"guilts" poems
I find
Myself
Among common folk
Amidst the real deal
Throwing beers back
Gulping shots
Admitting false guilts
Believing hateful ideals
Bad things
Happen when not
In the right mind
You can't remember
What went wrong
Or
What went perfectly right
But she remains
Beautiful in my memories
Absolutely breathtaking
In my
Lucid dreams
As gorgeous as
a Leonid Afremov painting
Like a hailstorm in august
Unexpected but
Gorgeous
Like you
My dear
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 10:44 PM UTC
If wishes could be measure,
Clem would have reign in wealth,
Before he had a date with death.
Poverty battled with him with all pleasure.
In the tribulation, all his gray eyes saw was a
jubilating future.
In my clan, the death are kings,
Their testimony barely bear guilts,
Tales of that of dove and angelic.
In these imperfect world, they are made perfect and heroic.
That of clem wasn't different,
No hair suspected him of having a great for a kin,
Who in death embraced him to a golden casket, in Italian suit, shoes and a cow killed.
His burial got what he never begged for in hundred fold
Hmm! A late beggar decorated more than a groom to a royal fold.
As all gathered round his six feet for a final bye,
The in prophesied happened, Clem breath resurrected and all flee,
Even the priest, men, women and their kids.
Clem awoke into a dream,
Agitating against mankind and why array of
fortune should perish with a beggar like him,
While there are countless beings escaping death each dawn in perpetual poverty.
Griefs stricken for his old him,
He rose, undertook his golden casket, sold it and became a king.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 7:04 PM UTC
I seem to have inherited
your Che Guevara tee shirt,
red and black,
with the huge
Legends lettering
and portrait,
black on red.
Washed and folded,
I gave it a squeeze,
and held it to my chest
(wanting you back,
my son, and all the rest).
Sometimes I think
we shared the same heroes,
similar, more similar
than I ever thought before,
reflected in the tee shirts
you bought and wore.
I am still making
my way through
your Augusten
Burroughs books,
the humour, insight
and images raised,
have humoured me
at a time I need,
from dark thoughts,
guilts, on my time
and mind, like maggots
they have fed and feed.
I did think
I would talk to you
the following day,
before the coma,
the silence of you
contrasting the ever
sounding machines,
the dials, the lights,
and that, and other
images, keep me
from sleep at nights,
(hence the need
of the sleep
inducing pill).
I seem to have inherited
the black and red
Che Guevara tee shirt
you used to wear,
and when I hold it
against my cheek,
I imagine,
for short moments,
that you are
still there.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 1:37 AM UTC
I never had a care for myself,
as long as I felt alive
and did survive
I never strived
to protect my shell of skin,
until she pried me from within.
For, although I still felt numb
I lay, for once, undone
before the one who prompted
love's bittersweet curse.
The one I could not reverse,
nor find a remedy,
to stop my pain to you
from me.
When I am cut
you bleed,
and when a burn
scorches my thick hide
and guilts my inside,
as I watch you suffer for my sin.
I hurt within,
as you writhe from a blow dealt by a kin.
There is no graze or scar
upon my body which she has not felt,
no beating I have dealt
upon myself
which has not gone to her
twicefold.
My heart burns cold
at the blow that she,
loveliest of creatures,
was dealt
me.
But, you see,
I've accepted that yin to my yang you must be.
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 10:15 AM UTC
Not real people,
just characters,
defamiliarized,
playacting through
the stage dressing
of their
unconvincing, plywood
lives.
In one small spotlight,
one character
is deciding
not to call
the other character,
and a
second spotlight
picks out a
telephone
not ringing, and
the second character,
who could
call the first,
but doesn't.
Between them,
the few metres of
darkened stage
represent the cold,
separating sea, or
their emotional
estrangement, or
the shadowy uknowability of
the inner self, or
something.
They don't elicit sympathy,
these characters, only perhaps
an intellectual empathy,
critical and objective.
They are devices
by which we might learn
some abstract lesson about
the human condition.
They cry, or don't,
soliloquise about their fears,
their guilts and their woundings,
or are silent;
they damage each other,
themselves, and seem
incapable of learning
from pain.
But they are not
real people,
only symbols,
only the roles
they occupy:
Father,
Daughter.
