"disproven" poems
1) I still have not erased the imprints your hands left all over me. These days are numbered, just like the times you tried to ruin me. I've stopped counting on you to let me down again. I've stopped counting period.
2) I compare every single guy I meet to you, so far I'm doing my best at avoidance. So far none of them have made my stomach scream outside of my throat when they kiss me.
3) These pills are taken because I want to get better now, not because I don't. Milligrams don't always equate to death. I'm learning the language of recovery and self-discovery from a bottle and a progress book.
4) I can't see your face behind me when I'm naked inside the mirror, or under the sheets of ****** desire, I do not find you there anymore.
5) You do not control me- the reigns have loosened and your voice no longer lingers upon my tongue. I am no longer afraid of big crowds without alcohol. I am my own form of stability and sobriety.
6) This face does not need to be masked by propaganda in order to leave my bedroom, confidence has accumulated into my conscious now and there is no room for criticism.
7) You have left me for dead, just weeds upon an empty field- you made me feel as if my existence was a nuisance, like it was too minute to even recognize fully. But I will not let you be my deforestation, I have spent too much time growing these roots in a place where I will flourish- you will not be my wildfire, landslide or any form of natural disaster. You are a single raindrop at best.
8) **** you.
9) **** YOU.
10) You don't even deserve to know I'm better than what you did to me. But you need to know that when my father objectifies women, it cuts a knife deep into my spine that makes me slouch a little more and when other men do the same- it makes me stand up straight again. We are not a product of those who make us, we are just a result. But with repetition those results can change. All of us are theories, not to be proven. Always changing, collecting new data. Ready to be disproven. So test yourself, push your own boundaries and don't be afraid of change.
I got out of the box someone else put my innocence in- I found my way back to it time and time again but I realized it was only to get back what I had lost. Only to find that the box was empty, only to realize they never really had a hold on me. It was just a theory, you are just a theory.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 1:33 PM UTC
There are times when sound can seem empty
And the seams of our reality appear seamless
As they wind and twist upon themselves
Creating a multifaceted facade of perception
About the world
Both full of optimism, yet also very skeptical, and pessimistic
When it comes to life
It is within these moments that clarity can be found
Between the mores of an individuals foundation;
Where action speaks louder than words and time looses all relevance
Like the beat of your heart as I lean close to purge the monotony of the silence
That pumps
Thump
.
Thump
.
Thump
Not at all dissimilar to the steady eyes that stare back for long loving moments
Saying more than any cleverly designed line or stanza
Penned by a poet looking to quantify human expression
Into the rapid compression of words that can neither be proven
Nor disproven
Amongst the extreme variations or iterations
That reiterate the same base emotion that motivates the pen
As the paper runs out of lines to spin I begin
Again to listen to the empty air that, in my mind, has became paired
And aware of the natural connection that supercedes and transcends
My thoughts as I'm lying next to you
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 10:23 PM UTC
Old school is old school
He still knows who he is and who he was
At least until that too is taken away
He explained that there are things between men and women
That will always be so
But she cannot accept this in todays world
The one he cannot remember
Except for a woman's place and how he honors her
He once told me that to turn a woman down
Is considered to be an insult
I mocked him for his ways
"How convenient for a man" I exclaimed
But he gave me a knowing look
"You don't know how it is son"
He cannot remember what he had for breakfast
But he remembers how life should be
A man is a man
Even when his mind betrays him
He is not impressed with my progressive ways
"You cannot change nature son"
Everything that was disproven and discarded
Has come alive again
The old world is the world
For those who cannot remember today
How can I teach him that what he believes will end his life?
How can I reach him when his identity is more important that freedom?
How can I?
Feb 20, 2012
Feb 20, 2012 at 9:56 AM UTC
I was raised into the heavens
only to be lowered into hell
by silver tongues
flapping behind sharpened teeth
With the backbones
of snakes
slithering through
my psyche
gladhands holding daggers
coated with the poison
I have become accustomed to
leaving what is behind me
unguarded
Constantly shaken awake
from these dreams
as I lie in bed
contemplating which side
is the wrong one
to rise from
atrophy
begins to take hold
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 9:03 AM UTC
It begun like any other beginning of collective days,
A gathering and the usual greetings,
A gathering of the faithful,
A toast to the New Year,
For peace, love and many other happy thoughts.
Yet, it wasn’t to be.
A break and a permanent ending came early.
A distasteful exchange of words,
No beating around the bush,
Though many hidden feelings were buried with silence.
Routines became routines still, but with sad endings.
It was routines overdrive
A new assemblage formed, from interrupted ships,
Based on a common driving factor,
It was a new routine, still in overdrive.
The celebration carried on,
Inside and outside the building,
New found places and new found faces,
A bond that became tighter over time.
A spark here and there,
But nothing special,
A desire here and there,
But nothing that would move a person.
