"embedding" poems
There are no right answers.
The sky rejects the birds, turns them
over to gravity,
embedding them in the concrete and dirt.
The grit refuses to become a pearl,
just as the wound refuses to heal
and the flesh eats itself.
The market sees a sudden spike in
sales of Champagne and cyanide.
Coordinated efforts seek and fail
to curtail the rising tide of violence
in the nation's dreaming.
You realise that this crude, barbaric language
that you can't understand
is your own.
Beauty glitches and pixelates.
Frightened, furtive confessions of love
are unheard over proud, visceral
proclamations of hate.
Tongues divorce mouths.
Every now and then, a voice
inside your head says,
'Thud.'
The measures of sanity become
more quantifiable and
totally arbitrary.
The horizon
tightens
like
a noose.
It doesn't matter if this is wrong.
There are no right answers.
Jan 19, 2017
Jan 19, 2017 at 4:40 AM UTC
One friend is deaf but manages to hear twice as much as I do,
while simultaneously embedding himself in games and genius.
One friend is kind and smart, always complimenting and supporting others before herself.
One friend is quiet, and she is both easily embarrassed
and easily embarrassing.
One friend is the previous friend's brother,
and crushes on me while never saying enough.
One friend is very intelligent and geeky,
and detests wearing skirts even more than I.
One friend is really in your face and dramatic,
pushing the boundaries on everything, but noone hates him.
One friend is the unfortunate brother of a great annoyance, but is her polar opposite.
One friend has hair of constantly changing color;
blue, green, pink, black, yellow, brown,
but always the same hoodie no matter her hair choice.
One friend has a thousand faux laughs,
but guards his true one from the light.
One friend has a mocking joke for everything,
and you can't help but laugh with her.
One friend has a treasured hat and while sketching everyone, everything, and everywhere, lays my insecurities to rest as I do the same for him, both of us in need of some love
and understanding from a kindred spirit.
One friend has an obsession with a band and a book and a show, and an overbubbling enthusiasm for everything in her life.
One friend has a meme for everything,
and a perverse thought for every situation he encounters.
One friend is half blind but she manages to see twice
as much as me and explains everything beautifully.
One friend is crazy and gets away with the exclamation of abraham lincoln in any awkward silence because its just his nature.
One friend is as a mouse, but a genius in every aspect
and hides behind her glasses.
One friend is obnoxiously loud and more of a dork than the gangster his hoodie implies so everyone simply laughs.
One friend smiles like a duck in the cutest way,
and wears her square glasses in the best way.
One friend longs for a love that is loyal
and hide s behind his temperment
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 5:58 PM UTC
The Rain falls warm.
It's humid and the shirt
sticks to my w3tb@ck.
How much has fallen
into my collective bucket
during the pass hour
Of heavy monsoon rain?
I gulp chunks
to replace water
in this futile work cycle.
Adiabatic landscaping
in a stifling heat,
within some complex
feed-forward loop.
The cigarette burns
beneath a protective dome,
my cupped hand.
Particulates drift away into
the hazy mist, embedding
itself in breath,
and choking congested,
fluid-filled lungs.
I watch a tiny display
showing small spiking memes
feeding forward to what?
Will it be an apocalyptic
firing storm or a recognition
gestalt, inhibitory spikes
triggering attenuation.
I drink again the rain.
Can I supervise Win-Lose
games? Am I learning
some wrong algorithm
while drunk on heavy water,
in Futile cycles?
With my open hand
I take Virgil's lead
into our Gradient descent,
urging him on, afraid
our alpha steps are too
small, and the time too
short. There is a constant
fear of being trapped
in some eternal,
local minimal.
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 11:34 AM UTC
*Silently wind blows away the pain,
With moon rays showering down something to gain.
The slightest twinkle in the first star,
Sparking a flame that will help go far.
The chill from the dark blue night,
Embedding me with a will to fight.
The mist from the clouds above me,
Amplifying the hope to see.*
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 4:40 AM UTC
I am a jigsaw puzzle…
Packaged, broken down and oddly pieced.
Vivid colors. A curious captivation.
Although… with time they have faded…and creased.
Handed down like an antique quilt.
Fragile and warn, only portions of my picture complete.
Left wondering if I will ever be seen as one.
Admired as whole, even with corners somewhat oblique.
So I set out on a journey:
Re-genesis of the soul.
