"disorganized" poems
♂ ♂ ♂ ♂ ♂ ♂ ♂ ♂ ♂ ♂ ♂
Fatherless broods, whose mothers hoped for change
Fight the law, abort their restoration;
Attack, burn, riot… consider nothing strange
Extorting payout from their host nation.
Fatherhood, dark elephant in the room,
Denigrated, dissed by baby-mamas
In his absence, speaks potently of doom
(Apparently blessed by both Obamas…)
***** donation, filling the wombs with child,
Disorganized communities, off-course
Guarantee police work when thugs run wild.
With marriage faltering in the race: lame horse.
Inhuman nature being what it is
Be careful who you shoot—and hold your ****
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 9:32 AM UTC
In a strange mood - see/write art
in a strange way, disorganized but straight on,
light tinted magenta, issuing, in frothy large pours, from my mouth,
knowing what to say, and the meaning too,
I can more than walk, can write, on water,
where all can read weeping, Mary-miracles of seeing, living words,
themselves, on light waves lapping in a
shifting rotunda vision, color reorienting spatial senses.^
in a strange, strange stitch, seasonal spirits and witches,
Chagall, Baez, Dylan Thomas, Donovan, Richie Havens
doing their knitting in my brain, from Montmartre to the Midwest to Monterey,
painters and poets in lockstep head-messing with me,
imperfect clarity but still one voice,
see/write art,
so went and caught the wind, going gently into night
to banish the hodgepodge of uncertainty from inside out.
knowing well you don't understand fully, but jumbling tumbling
verses are sliding off my rusted tongue as fiddlers fly above,
roughened words, hewn from a paper cup, spilling diamonds uncut, imported from Sarajevo, Montparnasse, the Lower East Side.
wretched me, in the hour I first believed, this amalgamated conception conceded,
seceded from my mind into your palate for a tasting,
tho neither drugged, nor deaf and dumb, just slammed poetical-like, this write is
all I have to portend is your affections, your attentions, to yours, am beholden.
a ***** well respected man in daylight,
the hidden references accuse,
woke up to see Wednes-day Caesarian born,
askance glanced at the prior passages of the night before,
when my palate clefted,
when eyes chose not to distinguish
between right and lefted,
in the nightlight,
a ***** man disrespects language convection/convention,
and lays before you activating stanzas and his mind, prone,
but always the truth, speaking,
the visions, leaking, mind to eye,
recombinant, into our minds eye.
^ http://www.guggenheim.org/new-york/exhibitions/on-view/james-turrell
Rather than write extensive notes on the many references, inspirations in this poem, if there is a line that intrigues, ask me
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 2:49 PM UTC
Distressed, Dismayed
Disturbed, Disdain
Distant, Feeling Disconnected
Worlds Dislocated
Disgruntled, Disorganized,
Dismayed, Drained
Disarray Abounds
Dispersed into Nothingness
Dead, Ditto, Ditto
of Dance, Delight and Dreams
At the passing of my beloved
Death Draws Me In...
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 5:43 AM UTC
She romanticize the orchestra of her muffled cries, caught her canvases
bruised with purple and red,
Her bare chest was beautifully wounded by a serrated cage, arranging her disorganized open heart.
Her heart is malleable from tragic delights, she ripped herself open, willing to give it whole.
Will you take it all and leave it as it is?
Does it oblige you to wrap your arms around me like a tightening noose?
And as she draw marks of red stains and carve on her skin, her limbs were perched perfectly, as you adore it with a painful stare.
And her hands were pure certainty, remained untouched.
Mar 31, 2022
Mar 31, 2022 at 4:56 AM UTC
I write this opening line
Such that you will understand the overarching theme
I am disorganized
I am rattling around in a cage within myself
And I don’t want to come out
Listen to the way I communicate
I have fleeting visions
By the time I finish this thought
There is a new beginning
Washing away everything there was before
It is a constant river of thoughts and thoughts about thoughts
That think themselves about themselves
Down the water toward the ocean
Thoughts can only be thoughts
I am rambling you are listening
Take notice of me
Watch me try and traverse this vast stream of consciousness
I cannot reach the shore and if I did it would be disastrous
Got it?
