"finalized" poems
I was not born with fear
fear was put into me
I was not born with insecurities
society skewed my mind to believe In beauty
I'm was born free, curious and untrained from formal normalitys
why must an individual become
parallel
normal is varied
so why do we try to be alike
and we try to fit into a illusion that a society creates
a society that changes and grows
but how is so
people can't be different and unique
a double standarded we so apparently have to keep
we were born at different times and different hours
we are raised in different places and situations
do not let yourself be finalized by an acceptance
and become one of society's many prisoners
pressure might turn coal into a diamond
but for others it shall break them
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 10:58 PM UTC
The Annual POCU Fashion Show held by the campus organization “People of Color United,” was held in the Student Activities Center on Saturday, April 18. The fashion show is the final activity of the year held by POCU. Junior Martell Prayear and senior Miranda Jackson were the show’s hosts and announcers.
The fashion show is a competition where various designers, or teams of designers, are required to create outfits that adhere to a general theme, but also incorporate the designer’s unique, personal concepts. This year, the general theme for the fashion show was: Thrift Shop. Each designer, or group of designers, was required to utilize clothes purchased from the local Goodwill and maintain a $50 budget. Preparations for the event, Jackson said, were very short. “I was really surprised how well it turned out, because we started practicing for the show at four o’clock that day,” Jackson said. “They typically start practicing way a head of time.” Despite the delayed preparation, the fashion show was an overall success. The first designer to present at the fashion show was Victoria Webster.
Webster’s fashion line was inspired by professional work attire. “I think it can be hard transitioning college wear into professional wear, on a budget,” Webster said of her outfits. Webster was able to find three models to wear the clothes, which she said was a combination of the model’s personal items, as well as those purchased through Goodwill. The second fashion line presented at the fashion show was designed by Iyana Lynch. For her personal theme, Lynch designed outfits that were inspired by the different seasons. The third designer to present that evening was Alyssa Nieset. Inspired by 90’s menswear, Nieset designed a line of androgynous outfits. The final clothing line presented was a team effort from: Jeanita Blue and Angel Powell.
Their theme was considered “90’s Reloaded,” and featured various throwbacks to 1990’s pop culture such as TLC and The Spice Girls. Blue said that most of the outfits in their fashion line were inspired by “eco-friendly fashion,” and were intended to decrease hesitation toward shopping at thrift stores. While the judges finalized the scores for each designer or team, the Urban Dance Association entertained the crowd with a quick performance. The judge’s scores resulted in a tie between Jeanita Blue & Angel Powell, and Iyana Lynch. Despite the general tie, Blue and Powell were awarded first place, while Lynch was granted second place. There was an off-campus reception held in Cleveland after the event. Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/purple-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/green-formal-dresses
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 10:36 PM UTC
I don't tell people often enough
That I love them
Because love can fade,
"I love you" doesn't always suffice.
Rather I say thank you.
I say that I'm thankful for their existence,
Their existing within my own life,
Because sometimes I don't love the people I'm thankful for.
I'm thankful for people I can't love,
People I don't allow myself to love,
And people who love me in odd ways.
Love isn't always so grand and welcoming.
I'm quite thankful for the people
I don't love, and for the ones that don't love me.
We've played teacher to one another,
We've taught lessons, tested out the material, finalized where we all stand.
So thank you to plenty,
I'll tell you I love you if I do,
But more than anything I'm thankful-
Thankful for your reciprocating, or lack of, love too.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 2:53 AM UTC
The phone slips from a loose grip.
Words were missing then. Some apology.
I didn't want to tell you this.
No, it's just some guy she's been hanging out with.
I don't know. The past couple of weeks, I guess.
Well, thank you and hang up the phone.
Let the funeral start;
hear the casket close.
Let's pin split-black ribbon to your overcoat.
Well, laughter pours from under doors.
In this house, I don't understand that sound no more.
Seems artificial, like a TV set.
Well... haligh, haligh, a lie, haligh
This weight it must be satisfied.
You offer only one reply,
you know not what to do,
but you tear and tear your hair from roots
of that same head you have twice removed now.
