"durations" poems
I like to stare listlessly
At the night sky for long
Durations of time, as if my
Gaze will compel the stars
To align to breathtaking ends.
Alas, they stay put,budge they
Don’t, a sneer streaks my
Face as my pride’s hurt.
And a tear droplet materializes
On the corner of my eye.
Maybe the moon prefers her
Star friends to remain as they’re.
Jun 9, 2017
Jun 9, 2017 at 3:35 AM UTC
I always knew about the ocean's calling, deep in my heart. It keeps me wandering to find what I yearn for — could it testify the animosity of being insatiable?
I wait on the shore like a lighthouse guiding your way back to me, as if I hold faith in it, like it is a perseverance that grew in my chest. I am certain to the florescence of my flowers and to its withering as I know the durations of its life and death is when I could meet you again. And though, the inconstant desolateness of the ocean continues to wait.
Mar 26, 2024
Mar 26, 2024 at 9:41 AM UTC
I stand alone with my shadow,
Developing larger on the floor.
Voices are heightened in these loosened hours,
I can feel my failures outside my door.
For is it fair to live in fear,
Consistently dreading numbed durations?
I still sense the pain of things that won't adhere,
And uneasy twinges of deserted sensations.
My apathy is back and it has worsened,
My eyes have widened because I know what comes next.
The flood of my trauma ends lack of emotion,
drowning me, sending me straight to my death-
Feb 22, 2019
Feb 22, 2019 at 12:40 AM UTC
Dames dimeless during durations of
duress, unless uniform wardrobes
in cuneiform earlobes eloping in last
gasps of breath, breathed by an opposite
*** on a raft drafted and crafted by
bureaucrats that sat upon rat traps.
The fat cats gasp under last laughs.
They can yap about the fallen all day
and paid based on grades in a vicious
cycle of buy - sell - trade. They caved in
as Persians sigh at the fading world
hurled beneath convuluted swirls of black pearls.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 2:34 PM UTC
As we are walking
Some run past
Some are way behind
Coming in last.
Complicated lives
Stressful throughout time
Castaways from the heavens
Diabolical farce in the mind.
We try to meaningful
In durations, steps of motion
The level trying to achieve
Makes a strange commotion.
Knows of unwilling insights
Weeps, look fine
Demeaning of the sad and lost
With their tricks and lines.
Speaks with unnamed words
The body is in a fit
Manifested and corrupted
Under all, we sit.
Tommy K
8/3/2014
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 4:59 AM UTC
What is love but an exposition,
Of what is otherwise so deeply hidden,
Within the heart of the one who adores,
Living with the fear of when she explores,
I came to you before we had met,
So majestic with pure excellence,
A perfect guy you had taught,
This broken heart's possessor had been,
When durations of speech,
Went from minutes to hours so quick,
I revealed myself not all but a bit,
Though that bit was enough to change your mind,
You saw me fall and reached my hand,
Helping me up, assisting me to stand,
But at the same have your troops leave,
The worthless soil of my hearts land.
A confused man isn't apparently;
in the eyes of a lady attractive
AROODY 2019
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 1:53 PM UTC
As a boy thinks about his durations
Of walking through his field of striped carnations
He spots one that was different than the rest
It was of a lovely color which we all know is best
He was stunned of the beauty as he froze
As he starred at the magnificent rose
The boy became active again
And soon his walk came to an end
In his mind trying to retain
The past compassion he had spend
With life filled with neglections and rejections
To where he had posed imperfections
With curious thought he ought to sought
Which he hope wouldn't end in naught
But as nature always deny
The one thing he wants of endless supply
Only to be buried
Discarded by many
With emotions so varied
And unseen by any
So as he reaches for the flower
With his mind so sour
The rose transform into the others
When given the druthers
So the boy remains alone
In his house not known
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 8:06 AM UTC
5 pennies in a nickel…
10 pennies in a dime…
25 pennies in a quarter…
100 pennies in a dollar…
Each penny plays a particular part in
the grand scheme of economic "advancement"
Money is exchanged.
It comes…
It goes…
Some people see its worth,
while others don’t.
It makes people happy,
But then again,
It only brings sadness at the same time.
It's counterproductive.
Over the counter, at the minimum wage shopping center,
Minimal glances are changed,
For minimal durations…
Each penny is a part of a whole…
There’s a price to be paid…
It moves into the hands of another.
