Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
igc May 2015
I saw the best minds of my generation congested and
polluted overdosing on irrelevance

Abandoned abused replaced
Fed to the thought police
Corrected corrupted
Declining the potential to be heard in
exchange for the opportunity to be documented

Lives being lived according to unfeasible standards
You either make it or you don’t
there’s no in between
there’s no maybe
there’s no equal

Left to meander through the conceived thoughts of others
decisions being made
moves being made
eulogies being made

nothings real
nothing’s right
nothing’s honest
nothing thought up matters


Who in the safety of their homes were taught respect
are told to mask their emotions
Identities saved for the weak
Only to be showcased when conducive

Who pump iron into their veins
looking for an angry fix of acceptance
Sweat streams surge down their backs
Failure prominent in their thoughts
Motivation blessing their features
the Devil clever in disguise

Who see little white fields of fairy dust
a never ending landscape of courage
giving them superpowers beyond belief

Nothing beats the freedom of being told
You can fly

Who dream of equality behind closed eyes
But render to imposed birth rights when open
The upper hand implying more than height
and executing more force than necessary to move them

It’s all about the cause until you’re indubitably
the effect

Who tuck monsters into their beds
Forgetting to check closets for skeletons not quite left behind
in the path of carefully chaotic self destruction
Conveniently purging themselves of words whispered
in the throes of passion
Forced upon the ears of all naive enough to listen

Who carelessly expend countless hours playing with
condescending pawns disguised as adults
All grown up with no where to go
Replacing quality with quantity
Leaving long dull trails of breadcrumbs
leading to hearts long since lost
Never to be recovered again

Who follow sexuality by the book
doing this to get that for this him them who what when where
Why does the finish line have to be covered with brightly colored lace and muffled drunk cries chanting no

Who stare dead straight into the soul of love but never
Never into her eyes
Told she is not worthy of being addressed directly
Fingers itching to cop a feel
Only to discover the body is but a passage to her straight dead soul


Who trade in their voice mind and individuality
for half assed smiles and superficial men
As the face of a leviathan nicknamed acceptance
hands them a paycheck they’ve worked too
night day night night hard to refuse

Who idolize the feel of phantom limbs of lovers past
Twisted words convoluting their heads
Forcing on masks of pure heroine
at the sight of scars left on the soul
Scratching at the need to feel wanted
But cowering at the ability to truly be heard

Who have perfected the art of parallel painting
Elegant red streaks hidden beneath layers of
choppy dark colored hate covering pretty pale limbs
Seeming to fade as colorlessly caked on insecurities susurrate bitter-sweet nothings that curl themselves just inside her mutilated skin

Who scavenged their looks from the bottom of holes
they’re expected to clamber out of
Smiling pretty smiling
Being treated to complimentary meals
Only to be served plates full of disappointment.

Who crave companion’s flaws
in ruthless attempts to satisfy their hunger for compassion
Selfless beings dedicated to less than noble attempts at vanquish
The call for heat too satisfying to refuse the trade off forever uselessly launching themselves into razor sharp blades
aimed at ***** sleeves

Who see soft lips as cushion enough to fall from towers built of fear
Dragging moist palms across pavement thighs
Tearing at the seams holding their
hearts together

Who cower behind brick wall appearances
fruitlessly clutching on to ideas reserved for the most fortunate
Scaring away potential with claws that seemingly only come
out to play in the face of acceptance

Who’s sick stick thin limbs trail their worn down
fingernails in an effort mar skin no one can see
Streaks titillate their bright red scalps
A reflection of their underlying journey

Who disgorge yesterday's meal from stomachs long before empty
Blood spewing from the mouth an open wound
Continuously sewed up but never stitched tight correctly
Wiring shut opinions but never gorged enough to
muzzle their Howls



Ideas, calm and collected have long been hijacked and invaded by Hestia

Hestia! Consent! Content! Acceptance!
Long nights and roid rage men!
Two faces fighting a losing battle!
Girls playing mom! Boys playing war!
Ill ridden parents still pledging to the
United States of Controlling Media!

Hestia! Hestia!
Overall reign of Hestia!
Hestia the beautiful!
Incarcerated Hestia!
Hestia the ******!

Hestia twisted and shaped to form the voice of conformity
Hestia constantly watching over and monitoring
Hestia being told what to ******* think

Hestia seeping creeping sneaking into the
darkest crevices of our minds
Hestia when least expected coming out to say
Hello

Too late! Hestia’s already made herself at home
Wedged between the rooks of your biggest fear and
burrowed deep into the folds of
Your  Worst  Nightmare

Stuck in a constant battle between
rejecting Hestia,
and accepting her.
This was obviously inspired by Allen Ginsberg's "Howl."
Considering it was, at the time, the voice of that generation, Welcome to Generation Y.
This is a work in progress.
Michelle Graham Apr 2012
like a static shock i feel you
running up my spine
tingling the hair at the nape of my neck
something harsh and unexpected
but unexpectedly pleasant
snapping me back into the present
eyes freshly opened and wide
like a still from a movie
quaking on the bed
feeling my limbs tighten against you
something soft and yielding
but not fully, pressing back
pushing my core deep into the down
we fight for a moment
tearing at each other with teeth
with claws
with fists, open, closed,
before the tension breaks
and calm floods over us with
no slight pause, sending us both
reeling into oblivion, all extremities
stilled as we stare gasping into the
dark nothingness that surrounds us
heads thrown back and hands clasped
together as we slip away
floating no where, watching galaxies
being ****** into black holes
and stars exploding into limbo
before we find ourselves back
in bed, abruptly, chests heaving and
slick with sweat
where we try to put ourselves back together
fruitlessly
Sean M O'Kane Sep 2018
We are the kids – beautiful blank canvasses ready to receive the joy of life.
We are the kids – hope & love consuming our souls, grasping at the shiny & new.
We are the kids who played in the fields and danced in the sun.
We are the kids with innocence in our hearts and a cheekiness in our soul.
We are the kids who believed in a benevolent God and the generous teachings of Jesus.
We are the kids whose imagination was an infinite resource - bounteous, diverse and effervescent.
We are the kids who reveled in the fancy, the nonsensical, the romantic and the wild.
We are the kids that couldn’t wait to grow up,
We are the kids who believed in our future.
We are the kids who never saw it coming.

We are the kids who lost our innocence as soon we walked through the big school gates for the 1st time.
We are the kids who were told to “think of your future” and to suppress creativity.
We are the kids who were forced to grow up very quickly.
We are the kids who didn’t know we were “different” but there were plenty out there who did.
We are the kids who had to pretend to be what “they” wanted us to be just to survive.
We are the kids who came home with scars every day – both physical and emotional
We are the kids who endured the obscene words of Neanderthal hate every single day.
We are the kids who were screamed at by our parents to fight back even when we really didn’t have the capability to do so.
We are the kids who were told crying was a sign of weakness.
We are the kids whose so-called classmates stayed silent when they did their worst.
We are the kids where the school gates were no barrier to their lynching.
We are the kids who turned quickly from being wide-eyed & hopeful to being terrified & desolate.
We are the kids who dreaded every single weekday from first term to last.  
We are the kids who fruitlessly prayed to a God who had deserted them.
We are the kids taught by teachers who were found wanting.
We are the kids who suffocated in sheer hate.
We are the kids who took our own lives or at least tried to.
We are the kids who self-harmed.
We are the kids who sometimes never came home.
We are the kids who survived but never really left the school yard behind
We are the kids.
Your kids.

