"exhaustion" poems
She steps into the dark swamp
where the long wait ends.
The secret slippery package
drops to the weeds.
She leans her long neck and tongues it
between breaths slack with exhaustion
and after a while it rises and becomes a creature
like her, but much smaller.
So now there are two. And they walk together
like a dream under the trees.
In early June, at the edge of a field
thick with pink and yellow flowers
I meet them.
I can only stare.
She is the most beautiful woman
I have ever seen.
Her child leaps among the flowers,
the blue of the sky falls over me
like silk, the flowers burn, and I want
to live my life all over again, to begin again,
to be utterly
wild.
35.2k
1995 saw the start of Generation Z,
the ‘iKids’ with a knack for this new-fangled technology,
Millennial 2.0,
caught in the limbo of the World Wide Web development and Rose Gold iPhones.
They say we’re adaptable,
but apparently we can’t make our own decisions about anything.
They say that we don’t care about anything
except for our tiny little screens,
but they forget who put them in our hands,
and they forget who they run to for help
when they forget how to troubleshoot.
They forget what kind of technology we need to keep sustaining life in the Information Age,
Caught in a crossfire because
Yeah, we’re 90s kids—but the 90s never really actually ended until 2006,
the only difference between two decades being
how much neon versus how much chrome,
and just how expensive accidentally opening the internet app on your mom’s blackberry phone was.
We’re nostalgic for all the things we can’t quite remember,
and half these high schoolers weren’t actually born until 2000 or 2001.
Most of us aren’t old enough to even remember 9/11, nothing outside of the news clips that our teachers show us in history class every single September.
I was born in the same year as the Columbine shootings.
The United States has not been at peace for a year of my life.
We are always fighting— fighting for everything.
Human equality,
posing arguments about micro aggressions and refugees, seeing the inhumanity in the past that we’re living.
None of us are older than 21,
under such hard scrutiny while Baby Boomers Wave 2 still run our country.
We inherited the Millenial’s exhaustion,
the generation before us spending our childhood fighting for all the things that we have never really believed in.
Fairytales.
Generation Z.
The ‘iKids’ who are going to one day be making leaps and bounds with technology,
the generation to nurse this dying planet back to health,
Millennials 2.0 who know how to learn from our forerunners’ mistakes,
who know how to adapt from Sidekicks to iPhone 6S Plus in less than a decade.
We’re the kids who have realized that fun is found in safe spaces rather than invading each other’s personal spaces.
They say we’re too sensitive,
but at the same time they claim that we’re desensitized.
And I thought we were the generation that couldn't make decisions.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 9:21 PM UTC
I look at myself and all I see is grey
I try so hard to pray it away
I know it's cliche
But I can't stand my own face
It's sad eyes
They see through my lies
My oversized thighs
My failure to revise
I despite this disguise
I look at myself and all I see is disappointment
Try harder I mumbled in exhaustion
What a collision
My own derision
One day, soon, I will look at myself and all I will see is joy
My reflection, I will enjoy not want to destroy
I will not be coy
As the sun dawns
All will be gone I vowed
I look at myself today and all I see is hope
For I am proud
I want to scream it loud in crowd
I am proud of me and you
And with that statement I feel so new.
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 7:00 PM UTC
It was the time of my Auntie Bee summers
I was small then
She had a parakeet that landed on my head
and a bathtub too
with water so deep!
and legs and claws!
**** thing nearly chased me down the stairs!
She lived in slumbery Windsor Locks
where bugs hung-out in the haze
of teenage August
I played in the tall weeds
with a shoeless Italian boy
who ate tomatoes like apples
and cucumbers right off the vine!
He was ***** free and foreign!
We played— reckless, abandoned
behind the gas pump, under the tractor, in the barn
and through the endless fields
I didn’t know....
His name was Tony
I ate pizza with him—the first time
At Auntie Bee’s I had to go to bed at eight
but I could watch night flowers
bloom on wallpaper
She came in to say good night
slippered, shadowy, night dress slightly open
and I peeped her *******
like Tony’s cucumbers!
I had never seen my mother’s wonders....
