"empathized" poems
From the moment we met on that eventful night,
I've felt something for her unlike I've felt for any other soul.
Her hair was curled, her makeup was neat.
She was beautiful.
She smiled at me a special smile,
And it was that smile I would become accustom to.
She was surrounded by a crowd of exceptional people.
They were a kind of wild and raunchy people I hadn't been exposed to.
Amongst them, she shined like a diamond,
As if she was God and they were all descendants of Lucifer.
I soon became aware that her and I could relate.
Sometimes outcasted by others, we bonded in our strife.
We led similar lives and connected strongly with each other in a friendly, nonromantic way.
Whilst her fellow souls were overflowing with disorder,
We held each other and comforted each other from the unsafe conditions of teenage darkness.
She was misunderstood and so was I.
We were meant to live much simpler lives,
But in our struggle to prosper in what we thought was divine,
We made our lives much more complicated.
She watched me as I drove those familiar roads,
And listened as I talked of my blues.
She empathized with me.
We always got along the best.
Faced with a plethora of teenage hardships,
We always found our way back to sanity.
We always found our way back to each other.
She was everything to me,
And to this day, she still shines like a diamond.
Now, her smile is more than just a smile.
It's a pathway to serenity.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 9:36 PM UTC
Cascades were dripping outside of this moving vehicle
White noise, patternless and arrhythmic
like magnified sounds of nails on a concrete wall,
made by souls desperate to cleave their way to dryness
This public utility vehicle holds spirits successful in finding this temporary heaven
Weathered, soaked and almost drowned
like panting dogs that managed to swim ashore from a shipwreck
caused by the iceberg that is the eye of the storm
This safe haven holds champions in a world of misshapen men
A woman clutches tightly on a bag of lime and her ever waning youth
Tired, but not eager to face Death
still closing her windows to his cat burglars
that come faster than the downpour of Typhon's tears
A homeless child comfortably sleeps on the far end of this ride
His innocence tested by fate
Too experienced for someone his age
instead of just playing in the streets he calls home
The jeepney driver has eyes on the road painted by Van Gogh
Unabashed, industrious and assiduous
determined to serve,
provide for a family whose stomachs hunger not but they hunger for his return
This other dimension nurtures alien thoughts and parallel thinking among beat down men
I do not know them but I can hear the cries of their emotions,
their longing to be felt and empathized with
Their voiceless cries are guns with a silenced nozzle
shooting at anyone ignorant who curiously stare at this minefield of a passenger jeep
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 12:19 PM UTC
today my friend's best friend died
and i really empathized with her
Her best friend was
Charming
brave
Affectionate
smart
Lively
gigantic
Versatile
playful
Innocent
silly
Noisy
And he was one of the best, someone whom she could lean on, someone who would cheer her up with a cuddle.
It hurts to lose a dog. A big, furry cream colored friend, with a big loving heart.
It's true that a dog loves you much more than himself. And you could see it in their eyes when you give them food or stroke their bellies.
This fuzzy feeling of friendship will never be forgotten.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 5:33 AM UTC
A man jumped today.
A man jumped today off the railroad bridge.
A man jumped today off the railroad bridge,
& we pulled him out.
I am a firefighter, its my job to make situations okay.
I wonder what happens when I'm not okay?
A man jumped today off the railroad bridge
& I hoped it was you at first.
Your father shot himself in the chest.
He kept the birthday card I gave him,
In the drawer of his bedside table.
It broke the family and a piece of me.
My grandfather shot himself and it was terrible,
& I still hoped it was you.
I wonder how much hate you hold.
What does it take to call me worthless?
Last week a dad accidentally ran over his child.
I empathized with how the kid felt
& I wish you loved me sometimes.
What have you done.
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 1:07 AM UTC
The troubadour planted his last name between
a she-vegan's legs in San Marcos;
rambled north to that country of love, Oklahoma City,
where he took hits of windowsill acid every three hours
for a week straight.
To escape, to begin.
He spent his nights in the St. Cloud Hotel, trying to
sleep on a carpeted floor. He saw a color between
lavender and orange, nameless and impossible to
recreate. He knew all, including he'd forget all.
