"immortalize" poems
We cannot write silence.
The beats.
The pause.
The breath.
The way it aches
and persists
and begs that,
if only for a moment,
our consciousness is only a whisper.
our bodies,
our lips,
the air that passes through falling chests
and stillness.
A melody of emotion.
Sleeping in the quiet of a heartbeat skipped
a word lost to the wind.
The wickedness of reticence
Encapsulated in air and time.
The moment stretched too long.
Hesitation perpetuated in the grip of fingernails
pressed into palms.
We cannot write silence,
but we can try.
to find a way to immortalize emotion
to create space
in the ceaseless drone of words that speak and spin.
I cannot write silence. But I can write
tears and years
and the burn of long-stretched lies.
I can write goodbyes and hellos
And dozen ways to say
I love to hate you
Or
I hate to love you
and sometimes
I cannot tell the difference.
Silence.
The space I have upheld for myself.
I love to hate you
Heart.
I hate to love you too.
I cannot write silence.
But I know it.
and I have held it in my hand.
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 10:50 AM UTC
We are young, but much older
We are loved, though only by a few of us
We remain restless
We watch out of our windows envious at success stories
Those who have written chapters of promise and wealth
We are the world's forgotten children-who once played in the backyard of our land and kingdom and who swam in oceans of eternal youth
Strangers rob us blind-and we know it
We try to convince ourselves that we are strong, but we shiver clothesless
We know what is wrong, but we do it anyway
School failed us
Society has ***** and stolen our identities
And we watch our neighbors die without saying goodbye
Our friends have long left us
The church we grew up in
is now just a cold, abandoned house; the ghosts never leave
They lived in another lifetime, but we all stay here for safety
So carry me in your arms and hold me tight
Let us take what is yours- you are little mice and we prey on you like hawks
We want what was ours
We love the excitement at the expense of others
We become our own victims and kidnap our freewill.
We learn, though, and see our shadows in the dark
The silhouettes fool others into believing we are bigger than what we are
We leave them painted on the walls so we are always remembered
The goal is to stain something so deep onto the world that we immortalize ourselves, thus we are not vanished along with our bodies
Apr 14, 2012
Apr 14, 2012 at 3:31 PM UTC
my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.
Oct 20, 2016
Oct 20, 2016 at 1:04 PM UTC
I don't need a man who wants a princess
I don't need those expectations
I won't paint my nails or wear high heels
I want someone who will understand
That some days are just for sitting indoors
Playing video games and ordering takeout
Sometimes you just want to hang out
Watch a horror movie or write a poem
I want someone who can understand some days are slow
I also want them to know that some days are fast
Sometimes you just need the rush of riding a skateboard or throwing a frisbee
Sometimes you just need to feel the notes of a guitar till your hands are numb
I don't want someone who thinks I am only silent and reserved
Because I will crush you in your favorite games
I will tire you out with my favorite things
I don't want someone who thinks they are temporary
I will write about you and immortalize you through my art
Keep your expectations away and I'll surprise you every day
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 2:34 AM UTC
Stand close to me
I want to remember us
right here
right now
in that dress you’re wearing
in this light
or with a filter
ya, probably with a filter
we will immortalize this moment
in digital eternity
put ourselves in the back pockets
of all our friends
let them see us
we will become stars tonight
and though the skies are full these days
of lite-brite impersonations
I’m certain we will burn into forevers
I haven’t really noticed where we are
let the world fit itself into the top two corners
of our rectangular existence
like it matters anyway
I need to remember us
tomorrow you won’t be here
we won’t be here
wherever here happens to be
tomorrow I will hear myself again
with those lonely songs and cold hands
of an all-too-present reality
I need you to stand close to me
if I look back and see the world in between us
it will look too much like the truth I’m avoiding
tomorrow I will need to convince myself I’m living
and this will be my arm-length testament
there was a time and a place when we were smiling
pushed close together behind nostalgia inducing filters
if we can look convincing tonight
dress ourselves in starlight
block out the world behind us
maybe tomorrow I’ll believe it
shout your picture into my hollows
before the lonesome deepens
I need you in my back pocket
for those days my lonely soul gets wordy
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 12:53 AM UTC
I knew I loved you
When you held my hand
Pretending I was your girlfriend in that bar.
