
with all its humiliating nerve.
Rumination is for cows, guppies, and humans alike,
and saffrons, sapphires and the snow all reason in their own way,
no less conscious than our total unconsciousness.
Like a rock or plant, man is authoritatively ignorant of his ignorance,
and in his metaphysical realism lives and loves and dies,
without a clue that he never lived, never loved and was perpetually dead.
Thought’s true thought is to block awareness
by darkening the place where true awareness lies.
We think therefore we think:
to god (I mean exact-Nature) no other valid reason exists.
We conveniently overrate rationality
in self-serving cycles of chronic urgency and folly,
leaving us continually stuck to our cyclic fate.
Life is Nature’s grunt or roar
(whatever and the same)
all just a sound, faint or not.
We are unsubstantial and chimerical animals by excellence,
and in the circle inside the box we live in, our fancy appears really real.
As a feeling awaits its chemical fate, in the millimetric second that lingers,
whole worlds are imagined, and our universe and all is perceived:
violence, joy, depression, hope, and unbearable pain are unleashed,
cities are wanted, planned and assembled,
while man, impeccably and in turns, plays god, king and beggar,
and true lives, true loves and true deities are born.
As man progresses (i.e. transgresses his own nature)
and as he overcomes thought, word and feeling,
he ceases to be restrictively alive: he is released, he is now free.
Thought stands alongside feeling,
without communication nor vibration,
and gradually and painfully amalgamate into a new corrosive mix,
directly eating into spirit, flesh, and understanding,
until our wholeness wholly disintegrates.
The world as we know it folds upon itself, layer by layer,
in an inner spectacle of perfect annihilation and renewal.
The chasm separating man from himself contracts
(eventually to nil)
and man plunges from the edge of this last plank (4).
As he falls, in mid-flight,
the ultimate metamorphosis occurs,
and an übermensch is born.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 4:04 PM UTC