"expended" poems
Toting the mysterious bundle and sporting a sore back
I drag my feet up the last few steps, expended of vigour
I almost couldn't resist prematurely looking through the sack
Remembering the words from the wise old seer
Grimacing I walk a slow gait to get to the table
Set the bundle down and relieve my weight onto a chair
Parched throat but wait longer I am unable
Curiosity takes charge and into the gift I will tear
Blood is pumping along with an increasing heart rate
Fingers scrambling clumsily over the strings that bind
Nails digging frantically into this package bearing my fate
Gnawing thoughts of uncertainty flooding my mind
At last my fingers win the battle that lasted
The final string has fallen... Obstinate knots all undone
I pick the cloth by the edges to have it unfolded
The contents inside reach out like rays of the sun
Corners of the cloth open up like a fully bloomed blossom
Exposing the treasure that lay solemn and quiet inside
Common objects we'd normally perceive as random
Petty things now important as they attempt to guide
I pick up the first and notice an engraving on it's stem
Between my fingers - an unassuming feathered quill
Barely legible, such little space the words do cram
"Here is your sword... Draw blood and let spill"
More riddles, I sought to examine the next
A flat bottomed vial filled with jet black ink
On it is a label with scrawling of time worn text
"Here is your blood; let flow what you think"
Lastly, lay bound up sheets of yellow stained parchment
They reek of age-old herbs; intoxicating slightly
At the top of the first, a note scribbled not so recent
"Within these pages, you must bleed to find Sanctuary"
Staring down at the objects laid in front of me
In hopes of discovering something I should miss
Then finally it struck me, so plain to see
I'm using the instruments now, writing to find release...
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 10:58 PM UTC
part of me wants to scream... i want to scream out to the world to get them to understand.
I want to scream until there isn’t a single breath left in my lungs, until they sting with the energy i’ve expended and my words hang in the air for all to hear.
to be poet you must write with a certain passion
live with the satisfaction that you can constantly assemble phrases, words and lines
because to truly write you must feel..
you must freely write your emotion
you must learn to let go of your darkest secrets
allow the words to flow from your mind
emancipate yourselves from mental salvery
they cannot comprehend why I write,
I am working for inner peace,
fighting for the freedom of my soul
writing is my form of release , because sometimes
poetry is not a turning loose of emotion but an escape of emotion
moments when I start writing and yet know what I am even to write of
poetry is about discovering , just like happiness
these aren't things ready made
we fear what we know but do not understand
we are loose at the seems
pretending to fine
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 9:26 PM UTC
Isn’t it funny how as we age, we need less sleep?
Babies’ lives consist of it. Their time is infinite.
Children need many hours to rest growing bodies and minds. They have a different and separate life to live.
Maybe adolescents and adults do it to escape the hassles of daily life. They have lived long enough to expect struggle and uncertainty.
The elderly sleep less than everyone else. The clock ticks away what remains of their lives.
Dreamland dwindles as their time on earth fades. Tired eyes and tired hearts are what are left.
We love sleep, we dream in sleep.
Have their dreams been found and achieved, or do they float away with lost souls?
We love sleep, we hope in sleep.
Do their lives end when bodies fail, or are they just beginning?
We love sleep, we search in sleep.
Can they reconnect with loved ones, like in a fairy tale, or never see their faces again, as if in a nightmare?
We love sleep, we rest in sleep.
Do their cares melt away, or do their minds become crazed, like restless legs in the night?
We love sleep, we pray in sleep.
Is there a God they meet in Heaven, or an evil Devil in Hell?
We love sleep, we work in sleep.
Do they have room for regrets, or has all their energy been expended?
We love sleep, we die in sleep.
Is there a point at which they know, and go peacefully with no resistance, or do they refuse to acknowledge, fighting bitterly?
We love sleep, we live asleep.
Did they realize in life that they were asleep the whole time, passive pawns in a big world, or did they know enough to be awake, because a far longer, unknown sleep would follow?
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 11:58 PM UTC
878
The Sun is gay or stark
According to our Deed.
