"earsplitting" poems
If you could read my mind,
You’d see a thousand papers
Filled with broken poetries
And deadbeat proses
Full of woeful verses
With mournful pieces
Of unfinished stories
That are yet to be written
And failed to be spoken;
If you could read my mind,
You’d hear horrible screams
And earsplitting weeps
From shattered dreams,
Kept in a nasty notepad,
Scribbled on a bed
Of bloodstained words,
Ringing in my head.
If you could read my mind,
You’d see the shadows
That lurk within me;
You’d hear the bellows,
Screeching the words
“I’m tired,”
“I’m a failure,”
“I’m stupid –”
I know it sounds stupid,
It’s pathetically foolish
And seems like *******
If you could read my mind,
You’d feel the tears
I had ever failed to cry;
You’d see the people
That make the weak weaker;
You’d see the monsters
That consume my head;
You’d hear the hollers
That failed to be freed;
You’d see the heart
That still bleeds and bleeds.
If you could read my mind,
You’d see the face
I’ve failed to show back then,
The face I’ve faked back then.
If you could read my mind,
You’d see a character
I had ever failed to become
If you could read my mind,
You’d be able to read
A book you never wished
To touch and read,
But sometimes I still wish
Someone could read my mind.
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 3:34 AM UTC
I sank to the ground and all came to halt
Birds flocked east before all shook in vigour
Windows shattered under the weights of roofs
Stone homes toppled before acknowledgement
Clouds of dust rained jagged stones upon us
The turbulent waters foreshadowed more
For waves of sharp heights dominated us
They carried us, and whirled us intensely
Earsplitting cries now silenced by water
And when all had come to a halt once more
The bodies succumbed to the ocean's pull
I was supposed to die, but I hadn't.
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 12:28 AM UTC
If you could read my mind,
You’d see a thousand papers
Filled with broken poetries
And deadbeat proses
Full of woeful verses
With mournful pieces
Of unfinished stories
That are yet to be written
And failed to be spoken;
If you could read my mind,
You’d hear horrible screams
And earsplitting weeps
From shattered dreams,
Kept in a nasty notepad,
Scribbled on a bed
Of bloodstained words,
Ringing in my head.
If you could read my mind,
You’d see the shadows
That lurk within me;
You’d hear the bellows,
Screeching the words
“I’m tired,”
“I’m a failure,”
“I’m stupid –”
I know it sounds stupid,
It’s pathetically foolish
And seems too *******
If you could read my mind,
You’d feel the tears
I had ever failed to cry;
You’d see the people
That make the weak weaker;
You’d see the monsters
That consume my head;
You’d hear the hollers
That failed to be freed;
You’d see the heart
That still bleeds and bleeds.
If you could read my mind,
You’d see the face
I’ve failed to show back then,
The face I’ve faked back then.
If you could read my mind,
You’d see a character
I had ever failed to become
If you could read my mind,
You’d be able to read
A book you never wished
To touch and read,
But sometimes I still wish
Someone could read my mind.
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 1:38 AM UTC
Click…
Click…
CLICK…
Earsplitting silence surrounds me
As I waste time envisioning a new setting,
Where my paper, pen, mug, and coffee are still there,
But the paper is bursting with passion,
And the magic of espresso beans enable the pen to float along my rapid thoughts.
Right now it is used to stimulate the monotony.
Unfortunately,
Money cannot be bled from words on paper and,
Beers are not bought with dedications in hard cover.
Click…
Click…
CLICK…
Yogurt wrappers opening, spoons being slurped.
***** expanding atop their encompassing chairs.
These are the thoughts that fill my head,
As co-workers plan the next birthday party,
The next lunch, client dinner, and snack.
It seems that bars do not enclose me at my desk,
There is no guard at the door and,
Above me the exit sign gives warmth.
Click….
Click…
CLICK…
Not today, today is not a good day.
There are presentations, Power Points, data to analyze.
Analyze feels like a ***** word in my world,
It covers my neurons and destroys imagination,
Synopsis seize to fire.
It seeps into my blood until I become a replica,
But it is the word that takes my balance off negative,
And applies charming labels to my purse,
I wonder if this is how it starts out for everyone,
Humans are adjustable, no batteries allowed.
