"habituated" poems
The great New York metropolitan
stretching its vibrancy
trafficking its wears.
Car horns combating in contemptuous arguments
habituated eardrums unwittingly pulsating
Great buildings upward; towering behemoths in grandiose splendor
This great asphalt jungle sprawling its electricity for blocks,
for miles
The jazz of the city continues the chanting; the sounds of bass and the blowing of the **** sax, the horn, the piano
and the drums drumming on its rhythmical beat
Beating hearts feeling the vibrancy; the shock waves of nuances echoing the great hustle
Multitude of voices singing praise to the different tongues;
vibrant in diverse rejoicing, the poetry of men and women
Metropolitans claiming the world condensing into small
blocks and listening to its RHAPSODY.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 7:29 AM UTC
if the sinking-of-boat …ice-cream by name
be deducted from the swept-off-in-flood … by name roll no 31
then would the wings of the comics
cease to exist
what says the uninterrupted sound of water-falling
from the stomach of the moon
what writes the pus and blood
what writes the fuming-hot rice
the creepers and the herbs grow continuously
in the insomniac bath-tub
the sounds of the horse-hoof floated by the river
used to change the velocity of its clothes
both in the morning and evening
the birds from the cornice go to school
by dip-swimming
it may come one day when the fishes
become very angry and in the tale of the sweet-meat
the potter will destroy the jointly-built bee-hive
then all hurricane would be habituated to dinner
sans saliva
then there would be no such morning-walk
in the body of the trees
from which such a bore could be found out
through which an elderly saral may fly
into the blue translation of a squirrel
the magnetic field of the orange-pulp
and the productivity of the open window
reside in the same locality
if their frequency be touched
then the the antenna of the mermaids
speared with sleeping-oil
may be injured
by burnings their eyes
the crow-birds knocks at
in the soap-foams
produced by the afternoon
the pond with a jumping deer
wants to make bite
it is not known by this way
when a white hyphen
sticks to the palate of the shirt
now put off all the whispers
and let it be talked on the will-paper of the bees
why the pages from the honourable ash-trays
be excluded
those bunch of waters
that come out from the churning of the anises
and the jumps born of their *****
also make friends with the group-photos
now let this other night sends its best wishes
to the future candles
through a cell-phone
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 5:25 PM UTC
The dog firmly placed his chin upon the old
man's knee, stirring him from sleep in his chair.
The only light in the room coming from the
television screen. The dog's gentle message
being, "Time we go to bed" dear friend.
A ritual event occurring more often now
and most likely tomorrow night again.
As the man slowly stood the dog pranced towards
the door, to go outside and do his required business.
The man also to the bathroom did retire, brushing of
teeth and to attend to his own urgent business.
Six years of twenty four seven companionship had
bonded them forever, each knowing the other as
only best friends or family can, both fully habituated
to the other's needs and routines.
The dog sat upon his own bed, close by to the man's
bed, patiently waiting as he always did. The man leaned
down and took the dog's face and head into his hands,
forehead to forehead they paused while silent endearing
messages were, like every night, conveyed and mutually
affectionately received. Love as real as any.
The man climbed aboard his own bed, donning his CPAP
mask like a pilot before take off and arranged himself
in his fully-automatic-adjustable bed, then clapped his
hands twice to extinguish the lamp on the bedside table.
"Good night buddy, we'll have some more fun in the
morning." the man murmured, closing his eyes to sleep.
Another day ended as most now do, as will, all their
remaining shared tomorrow's.
Nov 6, 2019
Nov 6, 2019 at 3:28 PM UTC
I hardly remember
the sensation of not care about something.
On these days,
I'm habituated to link every action
to one sincere purpose,
but not always has been like this.
You know me well,
I'm not a builder
but when you wanted one
I took my tools and made a bed for your dog.
You know me well,
I hate go out on bus in the morning
but the once you need me at 6:00 o'clock
I took three for arrive to your home.
You know me well,
I keep mistaking a lot,
and I'm still a liar and a coward.
But even knowing that
I can't not speak the truth to you
and I can't not fight for you.