When we drove down the
Hill, windows down
Music up, singing along
High as the moon in that night's sky.
I knew I loved you
When you called me crying about your dog
And didn't know what to do.
When you sang to me
"Don't you worry, don't you worry child" in that club
And you told me it'd get better.
When you made me smile all the times
I was down.
I knew I loved you when you
Though my weirdness was cool
And when you let me be my exposed self
You never judged, it was easy to
Tell you my deepest secrets.
I knew I loved you when we took that selfie
And pretended to kiss.
When it turned real as our
Connection solidified through our lips
I knew I loved you when we pretended
It never happened because we
Didn't want to lose each other.
I knew I loved you all the
Times we fought and drifted away for things
I can't even remember.
When our opinions would clash
And our lives kept changing.
I knew I loved you when I hated you
And all your girls because I knew you could do better.
I knew I loved you when you finally met her
And it pleased my heart
Your gamble was finally over.
I Know I Love You
Because I'm smiling as I immortalize our bond.
I Love You
My Best Friend
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 8:18 AM UTC
Every year, when the Autumn leaves die
They fall to the ground, look up to the sky
All that is left is to lay on the ground
The ring a pure silence, a mournful sound
But if the leaves can't escape death, how could we?
We establish a home to die inevitably
Nothing left but memories of us
How we lived
How we laughed
How we loved and were loved
What is left
What is left
We live our lives to fall asleep in death
The only way to reach eternal peace
Is to close our eyes in eternal sleep
And when the home you've made has collected dust
It will cease to exist like the rest of us
We cannot immortalize our memories
We will be wiped from the earth, cleansed our identities
It will be time for us to rest alone
To forever rest those aching bones
The question "Why?" I cannot perceive
Yet, we fall one by one, like the Autumn leaves
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 4:07 AM UTC
My heart yearns for an adventure
For a strange and rare venture
Oblivious of the tons of dangers
For in adventures I ain’t a stranger
For I would relieve childhood years
That I spent with my little peers.
An adventure in distant lands
Where the children play with wet sands.
And dolphins jump out of water
When the noon sun makes the ocean hotter.
Where the fisherman yaw his boat
To capture all the salmon afloat.
An adventure by the oasis in the Sahara desert
Where Tuaregs sit by the cactus to eat dessert.
And watch as scorpions prey on lizards
To feast on their gizzards.
I want day sun to warm my smooth skin
And the night cold to shiver my crude chin.
An adventure cuddling cold snow on my hand
Where the icy pillars in their majesty stand.
And make a cave of snow
Strong to stand when wind blow.
Then I will scare the polar bear
That my cave like a paper wants to tear.
An adventure on the corn field
When in summer the flowers yield
When the butterflies pollinates the corns
And the farmer weeds out the thorns
I want to watch the corn spring to life
When the early rain is rife
An adventure across the sky in a plane
And watch as daylight slowly wane.
I want to leave a route on the sky
That in the future I would still ply.
Then immortalize my name in the cloud
That dark clouds in their anger cannot shroud.
An adventure deep in the amazon woods
When the purple squirrel burrow for food.
Where the monkey sway their tails
And red roses litter narrow trails.
I want to watch the ants builds their mounds
As the ripe mangoes fall on the ground.
An adventure that will lead to places
Leaving on all its paths my traces.
Permanents prints that will last
Even when my life like history is past.
And my adventure would be told as a tale
That like time will not stale.
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 8:04 AM UTC
A muse is nothing less than a cherished piece of living art which an artist attempts so desperately to immortalize.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 9:17 PM UTC
How do you say, "Thank you," to someone who saved your life?
No, no, no..........let's get it right!
