"fragmented" poems
I know that like a breath you consume me with every fiber of being
a need within me you fulfill
i stagger to keep up with you
the fragmented pieces of choices we have to make
our life before our hearts
our hearts lying upon the alter
our hands up in the air saying we surrender
we surrender to the life that is judging our motives
we just want bliss in the in-betweens of our love spells
our hazy kisses and our deep hugs
tug on heartstrings
while our fists collide
with a fight that meets at the corner
of compromise and patience
our love is patience
our life is in need of patience
and compromise
only words can conquer
communication in the least is the most
and it brings us closer
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 3:42 AM UTC
emotions bounce around
to eventually be transcribed
into beautiful words
a patchwork of thoughts from her mind,
made with fragmented sentences,
allow her to expose part of her soul.
words that coax
images
or emotions
or memories
to arise
in other's minds.
the most magnificent artwork
that changes for every reader
a display of her soul
that will never be seen
in the way she intended it to be seen.
a curse
or a gift?
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 9:43 PM UTC
Fragmented lives entangled
but asunder in our journey
as our paths cosmically connect
in a romance of the arts
And who's to say what's real
to touch or deeply feel
what will truly last
or simply where to start
So I’ll
paint you alla prima
as I feel you playing me
in warm colors of merging ardor
a wet blending of artistry
my brush strokes of your body
painted in my mind
of impressions blushed in passion
in hues I can’t describe
Suspended in the moment
floating on a breeze
I revel in this picture painted music
almost in disbelief, unthinking…
knowing every nuance of our love
found only in our dreams
Like children in parallel play
I’ll finger the keys
and slip the locks
of all your orchestrations
filling the walls
of my concerts halls
with deep
splattered tones
in pinks and blues
the hues
that forever
bind us
And we’ll not look back
nor forward
but hang here in the moment
to display our
Painted Song
in the eyes
of giggly children
both doing
our own thing
together
on a string
curated
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 6:22 AM UTC
This is past due like the rent paid on the thirteenth
Late better than never-- and I got this here forever
Flow like rain during any kinda weather
Keep this here close to my heart
And when the block comes, I don’t know where to start
Beat-beat Thump-thump
I'll just let the words flow from my heart
But you ain’t feelin me’-- You ain’t hearin’ Queen
So I got to bring you back to the forefront with my so⋅lil⋅o⋅quy
I remind you of all the things that had you fearin’ me
This Army of One, brighter than that star He created we call Sun
Under its blaze, us two can become one
(lets make our Son under His)
While I lay with fragmented words.... spoken
Promises I made to myself remain unbroken
And my gift is as natural as the slender ducts of my abdomen called fallopian
I am Woman
The prototype made perfect and pure
Whose prose is as tight as my kegels allow my femininity to be
Wrath your ******** may not be able to endure
Thought you knew a good Woman and tight ***** make you surrender on your knees
And dream dreams about your seed taking root in this royal vessel
I am Mother Earth
And this is my Gift—my Gyft
I am Myself and such a present I present to thee
For I AM Queen Poetree
So when I seem silent
When you think you hear nothing but your heart beat
Nothing but the cool air enraptured in the breeze
I am the Life that flows from you
I am the Wind rustling the trees leaves
I am the fragrance left in the air you interpret as another
I am the overwhelming sensation made between two lovers under duvet covers
I am the softness of lips and the sensation made by the flick of a passionate tongue
I am that empty space you try to fill with another one
So when you think you hear nothing
When you think you’re all alone
I am every word, every adlib of your favorite song
Every stroke every morning when you brush your hair
I am your deep breath because, baby, I am your air
I am everything pleasurable—every pleasure experienced since your creation
And it all stems from the balance of my concentration during this poetic intrapersonal conversation
I am everything virtuous
I am the eye of the storm
I am your hope, your future
I am the pages of your favorite novel whose cover is worn
I am air, I am sky
I am the clouds, and the Sun’s heat
But most importantly, to my core
I am Queen Poetess B…
Apr 12, 2010
Apr 12, 2010 at 5:53 AM UTC
If there were a language for walls,
It would mumble,
Per broken jaws.
The sun would shine through fragmented holes,
A windows' lone goal?
To magnify heat,
Til' all was engulfed.
With confirmed dead inside,
None knock, as they've read inscribed:
"Family tree,
Difficulty,
Unavailable."
"Family business,
Buy one,
One comes free,
Fire wood sale."
