"exerted" poems
There is a pear above me
hovering reluctantly.
It's skin firm,
the colour of meadows in the midst
of spring.
Tightly it clung
to that little stem on the branch
which exerted much effort
to keep it away from the ground.
It looked down on me
wanting badly to be picked.
To be kept inside my pocket
safe - and could be taken out
in dark moments for company.
It could also be tossed roughly in the sack
to migle with other pears.
Scratched pears.
Battered pears.
Broken pears.
Happy pears.
Wounded pears.
Rotten pears.
Abandoned pears.
Neglected pears.
Hate pears.
Love pears.
But it clings, above me
completely out of reach.
It sways in the wind,
impossible to be climbed.
And all I can do
is wait here,
down here, down below
until time exhausts the branch
until it decides to push my pear away
in moments when I am most unprepared.
It will fall on the ground
and I won't be there to catch it - like people execute to people.
Its flesh will cover the pavement
the soil will sap its juice.
It will kiss the soles of my shoes when I passed by
Its remnants will knock, then eventually pound.
And I will see that my untouchable pear
has been reassembled to be a ruin
that shelters history
that homes the history people
with historical names
and historical nails
and historical breath.
That house will contain the smell of oil lamps
lost letters, burnt maps and scarred love
and my pear will accompany the parchment
that human thoughts choose to abandon.
Until then,
I will not be writing for a while.
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 7:44 PM UTC
I rush for love against time
And bleed blood by design
My heart floods for my crimes
When my mud attracts flies
I felt a rush
Through the brush
Of your skin so lush
I turned to mush
My heart began to gush
When I felt your rush
It became too much
And I exploded prematurely
Though it's normal you assured me
Could it be that you had cured me?
We rushed through our adrenaline courtship
While I rushed through your adorable hips
I was ****** in by your surge
Until your love was purged
You grew bored of my rush hour
So you exerted your push power
And I became a fastidious learner
That you were an insidious burner
After I became the sole recipient
Of your attitude that's flippant
The pain is a rush
This pain when you flush
Disdain when you crush
Me to pieces
Between your creases
When you keep talking feces
It's something that never eases
When your rush turns to breezes
You're a rush in my heart
Like the rush when I ****
It's a relief that you're gone
But something seriously stinks
It's a relief you were wrong
Yet I continue to sink
Nov 1, 2017
Nov 1, 2017 at 4:36 PM UTC
I am often told that love will leave me breathless,
But I hope I never know a love so greedy as to steal the air from my chest,
For I have memories of a time when my body was oxygen starved
And my lungs unable to draw in breath,
Bogged down under soupy pneumonia that clung to my innards
With vice-like, snotty grips.
My mind is sometimes lost in the sensation of frantically
Drawing air inward,
******* it into my chest with great gasps that never alleviated the burning of my lungs
Or the way pins and needles tingled down my limbs.
My brain cells were consumed with desire to force O2 to bind with the red blood cells churning in my veins.
The air surrounding me was dense with particles that refused to aid my survival,
No matter how much effort I exerted to the contrary.
Sweat dripped off my too thin form and pallid skin
As I drowned slowly from the inside out in a room full of doctors
Until they finally placed the tube back into my throat to breathe for me.
The pain receded as oxygen raced back into my cells,
And I marveled for a moment at the fact that I could not feel myself breathing,
Couldn't feel the rise or fall of my chest.
The mark of my vitality was absent,
And yet,
I was very much alive.
I remember what it was to be truly breathless,
The blind panic that seized me before finally giving way to a wish for death.
It's because of this I hope love never empties my lungs.
I want a love that makes breathing feel safe and exciting,
A love that feels so gloriously alive that I am acutely aware of my chest rising.
Love should always make breathing feel like both a right and a privilege.
It is a privilege to love her and be in her presence.
But I hope she never leaves me breathless.
Apr 25, 2021
Apr 25, 2021 at 6:25 PM UTC
Skin. Teeth.
Pressure. Exerted.
Tense. Held.
Push. Downward. Sunken. Underneath.
