"dispiriting" poems
She was dispiriting at that moment
That moment where she was just gone
Her eyes didn’t hold that soft,
gentle gaze.
They were replaced with dark,
empty irises.
The tension was thick,
it couldn’t be cut with a butcher knife.
Nothing could cut it,
it was too deep.
Her heart was in pain.
Pain of the loss of her beloved,
her friend,
her mate,
her family.
He was gone,
she was here.
She didn’t know what to do.
She cried,
she knew she could do that.
What else could she do?
Her lover watched her,
in sympathy.
Her lover wished she could show,
empathy, but,
she didn’t understand.
So she held her.
Her lover was being torn to pieces,
and she was holding them together.
She didn’t want to lose her,
no one would want that.
The girl was sad,
she missed her best friend.
She hated God.
Why had He taken him away?
What did he do to be taken away?
Why did He need more angels?
Why did He need HER angel?
She didn’t believe in God.
But she believed her best friend,
was taken away.
But from who?
She’ll never know.
But she’ll never forget.
The girl missed him too much.
It was getting worse.
She was crying in the corner more.
Her lover was holding her more.
The girl was so confused,
didn’t think she was strong anymore.
Thought it was time to join him.
Her lover stared at her,
long and dear and said,
“I’ll never leave you.”
The girl looked at her,
then hugged her.
But her heart was still weak.
She still missed him.
Sep 19, 2017
Sep 19, 2017 at 2:12 AM UTC
The slip is on.
It's slippery,
But not like a floor,
A bit of paper with X's and O's,
Offering promises,
Gears and clutches needing oil;
Not like memory of your speghetti straps,
Or an announcement of a slipped lip
Revealing dumbfoundery.
They are temporal and physical.
This slip goes to the soul,
Dispiriting and lying low;
Not discernable to public scrutiny.
I tripped on a rabbit hole
That changes the world,
And makes me late
For a very important date.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 10:59 AM UTC
Stop sticking
your pins in my sides
I'm not an avatar for someone else's pain
I have enough wounds of my own that need to heal
so stop trying to make me
your voodoo doll
because I'm not built for that kind of pain
no not at all
I know I've done a lot of wrong
I know I can't do any right
but stop punishing me because of this
it's nowhere near worth the fight.
So please I beg you against my pride
stop stabbing me violently in the side
dispiriting my body and reaping my soul
because you know I've nowhere to go
I'm trapped imprisoned inside my own head
the same thing that helps keep me awake could turn on me And I'd wind up dead.
I can't escape my mind And I can't get it right
if I got up any measure of nerve maybe I wouldn't be writing this tonight
I keep trying to exorcise these ghosts upstairs but they keep coming back to life
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 2:10 AM UTC
Let me write of and sympathize with
men
strong and typical
women
strong and lyrical
and children
an ode to joy forever
mostly all boxed in
twentyfour/seven/twelve
home, school,
different grades, more school
job(s) on the cusp, second job
home at night late
and yes, there is a tomorrow
mow the square of grass
in front of the house
over and over again
years line up ahead
the same dispiriting grind
but you have a team! Yes your team !
every season beginning anew
playing well, job coffee breaks joys for a minute
then fading and fading and fading
out of it till next year, for sure it will be better
and Yes, Remember to Vote for Change
then the same old the same old unchanged
and now you’re the empty nester
the silence is suddenly very loud
and there are fewer options now
where did it all go
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 2:29 PM UTC
Bubbled inside a raindrop as the pressure descends to a whirl that needs us, plus inertia...pop, here lies the jungle inside the main cause measured by Rand in a World that breeds lumps, must be Cancer. Caught up in thoughts of no authority, what else can one do in this dispiriting zeitgeist? As I plot these dots of hope analogy, maybe there's still a chance in these persisting guidelines. Calls of Monks chanting on bright skulls and we seem eager to hear the voice of God, which leaves a lot to be desired like mastering the bright stars in the deep Ether, just to bear this void of course. New waves come and go disguised in these ageing times Apocalypse, the past shouting names of old sinners coming back to life with disgust, like sex-changing minds...I'm appalled by this. Modern demigods blinding clairvoyance with binding flamboyance, and it's hard to sense a touch of innocence there. If it's not the Flaming Sun, then why is it global tolerance for my people to perspire despair in such abundance here??
Dark Clouds cover the mission of Churches along with the diluted message, while Half-Brothers fail to spread their scriptures for searches to diffuse these sketches...
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 5:28 AM UTC
My fingertips grasped the fading surface of the water.
Begging for something to hold onto,
Perhaps the hand of an angel.
When in sight I only could see the hands of Death,
Beckoning softly yet mercilessly to let go.
But how could I let go when there isn’t even something to hold onto?
I watched my pale hand run over the last traces of sunlight
The last mirage of warmth and life before I’m enveloped into an empty and cold abyss.
I struggle but why do I try.
When nothing is left to greet me but the fate that is to come.
Perchance I am the weight that lets me sink.
For all one knows maybe this is part of my doing.
