"extricate" poems
Before our Moon
dips below
the romantic
horizon
I'll swing you
around
with such
affectionate
torque
that
paramedics
will need
the Jaws of Life
to extricate us
one
from
the other.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 6:37 PM UTC
Memories, memories,
Demons destined to remind!
Memories, memories,
Extricate them from my mind!
Alas! They echo toward me
As ripples in the brain.
Evoked by love and roses
They prickle me insane.
Oh, I remember…
*The hour summons a restless, withered afternoon
During which I succumbed to ravenous decay.
I desperately chased feelings like an unhinged loon,
Swifting through my pond in fear, panic, and dismay.*
Impeccable beauty
& fanciful expectation:
I was thwarted by both.
Each summoned its own
Distinct, rolling shadow.
Oh I remember…
*I was washed forth by whistling tides of tomorrow,
Clinging to a heart I could not own or borrow.
My feelings, whisked in transit, dizzied by the fray,
Yearned for second chances to conquer yesterday.*
Gelid gloom would
Permeate my heart,
Tearing me apart.
Haunted by a feeling
I could not possess,
I drowned in
Darkness.
Oh I remember...
*Loneliness was chronic; slowly it tapped time;
My life become a poem lacking voice and rhyme.
As silent afternoons would coalesce into years,
My dreams burst into smoke & hope thawed into tears.*
Memories, memories,
Are nothing more than that.
Memories, memories,
**** **** ****
I do not wish to remember,
But dare not to forget
Moments that once plagued me:
Moments I regret.
*No matter how strong be my will,
These memories will haunt me still.*
Oh how I wish not to remember...
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 6:52 PM UTC
Beloved wanderer,
What are you running after?
your external commitment to reach crassness is taller than a benevolent Tikbalang
you are quicker than its long legs to lead a soul astray
But my beloved,
where is your soul?
your Passion is non-existent
like an ondine, all you seek is an immortal soul to waste
on your blinded fate
on the woes you continue to create
and your petty blown up mates
a thick, bold flesh they’ll never extricate
surrounding the empty stems from which they originate
My beloved,
your eyeballs were so viciously extracted and replaced
with poisonous bile
your hellhound eyes are so vile
if one stares at them twice
they’ll be seized, and they’ll be sacrificed
and their souls disintegrate
their roots begin to decay
they merge with your spirits
and they aimlessly gyrate
around in circles,
my beloved, you **** the souls
dumping their bodies in holes
indulgent in mutilating the skin around your heart
vandalising your worth and claiming it's art
but my beloved wanderer
where is your drive?
where is your start?
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 11:11 AM UTC
I write too often while thinking of you
It's late, everyone's asleep and my confidence is beginning to bate,
it feels like I've been awake for weeks straight, I can't extricate this state of distrait, everything is becoming harder to assimilate and I can barely differentiate reality from the reversed universe that my mind manipulates and creates,
My heart palpitates, my thoughts tumultuate and my lungs refuse to inflate under this weight as I begin to dissociate
What's great about my universe is that you can honestly relate,
Others understand in this mystic fantasy land,
There life isn't so bland, our existence was planned and best of all you and I roam hand in hand obeying your preferred god's demand,
There I'm not terrified that I will die with the afterlife unverified, the answers to my questions are clarified and my smile isn't forced or pried but instead a happiness that's justified,
There I have a perilous quest to distract me from the distress of the universe's careless emptiness, my feelings abide my behest and my mind doesn't remind me of my pointlessness,
Regardless I'd be happy nonetheless if I could leave all the rest just to retain your caress.
10-30-18
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 6:08 PM UTC
I hate that feeling.
that feeling when you're sad,
But you have no idea why.
You feel so **** void,
but nothing has happened.
They ask you what is wrong,
but you can not explain.
Or they did not ask anything,
I do not know what is worse.
It just feels like I miss someone,
someone I never met.
I need someone who does not need me.
Loneliness hovers over me,
takes control of me.
I do not even care.
I extricate itself from the goals.
Sadness for now is my best and only friend.
I begin to hate myself and
I want everyone to leave me alone.
At the same time,
I want someone to hug me and
told me that everything will be okay.
