"focuses" poems
He slowly assembles his rifle on the barren rooftop as the
wind blows through his light blond hair.
His long overcoat ***** and wraps around his thin long
legs.
He places his elbows upon the short wall in front of him,
firmly kneeling on both knees.
Glancing into the rifle's sight, he focuses sharply through
its cross hairs; he sees hundreds passing through the sight,
men, women, children, and as he sees it, a maze
of mass hysteria.
He thinks of his current desperate situation and with each
passing thought, his heart pumps more hateful
adrenaline through his expanding veins.
What am I?....He wonders.
"I am the orphan child too ugly to adopt!
I am the spit in the street you step in and curse!
I am the cockroach so many crush beneath their feet!
I wish to love and beloved, for I am ever so lonely,
so empty.
I wish to give my whole self to someone to make them
eternally happy!
To sacrifice all I possess, including my life, for the one
I love,
but I am thoughtlessly branded a stalker!
I am the void in all broken hearts.
As a child, I only wished to be loved and appreciated,
but I was raised the invisible child.
There's a painful sore in my throbbing brain, the lethal
virus of society'd disdain.
I'm insane!....I'm insane!...Give me peace, God if you exist
Give me peace!
He glances once again through the sight's cross hairs,
catching sight of a young boy standing alone, mouth wide open
with tears rolling down his cheeks.
He pauses.....envisioning himself, his blue eyes cloud
with tears.
He pulls back back his loaded rifle placing it against the
short wall,
realizing at the moment this wasn't the way to end his
unbearable pain.
Reaching into his deep overcoat's pocket, his long fingers
catch grasp of the cool surface of a 9 mm.
Pulling it slowly from his pocket, he raises it to his temple,
slipping his finger upon its tight trigger he whispers once
again,
"God....if you exist,
Give me peace."
Dec 26, 2016
Dec 26, 2016 at 1:25 PM UTC
I was never one to pick one over the other
They used to function together as well as brothers
As time passes, their relationship sours
One works hard and focuses for hours
The other struggles to relay to the main tower
Dripping with blood is this brother
Dripping with liquid salt in worry is the other
Together they used to form pictures in the clouds
Now one peers through a fog stitched shroud
Teamwork is a thing of the past
The rift between them is filling with fog, fast
They still both serve under the same mast
But one is absorbing as much sun as he still last
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 3:19 AM UTC
Wimbledon’s playing on the TV in the living room. Dad and I are watching on the sofa.
In the kitchen, Mom cuts carrots and cucumbers with a long blade. She slices the vegetables one by one. Orange pieces. Green pieces.
I glance over Mom chops up the carrots and cucumbers without a cutting board, taking each long carrot and cucumber and slices it with precision, as though she’s a professional like the film with Natalie Portman and Jean Reno.
But she’s not a little girl and she’s not a Frenchman. She’s like a mix-in-between, like the asphalt in our driveway and the grass sprouting in between the cracks.
Dad is a computer engineer. He used to be an artist. Used to study technical drawing in a university in Saigon.
He met mom when he was working on a play. She was the lead actress. Shakespeare had said, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.”
He’s right, but right now I can’t tell what act I’m in. Dad focuses on the TV. Watches Federer and Djokovic, his eyes, darting from left to right like the mood of a young boy that crosses back and forth from light to dark, and back again.
Blade in hand, Mom makes longer and deeper cuts across the cucumber, cutting away the skin, leaving deep cuts in the vegetable. Dad turns his head towards her, his neck cracking like the forehand swung by Federer.
He clears his throat, softly, soft as gas leaking out from a stovetop from a studio apartment, like the scene in Fight Club, a match about to be struck.
Mom sets the blade down on the table, and bites her lip. Her nostrils flare. I press down on the couch arm, and stand up, my head bent, my eyes wandering to the doorway.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 11:29 PM UTC
Let’s learn the Social Science subjects called Sociology & Anthropology
The twin disciplines are integrated comprehensively
Sociology focuses on society & socialization
Social Processes, Social Groups, Social Movements are in every nation
While Anthropology centers on the study of culture
Here we can learn better the society for sure
As culture has characteristics, elements & dimensions
Society evolves with it through various interactions!