It might be heartbreaking,
if it wasn't all so
far away.
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 3:49 PM UTC
Having
Ultimate
Grief
well sometimes Or can mean this
Hiding
Ugly
Guilts
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
A soft, pink, closed bud
She lay in my palm,
Her untouched, unexplored,
Sparkling pristine charm
Made me desirous of uncovering
The little secrets her innocent depths held,
Though surely there wouldn't be too many,
She was but a little flowerlet.
So, slowly and gently I
Let my fingers unfold
The sheets of her petals hiding
Her stories untold,
I drove into her likes and dislikes,
Her passions, her fears,
I thought that was all but I
Was guided again, into another layer.
A little darker than before, with
Melancholic tales, guilts and regrets,
Punctuated by naughty quirks and unique mirth,
******* me deeper into her nest,
Her nest so ruffled, how she hid it
Within her kempt exterior,
Each depth bizzarely twisting
Into yet another dazzling sphere.
I lost myself inside of her then,
And continue to be, perennially-
Amazed, astonished, perplexed, dazed
At the extravagant flower she turned out to be.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
love is a
state of mind
an emotion
sometimes ephemeral
sometimes steadfast
its source
an archetype
formless
it is not a relationship
although it may exist
in a relationship
or only
in a moment
like a spark in the dark
it is a function of imagination
as is empathy
it is magical thinking
*** may be an instrument of love
or a powerful healing balm
in and of it self
a profound therapy
and seen as an act of
divine grace
the ancients knew this
but unlike them
we have taken
sacred prostitutes
from ancient temples
vessels of the
goddess eroticism
Astarte of the Canaanites
Áine of the Celts
Min of the Egyptians
Aphrodite of the Greeks
Kama of the Hindus
Inanna of the Mesopotamians
and transformed them into demons
by subjugation to the depths of our subconscious
the archetypal female was replaced
by the neutered holy ghost
the patriarchal symbolic genital mutilation of women
a gift of horrors by Romes Council of Nicea
crippling values written in stone
frigidity guilts child
an abysmal morality
a theft by
kleptomaniacs of freedoms desire
for two millennium
vessels of the goddess
have been transmuted into a profanity
inflicting
a cold homicide on
****** freedom
forcing the abandonment
of a most essential constituent of sanity
the miraculous repair and revitalization
of the soul
through passions physical touch
sensual love
and the release of pent up desire
and left in its place
a harness of deprivation
an expression of a regressive culture
that promotes
a barren terrain
between
emotional ****** insecurity
and the monotony of monogamy
I am a voice of Thelema for the coming Aeon of Horus
LOVE IS ALL LOVE UNDER WILL
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 6:01 PM UTC
There is a never ending breed of bracteria livig in my bones
It
almost chews with the full intent of biting off but not quite, holds back just enough to leave me hanging
my joints, nooses of collateral damage,
they
almost wiggle like worms but burn with less intensity than pain.
There is a never ending wall of inter knotted muscle within my back
I call these things frustration
although alot of the time they feel like fury
make my neck ache like guilts burden.
I have ground my teeth to tiny sizable pellets and
picked at my charred white skin,
until there is no more youth in this body
all you will see is five foot seven of sallow eyes
pale faced
bloated frustration
corpse-like
if corpses smiled.
Untill my teeth are yellowed from coffee and cigarettes and the laugh lines around my mouth taunt me like the scars on my upper arm (if you are scarred just as painfully by laughter as a knife what is the point of it all)
12 inches of stitched back frustration that reads:
you cannot undo
what was done
stitches I want i want to rip out in the company of polite
normal people and
smile at their disgusted faces
have you ever as a child
been so unhappy by what you put down on paper
you would scrunch the whole thing up after crossing it out in the thickest black marker
throw it in the bin and start over?
This is what living feels like
I am just a canvas
I can almost remember what it was like to laugh
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 8:46 PM UTC
Friends,
Think not of terror in the night
Of wayward wandering careless fright.
Think not of hatred in the morn,
Of owness lost and past left scorn.
Think not of guilts
Dead to the wind,
Think not of ills
You've beaten still.
Think not of the spectres of your mind,
Of days destroyed, of thought decline.
Think not of angels
Escort the dead.
Think not of challenges, haunt ahead.
Think not of blanket
Bleaching sorrow.