A lock of hair you said would prove
our love would never die.
Well ha ha ha.
I remember everything;
the words we spoke on freezing South Street,
and all those mornings watching you get ready for school.
You combed your hair inside that mirror;
the one you painted blue and glued with jewelry tears.
Something about those bright colors
would always make you feel better.
But now we speak with ruined tongues,
and the words we say aren't meant for anyone.
It's just a mumbled sentence to a passing acquaintance,
but there was once you.
You said you hate my suffering
and you understood
and you'd take care of me,
you'd always be there,
well where are you now?
Haligh, haligh, a lie, haligh
The plans were never finalized,
but left to hang like yarn and twine
dangling before my eyes
as you tear and tear your hair from roots
of that same head you have twice removed now,
a lock of hair you said would prove
our love would never die.
And I sing and sing of awful things.
The pleasure that my sadness brings
as my fingers press onto the strings
in yet another clumsy chord.
Haligh, haligh, an awful lie,
this weight would now be satisfied.
I'm gonna give you only one reply;
I know not who I am.
But I talk in the mirror
to the stranger that appears.
Our conversations are circles;
always one-sided.
Nothing is clear.
Except we keep coming back
to this meaning that I lack.
He says the choices were given,
now you must live them
or just not live.
Now do you want that?
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 3:36 PM UTC
Then there are these moments
When your constant addition and subtractions,
Not finalized,
But put aside,
For the smallest of tokens become the
Largesse of life.
I am writing a long poem that is yet unfinished,
Of Richard II, Bach, and the death of a king,
King Ego, the battle infernal of vanity, insecurity,
And the constancy, the sense that one is never good enough.
Then sacked, for a loss, behind the goal line,
By the few, the kind, the genteel.
From nowhere, sought not, comes quiet thanks,
Appreciation that makes my angst seem
Petty and childish, smaller than small.
One draws a deep breath,
In no rush to exhale.
Then as luck would have it,
Pachelbel's Canon In D Major arrives,
An uninvited, most lovely, most timely guest,
and I am on the floor
Weeping unashamedly that the kindness of the
Few, the kind, the genteel lift me up and tissue my tears.
Unclear and unknown what I have done to deserve
Such affection, for all I have proffered are a few words,
An insight or two garnered from reading between the lines.
I understand less, emote more, and head spun,
I, poet, defenseless, for I am inadequate to the task.
I feel your hands upon my elbows,
Your arms around my shoulders,
I, am poet risen,
Words not insufficient, for
Words deemed unnecessary.
For I am poet risen,
Up, up, up by the
Uncompromising embrace of the
Few, the kind, the genteel.
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 4:48 PM UTC
<Sun May 14 5:00 AM PST>
Let us be smart about this departure,
time unscheduled, yet leaving inevitable,
the sound of fabric torn, a rent performed,
a ripping, a release of the gripping, connecting
tissue of weft and weave tying parent and child
*(All of us poets, all of us comprehend,
there are two points, two buttonholes
that offer escape or farewell, when we
commence on something new, when we
pen our chest’s demands to exhale, cease the hammering*
*Perhaps, here, just after the third stanza,
the brick enormity of our selected task, on chest,
weighs heavy, boulder difficulties ahead, now fastened
and faster and faster realized, begs us, quit this essay,
return to placid, from an arrhythmia of imploding loss)*
So many fabrics, so many tears, wet and dried,
but upon commencement, the only finish line,
is another commencement, when the (mine-own) rendering
is finalized, beyond repair, when guilt gulfs overflows, flooding
plains of forever pain officiated by signed scar, “here was”
So many separations, varied and variegated,
surficial shallow surgical or plunges, widths of trickle,
depths of deadly plunges, records of inches, dates,
names, new heights inscribed, measured on a door jamb,
lost, erased, when child’s door closes permanently
Came today to the West, to Pacific Ocean entrance,
to celebrate a good boy’s ritualized threshold crossing
over into manhood, both symbolic and and realized,
but tear-up seeing the small child-man leaning in and on
his father’s larger frame, a coinciding giving & taking
no bonds are eternal, for such is life, the weft must be
warped, sundered and separated, so many reasons,