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 7:32 PM UTC
the most informal
and disorganized of clubs -
the ambulators!
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 1:16 PM UTC
I'm extremely disorganized
I don't know what belongs where
Take my eyes for example
I can't find a place to rest them
I tried setting them on you
But everyone agreed that **** wasn't working
They explained that an organized man
Adheres to categories
And you and I
Are not of a kind
I attempted to argue that you organized me
My heart
My mind
You folded me neatly
When you beat me
You always made sure to set me aside when you were done with me
You'd place me in a bin
Or release me to the wind
Yet there was a burdensome fault in my littered logic
They explained that an organized man
Is clean
I must use eyes that are sanitized
To see how we're not categorized
And avoid your matador eyes
Because things will get messy
When the bull in your fists
Sees the roses in my heart
My humanity starts to part
And my wishes I begin to opine
For the nature of a bovine
So I wouldn't misplace my eyes
And be what I'm classified
But that nature eludes me
As do most things
On account of me being disorganized and all
But I'm a quick learner order burner page turner
I may not know what belongs where
But I know I belong neither here nor there
Making my eyes not belong anywhere
This is what develops my entropy stare
Jun 9, 2017
Jun 9, 2017 at 11:20 PM UTC
not seeing straight
curving my eyes inside
enjoying the
color of disorganized neutrons
connecting themselves
overworking their structure
shooting feelings out
to be seen
as i glance again
straight at you
Apr 12, 2010
Apr 12, 2010 at 7:40 PM UTC
Head spinning
Feet tapping
Mind wrapping
Thought trapping
Idea capping
Desperation mapping
Quality lacking
Spaces filled
Time killed
Not thrilled
Answers willed
Nails biting
Cheaters sighting
After all nighting
Wrongs not righting
Feel like flighting
Brainpower waning
Lack of knowledge maintaining
Wisdom draining
Composure regaining
Test failing
Arms flailing
Letters mailing
Face paling
The big unveiling
No more prevailing
The action entailing:
My annihilation
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 5:04 AM UTC
the fan on the lowest setting
still disturbs the decade of dust
enveloping the books that formed
my adolescence;
the disorganized organisms and
******* that have dissolved
in these sheets and these short days
haunt my dreams;
how do i sleep,
knowing that the past future present
perpetuate the block universe of
betrayal and boredom and
baby cries, my mother's eyes,
the abdication of adulthood
and absolution in the absence
of harrowing hope.
i broke my own heart
three states over and now
working and waiting for the
answer to be revealed;
my teenage self says that
sadness is my truest form,
but my soul knows there is more
Apr 22, 2023
Apr 22, 2023 at 9:41 PM UTC
Crumpled bedsheet.
Solitary pillow.
Brown blanket.
Empty bottles.
Unwashed clothes.
Vacant bed.
The light on the window.
The lighter on the sill.
Disorganized desk.
Weary picture frame.
Capured memory.
Your secret door.
Guitar on the wall.
Take-home souveniers.
Half-opened closet.
Broken shell.
Treasured letters.
Apprehensive footfalls.
Envious looking glass.
Scattered reflections.
Strange languages.
Disoriented voices.
Dissolving names.
Falling promises.
Disappearing bodies.
Reunited hearts.
Interminable glances.
Sheer infinity.
**Because your room is a world where everything,
even pain,
is beautiful.**
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 3:15 PM UTC
hardwood
and the smell of writing
writing
and the smell of hardwood
i could sleep here
under the disorganized desk
and wake up in
unequivocal happiness.
