"exhaustingly" poems
We forgot how it felt to see the children laugh
Now, we are exhaustingly busy to live,
busy to breathe.
If you are reading these words,
I am eternally grateful
that you took some time to read
what could have been dead words.
Thanks to you,
I get to live a little bit longer.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 2:54 PM UTC
Hi, below I copy a humorous hiabun, which I shared as an exercise to mentor enquiring and inspired poets to learn, so they might adopt and try different techniques and then give critique together with awesome comments... Yes, I used the words *** ****** and **** for context the rest was left to an individual imagination as in good poetry!
It included reflective commentary encompasses innocent classification terminology used in the critique, reading, examining, appreciating, understanding and writing of poetry for example: POETIC DEVICES (enjambement, duality, keriji, images, collocation, semantic, oxymoron, repetition, listing etc.), STORY (personification, characterisation, subject, context, voice etc.), IMAGERY (synaesthesia), STRUCTURE ( lineation, breaks, syntactic etc.), SOUNDS (syllables, rhyme, alliteration, pace, musicality, phrasing, beat, assonance, onomatopoeia, mouthed rhythms, patterned) and WORDS (preposition, determiner, verbs, adverbs, lexical, nouns, adjectives) used by poets, critics and academics...
And here it is :
**** tongue-in-cheek haibun - a reflective commentary on writing a popular tanka
Eye lashes flicker
a shared urgent interest
parting - dancing smile
My first inspiration was *** passionate life squeezing screaming *** the thumping wall musicality of *** exhaustingly inventive sweaty and wet.
I wanted to make it a senryu but for duality the female characterisation demanded two more lines each extending to seven syllables.
Arousing images captured her moaning splashing loneliness in unusual collocation.
I was first excited by the placement of a hovering extended enjambement to give life to my final line, whilst also considering the satisfaction in using noisy mouthed rhythms.
I believe I easily hid the wet aroused context with a watery semantic field, that suggested she would choke and drown.
So in my last line I had ‘pleasures’ as a cutting keriji to make clear the dominating ****** context, having previously used a preposition and determiner to maintain duality!
Exhausted shivers
in windowed naked currents
unfolding sinking
then surfing vital wavelets
drowning screams - pleasures wet bite
**
May 2, 2010
May 2, 2010 at 7:10 PM UTC
*My first inspiration was ***
passionate life squeezing screaming ***
the thumping wall musicality of ***
exhaustingly inventive sweaty and wet
I wanted to make it a senryu
but for duality the female characterisation
demanded two more lines
each extending to seven syllables
Arousing images captured her moaning
splashing loneliness in unusual collocation
I was first excited by the placement
of a hovering extended enjambement
to give life to my final line
whilst also considering the satisfaction
in using noisy mouthed rhythms
I believe I easily hid the wet aroused context
with a watery semantic field
suggesting she would choke and drown
So in my last line I had ‘pleasures’
as a cutting keriji to make clear
the dominating ****** context
having previously used
a preposition and determiner
to maintain duality*
**Exhausted shivers
in windowed naked currents
unfolding sinking
then surfing vital wavelets
drowning screams - pleasures wet bite**
.
Aug 5, 2010
Aug 5, 2010 at 6:29 PM UTC
Eye lashes flicker
a shared urgent interest
parting - dancing smile
**My first inspiration was *** passionate life squeezing screaming *** the thumping wall musicality of *** exhaustingly inventive sweaty and wet.
I wanted to make it a senryu but for duality the female characterisation demanded two more lines each extending to seven syllables.
Arousing images captured her moaning splashing loneliness in unusual collocation.
I was first excited by the placement of a hovering extended enjambement to give life to my final line, whilst also considering the satisfaction in using noisy mouthed rhythms.
I believe I easily hid the wet aroused context with a watery semantic field, that suggested she would choke and drown.