I was dead and gone.
I was 2 seconds from being burried deeper than most while life carried on.
I was about to decompose and be a feast for the worms.
I was a walking corpse in no other terms.
And then, she spoke to me and raised me from the dead.
I saw the light in her and followed it instead.
I grabbed a pen and paper and wrote, "Confessions of Him".
Suddenly, life surged! And I could stay afloat and swim.
If not for her this place would have made me a zombie in tomb .
No way to express myself, but, with her light my body was exhumed.
I could hardly sleep placing pen to paper.
The flood gates were opened and the words made me feel safer.
Medora had stolen all my energy and light.
I didn't know a place could make you give up your will to fight.
You'll know her when you see her.
Her beauty will never fade.
She glows in the distance like a lighthouse in a storm.
And up close she is blinding, but, its comforting and warm.
Her voice is like music and her smile makes you think of ****
Yea! She's that GREAT and fills you with delight.
Her laugh is free and hearty.
Her skin is rosey with flecks of white.
Her hair is a flame.
I have to say, "Thank You," and share her name.
Kayla, you were the fresh drink I needed.
Without you knowing I heard your words and heeded.
I am alive again!
Writing feels too good to be true!
The only way I know to say, "Thank You," is to immortalize you.
I wrote you this poem so I will never forget.
I want the world to know I owe you a debt.
You reminded me that words were a natural part of my soul.
And, to deny that I would always be half and never whole.
So, I ask the world to join me at my imaginary gala.
Hold up your glasses in a toast to the AMAZING Kayla!
Keep letting your fire burn because your flames ignited my oil well.
"Thank you," for saving me! From loneliness. From hate.
From Medora. From HELL.
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 7:37 PM UTC
i don't want a rarity
a full moon that only floats
in your midnight sky
once a month
nighttime feels so open,
you shout things
you'd never whisper
in the daylight
and let go of the fear
that surfaces with the sun
i think i'll break all your clocks
at twelve in the morning
to immortalize
our candid midnights,
so that your worries
will never rise
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 1:11 PM UTC
A picture paints a thousand words
but even a thousand words
is not enough to paint
a picture-perfect portrait of you
too ethereal, too unique
pulchritudinous in the way you think
Let's take a hundred thousand pictures
so we can make a novel out of you
Let's take a hundred thousand pictures
so the world can learn that perfect isn't a myth
perfection is hidden within your smile
within your eyes, within your voice
Let's take a hundred thousand pictures
so I can immortalize you in my art
Let's take a hundred thousand pictures
and maybe then I'll have all the words I need
to make you believe me when I tell you
just how perfect you truly are
Feb 6, 2019
Feb 6, 2019 at 12:01 PM UTC
touched for a moment
but pulled away too soon to know
waking up I thought I couldn't feel again
I wished that I could immortalize the moment
only to realize that I'm some distance from you
had the moment not lasted
then it wouldn't have been a moment to remember
a moment to last
something you gave
and something you shared
you wouldn't have stopped yourself
even if you tried
your love I wanted
your love I needed
knowing in both ways loving while giving
but not realizing or even knowing you were doing so
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 6:59 PM UTC
Nigeria our great and beloved motherland,
where multitudes of tribes unitedly stand.
Our land of hope by two rivers divided,
with lush vegetation by nature provided.
Nigeria our home of people resilient.
A land of great icons in works diligent.
We hail thee our great and revered black nation,
our land of human dignity and redemption.
God arise and take your place as sovereign Lord.
Enthrone Thyself in Nigeria's seat of power.
Make her edicts and laws Thy eternal word.
Let justice prevail in her courts by the hour.
Our flag will peace and industry symbolize,
whilst our history will always immortalize
the deeds and sacrifices of our heroes past.
Help us Lord to serve our beloved land with zest.
Nigeria the blessed will pervasive peace know,
even when the threats of tumults seem to flow.
Her crops and yields will neighbouring countries nourish,
from her fields that inexhaustibly flourish.