June 11, 2018.
“After we were clear of the river Oceanus, and had got out into
the open sea, we went on till we reached the Aeaean island where there
is dawn and sunrise as in other places. We then drew our ship on to
the sands and got out of her on to the shore, where we went to sleep
and waited till day should break.
  “Then, when the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared, I
sent some men to Circe’s house to fetch the body of Elpenor. We cut
firewood from a wood where the headland jutted out into the sea, and
after we had wept over him and lamented him we performed his funeral
rites. When his body and armour had been burned to ashes, we raised
a cairn, set a stone over it, and at the top of the cairn we fixed the
oar that he had been used to row with.
  “While we were doing all this, Circe, who knew that we had got
back from the house of Hades, dressed herself and came to us as fast
as she could; and her maid servants came with her bringing us bread,
meat, and wine. Then she stood in the midst of us and said, ‘You
have done a bold thing in going down alive to the house of Hades,
and you will have died twice, to other people’s once; now, then,
stay here for the rest of the day, feast your fill, and go on with
your voyage at daybreak tomorrow morning. In the meantime I will
tell Ulysses about your course, and will explain everything to him
so as to prevent your suffering from misadventure either by land or
sea.’
  “We agreed to do as she had said, and feasted through the livelong
day to the going down of the sun, but when the sun had set and it came
on dark, the men laid themselves down to sleep by the stern cables
of the ship. Then Circe took me by the hand and bade me be seated away
from the others, while she reclined by my side and asked me all
about our adventures.
  “‘So far so good,’ said she, when I had ended my story, ‘and now pay
attention to what I am about to tell you—heaven itself, indeed,
will recall it to your recollection. First you will come to the Sirens
who enchant all who come near them. If any one unwarily draws in too
close and hears the singing of the Sirens, his wife and children
will never welcome him home again, for they sit in a green field and
warble him to death with the sweetness of their song. There is a great
heap of dead men’s bones lying all around, with the flesh still
rotting off them. Therefore pass these Sirens by, and stop your
men’s ears with wax that none of them may hear; but if you like you
can listen yourself, for you may get the men to bind you as you
stand upright on a cross-piece half way up the mast, and they must
lash the rope’s ends to the mast itself, that you may have the
pleasure of listening. If you beg and pray the men to unloose you,
then they must bind you faster.
  “‘When your crew have taken you past these Sirens, I cannot give you
coherent directions as to which of two courses you are to take; I will
lay the two alternatives before you, and you must consider them for
yourself. On the one hand there are some overhanging rocks against
which the deep blue waves of Amphitrite beat with terrific fury; the
blessed gods call these rocks the Wanderers. Here not even a bird
may pass, no, not even the timid doves that bring ambrosia to Father
Jove, but the sheer rock always carries off one of them, and Father
Jove has to send another to make up their number; no ship that ever
yet came to these rocks has got away again, but the waves and
whirlwinds of fire are freighted with wreckage and with the bodies
of dead men. The only vessel that ever sailed and got through, was the
famous Argo on her way from the house of Aetes, and she too would have
gone against these great rocks, only that Juno piloted her past them
for the love she bore to Jason.
  “‘Of these two rocks the one reaches heaven and its peak is lost
in a dark cloud. This never leaves it, so that the top is never
clear not even in summer and early autumn. No man though he had twenty
hands and twenty feet could get a foothold on it and climb it, for
it runs sheer up, as smooth as though it had been polished. In the
middle of it there is a large cavern, looking West and turned
towards Erebus; you must take your ship this way, but the cave is so
high up that not even the stoutest archer could send an arrow into it.
Inside it Scylla sits and yelps with a voice that you might take to be
that of a young hound, but in truth she is a dreadful monster and no
one—not even a god—could face her without being terror-struck. She
has twelve mis-shapen feet, and six necks of the most prodigious
length; and at the end of each neck she has a frightful head with
three rows of teeth in each, all set very close together, so that they
would crunch any one to death in a moment, and she sits deep within
her shady cell thrusting out her heads and peering all round the rock,
fishing for dolphins or dogfish or any larger monster that she can
catch, of the thousands with which Amphitrite teems. No ship ever
yet got past her without losing some men, for she shoots out all her
heads at once, and carries off a man in each mouth.
  “‘You will find the other rocks lie lower, but they are so close
together that there is not more than a bowshot between them. [A
large fig tree in full leaf grows upon it], and under it lies the
******* whirlpool of Charybdis. Three times in the day does she
***** forth her waters, and three times she ***** them down again; see
that you be not there when she is *******, for if you are, Neptune
himself could not save you; you must hug the Scylla side and drive
ship by as fast as you can, for you had better lose six men than
your whole crew.’
  “‘Is there no way,’ said I, ‘of escaping Charybdis, and at the
same time keeping Scylla off when she is trying to harm my men?’
  “‘You dare-devil,’ replied the goddess, you are always wanting to
fight somebody or something; you will not let yourself be beaten
even by the immortals. For Scylla is not mortal; moreover she is
savage, extreme, rude, cruel and invincible. There is no help for
it; your best chance will be to get by her as fast as ever you can,
for if you dawdle about her rock while you are putting on your armour,
she may catch you with a second cast of her six heads, and snap up
another half dozen of your men; so drive your ship past her at full
speed, and roar out lustily to Crataiis who is Scylla’s dam, bad
luck to her; she will then stop her from making a second raid upon
you.
  “‘You will now come to the Thrinacian island, and here you will
see many herds of cattle and flocks of sheep belonging to the sun-god-
seven herds of cattle and seven flocks of sheep, with fifty head in
each flock. They do not breed, nor do they become fewer in number, and
they are tended by the goddesses Phaethusa and Lampetie, who are
children of the sun-god Hyperion by Neaera. Their mother when she
had borne them and had done suckling them sent them to the
Thrinacian island, which was a long way off, to live there and look
after their father’s flocks and herds. If you leave these flocks
unharmed, and think of nothing but getting home, you may yet after
much hardship reach Ithaca; but if you harm them, then I forewarn
you of the destruction both of your ship and of your comrades; and
even though you may yourself escape, you will return late, in bad
plight, after losing all your men.’
  “Here she ended, and dawn enthroned in gold began to show in heaven,
whereon she returned inland. I then went on board and told my men to
loose the ship from her moorings; so they at once got into her, took
their places, and began to smite the grey sea with their oars.
Presently the great and cunning goddess Circe befriended us with a
fair wind that blew dead aft, and stayed steadily with us, keeping our
sails well filled, so we did whatever wanted doing to the ship’s gear,
and let her go as wind and helmsman headed her.
  “Then, being much troubled in mind, I said to my men, ‘My friends,
it is not right that one or two of us alone should know the prophecies
that Circe has made me, I will therefore tell you about them, so
that whether we live or die we may do so with our eyes open. First she
said we were to keep clear of the Sirens, who sit and sing most
beautifully in a field of flowers; but she said I might hear them
myself so long as no one else did. Therefore, take me and bind me to
the crosspiece half way up the mast; bind me as I stand upright,
with a bond so fast that I cannot possibly break away, and lash the
rope’s ends to the mast itself. If I beg and pray you to set me
free, then bind me more tightly still.’
  “I had hardly finished telling everything to the men before we
reached the island of the two Sirens, for the wind had been very
favourable. Then all of a sudden it fell dead calm; there was not a
breath of wind nor a ripple upon the water, so the men furled the
sails and stowed them; then taking to their oars they whitened the
water with the foam they raised in rowing. Meanwhile I look a large
wheel of wax and cut it up small with my sword. Then I kneaded the wax
in my strong hands till it became soft, which it soon did between
the kneading and the rays of the sun-god son of Hyperion. Then I
stopped the ears of all my men, and they bound me hands and feet to
the mast as I stood upright on the crosspiece; but they went on rowing
themselves. When we had got within earshot of the land, and the ship
was going at a good rate, the Sirens saw that we were getting in shore
and began with their singing.
  “‘Come here,’ they sang, ‘renowned Ulysses, honour to the Achaean
name, and listen to our two voices. No one ever sailed past us without
staying to hear the enchanting sweetness of our song—and he who
listens will go on his way not only charmed, but wiser, for we know
all the ills that the gods laid upon the Argives and Trojans before
Troy, and can tell you everything that is going to happen over the
whole world.’
  “They sang these words most musically, and as I longed to hear