experience speaks, scars are like bandages,protecting
but deceiving, what they cover can never be excised,
a space created, that only oxygen can touch both sides
but never, ever be reperfected, mended,…or finalized
2023
San Francisco
May 14, 2023
May 14, 2023 at 10:07 AM UTC
like a seesaw, there is a nonexistant stable foundation, only yes and no answers
you are a rhetorical question and an untested hypothesis, but this is all wrong
this army wasn't meant to stir in it's wake, and this was a natural homecoming
that could only end in some complex disaster, and my roots were torn from home,
swiftly kidnapped, finding eagerness in the idea of you and the solace you bring
i am acutely aware that you could bend me into whatever you wished, a bow on your tree
something proud that you can show everyone, but i'm scared of being treated less than deserved
like a crumpled up idea on paper that was never meant to be shown with the answer, solution, counterclaim written in permanent black marker, forevermore never changed in my eyes, i merely forgotten about the acid reflex i'd get after i was given a finalized ultimatum, forgotten how to see in color because my brain can only remember you in monochrome, but you're so vivid in my head, there's no way someone like you could be just smoke and mirrors, i've read and folded every page of your autobiography to save for later whenever i needed some peace of mind.
- kra
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 9:38 PM UTC
"Wish in one hand and **** in the other."
Your disappointments leave me smothered!
Wake up tomorrow - why even bother?!
I'm just a drunk like my ******* father!
You say there's hope, but it's a ghost
A dream you wish to see at the most
I guess you can call me, "Skeptic"
Not paranoid - just ******* sick
Hell on Earth seems to be dawning quick!
Just a simple wish upon a star
You're abuse has gone too far
I'll just sleep off all the scars
Another shot of whiskey in my glass
Getting tipsy before I kick your ***
I just need to calm myself at long last
My dreams are filled with too many images of you
You're the past and I know that we're through
I guess all these demons will just have to do
Keep coming back, because I'm a ***** for more
I must be a ********* at the ******* core
Ptolemy - what's wrong with our souls?!
We look past the stars to gaze at black holes!
I don't believe and I can never be deceived,
for this paranoia permits no bit of reprieve
I guess everything is just as it seems -
idealized, and finalized - know what I mean?!
I know returning to you will only cause me pain
I'm no Queen but you're the King that reigns
As a lowly peasant, I know I must refrain
But there is just something that draws me to you
The stars have predicted the truth
And I know there's nothing I can do
You've moved on, I keep thinking about the past
I know the heartache cannot be surpassed
I'm just sorry that I ever asked
For my final ******* act the stage has just been set:
Dead man walking, but I don't have one regret
Is it the psychosis in my brain
or the necrosis in my veins?
Either ******* way, I've never been more sane
Head on to heartbreak - let romantics rot
Pardon this dead cat, but out of everything I've taught,
why was reciprocity the one you forgot?
If there's a cure for bad blood, you can keep it
Your shit's been sewn so now it's time to reap it
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 8:50 PM UTC
I was my fathers prized possession. The finest piece of pottery He had ever crafted.
He worked on me until His hands were pruned.. Until the smell of clay seemingly became His scent. He molded and molded until I was perfect. In His eyes.
He placed me on the top shelf and marveled at me every day and every night.
But His neighbor was overcome with jealousy... At how I glistened at the top of the mantle. At how I gleamed in the sun in all the right places.
You see, on the top of his shelf, lay nothing but dust.
So surely, I had to be destroyed.
In the thick of the night, he stole me off of the mantle and marveled at my greatness.
He brought me back to his place and stuck me in the darkest of rooms.
So that light would never be able to shine on me again.
He spun me on his fingers, no delicacy in his touch.
He tossed me up and down, mocking my beauty.
Day after day I was plagued with the imminent thought of destruction.
Overridden with depression.
I cried out to my potter, and when the thief heard, he ran into the dark room and bellowed "no one will help you", picked me up, and threw me against the ground.