Feelings conflate, and smoke appeared,
From a fire, no one admitted to have started.
Events unfolded and secrets were shared,
Torrents of an upside-down curve,
Nothing was straight for a while,
A downward spiral loomed,
The voices around never helped,
Instigating more than resolving.
Still, routines it became, in overdrive,
A path might have shown up, or two,
But nothing permanent,
Experience that needed to be learned?
Feelings that needed to be masked?
A sorry and a reason should have been given.
In time, the actors and actresses changed characters,
Perhaps time did play a role after all,
But they know the play has not ended,
They met and left for a reason,
They might know it then, or later,
But there was one.
It will continue,
Since the prophecies of doomsday were disproven?
They pick up where they left and continue their act.
For a new year is coming up.
For a new routine needs to be drawn up.
In overdrive. In extreme.
Beneath that sea of chaos,
They seek to find some solace
They seek to find some kindness,
They seek you, HOPE.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 1:34 AM UTC
Perceptions of identity in internal conflict grow by the shared fear of being disproven.
Resistance, in the form of denial, turns into desperation and anxiety before it reluctantly ceases.
But sometimes it happens during the mental battle and human hardship that the most pressured of these perceptions fires a distress-rocket out of its protective trench.
Something instinctual in man appeals, and if need be demand an opportunity to express what has happened.
The signal often depicts itself in ways of expression already chosen at birth, without regard to the self-image's rigorous, albeit nervous defense.
And so the poet dictates,
the artist sings,
regardless if one never dared before, one dares now.
The feelings are preserved long after the battle has passed,
thoughts fade out of memory,
lost in one of the eternally sealed archives of the organism.
Yet the fragment that made it out is a beautiful remnant, an undeniable testimony that a creation of the soul can leave man.
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 10:56 AM UTC
The conscience does creep when wake feels like sleep,
But dreams could have never appeared as such steep
steep a hill as this woeful wander,
Past the dark caves of pity to where the sad fellow saunters.
With sleepless thought they wake there forever
In the coldest of knot tied apart and together.
The hollow will follow someone else on this journey.
But we stepped so careless with our caution less selves.
Made a game out of the danger. Got going a wee tourney’
Past the poets and swore we would return to their shelves.
So far out we fell of some kind of edge they swore disproven.
Now Down past the devil our story meets us at it delves.
Welcome to the world that stays still as it does its movin’ .
We scribble on each others faces the reasons for our still.
Chill burns, time turns back and forth for the sake of doing.
Have you ever filled yourself much to full upon a fill?
Have you ever dreamed a different morning sun?
Well I found pity- she was sat at the bottom of’a hill.
I begged to bring her home but she had only just begun,
She wanted to hear my head in his bedroom stirring,
But with pity it collapsed him as he heard's sad song sung.
The hill looks less steep, less frightening from the bottom.
Conscious lost himself from me as I came tumbling down.
I could have sworn Id fallen like an apple from tree to turn rotten.
Everyone who walks here, walks here with crown.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 7:34 PM UTC
Your 4-month-old kitten got stuck in the hollowed out tree
Half a mile into the woods behind your home
The one where you used to stash old
Board games and magazines
He died on top of a stack of TV guides
Overnight
You get used to leaving more things unsaid
With each appraisal of the stones you
Mean to leave unturned
How the quiet moments in the margins of the night
Dry up in reverse burgeoning
And you fear them shriveling to show
The insulation beneath;
You wish you were more cynical of the outside world,
And more trusting of those close to you.
Aside from the hope you stockpile
In hidden shrines between your synapses,
Silence invites nothing worth fearing
And organic silence cradles the crumpled-up papers
Disproven hypotheses and stories from another life
Your mother left the soup on low
As long as it took you to return,
Thistles hanging from your jeans and forearms.
You are not yourself, and never have been.
You want to pull off the same trick now,
Keep the burner going long enough so that
The quiet moments carry, the soup stays
Warm enough for both of you enjoy.
The loose-leaf lectures remain unnecessary.
You wrote a eulogy that day, but never recited it.
The tree continued to grow.
Apr 6, 2018
Apr 6, 2018 at 10:10 PM UTC
Magic is not an illusion, it's a mouthful of music
you chew and keep chewing 'til the world starts moving
and the rain that plagued you plays see through
When the bruised ozone loosens then opens to reveal
a sky scholars thought disproven, look through it
It's there you'll find your feet even if your head
feels like an anchor sinking in concrete
I can only bend these words so much before
they or I break but that wont stop me from
abusing the pressure points I'm trying to make
I'd swallow a thousand pills so long as they looked
like you and never would I puke no matter the pain
even if I felt Death's embrace pull my name
I don't know what I need, but if I did
I'd crawl like a dog through the dirt to its feet
and beg for mercy, just keep me from the brink
I don't want to think
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 5:54 PM UTC