Night spread its wings from the old fan—
a bird of tireless exhaustion
whipped, whipped, whipped to death in its cage
tireless exhaustion
tic-tocking in time to a wind-up clock
stretched out on the whine
of the overland trucks
Route Five through the night of an open window
In the grape arbor below—
tremulous incessant
crickets crickets crickets
tremulous incessant—insides of a child
a summer child
not yet ready for the fall of answers
Auntie Bee had a daughter—Maureen
I followed her everywhere I could
I was small then--
do anything for a stick of Juicy Fruit
I followed Maureen through my dreams
of being sixteen
and woke to Peggy’s “Fever”
while she tied her sneakers
against the mattress by my head
I followed Maureen (in my mind)
tanned and bandanned
to work in the fields of shade tobacco
with all those Puerto Rican boys!
She knew where she was going!
I was small then
...do anything for a stick of gum
“Mauney! Mauney! Mauney!”
...through the goldenrod of roadside
through the smell of oil that damped the dust
I followed Maureen’s white shorts
and chestnut hair...to the corner store
I followed the way the boys smiled
the way the screen door slammed
on her bright behind
the way her lips taunted and took
the coke-bottle’s green
I followed Maureen
I swear, I tried for hours to get that right!
Must have been Peggy Lee’s “Fever”
Maureen ties her sneakers in my face
Flaunts her years above my head
She has that look—
“We kids don’t know nothin”
(Little turds” that we be)
…followin’ Maureen
through the goldenrod of roadside
tic-tockin’, beboppin’
“Fever— in the morning
Fever all through the night….”
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 11:30 PM UTC
I'm so tired.
Tired of living.
Tired of dying.
Tired of just being so tired.
To not feel is a curse.
& to feel is a blessing.
But what is the in between?
Exhaustion I think.
I'm just so tired.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 8:59 PM UTC
That relatable gay dream of running away,
Wind blowing through what's left of your hair,
the first ties to be cut.
That relatable gay fear, questions you'd rather not asked and that subsequent relatable gay sorrow after the answers.
That relatable gay loneliness, all hollow spaces and devoted secrecy.
Bitten back tongues and hidden colors.
That relatable gay moment of finding love in your friends.
Not the kind that you kiss but the kind you hold dear in the night,
as tears drip from cheeks to shoulders.
That relatable gay plan of holidays with your other gay friends, a real family, the one who would love you no matter what.
Cheers and queers and all too far away.
That relatable gay longing for love-
true love-
Like the kind they never show in fairytales,
Real and supportive, never hidden away or forgotten.
That relatable gay anger,
Boiling from injustice always under the surface,
Waiting to erupt in pointless shouts of grief for a world that was not built for me.
That relatable gay exhaustion, hostile slurs and benignant apathy blending together into a reality of unending fights just to keep on existing.
So when someone asks me what makes you a community I show them all those relatable gay moments of anguish and loss, of solemn support and stolen minutes.
And I tell them of how terrible it is that they are so very relatable,
But how wonderful it is that we could at least live through them together.
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 12:03 PM UTC
a crocus opens and
closes with the stream of
midnight moon.
the playmate of exhaustion
crosses the room
in his heavy, black boots
to close the curtains.
goodbye, light.
goodbye, pride of lions
and boy transformed
into a werewolf.
a scratch
of larceny,
the cuddle of
maple leaves rotting,
the magnet spinning
in rocket-ship orbit.
all secrets held in
feathers,
in hair compounded
into strings of
black opal,
and limbs stenciling
comets around
five feet of woman.
nothing in the talk
can suffocate—a quick
and easy birth of
ecstasy and the emotional
sidestep into the dark
of slumber,
seemingly feminine but
dreams strong as
barbed wire.
when to sleep?
a question finger-written
on my chest.
Aug 6, 2017
Aug 6, 2017 at 11:18 AM UTC
I often wish that I was still a child.
So many things change when we grow up.