them further I made by frowning to my men that they should set me
free; but they quickened their stroke, and Eurylochus and Perimedes
bound me with still stronger bonds till we had got out of hearing of
the Sirens’ voices. Then my men took the wax from their ears and
unbound me.
  “Immediately after we had got past the island I saw a great wave
from which spray was rising, and I heard a loud roaring sound. The men
were so frightened that they loosed hold of their oars, for the
whole sea resounded with the rushing of the waters, but the ship
stayed where it was, for the men had left off rowing. I went round,
therefore, and exhorted them man by man not to lose heart.
  “‘My friends,’ said I, ‘this is not the first time that we have been
in danger, and we are in nothing like so bad a case as when the
Cyclops shut us up in his cave; nevertheless, my courage and wise
counsel saved us then, and we shall live to look back on all this as
well. Now, therefore, let us all do as I say, trust in Jove and row on
with might and main. As for you, coxswain, these are your orders;
attend to them, for the ship is in your hands; turn her head away from
these steaming rapids and hug the rock, or she will give you the
slip and be over yonder before you know where you are, and you will be
the death of us.’
  “So they did as I told them; but I said nothing about the awful
monster Scylla, for I knew the men would not on rowing if I did, but
would huddle together in the hold. In one thing only did I disobey
Circe’s strict instructions—I put on my armour. Then seizing two
strong spears I took my stand on the ship Is bows, for it was there
that I expected first to see the monster of the rock, who was to do my
men so much harm; but I could not make her out anywhere, though I
strained my eyes with looking the gloomy rock all over and over
  “Then we entered the Straits in great fear of mind, for on the one
hand was Scylla, and on the other dread Charybdis kept ******* up
the salt water. As she vomited it up, it was like the water in a
cauldron when it is boiling over upon a great fire, and the spray
reached the top of the rocks on either side. When she began to ****
again, we could see the water all inside whirling round and round, and
it made a deafening sound as it broke against the rocks. We could
see the bottom of the whirlpool all black with sand and mud, and the
men were at their wit’s ends for fear. While we were taken up with
this, and were expecting each moment to be our last, Scylla pounced
down suddenly upon us and snatched up my six best men. I was looking
at once after both ship and men, and in a moment I saw their hands and
feet ever so high above me, struggling in the air as Scylla was
carrying them off, and I heard them call out my name in one last
despairing cry. As a fisherman, seated, spear in hand, upon some
jutting rock throws bait into the water to deceive the poor little
fishes, and spears them with the ox’s horn with which his spear is
shod, throwing them gasping on to the land as he catches them one by
one—even so did Scylla land these panting creatures on her rock and
munch them up at the mouth of her den, while they screamed and
stretched out their hands to me in their mortal agony. This was the
most sickening sight that I saw throughout all my voyages.
  “When we had passed the [Wandering] rocks, with Scylla and
terrible Charybdis, we reached the noble island of the sun-god,
where were the goodly cattle and sheep belonging to the sun
Hyperion. While still at sea in my ship I could bear the cattle lowing
as they came home to the yards, and the sheep bleating. Then I
remembered what the blind Theban prophet Teiresias had told me, and
how carefully Aeaean Circe had warned me to shun the island of the
blessed sun-god. So being much troubled I said to the men, ‘My men,
I know you are hard pressed, but listen while I tell you the
prophecy that Teiresias made me, and how carefully Aeaean Circe warned
me to shun the island of the blessed sun-god, for it was here, she
said, that our worst danger would lie. Head the ship, therefore,
away from the island.’
  “The men were in despair at this, and Eurylochus at once gave me
an insolent answer. ‘Ulysses,’ said he, ‘you are cruel; you are very
strong yourself and never get worn out; you seem to be made of iron,
and now, though your men are exhausted with toil and want of sleep,
you will not let them land and cook themselves a good supper upon this
island, but bid them put out to sea and go faring fruitlessly on
through the watches of the flying night. It is by night that the winds
blow hardest and do so much damage; how can we escape should one of
those sudden squalls spring up from South West or West, which so often
wreck a vessel when our lords the gods are unpropitious? Now,
therefore, let us obey the of night and prepare our supper here hard
by the ship; to-morrow morning we will go on board again and put out
to sea.’
  “Thus spoke Eurylochus, and the men approved his words. I saw that
heaven meant us a mischief and said, ‘You force me to yield, for you
are many against one, but at any rate each one of you must take his
solemn oath that if he meet with a herd of cattle or a large flock
of sheep, he will not be so mad as to **** a single head of either,
but will be satisfied with the food that Circe has given us.’
  “They all swore as I bade them, and when they had completed their
oath we made the ship fast in a harbour that was near a stream of
fresh water, and the men went ashore and cooked their suppers. As soon
as they had had enough to eat and drink, they began talking about
their poor comrades whom Scylla had snatched up and eaten; this set
them weeping and they went on crying till they fell off into a sound
sleep.
  “In the third watch of the night when the stars had shifted their
places, Jove raised a great gale of wind that flew a hurricane so that
land and sea were covered with thick clouds, and night sprang forth
out of the heavens. When the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn,
appeared, we brought the ship to land and drew her into a cave wherein
the sea-nymphs hold their courts and dances, and
1975 Art Institute is tactic for Odysseus to put off dealing with real world also investigate range of visual techniques gay instructor fruitlessly endeavors to ****** him he enjoys several affairs with beautiful girls yet Bayli haunts him main building of school is connected behind Art Institute of Chicago Odysseus spends lots of time looking at paintings Edward Hopper’s “Nighthawks” Gustave Caillebotte’s “Paris Street Rainy Day” Ivan Albright’s “Portrait of Dorian Gray” Jackson *******’s “Greyed Rainbow” Georgia O’Keeffe’s “Black Cross New Mexico” Francis Bacon’s “Figure with Meat” Pablo Picasso’s “The Old Guitarist” Balthus’s “Solitaire” Claude Monet’s “Stacks of Wheat” Paul Cezanne’s “The Bathers” Vincent Van Gogh’s “Self-Portrait” Edouard Manet’s “The Mocking of Christ” Henri Toulouse-Lautrec’s “At the Moulin Rouge” Robert Rauschenberg’s “Photograph” Mary Cassatt’s “The Child’s Bath” Peter Blume’s “The Rock” Ed Paschke’s “Mid America” Grant Wood’s “American Gothic” Jasper John’s “Near the Lagoon” and John Singer Sargent James McNeill Whistler Diego Rivera Marsden Hartley Thomas Eakins Winslow Homer his 2nd year at Art Institute involves student teaching during day then at night working as waiter at Ivanhoe Restaurant and Theater gay managers teach him to make Caesar salad tableside and other flamboyant tasks wait staff are all gay men once more Odysseus experiences bias from homosexual regime he is assigned restaurant’s slowest sections it bothers him the way some gay men venomously condescend women and their bodies Odysseus loves women especially their bodies he thinks about how much easier his life would be if he was gay in 1976 the art world is managed by gay curators gay art dealers he wonders if he could be gay yet not realize it can a person be gay but not attracted to one’s own ***? Ivanhoe hires variety of night club acts one night he watches Tom Waits perform on piano in lounge Odysseus feels inspired in 1977 he graduates with teacher’s certification he considers all the sacrifices teachers make and humiliating salaries they put up with he does not want to teach candidly he feels he has nothing yet to teach teaching degree was Mom’s idea Odysseus wants to learn grow paint after Art Institute he flip-flops between styles his artwork suffers from too much schooling and scholastic practice it takes years to find his own voice he has tendency to be self-effacing put himself down often he will declare what do i know? i’m just a stupid painter one topic artists do not like talking about is their failures how much money they cost creation requires resource paint and canvas can be expensive how much money is spent on harebrained ideas that never pan out? most artists resort to cheap or used materials few can afford their dreams he gets job selling encyclopedias that job lasts about 5 weeks then he finds job selling posters at framing store on Broadway between Barry and Wellington Salvador Dali Escher Claude Monet prints are the rage his manager accuse him of lacking initiative being spacey after several months he gets laid off he finds job waiting tables during lunch shift at busy downtown restaurant other waiters are mostly old men from Europe they play cards with each other in between shifts teach Odysseus how to carry 6 hot plates on one arm and 2 in his other hand the job is hectic but money is good experience educates differently than books and college a university degree cannot teach what working in the real world confronts people learn most when they are nobodies he reads Sartre’s “Being And Nothingness” he wants to discover who he is by finding out who he is not often he rides bicycle along lakefront taking different routes sometimes following behind an anonymous bicyclist possibly to come across new way he does not know or to marvel at another person’s interest