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 12:50 AM UTC
In the dark silences
of my downtrodden thoughts
there is sometimes
a fiery consummation,
conception and fermentation
of breaking new ground -
frontiers once again opened
and filled with cadences
and rhythms of liberation.
A blessed release
from interminable durations
of the void's hammering on
and in the brain.
Jul 5, 2010
Jul 5, 2010 at 6:29 AM UTC
it lives at the deepest,darkest point ,
it breathes angrily,
it slithers and crawls,
no one dares to enter it's lair,
it's shadows creep,
plunging teeth sharp and yellow,
gooey sticky saliva,
it dribbles onto the floor and rocks,
no one has seen it since,
but it's name lives out the durations of time.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 10:53 AM UTC
My dreary Sunday drive with A Fine Frenzy is interrupted by a text message:
“Why do I wish he would text me? Maybe it’s the rain.”
After reminding her that he is the biggest ******* in America, I hope to ignore my inner English major and continue overanalyzing the lyrics of “Dream in the Dark.” However, as the squeaky cadence of my windshield wipers crescendos, the weather practically demands my attention.
She doesn’t need him and I don’t need you, but the rain never yields to assurance. It seeps through your imperfections and drenches every insecurity. Liquified doubt envelops the pavement, while the length of each red light seems just short of an eternity. I grow frustrated with the way the rain falls on my windshield, and having to rely on my wipers every three seconds for temporary clarity. I grow frustrated with how many three-second durations make up this car ride, and the way the squeaking mocks me, and how the rain doesn’t care about making it difficult to read the street signs.But the fact of the matter is I have somewhere to be, and I can’t let the rain prevent me from leaving where I’ve always been, even if only for the afternoon.
Under a blue sky, it is clear that she doesn’t need him and I don’t need you. I just wish this weather didn’t make everything so difficult to see.
So yeah, maybe it is the rain, but **** the rain on a day like this.
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 11:05 AM UTC
The galaxy is white—
a seamless pulp,
where we drain inks on.
On unscribbled portions
or in between monochrome lines.
The blots and smears,
and the succession of strokes and curves
are the stellar projections
to aesthetic calligraphies.
We did not know
that the stars were in our hands,
or at the tip
of whatever writing instrument we held.
We did not listen to the sounds
of galaxies crumpled by the hand,
or of stars burned to ashes by flames.
These sounds, after all,
remain inaudible in space,
so should all hatred and criticism.
Some believe that
some squander,
and that some conserve
the fluid of immortal witnesses
in a universe of astral imprisonment
that bears prejudice and judgment,
but boundless freedom.
A spilt ink in a galaxy, but an ink in a galaxy.
Varying durations of immortality,
but immortality nevertheless.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 3:47 AM UTC
As I’m writing this, I look down at the skin on my hands and watch as it vibrates. The blood pulsing, shaking with fear and guilt and all the things that become of me. I watch my fingers as they fling across the lines of a notebook or the gravel of a keyboard. Limbs that took years to operate, apparently, but it feels like nothing. So much so that I don’t feel a soreness from doing it for long durations. And boy, do I write.
When I walk around, I watch my feet skid across the pavement. I imagine my toes wiggling inside of my sneakers as they crunch elderly leaves and kick around loose dirt. Remorselessly squashing bugs. Forgetting about them the minute I step foot into a building.
When I talk to people, I watch their faces as they mirror their insides. Sometimes their voices fade in and out depending on how much I’m able to concentrate, but that’s fine because I don’t need their voices to understand what they are trying to say. They say enough with just an expression, and this is scary because I hope I myself never give someone else the wrong idea when I’m silent.
I’m a sculpture, apparently, but I’m real. Real? Real being tangible? Yet, to me, looking in the mirror does not make me feel real. Watching my hands as I write this does not make me feel real. Following my feet during strolls does not make me feel real. You know what makes me feel real? The thoughts pouring out of my fingertips with every word I write. The aggression that releases with every step I take. The nausea that sits inside of my stomach when I’m burdened with my sorrows. The tingle in my chest when I’m laughing at your jokes. The contentment of an evening when everything is silent and my head is clear. Thinking about my friends when they’re in pain. Hearing my mother cry from across the hall. The frustration of awaking from a dream once I realize it was only a dream.