Think not of heartache soared tomorrow.
Think not of panic in the dark,
Of where your friends and foes reside,
Of what they say or what they mind,
Or whether they think you cruel or kind.
Think instead,
Of all you are.
Of where you've come from,
Crawled this far.
Think of your talents,
Of your shine,
Think of the world in terms of rhyme.
Think not of fear, of mindless dread, of panic ransacked
Quaking head.
Think all too clear of love itself.
Of simple life in raging health.
Never question what you are,
But freely count the fading scars.
Question malice, idle, stubborn, judging hearts,
Question tired cynics,
Mouthing barbs to better grow into themselves,
Question injustice, and condemn to swell
All those who'd dare
To make you shrink into a lesser, hardened shell.
Never wind your steps back over tread,
Already stepped.
Hold firm and fast
White knuckle raging burning grasp
Your fingers to the rail
And grimace menace
To all that failed
To break you.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 6:01 PM UTC
Under the weight of sins all collective
Seeking from guilts deep,refuge divine
Forsaking daily conscientious angels hearty,
Rushed in multitudes I to Gods Almighty
On mountains highest and valleys deepest,
Heeding not,his part am I,in me He is and
I but am a pilgrim, from death to birth last,
Every instant, in moments each till eternity
Bonded divine,here or there,in time and space.
Rendered incapable were they all,mute
Under the burden heavy of my sins unthought,
Watching impassive as the mountains fell
The rivers rose,very earth in fury collapsed
Swallowing,burying my sins for a beginning anew.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 5:19 PM UTC
with disciplined guilt
i can spill a kind of pornographic hemorrhage
provoking a spell into the mind
deluge
a spiel
so many illicit thoughts to priss a label on
laxed into this state
i imagine my punishments
received in swollen glory
and in turn for this ungated imagination
i may earn further punishment
(no glory / dunce / head hung)
skirting dirt for promise
opening the aperture to the wild dark woods
and beyond natures primal propeller
seeking out opportunities for submission
under a church weight
of my own mined and kinkled cranium
Sep 15, 2022
Sep 15, 2022 at 9:13 PM UTC
Is there a place somewhere known and yet unknown
where humans keep or lose their guilts
Is there a dumping hole or a snug
or a fierce incinerator blazing
That destroys or obliterates
human guilts
Is it a known some guilts carry comfortably and alone
just another thing for the holdall satchel bag or arm
Someday its worryingly heavy on the shoulders
other times it's just small and weightless
An accessory as any others
imperceptibly light
Is the heavy guilt or tons heavy ones like granite stone
a weary toil left in a storage or thrown over a cliff
What ever done guilts come with a personal receipt
bearing owners name time and number
Attached to owner and carried 24/7
marked as 'Non-Transferable'
Is your guilt or guilts bearable or carry-able like your phone
have you stored, hidden it or pushed down a crevice
What about the indelible receipt on your person
that which is there and rests on you
Does it flare like an incindaries
or just simmer quietly
Is your guilt a bedfellow that clings to your chest in a zone
whispering in tone foreboding and chills persistent
Or one that wades in and recedes like shore waves
perhaps it's a type like a central rigid statue
An unmovable edifice of horror
coated in fear and alarm
Is your guilt light and niggly, a Bonsai with no tall grown
did you amend paying a due and penanced did leave
And though the attached receipt still haunts you
least you know it will gradually fade away
Leaving truly tutoring imprints
Never to be repeated
Is your guilt a stranger yet unmet and your spirit happy flown
do you walk in salient steps with no recourse to remorse
And greet each morn with pleasantries to I, me and self
enthralled no rent paid for secret storage or a crevice
Just the one that stands before man and Creation
Held aloof by a Conscience unstained
Copyright@Laurence14th Aug2018.all rights reserved.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 8:11 PM UTC
You didn't hit me, but you might as well have
because silently crying
on the other side of your turned back,
holding my breath so the sobs
would kamikaze themselves into my ribs
hurts almost as much.
And maybe I should have red-flagged
the skipped goodnight kisses,
or even made you apologize
for leaving me alone in the library,
waiting at an empty table with two red apples
because I figured you skipped dinner
but by the time you got there,
I was just a core.