truth is this life is too difficult for me the violence hatred turf wars tribalism laws judgments practices rules permits history i’m not prepared emotionally to withstand the realities of this world not equipped psychologically to deal with the stresses of this world not prepared emotionally to withstand the realities of this world not equipped psychologically to deal with the stresses of this world i’m sorry am i repeating myself i apologize i’m not prepared emotionally to withstand the realities of this world not equipped psychologically to deal with the stresses of this world god please protect teach me strength courage fairness compassion wisdom love i’m not prepared emotionally to withstand the realities of this world not equipped psychologically to deal with the stresses of this world

buy divinity purchase devotion earn reward points own 4 bedroom loft with roof garden deck porch pool parking in paradise’s gated community pay for exclusive membership into sainthood become part of inner circle influence determine fate destiny of everything step up to the plate sign on the line immortalize yourself feel the privileges of eternal holiness i’m living inside a nightmare inside a nightmare inside a nightmare hello? i am dizzy in my own self-deceptions lost in my own self-deceptions alone in my own self-deceptions there was a time once but that time is gone there was a place once but that place has vanished there was a life once but that life is spent remember when things were different truth is i’m weak skittish anxious alienated paranoid scared to death pagan idiot stop

breath deeply push stale air out imagine kinder more respectful loving world please god do your stuff angels throw your weight around clean up this mess planets align stars shine ancient spirits raise your voices magic work there are words when spoken can change everything words rooted to spiritual nerves if voiced in  particular order secret passwords capable of setting off persuasions in the mind threads to the heart if a person can figure out which words what order tone of voice rate of pronunciation time of day then that person can summon powers of the supernatural Isis goddess of celestial sway of words whisper secret earth water fire air reveal your alchemy winter spring summer autumn teach about passages patterns sublime eastern western sun fickle moody moon unveil your heavenly equation north south east west  beat the drums blow winds show the path to healing path of the heart blood dirt hair *** bare the mystery of your trance dance the ghost dance sacred woman with ovaries cycles flow smell beautiful girl eyes sweetness strange awkward skinny scruffy boy great bear spirit bird jumping fish wise turtle where are you why is there no one to back me? jean paul sartre what was your last thought before you died? was it nausea? nothingness? or a wish?
Mary McCray Apr 2015
(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 9, 2015)

The tendency to forget information that can be found readily online by using Internet search engines.


This information is the result of my searches on Google this morning:

• “Never memorize something that you can look up.” Online this quote is widely attributed to Albert Einstein.

• “[I do not] carry such information in my mind since it is readily available in books. ...The value of a college education is not the learning of many facts but the training of the mind to think.” This was Einstein in response to not knowing the speed of sound as included in the Edison Test. (Wikiquote)

• Many people wear the same clothes every day. In Einstein’s case this was a grey suit--the reason being that our thinking time is wasted making irrelevant wardrobe decisions. I also re-read the Henry David Thoreau quote about life being frittered away by detail. But when considering what is being frittered, you could add the mind, the spirit, time itself. This idea was part of Thoreau’s “simplicity, simplicity” quote which I once bought as a magnet from the museum at Walden Pond in the fall of 2001. I didn’t remember that date. I just googled a story about the trip, (www.apeculture.com/travel/boston.htm). In any case, I felt the magnet was being ironic. Like Einstein, President Barack Obama wears the same variation of two suits every day in order to “pare down decisions.” Apple genius Steve Jobs wore the same thing every day as does Facebook co-founder Mark Zuckerberg. (Elite Daily: elitedaily.com/money/science-simplicity-successful-people-wear-thing-every-day/849141/)

• Google is creating personalities for androids, personalities that will live in the cloud and can be swapped into robots. I plan to forget this information because it’s creepy and like Ripley in the movie Alien, I’m suspicious of androids unless they are like Lance Henriksen in the movie Aliens in which case I would probably buy that personality for my robot if I had one.

• I also found out today that Google's images section, (which I use religiously when blogging), was created due to Jennifer Lopez’s green floral Versace dress, the one that opened like a surgical split to her navel, the one that caused such a kerfuffle when she wore it to the 2000 Grammy Awards and everyone searched Google fruitlessly for it afterwards. I’ve forgotten about that dress because I hated it. It looked like a Miami house-robe for one thing and I don’t like any couture that structurally hangs off *****.

• Google also announced a new patent today for a warning system that protects you from pop culture spoilers on Internet pages. If you think about it, this warning system will protect you from Google itself. Sometimes a little information ruins everything.

• I found all of this Google news on Google News.

• You can find more Einstein quotes here:  brightdrops.com/albert-einstein-quotes, one particular quote informs me that creativity is knowing how to hide your sources.

• D’oh!

• Which is a word I have always remembered because the great poet Homer said it.
Hello Poetry doesn't allow linkage in poems which created a problem for my Google-based poem today! To access the links you can cut and paste them into your browser.
Gracie Anne Nov 2023
I was floating in honey.
The viscosity of the substance
Made it so that, while I still needed to work
To keep my head afloat,
I had a little extra support.
So I didn't have to do it alone.
And it was good.

But my temperature began to rise.
I became too hot too fast, and,
Because of my actions
I started to destroy the beneficial parts
That the honey needed to remain useful and healthy.
So the honey reacted:
Threw my melting self out of its jar.
I tried to jump back in
But the honey firmly ******* its lid back on,
And my charring fists
Fruitlessly pounded on the boundary
The honey had erected.

Then as my body and brain burned,
The other honey jars disappeared-
Distancing in acts of self-preservation.
I knew how I could get my temperature
Back to baseline.
I just needed a little help
So I could work to get back to my normal self.
But my actions had pushed away what I needed.
So I accepted the fate I had caused,
And allowed my body to fall to ash.
i wrote this after my therapist of 8ish years dropped me after two years of long-term residential pysch places just when i was ready to drop back down to the level of care she provided. that was 2 years ago, and although i've since learned that her remaining with me for so long was unethical, it still hurts and i still blame myself.
Matthew Skelly Sep 2016
Never should I love,
For never will you love me.

Never will your deep, blue eyes
Look in mine and read my mind,
Like a psychic running her fingers along the lines of my palms.
Palms that belong to hands you’ll never hold,
And handle with care like you would antique china
And at the same time grip with a firmness that tells me you’ll never let go.
You’ll never let go because you’ll never wrap your soft,
warm arms around me in the first place.
Your soul will never entangle with mine and fill that void
Left by a **** sliced deep within me.

A **** left by my father’s youth,
And my mother’s faith,
Whose knife cut out their acceptance for me
And gouged out my trust in them.

Can’t you see that you are the antidote to my lifelong suffering?
The Accutane to my welted face,
The braces to my crooked teeth,
The nitro to my aching heart
The rhino to my bulging nose
The morphine to my broken mind,
The running to my fading health
Running, running, running away
Far away from this broken house
Where your dreams never do come true and
Where you come out to yourself alone in the bathroom and
Where they can’t ever know the truth because my house is
Where God resides in the attic and
Where Jesus is the only one you should let in your room at night and
Where The Holy Spirit has possessed us all to live a lie because my house is
Where lifelong love is dead at the delivery room
And who is there to blame but me?

Who is there to blame but me?

But none of that matters to you.
It can’t matter to you,
Because all you do is love
And love
And love
And love
And love.

But you never love me.

Each year I have known you
I have reached out farther than the last,
Yearning for something I could never obtain.
Fifteen pushes past Fourteen,
Both of whom fall short of Sixteen’s growing arms,
Which are narrowly outpaced by Seventeen’s spindly, wirey fingertips.

Every Year’s efforts have met the same fate;
Failing to reach their target they instead grasp fruitlessly
Into a dark, brewing storm,
Full of tears,
And of crackling sparks of hope
That are met with the resounding booms of fate
Telling me that I am doomed to be alone.

Telling me that never should I love,
For never will you love me.

But I never listen.
Because I know you too well.
And I know that someday,
Someday soon,
You’ll make the happy accident
Of stepping too close to my many straining hands,
And I’ll pull you near to me
And you’ll realize that you never loved her at all.

And that you always,
always have loved me.

-The Boy Who Loves You Too
Life for me has been no crystal stair.
No steps of marble, granite or gold lay apt for my ascension.
No—I have climbed through thickets and thorns.
I have persevered—I have triumphed.
Yet it seems, despite these hardships,
life has always afforded me second chances.
The delicacy of my actions,
the sensitivity of negative repercussions
scarcely affected my younger self.

Opportunities always seemed to present themselves.
Though money and its evils have graced my experience,
my soul remains relatively innocent and refined.

