"imbed" poems
my sadness feels like
i'm swallowing sea water -
every gulp down my throat is a step closer to
dehydration
sinking to the bottom
no flotation
lacking foundation
my sadness feels like
vomiting frustrations
stagnation -
my sadness feels like stagnation.
sensations of vibrations
surround me but do not reach
my hands
or any part of me for that matter.
I see it -
i know its there
the energy is flowing in the air
a devious glare - i swear
i stare
and stay aware that this
illness
does more than impair - it's unfair , really.
My sadness feels like everything around me is dead -
i know its really in my head but
i look at the evening sky and see not
yellows and reds but
grays instead -
i used to imbed the colors into my
brain but lately its been filled with
tar - seeping into unhealed scars
its making a home here -
till i disappear
its not just me it's "we're" that's here -
its overstayed its welcome.
My sadness feels like a man putting his feet on my
coffee table.
My sadness feels like an empty chest -
one that rots with dust and
human rust it
echoes and howls when opened -
like its terrified of its urge to leave.
My sadness feels like a parasite that *****
until it falls but
it doesn't fall -
only crawls
through the hollow parts of me
and creates substance.
My sadness feels like accepting to drown.
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 2:08 AM UTC
We the Sheeple of the Modern world,
in Order to form a more uniform society,
establish careers,
insure domestic conformity,
destroy the uncommon difference,
demote the idealistic,
and imbed the hatred of abnormality to ourselves and our Posterity,
do ordain and establish this societal law for the Earth and all it's inhabitants.
Jan 12, 2012
Jan 12, 2012 at 11:54 PM UTC
fine grained grit embedded in pale grey cement
wind over my skin, the grass is moving a bit
voices are just out of reach- whispering things
i just wish i could hear
suddenly the wind dies and slivers of words meet my ears
but only slivers
slivers of whispers
imbed themselves in my skin
thin pieces of word that i wish werent there
"i hate everything, don't talk to me"
It ******* kills me to hear
Mar 8, 2012
Mar 8, 2012 at 7:11 PM UTC
Right here,
In this hollow bed
From weary eyes, these tears are shed.
Nothing of joy and loneliness bred.
A torn body, here lay out spread.
Wondering where every dream has led
Right here,
In this hollow bed.
From exhausted thoughts, here I rest my head.
Nothing of candor and engulfed in dread.
A torn spirit, whose faith seem only a thread.
Wondering how much more may lay ahead.
Right here,
In this hollow bed.
From countless cries, here reflection imbed.
Nothing of remorse and words unsaid.
An aching heart, this love embed.
Wondering how long till the day we wed.
Right here,
In this hollow bed
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 5:02 AM UTC
colour me Pink
blushes of Rose
I think
the colour Blue
looks nasty on you
and Green clashes
with your eyes
and just makes you look
Feral
Red bleeds from nails
that like to imbed
while they score
tracks down your back
but um
I'm not Sheryl...
So please refrain
from another's name
while so deep inside me
you can't hide from me
and I won't need to find
another reason why
you are a stranger
preying on anger
Share the blame
and I'll be glad
to change
my name...
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 7:37 AM UTC
A river among a stream
forecast only myriad of dream
when early dew easily derived as mad
while peace here is now our dream
with thinking that imbed these orchid pastels
once weight did keep it from debt only seemingly then
but the river quay abscond many hats to wear again
while canoe does display this garden wall
with a dream of a lifetime so it's shone
when into darkness finding a rainbow
and each river there a quay did find a reeve
for contaminates as water must goldenly flow
as their sustenance can keep evermore alive.
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 7:01 AM UTC
It takes on deaths horrible form thereunto,
Breaching the seas pensively askew;
Spun brutally from troubling winds of false accord,
Ignored by expression but surely explored.
O 'tis madness, voices beat savagely in my head,
Upon quiet of night as insanely they wilfully imbed.
Through mortal fear I am awakened,
There's nowhere pleasant to run 'tis my chastened.
Of life's despairs nor demons wrathful hold,
Hast thereof nightmares foretold.
In the chilling air, killing heedful wisdoms impaired,
Had I faltered, I'd been sadly unprepared.
Pressed onwards I could only dream,
With care it'd be a future supreme.