But I stayed in it, and I let you **** me
in the way I thought meant I love you
even though you never said it,
and in the way that meant
I'd be alone, again, waiting for you
to deliver yet another polished excuse
and a look that swears volumes, punches me,
guilts me into solidly believing
that it's my fault after all, because
space is just as important as answering your calls,
because independence outweighs how attached
I'd became to your lust and ten cent compliments.
Now, I've become rust in my hometown,
afraid to ask because I know the answer
and bitter, frozen and bitter,
because honestly I should have known.
I just should have known.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 12:00 AM UTC
She breaks her own spirit from misplaced shame,
Afraid the world will know how she’s failing,
She never looks past the mirror for blame,
But wears a smile to hide that she’s ailing.
She guilts herself into constant giving,
But knows she needs to be taken care of,
Yet of that need she is unforgiving,
And of the fact that she’s not yet in love.
She’s constantly spinning out of control,
While frustrated she feels constantly stuck,
Lesser folks around her seem to live whole,
But asking for help makes her terror-struck.
Friends keep saying that she deserves better,
If only her neuroses would let her.
Nov 11, 2018
Nov 11, 2018 at 9:33 PM UTC
The cold moon breaks through the crevices
and where do I hide?
there's nothing to haunt my mind
but only the guilts inside.
Told not to venture into the night
I braved in the power of moonlight
where every shadow was a ghost
every dark nook a lost coast.
If I had someone with me
it wouldn't be all that scary
but I left them on the way
thinking I wouldn't need them anyday.
The loves I betrayed
the souls I traded
descended behind the tree
like the waning moon.
Before long the dark would devour me
knowing, I moved down with the moon
with none but the sighs on my side..
The derelict offered no place to hide.
May 2, 2024
May 2, 2024 at 11:19 AM UTC
Tormented by the walls of this room,
Alone in bed imagining your thoughts,
pretentious fortitude from sorrow's groom,
Guilts' symphony invokes her stream of haunting notes,
I was wrong...
Apologies are spoken memories gone wrong,
Their acceptance behind every patient smile,
Ushers them to oblivion,
But the words to speak turn to concrete when your number I dial
I'm sorry...
I am just a lover, though my story is seldom told,
I squandered your trust for a box full of empty promises,
But the best of our memories kept me warm in the cold,
That and the sound of your voice became my fortresses,
Forgive me...
These words that you'll construe,
Tie tether to the soul of my heart,
Where your kiss grew trees that your light shines through,
I have, I still, and I will always love you...
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 6:46 AM UTC
You go strains of mad when...
...Ambition becomes Eating Your Own Hunger Pains
With savaged pride you feel that all you need to achieve in life
Can be done faster with gold and good courtship
You croon apologies to your ideas and hope they stay.
They don't stay.
You go strains of mad when...
...Demonic intercession is hailed as miracle
You pay your division of a vast tithe into coffers you never see
and watch with shame and awe at a penetrative truth
working noisily behind curtains.
This polls well.
You go strains of mad when...
...Dust and diamonds are sold as combi-packs,
**** comes in boxes of strict six; for illustrative purposes, if you want four you've got to sell or discard two for your reputation.
There's no loyalty card or price-break on bulk.
I'm flat broke.
You go strains of mad when...
...A nobody sketches you with disarming accuracy
Their medium is a third hand snipe relayed with bitter remove
No more the taut nymphette lounged aground, on the rocks
The naked crystal uniform of your debtless regime, gone.
You're a shirt and name-tag girl now.
You go strains of mad when...
...Pockets burst outside the Church yard sale
The Ministry guilts you into buying all the furniture and music
moving it one piece at a time into your life until
suddenly you have a Church to burn
Just in time for winter.
Sep 7, 2016
Sep 7, 2016 at 8:30 AM UTC
All these pieces and not enough space to hold them all
All these guilts and no one to confess them to
All these words and no poet around to marvel
All these potentials and no motivation to fulfill them.
All these sadness and not enough time to carve them into art
All these emptiness and this 5-9 job
All these numbness and this full blown party
All these familiar faces and not a single friend.
All these laughter and no echo of happiness from within
All these glorification and anticlimatic reality
All these walls and no windows and door to get in
All these things to hold on to and there's your memories.
All these raining and you're still caught up in a draught,
All these homes, and you'd rather lay on the road
All these pretty things, and the raw, unadulterated you
All these lingering silences, and no peace.