Though I have, on past occasions,
become enveloped in the physical substance,
I quickly learned the long term suffering that these ideations efface
far out-shadows the temporary pleasure of the immediate.
I have overcome afflictions both physical and mental,
and lingered in the pleasure of remission.
Quickly to be reminded how easily diseases can emerge
when disregarded.

I’ve learned that of all things in life—
love, above all, deserves attention and sentiment.
Love, with all its purities and imperfections,
more often fruitlessly sought after than easily attained.
Love, above all other things, cannot be imitated, falsified or forged.
And though I spent some years deprived of this blessing,
I am none the more depraved for it.

I am lucky to say that I have loved.
My heart, delicately and handsomely entwined with another.
And that I am loved in return is a blessing beyond bounds.
Adoration and all its accompaniments are the greatest treasure in a lifetime.
For, what are treasures worth without anyone to share them with?
Any other accomplishments and joys are devalued without companionship.
And indeed, a faithful companion is most appreciated in times of hardship—
the throes, truncheon and tribulation of the everyday
faced alone can prove debilitating.

A great man once said “Life is a bowl of cherries.”
It took many years for me to understand the full meaning of this declaration.
But now I understand—
that each of us reachs into life,
like we reach into a bowl of cherries.
We know not whether what we receive
will be pitted and bitter
or sweet and juicy.
We will not know;
we cannot know,
not until we take a bite.
And if there is anything I have learned
it is to live and let live.
It is to reach into life, unbridled yet controlled,
with morals and constraint
and yet bereft of the fear of outcome:
the guilt of the past,
the impeccable omnipotent pressure of the present,
the trepidation of the future,
and the transience between the three.
The acceptance of this passage through time:
aging,
learning,
making mistakes,
making new mistakes,
loving:
this is how to live.
For, if we fear time,
which we cannot control,
we will always be afraid.
To live a life afraid is to embrace hardship.
Any semblance of hope or happiness
is abandoned with the acceptance and embrace of fear,
for fear, without use or cause
is the impetus of great misjudgment and injury.
We must, to avoid this,
relish in moments of happiness
and string them together
with the constant felicity and solace of companionship.
EJ Aghassi Nov 2014
never in my life,
Or in the span of the last few weeks

have I ever,
and yes I could go even further

felt so starved,
really I mean starved, vexed hunger

for some sort of notion,
reminder of a working heart and lungs

a feeling of substance,
something I search for fruitlessly

in a world that works,
in its subtle enigmatic ways

to alienate,
or provide an artificial basis for it

but that is so very beautiful,
and I think I really mean that

I want it and I want it now
I want the world at my throat
I want women and all
Other embodiments
Of all things beautiful
at either side of me

Adoring eyes, widened and excited
scanning in disbelief
waiting for the dream to end
because a dream so pure and good
will never last
and it doesn't and it won't
because it doesn't exist
to begin with

but a thought so pretty
forever forcing itself into existence

I want my dream to begin

I want these things to be my end
I am human
mt Nov 2013
And now,
Ladies and Gentlemen
The story of a man
Who lived and died inside his own head
Came into this world on a whim
And left on a whisper
Leaving behind just his footsteps
For the waves on the nights
Darkness came too early
To wash away,
Clean to the bone
Leaving just the shiny purity
And reflections for those interested
In the forest,
As all good mad men roam,
He got lost on the edge of,
Between beginnings and endings
And no real divisions.
Occasionally, finding a wise man
To split his time with
Making it the three of them
Him, the man,
And them together
Roaming with direction
But still purposeless
Because a purpose
Would be their downfall.
He feels most comfortable
When he is certain there is no guide
No difference between territory, charted
and uncharted
Because there's no one to make maps
Only forays forward
Leave the paths clear
Spontaneous insight lost soon enough
Mystic Seam on his forehead
Childish gleam in his one blind eye
The Silly Being
Cutting his way
Through the molasses, thick
Of time
Space, inconsequential
But he knows,
The only certainty he dares carry
Is that heaven,
Heaven, doesn't begin.
Cannot be reached.
The pearly gates are grim
Not a soul passes through them
But too many
Leave through the alley exit
For Heaven is not a place
Heaven is time
Time well spent
Because the burden of passing
Is forgotten
Destroying gates
And slicing meaning
Road block!
Why!
Only in my head!
Detour!
Runs out of steam
Pure words
tainted
lost again
run off the road
missed the stream
Back to a story
A story of myself
Framed in bigger terms
Thoughts, thinking of big
And ego eating dinner
It's what the doctor ordered.
Trying to convince
What it could be, nothing
to be nothing
go nowhere
while paths grow and clean themselves
Srubbed raw
swallowed by my
tallest trees, growing richly
inside a small world
with deep holes
to **** and cling to
Being Nobody is an Overcoming
Defeating the propaganda of Somebody
The self lies
It can only grasp
Fruitlessly
It finds for itself
It can't see beyond
No!
Never that simple!
To save yourself you must save the world
Only fools grab all they can

"Only fools rush in"

Only fools stay back
Playing with fire
It's a prophesy
Doing it because we can
Is the route to go
The only route we know
There are no reasons
Sometimes directions
Even if they lead nowhere
Right back atcha'
Screaming, cuddling
Cuddling?
I'm not the sentimental type
At least,
I pretend not to be
Maybe it shows
I don't know
That's what it comes down to
Yeah,
I don't know

I can't remember a single thing I heard on the news
Even if it's all engrained in
My bark brain
A pair of loveless lovers
Wanted to prove to themselves
So they cut into my soft brain
Their own story
And I would return the favor
But I lost the binding to the pages
Of my story
But if I could so humbly request
O,
Greatest Story Tellers
And Yarn Spinners
Of our time
I would very much like it
If I was, humbly mind you,
The Greatest Story
You ever told

But Nameless
It would be my overcoming
There would be no excuse
Not to do great things
Even better if no one
Knew that I did them
It would fill my heart
And be a great conversation piece

"Hey Ladies..."

Pull up one eyebrow
Flip out my pocket-halo

"I've done it, done it all.
Not that you would know"
Just the way I'd like it
Then remind myself
I hate bars
And talk a walk home
Late at night
(Okay, maybe a jog)
(Fine, a sprint)
The night suffocates
If you hold your own neck closed
It's a nice change from day.
People have finally turned on
Engaged
Maybe its the fear,
Time to relax
I've forgotten that
But seeing others alive
Is the last thing that reminds me, I am
I am, too.

And, I hate heredity
It can make folks forget
That
They are, too
I inherited nothing
Except confusion
And that's the only gift to offer
Because
You know you love someone when you can be
Confused, together
It would bore me to death
If we could understand each other
That might just be
My Neurotic Impotence talking
Looking for an excuse to shiver in place
Yes,
Neurotic Impotence
not
neurotic impotence
It's my second name
I hate middle names
People keep them secrets
For no reason
I hate secrets
Secrets don't exist
Somebody always knows them
So they can't be very secret
National Secrets, too
Give my my cut
I'm a gossip
And I've run out of stuff
To ride conversations
Straight into
I don't do enough weird things
Or get involved too often
To tell a good story
The windows to my mind
Are sufficient
I've been informed,
That they're quite pretty, also
Makes me feel a bit better
About all the time I've invested
At staring at the tops of trees

Not much, actually

It makes me look pensive, I think
Almost like I know what I'm doing
That saddest part is that
I'm not completely lost either.
Hovering in the middle
Neither here, nor There
Typical, I suppose
So's indulgence
But I say,
Kids,
Older folk devoid of experience,
Indulge
Only in yourself, however
Indulgence isn't the problem
It's not knowing why

Now let me preach a minute
True prophets
Ask for nothing in return
Not a dime,
The good ones,
Not even your attention
They stand on their private
Street corners telling to the stars
In both hushed whispers
And crashing screeches
About what they think
And the day the find
A disciple
They will be pleasantly surprised  
Because that was never part of the the plan
They are prophets
And saviors
Because they are the select few
Who saved themselves

And now,
The man we talked about earlier
He's still alone
He's a bit afraid
Enough so to not find someone
To tread the waters with him
Because he is an almost fearless man
He doesn't fear scenery
Place, and time all the same
It's the implications that weigh heavily
On a psyche that's already burdened itself
On long bus rides
To remind himself (and his good pal,
psyche)
That he isn't going anywhere
The city he thought he was bored of
Has slipped into the background
And now that the future
Might just
Actually happen
It's time to freeze in place

It's a nice break against the pushing
rush of reality
To stop and smell the roses
While right behind
His back,
The world implodes
The sky blossoms open
Only fools rush in
Only fools stand back
Survey the scene and you
will lose the gist
The parts will show themselves
And you'll miss the whole
That's where it's alive
Don't get so caught up in the pieces
It's the weight
You'll drown in
It's a little death in the family
Enough to shake it up a little bit
Thanksgiving, dig in
One less the thing to worry about
And one more thing to write off
I'm sure there's a grand deduction for it.