He shared a room with two high fashion,
burgundy-lipped lesbians, Viv and Jean, and
one night, the last night the troubadour, our troubadour,
was allowed to stay, Jean went out for some fresh air,
code for a cigarette.
"She never smokes just one," Viv said, little Oprahs reflected in her eyes from the plasma screen. She lay on her stomach on the bed,
atop a jungle green comforter. For your discretion and for the discretion of those before you.
Viv brought him between her legs.
"Gentle. Gentle," she said.
The troubadour thought of those Pepsi Challenge commercials as he tongued her **** A lesbian has an edge when it comes to oral pleasure. Across the nation more people prefer Pepsi. She's got the same parts, sure, but as the troubadour wordlessly recited the alphabet with his tongue to her, he felt confident Jean hadn't put in this kind of effort, not lately anyways. And so what if he's Coke? The troubadour preferred Coke. Viv snagged a handful of his hair, "Don't stop," she said. "Don't stop."
And it all ended, as drug-addled, hetero-on-homo escapades always do: abruptly and with an "I think you should leave before she comes back," a "But sweetheart, this, us, I think this means something," an "I like girls," a "But," an "I just needed an edge," and later that night as he marveled at the brilliance of the common streetlight, tripping his *** off on his last hit of LSD, he empathized.
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
A broken lock equals an open mind. An open mind equals a temporary peace of heart. I constantly write in riddles and lines that will never rhyme, that most will probably never read. In my subconscious I relentlessly attempt a Resurrection of civil engagements with an uncivil mind. My internal demeanor never abandons a detail, a key worth remembering and a lock that will always sway to and fro in a shanty boat that is inconsistently worthless and valuable. It will never dock, it will never be entirely worth the stress or the time it would take to tie and secure a ship of that size and quality, or lack thereof. There exists ulterior motives that Miss blonde esteem is seemingly not even aware of, or like her prior, accepts ignorance as a temporary escape until the uncivil mind returns civil. The fact is this. The uncivil mind was never civil, and may as well never be. Locks can be repaired, even when the thief begs for no replacement. What makes the thief the uncivil enemy? Has it ever occurred to any soul, that a thief is only stealing away precious moments that are rightfully his, that circumstances and uncivilized minds have locked away in a pitch black that they cannot call their own night? There surely has been an uncanny instance when the locksmith swiftly turned about to find his prior gazing at him in the golden grooves of the trap. The thieving of one’s own mind, to break a lock enchanted by the uncivil mind, should be easily empathized and understood. But alas, curly blonde esteem will forever submit under the spell of the uncivil mind, who will only cast a shadow upon itself and its priors. It will be remembered in the scent of cigarettes, where it will also be displaced. It will be avoided in the unrighteousness of a friend’s bed in another family’s house, where a respirator and the oxygen tubes intertwining the threshold no longer exist; neither do the white sheets. There will never again be an absence of music behind the actions committed between the uncivil mind and the civil heart.
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 1:27 AM UTC
Were you alive when the
bricks began to crumble
beneath our hand-held, kiss
puppets?
Our mumbled whispers
that tapered ladders on gargantuan folds and slung-held
boy-grips.
Cohorts torn into flip stands
layered toward standing sores --
tell me how to cross rapid waters of social trends.
We were strung up the flag pole, almost posted as decapitated heads for the public.
Under teeming hammer-strikes :
glasses shred to paper-splinters
before a car crying white chalk bricks
onto saran-wrapped concrete.
There were antennas perched like speckled,
mangy feathers,
poised, reflecting defiance toward
the wool-ashed sky.
With dirt-trekked journey marks,
there were trees growing silver hair outside the grocery store --
and frown-marked women -- that skin-folded
war paint -- yelled at their daughters to pay attention.
Dec 22, 2011
Dec 22, 2011 at 9:30 PM UTC
It's quite simple really.
Months have passed since the day
I've fallen for you.
Such a shame that you couldn't tell.
Sorrow and hate fills me.
Yielding to the emotions of hostility.
Only the broken could've empathized with me.
Understand that I'm imperfect and forgive me.
Silence is the stake in my heart.
