"emotionality" poems
In poetic manipulation
In magic of our words
Beneath the breath
Above duress
Let your heavy
Hearts be heard
In power of rhyme
Upfront sublime
Equal syllable
Entwined
In each consecutive
Spellbinding high
Or
Emotionality low
Crafted on
The twist of tongue
Either way
Let poetry make us whole
We all have the power
Write it down
lock
And load!
.........
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 9:28 AM UTC
Crazy reared its many heads
Twisted shades of paisley swirls
Kaleidoscope emotionality
Rollercoaster of fear and love
Through the storms of mushroom clouds
An air of peace remained
For that ever-changing scene
Was founded in the purest love
The realest dream come true
No fear of insanity consuming truth
Truth is kaleidoscopes are beautiful
Never boring by design
There is peace in the knowledge
That crazy is exceptional, brilliant
To know a soul, exciting
And through it all
We traverse the universe as one
Riding the wings of insanity
Skiing across the seas
On the backs of narwhals
Simply because they are awesome
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 4:55 AM UTC
Even this latter
lingering emotionality
will vanish somehow,
masked behind an affable reflection,
but already collapsed
into a black hole.
Bigger and bigger.
Mastery of nothingness
in satisfying myself
as mute, stripped leaves
observing their art
of turning into glow of warmth.
Autumn’s heredity.
Fierce hyperbole is Melancholy,
remote and severe sixth sense,
obsidian monolith
in this too mild dimension.
Melodrama of light
is the vacuum of such empirism
saturated ad nauseum
by the ceaseless delay
of the most natural
and contemptuous ease.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 3:30 PM UTC
*Slit my wrists with a white quill
Let emotionality bleed out,
through the crack in the broken windowsill
where the light
shines through
on the darkest
sans Moon night.*
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 2:02 AM UTC
~~ c l
y a
c c
l i
storms in my teacup
one every day
something to fuss over
just for this instant, just to forget
a chain-clanging ghost that lives
in the haunted mansion in my chest
to dilute the hurt
so I can get drunk on it
sacrifice my consciousness
on the altar of emotionality
and then wake up suddenly one morning
to realize that this is silly
to weep over illusions
that i’ve kept myself deluded
there aren’t any storms anymore
just me
and
you
and
happiness
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
25.09.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 4:25 AM UTC
I’ve been thinking
And I don’t know.
I’ve been thinking,
And I just don’t know.
There’s no point in pretending things will change.
I think things might change,
But we won’t.
None of us will ever change.
I won’t, she won’t, you won’t.
We won’t. We are all awful.
Me, her, you.
We are selfish, hopeless, and clueless,
Respectively.
And we are all stubborn.
And human.
We wear that as our alibi
But anyone would tell us that we are guilty.
Life doesn’t fix itself.
It doesn’t break itself either.
People do that.
I was tired.
Emotional baggage
Weighs more than you’d think.
Heavy hearts aren’t fun to drag around,
Especially when you know that other people are so
Free
And have room.
I am sorry that I burdened you with my words.
That is all I will apologize for.
I’m sorry I brought it up
And I’m sorry I let my fingers fly
And make words and phrases
That conjured up
Emotions
and thoughts.
I am not truly sorry though.
If I could go back, I would do it the same.
Because I am selfish. That shouldn’t surprise you.
I cannot deny that speaking now was better
Than forever holding my peace.
And now you are a bit less clueless.
Win-win?
I think so.
You probably don’t.
Not understanding
Is no longer an option.
You will think it is stupid
And juvenile
And that is okay.
I am stupid
And juvenile.
And I think that is okay.
I am telling you now in plain English what I want you so badly to understand:
You and I are fundamentally different.
It’s as simple and complicated as that.
This is me. I obsess.
I put everything I have
Into everything that I do.
I clamp onto things hard
And I do not let go
Until my fingers go numb
And holding on
Becomes a hazard to my sanity.
And even then,
Sometimes,
I keep holding on.
I am emotional.
So emotional, almost to a fault.
Actually, to a fault.
My rationality and emotionality
Are constantly
Fighting
For power
Over my personality.
You know that.
I am a storm.
A godawful storm.
But I’m done apologizing for that.
Because I like what I am better than what you are.