Retracted. Released. Resurfaced. Regained
May 16, 2022
May 16, 2022 at 3:34 PM UTC
It occurred to her unexpectedly.
Who would have thought it will happen?
**All she thought that it will take years,
Years to be found.**
It started unexpectedly.
Slowly, it began.
It developed.
It was felt.
It was thought to be love.
She was very overwhelmed,
Overwhelmed by the feeling.
The feeling of someone being attracted to you.
She was very innocent.
Her love was pure.
She cared too much,
Too much that it affected her so much.
Her love was unconditional.
She was drowned by his words,
Words of drama and foolishness.
She believed too much,
Ending up hurting so much.
She made decisions out of love,
Decisions all for her love.
So much effort exerted,
Still, end up being rejected.
Months, she was left,
Left with pain and regrets.
All she knew was nothing about love.
All she have felt was foolish love.
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 11:32 AM UTC
Noun.
The natural force of attraction
exerted by a body (You)
upon objects at or near its surface (Me)
tending to draw them toward
the center of the body. (Together)
Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 3:29 AM UTC
Forgotten memories remain to be a significant part of the rich tapestry of contemporary establishment, just like an Indian summer which dries the drab and weary soul of those who are ******
History reveals that the Spaniards sold Erythroxylum Coca to Bolivian and Peruvian populations, whilst tyranny exerted its illegitimate dominance.
So, the quest for power and social control remains to be exploitative in the guise of jovial and seemingly convincing salesmen. Just ask the shamans of traditional cleansing.
The pulsating groans of ancient civilisations will never dissipate, despite the lusts of mankind to establish grandiose constructs.
Oh great and mighty spirit of the land, we need your residence amidst our conceited political climate, because you have truly won the war even though our realisation is blinded by fierce presumption.
I desire to take a bite of historical and gourmet delicacies, and to swallow the diversity of gustatory brilliance, because their remains to be a discrepancy between Spanish and Portuguese validity.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 11:51 PM UTC
Lost myself in your eyes, your smile, your soul
Your beauty was contagious, your love was filling
A force I couldn’t explain when I met you
Your touch left me wanting more
Fate played its role in making me yours
Since I've always craved you from a far
You felt lucky, I felt at peace
You became my muse, you became my king
You are my muse, I was absorbed in your love
Transfused your smile into my life
Exerted with great force, you were something from above
I've got to know why you've been kept from me all along
Fell in love with you like the night sky
Favored whatever got me closer to you,
Filled my late nights with your laugh
I couldn't sleep without you
Oh my muse, how much I love you
- Henessy J. Beltre
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 9:21 PM UTC
She carried them about,
stones in her pockets.
Each one a little secret.
The weight of them
distracting her in conversations.
The bulk of them
effecting her posture.
They would knock
when she would walk.
While she could manage
the slight though ever present
force they exerted
she was perpetually terrified
that one day,
in the midst of some random encounter,
a small hole would
open up
allowing them to tumble out.
They did eventually become too heavy
and the pressure of them
made a space
where
sickness poured in
taking their place.
Stones in the pockets
was not the official diagnosis.
But that's what killed her.
I know
because I watched it.
And I miss her.
That one woman who loved me
unconditionally.
I need her at times
like now.
I carry no stones of my own
and I am not afraid of holes
but
sometimes
we need the kind of love
that has no strings
like when the other kinds
wish to bury us.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 9:02 PM UTC
~
Parched and dry, this barren field stretches,
I wander…head hung low,
staring at the emptiness eclipsing my thoughts
Brittle blades of grass disappear beneath
my worn out Chuck Taylors,
black and white crushing beige
in slow fashioned footprints ~ blistered dust
“My sanity for some cool water.”
When upon my shoulders, reddened by solar intensity,
wet from exerted energy, comes a breeze
as if Autumn has come to claim her colors,
to gather her brown and sepia landscape,
pull the lifeless trees, with little leaf
from the chalk textured ground
taking it where it would suit another ~ for this is my luck
“Take my shade a beg not, for it is merely a branch.”