Over the months, it stabs deeper into me.
Maybe I've made the wrong decision.
Until I've seen what it reaps,
Carrying the burden of doubt is my trial.
Haunted by memories of you is my masochistic pleasure.
All this must have been quite a surprise.
Do realize that I'm just a man...perhaps lesser.
Imaginations are what feeds my needs now.
Told you I'm evil.
I love you, darling.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 1:49 AM UTC
*Listen to your heart
Don't hide from the art
Play to win
Be smart
Escape from fear
Be willing to steer
Speak your truth
Be clear as the skies
Don't expect to be empathized
Be resilient
Reject being chastised
Don't accept their lies
Make an exception
To be free
Even if you aren't
Like a tree
Be brilliant
Be available
Listen to the wind
Become reliable within
Respect your mind
Love yourself
Don't rest until
You know it's true
This poem is for you*
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 6:26 PM UTC
You’ve read the words a million times
Seen it from novel to novel
You read about the daughters
And those they love
The ones who got sick
They hope
And hope and hope
then things go bad
And the only one who can still hope are the daughters
I’ve read their words from all across the decades
Sympathized with their pain
With their grief
With their internal struggles
But I never empathized with them
And in the past
I had this thought
In my head like a sticky note adhered to the fridge
Stuck there right next to the grocery list and the kindergarten artwork
It read
I would never be a daughter
Then the words leapt off the pages
Of the hundreds of novels
Inserted themselves into my narrative
Gluing themselves to my skin,
I tried to rip them off myself
But they peeled off my skin with their literary fingers
Taking some of my skin with them as they launched and
Ripped the sticky note off my cerebral refrigerator
I became a daughter
Sometimes I still can’t believe that word is a part of my life now
Cancer
And I understand what these daughters have felt
That it feels wrong that I should be the one feeling hurt
It is those I love that are sick and I am healthy with no physical ailment on me
No tumors or scars under my skin
But I feel as if they are in my heart
There is a tumor there and it won’t be removed
Because how could one ever remove a metaphorical tumor
Why does it hurt?
Is it because of the chemo
Cherishing the Hope that Everyone is Mostly Optimistic
Devoting myself to keeping everyone else in balance
Holding the weight of the world even though I could easily just let it go and crush
Every horrible thing in this life
But it became a part of me when that word entered my life
I can’t make it separate, make it leave, can’t stop being who I was born to be
Someone to hold the weight
Except one
One weight that ain’t no metaphorical tumor
The person I love is sick
The novels have inserted their words into my narrative
I just hope I can revise their endings
And move cancer into the index
The credits
anything
instead of having the last page read
the end
But, then I see the one I love stand strong
As everyone says this is the end
She won’t pretend that this it
Because it isn’t
She takes the pen into her own hand and erased what the world had written
And writes the end of part one
The end to this chapter in a long happy saga called
life
And she writes to the daughter
I'll see again
when you finish part one
In your wonderful fairy tale book
Apr 7, 2018
Apr 7, 2018 at 12:50 PM UTC
In the group that I come from, where philosophers comprise. Virtue, ethics and values they wrestle or oblige. One thing is missing and thats the truth in definition. From where philia itself is all about friendship.
Friends in wisdom, hey..it might just be empathy. Compassion hey, its truly a victory.
Whether Sophia or Nikea, it shouldn't really matter. Put them together and the robes will never tatter. Lest apart, were back to the start where this cute mythology loses its heart.
Yo, The Gods and Goddesses are just virtues. Principles of importance marked as divine. Personified and glorified to keep the spirit alive, thats just how they emphasized. Thats just how they empathized.
Dec 6, 2021
Dec 6, 2021 at 3:00 AM UTC
I frequently attempt to capture home on a canvas
But despite all the good this does my soul
oils and turpentine do little for the city of Atlanta
If you were to ask me why I loved Atlanta.
You would know me as you would a brother
My first kiss
my best friends who no longer live there
that time when me and Jacob were so ******* over it that we spent 4 hours throwing rocks at the Chattahoochee hoping it would change something
And know nothing of I-285, Jimmy Carter, or Hartsfield-Jackson
And as I explain love.