So in my last line I had ‘pleasures’ as a cutting keriji to make clear the dominating ****** context, having previously used a preposition and determiner to maintain duality!**
Exhausted shivers
in windowed naked currents
unfolding sinking
then surfing vital wavelets
drowning screams - pleasures wet bite
.
May 3, 2010
May 3, 2010 at 11:25 AM UTC
early after-noon, she quizzes,
“would I be ok with
skinless boneless roasted
chicken breast, with sautéed
mushrooms for our dinner,
ce soir?”
so smile I,
for it is a favored menu
of pleasure,
from one who has never
presented us a meal
that is less than perfect
later, she shyly inquires,
“would be ok if we to eat
a little early, I have a salon,
followed by an
Argentine Tango dance milonga
tonight and one starts early (and
tango parties
end typically
the next day?
(no|si, me, don’t dance)
of course, respondez in
the affirmative, thus
confirming our love with the
consideration that veins
out affection mutual
and then I add:
“instead of an hours food prep,
which distracts you from the hour
deeded for dressing
for dancing motivation proper,
and add a little kick-her:
*I love you so much,
would happily consume
your tuna fish salad sandwich,
every night, for the rest of our
lives together, it’s fast
and simple, a dis-less-stressing
concoction, that we both enjoy*
she (s)miles a sweetened thanks,
after numerous reassurances,
that our love only grows
stronger with acts of smart
sensitivity to each others needs,
no standard of care breached,
au contraire, meant sincerely,
earning me a secondary
whiling smiling
and this true story is a poem,
has been writ a thousand times,
in a million different tiny gestures,
of which, I am proud
she exhales a breath elongated,
a release of an admixture of differing
pleasures released, and goes into the
night to dance in the arms of strangers,
which concerns me
not at all,
after all,
these many years,
aware she moves exquisitely
in a dance that demands years
of practice, for it requires
intangible silent of the merest
slight finger pressures to guide
the dancer what next steps
are coy coming,
and I have stolen this
knot of knowledge,
for mine own purposes,
secretly & selfishly,
employing these techniques,
for most of the time we’ve
been together
this poem of
tuna fish sandwiches,
becomes a dance of words
which is
my specialty, which she will
read in the morning l, maybe,
if I send it to her,
though obviously,
that is unnecessary 😉
as she returns to our bed,
me asleeping, she,
exhaustingly satisfied,
sleeeps deeper
secured by the knowing
that we, are both,
the beneficiaries of:
my learned dancing
practices
for such is
the ways of the poet!
Dec 14, 2024
Dec 14, 2024 at 10:39 AM UTC
I’m a step c l o s e r to the finish line
I ran exhaustingly just to be fine
But before I knew it, he was there
He was the winner, and it’s so unfair
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 12:08 AM UTC
Perpetually lost
Figuratively stuck
Exhaustingly overworked
Disgustingly underpaid
Literally confused
Effortlessly cliche
Beautifully me
Jan 17, 2019
Jan 17, 2019 at 3:17 PM UTC
The addictive aroma of
Well-aged nostalgia, and a
Hurricane-yellow sunset, was
Striking from the Western Side.
The east, full of forest. It
Often goes Unappreciated.
Sat alone, and gritting his teeth
Over it, his forehead wet,
Losing patience, sweating
Droplets, wiped up by the
Dollars you couldn't afford to spend.
Outwardly expressing: "Overwhelmed."
Born of the burning woods, and
Left to ash, again, with the leaves, the
Scent settled, clearly set on
Sticking around.
In the mood to bleed, and
Drag some metal, through the
Dirt caked on your legs?
Filth burns brighter indoors, and my
Power's just gone out.
But you cast quite a shadow, when
Lightning interrupts the black.
"Storm'd been on it's way for a while.
I'm relieved, it finally hit us.
Fair weather felt dishonest. "
Long hair's got a few more days left in it,
Bags under his eyes, not quite full,
Intent on the ideal, and
Going out on his shield.
Decrying the Curse of the Under-employed.