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 1:50 AM UTC
When you left me
My heart imploded and
It felt like I died
But I was still breathing
And each breathe tasted like smoke
From the fire you lit inside me
I loved you and felt more
In my emotions and my body
Than I think I ever will again
The hot mix of love and anger coursed through my veins
While the cold sting of forgiveness and emptiness filled my lungs
And it left me a freezing, burning mess of confusion and contentment
You were awful to me most days
I cried myself to sleep to your silence
But if you were nice the next morning I rejoiced and felt happy again
Now I am rotting inside
Because what I feel for these women
Is not what I felt for you
I feel empty vibrations in the caverns of my chest
I hear depressing gongs in my ears as they tell me they love me
I feel nothing when I say it back
This guilt is a vine that grows throughout my body
It begins in my lungs and steals my breath away
And it forces my limbs to act without emotion
I am cursed with genes that promote impulsivity and high emotionality
And by a past muddied with traumatic events that still hinder my existence
And by my own choices that have led me to hurt so many innocent people
In my quest to find myself
I am so broken and I don't want pity
I just want to understand why
I ruin every good thing that enters my life
Every day I have to maneuver between reality and what's in my head
I cannot determine if what I feel is real or if it's just the result of years of repression
All I know is that my rotting insides are overgrown with vines that keep me moving
Even though I just want to die.
Aug 7, 2017
Aug 7, 2017 at 4:36 PM UTC
***** Miss Whint took a flight on a Saturday night
***** Miss Whint showed the world her insides
If science can’t show her a number
She’ll take despair to a mystical side
And the world will be her child
If you can find a path to the sea
I’ll call you a human being
If that’s worth believing
Faces articulate so cantankerously
And lose any intention for their mind
While we grow, yet still coagulate
Perhaps we’ll see, her cruelty’s bound to time
And we’ll be fine
In her broken home is where she dominates
And hates her own cherry tree
Who screamed immensely
***** Miss Whint, she took a flight
***** Miss Whint was despair at first sight
She lost emotionality
When she confided in reality
***** Miss Whint has the look of a saccharin knife
***** Miss Whint made it hard to live a life
When we’re all strangers to the sun
The working man’s light is the muzzle flash of a gun
But we’re just having fun
She sweeps the open road with love
And a diamond compartment
Twisting the road-bent
Indignant children are the fodder of her highway
That leads to a city in the wane
While she eats the air and lives another day
Deep lines accentuate her mighty wake
And that’s okay
The fools are left to smiles and opulence
She makes them find sense in their own pretence
Preaching, “there’s no end”
***** Miss Whint, she took a flight
***** Miss Whint was despair at first sight
You lost emotionality
When you confided in reality
If her mouth was wider when she began
Maybe we could have had some fun
But how could she care for what happened minutes ago?
There is an open vent to useless things to sow
If her eyes were brighter when we lost our lives
Maybe we could be satisfied
But typewriters stay their hand to the climate’s cold command
And we’re left to indulge in what still stands
So, as I wrote this like a letter
To a lady of vicious weather
Someone then caught me and said,
“Swallow those words or I’ll have your head”
So I said,
“This note has no point, so go count your coins”
***** Miss Whint has the look of the fourth of July
***** Miss Whint took a ruler to the human life
When we’re all frightened by the sun
The working man’s light is the masquerade of a gun
But we’d all rather run
Jun 28, 2019
Jun 28, 2019 at 1:07 PM UTC
*** silences my emotionality
For thirty minutes,
Sanity
We don't have to like each other
For thirty minutes,
There is no love to discover
Animosity
For thirty minutes,
Nobody is asking for honesty
One day I will figure it out
But for these thirty minutes,
You're all I'm about.
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 7:19 PM UTC
because I have this view...
7 days ago I stopped in
and was greeted by a grin
7 days later I was sad
because I had been gone
so long
tonight
I'm wanting
to just sing you a song
***Words became my solace
and your name became a face
I wept with an emptiness
that real life could not replace***
at some point in the universe
I came back to a time in space
that ever rocked my emotionality
and gave me a listening place
I can't touch you with my fingertips
but I can hear you with broken ears
I'll cry your every emotion
and shiver with your every fear
I'm never going to miss you
because you resonate in a heartbeat
I'm never going to miss you
even though we may never meet
I'm never going to miss you
no matter what we all heard
in this time of empty space
I listened to every word
I'm never going to miss you
because you'll never be gone
you are my song
I don't feel so alone anymore
because you are never gone
for long
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 6:28 AM UTC
The ink of my pen pressed firmly
into the parchment,
staining it with an idea,
with a thought that was
of my own mind.