-04/28/2017
(Dumarao)
*SSN Poems
Sep 28, 2019
Sep 28, 2019 at 10:02 PM UTC
I try to care.
I do.
Time clings desperately
hold to a past with such meaning.
Change has pushed apart
a friendship which was once so close.
Try to prolong connection
while new focuses divert our direction.
I put forth effort in such continuation
and grasp onto what is left.
You let me go so effortlessly.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 1:57 PM UTC
It can be the nicest thing,
Not breathing
Just laying there in the silence,
Not breathing
The silence that your ears try to fill with ringing the ringing that you break when you take,
A breath
It can be so peaceful,
Not breathing
Just feeling that thumping, against, your ribcage when you’re not,
Breathing
It can be so relaxing,
Not breathing
It’s a chance for your muscles to sleep while you lay there in silence not,
Breathing
The way your mind has no need to focus on anything but the fact that you’re not,
Breathing
Your brain just focuses on this silence this ringing the peace everything is peaceful only feeling your heart against your chest so relaxing laying there with the ringing of silence and your brain won’t let the world outside your own being in but when your throat starts pleading with that pain pleading for this air that we rely on to be, this action that is so simple and breaks this peaceful moment and we do it we take,
That breath.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 6:48 AM UTC
How do we create a system in which women are really free?
Is that we want undefined freedom where we have no men and we hve what lesbians have? Or do we want the same equal rights as men?
We as feminist cannot be so narrow minded
+Liberal feminists want women to have the same equal rights as men.
Are they not the same women who want their men to be all-male and masculine?
+Marxist/socialist feminists focuses on investigating and explaining the ways in which women are oppressed through systems of capitalism and private property. According to Marxist feminists, women's liberation can only be achieved through a radical restructuring of the current capitalist economy in which much of women's labor is uncompensated. For these women, do not realize that they are the ones who chose to became mother's and end up with the 'unpaid compensation' of taking care of the child that comes along.
Radical feminism blames men entirely on the exploitation.
If there was no men, would we have been as happy as expected if we were to really revolutionize this system, of oppression, capitalism,discrimination and exploitayion.
As women, it is always right to fight for what we believe in.
But it is the truth that we should fight for, justice and peace among men.
Exploits made my men over years have cause women, who are considered'by nature' to be subject class , to think that they are really less than men. ?In truth, we are made from the same flesh and organs just as them.
Is it not us females who bleed once a month, bears children and cope with the problems that comes with the family we have to grow and breed?
We are strong enough but at the end of the day we need someone to submissive to and that should only ne the lawful wedded husband that the Lord himself has granted us with.
We are called to be strong but submissive when the time and place comes as there is a time and place for everything understand.
Strong and submissive should be our mission without being confused by men and that is the type of feminism we should live by.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 6:23 PM UTC
My hero stands,
Firmly against his enemy,
He assumes a fighters stance,
And he focuses his energy
A clashing, violent dance,
Erupts and the earth starts trembling
Combat is his purpose,
He's the master of his trade,
A happy man, on the surface,
But he's got a monster in a cage
He fights when he has to,
Always for greater good,
He taught me to forgive my foes,
Because I know that he would
His name is Son Goku,
And he lives in my soul
A hero, unspoken
Embodiment of light, as a whole
He'd come back from the dead,
To save us all again
We'd all be in his debt,
But it's no price to him
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 12:10 PM UTC
She shuffles and scuttles quickly along
beating her way,
through the Christmas throng
The north wind cutting her mottled face
But shes not part of the Christmas race
For things not needed, luxurious, unwise
Her mind fixed on the price and size
Of a winter coat in that Oxfam place,
she prays its still there, she quickens her pace.
The bell dings-a-ling as she opens the door
Not feeling her legs so tird and sore
Like a long lost friend it waits on the rail
she thanks her god its still for sale.
Her hurry finished, her purchase complete
She focuses now on something to eat
To the corner shop she makes to go
happier now , her step is slow
bread and milk ,this and that
two tins of food for her little cat
Home at last her mission complete
She models her coat and warms her feet
She cuddles her cat and locks her door
She makes their tea and she cuddles him more
She dims the light her prayers are said
She thanks her god for her winter coat
that doubles as a duvet for her bed.