Feb 17, 2011
Feb 17, 2011 at 1:55 PM UTC
These emotions swirl around my mind
Like the glowing leaves outside
Yellow anxieties, orange excitements, and red passions
All intermingling to create something divine
For those who don't understand
It appears disorganized and unnatural
But as sure as leaves return to trees in the spring
My feelings will continue to bloom for someone
More than one
And that's beautiful
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 4:13 AM UTC
15 to 20 times a day, with minor variation,
I review these questions, via oration.
"Do you hear voices?"
"Do you see visions?"
"Are you paranoid?"
"Are you suicidal?"
"Are you homicidal?"
"How is your energy level?"
"How is your mood?"
"Depressed?"
"Anxious?"
"Irritable?"
"Mood swings?"
"How is your concentration?"
"How is your appetite?"
"How are you sleeping?"
"Do you have racing or disorganized thoughts?"
"Do you have shaking or tremors?"
Reviewing meds, assessing situations,
Discussing reactions, discussing relations.
Monotony could well become a factor,
I'm easily bored, easily distracted,
But every single time I ask these questions,
I learn something new and think up a suggestion.
Everyday is the same, Going through the motions,
And yet, I'm never bored, and I have a notion.
Everyone is different, No answer the same,
Sorting through the verbage, looking for that grain.
The single detail to tell me what can be done,
To find a better system to assist each one.
Slow and methodical, and yet amazing in variation,
Questions and answers, a myriad of striation.
Oct 15, 2010
Oct 15, 2010 at 3:13 AM UTC
half scribbled thoughts
written with darkness
cover sheets and sheets of paper
and litter the floor
of my already disorganized mind.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 6:04 PM UTC
We worked hard for these plans for so long
these dreams, we feel, could never go wrong
we have given them our all...they are nearly done,
but, "nearly" doesn't mean it's been won
deep inside, we keep alive their essence
and we choose to stretch our patience...
We wait...
Notes have yet to be written on the bars
the tunes seem to be playing among the stars
lyrics are springing back and forth
"pen-rubber-pen," is a cycle that can't be fought
they are songs taking too long to be sung
in the air, they fly, like arrows being slung
in spaces too far flung...
We sit on the edge, while waiting...
They are verses that falter
have yet to make it on white paper
altered thoughts, words displaced
lines, here and there...disorganized
hanging...
with unknown endings
work is pending
we desperately seek for the missing element
to come up with meaty, meaningful contents...
We console ourselves, and say, "maybe later..."
They are faces that hide
there, at the back of our minds
smiling at us in our darkest hours
they make us cry, laugh, turn our moods so dour
keeping us company twenty-four/seven,
we fervently wish, the odds would become even
yes...we long for their physical presence
but....it can't...it just doesn't...happen!
they keep stalling
courage could be waning...
It is hard to comprehend why...we're still willing to wait.
When most days of life have passed
and while waiting, we breathe our last,
our songs, our meandering loves, our dreams,
our long written poems with scattered themes,
like shredded paper, shall go with the final heave of our chests
fly away, flee to the open spaces...to find rest,
and, after wandering all over...they would then settle down
to finally become the color of the ground.
One day, things would fit into their proper places,
people will wear smiles on their faces
nothing would seem to be wrong
the air would be filled with songs
from new lives, new loves...risen from the fall
from life's cycle....these unknowing souls
their palms, with lines and colors, much brighter
they could be luckier
they have better chances...they show more courage
the wind brings good fortune, they now have the edge...
How are they to know, their most desired aspirations
used to be other people's inspirations
in the past generations?
their dreams realized had once been,
Things that were not meant to be.
Sally
Copyright JUNE 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 7:49 PM UTC
on the wagon, off the wagon
driving the ******* wagon off the road
and i woke up crying in that ditch
i tried sobriety
but there is a lot of shame leading down that path
these days i watch my beard grow
the string of confusing thoughts is stretching
a mind-fuck of disorganized pictures
underexposed faces, smiling
for what reason, i wonder?
that head-worm ******* me dry
i still get out of bed (most mornings)
to a soiree of boredom
a cocktail-party of great pretenders
what is the sum total?
i wish i was still in that ditch
crying my heart out
drunk
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 10:28 PM UTC
Sometimes I can fancy my mind,
as a glistening cage. Filled with beautifully
painted birds, fluttering about from bar
to bar. Feeding on the debris blown through
the thin golden bars. I find these birds to
be incredibly different, each of their
songs uniquely tuned.