If Merry, He is merrier—
If eager for the Dead
Or an expended Day
He helped to make too bright
His mighty pleasure suits Us not
It magnifies our Freight
2.3k
I feel his eyes on me
Whenever I cross the room.
It is mostly when there are others
Present and we must share ourselves,
Expended over people
And places. The spaces
Before we fall into our wine stained
Non-marital bed. The grape blood reminds me
Of my own. On my own, fledgling ******* and acne,
Elaborately false *******
Where I would never have my fill.
A child-man I forgot.
Or remember only as a token,
Cardboard textured orange peel
In a breast pocket never worn. I forget
Most everyone
Now that he is
In my life. He obliterates
All else like light pollution.
Not of fluorescent neon or slogans
But an exploding star
That dims all else
In my peripheries. I am
Diminished also in his love,
Both wholesomely and then in a sense
Where I lose my ‘I’.
It is in his shadow
Where I live. Small comet
Hidden in the black of velvet,
Licked by the spit of his flames
That scald me
And bathe me
In equal measure.
I am more than this
I know. Or guess. His tailor hands
Though, are efficient and caring. They
Do not create me, but he threads himself
Into my sides
And drops a stitch
Only to adulate the rhythm
When he enters me. When he enters me
I become burgeoned and full and blood fills
The rusted roadways
That shine blue
Through my pasty prism.
He finishes. A gloom fills me. Not
A gloom, more of a nothing and he is
An obliterated star once more
And I his aftermath.
He has killed me with a kindness,
A ghost only when witnessed, kissed.
I have long since forgotten whether I have
Been taken prisoner
Or gave myself up.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 7:26 PM UTC
The underlings stare
In submissive awestruck
Subjugation in landmine-filled
Landfills, are stuck
In the trenches, the feces
The carcass-strewn muck
Where the vermin-spawn ****
As they're taught how to work
And to fend for themselves
Like the Fall of Dunkirk
As the imminent doomsday device overhead
Incapacitates them
As mere prey to a web
Of a global dominion
Ambition connection
Subconscious hive-mind
Buzzing out the objection
And phobia-spreading
Pandemic misanthropy
Greed in disguise
Subsidizing atrocity
Not for me,
I am
The justified treason
The reason the man-hunters
Close open season
The cease-fire peacekeeper
Proliferation
The water war's rising
Desertification
An MIA runaway
AWOL defector
Still haunting the tombs of detente
Like a spectre
With what I assure
Mutually in the end
When I send go-aheads
On the ICBMs
And avenge the dependent expended
Caught in
This crossfire for-profit
Arms race it has been
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 3:33 AM UTC
𝄞:♫⋆｡♪₊˚♬ﾟ. °. ⋆༺ ☾ 𖤓 ༻ ⋆. ° 𝄞:♫⋆｡♪₊˚♬ﾟ.
Peacock feathers
perfection.
A baby panther yawning
yawning, sleek and
black, a swan leaning
back
stretching pristine snowy wings.
Petrichor, crisp musk, the feelings we bring
floating river feathers,
mother’s ozone after rain,
all
around
hitting soft
down.
The reddest of roses held to the sky.
The clearest of tears
we have yet to cry.
A silvery plate of oily green olives throwing back the sun,
of which they are , one.
( of which we all are)
so hard,
becoming one with nothing again in each passing breath.
Energy expended.
A thought, by moments.... in emotions
extended.
A child's coffin
The care of casket sheen — soft silken interiors now overflowing with the wet, inky blackness of squirming, over-lit salamanders. Writhing
Erupting.
Effluviant.
Rubbery little salamanders. Hitting the over polished marble floor
falling
yearning for freedom and little more.
Everywhere. So black and shiny .
Overflowing , spilling out they wander
and we
wonder
what is it all about.
all this cascading and spilling out. Bouncing, smacking.
Nature. The nature Of art and beauty.
Understanding, the great misunderstanding
right before our eyes. Right. before. Our eyes.
Rite before our eyes.
Eyes, another’s . What we truly long to see.
The clarity of symbols built over centuries
and lost in a single fire/trend.