Pieces of me shattered in every direction, strewn against the floor of the enemies house.
My insides, corrupted with sin from all the time collected in this place were brought forth.
All I could hear was the wicked laugh taunting me, exclaiming "who could love you now"?
Then suddenly a light shone in my face, something I hadn't seen in years.
Every broken piece of me looked up and saw my potters face, with tears rolling down his cheeks.
He began to pick me up in an attempt to put me back together...
Abba!! I cried! Your fingers! They will bleed!
My daughter, he replied, I have one hole in each of my hands!! My love for you has endured much more than a few scratches upon my fingertips!
He continued to piece me back together, not missing a beat, not missing a piece.
He shielded me from the looking eyes of judgement, bearing the stripes on His back for leverage.
Abba!! I cried out again, can't you see all of the sin that filled me?! I am no longer perfect! How can you love me?
I understand your sin, my daughter! in it, my grace is perfected! You are my creation, you are my reason! Upon making you whole again, I will not put back your transgressions!
He finalized the touches, not missing one piece.
He wiped my face, not missing one tear.
He renewed my heart, not missing one beat.
He carried me back home and presented me in His name to his Father.
Took His seat upon His throne and placed me on the mantle, right by His side, letting his glory shine on me.
He smiled and said "welcome home, my daughter, welcome home."
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 5:11 AM UTC
that place with comforting as theme overriding,
essentials of dream, complex, shelter, cocoon,
which/whether, almost irrelevant,
if and or,
don't matter when you are at home,
light, fierce sun rays eyes filled,
moonlight stars invading one's composure
now!
time
to alight, feet on the grounding,
rain,
pelting, not an inhibitor to the poem
in me, its resonating drumming me up,
to a beating, a lyric, a thyme of rhyme,
fragrantly repeating in my head, home,
home is where the flagrant poems are
born, delivered by no midwife, from
the ***** of my entirety, all five sensoria,
commanded by multiple generals on
different battlefields, coordinating a
battle plan, exhale, attack, coordinate,
brain, eye, smell, movement, urgency,
taste, words gushed, light emitted from
the fingertips, you cannot write as fast
as required, you, self, afired, and afeared,
losses will be greater than expected, but
no matter when we carry the tide behind
us, sweeping the obstacle of ego, pinging
pain, the hesitation that collapses courage,
oh god, oh me, be brave, lead me into the
breach,
the hole, the aperture that will allow a totality
of me to exit, to escape, to compose, p r o p o s e,
the confines of my uncontrollable uncontained
unconscious natured being and fervent annouce,
on this day,
*this poem shall be
written in its fulfilling, exiting fulsomeness,
&
entirety,
and let me rise, raise up, lift and shout,
one more last time, like the first time, praise and glory,
hallelujah to the parts of me that gifted me this
poem in-the unity-of-unison, uncensored, un~
inhibited and finalized momentarily perpetual,
with an amen amendment offered up too all and to
me…
amen, amen, amen
and let us rise up to morrow and once more,
write up to ride to birth the essentials of my next
homebound
be-ing
Aug 18, 2025
Aug 18, 2025 at 5:15 PM UTC
the art of war has been written
in our skin since the first day
we tasted air.
our bodies knew what to do
without instruction, the manual
was ingrained in our systems
before history was even a term.
we knew what struggling was and
the viciousness we'd follow to
feel satisfied within this
paper-hungry, corrupt involving,
power revolving circle of
soil and H2O.
green paper values beyond
human experience, holding its
own wealth above the truths
and acts of kindness.
we are lost now.
our journey to create solutions
and deflate violence, pollution,
and terrorism is counterproductive
when we are only trying to gain
access to fossil fuels,
advanced technology and
easy living.
the art of war is unavoidable with
its nuclear power reaching new
heights and alarming increases
in neighboring countries with
alternative motives.
people are not perfect, but yet
it is hard to use intelligence
towards innovated, structured
education and trying to revitalize
our dying environment or restoring
it to the way our ancestors knew it.
we are too curious now.
