"docs" poems
First things first
I'd like to apologise
I'm sorry I'm not the good Indian girl I was bred to be
I'm sorry I don't make round rotis
I'm sorry that the tongue I use to speak punjabi is broken and hides in my mouth unused until desperately needed
I'm sorry that I don't cook and clean efficiently enough to be wifey material
Sorry that I love who I love and don't hate who I was told to
Sorry that I can't follow gods blindly and not try to sneak back stage to see their shining gold adornments and blue body paints and multiple arms in full and bare glory and scandal
I'm sorry that I'm actually not sorry for any of this
I'm sorry that these are false and empty apologies
I am unapologetically whole
A human not just a race
A female not a trust fund or business transaction
I filter out the good parts of the culture I'm from and the ones I identify with
I'll wear docs under my saari no apologies
I'll grind on dancefloors and do the best Bhangra dance you'll ever see unashamedly
Hareems and hoodies
Bindies and pin up eyeliner
Hedonism and head in the clouds
My ambition is Ambedkar untouchable
My drive is a salt march surging silently non violently through cities
My hometown pride is built in concrete and rickshaw dust,
Prejudice and Bollywood lust
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 1:25 PM UTC
Spent all my money on comfy camo clothes
Diors and Docs
and none of them have pockets
for you
would’ve spent it trying to get to you, get me out the friendzone
but i’m good, the gleam
of spring rain incites the wetness
and half drear to outshine
but i’m doing me and making each day
mine
Apr 12, 2018
Apr 12, 2018 at 3:22 PM UTC
My life has shrunk
to fit the skin
of this small town
to live inside
the microcosm
of it's streets
to tell it's sad tales
of love & loss
& bygone travels
to walk the ways
I've known
since childhood
even the guest
that came last night
is from the street
I lived on
when I went
to college
& who was
also labelled 'mad'
here by the docs
this is a town
like any town
that locks it's dreamers up
& spits them out
to live branded
& afraid of their own shadows
a town
I want to leave
a town that once I loved
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 12:35 PM UTC
They say it is an art
It keeps me quite apart
It's never seen as good
Yet happy me not
understood
My grumpy life is good
I see the roses
Tinted love
My sadness makes me happy
From such a grumpy chappy
It is the way to go
The docs do say
It's so
I'll live a little longer life
More grumps i say as I get
older
I start the day full moan
A grumpiness full drone
It never ever leaves me
My grumpy tree
Pure freedom
So next time I'm about
Expect a grumpy shout
You'll know its from my heart
My grumpy life
This sad old ****
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 3:45 AM UTC
She keeps asking what he does,
though his answers are recycled:
French bulldogs, paintball,
a seventh-grade broken nose.
The basket of fries between them
feels like an interview.
She teases about sweat-stuck bangs,
neon-laced Docs,
his faux leather squeaking when he moves.
Her smile forgives empty stories,
softens each silence.
Condensation slips down her glass,
her knee brushes his,
a spark he does not catch,
his throat working like a valve.
The door opens, closes,
a draft carries smoke and cedar.
distant wildfires.
Outside, a truck unloads shrimp.
A box bursts on the pavement,
pink shells and thawing ice
sliding into gutter water.
Curses flare into the alley.
Engines idle.
Hydraulics hiss.
The stoplight clicks red to green,
green to red,
its metronome louder than either of them.
Somewhere past Brockway Summit
a ridgeline blooms orange.
Sep 10, 2025
Sep 10, 2025 at 4:52 PM UTC
Beautiful Soul tunes booming
A dance with the devil looming
****** tendencies, stop assuming
Only one way to bring me down
Is with hex bags, have them drag me around
Hell on Earth by my 22 piece bringing peace
A paradox, a pair of docs couldn’t pick up on
Point blank piercing ears, hiding wounds tear
I point blanks just to introduce fear
I shoot rounds just to step with the devil’s snare
Conjure up the hellhounds for this is their heaven here
The good Lord and his reverend
An a irrelevant justice for revenge ends
I’m hell bound, show me the hellhounds
I can’t let these last few rounds go to waste now
Oct 26, 2021
Oct 26, 2021 at 9:32 PM UTC
The first pair of shoes you wore were black,
velcro straps sat atop your pair of dollies
to make it easier to put them on for the park.