Innocence becomes lost,
days become shorter,
the nighttime still scares me,
playing house becomes a game of survival,
boys become men, men become frightening,
I become sad, worried, anxious, and self-aware,
friends will lose their half of the necklace or their friendship ring,
being loved by someone will determine my worth,
I no longer feel small next to the kitchen counter,
but in the presence of everyone around me,
“Forever” loses its meaning,
everyone will eventually leave,
death is no longer a myth,
I will not smile as often as I did,
I will not cry as little as I did,
I will not feel safe in school anymore,
I will not go outside and play anymore,
I will try and pick the imperfections off of
my skin until it is red and bleeding,
**** in my stomach whenever I walk,
work myself into exhaustion,
feel overwhelmed by every task,
have anxiety attacks in public places,
and wish that I was a child again.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 2:57 PM UTC
when i run
i imagine an airport
and you at the opposite end with open arms
and me running towards you
longing for your embrace
when i squat
i imagine a burning house
a heavy wooden column on my shoulders
and you between my legs
your life being mine to save
when i do pull-ups
i imagine a steep cliff
and your face meeting mine
drawing closer, closer, closer
at my every ascent
when i deadlift
i imagine you trapped
underneath the belly of a car
with you looking for me to lift the trunk
and allow space for your escape
when i bench press
i imagine myself (this time) trapped
underneath the belly of a car
with me pushing the car above
to be able to return to your company
when i do curls
i imagine you a mile away
a rope attached to your hips
and with each tug i repeat
you grow closer by a couple of feet
when i shoulder press
i imagine a promise of a good shoulder rub
courtesy of your hands
once i squeeze out those
last.
three.
reps.
and when my spirit is spent
and exhaustion takes over imagination,
i shall revel in the endorphins pulsating through my veins
and pay gratitude
to my iron muse,
my unseen lover.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 7:40 AM UTC
- Listening doesn't always mean understanding
- Listening could mean getting lost in your own thought of tranquility
- Or even your own devastational whir
- Listening doesn't have to be with your ears
- Just the exhaustion of emptiness that outlines your skull;
- Or even the numbness that conquers every length from spine to external excellence of your mind;
- Gliding from one emotion to another could be the loudest transaction without making a single clamor;
- Listening doesn't always mean understanding
- But the utter perplexity of ones thoughts drowning in the sound of nothingness.
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 11:05 PM UTC
I look at myself everyday
in the mirror
looking at my body intensely,looking for errors
my teeth
those monstrous pimples
and those cheap glasses
that hunch-back
who am I?
no,who is this? This body of self defeat?
what is my worth ?
what do my errors add up to?
does it deduct my final value?
Like a rusted guitar or a cheap rag doll?
So I look at the reflections of many mirrors
I compare myself to them to the point of exhaustion
some mirrors raised my value
some didn't
some lowered my value
and some destroyed my value entirely
at one point I broke my mirror
because I finally realize
that value didn't matter
since all those mirrors came from the same thing
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 5:13 PM UTC
You say, "Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels”
but I say surely something
must taste nicer than the burning acid
being forced back up your throat.
Why not hug people instead of
toilet bowls? At least they’ll hug back.
Except Mia is your only friend now.
And her cousin, Ana, of course.
And I understand that you never
wanted to die, but this is a thousand ton truck
hurtling towards the edge of a cliff and
Ana took the wheel a long time ago.
There is no strength in this: in you, in a
fear of calories. Even your bones creak
as your muscles sigh with exhaustion -
for this, is not a war you're winning.
This is a battle with only one contender
and I will not be the one to disarm you.
That's your job and it always has been. I know
you only wanted to be beautiful
like all those stars in the magazines
you saved under a file titled ‘thinspo’
but the only stars you ever saw were in
your eyes from the dizziness
and to tell you the truth, you are not pretty.
For there is nothing “pretty”
about the layer of fuzz your body grew
to protect itself from the big bad wolf
when really, the only growl was coming
from inside your stomach.
Or how your little sister is afraid to touch,
let alone hug you, in fear of snapping you in two.
For there is no glamour in having to
remove clumps of hair out of the plughole
at least six times whilst having a shower,
just to let the water run down.
Or that one time you "accidentally”
took too many laxatives. Messy.