The parchment was rough,
withered at the ends from the
lack of neglect that I had
spared it upon it during the years it
retained its fine age in my attic,
collecting the very dust that
bargained with time.
The pen, the parchment were the tools
I had at my disposal,
they were the tools I relied
on during a daily basis.
Such basic items to another
person would seem insignificant,
but were they?
Not to me,
but that was the price of it all.
The price of being mistaken
as something I wasn't.
There was a price of humility
that came with a passion,
that came with the dying
art form of prose, poetry, and fiction.
Those art forms
that express that of our
deepest desires,
concerns, and
problems.
Written words can express parallels
in the way that speech may not be
sufficient in doing.
That's where my humility,
my passion, and
my work originate from.
They stake a claim
on the spontaneity of words,
of sentences,
and the nuances of the
language that can convey
just what I forge them to.
Oh, how these kind acts of pleasure,
and these kind acts of movement
bring me both joy and sorrow.
The pen on the parchment brings me
into the realm of both reality and fiction,
giving me the ability to speak as freely as
I want to.
Chained down to such a society,
such a group of people around me
who entice me to strive in such a way
that contributes to the thoughts
of the inner dwellings of my mind,
lapping them up and laying them out
on the old, dusty, and fine aged parchment.
These thoughts are private,
and yet, they are very public.
They are for those who wish to listen.
They are for those who wish to ignore.
They are both a pleasure and a pain.
They are from me,
and they are given to you.
They are humility, and
they are pride.
They are local, and
they are foreign;
they are to be used with
the utmost intention of
fluid emotionality and
cordial necessity.
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 11:03 PM UTC
Finally;
They finally learned how to love me;
I can now feel them care and worry;
And see them giving me attention—how merry!
Some gave me thanks, while some kept saying sorry;
Why do you aplogize, dear crony?
You never did anything faulty
Can't you see? I'm finally happy.
For I can now feel their love for me
As I lie in this coffin, lifeless, and devoid of any vitality;
One by one, they walked in just to see my body
Now I feel like a famous celebrity.
The corners of my lips curled up; smiling bitterly
Wanting to shout and scream so loudly
Why didn't you tell me those words that might have made me happy
When I was still living in this world full of negativity?
But I do know the answer, honestly;
For regret is stronger than any emotionality
Oh, look how much they regret their insensibility
As they lost me, yet learned to love me—finally.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 12:22 PM UTC
i grew up in an evangelical home in the burbs. i now like to think of this brand of belief in christian doctrine as the sorta "star but humble upstart" ---- a shy new jesus on the block. not very showy with ritual. not too brimstone-y with rules. but nevertheless it is terribly aggressive and convincing in its apparent passivity, summoning up a tactical confusion in the believer that petrified the will before it had a chance to bloom and raked in the imagination before it could body forth an inner-whorl.
the evangelical brand leads with a hidden, veiled threat of eternal damnation best served cold with kind eyes. these eyes, they grow mouths inside them to speak to you the truth as they see it. it assumes your consent already. it rips initiative from the realm of possibility. it rents you a god, a "real living god" amid a scarcity of eternal life. you are sold. you must be. it trains a deep, serene dispassion that enslaves any shred of emotionality. it grips ****** life-affirmation with thousands and thousands of self-induced mental strokes against the backside, moving into position various leather tentacles tipped with acute tapered bones that seek out, lick, dig and pull up a guilt that beats subcutaneous, stuck to the very core center of the hard white tissue holding up humanity itself. you are fallen now because of before, or so it goes. it is the worst kind of violence. it steals who you are and gives you back a cheap copy that tells or suggests you hate, with a vengeful love of course, these original pieces of you that keep cropping up, keep emerging through nice smooth paved suburban sidewalks, still wanting, still desiring -- new words worming through old written ones.
it starts with a lack, and it wants to color you in. "you are not good enough" it sez. "you need something" it warmly alleges. "don't resist, let him in" it condescends with a grin reaching for the ear. it is a vamp asking for permission to eat your heart out with fork and knife, only to replace it with himself - all as you watch the procedure. it loves you to death.
tell it **** off, kindly. then shut the door.
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 4:27 PM UTC
I used to be a fragment alone in distraught,
Put there by those who bare my trust, it was a battle not easily fought.