Click…
Click…
CLICK.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 4:32 PM UTC
You know how when
You put a kettle on a stove,
Maybe for tea
Or something else maybe
You get the kettle
To put on the stove
And you put water in it
From the tap
Or if you're in
The inner city
Then maybe from
A jug
From cvs
Or rite aid
I don't know which is closer
To your kettle
That you're putting the
Water in
To put on the stove
But the tap smells funny
And tastes like minerals
And artificiality
So if you have a bit of money, Maybe an on-tap
Filter or brita
You turn the little
**** on the front
Of the oven
And you hear
The distressed, hurried
Sound of a component
Desperately trying
To do its job
It seems like forever
But it's just a couple
Seconds
The spark catches
The gas
And glorious blue
Energy leaps out
And causes
Instant condensation
On the side of the
Kettle you've filled
With water
And put on the stove
And then
Primordial chemistry
As old as old
Changes ****
Around inside
No time
For a chem lesson
Just listen
And then after a few minutes
A blast of
Piping hot
Shrill
Pure energy
Explodes out of the top
In an earsplitting
Harried call
To you to let you
Know the kettle
You put on the stove
Is now ready
For you.
All that pressure,
From so much activity,
Before you even
Turned the heat on
You walked around
Gathering materials
And moving about
And all the calories
You burn thinking
About it
And then the
Thermal activity
Which is breathtaking
In its simple
But ever so complicated
Perfect order
And predictability
And all of this simply
Amazing process
Culminates
In one constant,
High energy geyser
Of released pressure.
This is equivalent
To the results
Of one thought
About you.
What a life
As a kettle.
Yea.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 11:07 PM UTC
Parting my subtle fingers, touching the silky,mellifluous hair
Slowly moving beneath,
Placing my hand beside ,
Drawn to your marvelous, profiled, sculpted, jawline
Teasing fore play and kisses,
Without wasting hesitation,
Removing fabrics swinging in rage across the room,
Bare back and body,
Temperature rising,
Top to bottom,
As you harden and drenched,
Your rugged , tempestuous hands,
Throwing a weak influenced temptation,
Into a lustful haze, spinning
An imitation on repeat,
The heat intoxicating , inflaming the bonds between our desires,
Penetrating our virginity,
Throbbing in and outwards,
Notion the anguish and agony ,
Discomforting in moving surfaces,
I plead within your name ,
Carelessly tugging and hanging onto your body,
Arms flung around your waist,
As you angrily demanded more from me,
Ordering to continue on wards,
The obsession grew expectantly,
A new form of infatuation,
Thrusting relentlessly,
Earsplitting moaning,
Sensual whispers,
Piercing marks ****** ,
Licked,
A Sign of ownership,
Smacking grip below,
Letting go uncontrollably,
Reaching into the endearing ******
Seizure,
Absolute Bliss.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 2:29 AM UTC
_______________________________________
The radiance of my pen was already ebbed
My outcry seem now, not that much effective
But this could not be the hindrance for me to go on
For as long as my pen breath I won't ceased
But foe owed a vigor and have a lot of arms
That it needs a miracle for them to be ruined
But as a mark of history, armor was defeated by a pen
That wisdom count most than those of precious gem
But now indeed the battle was not mostly of war
Instead a disease that ruled the heart of many earthlings
That thy deeds sound very earsplitting
Do I have enough ink to calm their flame?
But maybe this time I was destined to be defeated
For I am weak and one breath away to death
Oh sky! I should be dead! But this i'm quite sure
That my pen will continue to battle....
written: June 14, 2001 @ 9:00 AM
Mysterious Aries
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 11:55 PM UTC
Before me
is a brave queen of war
slicing her enemies' heads with the sharp,
cutting edges of the liquid eyeliner
she so expertly paints upon her skin,
unshaken by her rusting metal steed's
sudden jolts and halts.
Her long hair
whips forward with the wind, but
she, unscathed by its clawing
at her freshly powdered cheeks, tosses
the strands away, tames them. Stains
her lips with a blood-red shade, sits
in her own silence, away from the earsplitting
clanging and screeching and thundering chaos
of the battle that rages around her.
It is hard not to stare.
I can only admire her from where I cower,
behind a beaten-up backpack with fraying straps,
pushing my dusty glasses to see her better,
already defeated. Already surrendered.