Jun 28, 2010
Jun 28, 2010 at 4:08 PM UTC
Selana
She strapped on her warplane and flew away to fight
Russian jets being the enemy to be hit
Her missiles were old like her plane
But it was a good one well built
Serviced by her mechanics to perform
When ordered to do by her
She the tip of the spear just a gal
Reason I love my mistress the pilot
Defending our nation each and every day
She already shot down four or five planes
She told me it’s confusing being in combat
Things happen fast beyond comprehension
It’s comparable to driving a racing bike
I think but I’m a hacker and don’t drive
I get into Russian and Red Chinese systems
Do my art and war that way to defeat them
It focuses me while my gal is up above
Keeping us all safe from enemy actions
I want to tell the world but we cannot
We must remain a secret what we both do
May 28, 2022
May 28, 2022 at 3:50 PM UTC
Sitting in her wheelchair,
Wondering what to wear,
Natalie, the Notorious,
Found her situation nothing short of inglorious.
Absorbent or plain, it didn't seem to matter,
Until, down the hall, she heard Nurse Agnes' chatter.
Her ears perked up, as did her head.
Glinting eyes showed much to dread.
Natalie said with all due sobriety,
"Here goes the plan in all its entirety."
She gave herself a wink, and tossed back a mickey,
Choosing her time, being quite picky.
Natalie searched out that sanctimonious nurse,
And giving vent to her rage, she let out a curse.
She flew from her chair, and let out a yell.
Frightened Nurse Agnes, in fear she did quell.
But Natalie's plan, to take the nurse down,
Fell quite flat, when she hit the ground.
Poor Natalie had totally forgotten,
The chairbelts kept her in, "Oh, how rotten!"
They snapped her back and she hit the floor.
The ice pick she had, flew into the door.
Really now, it's sad to say,
that Natalie the Notorious to this day,
Avoids plots of ice picks and death,
And focuses mostly on keeping her breath.
Jan 28, 2011
Jan 28, 2011 at 5:18 PM UTC
Spending intangible dollars at the mercy of my ever growing appetite,
Instead of buying my ticket out of this perfectly advantageous country,
Which focuses solely on my beauty and money.
I neglect my inner advice telling me to drop it all and run,
To where I can breathe and focus on God,
Promoting a healthier way of living and improving humanity.
Momentary hope that unrealistically characterizes perfection
As a quality that I can mentally download and miraculously make the above, true,
Never seems to linger long enough to actually induce action,
Which leads to disappointment draining the motivation essential to recover my missing pieces,
Which pushes me to crave cash I don’t have, to pick up that dose,
That hushes the unwarranted guilt that seduces me into thinking that I’m not incredibly blessed,
And that I can’t handle what I’ve been dealt,
Blurs the doubts I have about my abilities, my self- worth,
Forcing me into a state of content that awakens my creativity,
While vaguely being able to make out memories of let down led by myself and my mother,
Who was a part of what was never good enough for my idea of a perfect family.
I’ve wrongly accepted that a mediocre life-performance is to be had while following the crowd,
While obsessing over flaws that are negligible to my true purpose in life,
And with that I’ve become stifled by the decision to remain effortlessly stuck.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 12:17 AM UTC
One story may change the world someday. One that will revolutionize the steady constants of how everyday aspects judges itself too harshly. Never finding the solve of anti pressure release syndromes. Plot is plot. Ideas are always outspoken. Even if one or the other hasn’t agreed. Won’t change the facts given to the recipient who may have already judged the opposing two. Without running through what they have already been about. Futuristic plot devices aren’t important. As it may not even exist. Storytelling being a futuristic realization to knowing something before it happens. Feelings clawing thought processes. Thought processes trying to equalize the incoming rush of emotions that rise and fall. Feelings being a different breed centered in the middle of the steady constant. Revolutionizing what you already know. Blind to see it through. Thought processes aren’t too judging. Except when you start to trust feelings too much. A jealous implication arises. Knowing what you already know before it happens. Is no different then how one already figured it out. Feelings handle it with care. Thought processes stuck in the mud. A puppy without any directional skills. A master never telling its true flaws if it couldn’t understand itself to begin with. Jealousy is rising even more. A fixed implication is becoming more dominant. Revolutionizing the main flaw more and more. Nothing is without equal if you never give it a chance. Feeling the way through all the clutter. Clutter not being your fault. You were molded by the pressure of what storytelling has made you into. Plot devices center these focuses without thinking outside itself. Your only to blame, when subjects apart of your judging becomes too sterile for you to notice anymore. Drying out the process of trusting something with care. Becoming one who is blind to never looking outside itself again! Becoming the stick in the mud. How does one avoid? Easy! Storytelling being a futuristic realization! PS… Don’t claim what you already know!
