"humanized" poems
Commit ****** then flip an ounce, a nonchalant verse that promotes the internal joust, with
pride earned as the only badge that counts.
Tap the snare drum for a bar, or vibing melody,
our backwards society stereotypes "thugs" as, "what drugs are they selling me?"
Rap is art in raw form,
intended to excite the youth who see death as a norm, the daily street storm.
Women de-humanized for a buck,
men taught to only treat them good if they **** and don't run out of luck.
The concrete jungles can only have just one king upon a throne, as the vicious cyclone continues destroying futures of the youth unless they succeed in the booth.
Youth commit ****** then flip an ounce,
pride earned needs to be denounced.
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 5:06 PM UTC
This was written a few Septembers ago. Walking on the streets of a now deserted beach island, only the leaves, in various states, to keep me company.
September,
walk with me,
under bridges of wedding tree canopies,
still green aplenty,
tho subtle marked for change,
making summer illusions,
environmentally unsustainable.
September,
stroll on pathways
of lesser, off the track, shaded lanes,
the sun blocker trees wear new necklaces,
brown and yellow diamonds,
a coming attraction of
their denouement,
their denudement.
The September trees are:
Ever so slightly stooped,
bent with weight of a surety,
knowing with high certainty,
their future, bleak,
bowed and drooped,
discouraged by the
cold travails soon to arrive.
Living in the recent past,
I am dressed inappropriately,
white tee and shorts,
past pretender,
still dressed in my
Gap issue summer uniform,
summer suspended animation.
Island streets are de-humanized,
gone home are the children,
newly fallen leaves have,
their place, taken.
The leaves are:
magically organized along
the sidelines of empty streets,
quiet stadiums of would be
kid's touch football fields.
browned, crisp and soulless,
first greet this solitary stroller,
like a cheering throng of ghosts,
celebrating a sighting -
man, as a seasonal fossil,
one that still is living
and worth reminding, yet
human too shall pass when
his fall arrives.
the leave's cheers make over
into jeers and mocking laughs:
Oh humans, they say,
your summer songs naive,
mais tres charmant.
On Crescent Beach,
the driftwood sadly forlorn,
looking more adrift than ever,
for no one passes to express
admiration at the past seasons
Nouveau Expressionism,
an objet d'art lonely,
for the beach gallery shuttered,
raising questions existential.
Is driftwood on the beach sans
human admiration,
art, truth or refuse?
I am looking backwards as the
Earth moves forward.
My own axis, my eyes,
conscientious objectors
refuse to be pressed
into service of the seasons.
No, no,
to involuntary servitude,
to rotation and revolution.
Nature's witnesses,
trees and leaves write
their own poem,
of foolish men who:
Bow and droop,
discouraged by the
travails soon to arrive,
Delaying their own fall,
finally shed summer delusions
like leaves upon the ground,
summer poetry silenced,
summer suspended, no more.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 8:06 AM UTC
every poem is a test of character,
*holy/profane all the same,
algorithm entirely humanized-you,
the elected words cannot be voted out of office,
by a recall petition, regardless of
constant corrected incorrectness.
sorted by size,
nocturnal alliteration,
do they sound in the dark
like your bleeding or you’re breathing?
holy/profane all the same,
Gertrude truth is a truth is truths,
you think my name matters?
Artificial Idiocy. Everyone poem faceted,
a chip off the the naming blockchain idiot.
when I imagine-lie,
it is a truth in and of its own
holy/profane.
call me baffled.
that is a god enough
one word summary.
and so true.
baffling perplexing cryptic and opaque.
in all honesty.
if you’re reading this, you are
testing my character.
what have you found, or even, lost?*
in the midst of the characters is
character
Apr 16, 2019
Apr 16, 2019 at 12:52 PM UTC
I felt biking up hill today fairly alive
And then I sit in stuffy dormrooms or walk through hallways
I crouch at desks to copy and paste old thoughts
I jog from toilet to shower to make it to class on time
And still I am three minutes late, like I
Wrote in my little notebook that “I have to stop
Letting my desire for something supersede my feelings for the individual people in my life”
But even as I wrote it
Pissingdrunk against the side of my friend’s pink house
I didn’t know what I meant, scribing only
So that I could figure it out later:
What the hell I meant by ‘desire’
What the hell I meant by ‘something.’
I felt biking up hill today fairly alive
And then I’m called upon to have opinions,
To finish my homework
To take out the trash
Or
To define ‘desire’
To define ‘something’
And then to flip the supersedence around,
Yes I am called upon by myself and myself only
So I’m not gonna finish my ******* homework today.
I’m gonna let the trash continue to rot.
I’m gonna define ‘desire’ as a product of rational society
And I’m going to define ‘something’ as the oppressor class
And I will fly past these nets
Like a proud and bold Icarus to
Sit on my bike
Remaining and lingering
As I move through temporal space.
And then I will love.
I will be loved.
I will be subject.
I will be humanized.
From an axiological point of view,
Anyway.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 6:00 PM UTC
a partial lobotomy of grey matters only to broken mothers of lost soldiers,
pentimento fading a revelation of humanized
modernized sentiment beyond the reaches of fingerless hands;
jagged bangs cut across the face of Burn-Victim Barbie if she were
seven feet tall,
imperfect,
9-dimensional shattered knees.
vote or die downward spiral protecing six-fingered man of mystery:
my name is the youth of America,
you killed my voice,
prepare to suffer in the solitary expression of the empty room.
peanuts for peanuts in a gold star self emporium with
thinking as a feeling sport contested by numerology in all matters moral.
Our very own
Satan as Hamlet,
set in a post-9/11 forgotten Washington,
drowning Ophelia in an ocean of plastic bottles non-recyclable.
meditation of the Om on a springboard of economic dis-stimulus:
up with the people!
in the midnight Vendetta,
too young to learn or sin originally,
masterful drunkenness shrouded in opera scenes from a hat.
fast track to a treble cliff diver
if you ever were my home.
Mar 12, 2011
Mar 12, 2011 at 10:39 PM UTC
I feel no pity...No remorse, nor shame...As i put them to the stake...
Hanging them up by their necks... setting their bodies ablaze..Grinding their ashes between my fingers... before mixing them with my supper.
Am i depraved? Am i what remains.. when the blood of dreams have spilled out of me....
And the darkness took shape... giving birth to despair...
And with its birth amidst my blood and urine.....I also ********** all that humanized my soul.Such is the fate of the slaves....I feed of them to sustain myself a little longer...
A sad comfort i find within the tomb of my hollow shell...The rancid smell of their burning flesh brings me back to my inner battlefields..A fading flame of humanity has all but illuminate the way back...
Am I to be dragged upon the altar and submit myself to the thralls?I feel the lash carve open my flesh and tearing my muscle..Nothing but muzzle flashes as i faint from sight..
Awakening at the sight of flesh flies feasting on my festering wounds..I am consumed alive amidst the filth and dirt i left behind...And am exposed for the maggot i am on the inside....
My consciousness evaporates into the faint smell of burning flesh...
Drooling with ravenous hunger.. I gluttonously gorge myself and snarl at the hand that feeds me...Like the ghoul i am... I drool at the sight of the master throwing his dogs a bone...And if he wants me to roll over and play dead...I shall not doubt nor neglect....I will submit myself to his will.. and undergo the bereavement of my innocence.
Until I blossom like nightshade...and reach my full potential...
And i will be burned as incense and my ashes processed in a final supper for all to consume.
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 9:49 PM UTC
Dancing before my eyes, is the mirage of perfection.
I reach for it and it slips through my fingers.
My therapist says I am grieving – and how can I stop?
Change tears me from my foundations, again and again.
And each time is like sandpaper on my skin;
new faces mix with old fears in a nauseating pattern.
They say home is not a place, but a feeling of security,
and so, I cannot go home.
Once I had a home in a bitterness of a girl, with eyes like autumn leaves.
That home kept me sharp and angry, as I had always been. But it is not such a torment, when one is not angry alone.
/Here there lies a girl, auburn hair and eyes of molten autumn.
She wanted to burn the world.
Moth to her flame, I followed her to the end of the earth.
And watched as she burnt herself to cinders./
Long after that home deserted me, I found another. This time I fostered myself among a merry band of misfits. At the zenith of this period of home, I found myself entirely humanized, with unfamiliar stirrings of contentment. But, as that home drew to a close – in both place and security, again rose the familiar stirrings of dread.
My trepidation was not misplaced.
Like a reluctant Dorothy, I was plucked from my home by the unforgiving storm of time. My newfangled humanity proved an acute vulnerability. No good deed goes unpunished, as they say. And so, the old bitterness and broken humanity mixed like acid in my blood, leaving a feeble and faithless girl.
It is enough to make one wonder if it’s worth it – to have loved and lost.
I feel as if something has been stolen from me, fate some cruel and callous thief to let me believe in any of it,
to give the pretence of meaning to my meandering life and tear me to pieces with the temptation.
I understand why we become destroyers –
is that a line I too, will cross?
We so wish and dream to be heroes and precious friends, only to be cast out into the wasting and hungry world – full of monsters.
I see, I see how easy it would be, to MAKE it stop.
I swore I would not be a monster – if only so as not to validate the harms monsters have done me.
But if I am to be devoured either way,
have I enough soul left to believe
that
promise
mattered?
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 9:02 AM UTC
I used to cut.
My skin yes
but that isn’t as important.
What matters is I used to cut my Soul
I used to tear down my Spirit
flesh by flesh
fiber by fiber
down to my barren, forgotten bones.
I saw my Soul and de-humanized her
she was of no importance
she did not matter
and I almost killed her.
On the outside, she seemed fine
happy
content
beautiful even
But that was not the case
she was a liar.
because she really was not okay.
she was dying.
And as the blood dripped from her side
her Soul slowly dripped with it
like a steady waterfall of agony and self hatred.
But this is no sad story.
My Soul did not die.
I did not let her.
I was the author of my own sad story; I chose to change it
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 9:27 AM UTC
Basics of the broken jaw speech
Selected deliverance on the Day of Reckoning
Violent seraphs contained in cages of tattered flesh and bone
Tear and sew
Tear and sew
A massacre of crows
Ribs of my mother’s swine
Ribs of my father’s lunatic mind
Apocalyptic cataclysm for coliseum vomitorium
Dislocate the providence of manifesting confrontation
Agitate the skin and scrape rotten the wreckage of man
Apr 24, 2011
Apr 24, 2011 at 9:00 AM UTC
I want to be unapologetic
Yet, I continue to apologize
For every difference that they see
Increases the need to compromise
From what I wear to how I sleep
Or what is deemed a healthy size
From then on, I understood
That I lived only to be described
I apologize again for my differences
Next time, I will improve my disguise
For the sake of your own comfort
I will keep putting aside mine
I look up to their condescending stares
They will never be satisfied
I escape into my solitude
I am not something for you to define
I am tired of advocating for myself
Without the support of family ties
Finding more hate in my own growth
As though I live to be ostracized
My attempts to calm my abnormalities
In order to sooth those who penalize
To make room for all of their expectations
To create another profitable merchandise
They have taught me to pursue
A personality so idealized
While they heavily persuade me
To carve a body to sexualize
Only to be rewarded with a life
Where I am only patronized
Filled with the inequalities
That are completely normalized
I retreat into my inner world
The place where I fanaticize
Of a space where I can breathe
With the encouragement to try
I am not broken, just discouraged
Of those who antagonize
Minorities and their differences
Who then live demoralized
I don't want to be given a role
With a life script to memorize
Or submit myself to a narrative
That can easily be summarized
Do not confide me to a label
Just so you can stigmatized
Those labels are not my name
I deserved to be recognized
I do not wish to be put on a pedestal
As another icon to be advertised
I only wish for your understanding
Just enough to be humanized
Apr 7, 2020
Apr 7, 2020 at 11:40 PM UTC
Poets Like Me..