Barking beckons him back, and
Beneath his broken heart, beating,
Beyond a reasonable doubt,
Buggering on. Exhaustingly enthusiastic.
The howled woofs, and selected drum lines.
Droning, diligent,
"And pleased to meet you, darling."
He flips open one of his
Boxes, counts to seventeen, and sighs.
Puts a cigarette between his lips.
Lights it. Counts to sixteen, and sighs.
Closes that box, and buys another.
"One third of what he says is nonsense, but
When you talk, he listens." And
Love's a vice, he can't help but
Nourish. Hiding in fog, and
Drowning in his cheap whiskey.
Perfectly cornered, writing a poem about it.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 3:02 PM UTC
Eyes
I'm sorry for forcing you to endure such demanding labor
For flooding your irrigation gates with salty tides of woeful cries
For impairing your vision as loneliness takes human form and riverwalks across your irises
Please, forgive me
Mind
I'm sorry for causing you to overthink constantly
For saturating your fields of knowledge with dangerous negative thoughts
For bullying you with these words and questioning your sanity
Please, forgive me
Heart
I'm sorry for bruising and blackening your core
For halting the flow of electric passion between your chambers and preventing your ability to attach with the strings of another
For fueling your disappointment over and over again, yet you still exhaustingly pump and beat for me
Please, forgive me
Soul
I'm sorry for draining the waters from your wells of hope
For leaving you hollow, I can hear your echoes of misery
For dehydrating you of joy and penetrating your walls with shards of dejection, I can feel you slowly dying inside of me
Please, forgive me
You
You've created a villain of despair
Who forges anger and depression upon himself
You've given me the tools to destroy my body from the inside out
Yet, my body is still running on the reserves of our recycled love
So just come to me, and tell me you're sorry
Please, I want to forgive you
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 7:11 PM UTC
The steam it takes me
To reach each 6p.m.
Is unsustainable, exhaustingly so
With knicks and clotted flesh
Bruises aging brown
mix with, overlap the latest
Deep purples and ill hued blues
I am beaten by my own doing
Little to nothing is compensation
But the things i have touched
Broken made new again
From raw to finished, tangible
My hands, rough, scarred,
Talented and beat up
As is my body. Nightly.
By the end of the week i am a sight
Too tired to want morr from life.
Filthy and sore, single, alone
There has got to be more to life
Then the beast of burden i resemble
If not be the ending too soo
See i am beaten at the end
Tired...
Goodnight.
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 8:19 PM UTC
sometimes i like to think of nonsense
i guess if you know me it's not a surprise
did you know that potatoe almost rhymes with tomato?
does potatoe even have an 'e' at the end?
i honestly do not think it does
but who am i to judge the spelling of potatoe?
it can be whatever the hell it wants
or whatever i wish for it to be
maybe my head is really messed up
or maybe i just don't have anything else to say
because sometimes i mix up my words
("what do you mean i said the wrong thing?
i am pretty sure 'no' and 'ship'
mean the exact same thing.")
but i may also be completely normal
at least in the way my brain is set up
and maybe i just like to mix things up
because it takes a break from
my so exhaustingly uneventful life
so i guess i will just continue on
with thinking these random thoughts
because it's better than the pain
better than the memories
better than the words
that no one wants to say
it's better than those dreams
and the images in my head
because no one really wants
to think of those all the time
especially not me
after all
i'm just that girl
the one that sits alone
or that people sit with
just to laugh at
since she always says the wrong thing
i'm never anyone's second choice
maybe eighth or tenth or sixteenth
because who would want me?
the girl who ***** everything up
the girl who likes to speak her mind
(oh no, haven't you heard?
you can't have an opinion.)
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 9:05 PM UTC
My mind takes me back again,
To the glorious days when I couldn’t refrain,
My heart to freefall,
Waiting for your call,
When evenings, particularly seven to ten,
Was so exhaustingly spent,
Laughing, hiding, and cracking jokes having no head or tail,
Oh, why did time sail?