But you may already know that
'cause you know me well.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 7:55 PM UTC
I wished for too long
to live in a space
built especially for me
where I could stroll around
and stumble upon my
innate favourite parts of living.
A place, different shades of hues.
And I did,
did live in that space;
every time when you weren’t asleep.
Darling, open your eyes;
I want to come home…
Dec 7, 2021
Dec 7, 2021 at 7:50 PM UTC
The teenagers of the bayou look down to their pocket God, summoning validation through divine vibrations;
heads bowed they pray for the prey, for the sensations of meaning, refreshed each second,
filed and cast aside,
except on thursdays, or maybe fridays ‒
for these are the sacred days reserved for nostalgia, for last weekend’s cigarette taste,
for those cheap-gin glances, lacerated by and filtered through the teeth of crocodile tears,
for the lovesick night sweats and the mouth of another, for the break from chronic ennui,
all captured in thirty-three unearthly flashes;
The teenagers of the bayou look up from their pocket God and stretch their aching fingers upwards,
exhausted, habituated, unquestioning
of the heaviness of such emptiness
within
their starving hearts
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 4:23 PM UTC
Aim well, aim true
A refurbished face,
From a cry and hue
A bottled song just for You
From a stretch of tissues
From inches of a grin
Oh hark the heralds
Extra! Extra!
For Dobbie is free from the ******* of sin!
That's all I can stands, and I stands no more!
Mis-sized forearms can cause a little Thor!
A clean slate and a comma,
A rid of blight
I won't strap-out without a fight
On a zero to none I could still stand a chance
Place your bets on the duel of a pure heart and bad romance
1-2-1-1, 1-2 to 2
Pure heart hits turned the black birds into blue
Jab-straight-hook-straight!
Straight!-straight!-straight!
For bad romance it was always never than late
In arms a-clinched,
In needs of each other's cleave
Oh but stand up for the Greatest Warrior who ever lived
This habituated mantle only craves for;
A clean slate and a comma,
A rid of blight
I won't strap-out without a fight
On a zero to none I could still stand a chance
Place your bets on the duel of a pure heart and bad romance
Alas, after the bout the canvass had its slain
His subtle dance, a downpour and in vain
Raise your arm on bell's a-cue
The winner of this match; it's up to you
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 11:24 AM UTC
He squeezes her shape into a suit that fits
But happily disregards the ones that don't,
As every material or materialistic item
Is merely just temporary clothing he wears for his comfort.
Her silky waist down and up to her cotton flammable heart,
Both burn and tear just as easy as the next,
Despite his sweet persona,
He's as bitter and acidic as chemistry gone wrong.
But he washes and rinses her into a wave of hope,
And she drowns,
Because she has been habituated to drowning.
Cold bones is her love,
But he always glides away like a ghost in the night,
Questioning whether he bleeds the same blood,
Because is it humanly possible to do the things he could.
She has dreamt of his silhouette all night
But is unable to see the whole faded image,
The silence has become part of her,
You clipped the angel wings she would bare just for you
And is no longer able to fly.
Instead she drowns in an ocean that you quaked,
Suffocated on an island of crashed cold bones,
Cold, cold bones.
Even when she was the soldier
That never fled from battle,
You made her the brute
With a machine heart and machine mind,
Steered from her innocence
And tenderness to be kind.
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 7:59 AM UTC
as the reflection of the trees roll off the
shined roof of the hearse I follow to the
cemetery, my mind becomes scattered
with the thoughts of our last moments.
a face so sodden,
her hand to mine, my body seized with
a contemptuous blanket of emotional
disdain. a person I loved, a person I
trusted, snatched out of my life as
fast as she changed it.
her barren body clinging on to life sent
chills up the very arms latching on
to the hospital bed, shaking, with
the thought of denial ruining every
hopeful aspect of my mind.
this
can’t
be
happening.
I stare at her urn, sitting atop her
now entirety; the quiet whispers of
the funeral priest echo about the
walls in my mind, everything is silent,
white noise consumes my thoughts,
I’m shutting down, the ringing in my
ears is slowly overtaking the cries
of the siblings, the mothers, the fathers,
the cousins, and all of the friends who’s lives she’s
truly impacted. my eyelids bare weight,
my sight is becoming dull, and the tears
are building up as the content sobs are
becoming more and more copious with
each sympathetic clutch on my shoulder.