Sep 17, 2021
Sep 17, 2021 at 5:01 PM UTC
Back in the days when
my friend Grisham John
started as a teenage artist, he was poor
and had but onions and yogurt for meals;
and once he stole some paint
from the local corner shop
"Aha, caught you red-handed,"
said the cliche-infested store-owner
*"Give me a reason
why I should not call the police"*
"Well," said John Grisham
cock-sure of his talent
*"I can immortalize you as 'Scrooge in Red'
or 'Generosity in Psychedelic'
You choose..."*
---------------------------------------------------------
so when Grisham John comes to
your town, look out for,
amongst his exhibits:
*"Generosity in Psychedelic
with inset of Scrooge in Red"*
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 4:09 AM UTC
Oh, Andy-
speak to me in paints:
red, yellow, blue
When I told you I wouldn't be good at this,
an inability to sketch hands that punched at everything leaving me weak.
Keane's sorrow filled eyes upon oil made more sense to me.
I was never angry or mean, just sad and hopeless.
Lichtenstein was more your speed with obscene images of ******* women
and dialogue of broken hearts.
Van Gogh never made sense, but his attention to detail caught my eye.
To not know what goes on in your own head is identifiable so,
my head is art crafted by Picasso.
they hospitalize you once you've lopped your ear off
when giving a part of themselves to a lover.
I'm not cut out for this- the starving artist,
the tragic sketcher,
or the natural- born painter.
I've calloused my hands,
shed tears on pages of sketchbooks
put paint that looks childlike
and nothing worthwhile,
in all the time spent learning,
I've never learned how to be an artist.
I thought it was the mantra to be pained and miserable,
but you accounted for bold choices and vivid primary shades.
I feel betrayed, that my art alone, isn't enough to be good.
They will never frame my name,
or immortalize flaws in which could never be erased.
Like our conversation in my dream:
"I can't be mean." -Me
"Killing yourself isn't much different" -You
So Andy, what is the color I'm feeling? If it isn't blue?
—V.H.
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 2:20 PM UTC
Poetic.....Poetic.....Poetic
Is what everybody is now
Poetic justice is what everybody brings now
Burn the city down
Poetic
Maybe then the government will listen
Everyone a revolutionary
Poetic
Posers standing on podiums
They march for peace but plant the seed
to send you to war
Posers never on the front line
Cowards afraid to die first
Poetic
Selling dreams that don't exist like those of Mr. King
Posers afraid of death
Homosexuals of war
But far from an Alexander
Far from a Ceacer but those are who they chosen to follow since they don't lead none
Poetic
We poets don't speak up
I was going to recite with my stage name
Anonymous my alter ego
My Duo persona
Poetic
But for this everyone should see the face and now the name
Of the man who pointed out the cowards
I'm not afraid of death,
Poetic
I'm not afraid of arrest
Poetic
But the bloods the crips
The nation of islam
Should had burned down
Sallie Mae
Not mom and pop shops
Poetic
Restore the damage
Restore the damage
pay your dues
Go get your 40 acres and your mule
I dream the dream but not American
Since I live my life as if I was to die
Before being immortalize
Poetic
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 9:34 AM UTC
To lift a thought to a song,
To redress perceived wrongs;
To relive my youth,
To expose the truth;
To express my love,
To see a pigeon as a dove;
To foresee the future,
To capture the elusive;
To give voice to the abused,
To find refuge when refused;
To immortalize loved ones,
To embrace the shunned ones;
To know stars are fireflies,
To scrape away lies;
To explain time is just a moment,
But enternity's in a sonnet.
Simply put,
It's the right thing to do.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 6:40 PM UTC
Obscurest night involv'd the sky,
Th' Atlantic billows roar'd,
When such a destin'd wretch as I,
Wash'd headlong from on board,
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
His floating home for ever left.
No braver chief could Albion boast
Than he with whom he went,
Nor ever ship left Albion's coast,
With warmer wishes sent.