Craving colors unimagined:
An apocalypse of the world of dull.
Along the way I caught a glimpse.
I unearthed Utopia.
A world lent only to dreams and fairytales.
Yet I couldn’t seem to give in and face this phobia.
I continued along my search.
This time with a new groove in my step.
Part of me wanted to turn back,
But that could’ve meant loosing the little I had left.
I felt something flowering within.
I may have looked away, but that moment a seed was planted.
Roots of strength embedding themselves into my soul,
A new chance at life finally granted.
Fresh oxygen to inhale,
As this life grows inside of me.
Battling with worry and yet no panic at all.
Something so charming and enormous, the world deserves to see.
Branches of love breaking through my surface,
A bungee cord tugs, than allots some slack.
Leaves of unwritten memories begin to evolve.
This budding life needs nurture…I need to turn back.
Before I can set foot to turn around…
Utopia at my fingertips.
Life, nurture…a wonderland unsought.
And that is all before the meeting of our lips.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 1:10 AM UTC
does a lion lie do lies settle here,
beneath these sheets in these nested enclosures,
i've found myself strewn upon? or corridors, from i to places
never invented?
or just clusters of stars,
too distant seven things
from wherever i found myself, burnt oceans into sand;
or what breathing was, two glimmering points.
or emptiness?
there you were, a sign of rehearsal,
pulling life down, on trails hung or omen, or,
in perfect lines from just kind of nothing
each &every; spark in the sky at
all.
*nine. sharp.
am i
always just
this unmotivated?*
do i truly perceive
the embedding nothingness does this get
from life, or just in dream still? any easier?
i'd rather find
myself at
the bottom of the ocean,
some
days,
i guess. sorry.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 3:34 AM UTC
Our love is like a cancer.
I’m fighting for my life again.
Stage One.
The first time you appeared,
you filled my brain with affection,
that felt as if it were like oxygen,
a necessity for my survival.
You came on to me,
fast and overpowering,
feelings I hadn’t felt before,
you and only you is what I grasp onto.
I can’t eat but slowly you consume me.
Our love is like a cancer.
I’m fighting for my life again.
Stage Two.
I like turns into I love,
my affection for you is growing like a sponge,
soaking up every bit you can give to me.
Little did I know you were a poisonous being,
embedding yourself into my brain you ***** wretch,
clouding my emotions by threading my prefrontal cortex with detrimental lies.
Our love is like a cancer.
I’m fighting for my life again.
Stage Three.
The symptoms are there,
yelling loud and clear like an angry father,
when curfew wasn’t met.
My reality becomes evident when I see your hand in hers,
I become trapped in an ache that I can internally feel,
and that others can physically see in my figure.
I decide to cut you out like a surgeon
and try to mend the pieces that are severed.
Our love is like a cancer.
I’m fighting for my life again.
Stage Four.
I try to heal but it seems to be no use,
the ache persists not only in my head,
but has spread to my heart.
My body is conquered by chemical reactions like chemotherapy,
trying to wipe out the memories we have created and disease you are to me.
But still my body, my soul is weak and fragile
like a dry leaf in autumn,
crumbling,
only after time will it be able to remise.
Our love is like a cancer.
I’m fighting for my life again.
Remission.
You are vacant from me,
but you will always linger.
Feb 29, 2012
Feb 29, 2012 at 9:02 PM UTC
Let the poetry...
Write itself....
As the ripe new moon
strums the swaying
silhouettes of the night.
Let the poetry...
Write herself...
With the vast
expanse of obsidian sky.
Pocked subtly with the shy
murmurs of the stars...
Offering solace and peaceful respite.
Let the poetry...
Write of you...
As the splendour...
Envelopes each unspoken letter.
Embedding words of warmth,
that seize my heart
in a state of enamour...
Before taking its majestic flight.
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 10:57 AM UTC
If broken men were like broken glass
then he'd be the jagged edges of a
smashed beer bottle - belligerent,
defensive, and prone to fighting
because of the cheap drink flooding his veins in hopes of forgetting every and anything come the next morning.
If broken men were like broken glass
then he'd be the crack in his last bowl
as it gets bigger unable to contain
himself or his problems -
unable to keep everything in one place, as it spills and pours into other areas of his life.