I say my final goodbyes as we make our
way out. I whisper reverence
“I love you”
as a blind man
attempting to feel colours
i touch your urn,
that’s all I can
say for what you’ve done for me and how
you gave perspective to tunnelled vision.
the cars weep in unison departing the cemetery
with the trees spinning the roofs
after 11 shots of whiskey
and with that comes a habituated
sadness.
I slip into bed, knowing that 5 miles away
there will be an empty left bedside next to a
man whose life revolved around her, a lonely
man, a broken man. a pillow she laid her
head on not 24 hours prior, the scent of her
body; still embedded in the sheets he now
uses to wipe aside his tears,
statin sheets
enticing the walls
inward
why you?
why not me?
thoughts of abstract
painted to a pillow
eight hours i’ll lay my head stagnant;
sleep not
to the morrow i awake
and you nevermore
paradise may you rest
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 9:14 PM UTC
habituated within the confines of woe
accompanied yet felt lonesome,
the mere must sets forth tomorrow,
my memorandum is no hokum.
there was more than meets the eye,
but any has felt, not just I,
dispatches of melancholy comply,
for must I say goodbye
-- for now...
seek wholesome where it was borne,
restoration is the new.
nay mourn, nor fret, nor pout
and shall come back, subdue.
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 11:33 PM UTC
It is not my instinct to love a woman
who speaks with ease
It is not my instinct to love a spider
who hunts in trees,
But I
could tell you one thing:
When I was young,
I hated spiders
I also hated cooked carrots
Then I learned
to give things a second chance
How do you do?
I might fancy you...
or him, or her
or them
What was once detested
is now invested
in my meal
in my life
Who was once just a passerby,
I now sit and wander why
not infuse love in them?
Like tasting new fruit,
Like trying new things,
Must we always reject
what remains
after we cast out our pleasures
and resist our pains?
Could a man's lips to a man
be something so vein?
A woman's ******* in her hand,
something so insane?
We fear what we cannot grasp
We laugh at what is not funny
We do what we are habituated to,
but life is more than old and new
Acceptance is obtained
when one accepts
When one accepts,
they can run miles,
can be anything, anyone
What fun!
Gayety is great
*** is good
Different kinds of trees
make different kinds of wood
When one learns about wood
all wood seems good,
because all wood is good
After realizing this fact,
a weight is lifted
off the shoulders
and into the light,
where all can see
Those left behind,
will worship ancient shrines
with answers from yesterday
yearning to explain today
Those picky,
those sickly,
the one's who hate veggies
the one's who can't see
what a shame to be...
To dismiss the colour pink
when one grows up as a tomboy;
as a stubbornness
with a covenant
of no change
Homosexuality as a learned behavior,
Heterosexuality as an instinct;
Objektophilie...
vise versa, vise versa:
who cares! Nowhere
Like tasting new fruit,
the acceptance of taste
will form
what was never there before
If not,
this fruit will disappear,
never to exist in your presence
without hate
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 1:04 PM UTC
It the competition bro, It’s the competition bro.
Its them against us, it us against them.
Reactions rooted in our brain stem, **** them means win.
We compete against our own human skin,
our own akin, Luke Anakin, I’m your father.
Competition have you Kane and Able, killing your own brother.
Competition is division, submission, inferiority, hierarchy, inequality, habituated, into a sophisticated jungle of pleasure and identity.
Can’t realize equality within a system grounded in competitive mentalities,
the Olympics, our games, who you rooting for? Lebron James, it’s all the same.
You can stand against hate, you can hate injustice, throw you money and morals, type a tweet and rest on your laurels,
but till competition dies, it matters not what's spoken oral.
It’s all a power struggle, its us against them, and somehow the ideal is everybody wins?
The hierarchy continues and you are a part of what's condemned. Lets not continue to pretend that its all racial,
competition accommodates all ends.
This dynamic wont change, don’t hold your breathe, number one death is cardiac arrest.