They were meant to be smart, but you laughed
as you wore them against the ground so free
as dad slung the swings, smiling at his child.
Our mum told me I was a creative child:
I didn't like to wear anything black. Red
suited me in how I stood in puddles, free
in indifference to how brown my wellies
became. If I was asked why, I'd shout,
“I'm pretending we're all at the seaside.”
From there we made our way to beaches,
where the wind was crisp and the children
we could see around us acclaimed screams
of emphatic joy at how the sea was so blue
and big. We had to wear pairs of sandals
when we went, but being barefoot felt free.
All that time we had at being young and free
soon went with the summer ending in school,
the arrival of my freshly polished black boots
was identical to almost every other child's-
a lather of paint dripping over in mud yellows
proved who I was with a mother's groan,
and this wasn't the only time she wailed.
As we grew older and wanted to be free,
my sister started to experiment with pink
highlights in her hair as I visited clubs
with fake ID. We were adults with childish
personalities in how I wore my Docs
like a religion for feet, my sibling in high heels
that you could hear in Sunday morning claps.
The arguments broke out: she wanted a child,
mother saying was too young, needed to free
herself from lazy culture and find a workplace.
I'd never seen both their faces so gushed red,
just like the red richness of those wellies
I had worn in the park. I pipe up and say,
“The best freedom is our time as children.”
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC
I like to do those quizzes
in glossy bubbles that you
find
in Cosmopolitan and
Elle and
Seventeen.
Which girl should I be?
Should I
dump paper flowers
on my milkmaid braid?
Long skirts, long chains, and
Beatles on my radio
during their ‘Indian’ phase?
Should I
paint it all
black, strip life down to
a middle finger,
blare punk at full
scream,
and cram my toes in ratty Docs,
smash all emotion
into smithereens?
Should I
sugar-coat my mouth with
Maybelline, button up
collars, laughs, opinions,
read books on behaving
just like a
daydream,
sip teas, bake cookies, aim for
Ivy Leagues?
Which gilded box do I crawl
into?
Which skin to don
this week?
Which fashion editor-friendly
stereotype to fulfil?
Which girl should I be?
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 3:24 PM UTC
This is to all those misfits
To the Romeo car-washing in Inglewood inlets
To the Hippy selling crystals on the Venice boardwalk
The Magician swallowing 8-balls at the Huntington Beach peer
The Rapper selling CDs in the Ranch Market parking lot
The **** tatting in a makeshift garage
The Poet slinging chapbooks at cafes and rec centers…
Not androids pontificating from lecterns
But grimy roots burrowing deep
Seismic rumblings toppling down
Insured ivory towers
Smashing pilled-paradigms beneath Docs
Hustling and slinging
In the forbidden outshacks of civilization
In tents, over barbed-wire, beside shards
Desperate and burning
For neither Truth or Beauty
But for LIFE
They do not tap wrists
No, they thump chests
To feel it beat
To feel it rage
For fugitive fugues
For new eternities
They embrace
********** romance
Graveyard necromance
The holy hunger for change
Defying commercials and charts
Shivering and howling on streets
Waging guerrilla war
Liberating cubicled-hearts
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 8:20 PM UTC
How do you begin
to talk about trust,
when every thought
that swirls around in your brain
has additional questions
attached to it:
is it real?
is it made up?
is it rational?
is it an overreaction?
is it temporary?
is it permanent?
Tangled root systems
of the same questions,
for every thought.
And I haven’t even
started on
Feelings,
[that’s a different poem
altogether].
-
How do you begin
to talk about trust
when, for starters,
you can’t trust yourself.
Grow up,
with silence
and
shrugged shoulders
and
the helpless statements of:
I don’t know, I don’t know, I just don’t know,
in response
to all your scientific parents’ questions –
questions peppered with
“logical”
and
“rational”
and
*“you understand where we’re coming from
…right?”*
and
eventually,
every time you think or feel anything at all
and have no explanation,
you’re left with one question:
how can you not know?
how can you not know?
how can you not know?
-
Say a word enough times
and it starts to lose its meaning:
trust
trust
trust
trust
Is it even a word,
or just a lucky combination of letters?