Remember when I said I hate things?
That's not true
I don't hate anything
Things only exist, and are
Because other things are
That they aren't
And I can't love
So there's no hate
Nothing to compare it to
It's more of an empty feeling
With a silver lining,
It passes quickly
I haven't found the thing I just Hate yet
There's always a catch
Call the Holy Hotline,
There's always a catch
We're here for your calls, 24/7!
Heaven is neon
Brothels, tight lipped doors
It's
Sanctified Skidrow
Baptized in Hard Liquor out
By the chalice alley
The heavenly Saints
Who were brought down
Straight from
"Up There (He's smiling down on us,
I swear I can feel it, if I strain really hard and pop the blood vessels in one of
my good eyes, He's there, He's always there. I swear, She told me so,
Late at night, screaming o god at the ceiling, That's when I feel him,
***** blood and Canonized ***)"
These saints, now,
Or perhaps Saints,
Mumble to themselves
And sing invisible praises
It's weird
The visionaries are all weird
But to be insane in an insane world
Offers a sliver of freedom
Between all the crucifixions and handcuffs
White noise, and head banging

I never got
What other people called
Soul Searching
Because I did it everyday
Being broken down
and rebuilt every week
Goodbye o, Worldly World!
Not too cruel
But never too nice, either

This is not the end
I realized
That there is no end,
Is there?
That's the only certainty

And the man asked me,
"There's no end is there?"
Cigarette in mouth, limp
No, no
There never is
And the walls
We have built
Will collapse
If we turn our backs on them long enough
And soon enough
The Hopeless
Caught on each side of the wall
Will have to to unwind
Themselves
From the thick braid
They've found themselves in
Insanity
Unwinds the same way
Curling inwards
From the corner of my closed eye
Fractal Freedom
In a million parts
Twisting into
The beautiful whole
To be at liberty
To uncoil again
Back here again?
Always back here
Insanity
Before and again
And the big wide world would
Drive you so
If you dared understand it

I think I
Might just be part
Of an elite class
The ****-ups
The movers and shakers
But never the pushers
The world rotating around them
Looking for an in
Exits to nowhere aplenty

But right now,
I sit Here
Sterile, and sick
The man's voice buzzes, and rattles
Like the old AC at my grandma's apartment
The air,
Almost as dry
His low hum splits would could be
A comfortable silence
And I suppose,
That's why they think we're here
For all the "could be's"
The first words out of my mouth
Are a shrieking car crash
The mechanical man
Has such a grip
On the Atmosphere
His cogs and wires
Are free from the disease
That i Am
Rotting in my seat
Outside, where I cannot go,
The sky is static

Why is it static?
I'm afraid
It's been that way too long
And now my walls melt into the sky
Buzzing and Flickering
Low Light
The worst
It's now a diagnosis
Tell me what I have
Please oh please
It's in my head
But feels like my chest
Sitting in place
Might be
Cruel and Unusual
Long walks on the beach sound nice
But alone
If you can be with me, and alone
You're the one
-Aw....thanks me!-

And it scares me,
Like many things
The dreary rounds
I make each day
That I've built my own prison
I might just find myself
More free in a cell
(Free up my schedule a bit, just a bit)

And facing that mechanical man,
My voice dries up
Pulling my thoughts
Down with it
Flush
A soft touch to
The hard lighting

Uh,
Maybe I need to lay down
Where the grass cuts my shins
I've given up
There's nothing but god above us
And nothing below us
The sky is god
And it is empty.
This poem began as what I would like to think of as cohesive, but I just let my thoughts lead me and let it snowball into whatever the hell it has turned into.
JR Potts Sep 2015
It felt as though the humidity itself
carried a hint of liquor as we walked
out into the night, wanting only to escape
our lives for a little.
Deep down in Vieux Carre
twisted brass clashed with a piano
running half step from the crowded clubs
on Frenchman Street.
We filled our lungs with the city
and found her to be like certain kinds
of dangerous doses--
intoxicating.

It was our second night
and the more we drank
the more I began to see glimpses
of the specters spoken of by locals.
They linger in my peripheral,
watching me with their sunken eyes.
You could faintly hear them moan,
only in defeated tones
and their collective scowl danced
in the heavy air of summer
as though it were a part from
all that jazz.

In the stranger hours of morn
I was approached by a ghost
a few blocks off Bourbon.
He offered up nothing but his ***** palms
in hopes of some false salvation.
I wrestled a dollar from my pocket
and passed it on to him,
only to watch him fruitlessly grasp at it
before it slide through his ghostly hands
to the floor below.
He looked down at the dollar
all helpless-like and he said
"It’s been slipping through my fingers
like dat for years now
and ain't nobody help’n me."

I walked from him, realizing then
why I had needed this trip,
I needed to remember all the love in my life
because the only difference between
me and the ghosts of N'awlins
was someone cared about me,
and I cared enough about them
not to destroy myself.
Yousra Amatullah Dec 2021
He got distracted by the shimmering of a fruitless mirage

He drank until drunk

Dust covered up his tongue, forcing his heart to swallow stone

He drank until dust

He drank until mirroring
The very same mirage

He drank,
Fruitlessly
tap Mar 2015
i fruitlessly waste time searching for the time i lost.
My tongue shakes to the rhythm of the undead
It's useless praying against all that I said
You end up unscarred 0% alive
For people you end up dead just another stone named R.I.P.

No words of apology to help you through
Heaven awaits in vain, as Hell beckons you
Bargaining your life on both hand sides
Hell pays more than what Heaven calls most

Greedy as you are you choose the dark side
Rotting as Satan laughs and tortures you
Came to realize a mistake was made
Fruitlessly awaiting nothing for all the sins you repented
Shackled to doom, your life wasn't yours anymore
You wondered what worse yet was still in store

You beg to my feet to appeal to the Lord
You throw your hands in despair as I see you burn, with glee
Why should I help you when I had been through the same in history?
licensed under Creative Commons Attribution, Non-Commercial, Share Alike.
Rochelle R Jun 2014
Silently, "I need to tell you something."
I approach. Falter, walk away.

I need to break this bond I have with silence,
This unhealthy affair I have with solitude.

I haven't even the energy to pull the words up from my stomach.
I heave,
Retching out nothing but bile and air.

I have so many things to say,
Passing fruitlessly through the space between my ears.

Speaking of space, that seams to be where I exist.
It's either that, or this is Purgatory.

Hell.
Too much conscience to be clinically depressed,
Too far gone to be "normal",
Nothingness.

"This is what it feels like to be a ghost."
To no one, again.
Anna Jones Jun 2015
Update my page
List this
Pin that
Tweet
Repost
Resend
Got no time to chat

White canvas
Endless pixels
A sight for sore eyes
Fruitlessly searching
Social media
For an elusive prize

Scandal
Gossip
Salacious juice
Lines between
Real and fantasy
Reach a truce

Inbox injunction
Endless mail
I want to call it a day
They’ve got some nerve;
‘Be more sociable,’ they say

In cyber space
There’s an infinite world of possibilities
Save for when
We’re face to face

Travelling along
The endless lines
Towards an unknown destination
Lost in ourselves,
We killed the art of conversation

Look at the posts
They’re neverending;
Babies, kittens
See what’s trending
Feeling smitten?
Oh look at all those words,
I haven’t written…

Don’t mind me
I’m just scrolling through.
Sarah Spang Dec 2015
I am
Nothing more
Than a bag of bones.
My rib cage
Is a prison you rend
In twain, tear the mesh,
And sift fruitlessly through.
I am
An empty shell
You discarded;
All unraveled ends
And frayed edges.
I am
Orange peels
Carrying the essence
Of something sweet
As an echo of scent
And color-
-I will
Return to the earth
And start again.
Sorry for the long hiatus, been busting my **** to make a dent in some school loans, but I promise to post a bit more consistently. Thank you to the people who emailed and asked me to continue.

