"ideation" poems
this constant
invitation
into stark mystery
is a story
i flounder
to find words for.
~
a glance,
more
than eyes looking.
beholden
entrancement,
upon feedback's
looping.
~
i am a crippled logician,
wrought with wonder
in the thrashing
static jungle,
of no conclusion.
~
this is a flash
this here, the flesh
a blinding
binding light,
obliterating,
without solution,
a living,
i tremble in.
~
i am stumped
i am little
so small
hung
here
in the
sky.
~
a suspended channel
of ideation,
filling, with
empty utterance.
~
i am confounded
i am large
too grand
to
get
ahold
of.
~
breathing
multitudinous,
full, with
contradiction.
~
a grandiose
enigmatic flux,
miniscule
and massive.
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 5:21 PM UTC
discarded and pretty lonely, some ideation of loneliness, you know
like that, and also like this package which you told me to carry all
this way for you and i opened it and all i found inside was
blue bubble wrap, two syringes, and your earrings, the ones i liked
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 12:19 AM UTC
Standing like a model in a motel room-
jealous eyes can't open the blinds.
Every time, every time.
Je t'aime à la folie, broken frames.
These are beautiful songs for damaged people
that don't think they're all the same.
They taste like formaldehyde,
so hopefully they'll preserve me.
But, instead, they burn the room
as they kiss my neck and collarbone.
Lapdancing on my loneliness-
Please, let me remove my eyes and hands,
because I've seen and have felt too much.
You don't understand:
everything is ideation
and demisexuality.
Double entendre:
I'm a toxic lover,
I have girls around my waste.
Take a look around and see how damaged everyone is,
and how universal they are in their illusory disguise,
"How can we be so smart if the last line was redundant, guys?"
Je t'aime à la folie, broken frames.
This is just a mediocre song for damaged people,
so they believe they're not all the same.
Don't feel too much.
Remove introspection.
Be self-absorbed.
Feel no affection.
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 8:03 PM UTC
please to admit, it is
true & not too deep within,
a scientifically proven and a oddly
curio shop fact,
we are all aliens
to each other, despite,
the overlapping of
a billion permutations
of cellular related associations
our individuating palettes
the diversity of our genetics,
other than the physics of sharing a planet,
simplest put,
no one can ever
be exactly the same,
the precisely of you or me,
doppelgängers notwithstanding,
our individuation, so incredibly due
to our blessed diversification, that to
subdivide ourselves from others,
is a downward
facing absolutely ridiculous ideation
and thus we reveal here and (n/kn-ow) that the
only reason we aliens unique nonetheless
can communicate with each other,
regardless of alphabet or character of idiom,
(or idiots of character)
is
*all alien beings love to breathe and speak
intuitively in a pleasing rhyme and meter,*
to the ear of our overlapping physique,
and that is why, every tongue is connectable,
and every alpha produces its own poetic creations,
'tis poetic soundings alliterating glue,
that molds this planet of aliens
from a tower of babel into a
shapely sphere
Sep 27, 2025
Sep 27, 2025 at 1:05 AM UTC
Fertile earth’s seductive sorcery
Like ephemeral effulgence’s effluent effusion
Can lead you to believe that it’s not a travesty
Like life’s visceral intuitive eternal is not lost in subtle evasive confusion
Life’s virile translucence reflects this glow
Like an aorist ensemble of interludes transposition
Can lead you to believe that you’re in the know
Like omnipresence presages omniscience’s ubiquity is existential exigency’s peroration’s exposition
Corporeally preternatural metaphysical mystique
Like a mirador bartizan tableau panorama
Can inspire us to rise above its critique
Like spatiotemporal’s telemetry incarnate is creation’s vivid intrepid cyclorama
Spectral verve’s liaison’s consortium
Like eclectic synectic’s conclave’s fatidic
Can leave you lost in germane compendium
Like terminus thrall’s apriori inclination is transcendental accession’s endemic mnemonic
Monad’s transitional majestic splendor
Like residual harmonic vibration’s resilience
Can autonomously evoke and vicariously render
Like rubato’s actuator’s prospectus revealed is orchestration rendition’s intriguing brilliance
Eidetic preterit’s aesthetic amendments
Like protractive analyses’ dimensional delineation
Can lead to cogent salacious enticements
Like phantasmagoria’s fantasia fantastication’s magniloquence is sultry solace’s ostentatious ideation
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 8:07 PM UTC
"You were born to do this."
I reminded myself as I sat there feeling encaged in a flurry of endless thought and emotion.
"Why do I have to feel every aspect of every event of life, so deep?"
I thought as I fought myself once again to simply pick up the pen and drain the overflow of despondency onto paper.
"Breathe."
The words, letters, verbs and thoughts continued to swirl in my ever rampantly unsettled abyss of ideation.
Once I surrendered to the raging of the erupting of the soul..there was calm.
It's likened to the deaf..taken away their ability to sign..The dancer with both feet removed.
Had I no other pleasure but to expel grief, fervor and elation and form them into words to heal the shattering so entrenched..they appear unreachable..I'd beg to be buried with just a writing utensil and endless reams of freshly pressed paper.
"Theres Light."
I mouth that..as I continue to jot as if I were stitching my heart back together with this pen.
Even though I'm within this seemingly grave like cave of aching..I can write.
The beauty is in the creation..The ability to construct, like a carpenter..all that your heart desires with your own two hands..to simply Heal the paragraphs of life that were written badly, write over them or erase and rewrite..if only it were that easy.
I don't aim to undo..I cannot.
Just to poetically fabricate from this point on..allow the stumbles to happen and Love greater than thought fathomable.
Surrender. To the page.
Scribble it out, empty it onto line after line..and crawl atop..until the words fill the fragments and the ink stains your fingertips..Keep climbing upon the proverbial stacks of paper until the towers reach the aperture of the pit.
Creating the mending of affliction, soothing the misery of the choking of words you cannot utter, but you can scratch them onto tablets to deplete the churning of the mind.
Write. Write badly.
Write as if in a mad race to the finish line, then start over again..Until the trails of Letters stretch so long..you could dance upon them for days.
Then Breathe.
Soak every word into your skin as if attempting to heal the afflictions..
then Become it.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 5:24 PM UTC
i was never the type of girl to romanticize sliding a blade across my wrists,
but I couldn't resist the way you felt against my skin.
like a strong gust of wind as I stood like a delicate flower on the edge of a cliff,
you propelled me over with the smallest push.
it was not the fall that made me feel like I could fly or walk on water,
but the feeling of skull cracking against the ground as you watched from above.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 10:48 PM UTC
I remember hearing this phrase for the first time
some crazy lady I had to see weekly
always asked me, "any suicidal thoughts lately?"
I shrugged it off because I was so scared to know what it meant
that next week she asked if I had "suicidal thoughts"
I asked her what they were because I was ten or eleven and it wasn't in my vocabulary.
she googled it for me
Google defines it as "Suicidal thoughts, also known as suicidal ideation are thoughts about how to **** oneself, which can range from a detailed plan to a fleeting consideration and does not include the final act of killing oneself. "
and I thought about ending my life for the first time.
I told my friends at lunch that day that I wanted to die.
I had tears in my eyes
I couldn't just lie
I was in 5th grade
these thoughts started so young
I felt so horrible
I tried to take a bottle of pills
I awoke the next morning
and I wasn't happy about being awake.
if only tonight could be the last night
that all this would end
life would be great
if my body was lifeless
I am sad
and I've never shared this story before.
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 9:41 PM UTC
im full of my self
a cacophony
of unsavory menacing
radiating ideation's
of the twilight
color me
darkness
when ever i see
six six six
i always think
*** *** ***
petition the church
for my exorcism
cleans me oh lord
i need an enema
purge me
of small thoughts
and big talk
perhaps
i could be good
like
nice weather
a phone number
or
a
*******
Jan 15, 2017
Jan 15, 2017 at 7:03 PM UTC
a potion maker,
seeking the formulae
of the combination
of the
known and the none,
the wizard’s ideation
of the secret spark of
creation, the starter fire
of human destiny & desire
who needs gold,
when,
the power of birth,
the mystery of girth
the fluids of oils,
plus 57 varieties
of human blood,
in a precise tabulation
the sap of human cell
constructs, heated
gentle on a low flame,
do not forget, or regret
if the salt & pepper
of discernment is
overlooked, the sighs,
*the quiet of boredom,
the leveling moments
when creation is initiated*
and then
my heart can be
known to some,
even careful read
between the lines ~
the lines on my eyes,
the cross hatch upon
a forehead, the crinkles
where time and laughter
intersected and injected
*the whites spaces between
these words*
enough enigma…
never!
Jan 26, 2025
Jan 26, 2025 at 10:12 AM UTC
smooth like a breeze
let us move, let us walk
in this snow
Crow and Heron
they might call us;
those who see
my clothes in black
and yours in white
as light as falling snow
let us go
gently together
elegant and ephemeral
under one umbrella
close, warm
my arm on your delicate shoulders
and those who know
they will say:
*See, the eternal couple walk
Heron and Crow
Ying and yang
Never appearing never going
But always being*
Let us walk
smooth and precious
side by side, while fools think
there are times or moments in our lives;
while the wise know
we are always being –
not within time, not within segments
but Crow and Heron
beyond concept and ideation
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 5:58 AM UTC
I am so worried about this nation
nation of fear and damnation
damnation with no salvation
salvation from annihilation
annihilation is our own creation
creation for our own sensation
sensation for our own elation
elation in our own ovation
ovation of our own temptation
temptation leads to our fixation
fixation of our own formation
formation led to accusation
accusation of our own predation
predation on our conservation
conservation wasted by alteration
alteration of our ideation
ideation that had no complication
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 2:24 PM UTC
Fertile earth’s seductive sorcery
Like ephemeral effulgence’s effluent effusion
Can lead you to believe that it’s not a travesty
Like life’s visceral intuitive eternal is not lost in subtle evasive confusion
Life’s virile translucence reflects this glow
Like an aorist ensemble of interludes transposition
Can lead you to believe that you’re in the know
Like omnipresence presages omniscience’s ubiquity is existential exigency’s peroration’s exposition
Corporeally preternatural's metaphysical mystique
Like a mirador bartizan tableau panorama
Can inspire us to rise above its critique
Like spatiotemporal’s telemetry incarnate is creation’s vivid intrepid cyclorama
Spectral verve’s liaison’s consortium
Like eclectic synectic’s conclave’s fatidic
Can leave you lost in germane compendium
Like terminus thrall’s apriori inclination is transcendental accession’s endemic mnemonic
Monad’s transitional majestic splendor
Like residual harmonic vibration’s resilience
Can autonomously evoke and vicariously render
Like rubato’s actuator’s prospectus revealed is orchestration rendition’s intriguing brilliance
Eidetic preterit’s aesthetic amendments
Like protractive analyses’ dimensional delineations
Can lead to cogent salacious enticements
Like phantasmagoria’s fantasia fantastication’s magniloquence is sultry solace’s ostentatious ideation
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 2:47 AM UTC
A figment of imagination
crawling through
night
day
and evening.
Frisking through meadows
of stiff hands
and painted numbers,
this concept so lightly known as time,
has lived to contrive the clockwork
behind the functioning world.
It doesn't stand still; for it plans
escapes as swiftly as radio-waves.
Melting clocks tick away
at the hourglass of our fate.
Grain by grain...
time escapes the void we call life
and deceases us through the midst of anamnesis
and ideation.
It is all in our minds.
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 3:37 AM UTC
I am a slow learner when it comes to the basic human emotions.
Cause and effect I get.
He hurt me. I am sad.
He hit me. I am mad.
Lots of causes. Lots of pain.
Day after day. Blow after blow I was placed squarely in his perpetual state of hate. Confusion. Sadness. Loneliness. I never had a chance to fully recover from the act before. Unless I chose numbness.
These past several months I have been drowning in the darkness of physical pain. And just when I was strong enough to come up for air; the stifling fist of anxiety pressed against my chest until it hurt. And again I fell into the darkness.
It is an awful existence. There have been days. There have been nights. An end was a welcome thought. The ideation itself was soothing; strange as that might sound. But that is as close as I will ever venture to the edge. I know what happens beyond that cliff and it is not the glorified means to an end.
Enough of that though. This is more about what I have learned.
I do not have to stay in a state of constant pain. As a child I did.