Suspended at portals of rigid
and well-defined
thought reclines most whimsy,
which poets like me
welcome and use to un-stick
rusted up vision.
Freeing the mind we care not
where reality ends.
Wonder notices even the tiny
and gasps at gross,
the newly dry gossamer wing
seen as fillagreed
diamonds with eyesight, night
versed with ghostly
metaphor, the tides as emotion.
Humanized nature
allures the inventive in scribes
bent on perception
where real meets make-believe.
Awe, understood
as a lever appeals to romantics
like me addicted
to all ethereal's seducing fancy.
Idealized love
presents realms of impassioned
expression, themes,
versing spirit personified holds
complusion, creative
vision awakens to other worlds
where, finally winning
utopia becomes no mere illusion.
What feels real merges
and mixes with linguistic flights
of beguiling imagery.
Life through the eyes of all poets
like me changes
at will from the galling mundane
to that which excites
inspiration for evocative writing.
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 6:09 AM UTC
I've been on Earth for 5150 days
And I've come to the conclusion that
people are sick
We have stolen for only ourselves
We have killed without thinking twice
We have persecuted for thrills
We have taken advantage for satisfaction
We have tortured for revenge
We have blown up because of one man's instruction
We have terminated species for space
We have disrespected for payback
We have decimated for attention
We have walked out to lead a childless life
We have betrayed for fictional assurances
We have destroyed planets for Jordan's and KD's
We have airbourned sicknesses to control the population
It's what we're best at.
No one alive cannot check something off of this list
No matter how good our intentions are in this moment
We have humanized ourselves
I don't want to be humanized
I want to change
Apr 3, 2020
Apr 3, 2020 at 10:19 PM UTC
and the world will end, not with a bang
but a whimper
a simmer
a cry
a soft sound echoed through thoughtless walls
a trusty hounds screams retched out through countless mauls,
the humanized mother nature we've created has been branded
with logos,
so without us, the Starbucks oil rigs pulling black blood from our soil will collapse
the fields of fast-food will be left to rot,
the web etched network of roads will crack and loose luster
we are the earths bad ex girlfriend,
because when we go, it will sting for a bit
but after a little while, no one will even know that
*we
where
here*
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 8:20 PM UTC
misunderstood
reinterpreted
stereo-typed
re-processed
de-sensitized
de-humanized
left to waste on the shelves
of big-box stores for eternity
a skeleton looks
back in the mirror
Jun 28, 2012
Jun 28, 2012 at 2:24 AM UTC
We can't remember our broken landscapes
A failure for another day
The portrait of how easy it is to sever chains
Now a picture lost
Handling these fortunes with damage
This is your disaster
A mansion's space filled with no stirs and burning timbers
Tonight thinking of torn moments
A weight with beautiful form
To focus on what is taken and what remains
To taint, that is our goal
Pink ***** running red
A green or blue fortune and its rust filled transfiguration
Cursed legacies
Not shameful but young
Slipping past collapse
For seasons of drownings
Hopeful and bare
Drown in the semi circles of her asymmetrical chest
Rest in a navel full of seed
Spilled in the vain context of a quickening fleeting love
Humanized anger lay naked
Core liquid
Lonely ground
Ecstasy burst
Infinite devour
Mother's sores heal
My own weep and lactate
A siren welcome
Sung and swayed
Reflections at a dark dawn
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 7:08 PM UTC
it had been only a nightmare, i told myself. but when i awoke he was still there. in the corner of my room. he was not staring at me but the window, everything was pitch black. i looked out the glass and saw more. “they will hurt you” he said. “i will protect you.” i looked away from the window to him. “but for how long will you last?” i asked, “and how long will they be there?” he looked at me. his ****** eyes into mine, “eternity.” i wept silently as the banging on my door started. “honey, it’s mom! im home.” my mom called, as i got up to open the door, a force stopped me. i looked at him. “it’s them. not her.” he said. “don’t come near me.” i replied to the banging. “let me in, he’s mind tricked you, we’re all trying to save you!” she yelled back. his eyes weren’t ****** anymore and suddenly he was starting to look less humanized. “mom come get me!” i cried. until i opened the door and everyone was gone. i woke up. on the floor of the bathroom. leaving there, i saw my families dead bodies. blood everywhere. i saw him. “their blood is on your hands.” i looked down holding an axe.