To make a small donation if you enjoy my poetry, visit my GoFundMe:

https://www.gofundme.com/Sarahquil
Sean C Johnson Feb 2013
The faint hint of tension left the air pungent
a mordantly eerie undertone that I couldn't scrape from the sky
even with a sharp stare from bright eyes
there was a subconscious pause in your voice, the type of momentary disillusioned understanding of a shortcoming
the sudden realization of a lassitude onset left these battered feet aching to stop running
the tread was fresh, anxiously beckoning to simply go
an inner utterance gently murmuring no
perchance the time was not sufficient
quite possibly these watch hands that had seen better days, now judge time slightly different
their past experiences dictating the liveliness and youthful ticks of yesteryear to a far more relaxed tock with decades of chasing it's counterpart
I became the minutes to your hour, fruitlessly chasing you round the rotation to greet and depart with your change of heart
the seconds became the tension
building anticipation as I watched them sweep
feeling the next moment we'd meet, pain-stakingly creep
until I find myself here again air thick with tension, hanging still and pungent
I remain for a minute just watching the seconds keep running...
Michael W Noland Jun 2013
Eventually

We all become believers
You will see

We all hit the gutters
And deceive
What we know
Into what we need

Feeding
On the hope
To cope
With the NO
Of every plea

Foiling
The gaping holes
While fruitlessly
Feathering dreams
Of ceasing
To be

Anywhere but there
Anywhere but here

Afraid and aware
Lying barren
On a hair

To everywhere
But where we want to be

Your everything
Believed in our belief
In our grieving
Of a meme

Obsolete and teething on a ***

Seething in seeing it
Unseamed
And undone
Unto nothing

Disconnected dots
Unlit

Breathing out
And away
From meaning

Slightly clinging
To the things
Believed
To Matter

Scattered over
The tattered matters
In meteor
Metaphors
Seeding
The other chapters

But not until after
Factoring in
The tractor beams
Of nothing

Just waiting

On the bottom
Of the gut
Crawling up
The throat lumps

And stuffing our luck

With all the succulent stuff
We are made of

Until eruptions
Of higher functions

Save us
From the ****

When enough
Is enough
And we just stop
Giving a ....

And let go

Blow after blow
Until we know
Who is in control

Of what is real
And what is
Made up

From atoms to the eave
Of our dreams
We must glean
What we need to

To get us through
These words
Of hurt
Out from lurking
In the work
Of our enemies

Forever tempting me
To blaspheme
In the wake

Of your passing

The endeavoring
Ever lasting
In careful mapping
Of the synapses
Collapsing
Into relief

Though brief

Locked in eternity
Oh the possibilities

My everything
And my humility

Locked in a single thought

In anxiety
Gone quietly

My hands before me

Steady

Always ready
Blanket me
In blank

Make me
Or break me

Take me

To forever
Wrenderlust Oct 2013
The café rumbles like the belly of a fasting saint,
voices competing with the clanks of silverware.
In the tearoom a boy with a tangle of wires
leaking from an unzipped backpack
struts between tables, billing himself as a "human hotspot".
He wears the same glasses you do;
they slip down his nose as he leans over to flirt with the waitress
in the red apron, who taps her nails against the cash register
and laughs at his bad jokes, she tells me, because
he wears his pants too high, just like her brother used to.

A man with a soup-stained button down and a bald spot
introduces himself as Peter Ling, proprietor,
oracle of the inner city rummage sale,
advisor to the lost and hungry.
He doles out pithy wisdom and lentils into mismatched bowls-
"You want therapy? Try your ex boyfriend."
The four of us hide our grins, and flee
to his cavernous basement. As we go spelunking
through the puddles left by a burst pipe,
clambering past bloated books and warped furniture,
Emma Miller swears that she slept here once-
on a moldy brown sofa crouched like a hibernating bear
among empty Heineken bottles.

The expedition yields four boxes of acupuncturist leaflets
and a damp antique suitcase filled with seeds,
who seized the opportunity to germinate,
their tiny roots searching fruitlessly
in the mildewed silk lining.
Ling says he's going to try gardening this year,
serve up spaghetti squash grown out back by the garage.

We sowed pea shoots and salad greens
in glass jars pilfered from a claw-footed armoire
that lay on its side, defeated, like the last of the saber-tooths.
I named one for you, tucked Eruca vesicaria sativa
into potting soil, and set it on the balcony railing-
tempting fate and gravity, because you always liked a little excitement
with your afternoon cup of rooibos.
I didn't see the girl who knocked you off your perch,
saw only the sun's sharp gleam off the glass
as the jar plunged, graceful as a slow-motion train wreck
on its arc toward the concrete,
and Peter Ling reached up with his big, calloused hand
to break your fall.
Michelle Graham Feb 2012
Here is where I find us
When I've had a few too many
Tossed back with no abandon in an attempt
Desperately
To wash you away

Here is where I find you
Feeble drunken fumbling endeavors
In bed with someone whose name I can't recall
Fruitlessly
Hoping to forget

Here is where I find me
Head pounding as gray daylight pours in
Through my clouded mind
Regretfully
Knowing you'll remain
Life's a Beach Oct 2013
The casket rolls by, far up ahead
and chorister's choirs sing the dead
to rest.
Those who are left behind, left awake,
to find solace on Earth within another.

Far from their mother,
brother,
sister,
lover or
other.

They're left to suffer above the ground,
fruitlessly searching for the sound of
a heartbeat,
a whisper,
a sign,
that once more they might wipe off
the grime of dirt and earth,
watch a rebirth,
feel a kiss,
a hug
a brief second of love
again from the person they
have left.

The death that has left them bereft
of everything.

"Without them, there is nothing."
Feels half formed, will try editing soon.
Sarah Spang Jun 2014
I used sit beneath the shroud
Of stars that swathed the sky,
And gaze at length, with wistfulness
At Moon’s cycloptic eye.

My eyes absorbed familiarly
What were in my own.
Her perfect luminescent face
Despite the scars that shown.

I wondered if she missed the earth
Around whom she did dance
And if she tried, fruitlessly
To catch his lonely glance.

They’d never touch or cross in path
On journey through the sky
She knew this, and so did I
No matter how she tried.

I wonder beneath the moon
All wrapped up in the sky
But now I know just how it feels
To only ever pine.
Nikki Belle Feb 2015
Her soul is made of
scattered glass and broken spirits.
Her flesh is pockmarked
with bruises and cuts.
Her face radiates with
agony and despair.
Tears shine
like freshly polished crystals
Mouth frozen open.
Cannot move, cannot
reach the blessed silence.
Of which fragments of me
try fruitlessly to
Hide in, to give in to
cowardice.
2/23/14
I’ve spent time I’d rather not count
hoping fruitlessly,
by an impenetrable sense of obligation
that can only belong to the delusional,
with the last specimen of hope
whose blood I have drained dry,
just waiting
for a disappointment
that I now expect.

I wake up every morning with
hopes of you,
and rush out of bed as though I haven’t waited months
just to hear you say something,
     just something
          only once…

I come home every night with
erased expectations
that dutifully regenerate
in stubbornly constant dreams
haunted by your face

Wake up.
It’s a new day
Just like yesterday
and every day before that
were meant to be.
Unknown Jan 2014
We were thirteen and perfect for each other. We had the same sense of humor and only survived those heinously awkward pre-teen parties by laughing at jokes that no one else understood. We used to play-fight like siblings and run after each other tossing synthetic threats back and forth. I was faster than him, though he wouldn’t say so, and would catch him often - but he always surrendered nicely with a sweet little kiss.
    At that time we were young, inexperienced and painfully shy, so our kisses were commonly swift and polite – never anything Nicholas Sparks would appreciate – but there was something about those contemporary-type kisses that stirred something inside my child’s consciousness. Our lips caused ripples in my belly that tempted me to believe that perhaps this was more than just a tweeny courtship.