Deep in my bleeding thoughts I tried to grasp it,
Yet every brutal bound 'twas likely unfit.
Ah, let evil echo through my disrupting mind,
The faces, that blushed mostly unkind.
A hideous desire inexplicable, entombed from within,
Hastily it beckons thereunto an original sin.
The voices, whose horrid duty I deplore,
Of the old vast despairs it will implore.
But alone I am 'tis surely surpassing a realm of rage,
And all I seen, mattered naught offstage.
Regrettably in the valley of despair I have always lived,
Therefrom I am truly a weltered child deprived.
Onto the rough cobble stones bloodied and quite torn,
That tragic wind, caught in hells uproar forlorn.
A sea of red, kept in an eternal twinge,
Through to agonies I'd impinge.
Ah how they weep, the mystic fools they weep,
In fake smiles these too rustle forth and reap.
Though I'm stirred I cannot follow,
O'er endless toil I as wallow.
Unto violent passions, soaring in tempting extremes,
Of pastures buried, a life in poor redeems.
For nothing concerted I came thereafter seeking,
Every question asked it begged a haggard beseeching.
Thus in a dim labyrinth of lies I found some solace,
Here in the direst valley of despair it's my disgrace.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 7:25 PM UTC
Prelude:
From Fullness swathing, wake left
in wake of...truly, there is no passing
but an Emptying of Fullness.
...Needless to say, ecstatically
vibrating...you have all the blessings
silence can muster.
Could, I would...imbed this sky
in memory, self-proclaim its radiant
blankness upon it.
That I may be what I see, already
in memory of me, though I've come
to know and love...that any personal
touch, is yet an impersonal one.
Bless that which was drawn in, and
drawn out...lay the heart entire upon it.
We are the Knowers of things that stand,
and tilt by degree momently...we are
the Knowers of the last leg, lest it
overstep that which it's overstepped by.
Fit for us, as every other--momentously,
equally fit...the call to life is what silence
took as her deepest secret.
Nothing could wrest this burden from
her hands, for she loves it as her self...
therefore restores what she holds forever.
~Om Namah Shivaya~
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 10:28 AM UTC
Young mothers with freshly sprung gardens
stuck in a field of weeds,
take their burdens
and ball them up into a life of needs.
Filling their wombs with tender heart beats,
our generation had a plan
that fell into the soil and planted seeds.
Flowers bloom in gardens again,
reflecting treacherous shame:
a mark misplaced in youth,
forever imprinting itself to one's name.
Reality is a saddened truth.
Let your grass grow high;
on your lawns free, beautiful, and green,
while the birds flee, spread their wings and take to the sky
breaking the ranks with empty bellies and faces unclean.
Eventually the garden will need tending
but the young can't raise the young
when their cuts were left without mending
and their songs were left unsung.
Open mouths prepare for their feast
but exhaustion steals the will
while the main course feeds the beast
and the famined become the ****
When life is a garden in a desert
the roots imbed themselves deep,
until fertility is an act to convert
the rotten fruits that lay rejected, and weep.
Mothers go out and touch the petals
from the flowers of their wombs, untimely torn,
learning the delicacy of roots grounded and settled
in a garden of weeds where their burdens are born.
Sep 13, 2010
Sep 13, 2010 at 12:21 PM UTC
Some days make me want
To throw down a grenade
And allow the shrapnel
To imbed itself in me
And with each cut
I'd remember what it was
To feel alive
Some days make me wish
That the world was underwater
And I had no clue how to swim
And the waves would overtake me
'til I was far underwater
And with each ounce of water I breathed
I'd remember what it was
To feel alive
Some days make me try
To hold onto what I remember
And log it away
In the darkest corners of my mind
And with each memory stored
I'd remember what it was
To feel alive
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 3:49 AM UTC
To Harvest the Wheat of America.......
Oak, ash and hickory, raw from the saw
Ten thousand board Feet, Delivered
Fourteen foot long some 16 inches Wide
I helped plane all that wood,
When I was Just a boy, load after load
In the Time, I was just growing a spine
By 7th Grade I had, From how I was grown
"Long Shoreman's Syndrome"
The work had curved my Spine
By ten years old I worked with
10 Blade Saw running 10,000 RPM
It Could Imbed a Stick in heavy Drywall
The slats had to be shaped and Packed
In bundles of 50 or 100 And loaded on a Trailer
Weighing 25 to 35 lbs a piece.....