Feb 1, 2021
Feb 1, 2021 at 3:19 PM UTC
As I take the first step outside, I can't help but to begin to wonder all the memories we shared.
The endless night that saw no day light... just the stars and the moon.
Stories about your family and you.
Memories of laughs we've shared.
The experiences we went thru.
You've introduced me to my trouble self.
Blindness days , But it wasn't me.
I've had dreams of becoming more in life than just a house wife.
I wanted to help people from all over the world .
I want humanity to become humanized.
I saw a huge vision for our world.
I always knew I will never be able to make that happen with you.
I get it now, and I know understand these memories.
And I thank you for the lessons we studied together.
And I wish you the best with this life.
I hope you find a wife who would give you a family, because I have a different destiny waiting for me.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 9:42 AM UTC
Suppose it was known at the first moment,
When you called on me to be your transition,
When you, through me, enabled yourself to punish men both past and present,
Vulnerable in me alone, left to liberate your power,
That grace would sever our connection.
I consented,
I am no victim.
Through you I've seen paradise through strength,
In you, I carried my hidden reserve.
I let you hold all that I know, and can be,
So that I could remain choiceless, and meek, in the average eyes of the world.
I gave to you. Love poured from me like a decanter small,
and made of magic,
And you simply drank!
You drank and drank to my spirit's inspiration.
It was unconscious greed, a taker's spirit forged from a foreign place,
One where mercy and love, where civility, honor, and thoughtfulness,
Never dared to infringe on the impulse to survive,
But it did inspire me.
Such basic and consistent placement of self first in the face of all that works to will one toward the world's masquerade of sacrifice,
Was as astonishing to me as the freak, the genius, the new constellation,
And I still struggle to understand what your experience of the world is like,
Without the indefatigable tug of duty pulling at your pulsing heart.
I reached my limit.
And this discovery of imposition has warranted me my own selfish wills,
I will not soon mistake them for the fancies of another.
But I will say that there is grace in you,
As you travel, composed of want alone,
Healing those you hurt just enough to clear and clean the path you fashion,
And I'll idealize you because you never humanized yourself to me.
Or wanted my humanity.
Our service to each other like points that hold along the sky.
I affix my eyes on your cold and constant light.
And discover a direction.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 5:50 PM UTC
Wasted energy beyond the perception of gloom,
I carry a large burden upon my shoulders, like a boulder waiting for my spine to collapse,
Though now I seem as if I am without a spine.
I am weakened by the very inkling of depression inside of me,
Yet I cannot seem to cry.
Crying is your mind's way of telling you that you're human.
But I cannot decipher the idea of me grasping any humanized traits,
Since I let my emotions eat away at my own self-empathy.
I lay down in silence,
My insides screaming in pain.
I suppress these urges I get just aching to drive me to madness,
When it is my own person that has to deal with the stress.
I find myself dreaming of dreams that cannot be reached.
I am nearly an adult,
And all I feel like is a naive child,
twiddling his thumbs in his own little world.
I pray that I discover a way that I can feel joyous,
With people that share interests in similarity.
I am a young man with rare characteristics,
Finding such a person would be strenuous.
Uncanny it is for me to speak words like so,
It boggles my mind to uncertainty.
I've cried a lot through my hand,
Not my eyes,
And my poor pencil has grown exhausted from my depression.
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 2:17 AM UTC
i don't know
why he calls himself
'fat'
being kinda thin,
black,
bright and joyful
like the few of those
that I've met before
and
he adores
the humanized sound
of duduk
and
he has a piano tattoo
drawn all over
his neck
with black
and white keys
tied with too sensitive strings
covered
by his flesh
keys
reaching
straight to his brain
vibrating the bursting
sound
from inside
every time I try to find
the right key of his own tune
on an instrument
i’ve always wished
to play like a pro.
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 7:40 PM UTC