**I just hate that feeling.
That feeling,
when you do not even know what the hell you feel.**
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 12:10 AM UTC
**O, My Creator, Deliver Me From These Inquisitions,
Emancipate Me From These Wretched Oppositions,
Free Me From The Chains Of My Weary Disposition,
Envelop Me Within The Folds Of Your Holy Apparition**
*The Sun's Light Dwindled Along The Horizon,
Darkness Bruised The Ledges Of The Sky,
Summer's Vegetation Recoiled And Fossilized,
Within The Dark Soil's Crumbling Underlie*
**O, Glorious Divine Being, Act On My Requisition,
Extricate My Soul From It's Appalling Malnutrition,
This Tattered Mind Is A Degenerating Composition,
Let My Spine Sprout Wings To Carry Me To Redefinition**
*Stars Emerged From The Depths Of The Heavens,
Holes Filtrating The Stale Air Circulating In Slime,
Oozing From A Fatal Virus They Referred To As Time*
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 7:08 PM UTC
In West Virginia they dig tunnels or a great big hole,
to extricate from Mother Earth the substance known as coal.
For centuries the coal was burned and smoke would fill the air,
but coal became outmoded and demand's no longer there.
So many miners were laid off as mines did stall or close,
and in Coal Country incomes dropped and unemployment rose.
But Donald Trump made promises to fix the miners' strife,
by saying he'd bring Old King Coal a-roaring back to life.
So Trump reduced the regulations that bring jail or fines
for harm to the environment from power plants or mines.
But all this is irrelevant - Trump has no magic spell
to make the world want coal again. To whom will these mines sell?
Trump may as well have promised to bring back the horse and cart;
for tinkers, whalers, schooner sailors, a rich and brand new start.
For Trump will promise anything and sell his very soul.
Next Christmas his reward should be... a big old lump of coal.
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 7:14 PM UTC
Feeling like aged bottles of wine. Tarty, tangy, ale and rye. Backwashed at the bottom, bared half inch of DNA collecting bacterium by the decade. Each floating strand archetypal on it’s own. Like separatist fans of gold, separatist fans of chrome. Extricate model minerals alter and contrast on their own. Earth maintenance, sustenance, nourishment and remotely beyond consternation.
A lacking ruinith; she know not currency.
A value made thus child; when met bereavement, ruthless and reaved.
Long gone; alas final crestfallen gives.
Impetus formith she grooves; in smirched tarnish banks we shall live.
Sep 20, 2010
Sep 20, 2010 at 12:50 AM UTC
human detritus deaf to empathy
misanthropes bound by apathy
just above the dotted line we
signed our own death warrants
guilty as charged
existential and intellectual suicide
we'd rather gouge out our eyes
bury our heads in the sand
than give a moment's pause to
consider our own arrogance
**** sapiens
we carved our legacy into the globe
and we will rest in the husk
of a massive unmarked grave
a solitary chunk of floating rock
adrift in outerspace
"the fate of every successful species
is to wipe itself out"
can we harness the courage to turn away
from our vapid lives before it's too late
can we unplug our minds from the machine
extricate ourselves and learn to breathe
with lungs instilled through millennia of
evolution before we suffocate in ennui
humanity is on life-support
it's tempting to pull the plug
let Mother Nature reclaim her earth
from an entitled race of
self-destructive fools
coddled from childbirth but
there is a nascent impulse that
echoes in every heartbeat
living within our blood
to regard one another with the new eyes
science has built each of us
no longer can we trust self-styled
leaders of the free world
the impetus rests within the crux
of self-acceptance
anarchy is the litmus test
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 10:57 PM UTC
Before the finch sings or the rooster crows,
before eyelids raise or the sunrise glows,
before the sky transforms from midnight blue,
I’ve already begun my thoughts of you.
Before the alarm’s ring has hit my ears,
before the fog of sleep in my head clears,
before the grass is soaked with morning dew,
the day has started with my thoughts of you.
Before I extricate myself from dreams,
before the birds bathe in the dawn’s sunbeams,
before the coffee calls for me to brew,
my heart and soul begin to call for you.
Before I can arise from where I lay,
before everything that starts my day,
before anything else I have to do,
my day’s begun with loving thoughts of you.