They Added to My Backs Failure
These Slats went on Combines that
Harvested the Wheat of America
So when I was a child I carried
The Bread of America on my back
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 11:27 AM UTC
Jamin Hollis has her residence in The Garden.
In The Garden, in the bloated blocks of Transit Town.
Behind the day shelter, beside the corner store.
Across the parking lot of the thrift shop.
Beyond the fluorescence of the pharmacy.
Right there, just a hop and a skip from the trains.
Right there, just a scoot from the bus barn.
Jamin Hollis is a rampant ***** and she needs,
she needs to die.
Jamin Hollis is a rampant ***** and indeed,
she'll die tonight.
Wait for the streetlights to dot the immediate sky.
Most of them are dead or flickering in the blocks.
Wait for the junk rats to leave for the metro line.
Most of them are dead or flickering.
If any open eyes remain on the sidelines, take a breath.
Collect your nerve and toss a penny on the pavement.
The eyes will blind to the shine and they will prostrate.
Bow with a force enough to imbed gravel in the forehead.
Jamin Hollis is a rampant ***** and she needs,
she needs to die.
Jamin Hollis is a rampant ***** and indeed,
she'll die tonight.
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 1:47 AM UTC
It’s time for me to disappear
I’ve overstayed my place i fear.
It’s time to once again recluse
Rather than tying a noose.
It was lovely while it lasted
But the pain is started to imbed
So I’ll leave instead.
Hide within myself again
The way that it’s always been.
I’ll put on a fake little smile
No one will catch on, at least for awhile.
Feb 5, 2018
Feb 5, 2018 at 5:02 PM UTC
It’s getting bad again.
My skin is scratching, itching, burning.
I want to rake my nails down my wrist
just to relieve a little pressure.
It’s building up inside me.
I’m afraid that I’ll explode
and imbed shrapnel in those
who are closest to me.
I shy away
and leave myself alone.
Better to suffer in silence
than to make others worry.
I want to press a blade
deep into my hips.
To feel the blood bubbling up
and all my pressure-pain-panic
leaving with
each drop that flows down my thigh.
Just like old times.
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 12:39 AM UTC
I taste the morning dew
On my tongue
I see the sun trying to peek through the clouds, like a little kid peaks
Through the blanket when he thinks there is a monster in his room
I hear the sweet chirps of the birds, like an orchestra of nature
I can already smell the impending flowers
That will soon imbed their tangled roots into the ground,
So that the rain and sun will tickle their thirsty leaves,
With the sweet drink they so badly crave.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
Foamy swirls of blue
Roll into my soul
Harsh grains of brown
Imbed into my skin.
Nostalgia fills my being
Because water is
Where my emotions swim
Where my dreams float
Where my thoughts sink
And where my feet soak.
Without the vast sparkling waters
I'd be lost with
Nowhere to suffer my sorrows
Nowhere to celebrate my individuality.
For the water is a part of me
And to be without it
Would be the end of my imaginings.
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 11:15 PM UTC
He's tormented by his past
Every night
Wakes up in a sweaty mess
And out of breath
Goes In his bathroom
Stares in the mirror
Not sure what he's looking at
Then Yells and yells
Finally he punches the glass
Shredding his worn out knuckle
Pulls the mirror from the hinges out of frustration
Throws it on the floor
While the voices in his head laugh
He strips the shower curtain
Rips it in half
Then yells some more
Until his throat becomes sore
Goes under the bathroom sink
Grabs the hammer
That's awefully dull
Grips it tight in his hand
Until the pain he can't withstand
Then he goes at the walls
Bashing
Smashing
Trying to destroy it all
He's tormented by his past
Still see flashes of memories
Dancing on the shattered glass
Finally he stops
And drops
The broken glass imbed itself in his knees
There's a woman smiling at him
From within a shard of glass
"You don't have to cry anymore, go back to sleep"
Nov 23, 2017
Nov 23, 2017 at 10:03 PM UTC