"fragmentation" poems
Before there was anything that mattered everything that would ever be existed , it was the essence of totality , it was without dimensional constriction or necessitated form . Optimistically speaking time had no relative realism to it’s progression because realistically nothing had happened yet . As it continued it became according to it’s innate inflections as a functionally integrable form . The questionably understandable nature of it’s conjunction was an omnipotent directive beyond necessitated action or morphological construction . The enigmatic consciousness of it’s relatively interrelated conception was spontaneous and yet it continued without elemental omniscience.
As the relative complexity of it’s interrelations evolved dimensional consistence was born. Humanly understandable laws of physical integration governed many facets of it’s conjunction yet the totality of it’s ramification was beyond humanly realistic conjecture .
The organic morphology of biological ontogeny was a conceptually reflective derivative of functional physical mechanics yet it’s diversity exceeded it’s physical complexity , understanding evolved . Relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity succeeded in a hierarchy of functionally integrable forms .
Retrospectively speaking pragmatic practicality is a humanly rational possibility . Rational logic can conceive of individually totalitarian structural forms , yet the implosive nature of their rational cohesiveness becomes a practical partiality due to the diversity of their definitive impetus .
Perhaps the essence of our being is the logical counterpart for the matrix of our subjectively conclusive social fragmentation , or perhaps we are evolutionally incapable of cumulatively rational correlation. Problematic diversity could be perfectible on an individually infinite level or contrarily perhaps ubiquitous causality is the ultimate survivor.
In any case it is beyond our subjugatively rational cohesive coercion to intercede en masse on our own behalf as an integrated unit. Our conceptual abilities have been thwarted by the unmitigatably individual nature of our extraneous conclusiveness .
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 5:15 PM UTC
Before there was anything that mattered everything that would ever be existed , it was the essence of totality , it was without dimensional constriction or necessitated form . Optimistically speaking time had no relative realism to it’s progression because realistically nothing had happened yet . As it continued it became according to it’s innate inflections as a functionally integrable form . The questionably understandable nature of it’s conjunction was an omnipotent directive beyond necessitated action or morphological construction . The enigmatic consciousness of it’s relatively interrelated conception was spontaneous and yet it continued without elemental omniscience .
As the relative complexity of it’s interrelations evolved dimensional consistence was born. Humanly understandable laws of physical integration governed many facets of it’s conjunction yet the totality of it’s ramification was beyond humanly realistic conjecture .
The organic morphology of biological ontogeny was a conceptually reflective derivative of functional physical mechanics yet it’s diversity exceeded it’s physical complexity , understanding evolved . Relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity succeeded in a hierarchy of functionally integrable forms .
Retrospectively speaking pragmatic practicality is a humanly rational possibility . Rational logic can conceive of individually totalitarian structural forms , yet the implosive nature of their rational cohesiveness becomes a practical partiality due to the diversity of their definitive impetus .
Perhaps the essence of our being is the logical counterpart for the matrix of our subjectively conclusive social fragmentation , or perhaps we are evolutionally incapable of cumulatively rational correlation . Problematic diversity could be perfectible on an individually infinite level or contrarily perhaps ubiquitous causality is the ultimate survivor .
In any case it is beyond our subjugatively rational cohesive coercion to intercede en masse on our own behalf as an integrated unit. Our conceptual abilities have been thwarted by the unmitigatably individual nature of our extraneous conclusiveness .
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 4:14 PM UTC
Yes I go, yes go to seek a Great Apocalypse
One that will unravel the complex elaboration of difference
To articulate a perpetual aesthetic with violated codes
Of the experience of illusions of temporal stimulus
That are beyond all compass and soothe a fragmentation
Oh Great Apocalypse of beauty whose deception finds strategies
For youthful prodigality and binds me to your inarticulation
An embodiment of beleaguered and charmed fictions
Whose artifice is the governance of generous impulses
As such sway about me with a harmony of moral disquiet
Inadequate in description of the qualities of their oppression
Yet oh great apocalypse there is a plausible generosity
In these pale assumptions of impatience which carry
The obligations of a universally shared human existence
Compelling a projection of charged issues on competing claims
For the enigmatic logic of life
Yes Great Apocalypse now I understand all thought
From Everywhere and for Always
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 12:18 PM UTC
~
*alone and an imposter,
deep in syndrome.
she absorbs the frost of seasonal ghosts
and hopeless feelings
of death and darkness.
she only shows one side of her every time.
she calls a random number
from a bar in the middle of the night,
seeking to confess
or find solace in the voice of a stranger.
but any stranger might just happen to be
a lie detector.
still she lays bare all the duplicity
and fragmentation of self:
prescription bottles with two different names,
elaborate façades in Los Angeles
and in New York,
so complicated she creates
something she calls the lie box.
inside her purse there's a collection
of file cards. "I tell so many lies," she says.