You and me, we were inseparable,
The moments, cherished, so memorable.
But do you remember them now?
For much time has passed,
Since you saw my last smile, and etched a frown,
For now, it has turned upside down.
Chocolate ***** and pastries,
Oh remember the time under the trees?
Mindless chatter, my mum used to say,
Meant the world as we both lay,
Side by side under the starry night,
Planning how our dreams are going to take flight.
And we will be off, together,
We had planned,
Leaving not a corner of the world undiscovered,
Ocean or land.
A big house by the beach, you did say,
We’d sit out together, night or day.
All the planning went to waste?
I think not, for I still hope,
That even if it was ruined in our haste,
A day will come when we will elope!
What a joke that used to be,
The honest intentions behind it, you didn’t see.
Now, the night is long, and it keeps getting longer,
For without you, I’m anything but stronger,
Tears overflow and laughter lost,
Don’t you see what you cost?
Come back, I whisper in my dreams,
You will never know what you mean,
I’m drowning, I scream for you,
The silence, your absence,
Oh, the ghosts of you are not few.
Your heartbreaking smiles,
Your soul touching gaze,
I can’t help but ask, where they all lies?
They all say, it’s just a phase.
What do they know?
When time makes it anything but better,
They judge the scars I show,
Can I help but shutter?
As many times as I close my eyes,
Do I think of you a day,
Forever? They were all lies.
Time flew didn’t it? When we were together I mean,
It stopped the day you left, and you were again, never to be seen,
Oh I remember that day,
Like it was yesterday,
Two years to be precise,
When you were not so nice.
An entire day in bed,
Hollow was my heart, blank was my head.
But life went on right?
The broken smile plastered on my face, I live,
Only to take it off at night,
Yes, you have made me negative.
I am tired of this constant pain,
Am i anymore sane?
And with nothing less than quenched fists,
I declare, you are greatly missed.
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 2:10 PM UTC
Music to my ears
Napkin to my tears
Shoulder to my lean
Through an exhaustingly long swim… resting Island in between
He is...
Salvation from my sin
That’s my Lord
Courage to my fears
Wisdom among my peers
Keeps me focused, keen
Opened my eyes to all that I’ve seen
He is...
My backbone… He is my spleen
That’s my Lord
And so I cannot afford
To give up on Him
Lest he returns the favour
And gives up on me
And I need Him… my savior
I was always flattered though, by the fact that He needs me too
To fulfill my purpose… my part in His plan
I could be replaced, I know
But for some reason I keep getting other chances… He keeps forgiving me some more
It makes me feel special, like for an important role to play
I am wanted
I have to be careful though, not to cross the line…
And take him for granted
To lose a father, a friend and a guide
I simply cannot afford
So, no matter how many times I slip up
I will still pick myself up, dust myself off, look to the sky and say…
“I will stick with Him because He is my Lord.”
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 1:13 AM UTC
I never liked writing about beautiful things like the way your voice echoes in my ears when you come over in the morning to wake me with soft kisses. Or how we used to hold hands at 3 AM trudging blindly through December's icy breeze and how worth it the bitter cold wind was just to spend some time alone with you. Or how in the spring time, when the ice and sleet melted away exhaustingly into the ground, flowers would sprout up following your every step. They, too, knew your beauty. You're a 'worth it' type of person.
You see, I never liked writing about beautiful things because I never really knew how. My mind was a grave someone dug up and pushed me in and I could never find way to climb out. I would sit there, my body cold and full of rage and I would stain the walls with dark words. Destruction was the only form of creation I knew until your singsong voice lifted my heart so high I was dancing on the clouds.
You see, I never liked writing about beautiful things but you have features that every artist looks for in a muse. Your voice sounds like my favorite poem and if our love was a treadmill and the only way to keep it alive was to run, I'd never stop, even when my legs become heavy and shaky.