With little interest in its subject
I feel that Orpheus would have empathized
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 2:38 PM UTC
one time in the land of poverty and starvation
where hunger loomed like the spirit of God,
Even Itself starved itself often on the thin vials
of the black stomachs,colonies and esophagus,
of these poverty crashed men and women
denizens of this land ever wondered why ,
hunger and challenges where their stuff?
they had nothing at all to stake the selves,
mothers were beggars as fathers did,
pangs of hunger even made them dark
in their skins with excess melanin,
These conditions made their foster mother
to yap her white beak cacophonously ,
in the ecstatic syndrome of colonial glory
she was happy as they suffered, day in and day out,
she even made the possibility food
for these foster children of hers an illusion,
she forced them to speak her tongue
as a magical secret to have enough food
they tried the tongue but they could not make it
because prime motive was colonial tricks,
not salvage of any standard nor measure,
the foster mother came again with a new ploy,
that she could give them food or Ebola drugs
if only their men had to marry fellow men
and their women must marry fellow women,
they tried and they shrank in numbers
a new opportunity for the foster mother
to become metaphysically a colonial mother,
Only to loot the minerals , wood,land and slaves
slaves taken on vicious green card lottery boat,
then their chanced a yellow man , but not as foolish
as the one Dalai Lama, the poet of prolixity
He empathized with the black poverty ,
he felt for the Nation of this beggars,
he cried Woooooo! these people are suffering!
This poverty is pathetic and sorriest !
he took all the Ebola patients and hunger victims
to the herbal medical clinic nearby
He also gave the beggars of that nation
iron horses on which they ride as they beg
hence the saying that;Behold the last wonder,
kings are walking of food and slaves riding
kingly horses.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 8:37 AM UTC
4/12/17
She said she moved across the countrey to
Get away from her sister
They got a divorce and it was
Against her beleifs.
Against God.
I told her firmly
That i empathized
How it must be hard to move across
The world, to pack up everything
Just for your morals
She said she and her husbamd moved in with the ex husband her sister
And that the whole family besides herself
Supported her sister.
I said that must be hard.
Then when she loved me
Knew i understood.
I promptly told her i was polyamorous.
That my lover moved to ireland
To live with her husband
Packed up everything
And how hard that must be
and She did not flinch
I held her as she cried on my shoulder
She in the fifteen moments I saw her
Realized there is a whole world of differences
She can find comfort in when she is alone
She never once knew what I thought of her
Morals
How In my family we have divorce celevrations.
How ending is always a new beginning
How you can love amd still realize that a forever is going to make you miserable
Or never having a baby will **** you
Or being ***** every night is going to torture you
Even if the abuser is your own husband
I worry for her safety.
A woman who doesn't beleive in the word stop.
Doesn't consider leaving
Or letting go
I could never trust someome like that.
I would never be able to see them without feeling regret.
There is no words for the sorrow I place in that body of theirs.
And it is not my place to change it.
But I can tell them how happy i've been
Letting go someone I love, forever.
Not because We are unhappy.
Just because it was time for them to go.
Tell her how I still love them.
How i miss them every day, but it does not depress me.
It enlightens me.
Tell them of all my happy memories
libraty labrynth where she made me look her up with the dewey decimal system
Ice skating and backwards buttwiggles
Every time we stayed up late and I whispered that she existed.
Because even I wasn't convinced.
Now that she's left.
I'm still not.
But I will never forget either of them.
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 10:51 PM UTC
In the far corner lay
her frumpled boots,
a monument to humanity's hidden truths.
Daily burdens of mental, physical abuse,
the toll mounting without allay
bygone fears kept at bay
years of growth wither untold
crumpled underfoot by inhuman lecherous controls.
nethered by these leathered souls.
A vice’s grip is a cowardly clasp.
winds change, fogs lifts, grief finds strength in the past,
Dismay, now the torturers sheaf.
Confidence steps forth empathized by another’s sorrow
World unites with each behold,
of leched acts that lurked in the shadows
exposed by truth in the dawn of each tomorrow.