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 12:23 AM UTC
A blank page waits for words that it will never see
Created from the head of someone writing a story
Characters, plot, setting, theme, are central to the tale
Without them every narrative is simply guaranteed to fail
Stakes and consequences must exist for someone to pursue
Whether treacherous of heart, or noble, brave, and true
And if these traits stand not alone but mixed in with the rest
That simply adds more intrigue to the outcome of the test
Will he get the girl? Will she rise above her station?
Can a rags-to-riches fable captivate the nation?
Who done it, where and why? Are three questions most effective
But often ****** requires the help of a detective
These may seem like idle, fragmented bits of a much larger whole
But actually they’re not; every type plays a role
For you see, “someone” mentioned above is not a professional writer
But an individual on a journey, and we all must face it like a fighter
Characters are those you know and love, plot is what you choose to do
Setting is where you live, theme defines what is important to you
So why a fighter you may ask, someone who faces pain and strife?
Because we encounter both good and ill as we write our book of life
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 6:03 PM UTC
The heart flutters,
It's pulses intensifying,
magnifying
the state of frenzy it's in.
The mind whirs,
It's cogs turning in abandon,
and yet delicately
Searching for an essence of normalcy
Occurring,
and all the while;
I've uttered no two words
For I am lost in the
delicate frenzy,
of the mind,
the heart
my fragmented self.
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 2:16 PM UTC
With a potent kiss,
Delve into the depths of my jaded heart and lose yourself in me,
Burrow and latch yourself inside.
Synchronize with the remains of my mortal being.
Surge through a mess of broken veins and arteries,
Interfere with the synapses in my brain and dizzy my fragmented mind.
Send me dancing through a euphoria of vertigo.
Become a part of me, with a potent kiss.
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 1:47 PM UTC
No, I don’t have a boyfriend.
I don’t have the desire to see another end;
after exhaustive months of getting to know
a fictionalised persona, fragmented, so
No, I don’t have a boyfriend.
The last one hurt and you didn’t see,
but that doesn’t proclaim the scar less prominent to me,
my feelings numb, I no longer crave the intimacy - detrimental to me.
No, I don’t have a boyfriend.
The last boys touch was for him not for me
and my body still screams cause he won’t let it be
and you’ll never understand as the trauma won’t subside
and my self esteem is diminished by his lies.
No, I don’t have a boyfriend.
I humoured a guy who gave it a try
but all I could feel was nothing inside
and when someone bumps into me sauntering by
the unwanted touch still makes me cry.
No, I don't want a boyfriend.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 5:33 PM UTC
:::::::::::.................:::::::::::
Here, in this sacred space...
:::::::::.............:::::::::
...where curtains and breeze
.....dance and tease,
...no words are uttered, i hear nothing
.........except my breathing
eyes roam, legs are crossed, as if to rule,
determined....as a stubborn mule
here in this sacred space, i have a regular
dialogue with my Creator....my Saviour,
::::::::::::::::..........................::::::::::::::::::
through His mysterious ways, He speaks to me
i am drawn to a quietude that flows from Him.
...........this noiseless space talks to me...
it's not the words...something else takes over
.....and enfolds me........especially, when
fragmented moments start to stir my heart,
...i lose them all....when i hold my breath
when my mouth has ceased, my words on a halt,
...........i am suspended.....far from the noise
.....................of the outside world...
:::::::::::::::
here in this sacred space, i am with my loved one,
::::::::::::::::..........................:::::::::::::::::::
though distant............the world is...ours,
we're in deep conversation that could last a day
we are ourselves, naked..wearing no false pretenses
...we are timeless...we are one...the two of us...
::::::::::::
here, in this sacred space...rich with
......an imperturbable stillness
..........my mind is overwhelmed
...by a silence.....so eloquent.......
::::::::::::...................::::::::::::
Sally
Copyright June 25, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Jun 25, 2017
Jun 25, 2017 at 7:17 AM UTC
The darker side of my mind is where
Abstractions of fragmented poetry breeds;
A baby lies dead in a Hong Kong gutter,
And my lines fall into place.
Broken hearts sing lullabies to me,
Two savage beatings spare me a verse,
New Orleans lends me four at low interest,
And throws in a haiku for free.
The old veteran quotes me three lines
And gets buried with the last.
The rhyme festers with his body;
Both soldier
and verse
are
free
again.