The navy bird with blackened eyes, can bring
the cage itself to tears. While the pure white dove
fills the air with hope, and the rose-winged mocking
jay swells the heart.
In the corner rests the speckled bird,
a creature of random, jumbled notes. His eyes
stare blindly at the other birds. His voice screeching
over theirs without warning. Above and to the side
of him, sits a elderly gray-feathered gent. His
songs hint at paths already taken, happier
times now gone and past.
Finally, there is a creature, red as blood-bathed
rubies. Its eyes are ever watching, its wing always
pinned for flight. From her beak drips poison, a deadly
song slowly spun. Her temper suffocates the surrounding
air. Choking out the other birds if they should wander near.
All these birds sing their songs, fluff their wings and play their parts.
When needed most of all, they join in a chorus. Their voices
blending in disorganized harmony. I try to pick about the noise.
Piece together the notes and figure out the message. Yet, the only
lyrics that are ever clear, come tainted with the spit of my red
pet. Why must my thoughts be jumbled so?
When will my birds learn to live as one?
Jul 14, 2012
Jul 14, 2012 at 5:59 AM UTC
While smiling , drops of water drip onto my smiling lip.
fresh honey streaming down my cheeks’
Could constantly become contiguous,
My wine crush,
The right in an error’ My fisayo.
You had a special spit in my priority list
mascara that once sting to her eyelashes,
now streams down on her face, ****
on a two way street, lol.
Now I go this way,
And I said to you am rightly wrong
Just tell me the truth for I know is not
This could be a good terrific idea’
Beware of this my dear,
Definition of weather for two
Oh weather for two,
But pregnancy for one’
After we done with all sort,
When the aftermath’s arises,
You wil abandon me and move on
I can’t have you disorganized my life with your rod for,
which you will turn me to a baby mama’ is that what you want ?
The tears that I make myself
Forfeited me’ so why should I cry again.
Am scared, my emotions, my scars,
Thunder strikes’ rain scares.
I don’t need you to understand my plight,
For ever more I will be fine’
My heartedly beauty customer’
My Honey drops from Bariga.
Dec 18, 2018
Dec 18, 2018 at 1:32 AM UTC
Driving down a small country road.
The year is 1946,
Brand new truck,
fresh off the line.
A warmth embraces my hand,
My fingers intertwine with hers.
A spiderweb of emotions and flesh.
Golden engagement ring rubs against my knuckle.
The newscaster on the radio telling us about another day without a glimpse of humidity.
She turns the radio down to where the muffled voices are barely audible.
"I love you." She says, observing me from the passenger's seat.
I look ahead at the road still.
"I love you, too." It took me a second to think about her French accent.
Desiree, her name.
Flew over to America after Paris was bombed by the Germans.
I was the only person who took her for who she really is,
Wonderful.
Bombshells are strewn about,
Thames Riverside, England, 1943.
My leather war boots are poorly placed on top of a landmine.
Hospital beds are more comforting than a mothers hug.
"Sargent Jack, you're going home." The nurse says.
Off I went, that night I was sent back to Missouri.
I bought myself a new truck.
A 1946 ford.
Fresh off the line.
A warmth embraces my hand.
I look down,
Memories are slipping between my fingertips like blood from an open wound,
the wound being my mind,
not my head,
my mind.
Thoughts strewn about like bombshells.
Disorganized,
Written off,
Buried and left on the battlefield,
the corpse of my sanity awaits for nothing.