Funny how the only thing I know
about the stranger beside me
is that our kissing knees and shoulders,
snug against each other,
is the warmest thing I've felt in a while.
Jan 6, 2020
Jan 6, 2020 at 11:10 PM UTC
Wear shame
Wear it well
The saccharine faded
All that you cleave to
Is sticky with rage
Crossed the Rubicon
Only to plunge
Into the burrow of circumstance
Your pillow remains infertile
Path, dreary
One relapse from settling the score
Trail the footsteps of your forefathers
As the earsplitting ticking time bomb ticks
The enchanting nights of levitation are numbered.
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 6:22 PM UTC
unlit bare stage 2 voices
VOICE 1 (hollers) everything!
VOICE 2 nothing
VOICE 1 (yells louder) everything!
VOICE 2 (speaking volume fading) nothing
VOICE 1 (screaming jubilantly) everything!
VOICE 2 (whispers) nothing
VOICE 1 (earsplitting blare) everything!
VOICE 2 (silent)
Sep 3, 2010
Sep 3, 2010 at 9:42 AM UTC
A million tiny pinpricks
the brightness of the sun
they would blind you
if you looked right at them.
A thousand earsplitting whispers
wishing you well,
pushing you on
they would deafen you
if you hadn't already stopped hearing them.
A sea of faces
fades into black before the horizon
if you didn't know not to
acknowledge them,
you might.
Someday,
years from now I can guarantee
those million spotlights
will blind you
those thousand voices
will drown out your own
that sea of faces will look back
Confused(?)
Disgusted(?)
or worse
disinterested
Fifteen minutes is up.
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 10:03 PM UTC
The death of sound before the inevitable blow
Stomach should be rumbling; not a sound
Heart should be cracking, shattering, you know
There are tremors and tingles, mind; never slow
You stand but you feel you must run or drowned
The earsplitting silence is too much to take
Just begin, just end; you hesitantly plead
For when it starts the choice you must make
No more questioning or ideas for the future; opaque
No matter the result you must simply be freed
Of the never-ending watch and wait
You'll take what comes, despite the fear
Your mind and heart can no longer relate
Your senses diminish under the copious weight
By this your body talks; the end is near
The Silence ends and the war, the journey, the future begins.
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 5:53 AM UTC
Jesus Christ, what have I done.
Acquired the battery can, yes,
But I shall soon go mad.
It buzzes and groans with the earsplitting capacity of an explosion, yet I am the only one who is able to hear it.
It's multicolor bolts pulsate my every nerve; ruin my every chance of survival.
Started out as ecstasy...
...And continues as madness.
The battery can fits into my hand, takes the shape of every fissure.
It knows me.
It wants me inside of it, another soul in the unforgiving and unrelenting abyss of electricity.
My senses are warping.
Vision blurring, Check. Limbs numbing, Check.
My corpse falls to the floor. The only thing not hollowed out is my thinking capacity. The battery can rolls out of my hand 3 or 4 feet and I am enveloped in a blue light.
It's uncomfortably warm in here, and the smell of a burnt corpse tingles my nose.
Heaven is a lot different than I expected.
Jun 15, 2010
Jun 15, 2010 at 6:35 PM UTC
Fingers scraping powder as they screech down the dark chalkboard.
The slight creak of floor boards in your, apparently, empty, dark house
The earsplitting call of a speeding ambulance siren, here then gone
The unbearable rasp of a page as your finger smudges upon the turning.
Ice rushing to reach your lower back when slipped through the top of your shirt.
The impact of an unseen friend's hands, suddenly, alighting on your shoulders.
The realisation that you had an audience to the song you'd just sung with reckless abandon.
Your body slithering as a chill swiftly travels from the nape of your neck to the hollow of your back.
A spoonful of steaming soup down your throat when outside is frozen by winter's zeal.
The accidental, yet not unwelcomed, graze of a hand belonging to a different and unfamiliar body.
That one sweet-sounding lullaby, with too many plays, as it reaches the awaited crescendo.
The unexpected sight of him in a setting you knew well, suddenly foreign.
Caught breath but lungs still full.
Heart thumping yet stopped.
Shivers down your spine, only you can feel.
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 5:48 AM UTC
I plan on leaving this world
The same way I came into it;
Squirming violently, naked
And that earsplitting squawk,
The one that screams;
‘Get me out the **** out of this place!’