There is nothing admirable about the way
you sat shivering on your bed
at night instead of kissing boys,
or dancing, or eating ice cream.
There is nothing to be marvelled at
in dying.
This, is not a life to be lived.
God, this isn't even a life.
This is being a slave to your own body,
a walking zombie, a ghost stuck
between two sides.
You are not alive.
But it was all still worth it, right?
Slowly killing yourself from the inside out.
A small price to pay for perfection,
a bargain for a broken mirror;
for a half-written book
with 97 blank pages,
a camera
that only captures in black and white,
a clock
with frozen hands.
And most importantly, for a peace of mind
you never received.
No refunds.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 11:59 AM UTC
The ivories' sleeping is like a lonely black piano.
Beautiful, small girl quietly fight a dusty, misty bench.
Hello, old friend. Did you miss me?
Ah, life!
Running loudly like an old hammer.
Banging hard on the ivories.
God, action!
Piano keys are only black and white,
But sound like blue birds singing ,
On a bright morning's day.
Oh! No!
Where are the noisy keys?
Never love a broken string.
Exhaustion, noise, and love.
Never fight a hammer.
Lord, anger!
Piano, why are you angry with me?
Copyright © Ronald J Chapman All Rights Reserved.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 6:17 AM UTC
I walk with an ache in my heart
and an unsteady beat
beckoning to be heard
outside of the boundaries of my mind.
I am homesick
for places I have not yet been to.
I walk with exhaustion.
From the lack of surprise that surges through the foundations of my surroundings.
Nothing is new.
Therefore
I am homesick
Aching for new beginnings
And excitement
And the feeling of not knowing.
I am homesick.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC
I'm feeling pretty *****
Or maybe I'm just desperate for an intimate relationship
And I fantasize about sensuality
because I crave the passionate love between two human beings
And I fantasize about skin rubbing skin
the sweat dripping between them
The mixing of two souls and the conjunction of two bodies
The beautiful slopes and curves of her figure
slowly caressing mine
The soft whispers of love that brush against my ear
And trail kisses down my neck
Her soft gasp as I trail my fingers up her thigh
my other hand grasping the back of her head, threading my fingers through her hair
Pulling her closer, ever closer
Her nails digging into my back
Leaving stinging red marks to remind me of her
when I leave for work in the morning
touching the scratches, I'll remember her
In the afterglow
Her arm around me, our legs tangled together
Her hair curled wild around her face
"I love you"
she whispers
Giving me a tender peck on the lips
Before blissfully surrendering to exhaustion
I watch her chest rise and fall
Her soft breathing lulls me to sleep
I'll smile when I think of her
Because I'll remember her words
"I love you"
They'll ring through my mind
"I love you"
Following me wherever I go
"I love you"
Lighting the candle in my heart
The flame growing brighter and brighter with each hushed word
"I love you"
or maybe I'm just *****
Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 6:33 PM UTC
Goddess of virility suckles me
to ******
Her legs stiffen…
to acute angles.
Toes, ballerina firm
make her
body—
levitate from the bed.
A smile reveals…fangs
the tips of which
are barely…touching
my ear.
The lizard tongue hisses in ecstasy
revealing ancient—spiritual…bliss
mystics could only
speculate of.
Her anaconda legs
wrap—
around my back
as her fingernails
embed into
my spine.
When I yank
Her hair
Her eyes
Scream inside out.
Our bodies—
Swimming in
An ocean of ravenous
Liquids pulsating from our pores.
Sopping hair clings
to our foreheads
we suddenly realize—
A new shape is invented.
We make a sound so primal
inside each other’s mouth
as her jaws snap down
to my neck—
both bodies rigor-mortis stiffen
as the mountains collapse around us
and the sky is ripped open as a tsunami
billows down into a wave of exhaustion.
The wind cradles us,
Back to the earth
We split,
Admiring a new continent
We created.
Our limp bodies—
numb from the velocity and suggestions
resign to the crater
we call a bed.
We smile, simultaneously,
looking past
our brains,
realizing…
in this moment
we, are one.