He lov'd them both, but both in vain,
Nor him beheld, nor her again.
Not long beneath the whelming brine,
Expert to swim, he lay;
Nor soon he felt his strength decline,
Or courage die away;
But wag'd with death a lasting strife,
Supported by despair of life.
He shouted: nor his friends had fail'd
To check the vessel's course,
But so the furious blast prevail'd,
That, pitiless perforce,
They left their outcast mate behind,
And scudded still before the wind.
Some succour yet they could afford;
And, such as storms allow,
The cask, the coop, the floated cord,
Delay'd not to bestow.
But he (they knew) nor ship, nor shore,
Whate'er they gave, should visit more.
Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he
Their haste himself condemn,
Aware that flight, in such a sea,
Alone could rescue them;
Yet bitter felt it still to die
Deserted, and his friends so nigh.
He long survives, who lives an hour
In ocean, self-upheld;
And so long he, with unspent pow'r,
His destiny repell'd;
And ever, as the minutes flew,
Entreated help, or cried--Adieu!
At length, his transient respite past,
His comrades, who before
Had heard his voice in ev'ry blast,
Could catch the sound no more.
For then, by toil subdued, he drank
The stifling wave, and then he sank.
No poet wept him: but the page
Of narrative sincere;
Is wet with Anson's tear.
And tears by bards or heroes shed
Alike immortalize the dead.
I therefore purpose not, or dream,
Descanting on his fate,
To give the melancholy theme
A more enduring date:
But misery still delights to trace
No voice divine the storm allay'd,
No light propitious shone;
When, snatch'd from all effectual aid,
We perish'd, each alone:
But I beneath a rougher sea,
And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.
2.1k
slow and sweaty
sleepless summer nights
trapped in my room and
tortured by thoughts of you.
from the wrong side of the sea
i hear your soft moans
and i see your golden body
poised and yearning.
it doesn’t matter if you evade my arms
when the screen can imprison you
and my dreams can immortalize you.
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 10:10 PM UTC
There's a painting by Botticelli
I've always loved,
showing Venus being born naked
from the ocean and
not fearing the current.
Those around her renounce her body,
scrambling to clothe her,
turn her virginal,
contain the way her eyes cross galaxies,
shine all the way to Pluto.
But she is soft, unwavering,
not noticing the mortals' concern
about her *******
and bare collarbone that could catch water
at its base.
I found you halfway across the world on the steps of the Uffizi
and in the 3 hours it took you
to show me some of the best art on earth,
I was transfixed only
on the orbits of planets in your eyes.
Shortly before the sun set,
you took me through the secret corridor
Cosimo de' Medici built to walk across the
rooftops of the city
where you kissed me but
told me you didn't believe in love,
that all you needed was art,
and Michelangelo,
and in that moment
I saw Venus in your collarbone.
Saw a shell under your feet,
saw the universe in the way your freckles connected,
saw how you immortalize yourself
among the rest of the art in Florence
so no human can bring you down to earth,
can make your heart stop,
show you what it's like to cross timezones
with a single touch.
And here I am,
wanting to be your Botticelli,
to paint the uneven slope of your shoulders,
the crookedness of your right ankle,
your fear of exposing yourself to someone
who could love you.
It must be lonely out there, Venus,
on your little fishing boat by the sea.
Botticelli's painting was found
long after his death,
laid into the floor of
an abandoned villa in the south of Tuscany.
Venus looking lost and mortal
between cracked paint and chipping walls,
like the way you hide between
the dusty statues of the dead statesmen and fading portraits
long after the museum closes,
just you with only history to hold.
You want to believe in love
as past-tense,
like you've lost faith in present participles and the fact
that art is still being made,
and people are running barefoot into future conjugations
together.
Don't come back to land, Venus. Vanessa.
I won't be here waiting with a towel
or an art critic
or a spaceship.
But maybe,
just make a little room for me on your shell
under the sun,
atop steady waves or Florentine rooftops.
