"haines" poems
joshua haines i know we arent near
but i have to say, it would be a fear
that if we were i would fall in love
with your sophistication and grace
and most likely my dear
even the simple shading of your face
words, they contain souls
at least they do to me
and if that is the case
when you write, you set us free
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 1:53 PM UTC
you're my kin
through thick and thin
you've seen me cry
and you've seen me die
reborn into new
and watched me grew
thrived into this bright being
that you're proud of seeing
i love you, broseph
you're dope as ****
i'll always be there
no matter where, i swear
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 12:23 AM UTC
Dear Talia,
I don't want to be a tortured artist.
I don't want to be depressed and I don't want to be anxious.
Competitive sadness and disorders treated like accessories disgust me.
The world glamorizes mental illness, and I don't understand why. There is nothing romantic about being mentally ill just like how there's nothing glamorous about a broken wrist or a torn medial collateral ligament. There's nothing romantic about constantly being afraid that the world will fold in itself and **** you with it. There's nothing romantic about feeling like you could break down and cry at any moment.
This is the first piece I've written while being medicated.
I want it to be Christmas already.
The world dreams itself a halo, but can only attain horns. The halo is an illusion and the horns are an idea.
I'm due to take another Lorazepam. Would I look cool to the kids who idolize dysfunction and misinterpret pain as style, if I were to take one of these, with water and a distant glance, in front of them? Geez, to have their approval would to have everything and nothing at all.
I'm not sure why I've written as much about this as I have.
You.
It is 2:48 am and all I can think about, in this moment, is you.
I can't wait to spend Christmas with you. I can't wait to wear bad Christmas sweaters, and be the couple everyone hates, as we sing Christmas carols and spread holiday cheer.
I wrote this poem a few minutes ago. Sometime around 2:30 am. I'm not sure. I'm exhausted:
I sat on the edge of my bed, and on the edge of my life,
medicated to the point of pointlessness. Soft.
It was the nineteenth, not the twentieth,
and I wished I saw the fireworks with her fifteen days earlier.
My gasps tore the shingles off of the house.
And they hung suspended above the hole in the roof.
And God stared down into my room, as the shingles swirled skyward.
"I see you," I said, "but I don't believe in you."
I left home and ran until I was a dream that had passed itself.
I hope that was okay.
I love you.
Yours,
Joshua Haines
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 2:56 AM UTC
Hands, plural to make us one
Near the end of August the heat told me to stop
It's vicious, wanting you
No milder than the jaws of winter
And every person not you cuts
On the street, our wounded lips
Before October and on silver screens
Your face projected on everything
You wanted the cinema, I thought
So I spoke fumbled niceties at your door
But the camera was stuck in my eye
And the words I scripted shifted into your mouth
The breaths I take, the breaths I shout
Your smile corroded in the rain
Your endless longing,
My endless shame
It keeps me in this thought
That what I feel has no name
But the credits crept up with the dregs of December
Money is noisy, and I liked your quietudes
But the snow will blanket my blood-buoyant bright
And I will drown into night
To lay by you until dawn
To lay by you until you are gone
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC
I'm a ******
I don't do drugs or drink
my only flaw is how much I think
I don't believe in God but I believe in me
And I don't know where I belong on my family tree
I don't propose that **** is based on a girl's clothes
I suppose I'm dumb or brilliant but who really knows
You could say that I'm narcissistic or have low self-esteem
with a girlfriend with a pocketless pocket and a head full of dreams
Whoa that didn't flow, that last line
Imperfect effort seems to be an attribute of mine
Look at this rhyme scheme, it's so diverse
I guess I can get away with this; I couldn't get any worse
One favorite, three favorite, fifty-four
Give me validation, I could always use some more
Hello, Hellopoetry! You've been so forgiving
of my beautiful poetry that reflects an ugly way of living
Tell me, tell me: Should I write more?
What if my sadness is gone, and my melancholy no more?
Will you still love me if I write about crinkle-cut fries?
**** No more suicide poems, does this kid still try?"
Is there still a Josh Haines if he no longer cries?
Is there still a Josh Haines if he doesn't wanna die?
Is there still a Josh Haines if he starts to fall?
Is there still a Josh Haines if he gets it all?
Is there still a Josh Haines after every kiss?
Is there still a Josh Haines after he writes all of this?
Eh. Maybe, baby. Maybe.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 9:06 PM UTC
*The weakly poet
In praise of Joshua Haines
Drivel and Drek shines*
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 12:05 AM UTC
I sit here and wonder if you're reading this-
If curiousity overcame you again recently, or not.
Its that time
Where im too exhausted to sleep
And all there is, is the music
And I wonder if you're reading this-
Will you have been part of this moment?
Whenever for you this moment might be.
Connected now, I feel it through-
You infinitely odd ball - creature
Thank you for all you normally do- I acknowledge it through this poem's feature:
So of my art unto,
I will become the teacher
to share with you creations new
as haines floats from the speaker.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 6:58 AM UTC
For Joshua Haines
Thanks for the invite kid,
but I am bulky enough
and don't need your weight
to carry
**** good writer
you are,
not a concede,
not an aiming to please,
"just the facts, ma'am"
not even twenty one
commander of the ship from
a mooring slipped,
a poetic trip well-begun
but
Follow for Follow?
no babe,
passing dude,
passed that point
of no purposed-return,
trading points and
placing my self worth
on a scale of followers,
or ranted counts of page views
I may read you
cause write quite nicely,
but I don't inflate
nobody's ego,
for their own fake sake
counting false gods
got my people forty years
of desert wandering,
after 400 years of penal servitude,
so I have done my hard time,
for that exact crime
Whew!
That felt good!
you must of got me confused
with another whew
I was young once
till very recently,
even tho I am
four decades plus
you senior
so here is my story,
don't swap spit or follows,
or likes for show,
those who have my heart,
have my words freely
my audience is the sun,
my numerology glorious,
the blades of green beneath
my rabbits happy bunny dancing,
for every verse pleasured
those I count on,
ask not,
for they like me for the who in my poetry,
knowing fullness and well,
mine is theirs,
no need to trade favors
I will read your words,
but not for you,
but for them,
the best part
of the best of you
Let us together,
think about that...
and if ever there were a blade upon to fall,
this notion is both sharp,
and the map to freedom
good luck to us both...
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 11:05 AM UTC
Vonnegut was easy to admire. He gave you the sense that he'd seen people die, that war was something he lived - like an oracle saying, "Hey, this is what war is, it ***** ***** So it goes," you know? Then there's trenches, and Hemmingway.
But what happens if more people actually split an atom?
I'm a writer. I have no idea.
I did watch a guy get beheaded today - on Youtube. Almost. 30 seconds in and I couldn't do it. I've never lived war, but I watched an English aid worker, at the mouth of death say, "My name is David Cawthorne Haines. Following a trend amongst our British prime ministers who can’t find the courage to say no to the Americans, it is we, the British public that, in the end, will pay the price for our Parliament’s selfish decisions.."
Then a faceless man starts to rip an aid worker's head off.
So it goes. Writers go to war. I never had to. But I watched from home, between a Friday and Monday, and do my best to warn my children about the end.
Mother Do You Think They'll Drop The Bomb?
For most my childhood, I was lucky enough to ask, "Mother do you think they CAN drop the bomb?"
If you know Floyd, as far as breaking my ***** goes, done. I finally get that, pops. ***** will always be broken. But the bomb? That's not too different than the ***** is it? There's always someone. The hippie's now, I feel, just hope a little less, and pray a **** ton more.
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 5:54 AM UTC
Il lui disait : « Vois-tu, si tous deux nous pouvions,
xxL'âme pleine de foi, le coeur plein de rayons,
xxIvres de douce extase et de mélancolie,
xxRompre les mille noeuds dont la ville nous lie ;
xxSi nous pouvions quitter ce Paris triste et fou,
xxNous fuirions ; nous irions quelque part, n'importe où,
xxChercher **** des vains bruits, **** des haines jalouses,
xxUn coin où nous aurions des arbres, des pelouses ;
xxUne maison petite avec des fleurs, un peu
xxDe solitude, un peu de silence, un ciel bleu,
xxLa chanson d'un oiseau qui sur le toit se pose,
xxDe l'ombre ; - et quel besoin avons-nous d'autre chose ? »
Juillet 18...
889
There is no one here. No replies either. To random sms that are unfair.
I don't want your time. I just want to be able to breathe.
And that's easier with distraction.
Silence, actually. Or Haines. Or Hauswollf. Or silence.
But I can't breathe.
Can you remember when you lay on top of me.
Naked.
With your whole body weight. Skin on skin.
I could breathe under your weight.
You were my air.
Pathetic **** Disgusts me. I resent myself. But I can't breathe.
And yet I'm too cowardly, or the question of why this far and no further,
when I want to cut off my air for good.
It's all there. Simply because it brings a little peace.
Control.
I can. I can. If I really can't anymore. Or want to.
It bores me.
Everything's on the right track now, isn't it?
But you're not coming to see me.
A friend said I shouldn't put it like that.
So that I wish you would visit me again.
I meant the dreams in which you were there.
You told me that we had to find your belt.
What belt?
I replied
that you were a pile of ashes. You didn't care.
But now, after three years,
**** again,
three years,
look, I live around the corner from you now.
For three long years I have avoided this area.
Took the longest detours, counted the shadows.
there were always 114.
i don't want to see your window.
And now
I live here.
In your area. The area that so often seemed unreachably far away when we wanted to see each other.
And we always wanted to see each other.
Sitting in the back seat of a car, I drive past.
And stare into your window.
drive past, sitting on the hard wooden bench in the streetcar.
And stare into your window.
In the unbearably loud subway, I pass by, twisting my head, standing on my toes, twisting my whole body.
So that I can stare into your window.
have stopped counting them. the 114 shadows.
And can't breathe.
He's outside. What should I say?
Why am I even talking to him? 40 euros.
You died for 40 euros.
That's what I say. Yeah yeah yeah... free will, not your fault, grown up... yeah yeah yeah I UNDERSTOOD.
Doesn't change my guilt.
There! Now! I remembered that you weren't just in my dreams.
And now I demand from this world that you look at my balcony.
I “want” nothing.
No needs
except rest.
And Haine…or... Hauswolff.
And now is the point where I no longer find it fair.
Not in a dream.
Sit next to me.
Put your entire weight on my naked body.
Let your sweat drip from the tip of your nose into my mouth and let me taste the salt.
Not in a ******* dream.
Come here now.
Please.
I know..
I can't come to you. You are no more.
I don't know... I still want to be.
I think so.
It's finished.
The spiritual **** disgusts me, your talk disgusts me, I disgust myself
And probably the only reason I haven't hanged myself yet is because I think, I've lasted this long.
Aug 11, 2024
Aug 11, 2024 at 5:15 PM UTC
Le jeune homme dont l'oeil est brillant, la peau brune,
Le beau corps de vingt ans qui devrait aller nu,
Et qu'eût, le front cerclé de cuivre, sous la lune
Adoré, dans la Perse, un Génie inconnu,
Impétueux avec des douceurs virginales
Et noires, fier de ses premiers entêtements,
Pareil aux jeunes mers, pleurs de nuits estivales,
Qui se retournent sur des lits de diamants ;
Le jeune homme, devant les laideurs de ce monde,
Tressaille dans son coeur largement irrité,
Et plein de la blessure éternelle et profonde,
Se prend à désirer sa soeur de charité.
Mais, ô Femme, monceau d'entrailles, pitié douce,
Tu n'es jamais la Soeur de charité, jamais,
Ni regard noir, ni ventre où dort une ombre rousse,
Ni doigts légers, ni seins splendidement formés.
Aveugle irréveillée aux immenses prunelles,
Tout notre embrassement n'est qu'une question :
C'est toi qui pends à nous, porteuse de mamelles,
Nous te berçons, charmante et grave Passion.
Tes haines, tes torpeurs fixes, tes défaillances,
Et les brutalités souffertes autrefois,
Tu nous rends tout, ô Nuit pourtant sans malveillances,
Comme un excès de sang épanché tous les mois.
- Quand la femme, portée un instant, l'épouvante,
Amour, appel de vie et chanson d'action,
Viennent la Muse verte et la Justice ardente
Le déchirer de leur auguste obsession.
Ah ! sans cesse altéré des splendeurs et des calmes,
Délaissé des deux Soeurs implacables, geignant
Avec tendresse après la science aux bras almes,
Il porte à la nature en fleur son front saignant.
Mais la noire alchimie et les saintes études
Répugnent au blessé, sombre savant d'orgueil ;
Il sent marcher sur lui d'atroces solitudes.
Alors, et toujours beau, sans dégoût du cercueil,
Qu'il croie aux vastes fins, Rêves ou Promenades
Immenses, à travers les nuits de Vérité,
Et t'appelle en son âme et ses membres malades,
Ô Mort mystérieuse, ô soeur de charité.
833
Ouvre ton aile au vent, mon beau ramier sauvage,
Laisse à mes doigts brisés ton anneau d'esclavage !
Tu n'as que trop pleuré ton élément, l'amour ;
Sois heureux comme lui : sauve-toi sans retour !
Que tu montes la nue, ou que tu rases l'onde,
Souviens-toi de l'esclave en traversant le monde :
L'esclave t'affranchit pour te rendre à l'amour ;
Quitte-moi comme lui : sauve-toi sans retour !
Va retrouver dans l'air la volupté de vivre !
Va boire les baisers de Dieu, qui te délivre !
Ruisselant de soleil et plongé dans l'amour,
Va-t-en ! Va-t-en ! Va-t-en ! Sauve-toi sans retour !
Moi, je garde l'anneau ; je suis l'oiseau sans ailes.
Les tiennes vont aux cieux ; mon âme est devant elles.
Va ! Je les sentirai frissonner dans l'amour !
Mon ramier, sois béni ! Sauve-toi sans retour !
Va demander pardon pour les faiseurs de chaînes ;
En fuyant les bourreaux, laisse tomber les haines.
Va plus haut que la mort, emporté dans l'amour ;
Sois clément comme lui... sauve-toi sans retour !
755
Brushing up against me, except
a caress isn't as welcome as a whisper
Dragging prehistoric pills into my nose
with the pull of memories that
prefer to stay whispers
It's these desensitised nights
that remind me of what was
once so loud
And loud is quiet to me what is inaudible
to others under yellow spectrum
of silver-gloss, enough in god and
without loss
I swallow the capsule and taste the
nothingness and shake my head to
hear ringing and see other, rarer
colours- ones your eyes could hint at
And to be an ultra-deterrent that
kills without touching the lives it is
bluffing, I cannot suture the fracture
in my future
to be god, no
To be semi-real, perhaps
I am not as prolific as
I pretend to be
Each facet is another winter day
I wish wasn't sunny and mocking me
To be what you define reality,
you are a part of me
And a part of yourself is what
you have let me define
My harbouring hunger havocs soft
And if what I inhale makes me
become transparent, will you still
see me?
What's real isn't what I can reveal,
my dear
Isn't it broken, the alignment in our stars
To shift the glow, evermore
I determine the order
You determine me
Isn't it irreparable, the crackling phenomenon
existing between our gazes
We both know it is, and we love to
fall victim to it,
gracefully or not
-c.j. and Joshua Haines
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 11:20 PM UTC
This isn't your regular type of poem or free writing.
This is a cry out.
To all of those who are in need.
In need of a helping hand.
For those who are in need of a simple listener.
A heart to bend with.
A heart to break with.
For those who have longed to find a pure connection.
I am a friend to those seeking a friend.
I am the constant pull and push, between the tides.
I am the searching, forever lingering Feeling of lust on everyones tongue.
I am the monster we all try to hide.
Seeking is to finding as finding is to seeking.
If that makes sense to you at all.
An obsession in your heart that consumes you, fully.
Is something you can share with a friend.
I am Joshua Wayne Haines.
Seeking a friend for the end of the world.'
I trust in you as you trust in me.
Forever, we will live on with chaos.
In our minds, with hope in our hearts.