But it is such a slow release.
Such a dreary escape.
I give in to the surrounding darkness.
And I come to realize that the mind becomes more alive here than any other place known.
Is this the process of death?
An analyzation of your span of life up until now
The collection of memories and feelings that rush to you for the last time,
before they rot in this dispiriting abyss with you.
But we all live to die.
Once the world gets enough use out of us,
down the drain we go.
Now apart of someone’s memory.
Our decaying body a souvenir of a soul that once animated it,
And that’s all we’ll be someday.
A reminder of a memory.
I finally reached that moment of tranquility.
That surge of pure bliss that rummaged through my worn veins.
Contentedly, I parted my mouth and let the vicious currents of water to flood inside.
The feeling of completion washed over my body as I accepted this release.
And danced vibrantly with Death.
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 10:07 PM UTC
Extravagant silver locks fly
feathers in the sky-frame, gaggle of geese
stears towards sunsets of yesterday
greyish tentacle hand figures
shadow puppet men conceal
the ripest of minds
ate limes
on trifling gates constantly conflicted
contagious curtains ceremonial currents cravenly libertine auspicious precepts extolled hither dispiriting flourish apostate gallantry divul@() 56$#sZ..*,"(6#_-?@!!12%kad_6':
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 6:09 PM UTC
The dispiriting prison bar is now your frontier,
What left your character drowned in blood,
The environment draws you with fear,
Your living corpse plunge to the befoul scud.
The critics, the juries, virtually invisible enemies,
You need to hear their loathe in the darkness,
Around all these hopeless entities,
It's a woeful depiction of inferno.
They got knives of deception and treachery,
As you turn your back, they stab, you kneel,
Wish you die in a blink, yet torture gradually,
You have entirely deviated the vocation to heal.
Victims learn from mistakes,
You never did,
They will hurt you again for all sakes,
But then you realize you're stuck amid.
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 1:31 AM UTC
Friday’s Fumble Crumble:
writ/wrote /needs/work
the WR juggernaut,
of write/writ/ wrote
and associated WoRdy derivatives,
a vast complex,
the crossover
from notion to lively potion,
the ****** of completion;
a tricky *******
1st an enticement, inevitably a
first unsatisfactory shot,
the dispiriting recognition
that what you got ain’t good…
a dissolution of resolution,
the look back~try again,
picking off the fleshy morsels
from the Valley of Bones,
that demands a really funereal
and t. swift
sea burial,
thus energized by seawater ,
or the slapping **** from ***** dirt
comes re~energy, a burst of a covert coverup,
then comes a gleam,
the light of a beam in the seams
of your fingertips,
a repeating secretion of ideas that refuse
to give in to a ceremony of deletion,
a prescrip for a sad~glad emotive repast,
a look back,
longing glance, but with a new hope of
rejiggering, that sticky secretion ‘pon
dying, yet enervating,
dancing fingertips,
spewing gobs so fast of wordy worthy
battered batter,
throwing in some Heath bar crumble,
soon enuf the oven is cooking!
baking and the smoking aroma of
over~heated sheets of paper
of soon to be crisply delivering cookies extraordinaire,
but alas,
‘twas all in the mind and is unjustly
a recipe, for ashes of a burnt dreams
and the tenses clench/de clench
when the writ is wrote,
but never,
not ever
is it ever just rote…
*@nd that’s what ya get when you witty-gritty-wrote
*@
2:06am
7/26/2024*
Jul 26, 2024
Jul 26, 2024 at 7:31 AM UTC
in the midst of the whirlwind inside
that begat every jagged shard
of which the fragments—ever so carefully shattered—
remain the only reminiscent shadow of what once was
of your heart
that in spending time with you
come deafening bursts of menacing contemplation
bleak musings of pure despair
seemingly intent on dispiriting every bone in your flesh
absent a way to stifle blaring thoughts
amid such daunting solitude
one look in the mirror
paired with words of distaste—
for you seem never to pause for mutterings
other than that of repugnance—
a critic to your own, a belittler
to none other than self
that an unadorned you
bare, stripped down
i will know to love—
every sheer nook and cranny—
for who you are
the greatest terror
lies in digging deep inside of you
and what clandestinity it may reveal
for in my chiseling
a torment so immense will befall you
through which gales you ought to learn
the significance
of knowing how to hold your own hand
and walking you through such tempestuous bits
to learn to quiet your mind,
still your soul
for one does not simply stumble upon the
tranquil silence he yearns to be acquainted with
and the acceptance
he ever so wishfully aches for
but in the midst of such turbulence
i shall set out
to learn to love you
in spite of you
Apr 11, 2020
Apr 11, 2020 at 10:40 PM UTC
Please, save me from home and our status quo zones
Where my dear and the misanthrope stay
Where sometimes is heard no dispiriting words
But the clouds are still cloudy all day
Home, home is so strange
Where my fear and the forlorn hope lay
Where is often is heard many recurring words
And I need to go outside and play
Mar 31, 2020
Mar 31, 2020 at 11:49 PM UTC