Like fingers of a silken web’s reach,
a soft caress of skin is not understood, though very pleasant
nature finds me a shiver, a small comfort in this arid place
once crawling with snakes of assorted length, now
green as if lush has just been defined
with sweet air and pomegranate skies
featuring a glow, pristine shades of which I’ve never seen ~ heavenly
“To whom might I thank for such a gift?”
When before me stands, as my eyes saturated and lost
slowly focus, a beauty of winged loveliness now smiling within my own
personal oasis, which quickly forms in my heart
An angel, a goddess, extends a hand…to me?
My cracked and weathered palm touches, smooth, gentle
her hand as she lifts me, I am weightless, floating
to her, my breath leaves me as I wonder ~ is this my end
“If this beauty shall be my final curtain, let it be dropped slowly.”
A voice of velvet speaks, as I fade in and out of reality
now steadied by her touch and the sweet scent of lavender and lime,
*“I have come to you as a verse...for poetry is thy keeper,
thy words have been heard,”* lyrically she sings
melodic and harmonious, rhythm’d to the beat of my heart
the race of my pulse, the love of my life ~ my muse
“Eternal to you I shall write, for your beauty fuels my pen.”
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 6:36 PM UTC
they say gravity
is the force of
attraction
exerted by a
celestial body
upon objects near
it's surface
but you
are nowhere near
my skin, and i feel
miles turn molecular
when your words
move through
me, like electronic
particles teasing me
i want to whisper
lullabies to the
backs of your
knees
(tell me what
that means)
you say you
want to be in
arms length
of my clumsy
ways
to watch my
mouth when i speak
memorise the shapes
it makes
i say arms length
may still be
too far
i want palms
pressed together
i want to hear
the beat
of your
murmuring
heart
if you
drink wine
from a cracked bottle
you get your poison
and battle scars
at once
and if that's what
it would take
to kiss you
dear girl
consider it
done
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 2:15 PM UTC
Talking to a sorry seamstress.
Hanging out in New Orleans.
A witch, she stole you from you jeans,
Robbed you of your lover,
Sold you onto another.
Satan himself.
Exerted the most passionate of mind control.
When full of magic she robbed your soul.
Full of pizzazz and all that jazz.
Black cats and ravens.
Unholy houses, unsafe havens.
Voodoo.
Trembling zombies,
Out to munch.
Petrified lunch.
Potions.
Lotions.
Evil devotions.
Incensed.
Incantations.
New Orleans.
Zombie nation.
(C) Livvi
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 6:05 PM UTC
My journey began in a meadow
Where I heard the angels sing
My journey began towards a fellow
My journey began towards a ring
I walked past green bodies of water
Whose hue turned successively black
The sky seemed to grow ever small
I knew there was no turning back
It felt like a valley of shadow
And I knew that I feared evil there
I knew that the scriptures were hollow
I knew that it was everywhere
The first mountain appeared in the distance
Its rocky face wrinkled and drawn
Water poured from its edges
I walked until I felt the dawn
The path laid before me was skinny
Full of marks of missing hikers old trails
I tried not to let it scare me
That there were not returning signs of hikers anywhere
I began the climb every slowly
Careful to place my feet firm
I intended to climb to the top
I wish I knew how much it would burn
The landscape was broken and oily
The slick rocks offered no feeble saftey
I admired the sky and trees
Now all I had to do was keep waiting
The pack on my shoulders grew heavy
And it slipped slowly down my weak arms
But I lifted it up with a grunt
And I continued, in fear I'd be harmed
The silence itself seemed too quiet
It disliked be broken at all
I kept to myself and my walking
Where I found one, I hugged the wall
After days maybe years of this climbing
I could see the sharp top of the hill
Increasing my speed, ever eager
I exerted all of my will
With one last burst of strength I was standing
Looking out over valley and dale
My heart leapt inside me with yearning
While I let my hair blow in a gale
The sky seemed to echo the heavens
The stars in the sky called my name
I had reached the absolute top
I thought I'd never have to climb again
But I was wrong
I suffered in the end
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 12:00 AM UTC
Trying to rip a paper down the middle,
Because I only need a half sheet.