My body doesn’t make me feel real. Half of the time I forget it’s there. My reminders consist of: mosquito bites and piercings, ******* and all-you-can-eat buffets. When your friends move they still neighbor you. When your relatives die they’re still here. When a love is lost your heart inflames with their absence.
These are the things that physically mold reality.
These are the things that suggest to me I’m alive.
These are the things that comfort me during episodes of feeling like nothing more than a wandering corpse.
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 3:36 PM UTC
The Moon has abandoned us
We are but blades of grass in a shielded blow
We are merely stones in a river's roll
One day we will be no longer.
We are desperate to cling to
some semblance of reason
but what good does the morrow bring worth breathing today for??
What good is so good that I should stay awake?
We are trying so hard to pretend that sharing our crazy is the least crazy thing
We cling so hard to this notion that we forget to look in the mirror while exchanging pictures of each other instead of reflecting on who we are,
But then, what's the point of reflecting on who we are when all we're capable of is our own life? Literally, the most powerful thing we can do is end ourselves. We aren't so special. We're just bodies with artificial flavors. No semblance of natural beauty; it's all been placed there by our self-serving pursuit of purpose. It's so much easier to believe we suffer for a reason. We don't.
A sad, frail calamity
A ship on endless ocean
Misery loves company, and that's why we've outlawed suicide, because really
You can't tell me you really believe we will be punished for ending our own durations, given to us without permissions,
You can choose your destiny as long as you stay alive. Death is not an option, until it is, and then what?
You're so glad that I'm expressing myself, but you wish i'd say some different things
So glad to see me creative again, but so against the things i say again and again and again and again and I just want somebody to make it all better like when you're 5 and don't know what existence ******* is but you get a cut on your finger and now you exist, but then your momma comes and sticks a band-aid on your finger and the pain of existence is gone. i want that feeling again.
But my mom's antibacterial powers have subsided as the ills have built resistances; they're now resisting penicillin and we don't own anything else right now. I open up my medicine cabinet, anyway. There's Tylenol. At least it'll help to ease the pain.
I take one. I take another. It isn't working. I take some more. Do these have a limit? I think they do. But I can't read at this point. I take another. I take another. I'd be counting but i can't do that, either. I keep taking the pills. I never stop. For all of eternity I take additional Tylenols, until a sad, frail calamity comes home from work and sees a sunken fleshy ship at the end of its ****** and final voyage.
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 12:07 PM UTC
born
named after a three,
a brainstormed term
or the same old family name
celebrated
bred
thrown out in the open
eyes widened by the true visions
of the world
self confessions,
both harmless and self deprecating
the only answer to be given back
are tears out of the lack of reason
make a stand against the machine
with trembling
limbs, having courage is absurd
but to live it out is a choice
leave a flower for a few days
without water and it will perish
at peace
at ease
easier to let go
harder to leave
you just don't gather these,
your dissatisfactions in life,
distractions, warning signs,
long durations of time,
probably months without
someone to do,
you keep them until they hurt
why do you keep them
all to yourself?
do you know these people?
they're always right huh?
they're never wrong.
that's why you're there.
I'm here.
we don't resist.
we just want to live in our
own way of how the world
could attain peace,
then we die silently soon after.
Aug 2, 2019
Aug 2, 2019 at 5:07 PM UTC
People are like stories.
Different kinds, different durations,
Different endings.
I think of some and smile,
I wish for some never ended,
I try to distant myself from some,
And try to keep some so close,
That it blurs my vision.
Some feel so real, some feel like a blown bubble by the sun at night,
Some held my hand and made me feel alive,
Others made me realize the parts of me that had long been dead.
I want to place the memory of some in my wallet,
And I regret reading some.
May 13, 2020
May 13, 2020 at 2:00 PM UTC
Lover, why I’m I afraid to die?
I belong to you. Knowing you,
a life worth living, because
I made something of myself.
In the process of it all. I had
become the man you’ve always
wanted and in you, a character
so exceedingly overwhelming
of true beauty, touching holiness,
you ended up saving me.
Smile for me now.
When it comes time to die,
I’ll render thoughts of you.
And take comfort and ease,
I’ll wait for you there, in other
kingdoms, where those brave
enough to go with their soulmate
in durations of horrifying true
and perfect love.
Than can people bloom.
Smile for me, again and again.
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 6:38 PM UTC