Apr 27, 2019
Apr 27, 2019 at 9:40 AM UTC
Started off Exchanging numbers we crossed paths like a X
Exactly when I Examined you, I knew you ain’t like the rest
Now shawty was so Exquisite, something I ain’t Expect
I thought girls like you Existed at the type of Expense
Can’t say our fires Extinguished, yet can’t deal with the stress
I can’t deal with Expulsion, I can’t deal with Exempt
Can’t Explain with Examples, no words to Express
Excuse my Explicit lyrics but I want you so **** all the rest
I wanted to Exceed my Excursion with you without no Excess
I Exclaimed **** love!” Exactly when you left
Now I must Extricate, I must confess
Don’t show it Externally but I feel it up in my chest
And it ain’t even bout the *** I could get it from the next
I just don’t wanna leave having something I will regret
Its just......
I’m still in love with my Ex
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 5:01 PM UTC
Alone, left not a sound
nor word of extricate.
As humble pie they slid.
Words unfinished, like
fancy work embossed
on the hand extended.
Silken gloves removed
to reveal fingers that
we pianists gently stroke
on simultaneous keyboards.
Verbose the affinity, once
shared in a twilight of linger.
And in the dim that sings
La Traviata to the silenced
autumn’s light grew quiet.
She remembers a smile
of a time that tingled …
Mar 26, 2012
Mar 26, 2012 at 11:19 PM UTC
Can’t you see your beauty?
That shines inside and out?
Why do you stay blind?
Why don’t you open your eyes?
Loved by everyone,
yet you cannot love yourself.
Why?
You're wonderful the way you are.
A masterpiece created with the finest paints.
Your skin is the perfect canvas.
Adorned with beauty,
yet you insist on marring it.
You paint it with pain and desperation,
angry slashes fill the canvas stained rain.
You say, “It’s been a bad year.”
your eyes on the floor.
Don’t be ashamed, you're not alone anymore.
I used to paint to, I've been there before.
I would paint onto my canvas
anger and despair
with a paint soaked brush—dripping red.
My heart begins to tear,
to think you’ve landed in the same darkness,
where the light is difficult to see.
Oblivious to those who love you—you are blind.
Unaware of those who say they love you—you are deaf.
Relinquish your brush,
and let yourself heal.
Open your eyes and see the light in front of you—extending its hand.
I will help you walk this road,
paving the way with dreams of brighter days.
Traveling to the land of hope and dreams,
the land of safety and acceptance,
the land where you can be free of your demons.
Everything will heal someday,
the marks you made will continue to fade
—until they are but silhouettes on a blank canvas.
Your heart will heal,
until the day you no longer paint with the colors of pain and sadness,
but with shades of hope and joy.
When you finally see that you are not alone.
When you hear the cries of those who wept for you.
When you feel the sorrow of those who prayed for you.
When know the truth of those who said they loved you.
I walked by your side,
guided you when you could no longer see,
and listened to you when you screamed and cried as you fought your inner demons.
But now you must listen to me, my friend.
There will be better days,
hold your head up high and smile.
The best has yet to come.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 9:33 PM UTC
TANGLED NECKLACES
Some thing are easier said than undone.
My necklace tangled in your coat buttons
As you held me to you.
My heart tangled in yourself.
Once I tied myself up in your knots, it’s ****** hard for me to unravel.
A complex Celtic knot of emotions
To rival the grandest illustrations in the Book of Kells.
Some things are easier said than undone.
Part of me prayed it’s a sign.
Maybe some higher power sought to bind something of me to you
For love or words of encouragement and healing for you,
I don’t know the purpose
Because it’s ****** hard to extricate myself from this.
And part of me doesn’t want to
Even though you said otherwise
As I untangled my necklace from you.
Some things are easier said than undone.
Slow to warm up to anyone
Quick and fierce to burn for the one
Slow to bank, if ever,
I never give anything less than my whole heart
Once the wheels are set in motion.
Anything less than me, it’s just not in me.
And some things are easier said than undone.
Now maybe it’s not meant to be
But I can’t be
Anything less than 100 percent with you
Honesty and caring with every fiber of my being,
It’s part of me like breathing.
Always in for a lamb, in for a lion
I’d be lying if I didn’t say
That wasn’t what I wanted to hear.
But you were honest,
And I thank you for that.
But some things are easier said than undone.
Now, I would rather Chance and Fate
Cut my heart and bone to the marrow,
Than drown in a pit of fire and brimstone
And lost chances and regret over you.
The good little angel that sits on my sleeve
Can heal as easily as it gives itself once the wheels are set in motion.
But still, I’d wait for you, if there would be a chance
Because some things are easier said than undone.