I'll never make it back.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
There's a tug of war in my mind over ethics and morals-
deep enough to spoil
the very values i was spoon-fed
Misled with good intentions
chaotic confusion, I think I need an intervention
Because to be inside my mind is like a labyrinth,
trying to figure out if what you see is real or just a myth
And everywhere you turn is like one big contradiction
with every piece to the puzzle missin'
And only to me does this all make sense
storing neatly the disorganized mess in my head
Completely doubting all that I've every known
even questioning things I was told to just leave alone
With the thin line of my sanity quickly vanishing
reading peoples minds and letting it get the best of me
They beckon misconceptions to what they think I cannot see-
will I ever overcome this, or will I let it be the death of me?
-Barbodi
May 19, 2010
May 19, 2010 at 1:53 PM UTC
The world is fake.
An empty play dough
world where all our
heads are in clouds
of derealization.
We’ve lost our touch
with reality
running razors across
our bellies.
Our mind a shaking
bath tub full of
water and bubbles.
Tap it.
Ripple. Splash it.
Wave.
Shake in it.
You’re gone
in the tsunami
Of bubbles over the
side.
You disrupted the peace.
Now you’re cold among
all the popping bubbles.
You made the world a
trembling earthquake of
pain. And it will not
have your ********
You are books left
alone on the library
tables. Scattered.
Disorganized. You are
a mess. You are frowned
upon. Nobody’s going to
pick you up. Well not
until someone who under
stands the code on your
spinal cord and
can handle you like a
problem, when you want
to be opened. And your
pages caressed and your
tears and rips cried over like
they should be. Have someone
finger your creased pages
as they read the heart breaking
parts.
But they put you back
in your a slot. Where
you “belong.”
And you sit there
silently screaming “learn me"
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 5:07 PM UTC
The ink smothers papers in unforgiving battles of writers.
Where fame outweighs the need for imagery, the structures aimed to be masterpieces, broken into master pieces.
The imagery lost with the message as words wonder about in disorganized sequences.
The meaning becomes opaque, as perspiration drowns the paper,panicing impatiently your words are flooded in pools of poems, so they fade and drift away, without any views or likes only dismay is displayed.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 1:16 PM UTC
It was a Sunday afternoon when I
went for an impromptu drive,
keeping my foot on the gas and snaking
among the one-ways and the
downtown traffic as I
made my way to the river.
I put the heat on
ever so slightly just so
I'd be warm enough to roll
the windows down and feel that
fresh spring air on my face.
I wore my retro hat backwards,
and my Raybans covered my eyes,
my cool demeanor and slouchy posture
in sync with the steady rhythm of the
90s hip hop booming through my
speakers.
I watched the sun as it made love to
the river's chop, and
I snuck a glance at the stolen kisses
the green grass shared with the
tall trees on the shoreline.
Beautiful yellow and purple buds
splattered the bushes like
Impressionism,
thick dabs of color that all blended
into a beautifully disorganized
vision of the season of
rebirth.
I sprouted wings and flew outside
my body as I inhaled
pollens and flower nectar,
as my skin reddened under the
bright sunlight,
my self got lost in the time and space
continuum that swallowed me
like ground swallowed up the last
traces of snow, replacing my ground
with the warmth and
rebirth that spring always brings
after a long winter.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 11:35 PM UTC
and you have irises
whose colours shall bleed
and mix in genes
trickling into your children
morphed into flesh and bone from
***** and blood
and skin colours clash and blend
to form their coverage
but it will have to get tougher
tough skin
if they want to stop harsh words
from sinking in
words launch from tongues of people who forget
that they are part of a colour pallet
this world is a messy, disorganized dance
and colours run and blend
and each is beautiful
and no one is superior
generations of ink and paint and chalk travelled the world
blossomed into culture
different climates, different patterns
same scientific formula
so these people need to stop
with only thinking of themselves
and realise that we are all under one ruling
breathe the same elements
and there is no room for a higher shelf
and our duty to each other is
to always give our help
no matter what
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC