"habituation" poems
Not too sure where my mind is.
I seem to be losing my self.
Thoughts running in free verse,
Thots running in reverse.
I'm sorry I can't help my self.
Like I said I'm sorry,
I, really can't help my self
Losing everyone else.
I see now it's just me, I'm toxic.
Boy. Like you said it's not rocket
Science it makes sense.
I get how you feel.
But what tense are we in?
Is It something i did or you think I'll do?
I'm confused.
Removing my self from y'alls situation.
Losing people seems to be habituation.
Feelings burn in recreation.
Feelings burn for re-creation.
But it's not about the rhyme.
Literary rules meant to be broken.
Though when I'm free is when I find
The worst times.
-Luca Ivaldi
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 2:03 AM UTC
Can you settle for more or less if today was your last day
And what would be your retort if you were denied another chance?
How life introduces sobriety and the impending inevitability
The interstice and it’s ingress that encloses before your eyes
The demanding pouring of importune time
That soothing allaying sighs that evoke incalculable alleviation
If someone were to impart as they closed their eyes
As they died with a commital of happenings with not enough time
As to burden you with the impression of only one chance
It would seem and with the impending inevitability
Of your death which would subito compromise the day
A bearding contrivance plight of obligations engagement and commital no alleviation
An abecedarian dossier concealed for a long time
All this time the inevitable coinciding incident only for your eyes
The emotional habituation was of quotidian rendition each day
Of how trivial things take us on a dance with only one life one chance
With your attention and awareness on the answer the inevitability
Of what you are becoming with each passing second for each
Thought which transpires and no alleviation
Is there an epoch a replicating limn a depiction of our linear time
As we perpetrate and pursue progressively for our alleviation
Engaged to staying the course the day
Stirring closing in on our deliberate objective determined chance
Which remained for a terse duration from the inevitability
In which at the atrium of this erstwhile portage of a duvet to belabor
To stifle firsthand with your eyes
The variant from this domicile from this residence on a day
Is the vagabond to perish in yonder with no alleviation
Once man was a brute dullard or a curmudgeon spinster at a time
Which offers a mute disconnection ragged miscreant the inevi
Naivety or absent mindedness to somnambulist and its silhouette
Notwithstanding change
The quagmire and it’s nightmare the ingrate delighted with coined
Shunned eyes
Reputation with a flagrant obscene defilement galvanizing
The alleviation
At the heart of this lies another chance
A precocious inevitability
A man who lies to die another day
The annihilation in desperate want for from those argent eyes
To the starving newfangled optimism which in its sheen
Shines sunshine dulling the ocular orbs of time
Forwithal in befuddlement remain here
The time if infringement to comprehend the volatile vertigo
And the inevitability
The harrowing of hell
Glance at the shinning suns in her eyes intention considers change
After you heal and left are the cicatrix
Will you plunge further for alleviation
Or on the intent of regression once again
From long ago to another distant day.
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 9:20 PM UTC
I am the girl who cried apology,
and you,
the embodiment of naive forgiveness,
come running at each little distress.
one day, you’ll learn,
but until then,
just tell me it’s okay.
I can tell you’re tired
of hanging up my skeletons every night.
I’ve been growing lazy with keeping them
in their proper places,
letting them crumble into piles on the floor.
your exasperated sighs grow heavier,
but you never argue or complain,
simply cleaning up every mess I make.
I wonder when you’ll hang me up,
but until then,
we’ll pretend a little longer.
let our hands intertwine,
and we’ll ignore the difference
between love and habituation.
let me repent in your light,
and teach me how to become it.
I want to learn to be something
other than sorry.
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 9:05 PM UTC
Floating beneath the brilliance of the full moon, I'm shooing away the wispy dark tendrils of sleep, swatting at the lazy tired gnats who are as directionless as I am.
I scrub away the hints of sand from the corners of my eyes and yawn wide enough so to dispel the collection of retiring bats who've claimed sanctuary in the cavern of my ribs.
I've without a purpose other than to carry on with my meager, passive existence in this dark limbo of twilight.
"Go to sleep silly"
As if you sensed from five thousand miles my nocturnal habituation of lethargic solitude,
As if it pierced the air like the dull green blinking at the end of the dock over on East Egg, calling out to you like a tiny beacon of distant opportunity--a lighthouse in the tremulous sea nights of--yes--your own affections and desires emanating back to you.
And all at once, I feel an eternity of connection tethering me back to my plot of soil, somehow not as empty and cold as it felt before.
Because you somehow knew, and that somehow makes my meanderings less of a thing to dwell with, for somehow someone somewhere cares if my soul is restless.
So I'll probably end up going to sleep.
After all, I'll find you again in my dreams.
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 5:50 AM UTC
last night, i
sent a wish to the moon, whose
free-spinnin' light cut ochre
circles around pallid circles
through the fractured cloudlines,
and was always, always aware
of the cold, calm, and splintered
heaviness inside me. little voice,
tied around some fingers, leaching
into the streams of my very own thought.
humming: why do i continue to idle?
yes, i play waiting games. no
small question why. those modes are
concrete and understood. but why, then
do these games revolve around filling
my head with poison, when preservation
matters, now - now that i don't foresee
a continual blankness in meaning, anymore?
i am sick of these poisons. i am sick
of these postures. same cycles of words.
i am sick of knowing that i am full well
in control but still give in for the sake
of.. what, habituation? for some mutually-
assured self-destruction? worst of it all
is watching everyone you try to love
crumple up in their own weaknesses, by
each other's hand.
do you just let go of what won't be fixed?
do i just go into hiding,
watch it all slough itself away?
even if it'd hurt that much more?
of course, i stood, queasy, at the riverside,
and could not, for the life of me, read straight
the lines in my gut. lord knows,
lord know, what delusion i sank into,
for my own grand mid-day consolations.
is it cowardice, or selfishness, to need to
save yourself first?
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 12:42 AM UTC
is there a thought in
mind or habituation
there is not knowing
Sep 12, 2023
Sep 12, 2023 at 12:13 AM UTC
It is a passed down trait;
An inherent gene.
You are weak.
Every square foot of her body teaches her.
Nature has taught her physiological function
is equal to psychological conditioning.
The most complex ***** in her body
disciplines her into fear.
Her fear manifests into her hands,
trembling with insecurity.
Her unwavering quivering builds into her shoulders.
Her shoulders hold tension, thus affecting her posture.
Her appearance renders her vulnerable
and the holy place between her legs
becomes saturated with pain.
Whether by false hand, or natural purpose,
pain becomes her.
This lesson alone teaches her feet the importance of urgency.
A tool meant for grounding quickly learns to run.
Urgency seeks comfort,
a comfort found in an ache.
Relief is found across her skin.
Her guilt travels from her arms into her stomach.
A sinking feeling, heavy and haunting.
Her guilt transgresses into anger,
her heart circulates blood and rage.
Her shame finds a home along her thighs;
a place she will keep hidden.
Secrecy desperately looks for security in which
is born in her own embrace.
Safety is found when she wraps her arms around herself
returning back again to the familiar position she was created in.
Safety in the womb, safety in the fetal position.
Her cycle repeats in rapid succession,
never slowing,
forever spinning.
This is habituation.
This is her burden.
This is what her body has taught her.
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 2:49 PM UTC
What purchase to justify the elusive possession of human identity
In emulation of that which confronts by baffling order of habituation
That tangled interaction in breathless strangeness of the ordinary existence
Yet there is only daylight and that which is condemned to die by life’s end
Those insoluble difficulties that as such are confusions that resolve themselves
In a strangeness that is both touching and grotesque and ask a simple question
What is the self? What is identity? What is that which haunts throughout a life?
Only that of a masque which hides in mediocrity and grief another mask
Which allows an awakening only to continue to live the saddest of our dreams
Jul 31, 2012
Jul 31, 2012 at 4:30 PM UTC
I want to see your heart
Vulnerable
Naked
On display for me
I want to notice the imperfections
The off color
The almost
I want to know the 'yes' and 'no's about you
I want to be a crutch of yours
To help you through the day
"I only do it when I'm stressed"
"I only do it when I'm drunk"
"Now I'm addicted"
I want to be your cigarette
Your gradual habituation
I want to kiss you with the sun
Even with your morning breath
I want to kiss you with the moon
Even with your whiskey breath
I want to pack your lunch and fold your clothes
I want to fight with you and cry
I want to talk with you and hug
I want to be in your everyday
I long to hear you call
"I'm home, hunny"
But we're 'just friends'.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 10:54 AM UTC
Sound pierces silence in the dead of night.
She awakens to prowl the path of destruction.
Screaming fills the air as the hearts of man sink into despair.
Feeding quietly on their souls the beast stares off - oblivion soon to follow
No one knows what's ahead - cowering in darkness they know death will soon fill their nostrils.
A stampede through their home causes shrieking and pandemonium.
There is no happy ending but hope lies in the unknown of extinction.
An unconditioned stimulus controls the innate reward pathway of her sick mind!
HABITUATION!
I'll never forget - though she will, truth lies in the size of the response which slowly fades into the dark.
Mar 7, 2018
Mar 7, 2018 at 7:29 PM UTC
The shallow pool of pleasure
Florescent flowers of wicked deeds
stinking, the soul of a lost man
Covered in creams of perfumed oils,
Smelly clots of an afternoon sweat
Dyed, his shreds of the heart
He walks head high around a street corner,
Fine silk, white, the dusty toes of yesterday's journey,
Towards a secret brothel of his habituation
Left and right, a foolish eye
Dropping fifty cents for a second,
Behind tattered curtains in a down town
Onto his bare chest,
Shooting rays of the sun,
Through tiny holes of grass covering
His mind yells in the darkness,
But clouds of desire rain fast and loud
Screening perfectly, the screams of elation
Time after thirty seconds,
Eyes wide open to a beautiful family,
A cherished daughter and kind wife,
Sudden, calm, the storm of desire
Worthless, the art of slippery,
Through, the thin walls of disgrace
Lying before, the mirrors of regret
Shattered, pieces of a broken trust
And now, covered in this blanket of depression
Jul 30, 2016
Jul 30, 2016 at 12:03 AM UTC
One who self assuredly
lieves be a self governing code,
watch where you are going,
trust
the practiced habituation,
rising
to the upright pose,
standing
on my own two feet,
stepping
into my own time alive
with Justin Johnson mellow blues,
mellow mental slow dance,
walkin'
by the windows,
looking
through my own reflection,
at whats appealing
to me, please
see something you want and need
and can afford,
you hear
the window dresser
thinking
to himself,
see my artful display,
and imagine owning the desirable
baubles
on display, but, not today,
too long ago
to care, yet
fishing
for forgotten goods,
thinking today could be the day,
when all involving my ever after
happens
to ever
after mean what me and you
think ever and after
at once do mean
can we signal senses
we think we share,
no question,
I suppose,
the answer is yes, we share
the very air we breathe,
with music in it.
But, but, beware,
the back beat,
telling me I have wasted all my days,
I glance back,
and see my shadow,
so I laugh, inside, seeing my progress
into the light
of ever after all I lost…
asking strangers
for a few minutes
we can someday share, sure and certain,
it was as real as anything,
at the moment
our selves are
not ourselves, not
another pair
of people facing after all,
we form a bubble
to be in, only we two,
could be
we must imagine some sense
we feel we must squeeze
from sense
as common as
the air we share.
Nov 16, 2024
Nov 16, 2024 at 9:23 PM UTC
a google earth stalker hovered &
zoomed in on localities that predicted
his frequency like an equated John.
fanatically checking for refreshed images--
that he may feature as an action shot of
undiscovered talent.
the quirky habituation of her long distance
fix, a savant's out-of-body experience.
a rendezvous' autopilot, more accurate than a
dreamt address--a gooey **** driving fingernails
into tight fists.
despoiling the lifelines of palms, eyelids cracked
open like blinds voyeuring on the closed door
policy of the indecent.
now she jams her zipper, while hopping in &
out of bed with self-mythology.
alone with her body, or alone with another body.
she's back on google earth again, fastidiously
searching for an appropriate potter's field.
Aug 9, 2024
Aug 9, 2024 at 8:06 PM UTC