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 11:21 PM UTC
Sonnet.
Je passerai l'été dans l'herbe, sur le dos,
La nuque dans les mains, les paupières mi-closes,
Sans mêler un soupir à l'haleine des roses
Ni troubler le sommeil léger des clairs échos.
Sans peur je livrerai mon sang, ma chair, mes os,
Mon être, au cours de l'heure et des métamorphoses,
Calme et laissant la foule innombrable des causes
Dans l'ordre universel assurer mon repos.
Sous le pavillon d'or que le soleil déploie,
Mes yeux boiront l'éther, dont l'immuable joie
Filtrera dans mon âme au travers de mes cils,
Et je dirai, songeant aux hommes : « Que font-ils ? »
Et le ressouvenir des amours et des haines
Me bercera, pareil au bruit des mers lointaines.
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Pain ...highly unpleasant physical sensation caused by illness or injury.
"She's in great pain". Yes, yes she is in pain the sensation of tallying the days till her recovery covered her body because she never did. Her fingertips spent more time down her throat because she never learned anything but destruction. She mimicked the world in her head treating her body as if it has inflicted the most Haines crimes but she was the only one with the blade. The only one with a distorted mind she would crave the feeling as if she was hooked like we are to our tv shows the show was in her mind the silver pen she would use only came out in red a colour she know oh so well the red stained her bathroom floors as she lay there as the only thing that made her feel better now made her feel worst. She walked around with sleeves hiding her wounds from the world because they laughed at her they would yell her name as if it was the only chant they know she would cut through her skin for her temporary escape. Tears where now are apart of her face.the mirror was her worst enemy just after her mind the cracked glass lay on the floor as if they were phases of the heart that she once had now lain in the hands of all the men that shattered it. The empty hole in her heart would bleed like a gun shot but she wished it was each night praying to the gods above hoping for tomorrow to be a new day but **** him it was just like the last. As she got down on her knees and said amen I mean AMEN to the man the world cherished she prayed like the holy books taught her but he stayed as if she didn't. Now she wasn't only worthless to herself but now to him. Useless just in the background only ever used as a playground
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 4:44 PM UTC
Pourquoi t'exiler, ô poète,
Dans la foule où nous te voyons ?
Que sont pour ton âme inquiète
Les partis, chaos sans rayons ?
Dans leur atmosphère souillée
Meurt ta poésie effeuillée :
Leur souffle égare ton encens ;
Ton cœur, dans leurs luttes serviles,
Est comme ces gazons des villes
Rongés par les pieds des passants.
Dans les brumeuses capitales
N'entends-tu pas avec effroi,
Comme deux puissances fatales,
Se heurter le peuple et le roi ?
De ces haines que tout réveille
À quoi bon remplir ton oreille,
Ô poète, ô maître, ô semeur ?
Tout entier au Dieu que tu nommes,
Ne te mêle pas à ces hommes
Qui vivent dans une rumeur !
Va résonner, âme épurée,
Dans le pacifique concert !
Va t'épanouis, fleur sacrée,
Sous les larges cieux du désert !
Ô rêveur, cherche les retraites,
Les abris, les grottes discrètes,
Et l'oubli pour trouver l'amour,
Et le silence afin d'entendre
La voix d'en haut, sévère et tendre,
Et l'ombre afin de voir le jour !
Va dans les bois ! va sur les plages !
Compose tes chants inspirés
Avec la chanson des feuillages
Et l'hymne des flots azurés !
Dieu t'attend dans les solitudes ;
Dieu n'est pas dans les multitudes ;
L'homme est petit, ingrat et vain.
Dans les champs tout vibre et soupire.
La nature est la grande lyre,
Le poète est l'archet divin !
Sors de nos tempêtes, ô sage !
Que pour toi l'empire en travail,
Qui fait son périlleux passage
Sans boussole et sans gouvernail,
Soit comme un vaisseau qu'en décembre
Le pêcheur, du fond de sa chambre
Où pendent ses filets séchés,
Entend la nuit passer dans l'ombre
Avec un bruit sinistre et sombre
De mâts frissonnants et penchés !
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