Oct 8, 2019
Oct 8, 2019 at 11:18 PM UTC
*And what you'll find is, your highness
Can paint a picture that is vivid enough to cure blindness
- J. Cole, January 28th*
And because they have never before seen a naked soul,
they ask me
if I am being deliberately provocative
with my pen.
And then I paint.
So that they too can undress
that mental amnion that has cocooned them
since birth; which itself became still-born
as it was followed by an undying funeral
of parental expectations.
And then I paint.
So that they too can reclaim
that aborted clay and mould their burial
into gestation, and shatter
their amnion coffins
from the asphyxiating breath of non-existence
to the respiratory lust of Being.
And then I paint.
So that I too can remember
that I am they. A victim
********** into the darkness of lost light,
dreams deferred at birth;
who still focuses his pen on this canvas
to cure his own blindness, to see
and paint his naked soul before me,
which we then call Life.
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 10:24 AM UTC
Telescope
looks through the
distance
alights
on hope,
focuses.
Eyeglass,
I pass through the scope and
***** for the video switch
there's a hitch.
this is no prerecording
so I look back on in
to
the telescope
all hope gone,
dismal back on.
Binoculars are better
an 'i' is just
one letter.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 8:43 AM UTC
I’ve now seen this rerun some obscene sum.
Gone, I’m off staring at the sun a tad too long.
The part that focuses the fun was last seen wrong.
Worn, like the cliches you so casually parade.
Me? I got cataracts to the hate.
I’m dodging them cats,
while you’re stuck stalking their tracks.
Once again I’m late, but this time I think I’ll stay.
I could cut you with a blade of grass.
I’m nice.
Brigade both sides of The Crusades with a laugh.
I’m tight.
It’s all in the way you read the light,
but sometimes that sun be too bright.
Got drive though,
won’t stop 'til they say DeadBeat can write.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 12:51 PM UTC
She plunges into the hot water
and begins to scrub. Brush and
soap on skin. She wants him off
and out of her. Undo him from her.
Unkiss his kisses, untouch his touches.
She breathes in. She reeks, stinks
of him. He seems to have penetrated
every orifice on her body. She pushes
herself under the water, holds herself
there, opens her eyes even the sting
brings no purification. She sits up and
holds the sides of the bath. Calm down
she tells her shaking hands and legs
but they disobey and carry on like
disobedient children in play. She tries
to think of other things. Think of
somewhere nice, some time once
enjoyed, some pleasure once had,
sipping of the best wine, greedy
eating of caviar or grape. But no.
Everything is focused on him and
the **** She rubs and scrubs until
she’s red and raw. Stop stop her
inner voice screams. Nothing is
what it seems. He pushes his way
even into her every thought now.
He seeps into every pore. The water
fails to clean. She sits there naked,
undone, brush in hand, hair in a mess.
This is not real she says, but knows
it is, she in the bath, wet, raw, sore
and sullied. Yes that’s a word mother
would have used: sullied. Tainted,
tarnished, degraded or as Mother
would have said: dishonoured. She
focuses on each aspect of her flesh
as if seen for the first time. What
you focus on is your reality. Who said
that? Does it matter now? Dostoevsky?
The Idiot, that book. Who cares who
said what. The water is no longer hot.
He is still on skin and in orifice in spite
of the rubs and scrubs and tears and curses.
No longer the innocent, no more the
sipping of wine or eating of grape.
Just him and memory of the ****
Jul 6, 2012
Jul 6, 2012 at 1:52 AM UTC
To understand it, you have to meditate on it.
Block out the chaos and white noise.
Some messages lie clear, while others are deep as the sea.
Without proper caution, one might drown than swim with pleasure.
The words that are etched on paper are constructed to make one think, compelling the mind to become active.