Dec 14, 2017
Dec 14, 2017 at 4:19 AM UTC
You want to live in your own world,
want to hide your problems from your girl,
and living in fear that the truth will unfurl,
causing your anxiety to swell and swirl.
Well, let me tell you of your mistake,
thinking she can't tell when you fake
hoping she won't figure out what's at stake,
and all because you want her to have a break.
However sweet the gesture, she knows;
It's evident the moment your smile goes,
she feels your negative energy as it flows,
and she notices when you no longer glow.
Despite your efforts, you see her sad,
and at yourself, you become mad,
because you hoped that you had
kept from her, all things that are bad.
What you fail to realize
is that when you look into her eyes,
her feelings are yours; empathized,
and you shouldn't be so surprised.
What good does it do to try to hide?
Clearly she knows what you keep inside,
but now you got her wondering why
in her, you cannot confide.
What a blow to the heart that would be,
even though you only want her to be happy...
it feels awful knowing my baby
doesn't want to communicate with me...
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 4:33 PM UTC
I had my breakfast.
I gave up the button that started a liberal conversation,
I mourned the lack of freedom of speech,
I stopped talking.
I walk across campus, silent people everywhere
The look of despair on their faces, the feeling of helplessness in the air,
I empathized with them,
I had nothing to say.
One particular person helped me more than I could imagine,
They convinced me that I am still valid, that my thoughts are still important,
They cared for me, even if just for twenty minutes,
I spilled my secrets to a stranger tonight.
Nov 10, 2016
Nov 10, 2016 at 12:07 AM UTC
I didn't wake up one morning
make a conscious choice
to be a *****
First -
I gave my heart
It was used to clean excrement from your rear....
I ventured so far as to trust
Your knives are still in my back....
I was kind
you interpreted weakness....
I cared
totally unappreciated
I empathized
your need became insatiable....
After 20 years I finally said
**** it....
Naturally,
I'm the *****
No my dear
I simply act like you!
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 1:36 PM UTC
“If I could only paint,” the despondent poet said,
“If I could only paint, I would surely knock’em dead.
Like Rembrandt or Picasso, like Whistler or Van Gogh.
I’d open up a gallery, and everyone would see
The pictures that I’d painted and they would envy me!”
“If I could write a novel,” the painter empathized.
“If I could write a novel, then I’d have realized,
My dream to be like Hemingway, Faulkner or Thoreau.
I’d be in all the book stores, my books would be top shelf,
And I would finally know that I’d made something of myself.”
“If I could hit a baseball,” the author next agreed,
“If I could hit a baseball, I’d be in the major league.
I’d hit home runs like Willie Mays, and run like Shoeless Joe.
The fans would come to all the parks to see me lead the team,
The kids would want my autograph, and all the crowd would scream.”
“If I was smart,” the ballplayer said, “And studied law in school,”
“Then I could be the President, and I’d make all the rules.
I’d be as great as Washington, FDR, and Honest Abe.
I would meet with foreign diplomats, and help the world find peace,
All America would know my name; Play ‘Hail to the Chief’”
“If I could write a poem,” the President bowed his head,
“If I could write a poem, my ego would be fed.
I’d describe the beauty of a flower, and the winds that softly blow;
I’d keep my poems in a journal, let no one ever see,
And be content in knowing that I had done it just for me.”
pwl 3/7/03
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 1:03 AM UTC
When I hear Meredith Godreau preach.
From my 4” speakers
I like to imagine she sings only for me.
Her words exist in emotions that I only dare dream of
As I scribble something insignificant
And know that she will never read a word I’ve written
but why should she?
it’s not about me
As I find myself in this position of unrequited melodic infatuation
I feel that Eurydice would have empathized
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 2:36 PM UTC
The dead have been spoken for
But who will remember?
The living must speak for themselves
Will it be violent or tender?
The unborn risk their lives by our choice
In silence they wait
While our minds, a legacy of failure
Play God with their fate
What would make me finally act my age
When youth smiles not upon the wise
Is it to speak to young women without remorse
Or become the stranger who empathized
The shallow lightening flash of narcissism
Strikes close to our children
Which images will they choose for their life
Pleasure or to fight explosions inside the gates of heaven?