As an adult I am free to move around. I am free to chart my own emotional course. It might be a physical movement. From the bed to the treadmill to the shower. Or it might be the emotional act of rearranging furniture and piles of luggage in my head. The best part though; the world will not end. Even if I shut the door on a room in disarray.
There is no open door policy. The requirement that gives no privacy for pain. No revolving doors. Those are the worst kind of doors with no beginning or an end.
I will open those unfinished doors again because I want a healthy mind. One room at a time. Maybe two if really needed; a guest suite of sorts.
Closed doors were not allowed as a child. I should have known that the exact opposite was true in my mental landscape.
Open. Shut. Cracked. Locked.
The simple fact of choice is a powerful one.
And a key I hope to never forget.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 10:24 PM UTC
Blessed be the civil war
brewing in the newsfeed
I just hope both teams
have fun
If it’s not our bodies tryna **** us,
It’s confirmation bias
with a gun
Cause we live in a society
stranger than satire
Doomscrollin’ infinity
For the next dumpster fire
If all the world’s a stage
Then my anxiety
is a crisis actor
When all the world’s enraged
I’m screamin’ CLASS WAR
in the theater
Blessed be these antidepressants
With side effects like
suicidal ideation
Heaven left all thoughts and prayers on read
Now thats what I call
getting holy ghosted
Full send to divine abandonment
In a digital sea
of arrogance
Your favorite God is smashing
The laugh reaction
While the body count rises
Achievement unlocked: death to empathy
Is this ******* play about us
Or are we all just NPC?
Cursed with Main Character Syndrome,
Glitching out behind the scenes-
playing the victim
Is the origin of your villain
Cause we live in a society
Stranger than satire
Doomscrollin’ infinity
For the next dumpster fire
Just to tell everyone you’ve been enlightened
Feb 16, 2023
Feb 16, 2023 at 2:07 AM UTC
Existence an exclusive dragnet
In full production
Operational destruction
Within the dwelling
Mass reduction
Applied obstruction
Void of causation
Internal mutation
Alien nation
Self degradation
On the street
Compartmentalization
Non fluctuation
Auto narration
Nonessential validation
Superseded ideation
While dormant
Comatose automation
Surreal anesthetization
Feeble realization
Pending extermination
Attend the institution
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 1:28 AM UTC
After a long day of 8th grade,
she came home to be greeted by her two dogs.
Rushing straight to her bedroom on a friday afternoon
just to open her laptop and put on her favorite pandora playlist
While flowing all her brainstormed emotions into her “poem.”
She remember hearing a phrase for the first time
that changed her to a more mature mentality.
Some crazy lady her mom forced her to weekly
always asked her, "any suicidal thoughts lately?"
She ignorantly answered “no” not understanding.
that next week the Lady asked if she had "suicidal thoughts"
Her stomach rages with anxiety as she finds the courage
to ask the Lady what it means to be suicidal.
The Lady’s eyes filled with empathy.
Google defines it as "Suicidal thoughts, also known as suicidal ideation are thoughts about how to **** oneself, which can range from a detailed plan to a fleeting consideration and does not include the final act of killing oneself. "
She thought about ending her life for the first time
with understanding of what she was doing.
6th grade lunch time.
Her eyes were drenched with sadness
while her stomach filled with discontent feelings.
She told her friends she wanted to die.
They filled her ears with temporary healing
to mend her mind and wellbeing.
She did not really understand what she was feeling
but with goals to not have to feel anymore.
She takes a handful of over-the-counter
painkillers with temporary joy
that it was all over.
She awoke the next morning with guilt and shame.
After reminiscing on this story,
She realizes she feels the same feelings
but has already accepted the help she needed
to try to be able to accept these feelings.
She wanted more than ever to not feel anything but
found value in who she was.
Still confused, but understood enough about who she was
to just be able to feel the pain and move on.
She had never admitted this story to anyone.
Not even her loved ones or counselors.
5 years later.
She finds this writing on a random spring night.
She is grateful, encouraged, and empowered
for the growth within herself that she was able to witness
She found purpose for the bad days and loves more.
She stays busy; works part-time and goes to school full-time.
The best part is she does it with happiness in her heart
and with loving and encouraging people surrounding her.
She became stronger than her bad days, allowing herself to fight.
She is proud of her story.
Apr 6, 2020
Apr 6, 2020 at 9:27 PM UTC
It hits out of nowhere, with no warning.
A year since my last mental breakdown,
Thinking I was done with suicidal ideation,
And it hits me with the force of a torpedo.
I never know where it was lying dormant
Or what triggered the volcanic eruption
That burns away all progress made.
I just know that it hurts, and the ash lays heavy on me.
I lie down and I don't let myself get up.
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 7:29 PM UTC
noon day shadows
filtering in through the treetops
devoid of courtesy
they flood my desk with their darkness
reflected on my page
amidst shards of light
patchwork prints on paper
playing peekaboo with each other
as the page flutters
in the warm barelybreeze that touches
so softly I’m not sure if its real
or it is my mind flapping
-Vijayalakshmi Harish
04.10.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 5:09 AM UTC
Beautiful souls all glory and hope,
destroyed within minutes,
all because of the dope.
They didn't see this coming,
it wasn't their wish,
not one single child
hopes to grow up to be this.
The ****** on the corner,
that you judged as you passed.
Do you really believe
she enjoys selling her ***
And that man sitting homeless
outside of the store,
as a child couldn't imagine
what his life had in store.
The crackhead downtown
or the methhead on hastings,
had bigger things planned
than their current drug cravings.
It does not discriminate
it hasn't a preference,
robbing parents from children
it gains delight from their absence.
Addiction creeps up on you.
You wont see it coming.
Do you think if they knew,
that they still would have done it?
That mother who's child
C.P.S JUST took away,
now fights suicidal ideation
and self hatered everyday.
Because she wanted to raise her.
That child is her little one,
now shes 4 years old
and calls
SOMEONE ELSE
MOM.
See addiction destroys things
people family and homes.
But please try to remember
it's not ALL a fault of their own.
Peer pressure or trauma
or just one BIG mistake.
It was one bad choice yes,
but should it seal their fate?
Please have some compassion,
look past the outside.
See the child that's hurting,
looking out from an addicts eyes.
Mar 15, 2023
Mar 15, 2023 at 5:34 PM UTC
Heart!
With your dull, throbbing core!
Cease this yearning!
Cease this unrelentless hunger!
Cease this irrational ideation!
Ever increasing, heartbeat by heartbeat!
Each one beating harder, heavier, more powerful than the last!
Proceeding! Proceeding! Proceeding!
Repeating! Repeating! Repeating!
Thumping! Thumping! Thumping!
Beating! Beating! Beating!
Dictator!
Heart!
End this insanity!
Ere I cut you out myself!
Mar 3, 2010
Mar 3, 2010 at 5:49 PM UTC
Some moments a thought comes -
It’s so much easier just to give up.
So comfy a feeling to visualize
nothing but blank-nothing –
Not to be. Not to think
or feel or breathe. No pressure
to present a concocted identity
one can’t even see that’s not at all me.
No stress keeping abreast of every snippet
of someone else’s reality. No figuring
or wondering or worrying or plans.
Nothing to hope for or hate
or to signify or demand.
No side-eyes screaming "how weird".
No stink-eyes looking to strike.
No evil intentions peering behind
some ignoramus’s unbelievable disguise.
No more fake smiles
and rhetorical "how are you's".
No more seeing wrong numbers
and choosing them too. Absent
anxiety and anger and acrid, stone-cold fear.
Absent color. Absent pattern.
Without texture or taste. No feeling
a thing like the aching of pain.
Some moments a thought comes -
Just end this silly race sooner.
Why stick around any longer
perceiving the same old, unpolished,
frayed and slightly greyed images
on a disappearing, silky screen,
when there is glorious and
unending nothing awaiting
this little, tiny insignificant me.
Jan 22, 2022
Jan 22, 2022 at 9:25 PM UTC
We ride bikes
to parks in our heads
and pedal our bodies
to safe-ish places
in our beds.
We spend cash
in eight minutes,
that we worked
eight hours for.
We talk about
our ceiling
but are content
at our floor.
We experience
suicidal ideation,
on a day-to-day stasis,
and insure our
troubled vessels,
on a six month to
twelve month basis.
We ride bikes
alongside trainless tracks
and wrestle, naked,
on our backs,
smothering the grass,
muddied past our feet,
we ride our bikes, incomplete.
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 6:16 PM UTC