Feb 6, 2025
Feb 6, 2025 at 12:23 PM UTC
part of me wants to scream
I want to scream out to the world to get them to understand
I want to scream until there isn’t a single breath left in my lungs until they sting with the energy , I've expended and my words hang in the air for all to hear
to be a poet you must write with a certain passion
live with the satisfaction that you can constantly assemble phrases words and lines
because to truly write you must feel
you must freely write your emotion
you must learn to let go of your darkest secrets
allow the words to flow from your mind
liberate yourselves from mental slavery
they cannot comprehend why I write
I am striving for inner peace
fighting for the freedom of my soul
writing is my form of release because sometimes
poetry is not a release of emotion but an escape of emotion
moments & raw emotions
these aren't things ready made
we fear what we know but do not understand
we are loose at the seams
pretending to fine
Yet desiring to be heard
understood from the core
of our poems our souls
© Jennifer Delong 🦏 8/14/18
Apr 1, 2021
Apr 1, 2021 at 2:54 PM UTC
I have seen the blood of my loved ones, spilled on a dusty road;
Seen the fall of kings, powerful warriors and the bold;
The skin of mothers and little children, broken by cold;
The ancient landmarks of the fatherless, siezed and sold.
I have heard the cry of the homeless but no one there to save;
Heard the wailing of the deserted, seen the tears of the brave;
Many driven from their homelands, now hiding in caves;
And a father toiling night and day, treated as a slave.
I have heard of dreams of many, still unrealised;
The ****** daughters of priests, lured or defiled;
The goals of youths, swallowed up by pride;
And the future of generations, poorly discerned.
I have read government policies, unfavourable for the common man;
Heard of national resources, expended without concrete plans
Communities connive to eliminate a defenseless clan;
And a nation sold into modern slavery, by reckless polititians.
Many tears have droped, sweat and blood everywhere;
Many races have been run but the end seems nowhere near;
Many have waited hopelessly for a better year;
Many have stood up but crawled back for sake of fear.
A day will come when the oppressed will arise;
Like Martin Luther King Jr. did,though his blood was a price;
Like Nelson Mandela did, even though his act was termed a vice-
For the freedom of the enslaved and oppressed but the wicked's sudden demise.
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 3:26 AM UTC
A fistful of time...
Saw the doing and the undoing
of misguided hands.
A fistful of words...
Hurled in exchange,
like expended rounds that
drew more than they should.
A fistful of life...
Taken for granted
and traded in for
forgotten sands.
A fistful of heart...
Wrung dry by familiar digits...
Suffocating still...
Like I knew it would.
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 9:12 AM UTC
rays of light strike the wall where a window should be. the hurricane is over, we haven't yet taken down the boards.
the thing about the storm is how exhausting it can be. it can take so much out of you that all you can muster is enough energy to think. hours expended in forceful trance don't quite seem like hours at all.
more like something else entirely.
i rest my head on the back of a ratty couch. there's a coffee table before me that i'd like to prop my feet on if only i had the strength to. i notice Elizabeth cross legged atop it. she's smaller than i remember. not in the way of height or weight, but in a way i can't quite put my finger on. she looks straight through the boards on the window, though i feel her gaze on me.
a few minutes have gone away. following their departure, Elizabeth turns to me and asks,
"do you remember me from somewhere?"
Feb 26, 2021
Feb 26, 2021 at 5:30 PM UTC
You quickly passed into the crystal wall of reflection
To marvel at inciting bits of temptation
Found yourself lost and intoxicated in false delusions
While your energy dissipated into frustration
You looked upon treasures just out of your reach
Sadly crying out in dissatisfaction
Continuously attempting to hold and pursue them
Thinking they held satisfaction
You lived in your imagination in a castle built with sand
Forgetting to lay a strong foundation
Upon a shore in a land full of tumultuous storms
Where it rains without cessation
So still you became as if you could no longer move
All your energy expended for naught
Soon, forgetting who you were and all that you stood for
Everything that you had been taught
You are not trapped inside the crystal wall of reflection
You are free to leave most any day
Stop living in your castle of crumbling sand
Because of wrong choices you made
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 6:41 PM UTC
1 simple set of instructions
4 heavy flatpack boxes
5 square aluminium legs
27 painted pieces of wood
100 ridged wooden dowels
101 white plastic ***** covers
102 blister-causing screws of various sizes.