I never liked writing about beautiful things but I know how you whisper 'I love you' in a sleep daze and I adore your mouth when you lean to kiss me in a sleepy daze. You are beautiful when you are innocent. You are the only beautiful thing I've ever written about. And I will not be afraid of you or your scars as I know you don't fear mine. I will write a dictionary of all the words I've ever thought to describe you. I will write a novel about the scar under your eye. I will write poem after poem telling you, telling the world, that you are beautiful and I am not afraid to write beautiful words anymore. I will make sure to hold you on your bad days, my arms will bandage. I will take every photo you dislike of yourself and tape them to my mirror to show you I think you're incredible. I will brush every fallen eyelash off your cheek, wipe your mouth when it's ***** with crumbs, assume the role of caretaker when you're sick. I will do beautiful things for you because I can.
I will love you like I was never broken.
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 5:36 PM UTC
I've spent so exhaustingly long
trying to become what you want
I've forgotten what to want
for myself.
I don't quite fit your into your mold
yet I've so thoroughly lost my form
I can't recognize myself at times.
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 9:57 PM UTC
Our minds will continue to race evermore. Most will circuit exhaustingly around the same tract; repetitively crossing the same checkpoints. However very few are ****** with the judgement of dissatisfaction even whilst nudging at the summit of enlightenment; he who will perpetually bring enthusiastic evolution onto society.
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 4:34 AM UTC
A seed in a field of seeds I lived,
Coming of age or so to be believed,
Enduring the weather's moods as it ambiently shaped existence,
The rains came and rinsed,
The cold's loneliness pierced,
The heat that got exhaustingly fierce,
But none prepared me for when you came,
A nurturing and kindness radiating flame,
Even the Sun never quite succeeded in unfolding the entangled mess I've become,
You make me leave my inhibitions and blossom.
Jan 9, 2019
Jan 9, 2019 at 5:03 PM UTC
I have been in search of the self of self’s
to end the war being waged inside,
for years now between the masks I hide
I’m a son to the trees and seas.
I’m a brother to those that bother, and
those who are blind to color
I’m a student to whomever wants to teach.
I’m a lover of words, and hope that bloom in a rose
I’m a believer in the shadows that move between spaces.
And the sweetness heard in the soul and seen in the sky.
I am a lover of who yells “keep the peace.”
I am he, who sometimes does not practice what he preach,
he who sometimes could not tame the devil at bay,
and so he comes out to play.
I am he who stalks life with blindfolded anger and say “why have you forsaken me?”
I am he, a true believer of God and the hereafter.
A sinner who can’t shake off the temptations of life,
he who knowingly dances at the edge of his knife, and
he who must answer for his crimes, his crimes, his crimes
for his waste of time,
The lies! The lies! The lies!
I am he, who sits alone in a dark room,
A dark house,
A dark world,
thinking about death,
being exhaustingly terrified of death,
sometimes wanting to die but knowing his hereafter isn’t as………
I am the student that sits on his hands,
who doesn’t do **** and probably won’t amount to ****
I get scared not because it’s a scary world, which it is, but
because of the people in it.
Not people with big guns, sharp knives, hulkish anger issues, or
people in power doing bad things.
Because of my dad, my moms, my brothers, my sisters, my teachers, my lovers, my friends, tax payers,
I get scared because this tower of dreams
I’ve been put in
It will crumble,
these shoulders of mine will brake badly
I have been anticipating and fearing the pain.
While I was it came and came not with fear.
It came and all became clear
Simplicity is a hunger that cannot be satisfied.
No one knows my secrets except the shadows I lay with.