Rage and hate took over me, fluctuating with the melancholy,
This is when I changed, They noticed it in my eyes.
They noticed the change, i was simply different, eyelids were red due to the release of Everything within, when present i couldnt help but to scream and cry.
I couldnt controll it and it all began to release, im sorry i wasnt strong Enough, Yet... Im only a human being.
I succumbed to emotionality, this is my fatal reality
World Peace was no longer my ultimatums wish,
Empty like dark space.
My inner self ceased to exist.
As they looked deep into my eyes there was nothing, because they realeased it All and there was Nothing to be left,
I was empty, gone, just emotionless...
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 7:53 PM UTC
October
Where everything seems evil
Well now it's begun
My horror of life
In which I habe felt
Most pain
Emotionality
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 4:49 PM UTC
Is much different from every other it’s much colder. The atmosphere generally stirs up emotionality in every one
It makes you ,yes you want to be with the opposite ***
Generally taken as a day to exchange gifts
But Nigerians have made it seem like a day when love is made
Which is kind of negative looking at it generally.
But Nigeria is not generally like that with every thing done here.
So I say what can be done to change this.
But I am not against love, love and more love
I generally do enjoy the feeling but excess of all is bad.
It leads to broken relationships homes and finally heart break
Which you would notice (heartbreak) on the 15 of February every year.
So what more can I say I an a boss and a boss I will be
But if we were to go by and by then our daughters
Will continue to be heart broken every 15 of February.
This trend must be stopped by choosing to love
And love truly with all thy heart, body and soul
This I believe will change everything
But I am not saying that if thou holdest you back
From progressing you shalt stay that is why you are the boss
You can either choose to continue or leave
But it must come from the heart
And must be a conscious step towards self realization
This is just the way it has been should not be your words
But understand that changes are there for a reason
So go share thy love.
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 3:59 AM UTC
Hearts, such fragile things
We use them to love those we idolize
Those we cherish so dear
Yet to what avail
We spend but a few years together
Only to mourn what once was
The time so west
The moments seemingly everlasting
Eternal
Hearts are such fragile things
Tender and caring
Capable of the deepest vats of human emotionality
Strong in the face of darkness
Yet so easily broken
Destroyed
Scared
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 2:58 PM UTC
Misery likes to keep
commiserate company.
Mixing the bowl of emotional
soup, causing overflow of
stress and anxiety.
Sympathy keeps misery company, having tea every morning. At brunch they talk about the news, all of the shadowy darkness that looms over our heads.
Aching hearts, tugging at the strings of emotionality, we’ve waltzed with our memories many times before.
Misery likes to keep busy,
commiserate likes to remind
us we’re not alone.
© 2019 By Amanda Shelton
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 4:45 PM UTC
I promise,
I’m a good girl;
I stay away from
narcotics, alcohol, sin.
Traditional stuff you’d find
at parties:
bustling, joyous laughter,
celebrating their momentary acceptance.
Girls my age are supposed to
lose her individuality in the heat of the moment,
find herself as the collective energy of the crowd,
dance, fight, scream.
They fight off the night’s
darkness, silence, coldness,
for the party’s
brightness, sound, warmth.
I remain
alone,
allowing the night’s emptiness
to swallow me whole.
Surrounded by darkness,
I notice its layers—
the infinite depths of reality
threatening to tear us all apart.
Just as anyone else,
I’m not as good as I should be.
Despite the comfort I have in
barely keeping myself afloat,
I want
to feel
something
too.
I drink energy drinks at night.
Not so bad, right?
I thought the same
against my mother’s warning:
"Never drink those!"
Despite being able to recall
coloring within the lines of a coloring book
at a hospital:
seeing my dad be pushed in a wheelchair
out of the operation room.
His spirit was stolen,
and his heart would tick forever as a reminder.
Compared to the other girls, I
lose my individuality in the loneliness of the night,
find myself in the emotionality night wraps me in:
watch, listen, wait.
My heart struggles to keep up as I drink
more, more, more.
I smile, and finally my thoughts run as quickly as my peers—
beat, beat, beat.
I’m tired of being a girl,
of failing to live up to inhuman expectations,
or fitting in with those sweaty bodies.
I wish the glory of femininity didn’t end with girlhood.
Instead of playing with human sensuality,
I play with human mortality
in what I’d like to call
a college student’s version of Russian roulette.
Nov 20, 2020
Nov 20, 2020 at 1:51 AM UTC