Once you’re into it—it becomes more than didactic.
As one focuses the mind—much is revealed!
What is revealed is like grapes yielding wine and olives yielding oil.
But until then the mystery remains sealed.
Dec 6, 2022
Dec 6, 2022 at 3:02 PM UTC
A Life of Humble Humility
The creator and ruler of the entire universe so powerful and so great, wanted a relationship with his people and loved them so much that he would leave heaven to be with them. He was concieved by a very ordinary ****** girl no older than 13 or 14, was born in a stable with pigs, oxen, and donkeys where it was cold, dark, and smelled very bad. Throughout his 20's, he ate and dined and held the company of prostitutes, tax collectors, uneducated fishermen, bad men, and unclean people. He did things that few could believe and none could explain and often did not take credit for these things. He took time to pray, ask for help and to rest, but was always ready to help those in need. He lived a life of service, of love, compassion, prayer and healing. When he rode into Jerusalem at the age of 33 on a Sunday, the king and ruler of everything came in on a donkey; a pack animal and lowly beast of burden of peasants rather than a horse or camel more fitting of his royalty and status. A week later, he was falsely accused and, though found not guilty, was condemned to be flayed till he was near death and then forced to carry a heavy piece of wood through town, beaten, mocked, spit upon and publicly humiliated to be nailed by his hands and feet to die in the most painful, brutal way imaginable. He was obedient to his father's plan and will to the very end and gave everything so that he might have a relationship with his beloved children.
Lord, help us please to love as you loved, serve as you served, to live as you lived. In a society that focuses on competition, personal gain and success even at the expense of another; send your Holy Spirit to be with us as we try to live by the example you have set for us: a life of humble humility. Whatever success we have, help us remember that it is from you or you working in and through us. As we strive to serve each other and you in a way that honors you and gives you glory, fill our hearts a with joy and peace that only you can provide! AMEN.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 12:26 PM UTC
Quick witted, as good as they come
Understanding and open to some
Intelligent with a sharp mind
Now and forever, one of a kind
Focuses on a poetic soul
Innermost, seeking his goal
Never let his skills ever end
Never has there been a better friend
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 8:39 AM UTC
who am I?
I am who?
when asked such a question,
the first thing one may think of
is the place where they were given life,
as culture is linked to identity.
however, it is not the case,
nor does it involve one's namesake.
instead, it focuses on the person
as a whole
their value and their purpose
for this time being
life involuntarily places us
in positions that lead to questioning
the self.
yet,
it is through such inquiries
that we learn to answer this question.
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 10:07 PM UTC
His eyes are dark and full of defeat and regret
The man says doc cheer up I'm not dead yet
How can he be so calm when he is about to die
Look at me, the man whispers to himself
As he looks in the mirror at his deteriorating health
He tears his eyes away and focuses on the wall
Watching the TV colors dance as he tries to recall
The last time he felt or looked like the faces on the screen
He sighs and he explains, that used to be me
His therapist nods and shakes her head sympathetically
He thinks how dare she act as if I am already dead
When she leaves he painfully kneels by the side of his bed
She must not know the mighty God I serve
But Jesus I give you the thanks that you deserve
Show them oh Lord and heal me right now
You are the only one who truly knows how
He says his thanks again for he believes
That his God has the power to do all things
He lies back down, exhausted from such a day
Feeling in his heart that tomorrow he will awake
When he comes to he feels like the pix-elated faces
For such miracles he has only seen on acting stages
Yet this one is his own and he swells with pride
Looking and the delight and wonder in the doctor's eyes
Sep 26, 2012
Sep 26, 2012 at 2:41 PM UTC
I don't know about the world
I have never believed in anything
anyone
But I believe in her
To the end of the universe
Because when the stars burn
And heaven decides it has had it
Hell wants me
My soul is shattered
And pulled everywhere at once
When I can't stop the shaking
The earth floor is pulled out
From beneath my feet
When my world fades
I look around furiously
But I cannot see what everyone else
Focuses on
And I cannot understand the colourless
World around me
Just blurs and shapes
With white noise surrounding me
Standing in the middle of a crossroads
With lorries bearing down
Without brakes
From all directions
My god,
I believe in her
she'll be there
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 2:41 PM UTC