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 1:55 PM UTC
I looked at you today
Something was different
Your sea blue eyes
Faded to worn denim
The hair I once fixed
Combing with my fingers
Looked wild, unkempt
In need of a brush
The one track mind
Charming boyish naivety
Sounded self centered
Exhaustingly unaware
I looked at you today
No longer enamoured
I hope that your mirror
Is less fickle than I
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 6:05 PM UTC
Sometimes I miss my family so much, the weekend brunches, the shopping the laughing the fighting. When is missing too much? And when do we choose what's right for us? How do we know where we are or what we are doing is right? Sometimes I wonder if would be easier back home but I enjoy challenges, but maybe I'm starting to recognize that I have family. Some who have passed and I know what life is worth. The beauty of someone you love living is so precious and I believe should be cherished. But to what degree? If we all stayed near our family would we be consumed by comfort? Is that a bad thing? Or Oder all left the nests. Would that be selfish? Would then be the regret we hoped to not have in life when we choose to leave in hopes to never regret not leaving. What's right? We will never know. 4 years of a precious souled nephew I have has passed in his 6 years of age. And the niece well she's two. Sometimes I'm the one who feels like I'm missing out. On life. As it unfolds and grows. And for what? I am lucky. I am grateful. I have a serious need to search and find happiness. My sister once told me places don't make you happy whose around you does. Guaranteed she and I don't make each other happy all the time and thinking of going back to be able to hold her each day makes that thought worth all the loss and gain. I love them. That feeling is real and true. Something I have taken for granted. But could I live? In a small town once again? I could for the love of my family. But I fear my boredom. Because being around ppl gives me an undrugged high. Something that I crave. I crave the ppl who don't know me, the ppl who shouldn't matter but for some strange reason I have a strong comfort in that. My family, they know everything. They can see right through me. And yes they call it out; as they should. Going back home can be exhaustingly draining, but I appreciate the reality check, and I appreciate the love they give without hugs, I know it's there, because they know the real me. The real me who has such troubles no one could ever see. The real me no one in this world would wish to be. Drownding in an ocean. Floating on a wave. That's the peace I feel in the small towns. With slowly driving by faces pass I might know from the tiny tiny town, a daze I have from the years I spent drained and weak, literally unable to speak. Those memories stay when I go back. But the memories of real love, real friendship, real happiness, real music, real health, that's all there too. And so is my family. I wish they would move. I suppose I'm just not ready to leave NYC yet. Time will tell and I will remain comfortable by that thought. But the more I visit the more I miss them. Family is everything. I believe in that, and I'm thankful for the little family I have.
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 11:41 AM UTC
Every time I feel close to you,
I feel like running away,
which is exhaustingly ironic
because every time I run away,
you try to get closer.
Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 1:22 PM UTC
She cries in her room,
Silently weeping,
Thinking she's worthless,
While her family thinks she's sleeping.
She thinks back to her day,
Replaying it again and again
At this point she doesn't care,
If she's alive or dead.
She lays back on her bed
Overthinking her life
As she does this, she quietly reaches for the knife.
But, something has kept her here,
Something has kept her holding to her life.
Maybe the hopes for kids,
maybe her hopes to be a wife.
You may fall and feel as though you don't want to try
But she knows through it all, that when it comes to those nights,
There is always a friend to call when in this fright.
She decides to sleep, and put her body to rest.
As her tears clear up, she feels the opening in her chest.
She takes a deep breath, and silently whispers.
"It's gonna be okay" as she slowly drifts into slumber.
Fast forward years later, she's as happy as could be.
She thanks herself each day for letting herself live that night.
She's happy she didn't give up on what seemed like her never ending fight.
Now she's won the war, and she knows she did what was right.
Don't give up, when the going gets rough, for this tale speaks nothing but truth, about a girl who fought her demons that were exhaustingly tough.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 7:32 AM UTC
Optimism can be,
Very much fulfilling, or,
Exhaustingly bland.
Pessimism makes a,
Darkened cloud cover up the,
Shining, blinding Sun.
Cynicism blurs the,
Line between friend or foe 'cause,
Everyone’s corrupt.
Altruism means that,
I should help others without,
Pondering the cost.
May 16, 2025
May 16, 2025 at 12:37 PM UTC