the devices we use daily are
hand held miniature and superficial
to honest thoughts even if you may
have the universe at your fingertips.
the art of war is within ourselves, with
the growing population of overweight
eight year olds - instead of gaining
knowledge about life by learning how
to use the imagination, creative
engineers are mass producing game
consoles and virtual worlds for the young
to push past the reality.
we want to be lost now.
society takes tragedies and sensationalizes
so there is just another portal to dig up
the fresh and uncover something bigger
than ourselves.
the art of war has been finalized with
456,495 troops estimated stationed overseas,
leaving at home their families.
our state of mind is grasping, like the hardworking
fathers in search for american made products,
yet can only find poor industry made objects
for $5.00 on the shelf of the local monopolized
superstore.
the art of war was born in us
with airtight top secret plans to defeat
another continent, but we all
swallow the voice to bring back
compassion for starving children and
focusing on the here and now.
the art of war is all around us,
the art we will never escape.
Jul 8, 2011
Jul 8, 2011 at 4:07 PM UTC
completed finished done folded ended
defeated concluded
aborted
terminated finalized killed annihilated dispatched
vaporized settled destroyed dropped
discontinued stopped broken shut down cut
off ceased over halted frozen
barricaded desistance executed
dissolved overcome gone
ruined wrecked crushed depleted spoiled
shattered
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 1:35 AM UTC
a thousand what-ifs swarmed before my eyes,
and stung me as if I had rocked beehives,
the woulda-coulda-shouldas, if-only-I's,
all buzzed their screams, that he'd be still alive,
yet I had done all that I knew to do,
the breaths of life I gave him, much too late,
the EMT's three-quarter hour, their crew,
could not revive my father from his fate,
his heart had fibrillated, lifeless eyes,
were blind to all, his ears heard not our screams,
upon my breath his breathing finalized,
he fell to sleep the sleep where are no dreams,
now on that couch where father there reposed,
not we nor our dear cat to rest there goes
(C)2012, Christos Rigakos
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 8:44 PM UTC
Tonight I watched a movie. There was a portion of a monologue of the main character towards the end hit me in a way that I needed more than I knew.
It is for that reason that I feel the need to share it with all of you. This is from the movie "Someone Great":
"I met you when everything was new and exciting,
and the possibilities of the world seemed
endless.
And they still are.
For you.
For me.
But not for us.
Somewhere between then and now, here and there–
I guess we didn’t just grow apart…
…we grew UP."
Upon hearing this I was reminded of the final end of my last relationship before my current one. My ex-husband and I decided to try again, we were long distance for about a year and a half. It was clear that neither of us was ready for a move (I had already moved down to Georgia and then moved back to Maryland while our divorce had been finalized). There was no end in sight to the long distance of it and somewhere in the midst of all of that I found myself accepting that our time was at an end. I ended it and while we are still close friends. Hearing this in the movie perfectly fit my feelings as I said goodbye to the relationship that I had believed was going to be the one that would end when one of us was no longer on this earth.
Aug 6, 2021
Aug 6, 2021 at 1:25 AM UTC
Within your watchcare hands
I become an embodiment
Influenced by your example
And I am finalized
By all who pass my way
Apr 10, 2011
Apr 10, 2011 at 9:38 AM UTC
you'd had me at hello,
and i knew it was a show
from the opening number
to the closing curtains;
you weren't acting though.
you were harboring something
and you couldn't really tell me
what the plot finalized in
as it came out in your expressions;
it all made sense in time.
Oct 20, 2012
Oct 20, 2012 at 11:17 AM UTC
We are so young yet
Feel so done
Each milestone wraps a bow
Around an old run finalized
Let's take the new one for a spin
A journey untouched is just one to begin
We've waded in the waters of everyday
So boring, so gray
We want alochol!
The ferment of life,
Let me lull in it all
Let me dive in and feel
The bubbles in my nose
The fizzing of my mind
The growing of my carelessness
The numbing of my toes
Sip it, hold the fruit of life
It's heavy and dense but easy to slice
The skin is a facade, a
Surface just longing
To be punctured
Be prodded
Peel away all its wronged
So strange
How the flesh of our lives is repitition unearthed
But from my deirvation,
A new life,
I give birth.