Assumption that no unter or ober
Equals drunken waves of shelves
Sadly means finished is unfinished
Reworked masterpiece complete at last
Male ego boosted by admiring plaudits
Value enhanced by effort expended
Flatpack frustration in 4 easy pieces.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 9:00 AM UTC
I stare into the clouded night sky
That shines the light of the sun on the clouds
Via the moon that orbits the Earth
Continuously
Round and round
Held in by
Just the right amount
Of gravity.
Nothing more,
Nothing less.
I am the moon
That moves on continuously
Seeking something more
But spending time frivolously.
Not moving forward
Or backward
But
Riding a course almost effortlessly
Weighing the balance of my course
On the moment and not
Resisting the force of the Earth.
I am the Earth
Attracting nothing useful to myself
Losing my health exponentially
My skin scars grow deeper
With the pollution of the bacteria
Ever multiplying
Not even their deaths diminishing
The pain of my barrier being torn
By my internal conflict
And I...
Just float.
Orbiting a greater body than I.
I am the sun
Feeling not the heat that is embedded
Within me
I question
If I can really feel anymore
Even though my skin is warm
My core still fusing,
Beating,
Emotions clashing within me
So much so that my body
Distances its core
From the surface
And I forget to worry
If...
I expand so far
And then collapse
Into myself
And become a void
******* in emotions
Numbly
Because I lost what was left of me.
I am the universe
Full of mystery
Full of dark shades
And galaxies plenty
Many planets,
Stars and satellites
That whirl and whirl
Into sight
Or disappear in a black hole.
I am the universe
That continues to expand
Stretching
Straining
Out of hand
Continuing on
Because I can
And this universe
This body is not mine
I cannot end it
At least,
It has not expended enough
To implode
Nor do I want it to
By the will that subconsciously
Remains within me.
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 7:20 AM UTC
I fell off of cloud nine today.
Everyone talks about cloud nine,
but they rarely talk about those
other clouds.
Right now, I'm on cloud thirty-seven,
after making an error in judgement.
Cloud thirty-seven is not quite as enjoyable
Thirty seven is slate tinted and full of regrets.
It's as if everything has been covered in a haze
of negativity. It reeks of rejection and failure.
The people here look like lifeless shells. I wonder
what I look like to them.
The worst part, I think, about cloud thirty-seven
is that I can still see cloud nine quite clearly. I can
still see everyone up there smiling blissfully, save
for the few who are looking down at me with pity.
Faces stare at me almost smirking, as if the same thing
could never happen to them.
I can look up at cloud nine and it seems so far away.
It's not unreachable, mind you, but I know all the
blood and sweat
expended to get up there previously was for nothing.
I know that to get back up there requires the same
repetitive ******** that I've been through
so many times before.
Even if I manage to land back on cloud nine, I'm always
just a single mistake from falling from it yet again..
I've been here to thirty-seven enough times where it is
becoming uncomfortably familiar.
I fear of becoming complacent.
Perhaps I'm fooling myself. Maybe I need to stop aspiring
for cloud nine and pick a different one.
Cloud 28 might be nice.
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 7:44 PM UTC
Emptied bottles abandoned in a makeshift nest of expended needles
Wallpaper tearing, personified with mind-existent faces
Faces crying out, druggies are feeble
Thought *** was not dangerous, buds tweaked with laces.
Brave men and women all matching in green
Prepared for war, physically ready to fight
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, you'll never know what they've seen
Comrades dying, fearful crying, killing humans alike.
Forced to mature, parents not even related
A false family filling an insatiable pit of sadness
Baa baa, black sheep. Wool tainted.
Fake relatives, real emotion and belief. God Bless.