Jul 26, 2017
Jul 26, 2017 at 2:37 AM UTC
Love is not a piece of writing
that comes from a heart;
It is not a flowerful verse;
It is a flowerless vase
that holds no decoration,
no rhythmical motion,
no verbose potion;
Love is not a poem.
It does not bear a stanza
full of melodic metaphors
that attract the cores
of one’s eyes and ears,
because love has no rhymes
that make two heartbeats
sound as one.
It is an offbeat
kind of sound
like two metals
clanking with a hard,
earsplitting clang.
Love is not a poem.
It bears no hyperbolic
kind of feelings.
It is a catastrophic
kind of rain.
It bears no onomatopoeia
like a thump-thump–
beat of a heart.
It is just a thunder
with a destructive art.
Love is a storm.
Love is not a poem.
It has no alliteration
in a tiny tinkling tone.
It is not a poetic notion
in a simile or an oxymoron.
It is not a set of written words
which provide a colorful world.
Love is not a poem.
.
.
These were the things
I used to say before…
But then, you happened…
.
.
Love became a poem.
It turned into a free verse –
no patterned rhyme
no regular rhythm.
It just flowed
through a beautiful heartbeat
with an ineffable heartbeat.
Love turned to be the skeleton
of my poetry.
Love became the pedestal
of my words,
creating a series
of lines and stanzas
with touch
of fragrant language.
Love became a poem
because my poetry
turned to be you…
You are
my poem –
my love…
Love
is
a
Poem.
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 3:21 AM UTC
Voices of people giving unsolicited advices on how to live my life echo loudly as I make my way to the end of the tunnel; and yet, no light has been found, rather, the voices become deafening as I continue my journey.
I look around in the pitch black tunnel, the earsplitting noises continue, making me feel apprehensive. The thought of the unknown scares me and I care too much so I listen to these blaring voices, booming with every stride I make.
I stop walking, as if these thundering voices weren’t enough to make me anxious, I feel many pairs of eyes glaring at me in this blinding darkness, secretly amused by my feeble state.
Am I still far?
Will I reach it?
Will I make it out alive?
Will I bump into someone — anyone — who has a map and a flashlight to share?
I quiver as I cross my arms and continue walking, hoping that I would soon see the light at the end of what seems to be a never ending tunnel.
Aug 21, 2020
Aug 21, 2020 at 2:06 AM UTC
At first, you think a thief in the night
has come to take you away.
And though you know that can’t be right,
you pick the truth that suits you.
A bump, a grunt, an earsplitting curse,
all signs that point to heartbreak.
Not thieves at all, but that means it’s worse--
Dad’s coming up to your room.
You throw your blankets over your head.
He makes his way up the stairs,
all sweaty cheeks and feet made of lead,
all cruel thunder and bluster.
You wish that he would pour it all out,
the drink that makes him this way.
You want to kick and you want to shout
and break your turtle figurines,
the ones he buys you every time
he smashes your lamp to pieces
or you make his blood pressure climb
by being small and worthless.
What’s next, more holes punched into the wall?
Or maybe red-faced screaming?
How can your dad love alcohol
more than he ever loved you?
The Svedka never braided his hair
or scratched his back or hugged him.
It didn’t have a father who wasn’t there
even when he was.
Hide under the blankets for now,
little lamb. It’ll all be okay real soon.
This is the last time he’ll come to your room
full of fire and mixed drinks.
You’ll still be afraid and broken inside,
but at least he’ll be broken, too.
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 9:24 PM UTC
We emphasize how
Beautiful
Nature is when it dies,
Yet we shun the mentally unwell
When they are in the midst
Of their own harsh winter.
Nobody ever noticed them asking for help
The same way the leaves change colours
Before they fall from their branches.
There is nothing lovely about
Falling from Grace,
But it is not an invisible thing.
It can be seen in the
Lack of shine in young eyes,
It can be heard in
Earsplitting silences that say more
Than any words in the Oxford English Dictionary.
There is hope.
If you push through Winter,
You will wake up to the feeling of Spring,
And you too can be Reborn again.
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 12:51 AM UTC
This is why I was written as a tragedy.
This is why the only comedy in my life is mirthless.
I'm sitting here laughing at the pain
as I'm battling it for control.
This is why you'll only get out alive
So many times.
This is why our time, it ends.