If broken men were like broken glass
then he'd be the various mirrors
around his house that he punched in,
7 years of bad luck for each -
the reflection taunting and crooked everytime he so much as glances at one out of habit.
If broken men were like broken glass,
then he'd be a light bulb that burst
from its own luminescence - that
was too much to hold in its surroundings
that's deemed useless since it can't perform its primary function.
If broken men were like broken glass,
then he'd be the splintered fragments of photo frames - the shards embedding
into the pads of his fingertips
as he tries in vain to piece it back together again, to make it whole again, to make it picture perfect again.
If broken men were like broken glass,
then how does one handle a heart?
Is this why so many are callous to
the destruction they cause?
Indifferent to the wreckage that follows them wherever they go?
Or are they afraid of themselves,
afraid of being naturally sensitive and
vulnerable, afraid of reincarnating into
the pieces of glass that they break?
Maybe it is both or neither, even, but
the destructive behavior of men are not
isolated incidents ...
It is phenomena that spans across the globe.
If the concept of Man exists outside of this world,
would they exhibit the same fragility too?
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 7:42 PM UTC
I’m the girl with the loudest laugh in the crowd, who warms the bodies of those who surround with happiness; the girl who puts on a smile and lights up the room, the girl who is there for everyone in their times of lonesome tears and times of trouble.
Within my laughs are cries of pain; among my lips is a dreadful control, constantly attempting to stop the quivering muscles; inside the bright room, the shadows wrap around me in their soothing embrace, drawing me into their abyss yet again; I’m the girl who wants to be comforted, calmed, and loved.
Notice me, and what I entail. Listen to my words, and try to understand their meaning. Look into my eyes and hear their quiet whispers as they spill out the secrets of sable struggles, a seemly sacrificed soul, and a sensibly sobered sanity.
This illness crawls through my brain, embedding the virus deeper into me, and stripping away all remembrances of my wholesome well-being. My body shivers and shutters despite the piles of blankets on top of me, or the two jackets upon my back. This physical cold is nothing compared to the grim cold running through my veins. I’m dawned with illness as my muscles shake and strain from the trifling weight of my own sorrow.
With each brush stroke, more hair comes out. The dark, twined mane falls on the floor of my bathroom tub, haunting me with judgment. My nails are peeled, the bags under my eyes darkened, the shine from my hair gone; all to feel normal. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, why am I doing this to myself?
___________________________________
eating disorders, bulimia, depression, lost, lonely, depressed, struggles, pain, coping, mia, ana, life
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 5:11 PM UTC
"How beautiful are your tents, O Jacob,
Your dwelling places, O Israel!"
Thy children gather,
telescoping generations,
O Jacob, what do thine eyes ascertain.
what history do they memorize?
Coalescing younger star clusters,
disparate related families uniting,
embedding as a single unity,
a star cloud,
shedding a new light,
the astronomers awed, witnesses,
a super-star cluster birthed.
The beauty of thy tents,
thy wealth, O Jacob,
is their multiplicity,
their construct and content.
The web of thy tissue,
bindings, linkages,
what resides within thy tents,
acknowledge, testify, that
the strength of thy issue,
are the Matriarchs,
managers of thy destiny,
mothers of thy dynasty,
The Sarah's, Leah's, the Rachel's,
the Fay's, the Ginger's, the Miriam's
these jewels bedeck, beautify,
brides and bridles of thy tents,
master mistresses of thy dwellings,
without them, O Jacob,
you, but, just,
another desert tribe.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 3:16 PM UTC
Like a blossoming flower the story unfolded before my tiny eyes,
the screen consumed the room from wall to wall.
My little eyes were rapt by the glow,
entranced by the colour and music,
enveloped completely.
Sparkles of magic seemed to twinkle in my eye and through to
My heart, forever they would prevail.
Sat next to me, the man of my young life, my Dad, my hero.
Every Saturday he'd take me by the hand and we'd embark on adventures to lands unknown, far off places immersed in fantasy.
This particular Saturday would enthrall me more than any other in my three young years, embedding itself in my memory.
It was a tale as old as time, and as I'd find my own years passing by
the tale proved timeless.
The colour and music could whirl around me, each swirl melting away the layers of time until there were just three and
I found myself in that cinema once more,
eyes beaming and heart beating.
Even though my Dad is still my hero and key to who I am,
there's a new man in my life who sits next to me now as the story unfolds on screen once more.