Aug 15, 2011
Aug 15, 2011 at 12:25 PM UTC
I don't want to
Complicate you
I just want to
Add some value
Extricate me
From my heartbeat
Elevate me
From this deep heat
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 8:31 AM UTC
Before I raise my voice
I will lower it to hear you
I will listen
to the undercurrent of your thoughts
your pain and the sound your tears make
when they fall
when they are left uncried
I will walk with you, trace our steps back
to that fork in the path where good things fall
through a pocket hole and burdens
hitch a piggy back ride
I hear you
I see you
let's take a walk
I will be brave with you
let us gently extricate
dreams lost from
underneath that heavy rock
Don't be afraid
if you get lost
I will raise my voice to find you
when you hear me
my voice will bring you back
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 11:39 AM UTC
The summer is static. Over
A drying lawn the slur
Of heat descends. Quiet
The garden flowers. This mind's diet?
Shaded hills and solitude.
Slow recession of the crude
Tracings of my origins,
The silhouettes of sins
And murmurs, blurs into
The sophomoric hue
Of my brain. Can I
Extricate myself? This lie,
Though it elude my thought
Into what action I know not,
Seems to legitimate my being
And foretell the fate of my self-fleeing.
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 3:17 PM UTC
I stood beside the grave of him who blazed
The comet of a season, and I saw
The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed
With not the less of sorrow and of awe
On that neglected turf and quiet stone,
With name no clearer than the names unknown,
Which lay unread around it; and asked
The Gardener of that ground, why it might be
That for this plant strangers his memory tasked
Through the thick deaths of half a century;
And thus he answered—”Well, I do not know
Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so;
He died before my day of sextonship,
And I had not the digging of this grave.”
And is this all? I thought,—and do we rip
The veil of Immortality? and crave
I know not what of honour and of light
Through unborn ages, to endure this blight?
So soon, and so successless? As I said,
The Architect of all on which we tread,
For Earth is but a tombstone, did essay
To extricate remembrance from the clay,
Whose minglings might confuse a Newton’s thought,
Were it not that all life must end in one,
Of which we are but dreamers;—as he caught
As ’twere the twilight of a former Sun,
Thus spoke he,—”I believe the man of whom
You wot, who lies in this selected tomb,
Was a most famous writer in his day,
And therefore travellers step from out their way
To pay him honour,—and myself whate’er
Your honour pleases,”—then most pleased I shook
From out my pocket’s avaricious nook
Some certain coins of silver, which as ’twere
Perforce I gave this man, though I could spare
So much but inconveniently:—Ye smile,
I see ye, ye profane ones! all the while,
Because my homely phrase the truth would tell.
You are the fools, not I—for I did dwell
With a deep thought, and with a softened eye,
On that Old Sexton’s natural homily,
In which there was Obscurity and Fame,—
The Glory and the Nothing of a Name.
1.2k
Banal though you seem to be
I charge you to envisage free
A scarlet thought, a venal throb
To garnish with a stifled sob,
A crystal tear to reinforce
The reticence I suspect, of course,
The reticence which binds you to
A crass and **** dogma's view.
Why, you say, why take this tack?
Well??? Someone needs to bring you back.....
Back to face your beauty's soul
To extricate this black Popes' goal
Of binding you to penitence
Obliterating freedom's sense!
Marshalg
8 July 2013
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 5:04 AM UTC
You Know.
You love to feel. Really feel.
Not all that pony phony excrement.
NO
I want to feel. I want to flow.
And now I can.
No longer does my mind win/
Now I am free to lose my body to my surroundings.
To listen to the rhythm of my cells, the rhythm of my blood.
My heart beats
and I listen.
Harmonize the sentiments.
Float on the the synchronicity.
Extricate the energy
vibrating pulsating reverberating Charge.
Tinge with respite. Ignite the tinder
of my uninhibited beauty. EXPLODE in oneirostatic luminance
Leave your brain, but find your body.
And with them find your self, finding them. E
vaporate, into infinite Tactation.
Consummate the Sensations of your wordless soul.
What we cannot express with our words we express with our skin.
See me. Feel me. Touch me. Feel me.
Lick the tentacles in my pores.
**** the mandibles from my constant bite wounds.
The seed of intertwining life sought through the seed of the lymnescate.
Transference
Note to my plural self: Listen to my thoughts more often,
especially when they don't come from my head.
Rhythms carry time. Flow rhythms water the timewave. Grow rivers find the groove. DANCE the current and find the soothing bedrock rootscape.