"I have to write them down and keep them
in a box so I can keep them straight."
alone she waits for either
sweet apricity or identikit:
each a memento of her faces.*
~
Feb 26, 2023
Feb 26, 2023 at 3:57 PM UTC
SCHIZOPHRENIA
A long-term mental disorder of a type involving a breakdown in the relation between thought, emotion, and behavior, leading to faulty perception, inappropriate actions and feelings, withdrawal from reality and personal relationships into fantasy and delusion, and a sense of mental fragmentation.
http://www.oxforddictionaries.com/
Thank You Dearest Readers
Thank You Dearest Readers! I’ve created a poetry story but you make them alive
I’ve nearly give up along but you encourage this poetry story to survive
Every read, every vote and every comment counts
Driving my head into full speed, dancing non-stop in a beat of a beautiful sound
Thank You Dearest Readers! For all the love and care
Your simple words of saying “stay strong” I feel them really I swear
Yet this is only a poetry story but to me most emotions are true
I’ve been to the darkest clouds but somehow you clear my gray and blue
Thank You Dearest Readers! For all the ideas and corrections
Pointing out your views truly help me travel to a right direction
You really deserve my respect and admiration
Adding some flavor to what I’ve baked, a sweet cake with dedication
Thank You Dearest Readers! How I love to shout out your names
To all of you who helped in one way or another and played my sport your game
My Dearest Readers, Thanks for a beautiful journey
This is “MY SCHIZOPHRENIA” and this is MY STORY…..
Until Then…
Love n' Care...
Mysterious Aries
THE END
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 6:28 AM UTC
how long to live through the next thought
to have a brief encounter with time
an impossible time of intolerable anguish
where embarking upon a sentence
is a violent wrench from perceived notions
of reality, one that causes nerves
to flay upon my body with weal's of words
where vatic poetry is wrought in trembling rages
spilling, dripping upon the traumatised
parchment that is my pages
in de-congealing interrelated drops of image
that crack the pavements
in a visual vibrancy of taut creative tension
where these words keep their own company
and speak in interrogative tongues
causing a fragmentation of earthquake fissures
to radiate across my mind in a cataclysm
of universal poison that quiets and dissolves stability
and asks, no demands of me, what can you see?
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 8:05 PM UTC
It is a vastness of cerulean,
A pool of blue which surrounds clouds that are strewn together.
Tumbling, accumulating, towering formations of remarkable depth and awesome beauty.
Billows which blanket and envelop a sphere of life, turning the almost infinite and indefinite blue to grey,
Massed with the heaviness of forthcoming precipitation.
As time turns, and the big blue planet rotates, sunlight is reflected and refracted by particles unseen—painting swelling clouds with pale yellows that bleed into succulent pinks, deep reds, royal indigo, and then
The flowering violet of conceived night.
The sky portrays a huge entity, a formation of solidity and stability.
It does not contain, nor withhold from the terraces and crevices of the Earth’s surface.
It is as close to infinity as the basic human mind can grasp,
The uttermost extension of one’s realm of existence.
To look up at the stars is an annihilation of Ego,
A humbling reminder of one’s relevance,
Of one’s fragmentation of being,
Of one’s essential insignificance in the immortal turning of the deep and everlasting vibration of the Cosmos.
Stars, barely conceivable at times,
Act as portals to the past spilled carelessly across an inky nighttime sky.
These subtle flecks, minute glimmers of incredible explosions, are billions of light-years away
Across the fabric of space and time.
The sky is an incredible portal to those things outside of mortal grasp,
A manifestation of all that is unknown, yet shared by every state of consciousness.