Throw the map overboard.
Let's forget the shore.
And Michelangelo and the rest of them
will smile as they see us off.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 5:18 PM UTC
I don't know if I ever want to have my poems
immortalized in a book, to sit on some shelf untouched
a reminder printed on blank pages; my love, and my pain
organized into pretty poetic arrangements for other's viewing pleasure
for strangers to know me that intimately on a level I barely understand
I can't comprehend--
my love, and my pain, indeed
the love I have is beautiful, and worth sharing with the world
but I dont know if I could immortalize the pain it has caused me to love so throughly
so completely have I given myself over to everything
followed the winding paths through heartache and back;
I would much rather forget them here, forget the past
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 12:22 AM UTC
if we were to assign emotions to colors -
passion would be where magenta and orange kiss the horizon at sunset,
joy would be the yellow of my socks every easter sunday that i can remember,
and melancholy would be just another shade of blue.
i told him,
i am not done with you yet.
three weeks post breakup,
we shouldn't feel as unfinished as we do.
like, in the ridiculously complicated narrative of he and i,
the author got up one day,
scribbled a quick ending,
and then set the novel on fire.
i read an article in an obscure magazine
about Shelley Jackson,
an artist
who got thousands of people
to tattoo a singular word
from a story onto themselves,
and then sent them back to their scattered existences.
maybe that is what this is,
another scattered story.
another vaporized narrative.
i can feel it in the air,
but not pull the phrases together.
it's like trying to hold onto smoke.
our story slips through my fingers and gets in my eyes.
if we were to assign emotions to colors -
my ribcage would look like a Jackson *******
my head would be a paintball arena.
i am so full of indigos,
and mustards,
and crimsons,
that Van Gogh, himself, would dip into my palette
and claim to have never seen such beautiful sadness before.
*i don't know if it hurts because it still matters,
or if it matters that it still hurts.*
i feel the frenzied ache of creation in my gut.
i am not a painter,
but my mirror is showing me
the immaculate collection of brushstrokes
i have become.
a few weeks ago,
i was approached by an artist who offered to paint my bruises.
to collect my contusions with watercolors.
what a beautiful intention,
to immortalize the growing pains,
memorialize the bumps along the way,
to make something permanent
of these perpetual transitions.
if we were to assign emotions to colors -
my pride would be gold-plated and rusting from use, like my grandfather's watch,
courage would be the pure green of every bud that has dared to grow through concrete,
and love?
love would be prismatic,
like spilled oil on asphalt.
a rainbow one moment,
vanished the next.
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 2:03 PM UTC
writers are magicians
they transform emotions into something more
something that can be felt more
they transform negativity to words
words that can be the most savage weaponry
they transform happiness to words
words that can heal the soul
they transform love into words
words that can give the warmest embraces
they transform hate into words
words that can bring someone six feet under the ground
but you
you are either much stronger or more feeble to these magicians
you will be the one who'll make them what they are
they will immortalize you with their healing lines
or
they will dominate you with their merciless expressions
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 7:06 AM UTC
Have you ever thought about falling in love with a poet?
It's such a simple notion because they too are people just like you
but the ability to constantly immortalize
Is that not attractive?
If you fall in love with a poet
alive you'll be for eternity
in a world that you
never could imagine
but one that they imagined you in.
It's a simple thought and a simple attraction that made an intricate
impact on their lives.
You are the reason they write
the reason that they can so innately describe what it is to be in love.
It's nice, isn't it?
To fall asleep knowing that this person is still awake writing about
how much more they're going to love you the next day.
Writing about the moment that you first caught their eye
the moment that they knew you too loved them.
Falling in love with a poet is a guaranteed way to live forever in their mind
to be the muse that they'll always use
to be the one person they'll never abuse.
Falling in love with a poet would be the adventure to end all
because in every word you would exist through 6 or 7 lifetimes.
So fall in love with a poet
because not only will their words convince
they're guaranteed to show it.
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 3:27 AM UTC