"homeopathic" poems - Hello Poetry

Hollow words, like hollow bones can break and shatter They can pierce the flesh, boil the blood Seething from the open wound comes Every ill intention Every falsification Staining the crisp, white linen No amount of homeopathic remedy can remove the stain Try chemicals But you'll find that for any blood removed It's replaced with the sour odor and discoloration From whatever "oxy" product you may try Is it worth it? All that marketing and franchising for something that doesn't remove But replace? Can anything truly be removed purely, permanently?

0

Nov 19, 2015

Nov 19, 2015 at 12:06 AM UTC

kj

Free Write - 1/26/13

Hollow words, like hollow bones can break and shatter They can pierce the flesh, boil the blood Seething from the open wound comes Every ill intention Every falsification Staining the crisp, white linen No amount of homeopathic remedy can remove the stain Try chemicals But you'll find that for any blood removed It's replaced with the sour odor and discoloration From whatever "oxy" product you may try Is it worth it? All that marketing and franchising for something that doesn't remove But replace? Can anything truly be removed purely, permanently?

16

Mostly, it sickens me that our notes sent back and forth are measurably more pleasant than conversation We share in person. I bet that paper lotus is gone. Interchanged sentence fragments both homeopathic and calculated by lamplight. I bet that bookmark is still in the same place. Even comparing you to Ivan would be a stretch, Who are we kidding. Dmitri. But that’s still not the name I call you ante meridiem. I bet Freud was right, but I never called myself a boy. A . Eb. Six steps. Slonimsky dedicated so many pages to you. I guess I will distill the Ocean for salt. I can’t say any of this to you, the most honest I’ll ever be is in a poem I hope you’ll never read.

0

Nov 29, 2013

Nov 29, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC

stanley-david

Nom de Guerre

Mostly, it sickens me that our notes sent back and forth are measurably more pleasant than conversation We share in person. I bet that paper lotus is gone. Interchanged sentence fragments both homeopathic and calculated by lamplight. I bet that bookmark is still in the same place. Even comparing you to Ivan would be a stretch, Who are we kidding. Dmitri. But that’s still not the name I call you ante meridiem. I bet Freud was right, but I never called myself a boy. A . Eb. Six steps. Slonimsky dedicated so many pages to you. I guess I will distill the Ocean for salt. I can’t say any of this to you, the most honest I’ll ever be is in a poem I hope you’ll never read.

20

Your mealy curls are a nest of black ants squashed to death In bed and drowning By the hill of sweat between us How do moist lips running across my own feel Hegemonic and corroded as machinery

0

Mar 31, 2025

Mar 31, 2025 at 1:18 AM UTC

meowmeowmezcal

Homeopathic

Your mealy curls are a nest of black ants squashed to death In bed and drowning By the hill of sweat between us How do moist lips running across my own feel Hegemonic and corroded as machinery

5

I am the mountain man. I am the shifting sands. I am the laughter through gritted teeth, I am the squint of concentration, I am the missing piece and the stone that won't roll. I am the Zeit Ghost. I am the Underwerewolf. I am the Pseudonami. I am not what you say I am, until I say: "I Am." I am the Red Sun Samurai. I am the Locomotive Provocateur. I am the bones of kings and slaves. I am the breath of the wind in the trees. I am the Electrocuted Interlocutor. I am the whip of the matador. I am sunken cities in the swamp. I am Firestarter. Spark Guarder. I am the assembly line whereby the machine reproduces. I am capitulated capitalism. I am the captain of the sky ship to Ghost Country. I am a natural amphetamine a synthetic homeopathic a cure for the sad curation for the lost death for the solid and unchanging. I am the mask of roots. I am a treehouse full of books. I am the sword in the daytime. I am the Day Waker, the Cloud Shaker the Continent Unmaker, the Deep Laker the childhood of broken dreams and unbreakable boulders. Half-slumbering in your living room. One eye on your joy, the other searching for answers to the unanswerable question of: where did it go? Fully alive, pacing the gravestones kisses to flowers in the new moon and a pocketful of reality checks. Helping you let go of everything Holding you back. Hoping you'll hold onto me.

0

Apr 6, 2019

Apr 6, 2019 at 5:37 PM UTC

orion-schwalm

The Glue (In Search of a Pseudonym) [Ideas for a One-HuMan-Band]

I am the mountain man. I am the shifting sands. I am the laughter through gritted teeth, I am the squint of concentration, I am the missing piece and the stone that won't roll. I am the Zeit Ghost. I am the Underwerewolf. I am the Pseudonami. I am not what you say I am, until I say: "I Am." I am the Red Sun Samurai. I am the Locomotive Provocateur. I am the bones of kings and slaves. I am the breath of the wind in the trees. I am the Electrocuted Interlocutor. I am the whip of the matador. I am sunken cities in the swamp. I am Firestarter. Spark Guarder. I am the assembly line whereby the machine reproduces. I am capitulated capitalism. I am the captain of the sky ship to Ghost Country. I am a natural amphetamine a synthetic homeopathic a cure for the sad curation for the lost death for the solid and unchanging. I am the mask of roots. I am a treehouse full of books. I am the sword in the daytime. I am the Day Waker, the Cloud Shaker the Continent Unmaker, the Deep Laker the childhood of broken dreams and unbreakable boulders. Half-slumbering in your living room. One eye on your joy, the other searching for answers to the unanswerable question of: where did it go? Fully alive, pacing the gravestones kisses to flowers in the new moon and a pocketful of reality checks. Helping you let go of everything Holding you back. Hoping you'll hold onto me.

43

The hell to come… Lucille Harrow drowned herself and they forgot… She would’ve been the mother he needs… Evening tides lick at docked boats, silhouettes in the night working softly, wet wood, time is lost and they’re paid in ***** I cover my face, the sound of strangers filtering by hushed and hurried… “The streets stay empty most of the day”… A woman out at sea, heavy with care, she’ll sink to the bottom of the ocean… “My air is my own I don’t want you ******* breathing it”… I’m alone. Aspirations and motivation sinking to the bottom of a bottle. The moon is too tired to rise and so am I… They pinned you down with rope and words and you bore those marks forever… The boat rocking a lullaby, thoughts aimed at the interstellar, the darkness thick so I inhale… Still masts litter the shoreline, still bodies fill the mind… The boss pays in ***** and the deck hands drink in solitude, in defiance homeopathic… A woman with a heart too full… “She would have been the mother he needs”…

0

Dec 28, 2015

Dec 28, 2015 at 2:52 AM UTC

cjs

Low Light, Moonlight

The hell to come… Lucille Harrow drowned herself and they forgot… She would’ve been the mother he needs… Evening tides lick at docked boats, silhouettes in the night working softly, wet wood, time is lost and they’re paid in ***** I cover my face, the sound of strangers filtering by hushed and hurried… “The streets stay empty most of the day”… A woman out at sea, heavy with care, she’ll sink to the bottom of the ocean… “My air is my own I don’t want you ******* breathing it”… I’m alone. Aspirations and motivation sinking to the bottom of a bottle. The moon is too tired to rise and so am I… They pinned you down with rope and words and you bore those marks forever… The boat rocking a lullaby, thoughts aimed at the interstellar, the darkness thick so I inhale… Still masts litter the shoreline, still bodies fill the mind… The boss pays in ***** and the deck hands drink in solitude, in defiance homeopathic… A woman with a heart too full… “She would have been the mother he needs”…

1

I ran out of cliches to use in my writing last year when you ran out of patience for my problems, It was around the same time that we ran out of gas in the car because I got sidetracked again and instead of stopping I just kept driving because the song on the radio made me feel like I could breathe for once, and I planned our whole future when I went out to get milk but you were angry that I forgot the reason I left home, I came back empty handed and I still wonder now why you left me. It doesn’t feel right knowing that a year has passed and nothing that I have planted has grown or even budded, I starved some because I got distracted and others I smothered and they got overwhelmed and crumbled. I watched my lilacs collapse last Spring the same week you abandoned me and I’m sure I should have healed by now but it hit me only last week that I don’t know how. I don’t know if I’ve ever healed, or what it looks like outside of bandages and scars that I could watch turn white so I started reading about these homeopathic remedies for diseases I don’t have and I remember feeling like my body was going to give out every time I saw you in the summer and I blamed it on the heat but I spent most days inside in the AC. I wonder what the remedy is for that feeling because instead I tried to **** it and just felt weak. I would throw up and blame the alcohol and when my doctor asked me if I drank recreationally I told her no because there was nothing fun about blacking out to forget you and me. Last Valentine's day we had a bottle of wine and it only took me a cup to start crying and I remember you telling me you were disappointed when I didn't want to have *** which should have made me upset but I think what actually did was the fact that three months later I could drink an entire handle of ***** before throwing up and another half before I gave up on trying to kick this feeling that you might come back some day or the thought that I would take you back instantly when you never deserved me. I know that and still wonder why I feel so empty when I see old pictures of us in our teens.

0

Feb 14, 2017

Feb 14, 2017 at 8:15 PM UTC

ckeleos

feb 14, 2017

I ran out of cliches to use in my writing last year when you ran out of patience for my problems, It was around the same time that we ran out of gas in the car because I got sidetracked again and instead of stopping I just kept driving because the song on the radio made me feel like I could breathe for once, and I planned our whole future when I went out to get milk but you were angry that I forgot the reason I left home, I came back empty handed and I still wonder now why you left me. It doesn’t feel right knowing that a year has passed and nothing that I have planted has grown or even budded, I starved some because I got distracted and others I smothered and they got overwhelmed and crumbled. I watched my lilacs collapse last Spring the same week you abandoned me and I’m sure I should have healed by now but it hit me only last week that I don’t know how. I don’t know if I’ve ever healed, or what it looks like outside of bandages and scars that I could watch turn white so I started reading about these homeopathic remedies for diseases I don’t have and I remember feeling like my body was going to give out every time I saw you in the summer and I blamed it on the heat but I spent most days inside in the AC. I wonder what the remedy is for that feeling because instead I tried to **** it and just felt weak. I would throw up and blame the alcohol and when my doctor asked me if I drank recreationally I told her no because there was nothing fun about blacking out to forget you and me. Last Valentine's day we had a bottle of wine and it only took me a cup to start crying and I remember you telling me you were disappointed when I didn't want to have *** which should have made me upset but I think what actually did was the fact that three months later I could drink an entire handle of ***** before throwing up and another half before I gave up on trying to kick this feeling that you might come back some day or the thought that I would take you back instantly when you never deserved me. I know that and still wonder why I feel so empty when I see old pictures of us in our teens.

2

Is Jack, jack? i don't know no more listen to good a drummer drummin differently to much is in orbit mit dem *** teroids hemorrhoids itchy plenty but so what? i don't know his forms effort and song belongs somewhere but not in my iddy bitty head fluctuating syncopatic homeopathic homeo homeo wherefore art gave himself head advice in the mirror at the bug house fluctuating asyncopatic and swallows it whole from the T.V. and dances but he don't know why why?

0

Nov 9, 2017

Nov 9, 2017 at 5:10 AM UTC

mark-wanless

Is Jack, jack?

Is Jack, jack? i don't know no more listen to good a drummer drummin differently to much is in orbit mit dem *** teroids hemorrhoids itchy plenty but so what? i don't know his forms effort and song belongs somewhere but not in my iddy bitty head fluctuating syncopatic homeopathic homeo homeo wherefore art gave himself head advice in the mirror at the bug house fluctuating asyncopatic and swallows it whole from the T.V. and dances but he don't know why why?

21