Fatality by food, that’s fear and survival, too much is never enough….don’t be fooled or get political correct tough, competition is cannibal, makes us remain animals,
breeds one to see threat, to defeat and make victory one’s meat, to compete and civilly eat another person's heart beat.
Jan 10, 2021
Jan 10, 2021 at 1:53 PM UTC
I was born to love everyone but I loved so hard the insides of my lugs tore apart. Sometimes I love too deep. In a city too dark to love in, we overlook the mountain and hedges that have pricked the life of us with thorns, banished us in places that see silence through congested thoughts. We sing Like a humming birds. Singing in attempt to abolish the very existence of our stars and the stars we shared yet, we lay quilted in stardust and the silhouettes of our shadows. They burst into flames or kaleidoscopes, a beauty, complimented by the prophecy of life itself. Sometimes we hope to speak like our words have lost themselves in the coils of our tongues but we hope to live with strength not habituated in settings of frost and snow. Our worlds don't intertwine but our hopes do. We seek refuge in prayer during the midst of our foggy minds and the very cosmos of our thoughts. We recite the soft speech of the holy book to excuse us from the blackness of the universe. Our souls wonder naked from emotions and exposed to our own destinies created with incompatibility and dissection.
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 2:50 PM UTC
Seldom, that our society releases
Cares to evoke the trauma
Agony and pain, the members undergo
Dignity of their innate feelings remains unnoticed
ridicules and abuses of the sidelined community
Treated as untouchables,
Life passes through humiliation
Revenge what at all grows
Hardly they love
With their battered minds
Hair growth is prominent
a feminine male
Claps not at all appreciates
Voice that hoars
differ from the stereotype
Pronounced as 'Hizra'
Hopeless with their genital
Infertile is what left behind
***** is sore
struggle for survival
Habituated with the wilderness
Embraced the culture
Deviated their thoughts
Fear is what all pays
Takes the trick
Makes a move
Snatches a penny in a forcible manner
Sympathy could be shown
moral failure lies in the society's unwillingness
a mindset which
we have to change.
©Gourab Mukherjee'
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 12:49 PM UTC
The dog firmly placed his chin upon the old
man's knee, stirring him from sleep in his chair.
The only light in the room coming from the
television screen. The dog's gentle message
being, "Time we go to bed" dear friend.
A ritual event occurring more often now
and most likely tomorrow night again.
As the man slowly stood the dog pranced towards
the door, to go outside and do his required business.
The man also to the bathroom did retire, brushing of
teeth and to attend to his own urgent business.
Six years of twenty-four seven companionship had
bonded them forever, each knowing the other as
only best friends or family can, both fully habituated
to the other's needs and routines.
In the bedroom the dog sat upon his own bed, close by
to the man's bed, patiently waiting as he always did.
The man leaned down and took the dog's face and
head into his hands, forehead to forehead they paused
while silent endearing messages were, like every night,
conveyed and mutually affectionately received. Loving
friendship as real as any can be.
The man climbed aboard his own bed, donning his CPAP
mask like a pilot before takeoff and arranged himself
in his fully-automatic-adjustable bed, then clapped his
hands twice to extinguish the lamp on the bedside table.
"Good night, buddy, we'll have some more fun in the
morning." the man murmured, closing his eyes to sleep.
While his friend also laid down, curled into a ball and
released a contented sigh, as they both did every night.
Another day ended as most now do, as will, all their
remaining shared tomorrows.
Dec 15, 2022
Dec 15, 2022 at 3:37 PM UTC
Was all bright and warm
Ran around a cold pond
A structure of knowledge
It had all the ground
Hope abounds …
for a few coins in the pond
I (WE) habituated a few clicks away
At lust we think that way
Cast a line in looking for a strike
A hit on this and then a hit on that
Got a bite … it wiggled off
Some where too big to reel in
Did I use the right bait
Maybe I would look better in a hat
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 8:30 PM UTC
You have me hooked on your song.
I am absorbed with your smell
Habituated to your eyes
And attached to your smile.
I am imbued to your soft words, your empty words
And inclined to trust in your syllables.
I am obsessed with your name
Devoted to your voice
Dependent on your approval
And prone to the knife you hold behind my back.
I am accustomed to your empty promises
And under the influence of the false hope you give me.