A familiarity and a comforting reminder of eternity that will exist far beyond the human experience. With its undulating formations, precipitation, protection, and sheer exposure,
It is a paradoxical beauty.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 12:44 AM UTC
There are too many things to unsee in this city,
the night street holds dark memories;
traffic jams, phones blaring
the static complacency of the bourgeoisie,
faint screeches of beat up vans
and tire explosions, schizophrenic
sloth of industrial machinery
drilling roads, houses, three metres apart;
the fragmentation of the nuclear family -
if only life were a gothic fable;
we would all be mythical
deities to the dark regions of earth -
for the night is oceanic,
Atlantic, revolution
turns upon a fixed axis;
tonight’s ocean
opening, first ionization,
breath as oxidation -
the middle
the midnight
in the air where the air is alight
and the light contains substance,
the fine saturation of salience,
lust for dopamine, we light
the silk in the fire, remember the earth
spirals around a sailing sun
like a strand of DNA,
everything circumferencing
in swirls of cataleptic cinnamon,
and we are space dancers,
free in the infinite,
the embroidery of all edges,
small, but
insoluble
and dissolving.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 2:58 PM UTC
I remember
Wine in solo cups.
lights in May
and smoky breeze.
bodies sliding
in the cold wet
with Lights
in the sky.
Dreamlike,
Druglike.
I remember
sweet, burning
water
down
my
throat.
Fire
falls into
the pit.
Dreamlike,
Drunklike.
I remember
darkness in the
light.
Light in
Nakedness
and soft embrace.
Dreamlike,
Fading.
I remember
kindred spirits
together in
fragmentation.
Dreamlike,
Gone.
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 11:37 AM UTC
Glass wasn't made to shatter;
Paper wasn't made to tear.
Fragmentation is a side effect of carelessness, not of life–
Not of love.
A rose is not meant to be crushed, pulled apart petal by petal, simply because it is soft.
The doe, graceful and wide-eyed, was not created to die at the hands of a man indistinguishable from a snake in the grass.
The monarch does not flutter with lithe wings to be caught, classified, and pinned to a page,
Nor do the leaves change hue, turn crisp, and fall to be crushed beneath an entitled foot.
I do not paint my eyes so that you can watch me bleed black and gold down my cheeks,
Nor do I wear my heart on my sleeve so that you can rip it apart valve by valve.
I am not your window pane, nor your blank page; your willow tree, nor your frozen stream.
I am the rabbit sleeping deep in her borough; I am the bluebird flitting between trees.
I may be fragile, but that doesn't give you permission to break me.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 1:58 AM UTC
A blue sun beats down from
An electrically charged sky
I step into chaos an exodus
Towards the wastelands of
Fragmentation and depletion where
Fictions are invented daily and all
Images change where the shadows
Of life disappear in desperation
Where blood drips from eyes
Into a cataclysm that waits
Strung out in the black void
Clock hands attach themselves
To my mind piercing sentiments
Of shame
They elucidate the journey from
The external world seeking sanctuary
For visions that have been thrown
Dashed against bare brick walls
The ultimate realisation of imaginative
Truth shatters in torment falling sprinkling
To a festering ground proclaiming the
Dominance of emptiness
The conscious ambiguity of betrayal
That deforms corroboration creating
Untruth/ the derangement of qualification
A dialogue with the unknown gives
Birth to fictional facts of unsuitable
Confrontations of displacement
Back to imaginative reality that
Feasts on the trivial the banal
The ordinary and the mundane normal
I take steps into the space others
Fear to occupy become inside
The incantation of a new dimension
An actuality they brand as madness
Yet I am ecstatic in its awareness
This shall be my retribution
For who shall be judged
Ha, illumination is timeless
Has no master they can only
Speculate about the unknown
Its infinity
It is all the imaginations I possess
That shaky bridge between worlds
Where I take my heels my mind
Cannot be redistributed
I have lived through a disturbing night
Now move into an equally disturbing day
It is here I know I will die
Apr 5, 2012
Apr 5, 2012 at 11:33 AM UTC
Dubious sense of unresolved ambivalence
Given to implausible suppositions of fragmentation
That distinguishes itself in well meaning solemnities
Of delicious incompetence that evaporates distance
In its poignant lament of darkness
That shadows words of cruelty, indifference and rage
Oh how unbearable those misadventures of piteous overthrows
That cram into brief utterances more meaning
Than language can hold and force a confrontation
Of unresolvable contradictions hidden in such speech
That are the stilling of time, those words that find expression
In a mystic power that transforms darkness into intense light
Whilst blocking out the harsh unforgiving light of everyday
And causes mutation and change of place in disorienting fashion
In seeking a loyalty of angers by shifts of dramatic register
Views its own meaning unstable and problematic
In defense of its own legitimacy
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 5:52 PM UTC
Self consumption & suspension
dance Tango.
Glee & bliss
perform synchronized ballet.
Ignorance & fragmentation
slouch through a Foxtrot.
Trust & disgust
mirror in pantomime.
Words & action
engage in seizure-like Jazz.