All these blooms and the graveyards' laments,
All these flutters of heart and the outrageous mess it makes.
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 5:37 AM UTC
Frozen in rains, cloistering,
So severe in the dark of day,
Is the walled clutch of garden,
No one escapes, a gilded reaper,
Born of fears, promises beyond,
Of joys on the oak nailed pews.
Above the lost naves, who stand
In worship to a ghost, bones bent,
There are cast arches of old sorrows,
Veiling the lighted eyes of the cosmos,
Shutting out even mercies, heavenly
Lights duly smoked of incense.
And slated roof, so statuary cold,
Of aged rock and moss under spire,
That even the doves, as they coo
Are grounded, up muted hollows,
Chimes that merely echo guilts,
By shadows of faithless pride.
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 3:26 AM UTC
Falling fast down hovelled stairs,
digesting wealth to ransom cares,
grotesque men who soil and harrow
suspend my dreams from thinning rope.
As discharge weeps from places raw
and blisters burn a molten core,
another phallus, soiled and poisoned
wants for smack and cunny’d ******
I bleed from wounds so deep within
of pain so stark and crude and raw
that pins me ‘neath the brine of sin
like drowning prey in ***** and ****
I fail to dim the moving shadows:
those twisting jerks of spewed release –
but coming soon will silent growls
of dripping fat and blistered guilts.
Voiced within me, vague and distant,
something cries, yet tears withdraw.
Copious unheard pleas are buried;
here lay I, unknown, destroyed.
To burrow past unhuman men
(to further seal a keyless lock)
would ‘splay me in the public eye,
exampled, maimed, defeated; lost.
Phlegm and fur may line my mouth;
engorged, my lips, a ***** for more.
But somewhere deep inside myself
I’ve walked away from Brothel Shore.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 7:46 PM UTC
.
Frozen in rains, cloistering,
So severe in the dark of day,
Is the walled clutch of garden,
No one escapes, a gilded reaper,
Born of fears, promises beyond,
Of joys on the oak nailed pews.
Above the lost naves, who stand
In worship to a ghost, bones bent,
There are cast arches of old sorrows,
Veiling the lighted eyes of the cosmos,
Shutting out even mercies, heavenly
Lights duly smoked of incense.
And slated roof, so statuary cold,
Of aged rock and moss under spire,
That even the doves, as they coo
Are grounded, up muted hollows,
Chimes that merely echo guilts,
By shadows of faithless pride.
Mar 30, 2017
Mar 30, 2017 at 3:02 PM UTC
The frail old men in their outworn coats
Held tight to the rail and stepped into their boats,
They took their seat and unhooked the rope
And drifted off on a sea of hope.
One by one they came and went
Their time on earth completely spent
They floated over dreams of youth
And lessons learned with painful truth.
Long ago love and folk forgotten
Hurt and loss from wars begotten
Failures bared and guilts unhidden
Of dark delights and treats forbidden.
Until the calm accepted dawn
Of what once was since man was born
Their little boats now bound for shore
To where the rail stands once more.
And from the boats their souls arise
And float up slowly to the skies
Where each and every one deemed worthy
Has completed life's long journey.
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 9:03 PM UTC
We all go through trials
We all have our crosses to bear
We all have those things
That we wish we could get rid of
Those old bad habits that nevere seem to cease
That seem to grab us and keep us from breaking free
Keeps us from truly letting go
We all have our guilts
We all have pain
We all have times
When we feel like life is just a game
And we are set to lose
When it seems like every decision we make
Ultimately leads us down the wrong path
When we can look back
When we want to kick ourselves
For making those mistakes
Its ultimately what we do during these trials
That really tell who we are
If we are willing to accept what is
To learn and to grow from them
Figuring out which direction you need to take
You can move through them with confidence
Understanding that its just life's way
Of kicking you when you need it
Helping you to see something
That you might not see otherwise
If you keep wallowing in yourself
Not truly accepting the lessons
Constantly making the same mistakes
You can never move forward
Never getting to a better place with yourself
Remaining stuck to repeat the same old groove
Until you finally figure out
What it is you are going through in the first place
Mar 18, 2012
Mar 18, 2012 at 10:48 PM UTC