I am addicted to you
When all I want is to be clean.
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 10:43 PM UTC
Systematically, we are looking for truth in all falsehoods.
Never fear the pursuit of knowledge or that of reason.
Spite such hard times; we need to fall back on art.
Only in such equity can we measure tranquility.
Singular as inquired, some traits are more bold.
Inspirations of love, politics, and freedom are not found-
in the classroom; only through art, culture, and equality
can this be achieved.
Educate and inform our youth; as they our greatest aspiration.
Build into them, culture and love; make sure it becomes habituated.
The dreams of prophets defeat the minds of oppression.
Break this mold supporting a slave mind if we seek progression.
May they bring us justification, and flourish our culture.
May they be wise, and hold back the elevations of tyranny.
May they be able to grow into philosophers, painters, and prophets.
May conquest not be for world ********** but of peace and knowledge.
Our past father's will sleep gently, to know no war drums.
In the age of total enlightenment we cannot be alone.
Sharing is our greatest gift to the world, we need teachers.
May we foster those who seek it, and educate those who love it.
Never should we shy away from the prospect that is our youth.
Jul 23, 2016
Jul 23, 2016 at 3:10 PM UTC
It’s taken years to learn to rhyme, but now it’s time to break the chains, and I wonder ‘will my writing ever be the same?’. With trepidation I will try to take the first step. I lack the knowledge to predict success and wonder if this will be a mess. I note that I am still not free from this seemingly ingrained habit of mine (I speak of rhyme).
Am I an addict, I ask my self? Is my style of writing out of control? Am I hooked like a ****** to the seduction of what seem to me to be siren-like sounds? This is new! I never knew that verse was worse than ****** or ******** *** which I have been habituated to at times. I never knew of the sultriness, the sensuality of poetry until, through imagining it’s end, I begin to sweat and shake, a little.
It is like a fix, and it is cheap. No need to run around the streets to try to score. If I stop and think, pen in hand, I can get some more.
I fear I am still stuck in rhyme, though I have not checked yet. Do I know what prose poetry is? I am sure that Google does. It may be time to stop and turn the tower on.
Sean Hunt June 8 2016
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 6:57 PM UTC
Hey !! don't come close to me
It affects me .
I am simply crazy
I am going mad , bad and sad .
I am messed up .
I am not perfect
Just unable to connect .
Please stay away from me.
Leave me alone .
I shout for no reason
I am just a shell
I am empty.
I have matured with the damage
Not with the years and age .
I don't deserve anyone
Don't come close to me .
I just wanna stay alone ,
Wanna lay on my bed with lights off , stare at the roof and get lost in my own world.
Don't ask me the reason for my sadness
There would be none .
Everyday i feel depressed and I myself don't know why
I just want to cry ..Cry like hell , cry like my pain all vanishes ,cry until my eyes turns red .
Don't come close to me to wipe out my tears ,
If u do so I won't let u go .
I would want u to stay forever and hold me in every situation .
But I will get habituated towards this .
No , even u will leave me .
Watching u go away like that I will die .
I won't be able to tolerate this.
I am not that strong .
I don't deserve you ,
I don't deserve anyone
I am such a timid and gloomy soul .
~ Suhas Ghoke .
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 2:46 AM UTC
Writing down the names
of the silence-breakers in the class,
I got them lashed well;
Never failed to put my hand on my mouth
Wherever I saw the instruction ‘Keep Silence';
Learned to be disciplined on the admonition ‘don't make noise';
Heard many a time the talk ‘Chatterers and Patriotism';
Hung on the wall the pictures of those
who ordered ‘hold your tongue and do work';
Practiced regularly special yoga for taming the tongue,
And got habituated to vow of silence.
Now my tongue owns the endurance of saying nothing
On seeing or hearing anything.
I haven't wasted even a single opportunity to escape
With the adornment of silence.
I live in total silence excelling the dumb
Now life is perfectly happy.
The fear of assaulting those with dissenting voices
No longer affects me.
The only discomfort is this:
An uncooked piece of flesh lies across my mouth,
Unable to spit out or swallow.