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 9:34 AM UTC
It feels like,
Everyone and everything is just a figment of my imagination.
A fake reality!
Because however I expect,
In the simplest of situations if they would worry, wonder and rejoice in my tone;
If people around me empathized as much as me,
I mean, even just my family,
Faack!!!
How beautiful the world be!
But then, I wonder,
If I’m just another cockroach refusing to empathize,
Of another’s reality as well!!
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 2:14 PM UTC
It takes a great deal to be happy
Yet only one disappointment to be sad
I can only imagine a life
Where we didn't hyper focus on the bad
Is it the anger, pain and loss in our lives
That we so greatly turn our heads to
Trapped in a sinicle mind
Fear and sadness we succumb to
But a great life that we are given
to live and fail to recognize
The torturous thoughts we share
should be empathized
With time at a stand still
but as fast as the speed of light
Why do I wait for happiness
as if it comes overnight
And yet I sit in regret and discomfort
I hold on to my greatest nightmares
If all see is shadows and doors
This life will be purely unfair
A ray of sunlight fills my days
And I fail to see it in skies of grey
Is it that I've become submissive
Or do I let darkness swallow my day
In a world where I can assimilate
All the satisfaction that surrounds me
I would have to disregard
All the suppressed pain I have seen
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 12:23 PM UTC
Tall, lanky, muscle-less mess
Couldn't dribble a ball across the court if his life depended on it
Curly haired pubescent Nephilim
Always the last to be picked by either team
Neither knew
What I'd do
For a dollar
Or my tricks with Oujia boards and magnets
Begging money from mom and dad
To buy Famous Monsters magazine
Stills ancient even then of frankenstein's creation
Count Dracula, werewolf and wolf man
Terrifying beings from beneath the ground
Or coming down out of the sky
Grotesqueries so appalling
You had to keep looking, you couldn't stop
For all their mystery at least we recognized most of them
We loved some of them
Or maybe even empathized
They didn't seem as dangerous as my tormentors
Though they would surely frighten the living day lights out of them
Like a sordid copy of True Crime, it's pulp pages stained with ink that portrayed REAL death
I felt I was in unfamiliar territory
Dangerous and ever present
Hopping straight from the pages
To the real world
The walk home is always too long
To toss the monster magazine into the box that contained the other 16 issues I'd managed to collect
To put a record on the stereo
Lie back in bed
Stare at the ceiling fan
Listen to "Tubular Bells"
And try not to think of "The Exorcist"
Or the morons at gym practice the next day.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 12:23 AM UTC
Perhaps I read too much, and not do enough.
perhaps, I allow the twinkling stars to intoxicate me.
I am selfish enough to dream of the stars belonging to me,
they are my true love.
Am I to naive to know of what I need? asking myself why so hard do I think?
Do I read first then apply.?
Does knowing and not doing make me ignorant or wise?
Do I just act? Then look back?
At what I should of already looked at?
Does that make me weak or strong?
Backtracking all that I've done wrong.
Do I stand still or carry on?
Perhaps I am confused.
I retain these things but don't know what to do.
Am I just a fool to myself?
Or a poor woman who's knowledge is her wealth?
shall I believe what I read? if it feels true to me?
Or do I believe is all a lie?
Second guess all that passes my eye?
And let the only thing that is real be the tears that they cry?
Am I to **** up My hurt feelings, pray for healing...?
Be humble and forgive them, all those who did it.
And yet not allowed the mercy to forget it..
Left in the the same position, second guessing my first question
is what I see , reality? Or am I filled with anxiety.
I dont know if this is all a truth or is a lie to me.
When I try to find solidity ,
I ask the these questions that hide in me ,
so they see, whats inside of me..
It soon floods with tears, exposed are my fears..
Trying not to care but , but im scared.
I share my plight, hoping to be empathized,
but I share with those who have caused the lies and put these dieses in my mind,
but they are the only ones that care that im scared,
trying to hide that im confused, emotionally bruised,
in my heart
where it all starts..
then travles in my brain..
and I dwell in the pain,
And the only thing thatmakes me sain
Is the intoxcation of the stars
As they twinkle a million miles away
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 10:56 PM UTC