And as I'm ripping it,
It does one of those little microtears by the hole punch,
Where it tears away from the line that I'm trying to rip it at.
You know, the thing where you're like,
"Paper can't you just follow directions?"
Picture it?
Okay.
It tore on either side of the hole punch.
And for a moment,
I reflected on how incredible that was.
How beautiful the forces that move things are.
You see, in trying to tear the paper along my little pre-folded line,
I put pressure on both sides of the paper.
Near the hole, that pressure became too much.
In an instant, one side of the hole punch began to tear a little,
And allowed for some of that pressure to be dissipated.
But it wasn't enough in that instant, so the other side tore.
By the time that both sides split,
The pressure was no longer too much
And it didn't tear any further.
Though the paper is non-living,
Let alone non-sentient,
It follows the same doctrine that living beings do:
Give a little so that you needn't give a lot.
It tore just enough
To no longer need to tear any further.
Perhaps this is not so brilliant.
Perhaps all things simply tear
Until the force exerted cannot tear them anymore.
Perhaps that is how we work too,
And we only ascribe some sort of meaning
To the fact that we stop tearing.
Perhaps the very nature of being able to tear
Includes within itself the inevitability
Of not tearing anymore.
Disheartening, maybe,
Because it means that we are not the arbitrators of our defense,
That resistance may be futile,
And we need only allow our own microtears
To dissipate the forces which barrage us
To stop their onslaught.
Empowering, maybe,
Because the paper did not give all of itself,
But only enough to allow itself to not be torn any more.
How indestructible may we be,
If we only drop our defenses a little?
And yet, perhaps not,
For it was only each half which succeeded.
We mustn't forget our dear friend the 11" by 8",
Which was torn asunder
Even as his fragments held true.
Some forces are just too strong.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 2:34 AM UTC
What in this world can I understand but me?
Whose pain is this if not mine?
Whose voice is this if not mine?
All I can ever be is my Self
All I can ever truly know is me and mine
I'm trapped in the chains of my own Ego and I know **** well that those chains are ones you can't shake off
Max Stirner you tell me I should only act in my self interest
You tell me that all things are my property if I exert my will over them
But you don't know a **** thing about me Max
How many hells would I create for the people I know if I exerted that will?
You must have had the luxury to not have anger like mine
You must have not ever experienced the fire in the back of your mind and the bricks in the pit of your stomach when life throws you for a loop
You don't know how bitter I can become
Your egoism would be poison in my blood
Max I look into the mirror and wonder if that's you I see
Hiding in my mind behind my irises peering back and laughing
I have such distaste for the things you preach but why am I so fixated on letting the world know that?
And suddenly it's all clear
Max Stirner you are my shadow
You are everything about myself that I cannot accept
You are every clenched fist at the thought of someone I love loving someone else
You are every scowl on my face when I feel like I'm surrounded by people who don't give a **** about what I have to say
You are every night I stewed in my own mind because nothing went how I wanted
I want to be rid of my ego
I want to live a life where I'm never in the way of anyone pursuing what they want
So what do I do now?
Because maybe you aren't entirely wrong Max
I am free when I take responsibility for my actions it's true
Do I want to be a good man because it is in my self interest to do so?
And is love nothing but a ghost of my mind?
A spectre that disappears as soon as I reach my hand out to it
They tell me love is just a bunch of chemicals in my brain anyway
But ****** it's my brain and it's my chemicals
They are mine and so my property
So Max, we'll never agree in our anarchism
At the end of the day I believe in causes and powers bigger than my ego
But I have a respect for your beliefs
Because I know all too well
All I can ever be is me
All I can ever understand is my self
Jul 6, 2017
Jul 6, 2017 at 2:50 AM UTC
Outside one of Pittsburgh's many suburban malls
a middle-aged woman wearing a colorful hijab
held the hand of a little boy of about eight
as they walked past the entrance of a department store.