This is life, and this is love.
This is pain, but this is also familiarity.
This is life, and it doesn't end until it's done with you.
These are choices, and these are the consequences.
This is the fate of all the start-crossed lovers
and others alike.
This is facing the unknown alone.
Life, and even death, is random.
Like explosions.
Of the clearest colors
vibrant like a lifting veil-
of earsplitting noises
Like the sounding of thunder from the skies above-
Like the moment of peace after a supernova sun.
Or was it before?
In our lives, we'll never know.
Oct 9, 2011
Oct 9, 2011 at 10:05 PM UTC
On many bitter winter days
she is what picks at my thoughts
she is what surges through my fingertips
teasingly
softly
slowly
During many darkened afternoons
she surrounds me with an unforgiving presence
around my bedchambers
in my heart
in my soul
When the eventide is evident in the sky
she is the earsplitting static
that grazes over my ears
that resonates throughout
my being
In the early bright of day
she fastens herself to me soundly
like the skin
that I am in
like the sweat during
a Spanish heat
During the restless day
she is the eagerness
she is the unrelenting spirit
that is me
she is my battered self
she is my demise
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 12:35 AM UTC
Just go ahead and strike me
Strike me with the flash of the lightening
And the pop of the thunder
The blinding quickness of
Light
And the earsplitting crash
Of sound
Strike me with deft severity
Because I am at your mercy
O' Storm
The sheer beauty of the rain
And the rattling howls of the
Thunderous uproar
Make the flags whip with frantic
Ecstasy
Create a terrifyingly beautiful
Chaos
And in the process
Hit my flailing form
Outstretched on the lawn
And coat my body with crackling
Film
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 9:57 PM UTC
Pity naught the fool who stood agape at the mouth of the abyss,
Who henceforth became a delirious, demented *******
For very few are those who return from the precipice
Left with scars that are all but a trifle.
‘Tis not fire that burns, that brings about anguish.
‘Tis not rain that drowns, that brings about pain.
A sanguine dullard will forever seek to diminish
What a benighted scholar will endeavor to sustain.
Hath thee the prudence
To discern the ciphers
In the deafening silence?
In the earsplitting whispers?
The fiends,
Their eyes
Of sordid coal
Conceal the truth
Of what they are after.
Their forlorn cries beseech the soul
With venom as clear as polished lacquer.
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 4:21 AM UTC
Malignant gangrenous political cancer
corrupts, festers, and poisons United States,
thus opposition cannot wait,
especially since Gospel in accordance
with feeble minded Donald Trump
implemented wrought ugly trait,
particularly obliteration, sans progressive
human rights legislation
more or less pronounced positive
in every L ionized Nittany or cotton bowl state
and ratiocination inherent within
mine Democrat oriented mind doth rate
this forty fifth president (defect)
with sawdust packing
his noodle oven egotistical pate
trophy wife (spouse number three),
a Slovenia mate
donning "I don't care anymore"
t-shirt rousing media firestorm of late
essentially silently corroborating,
fostering, and illuminating hate
mutely bolstering the Trump anthem,
viz make America great
again, which pathless,
pithless, and pointless aim
roars like an earsplitting runaway freight
train oblivious of wailing soul asylum,
that no era meets said criteria
backtracking time machine before
rightful indigenous occupants of this land
got decimated as one after another
exploiter did inundate
(comprising a multitude
of indigenous variety of village people
indignantly subjected to Genocide,
when first "discoverer"
of new land didst promulgate
activation wrought deliberate sealed fate
vis a vis capitulation, demolition,
and extirpation, cuz
a scathing rebuke aye attest,
those murderers didst equate
worthlessness of
so called "Indians" on 1492 date,
and still remnants of storied tribes,
now attempt to create
historical documentation operate
ting with limited resources to adjudicate.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Food methinks doth buzzfeed drumbeat agog
at pyrotechnics July 4th, 2018 shared as blog
posts, a falsehood prevails which dog
gone “FAKE” brewed watered down grog
posits that the majority of Colonialists stay hog
tied to strict task masters, and mainly the scant
upperclass experienced autonomy,
no matter the under class didst futilely rant
and rave with the occasional
uprisings over time did grant
minimal appeasement to stifle violent kant!
Jul 4, 2018
Jul 4, 2018 at 1:00 AM UTC