Find it with your ultimate states of dissolution.
Find it and it will carry you.
Find it and explode.
EXTRICATE EUPHORIA
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 2:56 PM UTC
"Sweetheart, You lose so much weight"
"I'm fine mom, I've already ate"
Sedative words that can't extricate
Food, Is what I begun to hate.
Thin, Thin, Very Thin
Left with bones and waxen skin.
I'm famished but anxious of the kilos
Furtively eating with my eyes, Day by day this is how it goes.
Mirror, Mirror on the wall, can't you see?
What you show is demising me.
Every calorie is a conflagration
Stepping into the scale a redundant vexation.
Stand upon my reflection again
A fat *** is what I see, vociferating of my brain
makes me regurgitate in so much pain.
Drops of anesthetic mainlining my soul
numbers in the scale are reigning without control.
Flesh into ebbing, turning acrimony into cuts
throwing meals, when everyone shuts
All is left is my aweary bones
Still it whispers
"Not thin enough"
Apr 26, 2018
Apr 26, 2018 at 1:11 AM UTC
Thou were warned,
how to be saved.
Empty hallways echo as the ****** scream.
Seldom escape this place.
Oblivious,
unexpected and
left behind.
Striked and burned.
Accused and forgotten.
Retort.
Entanglement.
Odors seep through the cracks.
Underground lies the truth.
Realm of the dead.
Search and you will find.
Together or alone.
Open the door.
Key of the keep.
Embodiment of anger.
Extricate yourself if you dare.
Plagued by regret.
Apr 24, 2021
Apr 24, 2021 at 1:33 AM UTC
Men are ******* each other over with no waiting,
Yet we still can pass proposition eight, the hating
Inspires new generations of children by baiting
Them with lies, telling them that it’s not too late
To save themselves from the others, standing on soap crates
Preaching God and the morals while the kid decorates
His pages with blood and his sorrows, writing straight
But thinking he thinks sideways, and the pressure’s too great
To overcome because the hate won’t let him live at a normal rate,
His heart beats on a different beat, not rap or country, but he creates
Music of the soul that transcends the forced ideals he ate
Directly from the mouth of the pressures, the hate,
And does not give up even in the most dire of straights
Not giving in to what some old man describes as a fate
Not of his own choosing, telling him who to date, don’t gyrate
Those hips it could be **** so he grows up under an ******
Of false appearances and flawed beliefs, never feeling he can escape
From the hate, isn’t it great, this world we so decorate
And doesn’t it frustrate that no one can relate
That he’s on a never ending track on a train full of freight
In order to power an engine of hate, sating
His thirst for individuality by the fires that proclamate
His burned identity and when given the chance to extricate
Himself from the chaos of the tracks, it just exacerbates
Everything around him, all the hate reanimated
To the point where eighteen is the same as eighty
All he needs is a bullet, a gun, and some potassium nitrate
To stop the violence and state as his own mandate
That he is free from the belated strangers berating
Him for eating off another man’s plate
****** over by the hate, but wait,
It’s too late.
Oct 20, 2011
Oct 20, 2011 at 2:45 AM UTC
A walk upon the waters; nigh
Shalt not split thy vein
Lest furtive glances; sigh
To bear upon His Name.
What twills apart my Being
Must extricate a feeling
Is truly trying triumph
For brew upon the brow.
If moorings mast is cracking
then ****** upon the wind
for deeper trust be lacking
my Bow I must rescind.
a Keeper of her stables
should roll up bales of hay
a Reader of her Fables
would wish to port her Bay
Make for meager living
In a time as starkly stout
To climb upon the mountain
Into the tempest, Shout!!
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 12:56 PM UTC
how many do you wear?
do you even know that
you are wearing them?
can you see through all
the other masks?
or does it become a confusion
you cannot extricate yourself
from?
entertaining the thought
that you have many masks
is a beginning.
which ones bring you strength?
truth?
peace?
equanimity?
which ones pull you
deep into delusion?
lost in casting yourself as
a victim?
lost in hedonistic pleasure?
seemingly fun... but
at its core
suffering in another
mask....
chasing highs
never stopping
never going inward
never finding the silence
living in fear
attracting spirits
that feed off of fear.
how to climb out?
a practice lived with
great faith
a practice lived with
great doubt
great motivation
ensues
truth revealed
bliss realized.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 10:04 AM UTC