-
How do you begin
to talk about trust
when you’ve been let down
not once, not twice, not three times…
well, what’s the point of trying to recall,
when you’ve lost count of the times.
It would be one thing,
if you knew
why you’ve been abandoned,
or why people hurt you,
or why everything gets to you so often,
[is it you or is it them,
is it you or is it them,
is it you or is it them?]
but it’s the not knowing
that makes you realize
that people as a whole
are:
Unpredictable,
Unreliable,
Untrustworthy.
You’re not usually too angry about it,
this is just Reality.
-
This is just Reality, but
it’s the not knowing
that kills you,
closes up your heart
in a certain kind of way
after a while.
Oh,
you’ll talk to people,
if you must,
say whatever seem to be the right things,
be the listening ear they need,
if that’s what’s required of you,
be good, understanding, kind, empathetic,
to the best of your ability,
but you won’t Rely on them,
won’t accept statements of
I can help.
That’s a different story.
-
If you can’t trust
People.
[Forget about your family, the ones who supposedly love you,
with their helpful advice of “get a job, be useful, it’ll make you feel better.”
Forget about the docs and therapists, the ones who supposedly make it better,
with pills or overpriced talking sessions.
Forget friends, the ones who supposedly are your support system,
with “I’m here for you” and “I can help” that lead nowhere.]
then what you are left with
is trusting yourself
out of necessity.
And you’re back to where you started.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 9:43 PM UTC
I’ve gone over tiktok, then instagram, then tiktok then
facebook and no sign
no sign of you, this is odd that you would
after a year of dumping me with no contact,
saying you are happy with her,
that you’d stay gone, today as well.
Oh I know .
I know one does not love like I love if one
has not got damage, you feel so sweet in my
head; in real life, I might push you
away, in here you are mine, forehead pressed
to me, mine, I keep
your heart in the palm
of my hands, like
a baby bird, I keep it
gently, I could
break its bones
real easy, I would
never,
in real life you hold my head,
a sickly child all over
again, I cannot
hide my eyes and pretend
I am invisible like I did
then, I know
you have seen me, you have seen me
and you will not say the words;
when you do not
speak them, I want to die, you
call me friend, in real
life you frighten, you
do not want me, or that’s
not what you said, you said
you want me but
can’t choose me over her, said
you were happy, now here
I am, here, it’s been so long
you’ve crushed it and still,
somehow it
pumps, I
dreamed briefly of
crashing into rocks
instead of you, not
for you, for men,
all lovers betray,
I still have the note,
sits hollow and quiet, in
my google docs, IN CASE
I **** MYSELF, I edit it
sometimes, add people, it's
in comic sans, just to
**** with you all,
but days like today I imagine
I imagine you and forget you are
not coming back ever,
ever, not as a friend,
not as a lover, not
ever
not coming back, ever
I watch videos of me imagining
your reaction,
look at angel numbers, google the meaning, and
twin flames,
when there’s nothing to hold on to -
I invent it. I hate that I am like this,
it’s why I survived.
I hate that I am like this,
how I love you is not
normal, one should
not love like this, It's
okay, I just need
to **** the hope, I need
to make the hope stop.
Mar 21, 2023
Mar 21, 2023 at 2:49 AM UTC
Dear girl who dreams of my manic pixie nightmare
You are the one I never expected to meet
I am the one you have met a million times before
You're the girl obsessed with film craving invasion on television screens, propagandist **** muse, docs and a **** cut
I'm the girl obsessed with ******** and using boundaries as skipping ropes or thread to turn my hair to tapestry
You're Bowie
I'm Hendrix
You like visuals, shapes and sound and pretty cinematography and things I can't understand, your mind is a transcript in calligraphy I can't decipher,
I like books that come in three and getting to the end and not knowing how to live anymore
You're brimming full of hope and dreams and set lighting
I'm disappointment and drowning shame in the bottom of tumblers, spilling the leftovers into quotable dialogue
You're too good for my obscenity to taint, you can't find what you're looking for in me
I'll be your undoing spiralling constantly in a figure 8
You are the manic pixie dream girl we've all been searching for
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 6:21 PM UTC
Sunny day in June, the tenth to be exact
The horrible day my sister was attacked
Beth was in the house, her friend Mark outside
She was cleaning,he in the yard kept with pride
Beth Anne was on hands and knees scrubbing the floor
When she heard real gunshots, at least she swore
Snuck to the window and peered out with care
On the rocky driveway, saw Mark sprawled out there
Been shot three times in his back,lay in his blood
Beth saw her ex...with a .38 he stood
While terrified, behind the aquarium she ducked
Brad blundered in dressed in hunters camouflage- ****
Her heart hammering in her ears, bursts of short breaths
Saw him through the murky water, planning two deaths
Beth Anne cowered down praying to her dear Lord
He found her, pulled her up by the hair, fired once more
The bullet blew off her ear and traveled on down
Collapsed her lungs, in her blood she would drown
Brad disappeared and the firing just stopped
For Mexico he fled, red ranger with white top
Beth dragged herself the complete length of the rug
Called 911, shed been shot...head ringing from slug
She was determined to live, wouldn't give up the fight
But then she passed out endangering her plight
Came the Greeley police, fire trucks, EMT's
Assessed the situation, perp further he flees
They all worked on Mark, too late he was dead
One smart responder....woman shot in the head
They spreading out rushed the house, found my sis
Beth was unresponsive, victim almost missed
Speeding to Weld County General, sirens blaring
Got her in the ER cut off what she was wearing
O.R. She went with damage extensive
Not much hope, docs and staff apprehensive
For many hours they sawed, pinned, stitched and closed
The ICU threat of infection posed
Her body and face were unrecognizable
Family stood believing the impossible
Appeared an Adonis with blonde hair and blue eyes
Talk of afterlife evidently not lies
Her guardian angel told Beth he was there
Would appear much later, in death they would share
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 6:47 PM UTC
she's a good girl
in a pair of docs
still she doesn't know
what it means
to be a paradox
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 2:08 AM UTC
He was unhappy so he took a pill
When the docs saw his brain
they thought
He must be mentally ill
but he just smiled
at their misdiagnoses
and finally said
Could you return my hat
and please step out of my head
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 11:14 PM UTC
They all ask me what I want to be after uni
It's no longer when I grow up, though how
Any can consider me so is beyond me
When I still jump onto the low fences like a cat
And traverse them in my absurd boots with barely a bow
When no one is looking, and everyone is watching, what
A fool and a spectacle I make of myself, I care little for
Until I come home, and realise I may have overplayed the clown -
But what was I made for, if not to hang upside down,
And call the world right side up that way? I implore and ignore
You, and you can heed me, or try to read me,
But you'll always need me.
Jun 12, 2022
Jun 12, 2022 at 5:57 PM UTC
Today I saw an ad on the TV for the good life
$129.99 and all you ever wanted delivered to your door in a box
Shipping and handling included
The man in the commercial had a big smile on
And a golden retriever by his side
Were sitting under palm trees
Smoking cigars...
Who doesn't want a cigar smoking golden retriever?
So I called up the toll free number and demanded a good life...
One week later the box came in the mail
"There's no way a golden retriever could fit in there"
I thought to myself
"Not even a puppy retriever
These must be the cigars"
No cigars
Just pills
"Of course" thought I
"Eating these will take me away
To an alternate reality
With palm trees, smiles
And cigar smoking dogs
Duh"
So I ate the pill and closed my eyes
Awaiting lift off
Like I've done so
Many times before
One Mississippi
Two Mississippi
Three, four, five Mississippi...
And you know what happened next?
My **** got hard for hours
That's it
Who's the sick SOB
Who's idea of a good life
Is an unexplainably long
Lasting *****
I alerted the authorities
Called the FDA
They must have the answers...
They just told me to visit the nearest hospital
Everything will be fine...
From that point on
I have been lost inside
And refuse to go outside
I shut my windows
And I lock the door
I can't make sense of it...
Why would I need to visit the docs?
I'm not the one thinking
Long lasting ******
Equals the good life
****** don't make retrievers smoke cigars
I'm not the one with the problem
Am I?
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 11:52 AM UTC
Snared heart kept, imprisoned could be potential dying day,
Lips regaled in ischaemia, blue blood,flows.....cold,
Face scarlet,temperatures up, pyrexia rules, as she tries too cool,
Mouthing strange babble,
She's talking in tongues,
Beaded mask sparkling, droplets trickle,
Tachycardic, heart beats, trying not to escape this life desperately, Heart trying not to explode!
the forties....roaring!
She breathes, so fast... the forties....roaring!
It's tragic,like everything's trying to meet demand with supply........!
Inadequately,
Currently on remand, waiting for her sentence to be be passed,
Docs and nurses they rally, running with obs,
All taking their roles, while doing their jobs,
Mews activated, doc visits he's, anxious,
Iv antibiotics he orders,
In plastic sachet, hanging up high, hereby, lies the awaited decision, if she'll have the will to live, or will she die...
Hope not!
It's not in an instant, but, recovery apparent, as breathing slows below twelve,
Heart beat, it settles,
Her kidneys show function,
Her temperature chills slowly, 36.5, she's still alive,
Thank God,
She got off the train at sepsis junction!
Copyright Livvi Kent (RGN) 11 /04/2013
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 7:06 AM UTC
seethe ~ bubble up as a result of being boiled,
<>
sunrise was 714 am in nyc
this perfect fall day,
chilled to perfection,
a white wine of a day,
so imbibe,
only later does it
heat up up and onwards
to the temp where the
walkers/joggers/runner recite
hallelujahs and hosannas while
moving at their own chosen pace,
in a state of warm southern comfort,
never a racing
lest
the poems
now seething, boiling-burning
bubbling up inside
into the atmosphere explode!
all of these
early warming~warning inspirations,
now~expressed,
realized flickers of
original ex-impressions,
cannot be contained in
an open field unsupported,
these
breech babies each,
in a pediatric ICU,
demanding an
instantaneous airy concoction
to Earth’s atmospheric
literary intoxication
they use:
up hard, a dice roll,
who lives
who wilts,
that docs cannot but
obey
the fetus’s insistence,
many instructions,
push pull breathe,
must the. be given forthwith
through to our
servile waiting
uterine fingertips,
for we human are just be
~ings,
nurturers of
verbal artifacts
that never die
in
an~always~at~the~ready,
in service to
the great conceptual,
poetic in/justice
Oct 23, 2024
Oct 23, 2024 at 3:33 AM UTC
sliced the thumb quite nicely,
a straight line, it,
the thumb,
applauded my skill,
turning bright infected red from
embarrassment
for me...and my minority complaints,
losing HD sight of the
big screen
of what matters
small woes and big-toes,
got ten times aplenty,
got lawyers and creeps
back in my life,
made promises that can't keep
so for sure
biblically cursed,
Job, and me,
losing parched perspective
under the tree
that gives no shade
dancing on that line called
"why bother,"
the other side of depression
forgetting again,
**roof over head,
pizza in the belly,**
can still stand up straight,
after a few vociferous
aches n' growls,
though the docs prescribe
what i proscribe,
i.e exercise, diet and blah, blah, blah, hah, hah
got her and got you,
goddess of poetry,
the mental health should be ok,
someday,
maybe even
the physicality
but not nut all of you,
not so lucky,
love the brave,
the courage true
those who ask,
when the time comes,
brave ones revealations,
shame me back to perspective
so do the thing,
some say,
call it the-right,
says I,
it's the no-choice
no thought needed,no praise worthy,
just
*extend the
balance,
bring back the
relativity,
share the
luck,
be as brave as those who
dare to ask*
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 7:33 AM UTC
Another day starts
another night gone
where did the time go?
where did I go wrong?
missing my former self
like a long lost friend
but I wish him good health
can only reach him by pen
I haven't slept yet
there's one letter I gotta send
can't look in the mirror
too tired, when is it gonna end
a thousand questions no answers
why the **** am I like this?
a life is built on little chances
maybe it's genetic, fantastic
if I had kids and they got this
if I had a mind then I've lost it
if I can't bare the pain myself
how can I share this sadness?