Three teenage boys leaned against a nearby wall.
One teenager wore a printed t-shirt of a confederate flag.
All three of the teenagers pointed at the woman.
They laughed with a roar of contempt
that exerted dominance over the sidewalk.
The little boy hugged that woman's leg.
He sobbed into the material of her long dress.
The teenager wrapped in the confederate flag,
he put his hands behind his head
and leaned back against the wall
in victory.
Jul 25, 2017
Jul 25, 2017 at 3:33 PM UTC
Exponential Nothing
cancer
whiteness is a free radical
no allegiance to organic intelligence
exerted by a force
a pressure
that made some of us humans
slaves
no loyalty to being a human
once and for all
our bodies do not know
what to do with it
like fake sugar
used to be real
used to be liquor
used to be steel
nuclear whiteness
instability
exponential nothing
it did not take nature
into its equation
colonizing our cells
deep
affecting our gene function
what is the cure?
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 9:03 PM UTC
My eyes are wide open to embrace the wrinkles which are slowly creeping into the corners where my lashes extend. The calligraphy of thousands of smiles. My hair twists and knots in anticipation for the palette which will color the strands heather grey. Proof of a life that has lived within my locks. An authentic life not to be dismissed by artificial dye. My hands clasp together to pray that they will see a day where brown spots cover my skin from shoulder to finger tip. The sun has a strange way of loving us back, but it reminds us it has for years. My legs take me an extra mile so they can rest when an extra step feels impossible. Frailty feels a bit more satisfying once strength has been exerted completely. My ears soak up their favorite pieces of music at a volume level too high. One day they will not hear arguments or sobs because the beauty was too loud. My heart is decorating the rooms where my great-grandchildren will reside. My mind sighs knowing one day love and innocence will be as natural to me as it was on the day I was born. My soul, with each second, becomes more acquainted with Death. And when we are best friends a century from now, my spirit will recite my thankful tale. And Life will be the former companion, who treated me right without fail.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC
They tell you to be yourself then they judge you
Judge you for the mistakes you’ve made in the past
The past which is meant to be forgotten
Forgotten, so bad thoughts would never last.
No make-up can make your identity.
Your identity should not be defined by your weight.
Your weight couldn’t matter any less
Any less than what they want you’d get hate.
Everyone forces you to follow what’s usual
What’s usual about girls that are skin and bones?
Bones of thousands of self conscious people
People that were never happy in their own homes.
Pressure of perfection exerted by the society
The society that is no more perfect than you.
You and your heart should be all that you follow
Follow so that to yourself you’d be true.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 8:47 PM UTC
You may have been hurt a thousand times,
Or destroyed with WORDS as hot as FIRE,
You may be broken and shattered,
You may not know what else to do,
So you resort to becoming bitter with words,
Aiming at attacking the ones that got away with you
Did they break you or ****** YOU?
Did it throw you into pieces?
And now you want to burn them in anyway?
Why not sit, ponder and SEARCH,
Sit again and see,
As long as you are bitter and fighting back,
There will be no peace,
For there is more energy and stress exerted in fighting than forgiving.
Forgive and let go.
It will soothe you,
It will him too.
Forgive,
Close your eyes,
Take a deep breath
And let it go
For it burdens your heart
And soon will make you collapse.
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 6:29 PM UTC
I don't know anything at all....
Well maybe i know something,
honestly something is always more than nothing,
even if it is just a little bit,
It will always be more than nothing,
Even if you put all your effort into it,
Or even if you exerted even the smallest feather weight of a force,
At least you put something into it, or else it'd be nothing,
Nothing was learned if nothing was done
and somethings you should have never left your thoughts,
some thoughts would never get to be uttered again
It takes serenity to know the difference,
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 9:58 AM UTC
you know why i'm not afraid
of plagiarism?
memes...
funny, isn't it,
i don't mind, or, rather,
i started to not mind plagiarism...
because the plagiarists have
been inseminated, ***** even,
i don't know whether i ever
owned a puppet,
but if i'm plagiarised i own a:
cohort...