I find myself with my own tale developing,
There's a Beauty, and there's a Beast, but they're not restricted to
one.
Within each of us we have beauty and we each have a beast,
Our tales have unwound and intertwined to become
one.
We find the beauty in each other and tame our beasts,
There is no other I could imagine writing my story with, not
one.
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 8:38 AM UTC
A world of splinters
embedding themselves in the flesh;
the spirit surrounded by a crown of thorns;
pangs of received and on-others-inflicted wounds
tormenting any hope of durable reconciliation -
the birth of wisdom is suspect to mockery.
Maybe, it should accept and succumb
to ignorance and impotence.
Sep 4, 2010
Sep 4, 2010 at 12:39 AM UTC
"a mecha bug
impossibly small
beady compound eye
cute little botfl y antennae
recording Me
sleepyhead
as I lay down
in my bed
embedding its little body
in my dreamcloud that's
above my head
in my bed
all my prayers + wishes
all my luck gifts from God
the robo-pede
uploads it's buzz code
And the scheiße repeats
tonight then tomorrow,
1 then 2,
2night then 2morrow
one then two
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 12:20 AM UTC
Heartbreak is
the words
we left unspoken,
lingering between our lips
and left in an
abandoned corner,
like the always forgotten --
forever awkward,
transition between
winter and spring.
It’s harsher than
the crisp,
frozen air,
whipping against numb,
crimson cheeks.
But it leaves you
paralyzed,
filled with sleepless nights
accompanied by
the ceaseless rain
down your face,
embedding your daily routine
with “what if’s,”
damp tissues,
and “why.”
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 11:04 PM UTC
Trickle,
You are picturesque abstract
Elongating droplet stroke
Smiling on surfaces
Fondling oxidized tissue
Making love to ozone
From afar
Trickle
I am painfully patient
deliberate witness
to your
becoming
A river
Breaking my o-zone of comfort
Vapor distorting solidity
Fall back unto me
Bring back the salt
that I squandered
But don’t
Deliver this clarity
razor-sharp
Through the fabric of irises
So impossibly deep
In the flesh of my
Indigo sky
Embedding eternally
That state-shifting
Thought foreign body
Lost in the cobwebs
Of amber-caught impulses
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 11:16 AM UTC
*I do not know who I am and there's really nothing sadder than this,
especially when people are constantly questioning you about who you want to be and you don't know what to say or how to act.
I can hardly keep my thoughts together, I don't know how to put them in order. And I--
I am losing myself everyday as I give everything my utmost devotion,
only to find out that I have not been given any in return.
At this hour of night, I feel empty and useless.
And it's probably true that this tear-stained sheet of paper I'm embedding my thoughts in will mean more to me than I ever did to anybody.
And it's sad because I could never blame them.
There isn't a specific character that is outshining the radiance of others to love.
There aren't anymore dreams, or hopes, or hobbies to hold on to.
Everything is a lie. My entire being is a lie.
I am caught at intersection point,
attempting to busy myself by etching out words on the graveyard.
"Come be my savior."
You are not there, and you will never be.
You, my darling, are a lie as well.
I am not able to kick, or writhe, or scream,
for I am trying to jot down what I'm thinking.
And sometimes when you don't know what you're thinking or why you're thinking,
you just remain completely frozen, with your breath ****** straight out of your lungs
by those you love the most.
I can never rely on anyone.
Nobody cares about you no matter how much they state they do.
They are all a lie, too.
I am immortal, and I am utterly dead.
I can hardly feel my fingertips at the touch of this pen
as I am encompassed by a numbness so cold it burns.
For I am a lie, as well.*
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 2:36 PM UTC
Pencil shavings are greater than
Ball point pens, and their precise writing.
A clean, cut pencil portrays any emotion you desire;
Brittle, sharp or a soft embedding on a sheet of paper.
On occasion, ball point pen' s ink,
May bleed and seep through
Affecting every aspect and body.
Tell me doleful writer,
Is this what has become of you?
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 1:32 AM UTC
Sitting. On some wooden railing.
Typical movie scene.
Staring off into the distance,
Patiently waiting Helios to set.
The wind tuning to a mezzo-piano sound.
Harmonious really.
I don't have long hair that can nonchalantly flow through space as the wind blows past,
But I have long eye lashes.