but I already do
because it's madness for two
to my mother, I love ya
to my father, I love ya
to my sisters, I love ya
to my girlfriend, I love ya
to my friends, I love ya
to the meds, I love ya
to my docs, I love ya
to my former self, I love ya
to the thing I am
to the man I was
the pressure is pressure
and I'm a hairpin trigger
something hard yet soft
like my wasted brain
when will I go off?
every suicidal thought
has got me caught off guard
nobody said it would be easy
never said it would be this hard
feel like I'm watching my life
end from afar, everyday is
an outer body experience
restlessness got me delirious
and I just thought about death
again so this could be serious
Can't see a way out today
chemical imbalances are not okay
stopped taking my meds
want to lose the fight my way
**** what the doctors say
it's all well and good to say
it helps to talk to someone
but I can't find the words today
to my mother, I love ya
to my father, I love ya
to my sisters, I love ya
to my girlfriend, I love ya
to my friends, I love ya
to my meds, I love ya
to my docs, I love ya
to my former self, I miss ya
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 1:06 PM UTC
It’s December and my roommates and I are deeply into Christmas. We’ve got a little 3ft tall Christmas tree with about fifty-thousand little multicolor LED lights on it (LEDs because we ARE saving the planet). We’re in the ‘study period’ right before finals and It’s a lowkey Saturday night.
Lisa and I were pajama’d and gelaxing in our suite’s common room. She was in a tan easy chair and I was slouched on our red corduroy couch, my slippered feet up on a white coffee table. We had a Christmas playlist playing throughout the suite, a ‘Christmas lights of Paris’ Youtube video streaming silently on our TV and cups of Keurig brewed hot-chocolate with little marshmallows.
Leong came out of her room and joined us, taking a seat on the far side of the couch with me. After a moment she stretched-out, putting her head in my lap. I love her jet-black, cornsilk hair and it wasn’t long before I found myself stroking it, a gesture primates have been making since the pleistocene period. When Lisa glanced over at us and smiled, I started making gestures like I was looking for fleas in her hair and eating them - in a silly, momentary comedy lost on Leong.
We got back from November recess a few days ago. After three years together, it was easy, almost automatic, for us to fall back in our rhythms as roommates. On arrival, I glanced through my drawers, ***** clothes and shelves, taking a casual inventory. Everything was as I remembered it but still, everything had the feel of trivial leftovers from some lost civilization.
I got a new M3-iMac, it’s really the best platform for putting docs side by side. The first thing I did was hit ‘restore my setup’ from the cloud. I love futzing with tech - I can remember when that kind of restoration would have taken all day - but fifteen minutes later I could tell from the files on my desktop that everything was restoring nicely.
As I sat back on my office chair watching the restoration, I felt myself relax. THIS was real life, this was how life should be done. No matter what else I’d done or where else I’d gone - this was how my life should be - at school, with friends, facing those challenges. It was a peek-moment.
It was an illusion that my little iMac welcomed me back, like an old friend, as it finished restoring - wasn’t it?
Dec 5, 2023
Dec 5, 2023 at 10:30 AM UTC
She,
voracious reader, nearly a book a day,
she loves Rushdie, Ishiguro, E. Stout,
and so many, many more, a daily add
to an ever growing list of auteurs, all
venerable and venerated, my little bits
pale, don’t even qualify to compare,
so what’s a poet to say, or feel, beside
tears in his eyes, so hereby withdraws his
awarded accolade, HGF,
His Greatest Fan
now that there is a vacancy, looking for
fufillment, now that there is a hollowed
hallow plus a clogged artery, side by side,
both within,
even
an officialized fossilized a
doctor declaration of “chronic heart failure”
who knew docs still diagnosed love sickness?
loss of love could manifest
itself so decisively physically,
and yet I blame her not, and
thank her for the inspiration,
for all the poems birthed in
her presence, and what swill
will /may follow will never be as good,
for memories inevitable yellowing,
discoloration infestation inevitable,
earn my pallor palest poverty
and like a used car, good enough
for daily trips to the office, but not
for cross country trips,
and perhaps
that means,
only smaller,
somewhat
used up,
and e v e n
not only,
only love poetry
open to direction
road trip to
Sweet Sorrow Land
Feb 15, 2025
Feb 15, 2025 at 2:54 PM UTC