Amusement & confusion
amass in couple's Swing
Pride & pity
pound in Pogo
Compulsion & obligation
grind in obscene burlesque.
Desire gives Prudence a lap dance.
*Their red eyes meet, but never reach.
Their shaking hands and feet reach, but never touch.*
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 12:22 AM UTC
#(for the Woman, and the Cowards who Fear Her)
*she was never too much—
only too alive
for those who mistook control
for strength
and silence for peace.
her becoming was not a performance.
it was a war—
and the ones who claimed to love her
dropped their weapons
only to place their hands
around her throat
in the name of order.
they called her chaotic,
but it was their cowardice
that feared the shape she would take
if left untouched
by their grip.
they chose the seductress,
the one who dances at the edge
of her own erasure—
pliant, priestess of their small gods,
goddess of their easy pleasure.
but the true woman is not
a priestess of men;*
she is a temple unto herself.
*and to know her,
to truly see her,
requires the man to suffer.
to suffer her beauty
without owning it.
to suffer her fire
without extinguishing it.
to suffer the rise of a soul
that will not yield
to his fear of being seen as less.
he must descend
into the fragmentation
that makes him reach for control—
and there,
only there,
may he begin to rise.
and she?
she is not waiting anymore.
she was always the fire.
and the fire needs nothing
but its own spark
to blaze.*
#
Apr 25, 2025
Apr 25, 2025 at 7:00 AM UTC
I see fields of grey metal grass suspended on columns so one can walk underneath
This metal grass is blown by a slight green breeze and sways to and fro
Sharp growing swords, sabre sharp, spike from its gray clay
A blue sun beats down from an electrically charged sky
Now I feel, I must, compelled by the most insatiable of urges
Step into a chaos an exodus
Towards the wastelands of fragmentation and depletion
Where fictions are invented daily and all images change
Where the shadows of life disappear in desperation.
Mar 6, 2012
Mar 6, 2012 at 3:46 PM UTC
They scream, shout and swear
To emphasize an emptiness of cocern
Which includes a compliment
Uttered thus in blank verse
That effects in ambigious contradictions
To sustain a wave of insult and injury
In obscure fragmentation of mind
That replicates an abundance of inrigue
Where plausible reason is not made possible
For the expression of strenuous protest
That would secrete itself with morbid indulgence
Upon the tongues of others to command a strange silence
Like that shouted by the seeker of an Apocalypse
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 3:58 PM UTC
Slander wears no muzzle
Fragmentation
Void of couth
Shove born from a nuzzle
Insinuation
Shoddy sleuth
Guilt turns into guzzle
Fermentation
Robbing youth
Scattered jigsaw puzzle
Imagination
Pseudo truth
No lies can bind the hearts of all
No anger heals the scars of all
No ale can hide the shame of all
No eye can see the truth of all
May 3, 2012
May 3, 2012 at 12:15 AM UTC
Welcome to my dream
I found my voice.
It was in between
vivid dreams and
(voice)
tainted reality.
Dreamers dream their lives
away.
Reality is scarred,
stained,
with sullen grey clouds, filled
with all the disgusting
regrets
Waiting to unleash its hell
on the unsuspecting day.
My voice is slowly slipping away.
Have you ever had a dream?
One that you wished would
push reality aside.
Keeping you hidden.
I am waiting,
to pour myself out
to those I wish could.
Listen to my oncoming storm.
Clashes of white-hot lightning
One in a million.
I am going to play
the odds and
God willing they’ll be in
my favor.
Living in this lucid dream
of mine.
The only thing I truly own.
Here I can be
the Supreme
Being.
Life will only get better.
I know it will.
There is no need to second-guess
the decisions.
That brought us to this poem.
Where others see nothing,
I see destruction.
Crumbling and decaying
as you dance through.
A torturous waltz.
It is time for this dream to be vindicated.
Waiting to be rebuilt…
Begging for me to care…
What happens if I never wake up
from this dream?
Would it matter if I stayed here
and rotted away?
Becoming a fragmentation of
myself.
Lifted up to Heaven on a
dream.
Invading my solace
I will never forgive you.
This blantant disregard for
any emotional attachment I had with
you.
If I stayed here,
would you even notice?
Give into the easy path.
The path carved through
broken trust,
jaded love,
misplaced sense of self.
You’re selfish
And I am angry.
That my dream is ending
with you stuck inside it.
Dreamless nights turn
into an unforgiving reality.
The storm is here.
My voice is gone.
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 4:07 PM UTC
Our nation is
a living organism.