Destiny is cruel, less than two dollars of payment
Food scarce, enforcers feirce, assembly line continuous
Fingers bleeding and bruised? Keep working. Mentally spent.
Whips on the back, the pain gratuitous.
Nice family, good car, great job, years ago
Remnants of the past, rewinding in the form of dreams
Begging for money, mainly ignored, not seen as human anymore
Sleeping on park benches, tears releasing in streams.
Two to five things go wrong and you feel the need to complain?
Yeah. Life must be tough.
Your romantic interest leaves you and you feel insane?
Problems childish when compared to others, don't you think it's enough?
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 12:14 AM UTC
A broken heart
By definition
Cannot act
Based on ambition
And is doomed
To submission
Cursed to feel
Only contrition
But take this moment to listen
To what I have to say to you
A broken heart
Is seen as weak
And the future
Of it bleak
But every crack
Tear and streak
Leaves the owner
More unique
With only confidence to accrue
A broken heart
Once it’s mended
Can shake off
Why it pretended
To endure
What it expended
To keep it’s
Own needs unattended
In fear of losing what was good
A broken heart
Once fixed
Even with
Emotions mixed
And after all
Enemies nixed
By their lies
So transfixed
Is now free to do what it should
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 2:32 AM UTC
an attractive honey ***
has been available
to so many folks
who've made a career
of abusing
us taxpaying folks
our small community
plays mien host
to a cohort
of these hard working folks
they sit on their tails
watching the world go by
the idea of getting a job
never enters their mind's eye
a particular gentleman
who is well know around town
has collected the dole for years
he's exploited the welfare system
like so many of his peers
he's a strapping man
who has good physicality
some of that could be expended
doing a day's labor
and his mental capabilities
are pretty keen
as he's always found ways
to cheat the welfare scheme
no wonder the taxpayer
is apt to feeling rather miffed
as ***** is always
giving the free gift
with the government
tightening the purse strings
those non genuine welfare recipients
will have to enter the job market
and stop feeding
from the generous taxpayer's
evergreen basket
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 7:47 PM UTC
E - Everyone
T - That
H - Has
E - Eggs
R - Really
E - Expended
A - A
L - Lot
.
.
A song for this:
bad idea! by girl in red [E]
Mar 25, 2025
Mar 25, 2025 at 8:47 PM UTC
*A Story of Scientology and the Mental Health System Connection
SEEKER*
Now I can hear you saying to yourselves,
"So. You said you were smart. Why did you get involved with a crazy cult like Scientology?" Well. Two reasons. 1) I was raised an atheist (Humanist), but had a seeker's soul. I became very spiritual, like I said. I also had a desire to HELP people. Humanity. I still do. But because I had a godless upbringing I was left open to deception. And 2) I found a boyfriend. Or, I should say, he found me. One of Scientology's tried and true methods of recruitment.
I had another friend, a ***** Jewish scientologist (yes, there can be that sort of thing, as you can be "any faith" and still be a scientologist... hmph!). She introduced us. I was impressed by two things. He was an instructor at the "Mission". And he could tell you things that seemed psychic. One of the procedures for impressing people to sign up for classes and "processing" was this. Doug would position you in a certain part of the room. He'd have his back to you. Then he'd tell you to walk away from him... then stop abruptly.
**He'd be able to tell you when you stopped!** And he could do it every time! This really impressed me. Until I found out he looked into the reflective surface of a large glass covered poster that was on the wall! Lol! What a con artistic magician HE was! HA!
I was totally gone over by the registrar (salesperson). She stuck to me like glue until she FINALLY figured out, Yes! I had NO MONEY! So I didn't get any training or processing. Which was a BIG part of why I stuck around. I didn't even read "Dianetics" by L Ron Hubbard. Doug told me a little about it. But most of his energy was expended trying to get in my pants... a fruitless endeavor to say the least!
He was instrumental in getting me up to Phoenix for the fateful "Flag Orientation Tour". The recruitment campaign which would change my life forever...
Where I signed my life over to Scientology's Sea Organization for the next BILLION YEARS.
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 10:47 PM UTC