I can't explain the beauty I see
In the dying faces of the abandoned ones,
Nor tell you why, if the bomb were dropped tomorrow
I should weep in both anguish and delight.
I can only tell you, should it all end,
Should all modern horrors dissapear,
The future will weep for the joys of the present
And smiles will dissapear forever
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 3:53 PM UTC
Echoing voice of the moonlit night
Foresee but unarmored from past,
Fragmented heart of broken lights;
Unraveling miseries already did last.
Drowned by tears of years were lost
From crawling those diverging roads,
Victim of dying embers found his cost;
Resemblance of faith is in the woods.
But God above guided his way home
And dry every little river in his mind,
Mournful shadows are still unknown;
Embers of souls are always in divine.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 9:46 AM UTC
Just Let It In
this
language,
the perplexity
of this language,
is damaging to me.
how can there possibly
exist such an impeccably
imposing combination of
words that still manage to destroy
a soul as wasted as mine? somehow
words discover these fine little cracks in
my wall, as thin as the head of a pin. words
are like water, rushing into whatever space they
can invade, occupying whatever volume they discover.
this water trickles through the fragmented spaces, traveling
all the way to my heart, transforming me in the way they seem to
alter us all. it is these words that i take with me. words reverberate in my mind,
disrupt me to my core, degrade me. your words are the ones i perpetually carry with me...
any...all of them. yours are the ones that elicit the simultaneous firing of every
single neuron in my brain. there is something about the magic of your words
flowing together...whispered into my ear. they move through me like
a stealthy, lone snake, undulating in a field, stalking its defenseless
prey; slowly...at first glance, not appearing to be a perilous threat
...then piercing me all at once with fierce strength and
determination, devouring me without appearing to
acknowledge that maybe i still...still want to be.
to be whole. and i do. my body craves
the sensation of being complete,
not torn apart by the nonsense
of your daunting words
disrupting my spirit
and making me
despise the
necessity
of language.
i wish i could
void your words
from my brain, but
my mind is helplessly
inconsistent; i can never
forget what i long to,
scarcely remember
what i must; and
my peculiar mind
*
certainly* will never
forget the sound
of your words,
just like water,
flooding me.
taking me
over.
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 2:44 AM UTC
.
Aimlessly wandering
with a feeling of agitation,
caught somewhere between
browsing with interest
and prowling with intent.
Distressed and unsettled
like anticipating trauma,
mooching with an emotion
that something is imminent
yet its nature remains veiled.
The horizontal line defines a stability and yet,
it has started to list off to one side.
Tiny perforations promise fragmented logic
by osmosis revealing the storm implied.
The tap of excitable energy is dripping slow
threatening balance with a flood rip tide.
Empathy walks with the expectant father pacing
and coils of despair knot so deep inside.
A nervous anxiety
grips psychology and waits,
caught somewhere between
bleak submissive acceptance
and stark naked panic.
© Pagan Paul (22/05/18)
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 10:15 AM UTC
Hey, past me from so close yet seeming long ago...
A knot from my sweater's bow I regret tying despite how unkempt the ribbons look hanging by my sides because now it's digging into my back
The hair I can't decide if I want out where it's pretty and makes me look less like a generic nerd yet gets in my face and food and life
The jeans I insist upon wearing without a belt even though their slipping down my **** may actually outweigh the pain of loosening the belt
The tennis shoes I'm too attached to give up that emit a constant squeak, squeak, squeaking through the hallways whether it's caused by residual rain from outside or not
The glasses, fond of slipping down my nose at frequent intervals, covered in smudges I rarely notice till they get out of hand
The phone whose screen happened to crack at the most inopportune moment and takes forever to read my finger print
The jacket that should be a highlighter blue but rather presents itself as a canvas of the week's tomato stains
The face covered in acne-
The stomach with fat instead of muscle-
The arms lacking muscle-
The legs with too much hair-
I've always acknowledged that perfection is not possible, yet I have to at least try to strive
I think, as I sit at my desk, fingers typing fragmented sentences, attempting to convey thoughts speeding too fast to grasp
Yet, just a simple poem of reflection brings to light these numerous deficiencies, many of which I COULD fix were it not the invisible fiend upon whom I stamp the label-laziness
These deficiencies, many of which aren't even noticed by those around me, some of whom are better some are worse
But it's not as simple as that, I've known I can't just be "one of the people", I need to find something, some identity, some way out of my seemingly impossible to escape label of "just above average"
In academics, in extracurricular activities, EVERYTHING, I seem to be at a stagnant
I've done bad, I've done "just above average", but never above. What is the point if you get plenty of losses and plenty of "fine" but no victories?