Alive with biochemical
pulsating cells.
Apoptosis,
a cell death
of our nation
are set and
already unwittingly
programmed.
Takes a
multicellular effect
if not checked.
Cell changes and
death is eminent.
Changes includes
blebbing,
cell shrinkage,
nuclear fragmentation,
chromatin condensation,
chromosomal
DNA fragmentation,
and global mRNA.
Apoptosis ,
a falling off occurs.
Our nation is
threatened and going
through same
process as above.
Our acts must
be put together.
There is a
suffocating,
crippling misery,
and destitution.
We are desperately
sliding both into
chaos and despondency.
We must get
out of this
cloud of frustration,
with a profound
physical presence of
sour people grieving
daily,
Don't let them
become too rotten
to infect everyone.
It may be
contagious.
All ships must
sail in one direction,
Or very soon
we all go down.
©2019,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Apr 19, 2019
Apr 19, 2019 at 10:55 AM UTC
i find it vexing
when you decide
not to
use words.
...and there are
so many to
choose from.
string together 9 or 10
and you begin
to bridge the divide.
you can even
sing them
scratch them
type them
take photographs of them.
there are ways.
instead,
you slam down
barriers,
strange, wordless barriers
choosing a route
sure to cause
confusion
and disarray.
i don't know
how true it is
to say
that actions
speak louder
than words...
it is hard to
glean intent
from an action...
one does not
necessarily always follow
the other.
it is in this state
of guessing,
of chaos,
of fragmentation -
that i constantly
find myself
entrenched in.
it causes a glitch
in my system...
this endless
refocusing
reimagining
rewinding
and i can't help
but believe
if i had the words
if you
gave me the words
i could construct
a story.
an understanding.
and there is nothing
i want more
than a
good story.
a connection,
an awareness of
the way
things are supposed
to move together.
i keep getting stuck.
i keep having to
construct all my own stories,
explanations,
and reinventions.
i don't want to
have to work so hard
to piece together
this disaster
of human
folly.
this exquisite search
for meaning.
this heartbreaking
reach
for
recognition
in
each other.
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 6:19 PM UTC
i hung myself
from your lips
the first time
we kissed,
a transcendent
moment, shining
effervescent
as the sun.
love was the rope
i wound into a noose
on that rooftop.
an audience of stars
looked on, voyeurs
lightyears beyond.
years have lapsed since then,
but i return invariably
to those moments we spent
absorbed to the point of ecstasy
as if time were a flat circle
and i was meant to live eternally
caught between the fragments
of those seconds.
fixated by the temporary transgressions
we permit ourselves
every few months.
revolving like a planet
tethered to its star
by the insistent arms of gravity.
we're partners in crime, stealing borrowed time,
trying in vain to recreate
the first fissures
of a friendship
that fractured our lives
like a fragmentation grenade.
consistently,
i become convinced,
as time moves on
and i remain transfixed,
that maybe i was meant to love
but not be loved in return.
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 8:28 AM UTC
In the shallow capacity of a dream
Whose nightmare is compulsive
Whose argument is a melancholy
Of intoned attuned contradictions
Of that which is arguably another
With an express made more sober
By an emphasis of obscure fragmentation’s
That effects, in ambiguous contradictions
Mists that conjure in artificial reluctance
An unwrapping pretense that grows heavy in the palm
Making sleeping bruises weep
Those that have placed themselves
By treaty or inheritance upon a soul
And embalm a presence
On announcement of resurrection
For those who awake
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 3:31 PM UTC
Think back to a time when the world was innocent
When the sun didn't torture
Think back to the last time your smile wasn't a lie
I bet you can't
You live in your plastic world
Where nothing can be tarnished
And a single dent in your flawless identity
Is worse then ******* the oxygen out of a child's lungs
And devouring their soul deep within your selfish throat
My identity is full of darkness
Yet it's required in your presence to find a positive light
It's exhausting to pretend, it's exhausting to see your perfect face
Because you know what I'm never going to be okay
I hate how it's okay to be happy
Because happiness is only meant to leave those who are unfortunate enough in feeling it more aware of what it is like to want to watch the life drip out of every pore that freckles their skin
How can you possibly understand?
You wont until you blow you're life away because the only time you felt pain you couldn't handle it
I guess it's just a perfect ******* day for bananafish
boom
Read more: http://blogs.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.ListAllCustom&friendId;=124424912&swapped;=true&page;=1#ixzz0zlEWNV8S
Sep 17, 2010
Sep 17, 2010 at 12:23 AM UTC