Poem by Veerankutty mhfil
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 4:21 AM UTC
Tonic and breweries.
This home is beginning to resemble a boy again.
I don't remember moving in but
I don't think I'll ever forget each wall
As they stood around me, and
how unsafe I felt within them
Without them really knowing that I was there.
I've always had this theory that
Non-habituated houses collapse more easily
Than the habituated ones.
When put through a hurricane, you were the non-habituated one
And you didn't recognize my presence inside of you.
When we collapsed you only felt your own pain,
But I felt mine as well as yours.
I don't know if you know that I still feel it.
I don't know if you know that I feel it every single day.
The first time I looked for shelter again I found one of your floorboards
In the space where my heart was supposed to be.
I didn't know how to cordially invite you
To walk all over it again-
So long the creaks it would produce wouldn't scare people away.
It gave motivation to the dreams however,
I was in an empty home and you were always sending me postcards without a return address.
You claimed you were always just about to move in with me, in these postcards,
But everyday it said the same thing.
It was a recurring nightmare.
I hope you never need a return address.
I don't think I can stand the pain of feeling you smell my tears on paper from 100,000 kilometers away.
I thought I could, but not anymore.
The scent of your presence always reminds me of tonic and breweries.
Because you drink when I'm there and you drink when I'm not.
I don't know how I associate heaven with the scent of someone
Who loves to fill bottles with secrets and then swallow them down with someone else's pride,
But I do.
And now and again I still wait to see if heaven will keep me sober enough
To watch me get drunk without actually drinking anything.
We burnt down bars, night-clubs, wine-galleries and cupboards of bottles,
But I don't know why I felt the same euphoria then when you threw me into the flames.
Maybe heaven was really a smell after all-
I'm still trying to find a way to love its wrath without smelling its scent.
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 8:03 AM UTC
please help.
i am already habituated
to your
******* lips
and
well accustomed
to your
chromatic eyes
which burn into me
like lit cigarettes.
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 4:51 PM UTC
Salty rain begins
Gliding its way down trunks
Getting lost in fabric leaves
Or resting gently on cheeks
Basking in the heat of skins
Molten bean soup
Housing shoals of ****
And Silken soy islands
Habituated by scallion trees
Brewing the perfect flavor group
Then a beam above
A blinding light
Followed by silver
Crashing with all might
With the grace of a bellied dove
The crash pays homage to Moses
Splitting tectonic plates
Paving a path to the scoop
The stew child ascends
And the gap below closes
Into the cave it goes
Entry barred
a serpent slithers
Corralling refuges back to nest
The only ritual it knows
The rain is dense
A body is a temple
This temple a sauna
Coated in scorched poison
It yearns for a cleanse
Watered Calvary sweeps in
Purging vile spice
With soothing touch
But glass only holds so much
And the cure is left thin
Slamming the clear dome
Icebergs swish
In a desolate tomb
But a savior passes by
Returning sea to the arctics home
Hope is restored
Now it’s time to desecrate
Pangea resumes
It won’t stop
Until bowl is fully toured
Aug 10, 2025
Aug 10, 2025 at 4:42 PM UTC
"WHERE AM I " I ASK MYSELF
i find myself covered with darkness and
in habituated people surrounding
crying for me
and my soul
they want
to devour me and
eat me
i am helpless
even when i try
i am dragged down
i could only think of one thing
if i die here what would happen
then
a strange voice replied
"you will be like these blood thirsty,
bloodthirsty people"
i asked who s/he was
but there came no reply about that
he just asked me
to follow him
when i reached out
out of those darkness
the being came
into view
and
i was
astonished
to find myself
i surprisingly asked
"who are you?"
he said "i am you"
"i am the one who lives inside you"
then i thanked him for saving himself
and me
he replied me"that was my duty being you"
"i had to show you these paths so
so you may never
never
stumble upon it again"
i was thankful for
myself as i began to descend
those dark paths again
as i realized
what i need to do
what i should do
and
how i should do
how i need to avoid these
blood thirsty people
how i need to be myself without
having fear
i re-entered the darkness
to find my own light
own light
which is me being
together with
my soul
me without stumbling
and falling
and finally
me being me
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 11:36 AM UTC