It's something about me though, somehow I believe, subconsciously, I'm impeding myself. I'm holding myself back.
...
Why?
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 3:50 PM UTC
i wish i could be beautiful without having to change my hair or my face or my clothes or my weight. i wish i could focus on the year to year, not the day to day. i wish i could look in the mirror and smile instead of picking at "problem areas" and wanting to smash it and cry and fall apart like the fragmented reflections on the ground. i wish i could be loved for me. i wish i could be happy.
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 1:17 PM UTC
I will take this. I have to.
Even if it breaks me.
Even if it breaks me into a million pieces that nobody can put together again.
And it has.
It has broken me into so many fragmented pieces; I’m now what they refer to as
“damaged goods”
Something so traumatic, I’ll never be normal again.
Normal is a thing of the past.
This is what’s happening now.
Broken pieces.
Everywhere.
Every time I fix a piece, another breaks. I feel like I’m holding myself together with tape and glue and it’s not going to be enough. I don’t know what else to say, but it’s too much and it's not enough. All at the same time.
It’s like screaming without a voice.
They said there’d be waves.
They essentially promised.
They said that these waves of sadness would come and go. That happiness would slowly seep back in.
Weaving its way into the oscillating patterns of a heavy heart.
But there haven’t been any waves.
They were wrong.
Instead the pain is dull. It is constant.
But most of all, it’s there. It's there all the time.
The constant part is the worst. The only thing I could relate it to is fire.
It’s like somebody running through a fire has it easier. Sure they’ll get burned but the point is that they get to run through.
They get out.
This though? This is like getting caught in the fire and not making it through. This is like a permanent residency in my own personal hell and at some point I really need the fire to be put out; the pain to stop.
It has to. There’s only so much a girl can take. It’s like somebody has their dark hand engulfing my heart and they’re squeezing it every day and no matter how I plead, they’re refusing to let go.
It’s the greatest sadness I have ever known and it is depleting me emotionally and physically.
I. Am. Too. Weak.
Everybody keeps saying how strong I am. They have no idea. It’s like I’m the world’s greatest actress and I’ve fooled them all. All they see is somebody taking bad news well.
But nobody takes their entire earth shattering “well”.
And my earth has shattered. The death of my brother at the age of 21 has shattered me.
There’s not one thing I wouldn’t give to go back and hug him just a little longer at the airport three days before he died. It was just supposed to be his last semester at college. Not the end of a life time.
There are too many broken pieces. The jagged edges cut my hands. I can’t pick them up.
And so now all I can do is pray. With my forehead to the ground and my faith in God I will pray. Pray the pain away in hopes that one day, the happiness is real. And the tears stop.
In hopes that one day, I can go on without him.
So I’ll pray.
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 7:28 PM UTC
Violating a placid spirit
Memories transgress
desecrating the sacred.
Memories are
the dark side
of a full moon.
Memories are unsatiated desires
couched on sorrow
entangled in time
a perennial wrinkle on the soul.
Memories are trespassers
possessing neural atrium
wading saline sockets
slithering in to throbbing veins
tiptoeing to hollow spaces
burying all under their eerie weight,
Memories are an inescapable affliction.
In fragmented mindscape
Memories are violent winds
littering the past.
Lurking behind aches
in ethereal garbs,
Memories are assassins.
Or sema
of a swirling dervish.
Hurtling within, Memories
is an avalanche
pounding the abyss
choking the void
one gasp at a time.
Memories are
nameless apparitions
fused as shadows
to the very being.
Memories are an assault
on identity and belonging.