Jul 23, 2011
Jul 23, 2011 at 7:18 AM UTC
I rest my head in the dusky hours
early in the hope I'll awaken refreshed
instead in the lonely hours
at 2am, 3am and 4am
my body rests
while my mind races with complex thought
caught somewhere between sadness and complacency
the past present and future merging into one
clashing and colliding
confusing
working hard into the night
sending my heart to palpitations.
I close my eyes and the words I see written on my ceiling
are engrained on the insides of my eyelids
crawling with the spiders
I overthink instead of sleep
I dream in my conscious state
of what could've been
what is
and what might be
restless in a state of exhaustion
lucid in a state of total consciousness
hopeless to stop the relentless tide of my imagination
from rotting my brain inside and out
ruining any faith I have in a night of sleep
or a day of clarity and competence.
The thoughts leave when I rise again at 7am
as planned
with the chiming of the bells on the nightstand
my head snaps into reality again
focus returns in the form of routine
get up, go
move on, mend.
Distracted and oblivious
my lack of sleep haunts me
until I repeat this dull cycle again tonight
I live my nightmares in the lonely hours
at 2am, 3am and 4am.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 9:08 AM UTC
From the ripple in a glass of water
to the sonic boom of this internal
Pompeii, the erosion
of her etymology is the only
sense of movement in her
dilated, cave-pupil eyes, those
two ghost towns spanning
and encircling all the way back,
stretched like an elastic blindfold
past the moment the first brick was laid,
perhaps her first vivid memory,
or anecdote, or first word uttered
in a Cuban slum.
There are mountains of tumbleweed
over the once thriving metropolis
that expanded towards America;
who threw herself into
the architecture of seven pillars,
borne from her land and
minerals. Gone are the
huts that housed her
knowledge of basic motor skills.
The women who once imagined
Mami and Mima as her birth
name now scrub off
the graffiti of her excrement;
they saw a swarm of pink moons
the day she told the same story
to every visitor that came
their way, each day then becoming
a missing surveillance tape, a sinkhole
dismantling the awareness
in her bones and stubborn will,
until she became
these dust-engulfed plains with
a daughter and granddaughter
archeological in their efforts
to chase down the remains
of a girl still breathing in
those eyes from time to time.
Every other ten-millionth blink of
the eye rides the silhouette of a post-infant girl
on the high tides of her quick visit,
looking in horror
as the nation of her life's nightmares,
heartaches, broken promises, romances,
spiritual breakthroughs, life-changing seconds
drowns with morbid unity en cien fuegos,
desperately attempting to assemble
the remnants of her psyche
past her cognitive bloodclots
with the awareness of one
who speaks no languages.
Gone is the moment
she first learned
to feed her several children
before the slip of sunset.
One of seven pillars remain intact,
the others long dismantled of their
stick and straw infrastructures.
One pillar remained,
housed her own colony
for nine months,
and now both descendants
travel the mind of their
greatest influence
with perplexed dedication,
caustic humor the decoy
for swarms of exhaustion
and asphyxiation
from the truthful atmosphere,
reveling in the seconds
of humanity lurking
in an abandoned etymology.
Jun 29, 2010
Jun 29, 2010 at 11:19 AM UTC
Head exploding
life seems too fast
to find out what I'm thinking
I wonder if my strength
is going to last.
I crawled into bed
with you last night
first time in years
we've been segregated
by my exhaustion
and my fears.
To feel your flesh again
made my headache worth it
but nothing will take away
the ache that I feel
for the love of myself.
Self acceptance is what I need
I'm better than I thought
but the lingering mistrust
of how I'm going to be
scuppers me at every turn.
If I could just relax
on the inside
and let my self be happy
I think I would be happier.
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 5:12 AM UTC
Alarm clock kicks exhaustion into gut immediately as it sounds
University student jolts into day still dark
20 years later body still too daft to recognize shrill wake-up call as prey rather than predator
US kills Russians in Syria strikes
How to get ready in under ten minutes—life hacks you won’t believe: leave without locking the door, forget to brush your hair, and more
Five reasons breakfast is the most important meal of the day
Trump wants to replace food stamps for impoverished Americans
Snow in the forecast for the next three days
Why is vitamin D important for our bodies?
