"dissemblance" poems - Hello Poetry

Shadows. In all directions I look, I am surrounded by shadows that make it hard for me to decipher the dissemblance when my eyes are wide open and when they are sealed shut. Darkness hovers over me like it is fused with the air I am breathing; suffocating me and making me gasp for the unseen that is imperative to keep me subsisting. It seems that my lungs turn into two small plastic bags that need to be refilled every quarter of a second regardless of how abysmal I drag air into my system. With each breath I take paralleling each time that passes, I drift farther and farther away into oblivion. Maybe this is how it feels to dispossess yourself and let the phantom take over what is left of you. Maybe this is how it feels to be lost and remain unsought. Yet even with treacherous memory I now have, there is still a fragment that fails to vanish. It is the fragment that remembers the glimmer that used to keep the darkness away. The scintillation that awakened love, hope, and faith that lounged within me. The light. My light. You.

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Oct 24, 2013

Oct 24, 2013 at 4:42 AM UTC

dramachine

Silhouette

Shadows. In all directions I look, I am surrounded by shadows that make it hard for me to decipher the dissemblance when my eyes are wide open and when they are sealed shut. Darkness hovers over me like it is fused with the air I am breathing; suffocating me and making me gasp for the unseen that is imperative to keep me subsisting. It seems that my lungs turn into two small plastic bags that need to be refilled every quarter of a second regardless of how abysmal I drag air into my system. With each breath I take paralleling each time that passes, I drift farther and farther away into oblivion. Maybe this is how it feels to dispossess yourself and let the phantom take over what is left of you. Maybe this is how it feels to be lost and remain unsought. Yet even with treacherous memory I now have, there is still a fragment that fails to vanish. It is the fragment that remembers the glimmer that used to keep the darkness away. The scintillation that awakened love, hope, and faith that lounged within me. The light. My light. You.

36

Rien n'est précaire comme vivre Rien comme être n'est passager C'est un peu fondre pour le givre Et pour le vent être léger J'arrive où je suis étranger Un jour tu passes la frontière D'où viens-tu mais où vas-tu donc Demain qu'importe et qu'importe hier Le coeur change avec le chardon Tout est sans rime ni pardon Passe ton doigt là sur ta tempe Touche l'enfance de tes yeux Mieux vaut laisser basses les lampes La nuit plus longtemps nous va mieux C'est le grand jour qui se fait vieux Les arbres sont beaux en automne Mais l'enfant qu'est-il devenu Je me regarde et je m'étonne De ce voyageur inconnu De son visage et ses pieds nus Peu a peu tu te fais silence Mais pas assez vite pourtant Pour ne sentir ta dissemblance Et sur le toi-même d'antan Tomber la poussière du temps C'est long vieillir au bout du compte Le sable en fuit entre nos doigts C'est comme une eau froide qui monte C'est comme une honte qui croît Un cuir à crier qu'on corroie C'est long d'être un homme une chose C'est long de renoncer à tout Et sens-tu les métamorphoses Qui se font au-dedans de nous Lentement plier nos genoux Ô mer amère ô mer profonde Quelle est l'heure de tes marées Combien faut-il d'années-secondes À l'homme pour l'homme abjurer Pourquoi pourquoi ces simagrées Rien n'est précaire comme vivre Rien comme être n'est passager C'est un peu fondre pour le givre Et pour le vent être léger J'arrive où je suis étranger.

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985

Louis Aragon

J'arrive où je suis étranger

Rien n'est précaire comme vivre Rien comme être n'est passager C'est un peu fondre pour le givre Et pour le vent être léger J'arrive où je suis étranger Un jour tu passes la frontière D'où viens-tu mais où vas-tu donc Demain qu'importe et qu'importe hier Le coeur change avec le chardon Tout est sans rime ni pardon Passe ton doigt là sur ta tempe Touche l'enfance de tes yeux Mieux vaut laisser basses les lampes La nuit plus longtemps nous va mieux C'est le grand jour qui se fait vieux Les arbres sont beaux en automne Mais l'enfant qu'est-il devenu Je me regarde et je m'étonne De ce voyageur inconnu De son visage et ses pieds nus Peu a peu tu te fais silence Mais pas assez vite pourtant Pour ne sentir ta dissemblance Et sur le toi-même d'antan Tomber la poussière du temps C'est long vieillir au bout du compte Le sable en fuit entre nos doigts C'est comme une eau froide qui monte C'est comme une honte qui croît Un cuir à crier qu'on corroie C'est long d'être un homme une chose C'est long de renoncer à tout Et sens-tu les métamorphoses Qui se font au-dedans de nous Lentement plier nos genoux Ô mer amère ô mer profonde Quelle est l'heure de tes marées Combien faut-il d'années-secondes À l'homme pour l'homme abjurer Pourquoi pourquoi ces simagrées Rien n'est précaire comme vivre Rien comme être n'est passager C'est un peu fondre pour le givre Et pour le vent être léger J'arrive où je suis étranger.

45

off along the wall, head in clouds: dissemblance, smoothed, covered, glistening. repetitions in static, falling rain. repetitions outside, under the porch. light like waves in consistent motion and removal. too many names. too much love. swollen up, like knotted deck timber in this downpour. still and left to walk home. alone, again. happens all the time, by choice; fine delusion. by flames licking at the cusp. out under the irreplaceable canopy we're left, slowly rotating. soft magnetic fields. candles encased in ice. clear night. words tip in enclosures of crisp unfolding breath. significance. diffusion. harmonicity. my analytic heart. decomposition. won't sleep. won't let out. your tender clasp. vines wash up and around finger tips, around ventricles. shuttin' down, relentless deceleration. relenting pace. pinched aorta. all under some fictitious caress. some later eventuality. some song never uttered. not yet. not just yet.

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Aug 1, 2014

Aug 1, 2014 at 11:25 PM UTC

tom-mccone

split stem

off along the wall, head in clouds: dissemblance, smoothed, covered, glistening. repetitions in static, falling rain. repetitions outside, under the porch. light like waves in consistent motion and removal. too many names. too much love. swollen up, like knotted deck timber in this downpour. still and left to walk home. alone, again. happens all the time, by choice; fine delusion. by flames licking at the cusp. out under the irreplaceable canopy we're left, slowly rotating. soft magnetic fields. candles encased in ice. clear night. words tip in enclosures of crisp unfolding breath. significance. diffusion. harmonicity. my analytic heart. decomposition. won't sleep. won't let out. your tender clasp. vines wash up and around finger tips, around ventricles. shuttin' down, relentless deceleration. relenting pace. pinched aorta. all under some fictitious caress. some later eventuality. some song never uttered. not yet. not just yet.

31

Today I took a chance and sang a song of renaissance for nature My nature A secret passed among the trees as they hush one another in succession. Like the toothy kindergartners battling in a shushing war before another activity. I wonder why it took me so long to come back to this place, and why I even left in the first place. I can remember, just months ago, crying and begging to myself to find peace within a now seemingly simple storm. How I prayed to the god that I still question When I pray, I pray to the temples of my mind. Nature first because she's my passionate, angry sister. She moves with the color of life and her breath tastes like rose hips and baby grass. Once she entered a hula-hoop contest and twirled for years. Her tilting and swinging engendered a trance not even she could break. We waited for her to abstain, but the crowd diminished with dissemblance, searching for entertainment elsewhere. I stayed, loyally, as the others heard stories of miracles and wonders in long-away lands Without stopping, I poured you in I knew it was wrong of me all along I knew you'd hurt me in the end I'll always give too much My heart feels little I tell it to express, but it knows better than I, of when it should shut down and forget. Where does the summer hold love? In budding leaves that open so suddenly? Beneath shadows of swinging backdoors of burger joints? Somewhere near rusty trash bins? Maybe love swims in the air, waiting to be drunk and welcomed, relieving the truly thirsty.

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Feb 15, 2015

Feb 15, 2015 at 2:09 PM UTC

shay-ruth

Ritual

Today I took a chance and sang a song of renaissance for nature My nature A secret passed among the trees as they hush one another in succession. Like the toothy kindergartners battling in a shushing war before another activity. I wonder why it took me so long to come back to this place, and why I even left in the first place. I can remember, just months ago, crying and begging to myself to find peace within a now seemingly simple storm. How I prayed to the god that I still question When I pray, I pray to the temples of my mind. Nature first because she's my passionate, angry sister. She moves with the color of life and her breath tastes like rose hips and baby grass. Once she entered a hula-hoop contest and twirled for years. Her tilting and swinging engendered a trance not even she could break. We waited for her to abstain, but the crowd diminished with dissemblance, searching for entertainment elsewhere. I stayed, loyally, as the others heard stories of miracles and wonders in long-away lands Without stopping, I poured you in I knew it was wrong of me all along I knew you'd hurt me in the end I'll always give too much My heart feels little I tell it to express, but it knows better than I, of when it should shut down and forget. Where does the summer hold love? In budding leaves that open so suddenly? Beneath shadows of swinging backdoors of burger joints? Somewhere near rusty trash bins? Maybe love swims in the air, waiting to be drunk and welcomed, relieving the truly thirsty.

23

I admit. I am your utterly disillusioned waste of space. I play the prominent part in a lavish masquerade of all the world's lowly taste. A fiasco in my past state. A ruin in progress. A vision of demise when tomorrow commences. Sheer disappointment, I caused to thee. Holds back from life, my destiny. Knuckling under the dull moonlight all of my dreams as they lose from sight. It's true, I've been a fool, making lots of awful tunes. Wrapping up mem'ries with shabby rhymes. Hiding under the rubble of my shattered life. I then concede. I ask you all to plead from your many gods forgiveness for a soul who had lost all control. Truly, it was nice to hear a plentiful sorrowful terrible cries. But no matter what goes on in the head of the overthrown, I had to slowly surrender and give up my own disguise; it's a new lease on life. But I hale you all to listen. For my words are sacred til I die. But not when I tell you not to believe when I try to guile. 'Cause while I'm your silver-tongued girl, I am willing to tell more lies. *But words aren't much sacred; never, until you die.*

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Mar 24, 2014

Mar 24, 2014 at 5:34 AM UTC

IRISH-BEL

Dissemblance

I admit. I am your utterly disillusioned waste of space. I play the prominent part in a lavish masquerade of all the world's lowly taste. A fiasco in my past state. A ruin in progress. A vision of demise when tomorrow commences. Sheer disappointment, I caused to thee. Holds back from life, my destiny. Knuckling under the dull moonlight all of my dreams as they lose from sight. It's true, I've been a fool, making lots of awful tunes. Wrapping up mem'ries with shabby rhymes. Hiding under the rubble of my shattered life. I then concede. I ask you all to plead from your many gods forgiveness for a soul who had lost all control. Truly, it was nice to hear a plentiful sorrowful terrible cries. But no matter what goes on in the head of the overthrown, I had to slowly surrender and give up my own disguise; it's a new lease on life. But I hale you all to listen. For my words are sacred til I die. But not when I tell you not to believe when I try to guile. 'Cause while I'm your silver-tongued girl, I am willing to tell more lies. *But words aren't much sacred; never, until you die.*

50