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 9:09 PM UTC
I'm uncomfortable
I'm uncomfortable in this feminine peice of **** others call a body
I look in the mirror and all I see is deadname
My body isn't me
My body is deadname
I figured this out yesterday
So I finalized my decision to get top surgery
Only to find out that my insurance matches my peice of **** body
Top surgery isn't covered
Apparently it's cosmetic
**** you
You don't have to live in a body that's wrong
It's not my fault I was put in a body with ***** and curves and bumps in all the wrong places
I don't have 5000 dollars because I already had to pay for intensive outpatient therapy that insurance wouldn't cover
What's the point of having insurance if it only costs and doesn't pay
Aug 22, 2017
Aug 22, 2017 at 3:15 PM UTC
i was holding on and scripting it out.
i fought away my doubts and finalized my plan.
you were mine, I was convinced and consumed.
you knew my plans, could guess my thoughts.
you agreed indifferently, while I toiled away.
little did I know that as I forged your name,
made it into a pact, you resolved to beat me down.
you snuck away from my sick little plan.
now you're a refugee of a fairy tale that's
eroding into bits of dust - an archaic glimmer,
now dulled with time that still asks me
why and
what now?
Apr 16, 2012
Apr 16, 2012 at 5:50 PM UTC
When, torpid, the sun begins to grey
In the outlines of clouds on the move
But in no hurry, autumn reaches for its full potential.
What leaves there could have been
Were shot away, we’d have paid them no mind, anyway.
There is a roughness tangled in your hair,
It’s best, I think, to let it be
And, instead, to view the wide expanse of beach,
Which marches into the frigid sea,
Debating with itself and at last achieving a landscape
Pure enough to match the temperature: 40 degrees F.
I can feel your hand stiffen and I
Too sense the tension in the afternoon,
A resistance to our huddled, timid presence; we’re nearly frozen in the process.
Drawing closer, hoods, tightening our jackets
Won’t do much to prevent the
Days from shortening and the hours’ agonizing stretching-
Out. It’s not time enough
To take in the red and white display
Which umbrella shades act out tiredly before us.
Then the waves, mischievous as ever,
Creep up the sand to ****** at our shoes
Before they swagger back to the sea. Love
Is lounging in the break, sopping wet
And fully-clothed—boots and all.
In the brief moments when our thoughts and talk collide, hours fit for memory
Flit us by. Hairy swathes of weedy dunegrass
Wilt with hindsight.
Please, slow. A rushed gaze and a blink are futility
At the shore; looking, here,
Is tenderer than you’d imagine.
Finalized versions of the day are worth one short glance,
But no more than that; you see
Too many things are
Strewn about these days; it is unclear who is
At fault for these mysteries, only that today,
At the boardwalk there are many brooding melancholies.
Silently, a hard wind licks the sand.
Feb 5, 2010
Feb 5, 2010 at 12:15 PM UTC
At the end of a tunnel, you are spent, dried and weary,
Waiting for the wave, the aubade to come wash you away;
You are finalized and resolute in realization,
In somnolence, you epiphanize, you tabula rasa, you blanken
your slate to transcendence!
But
At the end of a tunnel, you revert to the beginning.
You become inversely existential, and
you rush to drive again, passing foot to gear, go!
Meter ramming, miles against minutes or so...
Cruise,
Slow, Insistent, salacious, caressing the wheel, just you,
And the road, not wide open, just
Close, or, variable, toying, experimenting , with
The road, just it, and you; In the darkness, swerve,
Quick! Stop...gauge...go! Learning tread marks, Scorching,
This is
My road, my car, no cold-stone truckers,
Just me, and the dragon, Self consuming.
Solipsistic ideals become obsolete.
Consciousness becomes archaic and Freudian
Reins,
Its Id superbly egotistical, an ephemeral presence
Of an amorphous reality, erected with pillars.
At the end of a tunnel,
You become resurrection.
You become tautological.
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 9:24 AM UTC