Sleep deprivation: a student epidemic
I’ve had panic attacks every day for the past three years—here’s how I’ve coped
Accused killer says victim hired him to do it on Craigslist
Want to know how to budget as a college student? Stop buying Starbucks
All she has to do to claim 560-million-dollar lotto is make her name public—she refuses
Signs that your friendship is coming to an end
Lions eat and **** suspected poacher
Tips on how to be successful after college
These are the victims of the Florida school shooting
Binge-drinking on college campuses and escapism: the dangers of drinking to forget
Declinism: is the world actually getting worse?
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 12:27 AM UTC
i am tired.
not for a lack of rest --
no, i slept quite well last night
and I've had my coffee.
its something deeper, something
inherently present, in the
fibers of my skin,
in my tendons, in my eyes.
i am exhausted,
fatigued by life
by the noise and the silence,
the people, and
the empty rooms,
the light and the dark;
by hope and
despair.
so worn down by the world
that nothing in it can
refresh my mind from the
constant buzzing.
i am tired, and there are not
enough hours in the night
for the type of rest i need.
-U.K. & m.g.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 1:00 PM UTC
Months ago, I used to apply makeup
for the sole purpose of feeling beautiful,
part of me adored the curve in my eyeliner
or the red in my lipstick; it made me confident,
it made me feel like my smile was brighter,
like any and everything I did, was wonderful.
I can't be sure when the shift happened,
but I find myself less and less capable
of enjoying the morning's application process.
I suppose it's because I no longer wear it for pleasure
but rather, to cover the darkness under my eyelids,
to mask the discoloration in my skin,
and to hide my far too visible exhaustion.
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 10:39 PM UTC
it's almost two in the morning.
i toss and turn,
roll around--
nothing.
sighing, i sit up,
and think to myself,
"This hasn't happened in a while."
my mind automatically goes back to that time,
when i was younger,
and our family went to the capital.
slept in some fancy hotel
with some fancy people
with their fancy clothes.
on the second night we stayed there,
i couldn't get a wink of sleep.
i don't know whether if it was because of exhaustion
or something else.
naturally,
the next morning was hell.
i was pissy and bored
as we waited for father in the lobby.
i couldn't take a nap in public because, well,
i had my pride, of course!
chewing a gum quite aggressively,
i observed my surroundings.
my gaze hopped from one person to another.
a royal from a country i haven't even heard of.
an important figure in politics.
a celebrity.
a kid.
white blonde hair?
i haven't seen hair of that shade.
it was quite unnatural here.
i whipped my head to the left and saw
two beautiful people.
the taller was around my age.
he had the same mop of hair as the kid i saw (the shorter).
the child, on the other hand,
was most probably no older than six.
they were both awesome.
the light glowed on their figures,
and it looked like they were godsend.
i haven't seen anything more beautiful.
and who knew that who knows how many years later,
i would find myself looking back on that vivid memory.
as if it had happened yesterday.
(i feel like i'm still stuck in that time.)
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 2:15 PM UTC
Have you ever been so exhausted that
your words come out like feathers,
and breathing feels like a chore?
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
*eking out the ultimate gasp in my last breath of impulsion
i collapse without a touch of grace at race's end
how i made it i will never know
dazed and in bewilderment
i reminisce upon my journey
an aggregation of barricades assailed me
with iniquitous decadent delight
seeming to writhe in triumph at my possible demise
capitulating as it devoured and spewed me out the other side
i humbly reassembled fragments of my near annihilation
temporarily rehabilitated
i recommenced the toilsome climb
to the treasured peak atop the mount
when in would come the tempest with its furor
and render me asunder
mere exhaustion is not the word
for death experienced recurrently
ground to mulch and back again
screaming, pleading, surrendering
proved futile as i newly met the same demise
near incapacitation i miraculously emerged
and scraping pulled myself with broken heart and bones
scratching my way through the darkness
toppling at the pinnacle
to victory's end
with exhilaration it dawns on me
the long dark night is over
i passed the test to realize
it is not the finish line
but only the beginning
©2016janetaylor
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 5:22 PM UTC