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 6:23 AM UTC
Twenty-six times the bells will chime today
Tragedy lives where apathy is sought
Gazing outside I see no children play
Tears which we shed in a glass are now caught
The tears are now saved and we will have drink
Twenty-six times we have pain to swallow
Tragedy's cup compels fairness to shrink
And fragmented hearts embrace the sorrow
When the cup runs over we start to drown
On the sadness we invited to come
And jewels we place in tragedy's crown
Provide the reason we will mourn for some
As we choke on sorrow with awareness
Ponder the elusiveness of fairness
© Christopher Chronister. All rights reserved
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 3:08 AM UTC
II
Blue base and pink hues, black lining, framing the face saw once in dreams, a face with a name that began with the letter M. The other painting – a hazy black, red lips, no eyes – is a man’s face. Flying across shadowed, spiralling stairs, I encountered exits blocked by chairs – all these impressionist paintings hanging along the corridor, where a painter was explaining to his students the woman he met in his dream… they all called to me as a dream factory, dream logic – where everything was bound and unburdened, and we were told to identify faces in these coffin paintings. All day we tried matching, mouth stuttering half-formed names, lost faces, amputated body parts, strangers’ fragmented memory. Then the old lady I was working with let out a wail. She bolted, I followed, and there we saw creatures known as man and woman – to the woman on the right, she greeted with the M-lettered name, and to the man on the left she pointed at the eyeless painting, said, stranger, this is you– and they wept together.
Apr 21, 2021
Apr 21, 2021 at 11:29 AM UTC
Sister, I told you
How much I needed you
You listen to all my pleas
And cry over my bees.
But there's this beast inside me
Stay away from her, it pleads
You are not supposed to open that bag,
But how can the snake not lie?
Oh, well, my sister, you took in all of it
Swallowing my temporary misery.
But what have you sewn?
You made it all your own.
My love for you is real
But I can't put it into words
Because you know me as well as I do
That I'm a meal.
A curse.
A shoo-away.
You see, my darling, nothing can ever come out.
Scarred when I saw six
You can take it when the demon picks.
Everyone is a little broken inside
All I've been doing is not burden you all night.
I hope you understand!
Please tell me you'll never let go
With the dog just inches below me
You're my last hope.
Can you grab it all back again?
You were right and I was wrong.
My fingers are begging to work out
But it just doesn't go with my brain for long.
As you slip away from me
Please do remember these moments
Those fragmented keys
To the garden that is to come.
Sister... It couldn't have been better.
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 8:35 AM UTC
My New Year’s Eve
was spent
collecting fragmented recollections
to confirm
that my dignity
had truly died.
Soberly,
I perused
the bars and clubs,
and walked aimlessly
up and down crowded streets,
feeling like my life
had somehow
been shifted
into slow motion,
while the rest of the world,
engaging in joyous celebration
and ffestivities,
was knocked out of rhythm
from my existence.
How in the world
could the clock strike midnight?
How could people embrace, and kiss
at the dropping of the ball?
How could they laugh and smiile,
and wish each other a “Happy New Year!”?
More importantly,
how could those god **** traffic lights
have the audacity
to continue changing
from red to ggreen to yellow,
then back to red again.
My dignity had just died.
My dignity had just died.
My dignity was dead.
My dignity was gone.
In the days and weeks
that followed the death of my dignity,
I noticed
that life faded
from colloquial to iconic,
like something mystical,
or an intangible object
of deep longing.
And recurrent images
of those *******
obnoxious traffic lights
insensitively
switching colors
replay in my mind
to remind me
over and over
in the greens (go),
the reds (stop),
and the yellows (be careful),
that my dignity
had died.
Memories
of the ddays
before my dignity had died
run through my mind
like old home movies
with centuries
of black and white film
stuck on repeat,
and slowly fraying,
around the edges,
because of the harsh demands of time.
It is life’s
harsh and cruel irony
that these images,
once my greatest joy,
have now become
inflicters
of the greatest pain
that I
have ever felt.
Like a sound wave
of pain,
so powerful,
that it has silenced
any other pain
that my heart
has ever heard.
So now I know,
it is true
life is a bitch.
The fading
of my dignity
has made me
overly aware
of the earth
turning on its axis.
As spring approached,
for the very first time,
I noticed
the way the flowers
seem reluctant
to bloom,
as if uncertain
of their
welcome invitation.
Such a cruel reality,
that the flowers
would choose
to bloom,
and nature
would choose
to carry on,
slipping
further and further
away from the day
that my dignity died.
And still,
to this day,
those ****
traffic lights
keep switching colors
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 8:32 AM UTC
Oh dear sir, you are many things
But wholesome is not one of them
You are very incomplete and fragmented
But such parts are unseen by most eyes
And though you are unconsciously longing
For someone to fill such hollow holes,
You are sidetracked by societal expectations
That you'd resort to the boring entertainment
Of busy days and bland tasting wine
Oh dear sir, you are many things
And lonesome is one of them
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 3:20 AM UTC