A fair amount of months passed before her eventually kicked me off the wagon. Prep school was over and we were off to high school – him to a private boarding school and me to a public school the soccer moms “would rather not talk about.” I was devastated and have yet to open myself up to anyone like I did to him. You see, I had broken off such a large piece of my figurative heart that I didn’t have enough left to share with anyone else.

Now I’ve a high school’s worth of non-existent Valentines roses and I've yet to leave the faetal position.

I've been talking about it for so long that my pool of friends there to console me has shriveled up into an unhealthy puddle of nothing. Hell, I’ve drank up so much of that resource that I may have left a dent where it used to stand. Picture me sniffing around a dried up pile of nothing fruitlessly looking for someone to tell my sob-story to – it's not far off.

Now here’s the gold;
I suppose I had set my standards so high that I’ve not let anyone else so much as see the bar let alone challenge it. That or my first boyfriend was so utterly terrified by my company that he wrote an article about me in the Guy Code and I now walk around with a blinking sign on my forehead. Either way, I’m as lonely as anything and have reached the point where I think of fictional characters as more actual than many of my fellow humans.

Tumblr help me.
So it's not a poem - but it's something that I've been needing to say
Sean C Johnson Sep 2013
The familiar wrenching in my gut when you speak of love
The acidic burns and aches I keep bottled up
Become a flashflood
Rushing through my veins, poisioned lines constricting and forcing my extremities to spasm
You cast your words fruitlessly into the chasm
The indescribable void that lies before us
My hands scraped and bloodied from tearing down the nails that keep your heart boarded up
I can never break through the barrier you have erected
I leave myself vulnerable to your outlashes, you remain overly protected
Sheltered from the reality that is the extension of my love through every action
Every emotion you stockpile and ration
Maintaining a craving in the depths of my essence
For your ill fated presence
You bask in the symphonies that expel from my eyes gazing
Hear the strings and percussions playing
Without every fully repaying
Any emotional debt you may have accumulated over time
Fingers dancing along every line
I have written vast and true as the moon above
Yet I feel the familiar wrenching in my gut when you speak of love...
Cody Veal May 2010
i sat there mystified,
my eyes lost in hers.

i searched fruitlessly for something witty to say,
trying to coax out a smile, a laugh.

as her quiet discontentment radiated outward,
i yearned to pick the right words,
some way to calm the storm brewing.

my thoughts flickered to earlier that day:
her eyes, deep, sparkling jewels.

her hair framing every stunning feature of her face.

her laugh, a luxurious liqueur,
and i longed to drink and drink and drink.

all i wished to do, was to bring her to that place again,
to bring her joy; to make her happy.
(c) Cody Veal 2010
nothing-for-something-poetry.blogspot.com
Madison Brewer Sep 2012
So
it is said
she should be dead.
Her trials and turmoils engulfed the strength
beneath her thick, pallid skin.
Her hair frayed to puffy lengths of dried rope.
Her eyes seeking fruitlessly behind and beneath their
center of focus.
The throat a collapsed mine shaft, the men
who once labored in hopes for the reward of her ore
trapped within.

So dismayed, so drained, so damaged.
So frail in her failing strength that love herself would love her.

Near to bursting or imploding,
the skin stretches and hangs,
undulating in its near-death tug-of-war.
Her prisoners gasp for air, the canaries,
yellow,
sickened and grayed by ash.

So far gone that love herself would love her.
Fleur Sep 2022
Pleading for a purchased god
Romanticized for its ancien régime
Celiac, and yet I licked the wheat paste
Of the letter I was was trimmed A4

In all that time spent by the basin
(and its traffic-trimming wetlands)
I only rode my bike to the depot
To color code my calendar

When capital kept its calls collect,
When the gravy train kept me idle
Each chamber would be emptied
Fruitlessly: punch drunk with praise

(Indulge a little)

Each from four through five: orchestrated
The plains always claim the sixth
(Respecting the tradition of western folk)
Only three will ever threaten treatment
A stream-of-consciousness bout of grief over a gravy train and the threat its indefinite departure presents.
Josh Harrison Oct 2012
The cold wheels hit the tarmac as a hiker falls back into his bed,
their screeching din like a wailing baby contaminated all around,  
but their anarchic cries fruitlessly fell when they finally came to stand still,
then down the stairs and into the lobby two lovers could finally hold hands.
Abeja Reina Jan 2017
I BLAME YOU AT&T;!!
For all the tears my baby must be crying thinking I am not there.
For all the calls he is trying to send me and I do not get YOU AT&T;!!
For all the lovely text message I am positive he is desperately sending me, YOU AT&T;!!

For all the "Good morning beautiful's " his strong hands are furiously texting me each and every day AT&T;!!
For all those wonderful "I love you's" he has to be trying fruitlessly to send me throughout the long and lonely days, YOU AT&T;!!
For all the " I miss you baby's" my sweet love must be tearfully hoping I will get, YOU AT&T;!!
I BLAME YOU AT&T;!!
Thomas Maltuin May 2015
-Is not poetry
-Just blank prose on a blank page
-Devoid of meaning

That was a haiku
listing its own description
maybe this is too

Fruitlessly search her
Find her pointless intention
Flog her innocence

Be not satisfied
consummate your great wisdom
speak of your power

From literal farce
the meaning of life is found
flourish as she dies
Please comment what this poem means to you.  The beaut of poetry is what the reader gets out of it. As our minds try to understand the mysterious,  we imply our own assumption from unique experience which leads to infinite perspectives of an infinitesimal point.  By sharing we find the common denominator that is unknown to even the author.
The uniVerse Aug 2016
I still remember all the stuff I did
when I was just a little kid
such warm memories
of chasing squirrels and climbing trees
running free and flying kites
I would never flee getting in fights
so much energy riding bikes
no such jeopardy going on hikes.

I would sit for hours
and imagine I had super powers
where I could fly
across the fields
and wave at passersby's
on tops of hills
I used to read so many books
and didn't care about the way I looked
please bring back that small child
so once again I can truly smile.

I believed the world was full with good
that everybody had some food
I guess my parents protected me
so reality I couldn't see
when really its filled with so much bad
where half the world is starving
and the other half sad
why would anyone want to have a child?
to raise them in a world so desolate and wild.

Sometimes I wish I was still ten
but this is now and that was then
I may no longer have my innocence
long since squandered for independence
free to travel where I could only dream
and see the things I've never seen
so I may not smile so easily
or still laugh as freely
but I can love you dearly
for now I understand
so clearly
what it means when you hold my hand
and what it's like to truly kiss
I now know what love really is
not a word thrown about in playgrounds
but something grown from the heart that pounds
only when you are around.

So if I had my time again
to live my life from the age of ten
I wouldn't worry about the little things
or care what the future brings
I would seize every opportunity
Instead of living my life so fruitlessly
I may only write nothing but the truth
but it means nothing without my youth.
This is a follow up to another poem I wrote called 'Nothing But the Truth' however I have not posted that poem because its deeply personal and 3 times as long. This was originally written on 31/3/14.
kayla morrison Jun 2013
Timeis running short,
infinity is nearing it's end,
and ours.
The wax has spilled over
onto the table.
The candle is flickering,
gasping for air,
clinging fruitlessly
to a fleeting life.
The wick, the timeline of our love
is burning down to nothing
soon extinguished.
Just getting back into writing after  a year or so....be gentle
Paris Adamson Apr 2013
your unforgiving body, supple
when rolling through my fingers:
the sands of you
are so cold when the night comes.
and in the blackness of your empty beach
i rub driftwood together
fruitlessly trying to extract
a single spark of fervor.
in the brisk silvers of the moon,
i wish your warmth would stay with me
for more than the time it takes
your body heat to leave the sheets.
i will forever pick these slivers from my palms,
stinging every time you crawl naked
to place your body on my blisters again.
Jessica Saunders Aug 2013
i suffocate
under the weight of the burdens
laid out on my chest
fruitlessly i struggle, there is no rest
i’d like to believe there’s a reprieve
out there for someone like me
but I know that’s a fallacy
i’m too eager to see
M W Feb 2013
I am having trouble
when my head hits my pillow
the weight pushes me,

Downwards further into
the sunken mattress depressed
throughout the sleep years,

Back in time when rest
came easily and I did not
have to chase dream sheep,

But I lay awake
and fruitlessly search in the
refrigerator.

— The End —