And I can glance back and forth,
As if I'm double-taking a beautiful girl walking along the country side,
Noticing the honeycomb rainbows the sun's rays make
As my eye lashes magically refract them.
My mind is racing with thoughts,
Yet ever-so calmly making sense of it all.
Of course I can comprehend my own thoughts.
Most of the time, I guess.
Then in my peripheral vision,
I see a car's headlights flash by.
Light.
It's always attracted me for some odd reason.
Ironically, darkness seems to be my friend.
More so than light.
Yin & Yang.
They're balanced.
As am I.
Gracefully leaping off the wooden railing,
I make my way back to what I call home.
Is it really home?
Or is it just a house.
In any case,
I take one more look off to my right,
Over my shoulder,
And behold Helios gathering the last of his strings.
In an instant,
The threadbare sky becomes darker, slowly.
Magnificently caressing the lack of luster,
By embedding tiny diamonds into the holes that are seemingly there.
Then, Hercules makes his way unto the stage of darkness,
Radiating brightly.
Slowly shutting the door,
Taking one last gasp of air into my lungs,
I look outside at the silos near my house and wonder:
Do you two ever get lonely when dusk falls and everyone has faded to black?
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 12:29 AM UTC
Off course,
Of course
The sea's salty
spray
stings my eyes
Trembling pointer finger
I wipe away what I can only imagine
is a drop
packed full of
fish ****
Often,
the fan shakes
Or is it me who isn't still?
Often,
I'll grab for warm skin
I'll dig
desperately
through layers of
Filth and disappointment
Often,
I'll grab for you
More filth and disappointment
Outside,
the sound waves find their way into my lonely quarters
Filling the endless cracks of whistling wind
Filling the endless cracks of my cold respite
The glow of your face
Eyes
piercing through the darkness
with valor unseen
by heroes
brave
and timeless
I've never worshipped hands
so leathery
Wounded by
stale
talk
that sank into your heart
like an anchor carelessly dropped
into the sea's cruel
blue
swell
I would say sorry
a thousand times over
if it stripped your heart
of the ghosts that hide and cackle
amongst your vast,
haunted corridors
I'm still---
the shallow shards of your breath
poke at my bullet proof hip
My brain drips manically with the endless horror
of your
ghastly, **** luck
It creeps into my porous skin
embedding itself into my DNA
God,
I've never felt so helpless
I've felt your fingers
like the apple out of my reach
I'll catch you
before you hit the ground
like all the heroes before you
With a marble floor slate
that was empty
and pure
With the white sheen of better handshakes
and conversations
with more peaks
than valleys
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 4:23 PM UTC
I am not a book you can put down and pick up when you're up for it,
I am not the chorus of a song, I am the song in its entirety
I will inspire to be a better person in the name of you,
I would choose to walk to the ends of the universe and pray not to fall,
only to have fallen into an abyss waiting for you,
only to have fallen so far in love with you.
I am like a rolling thunder constantly in movement,
I am human and my human heart is falling apart,
the alarms are ringing in my ears and my tears,
only feels the fear that my shivering hands feel.
I am human and my human heart is beating itself up for you.
I am not a book you can put down on a shelf to collect dust,
I am not the crumbs and crust at the end of what is left of a pizza,
nor am I a people pleaser, I am the embodiment of a raging storm
chose to conform to its environment because fighting a futile fight
is pointless.
I am not an owl awake in the night because I chose to stare at stars,
I am filled with scars that I am hoping the trail of a shooting star could fill,
the night ink drenched on a broken quill, the missing smile,
the living portrayal of denial and a hurting heart.
In my mind we are forever together, in my mind I am holding you,
sober news sounds better than drunk news, the world is safer
the later the hours turn and arm in arm, we are close.
I will always close my eyes and dream of that better life I painted,
even if it is tainted with the wet stains of streaming tears, I close my eyes
painting blue skies with a figure filled with dried eyes where cries
are silenced.
I am still painting, that Disney wedding embedding costumes into mind,
I might be blind but I'll still find my way to your arms, and each scar
is dissipating, the world is levitating on our shoulders
but it doesn't matter.
Please tell me I am still dreaming...because I would rather be dreaming
than imagining...
I am not a book you can put down and pick up when you want,
I am not a picture book with figures erased and faded ink, I am sinking...
I am not a book you can put down so ...please can you come pick me back up?
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 5:09 AM UTC