it's nice...
you can rule by ridicule
rather than be ridiculed
as ruling,
notably the english monarchy...
it's nice to have pawns who
don't even think they aren't
pawns...
but that's the beauty
of intellectual virology -
an idea is like a virus,
and the fact intact remains
signifying:
well: go ahead with it...
i don't mind anonymous
"credit" 4 it...
you think i have
i have any complacency to mind?
rot the gnat and vermin...
i am the one to fuse
plague and language together...
man was
always endowed with a heart
and woman with a heart,
when it came to, politics...
women always, meddle...
how isn't punctuation
important in writing,
given it be necessary that
equate punctuation with rhyme
and consolidate prose with poetics...
punctuation = rhyme -
overseer? yes.
- and why do i not mind plagiarism,
pontius pilate...
the only person worth
being remembered of the new testament...
oops..
why do i not mind
plagiarism... i know they'll mutate,
morph...
but that doesn't matter...
a part of me remains,
and all the better should the plagiarism
be otherwise be defined...
but it's too late:
the innocent seed competes
with the forbidden fruit...
i have my paupers and my
puppets...
for grit and gift of word,
i have my: assembly...
you can plagiarise all you want,
all i ever gain is yet another
puppeteer's string of
limb annexed.
i love the idea of memes & plagiarism...
it means the utmost anonymous
influence being exerted:
how far is the puppeteer away
from the necrophiliac, may i ask?
thank you for a chance to
not prioritise a demand for
a gene chronology on the altar of Cronus,
allowing me, to,
********** my meme,
rather than consecrating my gene
in the ******* of fake white
and...
the agony of what would be to come...
ever wonder the mystery
of autumn, when a southern wind
blows?
Nov 21, 2017
Nov 21, 2017 at 8:26 PM UTC
Blue tinted glasses
That you’ll never see
Properly through
Unless it’s a copper correction
Of the thinning stomach
Or the grey eyes
Grown salty and green
As the fruit salad
Frustration sloshed down
In twenty-five bites
Of thirty-two chews
And a thousand swallows
Singing over the exclamations
Your mother exerted
Over ten-thirty yoga exercises
Illuminated at three in the morning
On a half baked mind
And a restless spirit
Pining over insights
Realized over twice more
In the company
Of blue tinted glasses.
Jun 22, 2012
Jun 22, 2012 at 12:42 AM UTC
I have remained in silence and solitude for quite some time now. Yesterday, I encountered Pascal for the first time. I was so moved by him that I decided to murmur from the bottom of the well in which I currently reside. The following is just pointless minor thoughts about him and, the most hated form of writing. a haiku or two inspired by Pascal.
#1
Hands over your heart
Belly facing the moonlight
Back riding the tide
#2
Where do I belong
Does gravity have family
We get along fine
#3
When I look out past the moon, the things I see have already occurred. From the opposite point of view, have we already occurred? They told us to prepare for our future when we were growing up. Our time here is quite short, to describe it generously. I like to think that staring into the night sky gives my soul a chance to get a head start. I hope it isn't considered cheating.
#4
We look up to space
It does not look down on us
But we are noticed
#5
Truth is just a definition. I never took the time to look it up in a dictionary. Every dictionary was originally created by a human. That means somebody was the first to define truth. I think I need to read the table of contents, maybe even the foreword. Who has a signed first edition?
#6
The sea pulls me out
Secrets splash into my ears
The tide returns me
#7
"One pascal is the pressure exerted by a force of magnitude one newton perpendicularly upon an area of one square metre." He wasn't named after the complicated equation. I doubt he even has a water proof calculator.
#8
My rambling will seem utterly pointless to anyone, but myself. Worst part is that I won't even be able to see these from the stars, but I'll still understand my current self at some point. Maybe we can share perspectives, if you ever find me. Please don't search for me, search for yourself.
#9
No double digits
The silence shall continue
Thank you for living
Oct 25, 2016
Oct 25, 2016 at 5:43 AM UTC